9:30 Nubulis 17
Palace Hill, Denerim, Kingdom of Ferelden
Aedan didn't realize he was walking to his death until it was almost too late.
For all that people played up Denerim, the birthplace of Andraste herself and all that, Aedan had always rather disliked the city. Unlike Highever, the growth of Denerim had been mostly unplanned, gradually sprawling out from the Palace Hill in a random, disorganized mess. The oldest parts of the city were the Palace Hill itself, sitting in the shadow of the towering Tevinter-built Fort Drakon, and a small section on the shore at the mouth of the river — these areas at least had some sense to them, streets and plazas of tile and brick, structures well-built of stone, regularly-cleared gutters drawing away waste and trash. They would be perfectly liveable...
...if it weren't for the company. Because, of course, most of the Hill was parceled out to the various lords of Ferelden, estates owned by one noble family or another here and there and everywhere. By royal decree, every teyrn, arl, and bann was required to have an estate in Denerim, in fact, where their representatives could remain in direct contact with the King, and where they would stay during the Landsmeet. The lords themselves usually stayed on their own lands, only coming to Denerim for the Landsmeet or the occasional holiday or the like, instead leaving a brother or a son or a nephew or whatever in charge instead. Which meant the place was filthy with insufferable noble kids pretty much year-round.
Aedan had spent some considerable time in Denerim, growing up. Fergus would be Teyrn of Highever one day, which made Aedan the spare, meaning it was expected he would end up managing the family's affairs in the capital for more or less his entire life. Since he'd been seven or so, Aedan had spent roughly half of every year in Denerim, leaving home after Wintersend and returning by All Soul's Day. Of the various things expected of him during his time in Denerim, he was to socialize with the other high-born kids. Most of them were in Denerim for the same reason he was, they'd be peers of a sort one day, they were expected to form relationships and learn to get along and the like.
And, Maker, he hated these shit-heads. Aedan didn't know what it was, he'd just never really gotten on well in society circles, ever since he'd been a small child. Fergus was the good son, when they were little he could consistently be found doing what was expected of him — patiently attending his lessons, working with Dick in the training field, sitting down to interminable lunches with this bann or that merchant or other visiting notables, blah blah blah. They usually had to drag Aedan to these things. He couldn't count the memories he had of being tracked down up a tree in the grove, or messing around with peasant boys in town, or playing cards in one of the taverns dotted here and there. Often dirty with scraped elbows or bruises on his face, boys played rough, sometimes inebriated.
On one particularly memorable occasion, literally with his pants down — Mother had once showed up at the brothel to drag him back up to the castle by his hair, the whore he'd been with at the time laughing her ass off. Fergus had expected he'd be angry with her after that, but honestly, it'd been fucking hilarious, he didn't even mind. The tavern across the street had named one of their brews after the incident the year after, it was practically a local legend around there these days. Which was slightly humiliating, yes, but he already had enough humility to acknowledge, yeah, it was damn funny, laugh it off.
If it were Fergus, Aedan was sure he'd be mortified. He was the good son, after all.
Aedan had made even more of a nuisance of himself in Denerim than he had in Highever — his excuse was the expected routine here was more offensive than boring, but Father never quite bought that. He'd spent uncounted nights drinking and gambling in one tavern or another, which Father really didn't like, but Aedan thought was perfectly acceptable. If he were losing a lot of money, sure, but he always made more than enough playing cards to pay for his drinks and have plenty left over. Aedan suspected that Father's larger concern was that someone would try to rob him on his way back home...which had happened, several times. But it wasn't like the average thief or bandit had the formal training Aedan did, even three sheets to the wind it usually wasn't difficult to lay them out and continue on his way.
Father only knew about a couple of those incidents, because Aedan usually didn't even bother reporting it. The times he thought he'd actually been in real danger, the more well-trained, well-equipped criminals, sure, those he turned over to the guard, but most of them were just hungry and desperate, had no other means to turn to. More than once, when the person trying to rob him seemed particularly pathetic, after knocking out the poor saps Aedan would drop a couple silvers on them before walking off.
He hadn't told Father about that, but he had once told Mother Mallol, saying it was his own personal brand of almsgiving. She hadn't thought it was funny.
Perhaps the worst incident, the one that had made the most trouble for Father, was this one time he'd kicked the teeth out of Vaughan Kendells — literally, he lost two teeth and a third had to be removed later. Father had actually ended up paying blood money to the Kendells for that one. And Aedan wasn't sorry, the son of a bitch had had it coming. Vaughan's own father had agreed, Arl Urien had admitted to Aedan he'd only demanded recompense for appearance's sake, so as far as Aedan was concerned he had the right of it.
Besides, he'd gladly pay good gold to do it again. Vaughan was an ass.
The company outside the nobility on the Hill, at least, was less irritating — there were reasons he spent so much time back at Highever in the city hanging around common folk, the principle applied here in Denerim too. The problem wasn't the company, no, it was the environment. The patch between the Hill and the dockyard on the shore wasn't...too bad. They had been slums once upon a time, springing up as workers moved in to support the growing economy of the city, and they'd been there long enough some work had been done in the area. Sanitation-wise especially. A lot of streets were packed dirt, but gutters had been put in as well, it could be a lot worse. The problem was mostly fires — many of the buildings here were wood, fires were a frequent nuisance, that whole strip of city had burned to the ground more than once.
Though, the reason it wasn't so bad here might be because what had been slums had since been taken over by various craftsmen and traders over the years. They had the money and influence to demand the Crown at least do some basic work on the area. The exception was the elven quarter, on the northern side of the area abutting the river, which Aedan assumed hadn't gotten the same work done. (Assumed, because he'd hardly set foot in the place, the elves were very private.) It was somewhat odd that the elves lived in what was a relatively decent area of the city, but it made perfect sense, really — the nobles preferred to hire elven servants, mostly because they could get away with paying them less. It was just convenient to have them nearby.
The other half of the city, spread haphazardly over the other side of the river, was awful. There was one little square that wasn't so bad, presumably because that was where the Chantry had put their cathedral — the area was kept relatively clean and orderly, a few shops and a nice tavern around the square. Everywhere else was a mess. Ramshackle, leaning buildings, so thin voices could be heard through the walls and so flammable they went up as easy as kindling, and Maker, the place smelled! They weren't nearly so careful with sanitation over there, it wasn't unusual for trash and shit and on the rare occasion even dead bodies to be, just, left out on the street. The whole place smelled of rot and shit and sick and ugh, Highever never got this bad. He avoided going over there if he could at all help it.
Sometimes, on days the wind coming off the sea weakened, the stench wafted up to the Hill. The lords had planted all kinds of flowering bushes and trees and the like around their estates, trying to insulate themselves, but it didn't really work that well.
So, if Aedan could do as he liked, he would never step foot in Denerim ever again. But that wasn't an option. Especially not when he desperately needed help.
Approaching the city, Aedan could immediately tell something was off. The first clue was, still some miles out on the Highway, spotting an encampment just west of the gates. Once he made out the black and yellow banners, he cursed, pulled his hood over his head — Gwaren men. He knew Howe and Loghain were close, he couldn't guess what Howe might have told him. Until he had a clear picture of just what stories Howe was telling, it would be safer to go to Urien, have him talk to Cailan for him. Or Anora, he guessed, Cailan was probably still in Ostagar.
The staging square just beyond the gates was filled with more Gwaren men — a lot of elves for a military camp, Loghain was the only lord in the Kingdom who armed elves, he was famous for it — which was...weird. This was what the staging square was for, but it was only supposed to be used if they had reason to suspect they might be put under siege. Speaking of, why the hell were Gwaren men here at all? Shouldn't they be at Ostagar?
He got his answer the moment he walked into the Chantry square. The banners flying here and there around the square were usually red, white, and gold — the King's colors. Now they were black and green. Draped over the shield borne by the statue of Andraste in front of the cathedral was a flag Aedan had seen once before, five years ago: the sun of the Chantry, cast in white, on a black field.
