Branka wasn't far at all.
They found her past the darkspawn tunnels, in a ruin that smelled more like hot metal and coal than the blood and rot of the caves previous.
“Let me be blunt with you,” she said when she spotted them. It seemed she had already known they were coming and positioned herself on a platform where they couldn't reach her. “After all this time, my tolerance for social graces has become fairly limited. That doesn't bother you, I hope.”
She was dressed in full plate, a stark contrast to Hespith's ragged tunic and leggings. She had a sword and shield on her back. Her face was weatherbeaten, as if she had been in the desert for some time, but she showed no visible signs of Taint, nor could Kitranna feel any in her.
“Branka?” Oghren exclaimed. “By the Stone—I barely recognized you!”
“Oghren.” Branka sounded entirely unimpressed. “It figures you'd find your way here. I hope you can find your way back more easily.”
Culwydd growled and pointed her hammer at Branka. “We are not leaving until I hear answers, Paragon,” she said.
Branka narrowed her eyes. “Lady Aeducan,” she said, blinking. “I'm surprised you could tolerate Oghren long enough to come here. Why have you come here?”
“I come because of Hespith,” Culwydd said. She stepped forward. “Because of the ruins of your entire house, back there,” she gestured back from whence they had come. “Because of that thing—that Broodmother. What have you done here?”
“My household has given themselves, body and soul, to reach the Anvil,” Branka said, her face twisting.
“No artifact is worth what you have done here!”
“The armies created from the Anvil were once the envy of the world!” Branka proclaimed. “The golems held off the very first Darkspawn ever to rise—that is worth everything, anything!”
“Not this!” Culwydd's lips were pale with rage. “Hespith said you allowed your people to be consumed by Blight—allowed one to turn into a Broodmother!”
Branka shook her head. “This is more important than one person, than an entire household of people,” she said. “What are a few dead or lost when all of us could be saved by the Anvil?”
“You would let your own people be infected with Blight,” Culwydd snarled. “Your goals do not matter in the face of that.”
“Whatever you think of me, it matters not,” Branka said. “There's only one way out, Lady Aeducan,” Branka said. “Forward. Through Caridin's maze, his gauntlet of traps, and out to where the Anvil lies.”
“Do you seriously think we're going to test these traps for you?” Kitranna demanded, folding her arms.
Branka's eyes alighted upon her. “And how shall I address you?” she said. “One who speaks so boldly in a noble's presence must feel themselves of some import—are you a hired sword of the Lady here?”
“Be respectful, woman!” Oghren exclaimed. “You're talking to a Gray Warden!”
Branka tilted her head back. “So this must be a truly important errand,” she drawled. “Well, as I said—the only way out is through Caridin's gauntlet, to the Anvil. If you wish to leave, you must pass that. Unless, of course, you want to brave the Darkspawn tunnels again--” she looked them over with a piercing gaze. “But I don't think that is what you came here to do.”
“No,” Culwydd shook her head. “No, we're not going back.” she peered up to Branka's ledge. “There must be a way up there.”
“Woah, Lady, don't try that,” Oghren said quickly, grabbing Culwydd's shoulder. “She'll have laid traps of her own—probably why the darkspawn haven't got to her yet.” he looked up at Branka. “What has this place done to you?” he demanded of her. “I remember marrying a girl you could talk to for one minute and see her brilliance--”
Branka's face tightened. “I am your Paragon.” she turned and left them, heading to a point out of sight.
“If we really want to reach her, we need to go through this gauntlet, I guess,” Kitranna sighed.
“There must be a way around,” Culwydd said.
“If there was, Branka would have found it,” Oghren pointed out.
So, through the gauntlet it was.
“I needed people to test Caridin's traps,” Branka said as they approached the mouth of the gauntlet. She was following their group's progress from a ledge high overhead. “There is no way through, except by trial and error.”
Culwydd's face soured. “So, you sent the members of your house in?” she demanded.
“They were all pledged to my service!” Branka exclaimed. “But none of them wanted to help, even my Hespith...even she couldn't understand that when you try for greatness, there are sacrifices. As many sacrifices as are needed.”
“I will see your name stricken from the Shaperate's record!” Culwydd called out.
Branka let out a hollow laugh. “What import do names have here?” she said. “Names and titles don't matter. This matters.”
