Author's note: I promised a last chapter re-cap. Rilian and Loghain have agreed to work together to save Denerim. Loghain, trusting Howe more than he should, has left both Rilian and Anora as guests in the Arl of Denerim's estate. Howe's men take Rilian in the night, and he has her tortured, planning to use Blood Magic to control her. He means to marry Anora, and use Rilian to assassinate Loghain at the right moment. Things do not go according to plan, and Rilian and Jowan kill Howe, escape, and free the rest of the prisoners. Anora and Rilian forge an alliance. Anora reveals an Orlesian plot, and offers to give the Alienage autonomy in exchange for Rilian protecting Loghain by making him a Warden.
Loghain woke before dawn. He had never been very good at resting - the strict urgency inside him kept him on his feet - and since Ostagar he'd managed only five hours sleep out of every twenty-four. As a young man, he'd had nightmares about the chevalier who had raped and tortured his mother with such relish and variety, before slitting her throat in front of him. Over the years the tenderness of Celia's companionship, and the clear worth of the work he did for his King, had taken the sting out of those dreams. Now both were dead - the one at sea, the other by a long hacking illness that cut her life out as effectively as a knife in her lungs - and now his sleep was void of dreams as black glass; a brief taste of eternity.
He rose, wearing only his nightshirt - contrary to popular belief, he did not actually sleep in armour. The servants had not been in to relight the fire: the room was an empty, uncoloured paleness, solid blocks of grey upon grey. He stoked the flames, and eventually the dull red glow lit the monochrome room in tones of blood and fire. He remembered the Warden's tale of the Deep Roads: running like rats through vast warrens, pressed in by centuries of stone, tunnels cocooned in glistening black webs of taint. She had spoken of orange rivers of lava that roiled beneath the dragon's perch, and he found himself thinking of what Denerim might look like in its wake, buildings charred to rust-coloured ash.
The russet glow flickered upon shadowy angles of wall, cupboard and desk, and seemed to give life to the room's personal touches: a chess set in which Loghain played both sides and out-fought tiny, frozen chevaliers in a thousand different ways - maps where paintings would have been. The largest and most intricate was a rarity these days. Most copies had been gleefully burned thirty years ago. The heat-shimmer ruddied the parchment and gave faint movement to the lines of occupied Ferelden: a promise, a warning. The wish to forget the past was nothing more than foolish sentiment; without its anchor, one would see the world the way the Banns did: a series of short-sighted squabbles over land and marriage and prestige, drowned in floods of self-importance and the ale served in the Gnawed Noble.
He did not see Ferelden solely in terms of borders to defend. As a boy, his family had worked the flat, fertile plains of the southern Bannorn: he still remembered the smell of cows and grass, the feel of a scythe handle as the blade bit into the stems. Ferelden had been the small community of plain, simple men who worked hard and talked little. The chevalier's cruelty had rent the fabric of that world and made exiles of Loghain and his father; replaced the familiar trusted faces with an alliance of unease: desperate men and elves whose only purpose was survival. At least, that was how Loghain had seen it. ...People can be more than they are, if they will try for it. It's in the worst of times that we need to cleave together the strongest... Loghain had scoffed at the words, but he'd never forgotten them. And then Gareth had died - along with everyone he'd tried to protect - for a scruffy young prince, and Loghain had decided that Maric had damned well better be worth the sacrifice. The passions that had led to the freeing of Ferelden - the ideals that had inspired them - those things were the blood in his veins, the air in his chest.
Years later, Celia had woven that meaning into different cloth: a farmer's son and a cabinet-maker's daughter walking the streets of their Teyrnrir, the children of Gwaren born into freedom. The smell of pinewood and the sea, convivial evenings over ale and good food and long walks by the beach in which both he and Celia said little and were too contented to notice. But Celia had been dead these thirteen years - Farel was a better administrator than he would ever be - and he could not have returned to farming. Even if Maric had let him, it would not have been the field he knew from boyhood, the same faces beside him, his family around the table. For a moment, he saw himself and Celia in some cottage - Anora married to a man with more sense than Cailan - surrounded by children and grandchildren; then he blinked away the image, wondering at his own foolishness. He suspected he would have made a less than perfect grandfather anyway.
No, Maric had tasked him with defending Ferelden, and there was nothing he wouldn't do. It didn't matter that lately the purpose of his life had sprung leaks in all directions: the alliance with the Warden would take care of the schemes of Eamon and the dithering of the Banns. The Blight would not be allowed to choke Ferelden. He washed down in front of the small basin, and by the time he had dressed, his squire had arrived to help him into his armour. It fitted like a second skin; its weight an anchor. He recalled the Warden's quick-witted retort when he had scoffed at her ostentatious Dragonscale, his quiet smile reflecting the irony that he - an archer throughout the rebellion - should have spent the following thirty years stuffed into a chevalier's plate. His impulsive gesture after the Battle of River Dane had caught the imagination of the soldiers; the armour had become a talisman. Grudgingly, he conceded that the Warden's armour served the same purpose. He had never seen her fight - had no idea of her relative skill - but if she did nothing but show up at the head of their (joint!) forces looking like an Elven Andraste she would serve her purpose.
Loghain left the room and headed through winding corridors, chill and shadowed and just beginning to wake to the day's activity. The atmosphere was markedly different to the court of six months ago, noise and colour and life drained like blood from a wound. The whispers and rumours and intrigue had taken a darker air after Cailan's death - since Anora's unexplained absence they had died altogether. The unnatural stillness - the furtive, frozen fear - reminded him chillingly of the days of the occupation. ...Become what you hate in order to save what you love... It was a relief to reach the kitchens - and the broad-shouldered woman who attacked a platter of bread and cheese with the single-mindedness of a fellow farmer and soldier. She looked up at him and nodded. "Ser."
