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Waiting in the shadows was yet another army, not the Grey Wardens but the regular Fereldan legions, commanded by none other than Loghain Mac Tir, master campaigner and hero of the already-legendary rebellion against the Orlesian occupation that had ended some thirty years ago. The army in the valley comprised only a part of the force assembled at Ostagar against the Darkspawn. That additional support was what their recent efforts in the Tower were all about. Even from her vantage point she could see that the banks of ordered lights were being eroded like a dam in a storm-swollen river without additional support, the dam would break and the field would be lost to the flood. These flames went up randomly about the battlefield, sending the ordered elements into chaos and setting off smaller fires of their own. But there were other fires, too –trees on the perimeter set wildly ablaze as well as armor, weapons and warriors from both sides, friend and foe. Some of the fires were orderly –rings of soldiers wielding flaming brands, archers with fire-tipped arrows forming a defensive line and sending regular volleys into the ranks of the enemy at a single order.
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The fires scattered across the valley marked where the Grey Warden army was engaging the Darkspawn horde that had come streaming in to Ostagar from the Korcari Wilds. Nothing had yet changed on the battlefield. It was a tribute to his good nature and their high spirits that he was able to withstand that grin for as long as he did. She was well aware of how she looked, and didn't blame Alistair in the least for his discomfiture. They buried themselves in the russet mask between brow and cheekbone, made embers of her lips -carefully painted the same color-and sent smoldering tracers down her cheeks and up her temples until her face looked like a flaming ivory skull with enormous topaz eyes.
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The flames from the beacon, and from the battlefield in the valley under the bridge, made echoes of themselves in the marks, the color and temperature of sunset in winter, that she'd set in the skin of her face. He twisted himself around on the sill to check the strength and visibility of the signal they had made, but the young Mage knew that her flame would burn well. They grinned at each other, giddy with their success Alistair actually managed to hold her gaze for a few seconds before being obliged to turn away. They leaned out over the windowsill like children playing at castle forts or "rescue the princess" –only the king was the one in trouble and they were doing the rescuing. It was a new spell for her, but she had summoned a steady flame from her staff as Alistair broke chairs and crates and hacked at beams for more wood to fuel the signal and then the moment came when they knew that they had done it, and they rushed to the tower window to witness what they had set in motion. There had been a moment, in the Tower of Ishal, when the beacon had sputtered into life and her heart had sparked with it.