Cailan was dead.
It might have been selfish of him, but at the realization his King was dead Aedan's first thought was of Fergus. If Cailan was dead, the obvious conclusion was that the army had met the darkspawn in the deep south, and the battle had gone badly. Fergus had left for Ostagar over a month ago now, leading Highever's forces off in anticipation of Father catching up later. He should have been at the battle too. He likely wouldn't have been on the front line, but if it had gone badly enough the King was dead...
Aedan grit his teeth, his fists shaking at his sides. No. He refused to believe Fergus had died. Fergus might not be as crafty as Aedan, but he was a damn good fighter, and smart enough to get out when the getting was good. He was fine. He was fine.
He had to be — Fergus was the only family Aedan had left, now.
It took a few long, calming breaths for Aedan to get moving again. Before heading toward the bridge across to the Hill, he checked the notice board quick. The stand looked strangely rough, with far fewer posters than he'd expected, chipped and scratched here and there, hints of paint that had only been mostly scraped off. Must have been vandalized recently. Unsurprisingly, the largest poster was one announcing the death of the King.
Surprisingly, the Crown was claiming Cailan had been killed by the Grey Wardens. That seemed...doubtful, to put it mildly. A flagrant fucking lie, to put it less mildly. The Grey Wardens could often be morally, well, gray, but Aedan had met the Warden-Commander a few times now, since Maric had invited the Wardens back to Ferelden, and he was very convinced these were the opening days of a Fifth Blight. Assassinating the king of a country with a rising Blight, especially a king who was fully cooperating with the Wardens, was a fucking idiotic thing to do. Aedan didn't believe it for a second.
But that was an understanding reached at least partially on having known both the King and the Warden-Commander. Aedan could imagine far too many people were going to just accept the claim at face value. Which was just great, looked like the next few months were going to be even more fun than this last one, he hadn't realized that was possible.
Oh wait, shit, Cailan never had managed to knock up Anora, had he? Fuck, they were so screwed...
Crossing a wide stone bridge, rising at a noticeable angle as it crossed the river, Aedan stepped onto the Palace Hill — and he immediately got the feeling something was very wrong. There were far too many armed men about, city guards and Gwaren men and knights with black cloth covering their colors (the King's men, presumably). And there was a scent on the air, something that didn't belong here. Blood, and rot.
Carefully picking through the soldiers towards the Arl's estate, Aedan noticed splotches of pinkish stains here and there. There had been a fight. A big one, by the look of it.
Before long, he was standing across the street from the gates, and he paused for a moment, watching the men flanking the entrance to the home of the Arl of Denerim. Those were...a lot of guards. A dozen standing in wait at the gates, another four city guards, joined with two Gwaren men, tromping down the street, the stone tile scraping under their heavy boots. Looking around, Aedan noticed a few men through windows here and there he suspected were archers. That was a lot of security for a location that was already in a walled city currently hosting an allied army. And this wasn't the only place, most of the other estates he'd passed had beefed-up security as well.
Something had clearly happened in Denerim. And whatever it was, it didn't look good.
But that didn't really matter did it? He had to talk to the Arl, ask him to intercede with the King on his be— Except, Cailan was dead, which meant Anora was in charge...which meant Loghain was in charge. And Loghain might be rather less willing to listen to these kinds of accusations against one of his closest friends. Fuck!
Oh well, he should still meet with Urien anyway. If nothing else, Aedan could at least sleep in his house and eat his food until he was in a position to do something about Howe. Assassinate him somehow? (Turn-about is fair play, after all.) Anora would want to help, if she knew, but contacting her would probably be difficult. Get a letter off to Nathan, maybe, wasn't he still in Starkhaven? He was a good sort, he'd probably be horrified by what his father had done...
Still turning over what the fuck he was supposed to do now, the guards at the gate stiffened, a few hands moving toward weapons. Before any of them could demand to know what he thought he was doing here, Aedan threw back his hood, gave them his best irritated-nobleman-who's-far-too-important-for-this-shit look. "I need to speak with the Arl."
The tension dribbled out of the men, but through the slats in their helmets Aedan could see they were mostly just amused with him. "Look, kid, the Arl doesn't have time for any gutter—"
"I'm certain your lord will be very pleased when he learns you turned away a Cousland seeking his help."
Half the men froze, the other half twitching with surprise. "You're a Cousland?"
"Yes. Aedan Cousland. Teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever is my father." He was your father, he corrected himself. His voice dripping with condescending irritation, he drawled, "May I please speak with the Arl now?"
For a brief moment, the men hesitated. Then one nodded, sinking into an almost-proper bow. "Of course, my lord, I apologize. The Arl is away on business right now, but I can escort you inside to wait for him, if you like."
"How long will he be?"
"Not long, my lord. An hour or two, maybe."
Aedan nodded — it was rather rude to just waltz into someone's house while they were away, but he also didn't want to stay out in the open, where someone unsympathetic might recognize him. His hand brushing dismissively in the air, he said, "Right, yes, good. Let's go."
The man bowed again, one hand waving invitingly through the gate. "After you, my lord."
A couple steps past him, Aedan glanced back quick. Four of the men guarding the gate were turning to follow him in — couldn't have a stranger sitting around the house unsupervised, after all, even if they were a Cousland (or at least claiming to be one). Shaking his head, Aedan continued on, set off across the courtyard toward the tall double doors of Urien's entrance hall.
Wait. Urien. Hadn't Father said Urien had left with Cailan and the army, headed to Ostagar? Yes, Aedan was positive, he'd said something about Fergus catching up with Cailan and Urien in Lothering. Oh shit, Aedan hadn't even considered that. If Urien had died at Ostagar, that would make Vaughan Arl of Denerim now. And that was unfortunate — Urien had intended to pass it to one of the other kids instead, probably Bran, but if he'd died suddenly away from the city he might not have had the opportunity to arrange things. Also, it would make this conversation...awkward. Vaughan never had forgiven Aedan for that time he'd kicked his ass.
And then kept kicking, until he was spitting out teeth and coughing up blood. Aedan realized it had been kind of excessive, but in his defense Vaughan was a shit-head and he completely deserved it.
Or maybe Urien had gotten out alive. There were Gwaren men all over the place, presumably Loghain had made it back, maybe Urien had too. Good, Aedan would rather avoid dealing with Vaughan as much as possible, just the hour or two or however long until Urien got back was already going to be—
Aedan hitched to a sudden stop, a wave of unpleasant tingles washing over his skin, ice dropping into his stomach.
There was a wagon sitting in the courtyard, loaded with a few crates and sacks. Passing within a few feet, Aedan could make out the tax stamp on one of the sacks: a great bear on a white and yellow shield.
He'd stopped suddenly enough the men behind him didn't react quickly enough, the two in the lead stepped in front of him, just a little. Both men had on their backs the same shield: four segments, two white and two gold, over it the same image of a bear.
The colors of the Arl of Amaranthine.
Howe.
Howe's men held the estate of the Arl of Denerim.
Why?! What was happening in this city? Had the entire world gone fucking mad?!
The realization sinking in, a few quick calculations clicked in Aedan's head all at once. He couldn't go with these men into the Arl's manor — if he did, he probably wouldn't leave alive. He also couldn't go back out through the gate — there were more men waiting there, and he'd be out in the open on a major street, Loghain's men and city guards all over the place, no. Which left only one option. An absolutely mad option.
Oh, Maker, this was gonna be shit-show...
Before Howe's men could react, Aedan slid closer to the man ahead of him on his right, pinned the sheath of his sword against his thigh with a knee, yanked it out. Without turning, he stepped back, stabbing out under his armpit — he felt a jerk of resistance as the point hit armor and then slid through, a shocked, pained cough coming from the man behind and to his right. The men were shouting now, reaching for their weapons, Aedan left the one he'd stolen in the dying man, took two quick steps before ramming into the man ahead and to his left, knocking him off his feet.