"Cauthrien." He sat down beside her and helped himself to his own breakfast. Stress and fatigue robbed the food of taste, but it was fuel. They ate in comfortable silence - but when Cauthrien pushed her empty plate away he gave her a quick and precise run-down on all that had happened last night.
"And do you think the alliance will hold, ser? Once we deploy, you'll lose the immediate threat to the Alienage - how can you be sure the Warden will keep her word?" That long-boned, hawk-like face - a face most men were blind and stupid enough to call plain - was intense, her dark eyes seeking. He appreciated her candour - the one person he could violently disagree with yet trust completely.
"I cannot be certain," he admitted, "I do know this alliance spells the end for the ambitions of Eamon and his puppet prince. The Warden has no other allies - no option but to join with us to protect the Alienage from the horde. There is something else - something you need to know if I am killed. I trust no other with the information." Cauthrien listened in silence to his explanation of the need for a Warden to kill the Archdemon - and the Warden's ultimate fate. She knew, as well as he, that he could no more tell the Warden the truth than he could have told the King's men at Ostagar that they were doomed. It was not that decision - a harsh but necessary fact of war - that made him grateful for the exhaustion that wrestled him into dreamless sleep. The aftertaste of Howe's wholly gratuitous sadism lingered like tainted food. He was ashamed of the sudden impulse to confide his orders to eliminate Oswyn before the story shattered the alliance - since when had she become Mother Cauthrien, his confessor? Oswyn - Cailan - the thousand men at Ostagar; he carried his dead with him, and that was as it should be.
"I am going to see my daughter - if anyone can convince the Banns, it is she."
"Let me come with you, ser."
Loghain considered. A soldier should always expect trouble - and Cauthrien was worth any ten guards. He nodded, and the two left the palace for the pre-dawn streets.
Denerim's blocky buildings pressed in on him: a patchwork of black upon grey that held up a sky like a silver shield. The capital was a dark, complex presence around him. Even after thirty years, the landscape was alien - he thought of the soft greens of rolling hills; golden light poured over newly-sown fields like wine. Today he felt the difference as a warning; inexplicably, as they neared Howe's estate, his gut tightened. His gut was seldom wrong. He paused, exactly like an old dog sniffing the air.
Cauthrien looked at him quizzically.
"In the days of the rebellion, dealing with the lickspittle Banns, Maric and I walked into so many unpleasant surprises I developed a nose for them. There'll be trouble."
"You left the estate locked tight barely six hours ago, ser. Arl Howe oversees the Alienage, that's all. I could predict trouble too - it might take a few weeks, but I'd be right eventually, wouldn't I?"
Loghain found a tight smile that acknowledged Cauthrien's point. The two said nothing further until they came to the towering gates. A young man he did not recognize stood watch - at the sight of him, his eyes went so wide Loghain could have sworn he'd seen a ghost.
"I am here to see Arl Howe."
The young soldier paled. "I...the Arl is...that is, I..."
"Just open the gate," Loghain said wearily.
"Yes, your grace," the boy stammered, almost past words. Loghain made a note to have a word with Howe about security. Everything about the approach was familiar: yellow light gleaming from the torch brackets that lined the walls - the high steel railings sharp as a rack of spears - the embossed double doors that swung open to the stone passage beyond. The great hall smelled of lamp oil, perfume and dust; the thick air melded with the orange light to become a heavy, soup-like haze. Banked coals glowed sullenly in the fire grate.
The single glaring difference stopped him in his tracks like a blow from a Dwarven hammer.
Arl Howe was nowhere to be seen. His daughter and the Warden faced him. Around the Hall, twenty guards formed a semi-circle like pawns around a trapped King, rough chainmail darkly-glimmering as oil. Captain Arvall, grizzled face haggard, met his eyes with a determination that couldn't hide nervousness, but refused to surrender to it. Anora had won their allegiance; he stood alone.
A wry, rueful voice, pitched for his ears alone, reached him: "Next time I'll listen to your gut feeling, ser. Say the word." Cauthrien stood ready to back him up without hesitation; she'd never flinched at unfavourable odds in all the years he'd known her. He didn't look around, but he felt the warmth of her loyalty like a physical touch.
"No - stand down," he ordered, and stepped forward. Anora matched him, cool and self-contained, her armour mirror-bright. She waved the Captain back: a gesture that said more clearly than words that this was her battle, to win or lose on her own strength. The Warden shadowed her, standing at her shoulder in unobtrusive, implacable support.
The last time Loghain had ever flinched from surprise had been the day the chevaliers invaded his family's farm-hold. As he strode towards them, he was smiling like a hawk, and only Maric - and perhaps Rowan - had ever known him well enough to realise this smile was a bad sign. To other people he probably looked like he was in his element, eager for the conflicts or disasters that would provide an outlet for his tension. Only his first love and his closest friend could have understood the particular ferocity of his grin.
"I expect," he grated out, "That you two will now inform me the Arl has met with a tragic accident." To himself, he chewed out a long furious curse - how could they have managed it? How could Howe have been so careless!
A sudden incongruous awareness of the Warden's appearance floated though his outrage. He had never seen her look so unattractive. Her eyes were dull as stones - her heavily-painted face blank and dead as an Elven courtesan tending to her master's whims. In daylight - in the steel setting of her armour - she had a biting, sword-edge beauty as keen as the flash of blades. Her quick, mercurial energy and youthful idealism had blazed out of her. Now she was compacted down, and the pinched, hard-edged Elven features stood out starkly. He had the sudden intimation of how she might have looked, twenty years from now, had she remained in the gutter: that flat Elven stare, blade-thin mouth, prematurely aged face. Nonetheless, she met the remark with a shadow of her old spirit, lips curling in a slow, insolent grin:
"As tragic as the fate of the Couslands, ser - and as easily overlooked for the sake of the alliance."
