114. Caring Naught for Howe

Finian had been here before.

That was the only explanation Percy could think of for how the elf steered them so confidently through the estate. It must have been how Finian knew how to avoid the areas of high guard concentration.

Percy could vaguely remember something about that, from Duncan's stop in Denerim after the fall of Highever. The Alienage elves had been in a tizzy, and a guard captain snapped out something about a river of blood through the arl's estate.

Finian had done that? Finian?

Then again, the fact that Percy was surprised at all was really his own problem, wasn't it? From the beginning, he'd seen the elf as he had any elf in his life: as an entirely benevolent and peaceful aide. But that had never been true. It hadn't been true with the Crow attack, it certainly hadn't been true with Isolde, and, to hear the others tell it, it hadn't been true when dealing with Tevinter slavers. Duncan wouldn't have recruited Finian if he hadn't detected just a bit of that edge that made the Grey Wardens what they were.

It had taken a shamefully long time for that to sink into the noble's blueblooded head. Fin was a good man, and good friend (awkward aspects notwithstanding). Percival wished he knew how to apologize for being, honestly, a bit of an ass about certain things.

Now was not the time, however. The elf was busy steering them through the Arl of Denerim's estate, his jaw set in a grim line, and Percival was similarly occupied worrying what would happen were they to get caught prematurely.

Finian had wanted a smaller group… easier for infiltration, he'd said. Just him, Garott, and the assassin. Percival had overruled him. There was no way he going to sit on the sidelines when the rogues delved into Howe's stolen estate. Perhaps if this place still belonged to the Kendells… but not now.

Besides, this was no simple matter of Howe dabbling in politics. This was the queen. Percival was taking no chances. And if their increased numbers meant a higher likelihood of getting caught… well, then they would simply have to fight their way out.

Percival would be lying if he said he would mind a little bloodshed against the same force who had overrun Highever.

Besides, all concern was proving for naught. They merely had to not clump too close together and no one spared them too much attention. They had left the giant, the non-sneaky dwarf, and the eldery woman behind, so the guards really didn't have any reason to notice them at all.

Finian's slender form was in front of their party, with Zevran close at his heels. Garott had opted not to even bother with the guard ensemble the rest of them were sporting—no one would be fooled, even if Erlina could find one his size. Instead, he'd simply opted for dark clothing, and had melted into the shadows as soon as they stepped inside the estate.

Percival followed ten feet behind the elves, careful not to cluster up. At his feet followed two dogs: Hugo and Morrigan in mabari form. It went surprisingly smoothly, so long as he acted like a dog handler. He had a life's worth of practice in that, though he suspected Morrigan would be rather cross with him later regarding all the "Heel, girl"s and "Come"s.

Perhaps he was rather enjoying the opportunity to rile her without her having the ability to bite back. And perhaps he was anticipating her eventual revenge, likely later that night when the rest of Eamon's estate was asleep. When Morrigan got angry, she got aggressive, and that was just the sort of outlet Percy needed sometimes.

She didn't mind. He suspected she was anticipating it too.

Then, they had to pass through a guarded doorway. From a distance, they could pass, but the elves were easily identifiable as such up close, and Percy may be recognized by anyone who worked for the nobility. This was a setback, and the elves turned into a side hallway to confer out of sight. They paused around the corner, looking back at Percival for direction.

He joined them a moment later. He reached back to draw his sword, until a slender hand pressed against his back, and Morrigan stepped up past him. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, an enigmatic little smirk across her lips.

She stopped at the corner, just out of sight of the guards. Then, she started casting.

Percival wasn't entirely sure what she did: all he saw was a dark fog swirling around her hands. However, when Morrigan shifted back to mabari form, she led them out of hiding and toward the door. Whatever she had done, it had them dazedly nodding their party through without so much as a second glance.

They had to do this several more times on their trek, and Morrigan wordlessly muddled their minds each time. Finally, Erlina reappeared, the elven servant's face drawn with stress. She waved them into an alcove with a heavy wooden door.

The door shimmered with magic. Garott was already at the lock trying to pick it… but the magic leapt out at him, zapping him with a bolt of electricity, and he jerked his picks away from the lock with a grunt.

"The Wardens are here, my lady," Erlina whispered through the doorway. Percival glanced at the others, caught Zevran's eyes, and nodded for him to watch the corridor. The assassin offered a sarcastic salute, but followed the silent command even so.

