CORMAC

Everything about Admiral Gustavo Biasìn screamed Antiva in the most flamboyant way. And not only Antiva, but Antiva merchant nobility, purebred Rialto Bay, the kind liable to have a murder of Crows at their beck and call to take out the rubbish.

From the two long-necked bottles of wine he carried - fine vintages both, Cormac recognized after a moment, one of which he recalled enjoying greatly at Fergus' wedding - as he strutted into Jarl Elderath's cabin; to the several shades of reds and yellows of his doublet and short cape, fitting him like a rather flattering second skin; even the greying thin, oiled mustache sitting proudly on a barely lined face of brownish skin, darkened by the glaring sun of the higher latitudes.

All spoke of pride and confidence, unashamedly so.

Compared to the Jarl's quarters, where Cormac was quite sure not a single wine glass could be found, unless plundered from some plunderers, and to the Jarl of Waking Sea himself, kitted out in a leather jerkin and fur over a sleeveless chainmail hauberk, the Antivan and his expensive finery stuck out like a punch in the eye. And yet, despite his lithe physique, he filled the space with his presence, his smile limpid and contagious.

Moreover, he'd come prepared to the Fereldans' infamous lack of sophistication, carrying three glasses together with the drinks.

"Jarl Eremon!" the Antivan greeted. His words smelled of cinnamon, barely perceptible over the lingering incense of Eldebradth's personal ceremony and the pervading smell of the sea. "And Lord Cousland too, the valiant Raiders! Che piacere! What a fine skirmish that was, my friends! Here, let's celebrate. We cannot discuss the dreary business ahead of us without a good glass or two."

Elderath grunted out a few words of greeting, eyes never leaving the Antivan, as if searching for rusted links to hammer out from a coat of mail.

It was quite amusing to Cormac, this display of inverted roles. Just minutes before, Elderath had been the one invading personal spaces and roaring laughter like it was going out of style. Now, the Jarl's cagey, xenophobic attitude was stirred awake, bred and nurtured into him by Waking Sea's centuries of isolationism, only to be reinforced the Orlesian atrocities during the Occupation. Atrocities Elderath himself had repaid in kind during the Liberation.

Thirty years after those bloody, heady days, Chantry missionaries might not be stoned on sight anymore, but the burned skeletons of the Chantries forced on the islands during the Occupation still remained as a broken warning for those bold enough to suggest bringing the people of the isles 'up to the current belief and Chantry doctrine'.

Since the Admiral wasn't Orlesian, a priest, a Templar or any combination of the above, but actually Cormac's relative and a fellow sailor, the half-giant accepted the offered glass readily enough. Still, he sniffed the contents suspiciously and quite overtly, gulping the wine down only after the Admiral had taken the first tasting.

Cormac had no such problems. Gustavo Biasìn was family, if of the acquired kind. Besides, they were on the Jarl's flagship, surrounded by some of the most ferocious and loyal soldiers on both sides of the Waking Sea. The idea of poison and backstabbing was honestly laughable, but Cormac would never tell the Jarl that. Any attempt to make him change his mind wasn't unlike talking with a wall, made of stone and jutting iron spikes and bloodlust out to skewer you.

Cormac was a great warrior, but he also believed the sea had instilled some wisdom in him. Suicidal battles, unless backed into a corner, were never a healthy idea.

"Tell me, Lord Cousland! How fares my niece? Still enamored with your handsome brother?"

"Please, call me Cormac, Admiral. No need for such formalities among family."

"Then you better call me Gustavo. Boy, you make me feel old already!"

Cormac chuckled and sipped the wine. It was as good as he remembered it, but thinking of Fergus made him crave their secret stash of brandy.

"She was more than well when I departed. My brother had just returned from Court. Don't tell her, but they were so sickeningly sweet on each other, I just had to raise anchor one day in advance, or my teeth would have rotten. I think they barely noticed." Gustavo laughed good-naturedly, echoing Cormac's own chuckle, but it didn't quite silence the bitter pang of envy flaring briefly in his chest. Guilt and self-disgust swallowed it in short order.

Cormac ignored the quick escalation with the ease of practice, not missing a beat. "Oriana keeps shaming the xenophobic half of the Landsmeet ladies with her charm and making the other half green with envy, all in one go. I'll say, at this pace, most of the nobles will go bankrupt as their wives and daughter try to match her and fail."

