Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 49: High and Low
"Not long now!"
As he and his companion galloped into the teeth of the east wind, Adam Hawke marveled at what a sturdy adventurer Wynne had proved herself to be. He grinned to himself, imagining his mild and refined mother in the same situation. That Wynne was a mage did not disturb Hawke in the least. With the help of her spells, they would soon be in Denerim—and after only four days. They still had to stop for food and sleep, which Hawke knew the official couriers did not. Those rough riders would change off at each post station, riding fresh horses straight through with the news, and there was no reason they could not gallop apace on the West Road all night long.
That said, it would still take two days for a courier to reach Denerim, even if everything worked in his favor: if there were no bandits or obstacles, if a horse did not throw a shoe or pick up a stone, if the post station had a fresh horse available. There were many variables at work, and of course, there were special dangers along the first leg of the journey from Ostagar to Denerim. Nonetheless, the official message would probably be in Denerim before Hawke and Wynne. Bronwyn had told him that Loghain had written short notes to the Queen and other notables, and Bronwyn had contributed a note of condolence to the Queen and a brief message to Warden Jowan. The serious, personal, secret intelligence was being conveyed by Hawke. Ser Adam Hawke. He smiled again.
He was curious about this Warden Jowan, whom he had never met. Opinions among the Warden regarding Jowan seemed to be divided. Tara was clearly fond of him. Bronwyn liked him well enough; but the more devout frowned at the mention of his name. Carver had confided to him that it was rumored that Warden Jowan was a Blood Mage.
"It's true! That's how he escaped from the Circle of Magi!"
Father had abhorred Blood Magic, but would not have disapproved of a man for wanting to escape the Circle as he himself had. Thus, Hawke did not discuss Jowan with Wynne. She had mentioned him once or twice, with an expression of such disapproval that her mouth puckered at the sourness of it. Evidently the Blood Magic rumor had some substance to it.
Before they left the Hawke cottage, Wynne had changed into the fine but unobtrusive woman's gown of blue-grey wool given to her by Warden Leliana. It was a generous gift. In the gown and hooded cloak, Wynne could be any respectable merchant's wife or minor noblewoman. It was certainly better quality than anything Hawke had ever seen his mother wear—or seen on the back of a freeholder's wife. When they walked into the Man-At-Arms Inn, a day out of Denerim, the landlord had clearly thought Wynne the person to cater to: a well-to-do lady accompanied by a decent bodyguard and a fine mabari.
Adam decided that he really must do something about his armor. Landry and Elric had been very kind and helpful; and found him a striking studded leather cuirass among the heaps of armor that the King had ordered brought to Ostagar. Hawke had later appropriated a handsome pair of silverite and leather gauntlets, too; gauntlets nobody else seemed to want. His boots, though, were only tolerable. Somehow he must find better, and a good helmet, too. Bronwyn had recommended the services of Master Wade, who was to be found in the Denerim Market. Hawke had heard of the man, but he catered to the wealthy and important. Perhaps his new title would sway the craftsman to accept Hawke's custom. And he was far more flush than usual...
As if it were nothing, he had been given gold coin for his traveling expenses, first by Bronwyn and then by Teyrn Loghain. Hawke well understood that the purpose was to get Wynne to Denerim safely and in good health. He suspected Wynne had been granted funds, too. Nonetheless, Hawke did his best to save every copper he could. His noble patrons were unlikely to ask for change, after all. Even if the Queen gave him nothing, Hawke would finish the journey a far richer man than he had been a week ago. That coin Hawke would invest in the best helmet and finest pair of boots available. Mother always said that people judged a man by his boots.
A faint spire came into view, far ahead to the east. Hawke recognized Fort Drakon. It was the major landmark, even more recognizable that the shape of Dragon's Peak, which lay to the south of the city.
"Denerim! At last!" cried Wynne.
Hawke smiled back her. She was a feisty old lady, and deserved far better than the false accusations of an old prune of a priest.
A wagon was coming their way, and Wynne sighed. On the busy stretches of road, it was impossible for her to help them along with magic. It would attract all the wrong sorts of attention. They had passed a half-dozen Templars on patrol earlier this morning. The faceless, helmeted men granted Wynne polite nods as they rode by, and Wynne smiled warmly, as harmless as any kindly old grandmother.
They followed the road, weaving among the thickening traffic. Their horses drew attention and respect—and a few envious catcalls.
"Think you're too fine to walk like honest folk, do you?" one woman grumbled. "Orlesians, I reckon!"
A knot of people surrounded a trader's cart up ahead. Raised voices fired questions at the dwarf, who stolidly answered them, not much to anyone's liking.
"You're lying!" a man shouted. "Ought to be a law against people making up lies like that!"
"Might even be treason," another man agreed.
"It's true!" the dwarf insisted. "They've put up signs and had the criers out proclaiming it. You'll hear it for yourself when you reach Denerim. King Cailan's dead. Killed in the south by the darkspawn. Everybody's talking about this King's Mountain where it happened. They say not to panic, though, because it was a victory, other than the king getting killed. Teyrn Loghain's still in charge and the darkspawn were destroyed."
"I don't believe it!" the first man exploded, fists clenched. "You can't trust a dwarf!"
His wife, a tired woman burdened by a heavy pack, spoke up, "We're going to Denerim, anyway. We'll hear the truth there. No need to bandy words with him. Let's go!" She tugged on her husband's arm. The man scowled at the dwarf over his shoulder.
"Ought to teach that short mouth a lesson!"
Hawke caught Wynne's eye. The Queen, it seemed, would definitely have received the bad news already.
A fog of gloom and anxiety permeated the city of Denerim. In the Gate District, people gathered, heads down, talking in low, urgent voices. Hawke and Wynne rode past one such group.
"But who's King?" one man hissed. "That's the question!"
"There'll be a Landsmeet," another said, determinedly hopeful. "It'll all get sorted out. I hope it's Teyrn Loghain!"
"He's a commoner...or was!" protested a harried-looking merchant. "Not a drop of royal blood there. We need a King of the good old Theirin line."
"Well, you won't get one," a middle-aged woman shot back angrily. "They're all gone. King Cailan was the last, and he should have stayed at home and got an heir on the Queen and let Teyrn Loghain do the fighting. Instead, he rushes off and gets himself killed! Just like my own silly poor boy—" the woman burst into tears and ran away, down the street. The rest of the market-place politicians shook their heads.
Another woman spoke hesitantly, "We have a Queen already..."
"A Queen Dowager," a man broke in officiously, better informed or better educated than the others. "She was only Queen-Consort, and with the King dead, she's nothing but the king's widow. Queen Dowager. That means she's done with ruling. They're just keeping her on as a steward, like, until the Landsmeet votes. Margit was right: it's a pity the King didn't give the Queen a bellyful before he went to war."
"Say, Jorgis, aren't those Couslands the next in line? They've got Theirin blood..."
The talk faded as they rode on.
"I've never been in the Palace District," Adam said, his cheerful voice a trifle hollow. "I'm looking forward to it."
Wynne shook her head. "I suppose I am, too. It's a shame that it's at such a time. The Queen must be heartbroken."
