Arl Eamon's estate seemed to occupy an inordinately large space of Denerim city - Rilian thought that they could probably get two dozen Alienage houses into the space of the kitchens alone. Before working for Lady Habren, she had never really thought about what would go into a rich man's home - had envisaged even a palace as a sort of glorified Elven cottage, only with more of what her family had had. As she stepped onto marble tiles softened by velvet rugs, surrounded by carvings and tapestries and mahogany chairs, she was reminded of the limitations of imagination. She had not really had time to take in Redcliffe castle: the wreckage strewn everywhere - legacy of the twisted creatures summoned by the Fade Demon - had spoiled her first impressions. Here she took in the twin statues of Andraste - the large wall-hangings of stylised dogs - the antique vases - and tried to calculate how many of her people they would have fed for how long. This was not just an exercise in bitterness - Rilian often went over such problems with Sten and Ser Perth, both experienced soldiers, aware that she needed that knowledge to effectively manage the growing horde of refugees and soldiers they were leading. Arl Eamon himself seemed to think no further than putting Alistair on the throne - or maybe he just didn't think her worth taking into his confidence - but the problem was very real. And even Sten, a commander of the Beresaad, had never had to plan a war on such a scale, or deal with civilians. The fear that if they actually ousted Loghain from the regency they would have no clue how to step into his shoes was a very real one. She didn't have a lot of time to think about it, but it seeped into the rest of her thoughts like dye into water, colouring them with nameless dread.
Rilian passed two more statues of Andraste, smiling benignly over them, and headed up wide steps into a large hall. Her eyes lit up when she passed a large library - since her days in Mother Boann's school she had devoured books and maps every chance she got (she had been almost a permanent visitor in Alarith's store). She found Arl Eamon there, pouring over a volume of genealogy, and explained as best she could what Arl Howe had done in the Alienage. Pale blue eyes looked up from the page:
"Yes - if Loghain's allies are causing trouble that could be an advantage," he murmured thoughtfully.
Alistair, aware of some intent Rilian had not been aware of herself, grabbed her arm before she could step forward. Rilian shuddered at how close she had actually come to punching her own ally in his broad, complacent face. Unaware of the little drama that had just played out, Eamon continued:
"But we will need more than that to throw against him in the Landsmeet. The problem is that Loghain has been here for months; we will need to speak to whom we can, get a feel for the lay of the land, so to speak. I would suggest speaking to..."
Rilian took in the list of nobles, her mind on other things. She was thinking about that meeting with Loghain - the second time she had met him, actually - and about what Arl Eamon really wanted here. She felt she had almost understood the Teyrn, across a gulf no-one else had wanted to bridge.
"Was it necessary to put Alistair forward as a rival for the throne?" she asked Eamon quietly, "If we had simply gone to Denerim and opened talks for an alliance..." She ignored Alistair's angry start and continued to watch the Arl.
"And would it have made a difference?" Arl Eamon snapped, "The Teyrn was sending men to kill Grey Wardens long before I ever..."
Yes, that was true: at that doomed War Council - had it really only been six months ago? - General Loghain had seemed to hold some private but powerful ill feeling toward the Wardens. Was it only because they were Orlesian, or had something else happened? Not for the first time, she wished she had had the chance to get to know Duncan better - she had the creeping uneasy sense that there was far more to being a Grey Warden than he had had time to teach them. She remembered Teyrn Loghain telling her it had been King Maric who had first brought the order back to Ferelden, after two-hundred years of exile. Strangely, the Teyrn had been the first human she had met who had said something kind to her without an agenda. You're pretty for a Grey Warden... It had been patronizing, but not lascivious. Unlike the rumours about King Maric - unlike the gleam in King Cailan's eye or the love in Alistair's - the Teyrn's tastes did not run to Elves. It was more like something he might have said to a much younger human woman, the daughter of a friend - a sort of absent-minded compliment, his mind on other things. And then: Don't let anyone tell you you don't belong - the first Warden Maric brought to Ferelden was a woman; best warrior I've ever seen... It had not been lost on her that he had said woman rather than Elf, making no distinction. Unlike nearly every other soldier at Ostagar, he had not seemed to find the notion of Elves being warriors a strange one. She found herself thinking of the Teyrn's own daughter - how strange that the Queen had had no part in that first meeting; where was she? It was, after all, Queen Anora whom Arl Eamon was seeking to replace - was she really that passive, or was something else going on? Not for the first time, Rilian had the sense of being way out of her depth in a sea she had no place in; human politics were a mystery to her. And that was why she had no choice but to swim with the tide.
