…
Fate can seem a cruel master, and many men choose to blame it for their pain. But let me tell you a little secret, child: Fate is not cruel, nor does it care to be any man's master.
Cruelty is the domain of men alone, and few men are so cruel as those who seek selfish ends, even in the face of annihilation. I laugh at their foolishness, these men who ignore the Blight's evil, who abandon their vigilance and their precious honor, to pursue mortal goals.
Such men – so short-sighted, so blind – they will be the first to drown in the storm that is coming. And for my part, I welcome their drowning. The world is already overburdened by fools.
For young Liam, however, I fear there would be little solace in my predictions, even if he could hear them.
Though he is wise for his years, wisdom is cold comfort in the face of his loss, pain the like of which few men ever know. Indeed, fate has gifted him with pain enough for a life time. But pain is not fate's only gift to Liam Cousland.
No, he has been gifted with rage, as well. Rage enough within to temper into a blade of fine steel, a sword of vengeance with which to carve the bloody path laid out before him.
But let us leave him now, child, however briefly, to nurse his pain and his rage. We must look elsewhere.
Fate has many gifts to bestow, upon many people, and many paths that have been set in motion will soon be joined.
INTERLUDE
Death and Politics
After centuries empty and abandoned, the fortress at Ostagar had found renewed purpose in the face of the darkspawn horde, and now teemed again with life. Soldiers by the thousands camped between crumbling fortifications, their tents filling the ruins and spilling into the valley below.
Along with the soldiers came all the trapping of an army: banners and war horns; ballista and catapults and attending crews of engineers; a contingent of battle mages from the Circle, watched over by their Templar handlers; Chantry priestesses offering reassurances and blessings and last rites; and all the rest of the hangers on, from message runners and dog handlers to merchants and prostitutes, none of them very good; and, of course, the nobility, in their fine tents and finer silks, foolishly awaiting the glory of war.
So many people, and yet Zevran thought he could scarcely imagine a lonelier place.
The stones were old here, old beyond imagining, laid one upon the other by slaves at the height of the Tevinter Imperium's long lost Golden Age. The Imperial Highway, stretching across continents to the faraway Tevinter capital in Minrathous, was built in the same era, and it reached its end at Ostagar, once the furthest terminus of the Imperium's power. In those days, Ostagar had been one of the most important holdings south of the Waking Sea, the last bastion of civilization before the Wilds began. It must have been breathtaking then, before its arches of gleaming white stone were dulled by time, before the turquoise tiles fell from its enormous domed roofs and shattered on the hard ground, before the names of magisters memorialized by marble statues were lost to time, before its highest tower was occupied by birds and rats. Yes, it would have been a sight to behold in those long-lost days.
But then came the First Blight, and the Imperium was brought to its knees. To consolidate what power remained after the First Blight was finally ended, Tevinter withdrew from its southern holdings, Ostagar among them. As the centuries passed, the fortress saw occasional use, occupied for a few months a year by enterprising Ferelden banns or opportunistic Chasind wilders, but no permanent claim was ever laid, and no effort was ever made to slow the decay of time's inexorable march.
So the emptiness soaked into the old fortress, until loneliness became part of its character. The stones and tiles were all grey now, betraying no hints of their former colors, and lichen had spread across most of the flat surfaces, its sickly green the only break from the dreary monotone. The bones of the fortress still stood, a testament to Imperial industry, but they rose from alpine forest like a wind-worn skeleton, as much a part of the landscape as the steep, bare hills, or the valley that cut between them, splitting the fortress in two.
Zevran himself was high above the valley, on a long stone bridge that linked the two sides. Although he was neither a human nor the least bit Ferelden, Zevran had taken great pains to appear as both. He wore nondescript leather armor beneath a thick wool coat, and carried pair of short swords, worn crossed at his back, that were serviceable but completely uninspired. With his hood pulled forward to disguise his features, his elven ears, and, above all, the dark, curved tattoos that framed each side of his face, he could pass all but the closest of inspections and appear to be one of the many scouts in the King's employ.
Hundreds of feet below, a solid stone bulwark connected each of the bridge's thick supporting columns, blockading the narrow pass through the valley's steep, natural walls. The Ferelden commanders had felled every tree within a thousand feet of the bridge, and used the wood to supplement the bulwark with palisades and firing platforms. They had dug trenches as well, and laid small forests of wooden spikes to funnel any attacker through narrow killing fields.
Though not a soldier himself, Zevran could not imagine a location more unassailable than the one the Ferelden army had created for itself. He was told they faced a host of darkspawn at least five times their number, but if he were among them, he would have felt confident – arrogant, even, assured of victory. Indeed, his sources had relayed that the Ferelden army had already held off two concerted attacks by sizeable forces of darkspawn while suffering virtually no casualties.
And yet every sentry he passed watched him go with haunted eyes and grim expressions, as though their position was untenable and their doom unavoidable. Not a good spirit for an army, no matter how strong their position.
It would be easy to blame their mood on the darkspawn threat, of course. He hadn't seen one of the beasts himself, but he'd heard they were at once fearsome and hideous, a twisted perversion of the natural order. Worse still, he was told, no matter how many fell in each assault, their numbers were always replenished within hours. All the same, Zevran didn't believe the darkspawn were the root of the soldiers' unease.
It was this place. It was empty, and desolate, and cold, and every noise echoed endlessly, as though the valley itself were a mausoleum.
He would not be sorry to leave, and in fact he hoped to do so very soon.
Once across the bridge, Zevran immediately stepped off of the worn dirt path that would have led him up a gentle slope, into the center of King Cailan's camp. Instead, he made a hard left, ducking between two fir trees and walking along the crest of a hill so steep it was almost a cliff, dropping away into the valley below.
Concealed now by the terrain and by thick, hardy underbrush, Zevran threw back the hood, revealing long hair, so blond it was almost silver, and handsome, haughty features. It was not the most cautious thing to do, but any guards who came upon him now would have to die, whether they recognized him as an outsider or not. His employer required the strictest discretion, as his employers always did.