The glass exploded with a satisfying crash. A musical tinkle of little shards shivered to the floor. Anora stared at the gout of wine, red as blood, trickling down the oak paneling. What a silly thing to do. What would the maids think of her? She clapped her hand over her mouth and bit into the heel of her hand, stifling the sobs of grief and howls of rage that bubbled up from her deepest heart. Two days since the news, and the pain of loss and new betrayal had not subsided.
Oh, Cailan! How could you do this to me, on top of everything else?
"Queen Dowager." Cailan was dead: killed by the darkspawn; his dreams of glory reduced to ashes. He would never ride back to her in triumph, or tease her with silly jokes, or put his dirty boots on her embroidered footstool. He would never make love to her again. And now he had written a will, dismissing her to the role of caretaker for the next three months. After that, she would become a nothing...a has-been...someone who no longer mattered in Ferelden. She would have to move out of the Palace and find lodgings elsewhere... Queen Dowager. It sounded like a fat old white-haired woman with too many jewels and a mind only for Chantry, charity, and needlework.
Father had sent her a brief message by fast courier, warning her of the will. It was impossible to conceal or suppress it. Too many of Cailan's knights had seen it. The Arls of South Reach and West Hills had seen it. Everyone had talked to everyone else. Messages had been sent to friends and stewards. The news was traveling the length and breadth of Ferelden: the news that King Cailan did not consider Queen Anora fit to rule Ferelden in her own right. No, worse than that: Cailan had made clear that he never even considered it. Someone else would wear the Crown. Her Crown.
She had urged Cailan to grant her the Crown Matrimonial so many times! It would have given her sovereignty in her own right, even if Cailan died. When they were first married, he had been close to agreeing, but then that Maker-cursed uncle of his, Arl Eamon, had advised against it, citing precedents in his prosing, pompous way. At the start of the war, she had urged it again, as a prudent, sensible move. Cailan had laughed at her, asking her if she really thought so little of him as a man and a warrior...
Well, she knew now why he had refused her. He had already been planning to end their marriage and become Empress Celene's fancy boy. She pressed her forehead to the wall, fighting back burning tears of grief and disappointment. She must not be weak, but it was so very hard. Jowan was doing his best, but her body was damaged, perhaps beyond repair. Perhaps she was no longer fit to be Queen, and that thought hurt worst of all...
There was a knock at the door: faint and hesitant. Anora scrubbed at her eyes and stiffened her spine.
"Enter!"
It was one of her new, human maids, Rona. Anora felt a wayward pang for the loss of Erlina. Her hair would never look as good again. Rona simply did not have Erlina's knack. Or was it Erlina's poison that had stolen the shine from her hair? Nothing...nothing would ever be the same...
"Beg pardon, Your Majesty, but there's a messenger from Ostagar to see you most urgent. Two messengers. A gentleman and a lady. Captain Moorcock says they have the Teyrn's seal, all right."
Father said he would write at greater length. This must be the letter. Who was the woman? Bronwyn had hinted at finding a more experienced Healer. Hope flickered anew.
"I shall see them in the Little Audience Chamber at once. You will attend me there," she said, dismissing the girl. She went to the mirror, and set about looking like a Queen. After a few minutes, she rose, not quite satisfied, but no longer able to resist hearing Father's news, bad as it must be.
Seneschal Revere called out as she entered.
"Queen Anora of Ferelden!"
Thanks be to the Maker, he did not use that odious title "Queen Dowager," but she supposed he would have to, very soon. She crossed the short distance and took the unpretentious throne, studying her guests: a nice-looking woman in late middle-age, and a strikingly handsome young man in decent leathers and deplorable boots. A big mabari waited at the door, admirably behaved. The young man bowed very gracefully, and so was better-bred than the appearance indicated. Interesting.
"Your Majesty," the seneschal said. "Before you are Ser Adam Hawke and Mistress Wynne."
Wynne! That was the name! Anora smiled at her. This must be the promised experienced Healer. She leaned over and whispered to Rona, "Fetch Warden Jowan to me at once." She nodded gravely at the young man. Ser Adam Hawke? She had never heard of such a person. A very recent knighthood, then.
"I believe you have a message for me."
"I do, Your Majesty."
He had the good manners—or the instruction— not to try to hand her the letter himself, but to give it to Revere, who would present it to her. Yes, it was from Father. Anora broke the seal and read the letter carefully, her face schooled to reveal nothing.
So. The young man carrying the letter was a new boon companion of Cailan's, whom Father allowed was braver and more resourceful than most of them. He had done his best to save Cailan, and had very nearly succeeded, but for the poison of the Blight sickness. Cailan had knighted him on his deathbed. Father suggested some reward, but not to keep the man with her on a permanent basis. He was the brother of a Warden, and Father believed that Bronwyn was sending him north to help her own brother, which would be a very appropriate use of his skills. Ser Adam had other letters to deliver in Denerim, and then should be sent on his way north.
Anora did not disagree with Father in the slightest. The fact that the handsome Ser Adam was one of Cailan's companions was enough to make her wish never to lay eyes on him again. Let him go and be charming elsewhere. Of course, she must be reasonable, and treat him decently until he left to join Teyrn Fergus. What to give him? She would give that some thought...
Yes, this was Senior Enchanter Wynne. She had attended Cailan in his last hours, and had attempted the impossible: to cure a man of Blight sickness. Her thanks for that was to be accused of murder by the Revered Mother. Bronwyn had spirited the mage away and given her into the protection of Ser Adam, who was sympathetic to mages and could be relied on to be silent about her identity. Wynne was considered the finest Healer in the Circle: very likely in all Ferelden. It might be best not to flaunt her status as a mage, though if things became dire, Bronwyn had said she would conscript the woman into the Wardens. It would be best if it did not come to that. Anora might be able to reason with the Grand Cleric, who was not as impossible as the interfering old hag she had sent to Ostagar.
In the meantime, Bronwyn had said that the two of them were welcome to stay in the Warden's Compound as her guests, and that might indeed deflect some scrutiny.
There was more: about Cailan's death. Father gave her his condolences, for what they were worth, and spoke of his own sense of loss. Anora read quickly through those paragraphs, not wanting to feel any more grief for a man who had, in the end, prized her so very, very little.
As to the battle everyone was now calling King's Mountain, it had indeed been a convincing victory. Despite what others said, the elves had fought extremely well and loyally. The dwarves, too, were worthy, doughty allies. Their new tactics were most effective, when impetuous young men did not ignore them. Having Ferelden Wardens made all the difference as well. Bronwyn had been successful in gaining them yet more Dalish allies. Their great fear now was that the darkspawn would burst out of the Deep Roads in another place, one not so well defended as Ostagar.
"So there must indeed be a Landsmeet," his letter continued, "though that will be difficult with half the nobility in Ostagar. It might be best not to hold it in Denerim. I do not suggest Ostagar, of course, but I will discuss the matter with Bryland. Perhaps South Reach might be a more appropriate venue, given the circumstances. Lothering is perhaps too close to the perils of the darkspawn.