"No, we have no choice but to oppose Loghain with the one person who has a stronger claim to the throne," the Arl went on, as if in echo of her thoughts. "That is the only way I have been able to call for a Landsmeet in the middle of a Blight - and a Landsmeet is what we need to unite the land. I have taken the liberty of inviting those Banns who may be receptive to my - to our ideas; we will dine with them tonight. Nigella will help you prepare."
Rilian's reunion with Nigella - a relation on her father's side who had worked as a maid for Arl Eamon for as long as she could remember - proved to be the highlight of her evening.
"Now, don't you worry about your father and cousins - that monster Howe came down brutally on the rioters, but your family weren't among them.'Course, it's been a while since I've seen them - they closed off the Alienage last week - but I know Cyrion. Adaia used to say he was too quiet around the shems - but it's that commonsense that'll see them though this."
Rilian shuddered in unbearable relief. The anxiety was still a hard knot in her stomach, but she had feared the worst - that Arl Howe had chosen specific vengeance upon Soris and Shianni for Vaughan's murder. What had happened sounded bad enough - but Alienage Elves had different hierarchies of bad to other, more fortunate citizens.
After Rilian had bathed and washed her hair, Nigella helped her brush it out and choose a dress - not a maid helping a Lady but an aunt helping a beloved niece.
"Ah - you've more your mother's colouring than your father's. But you don't have her eyes..."
"Shianni has the same hair and eyes as me - we get it from father's mother."
The talk of which child resembled which parent was as familiar and comforting as her mother's old boots - in a minute the talk would turn to who was courting who in the Alienage - which family paid which dowry - who could be trusted, and who lied in all encounters... Rilian relaxed into it, happier than she had been in a long time. When Nigella showed her a green silk dress - and explained with a grin that it belonged to Arlessa Isolde, and who was going to know - Rilian almost squealed in delight. She tried it on, feeling like the princesses in Leliana's stories. She began to hum the tune to "Alindra And Her Soldier" while Nigella fetched a mirror to show how well the green went with her red hair.
"Ah - that's my girl," Nigella was beaming, "I have never seen an Elven woman so finely dressed!"
That stopped Rilian like a sudden cold shower. "I have," she said, an odd note in her voice, "I've seen dresses like these on the women who used to take "favours" from shems - and every one of those nobles will have seen it too." She thought of her first meeting with Ser Perth: I'm not sure how to address an elf in your position, and her own realisation that, when there was no-one people could compare you to, you could make your own rules. "If I am to be taken seriously, I must be different. And everyone will know what I stand for." She searched among her belongings until she found the answer - the beautiful tunic Wynne had made for her at camp, in between darning Alistair's socks: a soft grey with a stylised griffin across the front. She teamed it with black form-fitting trousers, a wide belt, and boots whose colour matched the tunic. She would not have bartered those boots for food had she been starving - they were Adaia's; the only thing she had of her mother's.
She met Alistair and Arl Eamon in the hallway. Alistair gave an admiring wolf-whistle, thinking no further than how the outfit fitted her athletic figure; interestingly, Arl Eamon's face was full of suppressed bile - he had wanted her to be a pretty figurehead, she realised then, and was extremely happy to disappoint him.
