Chapter XI: At the Lists
Richard entered Bann William's study, a room he had often played in as a child, when his father's duties as Lord Steward of Highever forced him to move part of the family from Silverclaw to Highever. The room seemed to be a miniature replica of his father's personal chambers in his own castle. The stone walls were polished black, and the room was lit by candlelight. The table and chairs were built of ebony, and the Bann's personal chair was built of silverite, with each armrest shaped like the head of a snarling wolf.
The tiling on the floor was a fresco of a wolf biting into the neck of a fallen bear, representing the Battle of Harper's Ford, during the war for Ferelden's independence, where Bann William's forces, the vanguard of the Teyrn's army, crushed the host of Amaranthine, reducing the Howe family to just young Rendon, and capturing the Arl, Tarleton Howe, to be hanged at the pleasure of His Grace. Richard looked right to admire another of the frescos, this one displayed in an inset in the wall and illuminated by candles flanking it. It displayed the fifth siege of Silverclaw, where Bann Andrew V defeated the army of the then-Teyrn Calenhad and drove the Silver Knight's army from Andrew's Vale. For his victory, and for resisting Theirin rule six months after the crowning of Calenhad, Andrew became known as the last of the Alamarri, the final warlord to bend the knee, and at great cost to the aspiring king.
William did not look up to regard his son as he entered. His quill was busily scratching parchment, his mind focused on some document. Whether it was personal correspondence or the business of the teyrnir, William always bore the same scowl. Richard had seen many men quail under his steely glare, crumble from a verbal assault, or simply stand on tenterhooks waiting for the Bann to break his palpable silence. For Richard, his father gave the silent treatment. He was unsure of what to do, so he sat down in the only chair opposite his father, and made to reach for a pitcher of wine when he broke his silence.
"I did not allow you to sit," said William, without looking up, still engrossed in writing. "Nor have I permitted you to start drinking, for I daresay you have drunk enough already."
Richard put the cup down. "Why have you summoned me, Father?"
William dipped his quill in his inkwell and continued writing. "Don't pretend to be stupid; you know why I have called for you. Your mother has been worried for you, and for James. I, however, am very angry," said his father, whose voice and demeanor betrayed none of his rage.
"When I arrived here, I had expected you and your brother to be, for once, diligent in your studies. Instead, I discover the two of you bedding whores and consorting with thieves."
"Much like your present entourage, I expect? The apple surely does not fall far from the tree."
"Richard…"
"Sorry, I couldn't resist," said Richard.
"Clearly not," said William. "The entirety of the last five years of your life has been a chronicle of your lack of self-restraint. You sully your name with your behavior, and you dishonor the reputation of our family. Every triumph is offset by your follies, and every advantage I provide you is thrown back at my feet with sordid stories of your unacceptable sexual behavior and your drunken antics. And when I, in my love for my children, spare you the beating many fathers are wont to dole out to their broods, you spit on my mercy with repeated truancy."
Richard looked around. The two of them were alone. "Why am I alone? James's behavior has brought you equal disappointment, but it is a rare thing when the both of us are chided at the same time."
"James is your younger brother, and he is entirely guileless," said William. "Even you must see that the only reason he finds himself in such embarrassing trouble is because he follows you everywhere and emulates your actions in all things. I would have thought that you would be more ashamed of your behavior, knowing that James looks up to you as an example, as does Arthur. In any case, while both of you are at fault, I know these schemes are largely the product of your mind."
William finished writing and sprinkled sand over the parchment. He blew the dust off the page, folded it, and then pressed a wax seal onto it. "Soon, the two of you will be knights, charged with representing the Teyrn, and me, at court, whether at Highever, Denerim, or Redcliffe, and guarding the interests of the realm at war. I convinced Lord Fergus, my own student, to mentor the two of you to become capable warriors and gentlemen worthy of lands and titles. You betray both his trust and mine with your impropriety."
"Lands and titles?" Richard repeated. "Father, speak honestly, you would give me neither! Every day, you challenge the Maker Himself to make Alexander your successor, when by every holy law, he would be locked away in a Circle, and I would be your rightful heir!"
"Appropriate that a scoundrel should refer to scripture, as dishonest men are wont to do to justify their actions and behavior!" said William. "I would storm the Black City itself if it meant securing a prosperous future for our house, and your ascension to the seat of Silverclaw would secure the precise opposite. You are a rogue, a youth of low cunning and simple pleasures bringing shame to our house and poverty to our people to satisfy your whims. By cruel chance of fate, you are my son, and entitled to wear the sigil of the proud wolf, which was my father's and his father's before him. But neither men's laws nor the word of the Maker can compel me to raise you above your brother and make you my heir. The line of kings will fail and Denerim will sink into the sea before I name you Bann of Silverclaw."
Richard's face reddened, and he looked downward to his feet.
William sighed. He rose from his seat and poured a glass of wine for himself. "You must think I hate you. It is not the case. When you have proven to me that you have left behind your childish obsession with drink and women, then, perhaps, I will appoint you an estate and household of your own."
