Chapter 9: No Pawn

Redcliffe Castle

Whatever darkness had touched Redcliffe Castle had not touched the guestrooms that Isolde and Teagan showed to Cailan, Fergus, and Viviane. Viviane had taken Teagan's offer to come and go as she pleased to heart, and was now nowhere to be found; probably outside, if Cailan had to guess. He was in the room he'd often stayed in as a child whenever he and his father visited the Arling. Nothing had changed in the several years since he'd stayed here last. The same drapes hung in the windows, the same throws on the bed. And Cailan's suspicions were confirmed when a flustered servant girl ran in and grabbed the bolsters to take them out for a beating.

No one had been in here since the last time he'd stayed.

What was this, a shrine to him and his father?

He shook his head, which had begun to ache from the pressure building up between his temples. He still didn't know why Eamon was sick, or why Alistair and Fianna had needed to go to the Circle of Magi and then to Denerim; neither was a mage, and though Alistair had trained as a templar, his Grey Warden duties now superseded his Chantry upbringing. And come to think of it, he hadn't seen Connor at all, either. Connor would be about ten now, the same age Alistair was when Eamon had sent him to the Chantry…

Cailan didn't want to think about the past. There was enough pain in the present, and besides, what mattered was not what had happened, but what could happen now that he knew his brother and Fergus's sister were alive and actively combating the Blight.

A soft knock at the door startled him, and he turned to see Viviane standing in the doorway. "Isolde let me borrow her shears," she said. In spite of the chill in the air she seemed comfortable enough in her skimpy traditional clothing, and as he sat down at the vanity and let Viviane even out his ragged hair, he wondered how the Chasind managed to stay warm dressed so skimpily, yet living so far south, some on the very edges of the frozen wastelands. And then he realized that the Korcari Wilds were as much a part of Ferelden as was the Brecilian Forest or the Frostback Mountains, and he knew next to nothing about them. He sighed; there was so much about his kingdom he'd never thought about before.

"Are you in pain?" Viviane asked as she trimmed. "You sighed like that in the night when you were hurting."

"You listened to me sleep?" Cailan asked, feeling both embarrassed that this strange Chasind woman would spy on him, and grateful that she'd taken watch even though she'd surely been exhausted.

"Your lungs were damaged when the ogre crushed you," she said, her voice so casual it was as if such things happened every day. "Flemeth urged me to wake often and listen to be certain your lungs did not fill with fluid and drown you on dry land."

Cailan nodded his thanks, unable to find words because the image of drowning, without even being in water, was uncomfortable. Viviane picked up the silver comb on the vanity and ran it through Cailan's hair. He shook out the little prickly ends that had fallen and ran his hand over his head. It was still longish on the top and constantly ready to flop into his eyes, but it looked and felt much neater. And with his hair cleaned up, the prospect of a shave sounded good as well. "Thank you," he said to Viviane. "You hardly know me and yet you're looking out for my well-being on all fronts. Truly the Chasind have let go a gem from their people."

He meant it as a compliment, but Viviane just shrugged. "Maybe; or maybe we are all this way, and you've been otherwise content to consider us all barbarians of the Wilds," she said with an ironic smile.

Even just a month or two ago such a blatant observation would have made Cailan furious. Growing up he'd loved to read and to learn and had prided himself on being somewhat of a scholar. But that also meant he didn't like it when he was made aware of his ignorance. Now, as he looked at Viviane he realized he really hadn't ever seen a Chasind up close, let alone ever conversed with one. He knew there were pockets of nomadic Chasind that roamed the outskirts of the Bannorn around Denerim and sometimes came into the city to trade, but the tribes had always remained comfortably in the far south.

"Maybe I haven't known until now what I should consider," he told her truthfully.

To that, Viviane had no answer, and Cailan could have sworn her cheeks were pink under her carefully applied face paint.

Fergus had also shaved, but his dark hair was thick and unkempt, almost like an animal living atop his head, and Cailan told him so. But he kept pacing his room, gazing out the window that overlooked the courtyard as if he could will Fianna back to Redcliffe. "Teagan's had a meal prepared," Cailan said after another few moments of tense silence and pacing. "Ready for some real food?"

"I don't know if I have much of an appetite," Fergus said truthfully, but he followed Cailan anyway.