After following the valley's edge for a bit less than a quarter mile, he reached a stone outcropping onto which a watchtower had been built when the fortress was still occupied. The tower's roof was only half-decayed, and the army had taken advantage of the partial shelter to store grain, oil, and other perishables within. Two ballistae had been set up on the far side of the tower, aimed down into the valley below, but neither their crews nor the tower guards were anywhere to be seen.
"Hello!" Zevran called out, the faintest of smirks playing at the corner of his lip.
He hoped to bother the humans. Yelling would fly in the face of their dour conviction and their cloak-and-dagger pretentions, which quite delighted Zevran. After all, just because he was good at his job didn't mean he had to take any part of it seriously, employers included.
"Hello!" he called again. "Anyone there?"
The woman stepped through a stone archway on the side of the watchtower. If she was his contact, her name was Cauthrien, although she would want to be called Ser Cauthrien, in the Ferelden fashion.
Although her face was pulled tight into a scowl, Zevran thought immediately that she was pretty – or pretty at least by the questionable standards one had to apply in this strange country. More interesting than her features, however, was the way in which she carried herself, every inch a warrior. She wore plate armor and carried a broadsword on her back, but as she walked toward him, she was light on her feet, evincing none of the discomfort so often observed when the nobility decided to put aside their finery and dress for battle.
"Must you alert the entire valley, elf?" she asked, with more scorn than concern.
"My dear lady, I was only seeking to determine whether you had forgotten about me," Zevran said, bowing with a flourish. He was told his Antivan accent struck most Fereldens as exotic, perhaps even romantic, an impression he preferred to encourage. It tended to put people off their guard, women especially, and if it also endeared him to them, then so much the better.
Upon righting himself, he found that Cauthrien had been joined by a man perhaps twenty years her senior. His face was angular and weathered, lines beginning to crease deeply at the corners of dark, piercing eyes, and his black hair showed the first signs of grey. Despite his age, he remained an imposing figure, a portrait of stern Ferelden pragmatism. This impression was enhanced by his armor, which was ornate and polished to a sheen, yet clearly not merely ornamental: deep scores pockmarked the breastplate, which could otherwise have doubled as a mirror, and long scrapes crisscrossed the enormous pauldrons, testimony to blows barely survived.
Zevran had never met the man, but he recognized him immediately: Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, Hero of the River Dane. He had wondered, occasionally, why the Fereldens so idolized the Teyrn, but now he thought he knew.
Not one to let such a compliment show on his face, Zevran glanced back and forth across the stark landscape with an exaggeratedly critical eye. "This meeting place you have chosen, it's so dreary," he continued, still addressing Cauthrien. "I was afraid I might become lonely."
Lonely like the stones, he thought, but kept it to himself.
"Your silver tongue impresses no one," she said, and she really did sound unimpressed.
"Oh, I know several someones who would beg to differ," Zevran said, and winked. "At least, where my tongue is concerned."
"More to the point," Loghain said, his voice deep and gravelly, "your tongue is not why your organization was hired. Dispense with the act, Crow, and tell us why you're here."
"Elf… Crow…" Zevran echoed, trying to sound hurt. "Don't any of you want to call me by my name?"
"You didn't tell us your name," Loghain replied, "and neither did your masters."
"Not to bicker over the finer points, but they are not my masters," Zevran said.
"I really don't care," Loghain replied evenly.
"Very well then." Zevran reached into the pockets of his cloak and withdrew a roll of parchments, sealed with cheap red wax and tied tight with rough twine. "Here are the documents you sought, my good Teyrn."
Zevran extended papers toward Loghain, but Cauthrien stepped between them, taking the papers herself.
"And the courier?" she asked.
"Easy enough to spot," Zevran said. "An Orlesian chevalier, as you said, dressed as a refugee. He was not particularly well disguised, and anyway, he was going the wrong direction for a fleeing peasant. He put up quite a fight once I cornered him."
"You faced a chevalier, alone?" Loghain asked skeptically.
"Indeed. Fighting is my chosen art. Well, fighting and love-making. Fighting, and love-making, and witty retorts."
Loghain grunted, nodding his head slightly, and there was an odd, grudging sort of respect in the gesture.
"Were you able to take him alive?" Cauthrien pressed.
"Dear lady! Did you not hear me say he was a chevalier? Even if we had been able to do so, it would have been fruitless. Breaking a chevalieris almost as difficult as breaking a Crow, and, I do not mean to brag, but we simply cannot be broken."
Cauthrien glared, clearly unimpressed. "Can we trust you did not read them, at least?" she asked, handing the papers, seal unbroken, back to Loghain.
"Are you trying to insult me?" Zevran asked, arching both his thin eyebrows in feigned shock.
"She is not familiar with your organization," Loghain interrupted.
"Evidently," Zevran sniffed.
"And what of the other matter?" the Teyrn asked.
Although neither contract had come directly from Loghain, or from Cauthrien, for that matter, Zevran knew exactly what he was asking after.
"It is done, as we were instructed. With the help of your friend in the templar order, my associates were able to locate a suitable Apostate ten days past."
"Any templar who aided you is no friend of mine," Loghain corrected, contempt in his voice. "Such a man is an oath breaker. He may have been useful to my cause, indirectly, but if I ever learn who he is, he'll receive the just reward due any traitor."
The templar was one of Arl Howe's friends, not Teyrn Loghain's, Zevran decided. Odd bedfellows, the two of them. Or perhaps not so odd. Rigid, determined men of principle always needed at least one weasel in their inner circle, someone willing to dirty their hands a bit.
"Odd to take affront at oath breakers," Zevran said, "and yet enlist the aid of apostates, if you will permit me to say so."
"We will not permit it," Cauthrien snapped, with such conviction that Zevran suspected she had been thinking the same thing. "I've no interest in an assassin's moralizing."
