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Blight-Queller
Chapter 3
Blight-Queller

-(=DAO=)-

The sun burned high above, merciless and unrelenting. I was on the rooftop of the palace, having managed to escape my duties, at least for a time. From here, you could see the sprawling city of Denerim laid out in front of you, in all its dirt and glory.

I found her perched at the very edge, looking out.

The witch stood alone.

Her long black hair fluttered in the breeze. In the sunlight, her pale skin seemed almost to glow. Her delicate features were so painfully beautiful, so incomprehensibly perfect.

It looked a scene out of a fairytale. The princess, beautiful beyond compare. The hero, victor of a thousand battles, come to woo her. They fall in love. Then they live happily ever after.

Once upon time, even I was seduced by that fairytale.

A phantom pain in my chest. Longing and an indescribable sadness.

For what we had. For what we lost. For what could have been, but never was.

And then the witch's spell broke.

We were no longer the princess and the hero of the beautiful, fleeting fairytale.

Now it was just Morrigan and I, the barbarian and the apostate, standing in the hot, sweltering sun.

I joined her on the edge of the roof. We sat side by side, leaning lightly on each other.

I wanted to drown in that reassuring intimacy forever.

But we had things to discuss.

I spoke, breaking the quiet.

"You know, if you had wanted to talk to me, you could have just come in. You didn't need to break the window of my office and drop this off as a message."

I held up a single black feather. The visitor I was entertaining at that time had been scared witless when a giant crow barged into the room, only to drop that single feather onto the desk. Morrigan certainly liked the theatrical. In fact, she was the one who insisted that we watch that third-rate play in Lothering. I couldn't bring myself to reject her request.

She glanced at me. Her eyes were golden, and they danced with casual amusement.

"Afraid of crows?"

"Not quite. But this particular crow wasn't housetrained. It even shat a feather on my desk!"

I waved it around to make my point. Morrigan tilted her head.

"This crow – was it pretty?"

"Heavens, no. Black as dirt, and ugly as sin."

"Was it clever?"

"Evidently not. Dumb as a doorknob, seeing as it didn't know how to use one."

"Was it affectionate, at least?"

"Perhaps. Flew through broken glass, unable to resist my charms."

Morrigan laughed. It was harsh, very much at odds with her looks. You would have expected a high, musical laugh from someone who looked like a princess out of legend. Another indication that this was no fairytale that we lived in, no matter how much we may wish otherwise.

Her laughter subsiding, she said with some measure of seriousness.

"You should get some sleep, you know. Tis trying times, and stumbling through them while exhausted is foolish."

"Sleep? Is that a kind of food?"

Her golden eyes met mine. This time, instead of amusement, it was concern and worry, in equal amounts, that swirled around.

"Has fatigue made you as stupid as Alistair? Sleep is something people need to continue staying alive, in case you've forgotten."

I rubbed my eyes, before responding, which didn't really aid the excuse I was trying to make.

"Sleep is for the weak. The Hero of Ishal needs no sleep. Coffee makes for an excellent substitute."

Morrigan's eyes flashed – with real anger, this time. She snorted derisively, and gave a scornful laugh.

"Save it, Amell. You might overawe and fool those Chantry halfwits with boasts and lies, but you're an even greater fool if you believe them yourself. There is nothing in the world half as dangerous, or half as stupid, as believing the lies that you yourself tell. If you start believing in your own so-called legend, you will die in a ditch. So spare me."

I sighed. That was our relationship in a nutshell. Affection expressed with banter; concern gracelessly conveyed, and even less gracefully accepted; anger inevitably erupting in heated arguments. Morrigan wasn't sociable – and I, in some ways, even less so. The two genius magi, with all the combined emotional maturity of a prepubescent teenager.

I tried to change the topic of conversation.

"Is my lack of sleep all that you wanted to talk about? Don't worry – I'll get some tonight, after I've settled everything that needs settling. But what will make me sleep better is if we get a clearer idea of where the horde is.

"The scouts have stopped sending in their daily reports, and though that may be simple tardiness on their part, it could also be something more. I'm concerned that it could be the darkspawn killing them off, which will leave us blind as to their movements. I didn't think too much of it this morning, but I'm starting to worry incessantly about it.

"I need you to head south, and scout out what you can, alright? Make sure that the horde isn't doing anything it shouldn't be. Look for clues as to where the Archdemon might be."

For a long while, Morrigan was silent. We sat there, still leaning against each other, but where once there was warm intimacy, there was now a frigid prickliness.

At last, she spoke. She took my face in her hands, and fixed her golden eyes to mine. Her voice was clear.

"Listen very carefully to me, my friend. Tis deadly serious. Your judgement has not been what it once was. You have not been the same since the Anvil of the Void. After we came out of the Deep Roads, you made countless mistakes that you would not have made before. With the amount of preparation we put into the Landsmeet – with all the threats and manipulations and bribes we used to secure the support of the nobles – with the Queen herself ready to denounce her own father – the censure of Loghain and the elevation of that fool Alistair to the throne would have been a formality! But in an incomprehensible fit of pride and bad judgement, you accepted Loghain's desperate challenge for a duel. Why? Why?"

Morrigan's pale fingers sliced the air, as she expressed her frustration.

