"I was beginning to wonder if you were coming back," Loghain said, looking over his reading glasses at Alistair.
"Sorry. We talked a lot longer than I'd thought we would," Alistair said, then cocked his head slightly to one side, giving Loghain a thoughtful look. "When you told me to lunch with Bann Oswyn, did you know that..." He suddenly stopped talking, looking moderately worried.
Loghain snorted. "If you're suddenly wondering whether or not I am already aware that Bann Oswyn is involved with the Antivan, the answer is yes, I know of their relationship. I take it that I was correct in my assumption that Oswyn's great interest in seeing you was not entirely on his own behalf?"
Alistair coloured slightly. "Zevran was there," he admitted. "We talked for a while."
Loghain nodded, pleased that he'd been right. "Good. Oh, and there's been some deliveries for you – from the market, and from Bann Teagan. They're over there," he said, gesturing to a pile of parcels to one side of the sitting room.
"From Teagan?" Alistair said, looking surprised, and went over to the pile. It was obvious which had been sent by the Bann; most of the parcels were simple bundles, wrapped in muslin and tied with string to protect their contents, and beside them, a wooden chest. It was over a yard long, but both narrow and shallow, and very plain, only its smoothly oiled surface and a bit of interlacing on its iron fittings giving it any attractiveness beyond that of a plain wooden box. Actually Loghain rather liked it; Celia had complained more than once about extravagant decoration being used to hide shoddy workmanship. The box was plain, but very well made, the seams between the pieces of wood that had gone into it so finely joined that only the change of wood grain made them obvious.
Alistair knelt down before it, untying the leather thong that held a wooden peg through the hasp, then lifted the lid. "Oh," he said, in a very soft voice, and knelt there as if frozen.
Frowning, Loghain put aside his book and glasses and rose to his feet, walking over to see what had the boy so mesmerized.
There was a layer of cloth on top, covering whatever was beneath; a robe, Loghain realized. One of the Solona's. He froze as well, holding his breath until Alistair finally moved, slowly releasing his grip on the lid of the chest and reaching out to touch the fabric, fingertips just barely touching the surface. His hand moved in a stroking motion along the cloth, then he sighed, and carefully lifted it out of the chest, as it it was some fragile and precious thing.
Loghain swallowed as Alistair held it to him. He started to back away, to leave the boy some privacy, and then saw what had lain beneath it.
"Maric's sword," he whispered, stunned.
Alistair froze, then carefully folded and set aside the robe. "Yes," he said, voice cracking. "It was one of the things we recovered at Ostagar, along with Cailan's armour," he said, and then lifted it out as well. "I left it behind at Arl Eamon's estate after the Landsmeet. I didn't think it was right for me to take it out of Ferelden."
Loghain said nothing, just watched as Alistair's hands curled around the sheathed sword, handling it as reverently as he'd handled the robe. He set it aside, too, and lifted other things out of the chest.
"These were Duncan's," Alistair said, his hands momentarily full of a paired sword and dagger. "And this we found here in Denerim, after killed a demon or abomination of some kind; a very old evil, Solona said it was." He placed that weapon aside too, then reached back into the box again, taking out a book. He opened it and looked at the frontispiece, then laughed, and set it aside. "A romance Wynne liked. She must have forgotten it there."
He covered his mouth with both hands for a moment, then laughed again, briefly. "Maker. It looks like Teagan or Eamon simply packed up everything that any of us left behind. I think Leliana sometimes wore this ribbon in her hair. And this whetstone was Sten's." He lifted a half-empty bottle. "Oghren's," he said, and put it aside as well. A bundle of letters next.
"Oh," Alistair said again, and just knelt there for a long moment, staring at them, then abruptly turned to Loghain, and held them out. "Here. These were Cailan's," he said, voice tight and unhappy.
"Also from Ostagar, I take it?" Loghain asked, surprised, and took the bundle from his hand.
"Yes," Alistair said, voice oddly flat, as Loghain carried them back over to where he'd been reading, needing his glasses. "They were part of what brought us there," he added, as Loghain resumed his seat and began untying the ribbon around the small bundle. "We came across a man, on Bann Loren's land; a group of soldiers were about to kill him, then attacked us when they saw us nearby. He was wounded, but he lived long enough to identify himself as one of King Cailan's guards. He told us of a key that Cailan had entrusted to him, to a chest that had been in his tent; he'd left the key hidden at Ostagar when he'd fled. So we went, and found the key, and then the chest. Maric's sword was in it. So were those documents," he said, and then fell silent again, staring down at his own hands.
