The Arl of Denerim
The storm passed almost as quickly as it had come upon them and by the time the large wooden doors of the Fort were eased open again, Alistair and Oghren had a team of men ready.
"Your majesty, I can accompany the Commander into the city. You need not concern yourself…"
Alistair held up a hand. He knew Peter meant well, only feared for the health of his king, and so he kept his tone gentle. "I'll not hide in the palace while the city sickens. I helped rebuild Denerim with my bare hands, this I will do too."
Really, this should have been Vaughn's job, but Alistair couldn't afford to let his thoughts run away from him now. Disease did not follow the whim of politics; likely the Arl's plotting had little to do with the failure of some citizens to properly dispose of their garbage or a tainted water supply. He would stop by Vaughn's estate on his way, just to make sure the Arl was made aware of the situation.
Catching sight of Zevran ascending the stairs from the dungeons, Alistair beckoned the elf to his side. "Zev, would you accompany me to the south east quarter, or remain here with Luke?"
Zevran glanced about the dark interior of the fort as if assessing the threat of the stone itself before casting his eyes back to Alistair with a short nod. "I will come with you, Alistair. I have seen much plague in Antiva. I may be of some assistance."
Alistair nodded and clapped his elven friend on the shoulder. "I'll tell Luke to meet us back at the palace. I would not risk the Commander's wrath by taking them into the city with us."
Zevran chuckled and moved off to talk with the group of men collecting by the door and Alistair went to find Luke. He found the young Warden sitting on the stairs leading to the dungeons and raised his brow at the odd location.
"We couldn't hear the thunder down here," Luke explained. Rory's little brow was furrowed in concentration as he tried to jump two steps at once and when he succeeded, Luke patted his shoulder and grinned. "Now try three!"
"When Rory has finished conquering his mountain, will you take him back to the palace?" Alistair handed Luke a folded slip of paper. "And pass this to Brenna for me, would you? Tell her I might miss dinner."
"Sure." Luke pocketed the note with a serious expression. "You're going down to the south east quarter?" The young man's tone said it all: Brenna won't like that.
"Tell Brenna not to worry."
Luke considered him a moment and then said, "You sounded like Aedan then."
They shared a half smile and Alistair nodded. "I'm not going underground, Luke. I'll see you later?"
Luke raised a hand in farewell and turned back to his younger brother.
Alistair met the soldiers at the door and Oghren grunted, an order his men apparently understood as they formed into two short columns of five men each and began to march through the large hall to the front of the Fort. Glancing at Zevran, Alistair raised a brow, the elf raised one in return and they hurried to catch up.
The soldiers paused at the gates, allowing their Commander and King to step to the lead while Zevran maintained a flanking position, following their procession off to the side, his head swiveling, his eyes seeming to touch every stone, window and door as they made their way south.
As they approached Vaughn's estate, Alistair couldn't help looking upwards, scanning the chimney stacks. Finding they belched no smoke at all served to offer little relief as they marched past the outer wall and toward the front gate. The guards snapped to attention as soon as they recognised their King and his Commander and Alistair entertained the brief notion that perhaps he might look a little threatening, approaching Vaughn with a contingent of men at his back.
Oghren seemed to suffer no such compunction. "Go get Vaughn, man! Can't you see His Majesty wishes to see him?"
One of the guards strode for the front door, but Alistair chose to remain outside. He did not have fond memories of the Arl of Denerim's estate and didn't care if he ever saw the interior, particularly the front hall, again. Shortly, the door opened again, revealing Bann Ceorlic, not Vaughn. The elderly Bann stepped forward and bowed, arms crossed, in the formal and proper fashion before offering a greeting.
"Your majesty, Vaughn sends his apologies that he cannot greet you personally. He has taken ill. Is there a message I might convey to him for you?"
Alistair's mouth went dry and he peered at Ceorlic, looking for any hint of sickness. Taking an involuntary step back, he cleared his throat. "In fact my visit today regards a disease in this quarter of the city. Can you tell us his symptoms, and how long he has been sick?" Does his head pound and is there a queasy feeling in his stomach? Sweat beaded his brow, whether from the warmth of the day, his nervousness, or some dire fever, Alistair could not tell.
An expression of distaste crossed the elderly Bann's face and he wrung his hands. "It's a rash. He has confined himself to his room, but already two of the servants seem to have it. I would advise against going to see him, in fact, I am about to return to Lowlands myself." He shook his head. "I cannot abide the city in the summer, if it's not the spewing sickness it's the itching rash." Glancing up, he frowned. "But Vaughn has not complained of an itch. Never the less, I will leave today. Mind, I will be return for the Landsmeet, your majesty."
"I think it would be best if you stayed here, Ceorlic. I am placing this portion of the city under quarantine." As of now. He had had to quarantine a section of the city two summers ago, for the 'spewing sickness' as Ceorlic so eloquently put it. While cutting off a section of the city felt cruel, Alistair knew it was a necessary step to stop the spread of disease. Turning to Oghren, he continued. "Commander, please station half of your men here with instructions that no one is to leave Vaughn's estate."
