"I had a problem with the gloating way some of Howe's finest described the last moments of the women they raped and murdered." Taking a deep breath, he said, "And I desperately need to believe you would have a problem with it, too. They took trophies from them. One of the man had a skin pouch made from a woman's —"
"Stop!" Loghain commanded, putting up a hand. This impudent young lout had no idea what a hideous image his words recalled. "I don't need to hear it. I've already been told by quite a few people. Howe will get justice, in due time. Right now, I need him facing the darkspawn. They make take retribution out of my hands, for that matter."
"All right," Hawke said reluctantly. "But that garrison in Highever needs to face the darkspawn, too. Get the lot of them down here and let them get their fill of blood. They're not needed in Highever, except to bully and rob. If you order them south you'll win all sorts of good will."
"Not from Howe," Loghain said grimly. "But you have a point. I will demand that he draw more of his men down from the north. If I let you go up to the Coast Mountains to play Warden, can I trust you not to pick fights with the locals?"
Hawke sighed. "I promise I won't strike the first blow. I won't promise not to defend myself."
"Fair enough." Loghain spread out a map on the big table, and gestured at Hawke to have a look. "I want you to go back to Denerim. See how the Dalish are faring, and how many have gathered at Dragon's Peak. On your return journey, bring them back with you. If they must, they can leave a small camp for the stragglers. Go visit your mother and sister. I'll send a letter with you to Freya. There's no reason for her to keep them sequestered, though I want a reliable guard with them if they walk about the city."
"They're not going to run away—" Hawke protested.
"Any sensible lady travels in the city with a guard," Loghain pointed out. "Denerim's not Lothering, Hawke. I'm not punishing them!" More quietly, he said. "They're not living in a little country town where they know everyone. Denerim is full of cutpurses and thugs. I know they have the mabari, and that's good, but I want them to have a human guard, too. Can you think of anywhere safer for your family to be than the Palace? Your sister, especially..."
Reluctantly, Hawke admitted, "No." In the Palace, they were not threatened by Templars. Or bandits. Or darkspawn. They were fed and sheltered. It was a fact.
"Then what are we fighting about? Cauthrien says they don't care for their servants. I'll tell Freya to replace them with someone pleasanter, and to allow your mother and sister to come and go as they please, as long as they don't try to leave the city and as long as they travel with a guard for their protection. I daresay they'll enjoy being able to visit the Market."
Hawke slumped, the wind taken out of his sails. "That would be a lot better, my lord. Thank you."
"Freya can be too rigid, sometimes," Loghain confided to the young man, neglecting to mention that the women's previous treatment had been entirely at his own orders. Sometimes it was good to gain the gratitude of an ally—especially so cheaply. What was that Cauthrien said about giving young Hawke a bit of carrot?
"Go look for your Warden ruins. Just be back by the first of Solace. The darkspawn numbers are building again."
* * *
Rendon Howe felt forever vindicated of all wrong-doing. After giving Eamon Guerrin's papers a thorough examination, it was clear that the man had been an even blacker traitor than Bryce Cousland. When Loghain saw all this, he would curse his late son-in-law's name. More importantly, he would certainly confirm Howe in his new teyrnir of Highever.
Cailan, the worst traitor of all, had been conspiring with the Empress of Astrid. The plan was for him to divorce Freya, and then combine Astrid and Ferelden in a personal—not political— union. Howe snorted, imagining how long that would have lasted before Astrid had simply gobbled up Ferelden. Cailan had naively imagined that Freya would step aside and take priestly orders for the "greater good." The boy had imagined that Loghain would put up with it, because Cailan, after all, was king. It really was a pity that Cailan was dead. It might have been amusing to see Loghain's reaction.
If he had lived long enough to know about it. Howe scowled, studying a particularly repulsive missive from the Empress' spymaster. The plan would not work, obviously, with Loghain alive to object to it. The first step was putting Loghain out of the way, preferably by a fatal "accident." Freya, too, was marked for death, since remarriage after a divorce was questionable under Chantry law. The Empress would never endure any shadow on her personal honor. Freya would droop and pine, and then die, and the way would be made smooth. The letters were full of flattery and bribes. Eamon would be given an Orlesian title, a place at the Empress' —and Emperor's—court, and substantial lands. The arling of Redcliffe would be passed on to his loyal younger brother, as well as an eligible Orlesian heiress.
