Chapter 18: Addled

Ser Simon Grey

I had grown up in Redcliffe and had always dreamed of being a knight. When I had turned eight summers old Arl Rendorn Guerrin had commissioned me as a page. It was unusual for a peasant boy to be taken into such service, as it was reserved for the children of nobility, but then again Arl Rendorn was an unusual man, a man to fly in the face of all custom or reason to follow his conscience.

He had seen me by the docks when he came through, inspecting the village. I had been unaware of him for my attention was taken up by three larger, older boys. They were in the habit of bullying smaller children when they felt that no one was watching and had caused my little sister, Farah, to weep. My mother had charged me to look after her and I took my charge seriously. When the boys were laughing at her I descended on them, fists flying, head butting, kicking, biting, anything to chase them off. One boy ran in terror but the other two managed to subdue me and pommel me until the Arl appeared out of nowhere, grabbing them by the scruffs of their necks and tanning their backsides with the soles of his boots. They ran off, leaving me to stagger back to my feet and stand defiantly before the man looking down at me with a mix of concern and respect.

"Well, boy," the man observed with a wry smile, "it appears I have done you a good turn."

"Thank you." I answered, though I was cowed and my sullen tone belied that I felt no gratitude at having to be rescued by an adult, the wounds to my pride being far more painful than my cuts and bruises.

He shook his head benevolently, "You were quite brave, lad. Not many would challenge three opponents at once and keep fighting, even if the odds seemed impossible."

With that I shrugged, not willing to surrender any emotion to this savior. I knew full well that the boys would corner me later and attack me, so he had merely delayed the inevitable. These were the harsh realities of a village boy's childhood. We either succumbed to a broken spirit or we kept fighting.

Scratching his beard thoughtfully, as if carefully considering me, the man went on to say, "Where are your parents, boy?"

"My father is dead," I whispered quietly, "he died in the sickness that hit the village in the past winter. My mum takes care of us by doing sewing for the ladies in the castle."

"Ah, your mother is the seamstress then." The man nodded knowingly.

"Yes."

At this the man bent over so he could look me in the face and his eyes showed kindness, "Would you bring me to your mother? I wish to speak to her about your future."

The man's words puzzled me, but I obediently led him to my mother. She was so startled, she dropped to a low curtsy and kept her head down when the Arl of Redcliffe was led into her small house by her battle chastened son with torn trousers and tunic. The arl commanded her to rise and with a smile he clapped me on the shoulder and lauded my courage to my startled mother, stating that it would be his honor to take me on at the castle as a page. My room and board would be cared for and a small stipend would be provided to her in return for my service to his family. This was a welcome turn of circumstance, since my small family was just barely scraping by after the loss of my father.

It had been everything I could have dreamed of. The arl was exceedingly kind to me and encouraged me to learn all I could of the art and strategy of battle. He once said to me, "Simon, it is not enough for a man to be brave. He must learn to have foresight. He must look ahead to the needs of those under his charge and consider what is best. He must consider all the raveling paths of chance and consider multiple outcomes. It is like a game where you must watch your opponent carefully and divine what will be based on what is laid before you."

I watched his own knights train and served them enthusiastically, taking note of their strengths and their weaknesses. They were great men, devoted to their arl and I was proud to be numbered among them. This was during the time of the Orlesian occupation and yet we remained fairly insulated from much of the turmoil in the rest of the country.

I even recalled the Rebel Queen, Moira, on one of her trips through Redcliffe. It was roughly about that time that everything changed. The arl allied himself with Queen Moira and had to leave his home in order to free Ferelden. He was concerned for Redcliffe, but at the same time he worried for the whole of Ferelden. He knew that the chances of defeating Orlais was slim, but he took the gamble to support the woman he believed in.