"What was supposed to be the easy work of five minutes turned into this massive crisis that you are now stumbling through like a blind man. I was there, you know. Outside the office, listening in. Threatening the Templars? The Old Gods know that I despise those Chantry sheep, but even sheep will bite back if you whip them too hard. Why did you think I interrupted you by barging in during your meeting with the Revered Mother, hmm? The one that the Grand Cleric sent back to broker an agreement? Twas turning into a catastrophe – and all because you couldn't avoid being an antagonistic ass for more than a minute. You have been far too reckless. You once told me that your greatest weapon was not your magic, but your mind. That you could see with perfect clarity, the bright line to take to victory. But now I cannot help but question if you are not blind instead.

Morrigan stood up. Her face had been an expressionless mask, but now it cracked.

"I am... fond you. Tis something you can depend upon, like the bedrock beneath. Times and seasons will come and go, summer and winter alike, but my feelings will not change. And I will do whatever it takes to protect you. I will build mountains from the corpses of your enemies. I will see the world burn before I see you hurt. But I cannot protect you from your own bad judgement."

That last line was delivered as a whisper.

And then she turned, and leapt into the open air. Her form twisted and shifted in a whirl of black. The crow that emerged took to the skies.

I watched her go, flying south, until I could see her no more.

-(=DAO=)-

I was in a dark mood when I entered the council room.

The great and good of Ferelden were arrayed around a long oaken table.

The large throne-like chair at the head of the table was empty.

For reasons known only to himself, the newly crowned King Alistair had chosen not to take the chair that was his by rights, and was instead sitting, arms folded, on the chair to its left. My legend is almost as much his as it is mine, considering that he has been with me every step of the way. We struggled against the Blight together, but now I didn't even merit a glance.

Opposite him sat his wife-to-be, Queen Anora. A most formidable woman and consummate ruler. For the five years that Cailan had played at being king, it was actually Anora who was steering the ship of state.

Beside her was her father Loghain. Beloved war hero and the most reviled of traitors. The man who brought Ferelden its independence, and then almost destroyed the country in his paranoia.

Next to Alistair, there was Arl Eamon. First amongst the nobility, brother to queens, foster father to kings. The staunchest opponent of Loghain's short-lived regency, his influence amongst the Bannorn was key to our victory at the Landsmeet.

Riordan, the Grey Warden whom we had rescued from the dungeons of the depraved Arl Howe, was sitting at the foot of the table, away from the rest. The ranking Grey Warden in Ferelden now, I suppose, given that everyone else was dead. His experience would likely be invaluable in combating the Blight, but I have had barely any chance to speak to him since his rescue, since I had spent most of the last week intimidating nobles in preparation for the Landsmeet.

And standing guard at the door was Ser Cauthrien. Captain of Maric's Shield, wielder of the Summer Sword, the farmgirl who made her legend at the age of twelve by slaughtering a bandit army with a kitchen knife, it is said that she is the greatest swordsman in all Thedas. I have no trouble believing that, considering that the one time we fought, she came closer to killing me than did the Archdemon himself.

And then there was me.

I dropped myself into the massive half-throne half-chair at the head of the table. Arl Eamon raised a single eyebrow at my shocking lack of propriety, but otherwise nothing was said.

I opened the war council.

"Friends, now that Ferelden is finally united, we can turn our undivided attention onto –"

"My apologies, but there is an even more pressing matter at hand."

Riordan's voice, interrupting me.

"I do not know if Duncan had already told you, but do you know how it is that an Archdemon is slain?"

I frowned.

"No, he didn't. The dragon is immensely powerful, but ultimately it's still mortal, is it not? Cut it into two, and it will die just as any creature of flesh and blood would."

Just by looking at Riordan's face, I could tell, even before finishing my sentence, that things were not that simple.

"Alas, that is not the case."

And so Riordan laid out the truth – about how the Archdemon's soul would, when its body was destroyed, enter the nearest vessel with the darkspawn taint. How the dragon would be reborn, making it functionally immortal. How the only solution would be for a Warden to deal the killing blow, such that the Old God's soul would enter the Warden, destroying both dragon and dragon-slayer alike.

We met Riordan's revelation with a grim silence.

This changed things, drastically. Before, I had thought of Wardens merely as highly skilled warriors dedicated to stopping the Blight; now, they would be utterly indispensible in actually putting the Archdemon down. My head throbbed painfully as my mind whirled, and I tried to understand how this truth would change the strategy I had planned out for fighting a pitched battle with the Archdemon and his horde. With the Ferelden Wardens currently numbering less than my fingers, should they have to be kept safe in the backlines, rather than leading out in front, as Duncan had done at Ostagar? When the Archdemon appears, how could the Wardens be quickly deployed to where it was? For that matter, how could a non-mage Warden even harm a flying dragon, without the extinct griffons to fly and fight upon?

"... strongest reservations about letting the Orlesians..."

I must have been lost in my own thoughts, for I only just realized that the others were conversing.

And quite a heated conversation it was.

Loghain was a wearing a deep frown.

"With the aid of the mages, dwarves and elves, a Ferelden united will be capable of resisting –"

"Are you truly so blinded by hatred, Loghain, or are you merely stupid? The horde vastly outnumbers us, and any help we can get –"

Alistair was spitting daggers right back at his mortal enemy.

This wasn't good.

