Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

  Meanwhile, Fergus hoped Isolde stayed in Denerim for a long, long time, offending the King and the rest of the nobles. In her own way, she could well sabotage much of the Guerrins' influence. She was prancing and posturing as if she fancied herself Queen of Ferelden. Within a month, Fergus predicted that every woman in the Landsmeet would hate her like the darkspawn. As to her relationship to Saladin, that was anyone's guess, but her possessive behavior was causing gossip. Fergus and Bryland agreed that that was a very good thing. Fergus worried sometimes about his own cynicism. The last two years had been bitter ones, and had made him bitter by their influence. He earnestly hoped he would not lose all his faith in people, though there were few he respected and even fewer he trusted. There were actually reasons for hope.

  After all, the foundations of Eamon's power were to some extent built on sand. The man had no heir, other than his brother, who was unmarried and nearing middle age. Eamon and Isolde's only child had proved to be a mage, and there was growing talk of how badly that discovery had been managed. Perhaps Eamon could coax another child from Isolde's aging womb, but the taint of magic was from her side of the family. There was no guarantee that the Guerrins could maintain their dynasty.

  Of course, there was no guarantee that Fergus could keep the Cousland name alive, either, though he had turned his attention to the matter. It might cause him exquisite pain, but the plain fact was that he must marry and get an heir...no, lots of heirs... and he must do so immediately. There was but one sensible choice for a bride. His kinsman and ally, Leonas Bryland was expecting it, and Fergus could not see how to put it off.

  Habren had changed in the past two years since he had last seen her, and had actually improved somewhat. She'd had a bad scare during the Blight, and discovered that her life was not really of much importance to anyone but herself and her father. The shock had shaken some of the arrogance out of her. Fergus was surprised, and actually rather touched, that she remembered to pay her condolences to him on the loss of his family, and not sound bored doing it.

  Bryland had two young sons, and the elder would in time inherit South Reach. Habren, though not the heiress of South Reach, had a large dowry, was the best-born maiden in the kingdom now that poor Elissa was gone, and was a rather good-looking girl when she was content. A marriage with her would cement the alliance between Highever in the north and west and South Reach in the south and east. It was an essential move in checkmating the Guerrins. If Fergus did not marry Habren quickly, Saladin Guerrin—or rather his brother on Saladin's behalf —would try to snap her up in short order.

  "I would have spoken sooner," Fergus said to Bryland, when he came with his proposal, "but I expected that the King would offer for her, and did not wish to cause you embarrassment."

  Bryland only smiled sardonically. "Eamon allow Alistair to marry Habren? You must be joking. Would he allow a Fereldan noble of equal rank to be the King's father-in-law? Would he allow me that much access to the King? Never. I predict a foreign marriage, with the bride's family either far, far away, or represented only by a horde of noisy, indolent young men, eager to teach the King how to have a good time."

  "In the Orlesian style?"

  "Perhaps, though Eamon must know that's risky. Giving Amaranthine to the Orlesian Wardens, and then an Orlesian marriage? Very risky indeed. It might cause people to rethink Loghain's warnings, which sounded so unbalanced at the time."

  "Perhaps so. Instead, he might find an appropriate girl among the families of his own banns. Someone young and biddable, whose father would know his place."

  "Possible. It would be marginally more acceptable, though it all depends on how secure Eamon feels."

  "Well, then let us—slowly and cautiously—find ways for Eamon to feel less secure."

  * * *

  Though the wedding Bryland arranged was moderate by former standards, Habren beamed throughout it, making her quite a pretty bride. She had longed for a husband, and it seemed she had always fancied Fergus, even when he was unattainable. Most of the guests seemed to enjoy it too, especially the King, who was persuaded to dance. Saladin, of course, behaved like the agreeable gentleman he was. Eamon's fixed expression of paternal benevolence made Fergus queasy. Predictably, Isolde made faces and critical remarks, until Eamon quietly hushed her.

  Fergus smiled through it all, the image of a happy bridegroom, forcing himself not to compare this wedding with another to a lovely Antivan girl eight years before. The Landsmeet enthusiastically supported the marriage: a cheerful event in difficult times, though there was some surprise that the King had not himself chosen the most eligible noblewoman in Ferelden.