He pointedly ignored her, turning toward the true source of the coup - for clearly the Warden had danced to Anora's tune as so many others before her. Standing together, they were outdoor and indoor versions of each other. The Warden's hair looked like rust in candlelight; flame in sunshine. Her eyes seemed suited to peering across distances; Anora's to penetrating the meanings hidden in shadows and conversations. Stark sunlight could not reveal his daughter's secrets - but it seemed to lay bare the fact that she had them. Candlelight wrapped her in a gauzy robe, brought out her delicate strength, her luminous conviction.
"Father..."
"Quiet!" he thundered - in his mind he was half-looking at the six-year old girl with pigtails and skinned knees - "How dared you meddle in my business! Thomas Howe will have his blood-feud as soon as he arrives - all hope of an alliance is shattered - you have played right into Eamon's hands! The Banns will squabble like hyenas at the Landsmeet, and if the Blight doesn't finish us Orlais will make us slaves in our own country! Well, I should never have left the two of you under one roof - I've been a fool; I deserve to father fools."
Anora advanced; her vivid eyes flashed in the candlelight. She called every gaze to herself, a cynosure of indignation and passion. Bright as a flame, she challenged her father. "You forget yourself. I am not your daughter. I am your Queen."
Loghain felt himself condense in anger, slow-moving and implacable as thunder. ...I created a King and won his kingdom - you inherited it! Why can't you trust me as he did... He saw all the selves she'd been: Cailan's partner-in-crime, wielding pots and pans and slaying ogres - the lonely, intense teenager who'd stood with him over Celia's grave, the delicate strands between them fragile as gossamer thread. But they were not alone - he could not hold that vision of her up to the gaze of her subjects. He hesitated - she cut in ahead with the quicksilver precision of lightning.
"Thomas and Nathaniel Howe will be given exactly one day to denounce the acts their father committed to earn his death here. If they join our forces without reservation, I will remember that Rendon Howe's ill-considered deeds were done for their sakes. If they refuse, I will give their lands to men who know the meaning of loyalty."
The echo of Maric's words stopped him in his tracks. ...A white shadow of the ebullient, exasperating friend he'd been, eyes glittering like the runes across his blade, he stood above the bodies of the traitor Banns. Blood spread in a scarlet spiderwork across the cracks in the Chantry stone... She did not have Maric's charm - the little girl who had failed to win the hearts of Gwaren's children could command respect but not love - but she was every inch his successor. Bone-pale and hard as the Dragonbone sword.
Pride throbbed under Loghain's old skin; he looked at his daughter as though seeing her for the first time. For a long moment, nobody moved; he didn't move. Anora met his stare as if she were prepared to outface the world.
"No, father: it is you who have brought blood-feud down on us - with Orlais. You say I must trust you to see us through it - am I to merely watch what happens in my own kingdom? If you could see past your own losses you would see that not all victory requires bloodshed and not all leadership requires battle. Just for once, father - I would like you to trust me." He was not sure he could - he had no vision of a future that could replace the worn framework of the past. Her eyes were winter blue - she had his eyes, Celia had often said - but they seemed full of light as a hawk's eyes, staring through him to distant lands he could not see. He thought of the graceful white eagles, the way their gaze claimed the land to its farthest end.
"You wish to make peace with Orlais? Peace just means fighting someone else's enemies in someone else's wars for someone else's reasons."
"They say King Maric opened negotiations with Empress Celene before he died - if he had lived, would you have imprisoned him too? How long can you exist with the thought that only you can save Ferelden and remain sane?"
Anora could never understand: it wasn't pride that prevented him questioning himself. He'd left pride behind the day he'd fled at Ostagar - since then he'd used Blood Magic and assassins and sold his own people as slaves. By now pride hung like cast-off rags. But Maric and Rowan had needed him to make the decisions they could not: Gwaren, West Hill, Katriel - he could never have done it without the certainty that formed the iron rock of his resolve. Maric had asked - no, demanded - that he put Ferelden first. Would he have betrayed Maric to fulfil that promise? He wasn't sure which prospect frightened him more - that he would have done so, or that he would not.
"I am calling all the Banns here - including Arl Eamon. The messenger I send to his estate will approach my handmaid Erlina privately. Between her and the Warden we will neutralize that threat."
"How can you be certain these two"... Loghain left a pause long enough for the Warden to fill in several undesirable epithets before continuing... "young ladies will not betray you?"
"Certainty is a weakness, father. I will let you have it." Giving him a bow as correct and defiant as a formal invitation to duel, Queen Anora left the room.
Dark hatred suddenly pressed between his shoulder-blades; thickened the air around him like the weight of water. He turned, and met the stare of the two Banns already here: Sighard and Alfstanna. Sighard strode forward. A man his own age, a man he had fought beside, one of the few nobles he genuinely respected. Loathing stretched all familiarity from the blunt, rugged features.
Loghain faced him with the manner of the soldier, understanding that it was an open question whether Sighard would attack him there and then.
"You did know," the man said.
It never occurred to Loghain to argue ignorance of Howe's actions - he said only:
"After the Blight, we will duel. But I expect your support till then: Ferelden comes first."
Sighard gave a brief nod. The young woman beside him - one of the few noblewomen who followed the tradition of warriors such as Moira and Rowan and whom he had always liked because of it - said coldly, "We know where our duty lies. But in the case of my brother, I fear the Chantry will not be so patient."
"Let me worry about that." Loghain gave her a dry, ironic bow. In truth, a bitter kernel of doubt had wormed inside him, driven home by the accusation in those two very Ferelden faces. Howe had surprised him. Loghain had wanted to save his world, his way, price no object. But Anora, who wanted the same, had chosen a different price - for the first time, it occurred to him to wonder whether he had chosen rightly.
When they left, he faced Cauthrien. "I didn't know beforehand," he admitted, "But I planned to kill the boy to maintain the alliance."
