Chapter 11: Conflicts of Interest

Denerim

"Reports from the Bannorn are… not good, Your Grace." Teyrn Rendon Howe dared to look up at the craggy face of Regent Loghain, who sat on the throne with one hand pressed to the bridge of his nose and his eyes closed. "The darkspawn are moving up from the south and refugees are waiting outside the city gates." He cleared his throat and shuffled back a few steps, out of reach of Loghain's hands. Or sword. "The people demand action, my lord."

Loghain looked up and there was something… old and tired about him. Always he'd been an immutable rock of a man, as impressively solid as the Frostback Mountains themselves. "We must force the Bannorn to provide soldiers."

"And if they refuse?" Howe's voice was as thin and uncertain as he was.

"Enough!" Both men looked up as Anora strode into the room. She'd stood out in the hall long, listening to Howe giving his pithy excuse for reports to her father. But listening to them plan a civil war was more than she could bear. "Should we not be fighting the darkspawn instead of one another?" she asked, looking between her father and Howe. She fixed her eyes on her father and stood straight, meeting his eye, as she'd learned to do early on.

Loghain shook his head, and Anora could have sworn there was a sadly amused smile just touching his lips. "Anora, the nobility must first be brought into line and then the darkspawn can be defeated. This is no true Blight," he added as a casual afterthought, brow creased. "Only Cailan's vanity demanded it be so."

Anora had always prided herself on her ability to remain calm and controlled even in the most devastating of circumstances. She hadn't even shed one tear in front of one person, including Erlina, when she'd learned of Cailan's death. The day was still fresh in her mind, and the gaping wound in her heart was nowhere close to healing. Perhaps because offhand comments like these from her own father kept tearing at it.

"Beg pardon," Rendon Howe said, clearing his throat and glancing at Anora. "Blight or no, we may not have the manpower to fight the darkspawn soon."

Anora swallowed and took a deep breath to calm herself. She was the Queen of Ferelden and would not be so easily brushed aside, nor stand quietly while her father, a loyal subject of the crown, openly criticized the dead king. "Cailan approached the Orlesians for support, did he not?" she asked, her own icy blue eyes meeting her father's; she took a small dose of satisfaction in the way he flinched.

"Never!" Loghain nearly leaped out of his chair, and while Rendon stumbled back, Anora stood her ground. "Maric and I drove those bastards out, and I will not roll out the welcome for them now!"

Anora stepped forward. "We need help, father." Her cheeks flamed and her heart thudded. She clenched her hands tightly; they shook like a twanged bowstring. "We cannot deal with this crisis alone!"

"Ferelden will stand on its own!" He rose to his feet and stamped one foot as if he could will the Blight and the darkspawn away simply because he wanted it. "I will lead us through, Anora. You must have faith in me."

The heat turned to ice and Anora blinked, uncertain that she had heard her father correctly. "Father. I am the Queen of Ferelden. The people look to you as a hero, but they look to me as a leader, and I must think of my people." They locked eyes for an eternal moment, unsaid words floating in the air. Loghain would not look away, and finally Anora reached into the air and asked what she'd wondered all along. "Did you kill Cailan?"

The question hung between father and daughter. And though the implications of it were horrible, Loghain did not seem at all surprised by the question. As the moments slid by Anora felt her heart race faster with anticipation of her father's answer.

At last Loghain settled back onto the throne and when he looked up at Anora again, his expression was almost sad. When he spoke next he looked away, as if meeting her eyes was too much for him. "Cailan's death was his own doing."

Every control mechanism Anora had set up in order to present herself as the cool, collected queen threatened to snap right there, but she could not give her father or Rendon Howe the satisfaction of dissolving into emotional chaos on the spot. To do so would give them every excuse to undermine her, perhaps declare her unfit to rule. That her father had declared himself regent, while she was perfectly fit to rule and had been doing so for the last five years, had been insulting enough. But the admission that he'd let the king die… let his own son-in-law die, was too much for her to take.