"I bet! You wouldn't believe how many jealous wives sent the Crows after her, only because their husbands would make fools out of themselves and trip over their own tongues the moment she stepped in any ballroom. Many a heart was broken irreparably when she married your brother!" The Admiral grinned and rose his glass into a toast. "To Oriana Biasìn Cousland, the fairest lady of this Age!"

The three men toasted and drank.

"On the matter of these ladies and their Crows," Cormac said slowly, mulling the fragile glass gingerly and fixing the Antivan with an inquisitive look, "any open contract still pending?"

Gustavo quirked an eyebrow, then smiled nonchalantly. "Oh, it's a thing of the past. Dead and buried." He shrugged. "The Masters take their contracts quite seriously and a Crow's word is his bind, but they also know that there's clients, and then there's benefactors."

The Jarl snorted. It sounded not unlike gravel pressed under the wheel of a mill.

"Wise, these limp-wristed Masters of yours. It would be annoying to send their little birds' heads back in a barrel of vinegar." He glanced appreciatively at Cormac. "Then again, might not be that much left either, if they raised a dagger on Lord Oren."

The Admiral smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Protective bunch, you Couslands, aren't you?"

"By deed and blood," Cormac quoted his family's motto solemnly. "Wouldn't you do the same, if your family was threatened?"

"I never incurred in the misfortune of marriage," Gustavo chuckled, twirling the wine in his glass before taking another sip, "but I can respect your conviction, Cormac. In Antiva, however, we're quite used to delegating matters of blood and vengeance to professionals of the craft. With rather successful results, most of the time."

Cormac's mind plucked a stray memory from the crash-course of Antivan customs and uses the entire Cousland family - which meant him, really - and retainers had gone through when the news of Fergus' surprise marriage dropped in their lap. He especially recalled his father's extensive mentions of the infighting between the nobility, and how sometimes that exploded into full-out vendettas, with the Crows fighting for both sides.

Inside, Cormac grimaced in disapproval. A family's honor and well-being was a personal matter, a personal responsibility. Not some kind of... competitive business. His face remained pleasantly curious on the outside, though.

"In Ferelden," the Jarl declared, "every warrior is his own professional."

Gustavo conceded with a diplomatic nod and toasted again, this time to the brave Ferelden warriors. After that the casual conversation was shelved and with wine warming their bellies just enough, the order of the day was tabled. Collectively, they agreed that the first joined Antivan - Ferelden effort against the Felicisima Armada and assorted pirates was a resounding success. Seven pirate ships torched and sunk, their crews dead or assumed so, with five more boarded and captured between them.

The first point of contention, if it could be called so, emerged when Admiral Gustavo tabled the issue of prisoners.

"What prisoners?" the Jarl asked, mildly annoyed.

"The pirates, Jarl Eremon," the Admiral replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Surely, the crews didn't fight to the last man? All of them?"

The Jarl snorted and drank from his glass. 'Well, at least he likes the wine.' "Some of the cowards threw down their weapons and browned their pants, aye. Didn't make much if a difference, since they lifted them against us in the first place."

Cormac judged it wise to intercede. "Piracy and plundering is a crime punishable with death in Ferelden."

"The law is much the same in Antiva, make no mistake," the Admiral agreed, his voice carefully neutral, "but we usually take a few back for public execution. To show the population - and our ever-watching rivals - tangible proof of our success."

"Their burning ships and the plunder we recovered are good enough evidence where I come from," the Jarl grated, unrelenting.

Cormac sighed inside, exasperated at the man who was like a second father to him. "There's also the matter of the food and water required to feed any prisoner, and the space in the hold needed to stow them in security." Cormac tried to defuse the sparks before someone fanned them into a fire. Father was counting on him, especially to rein in the Jarl. "Our ships don't have enough space for cells, and I won't take the food out of my soldiers' mouths to feed a criminal that's going to die anyway."

The Admiral became thoughtful for a moment, than shrugged with easy grace. "Fair enough. I'm sure Teyrn Cousland will be satisfied with your choices." He chuckled, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Besides, the sharks and other marine monsters need to eat too. Better them than us."

Cormac and Elderath laughed along.

It was agreed that, as Brandel's Reach was far closer to Ferelden's shores than the Antivans, that Cormac and the Jarl would take the two more damaged war galleys to replace the two lost during the offensive, as well as a fourth more of the loot to balance out the two carracks and the dromon that would slowly trail Admiral Biasìn back to Antiva. The Jarl grunted and pulled a face here and there, arguing at some point on a larger share of the loot due to Ferelden's superior number of ships.