"Right, your majesty." Oghren turned to bellow orders, louder than necessary, obviously taking delight in Ceorlic's pathetic wailing.
"You can't be serious? I will not remain here and succumb to this filth. His skin looks like leather, dark leather!" Ceorlic's voice had risen to a high whine.
"Sounds like the Dryland Pox," Zevran murmured softly behind him. "Horribly disfiguring, but not deadly, so far as I know. Hm, it is highly contagious, but usually strikes more rural areas."
Alistair had an uneasy feeling in his gut. Shifting on his feet, he nodded his head toward Ceorlic. "I'm sorry, but my order stands. I will send for our healers and we will do what we can, as soon as possible. You have my word."
Alistair strode towards the gates, but a hand caught his arm. Turning, he saw Zevran standing there and the elf only tightened his grip.
"Alistair, we should go no further. While you would recover from the rash, there is another side effect to the pox." Zevran allowed his eyes to drift downward. "You would likely never conceive an heir."
Alistair stopped still. His stomach roiled and he could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck. The pounding had started behind his temples again and he clenched his fists. Two and a half years and he and Brenna still had no child. He had been a Warden for over six. His shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes a moment and drew in a deep breath. When he blew it out, he had decided.
"I have spent the last five years helping rebuild this city, this nation. I have worked side by side with these people. I have drunk in their taverns. I will not abandon them now."
Zevran nodded, his expression unreadable. "As you wish."
"Zev, if you would rather stay here…"
The former assassin uttered a harsh laugh. "Lead on, my friend."
Alistair turned back toward the gate and a wave of nausea washed over him. He swallowed and wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. His uneasiness had a familiar feel to it now, as if he remembered having this sickness before. His mind quested for the memory, but he could not remember ever having suffered a rash, dark or otherwise. Before he could start towards the gate again, a small crowd rounded the large stone pillar and a cry rose up from the soldiers stationed there.
"Stay back!"
The crowd parted and a single figure stepped forward. A young woman, her cheeks pink and flushed with fury and apparent health, though the same could not be said for two of her companions.
"Please," she said to the guard in front of her. "We must see the Arl, people are dying."
Alistair turned to Zevran. "I thought you said this pox wasn't fatal."
"It is not, and they do not have the pox, my friend."
Alistair stepped forward and many in the crowd recognized their king and crossed their arms in salute. As heads bobbed and bodies bent forward, Alistair glimpsed the face of a man in the middle of their group and his breath caught in his throat as the sun reflected off the silvery sheen of his eyes.
All of a sudden his symptoms made sense. What he felt was not the onset of some sickness, or disease, but something he'd not encountered, except for the slight brush of a fellow Warden, in five years.
He glanced at Zevran and saw the knowledge reflected in his friend's eyes. He yelled for Oghren. "Commander! If you please…" he indicated that the dwarf should approach.
Oghren knew, he could see it in his expression. "By the stone, they've the look of that poor sod we met in the Deep Roads, what was his name?"
Ruck, Alistair thought. Grasping Oghren's shoulder he nodded toward the soldiers. "We need more men, and we need to send a message to Vigil's Keep. Summon the Wardens, these people have been tainted."
Alistair's mind whirled; he'd covered the two most important aspects right away, more soldiers and Wardens. But what to do about these people? He knew of no cure for the taint, well, there was one, but they couldn't exactly start putting ordinary citizens through the Joining, and that man was already too far gone. How, why? How did they become tainted and why had some died and others' not? A shiver crept down his spine as he recalled Aedan's descriptions of the tainted village and the people and 'test subjects' they'd found in the underground laboratories.
Holy Maker, had these people been tainted on purpose? Someone tapped at his gauntleted arm and Alistair turned in a daze to see Zevran speaking to him. "Alistair?"
"Zev, sorry, you were saying?"
"I had suggested we should perhaps head inside after all, assess the Arl's condition to make sure we do not have a plague on our hands as well."
Alistair nodded. It was a sensible idea. "Agreed. We need a plan."
The next hour passed in a blur. Alistair founding himself drawing on his templar focus more urgently as time passed. He couldn't afford to sit and think it all through right now, they had plans to make. Oghren arrived back at Vaughn's estate with what looked to be half the soldiers stationed at Fort Drakon. While the sight of so many armored men might alarm many of the citizens, they represented action and order to Alistair and he calmed a little on seeing them. He beckoned his Commander and Oghren strode over, stopping twice to answer questions from the men.
"What do you need, your majesty?" The dwarf's tone and stature now properly reflected his position and the situation and Alistair appreciated the respectful demeanor, the time for lighthearted banter had passed.
Alistair outlined the plans they had made while gathering men. His first question: "A message has been sent to Amaranthine?"
"Yes, by horseback." Oghren frowned. "It will be three days before we see them, Alistair."
Alistair felt sick. "I know. Here's what we're going to do."
