The Landsmeet

CONTENT:
Rating: Teen
Flavor: Adventure/Drama
Language: possibly
Violence: yes
Nudity: no
Sex: no
Other: none

Author's Notes:

it might help if I knew what I was doing in this chapter... "let me check my notes."

oh look, an eponymous chapter in this chapter. i'm so clever! :X

The Landsmeet

==#==

In Zevran's dream, he saw an elven family: poor, living in a run down tenement, but happy together. They gathered around the small table, jostling elbows at dinner, laughing and talking. He reached out towards them.

"That's not for you," a woman's voice said from somewhere above him.

He looked up, expecting to see his mother. Instead, a hideously ugly hag bent over him. Her hair was oiled and perfumed so strongly, he gagged. Her wide, fleshy lips were painted garish red. She seized his wrist. He was six years old again, and she began dragging him down the long, dark-panelled hall.

==#==

Zevran thrashed, kicking Alistair soundly in the kidneys. "No, don't! Please don't!"

"Zevran!" Bannon grabbed him by the arm and shook him.

With a cry, the Antivan awoke. "Help me!"

"It's all right," Bannon told him; "We're right here. It's all right."

"Owwww...," moaned Alistair.

Zevran lay back, panting. Bannon stroked his hair to calm him down. "There, there, easy... I suppose this is payback for all the nightmares we keep waking you with," Bannon said gently with a smile. Zevran relaxed in his presence. "What were you dreaming?"

He shrugged. "Just typical, normal, everyday nightmares," the Antivan replied. "Rats eating your face off and suchlike. It was nothing."

"Good." Bannon glanced up to make sure Alistair had passed out again, then he softly kissed Zevran. "Go back to sleep, love." He lay on his side, snuggling close, one hand resting on Zevran's stomach.

Zevran laid his own hand over Bannon's, and tried to find rest again.

==#==

Early in the morning, dawn's grey light had barely filtered into the sleeping chambers when Zevran slipped into the room where the women were sleeping and crouched by Wynne's cot. He poked her arm roughly and hissed her name.

She groaned and cracked one eye open. "Dear spirits, now what?"

"Something has happened, and I don't know what it means," the assassin explained to her. "I don't know what to do."

"What?" asked Wynne, feeling she was going to regret it.

"I gave Bannon a ring - an earring to be precise. Now he is wearing it."

Wynne pried both eyes open and sat up. "Well, why did you give it to him?"

"I don't know," he hedged. "It was a whim really. It was just a trinket I had from my first assignment. And... I don't know, I thought he has given me so much and done so much for me, a little gift in return would be in order, no?"

"So did it mean anything or didn't it?"

Zevran hmm'd vaguely. "Not... really, as such, no... I mean, it was just a little gift. 'keep it or sell it,' I said, 'or wear it or whatever, it doesn't matter.'"

Wynne sighed and rubbed her aching temples. "So what is the problem? Honestly, Zevran; why are you bothering me with this?"

"Because you are so wise, my dear sweet lady. You see, he is not wearing it in his ear."

The mages eyes popped open wide, and she stared at him.

Zevran tsked. "Really, Wynne, you are such a dirty old lady."

"I'm not!" Flustered, she clamped her mouth shut and looked around, afraid to have disturbed her slumbering companions. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "So tell me where he is wearing it, you great annoying... person!"

"It's in his left nipple." He nodded at Wynne's reaction. "I understand if he would have sold it, I would know what that meant, clearly. Or if he wore it in his ear, say. I could understand that. Or even if he just kept it like he has been, in his pocket. And taking it out once in a while to look at it, and to stroke it. And putting it back in his pocket. And then taking it out again to stroke it. And putting-"

"Zevran," Wynne ground out through clenched teeth.

"Oh, sorry, I distracted myself. What was I saying?" He forced himself to refocus. "But wearing it in his nipple... I cannot fathom such a thing. That must have hurt. But it is close to his heart, that suggests, well... you know." Again he avoided saying the L word. "But it is hidden under his shirt, not worn in the open -" Suddenly, he stopped. His eyes unfocused as realization slowly dawned on him. "It means a hidden love, that brings him pain. Oh." Zevran blinked. Then he looked down on Wynne. "But what does that mean?"

She groaned. Putting a hand over her eyes, she lay back down. "Zevran, I was up very late last night - very," she added pointedly, glaring at him from under her hand - "and I am tired, and I have a headache from over-indulging, so I am going to give you a very simple answer: just do what you've been doing. Everything will work out fine."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart, my dear sweet lady." He rose and bowed to her once more, though she wasn't watching. He slipped out of the room again.