It all made for sickening reading. The Divine was primed to grant the divorce, and it was clear that the Grand Cleric of Ferelden knew all about it, too. Slimy traitress.
The correspondence was, of course, only of historical interest now that Cailan and the Guerrins were dead. Still, Loghain should know what the lot of them had planned. Howe tried to decide whether to bundle the lot of the parchment up and send it by courier to the Regent at once, or wait to hand it to him personally, so he could see the eruption of Mount Loghain.
Oh, yes... definitely the latter.
"My lord!"
Captain Chase was back from patrol, looking grim. Time to go back to work, alas.
"What is it, Chase?"
"A large force of darkspawn are coming from the southeast, my lord. Possibly a hundred of the creatures. Scouts say they've got at least four magic-users and a pair of ogres."
"Well, we'll just have to arrange a proper welcome for them, won't we?"
* * *
Hawke decided that this was the strangest conversation of his life. Here, at the nearly perfectly preserved fortress of Soldier's Peak, he was having a private chat about Grey Warden lore with a two-hundred-year-old man.
Senior Warden Avernus looked pretty good for his age, though Hawke was not sure what a two-hundred-year-old man should look like. The old man's mind was terrifyingly sharp, and he was absolutely replete with Warden lore, some of it very depressing indeed.
"Oh, yes, definitely. The Warden who strikes the killing blow perishes with the Archdemon. It's held to be the only way to kill the creature permanently. Only a Warden can do it. Otherwise it reconstitutes from the nearest darkspawn in an astonishing feat of shape-shifting. In the First Blight, the Tevinters collected a vast amount of Archdemon bone, blood, and hide from all the various Archdemons they killed. All very nice, except the thing kept coming back, again, again, and again. It's a miracle Tevinter survived at all. The magisters put their heads together, experimented for years, and thus the first Grey Wardens were created."
"Grey Wardens came from Tevinter?" Hawke asked, dazed.
"Everywhere in Thedas was Tevinter at that point, my lad. The Imperium fractured under the stress of the Blight, and thus were born the nations we know today. However, it's absolutely certain that the Grey Wardens were developed by the research of Tevinter magisters, in their secret laboratories high in the Anderfels. It's all Blood Magic of the darkest sort. No point in pretending otherwise. I happen to know that they're still experimenting, or were two hundred years ago or so. And so did I, and to some purpose."
"True."
Avernus had been persuasive, and Hawke had sampled his new potion. He felt much better: stronger, fitter, and without that certain dull nastiness in his blood that had depressed him. And no Calling. Avernus had never experienced one. It seemed that his potion did away with most of the worst side-effects of the Joining, including sterility.
"Can you make more of it?"
"Of course. Some fresh darkspawn blood would be useful, but yes, I can make more. Perhaps as many as a dozen doses. For more, I would need Archdemon blood as well as more darkspawn bloo
d. And much more Nacronite. It's the balance, you see: very different from the primitive potion generally in use."
The old man cracked an odd smile. "I'm very happy you made this visit, young Liam. I was beginning to wonder if I was to have a Calling after all, when I began dreaming of the Archdemon. But now you tell me we have a Blight. It might sound decidedly peculiar to you, but I confess myself relieved."
So they talked about the Blight: about the first stirrings in the Kocari Wilds, about Ostagar and King Cailan's grand folly, about Hawke's use of the ancient treaties. Then Avernus wanted to know about Loghain Mac Tir in detail. Hawke told him about the man's hatred and fear of the Wardens, about his manipulations, about how his family was hostage to Hawke's good behavior, about Carver's death in the Deep Roads. And he confessed that he had divulged Warden secrets to the teyrn.