Richard's scowl returned. "A manor house? For a scion of Highever's wealthiest family? Father, I am your eldest son with a legitimate claim. If I fucked one whore, if I fucked a thousand, and if I drank myself into a stupor, when the sun sets I am still your heir. Perhaps I will fuck a whore tonight, just for spite. The Chantry will still give Silverclaw to me."
"Richard, you're being a child," said William calmly.
"No! Every day, you have thrown Alexander's accomplishments in my face! 'Oh, look at this paper on magical rubbish Alexander wrote!' 'Did you hear? Alexander killed a blood mage!' 'Alexander's responsible!' 'Alexander has a keen mind!' 'Alexander is a peerless warrior!'" Richard's rage had been simmering beneath the surface, but in an instant, it washed over his mind like a river shattering a dam. "He's your firstborn, and suddenly the sun shines out of his ass. Where was that praise when I won the youth's tournament in Redcliffe? Where was that praise when I was learning history, languages, and philosophy as effectively as Alexander or Arthur ever could?"
"Your memory is selective; it always has been," said William. "I was at that tournament at Redcliffe, and I saw every one of your victories. I was the first to congratulate you, even. As for your studies, who do you think began the foundation of your education? Have I ever discouraged you from pursuing knowledge? Have I ever cheapened your accomplishments? Never."
"Then why do you never tell me that I have pleased you?" said Richard. "Alexander and Arthur never fail to receive your praise…"
William gruffly laughed and sipped more wine. "As of late, I have been universally disappointed in your behavior, in your regular drunkenness, your whoring, your penchant for brawling in the streets or at taverns, or your tendency to hurl shit at townspeople. I know you are an intelligent young man, but your behavior makes you look like a violent thug, better suited to be a street urchin than the son of a lord."
William rose from his seat, and then walked over to the wall to Richard's left. It was a fresco of the Battle of Lothering, Ferelden's most costly defeat against Orlais. It depicted the slain king Vanedrin Theirin and Teyrn Ardal Cousland falling in battle against a crowd of chevaliers, while a cohort of knights wearing the wolf sigil of Maron protected them. "It was ninety years ago that this battle was fought," said William. "When I was a boy, the memory of their downfall was fresher in the minds of our people. You know this story, don't you Richard?"
Richard nodded. "It was the Day of Sixteen Banns," he said. "Bann Gregory Maron raised his men in support of the Teyrn, and lost fourteen of his sons fighting the Orlesians, all of them in quick succession."
"Yes," said William. "For a moment, each of those boys was Bann: Thomas, Henry, Jaime, Robert, Gregory the Younger, Brandon, David, Albert, Alfred, James, Fergus, Maurice, Kenneth, and Gavin. When the Orlesians had finished slaughtering our people, they flayed the corpses of the sons, wrapped the skins around the father's corpse, and sent him back to Silverclaw. Andrew was the only son to survive, and he was a boy."
"Lucky Andrew," Richard muttered.
"Yes, yes he was," said William. "The Lucky Wolf, they called him, Andrew VI. He was the fifteenth son. Had it not been for that massacre, he likely would have died without much money, nor a title in his name, with a wife in his arms and a pack of squalling children at his knees. He went on to become one of the wealthiest and most powerful banns in Ferelden, and he was likely the best of us. Under his watch, our lands remained free. But imagine, for a moment, if he had been as you are now: a wastrel, a fool, content to engage in base pleasures instead of shouldering real responsibility. Our lands would have been burnt, our wealth would have been stolen, and our family would have been exterminated."
"But it wasn't," said Richard. "So what's your point?"
"My point is that everything matters," said William. "Every action you take, every word you say, it all matters. Expecting everything to right itself after a storm has passed is folly. One day, you'll understand how thin the line that separates prosperity from ruin really is, and when that day comes, Maker save you, because I may not be there to do so. You may not be a mage, but you are still my son. I need you to become the man you were always capable of being – not tomorrow, not next year, but now."
Richard laughed. "Father, I am only fourteen! Must everything in life be duty to you? Was there never a time when you were able to leave your cares behind and be merry? What is the point of life if you are never able to enjoy it?"
"Idiotic questions like that make enjoyment more elusive each time they are asked," said William. "I was fourteen when I killed my first, no older than you are now, and you've been living a cossetted existence. It was years before my exile, and Highever was fighting another war with Orlais. The Teyrn and I – this was years before either of us ascended to our current posts – fought an Orlesian raiding party, the vanguard of a larger force dispatched from Jader, in the Elder Wood. Our surprise attack had scattered the force, and sowed disorder in their ranks. I was on foot – their archers shot my horse from under me – and I spotted this Orlesian boy, wearing the Montfort colors. He was no older than fifteen, and he was carrying this oversized warhammer. He wasn't a chevalier, maybe a squire, and he was clueless, wielding his weapon awkwardly like a stick. He was no match for me. He waved that hammer around like a savage, screaming his lungs out. I dodged his blows, stepped inside the reach of his weapon, and wrenched it out of his hands. He fell to the ground, and before I could kill him, he held out his arms and screamed, 'Wait! Wait!' But my blood was rushing, and I killed him just the same."
