Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

The next days were long and frightening. Lorcan had nothing to do and nothing to play with. The window was too high to look out of, though Lorcan could see birds soaring and wheAstridg against the sky. Some of them were crows.

  He was still wearing his soiled nightshirt, and his feet were bare on the cold stones. Big men came and went to his room, all wearing Redcliffe livery, watching him, but mostly playing cards. A few took notice of him.

  "That's Teyrn Loghain's grandson, that is. Wouldn't guess it to look at the little lad. Favors his dam, more like."

  "Well, even Teyrn Loghain was a babe himself, once."

  Some of the men even taught him to play cards, though Lorcan had nothing to wager. Food was brought, but it was different, and in different bowls, and the wooden spoon they gave him was big and splintery. Instead of a close stool with a seat, he had to use a bucket, and the men watched him do that, too.

  At night he cried, until one of the men threatened to give him something to cry for.

  A few days later, Mother Berenthy came to see him. She was angry, but apparently not angry with him. She brought him fresh clothes and shoes, his cup-and-ball, his top, his clay horse on wheels, and his letter blocks. She gave him a hug, and looked him over, fire in her eyes.

  "This is a disgrace," she told the guard. "This is an outrage. This child is the rightful Teyrn of Gwaren, by anyone's reckoning, and Arl Eamon is treating him like a dangerous criminal. Don't think that the Grand Cleric won't hear about this!"

  The guard shrugged, not wanting to argue with a priest. None of it was his doing anyway.

  "I'm just here to do for the boy, my lady."

  "Well, Arl Eamon can do better than this!"

  The next time she came, a maid was with her, and the bed was changed. A little featherbed was laid over the straw, it was made up with fine linens, a fur coverlet, and a plump goosedown pillow. Lorcan's little table and chair were brought up, and some of his lesson books.

  And later that day, while he was having his noontime porridge, the big blond man, Alistair, came to see him. Lorcan stared, his spoon halfway to his mouth.

  "Well!" said Alistair, looking around the room. "This isn't so bad! I don't know what the Chantry was fussing about!" He looked at Lorcan. "And so you're Lord Lorcan. You gave a good speech at the Landsmeet."

  The guard yanked him to his feet. "Bow to His Majesty!"

  "Grandfather said I was King! Are we both Kings?"

  The nervous guard cuffed his head. "Bow, you little bastard!"

  "Hey!" Alistair protested. "No need for that!" He waved his hands, looking embarrassed. "You, leave the room. I want to talk to Lord Lorcan alone."

  The man grumbled, but obeyed. Lorcan hoped he was not in for worse when Alistair left. He rubbed his hurt head and watched the blond man warily. All the same, he did not bow.

  "I'm not a bastard!" he muttered.

  "No. I guess you're not. I don't suppose you have anything to drink here?"

  Lorcan pointed to the water pail and dipper.

  "Oh. Never mind." Alistair seated himself on the guard's stool and waved Lorcan toward his own small chair.

  "Only one of us can be King," he said, "and right now that looks like me. A lot of people say you should be Teyrn of Gwaren, and I don't have any problem with that. Somebody's got to be Teyrn of Gwaren. You're just a boy, now, and so somebody will take care of that for you and act as your Regent."

  "My mother said Grandfather was my Regent. She wrote it down in her will."

  Alistair blew out a breath. "Well, that's not going to happen. Er..." He paused, thinking something over. "No. No need to tell you something like that. Anyway, Arl Eamon thinks that Bann Saladin would be a good regent for you."

  "I don't like Bann Saladin. He hurt my Nana."

  "Who's Nana?"

  "My Nana. She took care of me, and they dragged her away and said she wouldn't need shoes anymore. Bann Saladin had Odar killed, and he's mad at me."

  "Why would he be mad at you?"

  "'Cos when he told me Arl Eamon was looking after me, I asked if it was like when he took care of you, and if I'd have to work in a stable, too."

  Alistair's eyes bulged briefly, and then he burst out in a roar of laughter. Lorcan was alarmed, and huddled down in his chair.

  "Did you?" Alistair sputtered, not able to stop chuckling. "Did you really? That's... great. I mean... of course... No. That's great. That was a good one. Don't say it again, though," he added hastily. "They don't like to talk about that."