Suddenly, like a weight thrown across her shoulders, Cauthrien felt an awareness of being leaned on, of being needed for more than loyalty. It brought no joy - it was like glimpsing the first mark of a deadly sickness. Doubt - he can bear anything but doubt...
"The Banns have short memories," she said, her low, controlled voice holding the solidity of earth, "In thirty years you have brought more life to this country than death."
Loghain gazed at her in silence, his gratitude sharp as thorns. He'd heard it said that he represented the Ferelden ideals of hard-work and independence. In truth, a series of chance disasters - from his mother's murder to his father's sacrifice - had catapulted him to military command at the age of twenty. It was she who had truly earned her rise from farm-girl to knight. He wanted to thank her and tried to do it with his expression, but to come out and say such a thing in this instant of confession - he couldn't. Not because he couldn't find it in himself to be gracious, but because he had never polished the words. Awkward, always awkward. Cauthrien turned away with the blunt abruptness of Ferelden folk, her dark eyes faintly wistful, and met the raised eyebrows of the Warden. She seemed to take in the details of the Warden's appearance, and started in a sudden understanding he couldn't quite put his finger on. The Warden's lip curled upward in a tiny, knowing smile.
"We Elves know where our duty lies, too. You need not worry. Now - Queen Anora has said the Wardens may use this estate as a temporary base. As that makes me your hostess - would the two of you like anything to drink?"
Loghain suspected that Cauthrien wanted to wipe the smirk off the Warden's face as badly as he did. The gathering of the Banns couldn't come quickly enough.
Several hours later, Loghain watched the last of the Banns trickle into the Hall. Arl Howe's dour residence was transformed into a sparkling riot of colour. Firelight painted ornate tapestries in lurid tones; oil lamps glittered with almost festive abandon. Bann Ceorlic - son of the man Maric had left bleeding out his life on the Chantry floor - kept glancing towards the opened doors, face as florid as his tunic. Beside him, thin, wiry Bann Loren twitched nervously. Arl Wulf stood next to Sighard and Alfstanna, loud voice booming over all:
"Well - I told Eamon I'd support him: he's with the Warden, after all - I say it's the Blight we need to worry about, not the Teyrn's Civil War..."
Arl Leonas Bryland was talking earnestly to Bann Voric: "... my Habren would be delighted to accept your suit..."
Cauthrien was the only person who stood within a few feet of Loghain, but everyone in the room kept glancing at him, as if expecting him to call the room to order. He stared straight ahead, finding a certain dry amusement in the proceedings: they would learn soon enough who had stage-managed this production. Anora waited to make her grand entrance; on her instruction, both the Warden and Erlina were hidden in the wings. She could have been a bard...
Last of all, Arl Eamon entered - Anora's instinct had been correct: the fear of losing influence had proven greater than the fear of treachery. A small contingent of guards surrounded him - Loghain drew rapid calculations of their chances against Anora's men. A murmur ran through the gathering at the sight of the man beside him: few had ever met the Bastard Prince. Candlelight reflected oddly in his eyes; their yellow glare sought his: flat, unblinking, deadly. Odd to see such hatred on Maric's face. It occurred to Loghain that Anora might have miscalculated. Her last memory of this boy was ten years ago, on one of their rare visits to Redcliffe: a straw-haired, muddy-faced scamp, covered in the filth of the stables. Loghain had been stunned by the quick fear in the boy's eyes, the perpetual frown of apology. He had realised then that Eamon had broken his promise to Maric, that he had raised the boy with an inexplicable policy of repression. He'd had no chance to pursue the matter - shortly afterward Eamon had packed the boy off to the Chantry. Now the older man kept a firm hand on his shoulder, solicitous as a favourite uncle, and Loghain realised it was the only thing preventing Alistair from charging across the room and demanding the Warden's whereabouts.
A sparkle of silver caught his eye. Anora cleaved the chaos, bright and lucid as the Dragonbone blade, moving with lithe decisive grave to the centre of the room. A moment's stillness: even Alistair was drawn into looking at her.
"My Lords and Ladies of the Realm," she began, "I have called you here - a week before the Landsmeet is due to take place - to beg your indulgence. Arl Eamon Guerrin is within his rights to call you here, of course - away from our country's defence in the middle of a Blight - but I ask to postpone it until the nation is secure."
A stir of surprised voices erupted. Anora held up a regal hand; an elegant reflex borne of five years of rulership.
"Your majesty," Eamon spoke, all stern nobility, "Is there some reason you wish to deny the legitimate challenge of Prince Alistair Theirin?" He bore down on the last word, as if it were the only one that mattered. "One might wonder - do you fear to hold the Landsmeet now?"
Anora smiled - a fell smile, pale and cold, "Indeed, your grace - I fear we may find ourselves discussing the matter of succession with the darkspawn."
A suppressed titter ran through the crowd. Arl Wulf, always more forthright than his peers, burst into spontaneous applause. Arl Eamon, face turned to vinegar, renewed his argument:
"The Blight is real - but I question whether we need Teyrn Loghain to help us defeat it. The armies of Ferelden and the Wardens shall unite - led by the rightful heir to the throne - and I would offer counsel..."
Eamon was bringing his own unique qualifications to bear: namely, his relationship to Arl Rendorn Guerrin and Queen Rowan. He recalled the deeds of ghosts, and the words woke a trail of memory, a road of fire. Images flickered in Loghain's mind: lambent, fluid, ephemeral, known to others only as the statues that adorned the city. Moments frozen in time and exaggerated to legend. Something that ran through his blood - something that was his blood - reduced to artefact. Maric's smile, unmarked by age and disappointment, that clumsy exuberance that somehow translated to leadership. Rowan riding to his rescue, her strength all grace, her green plume trailing. A bird in flight - a ship at sea - Rowan on horseback... He had known in that instant that here was a woman he would never need to fear for - she would never be helpless, as his mother had been - her sword-arm and head for strategy the equal of his own. And the stories never mentioned the humour the three had shared - the jokes of the young whose meaning he no longer knew.