The dinner itself surprised her as much as the house. The Elven dockworkers ate differently to the rest of the Alienage - the stuff Fatty Glug served was disgusting but nutritious; for the work they did they had to be strong. Rilian had a workman's appetite, which had only increased since becoming a Warden; the rest of the camp were alternately amazed and horrified by the amount she and Alistair could put away. She had assumed nobles ate more of the same food they did - what else was there? - and peered dubiously at the thin greenish-gold liquid in a glossy blue bowl. She waited until the others had dipped their - silver - spoons into it before trying it; it tasted better than her wildest dreams. This was followed by a rack of lamb, accompanied by a stuffing flavoured with herbs. She had to make a conscious effort not to bolt it, aware of the Banns watching her covertly. She wondered if they knew she was calculating how many of her people just one such meal would feed. They might - and they might be worrying about it, too.
Alistair looked every bit as uncomfortable as she felt. She shot Arl Eamon an incredulous look: you're putting him forward to be King and you never bothered teaching him this stuff? My father gave me everything he could; you gave Alistair roof and board till he was ten and then sent him off to become a lyrium-addicted templar... Never mind, she told her fellow Warden silently - we've seen things these nobles wouldn't believe. The Halls of Orzammar - the wonders of the Dalish, with their ancient link to land and deeper magic than the Circle would ever know - the Ashes of Andraste... When the Banns asked about the allies the Wardens were providing she told them these tales, drawing Alistair out so that he spoke of their adventures like the hero that he was. Rilian's image of him carried over - to their audience and to Alistair himself: she had always had that power. Had Leliana been there she would have seen that not all her bardic training had been wasted. In turn she tried to learn everything she could of the situation in Denerim.
She answered the Banns' tales with what wit she could muster, though their grievances seemed petty. Why would someone whose lands were in danger of being swallowed by darkspawn want a judgement on Teyrn Loghain for confiscating said lands to feed his army? Why pick this moment to complain that he had conscripted an elder son without the father's permission? She realised for the first time that to some of these nobles the Teyrn was still an upstart farmer-turned-soldier; a war hero but no true noble. She might have found this funny (after all, they were saying this to an Elven gutter rat) but she had no time to enjoy the irony.
What she was left with was a certain reluctant sympathy for Loghain. She plotted his actions at Ostagar and wondered if she herself would have done any differently. Only a Grey Warden who lived up to the ideal of anything to stop the Blight could judge him for refusing help from the Orlesian chevaliers - she certainly could not. She had destroyed the Anvil of the Void - which might have won them the war - because the price had seemed too high; she couldn't then blame Loghain for having a line he could not cross. It had been King Cailan who had refused to wait for Arl Eamon's troops - and who had insisted on fighting in the front lines. If only the Tower hadn't fallen - if only we could have lit the beacon in time... but if only never won a battle. By the time he had received the signal it was too late - I would have retreated too, I couldn't have sacrificed my men - the last defence against the Blight - not even to save a King... And afterwards, what had Loghain done? Sent emissaries to Orzammar for allies - tried to recruit the mages of the Circle... What he had promised Uldred - autonomy from the Chantry - was only what many other mages had wanted; he would have succeeded in recruiting the best weapon in Thedas against the Blight...if Wynne had not argued against aiding him - for no better reason than the retreat at Ostagar! When she's not wise as the Maker she's as silly as some old hen-wife... Rilian squashed the thought at once, guiltily. Wynne was like her favourite grandmother; Rilian was...not a daughter, exactly - not the way Wynne saw her son in Alistair - but an echo of another elf; some long-ago sadness. Of course, neither Loghain nor Wynne could have anticipated what had come of it... Rilian and Alistair had cleaned up the mess; salvaged what they could - but the mages they had now were a fraction of the original number. Still, no matter her sympathy for Loghain's predicament, she could never trust him. He had used Blood Magic to poison a man who disagreed with him - had sent assassins to kill the remaining Grey Wardens. The only way to work with him would be to neutralise his power, somehow - and how were they going to do that without killing him? He strikes me as a man who has never surrendered in his life...