They went through the traps, acquiring a number of injuries as they went. They faced golems (Shale was smaller than all of them, much to Shale's fury) and poisons and fire, until at last they came to the Anvil.
The gauntlet ended at an enormous natural cave. The cave was hot, even more so than Orzammar or the Deep Roads, and was lit by open flows of lava far below the precipice that they walked upon.
Inactive golems lined their path, and there were huge monuments covered in many names that were there as well.
A golem made of metal instead of stone was at the end of the path. It sparked with lightning and its face was a featureless helmet instead of the more flexible, fleshlike face that Shale and the other stone golems possessed.
“My name is Caridin,” the golem said. His voice echoed in his chest. “Once, longer ago than I care to think, I was a Paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar. If you seek the Anvil, you must hear my story, or be doomed to relive it.”
The blood drained out of Culwydd's face, and she stepped forward, her eyes very large.
“Caridin?” Shale said. “The Paragon smith? Alive?”
Caridin tilted his helmet up, as if he recognized Shale. “Ah,” he said. “There is a voice I recognize. Shayle, of the House of Cadash—step forward.”
“You know each other?” Kitranna asked, looking from Shale to Caridin.
Shale ignored Kitranna, focused entirely on Caridin. “You...know my name? Is it you that forged me then? Is it you that gave me my name?”
“Have you forgotten then?” Caridin let out a forlorn sigh. “It has been so long. I made you into the Golem you are now, Shale, but before that, you were a dwarf, just as I was. The finest warrior to serve King Valtor, and one of only a few dwarrowdam to volunteer.”
“A dwarf?” Shale exclaimed. “A dwarrowdam?”
“I laid you on the Anvil of the Void, here in this very room. Put you into the form you now possess.”
“Golems used to be dwarves...So you're a Paragon inside...a suit of armor?” Kitranna said, putting one hand on her hip. “How'd you get in there?” she narrowed her eyes. There was a peculiar feeling of magic about Caridin's person, and a taste in the back of her mouth like a lyrium potion, but nothing solid, nothing she could focus on. “This is magic. Dwarves can't do magic.”
“It is not magic,” Caridin corrected. “Not of the sort you or your people would know.”
“My people? What do you mean by that? Mages or elves?”
“Both. What the dwarves do is not known to surfacers—not any longer.”
“What else would you call it, if not magic?” Morrigan wanted to know. “You have obtained long life—how is this possible, without magic?”
“Dwarves cannot do magic,” Culwydd said.
“Then how is this man still alive?” Morrigan demanded.
“This doesn't make any sense,” Kitranna said. “I mean—how are golems animated, if not by magic? I thought they were enchanted—isn't enchantment magic? Did you enchant yourself?” she rubbed her chin.
“I suppose that means dwarves may do magic, but only via enchantment,” Morrigan said.
“Stop it,” Culwydd snapped. “Let him continue, for the love of the Stone!”
“But--” Kitranna said.
“Peace,” Caridin said. “This is not the time nor the place for such musings. I wish we could speak of many things, but there is only time for one. In my time, I made many things, but I rose to fame and carried my status on a single item; the Anvil of the Void. It allowed me to forge the golems—soldiers as invincible as stone or steel, but flexible as any soldier. As an army, they were invincible. But I told no one the cost.”
“The lives of dwarves,” Culwydd breathed.
“Yes,” Caridin said, with another sigh. “No mere smith, however skilled, has the power to create life. To make golems, I had to take their lives from elsewhere.”
“How could they have not known?” Kitranna demanded. “People had to have noticed warriors and things going missing, only for more golems to turn up.”
“Perhaps they believed it was worth the sacrifice.” Wynne said.
“I volunteered, apparently,” Shale said. “If others volunteered--”
“Was it worth it?” Kitranna asked. “All those people—was it worth it? It must have been risky.”
“It wasn't worth it,” Culwydd snapped. “There must have been some other way to hold off the darkspawn, something else--”
“The conclusion you reach is one that it took me far longer to arrive at,” Caridin told Culwydd. “And my kin said much the same. And ultimately, the Anvil took far more than could ever be replaced.”
“What do you mean?” Culwydd asked.
“I had only intended to use volunteers, but the king was not satisfied, and soon a river of blood flowed out of this place. Finally, it was too much, and I refused, and so Valtor had me put on the Anvil in the end.”
“What happened then?” Culwydd asked. “Why are you here?”
