20 August, 9:30 Dragon
Denerim

‹›‹O›‹›

A wooden pyre stood at the center of the Denerim market. No body was laid out upon it; there was merely an empty suit of clothing that had once belonged to King Cailan Theirin. As people began to fill the marketplace, the sun came out from behind the clouds, and burned away the last of the morning haze, filling the square with a blinding, overly harsh light.

This was all too reminiscent of another funeral, held just three years ago for Maric. The pyre, built by Loghain's own hands. Clothing in place of the body that had not been recovered. A crowd of people who filled the square, and overflowed into the streets beyond.

On that day, Loghain hadn't wanted to believe Maric was dead. To be honest, some part of him still refused to believe it. Today, however, there was no such hope alive in his heart for Cailan. If he had managed to survive, both the battle and an escape through the surrounding wilderness, he would have turned up somewhere by now, or a demand for ransom would have been made. But darkspawn take no prisoners - none who have ever returned from such an ordeal, at any rate. And Cailan had never bothered to cultivate the skills that would have helped him survive this long out in the woods on his own.

No. Cailan was most assuredly dead.

The citizens of Denerim seemed to sense this, as well. Most of the people who now crowded the market square made no attempt to hide their grief for their fallen king. There were no hopeful looks, no laughter, no cheerful conversations. Instead, quiet sobs and whispered laments filled the air. In this, the atmosphere was different from the day of Maric's wake. Maric had been loved, truly, but in the two years that followed his disappearance, the grief felt by his subjects had faded. Maric's wake had been an opportunity to say goodbye, long after the initial shock and sadness had worn away.

Today, the grief was still raw. For all his faults, Cailan had been well loved by his people: the golden haired, handsome young prince who had taken the throne when his beloved father disappeared unexpectedly. The people of Ferelden knew little of Cailan's weaknesses, of the betrayals he committed, and others he'd had planned. This was a blessing, now that he was gone. If it brought comfort, let them hold his unsullied memory dear in their hearts.

Grand Cleric Elemena stepped up to the pyre and raised her hands, and the crowd fell silent. Loghain blinked and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight as he turned to face her.

"All men are the work of our Maker's hands,
From the lowest slaves to the highest kings."

At Loghain's side, Anora stood with her shoulders straight, and her chin held high. Her eyes were dry, and her mouth a thin, grim line. She wore all black, and her skin was so pale it looked almost translucent. She looked delicate. Vulnerable. Fragile. As though a misplaced word might shatter her composure. Not that this would happen. It never had before, certainly not in public, and rarely even in private.

His heart ached for her for so many reasons, but he didn't dare reach out to her, or attempt to comfort her as he had done on his return to Denerim. Not today. Today, she would barely make eye contact with him. She was still angry - furious - about the revelation that Loghain had chosen to ally himself with Rendon Howe. He'd gone to see her the previous evening, dreading what she would say but knowing he had to tell her, before she caught word of it from someone else.

"How could you?" She had clenched her fists and stepped up to him, and he'd almost feared she intended to hit him. "How could you listen to a single word he had to say before calling the guard to have him arrested? Blessed Andraste! He murdered Bryce and Eleanor, and little Oren, and Oriana, and Maker knows how many other people! And you've allied yourself with him? Have you lost your mind?"

"Anora, please. Just listen-"

"Listen to what? Listen to you repeat whatever lies Rendon Howe must have told you, in order for you to have done something so monumentally stupid?"

He blinked in surprise at the insult, and at the heat in her tone. Maker's balls. Loghain had never seen his daughter this angry before.

"I don't like this any more than you do, but I didn't have much of a choice."

"Of course you had a choice," she snapped. "There's always a choice."

"Anora, stop!" He raised his voice, and immediately regretted it. Forcing himself to use a quieter tone, he continued, "Just hear me out. I know Rendon Howe is not to be trusted. But he had proof for everything he told me. Letters and eyewitnesses."

