Chapter 7: Road to Redcliffe

The Hinterlands: North of the Korcari Wilds

Cailan grasped the bone knife in his shaking fist. He remembered the dead staring at him with milky glazed eyes, judging him without words. He stared into the mirror, at the face he'd seen countless times, and knew he was not that man anymore. His other hand drifted up and touched the tangled locks of platinum blond hair. He gripped a hunk of hair and brought the knife to it. He stared himself in the eye as he sawed through it. Strands of silver-blond fell on the rough wooden tabletop. His reflection looked somewhat lopsided now.

It was no less than what he actually felt. In the time since what amounted to returning from the dead, he'd spent hours staring at the beams of Flemeth's ceiling trying to reconcile the fact that he hadn't died. Oh, he should have. Flemeth never said much about the true extent of his injuries, but he intuitively knew it had taken powerful healing magic to heal him. And had he been on the field any longer and he might have been beyond all but blood magic.

Cailan kept cutting through the hunks of hair until the table and floor were littered with his pale, straight blond locks. The cut was uneven and a bit long on top and in the front, and flopped over his forehead. He supposed he looked… goofy. He tried a half-smile and then his expression became serious again. With the shorter hair and the apologetic smile and wary eyes, he looked an awful lot like Alistair.

He heard Fergus calling for him and quickly gathered up as much of his mess as he could. He threw the locks into the cold fireplace and silently prayed that Flemeth had a lousy sense of smell. Or that he would be far away when she decided to light a fire on that particular hearth. He ran a hand over his cropped hair and shrugged into a heavy woven cloak. He felt vulnerable leaving without any armor or weapons, but he supposed those to be lost to the darkspawn back at Ostagar.

He'd come to this simple hut in the Wilds as a king; he left now as Cailan, just a man who'd barely survived a massacre.

Fergus looked up, but didn't say anything. Cailan was secretly glad; he didn't feel like explaining his actions to Fergus. There would be enough to explain to him on the road. Like why his brother and Fergus's sister were now teamed up and trying to save Ferelden.

Flemeth was nowhere in sight, but Viviane was sitting in the driver's seat of a simple, rough-hewn cart, holding the reins of two harnessed donkeys. A wolf-pelt cloak covered her traditional Chasind garments which, while skimpy, must have been deceptively warm. If she was nervous about leaving, she didn't show it, only gestured for Fergus and Cailan to climb in. The feeling of being ordinary and vulnerable settled heavily on Cailan's shoulders as he stiffly got up and settled on the hard wooden bench, with Fergus across from him wearing a tattered cloak of Highever green.

"Sentiment," he said when he caught Cailan eyeing it. And then his eyes drifted to Cailan's hair. "Not sure what to make of that, though."

"Lack of sentiment," Cailan said with a wry smile, and Fergus grinned.

"You're definitely not a ghost," he said. "Only you could make something like this almost lighthearted."

Cailan snorted as the cart jerked forward, wheels sinking slightly in the spongy ground.

They were quiet for a time, each man lost in his own thoughts.

"This is amazing," Fergus said at last, looking at Cailan as if seeing him for the first time, though they'd been friends from a young age; indeed, Fergus was the closest thing to a true friend Cailan had growing up, and he valued that connection immensely. A teyrn's son, Fergus tended to be in royal company more than most nobles, so perhaps it had just been a natural progression of events. But then again, for a teyrn's son Fergus was good-natured and down to earth, which Cailan welcomed. And if things had to have gone the way they did, he was glad he was setting out with Fergus rather than anyone else.

But he said none of this to Fergus; he simply raised an eyebrow and gestured to the rough wood on which they sat. It was a far cry from the polished leather saddles on the backs of well-bred war horses they were accustomed to. "You mean embarrassing."

Both men sighed and looked at each other across the cart Flemeth had somehow procured, that Viviane was now driving, expertly guiding the two donkeys out of the marshes. "Where in Thedas did she find donkeys, anyway?" Cailan asked, with a glance at Viviane's straight back. She wore a thick fur cloak over the fitted hide clothes and tall, soft leather boots that marked her as a Chasind as much as did her face paint.

"I figured out when it comes to Viviane and Flemeth, not to ask questions," Fergus said. "Rumor was you were killed at Ostagar," he said.

Cailan couldn't fault Fergus for asking; it was better to bring up the topic now, when they were too weak to fight about it, or to run away from the subject. His blue eyes, normally so cheerful, were troubled as he looked around the dull gray-brown landscape. Leafless trees reached from the lifeless earth to the listless sky. "This reminds me of the Fade," he said at last. "This is… this is all real, isn't it?" he asked, at last meeting Fergus's eyes.

