The Stolen Throne

12

The dwarf eyed Rowan suspiciously from his seat on top of the wagon. His long, proud beard was full of intricate braids, and he had a rectangular tattoo just under his right eye. The tattoo meant that back in Orzammar he had been one of the casteless, the lowest of the low. Even the casteless were considered better than those dwarves who chose to come to the surface, however. Despite the vital role to dwarven society the surface dwarves had as farmers and traders, they carried a stigma with them and could never return to Orzammar again.

As Rowan understood it, some dwarves who came to the surface were political refugees, but far more were desperate criminals. Only those few born on the surface, without the tattoo, were marginally more trustworthy. Some of the formerly casteless even went to the mages to try to have their tattoos removed, or so the rumor went. The fact that this dwarf didn’t bother made her wary. He could be a smuggler. . . . In fact, his covered wagon full of goods hidden away from sight and the three human brutes lazily hanging off the sides as “guards” made that idea likely.

“How is it that a human woman like you hasn’t heard these things, already?” the dwarf asked in his deep, gravelly voice. “There been talk of nothing else. It’s difficult enough to get you cloudheads to shut up long enough to actually do business.”

“My friends and I have been traveling,” Rowan explained, pulling her shawl more tightly around her front. She didn’t like the way his beady eyes lingered on her breasts. She hated the tattered dress Loghain had bartered out of a group of traveling pilgrims a week earlier, but she had no choice but to wear it. A woman parading around the countryside in a full suit of armor was the sort of thing that drew notice. “We haven’t had a chance to stop in at any villages recently.”

“That so?” He smiled, showing teeth stained a brackish brown. “Which friends are these?”

“They are at a camp not far from here.”

“Why don’t we go and see them, then? Maybe I’ll even spare a few extra supplies if you and your friends are nice and accommodating.” His emphasis on the word and the slight darting of his tongue over his lips made it clear exactly what kind of accommodations he preferred.

She stared back at him, letting the revulsion show on her face. “I don’t think my friends are all that eager to share their fire tonight.”

“And what about you, hmm? Lots of room in the wagon.” One of the thugs hanging off the wagon perked up, apparently liking the turn the conversation was taking.

“Perhaps you missed the part where I am wearing a sword, one that I know how to use.” She placed her hand on the hilt of the blade hanging off her belt, not that the dwarf could have missed it earlier.

Her comment hung there in the air as the dwarf chewed on his lip thoughtfully, his beady eyes leaving her weapon only to flick unconsciously toward her breasts. No doubt he was wondering just how well she could actually handle herself, and whether it was worth the trouble. His eventual, exasperated sigh said probably not. “Have it your way, then,” he grumbled. “Only being hospitable.”

“I’m sure.” She smiled. “Before I go, have you seen anyone else on the road in these parts? Or maybe heard of them from others?”

“On the road? Such as?”

“I don’t know. Soldiers, perhaps? We saw a pack of soldiers marching through the other day, and I’ve no wish to run into them again.”

He grunted in agreement. “Only soldiers coming through these parts are them Orlesians, and they’re all heading southward to chase after your rebel folk.” The notion seemed to amuse him greatly. “You cloudheads are a forgiving people, I’ll give you that. If any of the castes tried to rise up back home, the Assembly would crush them inside of a day.”

“It sounds like a very orderly place.”

He nodded, becoming melancholy as his eyes stared off into the distance. “Sometimes it is, yes.”

The merchant seemed less interested in talking after that and far more eager to return to his travels, so she was able to get little else out of him. In return, she told him which roads she thought were clear back in the direction they had come from, and warned him about the trail washed out by the previous night’s rains. With a curt nod he was off, one of the hired guards hanging off the cart looking longingly at her as he was carried away. She kept her hand on her sword hilt where he could see it, and he sheepishly averted his gaze.

Money well spent there, obviously.

She took a circuitous route back to the camp, just in case he changed his mind, and found it where she had left it, just off the main road. Katriel was alone by the fire, warming her hands, while Maric slept nearby in a lean-to tent they had set up by a tree. The canvas had been given by the pilgrims, and it offered some protection. But mostly they were filthy and the worse for wear. They’d spent most of the last nine days avoiding patrols and putting as much distance between them and West Hill as they possibly could.

Rowan had lost count of the number of times they had needed to elude patrols that became too curious for their own good. It helped a little when Maric had woken on the third day and was able to ride, but even then his wounds left him tired and dizzy. Katriel voiced her opinion that Maric had suffered a concussion when he had been thrown from his horse back in the woods, and Rowan didn’t disagree. The best they could do was use the herbs the elf had brought with her and wait for Maric to heal. Healing supplies, at least, they had plenty of.