Waiting for Loghain's reaction, Loghain supposed, and finished drawing the ribbon free, then picked up and unfolded the first document. "To his Majesty, King Cailan of Ferelden..." he read aloud, then scowled as his eyes flicked to the closing salutation, and he saw that the letter was from Empress Celene of Orlais. He quickly scanned the letter. "Hah!" he exclaimed, and then read aloud the final lines. "My Chevaliers stand ready and will accompany the Grey Wardens of Orlais to Ferelden. At your word the might of Orlais will march to reinforce the Ferelden forces."
Loghain snorted in contempt. "I'm sure they did stand ready; it wouldn't have been the first time Orlais used a Blight as an excuse to annex a neighbouring country, after all. Orlais would have been very pleased to send in their chevaliers by the hundreds, but likely been far less inclined to remove them afterwards. That sort of help we could do without," he said, then put that letter aside and opened the next one, quickly scanning the brief note. "A personal visit? The woman must have been mad," he said, and then snorted again. "Permanent alliance. Another way of saying annexation."
He set that letter aside as well, shaking his head at Cailan's folly in having any sort of discussions with Orlais. Especially when he hadn't consulted with any of his advisers about doing so. Loghain sighed. Doubtless the King had wanted to dazzle them all with some sort of brilliant show of diplomatic prowess, to make a point of his independence from their guidance. He might even have somehow managed to do so, though more likely it all would have been a horrible cock-up, Cailan generally being long on charm and rather short on good sense.
He opened the third letter, expecting another missive between Cailan and Celene, eyebrows raising slightly as he recognized Arl Eamon's handwriting instead. Talking of his men being on their way to Ostagar to bolster Cailan's forces. As far as Loghain knew they'd never arrived; or if they had, it had been after the battle was already lost. He nodded approval at Eamon's next words, begging King Cailan to avoid the field, especially the vanguard with the Grey Wardens. Sound advice. Then scowled, as Eamon's following words sunk in. His hands tightened, only years of discipline preventing him from crumpling the letter in his fury.
"That snake!" he exclaimed angrily. "Urging Cailan to put Queen Anora aside? How dare he! And especially on grounds of infertility; I never saw him think of putting aside Isolde, when her inability to carry a child to term was a proven fact, not just malicious rumour. They were ten years married before she finally managed to give him a living son," Loghain spat out angrily, then forced himself to put down the letter before temper had him ripping it to shreds. "The only thing that ever prevented Anora from bearing Cailan an heir was his absence from her bed. We'd have legitimate Theirin's yet if he'd ever done his proper duty by her. Damned fool."
He sat silently for a moment, scowling angry at his own clenched hands as he worked to rein in his temper, and finally forced himself to flatten them out, to take a few deep breaths. He looked up, and found Alistair watching him silently, a wary expression on his face. Loghain sighed, then rubbed at his face, feeling suddenly very old and tired. "Never mind me. Thank you for letting me see these letters," he said, and eyed the pile of them warily. "May I keep them?"
"Sure," Alistair said quietly, and turned back to the chest, carefully repacking everything else into it. He hesitated over the weapons, then touched his fingertips to King Maric's sword. "Should I keep this? Or does it belong to the crown?"
Loghain smiled crookedly. "It is a treasure of the Theirin line; Maric found it in the Deep Roads. I will tell you the story some time when I am less... incensed. Keep it, if you like; it's a good sword, and will likely serve you far better than the sword you currently have. I think Maric would be more pleased by one of his sons using it than for it to molder on display somewhere."
Alistair nodded, and left the sword out, though he put the other weapons back into the chest, and replaced Solona's robe last of all, his fingers lingering on the fabric a moment before he shut the lid. "Can I have this sent back to the Keep?" he asked hesitantly as he refastened the chest.
"Of course. I'll have it sent there along with my letters," Loghain said, then sighed, and rose to his feet. "Most of the afternoon gone and you haven't even begun packing for our departure tomorrow. You'd best get to it."
He rose and picked up the letters and his book, and took them off to lock away safely in his desk. And felt oddly warmed by the brief, almost amused sidelong glance Alistair gave him as he left. Only later did he realize why; it was almost the same look as Maric had sometimes given him, when Maric had been feeling particularly entertained by some expected reaction of his for one reason or another. The look that almost invariably ended his anger, and made them both smile instead, unless there was some reason for him to continue at least the appearance of a real rage. Maric had usually enjoyed teasing him about his sudden tempers. And been the only man who could reliably end them, with nothing more than that same faintly amused look.
