Title: The Grey Path
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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Chapter Fourteen: Far Horizons - Part Two

“Do you truly think it wise to allow the merchant to accompany us?” Morrigan demanded, eyeing the dwarves with no small measure of disdain. At Sagramor’s insistence, the newcomers parked themselves a respectable distance from Morrigan’s billet, though the sorceress remained sceptical of their value and intentions. “In my travels out of the Wilds, I have seen how such folk are ever seeking advantage and coin over their rivals. Are you certain they shall not betray us to Loghain?”

“As certain as I can be,” Sagramor admitted, joining her by her fire. “If the dwarves prove false, we can always deal with them, though I get the feeling that’s not the only objection you mean to raise. So, what’s the issue?”

Morrigan gave him an irritated look, but pressed on. “We should have sought out the Dalish first, Warden. It will take time to bring their clans together in a united force capable of helping us, so ‘twould be best if we found them as soon as possible. Redcliffe can wait.”

“You can see your point, Morrigan, but the fact of the matter is, we only have a general idea of where to start looking for the Dalish. At the moment, all we can do to find them is stumble around the Brecilian Forest looking for them, all the while Loghain tightens his grip on the kingdom. From what Alistair told me, Redcliffe will stand against him, and from there, we can quickly reach the Circle and Orzammar in the process. It’s just more efficient this way.”

“You risk much by blinding trusting Alistair in this matter. How is he even certain that Redcliffe will shelter us?”

“He knows much more about Ferelden’s nobility than any of us do,” Sagramor reminded her. “Trust me when I say that going cup in hand to the high-born wouldn’t be my first choice either. But we need allies to help us fight against Loghain; the treaties only compel aid against the darkspawn. Maybe their soldiers could help us find the Dalish as well?”

Morrigan scoffed at the naïve assumption. “’Tis highly unlikely. The Dalish have turned evading the reach of human authorities into an art form. Any band of soldiers seeking them will not succeed unless the elves wish it so, and they rarely do. Even Flemeth has only so much influence over the Dalish, though doubtless more than they would like.”

“Flemeth had dealings with the Dalish?”

“On occasion,” said Morrigan. “’Twas not a matter of friendship between them, for the Dalish rarely associate with humans, even mages as powerful as Mother. ‘Twould be more accurate to describe them as pacts of mutual obligation; Flemeth would aid a Dalish clan in some manner, usually when some catastrophe threatened them, and in return, they would offer their assistance when she demanded it. ‘Tis odd. The Dalish were infrequent visitors to the Wilds, but whenever Flemeth was in need of them, they would always appear as if they were right on hand, perhaps summoned by her in some fashion unknown to me.”

“A spell of some kind, perhaps?” posed Sagramor. “Something that would let her communicate over great distances.”

“’Tis the likeliest answer. The Keepers who rule over the Dalish clans are mages as well, and thus would be more… open to such a summons. I wonder…”

Morrigan trailed off, her thought left unspoken, drawing a confused glance from Sagramor. “You wonder what?”

Haltingly, the sorceress finally managed to force the words out. “I… must ask a favour of you, Sagramor. ‘Tis not something I like to ask, but in the short time I have known you, you have proven to be… reliable.”

“Just that?” Sagramor quipped, seeing how uncomfortable Morrigan was. The young sorceress preferred to stand alone than accepting another’s help, and that she was asking for it now suggested this was truly important to her. “Ask, Morrigan, and I’ll do what I can.”

“We have an opportunity we should take advantage of. I mentioned some days ago how the Templars used to hunt Mother and I in the Wilds when I was a child, and how they were unsuccessful in their pursuit. You recall this, yes?”

“I do.”

“Then let me tell you that in one lone instance, the Templars managed to achieve a small victory over Flemeth. To the point, my mother was once divested of a particular grimoire by a most annoying Templar hunter. It occurred far before I was born, but even today, Flemeth speaks of its loss with great rage.”

“I can imagine,” stated the elf. “Your mother doesn’t seem the type to allow anything to be stolen from her, let alone her personal spellbook.”