"A difficult man," Avernus sighed. "That is unfortunate in these times, but he's not without intelligence, you say. He understands that to keep the allies, he must have Wardens. That's something, at least. In such a situation, it is standard procedure to confide in heads of state, so you have done nothing wrong. You have heard nothing from the other Warden posts, or from Weisshaupt itself?"
"Nothing at all. Of course," he said, a nasty suspicion arising, "I'm sure that Teyrn Loghain has probably seen my letters before I have."
"No doubt, no doubt."
"So, will you come with us?"
Avernus blinked. "Come with you?"
"Yes! Come with us to fight the Blight. I mean, shouldn't you be Warden-Commander? You're a Senior Warden. You're senior to me. I guess... you're senior to everyone."
Avernus actually chuckled at that observation: a terrifying sight. "I suppose I am, though there are probably magisters in the Imperium older than I. As there are only three Wardens in all Ferelden, by your account, I would agree that I am definitely senior to both you and... what's his name?... Alistair. Here is my proposal: you remain operational commander, and I shall advise you to the best of my ability. First of all, I believe we must have more Wardens. What about your companions?"
"I haven't asked them. After seeing the Broodmother in the Deep Roads, I don't think I ever want to conscript a woman."
There their conversation digressed, for Avernus was fascinated by Hawke's account. He wanted to know everything about the Anvil of the Void, about Caridin, about Branka, and about the promised golems. He also had some information about Broodmothers.
"First of all, my dear boy, if your Wardens never experience a Calling, there's no reason for a woman to be sent alone and vulnerable into the Deep Roads. Anyway, according to my readings, a woman has to be young enough to still be having her courses to issue pheromones that would cause darkspawn to violate her for the purpose of breeding. In the past, the female Grey Wardens who went to their Calling had generally undergone menopause, which comes early in our order to those using the old Joining formula. Thus, they would die, but not be in the revolting danger of making more darkspawn."
He paused. "Poor Sophia. She most particularly wanted to have more children. It was one of the goals of my research."
Hawke shuddered, remembering the possessed horror downstairs. Anders had been especially determined not to allow such a creature to escape into the world at large.
"I think Morrigan really, really doesn't want to be a Warden. I think she knows a lot about Wardens: things she hasn't told us. Flemeth sent her among us for purposes of her own, and Morrigan has never confided them."
Another digression, which Avernus pondered for some time. "If she has knowledge of Warden secrets, she would be understandably reluctant, especially if she has hopes of children of her own. Perhaps I should speak to her privately, and explain the very real advantages."
"Maybe not," warned Hawke. "I don't see the point in giving her yet more information, when she might refuse in the end anyway."
In the end, Avernus spoke to them all, gathered around a dusty table in the old summoning chamber. All but Levi Dryden, crushed by the knowledge of his ancestress' misdeeds, who went down the hill to tend to the horses and wagon. Hawke had a plan for him that might be of some comfort.
"How very extraordinary," Avernus began, "to live in a time of Blight. And what an opportunity! These are the times when old certainties crumble, and out-worn customs are forgotten. Two of you are mages, with all that means in the lands of the White Chantry. Become a Warden, and the Chantry's rules and restrictions and tyrannies cease to be a factor in your lives. Wear the colors of the Grey Wardens and go where you please, when you please, without let or hindrance. Some Wardens in past times have chosen to remain only loosely tied to their particular post, preferring to adventure in distant lands, or wishing a more settled family life. These were subject to recall in times of great emergency."
Hawke blinked. "I didn't know that. I thought that Wardens had to live in their Compounds for the rest of their lives."
"Ah, that's what many would like you to think. And," Avernus admitted, "it may be that things have become more authoritarian in the past two hundred years. However, the national branches of the Wardens have always had a certain autonomy, and there is no reason that we cannot shape the order in Ferelden in a way pleasing to us. We need recruits. We need more Wardens to fight the Blight, for our role is absolutely essential. Hawke does not wish to force you, but I urge you to make the commitment yourself."
"I'm in." Oghren shrugged. "Sounds like the outfit for me. I've got nothing left back in Orzammar but a crazy wife who'd like to pour molten Nacronite over my head. The Compound in Denerim has more than the comforts of home. This place could be all right, too."
