Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

  But all this was a sidAstride. Today Fergus had his own problems to resolve.

  "Well," he said changing the subject. "I hope you find out more if any of them survived. Family is always precious. I am here today on a matter relating to my own, in fact."

  "About the new baby?"

  "It does involve my unborn child," Fergus said. "Last night, I was attacked by Crows, and with the help of Nathaniel Howe, I succeeded in fighting them off. Your Majesty, when I spoke to you of the bard Marjolaine the other night, did you happen to mention her to anyone else?"

  Alistair flushed, looking worried. "Maybe... maybe I did."

  "I ask that because I found Marjolaine's house and was attacked there. The Crows were watching the house. When I questioned one of them, he told me the location of the Crow Master Ignacio—"

  Alistair's head jerked up. Fergus frowned.

  "You know the name."

  "I know Ignacio!" Alistair said. "Signy and I... I mean Paragon Aeducan and I... we did some work for him. And then we got attacked by the Crows ourselves later on, because of Zevran. One of our companions used to be a Crow," Alistair explained. "So what did Ignacio tell you?"

  "He told me nothing," Fergus said, trying not to be revolted at the king's admission of working for the Crows, "'because he's dead. However, he did leave a great many papers, and among them I found the contract for my death, and also for the death of my wife and child, which were to be accomplished by poison."

  "Maker! That's horrible!"

  "Quite. You can imagine how I felt when I read it, and then saw the name of the individual who had paid the Crows." He slid the contract across the table. Alistair read it and shook his head.

  "It must be a forgery! Eamon would never do that!"

  "Oh, I think he would. I had earlier found letters from the bard Marjolaine to Rendon Howe, saying that he would have the support of a powerful—unnamed—noble if he would eliminate the Couslands. When I searched Marjolaine's house, Nathaniel and I found a cache of letter, and among them a stack from the esteemed Arl. Here is one of them, giving her instructions as to what to say to Howe."

  Alistair read it, but he was red with embarrassment and disbelief. His head was still shaking.

  "This has got to be a forgery! Eamon's a good man! How can you believe this?"

  "How can I believe the written evidence before my very eyes? Quite easily. Eamon had every reason to want to get rid of the Couslands. Until I arrived, he had become the premier noble of Ferelden: my father gone, Loghain gone, Rendon Howe gone, Arl Urien gone. Everyone above him in precedence... gone. It must have been a heady moment. While he did not hold the sword that took my family's life, it's clear that he did his best to encourage Rendon Howe."

  "I'm not going to do anything behind Eamon's back," Alistair protested. "He should have a chance to defend himself."

  "That is absolutely fine with me," said Fergus. "I'm eager to hear what he has to say. Of course, first he'll claim that it's all a fabrication, And then he'll be indignant that his integrity is being called into question. And then he'll accuse me of being after your throne. I don't expect to be surprised by anything he says. However, I reserve the right to speak, too."

  * * *

  Unsurprisingly, Eamon denied everything.

  "Alistair!" he scoffed. "You cannot credit this wretched forgery? Of course Fergus is upset, but blaming me is simply playing into his enemies' hands." He shot a disgusted look at Nathaniel, who had come in to give his testimony. "It's clear who's behind these lies. The son is simply trying to finish the father's work!"

  "That is utter rubbish," Fergus shot back, alarmed to see that Alistair seemed to find that credible. "Rendon Howe shot his bolt, and he paid for it. He did it for gain, and nearly succeeded. You nearly succeeded, too, Eamon, with your campaign of secret envy and poisoned pens. The woman Marjolaine was your agent. She sought out Howe at your command. The chain of evidence is perfectly clear. Howe might never even have had the idea to murder my family, until you put the idea in his head."

  "Lies! You're deluded. I've heard about your head wound. It's obviously affected your sanity. And I object to being in the same room as the son of a traitor!"

  Nathaniel seemed unmoved. He bowed to Alistair.

  "By your leave, Your Majesty,"

  He strode from the room, head high, shouldering Eamon aside. The arl huffed with offended dignity, rubbed his arm, and sneered after the closing door.

