"Her ladyship?" Loghain asked, puzzled.
A smirk. "A grand lady at Court—all fine in her velvet and jewels. Has the ear of the Empress, she does. Doesn't need a bastard about."
Morrigan had made a place for herself in Astrid, had she? Selling herself and her magic to Celene? That was disturbing and unpleasant, but not as unpleasant as the picture of her as a mother to this child, who stood there, trembling a little, looking up at Loghain.
There were bruises on the thin wrists. There was a purplish mark on the white forehead, half-hidden by the rumpled black hair. The blue eyes were hollow and haunted; the cheeks were gaunt. Loghain briefly considered killing the old woman, but that would cause trouble. Better to get rid of her before he completely lost his temper.
He fumbled in his belt pouch and tossed a handful of silver to the floor, not caring if the old wretch had to scramble for it. She squawked out something, but Loghain could not tell if it was thanks or a curse.
"Get out," he snarled at her. She flinched away, crouching, snatching up the last of the coins, and then was through the door and gone, cackling over her reward. Loghain stared at the child who was staring at him, and then read the letter through again.
"Loghain-
I know not how you managed to spoil Flemeth's ritual, but the fault is obviously yours, for spoiled it is. I consider our bargain moot, for you gained your worthless life, but I did not gain the prize I sought. The child was supposed to be a girl, and a mage, and the avatar of the Old God Urthemiel. Instead, I gave birth to a disappointingly ordinary boy-child. Despite all my efforts, despite every possible incentive I used on him, he manifests no magic at all, and is useless to me. I have explained this to him, and that it would be a waste of my time and talents to trouble myself further with him.
Indeed, the easiest thing would be to leave him at a Chantry door, but I am loath to give them more fodder—even such an unpromising specimen as the boy—and it serves you right to be plagued as I have been. I promised that I would never return to Ferelden. I promised nothing else. Do as you please with the boy. I have done with him."
Morrigan
She had promised a great deal more, he remembered, but it was useless to protest. The boy was still watching him, no doubt expecting the worst. Loghain shuddered, wondering what "incentives" Morrigan had used to force magic from the boy. The witch's story he did not doubt for a moment. The truth of the boy's parentage was stamped on his face. He felt a painful surge of tenderness, and then cursed himself for a silly old fool.
"Comment t'appelles-tu?" he asked. He tried Orlesian, since Morrigan had apparently shifted her nationality. The boy frowned and bit his lip, struggling to understand. Loghain tried the King's Tongue.
"What's your name, lad?"
The boy only blinked. He could not be more than three years old, but surely—
"You can talk, can't you?"
"I can talk," replied the little voice.
"What did your mother call you?"
"'Boy,'" A pause. "'You,' sometimes." A faint sniffle. "She was mad at me. She sent me away because I'm bad."
Oh, Maker have mercy. He had never imagined having to deal with anything like this.
"You're not bad. Your mother is a fool. If she never gave you a name, then I shall give you one,"
The blue eyes were fixed on him. That hopeful gaze flayed Loghain to the bone. He cleared his throat.
"How about—'Gareth'? I like the name Gareth. It was a brave man's name."
"Garet'?" The boy nodded. "I like it." Another pause, and a fidget. "T'irsty."
Hardly surprising that the old woman had not bothered to care decently for the boy.
"Sit," he said, helping the boy up into the simple wooden chair at the little table. Of course the boy was too small, so Loghain piled up a few books to let the child sit up to the table properly.
Food and drink were not a problem. Loghain often fetched his own provisions from the kitchen, as a safeguard against tampering. There was weak cider in a jug, and some fruit in a bowl. Loghain cut a ripe pear into sections, and put it on a wooden plate. He poured the cider into a crockery cup, and helped the boy drink, since it was too big and heavy for him.
What else was there? Some smoked boar, cut into small pieces, and a soft cheese. Flatbread spread with honey. The boy liked that, smacking his lips, obviously hoping for more. Loghain obliged him, and then sat on his bed, watching the child eat, helping him with another drink, trying to figure out what he should do.