"Painful as I know it is to you, it would perhaps be best to accept the title 'Queen Dowager' with good grace. The King's death in battle has softened many hearts toward him: hearts that will not like any defiance of his deathbed wishes. You rule Ferelden for the moment. It is you who will preside over the Landsmeet. It is important that all remember your rule with respect. Remember that whatever the outcome of this Landsmeet, you are still young and your day will come.
"Your loving father,
"Loghain"
She must not grimace. She must think about this quietly and in private. She paused, mastering her voice.
"We thank you for your courage and good service, Ser Adam. My father tells me of your deeds. And Mistress Wynne. You are both most welcome. Warden Jowan will be with us shortly. The Warden-Commander has invited you to stay in their Compound, which is part of the Palace. You have other errands, I understand, Ser Adam. While we understand the need for haste, we hope you will rest sufficiently before joining our faithful Teyrn Fergus, whom I believe is on the road to Highever. Whether you leave tomorrow or the day after, I wish you to call upon me first, so that I may reward your loyalty."
Hawke bowed. "As Your Majesty wishes."
So. Queen Anora was not requiring his services. The Couslands were still his best and only option. At least she was talking about rewards. That was something.
There was a stir at the door.
The seneschal announced, "Warden Jowan, Your Majesty."
Hawke glanced over and was startled. He had understood this Jowan to be a mage. The man entering the audience chamber and bowing with practiced ease appeared to be a well-dressed nobleman. A good-looking young man, too. Certainly not a monstrous, malignant Blood Mage.
His own surprise, however, was nothing compared to Wynne's, who stared at Jowan in disbelief. The young man saw Wynne, did a shocked double-take, and then blushed deeply. His embarrassment was noted by the Queen, who apparently thought highly of the man.
"Come near, Warden Jowan," she said kindly. "You have served the Crown well, and you will not be forgotten. As discussed, Enchanter Wynne has come from Ostagar, accompanied by Ser Adam Hawke, the brother of a Warden. They will be staying in the Warden Compound, on the invitation of the Warden-Commander. Enchanter Wynne's stay will be of some duration, and Ser Adam's of only a day or two. I trust they can be accommodated?"
"Of course, Your Majesty," Jowan said earnestly. "It will be no trouble at all."
"Then we would have you see to their comforts. After dinner, you and Enchanter Wynne will attend me. Ser Adam, do not forget to call before you depart. In addition to your reward, I would like you to deliver my own letter to Teyrn Fergus."
Once dismissed, Adam immediately gave Bronwyn's letter to Jowan, who read it quickly, nodding over it.
"Let's not talk here," he said softly. "Follow me. I'll have the servants fetch your things."
Hawke looked about with the eyes of a delighted tourist. Not many Lothering lads were give a chance to see the byways of the royal palace in Denerim. Down the passages, out to the courtyard, in at another doorway. It was something of a hike, but it was all quite interesting and grand beyond his experience. Eventually they were admitted to the Wardens' Compound, and Hawke looked about with equal interest, especially since these were Carver's rightful stamping grounds. He was going to like them, and Hawke resolved to write a letter to his brother before he left for the north, telling him all about it.
Mistress Rannelly and all the servants of the Wardens' Compound were only to happy to care for the Commander's guests. Even better, they quickly understood the Commander's order that none of them were to speak of Mistress Wynne's presence.
"This is the Hall," Jowan told them, as they walked through the vaulted, echoing space. "We have our meals here. Through that door is the Wardens' council chamber and study, and I must ask you not to go there. Why don't we get you settled?"
Hawke was shown to a fine room—a private room at that—and told a bath would be ready in the laundry very soon.
"We'll set up screens for the lady in the kitchen," the housekeeper told him. "You'll feel better once you're clean. Give Nilda there any laundry you need done and she'll see to it directly. Dinner will be in two hours, but I'll have a tray of snacks brought to your room to tide you over. And water and food for your noble hound, too, of course!"
Well, this was all very fine. A bed, a bath, meals and laundry, and not a copper spent from his own purse. As soon as he was cleaned up, he would deliver the Teyrn's other letters: the one to the Commander of Fort Drakon and the other to the Arl of Denerim. Neither was far from the Palace. He should be done well before dinner.
His other errands could wait until tomorrow: a trip to the Market for armor, and the delivery of yet another letter: the collective letter mostly dictated by Adaia but written by Tara, to be taken to headman of the Alienage, Hahren Valendrian. The elves had given Hawke careful directions to the Alienage and then to the man's house. Hawke had no idea how he would be received, but the girls were pretty, and there was no reason not to do them a favor since he was going to Denerim anyway. Naturally, they were worried about their friends and families, what with the repulsive crimes of Arl Howe and all.
The bath was wonderful. Hawke scrubbed body and hair with dispatch; and then, by dint of promised treats, managed to get Hunter into the tub after him. Shaved, and in clean linen, Hawke felt ready to beard the great of Denerim in their dens.
He grinned at his mabari friend. "This is the life, isn't it, old boy? Maybe we should have gone for Wardens after all!" The dog grinned back, panting, and gave himself another shake.
The walk to Fort Drakon did them both good. The housekeeper could tell them the quick way, and in short order they were there. Hawke presented the Teyrn's letter of transit, and he was ushered in the Commander's office without delay. It was all bracingly professional. The man took the letter, thanked him civilly, and Hawke was on his way to the Arl of Denerim's estate.
This was a little trickier, for it seemed the the Arl was entertaining guests, including his bride-to-be. Hawke sensed that his title earned him a little more consideration than a mere messenger would have enjoyed. Lots of important people seemed to be there. From the anteroom where he was seated, Hawke could hear a low, urgent rumble of talk. The King's death had obviously stirred up the nobles as well as the ordinary folk. After a brief wait, the jowly Arl made his appearance, irritable and short-spoken, and took the letter.
"From Loghain, eh? Well, you've done your duty, ser." Arl Urien looked Hawke over keenly, as if wondering if he might be someone important, and then deciding he was not. "Good evening to you."
No reward. Hmm. Perhaps it was the title, working against him this time. Perhaps an Arl might not wish to wound the pride of a knight by offering him coin. Hawke snorted. Coin was not likely to wound this knight's pride...
But at least he and Hunter were back in time for dinner. An excellent meal was served. Hawke told Jowan the bits not in Bronwyn's letter. Wynne spoke occasionally, giving Jowan hard looks throughout. The Warden was ill at ease, but friendly enough to Hawke. He, of course, wanted to know about his friends, and even asked after Carver. Still, there was too much tension for Hawke to want to linger at table. The two mages were obviously wanting a private talk, and then they needed to see the Queen. Hawke intended to have another look around the Compound, perhaps find a good book, and get some rest in his comfortable room. He bade them goodnight, and Jowan and Wynne were left facing each other over the table. They waited for the knight's footsteps to fade, and the recriminations began.
"Jowan," Wynne reproved, her face pinched with disappointment. "Blood Magic! How could you do something so foolish and wicked?"