In the small, private family dining room Teagan waited for them. He'd had a spread of bread, cheeses, cold meats, and some fruit from Rainesfere's harvests laid out, and though Fergus had protested no appetite, even he could not resist. "And could you have a plate made and sent up to Viviane's room?" he asked a nearby servant. "Our Chasind companion. She was not comfortable joining us, but I'm sure she's hungry and would appreciate the thought," he added.

Though Cailan was starving, he found that eating so much so quickly disturbed his stomach, so he picked at small pieces of bread and cheese and sipped a weak spiced wine while Teagan filled him in on what had gone on in Redcliffe. "And Alistair, former templar initiate that he was, got it out of the mage that Loghain had paid him off to poison Eamon. Bloody Teyrn said he'd make things right with the Circle, whatever that means, if he did it." Teagan downed his stronger wine, and poured another cup.

"I still can't believe Connor's a mage," Cailan said. It was fitting. Eamon had been charged with bringing up Alistair and had, at age ten, shipped him off to the Chantry for templar training; now his own son was ten and would be shipped off to the Chantry's holding pen for mages. It was horrid to think, with Uncle Eamon deathly ill and all, but he couldn't help himself and after the last few days of feeling so uncertain about everything, it was nice to finally feel certain about something.

Talk turned to politics. Fergus naturally was curious about Highever. "Howe's allied himself with Loghain," Teagan said. "The two of them are thick as thieves."

Fergus swore and slammed his fist on the table. With his beard shaved it was easier to see the way his cheeks reddened, but also how gaunt he was. "And I suppose he's calling himself the Teyrn of Highever, now too," he said, and when Teagan nodded tentatively, Fergus pounded the table so hard he knocked over his goblet. The wine spread over the table like blood, soaking into the corner of Cailan's cloth napkin.

Cailan thought it best to change the subject, though he wasn't looking forward to hearing of Loghain anymore than Fergus had wanted to hear of Howe. "Isn't it dangerous for Fianna and Alistair to head to Denerim, considering what Loghain's saying about the Wardens?" he asked.

"They're not alone," Teagan said, which was a comfort to Cailan. "They go with two mages, a Qunari, and a bard," he said. He smiled at Cailan's dumbstruck expression. "I think the two of you will find that your siblings are both resourceful, as well as determined."

It appeared to surprise Fergus that Fianna could be resourceful, and after the stories Cailan had heard, and from the few times he'd met her, he understood his friend's reaction. Then again, difficult times forced people to aim for higher standards, rather than be complacent. He was living proof of that. He also hoped his path would cross with the Wardens' at some point, so he could congratulate Fianna on stunning Fergus to silence.

But he was less surprised at his brother's resourcefulness. Growing up a stable boy living in the hay loft, and then shipping off as the ward of the Chantry, had doubtlessly instilled a streak of creativity and determination in Alistair that Cailan almost envied. Cailan had always had anything he wanted, when he wanted it. He was denied next to nothing, and groomed to be the king: Ferelden's ultimate noble. He'd never really had to work at anything until now, and had found on the road that even coming up with a destination outside of the Wilds had posed a nasty challenge. He sighed; he supposed he was beyond lucky to have a second chance this way. But why did it have to be so hard?

And now Teagan was saying they needed to come up with a plan for moving forward. "Unfortunately, I cannot leave Redcliffe so long as Eamon is ill," he said, but what Cailan knew he left unsaid was that he didn't trust Isolde to run the Arling, and he tried not to smile. In his aunt's mind, "Arlessa" was a ceremonial title that simply meant her only job was to be the Arl's wife.

"Will he recover?" Cailan asked. His concern was as much about the political ramifications of things as it was about the guilt pricking at him over their last argument, and the amends yet to be made.

"Healers have been able to do nothing; the Circle even sent their best when they came to rid Connor of his possession," Teagan said. He stared into the candles, starting to burn low. "The Wardens went to Denerim to find Brother Genitivi; the only thing we think can save Eamon now are Andraste's sacred ashes."

Cailan's stomach ached as if he'd been crushed by the ogre all over again. The sacred ashes were little more than a mystical myth in the Chantry's more sensational lore. And if they truly existed, what hope was there that they'd actually be in Ferelden, and not somewhere else in the farther reaches of Thedas?

Cailan rose from his chair. "I think I need to go rest now," he said, rather than voice his concerns. He could see Teagan wanted to believe, for Eamon's sake. He turned before Fergus or Teagan could ask him any questions and slowly made his way through the familiar halls to his room. Someone had already lit the fireplace, and the orange-gold flames drove away the late-autumn chill that tended to seep into Ferelden's drafty castles.

