Chapter Six: The Reckoning
"On this, the thirty-first of Midwinter, DA 9:30, I declare the Thirty-Fifth Ferelden Landsmeet to be in session."
The dour stone and wood of the Landsmeet chamber was transformed to a sparkling riot of colour. The gowns and blades of nobles glittered with festive abandon. Candleflames turned shadowy corners to dances of shifting ambiguity, blurred harsh lines to a shimmering haze.
Loghain had spent the journey to Denerim racking his brains for a solution to the Landsmeet that did not involve either betraying Ferelden or throwing Rillian to the wolves. Only last night – as they neared the high stone walls of the city – had he found his answer. Orders to his Night Elves were acted on swiftly; they had passed messages to the Elves of Amaranthine and Highever, who followed the Dark Wolf, and to Zevran and Isabella who were currently at the Pearl. On his instructions, Rillian had left Jowan with Ser Otto in an unmarked Docks building, and warned the Dalish Clans Sabrae and Lavellan to be ready at a moment's notice.
The red sun had been balanced on the highest ramparts of Fort Drakon, and as it slowly sank behind them, it had sprayed light so warmly coloured and so mordant that the darkening land appeared to be wet with it and dyed in scarlet. The snow had been like a sea of blood washing around his knees - or a fireless burning.
He had instructed Rillian to wear clothing that could be quickly discarded, and easily concealed weapons only. He could hardly contain his dismay when he saw her attire. Only Rillian could have taken those instructions and come up with a version of Morrigan's shapeshifter's attire. Her colour scheme was different: the black feathers the marsh witch favoured had been replaced by golden ones - a woollen skirt of soft green reached down to calf-high brown boots, with golden buckles. And, while Morrigan's top had reached almost to her navel - an arrowhead gap revealing advantages beyond magical power - Rillian had chosen a high collared tunic traced with appliquéd winged vines. A dozen buttons gleamed, gaudy as an oil slick.
Andraste's ass, can she not see how this looks! Worse than showing up at the War Council with hair done up like one of Cailan's mistresses - appearing before the Grand Cleric as a cross between a Tevinter magister and a Pearl employee is just…just… Words failed him.
Instead of Maric's Blade, she wore a cross-belt of daggers: Deeplight, a gift from Orzammar's King, and Stillicide, which was poison to anyone afflicted with taint - darkspawn, ghouls…or Wardens. Loghain had not seen Maric's Blade in a while - had no idea whether she still had it, or whether it now lay buried within the Dead Trenches. He supposed he should be grateful she had abandoned the headdress that looked like a crown of thorns, with its eyepieces that made her look like a demented insect. Even without it, her eyes were strange - the amber held darkness at its core, as though captured within resin. She stood slightly apart from the warriors who gathered around Alistair. Maric's warrior son stood with Aveline Vallen - now his second-in-command – Carver Hawke, Oghren, Sarela Aeducan, Sigrun and Alim Surana. An eighth figure had contrived to join them. Carver's brother Lambert was not a Warden, though during the war he had served as a medic reporting to Wynne. Still, the young man had no business here. Impossibly handsome, and dressed to rival Rillian, he had blagged an invitation and was using it to charm the nobles of the court.
The Bannorn gathered in luridly-attired pockets of scheming.
The last flurries of manoeuvring, threats, trades and alliances had been exchanged. The last duels conducted - or avoided. Nathaniel Howe and Channon Cousland had come to a gentleman's agreement. Bann Sighard had made it clear he would not challenge Loghain until after the Orlesian threat had been ended. By then, Loghain thought, I'll either look like Avernus or lie in an unmarked Deep Roads tunnel.
His gaze scanned the chamber; he watched Bann Franderel, Bann Loren and Bann Ceorlic all standing together. Their gazes shifted from him to Rillian constantly. He saw more than ambition - he saw lust. Covert, shamed yearning to see the Elven and the Freeholder upstarts fall.
He saw Arl Wulf, seeming none the worse for wear from the loss of his right hand. Loghain snorted privately. In a city full of barbers, that scraggly beard was pure affectation. Wulf was nailing his colours to the mast: old-school Ferelden from the time of the Alamarri, never to be prettified by Orlesian alliances. Never to be bought by Orlesian gold. Loghain smiled. Gallagher Wulf would never be anything other than what he was.
