That Wynne had chosen to be Alistair's Court Mage was more expected, and stung less. Wynne had never quite approved of him because of his relationship with Morrigan. She had warned him that it was a terrible idea, again and again. Now, horribly, he had to accept that she had been right all along, and that he had been consummately wrong.
Morrigan, he discovered on the eve of the greatest battle of his life, had never regarded him as anything but a convenient means to an end. At best, he was a stud beast, whose seed was needed to fill her with an Old God. She had known the Warden secrets — all of them — and had kept them from him until the last moment, hoping to profit from his shock and wretchedness — and yes, his fear — at knowing that a Warden must die. That betrayal had so enraged him that he had driven her and all her great and useful powers away. Loghain had taken the final blow, slaying the Archdemon and redeeming his mistakes with his blood. Aedan had once loved Morrigan with all his heart, but if he saw her again, his first impulse would be to hack her to pieces.
And now Delilah... It was just as well that love was not for Wardens, since only Aedan's vanity had persuaded him that he could be lovable. He mused on his own stupidity until Nathaniel came back, his step as light as his lifted spirits, his face aglow with fraternal love.
"She seems... happy. When all this is over, she wants me to come back... meet her husband. She's due in the spring! She said Father deserved to die. I still can't believe it."
"You don't believe her?"
"He got mixed up in politics! I thought he had his reasons."
"He did have his reasons," Aedan said, not sorry to hurt this man, since he was a gentleman and could not hurt the man's sister. "He wanted to be Teyrn of Highever. By the time he was done, he was Teyrn of Highever and Teyrn of Denerim, too. When I was down in the dungeons, I found... the remains of Vaughan Kendells, who had supposedly been killed by the elves during an "uprising."
Not for worlds would Aedan tell Nathaniel that he had killed Vaughan himself. That had been a dark, mad day. He had just killed Rendon, and his blood was up. The sound of Vaughan's blustering voice, threatening to flay him, had tipped him over the edge. And he had got quite a bit of gold out of it.
Nathaniel whispered. "I just want to know if he suffered..."
Aedan walked faster. Anders was making faces at him. They could not run out the South Gate, since they still needed to visit the Crown and Lion. He made himself stop and answer Nathaniel.
"Not much, no. Everyone suffers when they die, more or less. He had it easy. A quick death in honorable combat, though I will point out that I was outnumbered. I didn't go there to kill him, Nathaniel. Had I been intent on assassinating your father, I had earlier opportunities. I always put my duty as a Grey Warden first, and I focused on fighting the Blight. I went to his estate that day because Queen Freya's maid came to me with a story about Freya being held captive by your father."
At Nathaniel's look of palpable disbelief, Aedan made an impatient gesture, not liking to speak of Freya and her bitch of a maid: two more women who had played him, nearly to his death.
"She was there, all right. I told Eamon that going there was ridiculous — an obvious trap — but I was overruled. Winning the Queen over was worth any danger to Eamon, or at least worth any danger someone else would face. Of course she had people she could have called on, but my analysis was that she was hoping to get rid of either your father— or me— or preferably both of us. Then, too, as she was queen, and a lady, and required my help, I could hardly refuse. When I arrived by stealth, the door to her room was sealed by a spell, which required that I find the spellcaster, who happened to be in the dungeons, standing next to your father. Your father had little use for the Queen. What his ultimate plans were, I don't know. He did appear to be loyal to Loghain, and he wanted him to take the throne. As you might imagine, our conversation was not protracted, and I prefer not to repeat what he said about the women of my family. He attacked first."
"And you fought to the death."
"Not much choice, for either of us. Your father fought hard and well. He was a brave man and quick with a blade. He fell. It was a clean death. Now you know what happened to your father. As to why he did all he did, I can't help you. I don't know. I don't think anyone will ever know. It's destined to remain a mystery. None of it turned out well for him in the long run. Nothing much has turned out well for anyone in the past two years, aside from Eamon Guerrin, Chancellor of the Realm, and Queen Freya, who still rules in Denerim, married to her dead husband's brother."
