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Chapter 13 – Misgivings

The next morning Alistair was in a particularly good mood. He had broken his fast with ser Mhairi and ser Kirn, who was recovering quite satisfactorily, and the day appeared to him to bear many good omens. He had slept soundly, reveling in the news.

He hadn't realized how very troubling this whole affair had been until the very moment he'd learned that Kallian lived. Not only Leliana's alleged part in it, but thinking his fellow Warden dead, too. He'd been too mad at her at the time to acknowledge it. He'd thought that their rivalry in pursuing the same woman, as well as Kallian's dishonorable turn down of justice in Loghain's case had for all time damaged their friendship. His relief and exultation at the news spoke differently. Where was lady Cousland, though, the bearer of the good word? It was well mid-morning.

Ah, but there she was. She emerged from her tent, looking even more distressed than the night before. She wore full armor, and she carried a rolled parchment in her hand. She bore no arms at all, except for the casual dagger hanged by the hip. This could be uncommon in itself, as the night previous she had never parted with her silverite greatsword, not even while feasting and drinking.

She headed straight to the makeshift table, made of two large logs carved in half and set one upon the other, where Alistair was drinking his last sips of ale from his meal.

"My King. May I speak with you?"

"Why, of course. You mean, speak privately?"

"No. The matter requires witnesses."

"Fine." He shrugged. "Speak, my Lady."

"I haven't meant to force your hand thus, intending that perhaps I would let merit speak of its own in the matter of restoring my family to its former station. But, as of last night, I decided that such is unlikely to happen, after all that I have to say to you is said; that there are things that you must know, for your safety and for the sake of the kingdom; that, by all accounts, I must speak of these things, however detrimental they are to my person; but that I cannot let these things shade my family's honor and their rightful stand in Highever. So, before I speak, I will undertake to remind your Majesty the dire state of our acquaintance, I will assure you of the full loyalty of the Couslands, and I will ask your Majesty for a boon."

"My Lady?" Alistair was puzzled as to what was that important as to require such formal approach. He got the intuition that something very kingly was to be required from him in the next, and he shifted slightly under the table, suddenly aware of the looks of all people in the camp being pinned on him. If he'd at least had some armor on… But lady Cousland was speaking.

"I hereby hold a parchment stating that all the accusations of treason against the Cousland name stand false, and that you reinstate my brother Fergus Cousland as the rightful teyrn of Highever, title and lands to be inherited by his blood and kin. I have personally written this and I hereby present it to you, by all the witnesses here, to read and see that my words are true. If your Majesty deems it fair, I would ask you to sign and place your sigil on it, and let it be sent to Highever with a rider at once."

Alistair took the parchment. It all appeared right and fine to him, but the fact that he didn't yet quite grasp what could be so dire as to make lady Cousland want it signed right away worried him a bit. Nevertheless, he couldn't find any sound reason not to, so he did as was told and read the scroll aloud, with emphasis, for all to hear. Then he added, as he himself was writing down -

"Let it be known that this is my true will, Alistair Theirin, by the Maker's will King of Ferelden. Written in the year of 31:Dragon, on the 4th of Ferventis, in the realm of West Hill, witnessed by nine as follows…" he finished by adding the names of all present, then he rolled the parchment and he sealed it with his ring.

"Are you satisfied, my Lady?"

"Yes." Lady Cousland took the parchment and handed it to one of her men. "Ride straight to Highever and take this to my brother. It's for his hands only." Then she bowed like a courtier. "Thank you, your Majesty. My heart is at peace now."

"You're quite welcome. But I still don't understand why it had to be done in such haste." Alistair was doing his best to sound stately and courteous. Something was amiss, so amiss he could almost taste it. But he was too much the warrior not to realize that there was no other way but forward at the moment, so he plunged in and hit the point.

"You mentioned certain things essential to my person and the safety of the kingdom. Can we hear them now?"

"Yes." Clarice bowed her head. "It is known that, during the Blight, your Majesty kept company with the Grey Warden Kallian and a party of several, among which a qunari warrior, a dwarf, a mage from the Circle, an antivan assassin and a bard from Orlais. I told you the night before that I happen to know for a fact that the Warden known as Kallian lives. I haven't said, however, how I did get that piece of information."

"Indeed, you have not. But let me venture a guess here" – Alistair smiled – "the Warden came to Highever looking for a friend; a bard, perhaps, a prisoner held in the Highever dungeons; and, she ran into you."

