Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 64: Toward a Reckoning
"I want the Cathedral searched from top to bottom," commanded Anora. "I want to know the names of the traitors in our midst. Priestly robes will not protect them. I want to know their secret plans. I want to know to whom they reported, and how, and when."
The Grand Cleric was in no position to object. Too shocked and frightened by the events of the tragic wedding feast, and physically undermined by the drug that had subdued her, she kept to her own quarters, and largely to her bed. Anora considered the possibility that she might be malingering to conceal her own involvement, but decided to bide her time, while building her case against other Chantry officials.
The clergy had been rounded up and were being held in the nave of the Cathedral. Their guards had strict orders not to tell them what had transpired elsewhere in the city. Not everyone was there, of course. Some had been elsewhere in the city, and after witnessing events from the outside of the Cathedral, had decided to lay low for a time.
For the most part, priests and Templars were being treated with respect until they could be sorted out. However, the quarters of certain individuals were being targeted for special attention.
Anora had a list, and Bryland had a list, and at the top of the list were the names of Mothers Gertrude and Heloise and Knight-Command Tavish. Revered Mother Gertrude had held the Queen of Ferelden prisoner, and it was impossible to describe that action as anything but treason. Mother Heloise had colluded with her. Tavish had injured noblemen and noblewomen of Ferelden during his flight from the Arl of Denerim's wedding feast.
Also on the list was Clarine, the Revered Mother at Ostagar, who interfered incessantly and noisily in military matters. While bigotry and a shrewish tongue were not necessarily evidence of treason. Anora was taking no chances. Her quarters were searched as well.
Anora knew her legal standing here was shaky. Theoretically, members of the clergy were exempt from the secular authorities, and were subject only to Chantry law. It was questionable that a member of the clergy could even be deemed a "traitor" in the normal sense. Anora considered the matter for some time, and then decided that she was not going to permit her hands to be tied by those who had tried to compass her death, and who had murdered Wynne in all due legal form. She would not go whining to the Divine, whom she suspected would put her off with soft words and then quietly reward those in the plot.
Therefore, those against whom there was evidence were taken under guard to Fort Drakon. Cupboards were broken into, and secret hiding places found out. Everything was taken back to the Palace to be pored over at length. Anora, Fergus and Leonas Bryland worked in the Privy Chamber, along with a few trusted knights and clerks, and with the assistance of Warden Jowan, who was only to happy at the opportunity. A steady stream of priests, Templars, and lay sisters and brothers appeared before them to be questioned.
Irminric, Otto, and Stennis were questioned along with the rest, as was Sister Justine, to obtain their views on whcih of the clergy was most loyal to their native land, and which had the strongest ties to Orlais. On the basis of this, a number of clergy were determined to be no threat: among them Mothers Boann and Perpetua and Chanter Rosamond. Their rooms had been checked like everyone's else's, since no one felt they could be too careful, but it was ascertained fairly quickly that these women had nothing to hide.
"I would like to see my sister, if I may," Irminric asked. "Bann Alfstanna. I heard she was badly wounded."
"Of course you may see her," Anora said. "She is at the late Arl of Denerim's estate, where she is recovering.. She would no doubt be glad to see you."
"She is much recovered," added Leonas Bryland, "thanks to the efforts of Ser Adam Hawke's sister Bethany. The young lady also saved my son's life."
It was not long afterward that Irminric learned that young Mistress Bethany was a mage: a mage declared free of Chantry authority by the Arl of Bryland's proclamation, which was now confirmed by the Queen. Uneasily, it occurred to him that there had been an earthquake of sorts in Ferelden, and nothing would now be the same.
A friendly group of soldiers let Bethany tag along with them after she left the Arl of Denerim's estate. They were en route from Fort Drakon to the Gate, where they would take their turn at guard duty,. Bethany was not the only civilian in their wake, but she was a pretty young girl, and therefore particularly welcome. From the Gate, it was not difficult to find her way back to Highever House. She was recognized and admitted by the men working in the courtyard. Inside the door, a yellow-eyed servantwoman named Lita reproached her.
"Your lady mother has been so worried about you!"
"Is that Bethany?" cried Leandra Hawke from the stairs. The older woman ran down them and seized her daughter in her arms. "Where have you been?"
"Everything's fine, Mother," Bethany replied. "I took advantage of Arl Bryland's amnesty for mages and healed his little boy. Lots of other people too. They were very grateful."
Leandra burst into tears, wondering if they should grab a bundle and a purse of money and flee the city. It would be just like the early days with Malcolm. People were grateful—oh, so very grateful—but then they thought again, and realized that the Chantry could destroy them and their families, and that the Chantry said there was no need to be grateful to mages anyway, and then she and Malcolm had to run for their lives. Again and again.