Nathaniel, of course, was still brooding over his bloody father.
"Before I went to the Free Marches, he was never... How could he have changed so much? What if I'd never left? I didn't have much choice, but still... I wish I'd known some of this sooner. What if—"
"What if?" Aedan faced hardened. "What if? Don't you think I have a thousand 'what ifs' of my own? Today I collected another. I never knew your sister disliked me. I thought we were all friends. I thought I was being charming when clearly I was actually being bumptious and... what was it? 'Stuck-up.' If I'd been more attractive... if I had won her heart... maybe your father would have been satisfied with an alliance between our two families. If I'd been more appealing to Delilah, maybe my family wouldn't all be dead!"
"You can't blame Delilah for that."
"And you're not liArviding. I don't. After your father, of course, I suppose I have only myself to blame."
Chapter 4: The Once and Future Viscount
Grudgingly, trying to put the best possible face on the fact that she and her Templars had come too late to the fight to make a difference, Knight Commander Meredith Stannard threw a bone to the tiresome, mage-sympathizing soldier-of-fortune who had dueled the Arishok—and won. A title to satisfy his pride... surely that would keep him quiet. Here was a solution: a traditional Marcher title with no land, no coin, and no influence whatsoever.
"It appears that Kirkwall has a new Champion," she declared. Her words found instant support—far more than she had anticipated.
"The Champion!" echoed the nobles, relieved to be alive and not on their way to some Grendle "Reeducation Camp."
"Champion of Kirkwall," sighed a young lady. "Thank the Maker for him!"
"Champion of Kirkwall," Varric considered. "Sounds...good."
Killian Hawke sheathed his blades and gave the Knight-Commander a cocky grin, while Anders repaired the damage done to him by the Arishok, now a leaky corpse on the floor of the Viscount's throne room. Marlowe Dumar, the late Viscount, was even leakier, but that was only to be expected, since he had been neatly beheaded by the Grendle. As Dumar's son had been murdered by Chantry agents only the night before, the Dumar dynasty was extinct.
Words, almost forgotten, came to Hawke. He remember the impressive sight of Flemeth at the elven shrine, resurrected by her amulet. She had given him advice that he had not understood at the time. Now the meaning was crystal clear.
"We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly."
Looking about him, he saw that indeed, the moment had come.
"The city has been saved," bleated an overdressed nobleman. All eyes were on Killian Hawke: grateful, desperate, anxious eyes. Hands were stretched toward him, and only him. There would never be a chance like this again. If he hated the way things were in Kirkwall, he must take the plunge.
The new Champion raised his voice.
"Yes, the city has been saved! Kirkwall survives, but will need leadership to rebuild. Nobles of Kirkwall, the Viscount lies dead! Who will take up his office?"
"You, Champion!" called the adoring young lady. Instantly, voices shouted in acclamation, begging Hawke to lead them, to save them, to protect them. Meredith glared at them all, taken by surprise. Hawke smirked at her, and bent to pick up the iron coronet, fallen
from Marlowe Dumar's severed head. He set it on his own. It fit.
"I accept!" shouted Killian. "Captain AvAstride! We have a city to set right. Knight-Commander, thank you for your assistance. Prince Sebastian, if you would be so good, arrange a time for me to speak to the Grand Cleric. We need to sit down and work out a plan to help those left homeless or orphaned by this disaster. We need to recognize those who did the most to defend us in this terrible time. Together, we will restore Kirkwall to her rightful glory!"
Loud cheering greeted his impromptu speech. Even some Templars were cheering. Meredith Stannard stared, horrified by the outcome of her hasty words. Surrounded by his crew of misfits and the remains of the City Guard, Hawke stalked past her, to the Viscount's office, to take up power in Kirkwall.
He gave her a wink. Meredith's rage blazed up, threatening to overwhelm her. If she pulled her sword and tried to kill him, Hawke apparently felt the odds were not entirely in her favor, as they had been been when Meredith had cut down an unarmed, aged Viscount Threnhold. Hawke was taunting her, hoping she would try it. Perhaps it was better to have it out, here and now.
