Trouble & Strife: Chapter Fifty Nine

[scarylady]

Much love as always to bellaknoti the Comma Fairy, who kindly tidies up my chapters.

Link to the beginning, for anyone joining us for the first time: www.fanfiction.net/s/6144534/1/Trouble_Strife

Title: Trouble & Strife: Chapter Fifty Nine
Characters: basically, most of 'em
Rating: T
This chapter:  The day of the long awaited Landsmeet arrives, and King Alistair is a bag of nerves...

 

-oOo-

Maddy watched, resignedly, as Alistair mooched nervously around their sitting-room. He’d tripped over Claudia three times already, and now the little cat was curled up on the sofa beside her mistress, giving the King dirty looks.

“More tea, mon mari?”

“No, I mean yes, er…” Alistair stopped fiddling with their toy soldiers and looked up at her with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I’m distracted. Maker, Maddy, it’s the Landsmeet in a few hours. What if we lose? Eamon’s right, I’ll never have the respect of the nobles again if this proposal falls on its face.”

“We are not going to lose.” Maddy wished she was certain of that, but nevertheless kept her voice confident. “You are right to do this, Alistair. Too much harm has been done here by the Chantry, and it would not surprise me at all if the Divine was behind the whole thing. You will take better care of them; not just the mages, but the Templars, too.”

“I hope so.” He set down the figurine. “I want them to work together, Maddy. I want them to actually help people, rather than just lock themselves away and spend their lives glaring at each other. Mages can’t be allowed to run wild, they’re too dangerous. I want training and tests, much more stringent than the Harrowing; so that we can know which mages are fit to work in the community. I want Templars and mages trained together, so they think as a team rather than as opponents. I want the new Templars to be taught without lyrium. I know the older ones will always have to use it, but I don’t want more people addicted.”

“And you shall have all of this.” She’d heard this speech several times before, but showed no signs of impatience. Alistair’s Templar-training haunted him almost as much as the situation in the Circle. “All we must do is get through today.” She climbed out of the sofa, clumsily. There were still two months to go before her confinement, but the twins already began to lie heavy on her tiny frame. “Come, mon amour,” Maddy kissed Alistair on the nose, pulling his face down to where she could reach it. “It’s time to dress and prepare.”

-oOo-

“Arl Teagan.”   It was the fifth time in the last hour that Teagan had been so accosted, with a hand on his sleeve and a barely polite greeting. The Landsmeet chamber was starting to fill up and everyone was eager to hear about the same thing.

“Teyrn Bryland, I hope you are well.” Teagan took a half step away, forcing the Teyrn to release him. “Is the Teyrna in good health?”

“Yes, of course.” The Teyrn’s response was cursory. “Teagan, that shocking business yesterday… is it true that Warden Anders murdered the Grand Cleric in cold blood?”

“Absolutely not.” After so many repetitions the words were becoming mechanical and Teagan had to force some conviction into them. “There are witnesses, Chantry witnesses, who are willing to state on oath that it is not so.”

Bryland chewed his lip, clearly unconvinced. “It’s a terrible thing to happen, and could bring the wrath of the Chantry down upon us. Teagan, why wasn’t the Landsmeet cancelled? Surely the King doesn’t intend to go ahead with this mad plan?”

“The proposed reforms are necessary, Your Grace. The untimely death of Grand Cleric Leanna, regrettable though it was, doesn’t alter that.”

“It seems downright disrespectful to me, under the circumstances, and dangerous to upset the Chantry even more. If King Alistair wants my vote, he’s going to have to work blighted hard for it, that’s all I can say.”

Teagan bit back a sigh. He’d heard that too many times today, also. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I see my brother beckoning me.” He bowed and departed, before things could get any worse. There was no point remonstrating; he’d tried that with the first three nobles, to no avail. The numbers were so close and hope was dwindling that the proposal would achieve the two-thirds majority it required. 

For the hundredth time, Teagan rolled the numbers through his mind. The north coast was solid, too interested in the prosperity offered by the lyrium trade to care much about the potential reactions of the Chantry. The south was predominantly in the Chantry’s pocket, jealous of the shipping that the busy north coast would receive, and lacking the farmland that would warm them to the Queen and King. The Central Bannorn was split, some hanging onto the hope that Maddy’s gift could provide for them, but others too afraid of the Chantry to stick their heads over the parapet. Yesterday’s debacle had set everyone on edge, and all over the room nobles were arguing, fractious and discontented.