"They were going to make me Tranquil!" he shot back instantly, ready for the attack. "That's just as bad! I had a right to defend myself—to defend everything that makes me human! You all act as if I'll do it forever, but I haven't! It was only the one time. I used it to save myself and escape. I'm sorry that people were hurt. I'm really sorry that Tara suffered. I'm not sorry that I'm a free man and a Warden!"
It was true. The words had burst out of him in a flood, but as soon as they were said, he recognized their truth. He wasn't sorry. Blood Magic had bought him his freedom: being a Warden had given him a second chance at life. Wynne looked beyond shocked. He softened his voice.
"Of course the Chantry forbids Blood Magic. It levels the playing field. That's why for all their Exalted Marches, they've never been able to conquer Tevinter. No more have the Qunaris! I'd use Blood Magic again to save myself, to save other people, to fight the darkspawn. The Grey Wardens do not forbid Blood Magic, you know. They believe in fighting the darkspawn 'by any means necessary.' It's true."
Wynne shook her head in sorrow. "Listen to yourself, Jowan. This is contrary to everything you were ever taught..."
"Then I was taught wrong!"
He pushed himself up from the table, jarring cups and plates. "We can't keep the Queen waiting. Let's go. What are you going to do, Wynne? Report me to the Templars? Oh, right—if you do that, they'll find out who you are and arrest you for murdering the King!"
Hurt, she opened her mouth to protest, but he interrupted her, still fired up, "Of course you didn't! I know that! The Chantry is wrong about you. We can agree about that. Maybe someday you'll see that they're wrong about a lot of things. Anyway, let's go. The Queen's really not well, and that poison is pernicious stuff..."
Wynne pulled herself together, and took a breath. She rose, smoothing her gown, thinking hard. Instead of arguing, she decided to focus on what mattered most. "Tell me more about this poison..."
The day dawned blue and clear: a fine day for a walk to the Market District. Jowan had some business there—at Master Wade's, in fact. He was also perfectly willing to accompany Hawke and Hunter to the Alienage.
"I'll probably be the one taking the reply to Ostagar," he pointed out.
Hawke welcomed the Warden's company, though he was a little surprised at Jowan's appearance.
The fine blue doublet was gone. Instead, Jowan was wearing the trappings of a Warden and a warrior: extremely good light leather armor and excellent boots, and over it all the griffon tunic. In addition, to Hawke's astonishment, Jowan had buckled on a weapon harness bearing a longsword and what appeared to be a very fine dagger. Was Jowan so powerful a mage that he did not require a staff at all?
They fell into step, and Jowan obligingly pointed out the landmarks along King's Way. Hunter trotted just ahead, nose to the ground.
"I hope the Queen is well," Hawke remarked.
"Better with Wynne here. Wynne's amazing," Jowan answered, and changed the subject.
Hawke filed the comment away. Clearly the poisoning had not been easily dispelled. Queen Anora looked healthy enough—to someone who did not know her well, probably—but there must have been serious aftereffects. Bronwyn had been very concerned that the Queen be able to hold the country together in the three months leading up to the Landsmeet. Hawke wished the Queen well: it would be a shame if such a young and pretty woman were to leave the world untimely.
"What do you suppose she'll do, once the Landsmeet is over?" Hawke asked. "She's Teyrn Loghain's heir, no matter what else. Maybe she'll go to Gwaren and act for him, while he's fighting the war."
"I have no idea," Jowan confessed. "It's hard to imagine her as anything other than Queen. There hasn't been a Queen Dowager in a hundred years: not since the death of King Lochlann. His Queen, Gwenllian Voric, took vows in the Chantry and ended up as Grand Cleric after a few years. Somehow, I can't see Queen Anora doing that."
"I certainly hope not, anyway!" Hawke was impressed by Jowan's knowledge of royal genealogy. "So who's the next king, do you think?"
Jowan pursed his lips, thinking. "Well...if you go by blood relationship, the Couslands certainly have the best claim. That's one reason that the late teyrn, Bryce Cousland, was put forward as King. That, and the fact that people thought Cailan was too young... Yes, if you went just with birth, I guess people would say that Fergus Cousland should be King..."
Hawke's eyes widened, and the street gossip he had heard yesterday suddenly registered on him. The Couslands have Theirin blood. He felt a wave of ardent loyalty to the brother of Bronwyn Cousland. That Teyrn Cousland might be the next king was beyond his wildest hopes.
"...Of course," Jowan pursued his thought. "Bronwyn's claim is just as good, since birth order and gender don't matter much in these cases. It's mostly who can get the votes in the Landsmeet. Bronwyn's a Warden, of course, which ordinarily might disqualify her, but she's very, very popular, and we're in the midst of a Blight..."
"Some people..." Hawke ventured, "would like to see Teyrn Loghain on the throne."
"It could happen," Jowan granted, after a pause. "He's the most respected man in Ferelden, and a bonafide hero. He's the man people are counting on to save them from the darkspawn. He hasn't the least blood claim, but Ferelden's never endured a Blight—not since it was a united nation, anyway. This crisis might trump custom, at that. Nobody wants a change of command. Of course, he'd do better if he were married to a noblewoman with some royal blood..."
"Like Lady Bronwyn," Hawke guessed.
Jowan blinked, and gave him a nervous look. "I would be really, really, really careful about talk like that. Look, there are the Alienage gates..."
Suspicious stares and frightened whispers greeted them, but they met no resistance. The place seemed very thinly inhabited, and Hawke remembered Arl Howe's vicious treachery. How many elves had been lured away to a lifetime of slavery in a distant land? Valendrian's name and Jowan's Warden tunic soon gained them a modicum of trust. Neither Jowan nor Hawke had visited an Alienage before, and they looked about them with discreet dismay.
"How can the elves bear to live like this?" Hawke muttered. "Why doesn't the Arl of Denerim do something? It wouldn't cost that much for a bit of repair!"
Jowan frowned. "I don't think the elves are given a lot of choice. And I haven't heard much good about the Arl anyway. At least that rotten son of his is gone. Bronwyn put that in her letter. He's the one who tried to use the Alienage as his personal brothel. Elves are treated as badly as mages in some ways. What it's like for an elf mage like Tara is hard to imagine." A quick shrug. "It's nice to imagine that a new king would do something about all the oppression and injustice in this country, but I don't see it happening. As far as I can see the nobility have got the people where they want them; and the Chantry doesn't mind people being miserable, since it makes them hope for better in the next life, and keeps the prayers and tithes coming in."
"Not all nobles are bad," Hawke pointed out. Jowan made some good points, especially about the Chantry, but fair was fair.
"No, but I'm not sure that the good can outweigh the bad. There are always more of the bad ones, just like there are more rotten Templars than decent ones."
Hawke hardly felt he could argue the point. The Templar Commander in Lothering, Ser Bryant, was a very decent man indeed, but in the end he was just another cog in the Chantry's machine.
Hahren Valendrian welcomed them politely, and then with some friendliness, when he saw the griffon tunic. He invited them into his humble little house. Womenfolk retreated to an inner room, and crowded at the doorway; huge, beautiful eyes watchful. Hunter sneezed, and Hawke himself nearly sniffed at the unfamiliar, not unpleasant odor. They accepted the offer of tea and biscuits and sat quietly while the old elf read the letter. A pretty little elf child crept out and peered at them over the table.