Charade had run down after her aunt, and hung back, feeling awkward, while Bethany tried to be reassuring.
"Don't cry, Mother. It's really all right. The Teyrn was there, and the Queen was there, and they thanked me themselves and the Queen said I was to be free of Chantry supervision! Is there any supper?" she asked the watching Lita.
"Directly, my lady," said the yellow-eyed woman, quickening her pace toward the kitchens.
Charade could no longer restrain her curiosity.
"You saw the Queen? Was she all right? How did they get her away from the Chantry?"
"She was all right, but she had nothing on but a shift and Adam's blue cloak. The priests stole her clothing! Isn't that horrid? Teyrn Fergus climbed up to the tower chapel and carried her down. Carver and Jowan and Leliana had to go to the Warden Compound, but later they're going to help search the Chantry, since the plotting was against the Wardens, too. Everybody wants to know if the Chantry was involved in that assassination attempt on Teyrn Loghain."
Bethany gave them all the news of her own adventures: about her new friends the little Lords Corbus and Lothar, Lady Seria Mac Coo, and Bann Alfstanna; and all about the Queen's anger at the Chantry.
"I think she's really going to curb their power," Bethany said. "And she promised that I wouldn't have to go to the Circle, ever."
Supper was announced, and a nice meal was laid out on a table in a small panelled parlor.
"I thought," said Lita, "that you ladies would prefer to eat apart from all the soldiers. It will be quiet and private here."
"This is nice!" Charade declared, admiring the pretty room.
Despite her fears for Bethany, Leandra Hawke was otherwise in the heights of bliss, ensconced in the luxurious townhouse of Teyrn of Highever. Not since she was twenty years old had she lived like this, with servants to lay out her supper in a pleasantly warm room, to fetch her bathwater, to take away her clothes to be laundered. After supper was the happily anticipated bath, and after that, she changed into her silk gown, reveling in the sleekness against her skin, determined that she would dress like this every day for the rest of her life…unless she really did have to take to the heather with Bethany.
The girls had baths, too; and Leandra saw to the washing of Charade's mop of bushy brown hair herself.
"You should let your hair grow out, dear, now that we're going to be living this sort of life. More length will weigh the curl down, and then you'll have nice waves. Or we could braid it up into something very elegant. You don't mind if I experiment a little, do you?"
Charade turned her head, so Leandra would not see her rolling her eyes. It really was nice to be fussed over a little. Nobody had fussed over her since her mother died. Bethany looked over from the dressing table and gave her a sympathetic smile.
Highever House was big, but right now its lord was in residence with a large complement of knights and men-at-arms. Therefore, nearly everyone had to share rooms, and Ser Adam's three ladies were quartered together. At least there were two beds: a grand, curtained one big enough for Leandra and Bethany, and for Charade a small, single bed, brought in and set perpendicular to the foot of the larger. None of them felt the least like complaining. The room was big and well-furnished, with a pleasant, cushioned alcove at the window where one could sit and read, and a writing table, all fitted up with inkstand and quills. Screens in a corner concealed the washstand and the close-stool. There was a small bookcase with a few books, and a good fire in the fireplace. Their clothing was put away in a fine clothes press of polished wood. Colorful silk carpets softened the floor. Neither Bethany nor Charade had ever been in such a room in their lives.
After they were clean and dressed, the servants came to take the bathtub away and empty it. That left them to enjoy a peaceful evening within while all was activity and confrontation without. Bethany brought out her lute, tuned it, and played for her own amusement and that of her mother and cousin, hoping that she found a place in the world for herself, in spite of everything.
In his search of the Cathedral, Jowan found the courtyard where they burned the mages: a squalid, scorched expanse of rough stone and grey dust. Wynne was long gone. The Tranquil who cleaned the courtyard told him that the remains were placed in barrels, pounded into a fine grit, and then carted out of the city to one of the Chantry's farms, where they were used to improve heavy soil in the fields and gardens.
A little storeroom was nearby, filled with staffs and amulets and used robes, with trinkets and books and keepsakes and a locked box for the coin taken from the bodies. The Tranquil worked there, placidly refurbishing the items for return to the Circle or for sale at the Wonders of Thedas and other shops.
One of the Tranquil was meticulously repairing a nice blue-grey gown, newly cleaned. Jowan yanked it from the man's hands.
"That is the property of the Chantry," the Tranquil told him in an even monotone.
"No," Jowan said, forcing himself not to blast the innocent victim. "It's not."