He stood up, and drained his goblet. "Life doesn't give a choice when and where you can be merry. Only those who do their duty will prosper. You can continue to embarrass me, continue to bring shame to your family, and besmirch the freedom your forefathers committed countless blood and tears toward obtaining, but it will be your ruin."
William began walking out of his study, but turned briefly, and said, "I sent the whores you hired to the Chantry. Spending the rest of their lives in the cloister will be punishment enough, and I am sure Grand Cleric Elemena will be delighted by their company. However, if I catch another whore in your bed again, they will hang."
OOOOO
Outside the city, tents had been erected to house the scores of knights, squires, and retainers brought with each attending lord. Even in these provisional lodgings, the wealth of these families was on display, for the rest of the Bannorn to marvel at. The Maron encampment was filled with tents of black cloth, and the flag of the grey wolf was hoisted high. The knights were clad in shimmering silverite armor, and their horses were amongst the finest bred in Ferelden. Their demeanor showed their discipline plainly – alone among the northern houses, they did not drink and they did not feast. There were no brawls, and there were no raucous cheers from their camp, and the knights spent their days training for the upcoming joust and melee.
The tents for House Reyne of Winterport, the Teyrna's family, were colored grey, and displayed the leaping trout on their flags. Their knights wore scale armor shaped like the scales of a fish. The retinue of Bann Cormac Reyne was small. The Old Fish had fewer knights under his command than the Couslands or Marons, as Winterport's dominance in the northwestern teyrnir had declined in favor of Silverclaw, Ashcrown, and Harlow in the thirty years since the Battle of the River Dane. The rise of the docklands in Highever made the smaller docks in Winterport obsolete, used only as a point of import and export for Silverclaw, which loomed large over the town, sitting atop the Argent Rock. One by one, each of Bann Cormac's freeholders abandoned him for Bann William Maron, or became independent landholders in direct service to the Couslands. The only family to remain allied to the Reynes was the Fairstones, a merchant family of considerable wealth, but of little martial skill. Bann William, secure in his political victory, but greatly respecting Bann Cormac, declared the Old Fish an ally, and Winterport a protectorate of Silverclaw.
House Harron came from the poorer town of Harlow. Their tents were not decked in splendorous decoration, nor were their knights garbed in elegant clothing or armor. Their town and castle were built in the southern reaches of Teyrn Cousland's domain, located immediately east of the northern crossing of the River Dane, and south of Ashcrown. Their knights were great, grim, bearded men who sat huddled together with their mugs of frothing ale, trading stories together, and when they were drunk enough, fights broke out. House Terrion's retinue was similarly made of rowdy men, filthy, bearded, and armored, but they were not grim. Gathered around a skald singing a tune of old, these men were merry at all times. The Terrion sigil was the white ram, set upon a black escutcheon on a brown banner, and their seat was the castle of Snowborne, located east of Highever, standing in the middle of a cold marsh which froze for five months of the year. Their bann, Lord Harald, was William Maron's closest friend and his only companion during his exile.
The people of Snowborne were something of the odd man out in Highever. Unlike the Marons, who now possessed a mix of Tevinter and Clayne ancestry, the pure-blooded Tevinter exiles of the Deveri, or the various valley-dwelling Alamarri tribes that gave birth to the Couslands, Howes, Turnobles, Varels, Harrons, Ramsays, Lowans, Blanchards, Stricklands, Reynes, Delraynes, Lorens, or Harpers, the Terrions were of Avvar descent, forced out of their homes by the animistic peoples of the Frostback Mountains for following Andraste. After their lady's betrayal, the coldest winter Ferelden had seen in generations gripped the country. Five hundred men landed on the frozen shore, following the Avvar jarl Terrion Snowscales, dragging their ruined boat through the snow, and when the winter broke five months later, a motte-and-bailey stood on the hill overlooking that shore. Or so the stories told, Alexander thought. He liked the idea – after all, it seemed every castle in Highever had its own folklore, its own history, whether it be the story of Harold the Clever's hunt of the great werewolf Silverclaw, for whom the castle was named, or the story of Flemeth killing the Elstan lord of Highever, or Faustus Deverus being led to the shores of Ferelden by a flock of falcons, in time to rescue the Couslands from the Orlesians.
"That last one might actually be true," said Ser Drusus. "My father used to tell me it, whenever night had fallen and I wanted to hear a story before I slept. One of boys on the crew of Ser Gaius Moravyn's galley spotted the falcons. Lord Faustus took it as a sign that the Maker had not abandoned them, for the Deverus sigil was the falcon, which gave strength to the soldiers of the empire, and brought fear to the hearts of the Qunari."
"The Qunari knew my grandfather as the White Falcon," said Alexander. "The Senate disrespected the Deveri, calling them 'Weak-bloods' for being a commoner-class family which had a notoriously poor record of producing mages. Before me, there was my grandfather, and a single mage eight centuries ago who was killed during the Second Blight, named Lucius or Gaius or something – Tevinters aren't imaginative with names. Anyway, soldiery and banking were the order of the day for the Deverus family. It made them very rich, and put them in harm's way all too often, but with terrifying results for the ox-men. In the end, with half of Seheron back under Imperial control, I think the Arishok held my grandfather in higher regard than the Archon ever did."