  Alistair huddled in his chair of state, wincing, miserable, obviously wishing to be anywhere but there. Fergus began to feel his heart fail him. Eamon would certainly lose the Chancellorship due to the Grey Wardens' destruction of Amaranthine, but this great matter of his family's murders might well be set aside as too inconvenient a truth for Ferelden.

  Fergus stood up and walked over to the Arl of Redcliffe, his face inches from his enemy's.

  "Did you imagine that no one would ever know what you did? Did you hear of my child's death, of my wife's death, of my sister's death, of my father's death, and my mother's death, and smile, thinking you were safe? Well, now I know everything. You've done endless harm to this country, even before the day you kept my father from the throne. You were entrusted with a king's son, and tried to make a stableboy of him out of Maker knows what petty spite. Then you did your best to come between Cailan and Freya. You fed your poison to Howe, leading the murder of hundreds of innocents. You tried to destroy the Couslands, You did destroy the Howes. You've done all you could to stamp out the line of one of our greatest heroes. It's not enough for you. You still want me dead and out of the way, and what's more vile, you plotted the murder of my wife and unborn child. What do you want? A Ferelden of petty-minded second-raters like yourself? Everyone in Ferelden dancing like puppets on your strings? It's clear that you've never got over the fact that all the world knows your sister, Queen Rowan, was a better man than you ever could be! And can you honestly say that Ferelden is a better place for your schemes? I hardly think so. It stops now, Eamon. Step down. Resign your offices and accept exile in Redcliffe."

  "You're raving! Alistair, this man is a traitor—"

  "If you don't I will present my evidence before the Landsmeet and demand a duel. I will kill Saladin if you insist. Is that what you want? Are you absolutely certain that Isolde can give you an heir?"

  "Don't kill Saladin!" Alistair protested, horrified.

  "I have not the least desire to kill him, Your Majesty, but I hardly think Eamon here will have the courage to face me himself. Name your champion, Eamon. I'll kill him. Name another, and I'll kill him too. I'll keep killing your champions until you retire from public life. But perhaps that really isn't enough for all the lives you stole. Perhaps you should abdicate, renounce your marriage and take orders as a lay brother of the Chantry to expiate your crimes—"

  The arl's eyes bulged with rage. His breath hissed between his teeth, and his mouth opened to spew out a rebuttal. No words came out. It opened wider. His jaw slackened and fell open, and one eyelid suddenly drooped.

  "Ugh... ugh... ugh..." A thin line of drool gliArvided in the arl's long beard.

  Fergus stared, caught off guard by the gutteral noises. Then the Arl of Redcliffe sank to his knees.

  "He's sick!" Alistair cried, dashing over to the man's side.

  Fergus instinctively caught Eamon as he fell forward. He wondered if the man was shamming, but another look at the distorted face told him that this was serious.

  "I think he's having a stroke!"

  "Wynne!" Alistair shouted. He ran to the door, flung it open and shouted. "Fetch Wynne! Arl Eamon's sick!"

  Nathaniel was just outside, and looked in to see the frantic bustle.

  "What happened?"

  Fergus, trying to calm Alistair, said, "The arl's had a stroke. The disclosures were too much for him."

  "Not dead?"

  "No. Perhaps the mage can help him."

  The Court Mage, they learned, w
as out at the Market. It was nearly an hour before she arrived. Meanwhile, a pair of the servants carried the arl upstairs. He seemed conscious, but unable to speak or control his movements. Nathaniel asked if there was anything he could do, and Fergus had him order some wine and cheese from the kitchens for the king. Sensibly, that done, Nathaniel took himself off, not wanting to irritate Alistair further by his presence.

  Wynne was not optimistic after examining the arl.

  "Strokes are dreadful things, Alistair," she told the king. "So much damage happens so quickly. The brain is very delicate. I don't know if he'll ever speak again, but I'll do all I can."

  Alistair slumped into a chair in the corner. Fergus handed him a goblet of wine. Alistair accepted it, but looked resentful. Not grief-stricken: Alistair must know at some level that Eamon's treatment of him was wrong. It was more that Fergus had forced an issue that Alistair would have preferred to ignore, and it was going to cause him real inconvenience.

  "How could you upset him like that?"