The five-man delegation from the Circle stood apart, flanking each other. Knight-Commanders Rylock and Harith - First Enchanter Irving and Senior Enchanters Sweeney and Ines – along with Revered Mother Hannah of Redcliffe. Rylock and Sweeney appeared to be having a heated conversation. It was too low to be overhead - so Loghain quietly shifted closer, straining his senses. Perhaps Rylock was angry because the mages had an agenda - if so, it was certainly one he wanted to know about. The mages had performed brilliantly in the last battle.
If that fool Elemena hadn't shot down Uldred, we might have seen them performing brilliantly throughout. Wilhelm alone was worth twenty of my best men.
But Rylock and Sweeney did not seem to be arguing over the fate of the Circle mages. Unbelievably, they appeared to be quarrelling over…rhetoric…
"Knight Commander, you're not concentrating. Don't look at the Grand Cleric. Look at me. What is "brevitas"?"
"Brief…no…rapidity of narration."
"And continuato?"
Rylock's dark-eyed gaze slid, once more, to Grand Cleric Leanna, watching with cold malevolence from the raised gallery. If looks could kill, there would have been Templar and mage corpses strewn across the Landsmeet chamber at their feet.
"Rylock!" Sweeney drove the base of his staff into the floor. "Are you still asleep? Have you left your brain in bed? Look at me!"
Rylock dragged her eyes to the old mage with a glower.
"What is continuato?" The dry, clear voice went on and on, like an attack of the flux.
"A rapid succession of words completing a sentence."
"Dubitatio?"
"An assumed hesitation."
"Descriptio?"
"A description of an opponent's personal appearance."
"No!" This time Sweeney's voice was so loud that a couple of Banns looked over curiously, and Irving discreetly trod on his foot. Sweeney lowered his voice, but continued his incomprehensible inquisition.
"Rylock! Look here! What's the matter with you? Are you sick? Lyrium-addled? Did you hit yourself over the head this morning with your own sword of mercy? A child could have answered that question. I can't believe that a person so puffed up with Templar conceit…"
You hatched-faced scum bucket, said Rylock's eyes. Oddly, her posture had relaxed imperceptibly. Sweeney's harangue had clearly taken her mind off their unenviable position. Templar and mage stood like two tall, lean, ascetic bookends. Even their postures were similar. Sweeney stood straight and proud, staff in his right hand and chin slightly raised. Rylock's stance was identical, except she carried a sword.
"Descriptio: a clear and impressive statement of the results of an action." So there! her look said.
Sweeney snorted and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could deliver his next batch of insults there was a sudden flurry at the edge of Loghain's vision.
The Orlesian delegation entered the chamber. Twenty Wardens, led by Guillaume Caron, and fifty Templars. Grand Cleric Iona - a hawklike, vaguely threatening figure in robes that obscured her form - the tall and ridiculously handsome Knight Divine - and an exquisitely-dressed woman in the centre.
There was a sudden murmur - a hush - as the woman stepped forward, holding the right of precedence, to be greeted by Ferelden's Queen.
Anora stepped from the raised gallery, bright and lucid as a point of flame. She appeared as a statue of living silver - her armour, polished to a frenetic gleam, reflected the thousand tiny points of light like ice on fire. Her pale gleaming hair, up in its customary bun, formed a crown like a steel helm about her marble-pale face. It was drawn into lines so uncompromising they threatened to overwhelm her beauty - fierce as the Dragonbone sword she wore belted about her waist.
Maric's Blade.
He flashed a startled glance at Rillian - who met his look with a wink and a shrug. Her unexpected generosity floored him - and made him feel even worse for having brought her here.
"Queen Anora," Marjolaine greeted her - her long, brown, treacherous eyes seeming unimpressed. She did not precisely curl her lip - but a certain glint in those eyes betrayed her scorn at what she saw as Ferelden barbarism - no self-respecting Orlesian monarch would be seen dead in armour at a formal occasion. But in this, Loghain saw, it was Anora who had judged her audience correctly. She called up memories of Queen Rowan - of Queen Moira - even of Andraste herself. Women who wielded a charisma that went beyond the sexual - something this over-dressed Orlesian trollop would never understand. Promises of pride - of independence - of past glories - seemed to trail in Anora's wake.
