The Stolen Throne

10

The main hall of Gwaren’s manor was crowded, as it was never intended to be used as a royal court. Not even a court presided over by an exiled prince, attended by nobility already part of the rebel cause and a smattering of those who had dared the journey despite the threat of the usurper’s wrath. Even so, Loghain saw that many more had come than he had assumed might. Certainly many more were present than Maric had dared to hope. Loghain had to suppress a grin as he watched Maric sitting on the ornate chair at the head of the hall and becoming more and more nervous, watching his guests crowding among the tables.

The usurper had not made it easy for them over the past several weeks. Fortunately it seemed that there was little King Meghren could do. The Bercilian Passage through the great forest was easily defended, and though the King’s forces had attempted to reach Gwaren several times, they had been forced to turn back long before nearing the town each time. The tactics the rebels had learned in holding the southern hills benefited them here, and Loghain was proud of the role his Night Elves had played in harassing the enemy lines from within the forest. Their reputation among the enemy as brutal killers had only increased, and it was said that many men within the King’s army were refusing to take the night watch for fear it would mean a silent arrow in the throat.

This meant the overland route to Gwaren was closed, but fortunately it was not a route that the town relied on. The port had remained open, and after an initial period of uncertainty, it had resumed a bustling business. Maric had met with the local mayor, a portly fellow who had scraped the floor in abject terror when the men brought him in. The mayor was a decent man, Ferelden-born and ill-treated by the Orlesians who had assumed rule over the land. Naturally he had no reason to believe that the invaders were any different, and was shocked when Maric put him back in charge of the town and gave him discretion in using the rebel army to restore law and order.

After a few nervous tests of his authority, each decision backed by Maric with little question, the mayor performed his duties with vigor. The man’s relief was almost palpable, and by convincing him of Maric’s honest intentions, so, too, were most of the local Fereldans convinced. The acceptance of Maric as the true prince became commonplace, with lines at the manor by the well-to-do who were now only too willing to pledge their allegiance. Efforts accelerated to rebuild and provide shelter to those displaced by the fighting, and there were even reports of some who had fled Gwaren returning to their homes.

Of course, the few local Orlesians who had been unable to flee the terrifying prospect of rebel control were the least pleased by their situation. They were less fortunate folk, servants to the wealthy gentry as well as guardsmen and a handful of merchants and entertainers. Poor or not, Loghain was not about to risk them proving their loyalty to King Meghren by assassinating Maric. The guards had been rounded up and imprisoned in the manor’s dungeon while the rest were being carefully watched.

They weren’t the only potential problems, Loghain was certain. The smiles of the locals would fade quickly if the wind changed direction, without a doubt. Maric scoffed at the idea, but even Rowan agreed that security needed to be tightened around the manor. Taking over a town was one thing; controlling it was quite something else.

In time, the usurper would rouse a sufficient force that they would push through the Bercilian Passage and attack, and Arl Rendorn worried about exactly when that was going to happen. Gwaren was defensible but difficult to retreat from, after all. Their saving grace was that the sea lanes remained unhindered. Ferelden had never been a seafaring culture, and thus the usurper had been forced to resort to offering exorbitant bounties for those willing to raid ships bound for Gwaren. Much to his frustration, there were few takers. Those nobles who had arrived by ship had reported little in the way of obstruction. If the rumors were to be credited, Meghren was fit to be tied over the ability of the rebels to seemingly come and go as they pleased and already had a new set of heads adorning the palace gates.

Arl Rendorn worried that eventually the Emperor would send the usurper a fleet to patrol the coast, but it had not happened yet. For the moment they were safe. Gwaren’s occupation was a black eye to the Orlesians, showing that Maric was strong enough to hold his own court, the first since his grandfather’s time. So the curious had come.

