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“Your bodyguard?”
“Yes, my bodyguard.”
“An elf is an odd choice for a bodyguard.”
“She is the Hero of Ferelden.”
“Alistair, surely--”
“Sire,” Alistair broke in frostily from her position at Alistair’s shoulder. “You speak to your king, Arl Eamon, or have you forgotten?”
Eamon opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again, a nerve jumping in his jaw. Anora regarded him with steely confidence. Invisible daggers flew between them as the Queen of Ferelden stared down the man who had put forth her former-brother-in-law/now-husband as the man to depose her. And the now-husband in question? panicked a little.
“So that’s settled!” Alistair said brightly when the silence became too awkward to ignore (Anora had counseled him to have patience in these matters, that diplomacy often hinged on the silence, but Maker’s breath, a man could only stand so much) . “Would you like a drink, Arl Eamon?”
Eamon declined a drink. He also declined a tour of the Hall of Portraits, a visit to the kennels, a game of Wicked Grace, a cheese tasting, and all of Alistair’s other ideas. He gave a perfunctory bow and then took his leave from the royal receiving room.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Anora drained her wine glass, stretching her long, elegant neck. “I suppose,” she said absently, “that it is unbecoming to derive so much pleasure from watching Eamon stew in the consequences of his politicking.”
“Oh-ho, but you do, don’t you?”
Anora smiled like the deepstalker that ate the nug. “I do. I really do.” Her delicate fingers plucked the letter from the table-top, and she scanned it again. Alistair, refilling her wine, watched her from the corner of his eye.
“Are you certain you’re comfortable with this arrangement, my lady?”
“Have you ever known me to hide my discomfort from you, my lord?”
He snorted with laughter before turning more serious. “No. But I want to make sure. You have lost a husband and a father, and nearly lost a kingdom…you’ve been ill-used by fate, my lady. I don’t wish to cause you more pain.”
Even after almost a year of marriage, Anora Mac Tir, Queen of Ferelden, was a terrifically intimidating woman. Even her good moods carried an edge; on more than one occasion, her husband had been flatly terrified (and a tiny bit aroused). But sometimes, like just then, Alistair managed to surprise her with what she called your unusual thoughtfulness. Her eyes softened, the apples of her cheeks went just a little pink, and she said, “Oh, Alistair,” with a genuine fondness that made him feel, to be perfectly poetic about it, all gooey inside.
Sensing it was the right moment for physical affection, he scooped up her free hand and brushed a lingering kiss over the middle knuckle.
“Thank you, Anora.”
Sometimes, Anora wondered if the Hero of Ferelden was amused by the ludicrously complex domestic situation she had engineered. Sometimes she wondered if Alistair was amused. She hoped he was, and not just because he had a pleasant smile, a pleasant face, and an even more pleasant laugh. She had come to enjoy his company. She liked him. She wanted him to be happy.
If that meant welcoming his mistress as the new royal bodyguard, then so be it.
“Please, won’t you join me?” she said to the elf the rest of Thedas knew as the Hero of Ferelden, but Alistair had simply introduced as Kalian, my dear companion.
Warden-Commander Tabris, Alessa of Amaranthine, stood a few inches shorter than Anora, but had the presence of someone much taller. Perhaps that was to be expected after rearranging the political landscape of two major civilizations, winning a civil war, and defeating an Archdemon. She offered Anora a neat curtsey. Anora, in turn, dipped her head, acknowledging the various titles and accomplishments represented by this one small, beautiful woman.
“Thank you, your grace,” she said, her voice sweet, almost musical as she lowered herself gracefully into the offered armchair (Anora noticed a slight wince, and was glad she had ordered extra pillows be set out. She had been raised by a war veteran. She understood something of chronic pain, and how to ease it).
“I think we’ve passed the point of titles, my dear, don’t you?”
“Very well, then, Anora,” the elf replied, licking lips that, unless Anora missed her guess, had very recently been kissed very thoroughly. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I wish to welcome you to the royal household,” she said, which was true. Partly.
“Do you often welcome your new elven servants over a private supper?”
“No. But you are not a servant, are you?”
“I’m the king’s bodyguard.”