"That's how the Bann and Lady met, right?" Antonia asked, as they watched the juggler of a troupe of entertainers hired by the Blanchards.
"When his lordship was in exile," said Ser Garrett Farquhar. "My uncle was a member of his bodyguard, and died in his service at Marnus Pell. During the occupation, lords who earned the usurper kings' disfavor had a choice – at least before Meghren: death or exile. Lord William spared his family any further reprisals and departed the country with fifty companions – the sons of lords, soldiers, craftsmen, and farmers were all part of that company, which even had its own poet. They landed in Wycome and were dubbed the 'wild hounds' – Fereldans who refused to bend the knee to an Orlesian king, and thus were set loose in the rest of Thedas."
"My father never mentioned any of this to me as a child," said Antonia.
"Aye, he would be circumspect about talking of those times," said Thomas. "He was a supporter of King Meghren. He only kept his head because Teyrn Cousland is a merciful man. If a knight had betrayed my father, he would have had them drawn and quartered."
Alexander breathed a laugh, so softly that none heard. He found it amusing that a Howe would talk of betrayal when theirs was most heinous of all, when they were Mad King Meghren's staunchest allies in the North. "But all is forgiven," he said. "Ser Angus and your father both bent the knee and entered the King's peace."
"All is not forgotten, however," said Thomas, gazing at the wolf of Maron on a black flag.
Away from the tents, knights, practicing for the tourney, had started an informal melee ground. In a patch of dirt some ninety yards away from the lords' tents, a crowd of soldiers and retainers watched and cheered as two knights fought in a circular enclosure. One brandished a greatsword, while the other fought with a war axe and shield.
Antonia rolled her eyes. "If these men injure themselves fighting in this pit, they'll be in no condition to tilt when the tournament begins!"
"Perhaps these men are not the surest on a horse," said Alexander. "That Blackstone knight has the gait of a foot soldier about him, not the grace of a cavalryman."
"They want to warm themselves up," said Thomas over the din of the cheers. "They'll grow soft if they just sit and feast for a week."
Thomas clapped loudly and cheered as the sword-wielding knight, who bore the wyvern of the House of Mac Tir, struck a mighty blow, missing the axe-wielding knight by an inch and kicking dirt into the air upon impact. The Gwaren knight's adversary was a knight of the Carvains of Blackstone, a vassal of the King himself. Their sigil was a flock of nightingales on a teal banner.
"What are their names?" Alexander asked.
"The one from Blackstone is Ser Timothy Carvain," said Thomas. "He was knighted at last year's Solstice celebrations. The Gwarener, I don't know. It's rare for southerners to compete in tourneys, unless they're from Redcliffe, like our old friend Halveyle. Speaking of which, what happened to him?"
"My father has him locked in the dungeons," said Alexander. "When Arl Eamon arrives, he'll have to negotiate a suitable ransom, or else the alternate course of law shall proceed."
"Your father is letting him go? After what he tried to do?"
Alexander turned to Antonia and saw her scandalized expression. "He's a knight of an influential arl."
Antonia's expression was unchanged.
"He's a wealthy knight of an influential arl," said Alexander. "Look, I don't write the laws in this country, nor am I the one who enforces them. It's lucky the Teyrn gave us the time of day. If we, two mages, brought this to Teyrn Loghain, he would have told us to eat shit, and would have released Halveyle that day."
"Your father isn't Loghain," said Antonia. "He had the Teyrn's ear; he could have sentenced Ser Osric to a more fitting punishment."
"And start a feud with the King's uncle a week before he visits in the name of unity?" Alexander asked. "My love, I understand your consternation, but there is little more I could have done. Ser Osric has lost his honest reputation, such as it was in these lands, and should he attempt what he did again, the Teyrn will see to it that he hang."
"Or he'll see to it that his liege leaves behind another purse of gold before he leaves," Antonia muttered.
"Alexander is right, my lady," said Thomas. "The political climate in Ferelden is fragile. A feud breaking out during the King's visit would affect the Teyrn's position at court, and his reputation in the Bannorn."
Antonia snorted. "Of course he's right!" she hissed. "You men are all the same, pardoning each other for such heinous crimes, so long as the perpetrator has a title and gold. Have neither of you thought of that barmaid who he assaulted? Should she live in fear that one day, Ser Osric will visit Harlow again with another pack of thugs, only without anyone there to save her?"
"Darling, I hope you remember that Thomas and I were the ones who came to that woman's aid, captured Ser Osric, and brought him here. I am not excusing what he did. I am only pointing out that starting a feud in front of the king is bad form, even if our goal is just."
"You are correct in pointing out that you came to that woman's aid, which is why you should care more when her attacker is able to buy his way out of justice," said Antonia. She would not budge from her position, and her face, while tranquil, established her anger regardless.