Nerves fluttered in Teagan’s stomach as he looked around the room. Not everyone was here yet. The delegation from the Chantry had not yet arrived, and Alistair had said that he was damned if he was appearing until they did. No dramatic last minute entrance for the Legate, he’d said, and Leliana had added her approval.

-oOo-

 

Leliana flitted around the room like a hostess at a tea-party, smiling and chatting with one little knot of people before ducking gracefully out and repeating the process with another. She did her best to ignore the grey eyes that followed her progress, to concentrate on the task at hand. She skilfully separated Bann Kester of Lothering from Bann Coerlic, who was making a spirited, if somewhat querulous, attempt to sway his vote. Taking the fat red-cheeked little Bann’s arm, she guided him to a little knot of Central Bannorn nobles, who wanted to hear first-hand what the Queen could achieve for them. Bann Kester, delighted to be the centre of attention, was happy to oblige them, and Leliana was able to move on.

The sense of being watched had faded, and when she sneaked a glance, Nathaniel was in conversation, having been bagged by a somewhat incensed-looking Alfstanna. Shipping business, Leliana ascertained, by dint of a little lip-reading, and dismissed it for the moment. Only one thing mattered today.

There was a bustle from those nearest the door, and a murmur of noise arose from that side of the room. A shift in the crowd of velvet and silk-clad bodies showed her the reason, and she turned to give the nod to the guard at the opposite entrance. The Chantry delegation had arrived, and the sooner Alistair now appeared the less time the Legate would have to spread more dissent.

-oOo-

Brother Guido had deliberately timed his entry, to ensure that all the other nobles were present when he arrived. He wanted them to see the empty space at his side, where the Grand Cleric would usually walk. The Templars who accompanied him had been given explicit instructions to assume a formation that drew attention to the ghastly, glaring fact that the Grand Cleric was dead. Murdered by a foul apostate.

Every eye turned to watch the entry of the Chantry delegation, and the Legate set a measured place, allowing everyone to look their fill. Or at least that was the plan, foiled mere moments after his entry by a blare of trumpets, insistently calling the Landsmeet to take their places. Instead of a dignified entrance under the eye of the Landsmeet, the Legate was forced to step briskly to reach his assigned position before a second cascade of notes heralded the arrival of the King and Queen. Every noble dropped into a bow or curtsey as King Alistair and Queen Madeleina entered from the opposite doors. The ruling monarchs of Ferelden walked arm in arm to the raised dais - backed by an enormous banner displaying a pair of rampant mabari supporting a golden crown - and seated themselves upon the twin thrones.   King Alistair nodded to his Chamberlain, who stepped forward with a scroll bearing details of the day’s business.

The Landsmeet had begun.

-oOo-

 

Never before had the minor business of the Landsmeet been declared and voted on so quickly and efficiently. The usual extensive brangling over minor points of law was eschewed in favour of silent, grim-faced waiting. Watching from the side, it occurred to Zevran that anyone with a small political axe to grind should most definitely have aired it today, assured of it slipping through with the minimum of attention. Everyone’s attention was firmly focussed on the main event.

The silence when the Chamberlain unrolled the final scroll was absolute.

“Nobles sers of the Landsmeet, I put before you a proposal from the Crown.” Bertram cleared his throat and continued. “Due to recent outrages perpetrated by the Chantry in this, our land of Ferelden, I, King Alistair Theirin, do propose to place the Ferelden Chantry under the protection of the Crown, appointing a Grand Cleric from among our devout sisters and ensuring that no longer are we subject to the diverse politics and corrupt influence of Val Royeaux.”

Now, for the first time there were murmurs, as the nobles discussed the wording. It had taken the whole group of them several hours last night to agree it, with quite a lot of heated discussion. Zevran was particularly pleased with ‘the diverse politics and corrupt influence of Val Royeaux’, devised by himself and Leliana in order to avoid directly calling the Divine corrupt, while taking a subtle swipe at how Orlesian the Chantry was.