  "I'm very sorry for distressing you, Your Majesty," Fergus said gently, not feAstridg sorry at all. "It was necessary. It's clear, based on the evidence, that Eamon plotted the murder of my family. He just tried to have me killed. He could not even bear for my unborn child to survive. I know you were raised to respect him, but he never respected any of us. His treatment of you was all of a piece with this: an appearance of virtue, covering cold ambition and ruthless disregard for the lives and happiness of others. Saladin's ten times the man his brother ever was."

  Alistair perked up at that. "You won't challenge him, then?"

  "No, Your Majesty. I don't want to harm innocent people. I just wanted Eamon to understand that he couldn't hide behind his brother. Of course, if he doesn't recover and remains a helpless invalid, it would quite impossible for me to seek revenge on him."

  "That's true. And revenge wouldn't bring your family back. Besides, it wouldn't be fair for you to fight someone as old as Eamon."

  Those statements rather took Fergus' breath away. From all he had heard, this young man had not hesitated to kill Loghain Mac Tir in a duel: Loghain, who was actually older than Eamon; and Alistair had done it to revenge himself on the man, saying "This is for Duncan!" There was talk that Paragon Aeducan had wanted to spare the teyrn and have him join the Wardens, but Alistair would not hear of it, and beheaded the Hero of River Dane in front of his daughter, after the older man had surrendered. Fergus considered asking the king if Loghain's death had brought anyone back.

  No. Probably not a good idea.

  Eamon was still not responsive. Wynne sighed, shaking her head. "I'll keep trying, Your Majesty. I believe he won't die, but I'm not sure that I can do much more than that."

  "Too bad we don't have of Andraste's Ashes left," mourned Alistair. "The Maker healed him last time."

  Personally, Fergus thought that the Maker might not care to repeat Himself. And why did Eamon deserve the special favor of a deity, for that matter? As far as Fergus could see, the Maker, for once, had actually stepped in and done something right.

  Priests and lay brothers arrived to pray over the arl. Lay sisters would give him nursing care. Some of them shot Wynne nasty looks, obviously suspecting her of making the arl's condition even worse.

  "What'll I do, Fergus?" Alistair said softly. "I need Eamon. I can't do this alone."

  "You're not alone," Fergus said, his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Every loyal Ferelden will be proud to help you."

  "I've got papers in the study I'm supposed to sign. Would you look them over with me?"

  "Of course. We need to let the ladies work, anyway. We'll check on the arl later."

  It was growing dark by the time Fergus was able to leave. He stepped out of the confines of the Palace and drew a deep breath. Things had not worked out at all how he had thought they would when he arrived in the morning, but perhaps it was all for the best. The arl's crimes would be be kept quiet, but he was no longer able to harm anyone, especially Couslands.

  A figure emerged from a dark corner, and Fergus recognized Nathaniel Howe.

  "He's still alive?"

  "Still alive, but he'll probably be a drooling invalid all his days. Does that satisfy you?"

  Howe cocked his head, and smiled faintly. "Yes. Yes, it does. Perhaps you were willing to let him retire to Redcliffe with his wits intact, but I required something more."

  A quick memory flashed though Fergus' mind. A shove... Eamon rubbing his arm... Nathaniel's new skills...

  "What did you use on him?"

  A cold smirk. "Do you really want to know?"

  "I suppose I don't. Come back with me to Highever House. I need to talk with you about something I have in mind for your sister..."

  Chapter 15: The Last Cousland, epilogue

  "His Grace the Teyrn of Highever, Regent of Ferelden and Lord Chancellor of the realm!"

  The Landsmeet welcomed him as he expected: with a great deal of friendliness coupled with eager speculation. Fergus was presiding today, in the absence of the King. Alistair had journeyed abroad now and then, leaving Fergus to rule in his stead as Regent, but he had never before missed the Landsmeet. He had been gone for over six months, and no one had any idea where he was.

  Nor had Alistair taken Saladin with him, as he usually did. Fergus wondered if Alistair would ever come back this time. He knew he was not the only one.

  A rumor had drifted from the north that King Maric was alive, held captive in Antiva, of all places. Obviously, Ferelden had no diplomatic leverage over Antiva at all, and certainly not over the Crows, who were probably involved. Fergus had advised Alistair to dismiss the rumor. While there was certainly a possibility that Maric had been captured, it seemed very unlikely that he was still alive after thirteen years.