"My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet," Marjolaine began. She glanced at Channon Cousland - Bann Franderel - Bann Ceorlic. There was a physical quality to her look: as though she used it to touch, to arouse. The spectacle of Marjolaine literally trying to seduce the Bannorn was enough to turn Loghain's stomach - he was pleased to note Bann Alfstanna looked equally disgusted. "It was with great grief that I learned of the death of valiant King Cailan at Ostagar - betrayed by the base ambition of one he trusted, even as Our Lady was betrayed to her death in Minrathous."
There was a gasp - a shuffle from the crowd - and Loghain was suddenly breathless with rage. He caught himself by sheer effort of will - reminding himself that a reaction was exactly what the Orlesian shrew wanted to see.
"And we have lost more than you may know - for I have here letters that prove King Cailan was about to cement an alliance between our nations in the most intimate manner possible. I speak of the scared bond of marriage. You may read the documents yourself."
That…that banshee! Loghain saw that Anora's face had gone completely still, like stone. Only the two bright spots of colour that appeared in her cheeks betrayed her feelings. She had not known of this betrayal - only that Eamon had encouraged it - for Rillian had spared her feelings by throwing Cailan's copy of this letter onto his pyre. Of course, the Empress would have her own copies - he should have realized she would bring them to bear today.
But what Marjolaine did not know was that Rylock now possessed the other letter - the one linking Mother Leanna's decision to have the Templars remain in Denerim with Cailan's plot. He saw the connections being made in Rylock's dark eyes - the realization dawn in her plain, sombre face - and knew he had an ally there. Rylock would always speak the truth, as she understood it, no matter the cost.
The nobles examined the letters in turn - muttering and talking loudly. It was clear they were no forgeries. With the skill of the bard she undoubtedly was, Marjolaine let the conversation build and build - waited for the perfect moment to say, "Nonetheless, ideas don't die - and the blood of Theirin resides in many members of the Landsmeet here today. The Couslands, I believe, have the most direct claim. On behalf of her majesty the Empress, I renew the offer of peace in our time - celebrated by the indissoluble bond of marriage."
She was talking over Anora as though his daughter were not present! And those despicable dogs were letting her do it. Loghain wanted to strike at them - protect Anora from them - from the whole universe. How dared they hurt and humiliate his child! He wanted his hands around Marjolaine's neck - wanted to hear her suffer as his mother had suffered, when the chevaliers…Loghain shut off the train of thought with a click.
Anora, however, needed no defence. Pride throbbed under Loghain's old skin as he saw her step forward, facing them down as Gwaren's little girl had once faced down the children of charcoal burners. Her chill, aloof dignity caught the gaze of everyone in the chamber.
"A fine speech," she said softly, scornfully, "But no-one here is taken in by it. The Landsmeet will indeed choose a King - or Queen - according to our ancient laws - and it may or may not be me. But a wedding that will make a puppet of Ferelden's King, while leaving Ferelden a shell of itself - a mere province of Orlais, to be run from Montsimmard - that we will never do. It is here and now that Ferelden will come of age - for almost any being will fight undisguised force to be free. It is when they will fight you - the most attractive example of Orlesian tyranny - that Fereldans will have learned to be free." Anora was too well-bred to curl her lip - but a certain level tilt in her cool ice-blue eyes conveyed beyond words her contempt for Marjolaine.
Marjolaine's eyes met those of Anora with a certain appreciation. "The woman who could turn the crowd," she murmured. Indeed, the Banns were murmuring amongst themselves - and Loghain saw with inexpressible relief that Channon and Fergus Cousland were talking together, throwing Marjolaine looks of unmistakable disgust. Channon had known Marjolaine - Loghain's spies had told him the Orlesian woman had worked with him against Rendon Howe. He had believed her an ally and advocate of freedom. Now - realizing her true identity and true motives - freedom began to look like something else. Sooner or later a woman like that always overestimates herself. No doubt she expected Channon to throw away years of honour for a hollow marriage and a peek at some flesh. Now he sees himself a pawn of the Great Game - he'll shed her like a mabari shedding water…
"But surely," Marjolaine continued, with a chilling little smile, "Your undoubted charisma will not solve the problem of succession."