Could he send the boy to Freya? Or was her marriage too fragile? Her marriage to that... to Alistair...
He paused, thinking the unutterable about the young blockhead his daughter had been forced to marry.
No. How could he send the child to Freya? How would he explain it to the Orlesians, his keepers? They would undoubtedly make use of the boy to control him and to manipulate his daughter. He knew he was watched here. Many of the Grey Wardens had been decent to him, but not all, and eventually the word would get out, and then...
And then...there were plenty of people who would think it only justice to take out their spite on this little fellow sitting on the pile of books.
Perhaps Gareth would be better off with the Chantry. He would be given food and shelter, an education, and a place in the world, whether as a brother or as a Templar.
No. He would certainly be a Templar, and Loghain knew perfectly well how the Chantry kept their Templars in line—by addicting them to Nacronite. And if they knew Gareth's paternity, they would take great satisfaction in making him suffer for his father's sins. Loghain had no faith in the Chantry.
Really, there was no choice at all. The boy had no one else in the world. For that matter, Loghain had no one, either—at least within reach. While the boy enjoyed his food, Loghain took out a map, and frowned over it, his plans coalescing. The Grey Wardens had got enough from him. Right now, it was the boy who needed him. No else in all Thedas needed him more.
Summer. The time of year was favorable to his scheme. It was early morning, which was also good. Keeping the boy here, even for a night, was not to be thought of. They would walk out the door, and then through the postern gate. Loghain would have his bow, sword, and dagger, and wear his hunting leathers and a cloak. He would leave all else behind, save a few letters, a map, his locket with the pictures of Celia and Freya, and his coin. The Wardens knew he often hunted in the hills when not on duty. There would be puzzlement over the boy, but Loghain would pass him off as a little beggar he had befriended.
He would actually go into the city itself, and buy a horse and the necessary gear, and leave town as quickly as possible. Two horses, perhaps. He had a ridiculous amount of gold, which the Orlesians had not taken away, probably thinking it was amusing that he had nothing to spend it on. He had given them no reason to suspect he would desert...
Desert? That made him briefly uncomfortable, but he reckoned his score was paid. He had helped slay the Archdemon, which none of the puffed-up lot around here could claim.
No, whatever he had to do, he should do quickly. Even if he was gone for a night, the Wardens might think he was sleeping in the hills. He had done it before. There might be curiosity if he was not present in the Great Hall at suppertime, but also a great many shrugs. Orlesians were good at shrugging.
That gave him a day—perhaps a day and a half—before anyone seriously came looking for him. He traced out a route. In less than six days, he could be in the Frostbacks...
But they would be looking for him to go east, toward Ferelden. They would send out couriers with fast horses, and with changes at every post-station. The Empress' agents would be all over the Imperial Highway, searching for him.. But if he went north, where they would never think he would go, there was that little port at the mouth of the Orne. He hated travAstridg by ship, but he could do it. With any kind of luck, he could be beyond the Empress' reach in two days. During the Rebellion, he had evaded the Orlesians for years
.
And go where? Ferelden was closed to him, however much he grieved over it. However, there were plenty of places he would not even be recognized. He was mostly grey now, and he would tie back his plaits. Where to go?
Cumberland! Yes, Cumberland, first. The Nevarrans had no love for Astrid. From there, he would go north to the great Minanter River, and take a boat all the way east to the ocean. It would be something new for him, and would take him far from places where he was known. He had seen a great deal of the cities of the Amaranthine Coast when searching for Maric. Ostwick...Hercinia...Wycome. Wycome was a decent place. He had liked the white-washed houses and the red-tiled roofs. It was not a city with a Warden post, either. Not many Fereldans would have gone that far north when fleeing the Blight. He could send a letter from there and reasonably hope for it to be delivered. He still had friends in Ferelden, after all.
In the length of time it took for Gareth to eat his second piece of flatbread, Loghain had laid his strategy. It only remained to put it into action.