He lit the candle lamp at his bedside with a taper from the fire and then perused the collection of books on the shelves. When he was a boy he'd spent so much time wandering to the library, mostly when it was nearly bedtime. He would stall to avoid bedtime, but he also wanted to find something to read. He'd always been a voracious reader, something his father had said was Queen Rowan's touch in her son. So one visit, they'd come and Cailan had been ready to run to the library when, to his delight, he found that some of the library had been brought to him.

He smiled as he touched the frayed bindings of some of the children's story collections, and noted with approval that Redcliffe's copy of the Adventures of the Black Fox had apparently been rebound. His delight was mixed with guilt, because that had probably been rather expensive. The more he truly saw of his country from outside the walls of the palace, the more he felt he didn't know about Ferelden or its people.

Not that Maric hadn't tried to teach him. Cailan spied a biography of King Maric the Savior, and curiosity made him pluck it from the shelf and return to the bed, as comfortable as he remembered it being; and infinitely more comfortable than the couple of nights he'd spent out on the road, sleeping on the ground and trying to avoid rocks and lumps and clods of earth underneath him.

Maric had occasionally mentioned his years leading the rebellion, when he was younger than Cailan was now. But it was clearly something he didn't like talking about, as if the memory hurt him the way a real weapon would. And whenever he spoke of those tumultuous times when Ferelden was in Orlesian hands, he looked sad. But then he would smile and say, "I'm glad you don't have to deal with this, son." And change the topic, as if he'd never spoken of the rebellion at all. And the older Cailan got, the less Maric wanted to talk about it, even if Cailan asked directly. It was as if explaining, or maybe defending his choices and actions was something he did not wish to inflict on his son, who stood to inherit a peaceful kingdom.

Cailan skimmed through some of the pages of the biography, trying to pretend the subject of the book was not, in fact his own father. He resented his father for avoiding the topic. There were so many things Cailan didn't know about being a proper king: how to fight a war, for one.

He dropped the book on the stone floor at his bedside with a soft thud. He flung back the covers and wriggled under them before blowing out the bedside candle. His room was dark save for the orange glow of the fire, sending out strange shadows on the walls and making Cailan recall the flaming arrow volleys of the darkspawn archers at Ostagar. He pulled the blankets more tightly around him, but the chill came from inside. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, all but begged for it to come, but it wouldn't.

Viviane looked up when she heard the knock on her door, and without any ceremony flung it open. There stood the king, his gold hair flopping over his eyes, which had gray-purple blotches underneath them. "I hope I didn't wake you?" he said when she bid him enter.

"I thought the ogre crushed your belly, not your head," she told him, slightly cross. He hadn't in fact disturbed her, though it was very late. But it was the way he felt he needed to be so… polite to her. Everyone here did. And it wasn't simple courtesy, either. They tiptoed around her as if she were fragile and a wrong move or incorrect word would make her snap. She should have expected this, since her people were not very well understood. She'd grown up knowing that people feared what they didn't understand.

As it was now, her fire still burned bright and merry, crackling on the hearth, and several candles were lit. She'd been poring over a stack of books on herbalism found in the library, as well as a few tomes of Ferelden history Fergus had pointed out to her. He'd been pleased that she could read, and not surprised, as she figured so many would be. "These may help you understand us and our ways better," he'd offered. "And maybe someday soon, you might tell me about you and your ways," he added before scurrying out of the room like a startled rabbit. All she could think was that his badly broken leg was healing well for him to move so quickly.

"Do you have anything to help me sleep?" the king asked, and when Viviane looked closer she noted that his eyes were bloodshot in his very pale face. Instead of answering she walked right up to him and rested her ear on his chest.

He stiffened and inhaled sharply, but that was good. She could hear his breathing, and it was clear; his heartbeat was also strong, if a bit quick. His fatigue was probably the result of the body expending energy to heal itself without Flemeth's constant magic assisting it. "Yes. I can give you some leaves to chew, but only a few." She held up her hand to keep him from protesting. "The more you rely on the herbs to help you sleep, the less sleep you will be able to get without them," she said. "And as we don't know what we're doing or where we're going yet, we don't know how long my stores will last. Wouldn't that be miserable?" she asked him. "On the Blight-infested roads, or chased by assassins who wish you and Fergus dead, and you're too tired because you haven't slept. And now you've wasted your second chance at life." She smiled, feeling some sort of strange pleasure at making King Cailan look or feel uncomfortable. She'd made up her mind that she was glad her people had been on good enough terms with the previous kings to just be left alone by them. She wasn't sure she cared for kings very much, now that she'd met one.