Alistair packed his own things first, because at least there the decisions were very easy – pack everything. He kept out only a night shirt to sleep in, a change of smalls and stockings for the next day, and the gambeson and leggings to wear under his armour. Then he went to Loghain's bedroom, and began hauling out things to pack for him. He wasn't sure how much to pack; obviously not everything, or they'd need an entire train of pack mules for their gear.
At least two weeks worth, he decided after some thought. Plenty to travel with, and most likely in any given two-week period they'd stop somewhere where laundry could be done. He counted out smalls, and pairs of stockings, and then a few plain shirts and leggings since he hoped they wouldn't be in armour all the time. Nightshirts, too, though only a few of those, since Loghain seemed to prefer sleeping in rather less; in fact he was moderately surprised to see that the man even owned any. Maybe he only wore them when the weather was cold.
He was trying to decide how much, if any, nicer outfits he should pack – surely they'd be stopping somewhere at some point where fancier clothing might be needed – when Loghain came into the room himself, and stopped to glance over the stacks of things on his bed.
"Good choices so far," Loghain said approvingly, then seemingly noticed which clothes-press Alistair was currently standing in front of. "Pack three good outfits, one of them black," he instructed.
Alistair nodded, and picked carefully, remembering everything Corey had taught him about making such selections. Loghain nodded approval as he lay his selections down on the bed. "I'll want two spare gambesons, and the same of the quilted leggings; I likely won't need them, but if the weather turns foul it's nice to have a couple of changes before you have no choice but wearing the already damp ones. And find my rain cape; it's probably in that chest over there. Do you have one?"
"A rain cape? No," Alistair said, and frowned. He should have thought to buy one this morning.
"There should be an older one of mine in there too, you can borrow it. A little shabby, but it's still well-waterproofed."
Alistair nodded, and went digging through the chest, finding the newer rain cape at the top, and the older one several layers down, under a much-patched woollen cape that might have been black originally but was now a faded dark grey. "Andraste's holy arse," Alistair exclaimed when he lifted up the rain cape and saw the item of clothing under it, then flushed in embarrassment as he remembered Loghain was only a few paces away.
"What?" the man said, walking over, and glancing down into the open chest. "Hah! I'd forgotten I still had that," he said, and leaned down to pick it up between thumbs and forefingers, mouth curling in a sneer as he lifted up and shook out the garment. "A congratulatory gift, from Emperor Florian of Orlais, sent on the occasion of my being named Teyrn of Gwaren. A rather pointed gift; I'm told it contained three different well-hidden poison-tipped needles. Though why he imagined I'd ever wear such a ludicrous garment escapes me. But then, they do say he was quite mad prior to his assassination. I'd say this cloak certainly lends credence to the rumours."
It was certainly a very colourful garment, Alistair found himself thinking, made of heavy satin dyed a rather brilliant yellow, with a mantle of bilious green wyvern skin over top, the Gwaren wyvern crest picked out on the back of it in brilliant green and orange-yellow stones. It was lined in a dark orange fabric, with a red fringe along the bottom hem.
"Those aren't real gemstones, are they?" Alistair asked, appalled.
"Hmmm? No, mostly glass and a few semi-precious stones. There was the matching mask, too, which was shaped like a wyvern's head, as I recall. I took great delight in consigning it to a bonfire," Loghain said, and studied the garment briefly, then snorted, and smiled crookedly. "I've often wondered if Florian actually thought this terrible thing was in good taste, or if he assumed that as an ex-commoner I'd be overwhelmed by its bright colours and shininess, and feel as attracted to it as some poor senseless magpie to a bit of shiny metal."
Alistair found himself grinning. "Why'd you keep it?"
Loghain shrugged. "Why not. It's something to sneer at. And Anora liked to look at it when she was a child. It made her laugh," he said, then dropped it back into the chest. "Come, let's finish packing," he said, turning away.
Loghain helped with folding things and packing them away, the two men working silently together, apart from a couple of times when Loghain thought of something else he wanted packed, and told Alistair to go fetch it.
"Good, that's done," Loghain said after they'd tied shut the last pack. "Ready for supper yet, or are you still stuffed from that late lunch?"
"I could eat again," Alistair cautiously agreed.