==#==

Alistair groaned and rolled over. Cracking his eyes open, he looked around. The assassin had snuck off early again; Bannon was just waking up. Alistair rubbed his face vigorously. Suddenly he sat bolt upright. "Hey!" he said. "What do you mean 'Entertain them with the story about the Dalish while I go - you know'!?"

Bannon groaned loudly. "Andraste's Tits, Alistair; swift on the uptake as usual." He pulled the sheets up over his head.

"You-" the human continued, aghast; "You went sneaking around? In your father's house?" He lashed out and punched the elf in the arm. "You son of a bitch! They have next to nothing, and you stole from them? How could you!?"

Bannon sat up swiftly. "Dammit, Alistair!" He rubbed his arm and twisted to face the human. "I wasn't taking things from them; I was giving them!"

"Huh?"

Exasperated, the elf explained. "They wouldn't take money from me. I wanted to share with them, but they wouldn't hear of it! So...," he gestured with one arm, "I stuffed some coins in the mattress where they would find it after I'd gone. I stashed some silver around."

"Oh." Alistair ducked his head sheepishly. "Sorry."

Bannon shook his head and rubbed his arm as he got up. "Honestly!"

"Well, you know me, swi- what is THAT!?"

"It's an earring."

"I... don't think you wear earrings there. Doesn't that hurt?"

Bannon shrugged and started pulling on his clothes. "Yeah."

He didn't say anything else, and Alistair couldn't think of anything, either.

==#==

"Ceremonial plate, ceremonial plate, ceremonial plate..." Alistair paused to huff a cloud of breath onto the pauldron or knee guard or codpiece or whatever that bit was he'd just pulled out of the chest. Then he polished it with his sleeve and laid it out on the bed with the rest of the pile.

He was busy with the fine dwarven armor Leliana had acquired for him in Orzammar, because Queen Anora had left the estate and called the Landsmeet to convene. Now.

"Ceremonial plate, ...sock? Oh, so that's where that ended up!"

"Bannon," Leliana said, "where is your grey drakescale?"

"It's at the armorer's. Being repaired."

This seemed to alarm the bard. "Well you'll have to go see if it's ready!"

"Can't I just wear-"

"No!" She gave him that stern nun look. He had developed no defense against that. "Hurry. You don't want to be late to the Landsmeet. On second thought..." She tipped her head and tapped her chin. "If you can't get there on time, perhaps a dramatic entrance would suit. Yes, I am liking this idea. Alistair, go with him to fetch his armor, then both of you get to the palace."

"I'll go with them," Zevran said.

"You will not. The Wardens must enter alone. Two, the last of Ferelden's hope," she said. "It will emphasize Loghain's short-sighted plans, and how dangerous they are to the people."

So Bannon and Alistair went to the armorer's, and Bannon had to suffer Wade dressing him up and making last minute adjustments.

"We're going to be late," Bannon complained.

"Of course you are," the armorer said. "That's the whole point, isn't it? Fashionably late!"

"Fashion...uh?" The elf looked helplessly over to Alistair, but the other Warden was just snickering up his dwarven plate sleeve.

Well, at least he was distracted from falling into a gibbering, quivering heap of nerves.

After dress-up, they marched to the castle.

==#==

"Halt!"

Twelve men of Gwaren stood before the doors to the Great Hall, visors lowered, shields up. Ser Cauthrien strode in front of them. "The Grey Wardens are traitors to the King. You will not be permitted to enter the Landsmeet." She glared specifically at Bannon. "You belong in the dungeons."

"Loghain is the betrayer," Alistair said, stepping forward toe to toe with the female knight.

"He is a hero-!"

"The heroes are all the men and women who died at Ostagar, giving their lives to defend Ferelden against the Blight. Not the ones who ran away and left them!"

There was the briefest hesitation before Cauthrien retorted, "If the Grey Wardens hadn't delayed the signal..."

"Do you believe that?" Bannon asked, studying her face through the bars in her helm. "Or is that what Loghain keeps telling you?" He sensed another hesitation and pounced. "And how did the Tower of Ishal become overrun? There was a patrol of loyal Gwaren troops guarding it, as I recall. Wasn't there?"

A crese of a brow, a glance aside. Ser Cauthrien knew something. A lot of things, probably, as she was Loghain's highest lieutenant.

