No one had succeeded in domesticating the King. True, he was still a young man, but he had refused marriage so frequently and positively that Fergus now wondered if he would ever find anyone to suit him. His choices were limited, true: the Landsmeet would not tolerate a foreign marriage, and there was a distinct lack of eligible noblewomen of suitable age or sufficient attractions. Alistair positively cringed when being introduced when newly marriageable girls were presented to him.
Perhaps it was guilt or regret over his broken relationship with Paragon Aeducan. For his part, Fergus really did not care if Alistair married or not. If he must marry, Fergus would insist that it be a decent Ferelden girl with a strain of Calenhad's blood, so that he need not regard the entire succession as a fraud. Saladin might find happiness with a barmaid, but Fergus was prepared to be firm if Alistair tried to make such a one Queen of Ferelden. From time to time, Fergus spoke to Alistair about the importance of a secure succession, but did not press him to make a marriage that would make him miserable.
No, he was dishonest. He thought it for the best if Alistair never married, and the lie he was living perished with Alistair himself. It was not a completely disinterested opinion, since he and his children were Alistair's declared heirs. He had never found any evidence to change his opinion that Alistair was no son of Maric's.
The mystery of Alistair's mother remained a mystery. At Fergus' command, the City Guard had actually looked into the fate of the King's half-sister and her children. The woman had indeed been killed when the darkspawn rampaged through Denerim. Her second oldest boy, old enough to keep silent even as he heard his family slaughtered, had survived, hidden under a overturned laundry tub. He was taken off the street and placed in a Chantry school. He was deeply traumatized, and took orders as a lay brother when he turned sixteen. He now lived a quiet life of prayer and contemplation in a remote monastery. When gently questioned, it was clear that he knew nothing of his grandmother... or his grandfather... or even of his own father. Young Brother Derric was a dead end.
If Alistair could really be said to resemble Maric in anything, it was in the way in which he was King. His heart was not in it. Alistair meant well, and was very good at meeting people and talking to them. He was the friendly face of the Crown. He learned to make progresses and public appearances and smile throughout. He learned his speeches for the Landsmeet by heart, and could preside fairly effectively, when he could not escape the responsibility. Other than his tendency to drink too much, he could pass for a good king.
The real work was done by others, most specifically by his Chancellor, Fergus Cousland. Early on, Fergus had taken on some very sound clerks and secretaries, and thus was not so entirely overwhelmed by the Crown's business that he could not tend to Highever and his own growing family.
Caradoc had turned six, and was an active, healthy boy. He was curiously tenderhearted, and had no great love of the hunting field. Fergus sometimes wondered what would come of that, as he grew older and learned the knightly arts. It was his sister, Elissa, who had the fierce streak, even at age four. Habren had wanted a little girl to dress up like a doll, but so far had had little luck with Elissa, who was as stubborn as her namesake. Habren had greater hopes for little Aoife, who was the easiest of all the babies, and had a mop of adorably curly hair.
And now Habren was pregnant again. She was here today, of course, dressed like a queen, not wanting to miss Fergus' moment of glory; though a little put out that protocol did not permit her to stand on the royal dais with her husband. She wanted another boy, "to round the family out,' but said she was done after this one. Peevish and self-absorbed as she could be, she was not a bad mother, as noble mothers went. Well, so far, at any rate. Fergus trembled for the day when Elissa was fourteen or so. There would be conflict, and it would likely be spectacular.
His speech continued with a review of Ferelden's current economic status, which was not at all bad, perhaps because most of Thedas was in turmoil.
A little voice rose from the ranks of the nobility.
"Mamma, is he going to talk forever and ever?"