He crumpled it under his arm and stormed out, sick at heart. Tears burned in his eyes, remembering how disappointed Wynne had been in him.
What would he do with the gown? Return it to Leliana? Would she want it, knowing that it had been taken from Wynne's dead body by the thrifty Chantry, looking for coin however they could find it?
As he made his way through the halls, one of the Highever knights, Ser Tyrrel, saw his tunic, and called out, "Warden! Maybe you should see this!"
Deep beneath the cathedral, in a maze of cellars and tunnels, the searchers had found the lyrium storage room, and the soldiers puzzled over it. Jowan knew exactly what it was, of course, and had never sworn any oaths to keep the Templars' secrets. The soldiers could hardly believe it, though some knew friends and comrades who had become dependent on liquor or elfroot leaves, which some chewed to manage chronic pain. His anger burning in him like dragonfire, Jowan gave them the ugliest, most highly-colored version possible, dwelling on the Templars' inevitable decline into drooling idiocy, and their retirement to the nursing hospice in Val Royeaux.
It made quite an impression. Jowan doubted that any of the men would want their sons to enter the Chantry.
Beyond was the phylactery chamber: and this really was a shocker for the healthy- minded liegemen of Teyrn Cousland.
"I'm not sure I'm following you," said Ser Tyrrel. "You're saying this isn't evidence against blood mages? That the Templars collected this blood?"
"Yes," Jowan answered, with bitter pleasure. "That's exactly what I'm saying. When a child is sent to the Circle, the Templars cut the boy or girl and keep the blood. Then they do a spell—" Jowan smirked inwardly at how bad that sounded, but it was really no more than the truth—"to track the mages down if they ever escape."
"Isn't that Blood Magic?" the man persisted. "If a mage did that, it would be Blood Magic, right? So how is it not blood magic if a Templar does it?
Jowan controlled his face, inwardly dancing with glee, and made himself look sad and concerned. "I can't answer for the Chantry, but you're exactly right about mages. It's a capital offense if a mage did it, but I suppose the Chantry is above the law. "
"That's not right," Ser Tyrrel said, his innate sense of justice aroused. "That's just not right. Ought to smash these things."
Jowan grimaced. "If we did that, the Chantry would make trouble for everybody, and they'd just cut the children in the Circle again."
The soldiers left, grumbling. Jowan smiled, a wonderful idea quickening his pulse. The search of the Chantry was not yet complete. He would be back tomorrow. Perhaps one of the soldiers knew of a slaughterhouse in Denerim. If he replaced the blood with something that looked exactly the same, who would be the wiser?
He would need a funnel, too, or perhaps a syringe...
Early the next morning, Leonas Bryland sat his daughter down for a private talk, determined to give her the truth of her situation.
"But why, Father?" Habren whined, for at least the twentieth time. "Why can't I remain here? This is my estate, is it not? I am Arlessa of Denerim!"
Bryland sighed and rubbed his eyes, slinking lower in his uncomfortable chair. He had rather face a score of Orlesians assassins again than deal with this. This evening they would give poor Werberga to the flames, and both of them were depressed about it. Habren had screamed at the serving maids until they produced a mourning gown up to her standards. It had been finished only just before the midday meal, and now Habren sat stiffly in it. It was not unbecoming.
"Habren, my dear girl, Urien is dead. I'm sorry, but there's no help for it. Since he's dead, you're the Dowager Arlessa of Denerim. The terms of your marriage contract are perfectly clear. As Dowager, you are entitled to the manor of Rose Hill. You were granted ownership of those houses off the Market and some property in the Alienage. Altogether, you'll have a good income. On the other hand, you are not the ruler of Denerim, and you won't have a vote in the Landsmeet."
"Anora is still Queen!" Habren objected. "It's not fair!"
Bryland sat up in alarm, praying that no servants were listening at the door.
"Do not speak of Her Majesty in that insolent way!" Seeing her cowed for the moment, he lowered his voice. "Her Majesty is Queen Dowager, and by the will of the King will rule only until the Landsmeet in Haring…if that long. I will remind you that that leaves quite enough time for you to be ruined if you cannot make yourself speak of her respectfully. She has been a hard-working Queen for the past five years; you were Arlessa less than a day. In fact, my girl, think very carefully before you complain of your situation. The marriage was not consummated, and, if encouraged to consider the matter more closely, some might think it invalid, which would leave you with exactly nothing!"
He snorted bitterly. "Good luck with trying to get your dowry back. That disappeared into Urien's coffers as soon as it was paid out, and no one appears to have any idea where he kept his gold."