"Did you know that King Cailen was going to put Anora aside and court a marriage with the Empress of Orlais?"

"What?" she yelped, genuinely surprised.

Alistair said, "We found the letters Loghain intercepted, and kept hidden at Ostagar."

Bannon added, "It is widely known that Loghain hates Orlesians more than anything else."

"But he wouldn't..." Ser Cauthrien's eyes darted, flicking through her memories, her knowledge. "He wouldn't plunge Ferelden into a civil war, leave us vulnerable to the Blight over it."

"He did send troops to the border to meet the Grey Warden reinforcements." Bannon tilted his head. "You knew about that, didn't you?"

Alistair added, "They killed the Grey Wardens who were sent to help us against the darkspawn. He killed the Grey Wardens who were fighting at Ostagar." His voice rose. "He's tried to kill us at every turn. Do you really think he has the survival of Ferelden in mind?"

Bannon put a hand on the Templar's arm to ease him back. To Ser Cauthrien, he said, "Loghain was the Hero of River Dane, who saved us from the Orlesian occupation. But do you honestly think what he's doing now is going to save us from the Blight?"

She looked away. Then she snapped at her troops, "Stand down!"

"Ser?"

"Stand down and step aside." She turned to face them. "We have a battle with the darkspawn to prepare for."

"Yes, ser!" The troops marched out.

Bannon looked at Alistair, gave him a nod of encouragement. The Templar gave him a nod of 'I hope we don't screw this up' in return.

Then Bannon hit the double doors, swinging them both open in a dramatic sweep. He strode inside boldly, his fellow Grey Warden at his side, head up, spine straight. Wanting people to notice him, which was a new experience.

The Great Hall was long and wide, with tall wooden pillars supporting the timber roof. Bannon nearly choked when he noticed a crow sitting up there, watching the goings-on. People crowded the archways along either side of the central carpet. At the end of the Hall, it opened into a circular chamber, with the lesser banns and assorted house guards and guests on the lower floor, and important members of the clergy, the royals, and the nobles, on balconies overlooking the whole area.

Anora had commandeered the highest balcony at the apex of the Hall, accompanied by Eamon and Teagan. Loghain had been relegated to defending his position as 'regent' from the stone floor.

The Wardens had caught Loghain and Arl Eamon in mid-debate. The general turned and scolwed like a thunderhead at the latecomers.

"The Grey Wardens are here now, Loghain," Eamon said. "Despite your best efforts."

"And what of my Lieutenant?" the General growled at them.

Alistair growled back, "So you admit to trying to stop us?"

"I am trying to maintain control and reason, to protect my country."

"Well," Bannon said, "Ser Cauthrien decided it was better to not eliminate the last two people who are the only ones who can stop the Blight!"

"She's off preparing the troops for the real battle," Alistair added. "Since you admitted to it once, do you want to go ahead and tell everyone how you tried to have us hunted down and killed? Assassinated by the Antivan Crows?"

"I did not. Howe hired the Crows."

From below the head balcony, Zevran stepped forward. "Well, that is not entirely true, is it?"

Loghain looked ready to chew rocks.

One of the banns called out, "And who are you?"

"I am Zevran Arainai of the Antivan Crows," the assassin boasted. "And it was Rendon Howe I met when I came to do the job, yes. And it was Rendon Howe who paid me. However-" he turned and fixed Loghain with an amber glare- "It was this taciturn gentleman that Howe turned to for approval - and received it!"

A ripple of shock passed through the hall.

"Do you also admit that you sent your troops to intercept - and kill - the Grey Warden reinforcements that were being sent to aid us?"

Bannon liked this new, dangerous Alistair. And... admittedly, felt a bit afraid.

"The Orlesian dogs would have used any means to regain a foothold in our country."

Arl Eamon said, "Your paranoia about Orlais is well known."

"You fought them, Eamon. Have you forgotten already? Swayed by that Orlesian... hussy you took to wife?"

Eamon blanched, and someone, perhaps the Holy Mother, gasped. The arl said, very tightly, "The Landsmeet will overlook your personal attack."

"Do you also admit," Alistair went on, like a mabari with a bone, "to plotting the demise of the Ferelden Grey Warden order at Ostagar, and the death of King Cailen?"

More muttering flowed throughout the Hall, much in outrage against the preposterous suggestion. Loghain took advantage.

"It was the Grey Wardens who were responsible for the death of the King!"

"What reason would the Wardens have to go and get themselves all killed, just to kill Cailen?"