"Thanks, Oghren," said Hawke. "I really appreciate it. What about you, Anders?"
The mage was more reluctant. "I admit that the freedom from the Chantry sounds inviting, but I'm not wild about being a member of an order that can tell me to do things I don't like. I had plenty of that in the Circle."
"Perfect freedom is unattainable," Avernus declared. "Being a hunted apostate is not freedom."
Hawke shrugged. "My father was one, and there was good and bad. But you're limited. You have to stay unnoticed, and that's hard when you have real gifts. If you were a Warden, Anders, you could heal anybody you liked, in the most spectacular way possible, and the Templars couldn't touch you. You could even advertise with broadsheets! I give you my word that after the Blight I'll do my best to make your ties to the Wardens as loose as I can."
"Let me think about it a bit," Anders said, uncomfortable, but tempted. "It might work. And I could mock Templars... " He got up and walked over to the far side of the room, where he paced up and down.
And then Hawke and Avernus turned to look at the beautiful witch.
"Oh, no!" Morrigan scoffed. "You will not persuade me! I am no weak child, to be lulled by smooth words!"
"And how about by facts?" Avernus replied calmly. "I might have information you would find surprising, Mistress Morrigan."
"Don't force her," Hawke said. "If she doesn't want to, she doesn't have to. She saw the Broodmother, and that's not something you can forget."
Avernus looked like he would like to press the matter, but then Anders returned with a light step and a grin.
"I'll do it. I can't wait to see the reactions. And I can shop at the Wonders of Thedas."
"Two are certainly better than nothing," agreed Avernus. "We will do this at once. Oghren, Anders: come with me to my laboratory."
"I'm coming, too," Hawke said hastily. "Sorry to leave you alone, Morrigan. Maybe you could see if Levi has something we could have for supper..."
She rolled her eyes, but sauntered away. After all, she probably wanted to eat, too.
* * *
It was much nicer than Hawke's first Joining. Avernus remembered all the words of the ceremony—which Hawke certainly did not—and both the recruits lived. The overall effect appeared to be far less harsh, too: Oghren never fully lost consciousness. Everyone was rather
pleased with the results.
"Feel like I could mince up a dragon for breakfast!" Oghren proclaimed, thumping his chest.
"I do feel different," Anders said, reflectively touching his fingertips together. "In a good way, too."
"You'll find your casting much improved, and from a far deeper mana well," Avernus told him. "You may want to practice outside for a time to adjust."
Then it was time to give them the truth. There was to be no nonsense about waiting a year: not with the Blight out there. Both recruits were philosophical about it.
'We could be killed in battle, anyway," Anders said with a shrug. "At least this way we could take the Archdemon with us."
"And it's the only way to win!" Oghren added. "Right?"
"Absolutely," Avernus said. "So... four of us now."
"Five," said Hawke. "Five with Alistair. I feel better already."
"Alyson will Join, and that'll make six," said Anders. "Don't make that face, Hawke." He turned to Avernus. "Alyson is his cousin, and a powerful mage. She's with Alistair in Lothering right now. She'll Join, all right. Otherwise it's back to the Circle for her, and then... well, they're still angry with her about a Blood Mage escaping. No, I know she'll insist on Joining, whether you want to protect her or not, Hawke."
"She sounds very sensible," said Avernus.
Hawke grimaced, not liking it, but seeing their logic. And the new Joining potion really was a lot better...
* * *
So they went south, with Avernus riding comfortably in Levi Dryden's wagon. Avernus told Hawke of some funds hidden at the Peak, but between them, they decided to leave them there. Right now, Loghain was willing to finance them. It was pleasant to think that they had a secret reserve about which he knew nothing.
Levi had been offered the position as suttler at Soldier's Peak, and seemed fairly content, if a bit wistful. Among them, they all agreed to say nothing of their adventures at the Peak. No one would believe it, and they would lose credibility. Most especially, there was to be no talk about Avernus' age or his involvement in the old rebellion against King Arland.
Dragon's Era- No Man's Land Page 46