To hear Eamon talk, one would think he'd fought the whole war at Maric's side - or by himself, with Maric coming in at the end. At his signal, one of his men passed round a very familiar looking document. At the evidence of his slave-trading, the mouths of the nobles rounded to sad, horrified circles - but Loghain caught the glint of calculation in more than a few eyes. They managed to dredge up a modicum of outrage - but not enough for Eamon's purposes. Realising this, the Arl changed tactics with a speed Loghain would have admired on the battlefield:
"My Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet, Teyrn Loghain would have us give up our freedoms, our traditions, out of fear. How many of you have had lands confiscated - how many have had sons conscripted - how many of you did he consult before declaring himself Regent? How many who spoke against him have mysteriously disappeared? I myself suffered poison at the hands of a Blood Mage hired by his ally, Arl Howe. These are the methods of Orlais, not Ferelden. Must we give up everything good about our nation in order to save it?"
A low murmur spread among the crowd - Anora looked too small to constrain them. He remembered her facing the cruel children of Gwaren - was once more in that very first, impromptu Landsmeet, while Maric - pale and sweating in an oversized ermine robe - watched the room fall out of his control. Anora shot him a warning look, arrow-sharp, her eyes blue-bright as ice. Loghain ignored it. He strode into the centre of the room, meeting Eamon's speech with sarcastic applause.
"A fine performance, Eamon - but no-one here is taken in by it. You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne - and every soul here knows it. The better question is - who will pull the strings? Tell me: how will the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops - or simply issue their commands through this would-be King? Tell me, Eamon: what did they offer you? How much is the price of Ferelden honour these days? You cared about this land once - before you got too old and fat to even see what you risk!" His scathing glance took in all the Banns, their ruddy, sweating faces avid: "Which of you stood against King Meghren when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives? None of you deserve a say in what happens here! None of you have spilled blood for this land the way I have! How dare you judge me."
There were those in the room who actually strained toward him, like dogs on a leash. The image was underscored by the way they checked and growled when confronted with his proud defiance. Glancing from side to side, an alpha wolf inspecting a pack, he examined each Bann in the room. None matched his gaze for long. But their very fear curdled to resentment, they looked to each other; gathering, building courage. Anger was counterbalanced by uncertainty: by habits of mind learned during many years of Anora's peaceful rule - by the perfectly reasonable idea that it was dangerous to weaken their forces during a Blight - by the manifest presence of Anora's guards around the room. Nevertheless, the illumination of flames and candlelight had a disturbing effect on faces and rationality. People began to look garish to each other, wild and strange, the air was full of shadows, the atmosphere seemed to flicker. Bann Ceorlic moved to stand beside Eamon in a clear gesture of support - his eyes held the long-germinal hatred for his father's murderer, masked in servility these long years. Bann Loren, known for the fluidity of his alliances, joined him. Outrage swelled in the room; the Banns were ripe for violence as hot summer for thunderstorms. Eamon raised an arm like a conductor - of music or lightning - head thrown back in his moment of triumph:
"You blackmailed the Warden into coming here - threatened the very citizens you would have sold as slaves! What arts have you employed to keep her? Does she even still live?"
Loghain, watching those fleshy features, sharp, seeking eyes and beard quivering with indignation, saw something sickening: the covert, shamed yearning to see the Warden marked by rape and torture - not a wish to see her suffer, but the satisfaction of a man who sees events work out as expected. Anora made a subtle gesture - a hidden signal.
...Well, Anora: I hope you know what you've given your ally to bite on. I hope she has the teeth for it. And I hope you don't find them turned on you...
"I believe I can speak for myself," the Warden began. Her voice was a flat, rehearsed monotone, her pale, pinched features were closed around anguish. She wore the red Dragonscale - sword and dagger to prove her freedom - but the hands she held behind her back were shaking slightly and she looked small surrounded by the Banns. A child wanting to play at war. The Bastard Prince stared in shock - he took a step toward her and Loghain saw Eamon's fat fingers tighten around his shoulder, holding him back. The eyes the Warden turned to Maric's son were golden discs of naked yearning, so unguarded Loghain had to look away, as though she had just stripped in front of him. What a pleasure, to be treated to romantic drama in the middle of a Blight.
"The Queen speaks the truth," she said quietly. Her voice was pale and thin - but it somehow held the attention of every man in the room. "We must end the Civil War and defer the question of the throne until the Blight is defeated. We must stop the horde before it reaches Denerim. That is why I have allied with Teyrn Loghain. He will lead Ferelden's armies. Alistair, you and I will lead the Wardens' allies and fight alongside him."
Alistair's face crumpled. Loghain saw him as many things at once: the straw-haired lad - Maric, his face bunched in stubbornness: "Katriel is special. I don't know that she'd be my Queen, but would that be so wrong?" - and an implacable enemy.
"And you expect me to believe you haven't allied with that monster under duress? You never wear make-up, Ril! What did those bastards do to you? What are you hiding?"
"Alistair..." the Warden's voice caught, hitched - Loghain realised she was struggling against tears - "I swear on my people's lives that Teyrn Loghain did not mistreat me." She had recovered herself; her face held an odd frozen stillness, like a mask or a shield. "I told you before: I believe we need the Teyrn's strategies to save Denerim. I hope you love me enough to understand and forgive."
Alistair faced her, mouth down-curved sternly: a boy's mouth, a King's face, a lover's eyes. "I do, too," he said softly, "I know you believe your arguments. I can't. You told me Loghain had no choice but to retreat at Ostagar - but he had a choice when he turned away reinforcements at the border. He had a choice when he hunted us like animals: the only two people who can save Ferelden! I would rather ally with a mediocre strategist..." Eamon gave a start of annoyance that nearly had Loghain giving Alistair an appreciative nod "...than a great one as reckless, as vicious, as blind as that."