"Thank the Maker!" came a voice through the doorway. "I would greet you properly, but I'm afraid we've had a setback."

Fin snorted a laugh.

"I think I can guess, my lady," Percival offered diplomatically, eying the problem. "How do we get through this door?"

"Could try to blow it," Garott offered.

"Garott, we're not exploding a part of the arl's estate. That rather destroys the point of the disguises."

"My queen," Finian said calmly, "perhaps you had best explain. Why are you locked up?"

"My host," the queen's voice said, "was not content to put me under heavy guard. He sealed the door with magic."

Percy turned to Morrigan, who was stretching lithely in a way that was really very distracting at the moment. "Morrigan, can it be dispelled?"

"I shall make an attempt," the witch said. She moved up to the door and pressed a hand to it. Then, she closed her eyes, and something seemed to pulse out of her. The pulse tingled as it passed over Percy's skin. Still, as she stepped back, the door still shimmered.

"Alas, it seems not," Morrigan said. "Tis apparent that whomever built this barrier is still maintaining it. Likely from somewhere within the mansion." She turned to Percival with an unconcerned shrug. "We kill him; we open the door. Simple."

Percy nodded, and turned back to the door. "My lady, do you know where this mage might be?"

"He will most likely be at Howe's side."

"Howe is here?" A thrill… a spike of fire, running through his body, charging his limbs.

"Easy, captain," Garott rumbled.

"Where is he?" He tried to keep his voice steady, but he could see the others giving him looks that told him he wasn't succeeding. At this point, he didn't much care. Howe was here. He was close.

Erlina swallowed. "He will probably be in his rooms, at the end of the hall."

"Thank you, Wardens," Anora's voice said through the door. "My prayers go with you."

Percival was all for charging out of the alcove and fighting their way through the rest of the estate, but Finian's slender hand on his arm stopped him. Right. Subtlety. He didn't much care anymore, but it wouldn't do to put Morrigan and the rest of the Wardens—and Erlina and Anora—in danger for the sake of his own revenge. Even in the rising tide of rage, he understood that.

He took a shaking breath and nodded, and the elves started out of the alcove first. Morrigan shifted back into mabari form, and they started after them.

"Anyone else detecting a big-ass trap?" the dwarf mumbled, but when Percy glanced back, he's already disappeared into the shadows.

They didn't have to go far—the door to the arl's chambers were just across a four-way corridor, across from a treasure room that had gold strewn haphazardly all over the floor, like it was placed there by some sort of pirate who didn't know a thing about proper storage and filing.

The sight of it made Finian's hands start visibly twitching, and that was enough to keep Percival focused. He grabbed the elf by the back of the cuirass and dragged him bodily into the arl's chamber.

The quarters were innocuous. The front room was an office and reception chamber of sorts. Through a doorway on the opposite wall was a more private living quarters, complete with a four-poster bed and tapestries decorating the wall.

"Empty," Percy growled, frustrated. If he wasn't here, where the blazes was he?

"Come on. Let's search," Finian said. "There's got to be something we can use, at least."

Finian, Zevran, and Garott all went to work: Garott rifling through the papers on the arl's desk, Zevran checking the fireplace for what Percy could only assume was hidden compartments or something, and Finian kneeling to pick the lock on the arl's bedside chest.

Percy couldn't do it. He'd been hoping… argh. It didn't matter.

He sat on the bed, holding his head in his hands until they stopped shaking. He could feel the anger and hatred curling up inside him. Everything Howe had done… not just Highever but the assassins and the Alienage and profiting off the deaths at Ostagar… it all fed the fire inside him. He hadn't felt this need to kill for a long time, and he was having a hard time controlling it.

A weight landed on the bed beside him, and he jerked, ready for a fight. Morrigan didn't offer any. She considered him with lidded eyes. She seemed about to say something. Words of comfort? From Morrigan?

Then, she opened her mouth: "Once again, you are much like a dog."

A laugh bubbled up in him, cracked and sharp. So much for words of comfort. "Is that supposed to help?"

"Tis merely an observation."

He lowered his head again, rubbing his eyes to ease the looming headache. "Very well; I'm curious. How am I like a dog this time? Because I follow a scent relentlessly, or something?"

"No; do not be dim. Your instincts are derived from something wild, but circumstances and training have taught you to curb them. It seems silly, when you could be so much more effective if you merely let those instincts free."

"Right. And lop off the heads of my allies in the process. We've been over this."

