Saladin was deeply glad that Eamon had never given up on Alistair. His older brother had remained convinced that Alistair would be "useful" some day. That was not exactly how Saladin would have put it, but the fact remained that this dissipated, sorry specimen was the last of the Theirins, and the clearest candidate for the throne.
For Queen Freya was dead. A brief, acute illness had taken her off. There was a great deal of gossip and speculation, but poison had not been proven, though there were certainly some —Saladin refused to think of actual names —with motives.
Saladin would have liked to have consulted the Warden-Commander, but he was gone, no one knew where. Perhaps it was for the best. He and Alistair had parted on bitter terms when the Warden-Commander had decided to spare Loghain's life. Alistair had refused to serve as a Warden alongside the man he hated above all others. Still, the Warden-Commander had saved Alistair's life by a direct appeal to Freya's mercy. And then—which must burn Alistair's soul like fire—bloody Loghain went and actually killed the Archdemon, redeeming himself with his death in the eyes and hearts of all Ferelden. Alistair wouldn't like that, but the man was dead and gone; and now, so was his daughter.
If they could just dry the lad out and give him some coaching, they could probably get him crowned. Nobody expected much work out of him, but that was not necessary, anyway. Eamon had managed to get appointed Chancellor last year, and was still running the country. Many noble families— the Howes, the Kendalls, and yes, the Mac Tirs, were extinct. Fergus Cousland was teyrn of a beleaguered and war-scarred Highever, but he and his allies had been outmaneuvered by the gift of Amaranthine to the Grey Wardens, who were now commanded by an Orlesian. Eamon felt that this was their time, the Guerrins' time, and it was the moment to put Alistair forward, as the standard-bearer of all their hopes.
If all went well, they would reshape Ferelden to suit themselves. Saladin had expectations of the arling of Denerim, a noble prize, and critical to Ferelden's politics. Eamon wanted the teyrnir of Gwaren, which with his arling of Redcliffe would put the south firmly in his hands. There would be resistance, but with a king under their control, all things might well be possible.
And they had quite a bit of gold to back them, too. Eamon insisted that they needed sound alliances, and over the years had put his chess pieces in order, preparing for the day when Queen Freya no longer hindered his plans. The Empress had problems of her own, these days, but she had set aside a young cousin as a potential consort for the King of Ferelden, when one made his appearance.
That arrangement had been made on an oArvidsibly harmless journey north, where he and Isolde had visited an Orlesian noble who just happened to have an estate in Nevarra. Everything had been settled there: it was only a matter of the right time. The young princess had already been sent for, and was even now sailing to Denerim herself, heavily guarded. She would be married to Alistair as soon as he was proclaimed king. Saladin could not recall the name, but they had been promised that she was pretty and biddable. If there was anything Eamon detested, it was an independent woman of mannish intelligence. The new Queen of Ferelden would know her place, and it would not be in the Privy Council.
Saladin decided not to tell Alistair about the princess right away, though perhaps a pleasant marriage might heal many of the boy's wounds. Some of those wounds, if one were honest, had been inflicted by the Guerrins in Alistair's sad childhood, but at the moment that was neither here nor there. They would make him a King, and he would want for nothing, not even family affection.
The tea arrived, and was placed on the little table between the two beds. The servant bowed, and murmured the news.
"Captain says we'll be weighing anchor soon, my lord."
"Very good. Lay out the clothes in that chest for the Prince."
That was done, swiftly and silently, and the servant was dismissed. Saladin sipped his cup of honeygrass tea, meditating on change. The tea was absolutely essential. After being sick, Alistair would be dehydrated, and Kirkwall water was notoriously unsafe.
After a time, Alistair stirred, and then groaned.
"Maker... mouth's like a Broodmother's nest... need something to drink..."
"Here." Saladin brought over a cup of the tea, and helped him drink it.
"What's this?"
"Honeygrass tea. It's good for you."
"Rather have ale."
"I'm sure you would, but we both know that's a bad idea. Alistair, you've been sick. I'm going to take you home and help you get well."
Another groan, and some of the tea actually went into Alistair, while some dribbled onto the bedclothes.