At least half the room, Loghain surmised, consisted of men and women who had never marched with the rebels. On the surface, these were all loyalists, the old and the dispossessed who all were affecting relief and loyalty at the rebels’ progress. The wine was flowing freely, and all the ruddy faces were smiling broadly, but Loghain wondered at the end of the day how many of them would offer more than encouragement? Very few, he imagined, and even then only if the usurper didn’t find out about it.

Rowan insisted that even their presence was a risk, a level of defiance against the King that they would not have dared before Gwaren was taken. After all, how certain could anyone be that news would not reach Denerim? Some of these men had to be spies. The King was not known for giving anyone the benefit of the doubt, so Rowan was certain that either hope or desperation had brought some of these men here.

Remembering the time they had spent in the Bannorn, Loghain was inclined to agree. Still, diplomacy was Maric’s job.

The hall had reached a fever pitch of chattering voices and clinking wine goblets when Maric finally stood from his seat. Loghain thought he looked small in his black robe, an erminelined garment that they had appropriated from the former owner of the manor. He did look regal, however, and would have looked more so were it not for the nervous sweat dripping from his face.

The noise in the hall hushed, and many of the nobles took their seats at the tables. Loghain remained standing, as did the Arl and Rowan and many of the other rebel guards who watched from the walls. A soldier stepped out from behind Maric’s chair carrying a large staff and a scroll. The staff he ceremoniously stamped on the stone floor three times, the thumping sound ringing throughout the hall and causing the last whispers and fidgets to cease. The soldier presented the scroll and read:

“On this, the ninety-ninth year of the Blessed Age, thou art welcomed to the court of Prince Maric Theirin, son to she who was Queen Moira Theirin and heir to the blood of Calenhad, First King of Ferelden. Bare not thy blade, and respect shall be shown to thee in turn.”

The soldier stamped the staff again, once, and Loghain quietly joined the entire room in chanting a low and solemn, “Our blades are yours, my lord.” If only it were truth and not a formality.

The soldier put away the scroll and bowed low to Maric before withdrawing. Maric continued to stand there, gauging the crowd. Some of the nobles began whispering to each other, but most watched closely.

He’s going to disregard everything the Arl told him, isn’t he? Loghain thought to himself. Rendorn had spent many hours coaching Maric on exactly what he should say, the formalities observed in a true court. But Loghain saw in Maric’s eyes that he had different plans.

You cheeky bastard, Loghain thought.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Maric began. His voice carried easily throughout the quiet hall. “Many of you have been asking me about it tonight. I know some of you were at Redcliffe when Arl Rendorn declared my mother the rightful Queen, but I didn’t ask you here to witness a coronation.”

A stir of surprised voices erupted, but Maric held up a hand. “When I am coronated”—he raised his voice over the din—“I intend for it to be while seated on Calenhad’s throne and with the crown that currently sits on the usurper’s head!”

Shouts and cheers greeted Maric’s cry, many of the nobles standing and clapping their hands vigorously. Some were quiet and perhaps even shocked, Arl Rendorn among them. Loghain watched the poor man pale, seeing his careful coaching go awry. Maric looked out at the hall intensely, fire in his eyes. Loghain approved.

“So why are you here?” Maric began again, before the shouting subsided. He walked forward into the hall, moving slowly among the tables. The noise in the room quickly quieted. “Part of it is to recognize that we have made the first step in reclaiming our homeland. If only Teyrn Voric were still alive. He was a friend of my mother’s, and I would have been very happy to see him sitting back on this chair that belonged to him. But we know what happened to him, don’t we?”

The room grew somber, and the few whispers that continued stopped as other nobles looked up at Maric. They knew only too well. “Teyrn Voric was accused of giving us safe harbor, so Meghren had his entire family hanged. He let them dangle in Denerim Square until they rotted, and then he gave Gwaren to one of his own cousins.”

The room was silent. Many eyes dropped, some in remembrance and some in shame. There was no one present who was not painfully aware of the price the Orlesians had exacted after their victory, or of the sacrifices that had been made by those Fereldans who had chosen to remain with their holdings and their families rather than join the rebellion.