“Precisely. Given that the Circle of Magi is one of our destinations, it occurs to me that we have a chance to recover the tome from their possession, for surely it eventually ended up in their hands.”

“What makes you so sure the Circle would have it?”

“Flemeth is a sorceress of legend, no?” reminded Morrigan. “Her grimoire would be more than a mere curiosity to the mages of the Circle, and they would not risk destroying it while even the slightest chance existed of unlocking its secrets. The tower at Lake Calenhad is the only Circle of Magi in Ferelden, so it would have been brought it there; neither the Circle mages nor Templars would risk sending it away for fear of letting it fall from their clutches. No doubt ‘tis considered something dangerous, perhaps best locked away somewhere dark, yes? Retrieve it for me, and I will owe you a great debt.”

Sagramor gave a disbelieving shake of his head. “The Chantry has a way of destroying any information it considers dangerous or conflicts with its doctrine. After all this time, the grimoire might have been disposed of already.”

The girl’s amber eyes flashed dangerously. “If it is not present, then at the very least I know that it does not exist. But there is no harm in looking, surely? ‘Tis not an idle fancy of mine, Sagramor; I would not waste your time with a pointless diversion, unlike some others I could name. Flemeth taught me much in the ways of magic, but she kept a great many secrets hidden from me, as is her way. So much of her knowledge from over the centuries is contained within that tome, among them the means by which she summons the Dalish. By gaining such knowledge, I become stronger, and thus more useful to you. If I can find a way to communicate with the Dalish as well, ‘twould allow us to rally them without difficulty in the bargain. Does that not strike you as a useful resource, one worth obtaining?”

“Very well then, you’ve persuaded me. I’ll do what I can to bring it to you, Morrigan, but if the Chantry felt this tome dangerous enough to take for themselves, they’re unlikely to relinquish it.”

“You’re resourceful. You’ll figure something out,” Morrigan remarked dismissively. “You have my thanks, Warden. I am most anxious to see its contents, should it be located. Look for a great leather-bound tome, adorned with the symbol of a leafless tree.”

“Well, I can promise you that we’ll find out soon, one way or the other. Once we gain Redcliffe’s aid, it’ll be a quick trip to the Circle,” Sagramor assured her. “Their mages helped us at Ostagar, so they’re aware of the threat of the Blight. Gaining their aid will be a simple affair.”

The Maker was laughing.

*****************************

Finally attending to his supper, Sagramor joined Alistair by the campfire, the former Templar gazing forlornly into the flames, empty bowl beside him and longsword held close. “You alright there, Alistair?”

“Hmm? Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Alistair responded hastily. “Just thinking about everyone in Lothering. Do you think they’ll escape in time?”

“I hope so. If nothing else, take comfort in the fact we’ve given them that chance. With a bit of luck, they’ll find safety.”

“Hawke included?” asked Alistair, donning a cheeky grin. “I’m not judging you, Sagramor. She’s a rare looking woman, after all.”

Sagramor smiled, relieved that Alistair was starting to come out of his shell a bit. “And a fine warrior. I doubt there’s anything that can stand in her way. Anyways, I wanted to talk to you about Redcliffe a bit. Back in the Wilds, you mentioned that Arl Eamon raised you, correct?”

“Did I say that? I meant dogs raised me. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels, a whole pack of them, in fact.”

“Well, that would explain your table manners,” Sagramor quipped. “Listen, I don’t want to pry, but the fact of the matter is we’re heading to Redcliffe largely on your word that the Arl will help us, and as much as I trust you, I’d like to know exactly who we’d be dealing with.”

“You don’t need to worry,” protested the former Templar. “I trust Eamon, Sagramor. We haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but he’s a good man, and I know he won’t stab us in the back.”

“Would you have said the same thing about Loghain?” Sagramor chided Alistair gently, the human’s face turning red with anger. “I don’t begrudge you that, Alistair; Loghain’s betrayal took us all by surprise. I need to make sure that never happens again.”

Alistair grimaced in disgust. “Morrigan’s been questioning my judgment about this, hasn’t she?”