  Fergus took great care that the intimate side of their marriage was agreeable to Habren. He owed her that much. She was enchanted with her new experiences of love-making, and with the title of Teyrna of Highever, which made her, for the moment, the greatest noblewoman in the land, in the absence of a Queen. Fergus had a serious talk with her about what being a Teyrna post-Blight would mean.

  "It's not like before the war," he told her gently. "Howe and his men plundered Highever, and the treasury must have been looted. My mother's jewels... the family heirlooms... they're gone, Habren. We're going to have to be careful with our coin, and from the first we've got to get the people on our side. Everyone's going to look up to you and depend on you. It's going to be a lot of work and take a long time. I know, with your father's training, that you're up to the challenge."

  It was the grossest flattery, but it was working quite well. Habren longed to be admired; longed to be considered a leader. Then, too, she was acting as if she was... in love with him. It was rather embarrassing, but a gentleman always considered his wife's feAstridgs. Fergus knew he could never feel for Habren what he had for Oriana. Habren, however, must not know this. She was trying to be a good wife, in her own way.

  "We have my dowry!" she said eagerly. "We can make that go a long way, surely. And I already have heaps of jewels. More even that that awful Arlessa Isolde! I can wait until the teyrnir recovers from that horrible Howe. I always hated him. He looked at me like a fox looks at a rabbit!"

  He squeezed her hand and smiled warmly. "I'm very proud of you. And I'm glad to have you to stand with me. The journey north is going to be hard."

  Not physically hard, of course: they moved slowly up the Pilgrim's Path, with every available luxury to ease the way for Habren and her attendant ladies. Habren's horsemanship was limited, so Fergus had ordered a large covered carriage, pulled by six oxen and large enough to sleep in. By day it was a moving salon, from which Habren enjoyed the sights in cushioned comfort. Their party was too large and too well-armed to be the target of bandits. Fergus had little in the way of funds, so Bryland had lent him a great deal to hire a large force of reliable soldiers: mostly northerners now released from the army in the wake of the war. Quite a few turned out to be old Highever men. Fergus knew many of their families, and felt they could be relied on. They were the foundation on which he would rebuild Highever's security. They, too, were glad to be going first unpleasantness was arriving at that hated robbers' nest, Vigil's Keep.

  A score of Orlesian Grey Wardens had seized hold of Amaranthine just after the Landsmeet, and were making themselves mightily at home in the arl's castle. For all reports they had recruited a few Fereldans as well, for which Fergus supposed he should be grateful. They seemed to have no notion of actually governing the arling, other than expecting sufficient coin to support them. Administrative duties were entirely under the purview of Seneschal Varel, an old-time Amaranthine retainer.

  Fergus greeted Varel coolly, but found himself welcomed in proper style. The Wardens were made to understand that this was their overlord, and that yes, he and his lady really must be given the best accommodations available. That, of course, meant Rendon Howe's own bedchamber and the other family rooms. It must be borne, and Fergus' rights put beyond all doubt.

  The Grey Wardens were not what Fergus had expected. He knew th
at the order recruited second sons of the nobility rather freely in Astrid, and that it was considered an appropriate vocation for them. These Wardens, however, were not chevaliers. Some of them appeared to be from minor gentry; some appeared to be thugs. The Fereldans were decent sorts. The senior Warden, Kristoff, was clearly a gentleman, though of no notable family. Presumably, the Orlesians would send out an arl who would have some background fitting him to rule an important fiefdom.

  At dinner, Fergus looked about him and remarked to Habren, "Whatever Howe did with his blood money, he didn't put it back into Vigil's Keep. Only the Great Hall is decent, and that work was done after the Rebellion. I suppose he spent the gold in Denerim."

  "Maybe he hid it away," Habren suggested. "Maybe you should have a look at the treasury! I'll bet he kept some of the things he liked best."