Loghain saw the Warden hesitate. She teetered on the edge of agreement, as though seeing Alistair for the first time, as though ready - just for once - to trust him enough to leave the decision in his hands.
Anora stepped forward, standing beside the Warden. Firelight caught her pale hair in a wash of rose light, turning it auburn; wreathed silver armour in flames like burning ice.
"If you do not believe that men can change," the Queen cried in a ringing voice, "Then I would suggest you listen to Riordan, Warden-Commander of Montsimmard."
The damned Orlesian entered, followed by the quick, birdlike figure of Anora's handmaiden. Even stiff and pained from his injuries, he moved with a quicksilver, louche grace that set Loghain's teeth on edge.
"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Alistair," he said, the musical, accented voice grave and gentle, "Duncan spoke very highly of you."
For a blazing instant, the boy-King's face melted to that of a love-starved child.
"I wonder if he ever told you something your father said to him, long ago: We all make mistakes. Some of them are going to cost others dearly. What's important is that you learn from what you've done."
The echo tightened Loghain's chest: he could hear the wry, wistful voice of the older Maric, a man whose whimsical sense of humour still shone in intermittent flashes beneath the cruelty and compromise of ruling. Their friendship, once ended by hard choices, revived in later years: two old fools embarrassing themselves over spar and ale, or sharing quiet reminiscences. Alistair, too, had the look of a man finding a piece of the past. Then the Orlesian's voice hardened - he stared at Loghain with dry, sardonic amusement.
"In Orlais we sometimes scoff at Ferelden hospitality - but I can assure you the Teyrn has treated me as graciously as any chevalier might have done." Loghain ground his teeth against the retorts that ached to explode past. "He understands - as he did not before - the need for Wardens to defeat the Blight."
"The Warden-Commander speaks the truth." That was Anora, holding the attention of the crowd. "My father has learned from his mistakes. He naively placed his trust in Arl Rendon Howe: the man who engineered the Tevinter alliance - the man who hired Blood Mages - the man who imprisoned innocents. But when he saw the traitor attempt to force his attentions on me - to win the throne by violence and marriage - he acted as any father would and slew him on the spot!"
The collective intake of breath from the crowd was a breeze of shock.
Loghain had all he could handle trying to cover his own astonishment. Shock and outrage could not quite conquer his sneaking tendrils of pride: in one move, Anora had protected the Warden, protected him from the Chantry's justice - and ensured he could never ally with the sons of Howe to regain power. Pre-emptive strike, before the Chantry learned of their Templar's fate - before the Banns of Amaranthine arrived with Thomas Howe. The same strategy he had devised against the darkspawn: disrupt and defeat them in pieces. He must agree here, or see the gathering fall apart; could never then retract it. The jaws of the trap closed neatly: he was protected and powerless as Anora had been, locked in her chambers.
Anora held up a hand to quiet the crowd. Few here were allies of Howe; his influence had been feared, but he had earned almost universal dislike. Already he could scent the jostling to fill the vacuum of power, as dogs edged around a carcass.
"The sons of Howe are not responsible for their father's treachery: if they swear allegiance, they may keep the Arling of Amaranthine. But the position of Arl of Denerim, granted after the deaths of Urien Kendall and his sons, shall be dissolved..."
A low swell of muttering sounded like distant thunder - many had had eyes on that plum.
"... Arl Howe was responsible for the dreadful mismanagement of the capital - the privations that many of you have suffered..."
Muttering turned to satisfied agreement; Loghain fought a cynical smile. Privations - did these fools think a city could survive war without rationing! And they had been his orders. Now the Banns were cheering the brighter world ushered in by the death of their scapegoat.
"His heirs shall not be trusted with similar authority: the new Charter returns control to the Crown. To make amends for Howe's crimes, I declare the Alienage shall have autonomy: its own laws; its own Bann."
The noise returned, like the crash of incoming tides. Knife-ears raised to nobility! Discontent sharpened to protest, like many untuned instruments twanging together. The noise rasped along Loghain's nerves like wire brush. Eamon caught and seized on it:
"Ah - we see the treachery! What else could the Queen have offered the Elven Warden to buy her allegiance - should we trust anything such a mercenary says..."
The dark, darting form of Erlina - one moon-pale hand clutching her cloak as though trying to draw it over herself like shadows - approached the Queen. A tremor shook her like the ripple of water, but - in full view of Arl Eamon - she gave a sheaf of letters into the Queen's hands.
"The better question is...the better...question is..."
Anora lifted the first letter delicately, as a lady might raise a fan. Eamon's eyes followed it as a bird follows the jewelled menace of a snake. The wax seal glinted: the blue-and-gold colours of Orlais winked in a bright flash. Understanding burst in Loghain with a glow of unmixed pleasure: he remembered Anora coming to him with her suspicions; his decision, though he had not shared it with her, to put a stop to Eamon's schemes any way he could - Howe providing the means. Anora's response was subtler - deadlier than Jowan's poison. He had not known she held the proof in her hands.
Eamon's mouth closed and opened; nothing came out but breath.
Everyone stared at him. Anora took a step closer. Firelight retreated as her angle changed; shadows reclaimed her. She toyed with him like a pale cat: "My dear ser, take your time. Do not be disturbed; it will come back to you in a moment." Her eyes, light and hard and unblinking, measured his fear.
Loghain read the calculations on Eamon's broad, sweating face: what cat-and-mouse game was this - it was impossible the Queen should not make them public! He should never have trusted that little snake of an Orlesian spy! An announcement from Cailan was one thing: the young man had had the charm - and the bloodline - to sell such an idea. If the Banns knew how he had laid the groundwork - or what else was in those letters...