“Meghren’s power is in the chevaliers, those men sent to him by the Emperor. Without them, the Fereldan people would have risen up long ago. I hear your question: ‘What can we do against the chevaliers? They defeated us once during the invasion, and even if we defeat them now, the Emperor will just keep sending more!’

“We have gained new information, information that gives us a rare opportunity to strike back against the chevaliers themselves.” He paused to let that news sink in, and the level of surprised whispering increased. “We suffered a great loss to learn this. Arl Byron is dead, but because of him we now know that the pay for the chevaliers is being sent from Orlais and will arrive at the fortress of West Hill on the northern coast. Well over five thousand sovereigns—their pay for the entire year.”

The whispering had dropped to a hush, and for a moment the entire room stared at Maric with wide, startled eyes. “Without that coin, Meghren will be forced to either outrage the Fereldan people with new taxes or he must go to his Emperor with cup in hand to ask for more.” He grinned mischievously. “We intend to take it from him.”

The hall erupted into exclamations of shock and angry questions. Loghain saw that many of these men were worried, and leaned to shout questions into each other’s ears. He could imagine what they were. They didn’t know Maric as he did. They knew his mother, and perhaps Arl Rendorn. Of Maric, all they knew was that he was either bold or foolhardy enough to capture Gwaren, a town he might not hold for very long.

Two of the younger banns, small landholders from the north who had been hovering unenthusiastically near the back even before Maric revealed his plan, now quietly made their exit. Loghain caught Rowan’s eyes across the room, and she nodded almost imperceptibly in response. She and three other soldiers inconspicuously followed after the banns.

Maric would not approve, Loghain was certain. But Maric didn’t have to know.

The shouting went on for a full minute as Maric listened, seemingly unconcerned as he returned to the chair at the head of the hall. One of the elder banns, a well-known and respected man Loghain remembered from his time in the Bannorn, stood and held up a hand for attention. As eyes turned toward him, the volume in the room diminished greatly.

“Bann Tremaine, isn’t it?” Maric asked him, loudly enough to be heard.

The Bann bowed respectfully, his heavy blue robes threatening to topple his weathered bones to the floor. His skin was like pale parchment, and when he spoke, his voice was a quiet rasp that the rest of the room had to strain to hear. “My prince,” the Bann began, “I do not understand. How will you reach West Hill? The usurper is said to have his army camped on the Brecilian Passage. Must you not do battle even to reach the north?”

Maric nodded. “Ships. The usurper does not control the seas yet, so we have contracted several Antivan galleys to ferry our men to the northern coast.” He grinned slightly. “I’m not going to say exactly where, if you’ll forgive me.”

There were a few knowing chuckles among the crowd, but concerned glances as well. The elder Bann Tremaine appeared confused and asked what most others were likely thinking. “But . . . does this mean you will be abandoning Gwaren?”

Maric listened to the shouts of approval that accompanied the Bann’s question. “We need to strike at the usurper’s support,” he stated firmly. “If we do not, we will not be able to hold Gwaren no matter what we do.”

Several shouts of “But what will happen here?” went up from the crowd. Loghain noticed the portly mayor of the town seated at one of the tables, his face pale as a bedsheet. It would be very easy, Loghain imagined, for some to construe the mayor as having supported the rebel’s presence. No doubt the mayor was thinking about how the usurper might view those who had done so, should Meghren regain control.

Maric held up a hand, but the concerned chatter barely stilled. “We have no choice!” he shouted. “We shall leave a garrison, and hope to draw the usurper away to the north! But if he comes, we cannot stop him!”

General upset arose again, with numerous men jumping up from their chairs and shouting angrily at Maric. The idea of abandoning the first town the rebels had liberated did not sit well with them. Loghain knew Gwaren was not defensible enough to last against a full assault from the usurper, and with nowhere to retreat to, it was foolish to try and hold the town with a small force. But most of these men knew nothing of the sort.