Cormac felt the mediator's shoes fit him badly. Privately, he agreed with the Jarl, as the Highever fleet and Waking Sea's had taken on some of the toughest targets and suffered not insignificant losses. Losses Cormac strongly wanted to validate.

However, his father's orders were clear, even if they ended up leaving a sour taste in his mouth. The joint offensive had taken too much effort to be organized to be hamstringed by something so relatively trivial. The first real bridge between Ferelden and a foreign nation since the Liberation was worth some sacrifices. Even if those sacrifices were Cormac's men, both as Kaptain of the Storm Raiders and Thane of Highever.

"Don't roll over for them," Bryce Cousland had advised the night before he departed from Highever. "Be firm, or they won't respect you, and by extension Highever and Ferelden as a whole. But concede on something. There needn't be a victor and a loser at the end of this, only two satisfied allies and a lot of dead pirates."

'He should have sent Fergus for this.' But Fergus had just come back from Court after months, and Cormac hadn't had the heart to take him away from his family to handle something Cormac, as the spare heir of Highever, had indeed been educated to deal with, if not as extensively as Fergus had.

'Besides, heir and spare on the same ship is just asking for a storm.' Even for someone grown as much on the deck of a ship as he was on the mainland, King Maric's sudden disappearance and death had been a shocker, and a reminder that the sea cared little whether your blood was of a great line, or you were the last of Denerim's urchins.

Cormac wondered briefly and bitterly if father would be as agreeable as he'd asked of Cormac to be if he'd lost over half the crews of three of his ships. He found himself unsure of the answer.

"All that remains now," Cormac announced after the last bumps were smoothed over, "is to decide whether to head straight back to harbor, or show the inhabitants of this fine island some long-belated justice for their crimes." He pointed at one of the maps splayed on the large, dragonthorn desk. "Brandel's Reach main lair of lowlives is here, on the north point. Rat Harbor. If we land at night, with our numbers combined and surprise on our side, we can break their hold on this island. The Armada won't have a safe harbor for hundreds of miles."

Elderath stroked his braided beard, the longest tail of which reached just above his heart. Then he grinned hungrily.

"A bold move, Cormac. Risky, but catastrophic for the scum. Aye, why in the Void not! What do you say, Antivan? Your milk-drinkers are up to get close and personal and torch some hovels?"

"I admit it's tempting. To break the Armada's hold on these waters would benefit a lot many people," Gustavo said thoughtfully, tapping on Rat Harbor's position on the map. "We could leave the damaged ships here, under a shared guard. Maybe send a fast ship to Denerim, to inform them of our movements. I'm concerned, however: I heard of this place. The pirates rely heavily on prisoners and slaves as a work force."

"What about it?"

The Admiral held the Jarl's gaze unblinkingly. "Your treatment of prisoners is what concerns me, Jarl Eremon. I won't say anyone on those ships was innocent, and we indeed found no prisoners in their holds. The situation ought to be different in an established settlement. Less black and white."

The Jarl scoffed a laugh. "Your pampered lives and gold always make you soft and gullible, Antivan. I'll give you black and white: if they raise arms against us, then they are the enemy. Easy enough for you to understand?"

Cormac refrained from the urge to rub his temples, or just upturn the whole blasted desk in the confrontational Jarl's face.

Then the Prophetess Andraste took pity of his plight, and before the Admiral could work the Jarl into a pissing contest, breeches down and cocks over the bulwark, some knocked on the door. Loudly, and with much vigor.

"Who's there?!" The Jarl barker, turning his annoyance at limp-wristed milk drinkers to the unknown disturber. "Ah, screw it! Come on in!"

A moment later, Alfstanna stood on the door, arms crossed and bowing. Her cut palm was wrapped in linens, already stained dark.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting, my Lords. I have urgent need to confer with Thane."

The Jarl made to speak again, but a look from Cormac reminded him who was whose huscarl. Cormac exchanged a quick look and a quicker hand-sign with Alfstanna. A silent shudder worked its way up his spine.

"Message from Highever," the agreed upon gesture said.

"Excuse me, my lords. I'll be back presently."

They retired to the Sword of Mercy's castle, where a single look sent the watchers there bowing and hurrying down the steps. Alfstanna handed him a small roll of parchment, no longer than his thumb when rolled up. An unassuming piece of string tied it close.

"It arrived on the messenger pigeon only minutes ago," Alfstanna whispered to him.