"Proof? Of what?"

"That Bryce Cousland had gotten himself tangled up with Orlais. Quite thoroughly."

"Bryce? Involved with Orlais? I don't believe it, and neither should you." She closed her eyes, and took in a breath before opening them again. "Just what it is Bryce is meant to have done, anyway?"

"He . . . he had begun to negotiate a new peace treaty with the empress, one with provisions that significantly benefited the Cousland family. He planned to have Rhianna marry Celene's first cousin, and he . . ." Loghain took a deep breath. Maker. There was absolutely no way to break news like this gently. "He was encouraging Cailan to set you aside and marry Empress Celene. Once Cailan was Emperor of Orlais, Bryce hoped to rule here in Ferelden."

"What?" Anora's face went pale, and she put a hand on the back of a nearby chair. Her breath sped up as she caught and held his gaze. "You said there is proof of this? More than just Howe's word?"

"Yes. Documents. I studied them carefully; they are in Bryce's own hand, sealed with his ring. There are also various eyewitnesses."

"Eyewitnesses." She frowned. "Supplied by Howe himself?"

"One of them, yes, but there was outside corroboration of Rhianna's involvement with this royal cousin."

"You can't possibly believe Rhianna Cousland could have been involved in treason of any kind." Anora's eyes flashed and she leaned close. "Or that Eleanor was."

"Not Eleanor. Howe made it clear that Eleanor knew nothing. It appears as though this was almost entirely Bryce's doing. As for Rhianna . . . I still do hope she will prove to have been an unwitting participant, and didn't recognize the full threat her actions posed."

"What threat?" Anora scoffed. "Even if she were to marry this cousin, what would it have mattered? To be honest, I always expected a foreign marriage for her. Not with someone from Orlais, perhaps, but there was no one here in Ferelden she could have wed without marrying beneath her station."

Except Loghain himself. Of course, Anora had no idea about the relationship Loghain and Rhianna had once shared, and he had no intention of telling her now. Or ever.

"But it does matter," Loghain replied. "Rhianna is a descendent of Calenhad. She has a solid claim to the throne of Ferelden, as will her children."

"Perhaps, but a claim to the throne would only get her so far. It's difficult for me to believe the Landsmeet would ever put an Orlesian-born noble on throne, even if that child was a descendent of Calenhad."

"But if Ferelden were annexed by Orlais, and Bryce sat on our throne . . ."

Anora's shoulders sagged, just slightly. "That still doesn't makes it treasonous. Rhianna would never deliberately betray Ferelden. She bears Calenhad's Cross and was named a friend of Ferelden for life, or have you forgotten? I can't imagine she has."

"That was a long time ago," Loghain said softly. "People change."

"Do they?" Anora crossed her arms in front of her chest. "You said there was another witness who corroborated the story? One not supplied by Howe? Who was it? I would like to talk to this person myself."

"I'm . . . I'm afraid that won't be possible. The other witness was . . . well, it was Cailan. After he returned from Orlais, he told me he'd seen Rhianna with this man. Seen her . . . kissing him."

"Oh." Anora blinked, and her eyes grew bright. "Oh. Yes. He said something about that to me, as well, but I didn't believe it. I thought he was mistaken, or had exaggerated an Orlesian greeting that might have seemed overly familiar by our standards." She paused. "But perhaps there was something more to it." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Even so, I don't believe any of it could have been meant to harm Ferelden. I honestly can't believe any of the Couslands would do such a thing. Especially Rhianna." She caught his gaze and held it. "You don't believe she committed treason, do you? You can't believe it. The two of you were friends. Such good friends for so many years."

"I . . ." A heavy weight settled in his stomach. "I don't know to what to believe. I honestly don't. I certainly don't trust anything that comes out of Rendon Howe's mouth, but the evidence he provided is . . . compelling. Perhaps more to point, we need him. What he did in Highever was atrocious, and I don't condone any of it, but what's done is done, and now we need his support. We need his soldiers to fight the darkspawn, and to keep the Orlesians at bay. We also need his good will in the north. If he joins with the Bannorn against us, there will be a civil war we can't possibly win."