“She has, but look at it this way: none of us have your knowledge of Ferelden’s nobility, and I think the fact you have no reservations about trusting Eamon worries her. I certainly can’t say I’m any more open-minded myself. You know I wouldn’t ask these things unless it was absolutely necessary, right?”

“Fair enough,” said Alistair, appropriately chastised. “Better you know some of this stuff now, than end up asking uncomfortable questions when we actually get to the castle. Let’s see, how do I explain this? I’m a bastard, and before you make any smart comments, I mean the fatherless kind. After my mother died giving birth to me, Arl Eamon took me in and put a roof over my head. He was good to me, and he didn’t have to be, so I’ll always be grateful to him for that alone.”

“He adopted you, then?” asked Sagramor, trying to imagine being raised in a life of such privilege, but the notion was so outside the disenfranchised existence of the Alienages that it was difficult to wrap his head around it. Adoption was not unknown to the elves; children in the Alienages often found themselves in a relative’s care should ill fortune befall their parents, as was the case with Shianni and Soris, but he doubted any of his people would ever find themselves taken into a lord’s household like Alistair had been.

“No, I was his ward, not his legal heir, not that he treated me any poorer for it. For all our differences, I respect the man, and don’t blame him anymore for sending me to the Chantry once I was old enough."

“So, what changed?”

Alistair sighed in regret, clearly pained by what happened next. “Arl Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais by the name of Isolde, which caused all sorts of problems between him and King Maric. The Rebellion was still pretty fresh in people’s minds at that point, but he loved her. Anyhow, the new Arlessa resented the rumours that I was Eamon’s bastard; they weren’t true, but of course they existed. The Arl didn’t care, but she did. So, off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten. It was just as well. By that point, Isolde had made sure Redcliffe Castle wasn’t a home to me anymore. She despised me.”

“That’s awful!” cried Sagramor. “How could she even consider being so cruel to a child?”

“I think she felt threatened by my presence,” Alistair remarked without rancour. “I can see that now, and I can’t say I blame her. She must have wondered if the rumours were true herself. Beyond that, I guess she was afraid Eamon would make me his heir and deny their son Connor the arling.”

“Would that even be possible?” questioned the elf. “If Connor was Eamon’s sole trueborn heir, wouldn’t he be his only valid successor?”

“In theory, yes. But you have to understand that when it comes to nobles in Ferelden, ability sometimes counts more than birth,” Alistair explained. “It’s not like Orlais where the firstborn son always inherits the whole lot. If a nobleman thinks a specific child is the best qualified to rule after him, then that’s all that matters; gender, age, even legitimacy are irrelevant. It’s rare for a lord to proclaim one of his bastards as heir over a trueborn child, but it has happened, and with all the rumours about Eamon being my father, Isolde thought that might occur with me.”

“Well, you learn something new every day,” said Sagramor, grateful for the knowledge. It was rare that any elf saw the inner workings of the aristocracy; one noble was much the same as any other from where they stood, and many elves could spend their entire lives working for them yet never understand the motives driving their struggles for power. It was a world he’d have to understand if they were to defeat Loghain. “But to condemn a child like that… Are you going to be alright, meeting her again?”

“I’ll be fine. It was a long time ago, and we have bigger things to worry about now. Still… I remember having this amulet with Andraste’s holy symbol on it,” continued Alistair, the mere mention of it like an old wound. “It was the only thing I had of my mother, but I was so furious about being sent away I tore it off and threw it at the wall and it shattered. Stupid, stupid thing to do. The Arl ended up coming to the monastery a few times to see how I was, but I was just too stubborn to acknowledge how concerned he was for me. I hated it there, and blamed him for everything. Eventually, he just stopped coming.”  

“You were young, Alistair,” Sagramor reassured him. “You have nothing to blame yourself for.”

“Well, aside from the fact that I must as well have been raised by dogs, the way I acted. Maybe all young bastards act that way, I don’t know. All I know is that Arl Eamon is a good man and well-loved by the people. And, since he’s Cailan’s uncle, he’ll have a personal stake in bringing Loghain to justice as well. Anyway, that’s really all there is to the story.”

