Chapter 2

"Father?"

The door swung inwards slightly at Anora's gentle tap. When she received no answer, she grasped the handle and pushed it open, stepping purposefully across the threshold. Her father sat hunched over his desk, poring over a map in the flickering candlelight, while scratching notes on a piece of vellum. He'd ruin his eyesight if he kept doing that, but that was hardly her foremost concern right now.

"Father." He didn't look up. "We need to talk."

"I'm very busy, Anora."

"This is important." She twisted her hands together, trying to keep the tension out of her voice. "Father, what happened at Highever?"

Loghain's hand jerked sideways, splashing a drop of ink onto the edge of his map. "Damn!" He seized a rag and began to dab carefully at the small black spot, trying to prevent the stain from spreading any further. Anora waited patiently, knowing full well that it was useless to interrupt at this point.

At last he crumpled the rag in his hand and took up his quill once more. After a moment or two of heavy silence, he finally spoke.

"Howe told me he had found evidence that Bryce Cousland might be collaborating with the Orlesians. When he led his troops to Highever, preparing to march south, he confronted Bryce in private – thinking there must be a more innocent explanation." He sounded like an actor reciting a pre-rehearsed speech. "But Cousland attacked him without warning. When Howe's men came to his aid, Cousland ordered his own guards to attack them, and refused to surrender. He was forced to kill the entire garrison in order to escape."

"And Fergus Cousland's wife and eight-year-old son?" she said tartly. "Did they 'refuse to surrender' as well?"

Loghain, still staring fixedly at his map, did not answer. "What about Fergus himself?"

"Killed at Ostagar, I believe."

Anora closed her eyes briefly, picturing the Couslands as she'd seen them at last summer's Landsmeet. Teyrn Bryce Cousland, laughing and joking with the other nobles; Eleanor with her kind, wise eyes. Fergus, the image of his father, with his Antivan wife clinging to one arm and his young son hanging off the other. And Aedan, the younger son: too busy flirting with every unattached woman to pay her much attention, though once or twice she'd caught him giving her an amused, appraising glance. All gone.

It wasn't difficult to guess what had really happened. Howe had waited for Highever's army to leave, and then taken advantage of their absence to kill his liege-lord along with anyone who might serve as a witness. There was a cold, brutal logic to it that she almost had to admire, even as she despised the man. No doubt his agents were hunting poor Fergus Cousland even now, just to make absolutely sure that he wouldn't return from Ostagar.

She swallowed hard, fighting down a sudden wave of nausea. "Father, don't tell me you honestly believe this ridiculous story?"

Her father leaned back in his chair, looking up at her for the first time. He looked tired, she thought, with pallid, waxy skin and dark shadows rimming his eyes. She suspected he hadn't had a full night's sleep since Ostagar.

"There will be a full investigation, of course." There was a harsh edge to his voice. "After the darkspawn have been defeated."

"And in the meantime, Howe takes Cousland's teyrnir?"

Loghain shrugged. "Howe is a valuable ally, and with all the Couslands dead or… missing, the teyrnir is rightly his. I can't deny it to him based purely on speculation."

Yes, a valuable ally. Unlike Bryce Cousland, who would certainly have opposed Loghain's appointment to the regency. Anora gritted her teeth. She knew, quite as well as her father, that many people had wanted Bryce to take the throne on Maric's death. Had he survived, he could have thrown all kinds of obstacles in her path – yet now he was dead, suddenly and brutally, only days before that crushing defeat at Ostagar.

She met her father's expressionless gaze, and stifled a sigh. Of course he would trust Howe; what other choice did he have? One didn't question a convenient miracle.

"And what am I supposed to tell the Landsmeet?" He shrugged again. "Father, if you want me to craft a plausible lie for you, at least give me something to work with! The Bannorn is already in uproar over Ostagar. If you and I don't believe Howe's tale, what makes you think anyone else will?"

He frowned. "That's your affair, Anora. Politics is your domain, not mine – "

"Then you had better make it your own," she said sharply. "Did you think that being the Regent would be like commanding troops on a battlefield? That you could just bark out orders, and everyone would snap to attention?"

"You've said enough, daughter." Loghain's voice was rough. He stood abruptly, sweeping pen, ink and papers to the side of his desk. Anora watched him brush imaginary dust off his map and carefully fold it, smoothing out the creases with the tips of his fingers.

She shook her head. "The Landsmeet will take place in three days, Father, and the Bannorn will expect a convincing explanation. For Highever and – " her voice faltered slightly – "for Cailan's death. I only hope you are able to give them one."

When he failed to answer, she gathered up her skirts and swept out of the room. Just by the door, she paused briefly to look back at her father. He was still standing motionless by his desk, staring at the portrait of Maric, Rowan and Cailan that hung on the opposite wall, as if hoping the force of his gaze could somehow bring them back to life.