Her eyes flashed. "He won't join with the Bannorn against you or anyone else if I send my guards to have him arrested, and hanged in the courtyard of Fort Drakon at dawn." She crossed her arms in front of her again. "I should put his Maker-damned head on a pike in front of the palace for what he did in Highever."

"Do you think I don't feel the same?" He reached up and put a hand on her shoulder. "I know Howe is a snake, but we need his military support if we hope to get Ferelden through this crisis with the darkspawn."

She took a deep breath, as though she meant to argue, but then she exhaled, crossed the room and lowered herself into a chair by the window.

"I hate this. I hate everything about it. And I refuse to believe Rhianna had any intention of betraying Ferelden. Ever."

Would she still feel that way if she knew the truth about that last night at Ostagar?

"I hate it, too, but this is necessary, for now. After we've gotten everything under control again, and you've been confirmed by the Landsmeet, perhaps Howe can be held accountable for what happened in Highever. But for now, you'll just have to trust me that this is for the best."

She hadn't replied; she'd merely stared out the window.

It was only after Loghain had left her and returned to the Gwaren estate that he realized she hadn't asked for proof of Cailan's involvement in any of this. Hadn't asked for evidence that he intended to set Anora aside, or marry the empress. She'd defended Rhianna, and even Bryce, but never once questioned that one particular bit of news. Not once.

She must have had no difficulty believing that part of the story.

Now, she stood at his side as the Grand Cleric spoke words from the Chant. Anora was so close he could have reached just a few inches and taken her hand, but never in his life had he felt more distant from her as he did in this moment. She stared at the pyre, unblinking, and there was no sign of it in her face, but her anger was palpable. He could only imagine the thoughts that must be going through her head right now. And he would have to imagine them; she was unlikely to confide in him again anytime soon.

Or ever, perhaps.

If only there had been some way to avoid telling her the truth about Cailan's plans, but she had needed to know. Deserved to know. Loghain had even thought that knowing the truth might have made it easier for her to bear Cailan's death. He'd been wrong about that though. Dreadfully wrong. Just by looking at her face, at her posture - the way she held herself so carefully - it was obvious that knowing the truth hadn't made things easier. Instead, it made them immeasurably worse, and had most likely tainted every good memory she had of the time they'd shared together.

Damn Cailan. Damn his stupidity, and his faithless heart. The man had loved Anora, but he'd been a bigger fool than Loghain could have ever imagined. And, as had happened so many times in the past, Anora was the one to suffer the cost.

At least Loghain had been able to spare her one small piece of the truth; she didn't know about Rhianna's involvement with Cailan, and that was a secret Loghain intended to keep. Still, it seemed small consolation now, considering the look on Anora's face as she stared, dry-eyed, at her husband's pyre while Elemena spoke the words of the funeral service.

Those who bring harm
Without provocation to the least of His children
Are hated and accursed by the Maker.

"We come here today to honor the spirit of our beloved king, Cailan Theirin, who was taken from us far too soon. We ask Andraste to guide his spirit to the side of the Maker, and that the Maker give the king an eternal home at His side.

"Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls.
From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.
Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.
In my arms, lies Eternity."

At a nod from the Grand Cleric, three young women stepped forward to sing the traditional dirge. Not the same three who had sung for Maric, of course. Delilah Howe had not been seen in Denerim for more than a year, Anora would not sing the dirge for her own husband, and Rhianna Cousland was Maker-knows-where, doing her best to evade Loghain's guards. Instead, Habren Bryland, Tanith Curwen, and Alfstanna Eremon would sing the words to guide Cailan's spirit to the Maker, assuming he could pass the tests.