“My apprentices knew enough to make me as I am, but not enough to fashion a control rod. I retained my mind, and drove Valtor away from this place, so he could no longer make use of the Anvil.” Caridin's head tilted up again, so he was looking at Shale. “You were amongst the most loyal, Shayle. You remained at my side throughout, and at the end, I sent you away out of mercy.”
“I...do not remember,” Shale admitted. They looked around, at the inactive golems lining the path. “What about the others, here?”
“We have remained entombed here ever since,” Caridin said. “Their minds are not their own. Shale, you possessed a remarkable strength of will—I was confident you could regain your mind in time. But the stragglers who remain here—the Anvil destroyed them utterly. So they are here, because there is nowhere else to send them.”
Shale glanced at one of the other golems, an unreadable expression on their face.
“I have searched for a way to destroy the Anvil,” Caridin said. “Alas, I cannot do it myself. No Golem can touch it.”
“No!” they all turned to see Branka running up from the mouth of the gauntlet. “The Anvil is mine! No one will take it from me!”
Culwydd whirled, pointing her hammer at Branka. “It isn't yours!” she snapped. “Nothing is yours! It was the Aeducans who named you Paragon, so an Aeducan revokes your status for what you have done!”
Branka faltered in her tracks, and a sneer twisted her face. “What is the word of one spoiled noble against me?” she said. “Deshyrs and lords and ladies come and go—this has meaning! This is more than a few sacrificed souls, more than you or I or anything! You have no sway over that!”
“You let your own household become darkspawn!” Culwydd said. “Consigned them all to the Taint, just for your own goals! You are no Paragon—you are no Child of the Stone! No true dwarf would let any of their fellows fall to the Taint, but you have done it willingly! You are worse than Casteless--you are erased!”
Branka drew her sword and shook her head, moving forwards. Wynne cast an entrapment glyph on her to slow her down, which it did, but it surely wouldn't hold for long.
“Shale,” Caridin said, voice urgent and echoing. “You fought to protect the Anvil once—do not let it fall into unthinking hands again!”
“You speak of things I do not remember,” Shale said quickly, glancing between the oncoming Branka and back at Caridin again. “Did you use our control rods to make us fight?”
“I destroyed the control rods—perhaps my apprentices learned to replace them, but if so, I do not know.”
Shale turned to face Branka, and Caridin turned his attention to Kitranna. “You—help me destroy the Anvil. Do not let it enslave more souls than it already has!”
Kitranna already had her weapon out. “First, I want to take care of Branka,” she told Caridin over her shoulder. “Then we decide what to do with the Anvil.”
Branka's armor had begun to glow, clearly enchanted with magic resistance. Wynne re-cast her glyph, and Branka let out a frustrated growl.
“What do we do now?” Kitranna asked.
“Kill her,” Culwydd commanded.
“No!” Oghren protested. “Not after all this time—we can't just kill her because you say so, your Highness,”
“She has done terrible wrongs, but surely she deserves better than death,” Wynne said.
“Despite all she has done, she is clearly skilled and intelligent,” Morrigan said. “Could she not be of use against the Blight?”
“If she was willing to do what she did to her own people, imagine what else she might do to those who are not,” Zevran pointed out. "An unreliable resource is hardly a resource at all."
“So you want to just kill her?” Oghren spat.
“I did not say that,” Zevran said.
“I did,” Culwydd snapped, cutting off all debate. “You--” she pointed at Kitranna. “You want me to take the throne, yes?”
“Honestly, I just want an army,” Kitranna said. “I just want to take the path of least resistance to get there.” she looked at Branka. “She did turn her house into darkspawn, but—killing her?” she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I mean, look, if nothing else, I'd feel bad about killing someone when they weren't fighting back.”
The glyph holding Branka still shattered with a sound like a cord that had been snapped, and she charged forward.
“You want an army?” she roared. “Help me claim the Anvil, and you will have an army like you've never seen!” she gestured her sword at Culwydd. “You want to listen to this Lady, this soft-hearted girl? Or this golem, who's been marinating in his own madness for a thousand years?”
“Branka—you mad, bleeding—nug-tail!” Oghren exclaimed. “You want this thing so bad you can't even see what you've lost to get it! I'm tryin' to stop them killing you, woman, don't help their damn case!”