Maric looked nervous now, sweating more profusely as he watched the room fall out of his control. Bann Tremaine sat down, shaking his head in sad disbelief, and many of the other nobles seemed to take that as a sign of condemnation. Loghain watched the men who were already part of the rebel cause and saw that they remained quiet in their chairs, their lips pursed.

Why the approval of any of these men was required, Loghain wasn’t certain. But Maric wanted it, hoping that approval might mean additional support and even more recognition from the Landsmeet that he was still the rightful ruler of Ferelden. It was risky, in Loghain’s mind. What if they refused him? Even if they approved, would that equate to more soldiers? The rebellion stood to lose more than it gained with this court. Loghain had argued as much and had been overridden.

“What does Arl Rendorn think of this?” The shout came from a gray-haired noblewoman, and was repeated as several others leaped on the idea. Others began to turn to the Arl, who glowered uncomfortably from near Maric’s chair. He said nothing as the cries increased in volume, until finally Maric grimaced and nodded.

Looking ill at ease in his formal coat, the Arl stepped forward, and the room quickly hushed. “I will not lie,” he announced gruffly. “I do have my misgivings about this plan.” His words were met by an immediate uproar of disapproval, which he had to bellow to be heard over. “But! But it is not without merit, my friends!”

Many of the nobles in the room were now on their feet, some looking ready to walk out. Arl Rendorn stepped forward, his brow knotted in consternation. “What Prince Maric says is not untrue—remaining here is not an option! It is true that we are spending all that we have on these ships, and it is a risky plan, but imagine what will happen if it works!” The sound of chatter hushed even further. “Have you all lived so long under the Orlesian thumb that you do not remember what it was like to strike a real blow against them!” Some cheers greeted his words, with several men pounding on their tables. “My misgivings are those of an old man . . . all the successes that your prince has enjoyed so far have been due to such risks!”

The Arl stepped back as a smattering of applause rang through the hall. Maric smiled at him in gratitude. Loghain knew it could have been much worse. Arl Rendorn’s objections in private had been strenuous. He did not trust the sea, like any good Fereldan, and the idea that the rebels should spend all the silver they had plundered in Gwaren on ships left him cold. All the more reason to do so, as far as Loghain was concerned.

Still, the Arl’s endorsement was hardly ringing. Skepticism reigned, and the babble of argument among those gathered increased. Maric stood, and it took several tries for his shouts to be heard over the din.

“The reason I am bringing this before you,” Maric yelled, “is that we need your help! If those who wish Ferelden to be free do not rise up now, they will never have the chance to! We cannot shoulder this burden alone!”

More negative cries rang out, and Loghain watched Maric’s heart sink. His words were being ignored. They didn’t believe him, didn’t think the plan had real merit, or they were frightened. The notion of Mad Meghren’s vengeance had kept most of them from joining the rebels to this point. Arl Byron had been the most powerful man to abandon his lands for Maric, and what had happened to him? Old men shook their heads, and many were getting ready to leave.

Loghain was done listening. He strode forward, elbowing past several others to enter the middle of hall. “It can be taken!” he roared. He drew his sword, and the metallic sound combined with the appearance of a weapon jarred the room. Those who had been about to leave stood still, while others stared openly in shock.

“You doubt our ability to take West Hill,” he shouted, turning to glare defiantly at the faces in the crowd, “and yet how many of you would have thought we could be standing here tonight? How many of you did I meet with that said you were certain that the death of the Rebel Queen meant that the rebellion was over? Yet here we are!”

Silence greeted his words. He turned and looked into the crowd until he spotted the blond elven woman who had brought them Arl Byron’s information. She stood against the far wall, now garbed in an elegant green dress but staying almost hidden in the shadows. Loghain had initially assumed her to be little more than a messenger, but after considerable interrogation he had grudgingly revised that opinion—indeed, it seemed likely that the elf had been instrumental in acquiring the information on West Hill in the first place. They were unable to ask Arl Byron now about her history as his agent, but her skills alone made her valuable. They were fortunate that she had made it to Gwaren in one piece.