"How can I go home? Freya, your queen, sentenced me to death if I so much as set foot on Fereldan soil ever again."
"Freya is dead."
A silence. Saladin took the opportunity to get more tea into the lad. Alistair managed to half sit up, leaning on an elbow. He squinted at Saladin.
"Dead?"
"Yes. Quite suddenly."
"I see."
Alistair gave Saladin a wary look, and then smirked.
"I know what. You want me to be king."
"You are king, or as good as. There's no one else we can accept, Alistair."
"What does Damian say about it?"
"No one has seen the Warden-Commander in over a year. The Orlesians sent out someone to lead the Wardens in Amaranthine."
"Wardens!" Alistair grunted, with a look of disgust. "At least Damian's gone. Bastard. I really need a drink, Saladin."
"No, you don't. You need sleep. We've got to get you strong and healthy for the Landsmeet."
Alistair shuddered. "The Landsmeet!"
"It's going to be different this time," Saladin assured him. "No more Wardens, no more Freya, no more Loghain—"
"Ha!" Alistair's eyes burned with malignant satisfaction.
Saladin went on, not quite comfortable with that look in Alistair's eyes. The boy had always been so good natured...
"—no more Howes, for that matter, though there's a Howe in the Warden garrison. He's not in the Landsmeet, of course. The Howes have ceased to be a factor in Ferelden politics. Most of the remaining nobles are quite decent."
Fergus Cousland might indeed raise objections, but he had not the coin to fight for the crown. Eamon had remarked in an offhand way that there were things that could be done if Cousland made too much trouble. Saladin hoped it would not come to that. Cousland, of course, was a very busy man, with a damaged, diminished holding and a young family to protect. Saladin liked Fergus personally, but the crown of Ferelden was too important to be a personal matter.
They had to present Alistair as the de facto king: the son of Maric, already recognized to some degree by Freya's enmity. Alistair's looks were with him, with that strong resemblance to Maric and Cailan. Eamon was having some armor made that was identical to the suit Cailan had favored. It would enhance the resemblance. Most of Ferelden wanted only to return to the good old days before the Blight. And Orlesian gold was being funneled to much of the Landmeet, buying their votes outright. Some would refuse it on principle, but they were few. Everyone needed gold, these days.
And Eamon had left nothing to chance, this time. There was a sheaf of letters from King Maric to Eamon, exquisitely forged and even carefully aged, in which the King gave instructions for the care and education of "his beloved son, Prince Alistair." Saladin felt not a shred of guilt about the forgeries. King Maric ought to have written to Eamon about Alistair. He ought to have acknowledged him.
Alistair seemed somewhat reassured by his words. He lay back again, thinking it over. He licked his lips, with a resentful glance at the tea.
"So I'm going to be King," he said. A shrug, and a brief pause. "Good. I've got a lot of scores to settle."
Saladin managed a nervous smile. He blew out the lantern and lay back on his own bed, trying to compose himself for sleep. Somehow, he had a feAstridg that things might not work out as smoothly as Eamon expe
cted...
Chapter 25: The Little Prince in the Tower
Lorcan hid under the bed.
Lorcan's world up to that point was one of gentle-voiced women, good order, and lavender-scented linen. He had a mother whom he loved almost as much as he feared her; a distant, weary, golden figure to whom he was presented nearly every day. Those events were not particularly pleasant, as he was arrayed for them in a miniature noble's doublet, itchy from the fine golden threads embroidering the wrists and throat. Nana pushed him forward to pay his duty to his Lady Mother Queen: to bow to her and to ask Her Majesty how she fared that morning. He was then deposited on an elaborate silk rug with a number of toys, and ordered to "play," while his mother drooped in her chair of state and watched him in silence.
Her ladies watched him, too; some of them like cats at a mouse hole. They all wanted to pet him and kiss him, and Lorcan had learned early which perfumed hands had sharp claws when they clutched at him. Some—the ones he liked—were like Nana: soft and safe. Not that Nana wouldn't raise her voice to him when he was sulky or inattentive at his lessons. Future kings had a lot to learn. He had once thought that Nana was his grandmother, but she wasn't: she was his great-aunt, and her name was really Lady Niamh—or at least that was what everybody else called her. She was the most important person in his everyday world. The next most important was Mother Berenthy, who taught him his letters and to revere Andraste and the Maker.