“Look around you!” Branka said. “Is this what our empire should look like? A crumbling tunnel spilled with darkspawn spume?”
“As if you helped that, when you sent your own people to the darkspawn for food!” Culwydd snarled.
“The Anvil will let us take back our glory!” Branka insisted. “Surely even you can see that—you must know what we used to be, how far we have fallen!”
Culwydd shook her head. “You would sacrifice everything we are to the thing that took our homes out from underneath us,” she said, and looked back at Kitranna. “So, Warden? What shall it be?”
Kitranna looked from Branka's fevered face, to Culwydd, dirt-streaked and hollow eyed, to Caridin, his metal mask impassive but his massive shoulders hunched and his empty chest heaving.
She remembered Hespith's face, her broken lips and dry, cracked skin. She glanced over to where the Anvil sat, over a precipice, gleaming with Lyrium and making the air smell like magic and lightning.
Did they even know how to make golems anymore? Branka said she did—but Caridin said he'd had apprentices to the art. There had to be more to it than 'slam someone on the Anvil, hit them with a hammer a lot.'
Too many things could go wrong.
“Still not sure what to do about Branka,” Kitranna said. “But Caridin—we'll figure out a way to destroy the Anvil. Push it into the lava or something.”
Branka let out a cry of rage and Caridin relaxed with an echoing sigh. Branka charged forward, but before anyone could do anything, Culwydd slammed her hammer into Branka's head. Branka bashed her with her shield, and Morrigan iced the ground underneath Branka's feet, making the woman slip and fall. Culwydd raised her hammer and brought it down again, caving in Branka's skull.
Branka collapsed, and with an anguished cry, Oghren went to her side. He put his face in his hands. Culwydd stood back, her chest heaving. Her nose was bleeding and broken, but she hardly seemed to care.
“Another life lost to the Anvil,” Caridin said, moving so he was next to Oghren.
Oghren looked up at him.
“Yeah, well, she always was a stubborn, crazy--” he choked off the end of his sentence and shook his head. “Yeah.”
“I wish no mention of the Anvil had made it into history,” Caridin said, his voice bitter.
“Yeah. Stupid woman...always knew the Anvil would kill her...”
“This...all of this is my doing,” Caridin said, spreading one massive metal arm to encompass the chamber that they were in. “My legacy.” he looked over at Kitranna. “At least it ends here. I thank you for standing with me, strangers.”
“No problem,” Kitranna said with a casual shrug.
“On the contrary, I believe it was a great deal of trouble to do this,” Zevran said.
“The Anvil waits there for you to shatter it,” Caridin interjected.
“We can just break it?” Kitranna asked. She tapped her chin. “How do we break it?”
“For all it is an Anvil, it is still a delicate instrument,” Caridin said. “You need only strike the hammer on it, and it will break.”
“Was that an issue when you worked on it?” Kitranna asked. “That you'd hit it wrong and it would break?”
“No,” Caridin said. “If there is an item being crafted there, it will stay whole.”
“This sounds more and more like magic.”
A chuckle rumbled in Caridin's chest. “Perhaps it is, of a kind,” he admitted. “I have been here many years, and have heard many strange things that wander the Deep Roads. Perhaps there is something like magic in dwarves.”
“There is?” Culwydd exclaimed. “How do you know?”
“I always had the suspicion when I was a dwarf,” Caridin admitted. “And spirits have come here, once in a great while.”
“You can talk to spirits?” Kitranna said.
“Only if they are strong and curious enough—but yes, once or twice I spoke to something older than I, stronger than I, who had seen more of the world. But this is not why you have come here.”
“That sounds pretty important, actually,” Kitranna said.
“Such information would be lost forever if you did not tell us,” Morrigan said.
“What I could tell you would take many lifetimes,” Caridin said. “And we have not the time. Is there any boon I can grant you, a final favor for destroying the Anvil, before I am freed from my burden?”
“You want anything, Oghren?” Kitranna asked.
“Don't suppose you could bring Branka back?” Oghren asked. “Maybe make her a golem, like you?”
“I would not do such a thing to her even if I could.” Caridin said.
“Somehow I didn't think so. Then I don't want anything that would remind me of...this. Best it's just done.”
Kitranna rubbed her forehead. She glanced at Branka's body, and sighed. “We still need a Paragon's word, don't we?” she said. “I mean—unless you can just come back and waltz into power,” she told Culwydd.