"If ever thy gave of thy silver and gold
Every nighte and all.
In City o' Black thou find'st foothold
Maker receive thy soul

If silver and gold thou ne'er gave'st nane
Every nighte and all.
Down thou'st fall where Darkspawn remain
Maker receive thy soul"

Would Cailan pass the tests? He had been selfish and stubborn and thoughtless, especially with people he was supposed to have loved. So many of his actions left a swath of hurt feelings in their wake, and Cailan seemed never to even notice. Even so, he'd had a good heart. Had greeted each day with optimism and cheer, and seemed to genuinely believe in the goodness of people. And he had trusted in the Maker. No matter how angry Loghain might have been with the lad, he genuinely hoped this trust would not now be denied, and Cailan would pass the tests, and find peace at the Maker's side.

When the song ended, just as he had done at Maric's funeral, Loghain lowered the torch to set the pyre ablaze.

‹›‹O›‹›

Anora had organized a wake, to be held in the palace after the funeral. It's likely no one would have faulted her if she'd chosen not to hold one, considering the situation in the south, but she had insisted. Said it was the least she could do to honor his life, and the lives of the others who died at Ostagar.

Within minutes, however, Loghain regretted that it had been necessary for him to attend. Everything about being here made him uncomfortable in one way or another. When he had paid his respects to Anora, she'd nodded curtly and turned away. It was clear she wanted nothing at all to do with her father just now. Not that he blamed her, but it stung, nonetheless. It was also difficult to watch the nobles as they performed their grief. In some cases, no doubt, it was genuine, but not everyone had liked or approved of the young king. Today, of course, nearly everyone wore a long face and some of the women sniffed into their handkerchiefs, and it all seemed so contrived. Or perhaps it was just that listening to everyone speak warmly about Cailan - all the while completely unaware of the things the king had planned for the future - was difficult to stomach.

And of course, there were questions, posed in loud whispers carefully designed to be overheard.

"Just how did the king end up dead on the battlefield? Wasn't the army supposed to protect him?"

"It's difficult to know, isn't it, what really happened at Ostagar?"

Questions posed by people who hadn't been there. People who hadn't put their own lives at risk, nor their own soldiers. It did seem, though, that – at least within Loghain's hearing - most people were satisfied to blame the Grey Wardens.

Those things were unpleasant, but hardest of all was the way this wake dredged up memories of the day they'd sent Maric to his eternal rest. Loghain was battered anew by the loss of the man who had been his best friend throughout most of his life. Even worse, he was battered by the loss of the young woman who had stood by his side on that day three years ago. Rhianna had joined him in the market square and held his hand as he watched the empty pyre burn. She'd sat with him in Gwaren House, and forgiven him for not telling her the truth about what he'd found on that damned island. She had held him when he cried. He could still remember, vividly, the comfort of her arms around him, the warmth of her breath against his hair. Later, he'd found her in the garden, panicked and trembling, after Vaughan had attacked her.

Rarely in his life had he been as angry as he was on that night. He'd been angry the next day, as well, when she'd blamed herself for what happened to Catrin. That day, he'd made Rhianna swear that no matter what, she would always put her own safety first. That she would never sacrifice herself for someone else's sake.

A wave of nausea hit him. There was a time, not so very long ago, when he'd truly believed the two of them would be together. They might have been married now. She would have been here at his side today, with a gentle hand on his arm, a ready smile to ease him through whatever trials this day had brought. She would have whispered encouraging things into his ear, or made biting but never quite unkind observations about the others in attendance. And later, they would have sat beside a roaring fire, and he could have pulled her into his arms . . .

He forced those thoughts away. It was far too painful to think of such things now, of the wreck he had made of his life. Of what might have been, if only Bryce had said yes-

Loghain blinked. What was it Bryce had told him when Loghain asked for Rhianna's hand? Bryce had said his refusal was based solely on Loghain being the wrong sort of man to wed Rhianna, and there was no other betrothal in place.

