The meeting with the nobles went better than Loghain had expected, at least at first. They were still too much in shock over the news of what had happened in the south to raise objections over him declaring himself regent for his daughter Anora. That would come later, he was sure, once they'd had a chance to think things over, and decide that Queen Anora's claim to the throne was a tenuous one, that some of their own might have equally valid claims by blood. But if he could hold off the factionalization long enough, he'd have an army gathered, one big enough to beat the darkspawn back to their lairs and dissuade the Orlesians from invading.
"There are those who would take advantage of our weakened state if we let them. We must defeat this darkspawn incursion, but we must do so sensibly and without hesitation," he finished his speech to the gathering. It seemed to be being reasonably well received.
Then Bann Teagan stepped forward from the crowd. "Your lordship, if I might speak?" he asked hesitantly. There was little Loghain could do but nod and gesture his permission; any noble had the right to speak or question in meetings such as these.
"You have declared yourself Queen Anora's regent, and claim we must unite under your banner for our own good," Teagan said, then stopped a moment, giving Loghain a look filled with equal parts of grief and suspicion. "But what of the army lost at Ostagar? Your withdrawal was most... fortuitous."
Loghain gritted his teeth for a moment, his hands tightening on the railing before him. He couldn't decide if Teagan meant the question honestly, or if he was implying that Loghain may have had ulterior motives for withdrawing from the field. If that was what Teagan was implying – it stung, doubly so coming from one who looked so very like Rowan, whose trust in him had never once wavered. He'd seen that exact look of grief in her eyes, that long ago night when he'd convinced her that she must forget him, must go ahead and marry Maric. For a moment he couldn't speak, thinking only of how he'd failed her trust, allowing her son to die.
He didn't dare show hesitation or weakness before this gathering, however, not if he wanted to hold together what the three of them had fought for so desperately. His eyes narrowed as he grated out an answer. "Everything I have done has been to secure Ferelden's independence. I have not shirked my duty to the throne, and neither will any of you!"
Teagan looked affronted at the vehemence of Loghain's reply. "The Bannorn will not bow to you simply because you demand it!" he snapped back.
"Understand this: I will brook no threat to this nation... from you or anyone!" he spat in return, feeling his temper rising. That was no good either; being overly harsh would drive away the very nobles he needed as allies in the coming months. He turned and stalked off, out of the chamber, before he could be spurred into making some even more intemperate response. He stopped outside the door, leaned back against the wall, massaging his aching temples.
He could hear Anora talking to Teagan, trying to smooth things over. Heard, all too clearly, the Bann's departing words. "Did he also do what was best for your husband, your Majesty?"
He bit back a curse, and stalked off to his quarters. Wine. Wine would sooth the aching of his head, distract him from the darkness of his thoughts. Or at least, in sufficient quantity, render him incapable of them.
In the days to follow, he knew he was drinking more than he should, but it seemed the only way he could escape from the thoughts in his head. He would crawl out of bed in the mornings, head hammering with pain, and force himself through his usual routine of a cold bath, a close shave, dressing, a simple breakfast of what the palace cook, he knew, dismissed as "peasant fare". He had little appetite for the food, but knew he must eat, and forced it down, bite by bite.
Then would come the meetings, with Arl after Arl and Bann after Bann, often with Anora at his side, the two of them working hard to gather support and promises of men, to rebuild the army. More than one turned him down coldly, seeming to believe the allegation that he's abandoned King Cailan to his death to further his own political ambitions. He judged that in more than a few cases, it was because it was what they, themselves, would have done.
He'd have dinner with Anora, discussing that day's progress, then inspect the slowly growing ranks of the army, often taking the time to join in the sparring on the training grounds; he needed to keep in condition, and he knew his demonstrated prowess and concern would serve to bind soldiers to him where being a remote figure of authority would not. And then the evening would stretch ahead of him, empty and alone, filled with memories of the past, and the accusing eyes of those he'd loved and lost. Those he'd failed. He'd drink himself into oblivion, eventually pouring himself into bed, only to wake the next day and have it all to do over again. And again. And again.
"An interesting item of news has reached my ears," Rendon Howe told him one day, having sought him out shortly after the noon meal.
"And what's that?" Loghain asked, suspiciously. He still didn't like the man, even if he was one of the very few nobles who had been stalwart in their support of his efforts to rebuild the army. The man was a snake. Still, he'd so far proven of use, and when Loghain had discretely checked into the stories the man had told him, it did seem that Bryce had indeed been on an unusually high number of trading voyages to Orlais of late. He'd personally checked the Warden-Commander's quarters, and found that the partial document Howe had given him matched with similar documents and writing supplies to be found in Duncan's office. Moreover, on sifting through the contents of the fireplace, he'd found some smaller fragments of parchment that Howe had missed. Frustratingly small, they contained only a single short phrase at most, but a couple had been... interesting.