  "Why did they do it, if they don't like talk about it?"

  "Point taken." Alistair still grinned. "Don't make them mad at you. Just saying."

  "What about Nana? I want her to come back."

  "Er... well... I don't think that will happen any time soon. Arl Eamon doesn't like the Stronars. We'll see. Mother Berenthy comes to visit you, doesn't she? Do you like her?"

  "She's nice. She brought me my clothes and toys and my table. And my bed was poky straw until she fixed it."

  "Ah."

  Alistair slumped on his stool and rubbed his chin. "So you like Mother Berenthy. You like the Chantry? Would you like to be a Templar, maybe? They're pretty amazing, and they have the best armor in Thedas!"

  Lorcan shrugged. He was supposed to be King or Teyrn of Gwaren or something like that. He didn't know any Templars.

  Alistair got to his feet. "Well, you take care of yourself, Lorcan. I'll make sure Mother Berenthy can see you whenever she likes. We'll figure something out." He paused, awkwardly, about to say something else.

  Then he left.

  * * *

  More days passed: days and days and days; nights and endless nights. Mother Berenthy came every day to give Lorcan his lessons. Guards watched them the whole time, and if Lorcan asked about Nana or Grandfather, Mother Berenthy would give her head a little shake.

  "I'm not permitted to talk about that, my lord," she said.

  She wasn't calling him "Your Highness," anymore, either. Lorcan filed that away for consideration.

  Once Arl Eamon came to see him, speaking to Lorcan like he was something beneath him. Bann Saladin was with him, face stern. He said nothing to Lorcan at all. The two men looked around the room, talking quietly to each other.

  After they left, bars were put on the window.

  "Why are they there?" Lorcan asked his latest guard.

  "To keep you from falling to your death, my lord," the man said, chuckling.

  Sometimes the guards talked among themselves. Apparently, there was a war going on. Teyrn Cousland was in the north, and had an army, and the guards were happy to be safe guarding Lorcan here in Denerim, far from the fighting.

  "If the darkspawn can get into the city," one predicted gloomily, "then I don't think the walls will keep a Cousland out!"

  The other agreed. "Aye. And to think of those rabble from Gwaren making common cause with them—" He glanced at Lorcan."—because they want their Teyrn. It's a wicked world, my friend."

  A pair of crows made a nest up on the sill, against one of the bars. They peered into the room with black, beady eyes, their heads cocked in curiosity. Lorcan wondered what they thought of it all. He did not try to make friends with them, since he remembered what they did to his father.

  After dinner one night, the guard told Lorcan to use the bucket and go to bed.

  "Don't forget to say your prayers," the man added, gruffly.

  Lorcan did as he was told, slipping gratefully into the comfort of his small bed. The man stood over him, looking at him with an inscrutable face, and then blew out the candle by the bed. After a few minutes he left the room, dousing the lantern by the door as well. The room fell into utter darkness.

  Lorcan was curious about that, and a little frightened, since he had never been left alone before. Why had the guard gone away? Why had he put out the light? He lay quietly, trying to work it out. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he could make out of the distant st
ars, glittering between the bars of his window. Everything was silent. Even the crows on the ledge were asleep. He was up so high in the tower that no sound from the city drifted up, and he wondered if he was the only person left in the world. Then he heard a faint rustling outside his room, and the door creaked open very slowly.

  His hair prickling, Lorcan tensed. Why was the guard sneaking back in?

  It was not the guard. Two black shapes slipped into the room, their footsteps nearly noiseless. One carried a dark lantern.

  "Be careful!" whispered the other, with an excited laugh. "We must leave no marks!"

  Lorcan shuddered, and slipped down from the bed, crawling to safety underneath.

  Swiftly, the two figures crossed the room, and made for the bed. the bedclothes were thrown back, brushing the floor.

  "Braska!" one hissed. "Where is he?"

  A dim light kindled in the room, as the man with the lantern pushed back a little door in the lantern's side. The two assassins were briefly flummoxed. There was a long pause, and then they dropped to the floor by the bed and stretched out their arms to grab their prey. The lantern tumbled away, and the light went out.