He sent his sons, Eamon and Teagan away to the Free Marches so that they would not be taken hostage by the Orlesian overlords as hostages while his daughter, Rowan, stayed with him. He sent me along with them and my mother and sister to wait on them. I was only slightly older than Eamon by about three years. It upset me that he was not allowing me to stay with him and the men whom I idolized, but he knew that it was not my time, but I did not want to hear it. I begged him to allow me to accompany him as a shield bearer or to care for his horse, but he was firm in his decision. As angry, frustrated tears ran down my face, regardless of how I tried to check them, he took me aside and ruffled my hair, stating, "You will grow up to be a brave man, Simon. My son, Eamon, will have need of a man like you when he becomes arl. You will be a man on whom he can rely. I cannot go with my sons, but I expect you to help and watch over them and serve them as you would have served me. Someday you may understand and perhaps then you will forgive me for this disappointment."

If Arl Rendorn had asked it, I would have taken on a bear in my small clothes. How could I deny him his request that I serve his sons loyally. The years in the Free Marches felt empty, but I divided my time between watching over the future arl and improving my battle skills under any master willing to teach me. I became stronger, faster and more cunning in the training ring. I could discover an opponent's weakness after only a few strokes and turn it against him. I could end a sparring match in a few minutes and eventually found myself trying vainly to prolong sparring matches by drawing out my opponent and leading them to believe they had cornered me, when in actuality they had not.

When word came of the battle of West Hill and Arl Rendorn's demise, it tore something within me. I continued to train and encouraged Eamon to do the same, the scrawny, fifteen year old that he was. I told him that his father wanted him to be a strong man who would take up his mantle when we returned to Ferelden. In another three years all of my encouragement came to pass. Eamon was sent word by his sister, then Queen of Ferelden, to return and re-establish the Guerrin family in Redcliffe. As I had been charged by Arl Rendorn, I followed and began training knights, honorable men to serve the Guerrin family.

I vaguely recalled the scrawny boy, Alistair, that was brought to Redcliffe many years later. He was wily and rambunctious, running through the woods. He had no control to speak of and would often bed in the kennels to be close to the dogs or in the stables to be close to the horses. He was full of wild fancies and talked constantly to any who would listen, trying to tease a smile.

He liked the cliffs surrounding the castle and would occasionally chase deer. There was one afternoon where Arl Eamon sent me to retrieve him when Alistair did not return for the noonday meal. I discovered the boy on a ledge with an injured wrist, unable to scramble back up. I was forced to use a rope to grapple down and carry him back to the castle. The boy bravely gritted his teeth and refused to cry in front of me, despite the pain I knew he was in.

There were rumors at that time about the boy, many of the servants gossiped that he was Eamon's bastard and that the arl had taken him in with the desire to eventually groom him for a position or to make him a knight. I, however, doubted that was the case. Eamon was obviously fond of the boy and looked after his well-being, but he also maintained a respectful distance. It reminded me very much of how his father had shown kindness to me and that was born out of a noble heart, not out of guilt. If ever I heard any spreading such sordid tales, I would bitterly chide them and instruct them to mind their manners. Regardless of how I openly, though quietly, railed against these stories, they only became worse when Lady Isolde came and slowly poisoned her against the boy.

The boy was never close to me, though he was always respectful, but still it vaguely upset me when he was sent away at the Arlessa's insistence. Redcliffe had been his only home and it reminded me of my own necessary exile to the Free Marches by Arl Rendorn, but it was not my place to question. Alistair was sent to the Chantry and I continued on with my service to the Guerrin family.

When Arl Eamon fell ill, shortly after Ostagar, and Arlessa Isolde sent the knights out to locate the Urn of Sacred Ashes, I was one of the first to go, eager to save him. It had been a long, discouraging search which only turned up empty for me. When I was called to return, informed that the Village of Redcliffe was under siege by a nameless evil, I was many leagues from home. It took me a week to return, only to find that I was too late to help, but also discovering that Alistair, the boy I had remembered, had repelled the undead and defended the people of Redcliffe. I had been pleased that the boy had proved himself in service to the man who had striven to care for him. Alistair also went on, with the help of his comrades at arms, to locate the Urn and bring back a cure for the ailing Arl Eamon.