She shrugged, as if that was of no concern for her. "Twas merely an observation. You can make of it what you wish."

Strangely enough, it helped. He snorted a laugh, tilting an eye to watch her. She gazed off at the opposite corner of the room. The firelight flickered across her smooth jawline, and made her dark hair shimmer. "And if I do lose control, will you be fighting beside me, or watching from afar and laughing at the poor fools in my path?"

She merely smile, enigmatic and teasing at the same time. Beneath that, he could see her pleasure that he had asked the question. That he was genuinely interested in the answer. She was lonely on some level, and that made him ache. It seemed like they were always one step from bridging that gap to a real, healing connection, but Percy wasn't entirely sure how to go about doing it.

"Percy, look at these." Finian's voice interrupted his thoughts, and the elf moved up to stand before him. He held a stack of papers in his hands, and Percival sat up straight to take them.

Of immediate interest was the griffon seal on the top one. "Grey Warden documents?"

"Records, mostly. They also mention a cache," Finian said excitedly. "Here in Denerim. Something about the Joining ritual and the location of a Warden outpost on Fereldan soil."

Percy nodded, skimming the papers. It was as Finian said: directions and maps. The page on top was an official order from Weisshaupt, to the bearer, to investigate the state of the Wardens in Ferelden regarding their silence following Ostagar. The full group Cailan had sent for had been turned back, so the bearer had been chosen to investigate alone.

It appeared the Wardens had sent reinforcements after all… or at least, a scout to determine whether reinforcements were necessary. The question was… where was this scout, and why did Howe have these papers?

"There is more, my friends," Zevran said with a chuckle.

Percy looked up, to see the assassin holding up a tapestry hanging from one of the bedchamber walls. Behind it was a door.

"I do believe this answers the question of where he might have gone, yes?"

"Yes," Percy breathed. He handed the papers back to Fin and stood, that fire leaping up inside him. Let it out, Morrigan had said. Maybe… maybe…

They weren't trying to be subtle anymore… not with Percival barely holding himself back from charging down the stairs behind the door. At the bottom of the staircase was a dim, murky corridor lined with cells.

There was a guard by one of the cells who startled as they came in. "Who goes there?" he said, and Percival reached for his sword.

There was no need, though. A pale hand reached through the bars of the cell and yanked the guard back against it. A wiry arm wrapped around his throat, and the hand moved up to grip his head. After a brief struggle, the arms jerked, and the guard's neck snapped.

Garott laughed. "Well, that's one way to do it."

Percival kept his hand on his sword as the guard's body was tugged into the cell. Whoever was in that cell had just snapped a man's neck: that made him a potential threat.

"Who's in there?" he demanded. "Identify yourself."

There was the sound of mail jingling. The prisoner was disrobing the guard. "My name is Riordan," came a light Orlesian accent. "I am no threat to you, stranger."

Keys jingled as he unlocked his door, and the man stepped out, slipping the splintmail cuirass over his head. He was thin and wiry, but with a ropey strength that Percival knew better than to underestimate.

"I thank you for the distraction," Riordan continued, strapping up the cuirass. "I have been waiting days for the opportunity."

"Riordan? This Riordan?" Finian held up his pilfered papers. "You're a Grey Warden."

"Ah, yes. Those are mine. I thank you for retrieving them."

Finian stepped up to hand the papers to the man, and that seemed to ease the rest of them. Percy was still leery, though.

"Those were some nice moves, old man," Garott rumbled appreciatively. "I'd bet you learned those before you took the Joining, eh? It's funny how many Wardens got iffy pasts."

The man arched a brow, then swept a studying gaze around the group. "I take it you speak from experience…?"

Finian swept a bow. "You are looking at three of the seven remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Well, eight now, I suppose." Fin stood up straight and introduced them.

When Finian announced Percy's name, Riordan's eyes stayed on him. "Percival Cousland… yes, I can see it now."

Percy's hand tightened into a fist. "What can you see, precisely?"

Riordan shook his head. "You wouldn't remember. I left Highever when you were just a babe. But I knew your father, and I'm terribly sorry to hear the news."

Percy clenched his jaw and grunted acknowledgement, because sympathy from a stranger was not going to fix anything, but snapping at him wouldn't help either.

"Riordan, if you don't mind me asking," Finian cut in, "what was Howe doing, keeping you here?"

