The gates of Denerim stand open: though the time is unsafe, the war has not touched the capital yet.
There have always been watchful eyes, following the progress of those who enter; at a time like this, even more so. The arrival of Arl Eamon Guerrin and those accompanying him does not go unnoticed.
The endgame is about to begin.
"My Lord… but, my Lord!" the exasperated servant calls in vain but dares no more: if the Lord Regent wishes to announce himself on his own, so be it, especially if the Regent's face forebodes ill.
Ill to the traitors, Cauthrien thinks as their fast steps bang loud in the corridor. She smirks inwardly but maintains unmoved face for the show; and there's bound to be one.
She is mildly disappointed, though: the chamber door is guarded – truly, the traitors do not feel safe in their own house! – and as they approach, one of them is apt enough to alert those inside. Arl Eamon thus gains time to compose himself and greet Loghain civilly.
Cauthrien does not listen to the exchange; these are meaningless words, only a prelude to the battle, and she is a woman of swords, not words. Instead, she concentrates on the two young men standing by Eamon. The blond and more athletic of the two resembles Maric so much that there can be no doubt of his descent; too bad if he is truly the king's bastard and not an impostor as she had expected. The other, dark-haired and slenderer, seems vaguely familiar.
The Warden. He must be the Warden.
She thought he would be older. Both are, in fact, no more than in their early twenties. Both are armed, and both shift their weight in the battle stance as soon as they set eyes on the newcomers.
In response, Cauthrien shifts hers; while Maric's bastard does not move his eyes past Loghain, the Warden notices her move immediately. A warrior born, and as such assesses Cauthrien with his glance. She is unused to such scrutiny – Loghain's second, and the best sword of Ferelden, famed wide and far – she feels offended by the lack of respect. Come on, boy, wanna test? She feels the battle excitement building up inside but then his eyes move past her to the right and his face stiffens. She quickly glances that way: Arl Howe's lips curl in a small grin. She keeps a deep and profound dislike of the man but hides it well: it is not her place to criticise Loghain's choice of allies.
The debate becomes excited: the civil words gain an edge. The derision in Loghain's voice is nothing new to her; but while people normally cow when they become its target, Arl Eamon is unmoved, and the Warden stands defiant, proclaiming:
"We met in Ostagar, in case you do not remember. I am Ned Cousland, the Teyrn of Highever. And I demand the right of blood: this man here murdered my family." His narrowed eyes burn into Arl Howe.
The Arl remains complacent to the passion. "You have no rights. Any rights the Couslands had were forfeit when I revealed their treason. The teyrnir of Highever now rightfully belongs to the Howes."
For an instant, Cauthrien thinks that the young man will attack; Maric's bastard evidently shares her assumption and quickly puts a restraining hand on his friend's shoulder. Both are wrong, though: he only pales and his voice is sharp like a blade.
"You think I will tolerate you slandering my family's name? Bring your 'proofs' to the Landsmeet if you dare – I hear that murderers are still hanged here!"
Cauthrien feels her jaw drop but this is not yet an end to the insolence as young Cousland – Ned, was it? – addresses Loghain directly. "Regent, this man basely murdered his host's family under the cover of night and the king never condoned his action. I demand that you uphold the law as you are obliged to!"
"Enough!" Loghain snaps. "The traitors' rights are forfeit, as Arl Howe has said, and there is no more to it. You may be grateful that the charge of treason does not extend to your person."
His command is not heeded, though. "I take it then that it was you who condoned Howe's deed – before or after you left Cailan die, I wonder?"
Cauthrien cannot see Loghain's face but can well imagine how it flushes with wrath. "Mind your betters, young man!" she blurts, astonished at the insinuation, but no-one pays attention, taken aback by that unbelievable impudence. Ned Cousland's dark eyes then flash back at Arl Howe who stands there, not even trying to conceal a sneer. "Enjoy your moment of glory while it lasts!"
Despite her personal feelings towards the man, this has gone too far. "You must be either very bold or very stupid to threaten the teyrn before witnesses!"
This time she is noticed: "Since when is justice considered a threat unless by those who have to fear it?" Ned Cousland demands in a soft voice at the same time as Arl Eamon and Loghain both command: "Enough."
The young Cousland breathes rapidly but speaks no more; if glances could kill, Cauthrien has no doubt that Arl Howe would already be sprawling on the floor. Just you try anything, she thinks, and I'll shove those words back in your throat.
With their obligation here fulfilled, Loghain turns and leaves without a goodbye: the last chance was granted, and refused. Arl Howe follows with a look of hatred, and Cauthrien closes the line, feeling the skin between her blades itch as in an anticipation of strike.
The time of words is over; next time it will be the time for swords to speak. Her turn.