Bertram cleared his throat again and called for order. “His Majesty has elected to bring forward his reasons for this proposal in person. Pray silence for the King.”

-oOo-

The only time Alistair could remember being this nervous was the day he’d walked into Maddy’s state apartment at the Imperial palace in Val Royeaux and proposed. Cold sweat coated his hands and it was an effort not to constantly wipe them on his velvet breeches. He was thankful that, at this Landsmeet at least, he was not obliged to wear armour.

He could see the Chantry delegation on the right hand balcony, the Legate in his sun robes looking down impassively, flanked by Templars. The left balcony held the highest ranked nobility; Teyrns and Arls. The main floor was a mass of bodies, Banns from every part of Ferelden, all looking up at him, awaiting a speech that would make or break his rule.

He drew a breath, praying desperately not to mess this up.

“Six months ago I began to receive reports of Chantry abuses. I have no doubt that most of you have heard similar, or even seen the evidence with your own eyes. Templars exceeding their powers, brutal in their pursuit of even the whiff, or rumour, of magic. Children dragged along on the end of a rope like animals, hurt and terrified, denied even basic care.” There were a few murmurs from the floor; it seemed the picture struck a chord.

“I attempted to negotiate with the Grand Cleric, but to no avail. The Crown does not understand the will of Andraste, she told me, and has no power over the actions of the Chantry, and she proceeded to arrange a public burning of mages, so-called maleficarum and abominations, in our capital city.” Alistair stopped a moment, looking around, his face grim. “I have fought both many times, unlike many who claim to understand them. I stood beside the Hero and fought against Uldred and the abomination he became, and I can assure you of this: if they had been abominations, they would not have stood passive against that stake and roasted. It was innocent mages who burned alive that day, their hands chopped off at the wrist and their tongues torn from their mouths.”

It was a powerful picture and held the room in a spell. You could have heard a pin drop.

“I wrote to the Divine herself, in Val Royeaux, requesting that she appoint a Grand Cleric more in line with the needs and aspirations of the Ferelden people. A copy of that letter lies in the archives here in the palace, should any of you wish to see it. Months passed and I receive no response of any kind; it seems that either the behaviour of Grand Cleric Leanna was acceptable to the Divine’s office, or she simply did not care enough about our plight to take action.”

There were a few hisses and more murmuring. Some of the faces that turned up to where the Legate stood, his eyes fixed on the King’s face, seemed troubled, while others were angry.

“It is a fact, not known to many, that all Templars are addicted to lyrium. The Chantry claims that this is necessary so that they may use their abilities against mages.” Alistair allowed a small smile to offset the grimness of his expression. “If you have any doubts about the truth of that claim, let me know and I’ll be happy to smite you later, or you can trust my word: lyrium is not necessary.” There was a ripple of… something, a reaction he couldn’t assess, not now when so much more needed to be said. Leliana and Zevran, watching carefully, could be relied upon for that.

“When it was brought to my attention that the lyrium the Templars have been taking in recent times contained the poison deathroot, their aberrant behaviour began to make sense. Four Templars even attacked myself and my Queen in the Brecilian Forest, crazed with bloodlust.” One of the servants, at his nod, brought up a salver, upon which stood a stoppered and wax-sealed bottle. “Here is my evidence, lying under the seal of the Chantry. Poisoned lyrium, handed out to those Templars in the field, and in the Circle Tower, while those in other postings received ordinary lyrium. A deliberate and calculated attempt to ensure that mages received no quarter at the hands of those who were sworn to protect them.”

There was an uproar at that, a surge of voices, shouting questions, refutations, arguments. Alistair had to wait until the Chamberlain called the Landsmeet to order before he could continue.

“There are those who have openly wondered why I negotiated with King Bhelen of Orzammar for the lyrium trade, removing it from Chantry control.   There are those who have suggested that doing so puts Ferelden at terrible risk. Now you may understand my actions, and why not doing so would have put us at far greater risk. The dwarves of Orzammar will not tolerate pollution of lyrium, they venerate it too greatly to do so. Their ancient contract with the Chantry was rendered null and void by this heinous deed. The lyrium trade was up for grabs; I was fortunate to be on the spot, to be able to prevent in one move, a scrabble for power that would have rocked Thedas.”