"Do you know Tara?" she asked.
"She's my best friend," Jowan said, smiling at the little girl.
A woman hissed frantically, "Come back here, Amethyne!"
The child stared at the last remaining biscuit. Hawke grinned, and nudged the plate her way with a single finger. Instantly the biscuit was in her hand, then in her mouth, and she was darting back to the safety of the women's skirts.
Valendrian gave the child an indulgent, tender look, and then sighed. "What is left of their family will be glad to hear this news. I must compose an answer to them, listing the lost and the saved. Is it possible for you to wait? I will not be long."
"No trouble at all," Jowan assured him, sipping his tea. It was quite good.
The hahren sat down at a rough writing table, and carefully prepared quill, ink, and a worn piece of a parchment. Hawke eyed the parchment with curiosity. Mother had been proud that they were not so poor that they needed to scrape the words from letters received in order to reuse the parchment. Valendrian, obviously, was far more thrifty. The old elf consulted a list, and shook his head as he wrote.
Very soon they had their letter, gave thanks for the refreshments, and took their leave, going on to the other end of the Alienage, which let out to the Market District.
Jowan tucked the letter away, reasoning that he would be in Ostagar before long. "Maybe Tara was lucky," he said, the words troubling him. "At least at the Circle she had decent meals and a good education. I really don't know."
"Mages shouldn't be locked up. And neither should elves." Hawke was too excited by the prospect of visiting Denerim Market with gold in his purse to pursue the issue further. For the moment, the world was his.
It was still his the next bright morning, when Hawke rode out of Denerim to infinite possibilities in the north. On a horse borrowed from the Wardens—which no one had said anything about returning—in his good armor, in his magnificent new boots and shining silverite helmet, he felt a true knight at last. Wade's partner Herren had done right by him, letting him range through their stock of superb used armor, while Master Wade and Jowan had gone on about some strange new weapons the armorer was crafting for the Wardens. They had gone out in back of the shop, when Wade had demonstrated something that gruesomely involved an ox carcass. Jowan had seemed pleased, and talked about transporting the prototype to Ostagar on his return to the south. Meanwhile, Hawke had reveled in armor worthy of a noble lord—the sort of armor made for people like Mother's family.
Jowan was a good fellow, and had shown him all the best shops. Folded carefully in a saddlebag were a brocade doublet and velvet breeches, bought from a vendor of used clothes. A handsome cloak was his as well, for the weather would be turning cooler soon. The laundress next door to Wade had sold Hawke a pair of shirts of the very finest linen, confiscated by her when the owners had failed to pay up. Paid with gold, a shoemaker had in a few hours cobbled together a pair of splendid soft boots to wear with his finery. Then Hawke had splurged on gifts for his family, securing Jowan's promise to stop at the house in Lothering on his way back to Ostagar. He smiled, imagining his mother's delight in the Orlesian silks...
And the Queen had come through with a first-rate farewell gift: an ivory-handled silverite dagger that had been the King's; the scabbard mounted in silver and set with malachite. It was a true nobleman's weapon, and Hawke wore it on his belt with pride. He kicked his horse into a canter and called to his hound.
"Come on, Hunter! Let's not keep Teyrn Fergus waiting!"
With Rendon Howe dead, his erstwhile vassals and supporters had some serious choices to make. Fergus reflected on the matter for some days, during the long and dangerous ride through Highever.
Some, like the defenders of Vigil's Keep and the city of Amaranthine, surrendered to Teyrn Fergus and made formal obeisance. This was the easiest group to deal with. It was necessary to sort out those who had participated in the Highever massacre, but very few of these had come to Fergus of their own accord. Having shown no mercy themselves, they expected none. Knowing how eager others were for the favor of the new regime, they could expect to be informed on in short order. Most of them had fled; across the sea to the Free Marches, or west, first to Highever, and then dispersing, changing their names and vanishing into the population.
So it happened that nearly all those who surrendered in those first busy weeks could be put to some good use or other. Seneschal Varel, Howe's long-time right-hand man at Vigil's Keep, was kept on, and made Fergus' deputy for the arling' administration. He had denounced Howe's worst excesses, and had been demoted for it. Fergus thought he could be trusted for the most part. He would have an independent auditor go over the arling's books later, of course, just to be sure…
While some of the Howe loyalists had fled with Bann Esmerelle in her ship, other landholders threw themselves on Fergus' mercy. If he could uncover no signs of collusion in Howe's worst schemes, he was inclined to let them stay, if only to minimize the chaos that mass dispossessions would cause. The rest were told to leave. The Temmerleys had been stupid enough to dig in and put up a fight. It had been brief but ugly, and children had died with their parents when the roof of the manor collapsed under bombardment by the trebuchets. Fergus pitied the children, but the bombardment meant that his own men, many of whom had children of their own, would survive, instead of risking their lives in a bitter melee on the defender's home ground.
"The worst problem, of course," he said, thinking aloud, "are the renegades."
His squire nodded sympathetically. Seyton had been hurt rather badly a few days ago, thrown from his horse during a nasty skirmish with a band of soldiers-turned bandits on the North Road. Certain units of Howe's men had gone into business for themselves: especially the units that had taken part in the Highever attack and occupation. That was why they were marching on Highever now.
"Bann" Norrel Haglin was the man Howe had put in charge of the town. He was a old-time Amaranthine retainer and loyal as a dog to Rendon. The title was a fraud, of course, since Howe had no right whatever to grant Highever titles. Haglin could make things unpleasant, should he choose to defy Fergus.
Farmers on either side of the road stopped and waved their hats, seeing their young Teyrn. Some even rushed up to offer their respects.
"You're a popular man, my lord." Seyton grinned.
Fergus managed a bitter laugh. "So was my father. Much good it did him."
A band of scouts were riding their way. Fergus lifted his hand to greet Ser Naois. Bearded, gruff, and dependable, Ser Naois Gilmore knew his business. His young nephew had died in the massacre, defending the Cousland family. Naois was not inclined to be gentle with Howe loyalists.
"My lord!" he said. "It's not looking too bad. Some of the traitors have pulled out of the city. A large band, captained by Roderick Crewe, is calling itself the White Company. They've taken ship for Cumberland to offer themselves to the Nevarrans."
"What else?' Fergus asked.
"They're pretty demoralized," Naois told him. "Even the loyalists now acknowledge that Howe is dead. Haglin is talking about his duty to 'Arl Nathaniel,' but not many are buying it. I think Haglin will pull out of Highever and go to ground to the west. Maybe he's hoping for a royal pardon. If he puts up a fight, he won't get it."
Fergus nodded, thinking about his old friend Nathaniel Howe. Nathaniel, to Fergus' relief, had not made an appearance. He was presumably still somewhere in the Free Marches. A search of Vigil's Keep had not uncovered Rendon Howe's will. It seemed bizarre that he would not have one, but perhaps he had been keeping his options open, waiting for his affairs to be more settled. He had not even set aside property or coin for Delilah's dowry. Not that it was an issue now. Fergus wondered if Nathaniel would respond to a summons from the Queen. If he did not, the Howes were officially finished in Ferelden.
