The news had been spreading through the city since sunrise. Liveried heralds bore written missives to the estates of the noble houses. Summons were nailed to the lintels of the guildhouses. Criers called it out over the cacophony of the marketplaces, and wagging tongues wove it into gossip and rumour in the taverns. Teyrn Henryk had called an extraordinary session of his high court. By the afternoon the city was electric with speculation. Even the sea breezes stirred more fitfully with the sweet, pungent odours of a building storm as they drifted in through the windows of Revered Mother Thelois' study.
Conrad faced firmly out at the white-flecked ocean and tried not to see the reflection of Tamsyn in the chequerboard panes looking at him. "You have to consider your position, Conrad." She said.
"Bugger my position. You can have it if you're so concerned about it."
"We cannot, and you know that, Bann Evenrig." Revered Mother Thelois replied from behind her desk. "You are to be the teyrn's son-in-law. You are the son of the last champion of Ostwick and the commander of the militia that was so suddenly disbanded. There is no-one else in Ostwick with so much prestige and so much stake in this matter. You must be there, and everyone must see that you are there."
"For someone with so much prestige I seem to be given very little choice in the matter."
The revered mother seemed amused at Conrad's comment. "You say that as though it is a contradiction, my son."
Tamsyn did not seem amused. "Of course you have a choice, you stupid man! Let everyone see you snub the teyrn and his court and his daughter. Let everyone gossip about how you have been dishonoured, or Helena has been scorned, or how you are plotting rebellion. If you want to drag us all into a civil war, which we will lose, by all means stay here and sulk!" The revered mother took over the assault where Tamsyn left off, though her voice was calm and even. "Henryk must be at his ease tonight for us to navigate our way out of this without hitting the rocks. That is your part in all of this. If you choose not to play it, we will all sink with you. I cannot say it plainer that that, my son."
Conrad tensed at the revered mother's choice of words. Nautical phrases were an everyday part of language in Ostwick, and Conrad knew that the painful reminder of his parents' death was rarely deliberate. However, in the case of Tamsyn's wizened little mentor he had cause to wonder. "I am not your son, your grace." he muttered as he seized his doublet from the chair he had left it on and walked out of the door. He did not wait to see if they had anything further to say.
He might actually have arrived on time for the court if it had not been for the crowds clogging the Principia Hill. Though the court had been called as a surprise, only that morning, the streets leading up the hillside had been lined with stalls selling all manner of produce, most of it street food for the throngs of townspeople. The teyrn's court was traditionally accompanied by such a fair, but Conrad was surprised how quickly and completely the people of Ostwick had thrown themselves into it. Did street-sellers lurk in the shadows just waiting to throw up grilled fish stalls and sugared apple stands? It was also customary for noblemen of rank to arrive at the Principia by horse, carriage or litter and accompanied by an entourage of servants. Conrad's servants, horses and a carriage that hadn't been used in years were all in the Evenrig estate on the hill between him and Principia, though he had barely spent two nights together in the place for months. It seemed unwise to arrive at court in a carriage loaned by the revered mother, so he had little choice but to push his way through the festive crowds on foot.
Some stepped aside when they turned to see him in his boar-emblazoned doublet, but few could see that from more than a few paces away. So Conrad had plenty of frustrating minutes to take in the street fair. As he pushed through he listened to the menagerie of speculations and rumours. According to them the teyrn was about to declare martial law; Darkspawn had been seen in the sewers; There was trouble in the elven alienage - when wasn't there? Someone had heard that Orlais had invaded Ferelden. Someone else insisted that it was the other way around. Many recounted stories of towns in Southern Ferelden devoured by the blight. Almost as many scoffed at the idea.
At every corner was set up a table and there stood a man in the teyrn's livery. Every freeman of Ostwick had the right by law to attend the teyrn's court. Long ago the city authorities had overcome the obvious impracticalities of that law by employing the street-criers to relay the headlines of the proceedings beyond the gates of the Principia. Each one was required to have a voice that could carry well enough for the next to hear. Notoriously, the news that reached the foot of the hill did not always bear much resemblance to that which emerged from the teyrn's halls.
When Conrad finally reached the gates of the Principia he had also found a company of guardsmen standing before the gates looking menacingly at anyone who approached too closely and threatened to bustle offensively close to the nobles and their entourages as they entered. One of them barred Conrad's path and ordered him to halt before he was nudged by his officer and told who he was. "My apologies, Bann Evenrig." the officer had bowed to him as the guards parted and the gates were opened.
