18 Drakonis, 9:26 Dragon Age.

His men were hiding something, though doing so badly. Loghain knew when to turn a blind eye and when not. He charged into their middle. "What is it?"

They were standing on the small green of a village in the northeastern Bannorn. The tiny courtyard was so muddy that it really ought to have been called a "brown" rather than a green, and most of the townspeople had retreated indoors to get out of the mixture of rain and snow that was falling. At his commander's question, a sergeant from Gwaren reluctantly produced what he had been hiding behind his back. It was a crumpled piece of paper. Loghain took it, shook it smooth, and read it with no change in expression while the men suddenly found better things to do.

The Maker will judge this land for this transgression against the divine order. Not even Andraste presumed to rule the country when elevated from her low station, but went meekly to the Maker's side where she makes intercession for us all. She is the icon of true womanhood, not this harlot from Gwaren who does not know her place. Mark my words, brothers and sisters. There will be judgment. If those who mean to rule us do not respect the natural order, a plague will rise up from the very land to curse you and your children!

It was not the first of these broadsheets they had found, hung on posts and on trees outside inns along the side roads, the more frequently as they got deeper into the Bannorn. All of them had obviously come from the same press, an older-looking script printed with crude metallic block. Loghain was about to crumple the sheet and toss it into the mud, but on a second thought he folded it and shoved it into his cloak pocket. There were few printing presses in Ferelden, most of them Chantry-operated. Someone with more experience in these things might be able to tell where the tract had come from.

Loghain looked around at the sodden village. Though he and his men were the only ones on the green, he could feel eyes on them. An oilcloth window flap moved, confirming this intuition. The Bannorn were as welcoming as a bear woken from hibernation, but there were good memories for him here, too. During the rebellion, he and Rowan had been sent out to criss-cross these remote territories alone, trying to winkle support for the rebellion out of the stubborn minor lords. It was dangerous, frustrating work. He had potent memories of nights spent watching Rowan with firelight on her face, standing sentry over her as she slept, of watching her talk to smallfolk and banns alike, showing herself to be the queen she really was. As his admiration for her had grown, so had the recognition that that very quality meant she could never be his. These were still some of his best memories of the war.

Nevertheless, he certainly had no desire to linger. In this part of Ferelden, there were few knights but every peasant was a warrior, so counting forces was next to impossible. He would have to rely on the reports of the neighboring arls. His goal here had been less to survey the military situation than to get a sense of the political one. The Landsmeet had been tumultuous, there had been a great deal of uneasiness after Maric's death, and Loghain would not sit easy while Anora's throne was not secure. What he saw thus far had been mixed. Dragon's Peak had been welcoming as always, but in the Bannorn the picture was much less clear.

"Let's move out," he called to the men loitering huddled against the fat, cold rain.

The road passed through field after field, some of them already being prepared for tilling by farming families who were seemingly oblivious of the rain and mud. Some of these were the broad fields of major landowners, and near villages there were strip farms marked out by stone boundaries, likely the small plots of leaseholders. In these, they saw men, women and children picking rocks out of the tilled land and using them to fortify the strip markers. The children most often dropped what they were doing and ran to look at the passing soldiers. It was a welcome sight. He had had a much different reaction when Orlesian soldiers passed by while he helped or played in his father's fields.

Towards afternoon the temperature dropped and the sky filled with broad, clumping snowflakes. Loghain's party got some shelter as the road turned into a forest. A few of the men lit torches for extra light. At one point along the road, they passed stone posts on either side, crudely carved with the faces of Alamarri warlords. These seemed to be grinning at them in the flickering light of the torches. The stones were no doubt a boundary marker. Boundaries were taken very seriously in the Bannorn, and wars could begin over inches this way or that. The lords were no doubt grinning at the prospect of a good fight.

By the time the party emerged onto a snowy meadow, the sun was low in the sky and set a dull golden light on the crown of a low tower straight ahead of them. It was set on a small hill, prodding up through more trees. Loghain had been here before. This was the Stedburg, the remnants of an ancient stronghold and currently the seat of Bann Cormac ap Feil. Most of the old keep had long since tumbled into ruin, its dark stone still visible only on the tower and in the odd section where the ancient blocks had been salvaged. Outbuildings of both stone and wood had grown up around.