“You are the Arlessa of Amaranthine and the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and beyond that, you are my husband’s beloved,” Anora said, much more sharply than she had intended. Kalian’s cheeks went deep, fetchingly red, and for a moment she seemed at a loss for words.
“Touché,” she finally said. “Anora, I, don’t…I never…”
Anora shook her head. “Please don’t misunderstand me. What I mean to say is that…Alistair and I have shared a bed, but—I do not love him, not as I loved Cailan. And he does not love me. But he is my friend. The life of a queen comes with precious few of those, and I cherish him. He has been used cruelly by those who should have cared for him, and so, I think, have you.”
She phrased the last as almost a question, giving Kalian the opportunity for a denial that never came.
“As to why I asked you to come here? I cannot tell you. I would like to say that I wish to welcome you to the royal household as my trusted companion. Or, perhaps more honestly, that I wish to size up a rival for the king’s attention, or to seek your attention for myself. But I cannot tell you, because I do not know. I do not know how to navigate this situation anymore than I knew how to navigate my father’s coup, or my marriage to the half-brother of my late husband.” She ran out of breath and had to take a moment to compose herself, smoothing her hands over her own fiery cheeks. “With all that in mind, may I pour you some wine? I did not know if you prefer red or white.”
“I…yes, please.”
Anora took that to mean either was fine, so she selected red, which was both the tastier vintage and better suited to the cheese spread (the selection of which was one of Alistair’s chief joys, and one of Anora’s favorite things about him). Kalian took the cup from her with some reluctance, and the two women locked eyes over it.
Her eyes are the color of obsidian, Anora mused. And that glint…beautiful. She held onto the cup for a few seconds too long, enchanted, before she remembered herself and let go. As Kalian drank, Anora busied herself with slicing the bread.
“Oh, this is delicious.” The pleasure in her moan was sinful.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Anora said, remembering the oddly charming joke Alistair had made about the soft, pungent cheese she now spread across the bread, “but it’s Orlesian.”
“Horror of horrors!” Kalian giggled. To Anora’s great surprise, she then reached across the table and took hold of Anora’s wrist, her fingers slim, strong, and utterly bewitching. She continued sweetly, almost shyly, “My lady--er, Anora, May I be frank with you?”
“I...yes. I would like that."
“Alistair told me you were lovely, but his raptures did you no justice.”
Anora swallowed.
“You spoke of friends before. I’ve long admired you, and I would…I would like to be friends.”
“Friends?” Anora murmured, raising one eyebrow.
“At least…to begin with.”
Kalian’s thumb brushed idly back and forth along the underside of Anora’s wrist, the hypnotic touch drawing a reply from her lips as if by magic.
“In that case, I’m going to ask you something I haven’t asked anyone since I was a girl.”
“I can’t wait.”
“May I…” be more than friends? “braid your hair?”
Alistair had faced many a horrifying situation—darkspawn, dragons, Morrigan first thing upon waking—but none came close to finding his royal wife and the love of his life, together, in the queen’s sitting room. He should have guessed a confrontation would happen sooner or later, but he had hoped, somehow, to avoid it. Hoped to avoid hurting anyone. To avoid becoming his father.
Maker strike me down now, he thought despairingly as the women lounging on the settee turned to look at him: Anora, her dress a little askew in that way it got when she was drinking, and Kal, her lips curving into the lopsided smile that had snared his heart and never let it go.
His heart dropped into his feet (“literally!” he would later insist. “I heard the plop!”).
Alright, Alistair. Think. Assess the scene. Two wine bottles stood on the table, empty. All the cheese was gone. Anora’s hair was down, tumbling over her shoulders; Kalian’s hair was plaited into an intricate crown braid. They looked lovely. Relaxed. Close. A comb lay in Anora’s lap, and Alistair came to the strange, startling, and scintillating realization that they had been playing with each other’s hair.
Anora, her eyes heavy-lidded, patted the settee next to her, a silent request for his company. Kal, her smile wicked, said, “Come have a drink with us, sweetheart,” and popped the cork on a third bottle of wine.
And Alistair might have been king, but even a king knew when to follow orders.