Cormac nodded. The birds were a little, well-preserved secret of the Highever budding Navy, developed by Cormac's grandfather on his mother side, the very Kaptain Hafter Reman who gathered the first Storm Raiders and became the nightmare of the Orlesian Navy during the Occupation.

The birds, quite common on the Waking Sea isles and on several stretches of the Coastlands, had the curious talent of being able to always find their way back to their nest. It had taken many pains, but two generations of Reman - Hafter and Cormac's own mother, the Teyrna Eleanor Cousland - had managed to painstakingly breed a few of them to set their nest on their ships.

The Werewolf had one such nest, as did the Laurels, his father's diplomatic ship. The pigeons, tricked in this sort of captivity, however, bred less eggs, making each one of them precious.

As such, the few grown ones kept at Castle Cousland were used only sparingly, for emergencies, their existence a well-guarded secret. Jarl Elderath, who'd been Kaptain Hafter Reman's closest ally and confidante, knew. Gustavo didn't, and for all that Oriana was the sister he never had, Cormac was remissive to disclose one of their few advantages on the - he begrudgingly admitted - more advanced Antivan Navy.

There was also the matter of his parents to consider. A very young Cormac had sent a pigeon to his lord father once, while Bryce Cousland was on an embassy in Cumberland. The fury of his mother when she'd caught him, hands still sticky with pigeon shit, had been something to behold. And fear.

Cormac broke the string and read the message. He blinked, and read the message again.

"Andraste's flaming knickers."

"That bad?" Alfstanna inquired, half amusement and half dread.

"The worst kind. Read for yourself." Alfstanna went through much the same reaction. He imagined he looked as pale as she had. "Come, they must know about this."

Alfstanna nodded numbly, then hurried to catch up to Cormac's long strides.

"We must postpone the attack on Rat Harbor and make for Highever immediately," he announced as soon as Alfstanna closed the door behind him, giving the three nobles their privacy again. "King Cailan is calling the banners."

"War?" Elderath breathed harshly, rising on his feet. "Where? Against whom?"

Cormac made his voice steel, hammering away the notes of disbelief attacking his mind.

"The Darkspawn. A Blight has begun in the Korcari Wilds."

"The Darkspawn?" the Jarl echoed, his face a picture of skepticism. "It's been four Ages since they last came to the surface. They should be all dead."

Cormac handed him the message, noticing how the Antivan's eyes zeroed on it in a split-second and his brow furrowed deeper. Too bad. Let him wonder. "The King and the Warden Commander think differently. There've been incursions in the Southron Hills, and a great Horde is massing in the Wilds."

"Or under them."

Both Fereldan nobles whipped around to face the Admiral, who was looking away, arms crossed in thought.

'Right, the Deep Roads. Damn it, it's gonna be hell to scout them out.'

"If a Blight has indeed begun, I must return home, my friends. While I would like nothing better than to see my beloved niece and enjoy Highever's hospitality, these are dark news. Terrible news. I must make for Rialto immediately." His voice was grave, his eyes hooded with dark prospects, a far cry from the jovial camaraderie their meeting started with. "Antiva was ravaged once before by the Blight. If an Archdemon has risen and the Horde walks on Thedas again, Ferelden will need help. Maker watch our steps, we all will."

LOGHAIN

The flow of soldiers, servants, and elves streaming in and out of Denerim's Royal Palace parted before the flapping banner with the roaring Wyvern of Gwaren and the horsed party riding underneath it.

"Make way!" Sergeant Casdin bellowed. "Make way for Teyrn Loghain!"

Loghain Mac Tir, his features as forbidding as Kirkwall's highest cliffs, looked little the part of the hero out of a ballad, but respectful bows and cheers followed his passage nonetheless. What he might not look, his deeds in the Liberation and his leadership in the decades that followed more than made up in the eyes of the people.

The Teyrn seemed impervious to the admiration showered upon him, however. The look on his face was grave. His thoughts, only more so.

The small party trotted through Denerim's packed streets toward the spire of Fort Drakon, towering hundreds of feet atop the bustling cityscape. The closer to their destination, the more the raucous din of the city changed in tone and timbre. Shouted orders and the hammering of smiths soon resounded instead of merchants' biddings and fishermen calls, while armored boots echoed in the background, clanging on the pebbled roads or squishing in the ankle-deep muck.

Ferelden was preparing for war. This time, the threat came right out of the history books, or so that swine Duncan had convinced Cailan. Up to last night, Loghain would have chalked Cailan's eager acquiescence to the Warden Commander's ravings up to the King's obsession with myths and glory, a weakness easily exploited by those whispering into his ears.