"And now you wound me again, dear lady," Zevran said, thinking that Cauthrien really was a singular woman. She had a certain spark about her, the fire of conviction, and he didn't doubt this fierce energy would accompany her to bed. A fool's fancy, of course. The limits of time and circumstance would prevent any attempt at seduction, but Zevran believed himself a dreamer, and knew himself a fool.
"It's no business of yours, Crow," Loghain said, "but there is nothing I would not do for my homeland."
"An admirable sentiment, then," Zevran replied agreeably. "Clearly, I misspoke earlier. Perhaps I should have said, your connections within the Templar order. But, no matter. I met with this boy, Jowan, the apostate. He is a rather timid young man, but he has recently found it within himself to escape from the Circle Tower in Lake Calenhad. He has been provided with the references and letters my brothers received from your Arl Howe, and assured that the Templars will not interfere with his task."
"And he made it to Redcliffe safely?"
"Yes, yes. Have no fear, we have taken care of everything you desire."
"This is not what I desire," Loghain growled. "None of this."
"Ahhh. Forgive me. It seems I cannot cease putting my foot in my mouth today. Perhaps you will allow me to explain my blundering? Assassination in Antiva is a tradition, you see. It is more efficient than an election, as we say. 'Death and politics go together like kissing and lovemaking.' It costs a great deal depending on how experienced the Crow is…and how difficult the target is to kill…but it is an accepted part of government, nothing to be ashamed of."
"Arl Eamon is not to be killed, Crow. Surely Howe told your masters this?"
"Of course, of course," Zevran said, waving the concern away. These Fereldens really did insist on misinterpreting every word out of his mouth, didn't they? It was easy to see why some called them dog lords. "I only meant to illustrate the difference in our perspectives, yours and mine, not to comment on this particular contract. The apostate understands the parameters of his task, and the consequences should he stray too far."
"He had best." Loghain was staring at Zevran evenly. "He will not be the only one to suffer consequences if any harm comes to Eamon."
Zevran actually chuckled. He couldn't help himself. "I certainly would not wish to draw your wrath, Lord Teyrn. But surely you do not expect the Crows to be responsible for any unintended results, when it was our explicit instruction, from your pet Arl, to seek out an apostate capable of blood magic?"
"Have a care with your tone, elf," Cauthrien said, and her hand drifted to her the hilt of her sword. "Remember to whom you speak!"
Oh, yes, she would be fun in bed! Alas…
"I only meant that we can guarantee no results in this sort of – how best to put this? Ah, delicate – situation."
"So noted," Loghain said. "Your masters can expect the rest of their payment once the apostate's work is done."
"Then we are finished here, yes?" Zevran asked.
"Actually, we may have further need of you, before this over," Loghain said. "I've already made arrangements to pay an additional retainer to your masters."
Zevran sighed. "Again, they are not my masters."
Loghain ignored him. "Send your companions to Denerim. You will go to Redcliffe. I want you to check up on this apostate, the boy you found. I require confirmation of his success, or failure. If you believe the situation beyond his control, kill him. If he has failed, kill him. Come to think of it, if he is no longer needed –"
"Yes, yes," Zevran interrupted. "It goes without saying."
"Very well. Once you're satisfied, join your companions in Denerim and await further instruction. This nastiness should be over within a week, two at the most, but we may yet have need of your skills."
"It will be my pleasure, of course," Zevran said, and it wasn't entirely a lie. Denerim wasn't Antiva, but compared to the rest of Ferelden, it was almost civilized. If nothing else, you could find decent spirits and pretty tavern wenches to woo, and, really, what else could one ask for?
"Once I return to the capital, one of my agents will send word," Loghain said. "I presume they'll be able to locate you in the usual places?"
"Of course. In fact, I think I will be on my way to one of the 'usual places' immediately. I could use some rest and relaxation after the events of the last few days, and Redcliffe is such a long journey." Zevran bowed again. This time, as he straightened, he winked at Cauthrien. "Unless I could interest you in any other services, dear lady?"
Beyond a brief glare, she did not dignify him with any response, which was as he'd expected. Seeing her brows knit together in anger while her cheeks flushed red in the cold air was prize enough.
Rather than wait to be dismissed, Zevran turned and began to walk back the way he had come, through the dark stands of trees, toward the bridge. As he did, he caught of a flash of light in the corner of his eye, armor glinting under the dim sun. It came from further up the slope, along the path that Loghain and Cauthrien would have taken from the king's camp.
Zevran raised his hood to cover his face, before shifting slightly to study the intruders. There were three of them, young knights mounted on horseback, bearing the king's colors. Shifting further, Zevran looked back toward Loghain, hoping to get a better read the situation.
Secrecy was absolutely paramount, implied in any contract entered into by the Crows, and if Loghain required it, Zevran would be honor bound to kill the knights, or die trying. Probably die trying. Skilled though he was, Zevran entertained no illusions about his own limitations, and taking on three armored, mounted knights in an open area would be all but suicide.
"Ser Elric!" Loghain called out, waving at the knights. "Are you searching for me?"
"My lord Teyrn," called back one of the knights, the one most gaudily ornamented with the king's colors. "King Cailan requests your presence in the camp. And Ser Cauthrien as well."
Loghain and Ser Cauthrien began to climb toward the night, and as they did, Loghain gestured fractionally with his hand, directing Zevran to continue on his way.
It was no small relief. Zevran did not particularly like himself – not when he really thought about it, at least – but he was not in possession of a death wish.
"Oh indeed?" Loghain called back to the knight. "Have the scouts returned, then?"
"They have," Elric replied, barely having to raise his voice as as Loghain and Cauthrien drew nearer to the riders.
Since Zevran was walking steadily away, and had to strain to hear the next words.
"The troops from Highever are arriving, as well," Elric continued. "Not a moment too soon. The scouts think there will be another incursion tonight…"
Whatever Loghain said in reply, Zevran did not hear, nor was it any of his concern. He would be gone, and happily so, long before night fell and the darkspawn again tested themselves against the fortifications. The creatures could have this place so far as he was concerned. It seemed a fitting home for them: cold, and empty, and forgotten.