Culwydd sighed and closed her eyes. “I cannot do that,” she said.
“Figures it wouldn't be easy.”
“Ah, a quarrel over the throne has brought you here?” Caridin said.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Kitranna admitted. “And then there was everything else—but yeah. We came down here because we needed a Paragon's word to try and settle the whole thing with the throne. Won't be able to fight the darkspawn without it.”
“Then for the aid you have given me, I shall put hammer to steel one last time, and make a crown for your monarch.”
“Will that take very long? Zevran asked. “We cannot possibly linger here for much longer...”
“A few hours, perhaps,” Caridin said.
“Really? Most smiths take days to create their works...” Zevran tapped a finger on his lips, looking curious. “Leatherworkers and tailors also.”
“I am no mere smith.” there was something of a smile in Caridin's voice. “Be assured—it will not take long.”
Caridin went to work on the crown while the rest of them licked their wounds and rested. Kitranna and Oghren moved Branka's body. There was nowhere to bury her, not decently, but they took her back to her camp and wrapped her in cloth. They weren't sure what to do with her after that, as they didn't particularly feel like dragging the body back to Orzammar, and Culwydd would refuse to do so anyway. They left her at her camp, and Oghren erected a simple marker for her.
“Darkspawn'll probably drag her off,” he remarked, shaking his head. “Idiot woman.”
Kitranna patted his shoulder. She didn't really know what else to do.
They returned to the chamber with the Anvil, where Caridin was still working on the crown. His hands, enormous and blunt, were surprisingly delicate while handling the artifact.
“Do you truly wish to not discover the Anvil's secrets?” Morrigan asked, putting one hand on Kitranna's forearm before swiftly removing it. “It is a marvel! A tool of creation!”
“Even the best of tools may be misused,” Wynne said. “This is a thing of blood magic—of destruction.”
“It is no blood magic,” Caridin's rumbling voice rang out. He could hear them, even over the sound of hammer striking on metal. “It is no magic you would recognize.”
“And sometimes the destruction of one thing is required to make way for another,” Morrigan said. “'Tis a law of nature that death is a parent to life.” she looked back at Kitranna. “If you destroy the Anvil, you will regret it!”
“Yeah, probably,” Kitranna said with a wistful sigh.
“Then you should leave it be.”
Kitranna looked at Caridin, who scrutinized her intently. “Nah,” she said. “Too easy to mess up. I mean, it ended up badly the first time,” she gestured to Caridin. “I don't really want a repeat of that. Do you honestly think we could somehow make absolutely sure some idiot with too much power and too little sense didn't get a hold of it?”
Morrigan sighed as well. “I suppose there is a logic there. Destroy it if it pleases you,” she said. She folded her arms, clearly unhappy.
“Either way, I don't really feel like pissing either him or Shale off,” Kitranna said. “We're all in pieces anyway, we still need to get back to Orzammar and not die.”
“An excellent point,” Morrigan admitted. She pursed her lips. “These darkspawn have ruined so many things,” she said, wistful. “So much magic and history, lost forever because of them.”
“Well, it's a good thing we're killing the Archdemon then, isn't it?”
Morrigan gave a dark chuckle. “Until the next one rises, of course.”
Kitranna leaned back, looking up at the dark cavern ceiling overhead. “Yeah. Until that.”
On the other side of the room, Zevran was sitting by Culwydd. The energy had gone out of her now that there was no more fighting to be done, and she sat on the floor, almost asleep. Wynne had healed her injuries as best she could, but Wynne was exhausted as the rest of them.
“So, where do you come from?” Culwydd asked Zevran, her eyes half-closed. “Never seen an elf like you before. I've never seen any elves before, actually, outside of books.”
“I am from Antiva,” Zevran told her.
“And where's that?”
“In the north,” he said. “Far to the north, much warmer than in your Frostbacks. Though not nearly as hot as it is in Orzammar.”
“And how did you come to be here? It must be quite a long way.”
“Ah, I was hired to kill the fair Warden. I failed, and instead of killing me, she just so happened to want me along for their quest.”
“Why?” Culwydd peered at him. “That seems foolish.”
“I try not to question the thing that resulted in me being alive. It seems as if it would summon ill fate.”
“So are you a mercenary, then?”
“Assassin. A Crow, actually. Have you known many Crows?”
“No.”