"Numbers are not the issue. If you've made even a cursory study of the Wardens' military campaigns during the Blight, as I have, you would know that. All that matters is for us Wardens to slay the Archdemon, after which the thaw will commence and –"

"We? We? How quickly times change, Loghain. Only yesterday you were slandering us –

Their voices were rising, as was the throbbing pressure in my head.

"Strong words from the one who chose to desert the Wardens and his oath –"

The King stood in a rage, as Loghain crossed a line he ought not have. How quickly did tempers fray, and polite conversation degenerate into this. There was the promise of violence in the air, as hands were laid on sword hilts. Anora's eyes were wide with panic. Arl Eamon's hand was on Alistair's shoulder, in an ineffectual attempt to calm him down. Riordan was seemingly unmoved, but at the corner of my eye I could see Ser Cauthrien heft the Summer Sword.

Then someone screamed.

With a deafening crack, the great oaken table split in half. What was once as strong and solid as the stone walls themselves, was now shattered timbers. The massive piece of furniture, where kings took council, was collapsed upon itself.

It was then that I realized that my fist was clenched, and my arm outstretched. The side of my palm, which I had used to strike the table, was pulsing with pain.

My throat was hoarse. The scream was mine.

I stared at the ruined table. With a curious air of detachment, I realized that I had, in a fit of rage, destroyed the table with accidental magic. How strange that knowledge was – it felt as if it was the deed of someone else.

Everyone around the table – or shall I say, what remained of the table – had their eyes on me. Shock, disbelief, fear. But mainly shock.

Slowly, that sense of detachment I felt was being replaced by a hot mix of emotions. Embarrassment, at my bout of accidental magic, when I have never before used magic other than with full conscious intent. Shame, at losing my temper. Horror, that I could lose control in such a way.

But there was nothing for it. I had no choice but to pretend that I had fully intended to do what I actually didn't. Not for the first time, I felt grateful that I had been born with a naturally inexpressive face.

I intoned, with an air of sombre dignity.

"Enough. You should all be ashamed of yourselves."

I certainly am.

"It is utterly unseemly that you should lose your tempers like children."

As I did.

"How are we going to defeat the Blight while quarrelling amongst ourselves?"

The Archdemon would piss himself laughing, if dragons could piss or laugh.

I sat back, folding my fingers together. I kept my face grave and severe, and all the while I wanted to laugh at the farcical nature of it all.

Why go to all this trouble pretending, you might ask?

Because the coalition of the unwilling that I had put together to fight the Blight may as well collapse if people started thinking – with some justification – that everything was being directed by a mentally-unstable madman. It was of paramount importance that we be united in confronting the Blight, and unity depended on their trust in me and my leadership. Whatever happened, I could not afford to let myself be doubted.

And so there I was, trying to convince some of the greatest men and women in Ferelden that I had violently destroyed the table in a casual act of intimidation, rather than in an immature fit of rage.

It was absurd. Totally and unqualifiedly so.

And yet they believed me. As I looked around at their faces, I could see that they had swallowed the lie I constructed.

For the second time that day, the weight of my reputation carried me through another difficult situation that I had caused.

Reputation's a funny thing, isn't it? After some time, people stop judging your reputation by your actions. Instead, they judge your actions by your reputation. If a man is known for his competence, then people become willing to excuse his failures as unfortunate accidents. If a man somehow obtains a reputation for honesty, then he is always given the benefit of the doubt, and the untruths he tell are treated not as lies but as sincere mistakes. Or if a man is known for his ruthless and deliberate cunning, then everything he does become interpreted through these tinted lenses – and all his actions, no matter how accidental, become thought of as purposive; all his words, no matter how casual, become thought of as clever innuendo; his mistakes, no matter how stupid, become thought of as cunning double-bluffs.

In this case, all the witnesses to my outburst were blinded by my legend and the stories told about me. They didn't believe that a man such as myself could do something as silly as throw a tantrum. And so they failed to understand the truth that their own eyes saw.

Except Alistair. He knew me long and well enough to know the truth of what just happened.

He didn't say anything, though, occupied as he was with scowling at Loghain.

The meeting continued, as if nothing had happened.

We spoke of war and peace, history and hearsay, strategy and tactics. But throughout, doubt niggled at me. If the others couldn't even see the truth when it exploded in their faces, then what else were we not seeing? What else were we blind towards? Was there some terrible secret about the Blight that was eluding us, and whose truth would mean our destruction?

-(=DAO=)-

After an interminable amount of time, the council finally concluded.

To clear my head, I went out into the palace gardens for a walk.

They were huge, as gardens went. It would have been beautiful, I suppose, had it not been the dead of winter. The winter solstice, in fact. I had forgotten, being so busy with court intrigues. But it was six months to the day I had first entered the Fade. And just as I had chosen the summer solstice as the date of my adventure into the Fade, because that was when material reality and the dream realm were closest together, and magic the strongest, the winter solstice was the day when the two worlds were furthest apart, and magic the weakest.

Your magic was still there, of course, but noticeably less powerful. Not massively so, but still. If there was a worst day for a mage such as myself to engage in a fight, this was it. The main danger was overestimating the potency of your spells, and with fights being won or lost on such fine margins, such misjudgements could prove fatal. Now that I thought about it, I wasn't sure if I could actually have made good my threat against Knight-Commander Tavish.