Try as she might she could come up with no words. She shook her head in disbelief and backed away before throwing her hands in the air in frustration and storming out. Leaving Loghain sitting on her husband's throne.

Anora hardly realized she was running, or crying, until she was forced to stop and gasp for air that barely made it past the hitching in her lungs. She leaned on the window embrasure, almost doubled over. There was a stitch in her side and a hole where her heart should have been. There was the feeling of being so empty she could collapse, and yet so full she thought she'd burst.

She glanced around and was thankful she'd made it to a dingy back hallway off the servants' quarters. She leaned against the stone wall and slid down to sit on the floor, paying no heed to her gown. Not for the first time did she wish she'd been born a male, so she could rule in her own right rather than as a pretty figurehead parading at her husband's side, and now being asked to cower in her father's shadow. If she'd been the son her father had always wanted, and not the daughter he'd gotten, she would be the one on the throne calling the shots.

Why couldn't she order him to stand down? Wait. I did, by reminding him I'm the queen, she thought. So why wouldn't he listen to her? Though he was her father, she outranked him and it was his duty to listen to her; nor did he have any right to step in as her regent. Suddenly she realized that this was how Cailan must have felt in those first days… then weeks… then months and years after his coronation. Anger replaced sadness; every muscle felt as taut as a bow ready to fire. She had to do something. Anything. Go somewhere, but would she be able to get out of the palace, let alone Denerim, with all that was afoot?

"My lady?" said a tentative voice, and Anora winced. While she didn't make a habit of being visibly emotional, she could handle any servant seeing her like this and brush it off with grace, a smile, and a sovereign for silence. But not Aubrey. The red-haired elf that had been the center of so many arguments between Anora and her husband now stood over her, and though her beige dress was drab and her red curls escaping from her bun, Anora was conscious of the fact she seemed so much more imperious.

"I'm sure you're enjoying this," Anora said, hardly bothering to stand on ceremony. What was one more embarrassment today?

"Hardly, my lady," Aubrey said. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Whatever you may think of me, I have nothing but respect for you," she said.

Anora had been expecting gloating. Maybe a little dance of joy at seeing the queen defeated. Not… grace, and certainly not a confession of respect. "Sit down," she said with a sigh, patting the stone floor next to her. When Aubrey didn't move, she looked up. The girl's face was frightened, and her eyes darted to and fro. "If anyone sees, they won't say anything. I'm the queen, and I've ordered you to sit with me," she said with a strange grin, finding it ironic that just weeks ago she was all but physically removing Aubrey from her sight.

Aubrey slid down and hugged her knees to her chest, occasionally glancing at Anora. The rest of the castle was too far away for them to hear anything, and for a time both women just sat in the silence of their own thoughts. "Did my husband ever talk to you?" Anora asked suddenly. She'd spent the last weeks thinking about Cailan: who he really was, what was really behind those blue eyes and sunny smile, and most of all, what she'd never quite seen simply because she'd been unwilling to look.

Aubrey glanced around and finally looked at Anora full-on with her stunning green eyes. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but is this some sort of trick question? If I answer, will your guards come out and take me to be hanged as an example in the square?"

Though her first instinct was to feel offended, from a political standpoint Anora saw the validity of the question. Servants like Aubrey walked a fine line of being favored and being found at fault, and if they were going to converse as simply two women, they would have to dispatch with suspicion. "No. No tricks. I… miss my husband and find I can't talk about him with anyone around here. Anyone who would appreciate him," she added. And that stung, because it drove home the knowledge that through their five years of marriage, and even through the long betrothal before that, she hadn't appreciated him the way he deserved.

Aubrey stared at the wall ahead of them, tugging on a lock of red hair. "Yes," she said at last. "He talked to me." The admission didn't surprise Anora, who waited for Aubrey to continue. "Just about little things," she said. "When he was frustrated or just needed to get something off his chest."