"Quite. Still. There is more to it. But, before retelling the whole story, I have a warning for you, my King, that you must take heed of. The Warden said, quite literally, that the Queen had betrayed her and her own – which may imply that you, your Majesty, may be in danger - if I'm to believe that you and the Warden were once friends. My men witnessed this declaration – and many other happenings, if you care to ascertain the truth of my word -which I'm giving to you, so that you know that this was what was said, and nothing more of the matter. Also, I must say I mean no offence to either you or the Queen -but I'm sure your Majesty knows better what to make of this."

"Indeed, this is disturbing news. Although not entirely unexpected. Other warnings have reached me, that are now even more established by the news that the Warden lives." For once, the nobility's ways of mincing words made total sense to him – say this and that, and take the time to breathe, for something wicked this way comes. Be prepared.

"You have my thanks for all that you've shared with me so far. But I see no lack form your part, for now, my Lady Cousland. I don't understand your worry, " he said, as gently as he could.

"Well. As I said so far, the Warden came looking for a friend, who seemed to have been apprehended by your Queen, and sent to Highever. So was this deed done that the Warden felt betrayed. But this cannot go without the other half of the story, which I'm not going to conceal from you. It has to be believed that the said friend, the bard, had escaped her escort. That she went lurking around a camp she found, possibly deciding whether it was safe for her to seek shelter there or not. That the camp was mine own. My scouts seized her, and mine own eyes saw her for what she was – a bard from Orlais – rather than who she was, namely one of the famous Blight companions, who fought and bled for the good and welfare of us all. When I saw a bard lurking around our camp, the camp from where I was hoping to launch an assault and regain my city, my mind was set, my conscience clear. This was the enemy – right in front of me. I seized her, and I had her eyes pulled out."

The time for formalities had passed.

"Wait - what?"

Clarice noded.

"This was the deed I was trying to confess. I harmed one of yours. Unwillingly, unknowingly, but, there it is. The deed is done, and I await my judgment."

It took Alistair a while to absorb the news. Leliana had not killed the W… – Kallian. It would have been absurd now that he was thinking about it. Anora had her imprisoned anyway, scaring her into submission with that foul note she had, and she'd escaped only to get to something worse – an angry noble lady fighting for her land, who had pulled her eyes out, for thinking her a spy. This lady, as it were.

"Kallian? Did she find out?" Alistair asked throatily, without a shade of expectation. Had she, perhaps nobody worth talking to would have stood before him now.

"She did. She fought me over the bard, and she removed her from my camp."

"I see." If he felt like he could cleave the – this woman – in two right on the spot he could only barely imagine how Kallian had had received the news. If Clarice Cousland was here speaking, he dreaded her fate, too. Tread carefully, Alistair, he told himself, suddenly aware of the fact that he had no armor and him, ser Mhairi and ser Kirn were no match for the entire Cousland party ; but the words emerged harsh and blunt, a clear mirror for his feelings:

"May I ask how it is that you are still in one piece?"

The red rings around her irises were obvious now, to be sure, but Alistair was too angry to notice.

"Well, I can say that we were quite evenly matched."

His jaw clenched. All loyal when it came to kings and queens, this woman, who stood in front of him with a lowered head, was the kind who'd readily and eagerly impart her justice on the common people for each and any real or imaginary slight. He'd had it, even before the smug answer.

"Judgment, you say, quite lightly. You know as well as I that there is no law to impede a noble such as yourself to harm a commoner – or, as you'd have it, to see them punished as they see fit."

"I am aware. As well as I'm aware of the same being valid between a King and those sworn to serve him. I'm not to make light of it."

This was not the expected answer.

"Then tell me, Lady Cousland, if I was to order the same to be done to you, who would heed my order? I am surrounded by your men, you see." As soon as the words left his lips, Alistair wanted to take them back. This was an honorable woman, a noble woman who had him in her camp and in her power, who had just gone long ways to confess her crime, or rather, her misjudgment. She answered, however, without taking offense; and what she said was more daunting, even.

"If I give the word, any a one will do it. But, rather than seeing these good, loyal men pushed to do such, I would do it myself, as I did it then." She unsheathed the dagger from her hip and put it on the table between them. "Say the word, your Majesty."

The straightforwardness and decency of it were almost to make him relent; only, he found he couldn't. He felt something dark take over him, something as dark as when he'd quit the Wardens on a whim, when Kallian had decided she'd rather keep Loghain as brother. This had to be paid in blood.

"No." The answer was a surprise even for himself. He couldn't even fathom the reasoning behind his refuse. Mere moments ago he'd been in a haste to take the sentence upon himself.