And Aedan kept running further onto the grounds, his cloak noisily whipping along behind him, curved to the left to put the gate tower between himself and the archers across the street. He could see movement in the windows above the gate, more archers scrambling into motion, but they slipped out of sight as Aedan rounded the corner, hugging the old, dark gray stone of the manor. There was a narrow gap between this side of the building and the outside wall, with the bushes lining the wall barely enough room left for two people to walk side-by-side — there was no way anybody was getting a shot at him at this angle, the next chance they would have was in the garden in the back.
Except for a spot about in the middle, where the manor wall dipped inward a few feet before moving back out again, creating a tiny little square with enough space to move around in. (A memory flicked by behind his eyes, sneaking out here with a servant girl late in the evening, hiding away during one of Merrin's birthday parties, he forced it back.) He could hear clanging and huffing from behind him, a glance over her shoulder showed it was only the other three men who'd been escorting him, the rest must be further behind. In fact, rather further behind, he didn't hear more coming.
Aedan dug in his heels and whirled around to face the approaching men. A faint ringing scrape split the air as he drew his mother's sword, the pale silverite blade almost seeming to shimmer in the sunlight.
The first man was within a few steps already, Aedan feinted high, he lifted his shield up to block even as his sword came around to slash low, so he was completely unprepared when Aedan's hand dropped, stabbed him through the gut. One of the other men was passing by on his right, Aedan lifted a foot to shove the dying man away — maybe stabbing him like this had been a bad idea — staggered a bit at a heavy blow over his back, the shield hanging under his cloak protecting him from the worst of it.
Aedan skipped over the collapsing body, by the grunt from his left just barely dodging a blow from the other man. Turning on his heel, the two men were approaching, somewhat more cautiously than before, shields hefted and stances wide, one a couple steps behind the other. Thinking his options through for a split second, Aedan stepped forward, slashing in low at the first man's left leg, the shield came down, slapping the blow wide and leaving Aedan open, the guard jabbed forward. Good, that would work — he darted closer, turning his shoulders so the stab passed inches in front of his chest, hooked his arm around the guard's, dipped under his armpit, turning on his heel along the way, his sword slicing into the man's thigh as it passed, and he yanked at the man's arm, down and then back and up, too far at too awkward an angle for his shoulder to tolerate, his momentum and the cut at the man's thigh enough to pull him off his feet, crashing noisily onto his back. The man's sword wrenched from his hand in the process, Aedan tossed it away.
And the second guard was on him. He led with an overhead swing, Aedan leaned out of the way, tried to nip in at his side but his shield was there in time, the guard reset his stance, shifting to turn away another jab from Aedan, his sword propped on the top of his shield, he leaned and dipped, stabbing toward Aedan's middle. Aedan turned on his heel, slipping to the side, gripped the edge of the man's shield and yanking him off balance. While he staggered, Aedan came up behind him, slashed the vulnerable back of a knee, bringing him halfway to the dirt. Turning the hilt of his sword around in his hand, Aedan gripped the ridge on the man's helmet, tipped his head back, than stabbed down under his collar, the blade sliding into flesh between his shoulder blade and clavicle, blood pouring out in a flood as he removed it again.
Turning from the dying man, Aedan flipped his sword back around the right way, pointing at the man he'd disarmed. He'd gotten up to one knee, a hand clamped over his bloody thigh — it was leaking through his clothes a little, but not badly, he'd live. "Stay down."
"Yes, my lord," the man groaned, falling back on his ass. "Thank you."
Aedan ran.
He didn't have time to get it out from under his cloak, so he sliced through the leather band crossed over his chest, snatched up the shield as it fell. Which made it somewhat awkward to hold, but that was okay, he didn't plan to use it the way it was meant to be. The yard opened up as he crossed behind Urien's home — in the back was a large open space, at one side a seating area around a fountain (still deactivated for the winter), on the other side a sizeable vegetable garden (Urien's mother had put it there, supposedly, Aedan had never met her). That was his destination.
The back courtyard was mostly empty...mostly — a pair of guards were sprinting his way. Aedan charged right at them, threateningly brandishing his sword and shouting at the top of his lungs like a maniac, until they were about to meet, near the bottom corner of the garden. At the last second, he darted to the side, planting a foot on one of the beams of the fence surrounding the garden, used his momentum to spring himself over, his boots thudding into the hard dirt.
As he ran across the currently barren garden, the pair of guards still scrambling to get over the fence, he heard noises from behind — the heavy jangling of mail and plate, more men streaming into the back courtyard, on the balcony thudding and shouting, archers stepping out. Glancing over his shoulder at the people coming after him, he grimaced. This was going to be close.
Just past the fence was a little shack, housing tools and seed and the like, Aedan ran straight toward it. Again he met the fence, but didn't leap over it, instead stepped onto the top beam and jumped up, releasing sword and shield onto the roof just in time to grip the edge with both hands, the rough clay of the shingles biting into his skin. His arms burning in protest, Aedan pulled himself up, rolling around behind the peaked roof of the shack for cover even as arrows started to fall, clattering and snapping far too nearby. There was his shield, he glanced around for his sword, crap, it was skittering down the tile, he pinned it with a heel, dragged it back up to him, slid it home in it sheath.
Waiting for a lull in the deadly rain, Aedan took a last look at his shield. It was several years old now, the metal scratched and dented along the rim, but the Cousland arms — two crossed sprigs of laurel, green on blue — lovingly repainted time and again. This had been a gift from his father, when he'd turned fifteen. The whole thing had come with a speech about upholding the honor of their family and their responsibilities to their people, which Aedan had barely listened to, if he was being honest. He didn't need to hear the fancy words to know what it meant.
It was the only thing he had left from Father.
The break he was waiting for came. Curling his arm around the rim of the shield, Aedan popped back to his feet, turned toward the balcony the archers were firing from, wound up and threw. The shield cut through the air, falling slower than it should, crossing the back courtyard and just managing to skim over the railing of the balcony into the archers. It wasn't heavy enough to do any damage — if it were, there was no way in hell Aedan would be able to throw it that far — but it wasn't supposed to. The archers scattered anyway, leaning out of the way, a couple tripping over bits of furniture. Aedan whipped back around, ran across the brief length of the shack roof, and jumped...
...toward the outer wall.
He slammed into the stone at full speed, knocking the breath out of him, but he'd hit high enough his elbows were hooked over the top. After a moment hanging, dazed from the impact, he levered himself up, rolled over the narrow wall. He lowered himself down the other side, hanging from his elbows again, before dropping the eight feet down to the alley. He scraped his palms on the stone catching himself, but didn't linger for a second, pushed himself up to his feet and kept running.
That went well, Aedan was almost impressed with himself. He'd known he could get onto the roof of the shack, but he'd obviously never had need to attempt the jump over to the wall before, and that gambit with his shield had just been insane...
He had to keep moving, Loghain and Howe's men must be after him. Fortunately, the number of ordinary soldiers who might recognize him were very few — except maybe among the city guard, now that he thought about it, but the ones who'd recognize him would also know him, and might hesitate to bring him in — so as soon as he got far enough away and lost himself into the city they shouldn't be able to find him again. He couldn't take the bridge from the Hill down into the north city, that was too out in the open, but if he went east toward the shore, that was much better. There were always all kinds of riff-raff down there, near the Pearl even all kinds of well-dressed riff-raff, he shouldn't stick out. Shouldn't be a problem.
Getting to the barrier road went easy enough — Aedan just took a quick but casual stroll down the streets. He had to keep his hood up, since there were plenty of people on the Hill who might recognize him, but covering one's face was less suspicious than barrelling down the back alleys like there were demons at one's heel. But when he got to the road, the wide avenue that divided the Palace Hill from the rest of the southern city, it was to find the place filthy with guards, dozens of them. And some of them were wearing Howe colors.