"What reason would I have, to kill my liege lord?" Loghain demanded. "My best friend's son?"

"Because he was considering putting aside your daughter, and cementing an alliance with Empress Celine." Alistiar looked up. "I'm sorry, your Highness."

She turned to Loghain. "Father, is this true?"

He glared at Alistair. "I don't know where..."

"We found the letters at Ostagar."

The mutterings took an edgy tone, and Bannon wondered if this bit of information might actually be working against them. Anora, for one, would feel differently about Cailen's death if he had been going to give her the heave-ho. The rest might not like the thought of a royal alliance with Orlais any more than Loghain did. He surreptitiously nudged Alistair's foot. "Do the slave thing," he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"We have the letters right here." Alistair patted his satchel. "Oh, along with the papers giving Tevinter the right to take slaves from Ferelden!"

"Rendon Howe worked on his own to exploit Denerim," Loghain claimed. "He has been dealt with."

Bannon said, "And you have no idea what those Tevinter slave ships were doing in your harbor? Or what was going on in the Alienage? Purges, quarantines, fake plagues? Or maybe you didn't care, because they were 'only elves'?"

"The running of the city, including the Alienage within it, is under the office of the Arl of Denerim."

"You appointed Howe as that arl. Now you're trying to convince us, after conspiring with him to hire assassins, that you and he weren't working together? That he didn't have your approval for everything?"

"He certainly did not have my approval to kidnap my daughter!"

"Really, Father?" Anora leaned over the balcony rail. "Because I believe your exact words to me were, 'Go with him.'"

Oh, that did not go well for Loghain! Which was good, because Bannon could tell they were losing the crowd. None of the nobles really cared that elves were being taken away into slavery. A lot were still unsure about the whole Orlesian angle.

Loghain lost his composure slightly. "He was threatening you."

"Clearly." The general was not winning points with his daughter.

Bannon thought it high time to call the vote. "Well, the vote is clear. Whether you care about elves, or Orlais or Tevinter taking over Ferelden or not, the Blight is here and spreading across our land. The Archdemon is coming to lay waste to everyone and everything. The Grey Wardens stand against the Blight. Loghain stands against foreigners, whether they can aid us or not."

That would have been a fantastic closing speech, but the damnable thing was, Loghain also got to speak. "The Grey Wardens combat the darkspawn, the Blight. That is their place - ruling a country is not." He glared at Alistair. "To rule a country, one needs to consider all her needs, in war and peace."

"I am the rightful ruler," Alistair said, his voice dead cold. "You are a traitor to your king!"

"You don't belong on the throne," Loghain spit.

"You don't, either!"

"Enough!" Anora shouted. "The Landsmeet will vote now." She turned to the Revered Mother, who stepped forward to call for the votes of each and every bann and arl. There were some the Wardens had helped, some Arl Eamon had courted to support Alistair's bid for the throne, some of the southerners who were feeling the bite of the darkspawn. Some that found the concept of slavery in this country deplorable. Still, there were many whose greater fear was Orlais.

At last, the Holy Mother announced, "The Landsmeet vote is 28 in favor of the Grey Wardens. 23 for Loghain MacTir."

Alistair blew out a breath of relief, but Bannon had an uneasy feeling about this.

Eamon said, "The Landsmeet is against you, Loghain. Step down."

The general glowered, flexing his shoulders which made his armor clink. "I will fight for this country unto my last breath." He raised his head. "I will never yield."

"Father, our armies need you," Anora pleaded.

Alistair muttered, "Didn't we win?"

"Apparently, not enough," Bannon muttered back.

The Revered Mother stated, "There is no clear majority. Do you wish to invoke trial by combat?"

"I do." Loghain strode to the center of the floor. "Will you face me in one-on-one combat, Alistair Theirin?"

Bannon heard Alistair gulp.

"Or do you have a champion to fight for you?" he asked with clear scorn. Alistair was tongue-tied, which was probably a good thing, keeping him from saying something rash.

Bannon said, "We have a champion. Zevran?" He glanced at the assassin, to see if he was ready. The blond gave him the nod. "Kill him."

"With pleasure, mi patrone."

The Revered Mother announced, "The combatants have ten minutes to prepare."

Tension in the Great Hall broke, as people milled around, looking for a good vantage point. It also gave them time to roll up the rugs and banners that might get bloodstained.

Bannon and Zevran moved over to the side wall, away from too many prying eyes. "Are you all right with this?" Bannon asked him.

