I Am Yours

Chapter 8

The Ashes of Andraste, as it turned out, were not a myth. With Eamon restored and the Wardens' alliances secured, the path forward became clear. They would have to return to Denerim and find a way to displace Loghain as Regent. Eamon called a Landsmeet, and the group returned to Denerim's capital.

For a moment Naia entertained the hope that she might convince Loghain to stand with them, to allow the Wardens to fulfill their purpose and focus on the Darkspawn rather than some imagined threat from Orlais. Perhaps he regretted his choice at Ostagar now that he saw the danger they faced. But a meeting with the Teyrn and Arl Howe quickly crushed that thin little dream. Loghain firmly believed he was in the right, and Ferelden's armies would never fight by their side so long as he led them.

It was becoming increasingly clear to Naia that putting someone they trusted on Ferelden's throne was their only hope of defeating the Blight. Even after they rescued the Queen from Arl Howe's estate, however, Naia was not sure that person was Anora Mac Tir. The Queen's lie to Ser Cauthrien nearly got her and Alistair killed. Though she apologized after they escaped Fort Drakon, Naia couldn't shake the suspicion that Anora had been trying to eliminate Maric's heir.

But politics quickly fled from Naia's mind when Anora told them that something was wrong among the elves. It was not the only problem in Denerim, of course, but Naia knew she could concentrate on nothing else until she saw her family.

"Yes. Please," she said when the Queen asked if she should arrange for passage inside the alienage. "As soon as you can."

*

As they stepped inside the alienage's wooden gates, Naia heard Alistair draw his breath sharply. For the first time, Naia saw her home as an outsider would see it—the colorless shacks, the uneven cobblestone streets, the shabbily-dressed elves who would not meet their eyes. She glanced over her shoulder at her companions, wondering how they were taking this. Alistair looked horrified; Wynne, concerned; Zevran, almost angry.

"So. This is where you grew up?" her fellow Warden asked hesitantly.

Naia's throat tightened; she swallowed hard. "It's not usually this bad," she lied.

But when she looked around again, she realized it wasn't a lie. The alienage had always been poor and its homes somewhat ramshackle, but the piles of trash in the streets, the stains on the ground that looked suspiciously like old blood, the heavy boards over her father's front window—those were new. Howe's purge had taken a toll.

"Go home! There's nothing in that house that will help you!"

Naia's heart sped up at the sound of that voice. She began running, flying down the street, turning a corner, her eyes seeking the familiar red hair.

Shianni was standing in front of a white-haired elven couple dressed in rumpled clothing. The two were clinging to each other, their arms entwined, and Naia was somehow sure that both of them were ill.

"Arnas, Lia, listen to me," Shianni said urgently. "Those shems aren't here to help us. They dragged Valendrian away weeks ago. Where is his cure? Where is he now?"

"We have no choice, Shianni," the elven woman said gently, her voice creaking with age and illness. "We're too sick to refuse their treatment."

"Bah. You're being too soft on her, Lia," Arnas growled. "Stand aside, girl. You've been howling for months at the only people offering us a scrap of help. You've caused enough trouble. Now get out of our way."

Arnas brushed past Naia's cousin, shoving his shoulder hard against hers as he did. Lia spared her an embarrassed glance, but continued arm in arm with her husband as they walked down the street.