"Try to think of it little by little," said Anora kindly, "No need to be put off by a moment's dry-up, like bards in the theatre. We are not in Orlais; I assure you, we can wait."
Eyes glazed in dull panic, Eamon mumbled something incoherent - Loghain watched him struggle to collect his argument. The bleaker the odds, the more fiercely he would have pressed his attack; but Eamon was cut from different cloth. Anora's lips moved gently, smilingly, silently. He said: "I have no objections" stepped back and fell silent.
Father and daughter exchanged looks, in a moment of perfect harmony: united heirs of hardy Ferelden folk who laid their plots carefully, watered them, and waited with dour patience for the right moment to harvest vengeance. A ripple of un-Ferelden delight touched him; he recalled the thousand whispers his daughter had suffered, the unexplained smirks that turned away when faced: barren, fallow, a worn-out garment hanging in the palace because Cailan had not the heart to put it aside... Those insults had been avenged; their originator hoist by his own petard. It had been as neat as Anora's turning the tables on him; he could barely keep his face straight as he looked dryly at Eamon: two old men undone by two young women.
"My Lords and Ladies," Anora was saying, "I propose that my father - Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane - remain General of our armies. But he will step down as Regent. I will lead Ferelden through the Blight. This woman - Warden Rilian Tabris - aided by her companions, Wardens Alistair and Riordan, shall lead the alliance of Elves, Dwarves and men - including Ferelden's forces."
So - the chit was to be in overall command. It was a smart move on Anora's part - he was too divisive a prospect, now; the Warden a far more attractive figurehead. He supposed he ought to be used to it: Golden Maric had stolen all the best lines, been the front man to an adoring public, while his taciturn shadow pulled his ass out of the fire more times than he could count. In truth, he had preferred it that way: cheering crowds made him deeply uneasy; showed up the blunt gracelessness of a churl in fancy armour while his darker deeds twisted around him. Maric, like his father, had been like light - he had followed their visions and made them happen; he could not have created his own.
Well - he could no longer put the moment off. He strode to the centre of the room; Anora, understanding timing better than any bard, moved gracefully aside, allowing her father and the Warden to have centre stage: broadsword and rapier.
"My Lords and Ladies: our land has been threatened before. It's been invaded and lost and won, times beyond counting. We Fereldens have proven that we will never truly be conquered as long as we are united. We must not let ourselves be divided now. Stand with me - stand with us - and we will defeat even the Blight!"
Loghain's words drew spontaneous cheers. Eamon's pale eyes boiled like water. The Warden had interfered once too often, and with too much finality. Loghain saw him withdraw his hand from Alistair's shoulder - a gesture like slipping a hound from a leash - and all at once Eamon's policy toward the boy made sense.
Alistair started towards him. His blade whispered out of its scabbard and sliced the air with a murderous hiss. A collective gasp - the crowd edged backward.
Well - if the boy wanted a duel, he would get one. The unworthy urge to break the fetters of these humiliating hours - Anora had trussed him like a hog on its way to market - sang through him. He readied himself, weapon drawn, moving away from the Warden, circling.
Suddenly, literally a blur, the Warden was between them, all eyes and fury. "You will put down your weapons! Is this how we shall defeat the Blight: by the two of you snapping like dogs! Do you think this posturing will restore your pride, old man? Alistair - are you mad! Can't you see the Arl is using you?"
Loghain sheathed his blade with an ill grace. Alistair trembled under the weight of those eyes. The painted, tormented mask glistened in the firelight...
... Maric, face sheened by sweat and tears, bathed in the electric glow of his drawn sword. Katriel pleading with him, eyes bleak as green glass...
… For long, eerie moments they stood transfixed, leaning toward each other as if held back by invisible bonds. Alistair hesitated. Bunched muscles fell slack and lost definition. The warrior's grimace slipped from his face, leaving an almost baffled, embarrassed cast. He turned to the Arl, seeking guidance - caught a glimpse of Eamon's avid, fractional smile the instant before he managed to turn it to frowning concern. It went through him with barely a tremor; his body turned to iron around the blow. But iron was brittle; Loghain saw the break in his eyes. "I do see it," he said, voice dull as weathered stone, "the Arl was never the father I hoped he was. I never knew where I fit; I never knew exactly what he wanted, only that I wasn't right. Duncan was the only person who ever asked me what I wanted. He took on the Chantry to keep me. What leader does that for a clumsy stableboy? He told me I had the heart to make a Warden - he looked at me and knew. He told me - before Ostagar - he'd started having the dreams again..."
"Alistair!" Riordan's warning went unheeded.
"...that he knew his time would come soon. But it should have been him against the Archdemon - it should have been worthy of him. Because of that monster, he rots in a Blighted field..."
"Alistair, please...stand down..." The Warden's choked whisper seemed to reach him; doubts ran across his features the way wind rippled wheat. His eyes filled up with shadows. His lips parted, as if silently trying to explain - to himself, most likely.
"Alistair," Riordan said, "Duncan would tell you he never sought personal glory; that all that mattered to him was stopping the Blight. That we ally with anyone: regicides, torturers, traitors, to achieve this..."
Loghain saw at once the Orlesian had made a mistake; he should have let the Warden's plea gnaw at him unaided. As if the bones of his skull were shifting, Alistair's face took on the implacable hardness of Dragonbone.
"You weren't at Ostagar: you didn't see how this man hated and distrusted Duncan from the beginning. I was there: I saw the cost of his paranoia, down to the last dead soldier, the last poisoned field..." He closed the distance between them, blade leading...
...With a scream of blind rage, Maric struck. As her body folded over the bright runes, the room sank into shadow...
… Alistair pushed past the Warden on her left side, blade held away from her, his greater strength forcing her off-balance. The Warden's blade flashed as it leapt from its scabbard. A red gash appeared along Alistair's palm; not deep, but painful. Gasping, he stared at his hand as if he couldn't quite believe it. He clenched his fist; bright blood dripped onto the floor.
