Prologue: The Instigator
30th Solis, year 9:30 Dragon
Black wasn't a color that suited the queen. Though at least she waived on wearing the veil today, he thought. Otherwise, this might start to look like an execution.
"I, your daughter, Queen Anora, hereby swear to be faithful to the crown in matters of life, limb, and earthly honor. Never shall I bear arms against you or conspire against your words, but instead strive to accept your counsel as my own and protect your person, as much as you shall protect mine as my regent."
On the royal terrace, she knelt at the feet of a grizzled man in full armor, shrunk to the height of a child again.
"The throne of Calenhad Theirin is yours, my father, until my rightful heir comes of age. This I swear in the sight of the Maker."
A moment of pregnant silence. But at last the queen rose: ponderously, like an upwell of ink, that famous grace now weighed down with fifteen pounds of pitch-black sarcenet and brocade. Soundlessly, she stepped aside; the Grand Cleric lifted her hand in benediction, urging all in attendance to rise. She was still wending through the third of his titles when the new bearer of the crown strode past her, his gravelly voice rolling to the corners of the hall with the certainty of a landslide.
"And you honor me with your trust, my queen. Just as I've sworn to Maric to see this nation safe, I swear to you again that it will remain so within our lifetime."
The regent didn't so much as glance at his daughter. His gray eyes were riveted instead to the bevy of banns and arls gathered on the floor of the Landsmeet chamber: half uncurling from their obeisances, the rest stiff-backed.
"Yours is a loss that doesn't have an equal in this room. But every soul here knows it's a betrayal with precedent."
That hardboiled gaze swept over him, lingered for a beat, then moved on. He kept his own expression just as closed.
"Two hundred years ago, the Grey Wardens led a campaign to oust King Arland from the throne. A campaign that saw their stronghold besieged and the remnants of their order banished from our borders. But it seems their malice can survive even the centuries."
Now the regent paced, plate and mail clanging empathically into the silence. Late summer light sliced against the steel diamonds on his crown. Eyes followed.
"King Cailan believed their stories of a building Blight. He trusted in their promises of a glorious victory against an archdemon, and on their counsel swore to open our borders once again to the chevaliers. He failed to see what lay behind the lofty legends, or what was written on our land in spite and blood over the ages. Now the Wardens have succeeded in fulfilling their old vengeance at Ostagar. The vaunted battle against the 'Fifth Blight' was a trap. Maric's son… has fallen."
A tactical hush; a crow cawed in the rafters. Someone in the corner failed to stifle a fidget, leather soles rasping loud over the flagstones. He willed his hands to unclench.
"Yet I still stand before you today." The regent stopped pacing, pauldrons squaring with a clank of steel. "And with me stands the Shield of Maric and all the forces of Gwaren. The Wardens may have perished in the teeth of their own trap, but they've set in motion a crisis that threatens our borders from west and south. And yet they will fail again- that, I swear."
Another pause; no applause came. The regent motioned to the chancellor at the back of the balcony. For the first time in several moments, the queen moved: a single contraction of her mouth as a scroll alighted in her father's hand.
"Henceforth, we must rally every able-bodied Fereldan to the defense of their homeland before summer's end. Just as we had when we drove out the Orlesians, and again when we banished the Wardens' legions."
Next to him at the bottom of the hall, Arl Wulff crossed his arms and muttered into his beard: "What able-bodied Fereldans? Ostagar took the lot of them, daft man." An absurdly-quiet remark from such a massive man.
Gold-edged paper flashed between the regent's gauntlets, his expression close to granite as he read out the first decrees.
"All freeholders who still owe annual service to their lords must join the army: a minimum of one man or woman from each household. Every man- and woman-at-arms of good family is obliged to pledge themselves to the coming campaign, whereas those too old or infirm must send substitutes, or monetary compensation to furnish new soldiers. In addition-" he suddenly lowered the scroll, returning the full force of his stare to his audience- "I expect each of you to meet an allotment of soldiers for this endeavor. We must rebuild what was lost at Ostagar, and quickly."
A litany of numbers followed; the man wasn't even glancing at the ordinance now, as though quoting from memory.
"For lords with incomes exceeding one hundred sovereigns a year, debts withstanding: eighty mounted troops. Below that, but exceeding fifty sovereigns a year: forty mounted troops. Beneath that, but exceeding twenty-five sovereigns: twenty mounted troops. I expect twice those numbers for your knights' retainers. And again for pike-men."
Each sum dropped onto the Bannorn with the impact of a roofing tile: raising a ripple of low murmurs, protests half-swallowed as neighbors turned to shoot questions at one another. Forty-odd cloaks rustled, dropping over purses and gilt psalters. An older bann decided to sit down, and ended partway between his valet's catch and the carpet.
Wulff didn't bother whisper now. "Well. We'll be seeing a riot in about thirty more counts. Daft bugger."
"'Daft' doesn't describe it. But thank you for the other part."
The regent didn't seem to hear. "For those with annual incomes below that final margin, other means of contribution will be devised. But in all cases, proofs of income will be validated by the capital's comptroller and the palace treasurer- no exceptions." He rolled up the token scroll, sliding new steel into his address. "Whoever fails to comply will face swift justice from the Crown. As ordained in times of war."