"We'll move on toward Highever, but we won't exhaust the men," Fergus decided. "If Haglin pulls out, we can relieve the city at once. That's all to the good. We'll see what happens next. If Haglin and his men resort to banditry, we'll have to hunt them down. If he keeps quiet, it might be best to resolve everything peacefully."
Naois frowned at him, and Fergus grew impatient. "Ferelden is still in the grip of a Blight! That takes precedence over everything else. Howe did not survive to gloat over his victory. I've had vengeance—and all things considered, I'd rather have my family instead."
He had not had word from Denerim in several days. In the current state of unrest, it was all too easy for a courier to meet with a misadventure. He could only hope that things were under control in the rest of Ferelden. The North had to be his only concern for now.
The following afternoon, they were on the final approach from the south, where the Highever Road descended in a shallow grade toward the sea. Past the last hills, they could make out the misty towers of the castle, looming over the town.
More scouts reported back, the last galloping furiously toward them and hauling up in a cloud of dust.
"My lord!" the scout shouted, wildly excited. "The banner of Amaranthine no longer flies over the castle. There is no guerdon of any kind! I believe they are gone!" The boy caught his breath, patting his horse's neck absently. "There's a haze over the road west of here. It might be their column."
"Good riddance!" burst out Naois. The other captains agreed heartily.
"We'll see," Fergus said shortly. "We need to secure the castle, and then take possession of the town. Maker alone knows what we'll find."
Castle Highever had seen better days.
Everything worth looting was long gone. That might have happened shortly after Howe's treachery, but some of the damage looked recent. Everything was in disorder: rubbish and ordure were scattered in the courtyard, along with torn rags and a litter of smashed crockery. The garrison had left quickly, and had not cared what the next occupants thought of them. Some of the narrow windows in the tower were broken. The place looked derelict.
A few of his knights insisted on going first through the open gate. As they clattered in, slowly, by ones and twos, frightened people emerged from the side doors and leaned cautiously from windows. Impatient, Fergus cantered into the outer courtyard, wanting to see his home for himself.
"It's Teyrn Fergus!" cried a woman. "Maker bless you, my lord!"
The few people here seemed glad enough to see him. A ragged cheer rose up. Some of these men and women Fergus recognized as Highever townsfolk. From what Bronwyn had told him, he could not hope to find any of their old servants or retainers. They were gone: dead to the last man, woman, and child. Quietly he vowed that none of Howe's men, however unstained by Highever blood, would ever be allowed to stay here.
Not that he saw any. They knew they had no right to expect anything but bloody vengeance from him.. He set his jaw and began giving orders.
"Naois, take a scouting party and go down into the city. See if any of Howe's men are still running things there. Seyton...we'll search the castle from top to bottom, and see what we find!"
They found little to please them. The Highever folk, many of them forced into servitude by Howe's officers, were full of indignation, and eager to show him everything.
"They came to my house, my lord, and told me I must cook and clean for them!" one merchant's wife shrilled furiously. "Took my daughters, too, telling me that they needed whores! Cowards, rapists, and thieves, the lot of them!"
The treasury was empty, of course. That was only to be expected. Bronwyn had saved the ancient sword and shield of Highever. The rest could be replaced, especially considering the immense fortune Fergus had seized from Howe's treasure chests. The clerks had taken days to count the gold. Howe's evil had been remunerative: Fergus now had over ten thousand sovereigns in his possession—blood money from the sale of Ferelden citizens. It was a vast sum. His own father had never had this kind of coin in their treasury. If he used it well and wisely, he could heal some of Highever's wounds, and assist those in need.
As to recovering the elves, Fergus was not sanguine. The Queen could put out diplomatic feelers, requesting the return of Ferelden's kidnapped citizens, but the Tevinters would probably laugh outright at that. Ferelden had no leverage of any kind over the distant Tevinter Empire. Perhaps they could offer money, but on the Tevinter market, the elves would be worth five times what the slavers had paid Howe. And offering to pay them could have serious repercussions. Ferelden was not much afflicted with the secret gangs of slavers that permeated the cities of Antiva and the Free Marches like rot in a bin a wheat. If the Tevinters were to get the idea that they could hold Fereldans for ransom, Ferelden would find itself beset by a new crime wave that would fasten onto the country's limited wealth—and suck it dry.
He glanced in at the library. It looked like the interlopers had intended to steal some of the books and changed their minds at the last minute. Piles of them had been taken from the shelves and then dumped onto the floor. In the study, someone had been at the maps. Fergus suspected that many had been stolen. The locking drawer that held the account books was open and the accounts gone. Fergus grimaced. It would be much harder now to establish who had paid taxes, and who had not.
"Well," he muttered to himself. "Perhaps I'll give the teyrnir a tax holiday for the year...maybe next year, too. Maker knows I've gold enough."
"That would be an extremely popular measure, my lord," Seyton agreed.
No silver was left in the cupboards: no tapestries on the walls. A woman named Velda, who was more or less acting as housekeeper in this wreckage, showed him some things that had been thrown haphazardly into an empty room for safekeeping. It was there that he found the portraits of his mother and father. Mother's portrait was torn along the side of the canvas when it landed on a rusted iron torchiere. Father's was damaged by mold and damp. They could be repaired, after a fashion, but they were not his first priority.
The invaders had taken nearly all the food in the larder with them, but Velda showed him where she had secreted some in a dungeon cell, unknown to "that Bann Norrel, or so he fancies himself." In the cellars, wine and ale pooled on the floor, bleeding from casks stoved in out of spite. Fergus set Velda and her helpers to clean up in here, preserve what they could, and start preparing a meal for everyone. He would think over what else needed to be done in due time.
Then there were the dungeons, filled with prisoners. There was no sign of any keys. Fergus' men would need to find a locksmith, or a blacksmith with a file and a very large hammer.
"My lord," a knight explained. "That lot left them down here without food or water. Some of them are petty criminals, and others honest citizens who fell afoul of the usurpers. And there is considerable debate amongst them on the matter."
"See that they are fed and not mistreated," Fergus said instantly, "but do not release them until we can sort them out."
Before he could do that, there was still more of the castle to see: a duty that he dreaded.
Up, up the ramps and stairs he climbed, his silent men following. He must go upstairs and see if anything still lingered...
The guest rooms were empty, of course. Howe's officers had been quartered here, and so the walls were not carelessly defaced nor the furniture too much abused. One of the chambers was very tidy indeed. Whoever had dwelled within was a person of meticulous habits. The other rooms were not so neat.
Seyton glanced at him, face tense with compassion, and opened the door that led to the family's private bedchambers. The two knights who insisted on preceding him in case of traps or ambushes slipped in and looked searchingly around the square stone antechamber.
Empty, indeed. Stripped bare as it was, there was nothing but the shape of the room to suggest that this was part of his family home—that people he loved had once lived here. Fergus bit his lip. Bronwyn's room, first. It was the one least likely to cause him pain. Perhaps it was cowardly, but there was only so much a man could bear...