Cailan looked at the pair of glossy deep green leaves she held in her pale hand. His mouth was a grim line and his blue eyes were hard. "I'll take my chances for now," he said, plucking them from her grasp and stuffing them in his mouth. "Thank you," he said and as quickly as he'd come in, he was gone.

Viviane went back to reading about the Ferelden rebellion and Maric, the man who would be king, and who would eventually sire the infuriating man who bustled in and out like it was nothing. And she decided she didn't like kings at all.

Teagan did not force them to decide where to go or what to do right away, for which Cailan was exceedingly grateful. "You came back from the dead," Teagan said with a chuckle. "I think you can rest some."

Cailan tried to. Viviane's leaves had helped, but he still felt constantly tired, and like everything was an effort. While Fergus seemed to be recovering more quickly, and liked to go outside and walk the castle grounds, Cailan felt the dark corners of the castle's interior suited him better.

He sat in Eamon's study with a piece of vellum stretched out on the desk, scratching with a piece of charcoal. He marked the sides of the valley, Loghain's position, and the Tower of Ishal. He stared at it. He tried to make sense of it. On his rough diagram he sketched arrows representing the movement of the darkspawn forces, and small circles representing the Fereldan regiments' locations.

"He had to have seen it," he muttered to the empty study. "So how did things get so bollocks'd up?" He crumpled up the diagram of Ostagar and tossed it over his shoulder toward the fireplace, but it bounced off the mantle and rolled away from the hearth. He took out another sheet of vellum, which he folded in half to divide into columns. On one side he wrote his name, and on the other, Loghain. Then he began listing the nobility according to their ranks.

What he saw wasn't promising. Loghain was Teyrn of Gwaren; Bryce Cousland was Teyrn of Highever. The two were second only to the monarchy. But with Bryce dead and Howe calling himself Teyrn of Highever, as well as Arl of Amaranthine, Cailan didn't have much weight on his side. Even with Fergus alive, something drastic would have to happen to make Howe relinquish his claims.

"Anora," he sighed, running his hand over his hair. For once, when he closed his eyes he didn't see the dead with their vacant stares, but Anora's golden hair glowing in sunlight, and her sparkling, bright blue eyes. A lump rose in his throat and he swallowed around it. If the Ashes didn't work, he might never have to face Eamon again, but he would need to face Anora.

He did miss her, more than he wanted to admit. If he didn't miss her, he didn't have to feel guilty about the way they'd left one another. But as he looked at the lists he was drawing up, he felt lost. This was Anora's domain: the intrigue and political games had always excited her, the way the prospect and hope of battle excited him. They complemented one another that way, or would have if he'd actually had the opportunity to plan battles and strategies.

He got up and looked at the framed map of Ferelden. Thinking of Anora had led him to think of what to do next, because sitting in Redcliffe, waiting for the Wardens, wouldn't do much good at this point. They had to go somewhere that would be safe, and even defensible; with Loghain's eyes on Redcliffe and his seat of power in Denerim, neither of those options was feasible. Unfortunately, both were places Cailan had called home.

The west was closed off by the Frostbacks, but if they moved east they could come to Gwaren. It would be a delicious irony for Cailan to set up his new seat of power in the heart of Loghain's own Teyrnir. But something else poked at the back of his memory.

His laughter sliced through the air. Of course: the first outpost Maric and Loghain had secured during the rebellion to oust the usurper from the throne.

Fergus laughed too when Cailan told him this. "Our fathers would laugh if they saw us now," he said. A day outside in the brisk air had put some color back in his face, and he seemed much calmer. "I've been talking with Teagan," he said when Cailan made mention of it. "He told me about your list of nobles, but also that when he left Denerim a couple weeks ago he detoured through the Bannorn and began to rally support. We might not be as alone as we think. After all, look at Fianna and Alistair: if they could find support and traipse all over Ferelden, I'm sure we can do as much. If not better."

Cailan smiled. "You're still amazed by your sister, aren't you."

"She's saving the world. I think I'd be amazed by just about anyone," Fergus said. "But especially Fi, since she could barely save herself from a bad hangover," he added with a grin.

"Maybe you should be giving her a little more credit," Cailan suggested, and was met with a frown from Fergus. "She's had it just as rough as you," Cailan said. "Maybe you should stop being so amazed that she's saving the world and just being amazed she's alive."