They stood at the precipice of change.
Chapter 5: And Never to Rule Over Him!
"A mage to fight Loghain?" scoffed Bann Ceorlic. "A mage? You would let one of unholy, arcane powers attack the Regent? You would let a mage rule over you? Better and more honorable to let the mabari fight."
Uncertainty, and then general approval greeted this statement. Even allies of the Warden, like Bann Alfstanna, could see Ceorlic's point. It was clearly unfair to make a man fight a mage, who could call demons to her side. Arl Eamon's mouth hung open. He thought he had foreseen every possible contingency, but this had not occurred to him.
"'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him!'" quoted Lady Rosalyn, Bann Ceorlic's wife.
The Grand Cleric agreed. "A mage is unacceptable as a champion. Stand aside, mage. Someone else must act, preferably your true leader."
Flushing, Vivian Amell stepped back, her eyes locked with Loghain's. He smirked, his confidence suddenly rising at the public humiliation of this thorn in his side. He had never had the slightest doubt that Vivian Amell was the leader of this band of misfits.
Alistair shouldered his way forward. "I'll do it."
Vivian suddenly had an awful, terrifying premonition of disaster. "No, Alistair!" she whispered. "Don't!"
He did not liArvid, bitterly vengeful as he was.
"So be it!" Loghain declared. "Let this false pretender suffer the consequences of his lies."
It was a close-run thing. Really close. Alistair was a splendid warrior. Loghain, however, had been splendid warrior for a long, long time, and knew tricks—some of them very dirty indeed—that Alistair had never seen. Loghain's back was to the wall, and cornered, he fought as he had fought in his youth against the Orlesians. The end was brutal. It was bloody. And it was final.
To her surprise, Vivian was imprisoned but not executed. Oh, other heads rolled, most notably Eamon Guerrin's, but not that of the last Grey Warden in Ferelden.
Or, Loghain considered, perhaps she was not the last. That Orlesian spy, Riordan, had escaped Howe's dungeons on the day the girl killed the arl, and his whereabouts were unknown. He was an irritant, but the Amell girl was the serious issue.
Loghain ordered her imprisoned, yes, but not mistreated. Instead of the cells of Fort Drakon, she was put under guard in a tower room in the palace, with Templars on hand to deal with any magical outbursts. She had won the allegiance of the dwarves and mages, both valuable allies. And those Dalish elves, too. They could be useful. There was a Blight to be fought, after all. Loghain had pursued the dwarves and the mages himself, but had failed to gain their support. If this mage girl wanted to live, she would throw her lot in with him. And he had locked away quite a few of her friends: the Orlesian bard, the elderly mage, the dwarven warrior, the Grendle... her faithful mabari, too. That should give him some leverage over her. She had some other followers, notably a young woman of Chasind appearance and a strangely familiar elf, but they had not been captured with the rest.
He had been feAstridg better lately. His head was clearer. Something had been troubling him for months, like a fog or a heavy weight. It had lifted suddenly, a few days ago, and Loghain felt like himself again.
How had he let all this get so out of hand? Why had he allowed Howe free reign to torture and kill? Why was he not in the South, fighting the darkspawn? Why had he allowed Howe to lock up Freya, of all things? Freya was furious with him, and had denounced him in front of the entire Landsmeet.
Now he had had to lock up Freya himself, which was quite horrible and depressing, but he had little choice. He still visited her, and he planned to have the Warden brought to one of their meetings, to sweeten his overtures of peace.
Really, now that the poor foolish boy was out of the way, Rendon Howe dead and Eamon Guerrin silenced, Loghain was rather uncomfortable with calling the mage girl a traitor. She had, as far as he knew, never taken up arms against him, but had been spending her time building alliances against the darkspawn for Ferelden. Quite laudable, really. It was only Eamon who had tried to use them to put his hapless puppet on the throne. Hadn't the girl urged Loghain to join with them, when he had confronted Eamon at the arl's estate? So far, questioning of the Orlesian bard had yielded no evidence that the mage had been in direct contact with Astrid herself. There was also no evidence that she had received any assistance, monetary or otherwise, from any foreign power—including the Wardens. Perhaps the Orlesian had been spying on the girl AND the pretender, and was not their handler. It seemed more and more likely. Perhaps he had misjudged her entirely...