He did not mention that the estate was being searched minutely, both for the Arl's gold and for his papers. There were hints that Urien had had dealings with the Orlesians. If so, it was important that the Brylands distance themselves from him as quickly and thoroughly as possible.
"It's not fair," Habren repeated, sniveling a little.
"That's true," her father told her, not unkindly. "However, life is often unfair. You've been lucky up to this point. Now, no one's going to make you leave until the Arl's funeral, but that's tomorrow. I've handled all the arrangements. Then you have some choices to make, and I hope you'll be guided by me. You can either go live at Rose Hill Manor, or at that empty house in the Market District, or—which is what I advise— you can come home, either to stay or to sort things out for awhile. And," he added, with the craft born of years of experience. "of course you'll bring your wedding presents with you wherever you go."
That was a shrewd touch at her feelings, and he congratulated himself on deflecting her misery.
"My presents!" she cried, brightening a little. "I'm haven't seen the half of them! I hope they've been washed, " she said, picking peevishly at the embroidery on her skirt, "I heard they were all bloody."
"Nonsense!" Bryland retorted. "They've been tidied and locked up for you. We can go downstairs right now and have a look at them. We'll have the servants start packing them up. If you decide to spend a bit of time at your manor next summer, you might want to make sure it's properly furnished. Some of the presents might be just the thing."
"I haven't had a present from Bronwyn," she complained. "She is so haughty."
Bryland was tolerating no criticism of Bronwyn. He had chosen his side and was sticking to it. "Speak respectfully of your cousin Lady Bronwyn the Dragonslayer. She's been carrying a heavy burden for months. and has had better things to do than buy presents for spoiled girls. It certainly wouldn't do to demand gifts at the moment. Let it go, Habren. Bronwyn has always sent you lovely things for your naming day."
"Things Cousin Eleanor picked out," muttered Habren, resenting her father's partiality to Bronwyn. He always took her side. For that matter, he always took the boys' side, too. She was glad that Lothar hadn't died—yes, she really was. She didn't mind him suffering a bit, however, since it keep him quiet and out of her way.
Besides, she ought not to be annoyed at poor Bronwyn. Bronwyn was a Grey Warden, and forced to wear dull, tacky clothes and heavy armor now. She hadn't sent a present because she was probably jealous of Habren. Nobody would marry a Grey Warden, especially a scarred old maid who had lost her looks. And Habren was an Arlessa now…even if a Dowager Arlessa, and would take precedence of Bronwyn for the rest of their lives. Yes! As girls, Bronwyn had walked in front of Habren into the Chantry and into the homes of the nobles, but the tables had turned with a vengeance.
These were all very comforting thoughts. She felt even better when they sorted through the gifts and saw all the lovely heavy silver and colored glass. And she began to like the idea of going home tomorrow. She could leave after Urien's funeral and sleep in her own bed. The townhouse would be a little sad and empty without Aunt Werberga, who had been the one person who could be trusted to stand up for Habren. Nevertheless, home was still home, and the maids there knew what she liked for breakfast.
Leliana came with Carver the next day to take his family on a tour of the Warden Compound. She was not known to the Queen, and therefore, unlike Jowan, was not asked to participate in the search of the Cathedral and the examination of the documents found there. Perhaps it was for the best, for she certainly would have been torn in two. It was hard to credit that priests would stoop to assassination…but…well, perhaps it was not so hard, after all.
She sighed. Not every priest in Orlais was a model of disinterested virtue. Plenty had meddled on their own behalf and on that of their families. Some Templars had been known to behave badly—like those who had abused their trust when Tara was a prisoner of the Circle. It was very sad and depressing, and it was not hard to understand why the Maker had lost patience with his creation.
Shut out from the great events for now, she could console herself by helping Carver show his family about the Compound, so they would understand more of what his life was like. Afterwards, the plan was for Leliana to take the ladies shopping. Leliana had a great many commissions from Bronwyn to undertake, and it could all be handled together, for the most part. With the city so unsettled, it was sensible for the ladies not to go out without protection. Then, too, they might find some trinkets to add to their current apparel, for later today they were to be presented to the Queen.
"We must go to the shoemaker," she declared, consulting the list she had painstakingly composed the night before. "It is sensible to do this now. In a month or so, orders will pour in for the Landsmeet. Then we will visit the dressmaker near the Chantry. She does very good work."
She must also visit Pandelin, the jeweler near the Palace District. His work was always superb, and being distant from the Market, he might not have been attacked by people angry at something done not by him, but by the Empress of Orlais. Leliana would go there alone, of course, and probably tomorrow. What she had to order for Bronwyn was practically a matter of state, and demanded discretion.