We had barely recovered from the Arl's illness when we discovered that, in actuality, Alistair was the illegitimate son of King Maric and the heir to the throne. Arl Eamon supported a bid for the lad to become king and, despite my own misgivings, pushed it through. All this occurred in the midst of the Blight's end and the defeat of the Archdemon by the Hero of Ferelden, a woman rumored to be the lover of the future king. She died and the new king was crowned. I had led a legion to retake the city of Denerim and was honored for my part in the defeat of the darkspawn.

I will never forget the coronation. The lad had stood in the throne room in the palace of Denerim and was crowned and blessed by the Reverend Mother. Arl Eamon had looked on with pride and, in his eyes, the new king looked scared. This did not bode well for my country to place a reluctant, untried king upon the throne. Though I respected him, I questioned Arl Eamon's reasoning. This was a hideous gamble and we all stood to lose if King Alistair could not hold the throne.

At one point I considered surrendering my commission, but Arl Eamon requested that I stay on at the palace in Denerim and train soldiers to serve the king and occasionally act as a body guard during the king's public appearances. It was with reluctance, but I could not forget the vow I had made to his father and I agreed to Arl Eamon's request. I continued to serve my arl, though indirectly.

Since this whole doomed enterprise to the Cauldron had begun, I had slowly been forced to grudgingly respect King Alistair. When he was not distracted by idle fancies, he could plan and was brave. In a battle he was reliable, but he could be indecisive and when he did make decision I feared that his heart would override his head. He had a decent sword arm, but such things did not make a man a king.

Taking on the Bard had been a great risk, for she could have slit our throats in our sleep, though eventually she proved that she too was reliable and worthy of respect, though I would never have admitted it. Then it is discovered that she is actually a titled lady of the Cauldron. The shock nearly floored me. She was not what I anticipated at all. At least in one small way she lived up to my expectations, she rashly and recklessly led Ser Forthwind on a merry quest of destruction as I always predicted she would from the very beginning. After so much time, however, this did not grant me a sense of satisfaction or vindication. In a fashion I had failed and now I rode off with my king and another woman in tow to rectify the situation that was slowly spiraling out of control. One would assume I would grow accustomed to the world flying to pieces after the previous weeks, but it was just as disconcerting as the day that we had been betrayed by Ser Eddols.

"Why so grim, Ser Lion?" came a wry voice ahead of me as we rode along a narrow trail. The woman, Bruna, glanced at me from over her shoulder as she swayed in time with the horses' careful steps.

"There is only one I suffer to address me as such," I answered, "and on a certain level I believe she has earned it. You, woman, are a stranger and I would ask that you either address me as Ser Grey or do not address me at all."

She smiled, "Then you give my Swan great honor."

"She is brave, though at times foolhardy," I acquiesced, "as she has so painfully illustrated by her actions over the previous day."

The woman shrugged, "It is her way, she hurtles forward as she thinks she must. She would die for those she loves or is loyal to. There is something to be respected in that."

"It is not a worthy thing to die needlessly because of it. It neither honors you nor those you love if you throw your life away when it can be avoided." I grunted.

"You are wise and most likely correct." The woman agreed as we rode on.

"At least this one can be reasoned with." The thought came unbidden, though I would not have believed it of the woman this morning. She was alternating between courteous directions and gentle orders as we picked our way through the Herfirien ranges. Unlike the Lady-Bard, the woman was more confident in her ability to find the trails that had once given us pause under the guidance of Svenya. The trails were smoother and we rarely paused at all.

The day was beginning to wane and the King was vacillating between wanting to camp and the desire to push on, convinced that Ser Forthwind and Lady Mae were only a little ways ahead. He had been furious and it seemed to drive him with a grim determination. Though I knew that he would never purposely harm the lady, I worried his ire would cloud his sense when he finally had her in his presence. Such passions rarely led to happy ends.