“Fair enough, Alistair, thank you. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

“That’s okay,” said Alistair with a shrug. “I would have needed to tell you all this stuff before we arrived. It’s just… not the sort of thing I like to discuss all that much, you know?”

“I understand. Still, I appreciate you trusting me with it.”

“You’re pretty much the only one I can. Leliana’s alright, but the others?” Alistair said, glaring darkly at Morrigan’s billet. “Morrigan and Sten aren’t the type I can have a heart-to-heart with, especially about matters of family. What about yours?”

“My family?” asked the elf, momentarily caught off guard by the question. “What about them?”

“Do you think they’re proud of you? Is becoming a Warden what they wanted for you?”

There was something in Alistair’s tone, something so lost and hopeless Sagramor couldn’t help but respond. “I was conscripted into the Order, but yes, I think they’re proud of me. I was a shock to them, my father especially. He had hoped I wouldn’t have to follow in my mother’s path, but he accepted it all the same.” That may be in hindsight, he realized, forcing the first tears away before Alistair could see. For all his family knew, his corpse was among the many that littered the field at Ostagar, and the thought of them experiencing yet further grief because of him was almost more than he could stand.

“Your mother’s path?”

“She taught me the way of the sword, and Duncan had even considered inducting her into the Order before I was born. She died a few years ago, but I’d like to think she’s proud I’m using the skills she taught me for such a good cause. Just as I know that your birth parents and Arl Eamon alike would be proud of you too. And Duncan.”

“You don’t have to talk about him, you know,” said Alistair, downcast at the mention of his fallen mentor. “I know you didn’t know him as long as I did.”

“Long enough to respect him, and be grateful for all that he did for me. You have every right to grieve for him, Alistair, I don’t begrudge you that,” Sagramor reassured him. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed about.”

“Don’t I? I… should have handled it better,” Alistair bemoaned, unwilling to accept those kind words. “Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn’t have lost it, not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and… and everything. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Alistair,” said the elf. “You haven’t let it compromise your judgment or your efforts in facing the Blight. That’s all I have the right to ask of you.”

“Thank you. I’d like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once this is all done, if we’re still alive. I don’t think he had any family to speak of.”

“Well, he had you and the rest of the Order,” Sagramor reminded him. “That’s not such a bad family, now is it?”

“I suppose you’re right. It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him, in the battle,” expressed the former Templar. “I feel like I abandoned him, you know?”

“Believe me, I understand,” the elf acknowledged, the thought of Shianni and Nola sending fresh lances of guilt spearing his soul. Is Shianni recovering? he wondered, hoping yet again that his cousin would find some measure of happiness after the horror she had endured. “But if you were in that valley with him, you’d be dead, and Ferelden would be short another Warden at a time when we can’t afford to lose any more. There was nothing we could have done to save Duncan and the others, but it’s not too late for Ferelden. They would have wanted us to fight on, Alistair.”

“Then we will. For Duncan, for Cailan, for all of Ferelden,” Alistair vowed. “Thank you. Really, I mean it. It was good to talk about it, even for a little while.”

“It’s no problem, Alistair. You can always talk to me about anything, alright? Anyways, I’m going to turn in. Wake me when it’s my turn on watch.”

Alistair nodded in confirmation, finally letting out a great sigh once the elf was out of earshot. “Perhaps I actually can,” he muttered under his breath, the old guilt reawakening. He had told the elf the truth, but not all of it, and as the night deepened around him, he knew that the time to reveal his most burdensome of secrets was coming soon, whether he wished it or not…

*****************************

The next few days were uneventful, the long miles between Redcliffe and Lothering passing swiftly. True to his word, Bodahn had not proven to be a hindrance on their march, and they made good time on the well-maintained roads, untroubled by bandit or darkspawn attacks. Indeed, aside from the Warden and company, the western road was bereft of any traffic whatsoever, a notion that troubled the merchant. “It’s rather odd, don’t you think, Warden?”