Loghain nodded. "Good. I'd hoped to dine with Anora tonight but she's having one of those interminable state dinners to impress some envoy from the Free Marches, so I decided to give it a pass. Go down to the kitchen and scrounge up something for the pair of us; nothing too fancy, but do remember we'll be eating army rations for the next few days while we're travelling to Gwaren."
"Yes, ser," Alistair said, and went down to the kitchen. If army food was anything like what they'd eaten during the Blight year, he could expect a lot of simple soups, stews, and pottages. Not to mentioned things like hard tack and dried fruit, and damned little fresh meat or vegetables.
According, after finding out from one of the cooks what was available, he selected some roasted goose, white beans simmered in broth with leeks and onions until tender, and some root vegetables oven-roasted after being tossed with a little oil and salt, a mix of potatoes, yellow turnips, parsnips, and carrots. For dessert, a dark spice cake studded with cherries and topped with custard sauce. A bottle of white wine for Loghain to drink with the meal, and a tankard of small beer for himself. One of the pages carried up the drinks, while he managed the tray of food.
Loghain didn't talk much during the meal, seeming largely lost in thought. Alistair wondered if it was the letters he'd shown him earlier that Loghain was thinking about, then after a while decided they probably weren't; the commander looked relaxed and thoughtful, not tense or angry.
They had just started in on their dessert when there was a knock at the door. "Enter!" Loghain called, and one of the royal pages came into the room.
"Beg pardon, ser, but there's a delivery for you. The man says you need to sign for it."
"What man?"
"He's waiting in the hallway, ser. Shall I show him in?"
"Yes, please do," Loghain said, pushing aside his dessert and rising to his feet.
The man who entered was old, dressed in plain, well-worn clothing. A brindled brown mabari was walking along at his heels, head up, looking around alertly. Alistair froze, his own fork dropping forgotten to the table. It couldn't be. It was.
"Crunch!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet. Solona's mabari, named after what he did to creatures and people he didn't like. The mabari's head snapped around, pale gold eyes focusing on him, and then the mabari launched itself into motion, charging directly for him. He just had time to move a couple of hasty steps away from the table, a disbelieving laugh escaping him, before the dog launched itself at him, knocking him over backwards to the floor.
Had he been a darkspawn, or some other creature the giant dog had taken a dislike to, that would have been followed up by shredding and kicking motions of all four legs, as well as his throat being ripped out by the dog's massive jaws. Instead it was followed up by whining, wiggling, wrestling, tail-wagging, nose-digging and a lot of licking, Alistair laughing as he fended off the beast's intrusive nose and overly wet tongue. It was several minutes before they stopped squirming around, Alistair laying on his back with the dog half-on him, massive forequarters pinning him down, hind legs stretched out on the floor and stub of tail wagging furiously while Alistair's fingers dug into the dog's ruff and scratched his neck and around the base of his ears.
Alistair twisted his head around so he could see Loghain. The man who'd brought Crunch was already gone, Loghain standing there watching him and Crunch with a very definitely amused expression on his face. "What's he doing here?" Alistair asked.
Loghain smiled crookedly. "Joining us. He's been in my care since Solona died; he's just back from doing his annual duty at the royal kennels."
Alistair frowned, and looked at Crunch, then back to Loghain. "He's imprinted to you?" he asked.
"No," Loghain said, then walked over and resumed his seat at the table. "He's his own dog. Solona asked me to look after him, and told him he was to stay with me, so he has."
"Oh," Alistair said, and scratched more vigorously at Crunch's ears, which made one of his hind legs start thumping against the floor.
"Are you planning to stay down there the rest of the evening, or return to the table and finish your dessert?" Loghain asked, sounding merely idly curious.
Alistair blushed, gave Crunch a final scratch, then pushed at him. "Off of me.. off, Crunch!"
The mabari snorted, and nosed the side of his head one last time, snuffling wetly, then heaved himself off of Alistair, allowing him to rise to his feet. He brushed at his clothes, aware he was covered in dog hairs and dust from the floor and then resumed his seat, retrieving his dropped fork and then frowning at the smear of custard it had left of the table. He wiped it up with his napkin, then resumed eating.
Crunch stood watching both of them, then walked over and settled his head on the edge of the table between them, eyes rolling back and forth, and whined.
"No," they both said, equally firmly.
Loghain tried not to look amused, but failed, his lips twitching into a smile again. Alistair ducked his head and concentrated on his dessert, aware he was grinning like a fool, and for once not really caring.