  Lorcan shrieked.

  He shrieked, shriller than a bird, kicking out with all his strength.

  "Help! Nana! Help!"

  He gasped for breath and shrieked again, tangled in the sheets, while strong hands gripped his ankles and dragged him out. A hand clapped over his mouth and Lorcan bit down hard.

  The assassin swore, and slapped Lorcan away, grazing his cheek with a heavy ring. Lorcan stumbled against his table, and his toys were scattered. The other assassin, less easily distracted, snatched up the little boy and threw him onto the bed, grabbing up the soft, soft goosedown pillow and pressing it into the small, terrified face.

  Muffled by the pillow, Lorcan faintly heard their business-like chatter.

  "Hold his legs, fool! If you marked his face we will not get the extra gold!"

  Lorcan fought frantically, trying to push the pillow away, but he had no breath left. His struggles grew weaker as the pillow pressed down harder. He hoped Nana was coming soon. After a little while, everything was soft and dark.

  The crows on the ledge, startled by the noise, flew away, abandoning their nest.

  Chapter 26: Those Who Bring Harm

  Saladin thought the news from Denerim was good. He was somewhat taken aback that when he told Alistair, the young man stalked off to his own tent without a word.

  The appearance of unity was vital: they had a hard campaign ahead of them. Fergus Cousland had rallied most of the North behind him, and others, too, like Bryland and Wulffe, were his declared allies. Eamon, back in Denerim, thought it was time for the promised Orlesian reinforcements to make an appearance. Saladin was unsure about that. It might well stiffen resistance.

  Their camp on the Hafter River was not far from Vigil's Keep. The hope had been that the Orlesian Warden-Arl of Amaranthine, Caron, would be sympathetic to their cause. To Saladin's disappointment, he had proved cagey and distant, preferring to remain neutral. He would not move against them, but he would not support them, either. Alistair was the only one not surprised.

  "He's doing just what he's supposed to. Wardens aren't supposed to be political, you know," he added, with an edge to his voice. "I can't imagine he approves of me, anyway: turning my back on the Wardens, and then trying to be King."

  "You are King, Alistair," Saladin corrected gently. "You are the rightful King of Ferelden."

  As always, Alistair made a wry face at the words. Saladin could discount that, but now, when dinner was called and Alistair did not make an appearance, Saladin grew alarmed, and sought him out.

  The flap of the elaborate blue tent was closed. Alistair's body servant was outside, cleaning boots and armor. He noticed Saladin, rose to his feet and bowed low, his face closed down. The two guards were absolutely expressionless. Saladin was certainly not going to ask them questions when Alistair was not ten feet away, and so nodded to the guards, and spoke into the tent.

  "Your Majesty? It's time for dinner."

  "Go away, Saladin."

  Saladin stepped into the tent anyway, nose wrinkling at the raw stink of brandy. To his surprise, the stink was not coming from Alistair, but from the smashed jar on the ground. The titular King of Ferelden was slumped in a chair, his face shadowed. In front of him was a folding camp table with a mess of papers and books, but no goblet in sight.

  "Yeah..." Alistair shrugged. "I thought about getting drunk, but I don't deserve that comfort. And it would be in bad taste. Somebody might think I was celebrating the murder of a small boy."

  "The boy's death was a natural one," Saladin corrected him. "'A surfeit of sugarplums, which brought on a quick acute illness, much like his mother's,' according to Eamon's letter. Children die all the time."

  "Unwanted, inconvenient children do, that's true. You know..." Alistair drawled, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm not nearly as stupid as you and your brother raised me to be, and I've had a few years to think." He huffed a bitter laugh. "I suppose I should be grateful that I wasn't as inconvenient a child as Lorcan Mac Tir Stronar. Eamon was satisfied with making me his stableboy. If the lovely Isolde hadn't insisted on getting rid of me, I'd either be dead in the slaughter there, or I'd be a slack-jawed, unlettered yokel, touching my forelock whenever one of my betters deigned to splash mud on me."

  Saladin stared at him, alarmed. He had always trusted to Alistair's open, forgiving nature. True... Alistair had not been open or forgiving where Loghain or the Warden were concerned, but surely...