“What is?” asked Sagramor. It was as perfect a summer’s day as anyone could wish, the sky absent of clouds, the early morning sun warm at their backs and the world around them so tranquil that the Blight might as well not exist. And to the west, the elf could see the outline of a great castle on the horizon, the sight of their destination raising the spirits of the entire company. Still, even as optimistic as he was at that moment, Sagramor refused to be taken off guard, grey eyes observing the vast fields of barley on either side of the road for danger.

“How bare the road seems,” explained the dwarf. “I’ve travelled this region before, and there are always traders or herdsmen about. You’d think that with a settlement as important as Redcliffe, they’d be travellers coming and going, but we’ve yet to see anyone today.”

“They might just be avoiding Lothering,” Alistair suggested. “Word of Ostagar must have reached the rest of Ferelden by now, and anyone with a grain of sense is giving Lothering a wide berth.”

“But what about the road north along Lake Calenhad?” Bodahn insisted. “There was no one from Redcliffe heading that way at the crossroads we passed last night. I have to say, Warden, it’s very odd, and more than a little worrying.”

“Do you think the darkspawn could have taken Redcliffe, then?” posed Leliana, visibly aghast at the thought.

“Unlikely,” the former Templar reassured her. “Redcliffe is the strongest fortress in western Ferelden; even with its knights searching for the Ashes, it’ll be well-defended. During the Orlesian invasion, the Mad Emperor’s forces had to take the castle by siege rather than storm, and even that cost them greatly. There’s no way it could have fallen so quickly, and if the darkspawn were this far west, we would have known.”

“Agreed,” said Sagramor. Even without the Warden ability to sense the darkspawn, there would have been signs of their passing, like the smoke of ravaged steadings or the screams of their victims. Still, there was no harm in being careful. “Morrigan, could you scout ahead? Just do a quick reconnaissance; I don’t want you taking on an entire pack of darkspawn by yourself.”

“Very well then, Warden,” said Morrigan, darting off down the road. Her lithe figure became suffused with light, and when it faded, a raven soared westwards, shrieking boldly.

“By the Stone!” gasped Bodahn. “Can all mages do something like that?”

“Morrigan’s a special case,” Sagramor explained, smiling at the dwarf’s look of wonder. Probably the first time he’s seen any magic at all, come to think of it. Dwarves can’t be mages, remember? “We’ll hold here for a moment. If there’s any danger on the road ahead, Morrigan will find it.”

“As you say, Warden. If we had but a dozen mages like the Lady Morrigan in Orzammar, then my people might be able to make some headway against the darkspawn.”

“They are always threatening Orzammar then?” asked Leliana.

“Regrettably so, my lady. The darkspawn destroyed our empire during the First Blight, and took most of our thaigs in the process. Orzammar is the only one left, and it’s constantly under siege from the Deep Roads. Every now and then, the Warrior Caste sends out an expedition to recover some lost technologies and artefacts, or some deshyr in the Assembly argues for a counterattack to reclaim a lost thaig, but it rarely amounts to much.”

Sagramor frowned at this ill news; would the dwarves of Orzammar even be capable of helping them on the surface with the darkspawn at the proverbial gates of their underground city? “It’s funny; until Ostagar, everyone in Ferelden thought the darkspawn were only a myth. I bet the dwarves wish they could have that luxury, huh?”

“They do indeed,” said Bodahn, peering at the castle looming in the distance. “Still, there’s hope. I mean, you’re Grey Wardens, right? The only surfacers the Warrior Caste respects?”

Sagramor couldn’t help but grin. “It seems our reputation precedes us. Well, with your help, Bodahn, we’ll see the Blight ended and Ferelden safe again.”

At the rear of the party, Alistair cleared his throat meaningfully. “Hey, Sagramor, can we talk for a moment?”

“What is it, Alistair?” asked the elf. “Everything all right?"

“In private, please? Shouldn’t take more than a moment, I promise you.”

Ragnar gave a curious whine, and Sagramor sighed, giving the dog a reassuring pat. “As you wish. Leliana, Sten, stay here and wait for Morrigan to get back. You see any sign of trouble, let us know, and we’ll come running. Keep Ragnar with you as well. We’ll be back in a moment.”