Loghain did not expect a warm welcome at the keep, and in this he was not disappointed. They were made to wait an hour and a half in the courtyard. Finally he and his lieutenants were disarmed and bid to enter the main hall. The hall was in the newer portion, oak raftered and hung with faded tapestries. Skeptical eyes watched their approach from the trestle tables were set out in a U pattern on the rush-covered floor. The bann's family and retainers looked to still be hastily finishing their evening meal. Loghain supposed that they had been delayed outside so that the household did not have to share its table with outsiders.

Ap Feil was working on a swan leg and didn't look up from his plate for some time. He was dressed plainly, more like a gentleman farmer than a noble lord. Next to him sat his wife, a handsome woman with blonde hair bound in a thick braid. Loghain waited, wise to such games and not about to fall into the trap of demanding attention. Finally the bann dropped the bone, took up his grease-smeared wine cup and put back a long draught before wiping his mouth and finally lifting his eyes to the dripping-wet men standing before him.

"Loghain Mac Tir. What do you want? I've paid my taxes, and if you've come to announce an increase, I'll advise you to leave the way you came, and do so like the floor is on fire."

"That was last week, when the arl came to visit," one of the men at the table piped up, causing the room to echo with laughter.

"So it was," the bann went on merrily. "But we've set out dry rushes just for you, Hero of River Dane, and can arrange another flame dance. Now speak your business."

Loghain let them have their mocking chatter, and noticed that the bann avoided his gaze. Coolly he replied, "I was hoping to see Arl Percy myself. I heard he was headed this way. Obviously I missed him."

"Moved on north. Hobnobbing with Cousland, no doubt, and likely you'll still find him there. Arse-licking takes so very much time, you see. Which is why you won't get any from me. Bread and salt I must give you, but that is all. You and your men can sleep in my stables, if you can find the room. And don't trouble my horses, either."

"Your hospitality is as warm as your father's was," Loghain observed.

"Yes, yes, I know it was you who got my father wrapped up in that business with the Orlesians. Got him killed, too, and my mother not long after."

If the bann hoped for sympathy, he was barking at the wrong tree. "If he and his men had joined us when we called, we'd have won all the sooner and the outcome might have been different. Instead he turned me away, then came with his tail between his legs after his neighbors all joined the rebels."

Ap Feil was unruffled. "We're not cowards, Mac Tir. We just want to be left alone, and out here you greedy cocksuckers from Denerim are no different than the painted lords were. Those who paid tribute kept their lands, kept their independence. It was the troublemakers who got the heel of the boot. Troublemakers like your father. So yes, what is it to us who sits in Denerim? Theirin sounds pretty Orlesian to me."

"So does Cousland." Loghain was testing him. Cormac had been one of those who spoke up with Bann Edmun at the Landsmeet in favor of making Bryce king. It made sense geographically, as they were not far from the inner coastlands where Cousland was liege, but not according to the bann's own philosophy. Bryce Cousland would have been a harder king than Cailan was likely to make.

The bann shrugged. "That it does. We did you a favor, Mac Tir. That green boy on the throne now knows he can't just strut and make a pretty speech and expect everyone to kiss his feet. You're here now, so that was a lesson learned. For that matter, the green girl in your bed got the same lesson and will be better off. You should be thanking me."

His blood boiled at that, but Loghain worked not to show it. Ellie still grumbled about the broken promise the banns made her after seeking her support to make Bryce king. Cormac was right that she had learned a hard lesson in it, namely that the Bannorn would always go their own way and that their promises meant less than nothing.

Removing the tract from his cloak pocket, Loghain held it out. "Do you know anything about this?"

Ap Feil glanced at the sheet. It was apparent that he recognized it even at a distance. "Don't know anything about those. I don't have any quarrel with your daughter. Damn fools think they need say-so from a noble just to wipe their arses. Piss on that! If she can make her way, Queen Anora will have as much support from us as anyone on the throne would." He said this with a grin, and there was muted laughter in the hall. The joke was that no monarch would have unqualified support from them.

Loghain put the tract away again and regarded Cormac silently a few moments more. The man would not meet his eyes, but he had noticed that all while they were talking, the bann's wife had watched him steadily. Briefly Loghain turned his own gaze to meet hers, his expression as stony as ever. Nothing would be gained by remaining. "We would be grateful for a meal and then we'll be on our way."

Before the bann could speak, his wife stood. "You will have it, you and all your men." She waved a hand at the servers standing against the walls, setting them into motion clearing away the leavings. "You will excuse me and my ladies, Teyrn Loghain. We will retire now, so that there is room at table for your men. My husband and sons will stay and act as proper hosts." Her husband grunted at this but did not interfere.