"I said: stand down," the Warden hissed, her voice full of threat, her face a deathmask, "It'll be the other hand next time, and I'll cut so that you never draw a weapon again."
Trembling, voice near to breaking, Alistair choked out: "I trusted you, I...believed in you. I would have married you, no matter what Eamon said. And for what?"
...Katriel's void eyes and empty face staring up at him; the butcher's blow that, for an instant, had seemed to kill Maric too...
Alistair turned on his heel and stumbled away, heading for the double-doors and the bright blaze of sunlight, moving like a man who has something broken in his chest and has no idea what it is.
Almost without voice, the Warden said to Riordan: "Go after him. Show him what Duncan would have taught him and Eamon never did."
"Sister…" The Orlesian spoke with surprising familiarity, and Loghain realized they must have spoken already, before his arrival. The Warden made a sharp, cutting gesture, and Loghain watched, open-mouthed, as her senior officer stopped in mid-sentence and deferred.
"Alistair will be Warden-Commander of Ferelden: that's what Duncan planned for him. You are the only man who can deal with Guillaume Caron. We each have our place."
Their swift, covert glance spoke of shared knowledge - a plan hidden from all others as Eamon had once hidden Alistair. She looked strange, fey - it occurred to him that from the day they'd met at Ostagar he'd known he was looking at a dead woman. He'd told her not to let anyone tell her she didn't belong - but even then he'd known the die was cast, that Cailan would not listen to reason.
The Orlesian nodded and left. Anora was speaking, dismissing the Banns, telling them she would call a war-council at the palace as soon as Amaranthine's forces arrived. The crowd poured out of the room like multi-coloured liquid gushing from a jar.
Arl Eamon, black as a thundercloud, approached the Warden and Erlina. The little Orlesian flinched at the naked hatred and stepped back; the Warden stepped protectively in front. "And you," he said to her, soft jowls quivering, "have acted as might be expected of one of your race and station: insolently using your present fortune, forgetful of your unforeseen rise to power from humble origins..." and that, Loghain knew, was directed as much at him, though Eamon lacked the courage to meet his eyes, "Well - old times come round again. Like King Maric and my father at West Hill, Alistair and I are undone by Elven treachery."
Loghain might have expected the Warden to come out with some insolent retort - she had certainly not been shy with him! - but her pale, pinched face was withdrawn, closed. She was gazing into the distance - the thousand yard stare he'd seen more times that he cared to remember. Her dry, abstracted gaze went through Eamon, utterly disinterested. That seemed to enrage the Arl more than words; his fingers clenched as though imagining them around her neck. He spun on his heel and stalked from the estate.
Against his better judgement, Loghain approached her.
"So: Bann of the Alienage - was that what my daughter promised in exchange for your allegiance?"
The Warden blinked, eyes red with exhaustion and hostility and grief. As if by accident, some of the tension in her face loosened. On some level, Loghain had distracted her.
"No." The dry, bald statement left out even the honorific. Never a master of social graces, her current state pared her down to bleak, clipped conviction - a battle-language Loghain preferred to frills. "The Queen didn't need to promise anything for what I just did: I want to save Denerim as much as you do. For the rest…" her breath hitched - an infinitesimal pause - and Loghain knew she must be referring to Howe's murder: what other service could she render? "It isn't me who will be Bann - it will be our Hahren, Valendrian. Our Banns will be chosen; the position will not be hereditary. Judging by what I've seen, I think our way is better, don't you?" The swollen eyes narrowed malevolently. The hard curl of her lip was more expressive than words.
So - no personal gain: none of the wealth and power she might have had as King Alistair's mistress. She'd murdered that chance as surely as Maric had murdered Katriel. His first impression had been of a young glory-hunter/gold-digger - but this was a decision he might have made himself. He wondered if she understood the implications. A single Elf risen to power was an exotic aberration: the Banns might resent it; they would not feel threatened. To empower a community... He thought of the beginning of the rebellion; that first tumbling, insignificant rock that starts the landslide.
"You want a great deal, Warden - and I think you are just learning how cruel you must be to take it. I need your armies - I see myself putting my hand out to you as a thirsty man reaches for a cup of water. But you are many things - many cups - and in at least one I know is poison."
The Warden started - a moment of shock. Was she considering poisoning him, then? He supposed it would be poetic justice, after the Blood Magic he had used against Arl Eamon. Which had been Howe's idea… He wondered if he would ever have his curiosity satisfied over how she had managed that assassination.
"You cost me Howe, you know," he said, pushing a little.
A moment's silence. He had the unsettling impression that the Warden lived in the Fade once more, her eyes on something far from the present. He stepped back. She blinked. She seemed puzzled by his changed position, but made no reference to it. Her flat, cold smile opened her face like a wound.
"You can thank me later."
Author's note: I'd like to thank my awesome reviewers: Arsinoe de Blassenville, Icey Cold, Shakespira, Enaid Aderyn, Mutive, ArtemysFayr, Analect, Lisakodysam, Persephone Chiara, Mousetalker, Nithu, Sleepyowlet, Eva Galana and Forestnymphe, and all who have alerted, favourited and viewed. After some thought, I've decided to change the title, as we have come to the end of the events implied in "The Landsmseet". Chapter Ten of "Death and the Maiden" will see Commander Rilian and General Loghain push the horde back south and engage at Ostagar. I've always wanted to write the End Game as a larger campaign: the idea being that as Eamon is no longer in charge they are not going to miss the horde on its way to the capital! If it sucks, don't blame me - I'm a warehouse manager, not a strategist :)
Special thanks to Arsinoe and Icey Cold, whose thoughtful insights have helped form many aspects of this chapter, as well as some of the best lines (you cost me Howe/iron rock of his resolve/Fereldens lay their plots early...) I appreciate it :)