Fergus's eyes widened a bit, and then he blinked. "Well. Way to put me in my place." He turned and walked away, leaving Cailan feeling bad, but not bad enough to go after him. He supposed he should be honest at some point and mention that the other Warden who happened to be alive happened to be his brother. But unlike Fianna, who'd grown up privileged like Fergus and now had to make a way for herself, Alistair had grown up with difficulties. Now, when he was a Warden and things should have been easier for him, was tasked with saving Ferelden.

Cailan added Alistair to the mental list of regrets he wanted to set right.

He considered heading to his room, but changed his mind and made his way out into the crisp Ferelden fall day. He squinted at the horizon, which was perpetually dark these days. The chill air flowed around him, bringing with it the scent of fish and fire, and he was grateful the Blight hadn't yet touched Redcliffe. He hoped it could hold off until Fianna and Alistair returned.

He made his way down to the practice yards, where he'd first met Alistair all those years ago. Now the dirt practice ring was empty. The uncomfortable thought had been building inside of him: if they were to head to Gwaren, or anywhere, really, he would have to pick up a sword again. His massive two-handed sword was probably long-lost at Ostagar, as was the sword his father had found in the Deep Roads two decades ago. Though he wasn't a sword-and-shield fighter, preferring the heft and reach of the greatsword, he'd taken his father's blade as some sort of charm; after all, it had helped Maric the Savior hack his way through legions of darkspawn then, so perhaps it would help Cailan now.

But Cailan was rapidly realizing that wishful thinking wouldn't help him reclaim what was his, nor save his country in its solemn hour. He looked over the racks of weapons in the armory. Most blades had been pilfered, and the ones left were in disrepair. The armor pieces were scattered, and he couldn't really find anything that matched. Probably all with the army he hadn't called for.

Cailan grabbed a blunt, nicked sword and hefted it. The grasp was alien to him, but the weight was good; he figured anything larger might prove to be too heavy. He found a light buckler that didn't feel too heavy, and headed to the ring. There were no dummies set up, and he figured the men of the castle had had enough of a workout fighting off the corpses and demons Teagan had told him about. He swept the blade in an arc over his head and jabbed, keeping his guard up with the buckler.

"Need some help?" Cailan looked up to see Teagan watching him, and his inborn vanity hoped he didn't look too ridiculous. He nodded and Teagan came in, bearing his own blade and buckler with his Rainesfere arms painted on. Without a word he lunged forward, forcing Cailan to block the blow with his own blade. The metal clanged out and echoed across the empty ring. Teagan disengaged his sword and swung again, this time a downward blow that Cailan had to take on his buckler. His arm went numb underneath the small shield, and he didn't have time to protest before Teagan came at him again.

It went like this for what felt like hours, but was really only a few minutes. Cailan found himself forced back, merely defending his position, and doing a pathetic job of it, at that. Sweat dripped down his face and soaked his hair, and when he inhaled his breath whistled into his lungs and never quite seemed to fill them. He managed to land a blow against Teagan's sword, but his uncle twisted his wrist, forcing Cailan to drop his own blade. Then he held the point of his sword to Cailan's throat. "Ready to yield?"

Cailan was too tired to be embarrassed, and dropped to one knee. He nodded, unable to find breath to answer. Teagan shoved his sword into its scabbard, and it clanged with a note of finality. When he looked up his uncle was not smiling. "Bad?"

"You'll need to train before you leave," Teagan said, wiping away sweat from his brow. "Time was you could take me down in a fraction of that time."

"In all fairness I was mostly dead," Cailan pointed out, cross at his own weakness.

"Which Loghain won't care about if he challenges you to a duel in a Landsmeet, as is his right," Teagan pointed out. "Cailan. You've had a bad time of things and I realize that, but you'll have to build up and get beyond it. You're the king."

"You think I don't know that," Cailan said, stabbing the dull sword into the dirt. "I've known that since my coronation and spent the last five years trying to be the king Ferelden deserves. My father told me about the Blight and I made an effort to fight it, because Ferelden deserves it."

"Then what you need to do is not let these forces move you like a pawn in a game," Teagan said. "Move yourself. Position yourself. And don't tell me you're trying. I think it's time we stop trying and just do." His face was grim. "Isolde tried, and it got us nowhere."

Cailan cocked his head at the mention of his aunt. "She hired that apostate. What did the Wardens do with him?"

"Left him in the dungeon for Eamon to deal with. Why?"

"This king is making a move."