Rowan hesitated at the edge of the camp. She disliked being left alone with Katriel, which happened frequently, as Loghain needed to hunt. Despite the fact that the elven woman had come to their rescue, Rowan still had to bite her tongue when she watched her dote on Maric. And whenever Rowan tried to speak to her, all she would do was stare with those strange green eyes. It was difficult to tell what elves were thinking, like they were always hiding something. But Rowan felt guilty for thinking such things, even if the thoughts the elves reserved for humans were no doubt equally uncharitable, so she kept her feelings to herself.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, that left little to discuss.

Katriel finally noticed Rowan. She blinked in surprise and stood up. “I found dry wood, my lady,” she said awkwardly.

“I see that.” Rowan walked toward the lean-to, feeling those eyes following her every move. Maric was moaning irritably , but still asleep. His bandages had recently been changed; Katriel’s doing, no doubt.

She stood there by the tent, uncertain if she should discuss the dwarf’s news now or not. Maric and Loghain would just want to hear it again, and she was hardly in the mood to repeat herself. So she waited as Katriel watched, and the minutes passed with excruciating slowness.

Had Maric and Katriel continued to see each other after that night? She wanted desperately to ask but couldn’t bear to. She had avoided Maric back in Gwaren, and he had been too busy to notice. Once they were at sea, they were on different ships, but this made it harder to dodge the thoughts running rampant in her head.

This was so unlike him. All the years she had known him, she had never seen him chase after anyone. Some men did, even after they were married. She had been raised by a father clueless in such matters ever since her mother died long ago, but she knew that much. But what would the proper ladies of the court think of this? Rowan was a soldier, and no stranger to the lusts that men possessed—especially those of her fellow soldiers, men who could die tomorrow fighting what sometimes seemed a hopeless cause. Should she even be concerned? She was no lady of the court, and it seemed that to Maric she was more friend than betrothed, was that not so?

Part of her had held out hope that Maric might come to her of his own accord. If this was more than a single night’s desire, if this was . . . something else . . . then she deserved to know.

Katriel pointed to the small pot lying by the fire. “I can boil some more water if you like, my lady. I boiled some earlier, but I needed to change His Highness’s dressings.”

“No, that’s not necessary.” Rowan said. “And there’s no need to keep calling me that, not out here.”

The elf frowned and lowered her gaze, busying herself by picking up a shirt she had been mending. Maric’s, Rowan assumed. She seemed too nettled to sew, however, and eventually put the shirt down in her lap with an exasperated sigh. “You all do exactly the same thing,” she said. “Even the commander, Loghain. It is as if you believe you are doing me a favor by pretending that we are equals.” Her tone was crisp and disapproving. “But we are not. I am not your servant, but I will always be an elf. To pretend otherwise is insulting.”

Startled, Rowan had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something far less kind than would be helpful. “You’re not from Ferelden, then,” she finally managed.

“Not originally. I was . . . brought here from Orlais.”

“I would have thought you might have learned by now. Orlesians might believe in the righteousness of their empire and that the Maker Himself put their rulers on their thrones, but it is not like that here. Here all men are proved by their deeds, even kings.”

Katriel snorted derisively. “Do you truly believe that?”

“Don’t you?” Rowan asked, annoyed. “What are you doing here, if you don’t believe that? Why would you help the rebellion in the first place?”

Katriel stiffened, and her eyes became hard, making Rowan regret her words. Many of the men who had been driven to the rebellion had done so out of desperation. They had difficult lives, and she could only imagine how bad it could get for an elf like Katriel. Rowan was hardly wealthy, living as she did, but even so, she knew little of true hardship. “I’m sorry,” Rowan sighed. “I don’t have any right to—”

“Of course you do.” Katriel cut her off. “Don’t be foolish. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I only meant—”

“I know what you meant.” The elf stared into the fire, her eyes picking up the flickering of the flames. The harsh lines of her frown deepened. “I am not here for any love of Ferelden, or out of any hatred of Orlais. There was a time I would never have dreamed that I might do what I have, but I have discovered that even I have limits. Some things are worth protecting.”

She’s here for Maric, Rowan thought as she watched. She could be mistaken; Katriel’s tone was so sad and even . . . regretful? Perhaps she wasn’t talking about Maric at all.