Fergus grinned. Teyrna Freya was not so weak-kneed as to blush, but she leaned over and whispered sternly to the little girl with very bright blue eyes who clung to the skirts of her gown. Lady Celia Mac Tir scuffed her velvet slippers on the floor and was still. Freya had married the younger son of one of her banns, on the condition that he take her family name. Lord Hywel was not a complete nonentity: he was a pleasant fellow with a respectable noble lineage and a sound knowledge of the lumber and salt industries, so vital to Gwaren. Above all, he had proved that his wife was not barren. She now had a son and a daughter to carry on the heritage of the Hero of River Dane. However, she was very much the Teyrna, and very much in charge. The loss of her throne, her first husband, and her father, the experience of imprisonment and threatened execution, eight years of stress and two children had taken their toll: she was no longer the "rose among brambles," as the Empress had once called her, but a middle-aged woman with a thickened waist and wary eyes. She had already approached Fergus about a match between her little Celia and his son Caradoc. Habren did not much like the idea, but Fergus was considering it carefully. The children had played together in a friendly enough fashion when they were introduced a few days before.
Young Ferelden—as Fergus called the generation born after the Blight—was prospering. Even Wulffe had an heir—a son of his old age— to carry on his line. Ferelden was recovering well from the Blight and Civil War; recovering while the old powers crumbled. Ferelden's monarchy, in particular, was stronger than ever before, for Denerim, as capital of Ferelden, was the King's personal arling: giving the Crown a reliable income and a vital powerbase. With the extinction of the Kendalls, Fergus had pushed hard to return the capital to the royal line. He had been very pleased with the result.
The oddity was of course Amaranthine.
Fergus had long ago promised himself that if the day came when he was King of Ferelden, he would rescind the Grey Wardens' possession of Amaranthine, or at least arrange for it to end with the death of the current Warden-Commander. It was all wrong. Fergus understood the importance of the Grey Wardens: he agreed that their mission was essential. However, he did not see that their mission was at all compatible with providing the kind of care and attention that an arling required.
Nathaniel Howe, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, agreed with him to some extent. He was just too busy to be the kind of arl he would have liked to be. His duties often took him to foreign lands. Wardens had secrets, and Nathaniel was unable to explain why he and his Wardens were needed in the Free Marches, and why Marcher Wardens could not handle the tasks instead. Fergus had confidence in him, but not in any future Grey Warden that Weisshaupt might see fit to appoint to the post. Besides, deep anger lingered over the destruction of the city of Amaranthine. Only a Howe could have held the situation there together. The Landsmeet—and the people of Amaranthine— would never tolerate any other Grey Warden in his position.
Ultimately, Fergus planned for the arling to go to Darron and Delilah Bliss. Darron had done very well with the rebuilding of the city, and was now fairly popular. The marriage between the bann and his lady had never warmed up, but it had been fruitful, and they both behaved very properly in public. Delilah often followed her brother on his travels, taking her eldest son along, and altogether seemed more interested in being Nathaniel's sister than a wife to her husband. Well... not all political marriages were perfectly happy ones. He knew that from personal experience.
Not that the Grey Wardens would be homeless if they lost Amaranthine. Nathaniel had told him that the old fortress of Soldier's Peak was being renovated. Apparently, a descendant of the Drydens had approached him, wanting an investigation of the old tales about Sophia Dryden and her rebellion against King Arland.
"We didn't find any evidence of her innocence," Nathaniel had told him, "but we found plenty to indicate that King Arland was a right basta
rd. However, it's all over and done with ages ago. Levi Dryden was disappointed, but I offered him a post as sutler at Soldier's Peak. The place is really not in bad shape at all."
Nor was the city of Amaranthine. Nathaniel's pleas and Alistair's furious letters—ghost-written by Fergus—had wrung a considerable sum out of Weisshaupt for the reconstruction of the ruined city. Ironically, the place now looked better than it had before it was burned. A large number of the refugees who had previously fled to Kirkwall had returned to Ferelden, and many of them were now settled in the resurrected Amaranthine.