Anora smiled - a fell smile, pale and cold. "Indeed, my husband and I had already discussed this - and I have promised to name as heir any child of Cailan's blood."
Only Loghain saw the faint flush of humiliation on Anora's marble-pale face - she had not wanted to have to stoop to this. But her argument was clever - it reminded everyone that, despite Cailan's legendary indiscretions, no heir of his had ever been found. Thus, the problem likely did not lie with Anora. Loghain caught the sudden sharpened interest in her as the nobles adjusted their opinions - sniffed out her potential on the marriage market. It was supremely distasteful to see them regard his precious child as though in a meat market - but that, after all, was the nature of rulership. Anora knew the rules, and intended to play the nobles against each other. Marjolaine was, for the moment, stymied.
Channon stepped forward, shooting Marjolaine one scornful look. "There is another matter to be settled," he said grimly, "I refer to the role played by your own ally - Grand Cleric Leanna - in Rendon Howe's atrocities."
There was a stunned silence - then a murmur like surf on rock.
Iona, Loghain noted, did not seem surprised. She allowed Channon to present his evidence - and without apparent reluctance pronounced sentence.
"Death by burning."
The Landsmeet gasped - it went so far beyond what they had expected. Grand Cleric Leanna paled as though about to faint. Loghain saw Rylock make a dismayed, aborted attempt to help her. He knew of the cruelty Rylock had suffered at the hands of this woman - had seen the whip scars across her thin back - but he also knew that Leanna was the only parent Rylock had ever known. But Rylock couldn't help her here. She realized that, caught herself, her face expressionless as they watched one of Iona's Templars - a pale-eyed, lizard-faced knight named Ser Alrik - escort the former Grand Cleric out.
Only when they had reached the door did Leanna find her voice: a thin, mouse-like squeak. "As we are both Grand Clerics, you do not have the authority to judge me. I demand an audience with the Divine!" Her voice, shaking, was drowned in the babble of louder male voices; Loghain could see Channon had heard her, but was contriving to remain conveniently deaf. Next to the death he had seen his mother suffer, no doubt a bonfire looked like justice. But Anora said, "That seems reasonable. Leanna will remain a guest at Fort Drakon until the Divine can pronounce sentence."
They left, leaving a silence that ached like a wound.
"You see," Iona said, "We do not protect our own. Nonetheless, I demand equal sentence for the other architect of such depravity - for the so-called General of Ferelden, Loghain Mac Tir."
There were those in the room who actually strained towards Loghain, like mabari on a leash. That image was underscored by the way they checked and growled when confronted with his proud defiance. Loghain shrugged inwardly. The men and women eager to earn the Chantry's approval by attacking a condemned man would be the kind to need assured approval.
Rillian vaulted onto the gallery, her hands resting on the hilts of her daggers. All eyes and fury, her look dared anyone to vex her further.
"I say General Loghain did not betray King Cailan - did not betray Ferelden – has saved Ferelden from the Fifth Blight. If you have a better man among you, show him to me." She moved her head from side to side, a dragon inspecting a flock of sheep. No-one matched her gaze for long; she had been through flame and darkness, and they saw Urthemiel in her eyes. Flat, unblinking, deadly, with irises stretched to a pale rim around the black. "Well, Ferelden's loss will be the Wardens' gain: I invoke the right of Conscription."
Queen Anora gave Rillian a strange look. Gratitude – for speaking the words that she could not – satisfaction – like a grandmaster who moves a piece into position - and an envy not quite aware of itself. The Bannorn watched her hungrily, like hounds at bay. She was their Hero of Ferelden – their good luck charm – but the war against the darkspawn was over and it would not take much to see them turn on her. Loghain knew very well how fickle the adoration of crowds could be.
Iona stepped forward. The proud head, hair a silver helmet, turned in slow survey of the Bannorn. "An interesting pair, you and that war criminal. He barks, you hiss like a cat. I seem to be surrounded by animals."
The insult set of a rumble from the crowd. Channon Cousland said, "Grand Cleric Iona – you are speaking of the Hero of Ferelden – the woman who slew the Archdemon – who returned from Temple Mountain bearing the Sacred Ashes of Andraste."