Even so, there was something about Katriel’s demeanor that rankled. What kind of servant was she that she spoke so? That she rode horses and knew how to use a dagger? She had never claimed to be a milkmaid, Rowan reminded herself, but there was certainly more to her than met the eye. There was far, far more than the timid, frightened elven maid that she and Maric had discovered being assaulted in Gwaren. She had been exhausted then, and unarmed, but still something did not sit right.

Perhaps it was jealousy. The way Maric had looked at Katriel, like she was an exotic and intoxicating flower, was a way he had never looked at Rowan.

She realized that Katriel was staring at her again and hurried to explain. “I never meant to insult you. I was merely trying to be friendly.”

“Oh? Is that what you call it?”

Rowan frowned. “Yes. It is.”

“Are we to be friendly then, my lady? Is that what you are suggesting?”

“It would be easier,” Rowan snapped. “If you’d prefer we be something else, then by all means, let me know.” The two of them locked gazes, and Rowan did not flinch. Neither did Katriel. In the cold silence that ensued, Rowan decided she had given this woman her last apology.

“What’s going on?” The groggy voice came from the lean-to. Bleary-eyed, rumpled, and with his head bandaged, Maric looked more than a little worn for the days he had spent sleeping. For a moment, the challenge between Rowan and Katriel lingered, and neither of them responded to Maric’s query. Then Katriel turned, harshness melting into a warm smile. Without responding, she went over to help Maric stand up unsteadily and led him to sit by the campfire. Shirtless, he rubbed his arms vigorously and complained about the chilly breeze.

Rowan watched quietly as Katriel presented him the mostly mended shirt, which he accepted gratefully and slipped on. There was an awkward familiarity between them. His words hitched, and the elf seemed to find excuses to touch his arms with her delicate, slender fingers.

She felt like an unwanted outsider.

Her face clouded with grief, and it took effort for her to push it back down. It was best just to get this over with, wasn’t it? “Maric,” she said grimly, “I . . . have bad news.”

Maric belatedly realized that she had spoken and he grinned crookedly. “About my shirt? Looks pretty good now,” he joked. Gingerly he began to test the bandage around his head.

Rowan pressed her lips together in annoyance. “No. This isn’t about the damned shirt.”

Maric looked confused by her tone. Katriel stared into the fire, pretending not to notice. “Shouldn’t we wait for Loghain?” he asked.

“Wait for me to do what?” Loghain said as he casually walked into the camp, a pair of rabbit carcasses tossed over one shoulder. Infuriatingly he was the only one with any skill at hunting. She had tried her hand at it, but it was pointless. She couldn’t even fish. So they needed to rely on him to survive now, which was maddening.

Upon noticing Rowan’s anger, Loghain paused, frowning at Maric. “What did you do now?”

Maric blinked in surprise. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

“We should talk,” Rowan snapped. “Now.”

Katriel gracefully stood, walking to Loghain to relieve him of the rabbits. He looked at her curiously. “There’s no need. I can skin these myself.”

“There is a need,” she insisted. “I wish to feel useful.”

That was enough to give him pause. Katriel succeeded in taking the carcasses and quietly leaving the camp to go down to the nearby stream. Loghain watched her go, his look curious. Rowan saw that Maric watched her go as well, his look something else completely. He can’t even be bothered to hide it, she thought angrily, restraining the urge to choke him. In his condition, it would hardly be a challenge.

Finally Loghain shrugged, walking over to the fire and crouching to warm his hands. He removed his bow and laid it down beside him. Rowan noticed that there were only a few arrows left in his quiver. “So let’s hear it,” he sighed.

“It’s not going to be good.” Maric grimaced.

She slowly sat down on the log beside him, letting the warmth of the blaze wash over her. “No, it’s not,” she agreed, rubbing her hand over her face in exhaustion. “First things first. At least some of the army still lives. They were routed at West Hill, but not all of them were killed.”

Maric brightened. “Well, that’s not so bad, is it?”

Rowan steeled herself, watching only the dance of the flames on the wood. “My father is dead.” It was strange how easily the words came out. When the dwarf had told her, she thought all the breath had rushed out of her right there in the road. The fact of it had become this . . . weight on her chest that she couldn’t remove.

Maric stared at her, stunned. “No . . . oh, Rowan! What about your family?”

Rowan thought of her two younger brothers, Eamon and Teagan, still with cousins in the Free Marches. She hadn’t even considered how they might be handling the news. Eamon would be fifteen now, Teagan only eight. They were still just boys. “I don’t even know if they’ve heard the news,” she admitted grimly.