"What brought this on?" Fergus asked. "And what would you know of the Fade, anyway? You're not secretly a mage, are you?" He attempted a lighthearted laugh, but it fell as flat as the ground their cart traversed.

"No, but I think I was there before Flemeth's," he said. He drew the furs up around his neck and closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the lands around them. "I think… I almost did die at Ostagar." He opened his eyes. He didn't want to bring this up, but had to, if only for the sake of being honest with his friend. "Which reminds me, while we're on sensitive topics." His voice held none of its usual mirth, and Fergus stiffened. "Fianna was at Ostagar."

Fergus looked a bit pale, and his face contorted as if he'd just been punched in the gut. "Flemeth said something about her, but I thought she was just lying. Trying to rile me up."

"Flemeth speaks in riddles, but she doesn't lie," Viviane said, glancing over her shoulder. Her cheeks were rosy with the cold beneath her ritual paint. "Often, we must discover the truth on our own rather than have it told to us. Only then can we truly understand it." She turned back to the reins and clucked to the donkeys. There was a slight jerk and the cart moved more quickly through the spongy marshland. But faint against the horizon, Cailan could make out the lines of ruins that marked the Imperial Roads, and felt slightly sick at the prospect of returning to the world of the living, breathing, and fighting.

"What was Fianna doing there?" Fergus asked Cailan.

Cailan regarded him warily, afraid to tell Fergus what he knew, even though he'd opened this can of worms on his own. "She came with Duncan," he said at last.

"The Warden Commander? He was supposed to take Ser Gilmore," Fergus said, sitting up. He searched Cailan's haggard face, worry evident in his gray-green eyes. "She told you what happened," he accused. "Why she was there. What happened? Really?"

Cailan leaned forward, though the action made him grimace with pain. "I'm hoping the fact that your king is alive is good enough news to make up for this." His tone was serious. "Arl Howe turned traitor. Fianna was with Duncan because he saved her life. She barely escaped, and only because she was with Duncan."

Fergus sat back and blinked. "Howe, a traitor? But… he's one of my father's best friends." The news had shocked Cailan, as well. Amaranthine had always been loyal to the crown, and a solid ally of neighboring Highever. And the Couslands of Highever, Fergus's family, had ruled there and been loyal subjects of the Fereldan crown for centuries. None of it made sense.

"I don't know what his motives are, or what his endgame is, but I did promise that when Ostagar was over I would bring my armies north and help retake Highever," Cailan said, surprised at the grim tone in his own voice; when had he become so serious? "That's one promise I can try to make good on." He leaned back again, one arm on the rail of the cart and his eyes turned back to the disappearing Wilds behind them. He had the feeling he was leaving something behind: something he wanted to run back and collect, but he couldn't. And the prospect of moving forward was unusually daunting.

"If Howe turned traitor and killed my father… Maker's breath and Andraste's flaming arse!" Viviane snorted but cleared her throat quickly. He fixed his dark eyes on Cailan. "I'm the teyrn." He leaned back and stared at the sickly sky, his face pale from shock. "What of Oriana? Oren?"

The names of Fergus's wife and child sent a pang through Cailan. He had dreaded Fergus asking this, because he didn't know how to break the news. He wondered who had told Anora that he was dead, and how she'd reacted—if she'd reacted at all, that was. He shook his head. "Fianna was in rough shape. Angry. Sad. Quiet. She's never quiet. That's how I knew something was so wrong." He looked up and made himself meet Fergus's eyes. "I'm sorry, Fergus. We've always been friends, and it wouldn't be fair for me to lie to you now. Your family… they're…" He let his voice trail off. There was such a deep, profound sadness in his eyes and in his voice that it must have made Fergus feel even worse.

Cailan had been at his wedding to Oriana; he'd been one of the first of the nobles to come and personally congratulate him on the birth of Oren. Cailan didn't have any children of his own; it had been one of the strongest points of contention in his marriage to Anora. And not just between him and Anora: between him, Anora, and the whole kingdom.

But thinking of Anora added a whole new set of issues that Cailan didn't want to think about right now.

The rest of the day passed in silence, save for Viviane occasionally checking the donkeys on the rough roads. She made no move to engage either of them in conversation, and if it hadn't been for the waves of pale hair cascading down her back like a waterfall she could have been any hired carriage driver and not the Chasind woman who had saved Fergus's life.

Darkness seemed to descend earlier than usual, and while Fergus attributed it to the coming winter, Cailan's shook his head and looked to the pale horizon. "It's the Blight," he said in a low voice. "It's already claiming the south."