The Landsmeet heartily applauded his speech. Habren was beaming, squeezing little Caradoc's shoulders in excitement. The boy winced and rolled his eyes at his father. Fergus grinned back. Was this what it was like to be king?
* * *
The days of the Landsmeet were a constant balancing act: the rights of the nobles versus the welfare of the people; diplomatic thrust and parry; pacifying the Chantry while protecting Fereldan's mages from the kind of slaughter raging elsewhere in Thedas. A balancing act? Yes. It was also like rowing upstream against a strong current. Ruling a kingdom was hard work, but a Cousland never shrank from his duty. A final session, a farewell feast, and he could breathe for another year.
The following morning, his father-in-law dropped by to play with his grandchildren and then enjoy a private chat with Fergus in his study.
"All in all," Bryland said, "I think it went quite well. Nobody fought a duel to the death, the Chantry didn't threaten an Exalted March, and the Bannorn was no more restive than usual."
Fergus smiled grimly. "And as long as a Grendle fleet doesn't appear off the north coast, I'll consider the kingdom safe for the moment."
They lifted their goblets, saluting their mutual relief. The Grendle had savaged Kirkwall a few years before, and the City of Chains had not yet recovered from it when the Mage War exploded there—literally. Between the casualties from the fighting, the acts of terror, and the refugees fleeing the violence, Kirkwall had lost over half its population.
Bryland looked out at the window at Denerim spread out below. "No crazy mages have blown up the Cathedral, either."
Fergus picked up his starball from the desk and studied it idly. It was an expensive one: a gift from the King of Nevarra. He shrugged.
"Not that I'm wasting a great deal of sympathy on Kirkwall—or on that lunatic Meredith Stannard. It still makes me grit my teeth when I think of how she behaved to the King during his visit there."
Bryland grimaced in sympathy. "You did your best to dissuade him from going. Of course no head of state should undertake that kind of mission himself—especially not to a place like Kirkwall. The very tone of the woman's letters made clear what kind of reception he could expect."
"A King of Ferelden was publicly held up to scorn by that usurping fanatic. I would have thought a humiliation like that would have taught Alistair a lesson about foreign adventures, but apparently I was mistaken."
"At least he didn't take Saladin with him this time. Saladin's only too happy to tell him his ideas are brilliant. I don't know if the man's an idiot or a very clever schemer."
That actually made Fergus laugh. "I'm absolutely positive he's not at all clever! He was used to agreeing to everything Eamon said, and now he agrees with everything Alistair says. The worst and most dangerous sort of adviser for a king."
"At least Alistair left him behind this time."
Fergus snorted. He was not actually very pleased with that decision. As foolish as he sometimes thought Saladin, at least he was loyal to Alistair and would have have stood by him, no matter what they faced. Fergus might have reservations about Alistair as king, but he liked Alistair personally, and the thought of him at the mercy of whatever soldiers-of-fortune he had taken up with was disturbing, to say the least.
Bryland sighed. "Perhaps he'll really find Maric. I hardly know whether to hope he does, or not. He might be in for a painful disillusionment. And what if Maric came home? He'd still be the rightful king. What in the Maker's name would we all do then?"
Fergus imagined King Maric returning to Ferelden, and he rumpled his own hair in amused horror. What a mess that would be! A good thing? A bad thing? What would Maric think, to meet Alistair? How would he feel to learn that Cailan was dead, that Loghain was dead? Would he disabuse Alistair of his notions of kingly heritage? Would he be kind, and let the younger man down easily? Or would Maric be a shell of himself, driven mad by years in a dungeon? After losing the past thirteen years, how would Maric—even a fully recovered, healthy Maric—cope with a Ferelden so changed? It could be bad... very, very, very bad... but it would be foolish to worry over it now.
"We'd stand by him, of course. As you say, he'd still be the rightful king."
Bryland sighed, and the two men were silent again, lost in thought.