  That was actually a very astute observation. There were things he could demand to see as overlord, and things that would overstep his bounds. Fergus slept—badly— on it, and the following day he gave Habren and her ladies free reign to plunder the family bedchambers and the solar. She busied herself, happily tapping on walls and delving into chests and wardrobes. The Wardens had already done some serious plundering-except in the Arl's private study, which Varel had locked, pending the arrival of his Orlesian master— but some things were either beneath their notice or of no value to them. Meanwhile, Fergus held a frank conference with Varel.

  "I need to know exactly how the Wardens are fixed as to coin. I have to know whether I can expect the rightful tribute or not, because Maker knows Highever will need it. And I want to inspect the dungeons."

  "The dungeons, Your Grace?"

  "Yes," Fergus drawled, with just a touch of sarcasm. "The dungeons. Just in case there are still some Highever folk there. Overlooked, of course."

  Varel bristled slightly, but could hardly fault the Teyrn of Highever for his bitterness. "The keys are in my office. I shall fetch them at once."

  "Do so."

  To his bitter disappointment, he found no one he knew from Highever, but quite a few people who claimed to have been unjustly imprisoned by "that bastard Howe."

  Those words were their password to freedom. Fergus gave them coin and ordered their release.

  "That one's a known thief!" Varel protested in a low voice.

  "Then you'll just have to catch him again," Fergus replied coldly. "You'll understand that after my family's murders, it's not easy for me to tell the honest men from the criminals here in Amaranthine."

  It was rude, but he could not bring himself to care. He found some interesting things in the dungeons: a cache of family letters, some of the correspondence between Howe and his officers pertaining to their murder plot, some Highever loot, stowed away carelessly. He showed Varel the laurel branches incised in the silver, with a nasty smile.

  "I'll be taking this with me, along with any other trophies of Howe's I find. If your new arl doesn't like it, he's welcome to take it up with me."

  Some of the letters belonged to Delilah Howe. Fergus had been told that she was dead, but no one seemed to know how she had died.

  "Is Lady Delilah buried here?"

  "No, Your Grace," replied Varel, surprised. "Lord Thomas' body was recovered, but Lady Delilah simply disappeared. And, of course, Lord Nathaniel is still abroad. The Howes had kin in Markham."

  "If he has any sense, he'll stay there," said Fergus. "He would hardly have the stones to show his face in Ferelden."

  Poor Delilah. He supposed he could spare a drop of pity for her. She was always nice enough, but terribly dreary, and entirely under her father's thumb. Howe had pushed hard for Fergus to marry her, but Fergus had never found her in the least attractive, and his parents were not the sort to force him into a marriage distasteful to him. Howe might be oblivious, but the spectacle of his own ghastly marriage was an awful warning to all the young people who witnessed it.

  How could Delilah just have "disappeared?" That made no sense. Most likely she had fled after her father's death and disgrace, and taken ship for the Free Marches to find her brother. By far the best place for them both. So much for the history of the Howes in Ferelden. If she were still in Ferelden, surely King Alistair would not have had the brainstorm of giving Amaranthine away to foreigners.

  He insisted on visiting the crypts as well. Varel did not gainsay him, and they found valuables stowed in one of the ancient coffins of the Howe patriarchs. Rather recent valuables, as it happened. Fergus had no smiles left, and simply ordered one of his men to gather it all up.

  Varel was probably not at fault, but the whole experience was as unpleasant as a breakfast of cold shit porridge.

  Then he insisted on seeing the books. They went to Varel's office for that. None of the slaving gold had come through the arling, but there were quite a few inexplicable entries. Actually, the arling was a mess, and Fergus discovered that the Wardens were being supported by funds sent from their headquarters in Weisshaupt. That clarified the issue most important to Fergus.

  "I trust they sent plenty," he told Varel crisply. "For I expect my rightful dues to be paid, and on time by Satinalia. I don't want to hear about how the arling has suffered or about how everything is in chaos. I want my tribute in coin or kind, and I want it promptly. If the Grey Wardens want the arling, they can cough up the funds for it."

  Senior Warden Kristoff was called in, and he was courteous enough, though firm for the Grey Wardens' rights.