Very rarely, he saw his grandfather, Bann Stronar, a stern old man who had little to say to small boys. Lorcan had another grandfather, but he was dead. The Queen his mother was sad about that.
"If my father Loghain, the Hero of River Dane, were still alive," she said, her blue eyes hot with anger, "you'd have nothing to fear!"
No one ever spoke of Lorcan's father, except for Mariel, the maid who had told him that his father was dead. Mariel was an elf, bright-eyed and noticing, and was charged with bathing Lorcan and slipping him into his starched white nightshirts.
"Gutted like a pig," the elf whispered one night, with a certain frightening relish. "Proved the Queen could quicken, he did, but he didn't live to see you born. They said it was the Crows. Take care they don't get you, little prince, with their sharp, long beaks!"
She pinched at him playfully, at his belly and bottom, in places that hurt, not putting his nightshirt on him until he whimpered in fright and pain. It was scary to be wet and naked like that, but everyone in his world was bigger and stronger than Lorcan.
Ever since then, Lorcan feared the black birds outside the nursery window. For some reason, Mariel was sent away not long after.
Things were different tonight. Nana was in and out of the nursery apartments, hardly paying attention to him. The maids hissed out their gossip and the nicer ones looked pityingly at him. Long, anguished cries sounded from down the staircase, from the direction of the Queen's apartments, and voices were raised. The cries stopped, and the voices grew louder, and then there was the tramping of heavy feet, and the maids began twittering with fright when the tramping came up the steps toward the nursery.
The door burst open with a crash. Maidservants screamed as big, fierce, armed men invaded the sweet-scented nursery, shoving the maids aside, knocking over the furniture.
A roar rose up.
"For the King! For the King!"
Lorcan froze briefly, and then scrambled under the bed.
A cracked, stern voice cut over the shouts.
"Odar, fetch His Majesty out. We must pay our homage to him."
A huge, bearded giant dropped to the edge of the bed and grinned ferociously. Lorcan shrank back from the bloodshot blue eyes and the stink of his breath. The giant, like a nightmare, stretched out corded arms and dragged Lorcan from under the bed, guffawing. He swung Lorcan up, up to the ceiling with hands like boulders, waving him like a trophy. Lorcan turned his head from the other smells: strong drink and oiled steel, smells for which as yet he had no name.
Nana tried to take Lorcan from the giant, but the men laughed heartlessly. She appealed to Grandfather Stronar.
"My lord brother, you are frightening the child!"
"Get back, woman!" Grandfather snapped. "A King of Ferelden's got no business being frightened of his loyal guard!"
Drunken warriors bellowed their approval.
The giant grinned at Lorcan again, and set him on his feet, keeping tight hold of his head to preclude any escape attempt.
Grandfather bowed to Lorcan, which was startling in itself. The rest of the terrifying men did, too.
"The Queen is dead. Maker defend the King!"
"The Queen is dead. Maker defend the King!"
Lorcan stared at them, bewildered. In a small voice he asked, "Is my mother dead?"
"Dead?" Stronar pursed his thin lips. "Aye, lad, she's dead."
"Likely poisoned by those Orlesian bastards!" shouted one of his men.
"Or by that old fox Guerrin!" grunted another.
By this time, Nana had got past the front rank of warriors, and stared at Odar until he backed off, grinning. She did not shame Lorcan by sweeping him up in her arms, but took his small hand in her soft, wrinkled one, and stood close, so he could be strengthened by the warmth of her.
Lorcan did not know what they wanted of him. He was sad that his mother dead, though he had never seen her alone that he could remember. He hoped he was a good boy and a dutiful son like Mother Berenthy said he should be, but tears did not come.
"I'll try to be a good king," he said, feAstridg very small.
"A fine little lad," declared one of the men, drunker—or more sentimental— than the rest.