"Thank you, my lady."

There was little banter at supper, both because his men were as tired and hungry and because the tension remained in the room after the bann's wife departed. Bann Cormac sat slurping loudly from his cup, proving he could stare well enough as long as Loghain did not meet his gaze. Loghain was reluctant to spend the night even under the bann's stable roof, but for his men's sake he allowed it. They would have plenty of sleeping on the muddy ground before they were done. He and his lieutenants waited until the men were finished and had filed out before they themselves retreated. As he was walking through the foyer, a hand reached out from a side alcove and caught Loghain's arm. It was a woman's hand, and he thought he recognized it. Gesturing with his head, he bid the other officers to wait for him at the door, and stepped into the alcove.

The bann's wife stood under a window in a pool of weak moonlight. Her hand remained on his arm. "My husband is unwise," she said, voice low.

"I know."

"I am Regan."

Loghain regarded her curiously, and she studied him, as well. When she didn't speak, he prompted, "My lady, is there something I can do for you?"

"I was in Denerim for the Landsmeet," she replied finally. "I saw your wife at the coronation." Loghain nodded, and the woman continued, "I know Lady Cousland a bit, have known her since she was a little maid. I never saw her touch you once, but she stands close to you. When you move away, her eyes follow you. She is proud to be at your side. Do you know that?"

This was a surprise, and his throat caught. "I... I suppose..."

Regan ap Feil didn't wait for him to form a reply. "I believe you are a good man, a man who can be trusted. You should know that some of the bannorn would like to see a new alliance with the Orlesians. They are petitioning Cousland to broker it. He is listening to them."

Loghain's jaw worked silently. Finally he answered in growling tone, "That is nonsense. Why would they do such a thing?"

"You don't believe it. In your world, such a thing is not even possible, is it? Things look different out here, your grace, if you have not yet noticed. Were you not listening to my husband? He was telling you without telling you. To them, it matters not who thinks himself a great lord or a king. As long as they have markets for their grain, as long as they're left alone, that is all they care about."

"Then why look to Orlais of all places?" The idea was ludicrous, yet even the possibility set off the outrage in Loghain's voice. "I take it they do not remember the Orlesian idea of 'leaving Fereldans alone'?"

She motioned for him to keep his voice down, then turned so that she was mostly covered in darkness, speaking over her shoulder. "They see Orlais' return as inevitable. Teyrn Loghain, you may not realize how fragile is your legacy. Many here did not expect Maric to last. Now that he has passed, they expect little good from his son. If the Orlesians are to work with Ferelden, even sit astride her once again, then they want to be at the front of the line. If it doesn't work out that way, they lose nothing. Our new king is weak and is hardly going to come marching in here to beat them down for trying. Some think he might even join them."

It made an atrocious kind of sense. The Bannorn already had a trade pipeline with the Orlesians, and much of it already went through Highever. If there was one thing they did bow to, it was the sovereign. Maric had always had to work to keep them from exporting too much food. Loghain thought the Orlesians paid top price for Fereldan grain simply out of spite, since they had enough of their own in most years. Leeching off Ferelden's supply drove up the price domestically and made it difficult for the crown to establish a reserve for lean years. They had been forced to institute a duty tax, something both Bryce and Eamon had both opposed since it cut into their revenues as well.

His fists clenched. "Why are you telling me this? Is this not disloyal to your husband?"

The lady stepped back into the light, gazing up at him with those peculiar grey eyes, wide-set and angled at the corners. They reminded him of elven eyes. Her voice was solemn. "My husband remembers the Orlesians one way, and I remember them another. Have you ever seen a mother animal protecting her den, my lord? Have you ever seen a woman when all defenses have fallen and she is the last thing standing between her children and the enemy? If she has only her own nails and teeth to use as weapons, her hands will grapple even with swords, and her mouth will run with blood. You know, do you not?"

Loghain felt coldness creep up his back. The woman perhaps had heard of his mother, but what came to his mind was not her. He thought of Ellie and his son. Setting his chin, he replied, "A mother need only do that if the defenses fail, my lady. I swear to you that they will not."

Regan had turned her head aside slightly, watching him. She gave him a spare smile and they regarded each other some moments. Loghain realized that it was not really the elves the lady reminded him of, but of the Avvar mountain folk he had encountered when the rebel army was hiding in the Frostbacks. They had the same distant, enigmatic air as she, the kind that made you never sure if they were about to attack you or clasp your arm. Finally she spoke again. "You need not sleep in the stables. I will open a guest room for you. Just you."