“Of course, Warden,” Leliana replied, stringing her bow, blue eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger. Ragnar gave another piteous whine, but obediently stayed with the wagon as the two Grey Wardens jogged down the path, moving swiftly out of earshot. Even so, Alistair kept nervously glancing back at the rest of the party, constantly looking over his shoulder like a man with a heavy purse cutting through a Denerim slum.

“Let’s not lose sight of them, Alistair,” Sagramor suggested, halting next to a great weathered boulder planted on the side of the road. “So, what do you need to talk about? Warden business?”

“Not exactly, and I’d never use that as an excuse. I need to tell you something that I probably should have told you earlier. I’ve been putting off doing it, but since we’ll be in Redcliffe soon, I think it’s important you know. Does that make any sense?”

“This has something to do with the Arl then?”

“And more. Last night, I don’t think I told you why Arl Eamon raised me, right?”

“You didn’t,” confirmed Sagramor, “and I didn’t feel like prying any more than I already had. I just assumed it was some noblesse oblige on his part, an act of charity in gratitude for your mother’s good service to his family.”

“Well, yes, a bit, but there was more to it. It wasn’t just who my mother was, it was who my father was. He asked Eamon to shelter me and give me a future, and the Arl did it because he respected my father, called him a friend. He did it because…” For a moment, Alistair didn’t speak, the words that he had kept buried most of his life refusing to take shape.

It took Sagramor’s gentle prodding to bring them to the surface. “Alistair, I promise you that whatever secret you share with me here, I won’t tell the others. I can be discreet, you know.”

“You swear it?” asked Alistair, almost pleading.

“On my honour and that of my kin,” Sagramor declared without hesitation. “We’re brothers of the Order, aren’t we? In this together, through thick and thin? I would never betray you in this, or anything at all. So go ahead and say what you need to.”

For a moment, Alistair remained silent, until at last, he could not endure hiding the truth an instant longer. “Arl Eamon took me in because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my… half-brother, I suppose.”

“Your father was--” Sagramor gasped, too shocked to speak further. Maric the Saviour was his father? “So, you’re not just a bastard, but a royal one?” he finally managed to croak out, dumbstruck at the news. All this time, he had been speaking to not merely a nobleman’s bastard child, but a Theirin, a member of the royal bloodline that had governed Ferelden since Calenhad united it in the first place, a dynasty that survived in spite of plagues, civil wars and even the Orlesian Occupation.

Shamefully, the elf was tempted to bend the knee on the spot.

Alistair gave a small laugh. “Yes, I guess it does at that. I should use that line more often.”  His mien became serious once more, and he looked away, red with shame. “I would have told you, but… it never really meant anything to me. I was an inconvenience, a possible threat to Cailan’s rule, and so they kept me secret. I’ve never talked about it to anyone.”

“Well, I can imagine it’s not the sort of thing that comes up in casual conversation,” Sagramor remarked, studying Alistair’s face more closely. In hindsight, it was obvious how much the other Warden looked like the fallen King; a similar facial structure, the shape of their eyes, of their chins. Small things perhaps, meaningless out of context, but stand the two men beside each other, and it was clear they were related. Perhaps that’s why Cailan left Alistair out of the strategy meeting, considered the elf, so no one would make that connection. “You don’t sound particularly happy about it though. I would think being descended from Calenhad the Great would be, I don’t know, a bit more meaningful to you?”

“Why should it?” demanded Alistair with a sudden spite. “Everyone who knew either resented me for it, or coddled me. Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it, so I didn’t want you to know as long as possible. I’m sorry.”

“This is— who else knows about your parentage?”

“Besides Duncan and Arl Eamon? Not many. Cailan was one, obviously. The Arl’s brother, Bann Teagan, he knows too.”

“And Loghain?” asked Sagramor, tackling the elephant in the room head-on.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Alistair said, looking like he’d swallowed a lemon at mention of the traitorous general. “He and Maric were the best of friends, or so it goes, so I can’t imagine him not learning about it at some point.”

“If that’s the case, then it’s all the more reason for him to come after us. He can’t rest easy on the throne if there’s a more valid claimant out there opposing him.”