Loghain frowned thoughtfully. “Are we certain? That it’s true?” he asked.

“His head is outside the palace, right next to—” She cut herself off, clearing the catch in her throat. “But, no. I’m not sure. The usurper has announced victory, and says that Maric is dead as well.”

Maric looked up from his hands, his eyes hollow. “What?”

“That’s the claim. The Arl and the Prince, both killed at West Hill.” She glanced at Maric, crooking one corner of her mouth in grim amusement. “Apparently your body was not distinguishable from those of regular Fereldan men and thus couldn’t be found, according to the usurper.”

“Well that’s just rude.”

She sighed. “Be that as it may, some of our army managed to flee. According to the merchant, the word is they’ve run to rejoin those we left behind in Gwaren.”

“Then we need to get there, and soon.”

“Not so fast.” She held up her hand. “The usurper is chasing them. Even if we thought we could reach Gwaren before the usurper’s army does, they’ll be blocking the Brecilian Passage. They’re between us and Gwaren.”

“What about hiring a ship?” Maric asked.

She shrugged. “We’ve no money. The merchant says that the roads to the east are all blocked, crawling with soldiers. It’s why he left.”

“Smuggler?” Loghain’s eyebrow shot up.

“That’s what I thought.” She nodded. “We could go back to the northern coast, try to find a—”

“No,” Maric interrupted. “Not north.”

“Then we get off the roads, try to get to the Brecilian Forest? Go through it to Gwaren without using the passage?”

Loghain rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Difficult. I’d need to find a path through the mountains, and I don’t know that area. If we try to stay closer to the passage, it’s bound to be crawling with the usurper’s men.”

None of them spoke. The fire crackled somberly as new gusts of cold wind blew across the camp. Each of them searched for an answer that wasn’t forthcoming, and none of them wanted to admit it. The truth hovered in the air before them like a black, unwelcome cloud.

“So that’s it?” Maric’s voice was cracked with emotion, and he stood up angrily. He looked from Loghain to Rowan and back. “That’s it? If Arl Rendorn is dead and we’re here, that means that nobody’s there to lead the army!”

“There is still the chain of command,” Loghain grunted. He looked troubled, however, and stared into the fire. “The Arl was not a fool, and neither were his lieutenants. There are men who will do what must be done.”

“You know what I mean,” Maric snapped. He looked like he was trying to hold back enraged tears. “Maker’s breath! Why did you come after me? Why?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Loghain scoffed. “You’re the last of the royal blood.”

“I don’t want to hear that anymore,” Maric sighed in exasperation. “This isn’t about putting the blood of Calenhad on the throne. This is about getting that Orlesian bastard off it. Because if he was a good king for Ferelden, none of this would matter.”

Rowan shook her head. “I think you—”

“No,” he interrupted her. “I know exactly what I’m saying.” He stared hard at Loghain. “Loghain, if you hadn’t come after me, you might have made a difference in that battle. At the very least, you might have gotten more of them out alive.”

Loghain did not meet Maric’s stare, instead frowning into his steepled hands. He said nothing.

Maric sighed deeply and shook his head, his anger evaporating. “You both saved me, and while I’m grateful . . . you have to be prepared to let me go. My mother died. I could die. I would rather die than have the blood of all those men on my hands.”

“You’re insane,” Rowan snapped. “Their blood is not on your hands.”

“If you both had been where you were supposed to be, maybe we might have won. Maybe you could have pulled your men out in time, and you would be in Gwaren right now.”

“I suppose we’ll never know, will we?” Rowan stood up and glared at Maric. “Quit being such a damned idealist. We’re struggling just to survive—have you forgotten?” She walked up to him and pushed his chest, hard. Maric stumbled back into the lean-to and almost knocked it over, barely keeping his feet. He righted himself and stared back at her, more in indignation than in anger.

“I’m sorry you feel guilty that we came after you,” she continued, “but you’re important. Those men would all have willingly laid their lives down for you, had we told them what was at stake. That’s why they were there!”

“I was responsible for them!” he insisted. “Just like you were!”

“We’re responsible for you! You’re the bloody Prince!”

“And this is my command!” he shouted stubbornly.

The stood there, staring at each other, the fire popping loudly in the wind. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him. How very noble he could be, yet at the same time, how very stupid he could be as well. Did he really think she could just abandon him when there was anything she could do about it?