That had them gripped. Every face was thoughtful and their concerns were obvious. If Orlais, their huge and powerful neighbour, had been able to seize control of the lyrium trade, it would have been a disaster for Ferelden. 

“It was while in Orzammar that I discovered another abuse of Chantry power.” Alistair glanced up at the Legate’s frozen face and, although he maintained his sober-face, inside he grinned. Does he really think I’ll mention their slaves? "In Orzammar I discovered mages, refugees who had fled from the Circle Tower, who were able to give me some much-needed news of what has been occurring there. The deathroot-crazed Templars hold our bastion of magic in an iron fist, the First Enchanter missing, presumed dead or tranquil, and every mage in fear of the same.

“Is this what we expect from the Chantry? Our brother and sons who join the Templar ranks addicted to drugs that slowly destroy their minds? Our sisters and daughters who show signs of magic dragged on the end of a rope, when barely old enough to walk, like animals or slaves? How does this make us any different than Tevinter, if the only distinction is who is drugged, who is enslaved? Do you, do any of you, truly believe that this is the message preached by Andraste?”

There were murmurings all over the room now, suppressed only by the shushing of those wishing to hear the rest.

“The Chantry has failed us. And yet I, just as you, believe firmly in the true principles of the Chant. Therefore I say to you that it is time for us to take responsibility for upholding Andraste’s Law, just as we, who hold noble rank, take responsibility for upholding the law of our land of Ferelden. I consider that I have a duty to do so, a duty to protect all of my subjects: noble, commoner, mage and Templar. I can only do this by offering myself as Protector of the Chantry of Ferelden, by myself ensuring that its leadership is righteous and true to its teachings. I ask that you allow me, and my heirs in perpetuity, to pick up this burden.”

Energy fizzed in Alistair’s veins, his body’s response to stress and public speaking. As the last words rang out he felt as if he could run out, right now, and put the world to rights. Just so had he felt before the Battle of Denerim, speaking to the army from his impromptu podium. It felt wrong to step back, to retake his seat on the ornate throne. He should be leading a charge with sword raised, a battle cry on his lips.

But there was no such clear-cut enemy, just a sudden buzz of conversation and the inevitable sight of the Chantry banner being raised, the sun symbol picked out in silk and gold thread. Unsurprisingly, the Legate wished to respond.

-oOo-

“The Landsmeet recognises the Chantry delegation. You may speak.”

At the King’s words, Brother Guido stepped forward, gripping the smooth wood of the balcony on which he stood.

“It is with sorrow that I hear King Alistair put forward such a disruptive proposal, and with bewilderment that I hear his reasons for doing so. He says that the Divine does not care for your concerns; and yet here I stand. He tells of an attack upon his person, and I say to you that I have already turned the perpetrators over to the King’s Justice.”

He paused, taking a breath, assessing the mood of the gathered nobles. The trick here would be to refute what was clearly refutable and ignore what was not. They would hear the positive, and only the most intelligent would spot the gaps.   He didn’t need to convince them all, anything above one-third of the vote was sufficient.

“He says that the mages of the Circle Tower have been ill-treated. I was as aghast as you to hear such a thing, and upon my arrival I assured King Alistair that any Chantry personnel with whom he took issue, Templar or priest, would be removed from their positions and replaced with those more acceptable to him.”

There it was, the mood of the room beginning to swing in his favour, nobles looking at each other and wondering why, after such a thing, the proposal could still be needed. The Divine Legate allowed them a small smile before permitting grief to gather in his face.

“He also speaks of his duty to protect all of his subjects. Why then does Grand Cleric Leanna lie dead, struck down by King Alistair’s own Court mage? Why does that man,” he pointed to where Anders stood, allowing his finger to shake with apparent emotion, “not lie under guard in Fort Drakon?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Denerim banner raised in response to his question. That would be Eamon, the King’s most subtle counsellor, ready to query his words. Brother Guido pressed on. “The Chantry is not your enemy, nobles of Ferelden. We have been painted very black, no? I say to you that the Divine wishes to meet you halfway in this matter, that she sees with sorrow the outrages perpetrated here and would see reparation done. It is not my wish to speak ill of the dead, but much of what has occurred may be laid at the door of your former Grand Cleric, and if she lived today I would see her answer for those actions. Ask yourselves why she does not. Ask yourselves what may lie behind this monstrous proposal. Vote with your minds and your hearts, my lords, and may Andraste guide you to the correct conclusion.”