Perhaps Morrigan was right. Perhaps my judgement had gone to shit.

But I wasn't here to doubt myself.

I walked. My head gratifyingly emptied of all considerations of politics and war, I just enjoyed the cold air and the company of nature.

I found Leliana sitting at a stone bench under a giant evergreen.

She was looking out at a small ornamental pond. Tearing bits out of a loaf of bread, she was tossing them to the ducks in the water. I watched as a big duck shoved a small one aside, to gobble up a particularly large piece.

As was the way of the world, the strong took what they could, and the weak suffered what they must.

Ha. I really should have been getting some sleep, if I was delirious enough to start seeing universal truths in the feeding of ducks.

I joined Leliana on the cold stone bench.

We sat in comfortable silence, her feeding the ducks, me watching her.

But of course, there was business to conduct.

"So what's the news on the streets?"

I asked my question after making a cursory check that there was no one about to eavesdrop. You could never be too careful with these things.

Leliana flicked the last of the bread crumbs into the mass of ducks, and then turned to face me.

She gave a half-smile, and then spoke, in that exotic Orlesian accent of hers.

"Not good. There is still great discontent amongst the devout followers of the Maker. The rumours that the Templars were threatened have been... fanning the flames even higher."

In the wake of the Landsmeet, we had needed a better idea of public sentiment. I sent Leliana off into Denerim, while I remained stuck in the palace. Her job was to gather information, as only an Orlesian bard could.

"But, thank the Maker, things aren't as bad as they could be. At least those loyal to Loghain haven't been making too much trouble. That public apology you put him through seemed to have helped calm things down."

Mercy had its benefits, it seemed.

"As for the nobles... it's hard to say who they really support. They sway like trees to every passing political wind. I suppose we'll have to do something about them eventually."

Indeed we would. I sighed. On top of every other crisis, we would have to bring the nobility to heel.

We lapsed back into silent duck-watching.

The minutes stretched on.

"Do you ever wonder..."

I started – not at Leliana's voice, but the tone of it. Where it was calm and somewhat humourous before, it was now soft and vulnerable.

This was going to one of those kind of conversations.

"Wonder what?"

"Whether it's all worth it?"

As questions went, this was incredibly vague. But still I knew what Leliana referred to. After all, I used to ask myself that almost all the time.

I clasped my hands together as I considered my reply.

"I do."

"And?"

"And I remind myself that, yes, it was all worth it. Necessary. For the greater good."

At that last part, Leliana's lips curved up.

"And you feel no doubt at all? No regrets? No pangs of conscience?"

"Somewhat. But it's easy enough to ignore them. The withered remnants of my conscience I left in the deep roads, when I agreed to let Branka keep that thrice-damned soul-enslaving Anvil."

Leliana laughed. Not real laughter, mind you, but the sad and self-derisive sort.

"Do you remember? How we used to argue all the time about the existence of the Maker, and whether He exists? Alistair would always look so terribly confused."

Ah yes. Good times.

"Back then, my faith was so certain. So firm. Unshakeable. Now... it's hard to believe any more."

Her voiced dropped, becoming almost inaudible.

"In our travels, we've seen so much. And everywhere, evil. Such evil we've done, my friend – things that even I during my time as an amoral bard, would never have dreamt of doing.

"Why would the Maker allow such things? Why? I used to think that it was because He wanted us to be free, to make our own way in life, to choose for ourselves whether to accept his Grace or not.

"Now... I don't think I believe that anymore. It was easy to convince myself of these sweet ideas when I didn't have to stare evil in the face everyday, and do evil myself. And now... I'm back to where I was after Marjolaine. Lost and wandering and empty inside."

Her next words were barely perceptible, and I could hardly even see her lips move.

"Some days, like today, I don't even think that life is worth living. What purpose is there to it at all? Happiness, success, love... how can they matter, when we all die in the end? We're specks of dust in the vastness of the world. Easily forgotten footnotes to history. We're... bags of meat. What's the point of anything?"

In a way, it was a question being asked; but mainly it was just the cry of soundless despair being whispered into the endless void.

I tried to speak, but couldn't say anything. I didn't know what there was to say. Feebly, I muttered,

"I'm sorry. I have to get back to the palace. Things to do."

So I stood up. Leliana didn't move to stop me.

Instead of comforting my friend like I should, I fled, leaving Leliana to her thoughts and to her despair.

-(=DAO=)-

I was back in my office. Trapped in it, like a demon in hell.

At least I had good company.

Sergeant Kylon sat across me. A good man, and an extremely capable soldier, charged with the thankless task of keeping law and order in the city. My companions and I had helped him sort out a few problems in the past, and I considered him a friend.

I smiled at him. A real smile, the first one I could remember putting on that day.

I pushed the piece of paper across the table towards him.

"A commission. Signed by the King himself. For your immediate elevation to the position of Captain of the City Guard."

Sergeant Kylon looked astonished. Captain Kylon, I should say, given his promotion. When he finally found his tongue, he said,

"This is a great honour."

"But not undeserved."

With painful hesitance, Kylon reached out to touch his commissioning document.

"This is... everything I've ever wanted, but I never thought... I had been passed over many times. The nobility doesn't think much of having a commoner in charge of the City Guard."