Had he been sick? He was never sick! He had actually contemplated taking the throne away from Freya! Had he gone mad? Freya seemed to think so. Sometimes people did go mad, and then were well again. Perhaps that had happened to him. An episode. Over, now. The shock of Ostagar? Time to put that behind him. There was plenty of blame to go round.
At any rate, it was time for some serious mending of fences. With Freya, with the nobles, with the people. With the Warden, too, somehow. If they could work together to defeat the Blight, he would have to step down afterwards... resign his offices... retire to Gwaren... whatever. But fight the Blight they must, and for that, he needed Vivian Amell.
* * *
On the same theme, but even shorter… Thanks to Chiara Crawford for the idea… This mage is not Vivian Amell.
2.
Loghain was crouched on the floor of the Landsmeet, clutching his head, his bloodshot eyes rolled back. The Warden wiped his dagger and sheathed it, pressing a linen rag to the shallow cuts on the underside of his forearm. A few drops of his blood mingled with the pool of it around Loghain. He shoved the rag away in a pocket, and took up his staff, thumping it on the stone floor in triumph.
The Wardens' party cheered their leader's victory, but the rest of the great chamber had fallen into a shocked hush. Freya cried out sharply, and rushed to her father's side, her anger at him forgotten.
"Blood magic!" cried Bann Alfstanna. "That was Blood Magic! The Warden was controlling Loghain!"
A storm of horrified response followed, with the Grand Cleric's voice cutting through the noise.
"Blood Magic!" she declared, her voice thick with revulsion. "The mage cut himself to cast spells!"
She glanced at her Templar guard. Ser Tavish, his face stern, nodded gravely, unsheathing his sword. There could be no mistake.
The Warden saw the tide of opinion turning against him. Even Arl Eamon gaped at him, looking as if his erstwhile ally had suddenly sprouted claws and fangs.
Damien Amell shouted, "Blood Magic is not forbidden to the Wardens. We defeat our enemies by any means necessary!"
"Look here," Arl Wulffe said, helping Loghain stand up. "It's all very well for Wardens to claim such things, but surely that only applies to darkspawn. You can't use Blood Magic on
a man! It's not right."
"Blood Magic is never anything but a crime, mage!" declared the Grand Cleric. "Anyone who told you otherwise is a liar and a maleficar!"
"Hey!" Alistair protested weakly, not wanting Duncan criticized in any way.
"And this pretender," sneered Bann Ceorlic, pointing at Alistair, "is in league with a maleficar himself!"
"You hypocrite," Damien snarled at the battered Loghain. "What about your Tevinter magisters in the Alienage?"
"At least," Loghain replied softly, a vengeful gleam in his eye, "I had the sense not to bring them to the Landsmeet!"
Metal hissed from scores of scabbards, as the nobles of Ferelden prepared to defend themselves against these spawn of evil. Frightened noncombatants rushed up to the gallery, out of the way. The Warden, his staff lifted, gestured to his people warily, and they began backing out of the Chamber.
It was over: Alistair's claim to the throne, Eamon's grand schemes, their hopes for a Ferelden united with them against the Blight. They would be lucky to escape this room alive.
Chapter 6: A Marauder of the Wounded Coast
He floated in with the tide, tangled in seaweed. Rippling waves pushed him into the wet sand of the beach. When the first curious crab nipped at his ankle, he sat up, awake but disoriented.
"Bloody hell!"
He gave his leg a shake and sent the crab scurrying off.
"You'd better run, you little bastard! I'm going to eat you and all your friends!"
Actually, that sounded like a good idea. He was achingly hungry; his stomach twisted, wrung-out, and knotted up like a hangman's noose. It was the hunger that gave him the first hint that he was still alive. And then he remembered that the crab's pinch had hurt...
Dragon's Era- No Man's Land Page 4