Then again, he supposed the beasts would not be content if this ghostly fortress were their only prize, and he had no wish to meet them in Denerim, let alone to see their evil spread to his own homeland. So, as he walked he muttered a silent prayer, asking the Maker not only to speed him on his way, but also to bless the Ferelden troops who would soon fight again to defend this lonely fortress, in this bleakest of wildernesses.
…
From the small dock at the edge of Highever's port district, Hahren Sarethia could see the smoke, still curling up from the castle's inner ward a full five days after the battle. Her watchers told her that buildings in the inner and outer wards still smoldered, as did sections of the western district, where the fighting between Arl Howe's troops and Highever's militia had been fiercest.
She was told that whispers swept around the city, claiming the fires still burnt because they'd set by magic. The constables and militia were all missing or dead, along with the Cousland family guard, but there were servants, and tradesmen, and dockworkers, and a dozen others who swore they'd seen mages in the midst of the battle. Whether the sorcerers fought for Highever or Amaranthine was the subject of much debate in the backs of taverns and under the cover of alleys.
Many of the humans, fickle as they were, echoed the official account put forth by Highever's new regent, Arl Rendon Howe. His version of events, posted on the chanter's boards and announced by the city's criers, held that the invaders had actually been a tribe of Chasind Wilders, and that the mages were Wilder apostates.
In this fanciful revision of the facts, Howe's troops from Amaranthine had arrived in the nick of time, barely able to save the city, yet tragically too late to save the Couslands, who perished heroically while fighting for their subjects.
It was clever, she supposed, preying as it did on fear of the strange southerling refugees, and catering to the city's adoration of the Cousland family.
Whether or not the humans actually believed this drivel, Sarethia had no idea. Shemlen were hard for her to read, despite having lived around them all her life. She could understand they would all have to pretend to believe Howe's tale, if they wanted to survive. They had much to lose. So much, in fact, that she suspected many of the humans would delude themselves, if they hadn't already, and accept lies as truth. Humans were good at that.
Not so the elves.
Oh, she and her people knew how to be obsequious. They knew to nod deferentially, to keep quiet when it was expected, to pay lip service to whatever falsehoods were being foisted upon them. But this was a survival mechanism, so deeply ingrained that even under the gentle rule of Teyrn and Teyrna Cousland, the appearance of subservience came second nature.
Of self-deception, however, they would not partake. Unlike the humans, the elves would carry the truth in their hearts, nurturing its flame. If necessary, if justice was not done in their lifetimes, they would pass it on to their children's children. So long as the Alienage still stood, Teyrn and Teyrna Cousland would be remembered.
So, too, would Arl Howe be remembered, and gods help him if he ever stumbled into the Alienage with too light a guard...
…
Arl Howe had wasted no time initiating reprisals. They began the afternoon after the castle fell, and Sarethia was not surprised.
It could not have taken long for Howe and his agents to discover that Oren and Liam Cousland were not among the dead. Nor would it have been difficult to read the signs and determine they had escaped by the servants' exit. Use of the servant's exit alone was enough to cast suspicion on the Alienage, but the armed elves who died beside human guards defending the Teyrn and Teyrna would be seen as proof.
In keeping with Howe's cover story of an attack by Wilders, the guardsmen were afforded all respects, their bodies given over to families for last rites and burial or cremation. No such treatment for the fallen elves, however. No, they were made into examples. Their bodies were mutilated, ears and hands hacked off. Signs were tied around their necks, decreeing just punishment for elves found carrying arms. Then they were hung in the center of the Alienage, from the branches of the vhenadahl.
To sully the vhenadahl was a desecration, a deliberate provocation. So too was the slander of the dead. In other Alienages, perhaps such an act might have gone unanswered, but too many of Sarethia's friends and neighbors had forgotten what life was like under other rulers, or were too young to have known at all, and stones were thrown at the Amaranthine soldiers. The troops responded with crossbow bolts, killing six in the crowd and wounding scores more.
In the human districts, Howe's agents spread word the elves had aided the Wilders, not the guards. Angry mobs formed at the Alienage gates, crying out for blood, screaming accusations of treason. For several hours, until Howe's troops reluctantly cleared the rioters, Sarethia feared a pogrom.
Before sunset, Sarethia herself was arrested, taken and questioned for hours by a big shem with an Antivan accent. Within the confines of the interrogation, there were no pretenses about Chasind Wilders or bands of apostates. The Antivan demanded to know if she or any of her people helped Oren and Liam escape. Had they sheltered them? Guided them? Did they hide them still? What about the Grey Wardens? There were other questions, too, about the elves who had fought beside the guards, and the elves who had thrown the rocks, and about how much misery Sarethia was willing to see inflicted on her people, on her knife ears, before she told the truth?
Despite the rage burning in her heart, she answered the questions respectfully, in an even tone. To her surprise, the Antivan never laid a hand on her. Throughout the questioning, Arl Howe wandered in and out, listening sometimes for only a moment, sometimes for several minutes, but never speaking to her or the Antivan, until the moments before her release.
"The attack by the Wilders was a tragedy," he'd said coolly, staring into her eyes, daring her to contradict him. "But we must move forward, you and I. And you, Hahren, must understand that I do not hold to all the same views as the previous Teyrn. You would do well to keep your people in check."
Sarethia bowed her head in submission. "May we remove our dead from the vhenadahl?" she asked quietly, without looking up.
"They will remain until they fall," he answered nonchalantly, as though he spoke of leaves, not bodies. "They aided the Chasind barbarians in murdering your Teyrn's family, did they not? I'm sure you had nothing to do with such treachery yourself, but certainly there are those in your Alienage who did. No, the bodies will remain, as a reminder of the consequences of treason, and any attempt to remove them will also be an act of treason. Am I understood?"
"My lord," she said, and she thanked her ancestors that she had known cruel masters before, because it was only the weight of past experience that allowed her to maintain her docile facade.
She was released then, unharmed, her lies undiscovered.