"Too bad for them. Those inbred cousin-fucking incompetents don't run this city. I do."

We shared a laugh. Making jokes at the nobility, especially the useless ones often foisted onto Kylon and the City Watch, was a pastime of ours.

"I will repay this trust put in me. I'll keep the peace to the best of my abilities."

"That is good to hear."

And then, by unspoken agreement, we put pleasantries aside, and moved on to our real business.

"We're tripling the size of the City Guard. As it is, we have the law, and magistrates to interpret it, but no one to actually enforce it. Now, you'll finally have the men you need to institute actual rule of law in the city.

"Denerim has been especially volatile and lawless in recently. And you know better than I do, that Denerim has never exactly been a safe place. Murders and muggings and rape. You can barely walk down side alleys in broad daylight without getting attacked. We'll change that. We'll clear the back alleys. We'll make Denerim so safe a woman can walk naked from one end of the city to the other without being brutally attacked.

"And of course, I'll see to it that you get the gold you need to pay and equip and train this larger force of men."

Kylon frowned, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"That would be most welcome. There are a lot of things that we can do to make the city safer, but all those things need warm bodies to hold swords. Increased patrols, especially in the more dangerous parts of town. Heavily-armed squads that can be deployed at a moment's notice to quell any violence before they turn into riots. More time spent investigating reported crimes."

"Excellent suggestions. I'll leave it up to you, then."

Kylon knew his job. And I knew mine, well enough to know that we would all be better off if I just trusted Kylon to do his.

The newly-commissioned Captain headed out of the office, leaving me a somewhat better mood. I now had the faint hope that all my remaining meetings would go as well and as smoothly as the one with Kylon just did.

They didn't, of course.

The next man to be shown into my office was Lord Justice Lovett.

Impossibly tall, with a hooked nose and a long white beard, he carried himself with all the elegance and nobility befitting a king. The lines on his face and his obvious age only added to the impression that this here was a man of great wisdom and dignity. Indeed, he looked more the part of an all-knowing archmage than I did.

I greeted him.

"Lord Justice Lovett. Apologies for not being able to speak to you earlier in the day, but there were other demands on my time."

Like threatening old woman and breaking furniture.

The Lord Justice bowed, rigid and formal.

As he lowered himself stiffly into a chair, I considered him.

Here, at least, was a man whose support I could depend upon. He was competent, of course, as he would have to be, for Anora to have trusted him with the position he had. But more importantly, he was loyal – to Loghain, to Anora, and to their political faction.

Does it sound strange, that I was planning to depend upon the support of a man who was well known for his loyalty to my erstwhile enemies?

Let me clarify.

Broadly speaking, the court of Ferelden is divided into two factions. There is the populist faction, headed by Loghain and Anora. They are interested in furthering the interests of the common people. They represent the farmers, the workers, and the masses in general. And arrayed against the populists is the conservative faction, led by Arl Eamon, and – before his death at the hands of Arl Howe – Teyrn Bryce Cousland. They bitterly oppose any expansion of rights for the common people, and jealously guard the privileges of the nobility. They represent, not the people, but themselves.

For years, the populist faction had been on the rise. With Cailan's ascension to the throne, and the king turning out not to be interested in the actual process of government, it had fallen to Anora to rule the kingdom. And so she did – carrying out many reforms in favour of the common man. Despite her lofty position as Queen of Ferelden, and daughter and heir to the Teyrn of Gwaren, she had never forgotten her common roots, and always had the interests of the people in mind. Her father, too, born a yeoman farmer, was never anything but a champion of the people. And so the winds of progress blew, with the people of Ferelden benefiting immensely.

The conservatives didn't like this. Not one bit. The nerve those peasants had! What right had they to make demands of their betters? And Loghain! Why, the man was no more than an upjumped pig farmer raised far beyond his station by his chance friendship with Maric. And Anora! A peasant's daughter, to become the mother of kings? Inconceivable! And so on and so forth. The conservatives thought little of Loghain and Anora, and even less of the changes that they wrought on behalf of the common man. Bryce Cousland, in particular, was ever a determined foe of evils such as universal enfranchisement and new regulations upon serfdom. The conservatives hated all the reforms that Anora brought forth, and when Cailan died, they jumped at the chance to overthrow Loghain. It wasn't just outrage over what happened at Ostagar – they also saw the chance to bring back the ancient regime, and restore the powers of the aristocracy in Ferelden.

And so we rode that wave of highborn discontent – and it carried Alistair all the way to the throne. We took advantage of the nobility's anger at Loghain and Anora, and put forth Maric's bastard as our claimant. Some nobles might sneer at Alistair's parentage, but still he was seen as the lesser evil. Bastard though he may be, he still had noble blood. He was Theirin, the last of Calenhad's bloodline. I've never understood how mere birth could make you fit for ruling a kingdom, but there it was. It mattered to the nobles, and we used that to gain their support and to carry the day at the Landsmeet.

But now that Alistair was on the throne, and all power residing with him and Anora, we weren't really interested in pandering to those conservative nobles. Why would we? Their ideals weren't our ideals. I for one didn't subscribe to their snobbery and elitism and disdain for the lowborn. How strange, that men and women whose only achievement was crawling out of the correct vagina, had such breathtaking arrogance and delusions of their own superiority. Anora and I had spent long and sleepless nights before the Landsmeet discussing many things. Political theory; the nature of kingship; and the Ferelden we would make anew after the Blight was ended. We agreed on many things, disagreed on others, but were utterly united on the essential point that government is to be for the people, and not the other way around.