The day started with a visit to the Compound, and it went very well. The ladies admired the Warden's Hall, and Leandra insisted on going up into the tower to see the room that Carver was currently occupying. To his relief, the maid had already tidied up in there. There was little criticism his mother could make, as it was infinitely superior to the loft he had slept in since he was old enough to climb a ladder alone.
The housekeeper was in the process of cleaning and readying the dormitory rooms above the hall for the eventual influx of new junior Wardens. Mistress Rannelly was proud of her handiwork there.
"Thirty-one new Wardens!" she exclaimed. "Just fancy! The dear Warden-Commander is such a industrious girl."
Leandra could meet her in praise of that individual. "Lady Bronwyn has been so very good to our family: so kind to Carver, and so generous with her recommendation of my son Ser Adam to the Teyrn of Highever."
The dormitories were three large rooms furnished with bunkbeds and footlockers. They were very plain, but clean and well-lit. Stocks of linens and blankets were being brought out of storage to air. Mistress Rannelly assured Lady Amell that if Carver had a special quilt or blanket, she would see that his bed in the tower was made up with it.
"It will make the place a bit more home-like," she said kindly. "It makes it nicer for the Wardens, often so far from family."
"Oh, how nice!" Leandra cried. "Carver, I saved your quilt with the bears. It was always your favorite."
"It was my favorite when I was six," Carver pointed out, but the females of the species did not seem to hear him. The fluffy bear quilt was his destiny, sure as fate.
They talked so long, and dawdled so over the details, that it seemed reasonable to accept when Mistress Rannelly pressed them all to take an early midday meal in the Wardens' Hall. Jowan alone was not present, since he was busy at the Cathedral. The small and merry group enjoyed it all very much, and the ladies took care to keep their silk dresses unstained.
By now, the sun was high, and the Harvestmere air was not too sharp. It was a fine day for a walk, admiring the tall houses of the rich. Leliana hoped her charges would not be too exhausted at the end of it. At least Highever House, on the north side of the river, was not so very far from the Market District.
"We won't be able to visit the Cathedral, of course," Leliana said in a subdued tone. "There is so much going and coming for the investigation. But you can see the outside, which is handsome. Nearby is the Arl of Redcliffe's estate, which is a large and noteworthy structure."
Bethany was thrilled by it all, as she began to take in that she was really in a city. She had known nothing but Lothering all her life, and stories had not prepared her for the scale of Denerim. They walked and walked, and kept on passing more houses, more little shops, more people. She was used to walking, and was not tired, but she was astonished at how the city just kept on going.
Charade and Leandra, who had known Kirkwall, were not so impressed. Some of the noble houses were fine, but there was nothing in Denerim like Kirkwall's Hightown: that exclusive enclave of the wealthy. Even Highever House was more a fortress than a mansion, and the sanitary facilities were comparatively crude. Denerim desperately needed a proper sewer system.
Aside from that, Charade and Leandra's views diverged. Charade's experience of Hightown had been that of an outsider looking in. She had seen the great houses, but knew they were not for such as she. The contrast in Ferelden between rich and poor was not so painful, not so extreme. No, there was no Hightown in Denerim: on the other hand, there was no Darktown.
Leandra, for her part, was grateful to the Teyrn for his generosity, but thought that bechambers and sitting rooms of his house would be more attractive if more of the rough stone walls were to be plastered over or paneled. Ferelden was a poor country, of course, and one must not expect too much.
Gate Street led them to the wide and bustling Market, and everyone was entranced. Carver's jaw dropped at the splendor of it—the life—and Bethany uttered a little cry of joy. Shops surrounded the rough square, and in the center, under a great tent of gaudily-painted canvas, was a multitude of fascinating little stalls.
"How delightful!" Leandra exclaimed.
"Yes," Charade agreed, since she now had a few coins in her purse. It had not been so delightful when she had arrived here with almost nothing.
"We can buy…anything…here!" Bethany smiled at the thought.
Leliana carefully herded everyone with her, wanting to get their orders made at the shoemaker's. To Carver's great disgust, he was forced to join them, for Leandra wanted him to have something "nice" for the times when he would not be clomping around in a pair of iron-shod warboots. He let her have her way as long as his footwear was plain black. Once his big young feet were carefully measured, he waited glumly, glancing longingly out the open door at the wonders of the Market.
"I'll just stay by the stalls," he promised, inching away. "On my honor."
"Don't get lost!" Leandra called after him anxiously, and then returned to the orgy of color and texture. While Charade was being measured, Leandra applied to Leliana for a recommendation of a tailor to make Carver a doublet.