-oOo-

As the last words rang out, they were met with silence, the nobility for once briefly quenched by the strength of the Legate’s rhetoric. Maker, curse him, thought Alistair, nodding to Eamon.

“We recognise the Arl of Denerim.”

“There are two points I would like to make, if the Landsmeet permits. One is that the Chantry has not called for the arrest of Warden Anders. This I would find very strange, were it not for my second point.” Eamon paused, allowing the Landsmeet a moment to become curious. Alistair gripped the arms of his throne, watching their intent faces. “King Alistair and I interviewed yesterday evening two Templars in good standing, one of whom was a member of Grand Cleric Leanna’s personal guard. They both swore to me, by the Maker and Sacred Andraste, that Warden Anders did not access the Fade when Grand Cleric Leanna was hit by that spell.” 

There were murmurs from the crowd, which Eamon allowed to swell and drop before continuing. Alistair hid a grin; working the room was one of Eamon’s specialities.

“Both Templars agree that the spell was cast further back, in the crowd of people milling around at the base of the stage. Furthermore, they are both willing to attest that Warden Anders had powder burns on his hands, suggesting that a flash bomb had gone off there, making it appear as though he had cast the spell.

“It is, of course, impossible to know who set him up for this particular fall. The perpetrators fled in the chaos that inevitably erupted. I do, however, find myself asking exactly why the Chantry did not turn up in force yesterday evening to demand the arrest, and execution, of the person they believed to have murdered their leader.”

At that, the Landsmeet burst into agitated and vociferous noise, outraged at Eamon’s suggestion. Alistair watched for the ones who weren’t outraged, the ones who turned thoughtful eyes up to where the Legate stood, impassive. There were quite a few of them. Some of them weren’t strong supporters of the Crown. The tide was turning back again. Maker, it’s close. Every word makes a difference.

-oOo-

There weren’t as many questions as one would have expected. The fact that the Legate had neatly dumped all blame on a dead woman meant that there was little point in the nobles pursuing the question of poisoned lyrium, or tranquil mages. Which was, of course, the point of her death, thought Eamon, watching them all. He’s a clever opponent; if Leanna had been here, forced to squirm under scrutiny, then our case would have been so much stronger.

If the Legate’s grasp on the proceedings was in any doubt, then it was proven when he called for a recess before the vote. Too much of the room was in the King’s corner right now, he needed time to sway a little more support. Eamon couldn’t help but admire him for his ability.

Alistair had no choice, of course, but to acquiesce. Forcing a vote in the teeth of that request could only instil more doubt in people’s minds. 

On the verge of heading for the stairs leading down from the balcony, Eamon halted, brought to a halt by a hail from behind him.

“Eamon,” Teyrn Fergus, his brown hair falling in his eyes as always, was holding out his hand, “do you have a moment?”

He didn’t - too many people down on the floor needed to be spoken to - but Highever was a major part of their support, bringing many Banns in his wake.  He grasped the Teyrn’s hand warmly.  “Of course, Fergus, what can I do for you?”

“Your speech… I have to confess, until you spoke, I was wondering whether you were still in support of the King.”

“What?” The question was unexpected. “I’m still his Chancellor; of course he has my support.” Mainly because I haven’t been able to sway him from this foolish scheme. “Whatever makes you think otherwise?”

Fergus looked uncomfortable. “Eamon, it’s not my intention to cause trouble, but you should know… Isolde came to see me yesterday, trying to convince me to support the Chantry against this proposal.”

Isolde. “I see.” Certain things became clear all at once. Spiteful comments against Alistair that he’d put down to her long-standing jealousy. The amount of time she spent out at lunches or dinners recently; he’d thought she was just taking advantage of their new city location to make more friends. “I- Thank you for telling me this, Fergus. I’m sorry you were put in such a position.” 