Only after night fell, and Varren assured her that the last of Howe's agents had left the Alienage, did she dare to venture back to visit the child. She had not been sure then if he would live or die. He was feverish, his wounds infected, his body weakened by the loss of blood. Poor, sweet Iona had done well, cauterizing the deep cuts, but it was a miracle Master Oren had not been killed immediately, and a miracle again that he had lived through the shock of the hot iron pressed into the gashes, and a miracle thrice over that he still clung to live during the fighting and the long descent to the Alienage.
In Sarethia's experience, the world did not offer many miracles, least of all to the innocent, and she had truly believed he would die before the next day broke. But the old human woman, the retired nanny who ran the kitchen and called the elves rabbits, refused to be separated from the child, praying over him almost without ceasing. Across the Alienage, others prayed as well, those few that Sarethia both trusted and needed. Some prayed to the Maker, while others prayed to the old gods, and still others, she guessed, prayed to both.
Sarethia didn't know whether it was luck or divine providence, but Oren lived through the night, and the next one as well. He showed no sign of waking, but his fever cooled and his breathing became less ragged, and the old human woman finally allowed herself to sleep. With every hour the boy's strength returned, and, gradually, Sarethia's thoughts turned to arranging for Oren's escape.
…
When the Wardens fled to the Alienage the night of the attack, Liam Cousland had at first refused to leave Oren in her care, demanding to remain until his nephew returned to health or passed away. Varren told him it would safer to hide a small boy than a grown man, and the leader of the Wardens had insisted that they could not wait, but neither argument had swayed Ser Liam.
Sarethia knew enough of the lad, however, to believe that even in his grief, he could be persuaded, and so she had sworn, first upon her ancestors, and then upon the vhenadahl, that she would protect Master Oren with her life.
When this wasn't enough to sway him, Varren whispered news of Iona's death, and although it broke Sarethia's heart, she reminded Ser Liam that she had known his lover since the girl was a newborn, and had loved her as she loved all the children of the Alienage. If Iona had given her life for Master Oren, then she as Hahren would do no less, and so she swore on Iona's sacrifice.
Ser Liam had embraced her then, as though she were known to him by more than a title, and had left Master Oren in her care. Hers and the old nanny's.
As soon as the Wardens had taken Ser Liam, Sarethia set about disguising the child's presence in the Alienage. She called upon her few friends among the shemlen merchants to spread rumors that a child had been carried out of the city along with the Wardens, and other rumors that the child and his uncle, Ser Liam, had been seen sailing away on a human fishing boat, and still other rumors still that the child had died in the escape, his body thrown into the fire or the sea to keep it from being captured. She put her most trusted watchers to work, keeping constant surveillance on the drunks and the weak-willed in the Alienage, those who might be persuaded or manipulated into betraying her to Howe. She set other watchers around the child's hiding place, and arranged for escape routes through the sewers if they should be found out. She even spread a story that her best healer, the one she tasked with watching over Master Oren, was killed in the attack, so that the humans would not find the healer's absence suspicious.
By the time the bodies were hung from the vhenadahl and the Antivan began his interrogation, all was in place, and Sarethia had only to wait, and hope that she was not discovered before the child recovered or passed.
…
Now, on the docks, Sarethia knew she had done all she could. Master Oren would not die of his wounds, but she could no longer afford to wait for him to wake. Though she trusted her watchers, and believed her campaign of misinformation a success, no secret could be kept forever. Eventually, someone would slip up, or her luck would turn, and Howe's agents would discover Master Oren, and she and her people would pay the price. So the time had come to gamble, and gamble she did.
The dock she stood on was deserted, except for a few of the homeless. They fished the harbor's muddy waters for bottom feeders with makeshift poles, while drinking the cheapest liquor they could buy or brew. Many of them were elves, and over the years she had made it a habit to come down to these docks, and to the nearby alleys, to converse with the most broken of her people, to see if any could be coaxed back to the relative safety of the Alienage.
Today, however, as she passed out loaves of bread and whispered blessings to men and women with stale breath and open sores, her eyes were elsewhere, studying a fishing boat moored at a nearby pier. It was one of several owned by a human merchant she trusted, and it was crewed mostly by elves, Varren among them.
He was already aboard, and she could see him on the deck, untying ropes and checking nets. Nothing about Varren's movements or demeanor gave away his true focus, but Sarethia, used to his company as she was, could tell he was searching the piers, waiting for Cath and the others.
So was Sarethia, for that matter, and more than once she had to remind herself to breathe.
She had no reason to fear. She kept reminding herself of that, too.
The child, Master Oren, had been given a tea that would keep him asleep for several hours, in case his wounds had healed enough to allow him to wake. He was wrapped in blankets, and then in canvas, and finally in nets, and placed in the front of a wheelbarrow, beneath ropes and hooks and boxes of tar and still more nets, and as she watched, she could see the wheelbarrow being pushed along the pier, toward the dock.
There was no hiding the old woman, but Sarethia doubted Howe and his agents would be on the lookout for the Cousland's kitchen supervisor. So Nan walked beside the wheelbarrow, bent forward, walking with exaggerated stiffness, playing up her age. Cath walked beside her, holding her elbow. In the crowd around them, six of Sarethia's best watchers moved through the crowd as well, weapons concealed, eyes alert for any shems who appeared to interested, or any Amaranthine soldiers on patrol, or anything else out of place.
As the wheelbarrow rolled onto the dock, Sarethia found herself searching the piers as well, and the few streets visible beyond. There was nothing she could do if something went wrong, no reason even for her to be here, observing, but she could not look away, nor repress the dread that rose within. Life had taught her that plans always fell apart nearest fruition, when the most was at stake.
And yet, when she turned back to the boat, Cath and Nan were already onboard, and Varren and the other crewmembers were unloading the wheelbarrow, carrying its contents onto the deck. Varren made one last trip for the roll of nets and canvass that contained Master Oren, and then there was no one left on the dock.
Lines were cast off and the boat began to drift away, and on the deck, Varren turned to face her and waved, a wide smile on his face.