"Of course."

"I mean, it's a duel. You can't exactly sneak around behind him."

Zevran only chuckled. "The Antivan Crows excel at fighting, one on one or multiple targets. Who do you think taught Isabella all her moves, hm?" The assassin winked. "Besides, the Crows have developed the most potent of poisons. Our secret advantage."

He removed a vial of black liquid from his belt pouch, and began dribbling it on his sword blades.

Bannon felt Loghain's approach behind them, like a stormcloud moving in, just moments before the general growled, "Poison is strictly forbidden in this duel."

Zevran whirled around. "This? Is not poison! It is Antivan brandy." He raised the flask and took a big swig. Loghain's eyebrows went up. "Is tradition to anoint the blades in brandy before a serious duel. As well as imbibing." With a big grin, he took another drink. "Ah! Liquid courage."

The general scowled and stalked off. Alistair edged up to Bannon, his face creased in worry. "Uh..., did Zevran just drink poison?"

"Of course not."

"Oh. Good. Did... he anoint his sword with brandy?"

Bannon just snickered and put the vial of inky fluid into his own belt pouch.

"Right. You two are up to something. And I don't want to know anything about it."

"Now you're catching on."

==#==

Zevran could tell how serious this duel would be when they not only cleared out any rugs, but the furniture, tapestries, and banners, too. Make all the jokes you want about Fereldens and their country, they still were a nation of warriors.

He donned his Dalish helmet and cinched the straps. He waggled and shook his head to test its snugness and loosen his muscles. He swung his arms and bounced on his toes. His armor and weapons were secure and balanced. Lastly, he held still, head bowed, eyes closed.

He focused on the noises behind him, until he could paint a picture of the people in the space: servants scuttling, the murmur of the crowd, one old bann coughing. With more focus, he could pick out the heavy tread of the warrior he was facing.

Loghain paced slowly, warily, biding his time like an old campaigner. Just another fight in his long history of duels, skirmishes, battles, campaigns, and wars. He was no naked princeling, that's for sure.

Zevran opened his eyes and turned. Kill him, his beloved patrone had ordered, like it was nothing. And so he would.

The Revered Mother spoke about the duel, the rules, blah blah. Zevran didn't care. It was not a duel, but an assassination. He couldn't make it obvious that poison was in play, so it had to be drawn out, but the conclusion would be the same.

Loghain drew a bastard sword of simple and durable make. Zevran drew his twin blades, and the warriors began circling each other, as the entire Great Hall fell silent.

The general's armor was full plate, well cleaned, but more serviceable than showy. His helm was sturdy, adorned with modest wing fins. Zevran narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge the dark visage within.

He switched direction of his circle, offering his off-hand side. Loghain followed in the dance as they sized each other up. Zevran checked again for chinks in the general's armor.

Loghain must have judged the elf's studded leather as completely inferior, for he waded straight in with a broad cut, not bothering to feint or angle to his advantage. Clearly, he meant to simply overpower his smaller and weaker opponent.

The assassin hid a smile. Instead of wasting his strength parrying, he dodged the blade altogether, darted under Loghain's guard, and struck at his chest plate and leg joint. The first was just a diversion, a loud clang over the enemy's heart. The cut to the leg delivered the dose of poison.

Loghain turned, stepping back, perhaps to reassess his wiley opponent. Zevran pressed the attacks, let him parry - one, two, three... four, five. Then break sequence: overhead slash, plus a quick stab to the exposed armpit.

The general backpedaled quicker, to prevent the blade from going all the way into a lung. Zevran made to follow, but jumped aside as the warrior went on a ferocious attack. He couldn't dodge all of the blows, he had to parry with both blades, the force of steel against steel jarring his arms.

A shallow slice turned into a stab, and cut through Zevran's guard, punched through his chest armor. He fell back with the thrust, but still felt the bite of the blade. Loghain was backing him into a corner. Zevran had one shot - to duck under the bastard sword and leap forward into a roll.

He came up and turned, already on the attack again, not giving Loghain time to breathe. Let the heavy battle beast tire itself out shambling around. Zevran attacked the chest plate at the sides and the shoulders. If he could break a strap, he would have a bigger target. Loghain's strategy was much simpler - try to cleave his opponent's head off.

The Great Hall was no longer silent. Nobles, warriors, clergy, and the rag-tag troupe of the Grey Wardens watched the battle in trepidation, gasping at the telling strikes, the near misses.