Stupid, stupid woman.  Maker, how he loved her, but by all that was holy, how difficult she made it. I should never have taken Denerim, never have moved her here. Better to have kept her in Redcliffe, where she can do less damage.

-oOo-

Leliana slipped out of the room as soon as recess was called, returning with the two Templars, Sers Bryant and Kayden. Many of the nobles would wish to hear their testimony first-hand; others might not want to, but should, as their vote was being too easily swayed by the death of the Grand Cleric. With the two of them in tow, she began a circuit of the room, ensuring everyone had the opportunity to speak to them.

As she did so, she allowed her eyes to flick around, keeping tabs on everything else which was happening. Anders was on the dais, remaining carefully close to Alistair and Maddy’s thrones. They were risking no ‘accidents’ today, no face-offs between the volatile mage and the crafty Legate. Several nobles were clustered before the dais, asking their monarch for more information. Passing by that part of the room, she heard reference to ‘land’ and ‘mage’. The inevitable questions had come up then, about the status of Maddy’s abilities. Thank the Maker there were a dozen or more Templars, stationed in various towns, who could attest that she did not access the Fade.

Zevran was keeping to the shadows, his primary role today to be on standby in case of any violent responses. Philippe was nowhere to be seen; she assumed that Zevran had him stashed somewhere safe. The Queen’s brother was still too shy of his ruined face to be comfortable in such a crowd, and his safety too much of a distraction for Zev.

Cedric was in a cluster of Banns, receiving congratulations both real and spurious on his ascension to lands and title, and looking rather uncomfortable. He still wore the armour of the King’s Own, and no doubt wished he was still on duty. Beside Cedric stood his father, Bann Gerant, looking proud and pleased. To have a younger son receive such an honour was a fantastic thing for their family. Leliana winked at Ced as she passed, and saw him grin in return, the cloud lifting slightly.

Teagan, looking harassed, and Eamon, as smooth and unruffled as ever, were working the room. It was impossible to know exactly how the vote would go; the Bannorn held so many little nobles, each with their own parcel of land, and it was they who were swaying back and forth between King and Chantry.

The Legate, with a pair of Templars to either side of him, was also moving around the room with a stately tread, making himself available to those who wished it. Fragments of conversation she caught, either in passing or from lip-reading, suggested that he was sticking to the line he had drawn: the fault lay with the Grand Cleric, and the Divine was willing to correct everything. It was a potent message for people who didn’t want to risk trouble with the powerful Chantry, and was certain to influence many votes.

A blare of trumpets preceded the Chamberlain’s voice. “The Landsmeet is called to order. My lords, please take your places.”

-oOo-

There was no resume of the facts, no closing speeches. Everyone who needed to be heard had spoken, and everyone had been given the opportunity to ask their questions informally.

It was time to vote.

Alistair could feel the sweat cold on his upper lip, and he gripped the arms of his throne to stop his hands from shaking. As soon as the nobles had all taken their places, he nodded to Bertram, indicating that the vote could commence. On the balcony the Legate was as calm and collected as ever. Not so much riding on this for him, thought Alistair. At worst, he gets to tell the Divine he failed and face her displeasure. If I fail, it’ll affect my whole reign.

Beside him, on the adjacent throne, Maddy sat as upright as was possible, given her swollen belly. One blessing was that the Legate had elected not to bring her status into this debate. Whatever arguments may be raging between the common people, at least his wife wasn’t being held up for scrutiny before the Landsmeet. Alistair assumed that the Legate had looked into what had actually occurred, and decided that there was insufficient basis on which to argue about her magics. The fact that the Crown had publicly denied any divinity would also have helped.

“Noble sers,” Bertram’s trained voice rang out through the Landsmeet chamber, “you are called upon to vote on the proposal put forward by the Crown.” He unrolled the scroll and read out the original proposal. “Due to recent outrages perpetrated by the Chantry in this, our land of Ferelden, I, King Alistair Theirin, do propose to place the Ferelden Chantry under the protection of the Crown, appointing a Grand Cleric from among our devout sisters and ensuring that no longer are we subject to the diverse politics and corrupt influence of Val Royeaux.” He furled the scroll and looked up into a sea of tense, expectant faces. “All those in favour raise the banners of their House.”