Well, fuck.
With a bit of luck, he almost made it across undetected. A small group of young ladies happened to be leaving the Hill just then, turning to follow the avenue north — he recognized Kaitlyn, and then Anna Curwen, but not the other three, must be younger daughters of banns he hadn't met yet. Taking yet another mad gamble, Aedan folded himself in just behind the servants trailing along after them. One of them, an elf maybe around his mother's age, gave him a suspicious glance, but she didn't say anything.
It went pretty well until, only a few short feet away from where he planned to cut away into a street heading east, they happened past a handful of Gwaren men...lead by Ser Cauthrien herself, because of course, that was just Aedan's luck these days. Cauthrien, like the thoughtful, responsible person she was, asked the young ladies if they realized they had such a shifty-looking man following them. The girls, of course, proceeded to make a big scene, shrieking in surprise and demanding to know who he was.
Irritated, Aedan pulled his hood back again. "For fuck's sake, Codie!" The ladies gasped, more at his familiar face than the language, Cauthrien's mouth dropping open in surprise. "Are you trying to get me killed?"
Cauthrien started saying something, but Aedan hadn't stuck around to listen — he'd already whipped around, sprinting toward the street east, shouts to stop him already springing from Howe's men, the noisy clanging of their armor filling the air.
He couldn't be certain, it wasn't like he was watching, but Aedan suspected revealing himself to Cauthrien had actually been a good move. Aedan only followed the street for a little bit before ducking into an alley, zig-zagging his way through the shadowy crevasses between buildings, skipping around the occasional drifter or vagabond, little groups of people probably making less-than-legal business deals, in one case a man on his knees sucking off another leaning against the wall — which, you'd think they could find somewhere cleaner to do that, but fine, whatever gets their rocks off. (Besides, Aedan was hardly one to judge.) He'd gone through several alleys before he realized nobody was following him, at least not close enough to keep eyes on him. Maybe Cauthrien's demands to know what the fuck was going on had slown them down enough to give him a comfortable lead.
Okay, maybe he actually owed her an apology now for that time he'd, ah, come on a little strong. In his defense, he'd been very drunk, even wasted he hadn't gone as far as pawing at her or anything, and also Cauthrien had slapped him really hard, he'd sort of thought they were already even...
In fact, it seemed like they'd lost him entirely, sending search parties out to try to track him down in the alleys. It was just his fucking luck he happened to bumble right into one like a fucking idiot.
There was hardly enough room to move in the little alley, but Aedan still slipped past and gutted the only one carrying a crossbow before any of them could stop him. He whipped back around, getting a good cut down a second one's arm, but it wasn't a serious injury, Aedan was turned away knocking an axe aside before he could finish him off.
And then Aedan was trapped in a narrow alley, surrounded, outnumbered five to one. Basically, he was dead.
But he wasn't going to surrender. His father was a Cousland, with all that came with, and he'd mostly been taught to fight by his mother, whose family were only a generation or two from being literal pirates — he wasn't going down until they put him down. It was a dangerous dance, keeping at least one of the soldiers between himself and two or three of the others, wrenching them around by their shield or shoulder if he had to do, sometimes blocking rapidly-falling blows from two of the men at once, his mother's sword flicking around him as fast as he could get his arm to move, clang clang clang clang clang, scoring blows whenever he could, but just in passing, none of them deep enough to take any of them out of the fight, slowing them down a little but not enough, the whole fight a chaotic mess he could hardly keep track off, it was hardly conscious, just acting, reacting, on and on and on...
Thinking of it later, the vicious, unthinking...trance he'd fallen into, almost, he'd be reminded of a story Mother had told him, boarding an Orlesian ship during the War, finding they had far more soldiers aboard than expected. Mother hardly remembered the fight at all, just a hazy smear of action and reaction, until she'd stumbled to a halt a half hour later when the last Orlesian finally fell, the decks of the ship soaked with blood.
If it was the same phenomenon, Mother had clearly been a better warrior than Aedan was — he didn't even manage to kill any of them.
The dance came to a jarring, disorientating end when, darting around behind one of the Howe men, he turned around, Aedan hopped over the low slash aimed at his knee, only to slam right into the shield whipping around into his chest. Aedan crashed down on his back, the grip of his mother's sword jumping out of nerveless fingers, breathless, his head spinning.
Two of the Howe men stood over him, breathing heavily, the patches of their faces visible through their helmets flushed and sweaty. After a brief moment collecting themselves, one said, "The Arl prefers you alive, my lord," drawled with thick sarcasm. "Will you come peacefully, or do we have to knock you out and drag you there?"
Aedan forced his lips into a humorless grin. Even breathing painful, his ribs were probably bruising, he gasped out, "Go fuck yourself."
The men scowled. One turned the haft of his axe around in his hand, likely intending to knock Aedan over the head with the flat side. He tensed, preparing himself to move, maybe he would be able to find his sword in time to—
As he prepared to swing, the axe rising, there was the familiar heavy thunk of a crossbow firing, blood sprayed into the air as a bolt punched through the man's head.
And then there was a lot of noise and yelling, the guards scrambling to defend themselves from attackers appearing out of nowhere, seemingly slipping out of the damn walls. Aedan rolled over to his hands and knees, grimacing as his chest flared with a dull ache, spotted his sword, one of the soldiers' boots nearly crushing his wrist when he reached for it, twisted out of the way, snatched it up.
His rescuers were an unlikely, motley group. Clearly not professionals — they were wearing undyed, threadbare clothes, bearing axes and knives. Not daggers, no, knives, the kind that could be found in a kitchen, or a butcher's. Only one had a proper sword. They outnumbered the Howe men, but normally their equipment disadvantage, the fact that they weren't wearing any armor, at all, would mean they should be cut down easily. But for all that they looked like untrained peasants, they'd clearly fought together before. They were surprisingly coordinated — keeping the soldiers separated so they couldn't form a shield wall, one enticing them to attack while another came around to knife them in the back. Even as Aedan watched, the poorly-equipped, untrained peasants cut down two better-armed, better-prepared professional soldiers, their only injury in return a shallow scrape over one shoulder.
They were...very impressive, actually.
With Aedan back on his feet and rejoining the fight, the rest of the Howe men were dead in short order. It was only then, as the sounds of battle faded away, his rescuers setting about stripping the corpses of their weapons, that Aedan noticed something peculiar: of the nine men and women in the alley with him, six were elves, and three were human.
...Huh.
One of his rescuers, the one with the sword, stepped closer to him, giving Aedan a hard, steady stare. He brought his weapon down in a loose hold, the point aimed at Aedan's foot. The elf glanced at one of the humans, the one with the crossbow — she had Aedan fixed in her sights, clearly ready to stick him the instant he made a wrong move. His voice low, sharp, almost challenging, the man said, "Mïen-harel."
At the familiar, nigh-legendary word, Aedan felt both of his eyebrows stretch up his forehead. That was... Was there an elven revolt brewing in Denerim? That would explain the blood he'd seen on the Hill, he guessed, if a riot had stormed the Hill and been suppressed. But if it'd been suppressed... Little revolts happened all the time, among peasants both human and elven, but once they were put down by the sword they almost always stayed down. But it looked like they were still ambushing guards in the alleys, which was...not unheard of, for a slow trickle of violence to linger for months afterward, but it was quite unusual.
And, Aedan noted, glancing around again, this time humans and elves were apparently working together. That was pretty much unheard of. In a particularly honest moment, Loghain had once told Aedan that the nobility intentionally stoked tensions between the humans and the elves they ruled, to entice the common people to take out their frustrations with their lot in life on each other instead of the people actually responsible — the reforms he'd made in Gwaren where elves were concerned, unique in Ferelden and even nearly all the world, were because he saved his stick for Orlesians, he preferred to use the carrot for his own people. (Also, elves made fucking incredible archers, he'd sort of backed himself into a corner on this issue when he'd decided to recruit a bunch of them during the Rebellion.) But, it sounded like there was a revolt brewing, even after being put down hard once, and it looked like elves and humans were in together on it.