Leliana was blind. He knew for sure that there was no way he could find it in his heart to let a deed like this go unpunished. He was the King, however, and his judgment had to be true, his mind clear. Except, it wasn't. The lady was true and unwavering, although harsh. He admired the courage in her coming forth. The deed had been done unknowingly; surely he had to show lenience for that, as much as bad blood wouldn't let him. What would have Leliana wished him do? Would she have asked for mercy, as she'd done uncounted times before, or would she have asked for blood? He somehow felt that there dwelled the answer, but he wasn't allowed to finish his frantic line of thought. Clarice Cousland spoke instead.

"My King. My deed demands a price of flesh. You hesitate to ask it paid in full – yet you can't forgive." She smiled slightly, even more feral than before. "Let me try and sort this for you."

She took the dagger from the table.

Then, everything happened at once. Clarice Cousland stepped forth and raised the dagger high. Ser Mhairi jumped from her place at the king's side and shoved him aside in the grass. There was a swish and a thud, and the vibrating noise of a blade stuck deep in wood. Then a man's voice yelled 'My Lady' and stopped mid-sentence, as if suddenly cut off.

Alistair rose to see Clarice Cousland standing tall and pale amidst her bewildered people; her left hand was dripping with blood; the dagger was, indeed, driven through the massive table half-way to its hilt, and, still stuck to its blade like butter, lay two severed fingers.

"Here's my token – one for lack of mercy, the other for not knowing. Does this satisfy you, my King?"

Satisfy. Satisfy? Alistair thought he was going to be sick. What kind of folk were these Couslands, what sort of matter were they made of? He'd read just enough history to know they were drawing from the mountain folk, from the proud Avvar tribes who held their hounds and their pride as warriors above all else, from those fierce people who refused to descend to milder lands and be a part of the united tribes with their brothers in the plains. He knew that this had been a thousand years before, before Selim Cousland descended from his mountain with his kin to save them from starvation and lent his sword for money to the lord Conobar. How much of the stern tradition of their ancestors had the Couslands kept, he didn't know. Quite a lot, it seemed. How could anyone impart judgment upon themselves, taking both justice and clemency into it, and at the same time leaving a trail of blood behind? It didn't help him feel less appalled.

"Heal her," he gestured towards the mage. "Yes, you. Heal her."

"Don't."

Alistair felt his temper flaring. He was the King – he even felt the King, and full of righteous indignation. This – this mad lady – had not only taken upon herself to deliver justice in his stead, but she'd opposed his word - how dared she defy him!...

"You! Stubborn woman! You shut up and obey - or, Maker help me, I shall strip you of your rank and forbid you to ever bear arms again!"

All that had held Clarice upright melted in a glimpse. Whether it was because of the words he'd spoken or from the blood loss and the pain, he could not tell. But his quick reflexes brought him in a very unexpected and awkward stance – holding Clarice Cousland's limp body to prevent it from falling, as she passed out. Alistair put her in the grass, with a gentleness he didn't know he owned.

"Anders, heal her." He spoke meekly. But, as the mage did nothing, Alistair suddenly grasped his dilemma. "Leave those fingers off," he snapped, not without noting that saying it loud did hold a measure of grim satisfaction, as he mumbled under his breath – "if she's happier without them than without her bloody sword."

"You got that right, your Majesty. Especially the bloody part," Anders said grudgingly. He did his healing, though, without further comment.

Clarice Cousland was as heavy as they came, tall and broad shouldered as any warrior and clad in her full plate. It took three of her men to yank her from the ground and get her to her tent.

It was late in the evening when Clarice got out and about again. The camp was quiet, almost everyone around having gone to sleep. Alistair, though, was sitting on a log aside the table, absentmindedly playing with the dagger he'd just pulled out from the table.

She approached, but stopped at a distance, as if unsure if to address him or not. With only a sleeveless shirt and tight leather pants, she looked less impressive, but not by much. Her arms, although not as bulky as a man's, were lined with long, sinewy muscles, and hardly any bit of soft flesh to sweeten them to curves. Her shoulders, broad and well-made, looked as if able to bear an ox; her waist, although trim, was not of the kind one would take pride in showing in a ball-room, nor of the willowy kind that perhaps a man would bend with gusto in his arms. In fact, her person looked as proud and unyielding as the lady herself, long legs and stately neck completing her appearance; she also looked like she'd very much expected to find herself alone, and very much having wished it'd been so.

"My Lady." Alistair waved with the dagger still in hand, beckoning her closer. She noticed the blade and she spoke at once, with the enthusiasm of someone passionate about the art of war, but with little business regarding courteousness.