The Grand Cleric whirled to face him, flaring her long robe. Gold and red trim swirled, the colours triggering thoughts of flames upon flesh, of blood on snow. She almost crouched in her aggressive intensity.
"Yes, the so-called Sacred Ashes that apparently healed Arl Eamon. I would like Arl Eamon to address the crowd, so that all may judge the effects of this "healing".
The cruelty in that made even Loghain wince. He saw Lady Isolde flinch, stammer an excuse for her husband. But the Arl, hearing his name, shuffled forward. He addressed the crowd like a grandfather at a family feast, "Well, I say, it has been lovely to see you all again. But where is my brother? Teagan? Teagan! TEAGAN…"
"Dear, we talked about this," Isolde hissed, "Teagan can't be here today. He is attending Connor's birthday party."
At that, the Bannorn shuffled. One person sniggered. Another shushed him.
Iona dropped the truth like stones onto an elderly dog. "Bann Teagan was killed in the battle at Redcliffe Castle."
"No, no, no!"
"Dear, please, don't…"
"Teagan, Teagan…no, my brother!"
"You see," Iona said, in fake sorrow, "This so-called healing is nothing but magic that has stolen the Arl's mind."
"Liar!" Ines stepped forward, ready to defend Rillian. "The Ashes did heal the Arl of Redcliffe – it was the battle afterward that took his mind."
At the sight of a mage presuming to speak so to the Grand Cleric, Ser Alrik, returned from imprisoning Leanna, took a step forward. There was a resonance, a crackle and spark, an electric storm as he prepared to Smite. The Templars he commanded would kill an apostate with the fearsome, detached vigour of those trained to violence.
Smugly, like a hunter holding the leash of a very large hound, Iona murmured, "I'm sure his forced trip to the Fade didn't help matters. Seeker Leliana: please tell the Bannorn what you told me."
Leliana paled, and Rillian's gaze fell on her the way Andraste's might have fallen on General Maferath. The former sister, former companion to the Warden, described the events at Redcliffe Castle with complete honesty and accuracy, and, at each new revelation, Loghain saw Rylock tense as though preparing to fight demons, and any chance of keeping the Circle in Ferelden slipping away. Iona had been clever.
From the centre of the crowd, the Grand Cleric raised a pointing finger. Even before she spoke, the naked force of her malice silenced the watchers. Spine rigid, shoulders back, she addressed the crowd, "I address Channon Cousland, and all who would follow him. The war criminal, Loghain, is known to have sent the Blood Mage Jowan to Redcliffe, to poison Arl Eamon. The events that followed were the result of Arl Eamon's son, a mage hidden by his mother, offering his soul to a demon in exchange for keeping his father from death. Then, in a double perfidy, Rillian Tabris ordered Jowan to pretend to exorcise the boy, and lied to Knight Commander Rylock in order to protect him. So that the boy - host to demons – can corrupt the Circle from within. Now she has recruited Jowan, in order to use Blood Magic to cure the Taint - the very punishment sent by the Maker for the sins of mages. Defeating a Blight requires sacrifice: the sacrifice of the Warden who kills the creature and pays with his or her life. A sacrifice not made by Rillian Tabris. Rillian avoided the sacrifice by using the blackest of blood magic. A confirmed apostate – a Wilder woman now fled – helped her cheat death."
Loghain saw Alistair's face whiten. He looked stricken, sick. During his debrief, he had told Guillaume Caron about Morrigan's offer in the manner of a confession. Now, he realised the Warden Commander had told his brother, the Knight Divine, and that Gerard Caron had told Iona. Warden secrets had been betrayed. Rillian had been betrayed, and served to Iona on a silver platter. And she hadn't even accepted Morrigan's offer! She was alive because the Architect had made the Ultimate Sacrifice – but that was a truth both Weisshaupt and Chantry wanted buried. If an intelligent darkspawn could make the Ultimate Sacrifice, it either proved darkspawn had souls, or that souls were not needed and what mattered was sentience.
"Rillian is no mage, but she is an ally of apostates, and her research is heresy. Divine Amara III, may she rest in peace, declared many years ago that all enablers and defenders of maleficarum shall be subject to the same punishment. Death by burning."