* * *
Ser Cauthrien Woodhouse stepped off the dock at Wycome, looking about her. It was her first journey by sea, and she hoped she would not have to repeat the experience any time soon.
The Queen had given her leave to go, after a brief, private conversation during which they had both shed tears.
"When the day comes, bring the child here," the Queen urged in a low voice. "You can give out that he is your own. I will see that neither of you ever wants for anything."
To tell the truth, Cauthrien was not sorry to leave Ferelden for a time. King Alistair and the Guerrins were constantly at odds with the Queen, and Cauthrien had been made to feel the weight of the King's displeasure for her past loyalty to Loghain. No— that was not quite accurate: for her enduring loyalty.
The sun was setting over the city and briefly dazzled her eyes, but there was no mistaking that powerful figure silhouetted against the light. Cauthrien blinked, and saw that Loghain was holding a child's hand. Yes, it was Loghain, though the long, shaggy grey mane and the trimmed grey beard would have deceived many others.
Instantly she knew that it was all true. A brief liaison with one of the Warden's companions had had consequences. No one must know, for all sorts of good and serious reasons. She hurried forward, a lump in her throat, calling over her shoulder for her baggage to be unloaded. Not all of it was hers: the Queen had been generous, and had had particular satisfaction in collecting and packing certain of her father's possessions that he had not been able to take to Montsimmard. It had all been done very quietly.
"She's tall, Da," remarked the miniature Loghain, his blue eyes wide.
"That she is," said his father, smiling.
"My lo—" Cauthrien cut herself off, blushing. Loghain was using the name of one of his soldiers: a dead man with no family to ask questions or come looking. "Cathal. Cathal Penmarric."
"Ser Cathal," the little boy pouted. "My da was knighted by the Prince of Wycome!"
Cauthrien looked a question, and Loghain gave her a wry smile. "A long story. If one speaks up during a crisis, it seems there will always be those who are glad to shuffle off their own responsibility. At any rate, I've managed to avoid further responsibilities to anything but Gareth and my own farm outside the city."
"You're coming to live with us!" the little boy told Cauthrien, rather excited. Diffidently, he offered her his other hand. "We have a big house and horses and sheep and an orchard and I help pick fruit! Do you know about farming?" he asked her, as they walked toward the waiting wagon.
"Quite a bit," she assured him. "Just you wait and see. I brought you a present."
The child was lifted up into the wagon seat, and was soon engrossed in the clockwork toy. Loghain took the lines.
Quietly, he said. "You may be back in Ferelden in only a few years. Wardens don't live forever."
She smiled. "Who does?"
Chapter 20: Old Acquaintance
Hawke's companions had made themselves into a family, but time and tide and the explosion in Kirkwall separated them forever. Merrill had somehow imagined that they would stay together wherever they decided to go. That had not happened.
The city was in chaos. Gangs rioted and robbed with impunity. The City Guard had ceased to function at all. The Templars had withdrawn to the Gallows, waiting for reinforcements. Word was that Knight-Captain Cullen had fallen into a deep melancholy and had not left his quarters since the battle. The surviving Circle mages were wandering the city: some bewildered, some determined to escape, some as depressed as Cullen himself.
Hawke and Anders fled together between dusk and dawn after the battle in the Gallows. No one knew where they were headed. Fenris, dour and sarcastic, predicted that such brilliant mages would do well for themselves in Tevinter. Fenris himself had ridden away with Carver to Ansburg. He might join the Grey Wardens, or he might not, but the two men were united in their opinion that Hawke had cast all decency aside when she chose Anders.
Even more embittered was Sebastian Vael, who had gone north to his home in Starkhaven, determined to seize control of the city and throw all the power at his command in support of the Chantry.
AvAstride's tenure as Captain of the Kirkwall Guard was over. Her support of Hawke had made her a divisive figure. She and Donnic sailed away two days after the battle in the Gallows, without even bidding goodbye to their old friends. Or were they friends? Had they ever really been her friends? Merrill was sad about that, thinking things over. Perhaps AvAstride had never really liked her much. AvAstride's husband, Donnic, had never had two words to say to her. It was speculated that they had gone to Ferelden. Quite a long time had passed since AvAstride had deserted from the army during the Blight, and she still technically owned a house in Denerim, left to her by her father, the exiled Orlesian chevalier.