"Arl Eamon's wife, Isolde, has been quietly looking for a tutor for their son, Connor. A... special tutor."
"Special? In what way?" Loghain asked.
"A mage. Specifically, she is seeking an apostate mage to tutor young Connor. It seems the boy is a mage himself, and she hopes to keep the news of it a secret so that he can still inherit."
"Connor Guerrin, a mage?" Loghain said, eyes narrowing. "And how exactly did you learn of this?"
Howe shrugged. "I have my contacts, including among the apostates. There is always a use for a mage not governed by the dictates of the chantry. Isolde doubtless thought she was being very... discrete, in her enquiries, but one of the contacts she made was with a mage I've employed several times myself. He knew the news would intrigue me."
"Hrmm. It is interesting, I'll grant you that, but I fail to see what use we could make of it. We could hardly blackmail Eamon over it; he'd just have to shuffle the lad off to the Circle, and we'd have no more leverage."
"No, but if we wanted to put a man in his employ – how better than to present his lady wife with an apostate of our choosing, who will report regularly to us about doings within the Guerrin household?"
Loghain frowned thoughtfully at Rendon. "And would I be right in guessing you have a suitable mage all picked out?"
Howe smiled. "Yes. My men recently saved an apostate who was about to be killed by templars. He is... quite grateful, naturally, and will do anything we ask of him, especially if we can promise to smooth things over with the Circle for him later so that he may return; it seems he's an apostate from necessity, not choice – he fled the tower after being accused of blood magic, and would like to return. He claims to have only used blood magic once, to have effected his escape, and that he's regretted it ever since. He wants a second chance. I'm afraid my own contacts at the Circle are few, but as Regent you perhaps have more influence...?"
"Hrmm. Possibly," Loghain agreed warily, thinking back to one of the senior mages he'd met at Ostagar... what had been his name, Ul-something. He'd seemed an ambitious sort. Loghain would have to write him, and explore the possibility of an alliance with the Circle; they'd need mages to fight the darkspawn, after all. "I'd like to meet this mage of yours, before I commit to anything," he said. "I don't like this talk of blood magery."
"Of course," Howe said agreeably. "Though we'll need to be discrete."
The mage proved to be so nervous and self-effacing that Loghain had little trouble believing he'd had no intent to ever actually use the blood magic he'd studied, and had been horrified by the outcome of the one time he'd done so. He agreed to do what he could to arrange the mage's return to the Circle, once they no longer needed his services. The mage was effusive in his thanks, and promise to do anything they required of him in return.
He suspected what most influenced his decision, however, was not the mage himself, but one of the more evocative of the fragments he'd uncovered in Duncan's fireplace. Just a pair of partial words in length, but it had spelled out "lesian wif". Guessing the missing letters was no great mental feat, and there was only one nobleman in Ferelden famed for the nationality of his wife. At least, of that particular nationality, Loghain corrected himself.
"Jowan."
"Yes, my lord?" Jowan asked, glancing nervously at the Arl as he finished packing away his last few belongings – all purchased for him by the man looming so uncomfortably close, as he'd been brought to him with nothing save the robe on his back.
"Teryn Loghain and I have reason to believe the Arl is plotting treason. If he comes to Denerim, it will make our task of organizing an army to defend Ferelden from the darkspawn and Orlais considerably more difficult; he's a quite accomplished politician, and has many allies."
"Yes, my lord?" said Jowan, wondering exactly what this had to do with him and his proposed placement as a spy in Arl Eamon's household.
"I'm going to give you a bottle of potion. If you hear that he is planning a trip here, you must see to it that he ingests the contents – it can be added with equal efficacy to food or drink, as long as the food is already cooked and won't be subjected to additional heat."
"It... it's not a poison, is it, my lord?" Jowan stuttered nervously.
Rendon smiled reassuringly. "No, just something that will make him ill for a while. Here – hide it well. You don't want anyone finding it by accident," he said, and passed over a small thick-walled glass vial, not even as large as Jowan's smallest finger, firmly stoppered and wax-dipped.
"Yes, my lord," Jowan said faintly, and buried it in a roll of socks.
"Good man. Serve the Teryn and myself well, and you'll be safely back in your tower in no time."
"Yes, my lord," Jowan agreed, unable to keep a note of longing out of his voice.