"Have you gotten that out? I'm impressed. I mean, getting it in is one thing, and pulling it out, quite another… Pardon, your Majesty, I spent more than a year in the companionship of mere soldiers. I sometimes tend to forget myself. "

Alistair had noticed her direct manner before, and he found it bracing, more so since she didn't seem to shy away from the said companionship. Had not the terrible deed occurred, he was sure he would have liked this lady quite a lot.

He'd spent most of the afternoon and evening brooding, his mood so foul that neither ser Mhairi nor ser Kirn dared approach him with a word. As things were, though, he found himself subdued by her obvious lack of guile. He chuckled.

"Well, everyone has their talents. Although, I must say, my Lady, I'm not of a mind to challenge your ability of impaling daggers into wood. I'm not as mad as to put it through my hand and this bench here…" the quirked eyebrow of the lady encouraged him to go on "…especially since my bones should be considerably harder. That would hurt my chances, don't you think?"

It was a lame attempt at jest, but Clarice let out a husky laugh.

"You've had me healed. But left the fingers off. Should I think the matter … settled?"

Alistair was carving contours in the table.

"The matter is - very unsettling, still, my Lady."

"I know." She looked aside. "I… your Majesty. I…" Then, the whole dam broke.

"The night my family was slaughtered, a Grey Warden conscripted me and dragged me out of Highever on hidden paths. But I escaped his escort and gone back to fight. I barely got with my life – they thought me dead and ditched me in the moat with the others. Alas, I was not, though I wished to be. Then, two months later, I got reunited with some of Fergus' men. They had returned from Ostagar, only to walk into the new trap that their hometown had transformed into. The commander there had seized Fergus, along with half on them.

However dire, it was good news to me that which told me my brother was alive. I rejoiced. I thought that, finally, tides were turning my way. I set to lead what was left of our men, trying to get Fergus out. In the meantime, news arrived of the Wardens who had escaped Ostagar. Travelers talked about the Wardens building an army; of the spectacular recovery of Arl Eamon; of the Wardens confronting Loghain, and of a new Warden prince and heir to the throne. All that time I was outside the walls of Highever, trying to find my way in, trying to rescue Fergus, hoping that I'd succeed eventually and that I'd come to honor my conscription. All that time I was sending men in, and losing men, and feeling wrong for it, feeling wrong for not being with the Wardens, and feeling wrong for Fergus being held." Clarice paused for breath.

"Then, someone came my way – a bard, lurking in the shadows. I did what I thought best. And then, the Warden came, with two companions – a hedge witch and an elf. They managed what I could not in months and months of effort. They caused an uprising and a fire in Highever. They gifted me the city, while they took back a blind friend. And, what a gift that has been. The once prosperous city ravaged with famine and disease. The castle haunted by mad spirits that once were my friends and kin. My brother – he is just a husk. He can't walk, he can't talk properly. They broke his knees and fingers, and all else but his will. Then you came my way – the Theirin, the heir, my King. I knew as soon as yester evening that I had to speak up. It was the only way I could mend a little of what destruction has come to pass around and through me. Do what you will with me. You see, I don't seek mercy or forgiveness. Maker knows that I find little of each in my own self these days."

She stopped again, perhaps waiting for an answer, but Alistair kept quiet.

"I don't know why I have burdened you with all this, my King."

"I think you do," Alistair said slowly. "I think you know that, while were out there, fighting the Blight, while we all had our ails and heartaches, we also had each other to talk to and lean on. While you were alone at Highever, shouldering the whole burden by yourself, we were together, getting stronger with each trial. I think you were longing for a friend, my Lady, to listen and to understand."

The camp was getting quieter, even. Alistair continued.

"I'm afraid that in this circumstance it is very hard for me to be the friend you're looking for. Be that as it might, I will try; not only for your sake, but also for a friend's – the friend that I shunned when she tried to teach me the value of mercy and redemption. Had I not, had I been there with them in the final battle, perhaps the mischief that befell my – my other friend – would not have happened. See, my Lady, my own part in it forbids that I impart justice in the matter." Alistair spun the dagger on the table, pensively.

"As King, I will say this. Let those two missing fingers be a reminder of your ill-placed eagerness to shed blood – your own, as well as that of others. But forgiveness is not mine to give. You go, seek the one you harmed, and put yourself at her disposition. She will decide what form atonement will be required." His voice softened as he went on. "As a friend, I say you speak to Leliana. Whatever else you or I would do won't give you the release you seek."

"Thank you, my King." Clarice bowed her head.

Then she raised her eyes and their looks entwined. The dismal state of desolation and the misery of them both passed to and fro, in an undercurrent so thick that one could almost taste its bitterness. Alistair could well see that there was only one way to quell it.

"Stiff drink?"

She didn't smile.

"Right on."