Alexander sighed. He agreed with his love – Ser Osric, had he not been a knight of the King's uncle, would have been attainted, his lands seized by the Crown, and would have been dragged to Heithburn in Denerim to be drawn and quartered. It was a shameful thing, to pardon someone in exchange for gold, but Antonia did not understand that such measures were as much to help two families save face as they were actual methods of law enforcement. Had Ser Osric been executed, perhaps Ser Garrett or Ser Drusus would have met with a dagger in the night, or sipped poison in their cups left by some other knight of Redcliffe. Some knight of Redcliffe might one day take a sword to the gut from some knight of Highever. Perhaps, as it was a mage who captured Ser Osric, a Halveyle in the Templars would slaughter twenty mage children sleeping in the Circle Tower in response. And so it would go on, until a mutual appetite for bloodshed had waned.
He distracted himself from such thoughts by turning his attention again to the melee. The knight from Blackstone had caught the Gwarener knight's greatsword behind the hooked edge of his axe's head and pulled the flat of his blade in close. The knight from Blackstone pivoted, and wrenched the sword out of the the Gwarener's hand. He slashed and swung his sword, but his foe was nimbler than he expected and dodged his swings. The Gwarener then tackled the Blackstone knight, knocking his sword away and bringing him to the ground. She drew a dagger. "I yield," said Ser Timothy Carvain.
The knight from Gwaren sheathed his dagger, and removed her helm, revealing herself as a woman with a mane of dark hair. Antonia cheered loudly, perhaps loudest of all, for many onlookers gazed upon this female knight with confusion, others with hostility, for she was a rarity in the tourney grounds, and her actions were not, to them, done in the spirit of honorable combat.
"That's Ser Cauthrien," said Thomas. "She's the commander of Maric's Shield, the Gwarener unit that protects the King."
"Why Gwareners?" Alexander asked.
"The Theirins lost most of their vassals during the Blessed Age," said Thomas. "Families were killed off, castles were burnt, and the Theirins themselves lost entire branches of their family tree. So, when it came to actually finding brothers to be courtiers and generals and sisters to be married off for alliances, the Theirins realized they had none, and were reliant on their personal vassals, who are few, and the vassals of the families that they marry into, which change with every king. Only a few years ago, when Maric was still alive, everyone of note was from Redcliffe: Rowan the queen, Arl Eamon was the chancellor, Bann Teagan of Rainesfere was the treasurer, and a host of other knights and courtiers in military and civil postings found their start in the South."
"Isn't it dangerous for the King to be surrounded by men loyal to Teyrn Loghain?" Antonia asked. "What if the King and the Teyrn feud with each other? Are they not in-laws?"
"One's in-laws are rarely bound to serve them through oaths of fealty," said Alexander.
"There was talk of Teyrn Cousland being the King," said Thomas. "There was much commotion in this city. Lord William and Lord Harald were massing an army, and my father was negotiating a marriage between my brother Nathaniel and Lady Elissa. Then the Teyrn said "No" and we were stuck with the king Maric and Rowan left us."
"It was probably for the best," said Alexander. "There hasn't been a change in royal house in four hundred years, and most of the South would be willing to fight a war over choosing a new one. Arl Eamon, for one, would be insulted, and rightly so, seeing as King Cailan is his nephew and snubbing him would have been an insult to the memory of his sister. The Teyrn, and for that matter, half the houses in the North, including my own, have blood claims to the throne, but they stretch back to the Storm Age and several are through bastards only. Keeping Cailan on the throne, for good or ill was the best thing that could have happened to the country and until the day the Landsmeet reconsiders, he is our king."
"And if Teyrn Cousland was King Bryce, instead, Ferelden would have an honest and capable queen in the Teyrna, a fine prince in Fergus, a princess in Elissa, control of much of the land's wealth, and much of the country's nobility as their direct vassals," said Antonia. "And even if I disagree with the handling of the Halveyle matter, one cannot deny Teyrn Cousland's competence. No leader would ever think him a buffoon."
"All of that talk is useless now, and dangerous," said Alexander. "We follow the King wherever he leads. In any case, this Ser Cauthrien was a part of Queen Anora's retinue when she was coronated. Does she have a surname?"
"Many Southern knights are lowborn," said Thomas. "The rites and traditions of knighthood hold less sway in Gwaren and the Southron Hills. These 'knights', such as they are, are little more than up-jumped sellswords. Loghain gave everything he had to free us from tyranny. These farmers think slaughtering a few bandits makes them worthy of the same honor."
"Surely a history of poverty should not bar those with honest motives from being elevated to higher social standing," said Alexander. "Perhaps when you are a part of society that the Chantry teaches everyone from feeble old men to children to hate and fear on principle, you would be more appreciative of opportunities to gain both honor and respect."
"I did not mean to cause offense, Alexander," said Thomas. "You behave in such a knightly manner already that I at times forget that you are a mage."
"I will always be a mage, no matter how knightly I appear," said Alexander. "And I resent the implication that a mage ceases to be a mage when his intentions and actions speak well of him."
"Then consider it a petty revenge for all the times you question my loyalty for being a Howe," said Thomas quietly.