That was it, then. Howe had no navy, and the crews who regularly staffed the harbor patrol's skiffs were also members of the constabulary, all of them dead or missing since the attack. As the fishing boat's sails filled and its wake grew wider, Sarethia permitted herself a smile.
Just this once, she thought, there were gods in the heavens. If so, they had certainly smiled down on little Master Oren these past days. Their blessing was scant recompense, perhaps, for the tragedies of Howe's attack – but it was a blessing none the less.
…
At almost the same time that the fishing boat was rounding the edge of the harbor, pushing for open water, the Antivan who had interrogated Hahren Sarethia days earlier sat on the back of a dappled, broad-shouldered Ferelden mare. His name was Taliesin, and from his saddle, he watched as the prisoners of Highever were marched across the courtyard's inner ward. Most of the castle's occupants – guards, servants, guests, and Chantry brothers and sisters – had died in the fighting or the fires. The deaths of the clergy had upset a number of the Amaranthine soldiers, which was to be expected. Taliesin had heard the murmurs from some of the troops, and suggested to the Arl that perhaps some of them might need to meet with unfortunate accidents, or perhaps be sent to the front lines at Ostagar, but the Arl had refused this counsel. No matter. It wasn't Taliesin's problem. As in any fight, there had been survivors: a few stable boys, a few guards whose wounds were not serious enough to merit a mercy killing, and a few of the Cousland's personal servants who fled to the higher levels of the keep. If it had been left to him, Taliesin would have ordered them all killed, but Arl Howe thought he saw an opportunity, and could not be dissuaded. Since the Arl was the client, and not inclined to listen to Taliesin's advice in any case, the job was to take these survivors to Arl Howe's estate in Denerim. Or rather, to the estate of the late Arl of Denerim, Uriel Vaughan, who had met with a tragic accident on the road from Denerim to Ostagar. Vaughan had a son, as well, but if all had gone to plan, the son was safely imprisoned in the dungeon of his former mansion, soon to be joined by the survivors of Highever Castle. Most who entered the dungeon, Taliesin guessed, would have been luckier to have perished in combat, or to have met with a tragic accident of their own. The hope was to break one or more of them, to be molded into willing pawns for Howe. With the chaos of the Blight unfolding in the South, it was unlikely anyone who mattered would ever challenge Arl Howe's story of a Chasind raid catching Highever unprepared. In the event that someone did, however, it would be most helpful to have a survivor in Howe's pocket, willing to testify to whatever the Arl required. Taliesin himself knew a very little of the art of torture, enough for a crude interrogation, but also enough to respect the skills of a master torturer – and the torturer Arl Howe was rumored to have acquired was a master indeed. Someone would break. Probably a servant or two, he guessed, and almost certainly Arl Vaughan's son, for whatever that was worth. Nobles, especially the spoiled ones, required very little pressure before they snapped. Others, though – others would never break, and as Taliesin watched the prisoners cross the courtyard, he could pick out the ones who might as well be killed now. One in particular, a tall lad with flaming red hair, would prove quite the challenge for the torturer. He glared straight at Taliesin as he limped across the courtyard, shackled at the ankles, wrists, waist, and neck, restraints far more thorough than those applied to the other prisoners. His face was a tapestry of bruises, and the back of his shirt was shredded from lashings already received, but his green eyes were hard, unblinking, full of hate. Taliesin smiled pleasantly at the young man, and then turned away, nudging his horse toward the shattered gatehouse. He had nothing to prove in a staring contest, certainly not with an angry boy who was already as good as dead. Behind him, he could hear the prisoners being loaded into the wagons, and shortly after, one of the soldiers called out the order to move, and the wagons creaked forward. Still, you had to admire the young man's spirit. Beaten, wounded, surrounded by the wreckage of his former home, surely adrift in the knowledge he had failed utterly to protect his lords, and still the lad clung to pride, walking with his head up, already looking for another captor at whom to glare. How utterly Ferelden, Taliesin thought. If for nothing else, you had to admire the Dog Lords for their spirit.…
"It's growing cold, Majesty." Ser Elric Maraigne ducked into the king's tent in the camp at Ostagar, blowing into cupped hands as he did so. "Snow in a few weeks, I shouldn't wonder."
"Oh, we'll be gone long before then," the king replied, smiling broadly as he looked up from the big table in the tent's center. "I just hope Duncan arrives in time to get his share in the glory!"
The table was covered completely with battle maps, which were in turn anchored in place by pitchers and goblets, all filled with wine. Another, smaller table nearby bore platters of food, from which several of the king's honor guard were filling plates. Further back, near a partition set up around King Cailan's bed, a minstrel was strumming out some ballad or other on a double-necked lute, the kind Elric had heard were popular in Orlais these days. Behind the partition, Elric was sure Calian's latest plaything lounged in his bed, waiting until she was needed.
Or perhaps there were two playthings, Elric thought, given how cheerful Cailan seemed. He was practically beaming as he walked up and wrapped Elric in a hug, and judging by the royal breath, it wasn't drink that had the king in such a good mood. Not that Cailan ever needed an excuse for a good mood – they came naturally to him.
"What news from my father-in-law?" asked the king.
"He's seeing to the disposition of the troops from Highever," Elric replied. "He's moved them to the barricades in the valley, to relieve the men from Ostwick."
"Highever's here already?" Cailan asked, delighted. "Fergus Cousland is with them, I hope? I've not seen him in an age!"
"Yes, Majesty. Ser Fergus is with Loghain for now, surveying the lines. I conveyed an invitation to join us as soon as he's finished."
"Good man!" the king laughed, and clapped Elric on the shoulder. "Have some wine," he instructed, turning back to his maps. "You said it was cold out? You need to warm up!"
On cue, one of the honor guard stepped to Elric's elbow and handed him a goblet.
Although his tastes were not so refined as the King's, Elric had learned to appreciate the finer things in life since entering Cailan's circle – and as he took the first sip, he found the wine was fine indeed. Rich and slightly spicy on his tongue, warming his throat with the first swallow.