He pointed his sword toward her. “You there! Katriel! Step forward!”

Katriel’s green eyes flicked to Maric, and he nodded reassuringly. She collected herself and moved forward into the light until she could be seen by all the noblemen. Shyly, she curtsied while keeping her head low.

“This is the woman,” Loghain gestured towards her, “who brought us our information. We know the names of those within West Hill who provided this information, men and elves like her friendly to the rebellion. They will provide us the chance to have our own people sneak in as servants, to open the fortress gates from within.”

He paused to let that fact sink in. “In fact, she has even volunteered to be one of those servants.” He rounded on the nobles, staring at them coldly. “She, an elf, has proved herself braver and more eager to aid her Prince than an entire room full of the pride of Ferelden.”

The angry retorts began again, with many men leaping up defensively and shaking their fists at Loghain. He stood his ground.

Some of the noblemen were outraged, and one in particular shoved to the front of several of his fellows. He was a fat man with curly red hair named Bann Donall, if Loghain remembered right. Loghain and Rowan had met briefly with him during their travels in the Bannorn, and had been summarily dismissed by him without so much as a discussion or even an offer of hospitality.

“You dare compare us to a knife-ear?” he hollered, his cheeks flushed with fury. “What do we care if some elven slattern offers her worthless life for her betters? What chance do you think she has of opening the fortress gates!”

Loghain saw the elven woman’s eyes go blank, and her face turned red—though whether from embarrassment or anger, he couldn’t say. Before he could respond, however, Maric dashed into the middle of the hall. His eyes were wide with a rage that Loghain had never seen in him before.

“If anyone has a chance, she does,” Maric snapped. He stared challengingly at the red-haired bann, and for a moment he seemed all of ten feet tall. “And her life isn’t worthless. If you want a reason why we’re standing here at all, look no further than her. I value her life greatly, and the fact that she is willing to risk it even for ignorant men such as you makes me value it all the more.”

He turned and coolly regarded the rest of the nobles, all of whom watched him in silence. Katriel’s eyes were wide with astonishment, but she continued to stare at the floor where she stood.

“You think me capricious?” Maric snarled. No one answered him. “You think me ready to throw our fortunes away on foolish plans? I tell you that we can strike at the usurper only through the chevaliers, and in order to do that, I will use whoever I believe can get the job done!”

He marched up to Bann Donall, staring him in the face, and the fat man retreated a step. “You think we can pick and choose who that is, my lord? Do you think we are holding a court to decide at our leisure just how the usurper will be defeated? We must act because we can, and we must act now!”

Maric spun around and marched back toward Katriel. He held out a hand to her, and though she stared at him in horror, she took his hand and he brought her closer, smiling gently. “I believe that the Maker brought this woman to me for a reason,” he announced, “and furthermore I believe she and those we send with her are meant to succeed.” He turned to frown at Bann Donall. “I believe it enough that I promise this: If the gates of West Hill are not opened, we will not attack. I will not throw lives away on a hopeless endeavor.”

Maric turned to look at Katriel again, reaching out with his free hand to lift her chin. He grinned, staring into her eyes. “But they will be open. I believe it,” he said firmly.

Katriel blinked rapidly, clearly disconcerted and moved and uncertain how to respond. “I . . . I will do my best,” she finally stuttered. A blush rose up her cheeks, and she looked away.

The babble began again, voices clashing against each other in argument. Some applauded, and many bowed their heads in thought, while others shook them in dismay. The anger had drained out of the room, however, and when Maric turned to regard the line of tables before him, he seemed very much the ruler he was supposed to be. Some of the men and women nearest him began to kneel.

Bann Donall stepped forward again. “Are you all mad?” he shouted, looking around at the gathering. He was so beside himself, he was shaking, his meaty fists pumping furiously at the air. “Are you actually going to listen to this child and his fantasies!”