After Howe's missives, however, a darker perspective had taken hold of Loghain's mind, filling him with anger and disgust.

Howe's Bard, the alleged Fereldan patriot hiding in the Empress court, painted a picture that pissed on everything Maric and Rowan ever stood for. Ferelden. Freedom from the Orlesian oppressor. Years of war and unending sacrifice, always watching for knives in the dark, always doubting, fearing the one trap that would spell the end of it all.

All of that was to be sacrificed on the altar of Cailan's deluded ambition and Cousland's corruption.

Howe and his Bard affirmed that Cailan was ready and eager to spit on the memory of his parents and on his very kingdom for a dynastic marriage with the Empress. That, in turn, would leave Teyrn Bryce Cousland, the man penning the incriminating correspondence with the bitch, in charge of Ferelden as Viceroy of the new Imperial Province, once Cailan moved to Val Royeaux to take up his puppet role as Emperor.

Loghain's spymaster, after a careful examination, had confirmed that the calligraphy in the letters indeed matched Cousland's and the Empress'. If that made the Bard's words any truthful, however, Loghain wasn't sure.

But of all things, the prospect of Rowan's sudden illness being Emperor Florian's last act of spite made too much sense to be ignored.

Underneath his shining suit of plate armor, pillaged so long ago from the dead body of Meghren's General, hate unlike anything he'd felt in years burned into Loghain's gut.

He dismounted in the Fort's main courtyard and handed the reins to a stable boy. All around him, Maric's Shield's soldiers were pitching horses to carriages and forming up in columns and companies for the imminent march south, to Ostagar.

A tall, young woman in armor strode up to him.

"My lord! Maric's Shield will be ready to march within the hour."

Loghain nodded and dismissed his guards, then waved at Ser Cauthrien to follow him. Neither spoke until the door of the Teyrn's office in the Fort was shut behind them, watched by two trusted men.

Cauthrien stood straight, legs wide and arms clasped behind her back, as the Teyrn poured himself a cup of wine and started pacing.

"Anora insists on summoning Teyrn Cousland to court, to answer before her to the accusations moved by Arl Howe."

Cauthrien didn't miss a beat. "If the letters speak the truth and he's guilty -"

"It'll give Cousland a chance to set sail to his masters, yes," Loghain spat. "Which is why you'll take the summon to him, with a Company of Maric's Shield to ensure his cooperation." He produced two folded letters, one stamped with the Royal Twin Mabaris, the other with Gwaren's Wyvern. "This is the summon. The other is instructions for Arl Howe. Anora wouldn't budge on summoning the whole family, as the correspondence makes no mention of the Teyrna or their sons."

Loghain sipped his wine, his frown deepening. Come to think of it, his daughter hadn't quite been herself during closed-doors their meeting. Nothing outrageous, but she had been sickly pale and almost distracted, sometimes staring in the distance even as they discussed and argued the betrayal of one of Ferelden's two Teyrns.

He knew she hadn't parted on the best of terms with Cailan when the King rode down to Ostagar with his retinue of hangers-on and young knights, leading the first round of levies from Denerim, South Reach, and the Southern Bannorn, hunting for glory and songs. The dire news he brought her, of her own husband intending to replace her with an Orlesian, must not have helped. Poor Anora.

If only she would give him a grandson! Then the Darkspawn could take Cailan, and he could grow the Theirin child to be the ruler Ferelden deserved.

Loghain drank again, banishing all thoughts of the King and his foolishness from his mind, albeit with some difficulty. If the Bard Marjolaine was right and Cailan was indeed conspiring with Orlais, then Loghain would deal with the King personally and make sure he wouldn't stain his parents' memory, or endanger Ferelden, any further.

Anora had a point, however. Cailan had penned none of those letters with his hand, but Bryce made mention of a private correspondence between the King and the Empress. If that was indeed the case, then Loghain knew where to find the incriminating letters. By now, however, they'd be at Ostagar. Nothing he could do about it, not until he marched Maric's Shield there.

"We can't know if the rest of the family is involved," Cauthrien stated, anticipating her liege lord's thoughts. Loghain nodded.

"You will instruct Howe to delay his troops for a few days. I know how Cousland thinks in matters of war: he will send the bulk of Highever forces ahead with his son Fergus." 'And if he doesn't, then there'll be no need for a trial.' " Once they're gone, apprehend Bryce Cousland and anyone who resists you. I'll deal with the young Cousland if he starts harboring thoughts of rebellion."