"The darkness taints all it touches: earth, water, sky," Viviane said as she climbed down from the driver's seat. "If we can make it past the Blightlands then our supplies should hold. Have you given thought to where we're going?"

"We?" Fergus asked. He glanced over at Cailan, who had one eyebrow raised.

"Neither of you is any shape to go taking on these strange Ferelden politics of yours," she said, sounding for the entire world like a scolding parent. Her tone left both Fergus and Cailan, two of the most powerful men in Ferelden, shirking back. She softened some. "We'll be safe here for the night, but in the morning we should have a destination."

Cailan had been all over Ferelden, but usually saw it from horseback, and was usually surrounded by a contingent of guards. Now, with only Fergus and Viviane, exposed in the back of a simple cart drawn by donkeys, Cailan felt he was seeing his lands differently. He'd thought he was seeing them differently when he donned his armor at Ostagar. He was a soldier then, leading his troops to protect their homeland from the darkspawn threat. The king of Ferelden would ride in with the fabled Grey Wardens and end the Blight before it even began. It would be a glorious tale to match up to those of his father's escapades during the rebellion.

Now that he was forced to think about it in retrospect, he had to admit that he'd been caught up in the idea of the glory. He'd been raised on Maric and Loghain's tales of the rebellion, how the two of them, with Rowan, pulled the country together to oust the Orlesians. Cailan dreamed of uniting the country against a common enemy on his watch, as well. After all, Ferelden wasn't the place he lived; it was the place he lived for.

And evidently, it was the place someone thought he should die for. As he lay beneath the simple hide tent, listening to the sounds of the night around him, Cailan worked again at piecing the battle back together. The beacon had been lit; that much he was certain of. He'd sent Alistair and Fianna to protect them, but also because he knew they could handle it. He had seen the beacon burning brightly even from the battlefield; there was no way Teyrn Loghain could have missed it. The only explanation he had was that Loghain had quit the field.

But that didn't make sense, either. Loghain was a living legend, an excellent general, and moreover, his father-in-law. He wouldn't leave the king, his son-in-law, to die.

Would he?

The whispered uncertainty kept him awake, though he longed to sleep. He hadn't slept well since leaving the palace several weeks ago. The noise of the outdoors kept him up. It always had, even when he'd been younger and gone on trips with his father. Then it was the noises of the night: wolves howling, bugs chirping, night birds tittering, as well as the clank of the night watch. Tonight there were only the outside noises. Viviane had been insistent that they needed no watch, but she would not say why.

"There are darkspawn all around us, not to mention the usual things that lurk at night," Cailan told her. But she still would not relent, and now he lay here, restless.

He tried to roll over on his side, but it hurt. For all Flemeth's magic, there was healing that the body just had to do on its own. He hadn't been able to get much out of her, regarding what had happened to him, but it involved an ogre's fist, and him being on the wrong side of it. He dug in the satchel Flemeth had given him and pulled out the small sachet stuffed with dried and crushed elfroot. Inhaling the pungent herbal scent helped him relax a bit more and dulled the ache, but it did little to help him sleep.

We need a destination, he thought. He knew what Fergus would choose. He'd go straight to Highever, and if that was closed to him, he'd go to Denerim. Cailan had no doubt that Loghain was in Denerim right now, and wouldn't have minded having a few words with him; however, as far as Loghain knew, Cailan was dead. Showing up undead, with no plan and no armies, could end badly. Loghain was not foolish, and if he had purposely abandoned Cailan to die, there was no telling what he would do if Cailan faced the Teyrn unprepared.

Cailan found himself wondering what his father would think. Maric had trusted Loghain with his life, and that of his son; Loghain had helped raise Cailan in many ways. Father would be royally pissed, Cailan decided. Mother, too. He only remembered blurry images of his mother, but stories Maric had told him pointed to the fact that Queen Rowan had trusted Loghain as well.

Cailan nearly sat up straight in his sudden excitement. He couldn't believe he'd not thought of this before, especially being so far south already. Redcliffe. Of course! Uncle Eamon, the Arl of Redcliffe and his mother's younger brother, still had his armies intact. Cailan thanked the Maker for his own stubborn pride inadvertently helping him out here. Redcliffe was bound to be well-defended. And what was more, if Alistair was involved, Redcliffe was one of the first places he'd think to go. If he couldn't catch up with his brother, he could at least get news of him. And perhaps Fergus would be able to do the same with Fianna.

He felt better now that he had a direction in mind. Though he'd told Fergus he wasn't sure about the Fade, he knew deep inside that he'd really been there. The images of Ostagar's dead stayed with him even when he was awake. And he knew that while he had to stop the Blight, it was even more important to make things right for the many that had died, taking a piece of his soul along with them.