Conrad first had to stride through the courtyard, where gaggles of servants and retainers stood like abandoned toys. He had never really thought much about what servants did when they were left alone and he found himself staring curiously as they variously loitered, lounged, gossiped or busied themselves with seemingly pointless tasks like polishing muddy carriage wheels. The great hall was already full when Conrad entered. The nobles in their brightly dyed and embroidered clothing all stood closest to the dias where the teyrn's throne stood, gathered in small clusters and poised to observe the others around them. Behind a railing stood the representatives of the commons. Guildmasters and the chairs of merchant companies were allowed to stand closest behind the nobles. The least of them took places in the shadows of two tiered galleries from where a few freemen of the city could watch the proceedings.
Henryk's sheep, regardless of their grade, parted for Conrad to march through their midst to take his place as prize ram at the front of the herd. Furtive glances and whispers followed behind him. It seemed that the only one that hadn't craned their neck to watch him was a tall young woman standing at the front of the assembly. Conrad had known Helena Penhaligon since he had first been taken in as a ward of the teyrn. Back then she had been a quiet, seven year old girl; not something a recently bereaved twelve year old boy had paid much attention to. Yet somehow the way she stood now, so still in all the maddening swirl, reminded him of that girl. She was wearing a dress of green damask and cloth of gold and her light brown hair was bound in a long braid down her back. She faced resolutely towards the dais as though no-one in the room was even watching her. She did not even react when he stepped up beside her. She kept looking forwards at the empty teyrnal throne as Conrad had glanced briefly, almost furtively, at her. He had quickly started to feel that itch at the back of his head that was always brought on by crowds of people looking at his back. He perfectly understood the immovable poise that his betrothed maintained so tenaciously. "I am sorry that I am late." he had whispered.
Then she had glanced at him and half smiled. "But not as sorry as you are to be here?" she whispered back. He hadn't replied.
There were two great stone fireplaces on either side of the hall, closer to the throne where the nobles stood. They illuminated the wooden panelling around the hall. In the flickering light the intricately carved figures seemed to move; men and qunari and ships re-enacting long-ago battles on the Waking Sea. The warm glow highlighted the golden throne and the two men standing on either side of it. To the left was a man with long grey moustaches wearing polished ceremonial armour that Conrad recognised from the night of the storm, though the captain of the guards look far more composed now than he had in the dark and the rain. To the right was the seneschal who had ridden out to dismiss the militia four days before, a man named Aiden, in a green mantle trimmed with ermine. He had iron grey grey hair swept back from a youthful face dominated by an aquiline nose
A dozen guards stood spread in two lines of six either side of two pillars that flanked the dias. They were too far from the nobles to hear their conversations, but close enough for Conrad to make out the glint of the firelight on their greatswords. The bared blades, pointed down at the ground and the only weapons permitted to be unsheathed within the hall, were a symbol of the teyrn's justice, and a reminder of his power. Seneschal Aiden stepped forward and called out "Teyrn Henryk of House Penhaligon, freeholder of Ostwick and sovereign of its domains."At his call the twelve guards turned their blades to point up at the roof and stamped their armoured feet on the floor. "The Lord! The Lord!" They called out in unison. Conrad's taut nerves jumped at the sudden convulsion, though he held himself still. He felt a surge of unreasonable resentment at the men behind the closed helms.
The gold-framed door behind the dias opened and the sea of murmurs was silenced as Teyrn Henryk strode out onto the dias wearing a silverite coronet on his head. His grey streaked hair and beard lent a severe look to his long face. He stood before the throne surveying the court silently, seemingly unperturbed by the expectant faces gazing back at him. When he finally spoke it was with a practiced gravity that carried throughout the hall without becoming a shout. "My friends, I have called you here today to put to rest the fears that have beset our great city these many days and weeks. I know that you have all heard the dire news from across the sea. Good King Cailan of Ferelden is dead, slain with a great many of his soldiers in the wilds of the South. The rest is all confusion. Yet I hear dire warnings about the grey wardens and their role in the fall of this fair young king with the flower of his realm." he stopped, allowing his words to sink in. A murmur ran through the room. "Many of you will know that I have disbanded our own militia, which I lately formed to combat the threat of the darkspawn at the behest of the grey wardens." Conrad gripped the belt at his hip tighter. Everyone in the hall would expect him to feel slighted by that, he knew, and the weight of that expectation felt like a physical push at his back. He mused that perhaps that was the same thing as feeling slighted.