Fergus had liked King Maric, though he had never been one of Maric's inner circle. He had been only the young heir of Highever, proud of his new baby son, when King Maric disappeared. He had not sat on the Privy Council, obviously, and was new to voting at the Landsmeet. He and Maric had no personal relationship of any kind. Few people had a personal relationship with Maric. He seemed to be close only to Loghain.
Father knew Maric well, of course, but told his family that the King had his secrets, like any man. "After what he, Loghain, and the Queen went through together in the war, it's not surprising how he values the man. There's no closer bond than that. It's like Rendon, Leonas, and me, you see."
At the time, Fergus thought he had, but in retrospect was not at all sure. Rendon Howe had renounced that particular bond pretty thoroughly. And there was no denying that King Maric simply did not like being king, and did his best to escape from it at every opportunity. Mother had once suggested that the King's disappearance was his final, successful escape, but Father refused to believe that the King would do anything so selfish. Fergus was not sure about that, either. There was the laundress' tale; known only at third-hand, but suggesting that Maric was capable of heartlessly selfish conduct. There had been a child... apparently a child of Maric's... and either that child was the abandoned, neglected Alistair, or, as Fergus believed, the infant had died with its cast-off mother, whose surviving child was driven out to fend for herself. Neither story reflected well on Maric.
* * *
Fergus thought that the next dawn presaged a day like any other, but he soon learned how untrue that was. A servant interrupted the family breakfast.
"The King has returned, Your Grace! He asks that you attend him at your earliest convenience!"
"Maker!" snapped Habren, deeply annoyed. She scowled at Fergus, and returned to helping Aoife with her porridge.
Fergus dismissed the servant. Little Caradoc, who was already no fool, had exasperatingly noticed his mother's expression.
"Aren't we happy the King came back, Father?"
"Yes," Fergus said firmly, giving Habren a look. "We're very happy that the King is home and safe. Your mother is just vexed that Aoife spilled her porridge. I'll go see His Majesty right away. Perhaps he'd like to come to dinner."
He got up right away, bursting with curiosity. Habren summoned a nursemaid to watch the children, and bustled after Fergus, wanting a private word in his dressing room.
Before she could open her mouth, Fergus put up a hand.
"Don't say it. It could be construed as treason."
"It's not treason!" Habren pouted. "Here we've been doing all the work and managing those horrid backwoods banns at the Landsmeet, and then he" (the way she always referred to Alistair) "trots on back to lay about, drink our wine, and make silly jokes."
"He's still the King."
"He's no more a King than I'm the Chief Archon of Tevinter!" she shot back. "Your throne was stolen by those disgusting Guerrins! You ought to—"
He clapped a hand over her mouth. "Do not say it. Do. Not. Our son will be king someday, and he will succeed lawfully, peacefull
y, and smoothly to a prosperous Ferelden. I will do nothing to cause a war."
"What if he—" she snarled "—has gone and married some foreign tart? What if he shows up with a bastard of his own in tow?"
Fergus mastered his face, not wanting to add fuel to Habren's fire by letting her see that he had envisioned the very same thing. And he hated the way she always criticized women from any country other than Ferelden. It seemed a backhanded slap at Oriana. It would do more harm than good to make an issue of it.
"I'm sure he's done nothing of the sort. I'll go see him right away. If he's in a mood to dine with us, I'll send word. Be sure to serve some of that drunken cheese he likes with the savories at the end of the meal."
"I hope he chokes on it!" She shrank back at his manifest anger. "Oh, all right. I'll be nice as you please to that fraud. I know you like him, and he's good to the children."
"Do be nice as I please," Fergus said sternly. "And do not let a word slip to anyone of your opinion of him. Not in front of the children, Not in front of the servants, Not in front of your ladies, Not in front of your father."
"Father agrees with me."
"Your father is too wise to let anyone else guess what he thinks. Imitate him."
He hurried to the Palace with all the speed commensurate with the Chancellor's dignity.
Dragon's Era- No Man's Land Page 21