Loghain continued to stare into the fire thoughtfully. “Maybe you have a point, Maric, but there’s no point in fighting over it now. We’re not leading anything at the moment.”

Maric looked over at him. “But when we are . . .”

Loghain glanced up at Maric, eyes intense in the firelight. “Next time, I don’t come to your rescue. You’re on your own.” Something significant passed between the two of them. Rowan could see it, but she couldn’t understand it. Still, Maric seemed pleased by it.

He turned and looked at her next, apparently expecting her to agree with Loghain. She stood there and let him look at her, feeling nothing but rage building up inside her. “Is this a command, then?” she asked, acid dripping from her voice. “A royal command from Prince Maric to one of his commanders?”

Maric set his jaw. “I’m only asking for a promise.”

She slapped him. The crack of the blow sounded in the quiet, his head snapping back. He rubbed his cheek, confusion and hurt in his eyes. Loghain made no comment, only his eyebrows shooting up. “I’d rather the command,” she said icily.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled pitifully. He stumbled backwards and turned to sit back down on the log, his shoulders slumping dejectedly. “I just . . . I suppose this must seem very ungrateful of me.”

She fought the urge to feel sorry for him, to pat him on the shoulders and tell him it would be all right. “Somewhat, yes,” she commented.

Maric looked up at her, his eyes moist. “Your father is dead. You made a huge sacrifice to come and find me. I understand, I just can’t help but think of them all. They were there because of me.”

Rowan sat down stiffly, saying nothing.

“My father once led the outlaw camp too near a nest of blight wolves,” Loghain said softly. “He knew they were there, but took us anyway because the other direction led us to the law. We lost fourteen people, six of them children.” He grimaced at the memory. “My father was . . . upset. He wanted everyone to stop looking to him for guidance. Sister Ailis told him that she would rather have a leader who found it difficult to lead than one who found it easy.”

He reached across the fire and patted Maric reassuringly on the shoulder, in the awkward manner of one who was completely unfamiliar with such gestures. Maric stared at Loghain in astonishment. “Wow, you’re pretty good at that,” he chuckled.

“Shut up.” Loghain grimaced.

“I agree with Maric.” Rowan smiled grimly. “Console me, now.”

“You know”—he looked at her with complete seriousness—“the Arl may not be dead. Maric isn’t dead. Just because the dwarf told you there’s a head in front of the palace doesn’t mean it has to be your father’s.”

She was surprised by his answer and fought to hold back sudden tears. “You are good at that,” she muttered, her voice thick. “But if the usurper was so prepared to lie, why not just put a second head in front of the palace and say it is Maric’s?”

“There might not be any head.”

She shrugged. “I hope you’re right.” She didn’t believe it, however.

The three of them sat there in front of the fire, watching it slowly begin to dwindle in strength. Maric huddled in his shirt, shivering. They shared a sense of exhaustion that left them hollow and empty.

“I guess we should decide what to do,” Maric finally announced with a deep sigh. “We’re bad at this, aren’t we?”

“Perhaps the army is better off without us?” Loghain suggested, amused.

“Better off without Maric, maybe,” Rowan commented.

“Ow!” Maric chuckled. “I felt that! I’ll remind you both that it was your idea to save me. I would have been fine killing those . . . six soldiers? Were there six?”

“Try eight,” Rowan said dryly.

“Try eleven,” Loghain corrected. “The three Katriel killed.”

Rowan rolled her eyes. “Ah, yes. Let’s not forget her.”

“I thought I was just seeing double.” Maric smiled. Then he looked at Rowan queerly. “You slapped me.”

“Would you like me to do it again?”

“Why did you slap me?”

Loghain cleared his throat to get their attention. “We were deciding what to do,” he reminded them. “I think the only thing we can do is try to find a route through the Brecilian Forest. If we can reach it, that is.”

Maric nodded glumly. “Do we have any other choice?”

“Actually you do,” came Katriel’s quiet voice as she returned to the camp. She carried the rabbits, freshly skinned, as well as a small bundle of wood and sticks under one arm. Maric stood to help relieve her burden, and she immediately crouched down to restore the fire.

Loghain waited patiently, watching her work, until finally he couldn’t wait any longer. “We have another choice? You heard us speaking, I take it?”

“Half the countryside could hear the three of you, ser. I was not trying to, but I heard most of it from the stream.” She dug around with the new wood, and the flames roared back to life, the moist bark hissing and popping violently as it began to blacken. “And yes, you have another option.”