They would send men into the city where these people lived. Alistair clenched his jaw as he detailed their specific instructions. "We need to collect everyone who is tainted. Everyone." He closed his eyes, unable to name their fate. When he opened them again, Oghren raised a brow. "Bring them here. Tell them… tell them we will care for them here."
Alistair had always understood, thought he understood, what Aedan and his Wardens had felt when they had cleared that village and burned it. He'd understood the need for the Wardens to cleanse the underground laboratories of their residents, and all denizens of the Deep Roads. But these were his people, the citizens of Denerim and he would be herding them here and killing them. Swallowing over the bitter taste in the back of this throat, Alistair tried to continue, but found he couldn't.
"Shouldn't we be sending for the mages?" asked one of the captains.
Alistair paled and Zevran stepped immediately to his side. "Are you well, Alistair?"
No, he was not well. Nothing had prepared him for this, nothing. Alistair put a hand on Zevran's shoulder, more to steady himself than reassure the elf, and Zevran stood still, seeming to understand his need for support. Looking up at the captain, he said, "Yes, send for the mages."
They may as well. If anything, the mages might have a way to ease the suffering of the tainted. Perhaps there was a way to send them to the Maker that would not require spilling their blood. Pulling himself together, putting his templar discipline in to practice, Alistair assumed a mien of authority and moved on with his plans.
"In addition to assisting the victims we need to provide extra security to this quarter of the city." Pointing to the map spread out on the back of a wagon, he continued. "We need to establish a perimeter, a quarantine of sorts. This is not contagious, but until we find the source, no one goes in or out."
Oghren nodded and turned to relay these instructions to his men, his tone and manner equally gruff.
Alistair summoned the captain who had spoken up before. "James?" The man nodded. "You will lead a patrol inside Vaughn's estate. I want to know the condition of all residents and servants. Again, no one leaves."
After a few more assignments and instructions the meeting broke up and Alistair was left standing beside Zevran. He turned to the elf. "Will you come inside with me? I want to see Vaughn."
"I will."
The presence of the taint receded a little as the crowd at the gate dispersed; the two obviously sick sent inside, the healthy sent home. This did little to relieve Alistair of his own unease and ill feeling. The headache persisted as did the bitter taste in the back of his mouth. He longed again for a moment to sit down and consider the situation, to pore over the endless reports Aedan had sent regarding the tainted village and the laboratories. Too many thoughts fought for attention but two stood out. He had to kill innocent people and suddenly, Aedan's mental state made all the more sense.
As they approached the front door of the estate a commotion broke out down the path that led to the kitchens. Alistair remembered the path; it was how he and Aedan had infiltrated the building when attempting to rescue Anora. Pausing, he glanced in that direction and saw two guards hauling a slender man to his feet. Bann Ceorlic with a satchel clutched to his chest. Alistair felt a low growl form in the back of his throat as he stepped back down and confronted the elderly Bann.
"Going somewhere, Ceorlic?"
The man slumped and shot Alistair a pleading look, but remained mute. Fatigue settled across his shoulders as he nodded towards the guards, indicating they should take Ceorlic back inside. This would be but the first of many such instances.
Turning back towards Zevran he nodded toward the front door. "Let's get this over with."
A pall had settled over the air inside the estate. No servants scurried back and forth and a fine layer of dust had settled upon the suits of armour that lined the front hall. Dust rose from the cobbles and yards every day at this time of year and Alistair determined it had probably been only a matter of days since they had been attended to. But still, the room, the estate, had and unkempt air about it. No one came to meet them, no steward acknowledged their presence or offered to escort them.
Alistair remembered the way to the bedroom Howe had occupied and assumed Vaughn might have claimed it for his own. He stepped down the hallway toward it, passing the room where Anora had been kept, passing the alternate entrance to the dungeons and passing the hallway to the kitchens. He had not been inside this building for five years and yet he remembered it well, every corridor, every room. Vaughn had not even changed the arrangement of furniture so far as he could tell.
The door to the suite at the end of the hall was locked. Alistair raised a brow at Zevran and the elf cursed and pulled out his thieves' tools and fiddled with the lock for a few minutes, muttering softly in Antivan. Finally with a click, the lock turned and Zevran looked up with a small, but satisfied smile.
Alistair nodded his thanks and pushed open the door. The air in the room was stale and thick with the stench of bodily waste. Zevran coughed lightly and Alistair put his hand over his mouth. They walked through the darkened sitting room and into the bedroom, glancing first at the bed. It was empty. A shuffle drew their attention to the darkest corner, behind the desk and between the bookshelves. The faint light spilling through the doorway caught the silvery gleam of ghoulish eyes and Vaughn stepped out of the shadows. He looked about as far gone as the man in the crowd, what skin they could see covered in dark grey patches, the texture wrong. His hair had started to fall out.
"Thank the Maker," he said, shuffling forward. "Ceorlic locked me in here, I've been… Your majesty?" Vaughn stopped and crossed his arms in a bow as he recognised his savior and Alistair took a step backwards. How was this man still walking and talking? Why hadn't he died or gone mad?