A civil war with the Couslands and their bannermen was the last thing Loghain needed, not with the Darkspawn in the south and an Orlesian invading fleet likely to appear on the horizon any day. Once Bryce Cousland was apprehended, however, he didn't believe that the elder so Fergus, green as he was in the matters of war outside his father's training, would pose much more than a tiresome annoyance, if the push came to shove. The Couslands might have large numbers at their beck and call, but so had the Orlesians at the River Dane.

It was the Highever Fleet that would potentially cause the most damage, should the Couslands prove to be turncloaks. Jarl Elderath of Waking Sea wouldn't hesitate to raid Ferelden's coast as he had Orlais' during the Liberation, out of fierce loyalty if nothing else. And that wasn't to mention the support the Couslands would likely receive from the merchant lords of Antiva, or their handlers in Orlais. Loghain held on that thought as something irked him, but Cauthrien was still waiting for her the rest of her orders, and he ought to get underway as soon as possible.

"You'll act with the Queen's authority, Cauthrien. Once Cousland is in custody, you will escort him here. Most of Maric's Shield will remain to maintain order in the area until he receives proper judgment, and Howe will march his forces south, immediately." Loghain nodded, then grimaced as his thoughts moved on to the next likely stage. "Anora will have to consult the Landsmeet."

"It might have to wait until this incursion is dealt with, my lord.'

"It might." And by that time, Cailan might well be dead and the Landsmeet called to confirm Anora as Queen. Loghain's hand twitched. He turned his gaze to the only portrait decorating the room, a triumph of red framing a hard, beautiful face.

'Rowan, I failed with him, and I failed you, but I won't fail Ferelden.'

He couldn't afford to leave anything to chance on the assumption of loyalty, not with Orlais apparently ready to finally make its move. Loghain emptied his cup as Cauthrien saluted and took her leave. Shortly after, a portly man in a humble but clean servant garb knocked and walked in, carrying Loghain's frugal meal. The tray was set smartly, then the servant's stance shifted from humble to mildly inquisitive, head held high.

Loghain acknowledged his spymaster with barely a nod, eyes not leaving his maps.

"Send word to your people in Redcliffe, South Reach, and West Hills. If the Arls or their families make mention of Orlais or of the King repudiating the Queen, I want to know. Consult their ledgers as well, check for any large influx of gold unrelated to taxation and known investments, up to two years back."

The oldest of Cousland's letters to the Empress went back to Harvestmere of 9:28, almost two years back. Loghain wasn't blind to the poison the old nobility spewed on his daughter and him for their commoner blood, either. In all that time, Cousland could have well reached out to his kin, friends, and those who supported him after Maric's death. Cailan's election had been a close thing at the time, won only with the combined votes of Gwaren and Redcliffe.

But Arl Eamon Guerrin, the sly, cowardly fox, was also Anora's staunchest detractor, and his Orlesian marriage was a declaration if Loghain had ever seen one. Who was more likely to rowel Cailan's foreign ambitions than his Orlesian sympathizer uncle?

Outside the Guerrins sphere of influence, if Cousland, a man who'd seen nearly his entire family slaughtered throughout the Occupation, had already jumped ship to kneel and grovel at the Empress' knees, what guarantee was there that men like Leonas Bryland or even eminent Banns like Sighard or Loren hadn't been swayed by Orlesian gold and promises?

No. He had to be sure before any drastic action, but he had to prepare for the worst scenario in any case. Like he always had.

"If any of those nobles have changed their colors, it's possible anything from Bards to the Shadows of the Empress will be watching them. As insurance.," the not-servant pointed out sourly.

Loghain tolerated his impertinence only because the man had proved, time and again, to be an extraordinary asset, if an independent one. For the same reason, the Teyrn turned a blind eye on his less than reputable enterprises in Denerim's criminal underground and beyond.

"They'll have to take the risk," Loghain said, unmoved.

"Figures it'll be elves to take the fall for human machinations. How surprising."

"My patience is running thin, Couldry."

"I'll leave you to your maps then, my lord. I suppose that if my people are found dead in a ditch, then that will be a good enough answer, yes?"


AN: Thank you for reading so far. Special thanks to all those who favorited and added this story to their alert list, and to Aegon Blacksteel for reviewing the last chapter. To all of you, don't forget to leave a review and provide feedback. It's the only way I have to know if I'm doing something worthwhile, or if this has already gone too much off the rails. So write something in that Taint-accursed box below, will ya?