Listening to Arl Eamon and the nobles talk, a new worry began to creep into her mind. With no knowledge of economics beyond ministering to a force of a few hundred, Rilian had no choice but to take their word for the fact that the city's coffers were almost empty - that after the civil war the Teyrn had neither the gold nor the manpower to defeat the Blight (not unless some of these nobles agree to eat a little less well – but, of course, he can't push that through without making more enemies than he already has - possibly losing control of the city entirely...) Arl Eamon seemed to think this was good news:
"If there is no way that Ferelden can survive without my support and that of the Grey Warden allies, then the Teyrn must listen to reason – a Grey Warden who is also the last of the Theirin bloodline offers the best hope of uniting the land against the Blight."
"The man who secured Ferelden's independence will never agree to that," the elderly, distinguished-looking Bann Sighard interjected, "And truth be told there are those of us who are not comfortable with the idea of a Ferelden King who takes his orders from Weisshaupt."
"The Grey Wardens are our only hope against the Blight! If Teyrn Loghain cannot see that then he must be mad or blind."
Rilian listened in silence, her mind whirling. The man she had met at the gates was neither – he was a ruthless, hard-minded, fanatical patriot, and Arl Eamon trying to put a Grey Warden on the throne would only have confirmed his worst suspicions. Such a man would never compromise, never surrender – but nor would he allow his country to be swallowed by the Blight. What then? The answer was blindingly simple to her – she was surprised none of the others seemed to see it. He would find other allies somewhere – anywhere – promise things he could never admit to publicly. What could he have promised – what resources did Ferelden have other than gold or land…
Rilian's thoughts skittered, shying away from something. Inexplicably, she thought of Alarith, and his stories of flight from a land far away; she couldn't remember the name. She remembered the sight of the brand that started at his palm and disappeared into his sleeve…Don't ever ask, her father had said, and never complain, lass, until you've borne the like…
It was enough to ruin even a Grey Warden's appetite. Stomach churning, head spinning from the glass of red wine – how could a single glass of something be so strong? - she rose with the others and bade the guests goodnight. A handful stayed behind, talking with Arl Eamon about what measures he proposed to ensure Ferelden's nobility were treated fairly – by which she supposed they meant allowed to keep their lands and gold while others funded the war effort. One of these accosted her just as she was looking around for Alistair.
"It was a pleasure to meet you," he said, his voice as mellow as the aged wine, "So different from what I'd expected – truly, a Queen among Elves…" Rilian controlled her reaction with an effort – did the man think an Elven woman had never heard lying flattery before? "I'm sure you will want to know," the voice had a slight edge to it now, "that some of my fellows have been, ah, less than honest with you. They have their own standards, you see – not, perhaps, what you would understand, being so noble yourself."
Rilian was tempted to say: "Get on with it, man – is it lands and gold you want or someone's life?" She murmured something noncommittal and tried to pull away – where was Alistair… One large hand closed around her forearm – she felt its sweat warm through her sleeve. She glanced ahead, to where Alistair was standing, looking flushed and out of his depth among a crowd of nobles, sending a silent plea…if he didn't rescue her soon she would end up kneeing this fool in the crotch – and that was hardly the way to win support at the Landsmeet.
"There's fair and there's fair," the man was murmuring, "I'm sure that you, ah – Lady Tabris," that came out of him as harshly as a cough – she wagered he was used to far different ways of addressing Elven women…the memory of Vaughan was like acid at the back of her throat, "will understand. I want you to know I'm your friend; you can trust me. And, as a token, I have a small gift." The small gift came heavily into Rilian's hand - a velvet pouch; she knew without looking what it would contain. More now than Vaughan's forty silvers - she had, after all, gone up in the world... Revulsion shook her - she wanted to refuse him in the same way she had refused Vaughan. She settled for opening her palm and letting the bag hit the floor with a loud clang, coins spilling out. "You dropped something, ser."
The man's look was pure poison as he bent to pick them up. Arl Eamon and Alistair turned at the sound - Alistair's eyes concerned; Eamon's disapproving.
"That was foolish," the Arl murmured when they were alone, "We cannot afford to antagonize anyone. He might have helped us."
"I might have been his toy, or dead," Rilian said softy. "Excuse me, ser - it's been a long day." She headed for her chambers, wanting to take a bath and wash it all off.