That was almost certainly not true. Given the timing of things, it made much more sense that Bryce already had a marriage in mind with this Orlesian cousin. Perhaps there was no formal betrothal yet; that probably didn't happen until the visit to Orlais. In which case, Bryce might not have told an actual lie, but he'd been dishonest, nonetheless.

More importantly, though, this meant Rhianna could not have known anything about it, not then at least. Perhaps she really hadn't been complicit in any of this. Maker, that was what he wanted to believe. What he wanted desperately to believe.

He needed to talk to her. Needed to hear from Rhianna's own lips what had happened. If only she'd agreed to come to Denerim with the guards . . .

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone approach, and turned to offer a greeting.

"Bann Nicola."

"Hello, Teyrn Loghain." She gave a half-hearted smile and glanced around the great hall. "What a somber event this is. To be quite honest, I never expected anything like this to happen. Cailan was so young. So full of smiles and optimism. It's a very strange feeling indeed, to realize that he is gone from this world."

"Yes, it is."

She sighed, and then turned her gaze back to Loghain. "I wonder if later in the day, you might have a few minutes to spare. There are some things I'd like to speak with you about."

That was intriguing.

"Of course," he replied. "To be honest, I don't have much interest in staying here any longer. If you like, we could walk out in the garden. Or go to Gwaren House for tea. Or something stronger."

"I wouldn't turn down a whiskey just now, if your liquor cabinet is up to the challenge."

After seeing nothing but Anora's unsmiling profile most of the day, a conversation with Bann Nicola – who didn't seem inclined to blame Loghain for Cailan's death, or anything else - would be most welcome.

"Trust me." He offered her his arm. "My cabinet is definitely up to that challenge."

‹›‹O›‹›

Half an hour later, they were settled in the library of the Gwaren estate. Loghain and Nicola each had a glass in their hands: eighteen-year-old single malt distilled on the northern shore of a tiny island off the coast of Gwaren. Its scent was a perfect blend of peat and smoke, and each sip demanded another; it truly was a magnificent whiskey.

"Ah." Nicola sighed appreciatively. "It was well worth the walk across town for this alone. It's perfect. Smoke and brine. Nuts and . . ." She inhaled deeply. "Toffee. From Ardnahoe, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes, it's from Ardnahoe. I will be disappointed when this bottle is gone. It's the last one I have here in the city, although with any luck my seneschal has a couple more stashed away in Gwaren."

"Have you ever been to the island? If I'm not mistaken, there's a rather famous standing stone there, is there not? Said to mark the place where King Calenhad's pyre was immolated?"

"That is the legend, yes, although I've never been particularly convinced of its veracity. No one really knows what happened to Calenhad after he disappeared, and it's easy enough to for anyone to claim that he was put to his final rest in their backyard. And to answer your first question, no, I've not been to the island, although on a clear day it is visible from the castle." He took another sip of his whiskey. "I must say, this conversation is something of an unexpected pleasure. I haven't had many visitors since my return from the south."

"Really? I find that surprising. I should think a great many people would wish to talk to the new regent."

"Apparently not. Most of them seem intent on gossiping about things they know little about, while tucking their tails between their legs. Or sticking their heads in the sand while they pretend the presence of Orlesian chevaliers at the border poses no genuine threat."

Nicola relaxed into the sofa, and took a sip of her drink. "I do understand some of their concerns. They're panicked about the darkspawn, and not without good reason. But," she took another sip and paused to savor it on her tongue. "I also see the larger picture here. I think part of the problem is some of the new blood in the Landsmeet. Youngsters like Vaughan and Tanith, who didn't live through the Occupation, and don't share the same sense of history as you and I. You're right to keep your eye on Orlais. By now, the empress knows full well the losses the army suffered at Ostagar. I can't imagine she is not considering how best to take advantage of our weakness."

"That's what I fear, as well. She's already tried to use the darkspawn as an excuse to get chevaliers across our border, along with the supposedly neutral Grey Wardens, who might well have been directly responsible for Cailan's death."