Now the floor erupted with pitched whispers, whipping up like sea-foam, the tail-ends of oaths slipping from the youngest voices. A few dared to look at the balcony. The queen's mouth flinched, retreated to a frown; her hand rose towards the stocky marshal, readying him.
At last, he murmured to his neighbor, "Would you excuse me for a moment?"
"Odd time to look for the privy, man-" Wulff did a double-take. "Hey, where are you going? Hey."
But he was already weaving to the front of the crowd, stepping carefully onto what free floor he could find. While the soles of the others were dressed in satin and calfskin, his were in solid steel.
The regent's voice rose over the hubbub. "…Understand that the losses at Ostagar were not insignificant. Yet still lurking west and south are those poised to take advantage of our weakened state if we let them."
Without turning, he shoved the scroll back to the chancellor; the man almost fumbled the catch. The regent continued, tempering some of the steel on his tongue. "My lords and ladies, we must defeat this darkspawn incursion. But we must do so sensibly, and without hesitation; this is only the first of many battles to seize our country again."
"Your lordship, if I might speak?"
The regent abruptly broke off, frowned once more, and squinted over the banister.
He pulled to a stop right below the terrace. There, he let those eyes search his face one more time, light by a fraction, flick to his mail, then scowl anew. The hall behind him hushed.
Yes, you scarcely remember me, do you? Never imagined that one day, I might walk into this hall to speak. But 'the Hero of River Dane' is an excuse three decades too old to explain why you're here. It's past time someone said it.
The sudden silence piled onto his shoulders. He mustered a breath, then pressed his voice smooth: "Ostagar, without doubt, was a tragedy. It galls us all to hear our king was betrayed on the field."
A rolling chorus of agreement. A voice he didn't recognize piped up, "Indeed."
"Yet instead of a Grey Warden, we find only you returning to Denerim, Loghain Mac Tir. Here, you have declared yourself Queen Anora's regent, and claim we must unite under your banner for our own good."
No chorus this time. Loghain compressed a glare. Good.
"For the sake of those who didn't witness Ostagar, who weren't able to stand at our king's side when he fell, enlighten us: why withdraw your troops from the field? It seems most…"
Two beats. Then he left the word fall: "…Fortuitous."
A collective shout rose from the back of the hall, tumbling and undulating through the crowd until it broke over his back below the promenade: the sounds of outrage, disbelief, and shock lapping high to the ceiling. The crows in the rafters scattered; black feathers rained down.
The marshal roared for order, banging his steel-plated staff onto the flagstones of the balcony. The queen seemed frozen. Her father strode suddenly to the banister; the first row of the Bannorn flinched right, left, and aft of him.
"Everything I have done has been to secure the safety and sovereign rights of our nation, where our king could not." His reply beat like a smithy hammer, mimed by the cut of his hand. "I have not shirked my duty to the throne, and neither…" his voice projected over the whole hall, "…will any of you!"
"What do you mean by that, Mac Tir?!" Wulff bellowed from the back. The cork came loose; voices riled and followed.
"What happened down south? What happened to all those men and women we sent?"
"You've the gall to decide our duties, cottar's son?!"
"It's the Theirin line we follow, not yours!" he snapped back at the balcony, full anger bristling his tongue. "The Bannorn will not bow to you simply because you demand it!"
Loghain's gauntlet struck the railing with a splintering crack; the first row of the Bannorn jumped again.
"Understand this," the new king thundered from overhead, "I will brook no threat to this nation. From you-" those gimlet eyes bore into him, then lifted- "or anyone!"
A curt gesture over the shoulder; his guards followed him away from the terrace. The chancellor glanced at the stupefied Grand Cleric, then dropped in pursuit.
Above them, the crows were long-gone, feathers still spinning in the amber-lit air.
The marshal pounded his staff four more times, punctuating the rabble on the floor, then shook his head and gestured to the doormen; reluctantly, they peeled open the exit. Half the lords broke away, darting for the doors and their horses in the courtyard. The rest washed together under the balcony, the air below thick with jeweled hands and stabbing fingers as they hollered to the queen left behind.
It's beyond a riot, Gallagher; it's madness. He pressed one gauntlet over his eyes, grimacing, the cold steel a welcome shock against his forehead. Already his name was being pelted at his back from voices friendly, unfriendly, and unknown; he answered by turning on his heel and heading for the exit.
But one petition made him start in mid-step. "Bann Teagan Guerrin, please!"
He turned again. The queen's hand was extended his way, lacquered black in its glove; her jet rosary swung from her throat as she reached from the balustrade like a wooden siren. He shook his head.
"Your Majesty- your father risks civil war!" Yet you stood mute this entire time. "You don't mean to tell us you support this stunt? If Eamon were here-"
From one story above, that sculpted pose bent; the queen's glove clutched the cracked banister. "Bann Teagan, I beg you to understand." Her gaze was veiled. "My father is only doing what is best at this time."
Could you say the same to Cailan when you meet him? "Did he also do what was best for your husband, your Majesty?"
The widow's mask split with a full flinch. Teagan kept his back unbowed and his apology in the grave as he turned for the doors one last time.