As one, the Ferelden Wardens – Alistair, Carver, Aveline, Oghren, Sarela, Sigrun and Alim - stood behind her: a small army waiting for her to give the word. Beside Rillian, Alistair's look for her said he would die any death at her command. But there were many more who gathered on the other side. Loghain took careful note of the would-be witch-burners in the room: the men and women who yearned for the opportunity to kill with impunity, with pleasure, while enjoying the glow of flames and self-righteousness.
"Grand Cleric, you are unjust!" Rylock's voice cracked like a whip. "Even if Rillian has been used by the Blood Mage, that would make her a victim, not a heretic. Or do you say that I am a heretic, after what happened to me? She did not avoid death by Blood Magic – I know this because the Witch of the Wilds was long gone by the time she fought the Archdemon. I can swear to you her research is medicine, not Blood Magic, because I have seen it with my own eyes. Or do you say I am an enabler?" She placed herself, shield-like, between the Grand Cleric and Rillian.
Looking as though he could not believe what he was doing, Knight Commander Harith moved to stand beside Rylock. "As Knight Commander of Redcliffe, I can confirm this." Rylock, startled, gave him a grateful nod. Harith rolled his eyes; as though exasperated with himself. Loghain could have told him that, after you have fought beside someone for months, bad habits like loyalty tend to stick.
Ines and Sweeney moved forward in support – the presence of the mages a red flag to the Orlesian Templars. Ser Alrik eyed them with cold predation. The atmosphere was wild and strange; the air full of shadows. Loghain wondered if Anora could contain what seemed to be happening: she seemed suddenly small and fragile.
Then Channon Cousland stepped beside Rylock and Harith. "I support Rillian too. The person who saved my country – killed the Archdemon – asks only for safe haven - deserves nothing less." Anora gave him a look of gratitude; he smiled at her like a co-conspirator. Despite his greater concerns, Loghain suddenly felt the instincts of a father to warn off the young man. There was no mistaking the gleam in Channon's eyes.
Iona's expression took on a hard glaze. Imperiously, she raised her chin. Her eyes, shielded by her cowl, transformed into pale, shaded malevolence. "You reject the Chantry?"
"I reject pressure, Grand Cleric. I will do all I can for the Chantry. The Chantry will not tell me what I must do to Rillian."
Anora took the opportunity to try and ease the tension. "Please try to understand, Grand Cleric, Rillian's research is not magical in nature. It is medicine. Please think of the thousands of Ferelden citizens who have been sickened by taint, who will die horribly unless her research succeeds."
Iona's interruption cracked like a whip. "The Chantry is the guardian of medicine and knowledge. Not an Alienage Elf, raised to the ranks of the Grey Wardens only because she killed an Arl's son."
"And where was the Chantry when the darkspawn descended like a plague of locusts?" Nathaniel Howe asked the question with deceptive mildness. Symbolically, he moved to stand beside Fergus and Channon. Fergus from Highever Castle – Channon from Soldier's Peak – Nathaniel from Vigil's Keep in Amaranthine – together, the three formed a stone wall to deny invasion by sea.
At that, Guillaume Caron stepped forward, "Arl Howe: it has never been the Chantry's duty to fight darkspawn, but to see to the spiritual needs of the population. It is the duty of the Grey Wardens to fight darkspawn: a duty we would have fulfilled, had not the Butcher of River Dane murdered our men at the border."
There was a sibilant whisper among the Orlesian Wardens, a dark-shrouded sigh of hatred. Many had had brothers, friends, lovers among those Loghain had ordered killed.
Guillaume Caron gave Rillian a polite nod. Loghain saw Rillian flush angrily. Her look said: your ally tried to throw me on the fire, and now you want to talk terms! Well, yes, Loghain thought, that is war. We end up making terms with people we tried to kill moments before.
"Sister," Guillaume said, "before this unpleasantness occurred, you were making an offer for General Loghain to join the Grey Wardens to atone for his crimes."
The Caron brothers and Riordan traded glances. "Sister, you are the Hero who has slain the archdemon and lived to tell the tale...but you have not been named Warden Commander. That is a title bestowed at Weisshaupt, by the First Warden, not by adoring crowds. The Wardens are not an order of - celebrities." Under any other circumstances, Loghain might have found that amusing. "You and Warden Alistair are summoned to Weisshaupt, for the First Warden has questions. As ranking Commander of the Grey, our choice of recruits is up to me."