"We must go there next," Leandra decided. "After that we'll let the poor boy go free, as long as he meets us somewhere later."
"The Gnawed Noble Tavern," Leliana suggested. "It is a very nice place to sit and chat."
It was a busy day: dragged to the tailor, Carver was told he liked blue, and he denied it categorically.
"Adam likes blue. I don't."
"But you always wore blue," Leandra objected, puzzled.
"That's because I was wearing his hand-me-downs. I hate blue."
Dark grey with black embroidery was an acceptable compromise. Black breeches, too, that would not be too fussy to care for. A black cloak. Bethany told him he would look like the Black Fox of legend, but that idea pleased Carver. He thought he looked dangerous in black. He was sent on his way and told when to meet them at the Gnawed Noble. Being ordered to go to the finest tavern in Denerim mollified him quite a bit.
New gowns were ordered, and new bodices and belts. Fine linen was selected for undergarments and nightgowns. Silks and velvets were chosen for dressing gowns. A stall sold silver hair pins and clips, and Charade was persuaded to choose something that would help tame her cloud of brown hair.
Leliana looked for a favorite vendor, and in her place saw a grave young man instead. She looked through his stock of fragrant oils, and asked, "Where is Liselle?"
Responding with pleased surprise to her accent, the young man said, "She was attacked during the riots here. She is recovering at home. We were lucky not to be arrested."
He too sounded like a transplanted Orlesian.
"I am very sorry your sister was hurt," said Leliana. "Please give her Leliana's regards. Lady Amell, sample this attar of roses. It is so refreshing!"
Generous purchases of bath oils and perfumes were made, and the young man appeared considerably happier. Bethany bought a clove-decorated pomander, and enjoyed smelling that rather than the general odor of wet dog and garbage.
Since winter was coming, they also stopped at a glover's establishment, and once again were astonished at all the colors that leather could be.
"This is a wonderful place," Charade said, looking about the Market. "I think it would be such fun to live here!"
Leliana's gaze slipped towards the locked and silent door that guarded Marjolaine's little house. "I suppose so."
Other might be enjoying the day, The Grand Cleric was not. She had been allowed a day of rest, but now had to endure a most unpleasant conversation.
"Your dear lady mother," the Grand Cleric told Fergus Cousland, "was my good friend."
Her voice was hoarse with ill health and fear. She had been summoned to the Palace; and alone in the Privy Chamber, without Templar escort, she was being subjected to rigorous questioning by Queen Anora and her closest advisers present in Denerim.
Anora looked at her hands, allowing Fergus to answer this appeal to sentiment. The Teyrn gazed at the elderly cleric with hooded eyes.
"For four months, my mother's corpse lay rotting in a mass grave—no, that's too dignified a description. My parents, my wife…my son… were thrown in a midden with all the other victims of the Highever massacre perpetrated by Rendon Howe. In that time, until I retook Highever and demanded their just dues, no priest came forward to offer them rites or give them to the fire. Your friendship, Your Grace," he snarled, "seems to have been of little value. And don't tell me that Howe had put the priests in fear. If anything, his relationship with the Highever Chantry seems to be have been remarkably amiable. According to his accounts, he gave the Revered Mother in Highever —also a dear, dear friend of my mother—the generous donation of two hundred sovereigns. A similar donation was made to the Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer in Amaranthine. Astonishing that no priest in the city of Amaranthine noticed shackled elves being loaded into the ships of Tevinter blood mages."
A silence. The Grand Cleric collected herself, and said quietly. "That is all vile and atrocious, but I had no part in any of it."
"It is true," Anora admitted, "that no proofs tie you directly to the crimes. Otherwise, this conversation would be taking place not here in the Palace, but in Fort Drakon."
Indignant, the Grand Cleric protested. "You would threaten me?"
Anora's blue eyes were hard as flint. "I will not permit you or any member of the Chantry to threaten this country. My father has written to me repeatedly, complaining of how the interference of Revered Mother Clarine has hampered his efforts to pursue the war against the Blight. Evil deeds have been wrought: there have been attempts on my own life, on that of the Teyrn, on my father and the Warden-Commander. Ferelden nobles have been murdered or wounded. All the evidence, to be perfectly frank, can be ultimately be traced to Orlesian intrigue—most especially an Orlesian agent. We know she had many contacts. We now know, based on our search of the quarters of Mothers Gertrude and Heloise, that this agent—and others— had such contacts in the Chantry." She smiled coldly. "We have strong evidence…circumstantial, but strong, that these Mothers and possibly Ser Tavish knew that the attack on Arl Urien's wedding was imminent. And that is why, contrary to your own treaties with the Grey Wardens, a harmless woman, Senior Enchanter Wynne, was heartlessly murdered in hopes of causing even more loss of life."