Times I should have been there to listen to him, Anora thought with a fresh pang. More than once she could recall Cailan standing in the doorway, a goofy smile on his face that did not quite meet his blue eyes. His long fingers would tap the doorframe and she just looked up, smiled and nodded in brusque greeting, before she went back about her business, hoping he'd go away. Usually he did and she'd feel relieved, quickly followed by feeling jealous when Erlina slipped her the news he'd gone to a serving girl. She swallowed her tears, which was easy, and her pride, which was infinitely harder. "I… I am glad he had someone who would listen to him."

Aubrey shrugged one shoulder. "I honestly never wished to replace you, my lady," she said. "I know my place." She looked down and fiddled with her hair again. "And he gave me things, things that helped me help my family. My mum died, my da likes his drink, and my younger brother is simple. Sweet, but simple, and has a hard time finding any work in the Alienage." She paused and when she spoke again her voice was choked. "It was as much about what I could get from him."

"You are a poor liar," Anora said, finally looking over at the elf. Aubrey shook her head, but she couldn't keep the flush out of her cheeks or the tears out of her eyes. Anora tried to see beyond the exotic pointed ears, long red hair, and stunning green eyes. "I often criticized Cailan's kindness," she said. "I also thought him too trusting, and thus unfocused on what it meant to lead his people as their king." Realization bred regret, and the pain Anora felt was beyond measure. "I see now that he knew more than I ever did. I just wish I'd seen it sooner."

The sunlight slanted through the window above them, pale, reminding them that autumn was getting on and winter was on the way. Anora smoothed her skirts in her lap and cleared her throat. "Aubrey… I know we are only here because of a difficult and awkward situation. But I think we may be able to help one another."

"My lady?"

"I need to leave the city," Anora said. It was clearer than ever that she needed to get beyond Denerim's walls. "Unfortunately I do not see my father reacting very kindly to that. He refuses to let me rule in my own stead, which is my right, but I lack the power to depose him simply because he is my father. And his reputation as the Hero of River Dane intimidates my guards… who are overseen by Ser Cauthrien, his own personal lieutenant." Anora's voice grew grim as she realized just how difficult her situation had become.

"What do you wish of me, my lady?" Aubrey asked, her voice guarded, eyes still narrow.

"Can you get to Gwaren?" Anora asked. Somehow the thought of the southern Teyrnir, her childhood home, called to her. It made her desperate for that simpler time of less than a decade ago. When Cailan was still alive. When Maric still ruled, and civil war didn't threaten to tear Ferelden asunder. "There are troops stationed there, and Gwaren is remote enough that they may not have heard of what's going on here yet." It was a desperate ploy, but these were desperate times. Aubrey still regarded her with suspicion, and Anora would have to rely on more than their bond over Cailan. "I can see to it that your family is provided for," she said. "And I will provide you with the documentation to take ship out of Denerim's harbor as soon as possible." Anora had always been good with documents, and while she would never use her skills to undermine Ferelden, she was well-practiced in the art of creating forgeries. Already her head was spinning with ideas of how to create a false identity for Aubrey to smuggle herself out of the city.

Aubrey was chewing on her bottom lip, her own mind at work. "I want to see Nolan and my da before I go, and want to see how they'll be taken care of first," she said. "I took this job in the palace when I was young because of them. I won't abandon them, even though it is the queen asking me." Her voice shook, as if striking a bargain with Anora frightened her deeply.

But Anora didn't blame her, and was so desperate herself that she would have agreed to nearly anything Aubrey asked of her. "It will be done." She clambered to her feet, feeling stiff, but much better now that her plan was more than a mere fancy. She smoothed her skirts and hoped her eyes were no longer red and puffy; she'd hate to explain to Erlina why she'd been crying and had not come to her faithful maid. Erlina. She'd always thought the way the elf dogged her steps had been blind servant's devotion, but from her discussion with Aubrey, she was learning the servants had their own webs of intrigue and guile that were just as dangerous as any noble's. "Wait in the alcove across from the royal bath chamber this evening," she said after a moment's thought. "I shall have documentation stating your brother is to become a page in the palace, and in consideration of his condition your father is to accompany him."