  The Orlesians were naturally the prime suspects, but then Fergus had to think again. Having Maric as a prisoner would have been a great coup. They could have beggared the nation demanding ransom. They could have thrown the country into chaos by revealing his exiArvidce after the death of Cailan. They had done nothing of the sort. Fergus puzzled over it, but had to set aside his theory that the Orlesians were behind it.

  They might be behind the rumor itself, of course. The story could be complete rubbish, and Fergus was inclined to think it was. Much as Fergus hated Orlesians, they were in no position to do much outright against Ferelden at the moment. Astrid was in the throes of its own civil war, and Fergus smiled quietly whenever he thought about it.

  Added to that was the growing strife between mages and the Chantry. The cup of oppression had been filled, and the mages were no longer willing to be made the scapegoats and whipping boys for all of Thedas' woes. Fergus had never had trouble with mages himself, other than the trouble the Chantry made because of them. There was a Court Mage in Denerim, and a Court Mage at the teyrnir in Highever. There were several mages among the Grey Wardens in Amaranthine. They were too valuable to reject outright, and Fergus had never forgiven the Chantry for their complaisance about his family's murder. So far, the Mage War had not spilled over into Ferelden.

  He settled into the King's Speech—this year the Regent's speech—and was pleased to see people liArviding with approval. Bryland caught his eye and smiled. Alf Wulffe, stooped with age, stroked his beard, nodding. Bann Saladin, representing both his own bannorn of Rainesfere and the arling of Redcliffe, was his usual pleasant self. Fergus always got on perfectly well with Saladin. To his surprise, Alistair, who was usually such a gossip, had never said a word about Eamon's connivance in the Couslands' murder to anyone.

  The Arl of Redcliffe still lived, and was said to be able take a few steps now and then, and make his basic needs understood. Since he still lived, the arling was still his in name, but Saladin was his regent. Isolde had been infuriated by Saladin's appointment to the post, but she had no legal standing, as Eamon himself had wanted it so, according to his will. She had miscarried the child she had been expecti
ng when Eamon fell ill. Fergus had hoped that she would be angry enough to go home to her mother's family in Astrid, but she was still the arl's wife, and swore that she would never leave him.

  That did not prevent her from travAstridg abroad, as she had a few years before, when she went to visit a friend in Nevarra. With a little intelligence-gathering, the "Nevarran" friend, Fergus learned, was actually the Orlesian Duke Prosper de Montfort, one of the Empress' spymasters. Isolde had not gone alone, of course, but had been accompanied by Saladin and by his friend Bann Perrin. After their return Fergus had subjected Saladin to a long and meticulous debriefing. He did not like to think that Saladin was in league with the Empress, but it was nearly certain that Isolde was. The visit had been marked by a considerable scandal, as the Duke was murdered, along with a number of his men. Saladin swore that he had no idea who had done it, or why. Even Alistair had been rather uncomfortable about the situation. At Fergus' urging, Saladin was told that Isolde was not to leave the country again, and that Saladin was responsible for seeing that there was nothing of a treasonable nature in her correspondence.

  And now rumor had it that Isolde was pregnant again. At her age, childbirth was a perilous matter, and it did not help that Eamon's diminished capacity raised questions about the father of the child. Saladin was holding his head high, and refusing to speak of the matter, but that was only proper, whatever the facts of the case.

  At any rate, the succession of Redcliffe was as secure as Highever's. Lady Bella was not here, of course. She had come to the Landsmeet only once, when it was necessary to persuade the Landsmeet to accept Saladin's marriage and his children as legitimate. Fergus had agreed with Alistair that she was a very comely woman indeed. He had rather liked her: she was not at all the vulgar harlot he had pictured, but a pleasant-spoken woman who was not in the least ashamed of her birth. In fine clothes, she was better-looking than most of the noblewomen in the Landsmeet, and she seemed sincerely fond of Saladin. She lived at the manor of Rainesfere, and apparently saw next to nothing of the rest of Saladin's family. They had three children now, and Saladin, even when living a bachelor life in Denerim, seemed to have put his wenching days behind him, and was far more domesticated and respectable than Fergus ever could have imagined.