“Not that I want the throne, of course,” Alistair interjected hastily. “Seriously, Sagramor, I’ll fight to the death to end that bastard’s schemes, but becoming King is the very last thing I want. That’s even assuming the Landsmeet would think Maric’s bastard even worthy of it; it was always made clear that the throne is not in my future. And that’s fine by me. No, if there’s an heir to be found, it’s Arl Eamon himself. He’s not of royal blood, but he is Cailan’s uncle, and more importantly, very popular with the people.”

Will you have a choice in the matter, though, now that Cailan’s dead? Sagramor wondered, burying that concern for now. Alistair had already taken a giant leap telling him this secret; it wasn’t the time to press him further. Nor did he have the right to condemn him for keeping secrets; the tale of his own failure to rescue Shianni in time was one he hoped he’d never have to relay. “Well… you’ve given me a great deal to think about, Alistair. Forgive me, but now I have to ask if there’s anything else you’re hiding in the way of personal secrets that could affect the mission.”

“Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair?” Alistair remarked pleasantly, taking the demand in stride. “No, that’s it. Just the Prince thing.”

“Fair enough. I can understand why you’d want to keep silent about this,” admitted the elf. “I’m not angry with you, Alistair, I’m just a bit in shock, that’s all. It’s not really something you hear every day.”

“That’s alright; I just didn’t want you walking into Redcliffe not knowing; it would have got rather awkward, and as our leader, you should know these things. You won’t tell the others, right?”

“I swore an oath, didn’t I? I promise you, Alistair, I won’t reveal this to the others without your permission. You should tell them eventually, but I leave that judgment in your hands.”

Alistair let out a sigh of relief. “Good, I’m glad. Now can we move on, and I’ll just pretend you still think I’m some nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

“So what does that make me then?”

The bastard Prince of Ferelden gave a warm smile. “The reason I think we have a chance to set things right again.”

“Sagramor!”

The sound of Leliana’s voice instantly drew the Warden’s attention, and he turned to see her running down the path towards them. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but Morrigan has returned,” the red-haired woman explained, her concern evident. “We have a problem.”

There was no one on the road to Redcliffe whatsoever, Morrigan explained to the Wardens once they rejoined the group. At least not alive. Further west, closer to Redcliffe, the corpses of sheep and cattle could be seen rotting in the fields, and the freeholders who lived there had vanished without a trace. A lone sentry stood guard over the bridge that led to Redcliffe, and while the mage had seen activity in the village, the castle that loomed above it seemed deserted. “Clearly, something has happened in this area,” suggested the sorceress. “But what was so important you felt the need to skulk away, Alistair?”

“An unrelated matter,” Sagramor intervened before they could quarrel. “We’ll continue on to Redcliffe, but keep a keen eye out. We’re a bit too exposed out here for my liking. Alistair, we’ll store our Warden tabards for now, just like we did at Lothering, at least until we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Right. Shall I take point then?” suggested Alistair.

“We’ll all go together. If this is a trap, then we’ll make them regret us tripping it. At the double, everyone!”

******************************

The sentry saw the Warden’s company jogging down the path, and immediately waved them over, a new, desperate hope overcoming the fatigue in his eyes. “Over here! Have you come to help us?”

“Help you?” asked Sagramor. “We’ve heard that the Arl is sick, but--”

“He could be dead for all we know!” wailed the sentry, horrified at the prospect. “Has no one out there heard? Did Bann Teagan’s messengers not get through?”

“Please, slow down,” Alistair urged him. “What’s happening in Redcliffe?”

“We’re under attack,” explained the sentry pointing to the fresh scrapes and bruises he bore. “Monsters have been coming out of the castle and trying to destroy the village. Everyone’s been fighting… and dying!”

“Tell us more about these monsters,” Sagramor demanded. “What are they? Darkspawn?”

“I… I don’t know. None of us do, I’m sorry! I should bring you to Bann Teagan; with the Arl sick, he’s been the only thing holding us together.”

“Lead on then,” Sagramor ordered, the rest of the company falling in behind. Glancing up at the menacing fortress perched atop the titular red cliffs, the elf could only wonder at what new disaster they were walking steadfastly into…