"Do you really believe that?" Nicola looked at him intently. "Did the Grey Wardens intend for Cailan never to leave that battlefield alive?"

"I don't know. I honestly don't know. All I know for certain is that he fought alongside them, and their supposedly legendary skills didn't keep him alive." He let out a sigh. "Whether or not they intended to murder him? I don't want to believe it. I truly don't, but they've not done anything to ease my suspicions. At any rate, there are only a few Wardens left in Ferelden now, so whether or not they were complicit in Cailan's death, I don't imagine they pose much of a threat. Either way, we're going to have to deal with the darkspawn on our own."

"To be honest, that's the main reason I came here today. To find out how I can be of support. I know things are tense here in Denerim and across the rest of the nation. Understandable, of course. People are scared. My lands are in the north, so perhaps the darkspawn seem less of an urgent threat to me as they do to those further south. Although," she paused, "with the situation in Highever being so precarious, I am trying to keep an eye on things in the north."

She took another sip of whiskey, and Loghain waited for her to ask about the Couslands, but the question never came.

"I wouldn't be surprised," she continued, "if Orlais tried to enter the country via that port. At any rate, I do still have soldiers at my command, and I am more than willing to offer them to you, to deploy wherever you deem they can be of the most use. The Bannorn is already beginning to make uncomfortable noises, led by Bann Bronach." She shrugged. "His cousin was the Grand Cleric during the Occupation; to be honest I've never been fond of the fellow." Before Loghain could reply, she continued, "More than anything, I would like to see Anora keep her throne. She's earned it, with her dedication over the years. That is your intention, is it not? To keep your daughter on the throne?"

"Of course. What else would you have me do?"

"Me? Absolutely nothing. As I said, I want Anora to keep her crown. But there's been talk that you, perhaps, have some intention of taking the throne yourself?"

"Me? Take the throne? No." Loghain laughed. "Absolutely not. I took the regency to keep the banns from squabbling, and make certain we don't have some pretender try to take the throne before a Landsmeet can be convened. But I intend my governance to be an interim measure, nothing more."

"Good. Not that I don't think you would make a fine king." A smile played upon her lips. "But I think we can both agree that your daughter is undoubtedly a more skilled politician." She winked.

"Yes, on that we can most assuredly agree."

"I've also heard rumors that there may be another claimant. More than one, perhaps. Whispers that Eamon Guerrin may wish to capitalize on his connection with the late queen. Although . . . very recently I have also heard whispers that the arl might not be in adequate health for such a ploy." She arched a brow. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Ah. The blood mage must have gotten the job done, then.

Loghain met her gaze. "Eamon has fallen ill? Pity. With any luck it will prove only temporary." He shrugged, and leaned back into the sofa. "It is convenient timing, I'll say that much, if it keeps him out of Denerim until the throne can be secured for Anora."

Nicola smiled, as though a suspicion had been confirmed. Then she leaned closer. "I have no genuine concerns about Eamon making a successful bid for the crown. I can't see many of the banns, other than a very few in the south, and perhaps his brother, wanting him on the throne. He has no real claim, no more than any of the rest of us, and he's too conservative, I think, for the current climate. Especially now that we have a variety of threats at the doorstep. It will be remembered that he was too young to have fought in the Rebellion. At this time, an experienced queen with the support of her father - a known war hero - will be much better received." She paused. "I do, however, have concerns about another rumor I've heard."

"Which one?"

"That some bastard of Maric's has resurfaced."

This caught him by surprise. "What, exactly, have you heard?"

"That the boy was born here in Denerim, but raised in Redcliffe. In Eamon's household, as a matter of fact, until he was shipped off, strangely enough, to the Chantry, to be trained as a templar. And then, in another unlikely circumstance, recruited by the Grey Wardens."

