It was raining as they passed Lothering. But then it had never quite stopped raining in the three days since they'd begun the retreat from Ostagar. Even when it wasn't actively raining it was wet, water dripping off every plant, heavy fogs overlaying the course of every pond and stream,
He had sent a patrol to try and reach the Tower of Ishal as they'd left Ostagar, hoping that Cailan's bit of nonsense with the bastard would salvage something from this mess, but only two of the group had returned, with word that darkspawn were pouring out of the tower like water from a tap. Clearly it had been overrun through those lower tunnels that had so recently been uncovered – and equally clearly, this explained the lengthy wait before the lighting of the beacon. It hadn't been lit when it should have been. He should have ignored Cailan's orders and charged earlier. Loghain cursed once, wearily, at the news.
So even Maric's bastard was dead then, the line of Theirin rulers ended. There were more descendants of Calenhad among the nobility, of course. The family with the next strongest claim on the throne were... blast it, the Couslands, who had been decimated by that animal Howe. Fergus Cousland, assuming he was even still alive, was lost somewhere in the darkspawn-haunted wilds south of Ostagar. The youngest Cousland had not been seen nor heard of since spreading news of Howe's treacherous attack on Highever, might well be dead by his hand by now.
Which left... a clutter of nobility, many of whom could claim an equal right to assuming the throne. It was a recipe for dissension and civil war. A civil war they could ill afford, with darkspawn running free in the south, and a sizable force of Orlesian chevaliers camped on their western border. The only thing that would have made this situation worse would have been if they'd actually seen an archdemon during the battle, if this had proved to be a true blight. Thankfully they seemed to have been spared that extra edge of absolute disaster.
He frowned, trying to remember the wording of the papers under which he'd been named as a regent for Cailan when Maric had left on that ill-fated voyage five years before. Cailan's rule in his father's absence had only been meant to be a temporary thing until the king's return, a chance for the boy to gain some experience in the job he hadn't actually been expected to assume for years yet. Maric had wanted Loghain to have the powers of a regent so that Cailan, already past his majority but still far from mature, couldn't casually overrule the Teryn's advice. And Maric had expected to return in only a few months time to resume his throne and his duties.
The wording of the document had reflected that; it had been written as expiring once Maric returned, with a much more complicated set of terms in case he failed to return. There'd even been a section dealing with Loghain holding the throne as Regent until Maric's return if the boy died while Maric was still away... of course, that hadn't actually been intended to be used in quite this situation, but then none of them had foreseen this situation; Maric dead, Cailan dead, and no clear heir, the country facing invasion from two directions at once.
It would give his re-assumption of the powers of the regency at least a tenuous legality, however, and once the darkspawn had been dealt with and the Orlesians backed down he could worry about identifying whichever puling noble actually had the right to the throne. He'd have to make it clear in the meantime that he had no personal intent to take the throne; supporting his daughter's claim to it as Cailan's Queen should make that clear enough. She'd been the true power in this country since marrying the boy-king anyway, Cailan at first too grieved to assume real leadership, and later too caught up in pursuing personal enjoyment to assume proper responsibility for his people and country.
Anora knew her duty; she'd hold the country together while he defended it. And at least it would give her something to focus on, once she'd been informed of the loss of the king. She'd loved her golden boy, even if more then once he'd proven himself unworthy of her affection. And she knew her duty; she would know that she'd have to remarry in time, preferably to someone with a strong claim to the throne in their own right. Or step aside, or name an heir from among Cailan's numerous cousins. They'd have to figure all of that out later; for now, there were more important things to worry about, such as making sure they still had a country to worry about the rulership of.
Cailan. By the Maker, it still didn't feel real to him that the boy was dead. It had never felt real to him that Maric was dead, either, not when there'd never been a body to mourn over, to burn and scatter. He felt his fingers tremble on the reins he held. Maric. Rowan. Cailan. His father. He'd failed them all. He'd failed to protect the prince.