Loghain was tiring, Zevran could hear his labored breath. The assassin pressed mercilessly, going for a decisive kill. The general's armor was well-dented, and he bled from both arms and legs, but probably not as much as Zevran did. Heedless of his own safety, knowing time was running out, he tangled his off-hand blade with the bastard sword and made a vicious cut at Loghain's neck. The blade went precisely into the seam between the helm and gorget.

Loghain threw himself to the side as soon as he felt the bite, fell to his knees as Zevran raised his sword for the final blow.

"I yield!"

What? Yielding? Was that part of the rules? Zevran hesitated for one breath, and that was his undoing.

People crowded onto the floor; Chantry and soldiers, and the opportunity was lost. Zevran looked to Bannon, who gave a slight shake of his head. The assassin lowered his weapons.

Loghain pulled his helm free, exposing his bloodied neck and cheek. "I yield," he reiterated, "to the noble ruling of the Grey Wardens. I will fight beside them." His breath was still ragged, probably attributed to the exertion by those not versed in poisons. But Zevran could see the pallor of Loghain's skin, the cold sweat, the signs of beginning tremors.

The general's eyes met his. Yes, he knew he was dying, and the bastard was going to make sure everyone at the Landsmeet knew he'd been poisoned, that the Wardens were not trustworthy leaders.

Zevran's blood ran cold. He'd failed. Failed his mission, failed his patrone, failed his lover, and failed this miserable little country.

Then Alistair stepped up beside him. "Loghain MacTir. For treason against your King, your country, and the entire world under the Light, the sentence is death." He drew his sword, raised it on high, and before anyone could blink, Alistair brought it down and sheared Loghain's head from his body. An arc of blood splattered everyone in range, including Zevran, the Revered Mother, and Anora.

The Great Hall was silent again, in shock. The clang of the warrior's armored body hitting the stone echoed throughout the chamber.

==#==

Bannon wiped his face with a rag cloth. Zevran's wounds were being healed by Wynne. The mage's lips were pressed into a tight line. It was unclear if she were annoyed by Alistair's rash and swift field justice, or the fact that they'd cheated to win the duel - or both. But she couldn't say anything, because she knew how important it was for the Grey Wardens to prevail, by any means necessary. Bannon would undoubtedly hear about it later.

He looked over at Alistair. The other Warden was sitting on a bench by the wall, leaning his elbows on his legs, and staring at the floor in front of his feet. He didn't seem to notice he still had blood on him. In fact, he looked pale, almost as much in shock as Anora.

The Queen had to be tugged away from the scene by her handmaid and the Revered Mother. Her face was pale, her eyes glassy. Erlina fussed with cleaning her face and dabbing the front of her gown, but that was a lost cause.

Now that the floor had been cleared, and hastily mopped, the Revered Mother stepped to the balcony rail. "The Landsmeet will hear the ruling of the Grey Wardens."

Bannon figured that was him. "I am Bannon Tabris, Commander of the Grey." He stepped forward and glanced around. Eamon was giving him the prodding eyebrow to name Alistair king. Anora was white as a ghost, with two red spots starting on her cheeks that presaged an erupting fury.

And Alistair. Bannon didn't have to glance back at him. The man was a presence in his mind. His brother. Should he be king? He'd shown a lot of spine in these past few days. Standing up to his ingrate sister in defense of Bannon and elves. Fighting slavers against long odds. Boldly slapping a blood-stained document on the table in front of a bunch of nobles. GIving a speech in the marketplace. Standing up to Ser Cauthrien, and to Loghain, listing all his crimes and foul deeds.

The silence stretched thin as thoughts raced through Bannon's mind. Then he realized two things at once. Alistair would make a fine king. And, he'd hate every minute of it.

Bannon announced, "The Grey Wardens will lead the armies of the lands against the darkspawn. Anora will remain as rightful Queen of Ferelden."

He held his breath as that sank in around the Hall. Anora's face evened out to a more normal tone. Eamon's lips pinched worse than Wynne's. Well, you win some, you lose some.

The Hall burst into applause. It wasn't raucous cheering, but it was good enough.

Anora stepped forward, raising a regal hand to command silence. "And Alistair's claim to the throne?"

"Alistair makes no claim to the throne," Bannon said. "But shall remain in succession, should the unthinkable happen, Your Majesty."

The Queen clenched her teeth, but nodded. "Then our armies shall prepare. What is the Grey Wardens' command?"

"We muster at Redcliffe!'

==X==