Anora sat back. Bryland had much to add.
"My sister is dead, my son only saved by the intervention of a brave young mage. Tomorrow, my daughter, already a widow, will give her husband to the flames. Your Templars did not lift a finger to aid or protect anyone in that room other than themselves and you. In fact, I have compiled a list of those injured by your Templars as they fled the Arl of Denerim's estate. No deaths can be directly attributed to them, but these injuries require compensation. I have icalculated a figure which the Queen deems reasonable."
The Grand Cleric saw it, and forced herself not to gasp or make a face. It was a substantial amount, and was no doubt not simply meant to indemnify the injured, but intended as a punitive measure against the Chantry. She noticed that in the total were two entries of two hundred sovereigns each. Fergus Cousland was evidently very displeased about the conduct of the Chantry in the north. The Grand Cleric pursed her lips, determined to have it out with Mothers Petronille and Ita. If she, the Grand Cleric. had to suffer this humiliation, they would suffer likewise.
To his eternal amusement, Jowan discovered that he did not have to completely replace the blood in the phylacteries to achieve his ends. Even a small syringe full of sheep's blood rendered them outwardly unchanged, but utterly useless.
The soldiers liked him. He had healed the poor beautiful Queen after all, and he cheerfully dealt with their own cuts and bruises. When Jowan told them he needed some "equipment" for his part in the search, they carried his kegs for him without question. It did not take long to contaminate every phylactery in the storage area, since the syringe's sharp point easily penetrated the wax stopper. Afterward, Jowan could warm the spot and smooth it over, rendering the contamination undetectable.
Some phylacteries he did not touch: those of mages whom he knew to be dead. He read some names with silent anguish, remembering friends who had disappeared after their Harrowing, or who had been killed for some infraction.
His influence was great at the moment. He knew it would never be greater. The Queen was furious with the Chantry, and now was the time for reform in the treatment of mages. If he could persuade her that the collection of the blood for phylacteries was a sinister form of Blood Magic, he might be able to keep from the Templars their best tool for tracking apostates. Some mages would always prefer the settled, ordered life of the Circle. Some longed to be free. Jowan felt they should have that option. After all, no one else in Thedas was imprisoned for crimes that they might commit some time in the indefinite future.
He would like to do away with the Rite of Tranquility altogether, but perhaps that was not realistic. However, if it were only voluntary, and could never be imposed on a mage against his or her will, Jowan felt he would have struck a blow for the mages of Ferelden. Some mages might choose Tranquility, fearing the terrors of the Harrowing. For himself, he would rather be killed by a Templar in a failed Harrowing than be made a walking, talking puppet.
He paused. Wynne's phylactery was in his hand. He set the vial down gently, and wiped his nose.
"So where do we stand?" Bryland asked, glancing through his notes. "We're still not sure about Urien's degree of complicity. I think we should question his guards more closely—especially his seneschal. It's very odd that we can't find either his accounts or his treasury. The account books might answer a lot of questions."
"I tend to think," Anora pondered, "that he was indeed accepting coin from the Empress in exchange for intelligence. That was treasonable in itself. I do not think, however, that he had any foreknowledge of the attack on the seventh. In fact, it's possible that part of the intent was to eliminate him and thus keep him from ever telling us what he did know. And likewise with Bann Ceorlic. His name is mentioned in some of the correspondence. I am sending to Lothering for his accounts."
Fergus agreed. "And there's no evidence that either knew about the prior attempt on you, Your Majesty. They were tools, and they were used and discarded."
Anora tapped her fingers, thinking. "I tend to agree. I don't believe the poisoning was known to anyone other than the treacherous maid, the Orlesian agent Marjolaine, and her principal. That was a very subtle plot, and very nearly succeeded." Her blue eyes looked across the breadth of Ferelden and beyond. "I believe that the attack on the seventh was a response to the news of the death of the King. The Empress hoped to gain all by a marriage with him...and was disappointed."
Bryland forbore to spit, but there was a foul taste on his tongue. He had now been told about the secret marriage contract, and regretted more than ever that Bryce Cousland had not been elected king. He would not say it aloud and offend the lady sitting opposite him, but Bryce would have had things better in hand. And Eleanor would have been every bit as capable a Queen as Loghain's daughter.