He rode ahead as they neared Denerim, taking only an escort of soldiers mounted on some of the few horses they'd acquired since fleeing Ostagar, most of their mounts having been loss when the camp was overrun. He went directly to the palace, knowing his first job would be to inform Anora of Cailan's death, his second to summon the nobles, his third to inform them of the King's death and re-assert his claim to the regency of the kingdom, in his daughter's name.
He could see that rumour had outpaced the army; Anora was looking pale and worried as he entered her presence.
"Is it true?" she asked, voice shaking, wringing her hands. "Is Cailan..."
"As far as we know, yes," Loghain said quietly. "There have been some few soldiers who escaped the battle at Ostagar and joined our retreat. They place him as still being at the forefront of the battle when the darkspawn broke through. The likelihood of him having survived..." he shook his head.
She turned away, walked over to the window and stood there a while, looking out over the city. He could see her shoulders trembling, knew she was crying, and wished he knew how to comfort her. But neither of them had ever been particularly demonstrative, certainly not with each other, and he knew he couldn't bring himself to intrude on her grief. He waited.
"What now?" she asked after a while, voice hoarse.
He sighed. "Now... you rule as Cailan's Queen. And I assume the regency, at least until we've driven back the darkspawn and are secure against Orlesian invasion. They will undoubtedly see this as a golden opportunity to reclaim Ferelden for themselves."
She nodded, back still to him. "By the terms of the documents Maric had drawn up, I assume?"
She'd always been a smart girl. "Yes."
"All right. I... need some time. Thank you for bringing me the news, father."
"I... am only sorry that it was necessary to do so," he said, softly, and left, so that she might calm herself and repair whatever damage her tears had wrought.
He came to an abrupt stop in the door of his study, recognizing all too easily the tall, lanky man standing near one window.
"Howe," he snarled, and crossed the distance between them in a few strides, putting his sword to the man's throat.
Rendon stood absolutely still, ignoring the razor-sharp edge pressed against his skin, and raised his eyebrows as if in surprise. "That's hardly necessary, my lord," he said calmly.
Loghain's eyes narrowed. "I believe it is, when I find myself confronted with the man who murdered the Cousland family out of hand."
"Hardly out of hand, my lord. And I believe once you see the evidence I have brought to present to you that it will be the Couslands, not myself, that you would rather be cursing."
"How so?" Loghain asked suspiciously, maintaining his sword at the other man's throat.
Howe's eyes flickered to his desk. "I put some papers over there. You are welcome to read them over and examine them. I promise not to flee the moment you take this," – a downward flick of his eyes toward the blade indicated what he was speaking of – "from my throat. I would hardly be standing here waiting to speak with you if I had intended to run away, after all."
Loghain snorted, but had to agree with the man's logic. He slowly stepped back, lowered his blade, and walked over to the desk, picking up the document on the top of the pile. He scanned it, eyes narrowing further, then dropped it, picking up the next, absently resheathing his sword as he did so. By the third page his face was flushed with anger, hands balled into fists.
"Sell us out to the Orlesians, would he!" he snarled. "Damn the man!"
He couldn't believe it of Bryce Cousland – didn't want to believe it of Bryce Cousland, not the man who'd so firmly supported Cailan's confirmation as king after Maric's death, when others had wished to replace the untried youth with Bryce himself. But the evidence of these papers was... damning.
"Why didn't you bring this evidence before the Landsmeet?" he asked, raising his head to eye Rendon Howe suspiciously.
"Because I didn't have those until I found them in a hidden drawer in Bryce's study. I'd... suspected, for some time, based on rumours that had reached my ears. You know that Amaranthine has almost as many trading contacts in Orlais as Highever. One of my contacts... let something slip, months ago. I didn't want to believe it, so I said nothing to anyone, but I started... investigating. Then when I was in Highever I took the opportunity to sneak into Bryce's study, and look for evidence. I found... those."
"And then you slaughtered the Couslands, rather then simply bringing this evidence to the proper authorities?"