And so here we were. The Lord Justice sat opposite me, his back erect and his face impassive.

With my left hand, I reached out to my side and picked up the cylindrical scroll container that was propped up by my desk. Pulling the cap out with a pop, I reached into it and slid out the rolled parchment kept within. I held it out to the Lord Justice.

He took the scroll, unfurled it, and began reading. His eyes grew progressively wider as he read. He seemed almost breathless when he finished, as if he had just run the Tevinter marathon, rather than read a scroll in bad light. He cleared his throat, and said with some hoarseness,

"This is..."

"A charter of rights. Guaranteeing to every citizen of Ferelden the freedoms laid out therein. Rights to the free practice of religion, of speech, of peaceful assembly, of petition, and many more beside. But above all, the right to elect aldermen to local councils whose approval the banns must seek when important matters such as taxation are concerned.

After all, it's important that the peasants give their consent to being oppressed.

"At last, Ferelden will live up to our lofty rhetoric about freedom. People will no longer be thrown into prison for no crime but that of thought and speech. Poor farmers will not be condemned to unending servile bondage just because of bad luck and crushing taxes. Arl Eamon gave such a fine speech yesterday at the Landsmeet, about how Ferelden is the land of the free, with an ancient and proud tradition of liberty. This grand charter is the culmination of those ideals."

Ha. That reactionary hypocrite is the landowner with the largest number serfs in bondage throughout the whole of Ferelden.

"It would be best if we moved fast, so you would be wise to hire as many criers as possible, and send them into the bannorn to spread the news."

Yes, yes, let freedom ring throughout the land. And won't the peasants love King Alistair for it! Nothing helps consolidate a king's rule better than the support of the masses. Perhaps it'll even make the Banns think twice before giving us any trouble.

For a man who had finally achieved what he had worked his whole life for, Lord Justice Lovett didn't look much the happier. A frown marring his wizened and stately face, he said,

"Surely you jest, Warden. The bannorn will never swallow this. I have fought long and hard against my peers in the nobility, for greater freedoms and rights for the lowborn. But even I am not so naive as to believe that this will work. The bannorn will not bow before you and let their power be curtailed just because you write high-minded words on a piece of paper."

Please. If I tell them to, the bannorn will swallow their own piss.

I said as much to the Lord Justice, though in vastly more polite terms.

"My good Lord Justice, I think you underestimate the amount of influence we exert over the bannorn."

I pulled reached over to my right, and pulled out from under a towering stack of documents, a thick sheaf of paper.

I dropped them onto the desk. Rifling through them, I read out bits and pieces.

"Bann Eiden of Brackish Bay. He supported us at the Landsmeet. Actually, it doesn't say here why he agreed... oh, I think I remember. He's the cowardly one whom I threatened to disembowel if he didn't do as we told him to."

Pissed in his pants, actually.

"And here we have Bann Ade of Green Ridge –"

I passed some of the documents to the Lord Justice. His eyebrows rose as he read through all the salacious details of the Bann's sexual escapades.

"– who agreed to support us in return for our silence and discretion in these matters."

Sex with prostitutes. With little boys. With animals, even. In Ferelden it's common enough to joke about the strange sexual fetishes of the nobles, but even in my most fantastical dreams I wouldn't think that a man could enjoy having a cow shit on him.

"We also have Bann Euls, who was so deeply in debt that he was almost hysterically happy when we offered to void them in return for his vote.

"So you see, Lord Justice, we will have enough support amongst the bannorn to make this work. Between the Queen's faction, and our friends –"

Here I patted the stack of incriminating documents.

"– we will have enough support to push this through."

The Lord Justice's lip was a thin line of disapproval.

"You are talking of bribery. Blackmail. Naked threats of violence."

I shrugged, and said mildly,

"The price we pay to bring about the greater good. Do you disapprove?"

The Lord Justice looked down at the table, seemingly struggling with his conscience, before looking up and shaking his head.

"No. It is distasteful. But we will do what must be done."

A man after my own heart!

"Excellent. Then I take it you will get the charter officially announced and promulgated?"

The Lord Justice shook his head.

"The banns are but one problem. There are many others. For instance, the magistrates, both the ones sitting in cities and towns, as well as the ones travelling circuit through the bannorn. It is upon them that we will rely to enforce these rights. It is they who will have to restrain the banns from any abuse of power.

"And yet these magistrates are all, to the man, drawn from the nobility! They utterly despise the idea of rights and freedoms for the common people! Even if we make this charter the law of the land, it cannot make a difference to the common man if the courts refuse to enforce them, and they won't, because this entire proposal is predicated upon the nobility. crippling. themselves!"

The Lord Justice made his point most emphatically, stabbing his fingers into the table.

Good points, all. Anora herself raised them, during those long discussions we had.

Brilliant woman, Anora.

And together, we came up with an elegant, if radical solution, to the problem of obstructionist judges.

I reached out again to my leaning tower of documents, and extracted a single piece of paper.