“Not surprising. We do not do much work in Orzammar.”
“Most surfacers don't do work in Orzammar.” she ran a hand through her hair. It was long and thick, tangled and matted with blood. “A pity, really. Perhaps if we were more closely allied with the Surface, the darkspawn problem would be less.”
“Have you ever been to a Surface country?”
She shook her head. “No. Just Orzammar. And here.” she watched Caridin working on the crown. “Is Bhelen really trying for the throne? It's not a bluff, or some kind of gambit?”
“Indeed he is. He sent us all the way here to search for Branka to support him, after all.”
She shook her head again. “He'd make a terrible King.”
“Many people would make terrible kings. That does not prevent them from trying.”
She scowled. “No, it doesn't.”
“So, you are definitely coming back with us, then?”
“I don't particularly feel like staying in the Deep Roads any longer and I certainly don't feel like letting Bhelen run Orzammar into the ground. So, yes.”
“So you no longer feel so...self-destructive as you did when we first met?”
She peered at him. “I suppose not.”
“Good. Personally, when I first heard of you, I thought there was a chance that you would be in the Deep Roads, still alive. I am pleased I was right.”
“Why did you think that?”
Zevran waved a hand. “It is the sort of thing that occurs in Antiva on a semi-regular basis. If dwarven politics are anything like Antivan politics, there was a chance it could happen.”
“And why do you want me to be Queen?”
He smiled. “Why would I not favor a woman both so lovely and deadly over her brother, who, to be honest, is neither the most likable nor competent of individuals?”
Culwydd chuckled. “You really dislike Bhelen that much? You didn't even meet me until you came to the Deep Roads.”
“I have seen his like before. Aggressive, warlike...good for the assassination business, but not much for anything else.”
“So...you would choose me over him, because Bhelen is useless?” she paused. “That's true, but...”
“I also do not like wasting my time, which Bhelen seemed all to pleased to do.”
“That also sounds like him.” she sighed. “I don't really want to be Queen, though.”
“I am sure you could find a way around it,” he assured her. “And it is not so bad.”
“Find a way around it? What do you mean?”
Zevran opened his mouth, but was interrupted by Caridin informing them that the crown was finished. They hurried over to him, and he held it delicately in his massive hands. He passed it to Kitranna.
“There. It is done. Give it to whom you will.” Caridin said. “I do not wish to hear their names, or anything more of them. I have already lived long past my time. I have no place here.”
Kitranna nodded. “I'll destroy the Anvil, like you want,” she said. She walked over to it and picked up the hammer that lay next to it. The Anvil was enormous, with veins of lyrium running over its surface and gleaming in the light. She raised the hammer and brought it down on the Anvil, and it shattered into hundreds of pieces as if it were made of glass. Each piece shone brightly, and they all had razor-sharp edges.
Caridin and Kitranna stood before the pieces of the Anvil. Kitranna looked at the pieces of the Anvil, then back up at Caridin. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.
Caridin walked to the edge of the precipice the Anvil had rested on, the edge that looked out over the lake of lava far below.
“You have my eternal thanks,” he told her. “Atrast nal tunsha...may you always find your way in the dark.”
He spread his arms and fell over the side of the precipice. Kitranna and the others hurried to look down, but he was already gone, a fading shape in the lava below.
“A waste,” Morrigan muttered.
“It was what he wanted,” Kitranna said. “Come on. We need to get going.” she looked at Culwydd. “You're coming back with us, right?”
Culwydd nodded. “I suppose I have to deal with Bhelen,” she said.
Kitranna handed her the crown. It was heavy, but delicate, carved with intricate designs. “This is yours then.”
Culwydd took the crown and looked down at it, a pensive expression on her face. “Not yet it's not,” she said.
Kitranna clapped her on the back. “It will be. Come on, let's get out of here.”
The journey back was difficult, long and hard. Moreso now that they had less supplies and were injured from the many fights they had gotten into on the way here. Fortunately, there seemed to be less darkspawn, perhaps due to the lack of Broodmothers in the area.
Morrigan was still angry about the loss of the Anvil, but she had to admit that even if they had salvaged it, there was no way they could have transported such a large and heavy magical artifact across all of the Deep Roads. Wynne was pleased the thing was destroyed, and Kitranna still wasn't quite sure what to think.