"I had no choice! Bryce found me in his study. We fought. I tried to run, he chased me... his men and mine were both within the walls, a fight broke out, things spread out of control. He knocked me down, knocked me out, at some point. My men thought he'd killed me. By the time I woke... it was too late." he said with a shrug. "Most of Bryce's men had been sent south, my men outnumbered his considerably, and their rampage through the castle left very few survivors."
Loghain snorted. He didn't quite believe Howe's tale. Too much of it was... overly convenient, for an ambitious man, and he had little doubt that Howe was, indeed, a very ambitious man.
"There's more," Howe said. "Something I found confirmation of only after I came here."
"What?" Loghain snapped.
Howe carefully reached into a pocket, drew out a folded scrap of parchment, and handed it over.
Loghain looked at it, puzzled, then carefully unfolded it. It looked like it had been rescued from a fire, most of the sheet burnt away, the remains scorched and marked with smudges of ash. He scanned the words. For a moment they didn't make any sense. And then they did, all too horribly much sense.
"Maker's balls!" he exclaimed, and stumbled over to drop into his chair, legs for a moment no longer willing to support him. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, eyes narrowing angrily.
"From the fireplace in the Warden-Commander's quarters here in Denerim. Some of the rumours I'd heard involved the Grey Wardens. When I came here, I... took the liberty of checking their quarters. I believe several sheets had been burnt, but that was the only sizable fragment I could find." Howe said calmly.
Loghain stared at the man, then back at the paper in his hand. The few paragraphs it contained outlined a plot... a plot meant to lead to the death of King Cailan, followed by the invasion and reoccupation of Ferelden, under the guise of combating a blight that the wardens were to engineer the appearance of. Mention was made of a "friend in the north" that in light of Howe's other evidence could only be a reference to the Couslands.
A plot. An Orlesian plot, one which he had failed to detect in time to prevent, failed to protect his prince from. His head sunk down on his hands, mind whirling.
"Go. I... need time to think." he growled out, listened to the rustle of Howe's clothes and the quiet sound of his feet as he rose, bowed, walked away.
Rendon allowed just the slightest trace of a smile to cross his lips as he closed the door softly behind him. That had been rather closer then he liked. He'd had the papers proving a Cousland conspiracy forged months ago, at rather exorbitant cost. He hadn't been sure if he'd ever get a chance to use them, and then this Blight nonsense had started up, and the muster at Highever had finally provided him with the perfect chance to move against his old friend Bryce.
With luck, he'd soon be confirmed as the Teryn of Highever, the surviving Cousland family members placed under attainder for treason. And the timing couldn't be better; with young Cailan dead in the south, and all the political manoeuvring that was likely to cause, there might well be an even larger opening for him here, a chance to acquire even more power then he'd ever dared dream of.
But first off, he needed to secure what power he already had, and make himself indispensable to Teryn Loghain. Convince the wily bastard that he needed Howe's help, Howe's backing, as one of the very few nobles who would support the common-born Teryn's bid for control of Ferelden.
Really, it had been inspired of him to manufacture confirming evidence in the form of a paper implicating the Grey Wardens, once word of the disaster at Ostagar had reached his ears. Loghain had never made his dislike and suspicion of the order a secret, and turning their involvement in the mess into proof of treasonous plans had been easy. Sneaking into the Grey Warden compound here at the palace had been child's play, and he was skilled enough as a forger in his own right to make good use of some samples of Duncan's handwriting and the Warden-Commander's own writing supplies. He'd even made sure to leave a piled of well-burned parchment in the grate, in case Loghain was paranoid enough to double-check his lies. Including a few purposefully tantalizing fragments that might serve to implicate others in the supposed plots.
The most delicious thing was that the lies had a core of truth to them. There had been a conspiracy, though certainly not the one outlined in the 'evidence' he'd handed over to Loghain. The Orlesians would have been delighted to make use of any excuse to invade Ferelden. But he was going to have to disappoint the next messenger they sent to him; why settle for a share of the pie after handing it over to new owners, when he might well be able to grab the entire thing for himself?
Most of Ferelden might view the events in the south as a thorough disaster. To Arl Rendon Howe, they were a golden opportunity.