Elric had first met Cailan before he took the throne, in the months before the late King Maric's untimely disappearance, at a rather staid gala thrown in honor of some Chantry official or other. Although Elric was nearly a decade Cailan's senior, they'd been among the youngest people present, and had agreed to play a game of chess. Elric beat the prince quite handily, to his embarrassment, but the loss didn't seem to upset Cailan in the slightest. On the contrary, Cailan took it into his head that the two should become friends, and Elric knew better than to argue with royalty.
Why exactly Cailan chose Elric for friendship was something the older man had never quite puzzled out, but he'd learned quickly that Cailan rarely had articulable reasons. He acted more often on simple instinct, and although this was perhaps not the stateliest of traits, it had served the young monarch well thus far.
It helped, of course, that Cailan was quite simply a very likeable young man – and a very likeable king, besides. He was earnestly devoted to notions of heroism and bravery, enamored with history and tales of valor, and a capable warrior, and yet he was also gracious, quick with a laugh, and most appreciative of fine food, finer wine, and the finest women.
"Did you see those tavern girls with the Lothering caravan?" the King asked Elric, without looking away from the maps. "Bloody gorgeous. So, if you're still cold, they're in the next tent over. I'm sure they'd love to make your acquaintance!"
"They didn't return with the caravan?" Elric asked, somewhat alarmed. If the king kept too many lovers in camp, word would eventually reach Denerim. Although the queen herself was more than tolerant of his dalliances, it wouldn't do for tales of revelry to become widespread. There was enormous public support for Cailan's mobilization of the army, but if Cailan's political opponents saw an opportunity to paint Ostagar as a royal orgy and Anora as a cuckquean, they would certainly leap at the opportunity.
"The caravan didn't return at all!" Cailan laughed, such concerns clearly far from his mind. "We couldn't have my loyal subjects turning around for such a long journey without them resting a night."
"Not doing much resting, I hope," one of the honor guard remarked, provoking chuckles from the king and other guards. "Shame to let a good barmaid go to waste."
Under different circumstances, Elric might even have been interested, better judgment notwithstanding, but there was news Cailan needed to hear. Leaning forward, close to his king's ear, Elric muttered a few brief words.
Immediately, Cailan's expression soured. He straightened, and nodded to the minstrel, who immediately lowered his instrument and edged around the corner of the tent, toward the exit.
"Hold up a moment," Cailan called after him, and the minstrel froze, eyes wide.
The minstrel was clearly terrified. As Cailan walked toward him, the color drained completely from his face. Depending on whose courts he'd visited previously, it was possible he expected a beating, or worse, believing himself to have violated some unknown rule or noble whim.
"Good heavens, I don't bite," Cailan said, and reached out with both hands to grip the minstrel's free forearm. As this happened, Elric saw gold pass from the King's hands into the minstrel's, and the man's eyes widened, but with a different sort of shock. "Thank you for the lovely music, my friend," Cailan said, releasing the hand. "Would you be so good as to go next door and entertain the rest of my court, and those lovely tavern girls too?"
The minstrel bowed so low Elric was surprised he didn't topple over forwards, and didn't stop stammering his thanks until he was outside.
It was no wonder the people loved King Cailan.
"Have you been telling stories about me taking heads again?" Cailan asked as he returned to Elric's side.
"Only in the interest of deterring assassins and spies," Elric replied, smiling. "I am your guard captain, after all."
Cailan laughed. "Very well, you do what you must. What's this news, though?"
Pointedly, Elric looked back at the King's partition.
"Oh, she's passed out, don't worry," Cailan replied. "Took long enough, though. The girl could drink - Maker, could she drink!"
When Elric was still reluctant to speak, Cailan rolled his eyes.
"Very well," the king said, in a theatrical whisper. "We'll be quiet as mice. Now what's all this about?"
"Teyrn Loghain, Majesty," Elric said, speaking much more quietly than the king had. "I fear he's aware of your...correspondences."
"With who? With Celene?"
Suppressing a sigh at His Majesty's lack of discretion, Elric nodded. "After the scouts came back, when you sent me to find Loghain? He wasn't in camp. I was told he'd ridden out toward the bluff, where we set up the two ballistae. I found him there, with Ser Cauthrien, and an elf I didn't recognize."
"Oh?"
"The elf was male, dressed as one of our scouts, but it seemed to me he didn't want to be seen. He left along the edge of the valley, and guards on the bridge saw him leave camp shortly after. None of them recognized him, or got a look at his face."
Cailan laughed. "That's what you're worried about? Probably just Old Loghain dipping his wick! Always wondered if he might be a bit queer!"
More chuckles from the other guards.
Despite himself, Elric was becoming impatient. "Majesty, this was no prostitute."
"Oh, what do you know of elven lotharios?"
"I – nothing, Majesty. But I was concerned enough by the elf's demeanor, I sent riders along the Highway."
"And?"
"They found no trace of him. However, they did find a man matching the description of the Empress' messenger. He'd been killed."
At last, a flicker of concern passed over the King's face. "The chevalier?"
"Yes, I think so. They said he looked like a soldier, but wore peasant's clothes. They say he'd been dead the better part of a day, and dragged off the road. His pack had been gone through, but no money taken. They could not find the message."
For several heartbeats, Cailan stared down at the maps, obviously considering. At last he sighed, shrugged. "Whoever he was, I pity the poor bastard, but it cannot have been Celene's messenger. A chevalier would not die without a fight."
"They said there were signs of-"
"Even so," Cailan interrupted, "if my father-in-law knew I was engaged in negotiations with Orlais, I'd have heard of it by now. Loghain's not exactly subtle, is he? He'd have knocked down my tent by now if he so much as thought I might be talking to Celene, let alone considering her offer."
"Perhaps," Elric said, "but I would urge you, Cailan-"
"Oh, no!" the King exclaimed, mock-horrified. "This must be serious if you're calling me by name!"