It was Loghain's turn to tilt his head. He recalled a story he had heard of the women of the mountain people, that they did not keep to only one husband, but stayed a few years with one and then moved on to another man if they liked. She stood close, closer than necessary. Though he was not the most adept in such things, he knew that if he accepted the offer of a guest room, that she would visit it during the night. It was not an unusual circumstance for a man in his position, though Maric had encountered it more often, and neither of them ever got used to it. The bann's wife was also a very different sort than those court hangers-on. His body stirred at the thought of a few moments welcome, of relief, of something other than the unrelenting practicality and responsibility of the daytime. Yet Loghain also knew it was not really ap Feil's wife that he wanted.

He took a step back. "The stables will suffice. Good night, my lady. Thank you for the information." She did not reply, but he could still feel her eyes on him as he turned to depart.

Sleep did not come quickly, though it was not due to being put in a stable. All in all, stable bedding was not the worst. The animals provided warmth, straw was soft, and the gentle sounds created a pleasant lull. Loghain had much on his mind, however, so it was well into the night before he drifted off. As he lay awake, he decided that in the morning they would abandon plans to ride deeper into the Bannorn and turn north instead. Time to pay a visit to his father-in-law.

20 Drakonis, 9:26 Dragon Age.

Highever Castle was even older than the Stedburg, but in much better repair despite its vastness. Some suggested that magic had been used to make its turrets stand so long and with such seeming impregnability. The witch Flemeth had once been its lady, the wife of Lord Conobar Elstan, though if the witch had made any magical improvements to the holding, it must have been before she slaughtered her husband and every member of the family, making room for the Couslands to take over the title. The castle sat on a slight hill overlooking the town and the alienage which was marked out even from a distance by its stone walls. Beyond that lay the sea.

Loghain and his men had put in late so there was no formal reception, but the welcome they found was night and day to that of the ap Feils. His officers had been put up in guest quarters near the family rooms, and none of his men had been sent to the stables. Restless, Loghain had set out for a walk through the castle, finally ending up in a tower guardroom looking out towards the sea.

That is where Bryce found him as the Highever chapel bell tolled eleven o'clock. "Can't sleep, Mac Tir?" he asked, coming up behind. "Nor I. Can't ever sleep well when Eleanor is away." Bryce followed his eyes out towards the sea. "Maric," he guessed, judging why the other man was so quiet.

Loghain lifted his brows, confirming. "He put in here before sailing northward."

"Yes," Bryce acknowledged, sighing. "We were the last to see the king alive, so far as anyone knows. As I told your emissaries back then, I could see nothing amiss either with the ships or the crew. The king himself was in high spirits. Like a kid setting out on his first horseback ride."

"Did he... tell you anything? What he was thinking?" It pained Loghain to ask the questions, both because he suspected Maric might confide in someone else other than him, and because he feared what the answers might be. In Maric's last months he had begun to talk about strange things, about his regrets, about the son he had hidden away, and, most alarmingly to Loghain, about the witch and her damnable prophecies of Blight and betrayal.

"The king did not confide in me like that. If he had, I probably could not have told you anyway. Be assured, though, that if I knew anything that could help find out what happened to him, I would offer it up. I loved Maric, too."

Loghain glanced at the other teyrn. He knew that what Bryce said was true. Not all who had come through the rebellion loved Maric, especially not with what came after in the reconstruction. But Cousland had always been loyal. He had nearly lost his life, not only in the disastrous Battle of White Hill, but in the stealth missions which Loghain himself had sent him out to perform. Missions made possible because the young Cousland had been made to learn perfect Orlesian by his scholarly father. Loghain's eyes narrowed at the recollection. He did not really want to discuss Maric, neither did he want to beat around the bush. "Tell me about this arrangement with the Orlesians you and some of the bannorn are cooking up."

Bryce looked surprised, but not overly so. "So you've heard about that. And no doubt it has you concerned." He took a few steps, his demeanor thoughtful, then gestured at the town that lay beneath their feet. "Highever prospers not because I look back, but because I look ahead. International trade not only means my people have work, it means that Orlesians and Free Marchers pay the taxes they would otherwise have to. Ferelden will not survive if we are insulated. King Maric thought as much, or he wouldn't have risked his life for that voyage."

"I didn't ask for a lesson on the philosophy of ruling. Who exactly are you talking to? What are the terms? Does this go beyond trade agreements?"