"And then I will go to Gwaren," Aubrey said, and Anora nodded. "Thank you, my lady."

"Whatever for?" Anora asked. If anything, she should have been thanking Aubrey for agreeing to something so desperate and dangerous.

"For helping my family."

"And thank you for helping me. And my husband's memory," Anora said, and took off before she began crying again, leaving Aubrey still sitting on the floor wondering what in the name of all that was holy she had just agreed to.

"Clumsy wench!" Anora snapped, an icy fire in her pale blue eyes.

"My apologies, your Majesty," Aubrey mumbled, on her hands and knees picking up the things Anora had dropped. Her shaking hands fumbled with the silver-backed brush and comb, the fluffy towel, and more importantly, the carefully folded documents that had been inside the towel. She handed the pile up to Anora, who just snatched the brush and comb.

"Keep the towel," she said. "Now that it's been on the floor it's of no use to me. I'll just have to have Erlina get me another. Perhaps you can learn some competence from my personal maid," she added as she passed Aubrey. "And elf," she snapped, making Aubrey look up and meet her eyes. "Watch where you're going."

Neither woman gave the smile she wanted to give at Anora's veiled words, but they felt it.

Aubrey knelt on the floor a moment longer, then rose. She dropped the towel in the soiled laundry basket outside the bathing chamber door, and slipped the papers in the pocket of her gown. Later that night, stealing home from the castle felt more dangerous than ever. Especially when she found the Alienage closed.

"But I live here," she protested to the guard in royal livery, her ears burning and the letters threatening to leap out of her pockets and into his suspicious hands. "I serve in the palace and return to my home on the weekends for my leave."

"Alienage is closed, no exceptions," he said in a gruff voice. "Though if you were to make it worth my while…" His grin was lecherous, and Aubrey had seen it all too often. She backed away. He advanced, beefy hands fumbling with his belt even as his eyes feasted on her, bedraggled though she was.

Da. Nolan. Forgive me, she thought as she turned and ran.

Ostagar, Southern Ferelden

"It looks better on you anyway." It was true; Alistair had trained hard as a templar, and more recently as a Grey Warden, and the golden plate armor hugged his frame in a way it had never done for Cailan, who always felt he was swimming in it. "And keep our father's sword," he added. "The more claim to the throne you can show, the better."

"But you're alive now. I don't have to claim the throne," Alistair said, fidgeting. Fianna nudged him and gave him a glare that could have frozen water on the hottest summer day. She was feisty, Cailan would give her that, and perhaps just what Alistair needed.

"No one else knows that," Cailan said. "Just the group of us and Teagan."

"And Isolde," Fergus reminded him, but Cailan just shrugged. He didn't feel like telling Fergus the truth just yet, that he'd let Jowan cast a memory spell to muddle Isolde's thoughts of the week they'd spent recuperating in Redcliffe. Yes, it had been blood magic. And yes, Cailan had ordered it. Isolde had never been able to keep a secret, and most court gossip could be traced back to her hand stirring the pot.

"You keep up the ruse," he ordered Alistair. "Your presence will keep Loghain distracted while we make our way to Gwaren."

"If you intend to make it into Gwaren, you might want to reconsider your look," Fianna said, her gaze sweeping over Cailan, Fergus, and their armed guards. "Loghain's men are crawling all over the Bannorn and Arlings looking for more soldiers. Your path will take you near Southreach. It's closed to refugees, but wide open for soldiers; dressed like that you'll get sucked into there and conscripted into Loghain's army before you can say cheese."

"If we got into his army we could work to spread subversion from within," Fergus suggested. "If we got conscripted chances are good others did, too."

Fianna shook her head. "No, you'd be found out well before then." She did manage a smile. "You're a Cousland, Fergus. You look, talk, and act too much like a teyrn in training. Well… a teyrn," she added and her eyes took on that haunted shadow again.