"That was only once, and I apologized," said Alexander. "Come on, we should see if they have set up any lists. These melees are exciting enough, but the jousts are where the truest and most knightly ventures occur."
And surely, as he had expected, there was a jousting ground set up not far from where the melee pit was, for knights interested in informal challenges or simply in honing their skills for the upcoming tournament. To fight before the King himself was a great honor, and each knight, especially those of the great northern families, would be keen on putting their best foot forward in contests of arms.
They stepped onto the stands encircling the grounds. The lists bisected the oval pit where the knights rode. Their squires stood silently at each end, with the knight's arms and gear, should he have need of them. Atop the highest platform, a held read off the knights who had scheduled the next joust. "Ser Rennet Harron of Harlow has entered the lists, and has agreed to joust a la plaisance with Ser Roger Maitland!"
Antonia beamed. Even if their father had made his dislike of her plain, Antonia adored her brother, and spoke of him often. Alexander looked to the right side of the jousting ground and saw Ser Roger mounted atop his pure white horse, dressed in silverite armor painted blood red underneath a maroon surcoat which displayed a white eagle with its wings outstretched. Though the sigil of the Maitlands was a white bull on a brown banner, Ser Roger abandoned his father's sigil as soon as he took the vows of knighthood. His helm enclosed his face entirely, and was fashioned with a set of metal wings which elegantly flared out, as if an eagle were displaying its wingspan.
Set Rennet Harron was also clad in armor which concealed his face, but his suit was a smoky black, graying in some places where the paint had faded. The metalwork was not as intricate as Ser Roger's armor or his helm as fanciful or symbolic – indeed, it was similar to a similar cavalryman's in that it was a bascinet fitted over a mail gorget, with the face hidden behind a visor that looked as though it had been added later. His surcoat was tattered and bloodstained, as though he had only recently returned from battle, and displayed the orange and teal rose of the Harrons.
Trumpets sounded, and the two knights readied their lances.
"Alexander, how about we make a wager, hmm?" Thomas said. "Fifty silvers say Ser Rennet will have the match."
Antonia glared at him. "You will be fifty silvers poorer, Ser."
"I'll take that bet," said Alexander. He studied the two knights as they rode. If he was to compete in the tournament as a mystery knight, as his mother suggested, he would have to pay attention to how these knights fought, to spot weaknesses in their technique.
Ser Roger had opened the match strongly, riding confidently atop his stallion, and already scoring his first broken lance when the point had found its mark on Ser Rennet's cuirass, showing his foe in the splinters.
"Point to Ser Roger Maitland!" cried the herald. Alexander was satisfied. He was closer to winning that bet, and he had learned something about both knights. Ser Roger was impulsive. No sooner had the herald announced the start that he had charged at full gallop. The force of the blow was devastating when it hit, but gave him little time to make the finer corrections to ensure that his strikes would find their mark. Ser Rennet was likely skittish of the lance breaking in his face, and the splinters injuring him, for he looked away from his target when they were about to clash, neglecting to aim his lance properly when it mattered most.
"For Highever!" Antonia cried, and Ser Roger seemed to recognize her voice. He looked up at the stands and raised his visor, revealing a pair of sparkling blue eyes, just like hers. His face curved into a broad smile.
"For you, sister!" he called out, and bowed. He lowered his visor and returned to his end of the lists.
"Gentlemen, renew your lances!" said the herald. Ser Roger's squire handed him a fresh lance, and Ser Rennet's did the same. They readied their lances, and at the herald's call, they charged. This time, Ser Roger was more methodical, riding at a slower pace, and taking the time to carefully aim his lance. When the two knights clashed, Ser Roger brought his lance to Ser Rennet's flank, breaking it for a second time. Ser Rennet was thrown from his horse, and broke the lists on his way to the ground.
"Point to Ser Roger Maitland!" cried the herald. "Ser Rennet Harron has been unhorsed! The match goes to Ser Roger Maitland!"
The crowd of nobles and knights broke out in uproarious cheers. Ser Roger rode a couple laps around the lists, waving to the cheering spectators and throwing bundles of roses into the arms of ladies, who all swooned at the sight of the White Eagle.
"Let's go down and greet him!" said Antonia.
They made their way through the crowds to the gatehouse, where Ser Roger and Ser Rennet were sitting with their squires, as the boys were unfastening the knights' armor. Ser Roger had opened his helm, revealing head of thick hair, the same fiery hue as Antonia's, and matted with sweat. He sported a bushy moustache, which made him seem older than nineteen.
"Be careful where you're sewing, boy!" said Ser Rennet, as his squire tended to a wound. "The last time I had you tending my wounds, you missed a fragment and I came down with fever!"
"Perhaps if you were less frightened of magic, Ser Rennet, your wounds would turn less often to rot," said Ser Roger.
"Roger!" said Antonia. "That was a magnificent performance! You truly are peerless on the lists."
Roger beamed. "I had heard you were coming to Highever. It has been far too long."
He rose, once his squire had undone the rest of his armor, and pulled his sister into an embrace. "Life at home has been lonely without you, sister. I have had to contend with our father, and you know how he is."