Loghain and Bronwyn were not a perfect solution, and they certainly were no substitute for Bryce, whom Bryland had considered his best friend from boyhood. However, Loghain's experience and military leadership were essential, and combined with Bronwyn's royal strain and her estimable qualities, Ferelden would have a king and queen who stood a good chance of leading Ferelden through this terrible time.
He glanced at Fergus. He was fond of Fergus, too; though Bronwyn seemed the more remarkable of his friend's two children. If by some mischance Loghain and Bronwyn had no children, Fergus would grow to be a fine king. He was willing to be heir presumptive, and no more; but even that would satisfy many of those to whom blood was all.
A pity that Fergus had never shown any interest in Habren, and now clearly never would. He studied the looks exchanged between Fergus and the Queen, and was sure he understood the situation. There was something there between them. It was far too early for them to act upon it, but it seemed likely that the Queen Dowager might well someday become the Teyrna of Highever. He hoped Anora was not barren, as rumor had it. They would need two children after all: an heir for Highever, and one for Gwaren as well. Unless Loghain kept Gwaren for a second child of his own...
Loghain and Bronwyn; or Fergus and Anora? For Bryland the choice was clear. While the common folk might love their pretty stories of the knight rescuing the fair lady in distress, Bryland felt that Loghain and Bronwyn were the leadership the country needed now. They were each of them true heroes; beings who appeared rarely on the world's stage. By all accounts, and by the evidence of his own eyes, Bronwyn had found the Ashes of Andraste! That was so extraordinary that Bryland felt he needed some time to take it in. So, politics first. After the meeting here, he would go to the Arl of Denerim's estate to visit with the convalescents there and canvas for more votes. The Landsmeet needed no surprises.
Arl of Denerim...Arl of Denerim... Someone had to be Arl of Denerim. Vaughan was dead. Who was Urien's heir? Wasn't there some sort of cousin...?
The Queen was speaking again, and he must attend.
"Mother Gertrude has told us more than she realized. Her complicity is clear, and she has implicated a number of others. Ordinarily, we would protest to the Grand Cleric, and perhaps the malefactors would simply be sent to Val Royeaux, but that is unacceptable, as the plots originated there. Executing senior officials of the Chantry, however, would be an irrevocable step."
"They're more useful as prisoners, anyway," Fergus said. "We'll likely get more information and more names from them. We can drag out the investigation for a long, long time."
"And if the Grand Cleric pulls herself together and demands their release?"
"I don't think she will," Fergus said, with a faint smile. "I really don't think she will. She, too, is angry and afraid of those around her. If in the course of our investigations we find that she was drugged on orders from Val Royeaux, I think she will be even more angry and afraid. That could be very useful."
"My father is coming," Anora said, taking comfort in the words. "My father is coming. I have received a message. He is only a day away. Once he is here, I believe our next step is to make some decisions about who will fill all these vacant lordships. We will gather our old friends together and make some new ones, too, I think."
A knock at the door. The messenger was admitted, and had the air of repressed excitement that heralded remarkable news.
"Your Majesty,' he said, "Lord Nathaniel Howe has arrived, and he begs the favor of an audience."
Thanks to my reviewers: EpitomyofShyness, almostinsane, Kira Kyuu, Mike3207, Jyggilag, Tikigod784, sizuka2, JackOfBladesX, Judy, KnightOfHolyLight, Tirion, Nemrut, Blinded in a bolthole, anon, Jenna53, Enaid Aderyn, BandGeekNinja, MsBarrows, amanda weber, Zute, Anime-StarWArs-fan-zach, Shakespira, queen-of-dirt, Josie Lange, Oleander's One, mille libri, Have Socks. Will Travel, Girl-chama, LynnTerald, emptysummer, Psyche Sinclair, Tyanilth, Rake1810, and Phygmalion.
Syringes have been used medically since Roman times. I don't think it's impossible that they would exist in Thedas.
As for the dispostiion of the mages: they have to go somewhere. Cremation, no matter what some people would like to think, does not reduce bodies to fine ash. Some bones remain, and today machinery is used to crush them. I think if your soil had a lot of clay in it, the bone meal would help quite a bit. I presume that the remains of dead mages at the Circle are dumped in Lake Calenhad. However, I'm quite sure that the Chantry retrieves possessions and anything of value before disposal. If my depiction resembles the warehouses of Dachau or Auschwitz, stuffed with clothing and suitcases and pitiful rag dolls, that's inevitable. Yes, mages are dangerous, but the Templars do not, in many cases, treat them in a humane manner, and the Chantry clearly exploits them. I've been trying to determine just what their legal status is: are they criminals? Are they slaves? I suppose they're just...mages.