He was woken early the next morning by a tired looking Ser Cauthrien, with the news that the Grey Wardens had not waited after all. Some time the night before, someone had talked their way into Fort Drakon, then fought their way to the prison cells, and escaped with the wardens.
"One man," he said disbelievingly after receiving her report. "You're telling me one man broke in and did this! Did we miss news of a third warden or something?"
"No, my liege," she said, voice cracked with exhaustion. "By all accounts he was a normal man. Normal elf, rather, apart from his ability to fight like a very demon. We have a good description of him, at least – the guards who admitted him had gone off-shift before he and the wardens slaughtered their way back out. Male elf, copper-blond hair, tanned skin..."
Loghain cursed quietly, remembering an elf of that description standing watchfully at the dwarf's back when he'd visited the Arl's estate several days ago. Doubtless the same one.
"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now," he said bitterly. "Not unless we wanted to attempt arresting them in the middle of Arl Eamon's estate. Anything else I need to know before you retire and get some rest?"
"Sire, there's too much to do right now..."
"My dear Ser Cauthrien, this from the woman who not two days ago scolded me and made me eat my supper and go to bed? You will rest, and that is an order. I need you at your best for this damned Landsmeet tomorrow."
"Yes, my liege," she said quietly. "Nothing further. There is still no word on Queen Anora. Arl Howe's effects are in your office. I've assigned everyone who is involved in the cleanup at the estate to stay there until further notice, with a separate set of uninvolved guards on the main gate to make sure they stay there, and keep others out."
"All right. Good work, Ser Cauthrien. You have my thanks."
"Ser," she said quietly, and left.
He hurriedly dressed and marched down the hall to his office, fingers brushing against the belt pouch containing the note from Anora, reminding himself that she'd been well enough to write that just recently, that chances were good that his daughter yet lived and was fine. A small chest containing a sizable stack of papers waited for him beside his desk. He sent a servant off to fetch him a good breakfast, then started sorting through the papers, looking for anything that might yield some clue as to Howe's recent activities.
Bills, salacious letters from at least two of Howe's mistresses, a message from his guard captain about – Maker's breath, why would the man have had his own seneschal locked up? He put that one aside to read more thoroughly later, and made a note to keep an eye out for any further letters on the subject.
Breakfast arrived. He had the servant put it on the sideboard, and walked over to help himself to a cup of tea and some toast with jam a few minutes later. Forced himself to sip the tea slowly and calmly, when what he really wanted was a drink. A strong one. Later, he promised himself, but not until he really needed it, not just wanted it.
Tea finished, he picked up an apple, and returned to the desk. He took a large bite, and resumed sorting through the remaining papers one-handedly. And stopped.
That was his seal and signature on the foot of this document, but it wasn't anything he recalled signing. Frowning, he set the apple carefully aside and lifted the paper, quickly scanning down the text, his brow furrowing in anger as the import of the words set in.
"How dare he!" he roared, surging to his feet, hands shaking with fury, vision narrowing and filling with odd sparkles for a moment, so great was his anger. He had never signed this, would never have knowingly signed something like this! He forced himself to resume his seat, to re-read the paper, not touching it as he could not trust himself not to tear it in shreds and throw it on the fire. It was a copy of an agreement, supposedly written with his approval, for Tevinter slavers to remove elves from the Denerim alienage and take them away into slavery in that despicable empire. Ferelden citizens, enslaved and sold away, and all supposedly at his connivance! He pictured his comrades in the Night elves, their deadly pride and grace, his one-time friends, betrayed and sold away, and wanted to be sick. He wanted this document not to exist. He wanted to believe that not even Howe could be this unspeakably vile...
Worst of all, perhaps, was the niggling thought... if this was so clearly a forgery – and it was, for he had never signed or sealed any such document – than what other papers might the man have forged? Might he have accepted as truth, when they were blatant falsehood? It cast a disturbing light on the question of the guilt of the Cousland family, on the complicity of the Grey Wardens in King Cailan's death, on... everything. He could not dare believe a single word the man had ever said to him, not a single thing he had ever claimed, or hinted, not without independent proof.
Had this entire winter past been spent believing in lies? Was it he that was on the wrong side in this!
He didn't know. And worst of all, he didn't see any way to find out. Too late, now, to wish that he'd killed the man that first day back from Ostagar, when Howe had smiled and handed him proof of... of everything he'd wanted to believe about the wardens. Proof that he thought absolved him from his guilt over Cailan's death, that had shifted the onus for it onto other men's shoulders. And he's taken the lure whole, hadn't he, swallowed it down without seeing the sharp hook hidden in it, and let that bastard Howe lead him around by the nose ever since.
He stumbled blindly to the sideboard, pulled himself a full goblet, little caring that it was of brandy and not wine.
He'd been a fool. It would only be by the Maker's own mercy if more men didn't pay for his foolishness with their lives. If all of Ferelden did not, in the end, have to pay the piper's bloody price for his mistakes.
"I thought I told you to sleep," he growled at the woman standing at the far side of his desk.
"I did sleep, sire. It's late afternoon," she said warily. "There is word of Anora."
"What!" he exclaimed, bolting to his feet, almost falling over as he swayed, having to catch hold of the edge of the desk to steady himself. An empty bottle clattered over on one side, thankfully remaining on the desk rather then falling to the floor. "Is she returned?"
"No, my liege," Ser Cauthrien. "But a group of men gained entrance to the alienage earlier today. They carried a pass signed by her, authorizing their entry and exit despite the quarantine. It is in the Queen's hand," she added, holding out a folded slip of paper.
"Thank the Maker," he breathed, after glancing at it, then dropped it onto his desk and rubbed his hands down his face. "And the men? Who were they?"
"The wardens, sire. And companions – the elf we already knew of, and a qunari warrior. They spent most of the day in there. Unfortunately no one thought to wake me to give me word of what had happened, or to bring word of it directly to you. They have already returned back to the Arl of Redcliffe's estate. Do you wish anything done, sire?"
"No," he said, tiredly. His daughter must have lost faith in him, and allied with the rebellious Arl, he thought. And doubtless they now knew all about Howe's lovely little hobby, and the mess in the alienage, and... why did he even bother any more? It was all falling apart. There was nothing left for him to hold on to now. Nothing left but to see the end of it through, the farce brought to its inevitable conclusion.
"There is the Landsmeet tomorrow anyway, it will all be resolved there. One way or another. I am going to go to my bed and sleep, I think," he said emotionlessly, and walked away. "Good-night, Ser Cauthrien," he added as he walked away, not looking back.
There was a long silence from her. "Good-night, Teryn Loghain," she said softly when he was almost out of earshot.
It would have made him smile, had he still been capable of such.