"I'm sure you shall be," said Grandfather Stronar. "There will be a Landsmeet, of course, to confirm you, and I shall be your Regent, by the late Queen's will. That means I'll do the work until you're a man and can do it for yourself. Until then, you are to mind your elders and learn your lessons."
"A health to His Majesty!" bawled out an archer, holding a brimming cup of ale. It slopped over onto the floor. Lorcan was shocked at his behavior, and more shocked that Nana did not scold him for it. The world would never be the same.
Grandfather and his guard finally left, and Lorcan was put to bed. He lay wakeful and wide-eyed, liArviding to the scratching of the crows at his windowsill.
Two days later, his mother was put on a big pile of wood and burned up, on a dark afternoon when the sun never shone. He cried a little then, wondering what would happen to him. He was tired, watching the fire, and sick at the smell of roasting meat. Nana had dressed him in black velvet, and Lorcan hated the high, tight collar. People came to offer their condolences. He was instructed to answer "I thank you for your kindness," to each and every one.
"They've come to look you over, lad," growled Grandfather, "so stand up straight."
A big man with dark hair and a dark beard came up to speak to Grandfather. Lorcan could tell that the he and Grandfather did not like each other, but the man gave Lorcan a slight smile.
"And this is Prince Lorcan. I remember your naming day, Your Highness, and I know that Her Majesty loved you very much. I am sorry that you have lost your mother so young."
Grandfather gave Lorcan a nudge. "Thank Teyrn Cousland, lad."
"I thank you for your kindness, my lord," Lorcan parroted dutifully.
Endless people came be to be presented. Lorcan grew tired and sleepy, and sleepier still when Odar slipped him some sweet wine. Everyone else was drinking, so Nana could not make a scene here in public when she discovered that Lorcan was red-faced and swaying. Grandfather and his men thought it funny. Lorcan was only too glad to be carried home.
* * *
Things went on much as they had before, though Lorcan thought Nana looked grey and strained. Sometimes she was sharp with him, but she never let the maids imitate her. They would whisper, though: about Teyrn Cousland and Arl Guerrin; about the Bastard Prince and the Empress of Astrid; about the coming Landsmeet. They l
ooked sidewise at Lorcan while they whispered, and he wondered what those people had to do with him. Finally, he gathered his courage and asked Nana.
"Why is Teyrn Cousland important, Nana? Is he our friend?" Lorcan thought he seemed nice. He had smiled, and did not smell bad, like most men Lorcan had met.
Nana looked like she wanted him to be quiet, but Mother Berenthy was there, and shook her head.
"Truth is best, Niamh."
Nana only shook her head, and gestured to the priest.
"All right, then," said Mother Berenthy. "A prince should know these things. Your mother did not take you to the Landsmeet because you were too young, but to the coming Landsmeet you'll certainly go. Everyone wants to see you. After the naming and presentation in the Chantry, we don't make children attend most public events until they're old enough to get something out of them. Even King Cailan of blessed memory never attended a Landsmeet until his was ten years old—officially, that is." She smiled briefly at some fond memory.
"As to your question: Teyrn Cousland is a very great noble, and I think he's a good man. He is highest in rank after the King or Queen, and he is of the ancient blood of Calenhad—"
"Berenthy—" Nana protested.
"Of the ancient blood of Calenhad," the priest repeated. "He has a good claim to be king himself, but that's for the Landsmeet to decide."
"Grandfather says I'm King now," said Lorcan, rather put out to have rivals.
"You are a Prince of Ferelden, and the son of Queen Freya," Berenthy said, with an uneasy look at Nana. "Bann Stronar took perhaps too much upon himself to acclaim you as king before the Landsmeet can confirm it. It has never been the Ferelden way to choose a ruler just because he was the first child of the last King or Queen. The Landsmeet looks at all those of royal blood and chooses among them."
Lorcan tried to picture a Landsmeet, and managed only a vague image of a many-headed creature, or a room full of stern old men like Grandfather.
"So if they like Teyrn Cousland better, he would be King? Would Grandfather let him do that? What would happen to me? Don't I have ancient blood?"
Dragon's Era- No Man's Land Page 32