Handing it to the Lord Justice, I said,

"This is a list. Of all the recent graduates of the University of Orlais. Graduates from the fields of law. Of philosophy. Of history. Intelligent men all, by every account, and of liberal sentiments. But unable to find work, except in relatively menial fields like scrivening, because of their own lowborn status and because of the recent political climate of distrust against all things Orlais."

The Lord Justice looked pensive. He could see where this was going.

"We can replace the current crop of judges with these men, who will be vastly more sympathetic to our cause.

"It will take time, of course. We can ease these men in through several rounds of appointments, and then when we've packed the courts with these liberals, we can institute lifetime tenure. By the time the conservatives have woken up to this, it will be far too late for them to do anything."

The Lord Justice nodded slowly. He mused,

"Teyrn Loghain would never have stood for this, but then he was never the fairest-minded man when it came to Orlais."

Quite an understatement. Loghain wouldn't piss on an Orlesian even if he were on fire.

"Right. Is that it, as problems go?"

The Lord Justice laughed.

"Not quite. There's still the more fundamental problem of whether the creation of these local councils will actually do the average farmer or worker any good. In all likelihood, these elections, if not ruined outright by fraud, will be bought by local merchants."

Not unlike how I bought the Landsmeet result, come to think it.

It was a fair concern. Annoying, that I hadn't thought of it.

I ran my hand through my head, frowning, as I tried to think of a solution.

"Perhaps... closed ballots? It's sometimes been used by the Circle of Magi in the election of the Grand Enchanter, I think. Instead of everyone voting openly, say by a show of hands, scraps of parchment with candidates' names are handed out, and electors will simply make a mark against their choice, and then put their votes into a box. And if no one can tell who you're supporting, there'll be no point to bribery. Would there?"

I trailed off.

The Lord Justice didn't look terribly convinced by my answer.

"Perhaps that will prevent the inevitable corruption. Perhaps not. But I suppose, corruption or no, giving the people a voice in their own government is worthwhile."

We sorted out some remaining administrative trivialities, and then I had my assistant show the Lord Justice out.

I rubbed my eyes. My exhaustion really was wearing me down. I decided that the next appointment would be the last for the day. It was the only one left that was of any real importance, anyway. The rest could wait for tomorrow.

My next, and last visitor, was brought in. And where the Lord Justice was old and worldly, the man before me was young and rather callow looking. I could hardly believe that he was the Lord Chancellor.

"Lord Chancellor Hosburne. It is late, so I will keep this meeting brief."

Even then something about the man bothered me. The nervous way he twitched. The incessant blinking, perhaps.

"The Queen and I discussed this at length, and because she is busy planning her upcoming nuptials, she has delegated me to give you these instructions. With the current economic recession and so many people out of work, the Crown has to act. We – that is to say, you – will be releasing the funds needed to finance public works, which will put men back into employment, and in turn further stimulate moribund public demand. More importantly, you will declare a temporary elimination of taxes on all basic foodstuff, including the tarrifs on grain imports at Amaranthine and all our other ports. You will also instruct the Treasury to reduce the discount rate on the loans we are making to the banks, and lean on them to in turn reduce the interest rates on their own loans to the merchants.

"With any luck, this should be sufficient to bring the unemployment levels down, and to get grain imported into the country."

I left it unspoken that if we didn't manage the latter, the ensuing food riots would crush this government, and with it, any hope of stopping the Blight.

"As for the gold you'll need to..."

I stopped. I felt a sinking sensation in my gut as I slowly realized what exactly it was about this man that bothered me.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

The short pause that followed, before the man blurted out reassurances of his understanding, told me all that I needed to.

I could feel my headache getting worse.

"Then, my Lord, perhaps you'll be so kind as to tell me why an accounting identity holds between spending in the economy and the level of income?"

The silence was deafening.

"Or the difference between the price of a bond and its discount rate?"

I wanted to stab myself in the face.

"Perhaps, at least, you know the effects of eliminating the Amaranthine import tariffs on grain?"

That last question was one asked in desperation. So most appropriately, the young and callow Lord Chancellor made an equally desperate stab at answering it. Hesitantly, and in a way that screamed uncertainty, he murmured,

"It reduces the Crown's receipt of taxes?"

Maker help me. If I were a religious man, I would go so far to say that I was being punished for my sins. As the saying goes: When He wants to punish us, He sends us clever enemies, and stupid friends.

My head throbbed. Here I was, looking forward to dinner and a good night's sleep, and the last meeting of the day might as well turn out to be the most trying one.

How on earth was this incompetent in charge of His Majesty's Chancellery? The extent of this man's experience with finance probably started and ended with buying expensive clothes. He was, at least, dressed impeccably in the richest of garments.

I frowned, trying to think of any possible reason why such an obviously useless man had been trusted with shepherding the country's economy through these dark and troubled times.

I recalled us making a deal with Bann Hosburne of Balemont, but not much more than that. Anora had handled the finer details of that particular bit of chicanery. But if the man before me was any indication, the deal had involved elevating Bann Hosburne's useless son and heir to the lofty and powerful position of Lord Chancellor. Perhaps Anora had been expecting to handle much of the governing anyway. Perhaps she was confident that this fool couldn't do much damage if she was there to hold his hand. But the Queen was busy, so it fell to me to be the wet nurse.