"Though I have dismissed them it is my wish that they should be honoured…" the teyrn's eyes fell on Conrad as he continued and a cold gripe gripped him in the stomach. "My lord, Bann Evenrig," the teyrn hailed him,"For your tireless and loyal service as lord marshall of our militia I salute you. I know that you would have proven as great a champion of this city as your father did before you. Step forth, Serah, and let us honour you!"
Conrad watched Henryk starting to clap, but his foster-father looked out at the assembly rather than at him. Of their own accord, his feet carried him up to the dais. He felt oddly detached from himself as he pondered the puzzle of what Teyrn Henryk was doing. Only when he turned to face the crowd of people before him did some kind of self-awareness take hold. Out of instinct, he put on his best champion of Ostwick pose; straight-backed with his right hand at his belt shouting confidence and his left arm relaxed at his side calling out effortless nonchalance. It was the pose that he had practiced in the mirror as a boy when his father was still alive, the same one he had seen carved into his father's statue since he had died. It seemed to Conrad that many of the nobles in the front ranks looked as confused as he felt.
Applause began with a stutter and rippled slowly through the room. Sheer tension kept Conrad rigid as the dozen swordsmen at the dais stamped their feet and roared "Hoorah!" together. He was simply and dumbly grateful that he hadn't flinched. The courtiers replied with a hurried, dissonant cheer. They were quicker and more convincing with the second and third 'hurrah'. For most of his life Conrad had imagined being cheered like this, as a champion of the city. Yet this felt like a hollow humiliation. Everyone knew it, yet everyone played along. He looked at Helena and saw her looking back at him. Her serene half-smile had disappeared and white tension showed around her lips. Her brow was furrowed as she fixed her eyes on his and clapped, hard and steady. All at once it dawned on him that this was exactly what Henryk had intended. They had all cheered him as the leader of the militia. Now all that the militia and its members had done would be connected with him, and everyone would be watching for his reaction to what happened next. Conrad almost laughed aloud. It was an offer, a test and a trap all at once: play along with Henryk as the loyal captain, humiliated by betrayal, or… What had Tamsyn said? 'Of course you have a choice…'
Conrad gripped his belt tighter and held his pose.
The applause finally petered out a moment after the teyrn stopped clapping. He gave a short bow to Conrad. Conrad returned it and stepped back down from the dais. There was a rush of relief as he stepped back into line beside Helena. Hush returned as Teyrn Henryk sat. He allowed another long pause. "Now to matters more troubling. Five nights past officers of this city, acting upon my orders, were assaulted; not only with blades, but with magic." a gasp from the courtiers behind Conrad, and a shout.
"Your grace!" spoke a man with grey mutton chops and a booming voice, "This was the night before you dispersed the militia, and not gently either, if the story I have from my son is true. Four days we have been asking ourselves why. All this dark news and our militia is disarmed just at the time we need them. Why, your grace?"
Teyrn Henryk nodded sagely. "I hear your question, Bann Clague. It is a good one and I shall answer it. For now know that all I have done is in defence of this city and be patient." He turned to his right as he sat. "Captain Erlend, bring in the prisoners."
Conrad drew in a long, slow breath as the whiskered guard-captain nodded and disappeared into a side door. Soon after he reemerged, followed by more guardsmen. They flanked a line of men and women in plain white shirts and breeches. All were barefoot and shackled at the wrist, and all blinked and squinted as they stepped out into the sunlit hall. The whispers among the courtiers rose as the prisoners were marched out and several gasps and exclamations could be heard. The side door was closed behind the fifteenth and final prisoner, a young man with red hair and a few days growth of beard tanning his jaw and his cheeks. He squinted at the sunlight and turned his face away. Yet he kept his shackled hands down, pulled back his shoulders and knitted his brow over his eyes.
They were all herded into the space between the two rows of swordsmen with their bared blades held high. The new guardsmen lined up in front of the dais and before the courtiers to form an armoured fence around the prisoners. The seneschal stepped forward on the dais and swept his arm dramatically at the prisoners. "Your grace, these before you are those that attacked your officers in the discharge of their duty. We bring them before you to face your justice."
The teyrn nodded gravely. "I shall allow the accused to be heard. This young man is known to us." he pointed at the auburn-haired man. "Let him step forward and name himself."
A pause; from between the pauldrons of two guardsmen from the shadows of the pillars Conrad could see him glance to the man at his side. Then he took a long stride forward. He bowed to the throne; a courtly gesture marred only by the clanking of chains. Anyone with the right vantage, and certainly Teyrn Henryk from his throne, might have seen the young man's half smile. "I am Ruan, of House Trevelyan, at your service, your grace."