The room fell silent again. Maric stared at the man coldly but said nothing.

“The only reason he has gotten this far is because of the Arl! You all know this!” The Bann spun about, looking for support from the room. Many refused to meet his gaze, but others appeared indecisive. “We must face reality!” he screamed, gesticulating wildly. “King Meghren is going nowhere! We would be better off locking this pup in a cage and giving him up before the King finds out we were even here!”

An uncomfortable silence greeted the red-haired man’s words, and before he could continue, Loghain leaped across the room and put his blade through the man’s chest. The Bann stared down with naked disbelief at the sword protruding from his chest, and as he did so, bright blood gushed from his mouth. He made a wet, sucking noise of dismay, and Loghain pulled the blade out of him.

The fat man slid to the ground and landed with a dull thud. A gasp of horror rippled through the crowd, and the sound of many chairs scraping along the stone floor echoed as the nobles retreated from the sight. They stared at Loghain with trepidation, uncertain whether he was about to turn on them next. Even Maric watched Loghain with a questioning look, still protectively holding the elven woman’s hands.

As the room fell into an uneasy quiet, Loghain calmly wiped his sword on the Bann’s expensive robe. He noticed that some of the nobles were still backing away as if repelled by the murder, and some were even about to make surreptitious exits. He didn’t need to look up to know that Rowan would have returned by now, and that she would be sending men to block the doorways that led out of the hall.

“You forget yourselves,” Loghain snapped. The room was absolutely still, and he had everyone’s complete attention. “This is not some beggar asking you for a handout, but your rightful King. We are at war with the Orlesians, the very ones who conquered our land and have been slowly taking it from you.”

With a grimace, he kicked Bann Donall’s body and it rolled several feet away from him. It stopped faceup, revealing the Bann’s horrified expression and lifeless eyes. A dark, wet stain was slowly spreading across the front of his robe, and blood was pooling around him. Many stared at the body, but nobody moved. “You all can get busy trying to think of how many ways you can commit treason in order to kiss the usurper’s feet,” Loghain continued, “or you can act like Fereldans and stop waiting for us to do all the work on our own. The choice is yours.”

Loghain stopped, wiped his mouth, and sheathed his blade. Not a single word was spoken in the hall, but he could see many faces nodding grimly. With any luck, he hadn’t sunk Maric’s chances completely.

He turned to Maric, who was still standing in front of the elven woman. She regarded Loghain warily, but hardly seemed frightened for all of Maric’s protectiveness. “I’m sorry,” he told Maric with a shrug. “It had to be said.”

Maric seemed caught somewhere between horror and amusement. “No, no,” he said. “That seemed . . . appropriate?”

“I certainly thought so.”

In the end, they got what they had been seeking.

If anything, the death of Bann Donall had served to shock many into remembering why they had been asked to come. It was not to argue over whether or not they approved of Maric’s actions or thought his tactics sound, but to be reminded that there was still someone who was waging the war with the Orlesians. And a chance existed now to strike back that had not come up once in the entire reign of the Rebel Queen.

Many of those men and women had left the hall without promising anything. Their faces uncertain, they seemed half-convinced they were about to meet the same fate as Donall—though of course, they did not. They had stayed and listened, and Maric was determined to let them leave his court unmolested. They would not be leaving Gwaren even so, not until there was no chance they could affect the battle at West Hill that was to come.

Loghain doubted they had much to fear. Those who had declined to offer their support to Maric had done so with heavy hearts. He had seen the fear in their eyes. Deep down, they just couldn’t bring themselves to hope that Maric might do better than his grandfather had back during the invasion. They feared the repercussions that would follow a loss by the rebels, and to tell the truth, Loghain could hardly blame them. Not a one had offered argument when they were informed they would be Maric’s guests for the next several weeks. No doubt the idea that it could potentially be argued to King Meghren that they were Maric’s prisoners crossed their minds.