An unpleasant tingle worked its way down Aedan's neck — this could get...very bad. To put it cautiously. To put it less cautiously, the peasants might bide their time until the Landsmeet gathers and, if they're not careful, murder everybody in their beds, knocking out the entirety of the country's leadership in one fell swoop. Certainly explained the greater presence of armed men all through the Hill, didn't it?
That was definitely what the more paranoid among Aedan's peers would be afraid of. But he personally doubted anything like that would ever happen. He'd done a bit of reading on past peasant revolts (mostly in Orlais and Nevarra, they kept better records), asked around in Highever and Denerim, and for the most part the demands peasants made of their rulers were pretty modest. Occasionally, they did ask for someone's head...but it was usually someone who damn well deserved it, for one reason or another. Whatever it was this revolt was after, it would probably be bloody, yes, but not full-on kill everybody with a title and lands to their name bloody.
And if they were looking to kill a few people, he had someone with a title and land to his name who definitely fucking deserved it.
It was starting to look like Aedan might not be able to get at Howe through legitimate means. So, he was forced to consider illegitimate ones. Rebellious peasants were exactly the sort of people who might be willing to help him assassinate an arl. And, after his family reclaimed their lands, Fergus — not Aedan, because he refused to believe his brother was dead — would be in a position where he could give the disaffected peasants whatever they wanted, without being tarred for appeasing a rebellion. Clearly, he'd just be repaying a debt, which was a perfectly honorable thing for a man in his position to do. Given the circumstances, allying himself with these people was probably the best possible decision he could make right now.
Also, that woman still had a crossbow trained on him — they'd probably just kill him and loot his body if he reacted badly. So there was that.
Aedan brought his own sword around, touching the flat of the blade against the elf's. "Mïen-harel." That was what they wanted him to do, right? If there was some kind of code he didn't know about he was fucked...
But the elf just nodded, returned his weapon to its sheath, so Aedan did the same. "You know, friend, you've got half the city crawling with the Regent's thugs." Regent? That must be Loghain, but... "What did you do to make them want you so bad?"
Aedan considered how he could answer that. Admitting that he was a Cousland, and that Howe wanted him dead so he could claim his family's Teyrnir without opposition, probably wasn't a good idea. Maybe just... "Howe wants me dead. I refuse to oblige him."
The elf tilted his head, curious, but he didn't press. "That's a fancy sword you got there."
An understatement, that — this was enchanted silverite, dwarf-forged. Swords simply didn't get better than this. It was hundreds of years old, never stained and never dulled. Mother claimed she'd literally cut straight through lesser weapons in the Rebellion, and Aedan could believe it, this thing was literally magic, and possibly the best thing he'd ever owned, he loved it. "It's a family heirloom."
"That so?" the elf asked, a suggestive note on his voice. Assuming Aedan had stolen it, most likely.
"I didn't steal it, if that's what you're asking. Though it is stolen, I guess — I'm told one of my mother's pirate ancestors took it off the corpse of an Antivan prince. But her father gave it to her and she gave it to me, so my possession of it is perfectly legal." All of that was even true, supposedly.
One of the other men, Aedan didn't catch which, coughed out a chuckle. The elf in front of him just smirked a little.
A rock fell next to the elf's foot, skittering on the stone. Aedan glanced up, spotted another elf on the roof — she made some kind of sign with one hand, pointed to the south, and then slipped silently out of sight.
Aedan couldn't help a slight shiver — as tiny and harmless as elves seemed most of the time, the image of elven rebels armed with bow and arrow sneaking around on the rooftops was literally the stuff of nightmares for most of his peers. Thankfully, he was putting himself on their side, because otherwise this would be seriously unnerving. It still was, a little.
As the others packed up stolen weapons and coin pouches, slipping back into the shadows — there was a section of a wall that popped away, Aedan saw now, probably a smuggler's backdoor — the elf he'd been speaking to turned back to him. "Do you have somewhere to go, friend?"
"Not really." He knew plenty of people in the city, of course, but he doubted it would be safe to approach any of them at the moment.
"If you want to stay with us, you'll have food and a place to sleep. We don't have much, but we take care of our own." The implication being that they were willing to put up Aedan, but only if he joined their little rebellion.
Aedan took a quick, deep breath — in for a silver, in for a sovereign. "Lead the way."
፠
It didn't take very long before Aedan completely lost track of where the hell they were.
The route his new outlaw friends led him on was long and convoluted. The hole in the wall leading them out of the alley went into a seemingly abandoned warehouse, mostly empty and very dirty, dusted with cobwebs. Across this space was a storefront, also abandoned, through another side door was what had been home for whoever had last run this place, now a nest for rats and nugs — along with cases of what looked very much like smuggled liquor left in a corner (he didn't see a single tax stamp), a couple other boxes Aedan was willing to bet were filled with more illicit goods here and there.
In the filthy, half-rotted remains of what had once been the bedroom, one of the elves pulled open a trapdoor, and they descended down a narrow flight of rickety stairs into one of the many tunnels criss-crossing the city. (Much of the place had originally been built by dwarves, and dwarves liked their subterranean tunnels.) While they walked along the dim, dank passage, Gaenor — the elf with the sword, seemingly the leader of this little group — explained to "Dane" — Gaenor had practically rolled his eyes when Aedan had given the name, obviously knew it was false, but hadn't pressed — that there had long been a system of getting around the city undetected by the proper authorities, probably going back centuries. Mostly, it was used by smugglers, occasionally by people wanted by the guard for one reason or another to escape the city.
There had been a riot on the Hill a couple days ago — that was what the smell was from, the bloodstains, probably the largest riot Denerim had seen in a generation or two had broken out in response to a controversial execution. Gaenor didn't say who was executed, and Aedan didn't ask, concerned his ignorance might be suspicious. Apparently, the mob had killed a couple dozen armed men — city guards, the personal forces of this or that noble, even a couple Templars — and a small number of others. The worst damage was to two of the estates on the Hill, belonging to a couple Banns, Gaenor didn't know which, that had been broken into and looted — supposedly, both manors had been empty at the time, nobody had been hurt.
The mob had mostly been focused on the Royal Palace, and had gotten as far as chucking rocks over the walls and clashing with guards at the gates before reinforcements from Fort Drakon had showed up to crush the uprising. Nobody knew how many of the rioters had been killed in the chaos, the proper authorities weren't exactly inclined to show the dead much respect, but Gaenor believed it was definitely over a hundred, maybe closer to two hundred.
Yeah, that would explain the bloodstains and the smell lingering over the Hill, wouldn't it?
The vanguard of the army, returning from Ostagar, had arrived the next day — only the cavalry and a few of the more fleet-footed regiments, the rest of the army was still a few days out. In a matter of hours, Loghain had announced Cailan's death, declared himself Anora's regent, and started calling for reinforcements to meet the darkspawn still gathering in the south. The same day, he'd named Rendon Howe the interim Teyrn of Highever — Aedan barely stopped himself from hissing with fury learning that — and also regent over the Arling of Denerim, the former position to be confirmed and the latter properly filled by someone else at the next Landsmeet. In the meantime, the city guard, the Fort Drakon garrison, and Gwaren and Amaranthine men went about locking down the city.
According to Gaenor, while the authorities blamed the uprising on the elves, the humans among the common people of the city were just as deeply involved in all this as they were — in fact, he suspected humans actually outnumbered the elves among the rebels. The northeast of the city — some of the worst, most desperate slums Ferelden had to offer, the residents predominantly human with a sizeable dwarven minority — was still practically a warzone, the locals openly attacking guards and soldiers who approached too near their homes. After losing a couple dozen more people there to the rebels, Loghain had apparently decided to leave them be, and turned instead to the elves.