The woman called to him, when the light was fading, "We must desist, your Majesty. We will not find them in the dark. After passing the night, we should find them on the morrow. Let us camp."

The king allowed the woman to rule him with her sound judgment and we stopped. The king accompanied the woman to find firewood while I organized the camp. We were surrounded by fir trees and the area was thick with fallen needles which I attempted to sweep back with my feet to clear a safe place for a fire. Gathering some large stones, I arranged them in a circle and scooped out a shallow pit and waited expectantly for Bruna and the king to return when I heard a shuffling in the trees to the East.

I called out a hail only to be met with eerie, foreboding silence. Unsheathing my sword, I ventured into the trees to discern if there was danger and to eliminate it. The forest could play tricks or it could hide a threat to the unwary. I dared not surrender my vigilance. Low plants and briars snatched at my ankles as I cautiously stepped over the uneven ground with my sword drawn. When I began to suspect that perhaps it had been the wind I heard the shuffling again and bound forward, snatching back a branch and giving a battle cry.

The creature shrieked and fell back onto the ground, shielding itself behind trembling hands. My eyes took in a torn and dirty chantry robe on the prostrate form and I lowered my weapon, internally cursing myself for frightening and almost decapitating a Chantry sister. She was blubbering and I tried to speak to her so she would be put at ease, "Sister, please be calm. I mean you no harm."

She continued to moan, though she lowered her hands and wrapped her arms around herself. She was rocking back and forth, dirt smeared on her face with her tears, behaving as if she could not understand what I was saying to her. Her grieving reached a fever pitch when I leaned over to try and assist her, she screamed again and tried to scrabble back but a tree impeded her from going any further. I raised my hands to reassure her that I intended no harm, "Are you injured? Is there any way I can assist you, Sister?"

The clamoring attracted the attention of Bruna and the King and they located us, the sister still weeping and choking on her tears and me awkwardly trying to calm her with no effect.

"Step back, Ser Grey," instructed Bruna, approaching calmly, "This woman is half crazy with fear. You may mean no harm, but you are causing it by crowding her."

Seeing the sense of her words, I stalked back to stand with the king as Bruna edged forward in a squatting position, humming something barely audible. The woman still rocked herself and moaned, but seemed less agitated. When Bruna got close enough, she began to absently stroke the woman's hair, muttering calmly words that I could not discern, but assumed they were reassuring the woman. After another moment the sister relaxed and leaned into the older woman, her moaning lessening even further until it ended completely.

Bruna beckoned us closer with a free hand before asking the sister calmly, "Where is your Chantry?"

"Gone," the Sister muttered, "burned. The demons in armor, intoning blasphemies, claiming the Bride was false. They were betrayers like Mafereth, destroying the work of the Maker in exchange for power. Songs becoming screams. Chantry bells silenced, silencing hope, silencing help for the needy."

"Who are the demons in armor?" the King asked.

I had a sickening foreboding that I already knew that answer before the sister hissed, "False Templars!"

"Your Majesty, look," whispered Bruna, leaning the sister forward in her arms so that we can see her back. It was scored with what looked like lashes, peaking through torn gaps in the robes. Whoever had beaten her had not even bothered to remove the fabric. She was rickety and weak with what appeared to be hunger, her eyes sunken.

The sister began to sing something softly, brokenly, like a little child remembering an almost forgotten lesson. She rocked in Bruna's arms and called her, "Mother." She hardly seemed in her right mind at all.

"Is she ill with fever?" I questioned, trying to understand the woman's erratic behavior, attributing it to an illness or some kind of shock.

"No," Bruna croaked, still stroking the sister's hair and trying to keep the woman calm, "she is addled. Unless I'm mistaken, this woman has lyrium poisoning."