The door was opened on cold light. The shutters were flung wide, and one banged carelessly against the stone walls. Here the inhabitants had left in a hurry. Chests and cupboards gaped open. A bookcase lay on the floor, front forward, the books carelessly scattered about. Fergus picked up one, smoothing the pages, setting it aside on a wine-stained table.
It was still Bronwyn's room, more or less. The massive bed was still the same bed that had stood in the same place for generations. Someone had obvious been living here recently—someone who cared little for the place. A dirty plate and a litter of bones and crumbs indicated a last, hasty meal before vacating the premises. The linens were rumpled and unclean. The green velvet coverlet, lovingly quilted and embroidered by their grandmother, was torn and dirty, jammed down at the foot of the bed. Bronwyn's little personal trinkets were gone: her curious rocks and shells, her bronze jewel box bequeathed her by Great-Aunt Ada, her chess set of rock crystal and onyx...
Still, with cleaning and mending, this could be Bronwyn's room again. Fergus sighed, and turned away. Steeling himself, he gestured at the end of the hall, and within a few steps he was in his parents' private bedchamber.
Most probably, Haglin had used this room. It was decently made up, since the man had from all reports been elsewhere for the past few days. It, too, had changed.
Mother's dressing table had always been arranged with the beauty and meticulous care of an altar: lovely, costly objects laid out just so. Those treasures of silver, of amber and ivory and crystal and tortoiseshell were gone now: looted and sold; or given away to wives and mothers and sisters, women who were proud to own the plunder of Highever. Needless to say, Mother's jewelry chest was gone as well. Fergus had found some of her pieces at Vigil's Keep, and had ordered Varel to keep his eye out for more. Father's jewels were gone too, but Fergus wore the seal of Highever on his hand, and that mattered the most. Naturally, the cupboards were empty of clothing: the silks, the velvets, the furs...
There remained now only the one room: the worst, most unbearable of them all.
The room stank of vomit and sex; of stale wine and stale piss. A girl was cowering in there, a frightened girl with tangled fair hair. She was dressed in one of his wife's gowns, now very much the worse for wear.
"Don't hurt me," she whimpered, hands out to fend off blows.
Fergus stared at her, shocked speechless at first. Oriana had worn that gown on First Day. He well remembered the pale blue bodice, the white flowers picked out with golden thread. He remembered, too, the skirt of the finest heavy turquoise silk, now sadly soiled and frayed at the hem. The girl had thrown it on over a dirty white shift. The stolen finery hung on her ungracefully, unbelted and unlaced. One of Oriana's big silk shawls lay spread out on the floor. More clothing and trinkets were heaped in the middle of it.
"What are you doing here?" Fergus grated out. "Who are you?"
The girl shrank back with a squeak.
"Answer his lordship, girl!" Seyton snapped.
She gaped at them, terrified. "I'm Violet, my lord. Captain Fenwick brought me here with him from Amaranthine. Going to make me a lady, he was. When I woke up this morning, he was gone!"
"She's a thief and a whore," sneered a knight. "A little late gathering your loot, aren't you?"
"This is mine!" she protested in a thin whine. "Fenwick gave it to me. He said I could have all the clothes and the silver jewelry. It's mine!"
Fergus stared dully at the things on the shawl, recognizing all too many of them. "What did Fenwick do with the other jewels?" he asked.
"Sent 'em home to his mother," Violet sulked. "She's the only reason he hasn't married me already. Afraid of what his old mum would say!"
Sickened beyond belief, Fergus turned to Seyton. "Get her out of here. Get her out of the castle. She can't have my wife's jewelry, but let her take the clothing. I don't want to see it again."
"It's worth quite a bit, my lord."
"I don't want to see it again!"
After the girl was gone, her cries and curses fading into the stone walls, Fergus looked about him briefly. "Have the women scrub this place out. Burn the linens. Then...keep the door closed. I'll be sleeping in my parents' room."
"Your room now, my lord," Seyton reminded him gently.
"I suppose so."
Before he could eat, there was yet another place to visit. Abruptly, he found a older manservant who seemed fairly responsible, "What did they do with the bodies?"
On his insistence, the servant took him outside to see the place. One of the old middens had been used to dispose of the waste of battle. Logs had been heaped up over the carelessly piled corpses, and the dead of Highever were roasted like pigs, half-burned and half-buried. By now, it was unlikely that anything would now be recognizable. Fergus walked the length of the scorched, ill-smelling place, thinking of what had happened here: of the evil men could do and claim they were merely following orders; or that what they did was for the greater good.
"Are you sure everyone was killed? What about my mother?" he demanded of the servant. "What's your name, anyway?"
"Coyle, my lord. I believe they were all killed indeed, my lord. I am that sorry to tell you. I didn't see the bodies myself, but one of the captains who was here—name of Chase—said that the teyrn and teyrna were both there." He ducked his head, not wanted to tell the young man everything that the bastard of a captain had said about them. "The teyrna put up a brave fight, she did, he said. Wouldn't let them take her alive. Arl Howe wasn't best pleased, but so it was. And Howe was here and saw the bodies. If they hadn't been here, there would have been a hue and cry after them, and no mistake. He was already that angry that the young lady got away."
"Starting tomorrow," Fergus said slowly, "I'll give orders to the groundkeeper to build a mound here: good fresh soil for planting grass and flowers. There will be a hedge around it and a stone. I want due honor done to the dead. Has anyone from the Chantry been out here to give them the rites?"
"If they have, my lord, I never heard of it."
"Well, then perhaps I'll pay a visit to the Revered Mother, too." There had been ne'er a peep from the Chantry about the murders of their Highever patrons. Perhaps Howe or his creatures had threatened them. Perhaps they simply did not care who filled their coffers, as long as filled they were.
It was a grim, silent meal. Fergus owed it to his men not to show the degree of anguish he suffered, the horror he felt at being in the place, at what his home had become.
It would not always be like this. Since nothing could be worse that this, he reasoned that it would be better tomorrow. The falsely imprisoned would be freed. They would be given work rebuilding and restoring the castle. The guilty would be punished, and not rewarded for wickedness. The castle would be cleansed, and the dead given due dignity.
"My lord," a soldier entered the hall, face filled with urgency. "I bring word from Ser Naois. There's trouble in Highever town. Quite a few of the invaders have dug in at the old Alienage, and seemed loath to leave or surrender. They're led by one Captain Lowan, and they say if you want Highever, you'll have to fight them for it."
There would be an ugly street battle, after all. Not much remained of the old Alienage. The shantytown was gone, and in its place was a half-finished foundation. Presumably Renden Howe had planned a palatial new residence with a splendid view of the sea. Low stone walls gave the enemy cover from which to shoot arrows and crossbow bolts. It would not, however, protect them from the missiles being loaded into the trebuchets Fergus was preparing to use against them.
"I don't care if nothing is left of that eyesore," he told his dwarven engieers. "Knock the whole bloody thing down, if you like. I want those bastards dead or flushed out. It's all the same to me. Kenyon, ready your archers. When they make a break for it, shoot them down. I've done with treating with rats."