Aedan assumed Loghain expected the peasants would either cool off or turn on each other if left to their own devices for long enough. History did suggest that was how these things went...sometimes. Leaving them alone was really tossing the dice and letting them fall how they may, Aedan thought, but he wasn't the one trying to hold this mess together, was he?
The elven quarter was, essentially, under siege. When the Fort garrison turned up to put down the riot, the rebels had retreated, some across the bridges to the northern city but many, elves and a number of human compatriots, fled into the elven quarter instead. The entire district was surrounded with surprisingly sturdy walls — originally, they'd been built to contain potential uprisings among the city's elven residents, sometimes sealed up to starve them into submission over one disagreement or another, but now they were being used against the Crown. Only a small number of soldiers had gotten through the gates before they'd been sealed up by the retreating rebels, and all of those had been quickly overwhelmed and killed. In the two days since, there had been three attempts to storm the walls, but all three had been repulsed.
So Loghain and Howe's men had instead decided to surround the elven quarter, and starve the rebels out.
Unfortunately for them, and fortunately for Aedan and his new allies, that wasn't going to work. In the immediate aftermath of the riot, even as the fighting at the gates still dragged on, the nascent rebellion had assumed control of the network of tunnels under the city. According to Gaenor, the various criminal syndicates who usually operated down here had either thrown their weight in with the rebels or had decided to stay out of Denerim for the duration of the uprising, so they could still move about much of the southeastern two-thirds of the city as they pleased. The rebels holed up in the elven quarter were exploiting the tunnels to keep food and supplies moving in, their men moving out, ambushing patrols here and there outside of the elven quarter, hopefully to distract attention enough to keep them from gathering overwhelming numbers at the gates.
All things considered, their rebellion was going remarkably well, two days in. They'd mostly lost contact with their allies in the north of the city — the tunnels didn't cross the river and the bridges were being watched, it was risky to cross. But they were staying alive. Given the example of past uprisings in Denerim, that itself was an impressive achievement.
In the course of catching up with Gaenor, "Dane" was led through one underground passage, up into a seedy tenement near the docks, ducked quick across into a warehouse that smelled very strongly of fish and vinegar, then down into another tunnel, and then... Well, there were a few more turns, Aedan lost track pretty quickly. Pointing out how confusing their route was, Geanor said they were still working out a system of signs to mark the way to various destinations, and then admitted they didn't trust him yet, so Gaenor was taking them the long way around.
Fair point.
In time, they finally came to... Well, it looked like it'd been a warehouse of some kind, once upon a time, but it certainly wasn't anymore. What had been a single wide room, the ceiling propped up with columns here and there, had been split off into several smaller rooms, the material of the added walls obviously different, the wood less worn, newer, and lighter in color — in some places, there were curtains hanging in place of proper walls. The structure of the building itself was plain and undecorated, bare wood in uninviting, blocky shapes, the general design suggesting to Aedan a place that hadn't originally been intended to house people.
But it certainly was now. The first people they came to were at the entrance, standing over the yanked open trapdoor — and pointing crossbows in their faces. They pulled back immediately, recognizing Gaenor, Aedan climbed up into what was clearly a storeroom of some kind, not particularly large, smaller than the pantry back home. Aedan noticed a stack of big canvas sacks, probably grains of some kind, casks of beer and cases of vinegar. From there he was led into a hallway, the floorboards at the center pounded smooth by a thousand boots. One side of the hall was dark, aged wood, the other a motley of newer, more roughly-hewn planks, in some places thinner slats, one section a large heavy tan cloth, stitched around the rim with leaves and flowers, sprawling across the middle a complicated, spiraling design Aedan recognized as an elven style. Before long they came to a smaller gap blocked off with a curtain, Gaenor pushed it aside and led Aedan through.
The room he walked into was larger than he expected, about twice as long as it was wide, and had clearly been inhabited for some time. The exposed wood had been coated in some kind of resin, giving the rough surface a slight sheen in the thin lamplight, some of the harsh corners covered with curtains, stitched with more curving elven designs, a few threaded with beads. Along the sides were more exits, more curtains and no actual doors. There were multiple tables down the center of the room ringed with chairs, few of them matching and all dinged and scratched, most clearly aged and well-worn.
And there were several people about now. More than several, probably a couple dozen. Some gathered around a near table, armed with a motley of mismatched weapons much like Aedan's escort, pointing at something on the table and debating — by the few words he caught, planning a raid on an uncooperative merchant to acquire some medical supplies. There were people around the other tables too, most of them with a mug in hand, a few steaming bowls here and there. Talking low and solemn, stressed, the noise of combined conversations more low rumble than bright chatter.
It rather reminded Aedan of a common room in the multi-family houses many common people in the city (and in Highever) lived in, where the people who shared the building came together to talk and eat. In fact, he suspected that was exactly what this was — as he looked around an elf woman stepped through one of the curtains, yawning, pale hair still disheveled from sleep. This hadn't been a warehouse for some time, converted to residential space instead — judging by how old some of the modifications looked, perhaps a couple decades ago. Depending on how large the warehouse had been, there could easily be room enough to house a dozen families, more. If there was a second or even third floor, well, they could easily fit a hundred fifty people in here, enough for a small village.
Or, perhaps, the heart of a much larger rebellion.
Maker save him, what the hell had he gotten himself into? This little peasant uprising brewing here was starting to look seriously dangerous, and here he was, a fucking Cousland, just walking right into the hornet's nest like a big damn idiot...
For all of his increasing misgivings, things went perfectly smoothly...at first. They sauntered into the room, half of his escort peeling away elsewhere but the rest sticking with him and Gaenor, the elf explaining this was a hub of sorts, a place where they could rest, move people and supplies around — not the only one, there was one other running right now, and they were working on setting up a couple others they could expand into or simply flee to if they were discovered. (This operation of theirs was looking more and more concerning the more Aedan learned...but also reassuring, in a way, Howe was so fucked.) They ducked through an open doorway into a much smaller room, the air warmer and slightly steamy — a kitchen, obviously. There was nobody doing the serving, unsurprisingly, though there was a woman in here poking around, probably keeping everything filled and ready for people coming by to help themselves. So Aedan just followed the others' lead, scooping himself up a bowl of a very plain stew of some kind — looked like fish, barley, and dilsk, light on the fish — and then a mug of beer.
Not exactly appetizing, if it hadn't been a week since his last good meal he probably wouldn't bother. Also, the beer looked unpleasantly lumpy, like very, very watery porridge. Ugh, unfiltered small beer, of course — he was staying with a bunch of dirt-poor peasants, after all, what had he expected. Spotting a can of molasses nearby, he dribbled a bit in...and then rolled his eyes at a rain of comments from his rescuers for being a little baby, ha ha, very funny.
It was while he was being mocked, looking away with an exaggerated huff, playing along, that Aedan noticed the elf, the woman who'd already been in the kitchen when they'd come in, was staring at him, her eyes gone wide in surprise. Or, he thought they had, anyway — elves already had huge damn eyes, it could be sort of hard to tell. A few seconds after Gaenor and the others led him out, Aedan glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch the woman slipping out, darting across the room and vanishing through one of the curtains, slinky and almost eerily quick that way elves could get sometimes.
Hmm. Aedan hadn't recognized the woman, but he had the feeling she'd recognized him.
Gaenor and their group ended up arranging themselves in such a way that the only available seats put Aedan's back to the main entrance, which didn't make him feel less nervous. Not that it made any difference — even if he did see someone coming, he had zero chance of fighting his way out of here. He just had to try to talk his way out, then. Just perfect.
This could very well be his last meal on this earth, and the beer wasn't even good.