  "We are a warrior order, Your Grace, and we must concern ourselves with fighting darkspawn, not with mere matters of administration."

  "Well," Fergus replied, "I do have to concern myself with mere matters of administration, because if I don't a great many people will suffer and starve. If enough people starve, there will not be enough hands to feed you Grey Wardens, so I think my task quite important enough. I have made the situation clear to Seneschal Varel. And by the way, I have fought darkspawn myself, during the actual Blight. I didn't see you there, and I don't need you to tell me they're dangerous."

  He stalked back upstairs, and was pleased to see that Habren and her ladies had been rather destructive. They had among them found some very nice and useful things, including an entire cupboard of fine linen. Their greatest discovery was a false back in one of the wardrobes, which proved to be the entry to a secret staircase to the arl's study. Fergus knew he would be pushing too hard if he had demanded to search the arl's private study, but Varel never need know about this.

  Habren had actually managed not to make any noise.

  "I wanted it to be a secret!" she confided, eyes brilliant. "I wanted to show it to you myself!"

  "You did exactly right, my dear," he assured her, kissing her hand. "And I need you to keep it a secret until we're all safely back in Highever. That goes for you ladies as well. Have I your word?"

  "—Of course, Your Grace."

  "—Of course, Teyrn Fergus."

  "—We promise."

  Habren insisted on coming, and Fergus felt she deserved it, as long as she sat still, and didn't make a sound.

  Here was gold, here were jewels —some of them hauntingly familiar— here were precious heirlooms. Fergus restrained himself from violence, and began systematically packing up what he felt was rightfully his.

  The arl's desk was locked, but to Habren's awe and delight, Fergus broke it open by force, muffling the noise with a torn-down wall hanging. His mother's wedding ring glittered dimly in a drawer, along with Elissa's favorite locket and Oriana's pearl amulet. Fergus snatched them up, trembling. If Varel dared to make an appearance right now, Fergus knew he would cut his bloody head off.

  There was a great deal of correspondence here. There was no time to read it now, but he sorted through it quickly and kept most of it to read later. He wanted to know who had known what, and when they had known it. Habren had some pink ribbon— her favorite color— and bound the letters and documents into neat bundles, proud to be helping. Everything
was quietly passed up the little spiral staircase, including a small but heavy strongbox that Fergus had been unable to open. Surely back in Highever he could find a locksmith.

  They left early the next morning, after suitable ceremony. Fergus generally cared little for such things, but knew it was very important here. He was pleasantly surprised when a pair of Fereldan Warden recruits approached him on parting, each carrying a stack of books.

  "We found these, Your Grace, in the shelves," said an earnest young woman. "They're all stamped as belonging to the Teyrn of Highever's library. We felt you should have them."

  "Thank you," Fergus managed, surprised beyond measure. "Thank you very much indeed!"

  * * *

  Between that and the loot in the big carriage, the visit ended on a far pleasanter note than Fergus could have imagined. They still had the balance of the journey before them; long days before they drew rein in Highever itself. On their arrival, the first thing Fergus asked to see was the resting place of his family. Habren insisted on going along.

  Not that her presence actually helped much, but it was good not be alone when he reached the pit, the old midden when the kitchen trash and chamberpots had been emptied. Habren, not fully understanding what she was letting herself in for, had to peer close to understand what was in front of her, not ever having seen long-decayed corpses in a battlefield or a mass grave before. Then she gave a little cry, and pressed her hands over her face, turning away to be sick.

  There was not much stink anymore, not after five seasons and the depredations of the birds and wild beasts. Howe's men had even not bothered to cover their deeds with a few shovelfuls of earth. Fergus sent Habren up to the castle, where they were attempting to put a few rooms in order, and then tried to sift through the remains, hoping to identify something. Hoping to find his little boy. Hoping to find his wife, his mother, his sister... his father.

  It was quite impossible. Some of the remains were scattered, and one could not tell the difference between elf and human; between man and woman. The bodies had been stripped bare of every scrap of clothing and then left to rot. There was nothing to be done but heap a mound over them, and commission a stone. Someday, he would raise a statue there, but that was a luxury he could not yet afford.