"I see her point," Cailan said with a nod. He looked around the ruins, toward the path into the gorge where he'd led his men to their deaths. "Let's start looking around; there's bound to be something we can use here to disguise ourselves."

"And with that, Fianna and I should be off," Alistair announced. He looked almost relieved to be leaving, as if spending this much time with Cailan were the most awkward thing in the world. But since they'd spend their entire lives knowing their relationship and unable to do anything about it, Cailan could hardly fault him; he could only hope this would change once everything was over.

"May the Maker watch over you, brother," Cailan said as Alistair mounted his horse, easy and nimble in spite of his heavy plate. Cailan couldn't suppress his smile; this was one thing he too had managed to avoid getting from their father. "Teagan will send word once you return and plan to make for Denerim. We can take ship easily enough by that point," he said, sounding more hopeful and sure than he felt.

Fianna threw her arms around Fergus. "I wish I could come with you, but I kind of have to save the world," she said, smiling though her eyes were glassy with tears.

"You're a Grey Warden now," Fergus said, and the words seemed strange to him. "You have a duty. And so far you seem to have done quite well with it." Fianna looked at the snow at her feet, her face crimson. "Fi, I'm really proud of you," he said, giving her a final hug before helping her up behind Alistair on the horse.

Cailan watched, feeling he was intruding on a deeply private moment, though Fergus didn't say anything to confirm his fears. And there was a pang inside of him. Jealousy. Fergus had found Fianna and they were able to have a joyous reunion in spite of all the darkness and decay about them. A gulf as wide as Ostagar separated Cailan from Alistair still.

Alistair clucked to his horse and they were off, leaving Cailan, Fergus, and their band behind. Jowan had kept a wide berth from Alistair, who hadn't been happy that Cailan freed him. "Former templar in me talking," he'd said with a suspicious glare at Jowan. But he grudgingly understood why Cailan had recruited him, and so long as Jowan stayed away, things had been fine.

"He's gone now?" Jowan asked, sliding up next to Cailan. "Templars make me nervous," he said, voice shaking, since he'd been very honest that talking to the king made him nervous, too.

"Former templar," Cailan said with a reassuring grin. He looked at the men assembled around him. "Come on. Find what you can. We need to look like refugees."

"Which we are," Ser Ryder said with a shrug.

They spread out about the snowy ruins. Alistair and Fianna had assured them the field was free of darkspawn, and as Grey Wardens they could sense it. Cailan stuck with Fergus to begin with, but the closer Fergus's scouring brought him to the chasm, the more he drifted from his friend's side. He looked around the ruins, trying to piece together the scene as he remembered it. Across the chasm, the charred Tower if Ishal stood tall and proud as if presiding over a mass grave.

He turned. That meant his tent had stood not far from here. Nothing remained of the tents but ragged scraps of fabric clinging to charred poles. Cailan found the cleared area where his own tent had been and looked about. His cot was gone, as was his table. Most of the chests had been overturned and smashed. He looked through the wet and dirty contents, mostly clothing. Some would do for their disguise. He picked through what he could find and laid it out on the snow. To think, he'd picked things so carefully before leaving Denerim, only to have them strewn so carelessly.

Then he looked for the most important chest of all. He knew Alistair and Fianna had been in it, because he'd seen King Maric's sword and his own shield with Alistair. His heart beat more quickly as he found it and flipped open the lid with a creak.

The thick purple robes, emblazoned with the Theirin family crest, had been neatly folded back on top. Though he knew it was a frivolous thought, Cailan picked up the folded velvet and set it aside to take with him. If anything, maybe he could pawn them in Gwaren to get the money to take a ship. Though a strange segment of him didn't want to part with them.

While he was glad to find some reminder of his royalty, something more was at stake. He dug through the rest of his royal relics and found the latch that unlocked the false bottom of the chest. He pried back the panel, holding his breath.

Nothing.

Fianna and Alistair were gone, headed west, with his biggest secret in their possession.