Thankfully, he didn't have to sit marinating in his nerves for very long. It'd probably only been a couple minutes, still talking about their operation here and just what the hell was going on in Denerim, when one of Gaenor's people, Brona, cut off mid-sentence. The hard, cold blade of a knife pressing against Aedan's throat probably had something to do with that. "Don't move," said a voice from behind him, a woman's.
All at once, the low conversation filling the room dropped to a nervous whisper.
Aedan set down his bowl, raised both palms next to his head, splayed and empty. He jerked at a tug on his belt, then stopped himself — moving too much would be a bad idea, what with the weapon at his neck right now. Someone was taking his sword off his belt, not the same person holding the knife. "Ah, please don't lose that."
"You're in no place to be giving orders right now, my lord." Gaenor and his people, arrayed all around Aedan, showed various looks of surprise, glancing around at each other.
"Not ordering, just asking."
"Uh-huh." Aedan disarmed, the knife pulled away from his skin, just a little. "Move. Not you," she said, a hand lightly pushing down on the top of his head. "All of you, up. We need to talk with your little lost lordling here." His rescuers looked a bit baffled, maybe slightly reluctant, but they obeyed with a slew of mutters and nods, the table around him emptying. The knife tilted, the flat pushing against the edge of his jaw, tilting his face up and to the side — toward the nearest lamp, he noticed. "Marya, get another look. You're sure it's him?"
The elf from the kitchen slipped up from the bottom of his vision, leaned in a little to get a good look at his face. But she didn't look long, straightened after only a second. "Oh yeah, that's him. Aedan Cousland. He dressed down and hasn't brushed his hair in a week, but I'd recognize that face anywhere."
Well, no use trying to deny it. It wasn't like he'd actually expected to remain unidentified for long anyway. "Now you're making me feel bad," he said, moving his jaw as little as possible to keep from cutting himself. "I don't remember you at all." Not that he would have expected to. He didn't exactly know many elves personally, and she was very plain-looking, didn't even have one of the weird elven hair colors, just an ordinary sandy brown — not someone who looked unique enough to have stuck in his mind.
Marya smiled, one eyebrow rising. "You didn't watch me beat Vaughan Kendells unconscious." Ah, well, that would do it. She must work at...whichever tavern that had been — Aedan honestly didn't remember what it was called, he hadn't been welcome there ever since he'd gotten Vaughan's blood all over the floor. Her eyes flicked up, speaking to the person holding the knife on him, she said, "Bryce Cousland had to pay off the Arl over it and everything. It was big news with all the big hats, two years ago or so."
"Vaughan Kendells?" Knife lady sounded surprised, a shade doubtful.
"Yep."
"Why?"
It took Aedan a second to realize she was asking him. "Does it matter? Vaughan's an ass."
"He was bragging," Marya said.
"Bragging?"
Looking a bit uncomfortable, the elf shrugged. "When he got far enough in his drinks, he'd brag, sometimes. You know, I can do whatever I want, this city is mine kind of bragging. I think, that time it was... He was talking about Solin."
"Solin," the knife lady repeated, clicking her tongue. "Oh, Arna's girl, Solin?"
"I think so. I remember it was, ah..." Now looking very uncomfortable, Marya shrugged. "He was being pretty, uh, obvious. What he was talking about, I mean."
The great, incomparable ass had been bragging about beating and raping a girl and getting away with it, she meant. As Aedan had insisted to anyone and everyone who had ever asked him about it, the shit-head had definitely had it coming, Aedan wasn't sorry — he'd refused to apologize when called to in front of the entire damn Landsmeet, his father had been furious.
"You expect me to believe you give a shit about what your friends do to the people of this city?"
Aedan grit his teeth. If the knife lady were determined to think he was an enemy, he wouldn't be able to convince her otherwise. So, it didn't really matter what he said, did it? "Miss, I don't give a shit what you believe. Vaughan is an ass, and he's always been an ass, I've hated his guts since we were children. Put us in a room together and give me half an excuse, and I might do it again."
There were a few suppressed chuckles from behind him, but not from the knife lady, the blade against his throat barely twitched. She did hesitate for a long moment before speaking again. "Why are you here, Aedan Cousland?" She sounded less skeptical now, at least, so he was probably making progress.
He turned it over a second before asking, "Honestly?"
"I insist."
"I was hoping you would help me kill Rendon Howe. If helping you with whatever you have going on here makes his life miserable before I take it from him, so much the better."
There were a few more chuckles, a bit of muttering. "I guess that'll do." Then, finally, the knife pulled away.
While Aedan rubbed at his throat, rolling some of the tension out of his shoulders, a few more figures appeared, walking around the table. Five people, a mix of elves and humans, all of them armed — the largest of them, a burly human man, was even wearing proper armor, though it was a bit lopsided and mis-matched, obviously cobbled together from multiple sources. Aedan immediately focused on the only woman among them, who must have been his interrogator. Of course, it helped that she had one of those eye-catching elven hair colors, in her case a vivid red — not "red" in the human way like Aedan's, which really looked more orangish, but a pure red, like roses, or the heart of a sunset (which made him feel embarrassingly poetical, but he'd seen this on other elves before, he always thought it was neat) — and also happened to be carrying his mother's sword. There was a bit of muttering between them and Marya, the elf who'd recognized him, before most of them wandered off, leaving the armored man and the red-headed woman with him.
The armored man sat, dragging one of bowls of stew to himself and started to eat, shooting Aedan a narrow-eyed suspicious look over the rim, but the woman didn't. Peering at Aedan's sword, she pulled the hilt up a little, revealing only a few inches of the blade, the enchanted silverite sparkling even in the thin lamplight as she turned it in her hands. "This is a fancy sword you got here."
"It was my mother's." Mostly out of a desperate attempt to act casual, Aedan took a gulp of his beer — and then held back a grimace, swallowing a gag as best he could. Maker, this shit was disgusting...
The elf opened her mouth to say something, but then froze, her eyes widening (he thought). Staring down at the blade, her voice suddenly oddly flat, she said, "Your mother. Eleanor Cousland."
"Yes."
"You mean...this is the sword the Seawolf used in the Rebellion."
"The very same."
She let out a breathless sort of laugh. Slowly, almost reverently, she drew the blade out the rest of the way, the metal making a clear, lingering ring. She hefted the blade, eyes slowly travelling along its length. Then, a smile twitching at her lips, "Hey, Lark, how many Orlesians you think this thing's killed?"
"Lark" let out a little coldly-amused huff, but didn't otherwise respond. "Probably hundreds," Aedan offered. "It was carried by literal pirates for centuries before it got to my mother."
"Hmm." The elf gave the blade another lingering look, before slowly sheathing it again — also somewhat awkwardly, like she'd never handled a full-length sword before (she probably hadn't). Smoothly slipping down onto the bench across from him, she grabbed one of the abandoned stew bowls with one hand, took a quick gulp out of it. "Before I give this back to you, I want to know what your game is here."
"I told you—"
"You want the Arl dead," she said, speaking over him, "right, I heard you. Why?"
...Had an elf ever interrupted him before? He didn't think so. Not that he cared, he was just saying.
Aedan took another gulp of his own stew, mostly to give himself time to consider how much he wanted to say (and also because he doubted it'd be any more appetizing cold). Though, the more he thought about it, the less reason he saw to not tell these people everything. They already knew who he was — if they wanted to kill him, or hold him for ransom or whatever, they would have made their move already. Normally, he'd have to be concerned with how the story made him and his family look, losing face and all that, but that was a game for the nobility. The common people rarely gave a shit, and that was if they even realized it was happening at all. He had nothing to lose, and if he was lucky the story would work toward getting them to trust him, at least a little bit.
The fact that he didn't want to talk about it was sort of irrelevant.
Aedan washed down the bland stew with the terrible beer, took a long breath. "Gaenor told me Howe was granted our Teyrnir. You must have heard my family was killed."