Of those who did offer their support, it came with one major requirement: that Maric be kept out of the battle at West Hill and out of danger. The idea took Maric rather by surprise, but when it was brought up by an earnest female bann, it was quickly championed by others until finally Maric had no choice but to agree.

Their concern was a simple one: a dangerous assault made by the rebel army was acceptable, but the last Theirin could not be risked in such a battle. If he was lost, so was Calenhad’s bloodline.

It was Calenhad’s memory, and the memory of Maric’s mother, that truly made them offer their support in the end. To these men and women, that tradition was Ferelden, and for Ferelden they would offer the rebels whatever support they could afford. Food, equipment, even soldiers. Some of them even knelt before Maric and pledged themselves just as Arl Byron had, tears in their eyes and hands on their hearts.

If Ferelden called, they said, then they would answer.

The size of the rebel army would be increased almost by half again, once all their men were added to their ranks. It was strength they would need if they were going to take West Hill, whether the gates opened or not. Loghain was pleased, as it very easily could have gone in a different direction.

Loghain also noticed that none of the nobles would look him in the eye. Maric they adored, but to them he was nothing but a killer. It didn’t bother him.

Severan walked briskly down the dark hallway, ignoring the luxuries he passed. The paintings of ancient battles on the walls, the plush carpet of delicate geometric patterns, the vase of red crystal forgotten and dusty in its cubby hole . . . all these things had been brought from Orlais to decorate the palace, and yet none of it seemed to please Meghren. How could one appreciate such beauty, he cried, when all one could smell was dog dung and cabbage?

The mage snorted derisively at the memory. His yellow robes swished behind him as he approached the great double doors that led to the King’s private chambers. The doors were wooden and extremely old, carved with a delightfully detailed relief map of Ferelden itself . . . as well as the two hounds rampant that served as the nation’s symbol. For that reason alone, Meghren swore daily that he would have the doors removed, chopped into kindling, and burned in the Chantry’s brazier. Thankfully he had not done so yet, as it would be a shame to waste such artistry.

Severan used one of the knockers to pound on the doors, and without waiting, he shoved against one to push it open. The room within was adorned with the finest furniture from Orlesian woodcrafters, blue silk draperies, an enormous four-poster bed made of mahogany, and a gilded mirror gifted to Meghren by the Marquis of Salmont himself, yet none of these furnishings could disguise the fact that the room was oppressive and dark, the windows small, and the wooden beams loomed large overhead. It suited the Fereldan character for everything to be sturdy and large and preferably made from wood, as if they were still barbarians living in their great forests. Naturally it didn’t suit the King.

At the moment, however, Meghren hardly cared about his surroundings. He had acquired a bout of fever after his latest escapade; a night spent frolicking in the gardens with barely two stitches of clothing on during one of his parties. Severan had warned him that it was too cold this time of year to be running about so, but had the King listened? He had told Meghren his fever was proving resistant to magical cure. Perhaps a few days spent miserable and sneezing in bed would remind him that Severan was a voice to be heeded.

At the moment, Meghren was surrounded by bedsheets that looked as if they had suffered through a windstorm. They covered the mattress in great disarray, no doubt the product of some fever-induced rage, while the King lay sweating in his nightgown and looking very much like an overgrown and forlorn child.

Two footmen stood by the wall, alert and ready for their king’s slightest command. Mother Bronach, meanwhile, sat on a stool by the King’s bedside, the red robes of her office neatly spread about her. She closed a book as Severan entered, placing it on her lap and looking as if she had swallowed something distinctly unpleasant. He noticed that the book was a transcription of one of the longer verses of the Chant of Light. It seemed he wasn’t the only one interested in torturing the King today.

“Tell me you have news!” Meghren shouted in exasperation, wiping the sweat from his brow with an embroidered towel. He lay back on his pillows with a great sigh.

Severan removed a rolled-up piece of parchment from his robe. “I do indeed, Your Majesty. This arrived not an hour ago.” He offered it to Meghren, but the man waved it aside weakly and continued to nurse his forehead.

