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Ailis, Cailan's tutor, liked to teach lessons in the palace chapel. It was the prettiest place in the whole castle, and it was always warm and smelt of incense and smoke from the holy brazier. The sun shining through the large lead-lined stain glass windows made the whole room seem like the inside of a gem, with bits of blue and gold and red light splattered on the stone pillars.
The pews were light wood, and each one had a wood carving of a rising sun on the arch of wood of the back, painted in yellow and orange.
The statue of Andraste-the-warrior, rather than Andraste the prophetess which was more typical in chantries, stood sentinel between both rows of pews, sword drawn, shield raised, watching over all who entered her sanctum.
The room, while very beautiful, also had the effect of making one feel very small. Someone as small and young as Cailan especially.
And, he imagined, it was probably worse for Alistair, who sat next to him in one of the pews.
Ailis at the other end of the pew, a set of four knitting needles holding the neck of what would soon be a very pretty blue sweater, working in the round.
Anora, sadly, did not wish to come to Cailan's lesson, leaving him and Alistair alone for the tedium of it.
There was a book open on Cailan's lap, his small, pale fingers trailing slowly over the words, sounding them out.
The book was not like father and mother's books. It did not have a leather cover and vellum pages. It was cheap, and printed on plain paper, held together between a thicker paper cover. It was the kind of book those wealthy enough to be literate, scribes, merchants, but not wealthy enough to afford fancier books read.
And it had been one of the presents Cailan picked out for Alistair's name-day present.
“'The K-k-kni-knigut laughed,'” Cailan read to Alistair, his small grubby fingers running over the woodcut picture of the laughing knight, his sword drawn, as he walked towards the evil mage.
“That's knight, Cailan,” Ailis corrected gently from Cailan's left, not looking up from the blue pullover on her needles.
“'Y-your ma-magic cannot harm me, mage, the kn-knight s-said as he' unsheathed? 'unsheathed his sw-sword. I am pro-protected by the Maker.'”
“Then what?” Alistair asked softly, his words still not completely clear, but Cailan could understand them well enough. His head felt warm and heavy against Cailan's arm, and Cailan smiled as Alistair let out a yawn. The smaller boy twirled his red-blond hair around his fingers. The lids of his large brown eyes drooped a little.
“The kn-knight r-raised his blade high above his head and sw-sw-swung it hard, l-lo-loping off the mage's head in a si-single single strike. The crowd below cheered, for the evil mage was dead. They d-declared the kindly knight king. He married the p-princess the mage had impr-impry-imprysoned,”
“Imprisoned.”
“Imprisoned, and they lived happily ever after. The end.”
“Very very good, Cailan,” Ailis said, setting down her knitting, and turning to look at him. The old old woman wore a wide smile on her face. “If I had known the only thing I needed to do to ensure you didn't pout your way through your reading lessons was give you an audience, I would have done so far sooner.”
Cailan smiled. It was a small smile, a shy smile, but a smile none the less. “Did I do well, Ailis?”
“Very well. I'm quite impressed, honestly. If you'd like, you could stop your lessons for today.”
Cailan nodded, setting aside the book on the side table next to him. His fingers began to run absently along the wood grain of the large bench, as he thought in silence.
“The mage is supposed to be the bad guy, right?”
“He is the villain, yes.”
“Why though?”
“What do you mean?” Ailis asked.
“The king, before his death, gave the throne to the mage, because they were old friends. And the princess didn't like this and insisted the throne should be her's, right, because her father was king. But the mage won trial by combat, and got the throne, fair and square. With a sword-fight, not even with magic. He kept the princess alive even though that gave her supporters something to support. The place he kept her imprisoned wasn't bad, and she was allowed visitors. Did people just not like him being king because he's a mage?”
“Magic is meant to serve man, Cailan, and never rule over him. They were angry because his being king went against the Maker. A kingdom can never truly be blessed if it is ruled by a mage. Look at the Imperium to the north. Mage lords rule over elven slaves, and humans with no magic, power their world with evil blood magic. Mages cannot rule justly. The whispers of demons cause their downfall and the downfall of others.”
“But Wilhelm led the rebels when they thought father and mother and Loghain were dead. And everything was fine when he led.”
“Maric still led, in spirit. Wilhelm simply guided and directed. It's very different.”
“What if father had magic, but he kept it hidden all these years, would he become a bad king the moment someone found out?”
Ailis laughed fondly. “What if the streets were paved with cheese? It's just as silly of a question. Your father is not a mage, and he is a just king. Were he a mage, he would have failed to reclaim his throne.”
That didn't feel like a satisfactory answer to Cailan, but he just nodded.
He flipped through the pages of the book, looking at the woodcuts silently, pictures of human queens in heavy armor on horseback, and dwarven and human Grey Wardens riding griffons into battle against massive ogres, human princes slaying dragons, a human shepherdess in a flowing cape, killing wolves with one hand, and protecting her younger sister with the other, evil mages, short and thin with large, creepy eyes, bargaining with the hero for his blood.
Something was wrong about it, he knew that much, but he couldn't figure out what.
“Cailan,” Alistair said, lisping slightly, tugging at Cailan's sleeve. “More stories?” he pointed to the book.
“Sure Ali,” Cailan said softly. “How about Ruby Red and the Wyvern?”
Alistair nodded, grinning wide, his head still rested against Cailan's arm, so Cailan felt it. And Cailan smiled.