“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Rowan sighed.

Katriel nodded, frowning. “I know, my lady. I am merely . . . hesitant to mention it.” Satisfied with the fire, she took the carcasses from Maric and began skewering them on a pair of branches. “Have you heard of the Deep Roads?”

Loghain nodded slowly. “The underground roads that once belonged to the dwarven kingdoms. But they no longer exist.”

“Oh, they exist. The dwarves closed off the Deep Roads when they fell to the darkspawn long ago. The entrance into the Deep Roads from Orzammar is sealed, normally.” She looked at Loghain pointedly. “You can, however, enter them from the surface . . . if you know where to look.”

Maric blinked. “And you . . . know where to look?”

Katriel nodded. “I do, Your Highness. Or, rather, I believe I do.”

“And one of these . . . Deep Roads goes to Gwaren?”

“Believe it or not, Your Highness, Gwaren was built on top of a dwarven outpost. The humans came later, to use the port that the dwarves had built and abandoned. They even took the outpost’s name, though they doubtless no longer remember it.”

“And just how do you remember it?” Rowan asked. “How do you know this?”

Katriel’s smile was enigmatic. “I know many things, my lady. History is full of lessons to be learned if one cares to listen.”

Loghain glanced at Rowan, and she saw he shared her suspicions. Maric, however, was more concerned about the idea Katriel proposed. “But aren’t these Deep Roads full of darkspawn?” he asked. “I mean, wasn’t that the idea behind closing them off?”

The elf nodded slowly. “No one knows how many darkspawn are below now. It has been centuries since they invaded the surface lands and were defeated. The Deep Roads could be teeming with them . . . or empty.”

“But . . . we could use the Deep Roads? To travel? Theoretically?”

“Theoretically,” she agreed. “If they are clear, Your Highness, we could travel very swiftly indeed.”

“Or be slain and eaten as soon as we enter,” Rowan snapped.

“Or the path could be blocked.” Katriel nodded. “Hence my hesitation.”

The thoughts were whirling in Maric’s head; Rowan could see them. Her heart sank as she saw his hopes rise. “If we go through the Brecilian Forest, it’s guaranteed to take a long time,” he said to Loghain, his voice excited.

Loghain seemed dubious. “Several weeks, perhaps, though I can find the way.”

“At least with these Deep Roads we have a chance.” Maric grinned.

“Maric!” Rowan chided him. “Do you even know anything about the darkspawn? They are horrible, tainted creatures! An unthinkable fate could await us down there, assuming that Katriel even knows where the entrance is.”

“We passed it, my lady,” Katriel said. “A great stone column in the hills. I saw it from afar. It is the reason I thought of this at all.” She looked at Maric with concern. “Though . . . there is a seal. I am not sure we could even open it, Your Highness, I would have to see it to be certain.”

Maric looked at Loghain. “What do you think?”

“I think it is a lot to rest on this story.” He arched a brow at Katriel. “Are you certain? These Deep Roads go straight to Gwaren? And we would be able to navigate down there?”

“I remember the tale,” she replied cautiously. “But . . .”

“Then we go,” Maric said firmly. “Let us find this seal. If we cannot open it, or we see any hint of creatures below, then we go through the forest instead.” He paused as he realized what he was saying, but then nodded again, more certain. “I say we take the risk.”

“Or die trying,” Loghain said grimly.

“Or die trying,” Maric agreed.

Rowan looked at them both incredulously. Finally, she sighed in exasperation. “Or die trying,” she said without much enthusiasm. Men were such fools.

“I will do my best to get you back to your people,” Katriel swore, looking at Maric as she did so. “I promise you that, Your Highness.”

He rolled his eyes mockingly. “You keep calling me that.”

“That is what you are.”

“You helped save my life and now you’re going to lead us into the Deep Roads, and you want to stand on ceremony?” He chuckled lightly. “Besides, you’re the only one doing it, now. It’s weird.”

She shook her head, bewildered. “You are a very strange man.”

“Well, don’t you start slapping me, too. I’ve had enough of that for today.”

And with that, their decision was set. Rowan and Loghain shared another quiet glance as Katriel and Maric continued their banter. She hoped halfheartedly that the elf wouldn’t be able to find the seal, or would not be able to open it, despite the supposed speed it might offer them in reaching Gwaren. Somehow she suspected that Katriel’s information would prove to be good.

Katriel’s information was always good, evidently.

Thunder finally clamored off in the distance. It appeared their camp was about to get a great deal colder.