"Does he still hate me?" she asked, slightly crestfallen.
"He still does, yes," said Roger. "But I love you, sister, as does Mother. Being a mage doesn't change that. Ah! That reminds me: I had not any time to send this, what with the tourney and the roads being beset by bandits. I had meant to give you this as a gift when I had heard you had passed your Harrowing. Tybolt? Tybolt, where did you put my gift?"
"It is with the rest of your things, Ser," said his squire, a young boy of nine with mousy blonde hair, who produced a parcel as soon as Ser Roger asked for it. "I have set it aside in this box."
"Thank you, lad," said Roger. He opened it and revealed a pendant. "It is ruby, set in a silver pendant, and enchanted by the guild of Tranquil in Highever. The man who had it made for me says that it will protect against illness and bolster the healing magic of the mage who wears it – an appropriate jewel for a healer mage."
Antonia smiled and hugged her brother. "It is a magnificent gift, and I will treasure it."
She turned and saw Alexander and Thomas standing by the doorway. Alexander had his hands clasped behind his back and looked as though he were waiting for an introduction before speaking. Thomas was reclining with his back against the wall and his arms crossed.
"Brother, it is my honor to introduce Alexander Maron, son of Bann William, and Thomsas Howe, the son of Arl Rendon," she said.
"Alexander Maron! I've heard much of you from my sister!" said Roger, clasping Alexander's hand in a firm handshake. "Your reputation precedes you; news has already reached my ears of your capture of Ser Osric Halveyle, and of your defeat of the Hard-Line mercenaries. You've done a service to the realm, and you've been a gentleman to my sister, and for that I thank you."
He turned to Howe. "Ah, Thomas! Are you entering the archery tournament? A shame about last year's."
"What happened?" Antonia asked.
"Ser Rollis of Oswin coated all my bowstrings in tallow before the match," said Thomas. "I couldn't grip the arrow, and the draw was weak, so I lost the match thanks to that rogue. I will pay him back doubly this year, and if he uses the same skullduggery again, I will challenge him to a bout at the lists a la guerre."
"If that day comes, I will be your second," said Alexander.
"A mage could probably kill a rascal like Ser Rollis ten times over without breaking a sweat; an ordinary man might have to dry his brow afterwards, but would kill him all the same," said Ser Roger. "Have you been in Highever long?"
"A day," said Alexander. "Long enough to settle into our quarters at the Lord Steward's manor and explore parts of the city."
"What parts, if I might be so bold in asking?"
"Crown Street, Lord Mather's Street, and Sarim's Square mostly," said Alexander. "We had to make an excursion to the Docklands to retrieve my brothers. Surely you know of their proclivities."
"Yes, I have heard," said Roger. "It is not my place to judge, however. I trust Lord William has given them a thrashing enough."
"He has," said Alexander. "Now, Thomas, I believe we had a wager: fifty silvers for whoever predicts the winner of that last joust? I believe Ser Roger has won quite handily, reducing poor Ser Rennet here to the ministrations of his squire."
"Sod off you bitch-born mage cunt," said Ser Rennet.
"I've heard that before; it's much less threatening the second time, and coming from a bedridden man, no less," said Alexander to Ser Rennet. "I'm quaking in my boots from such a fearsome foe! Well, Thomas? Fifty silvers, cough up!"
"Fine, fine," said Thomas. He fished in his pocket and pulled out the coin.
"We should return to the castle," said Antonia. "King Cailan is arriving today. His party should be within the Couslands' territory very soon. Alexander, your father will want you to be part of his retinue when greeting His Majesty."
"Then we will return to the castle," said Alexander. "The rest of my family will have likely arrived. We'll be dining with the Teyrn this evening, I'd expect."
A horn sounded throughout the camp. The soft pitter-patter of horseshoes against cobblestones grew steadily more audible from the south, from the North Road which bisected the Teyrnir.
"Make way for the Arl of Amaranthine! Make way for Lord Rendon Howe!" cried a knight as a company of horsemen rode through. Thomas was the first to rush out of the tent to greet the passing company.
The men of Amaranthine were the most recently sworn vassals of Teyrn Cousland. The lands of the Howes extend from the Feravel Plains east of Harper's Ford and Knighthorse to the Ursine Bay, which opens into the Amaranthine Ocean. The first family to ride through was the Turnobles, hailing from Turnoble Castle in the central plains outside Vigil's Keep. Alexander remembered his father pointing out their banners when they visited the Landsmeet, when he was five, so many years ago.
Their banner was an armored fist, grey, encircled by a ring of golden stars on a field of black and white checkers. Their lord was Bann Victor Turnoble. He was the same age as Alexander's father, having flourished during the most violent decades of the Blessed Age, and was as grim as he, his blonde hair having gone grey, but his green eyes having lost none of their strength. In times past, the Turnobles had been rivals to the Howes, and in the early days of Amaranthine, they had warred for control of the arling, only to be subdued by Arl Elias Howe during the conquests of Calenhad. During the rebellion, the Turnobles again rebelled against Howe rule, this time against Arl Tarleton, who was the Emperor of Orlais's principal man in the North. When Rendon Howe became Arl and declared for King Maric, Bann Victor refused to swear fealty to him, naming him an opportunist. A civil war in Amaranthine was only averted when Teyrn Bryce Cousland mediated the dispute, and both men swore fealty to him instead. Beholden to the Laurel Throne, both men ended their fighting to not break the Teyrn's peace.