"Of course it does," Bryce replied, matching him for bluntness. "Everything is tied up with politics, especially in Orlais. The shipping guilds are held tightly in the grip of various noble families, and all of these are beholden in one way or another to the Empress. I have good relations with certain ones, Eamon with others, thanks in part to his contacts through Isolde."

"You and Eamon." Loghain gave a bitter laugh. "A very cozy arrangement."

Bryce turned and gave him a pointed look. "We would have asked you to become involved, too, if I felt it would have done any good. Tell me, would you like to cement relations with some Orlesian noble families? Shall I arrange introductions for you?" Loghain's face burned with anger but he said nothing, and Bryce went on in a milder tone. "So there you see. I know how you feel about it, and I respect that. However, this is for the good of all Ferelden and not just Highever. Let us take care of it, Eamon and I. It need not trouble you at all."

Loghain approached, holding a finger to Bryce's chest. "I want to see the notes on these meetings. All of them. And you will give me access to all the duty houses to see what you are bringing in here and what you are sending out and where it is going. I will not have you selling Ferelden off piece by piece, letting the Orlesians buy what they could not keep by force."

Bryce paused, smiled, and reached up to move Loghain's finger aside. "I had understood your authority here to extend only to counting our troop levels. But I am King Cailan's subject and you are his representative. I will do what you ask." He stepped away, putting distance between the two men. "You will thank me for this work someday, Loghain. Or else my new grandson will. I don't have any fondness for the Orlesians, but we must work with them. It is inevitable. If we don't do so through peaceful means, there will be war again someday. Maybe not in our day, but in our children's or their children's. I would like to be remembered as laying a foundation for something better."

"I recall a lot of nobles saying the same thing in the rebellion, and using such talk as justification for selling out their neighbors."

Cousland gave a small laugh, ironic and sad. "I figured you would see it that way, or I'd have brought it up with you earlier. But let us not argue. You will have what you need and can satisfy yourself." He paused, then went on more quietly. "Elissa is well? The birth? I get the feeling there is something Eleanor is not telling me."

A shadow crossed Loghain's expression. "It was a difficult birth. Ellie bled a great deal, but they were able to stop it." He hesitated, adding, "The mage helped, I think."

Bryce sucked in a ragged breath, then nodded once. "Good. Good. My congratulations, Loghain. A son. It is a great thing for you. I cannot wait to meet him."

Loghain nodded, turning to leave with a brisk good night. He did not want these familiarities with Bryce, nor did he care for his sense of indebtedness he was inclined to feel towards the man who had raised Ellie, who had consented to their marriage. Loghain owed his current happiness partly to Bryce, a happiness he had once considered beyond reach for himself. He had no interest in awkward familial moments, however, certainly not after their discussion.

Returning to his quarters, Loghain met with another kind of awkwardness, this one more pleasant. He had been given Elissa's old room. Some of his wife's clothing still hung in the cupboards, her scent still lingering on them. An old training harness of Cutha's hung on the wall. He had glanced over the books on her shelves, left behind and yet more books than most people owned at all. On one wall hung a tapestry of what looked like the battle of River Dane. That gave Loghain pause. Leaning forward to examine the tapestry, he found a scene at the center which he guessed depicted himself standing above a chevalier in gleaming armor, holding a sword to the chevalier's neck and demanding surrender. Ellie had never mentioned that she had a wall hanging of the battle.

The tapestry made him smile, though after a moment it occurred to him that there was no blood anywhere on the field in this depiction. The hero with his sword was clean. He stared thoughtfully at the picture of himself until weariness finally drew him away. It was just as well that there was no blood in Ellie's conception of his heroic deeds. She had seen enough blood already, in her own birth bed. As Loghain had told Regan ap Feil, he would see to it that she never had to see more, even if he was the only man in the country who would do so. Even if it meant standing against her own father.

In the morning he woke early to get in some sword practice before breakfast. As he was coming out of his room, Loghain ran into a disheveled looking Fergus. The younger Cousland took one look at his armor and sword and brightened. "Are you going to spar, Teyrn Loghain? Take me with you. I want you to teach me."

Loghain hesitated. He had a great deal to do that day and little time for junior weapons training. The lad was so eager, however, and his face so like Ellie's- apart from the little bit of scruff that was trying to eke an existence on the boy's cheeks- that he gave in. At Loghain's nod, Fergus uttered a "whoop" and ran back into his room to retrieve his arms. In the end it proved not a bad way to start a day, for either of them.