All over the room there was the whirr of ratchets, as the locking mechanisms on the standing banners released, unfurling them towards the ceiling. Redcliffe was first up, with Denerim, Amaranthine, West Hill and Highever close behind. The sight of the four Arls and the Teyrn pledging their support so freely caused a whole heap of Banns to follow suit, demonstrating their loyalty to their overlords. Gwaren’s banner remained stubbornly furled and most of the south followed suit, with only Lothering and those banns adjacent raising their banners.

Alistair’s eyes flicked anxiously over the raised banners. He held a large chunk of the Central Bannorn, all fearful that if they didn’t vote in his favour, the Queen would not give them her time in order to resurrect their fortunes. The north-east coast was solid, only the far north-west, under Bann Alfstanna, holding for the Chantry. Two-thirds he needed, and it was looking close, too close. He could see the Chamberlain taking careful count, noting in the records who had voted how. When the count was done, Bertram looked up and gave his King a tiny shake of the head. 

Alistair felt like he’d been punched in the gut. They’d lost. After everything they’d done, they’d lost.  Ferelden would suffer badly for this. Maker knew what kind of Grand Cleric would be inflicted upon them now. He would have no recourse to protect the remaining mages in the Circle tower. And, worst of all, the Landsmeet would lose faith in their King, making it virtually impossible for him to effect any changes during the remainder of his reign. 

The Chamberlain stepped forward, speaking into deadly silence. “The proposal is tied, sixteen votes to eight-”

A cheerful voice, Cedric’s voice, cut in from the very back of the room, where Rainesfere’s banner was already raised. “Just one second, we’re having problems back here.” The whole room turned as one, to where the newly-instated Bann was struggling with a raw, new-looking banner stand.

He pulled out a dagger and bashed the stand with the pommel, where the shiny, new brass handle was stuck solid in roughly hewn pine. There was an audible click. “There, that should do it.”

Before the combined gaze of the nobility, a banner was unfurled, bright and new.   The fabric was linen, not fine silk, fresh and crisp, not showing the careful wear of ages. It bore no gold thread, and the embroidery was a little lumpy in places, seeming to have been sewn by many hands. The insignia upon it had never been seen before in the Landsmeet chamber: a tree, the branches widespread and the trunk painted in swirling colours.

The elves had voted.

-oOo-

At her post, to one side of Maddy’s throne, Kallian shook sudden tears out of her eyes. She could see Valendrian’s calm face, and Shianni’s triumphant grin, under the banner of the Vhenadahl. She heard Maddy’s breathless gasp at her side, as the implications sunk in, and heard the Queen murmur to her husband, “Alistair, we’ve won.”

Anything other than that was lost in the cacophony that broke out, furious nobles demanding to know what on Thedas was going on, why the knife-ears were voting. It took time for Bertram to re-instate order, and in the end it was Alistair who had to bellow for silence, battlefield-trained voice ringing out over the din. A clerk scuttled out of a side room, bearing a scroll, which he pushed into Bertram’s hand before vanishing again. The Chamberlain cleared his throat.

“May I remind those present of the proceedings of the previous Landsmeet.” He unrolled the scroll. “The proposal for the refurbishment of the Alienages was put before the Landsmeet, with the following addendum: ‘that the Crown subsidise a percentage of the costs of improvement to all the alienages, directly from the Queen’s dowry, on the condition that the Hahren of the Denerim alienage receive a seat on the Landsmeet, representing the interests of all the alienages.’   This proposal was passed and now forms a part of Ferelden law.”

There was a stunned silence. It seemed that very few had remembered this to be the case. The glowering faces up in the Chantry box certainly suggested that the Legate had not known. The other proposals put forward today had all affected only the Central Bannorn, where there were no Alienages, so the elves had thus far abstained from voting.

The whole thing appeared to have shocked the Landsmeet to its core, and Kallian was seriously struggling to keep the grin off her face.

“The votes have now been counted.” The Chamberlain’s voice roused them all from their stupor. “The Crown’s proposal is passed with seventeen votes.”

Kallian saw Maddy reach out a hand to squeeze Alistair’s. It was over. They’d won.

-oOo-