Bann Victor had three sons and one daughter. The eldest was the daughter, Lady Kendra, who was truly a beauty, being slim, graceful, and tall, with cascading golden hair and bright green eyes. Her high cheekbones, delicate lips, and narrow gaze made her appear haughty as she trotted by, riding her horse side-saddle. Behind her were her three brothers. The eldest son was Alexander's age, Ser Jonathan, and following him were two younger boys riding ponies. Thomas mentioned that their names were Kyle and Lewes. Their retinue arrived with a litter carrying Lady Turnoble and her principal ladies-in-waiting, and their party was surrounded by a party of mounted knights.
The next family was House Packton of Brightwood Keep, led by their lord Ser Donnel and his wife Lady Liza. Their banner was an escutcheon, vairy red and white, on a blue banner. The couple had no children, but was influential in the Arling, for their lands had forests of lumber and a collection of valuable stone quarries. Lord William was wary of them, and instructed his children to be as well. As with the Howe's, they were loyal agents of Orlais until the fortunes of war provided an opportune moment for the reversal of their loyalties. For, when a man cannot be loyal in times of war, he cannot be trusted in any season, war or peace.
The Brightwaters of Stormrun followed the Packtons. They ruled the only significant town in the northeast, save Amaranthine City. Stormrun's banner displayed four violet lightning bolts, two flanking a rearing grey mare on each side, upon a grey-blue banner.
The Lord, Nerys Brightwater, was an old man, and perhaps no notable man alive in Ferelden remembered him as a young one, for he was ninety-four, and one of the few to remember the times before the conquest. He was a boy of six when he witnessed, on the fields of Highever, Ser Damon Cousland, a boy of fifteen, slaying Guillaume of Montsimmard, the Crown Prince of Orlais in single combat, from the walls of the city. He was eight when the Orlesians took Stormrun, and when he killed a chevalier with the man's own sword. He was ten when the King died at Lothering, with the Teyrn of Highever and the fifteen Banns of Silverclaw. He saw King Vanderin pierced by a dozen arrows and hewn by axe and sword. He saw Nemetos, the king's sword, passed from father to son, from Calenhad to Weylan, from Arland to Daran, all the way down to Vanedrin until it was lost at Lothering, and no other man living could speak of its luster, of the fear it brought to the hearts of Ferelden's enemies, of its sting when it cut through flesh and sinew. He saw Teyrn Ardal Cousland die by the King's side, and he saw Ser Jaime Maron, the last of the Bann of Silverclaw's sons, save Ser Damon Cousland before falling in battle himself. He saw Ser Joseph Turnoble kill thirty-three chevaliers while unhorsed and blind in one eye from an Orlesian's arrow. He saw Arl Cormac Guerrin, a boy of eleven, cut his way free of the thickest press of the fighting and escape north, and for a time, Nerys resided at Redcliffe.
But when he was a man fully grown, he lived to witness the rise of King Jean, or "John the Good" and the five-year peace. He lived to witness the coronation of King Garmonde, who boiled the Teyrn of Gwaren alive in a brazen bull as a celebration in 8:72. He was a supporter of King Brandel to the king's last days, and watched Queen Moira grow from a child into a war-maiden of Ferelden. And he lived through all twenty-three years of King Maric's reign: the liberation of Denerim, the Battle of River Dane, the sacking of Jader, the dragons in the Dales, the rising of Tharacor in Alamar, the rising of Aynric the Black in the wilder lands, and William Maron's thrashing of the Templars at Winterport.
The history of Ferelden was etched in his features, in every wrinkle, in every scar, but atop his horse, he rode proudly by, and Alexander could not help but admire the old bann as he passed their tent.
The party for the Howes came next. Their banner was black, and emblazoned with a brown bear. Arl Rendon did not ride at the head of his column. Instead, he and his wife, Lady Ursula, rode in an armored litter, pulled by a team of elves. The litter was built solidly, and had no openings, save a small window at the top which could be opened and closed.
"I was hoping they would make an appearance," said Thomas.
"Maybe he considers himself ugly, and wants to spare us the horror," said Ser Roger. "If that be the reason, I commend his Lordship's charitable actions."
"Does your father fear assassination?" Alexander asked. "He is in friendly lands, in Highever, surely?"
"He knows these lands are swarming with wolves, falcons, and rams," said Antonia. "He likely trusts the Teyrn, and no other."
"An accurate statement," said Thomas. "I had wished for the two of you to meet my sister, at least. My father has been searching for a husband for her for years."
"Perhaps you should direct her to Ser Roger or Ser Garrett," said Alexander. "Arl Rendon already said 'no' in my case. Thomas," he said, turning to his friend. "I'm sure you can greet them at the castle."
"I suppose you're right," said Thomas. "To the castle, then."