In an ideal world, I would throw this man off Fort Drakon and replace him with someone of actual competence. But of course the world was no more an ideal than it was a fairytale. I couldn't just replace the Lord Chancellor a day after his appointment. Replaced after a month, it might look as if he was an incompetent. Replaced after a day, and it would be the King looking a clueless fool for appointing him in the first place. Besides, we couldn't risk antagonizing Bann Hosburne at such a delicate time.

Which left me wielding a butter knife when I needed a sword.

Ah well. We made do with the tools we had. Even the dullest knife can be honed and sharpened.

I flung out one hand towards the bookshelf on my right. Twitching my fingers, I made a massive tome fly off the shelf, and into my open palm.

I slammed Kaynz's Principles of Commerce down onto the table, and flipped it open.

I turned the book around, and stabbed down at a particular diagram.

"This is a model of..."

Inwardly, I sighed. It was a long day, with still no end in sight.

-(=DAO=)-

The darkness of the night sky was swallowing the light of the setting sun. I stepped out onto the balcony, and the cold night wind chilled me. Below, the gardens of the palace were near invisible, with the moon being hidden behind clouds.

Loghain was there, looking out into the darkness. There was an terrible, poetic irony to it all. Early this morning, Alistair had been standing in the very same spot that Loghain now occupied. The one my friend, the other my enemy. The former had left my party, enraged at me sparing the latter, and his replacement was the very man he loathed.

All this was lost on Loghain, but it gnawed at me as I stood beside the man.

Loghain turned toward me, and said with the air of a man weary with the world,

"I passed your test. Fate has a twisted sense of humour, it seems.

"I suppose you think I'm some sort of monster. More so since I survived your ritual: you keep striking at me, and I just refuse to die decently."

I laughed. Loghain's bluntness was refreshing after a whole day of lies and half-lies. Refreshing, but also dead wrong.

"Don't flatter yourself, Loghain. If I had wanted you dead, the insides of your face would even now be decorating the walls of the Landsmeet."

Most men would have trembled at words such as these, from a man such as me.

But Loghain was not most men. He merely snorted.

"I suppose that's true. And then why, may I ask, am I not dead? Why, as you put it so imaginatively, and I not a red stain on the Landsmeet tapestries?

"What do you want, Warden? I don't imagine you spared my life by accident, or out of the kindness of your heart. You have some plan in mind."

Of course. I looked up at the moon, emerging from behind the clouds, and considered my reply.

"I thought my reasons were quite transparent. I didn't think that killing you would end the civil war. No matter the outcome of the Landsmeet, many people, especially the lowborn soldiers, respected you personally. If I had killed you, the civil war may well have raged on, with more people flocking to the banners of those who cried out for revenge for the martyred hero. My way was better – you said some pretty words about being sorry, and then magically the civil war ended. And against that, what good would killing you have done? Justice? Please."

Loghain nodded, slowly.

"Your candor, Warden, is inspiring. Let me follow your example: You and I have been adversaries for some time, and I don't expect that to change now.

"Despite what we each wanted, we're both here now, facing the same enemy, and we can be of use to one another. However little we may enjoy that fact."

I inclined my head, in agreement.

"It doesn't matter if we don't enjoy it. I don't enjoy any of the things I do. But I do them nonetheless, because they are necessary."

Loghain looked contemplative – almost philosophical – as he considered my words.

"Then I suppose the greatest irony is that despite all our differences, we two are not so very different, after all. We're both willing to make the hard choices. To do what must be done."

He looked out in the darkness. When he spoke, his voice was level, but even so there was a slight edge to it.

"Everything I did was for Ferelden. For what I thought were in its best interests. You are young, Warden. You did not have the misfortune of living under Orlesian rule. What I saw, then... I do not know how to describe it, except by the word evil. Old men beaten to death by masked Orlesian lords. Children whose hands were publicly cut off for stealing some bread. Women, raped and then killed... as their families watched. Hatred doesn't come close to describing what I felt for it all. There is nothing I will not do to prevent Ferelden from falling victim to that evil again. Nothing."

His conviction was admirable. But it is not easy to forget Loghain's crimes, and I couldn't resist making a jibe.

"Even selling Alienage elves into slavery?"

The silence was chilling.

Well, here was yet another similarity to my earlier conversation with Alistair – my inability to stop being antagonistic. Poking at Loghains' wounds gained me nothing – not even amusement – and I did it anyway. Morrigan's words about bad judgement floated into my mind.

But Loghain merely sighed.

"Believe it or not, I regret that. But the past is the past, no matter how much regret weighs us down.

"And you, Warden? Is there nothing you regret?"

My answer was clear and assured.

"Yes and no. I regret that circumstances were difficult – that they made doing evil necessary to preventing greater evils. But I do not regret that I did what I did, given those circumstances – and if given the chance to do things again, my choices would remain the same."

Loghain had a strange look on his face. Slowly, it dawned on me that he was impressed.

"You are strong, Warden. Stronger than me. Who knows; perhaps you'll be strong enough to end even the Blight itself."

We watched the moon in the sky. What a strange world we live in. My most bitter enemy stood by me like an old friend, and it felt nothing but comfortable.

-(=DAO=)-

A/N (31-08-2014):

4. Second of three parts. Third and final part will be out by mid-late September.