"They didn't waste any time leaving town," Isabella remarked scathingly, over too many mugs of ale at the Hanged Man. "But they took enough time to pack everything. My guess is that between their pay—and Lady Man Hands' stipend as Captain was pretty generous—and having no actual living expenses of their own—and all those little side-jobs with Hawke... well... I think they have quite the nest egg."
Merrill would have preferred to stay in her little house in the Alienage. She had not thought much of it when she took possession seven years before, but with time and loving care, she had made it her own. All she wanted was to live in peace, but Varric warned her that was impossible. Anyone who had fought beside Hawke was going to be a target, and the Chantry's troops were on the march. They would be in Kirkwall in three days or less. Probably less.
"You need to leave, Daisy," he said, sad and serious. "You need to leave now. The Templar reinforcements are on the way, and when they're done with Kirkwall, the city will wish Meredith Stannard was back." He patted her hand. "I'm going with Isabela, and we're leaving tomorrow. You should come with us. We're thinking about heading south to Ferelden, or just staying at sea until the worst of the storm blows over. Even if it does. I may never come back to Kirkwall."
"Go to sea?" Merrill quavered. "On a boat?"
Isabela whooped, already fairly drunk. "That's the usual way, Kitten."
"I hate boats," Merrill confessed. "I'm sorry if that hurts your feAstridgs, Isabela, but I really do. My clan came here on a boat, and we were locked away in the smelly dark cellar—"
"—below decks in the hold," Isabella corrected.
"—and all the halla died. It was horrible. I can't do that again. Nobody will bother me here if I'm very, very quiet and don't make trouble. Nobody ever bothered me before."
Gently exasperated, Varric said, "They didn't bother you because I paid them not to bother you. I won't be here, Daisy. Even if I were, I couldn't pay off the Templars who are coming to take over. You're in danger."
It was rather frightening. In a small voice, Merrill asked, "What about my clan? They may not care about me anymore, but I still care about them. Sh
ouldn't I warn them?"
Varric heaved a sigh. "Daisy, the last time they saw you, your Keeper Marethari was dead, and they were ready to kill you—"
Merrill wilted, miserably aware, as always, that her foster-mother's death was entirely her fault.
"—and they're not in as much trouble as you are," Isabela interrupted, brisk and business-like. "They weren't seen casting mighty lightning bolts in a public place. I'll help you pack, Kitten—or at least I'll watch you pack and tell you if you're doing it wrong. We've got to leave on the morning tide, or we're likely to cross paths with some very unpleasant people."
"We couldn't go just a little later?" Merrill pleaded. "I can get to Sundermount early, and be back before noon—"
"Tides don't work that way," said Isabela. "You don't know the saying 'Time and Tide wait for no man'? Really?"
"I think that must be a shemlen saying," Merrill sighed. "I don't know anything about tides. It would just be a little later."
"No, kitten. Even a little later would be too late. Let's get you packed up. We can even sleep on the ship tonight, and leave as soon as the tide turns. We'll be out of the harbor before dawn." With a crooked smile, she added, "Sailing with me will be different. I'm not going to lock you up below decks. It'll be nice: the wind in your hair, the salt spray in your face, and the gulls crying overhead. You'll like it."
Merrill knew she would not, could not like it. Every nerve was screaming that she must go to the clan and warn them. She had tried to put them from her mind, but now every face was before her mind's eye, accusing her. She had failed them so badly, and now the Templars were coming in force... the Templars who persecuted and hated the Dalish.. and the clan had no Keeper to lead them.
Trembling, she made herself lie to her last two friends.
"No... no. I can pack by myself. You must have things to do before you leave, too. I'll meet you at the boat just before sunrise. I want to sleep in my own house one more time."
Dragon's Era- No Man's Land Page 27