  "Eamon would never lie to you... to either of us," Saladin said, filling his voice with gentle confidence. Usually it worked on Alistair, but not today.

  "Of course he would. He lies all the time, just like everybody else. 'Natural death,' huh? I'll just bet it was. It's perfectly natural to die when somebody sticks you with a dagger or strangles you. Don't pretend you don't know all about it. Lorcan told me you didn't like him. I should have done more to protect him."

  Saladin tried to master his face. Did Alistair have a source? An informer, back in Denerim? They had tried so hard to isolate him from any but their own influence, but perhaps someone else's agent had got to him, or he had made a friend of one of the servants, with his pleasant, unassuming ways. What did he know? Or was all this just suspicion and supposition?

  "'A quick, acute illness like his mother's,'" Alistair quoted, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. "Right. You know, I can't say I liked Freya, since she wanted to kill me, but now I can see her point. If she hadn't exiled me instead, she'd probably still be alive, and that poor little boy, too..."

  Saladin said quietly, "Anything that was done, Alistair, was done for your sake."

  With a blow of Alistair's fist, the camp table was knocked aside, and papers and books fluttered to the ground. Alistair was on his feet, taller than Saladin, and nearly back to his former fighting strength. Saladin took a step backward.

  "Don't you put that on me!" Alistair shouted, his face brick red. "Don't you dare put that on me! I've never wanted to be king! I would never kill a child for my own profit!" He cocked his head, an unbecoming sneer on his face. "Maker, I grew up in a stable, and I know it's wrong to kill children! What's the matter with you, Saladin? Didn't anyone ever teach you that it's wrong to kill children? Not just Guerrin children, but all children. You were pretty concerned for Frigg, that time he became an abomination and wiped out most of Redcliffe. Didn't it occur to you that other children are just as valuable and just as dear to the Maker?"

  "Alistair, sometimes things need to be done for the greater good of the kingdom..."

  "No. Uh-uh. I don't want to hear that 'greater good' crap from you. It makes you sound like Loghain, which is a Bad Thing. 'The kingdom needs gold, so let's sell off the elves: never mind that they're Fereldan subjects who are theoretically protected by the law. Ooo, and Arl Eamon is giving me a hard time,
so I'll have someone poison him. Duncan must be working with the Orlesians, so let's leave him to die...' I fail to see any moral difference between killing a little urchin in an alley to steal his purse and killing a little prince in a tower to steal his kingdom. The murder is the same. It's just a bigger robbery."

  He shook his head. "If it's wrong, it's wrong. Remember me? Sent off to the Chantry at age eleven? Well, one of the first things they taught me—after the importance of washing behind my ears— is this:

  All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,

  From the lowest slaves

  To the highest kings.

  Those who bring harm

  Without provocation to the least of His children

  Are hated and accursed by the Maker."

  Alistair slapped his head. "Hey, what am I thinking? Little Lorcan did give you provocation: he was in your way, so I guess it's just fine to 'harm' him to death. And then too, he embarrassed you by asking an innocent question about his fate. Why wouldn't he think he'd be sent off to the stables, if that's what you did to me?"

  "He was impudent—"

  "He was five!" Alistair bellowed.

  A brief, tense silence. Saladin licked his lips. "Alistair, calm yourself. Everyone in camp can hear you."

  "So? Men should know what they're giving their lives for. 'Greater good!' Don't make me laugh. I wasn't exactly brought up to think I deserved to rule the world. I wasn't brought up to know how! What's wrong with Fergus Cousland being king, anyway? Oh, I know. The Guerrins wouldn't be in charge!"

  This was getting out of hand. Saladin stepped to the tent flap and addressed the guards and the servant.

  "Not one word of this conversation is to be repeated, or you're all dead men."

  The servant ducked his head; the guards did not even blink.

  "—Yes, my lord."

  "—Aye, my lord."

  "—Right you are, my lord."

  It was just on the edge of insolence. Possibly they did like Alistair, or they simply agreed with him. Saladin snapped the flap shut and took a breath, trying to reason with the young man who absolutely had to be King.