This was not the only hotspot in Highever Town. Naois was leading an attack on another band; a strong, drunken, and furious one holed up inside the High Dragon Tavern. A pity. It was a good place for a drink, and it likely would be a total loss. There were other little skirmishes all over the city: a few Amaranthine men here and there doing murder, rubbery, and rape on their own account— too stupid to run, and too satisfied with their comfortable life as tyrants and parasites to give it over without a fight. Fergus had sent out a crier, telling the men they could lay down their weapons and surrender immediately if they wished to be shown mercy. A mere handful had done so. Fergus felt perfectly within his rights to kill the rest.
The trebuchets were brought up and assembled, as the sun moved across the sky. Archers shot up at a steep angle, letting their arrows fall on the other side of the wall. Another group was moving around to the north dock, where they would be able to target the renegades from behind. Fergus wanted these men dealt with before nightfall gave them a chance to escape. Eventually, one pf the machines was ready and loaded. It creaked and thumped, and a heavy stone projectile slammed into the top of the wall, smashing it in, dropping a rain of stone shards on the men behind it. Fergus smiled grimly at the muffled screams.
"Again!" he shouted.
The other two trebuchets were nearly ready when there was a scuffle and a noise behind the wall. Suddenly, two dozen men burst out from cover, making a break for the street leading up out of the alienage to the east. The clever ones overlapped their shields. The others were shot down, and fell screaming and thrashing on the cobbles of the empty Alienage square. A savage melee followed. Fergus led his men in a counterattack, but some the fugitives were already well ahead. More of them fell to arrows and blades, but a half-dozen reached a twisting alley, where they could cling to the sides, their shields still protecting them from missiles. In the lead was a big man in good armor, shouting orders, whom Fergus guessed must be Lowan himself.
"After them!" Fergus roared. "They're heading for the Chantry!" He waved at Seyton. "You! Take your men and finish off whoever's left behind the wall there! I'm going after Lowan!"
He pounded after the men, craving the relief that the physical act of revenge promised. His eyes were fixed Lowan's gleaming silverite armor. The enemy was on the run now. Two had thrown their shields aside and one howled, "Sanctuary!"
Fergus swore. The bloody Chantry would probably grant it, and shake pious fingers at him if he dared to drag those murderers out to be hanged. He pushed himself to his limits, gritting his teeth. Up ahead, the street opened out to the square facing Highever Chantry. A pair of Templars stood on duty by the doors. One of them seemed to be moving to open them.
"No!" bellowed Fergus. "You are not letting those murdering bastards hide from me!"
He was so close. One of Lowan's men was out of breath and flagging. "Get him!" Fergus ordered. and a pair of knights crashed into the man, spitting him on their swords. Shrieks of agony tore the air, but Fergus ran on. An arrow hissed past him and brought down another. The man rolled, screaming, arching his back, trying to claw at the arrow lodged behind his knee.
Two turned to fight, and were quickly cut down. Lowan and another soldier were making a last desperate dash for the safety of the Chantry. The doors gaped open, held by faceless Templars.
"I'm the Teyrn of Highever!" shouted Fergus. "And I order you to shut those bloody doors!"
"Sanctuary!" howled Lowan. "Sanctuary!"
A clatter of hooves, a horse's scream, a mabari's fearsome growl, and a huge dark body knocked Lowan sideways. His companion stumbled back, clutching his head protectively. Fergus ignored horse and horseman and went for Lowan, his sword a blade of Justice. He caught Lowan across the left arm, cutting deep. The man howled again and scrambled away on all fours, trying to climb the steps of the Chantry. Fergus tore off the man's helmet and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, dragging him back. He was angry, very angry, and if those Templars said one word to him, he would probably kill them, too. Lowan right hand reached out frantically for the base of the steps.
And Fergus cut it off.
He could never remember too much of what happened afterward, other than the fact that Lowan was clearly and thoroughly dead, inches from the Chantry steps. Fergus threw a burning look at the Templars, who had come half-way down, preparing to interfere; and at the gaggle of priests and sisters at the wide doorway, looking variously shocked, excited, disapproving, and sick. He looked for Lowan's companion. That man, too, was dead; sprawled on the cobbles, blood trickling from his mouth. A handsome young warrior Fergus did not know was wiping his blade. Nearby a big mabari was licking his chops, grinning doggily. The man's horse had trotted off a few yards, but seemed all too accustomed to battle.
"Thanks," Fergus said briefly. "The bastard was getting away."
"Well, we couldn't have that," grinned the handsome newcomer. "Happy to help. You're Teyrn Fergus, I take it. I have letters for you from your sister and Queen Anora."
"About bloody time," Fergus said, wiping his own sword on the ruins of Lowan's leggings. "That's a good dog you've got. What's his name? And what's yours, for that matter?"
"This fine fellow is Hunter," the warrior bowed. "I am Hawke. Ser Adam Hawke. Don't know the horse's name, even though he did most of the work. Sorry."
Fergus laughed, further scandalizing the Chantry faithful. "Let's have a drink, and you can show me those letters."
Note: Thanks to my reviewers: Death Knight's Crowbar, MsBarrows, tgcgoddess, Aoi24, demonicnargles, almostinsane, EroSlackerMicha, BladesoftheValkyrie, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Have Socks. Will Travel, karinfan123, Judy, JackOfBladesX, The Moidart, Josie Lange, cloud1004, Kira Kyuu, Zute, SkaterGirl246, Juliafied, Blinded in a Bolthole, KnightOfHolyLight, Jenna53, mutive, mille libri, Edgar Fizzlewhip, Redhand, APatchOfSunlight, Dante Alighieri1308, Shakespira, snowFrou, Enaid Aderyn, Amanda Weber, Tyanilth, and EpitomeofShyness.
The Crown Matrimonial is a legal concept used to describe a person's right to co-reign equally with his or her spouse. It's not at all the same thing as being a King-consort, Queen-consort, prince-consort, princess-consort, etc. Those titles simply indicate that the person is the spouse of the monarch. They have no power of their own, and when their spouse dies, they have no right to rule. Francis II of France, who was married to Mary, Queen of Scots, was offered the Crown Matrimonial of Scotland, which would have in effect made Scotland part of France. However, he predeceased her anyway.
Someone granted the Crown Matrimonial would continue to rule after the death of a spouse. They could even marry anew and have children who would be heirs to the kingdom, even though the king/queen had originally taken the throne as a spouse of someone with a superior claim by blood.
I don't think that the Anora was granted the Crown Matrimonial. if she had, there would have been no question about who was ruling the kingdom. Furthermore, it would have been IMPOSSIBLE for Cailan to set her aside and marry someone else, because Anora would have been his equal.
Because parchment is far more durable than paper, it was possible to scrape the words off and reuse it. The overwritten parchment is called a palimpsest. Archaeologists are sometimes able to decipher lost texts under the more recent writing.
Lowan is canon: the author of the codex entitled "A letter to Rendon Howe." He was one of the officers who led the attack on Highever.