"Majesty," Elric began again, through gritted teeth, "I urge you, do not underestimate the Teyrn. Even if you explained your intentions, he would see any alliance with Orlais as treason, to say nothing of this agreement, and I cannot guess how he would react. You are right, he has a reputation for being direct, but he is also-"
"Yes, yes, I know," Cailan said, waving Elric's concerns away. "He's a master strategist, not to be trifled with, etcetera, etcetera... I do know the man, Elric, remember? He practically raised me. If there were a bee in his bonnet, I'd know by now."
Sometimes, Elric had learned, it was impossible to convince Cailan of the seriousness of a matter. This appeared to be such a time, so Elric nodded, abandoning the attempt for now. In fairness to the king, Cailan turned out to be right more often than not, and Elric turned out to be worrying for no reason at all. Perhaps this was such a time.
"Here," Cailan said, pointing down at the battle maps. "This is the real concern right now. Even if Loghain does know, he also knows we have to squash these darkspawn vermin before we think of anything else. You said there'd been no sign of Duncan yet?"
Actually, Elric didn't think he had said anything of the sort. All the same, he had an answer. "Ser Fergus mentioned that Duncan and another Warden were at Highever, looking for recruits. They should be here in a day or two."
"Excellent! He's been too long away. Any sign of the Archdemon?"
Always the same questions. Where's Duncan? Where's the Archdemon?
"We've had no scouts back since this afternoon," Elric replied, "but the latest reports still say no."
"Hmm," Cailan said, still staring at the maps. "I'm beginning to think this isn't even a real Blight..."
Maker help us, Elric thought, he actually sounds disappointed.
"Better an easy victory than costly glory," Elric said, hoping this wasn't pushing too far.
Apparently it wasn't, because Cailan straightened up and nodded, smiling. "You're right, of course. Now, tell me, if there is another incursion tonight, how well are the boys from Highever situated on the front lines? They're new, you know... never faced darkspawn before. Maybe we'd better send some of the more seasoned troops down now, just in case? Pick a unit that's had a day or two of rest, and spread them out with the Highever boys. Unless Loghain has already…"
With that, the King was lost in tactics, pointing to the various rises and trenches and emplacements marked on his map, questioning Elric on the most minute of details. For all his eagerness for battle, and all his indiscretions, no one could accuse the King of being anything less than fully committed to this fight, nor to the men who would bear the brunt of its violence and misery.
And, really, the king was right. Even if Loghain knew of the negotiations with Empress Celene, the darkspawn were the immediate threat. Even Loghain would have to see that, wouldn't he?
Or would he?
The thought nagged Elric well into the night, until finally wine and fireside ballads and the company of one of those tavern girls eased his mind, and he allowed himself to dismiss the elf and the murdered refugee, and consider only the night's pleasures – the night's pleasures, and perhaps a few worries about the intricacies of the campaign that, in spite of Cailan's optimism, was not yet won.
…
As the king's captain tried without success to fight away his unease, darkness fell over Ostagar. High above the king's tents, beneath the glow of the moon, a raven dropped from the sky on open wings before settling gently onto an outcropping of ancient stone.
An astute observer might have noted he raven watched the valley below with more than idle curiosity, her eyes tracking the movements of small parties of darkspawn. Other than this slightly unusual interest in the comings and goings below, and the fact that she was perhaps slightly larger than many of her kin, the raven gave no sign that it was different from any of her ordinary kin. And yet she was different, for although she wore the skin of a raven, she was not, in fact, a raven.
'Twas curious indeed, she thought, as she continued her vigil. There would be no assault tonight, no pitched battle for the gateway to Ferelden. Skirmishes, nothing more. But why?
The darkspawn infested the forests south of Ostagar, their camps stretching for miles. Either they had numbers enough now to crush the human fortifications, or they never would. There was no reason to wait for further reinforcements from the Deep Roads – no reason to do anything but test their strength. Surely they knew this.
But if they did, then for what purpose did the beasts wait?
Now that was a question worth asking, she knew. She had asked it of herself many times over the past days, as she circled high above the ruined fortress, searching for any clue. She had seen many things – the movement of soldiers from the north, the brief flurries of death among the trees, the games of politics played in secret - but she had not yet puzzled out the answer to this riddle.
And until she did, there was no purpose in abandoning her current form, nor returning to her mother.
Mother had plans in motion, and though the raven did not know the plans herself, she knew they hinged on the outcome of the battle that was to come. So the raven spread her wings and launched herself forward, into the night, to circle again, waiting for the future's puzzle to reveal itself.
…
…
…
CODEX: On the Ferelden Culture
As we had begun to remark upon earlier, the Fereldens are a puzzle. As a people, they seem to us one bad day away from reverting to utter barbarism. Yet such a summation does them discredit, we have learned. They repelled invasions from the armies of Tevinter during the height of the Imperium, relying on naught but their dogs and their obstinate disposition.
They are a coarse, willful, dirty, and disorganized people, to be sure. Yet they somehow gave rise to our greatest prophet, for Andraste, may her name be praised, was herself a Ferelden, long before Ferelden itself united. Through her example, and by her lead, these people ushered in an era of enlightenment and toppled the Imperium, and, though we should not like to see it spoken of publicly, we would be remiss if we did not point out that in such acts, these rabble sowed the seeds of our own Empire.
My dear Gascon, there are few things you should assume when dealing with these people, and no assumption should be considered safe. First, they value loyalty above all things, beyond wealth, beyond power, beyond royal blood, beyond reason itself. Second, although they have nothing in their entire country which you are likely to find remarkable, having lived your life thus far within the shelter of the Empire's embrace, they are nonetheless extremely proud of their accomplishments. Third, if you insult their dogs, even without intent, they may well declare war, a result which we are not likely to regard with pleasure.
In summary, my dear, the surest sign that you have underestimated the Fereldens is that you come to believe you understand them. We wish you the best of luck in your new position, and are confident that we have made the right decision in your appointment.
Excerpted from a letter to the newly-appointed Orlesian ambassador to Denerim
by Empress Celene Valemont the First, 9:24 Dragon