Nicola was remarkably well-informed. Very few people knew about the boy's existence, and most of those believed him the son of a Redcliffe serving girl, a story fabricated by Eamon. And, judging by her expression, not only did Nicola know her information was correct, but she knew Loghain would realize it was somewhat unusual for her to have this knowledge.

Very interesting. And possibly troubling. Why, exactly, had Nicola come to him with this?

"Your intelligence is excellent," Loghain admitted. "And yes, this lad was one of the Grey Wardens who appear to have walked away from Ostagar."

"Along with Rhianna Cousland. And another man."

"Another man?" A third Grey Warden had survived?

"Yes," Nicola replied. "A common thief, from what I've been able to gather. Born in the south, but recruited right here in Denerim, where he was making some sort of living for himself picking pockets in the marketplace."

Nicola's ability to gather information was impressive, to say the least. That was one area where Loghain had always felt inadequate. He didn't have the patience to deal with the sort of people who collected such information. Maric had a network of spies, as did Anora, but Loghain himself had never cultivated those sorts of relationships. Apparently, Bann Nicola had. And done a proper job of it. Did the fact she was here now, discussing such matters, suggest she would be willing to allow him to benefit from her connections? She'd done it once before: the revelation that Eamon had been behind the assassination attempt the previous year had come from her. If that was her purpose, though, just what was it the woman would want in return? She'd said her interest was seeing Anora remain on the throne, but that seemed rather too simple to be the whole truth. People rarely offered things out of the blue like this with no hope of being rewarded.

Loghain kept his tone even. "Interesting. It sounds as though a pickpocket is unlikely to pose any particular sort of threat, politically at least. And," Loghain mused aloud, "if he was born here in Ferelden, perhaps he's not merely a pawn for the Orlesians. Although, being a thief, he might be willing to do just about anything for the right sum."

"True. I do find it difficult to believe that same statement would apply to young Lady Cousland, however. She never struck me as the sort of women whose loyalty could be purchased." Nicola's voice was gentle. "If I'm not mistaken, you yourself were close to her at one time? I do recall that you danced with her on the night my grandson was killed."

Did this woman know everything?

"Yes, Rhianna and I were friends for a great many years. And I would like to hope that she's not . . . involved with Orlais, in some way. I'm afraid, though, that at this time I can't afford to take any chances. There are wolves at every door, and I am determined that Ferelden will be strong enough to keep from being devoured, whatever it might take."

"No one with any sense would ever doubt that. There is no one in Ferelden other than you I trust to take us through this crisis." Nicola held his gaze. "Again, this is why I have come. So you will know that all the services I have to offer are at your disposal. And, so you will have a better understanding of just what services I might be able to provide. Soldiers, of course. And if information is required - information I might be able to obtain - you have only to ask."

"Thank you. That is a generous offer."

Perhaps too generous. No doubt, she would eventually want something in return. In the meantime, however, it seemed she had access to intelligence that could prove useful – crucial, even – to facing the challenges ahead. Surely, there was no harm in taking her up on her offer, while keeping his eyes and ears open to any suggestion that she had motives that conflicted with Loghain's own.

He leaned forward. "I understand that Rhi- . . . that Lady Cousland might have traveling companions beyond the two Wardens you mentioned. An apostate, and perhaps even a Chantry sister? If you happen across anything that might identify these two women, I would be glad of it."

"Of course." She smiled warmly. "I will more than happy to see what my sources can discover."

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Many, many thanks to my wonderful beta readers, Psyche Sinclair, Sehnsuchttraum, and Amanda Kitswell, and also to all my lovely reviewers: Kira Kyuu, Milly-finalfantasy, Skidney, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Tyrannosaurustex, SwomeeSwan, and Psyche Sinclair.

I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter; I spent last week at a wildlife conference where I gave a presentation about my research, and I just didn't have the mental energy to do much of anything else. On the plus side, my talk went really well! I will try to get the next chapter posted promptly, considering we left poor Rhianna literally hanging from the side of a cliff. ;)

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