"Brother - don't you think the hero of River Dane – the man who commanded Ferelden's armies during the Fifth Blight – would benefit the Wardens' ranks?" That was Alistair, his earnest tone a surprise to those watching. After Alistair had called for Loghain's death, during the aborted Landsmeet only three months earlier! Much had changed. Incongruously, Loghain felt the happiness of someone who has found – unexpectedly – something they had thought lost forever. He knew Alistair's words would make no difference, but that seemed suddenly trivial.
Yet the Wardens – Loghain's crimes – were still very much with them.
"I think it may benefit the Wardens at Montsimmard to have such an esteemed teacher." The very mildness of Riordan's tone was a whisper of malice. His eyes held the long germinal hatred for his torturer, set aside until the horde was defeated, now masked in strictest pragmatism. Loghain shuddered. Montsimmard – in the heart of Orlais. A poison more bitter than the Joining. Bitter – necessary – inevitable.
Anora was too clever to argue. Such would have overplayed her hand; given the Chantry the pretext to launch an Exalted March on Ferelden. And... with Loghain's conscription she had inherited Gwaren – that, added to her speech, caught the attention of the nobles, raised her value on the marriage market. She bowed her head, solemnly, regretfully. "I agree with Grand Cleric Iona: my father must face justice. Life for life. The fire or the chalice. For Joining the Wardens is a slow death, and a life sentence, is it not? And what better way to serve the Wardens than by training recruits at Montsimmard; the very people he so wronged."
Rillian and Anora exchanged glances; two would-be bards conspiring to steal Iona's thunder. Iona did not – of course - betray her emotions, but Loghain knew she could not be happy. Loghain's Joining would satisfy Weisshaupt, prevent either Iona or the Empress persuading them to ally with the Chantry and Orlais against Ferelden.
Rillian faced Guillaume. Where before she had looked like a dragon in human form, as terrifying as the archdemon whose memories she contained, now she looked more like a child stamping her foot. "I will not go to Weisshaupt! My research is too important."
Guillaume Caron answered with grave dignity, "Don't fight me. Your mission can only happen with the aid of Weisshaupt – think of the knowledge our library contains. Think of the training, us helping each other. Don't throw that away: not for some storybook cure we both know cannot really exist. I'll even give you time, a full year, to continue your search. I know how strong these dreams can be. I understand, truly I do."
Rillian looked torn, and for a moment Loghain wondered if she would go through with their plan. He wanted to warn her: Guillume's offer could not possibly be genuine, not after he had betrayed her to his brother, and would have stood by as Iona threw her to the flames. Perhaps he hadn't intended that, any more than Leliana or Alistair had, but would she be safe in Weisshaupt? Something moved in Rillian's eyes, a hard curl twitched the corners of her mouth, as she made the same calculations. Rillian was never particularly deadpan; her face expressed her thoughts as clearly as clouds foretold the weather. Despite Leliana's training, she could never have been a bard. With dismay, Loghain saw her mentor – the red-headed Orlesian – could read her too. He braced for her to warn Iona, prepared to spend his life giving Rillian a few seconds to run. But, to his relief, Leliana said nothing. It had been self-preservation, not malice, that had led her to confide in Iona, and she had clearly not known what the Grand Cleric intended. Now that she did, she would protect Rillian.
Thankfully, neither of them were needed. Iona and Guillaume simply did not know Rillian well enough to know when she was lying. Or perhaps they thought all Elves looked the same. Rillian bowed to Guillaume, said, "Thank you, my brother. I am suddenly tired, but we will speak later." She turned on her heel, and stalked towards the double-doors of the Landsmeet chamber. A shadow followed her, with swift grace: Lambert Hawke, the two peacocks leaving together. Loghain recalled the many escapes – sometimes by the skin of their teeth – he and Maric had got up to during the rebellion. He hoped Isabella's vessel would be up to the task.