Zevran and Culwydd were getting on very well—a little alarmingly so, to be quite honest. They frequently took watches together and chatted quietly about a variety of things.
“Do you enjoy being an assassin, Zevran?” Culwydd asked one evening (or what went as evening in the Deep Roads) while they both were on watch.
“And why not? There are many things to enjoy about being a Crow in Antiva.”
“Such as?”
“You are respected. You are feared. The authorities go out of their way to overlook your trespasses—even the rewards are nothing to turn your nose up at. As for the killing part—well, some people simply need assassinating. Or do you disagree?”
“Well...” Culwydd sighed. “I'd prefer to get things done without killing people.”
“Ah, but the world does not bow to your preferences, does it?”
“Sadly, no.”
“It does not bow to mine, either.”
“Shame, really.”
“It is, isn't it?”
“Would you do anything else besides assassination if you could?” Culwydd asked.
“Well...there are many things I did not appreciate about being a Crow,” Zevran admitted. “Having no choice, being treated as an expensive commodity, the rules—oh, so many rules! But simply being an assassin? I like that just fine—I will continue to do that, even if I am not a Crow. What else could you picture me doing?”
“A lot of things,” she said. “You're clever, you at least know enough about politics to muddle your way through Orzammar's—and the pretty face doesn't hurt, either.”
Zevran laughed. “Clever? I must admit, that is not the adjective most people would use to describe me.”
“Oh no? Well you have to be at least a bit clever, to deal with Bhelen and the other nobles.”
“It was mostly Surana who was doing that.”
“But it was you who thought I might still be alive,” she said.
“More of a hope than anything. And there is a sort of poetic justice to it, no?”
She smiled and put a hand on his forearm. “Well, I appreciate it.”
He raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. “Oh?”
“Yes. Should I not?”
“It is always nice to be appreciated for one's talents,” he said.
She pulled back a little, then more. “I—sorry,” she said, looking away. She wrung out one of her hands, shaking it. “Touching people is strange.”
Zevran was unruffled. “You spent a great deal of time here by yourself,” he said. “You are lucky you did not completely lose your mind.”
“Or become a Broodmother.”
“You know, I was not going to mention those things,” Zevran said. “But yes, it is good that did not happen either.”
“I keep thinking about her,” she admitted. “The Broodmother.”
“Quite vile,” Zevran said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It was sad, too.” she clenched her fist. “And it makes me want to kill the darkspawn.”
“Is there anything constructive one can do with a darkspawn other than kill it?” he pointed out.
“Not much,” she said. “You can't even eat them.”
“I am not sure that I would want to do that.”
“Well—no, obviously not,” Culwydd said. “But that's one of the most basic uses you can get out of something that's not a plant or a rock, and they don't even fulfill that.”
“I suppose that is one way of looking at it.”
“Sometimes, I thought about eating darkspawn,” Culwydd admitted.
Zevran looked at her and didn't say anything.
She waved a hand. “I know, I know—bad idea. Which is why I didn't. But you get damn hungry down here, even with the deepstalkers.”
“How fortunate that we are returning to Orzammar, then, is it not?”
Culwydd nodded. “Tell me more about the surface,” she demanded. “I don't want to be down here anymore.”
“Hm...” Zevran thought. “What do you wish to hear?”
“You gonna marry the princess or what?” Kitranna asked Zevran at one point, curious about how they spent their time together.
Zevran smiled. “I do not think that is an immediate concern of mine or hers,” he said.
“I'm just saying you could,” she said. “I didn't see anything in the Shaperate about elves not being able to marry dwarves. And if you did, I bet the Crows would never come after you.”
“Probably not,” Zevran agreed. He peered at her. “Why is your immediate thought marriage?” he asked curiously. “Can we not simply enjoy each others' company?”
“Sure,” Kitranna said with a shrug. “But I don't know...I figure if you can get married, lots of people would do it.”
“And if I were to ask you if you planned to marry our fair but very sour apostate, would you say yes or no?”
“Morrigan?” Kitranna exclaimed, her voice hitching a little. “That's different.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one, I don't think she and I could legally get married. We're mages.”
“Ah,” Zevran nodded. “Yes, I have heard that is a problem.”
Kitranna scowled and crossed her arms. “Not sure why we can't get married,” she admitted. “I just know in the Circle they refused to do it.”
“This is beyond my scope of expertise,” Zevran said. “Perhaps Wynne would know more?”