"For the most part, holding my tongue. When our force of Wardens and cavalry were turned back at the border, we learned that Wardens had been blamed for the massacre at Ostagar. We decided it would be easier to slip a single Warden into Ferelden, to decide how to best fight the Blight and this regime simultaneously. As a native Ferelden, I volunteered."

"But Howe got his slimy hands on ya first, huh?" Garott guessed.

Riordan nodded. "An offer of hospitality and a poisoned chalice, and the next thing I knew I woke up here. It was a foolish mistake."

"Where's Howe now?" Fin asked.

Riordan waved toward the door opposite his cell. "The dungeons, last I knew. He may still be there."

Percy's blood flared. He was close, then. He started toward the door, not bothering to see whether the others followed. If he stayed in one place much longer, he felt like he might explode.

"We're staying at the estate of Arl Eamon," Finian's voice said quickly behind him. "If you can get out, he's offering us amnesty there."

"I thank you for your assistance. I shall meet you there. There are some things… that I suspect we should discuss." And with that, they left him behind.

They wound down a series of dark stone steps, climbing down into the earth.

A guard met them at the bottom, blocking the doorway into the dungeons. "Who goes?" he said.

Another person might have tried to bluff their way past, but Percival was done with subtlety. He drew his sword and lopped the man's head off in one smooth motion, and the Wardens poured into the dungeon. Drawn by the sound of a body hitting the ground, other guards rounded into the room. Daggers and swords flashed through the darkness, and Hugo was a streak of death.

When enemy mabari broke into the room, Percival worried that Morrigan and Hugo may have difficulty differentiating one another. Then, a bear tore into one of the enemy dogs, and Percy need not have worried.

Percival shoved through, wading a bloody trail through the people that kept him from Howe. His blood burned, sizzled with the need to find, to kill, to cut and slice and bleed and kill. Red tinted the edges of his vision.

Howe.

He didn't even register what he was seeing anymore. Men came at him; he cut them down. He passed a room, saw no Howe, and moved on. His heart beat with the inexorable need to flay Howe in a bloodthirsty frenzy. His limbs shook with it.

He heard the others say something behind him… something about a man tied up, and they had to help, and Percy didn't care. He left them behind, his mabari and Morrigan alone left following him as he delved deeper into the dungeon.

Howe. Howe. Howe.

The hatred surged with every beat of his heart. His rage coiled inside him, ready to burst out in a flash of thunder that would be fearsome and terrible, and yet feel so good. His legs moved him forward.

And then, he found them.

Howe was waiting for him, fully armored and armed, with a pair of guards at his back and a mage five steps behind him.

"Well, look here. I might have expected you to be the cause of the disruption. Bryce Cousland's little boy, all grown up and trying to fill daddy's shoes." Howe put his hands behind his back in a posture of unconcern, and Percival growled. "I thought Loghain had made it clear that your pathetic family is gone and forgotten."

His voice was poison burning right through Percival's veins. This man… this duplicitous snake had laughed and jested with his father, all while plotting his death. "They will never be gone," he growled, "so long as I live."

"Your parents died on their knees." A pulse of rage burned through him. "Your brother's corpse rots at Ostagar." Another pulse. "Your brother's brat was burned on the scrap heap along with his Antivan whore of a wife." He burned, quivering with the rage that demanded he maim cut injure kill kill… "And what's left? A fool husk of a son, likely to end his days under a rock in the Deep Roads." The growl that tore from his throat sounded animalistic, and he didn't care.

"Even the Wardens are gone. You're the vestiges of nothing. This is pointless. You've lost."

"You're dead," Percy's voice said, and it sounded far lower and calmer than he felt. "You're dead, Howe; you just haven't realized it yet."

Howe paused, tilting his head up and narrowing his eyes. "There it is. Right there. That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that held me back." He raised his voice, seeming to come to a decision. "It would appear that you have made something of yourself after all. Your father would be proud." His voice lowered. "I, on the other hand, want you dead more than ever."

Howe drew his sword and made to attack him, but Percival didn't let him. Percival's sword leapt into his hands, and he pounced.

Fire blazed through him, and red covered his vision, giving his sword arm unnatural strength and speed. Howe was here. Howe was here, and he would die, oh yes.

For his father, and his mother, and his brother, and his family, and his friends… for the Wardens and the nobility he'd betrayed… for the boy Percy had once been, as dead as all the rest.

For them all, he forgot who he was, and became a force of sheer vengeance.

For them all, he let go.