"Yep. Bandits, I heard." The woman sounded slightly skeptical — she was probably always skeptical of the shit nobles said. Though, perhaps it didn't help that the idea of common bandits taking Highever Castle, especially while Mother was in residence, was completely absurd.
"That's bullshit. They weren't bandits." Aedan considered his words for a moment, swishing the swill in his mug around. "You know it wasn't always the Teyrnir of Highever. The city was once part of the Arling of Amaranthine, which was ruled by the Howes. A long time ago, Highever broke with the Howes, and declared themselves independent, taking nearly half of the Arling of Amaranthine with them. Later, there was another war, and the Couslands took over most of the north, and it all became the Teyrnir of Highever. Yes?"
"I didn't know that," she admitted, "but why does it matter?"
"See, during the Orlesian occupation, they made the city of Amaranthine their capital — it's a better harbor than Denerim, a lot of trade with the north goes through there." Of course, the reason the Fereldan kings stayed in Denerim were partially historical, yes, but also because trade through Amaranthine was more easily cornered by raiders in the Straights of Alamar, as people like Aedan's mother had proven during the Rebellion. But he wasn't about to start complaining about Orlesians being fucking stupid. "As part of that arrangement, they split our Teyrnir in half, the Arling of Amaranthine directly beneath their Pretender, just like the Arling of Denerim these days. After the war, Maric restored the Teyrnir of Highever to its pre-occupation borders, meaning the Howes were our vassals again."
A scowl twisting her eyebrows, the elf said, "I'm guessing Howe wasn't happy with that."
Aedan shook his head. "They weren't bandits. My father had already sent most of our forces south toward Ostagar, but even so, there is no way in hell bandits could take Castle Highever. There is no way even any proper army could take it as quickly as they did — it was so quick I didn't even realize anything was going on until a couple of them kicked in my door while I was sleeping.
"You know why they managed it so easily? Because they didn't take it." Leaning forward a little, his voice a harsh snarl, "They were invited. They were Howe's men, accompanying him to join my father on the way to Ostagar. They were let in the gates. We sheltered them, fed them watered them. And then, in the dead of night, they murdered us in our beds. All of our fighting men, yes, but also Mother Mallol, who ran the chapel, old Master Aldous, who kept the library and taught the children. Our guests — Lady Landra of Oswin and her son Dairren, along with her handmaiden Iona." Aedan had actually been spending the night with her, she'd been cut down right in front of him, because apparently it had been necessary to kill even her. Bastards. "They didn't spare any of the staff, they were all killed — Nan managed to stick one in the eye with a knife before they got her, tough old bitch.
"And then, yes, my family. My father, my mother. My brother's wife, and their son — Oren was six." His voice dropping to a whisper, "If you don't believe that I care about your little rebellion here, fine, I honestly don't. But believe me, Miss, Andraste carry my oath to the Maker, I will kill Rendon Howe, if it's the last thing I do. If playing along with this whole mess is the only way I can do it, well, then that's just the way it is, isn't it?"
Lark grunted, spoke through half a mouthful of stew. "Good enough for me."
Her eyes narrowed in thought, one finger tapping on the hilt of his sword, the woman stared at him for a long moment. Then she nodded, slowly. "What about after? If we live through this, what then?"
"You honestly think we're gonna live through this?"
The elf ignored the question. "We're not gonna put you up here, around all of our people, just to watch you turn around and stab us in the back once you got what you want."
"You want to know if I'll represent you at the Landsmeet." Pushing away his empty stew bowl, Aedan leaned back in his chair. Oh, absolutely everybody was going to hate that. Especially if whoever it was who'd been executed, starting this whole mess, if they'd done something especially bad... He let out a heavy sigh. "I'm not the Teyrn, you understand, my brother Fergus is — he should have been at Ostagar, and at least for the moment I'm going to assume he made it out. So, I can't really promise you anything.
"But I can promise," he continued, raising his voice a little as he saw the woman's mouth start to open, "that I'll talk to him about it. Fergus is a reasonable guy, and I can be very...annoying. Give me even halfway reasonable demands to take to him, and I'll do my best to talk him into bringing it before the Landsmeet. If all else fails, so long as my brother takes the Teyrnir back, at least you and your people can flee to Highever. We can protect you there."
Again, the elf paused a long moment, giving him a thoughtful stare. Finally she nodded, set his mother's sword down on the table. "I think we have a deal, my lord," said with an obvious hint of sarcasm. Her hand lifted off the scabbard, leaving the sword on the table.
Aedan huffed. Taking his weapon back, returning it to its proper place at his hip, he said, "Just call me Aedan."
"Shianni. There are a few people you need to meet, and we'll have to have a talk about what you can do here. Unless you need to rest — you did just get back to the city?"
"No, I'm all right." He took a quick glance at his mug, but at this point it was mostly just shit that'd settled out of it over the last minutes, ugh, no thanks. "We can get started now. I figure, committing treason is the sort of thing you should jump into with both feet, or just not do at all."
The elf, Shianni, smirked. "Let's go, then."
[blood money] — Not in the sense of recompense for a murder, obviously, but for injuring someone. Most medieval legal systems that had the idea of weregild or something similar (which was most of them) would have different terms for the payment for murder and the payment for injury, but I've decided we'll just use the same term for all of them. Ferelden doesn't actually do this for murder anymore, but they still do for injuries (between the nobility, that is).
[dilsk] — An edible seaweed, part of the traditional diet in Scotland, Ireland, and Iceland. This shit should be relatively easy to find along the east coast of Ferelden, all the way from Amaranthine to Gwaren. It should be a staple among the lower classes in these areas, though particular to this region of Ferelden and the extreme southeast of the Free Marches — it doesn't grow anywhere else, and medieval shipping being what it is it's rare elsewhere.
[molasses] — irl, sugar was rare and extremely expensive in medieval Europe, shipped in from the Islamic world, but this is one area where Thedas is different. Sugar cane here is native to Seheron and Par Vollen, which were part of the Tevinter Imperium at its ancient height — the Tevinters first cultivated and refined sugar literally two thousand years ago, and still grow it to this day. (The greatest use of slave labor is in the sugar industry, in fact.) Tevinter is still the largest sugar producer, but the Anderfels, Rivain, and Antiva have their own operations as well. Given pre-industrial methods and transportation costs, sugar is still prohibitively expensive for most common people, especially in Ferelden, but molasses is considered a less desirable by-product, and is cheaper and more widely-available. Like, you know, what happened in real life.
Seawolf — It's canon that the wife of Bryce Cousland, one of the most powerful men in Ferelden from one of the oldest, wealthiest noble families in the country, is from a family of barely-civilized pirates. Her father, Fergus and Aedan's grandfather, was a bann, but was still engaged in illegal raiding along the Storm Coast, infamous enough he even got a cool pirate nickname (the Storm Giant). Eleanor led a small fleet of raiders during the Rebellion, sinking or capturing ships supporting the occupying Orlesians. There's legit a popular tavern song ("The Soldier and the Seawolf") about Bryce and some of his men joining her fleet as the war ramped up, and Eleanor being 0% impressed by this soft landlubber lordly type.
Apparently, Bryce proposed to Eleanor at Maric's coronation at the end of the Rebellion...in the form of a performance of "The Soldier and the Seawolf". Because the Couslands are surprisingly weird, and canon is wild sometimes. Just thought I'd share these fun facts with everyone xD
And so begins Aedan Cousland's revenge-quest-slash-adventure-in-crime. Good times.
Okay, this is the first time in my binge on this fic that I don't have the next chapter even started yet. I pretty much know what I'm doing with Redcliffe, so planning isn't an issue, but I really should try to work a bit on the collab fic. Dragon Age has just been eating my brain recently...
My other stories can effectively be considered to be on hiatus until Dragon Age stops eating my brain.