Kitranna glanced at the older woman. “No,” she said. “Probably not. Anyway, why do you think I'd marry Morrigan in the first place?”
“Why not?”
“Well I—we're friends, but--” Kitranna felt the tips of her ears flush.
Zevran chuckled. “With dear Morrigan, being able to even call her a friend feels halfway to a marriage proposal.”
“And what would it take for you to want to marry someone?” Kitranna asked.
Zevran shrugged. “Oh—I do not know. I had not considered it before. Crows do not usually get married, you see.”
“Why not?”
“We usually die before we have the chance.”
“Oh.” Kitranna looked at the ground. “That's too bad.”
“Not always,” he assured her. “And in any case, I am no longer with the Crows. I am with you.”
“That's true,” Kitranna gave him a tiny smile, and he smiled back.
The Legion of the Dead troupe greeted them on their way back, gave them some supplies, and send them on their way. They were all quite surprised that everyone had made it back in one piece, with an additional member, no less.
When they arrived back in Orzammar, the Assembly was in session. No one recognized Culwydd, as she was in battered armor and her cheeks and eyes were both hollow, but the guards at the Assembly recognized Kitranna, so let her in immediately.
“Lords and Ladies of the Assembly, I call for order!” Steward Bandelora was saying, attempting to calm the room. The mood was dire, the room filled with many angry mutterings. “This argument gets us nowhere!”
“Then why these delaying tactics?” Bhelen demanded. He was at the front of the room, opposite Harrowmont. “I call for a vote right now. My father has one living child to assume the throne. Who would deny him that?”
“Wrong, as usual, Bhelen,” Culwydd's voice rang out across the Assembly, and everyone fell into a deathly silence.
“Sister...” Bhelen breathed. Then he raised his voice. “What are you doing here? You were banished—banished for killing Trian!”
“I did not kill him!” Culwydd roared, drowning out the voices of Bhelen and the other nobility. “I did not kill him,” she repeated, quieter. “You did, Bhelen.”
Bhelen snorted. “A fair trial proved--”
“Incorrect,” Culwydd snapped. She pulled Caridin's crown out and held it out, so all could see this. “Do you see this? This is the work of a Paragon, of Caridin himself, and he bestowed it upon me.”
“Caridin?” Harrowmont exclaimed. “He is long dead--”
At that, Oghren stepped forward. “Caridin was trapped in the body of a golem,” he explained to the increasingly agitated crowd. “This Warden--” he gestured to Kitranna. “Granted him the mercy he sought, releasing him and destroying the Anvil of the Void.”
“Then why would he have given anything to her?” Harrowmont asked, gesturing towards Culwydd.
“Because I aided the Warden,” Culwydd said. “When she was in danger, I saved her. And before he died, Caridin crafted this crown, to give to the rightful ruler or Orzammar. And he gave it to me.”
“She is chosen by the ancestors themselves!” Oghren exclaimed. “She's Orzammar's next Queen, not either of you two!”
The Assembly burst into noise, the nobles talking and shouting over one another.
“Silence!” Bandelora called. The room fell quiet again. She stepped forward, gesturing for the crown in Culwydd's hands. Culwydd handed it over, and Bandelora looked it over. “This crown is of Paragon make,” she proclaimed. “And it bears house Ortan's ancient seal.” she looked around the room. “The Ancestors have chosen,” she said. “Lady Aeducan has returned from exile, and the Stone itself exonerates her, and raises her up. She is Queen.”
“No--!” Bhelen called out. “This—this isn't right! How dare you--!” he surged forward, blade in hand, and Culwydd raised her own hammer, but several guards grabbed Bhelen before he could do anything.
Harrowmont simply looked stunned.
Culwydd jutted her chin out and faced Harrowmont. “Have you any objections?” she demanded.
Harrowmont shook his head. “If Caridin has chosen you, then...you are to be Queen,” he said, bowing his head. “I cannot defy a Paragon. The throne is yours.”
“Good.” Culwydd looked around the room. “Are there any objections from any of you?”
No one answered.
She nodded, more to herself than anything, and faced Bandelora, who still held the crown out. Bandelora inclined her head, and Culwydd went on one knee before her.
“Let the Memories find you worthy,” Bandelora said, holding out the crown. “First amidst the Lords and Ladies of the houses, the Queen of Orzammar!”