As Rillian withdrew, Mother Hannah stepped forward. "Grand Cleric…Queen Anora: the survivors of the Circle of Magi – who fought so bravely to defend this country – are currently guests at Redcliffe Castle. But Redcliffe is not their home. Kinloch Hold is too badly damaged to allow them to return – the Veil is thin, and too much magical power may cause it to flutter aside. But the mountain stronghold that held the cultists of Haven – that could fit twenty Circles within. And, if the Temple of Sacred Ashes is truly a holy site, blessed by the Maker, then both mages and Templars could form a community. Loyal to Ferelden in temporal matters, loyal to the Divine in spiritual matters. I cannot say for certain whether the Temple is holy, whether the Ashes are truly the remains of Our Lady, but Brother Genetivi and Seeker Leliana are convinced. I propose an expedition, that I may see for myself, and I request the presence of Knight Commanders Rylock and Harith, as well as these good mages."
The Grand Cleric was livid. "I forbid. Mages are the property of the Chantry. For their own safety, they will be relocated to Orlais. You will not corrupt our mages."
The room drew in on itself. Anora, Channon, Nathaniel, Fergus, all faced the Grand Cleric and the Knight Divine. Anora said, "Revered Mother Hannah: I grant your request. The expedition will proceed. And, whether or not the Temple is suitable, Ferelden is now and forever the home of this Circle." Her features were relaxed, marble-smooth and cool and white, and her hand moved in an elegant, absent-minded reflex born of years of rulership. But Loghain saw his daughter in a way no-one else could: he recognised the fear behind her eyes, carefully veiled. Loghain understood just what a risk his daughter had taken. What she had done would be considered an attempt to create a working counter-Chantry, loyal to Ferelden rather than the Sunburst Throne. Queens had been destroyed for far less. If Iona succeeded in becoming the next Divine, that was a death sentence.
And yet...Loghain glanced at the Banns and saw calculation on more than a few faces. Having just fought a war alongside mages, they could see the advantages in having mages loyal to Ferelden. Channon Cousland and Nathaniel Howe, in particular, looked keen to become the husband of the woman who could make Ferelden a power in Thedas. Once more, she called up memories of Queen Rowan and Queen Moira. It was a grave gamble...but Loghain would not have bet against Anora.
When Iona next spoke, there was a freighted, deadly calm in her words. "I cannot physically take the mages from Ferelden. Not now. I will defeat you, however. Come spring, the Chantry will have what belongs to her."
The Grand Cleric stalked away, the dark figure an eerie swirl of shifting, erratic shadows.
All that remained was the punishment of Rylock and Harith. But could they be punished now, when the order they had disobeyed had come from the woman sentenced to death by burning? A Templar was not bound to obey unlawful orders. Nonetheless, it seemed Gerard Caron felt that disobeying the order of a Grand Cleric - no matter how corrupt – set a troubling precedent. It would not do to have Templars thinking for themselves.
"Knight Commanders Rylock and Harith; although Leanna has been found to be unworthy of her office, she was a Grand Cleric at the time you ignored her order to remain in Denerim. As Templars, we may not judge for ourselves which orders are worth following. In addition, you have both publicly defied Grand Cleric Iona; that cannot be tolerated. As Revered Mother Hannah has requested your aid next spring, you may both keep your rank. This winter, however, you will spend in penance. The standard forty strokes, and a reduction in lyrium."
Harith's face had gone the colour of old bone. Rylock appeared unconcerned; her dark eyes held an inward shrug. Curiously, the people who looked most upset were the two elderly mages, Ines and Sweeney. Loghain saw that the knight Ser Alrik was looking forward to administering the punishment - he had seen his type before. Arl Rendon Howe...Uldred...Caladrius...
If he could have rewritten the past year...chosen not to ally with such men...but time passed so quickly, always one way, always down to death. He looked, once, at his daughter – the little girl who had fallen, skinned her knees, and commanded them to stop stinging. He would have given much to help her face down the next of vipers that was the nobility. The Cousland brothers, Nathaniel Howe, Bann Loren and Bann Ceorlic...all vultures, circling, circling, debating her as they would a piece of meat and its value on the marriage market. The soul beneath: the intelligent, crafty, curious young woman, mattered no more to them than the wishes of the hog about to be slaughtered for dinner. But he could not help her. The Joining awaited.