“Oh, just tell me what it says! I am dying! The terrible diseases that swirl about in this land, it cannot be borne!”

Mother Bronach pursed her lips. “Perhaps His Majesty might consider the possibility that his illness is a lesson sent to him by the Maker.”

Meghren groaned loudly and looked to Severan for support. “This is what I put up with now. This from a traitor who actually spoke to that rebel dog!”

She frowned deeply. “I did not arrange the matter, Your Majesty. Perhaps it is the mages you should be eyeing more closely.” She stared suspiciously at Severan, a look he pointedly ignored.

“You spoke to him!” Meghren suddenly shouted, sitting up in bed and looking rather wild-eyed. “Exchanged words! And here you sit and lecture me!”

“I bring the word of Andraste and the Maker, Your Majesty. Nothing else.”

“Bah!” He collapsed back onto his pillows, defeated.

Severan unrolled the parchment and glanced at it, though he didn’t really need to see what it said. “Our agent says that the plan is a success. They intend to attack West Hill, and have gathered up all the other Fereldans still willing to defy you. They have even agreed to use her as an integral part of the attack.”

Meghren chuckled, taking a rumpled napkin from a small pile of equally rumpled and soiled napkins and blowing his nose into it. “So she does well, then?”

“Oh, yes. Our rebel prince is quite enamored of our agent, it appears.”

“For this we sacrificed so many chevaliers?” Meghren snorted. “We should have crushed them in Gwaren when we had the chance. Burned it down, all of it. Shoved it into the sea.”

“Now we can get all of them,” Severan assured him calmly. “We can eliminate the rebellion for good. Prince Maric will be delivered to you before the month is out; that I guarantee.”

King Meghren thought on this for a moment, playing idly with the soiled napkin in his hand. He wiped his nose with it again and then chanced a look over at Mother Bronach. The woman glared at him unrelentingly, and he sighed. “No,” he finally said, “I have changed my mind. I want him killed.”

Severan frowned. “But you said—”

“And now I say this!”

Mother Bronach nodded approvingly. “The King has given his order, mage.”

“I hear him,” Severan snapped at her. He rolled up the parchment irritably. “I do not understand, Your Majesty. Had you wanted Prince Maric dead, we could easily have—”

“I have changed my mind!” Meghren shouted, and then collapsed into a fit of coughing. When he was done, he looked miserably up at Severan. “There will be no trial, no gift to the Emperor. I . . . wish him to vanish! To disappear!” He waved a hand about dismissively. “He dies in the battle; the rest will go as you planned.”

“Is this your desire, Your Majesty? Or the preference of the Chantry?”

Mother Bronach stiffened her back in her chair, her lips thinning into a single line. “It benefits no one to have the last son of Calenhad paraded in front of his people,” she snapped. “I have reminded His Majesty of his duty in this matter. It will be better this way. Final.”

Meghren did not look thrilled by the notion, but waved his assent absently at the Mother’s words. He snatched up a large pewter goblet from his nightstand and gulped down the water greedily before belching.

Severan glanced between the two and frowned. He had hoped to get his own hands on the rebel prince, once he had been delivered to the palace alive. They had expected losses at Gwaren, but he had been quite embarrassed to report just how many chevaliers had been killed. Worse, they had lost three mages sent by the Circle in Val Cheveaux. Severan had been humiliated in front of his colleagues, and now neither they nor the Fereldan Circle were being cooperative. He would have twisted Maric’s spleen in his own fist, given the chance. Now he would have to be satisfied with another.

Slowly Severan bowed. “The rebellion will be destroyed at West Hill, and Maric will die. Quietly. It shall be as you say, Your Majesty.”

“And do not forget, good mage,” Meghren muttered between miserable sniffles, “you will not fail me again, yes?”

Severan walked out without comment. It seemed the King’s fever would prove resistant to a cure for several days longer than he had initially thought. Pity.