Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne

by David Gaider

  Meghren sighed heavily and stirred himself enough to sit up as this new gift was presented. The area immediately around the throne was already littered with other gifts, which had been ignored or discarded with little more than a shrug. Mother Bronach stood immediately behind the throne, scrutinizing the proceedings intensely. She was a severe woman, her face lined with the cares of her office as the Grand Cleric of the Holy Chantry in Ferelden, and despite her small frame she loomed as large in the chamber with her resplendent red vestments as the King did. Meghren rubbed his nose in his rumpled velvet doublet and took the sword case from the prostrating elves, who immediately withdrew.

  Lifting the brilliant blade out of the case, Meghren gave it a few practice swings and regarded it with interest. “Of the dwarven make, you say?”

  The Arl bowed low, sweating despite the presumed pleasure that the King had deigned to take notice of his offering. “Yes, Your Majesty. It was a gift from the King of the dwarves, made to the first of my line long ago.”

  “Ah, so then it was not made for me.” A hush came over the chamber, general dinner conversation halting as the nobility picked up on Meghren’s icy tone.

  The Arl blanched. “It . . . it is of great value!” he stammered. “Never has a finer blade been made! I thought . . . surely you can see—”

  “Emperor Florian, he has given me a blade,” the King interrupted. He swung the silverite sword idly to one side of the throne, each swing like a slow pendulum slicing at some invisible head. “Made by the finest crafters in the Val Royeaux, it is a thing of great grace and beauty. Shall I inform him, then, that you consider your blade to be superior?”

  The Arl’s eyes went wide. “No, I . . .”

  “Perhaps it is your opinion I should return to him the gift? After all, there is no point in keeping the inferior blade to collect the dust, is there?”

  The entire chamber was silent now. The Arl glanced about the room, pleading with his eyes for help from the assembled nobles, but everyone was looking elsewhere. He suddenly dropped to one knee, lowering his head. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It was a presumptuous gift! I apologize!”

  Meghren smirked, and looked up as Mother Bronach stepped forward from behind the throne. Severan despised the woman utterly, a feeling that was mutual. “If I may offer a suggestion, Your Majesty?” she asked.

  The King waved his assent. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “If the blade is as valuable as the Arl suggests, a gift made of it to the Chantry would do much to prove Amaranthine’s piety in these dark times. There is much that remains to be done, after all, before the holy braziers of Ferelden shine with the glory that befits a great nation.”

  “How true,” the King cooed. He arched a brow at the Arl. “So how will you have it, Your Grace? Shall you instead give your blade to the Mother Bronach?”

  The Arl’s bow was quick and breathless. “Of course, Your Majesty!”

  Mother Bronach snapped her fingers at two palace servants that stood nearby. They rushed forward and gently took the sword from King Meghren, placing it back in the case and running off while the Mother watched. Once they were gone, she bowed low to the King. “The thought is most appreciated, Your Majesty.”

  He sighed and turned his attention back to the Arl, who remained bowed. “So, what will you do now, Your Grace? Can this mean you have no birthday gift for the King?”

  Shocked, the Arl opened his mouth several times as if to speak, but no sound came forth. The silence in the hall became excruciating, not a single fork or knife touching a single plate. Several Orlesian chevaliers, the elite knights of the Empire easily distinguished by their bright purple tunics and feathered hats, stepped forward with their hands on their sword hilts.

  Meghren suddenly laughed, a maniacal sound that cut through the hush in the hall. He continued to laugh until the assembled nobles slowly joined him. They twittered uncertainly at first and then became louder and louder. Meghren clapped his hands as the room roared with amusement. The Arl of Amaranthine remained quiet, sweat pouring down his brow.

  “I jest, my friend!” the King declared. “You must forgive me! Such a gift made to the Chantry in my name? What more could I ask?”

  The Arl bowed low, his head almost touching the floor. “I am relieved, Your Majesty.”

  Still chuckling, Meghren clapped his hands loudly to signal that the merriment should continue. “Come, friends! Eat! Drink! Our celebration, it continues and is the sweeter now that the head of the pretender witch sits on a pole outside the gate! Is she not the pretty one?” He roared with laughter again, the nobles joining in too quickly. “And refresh the Arl’s goblet! Those robes, they are obviously too hot!”

  The feast resumed, and Severan took the opportunity to cross the chamber toward the throne. The stench of wine and sweat hung thickly in the air. A number of the men and women quickly averted their gaze as he passed, becoming entirely interested in the pheasant on their plate or whoever was seated next to them. Severan understood. The Chantry had done its best throughout the ages to ensure that mages were vilified and held responsible for every catastrophe to have befallen mankind. To think that once mages had ruled over all of Thedas, and were now barely tolerated servants monitored by their Chantry watchdogs. A sad plight, to be sure.

  King Meghren brightened when he saw his advisor approaching. Mother Bronach did exactly the opposite, her scowl twisting the lines of her face into something entirely unattractive. “Can you not even leave your King to enjoy a single celebration in peace, mage?” she murmured icily. “Must you darken his hall with so many guests about?”

  “Now, now,” Meghren chuckled. “Do not be so hard on our dear friend the mage. He works very hard for his sovereign, is it not so?”

  Severan lowered his head and bowed, the silk of his yellow robes shimmering. With his hair thinning and his features made entirely of sharp angles, he was nowhere near as handsome as the King. The finest compliment Severan had ever received was from a young prostitute who had said he looked clever, that his tiny eyes could seize her, chew her up, and spit her out all with a single gaze. He had liked that so much, he’d waited until morning to have her dragged off to prison. “I have news, Your Majesty,” he said.

  “Could you not have sent a messenger?” Mother Bronach asked, the chill remaining in her voice.

  “When I have news for you, dear woman, I will always send a messenger.”

  Meghren slowly sat up and yawned, rubbing his bloodshot eyes and blinking rapidly. He stood, straightening his rumpled doublet and waving to his servants not to follow. “Then let us be quick.” He walked off, Mother Bronach and Severan following quickly and leaving the noise of the throne room behind.

  The sitting room was used as a retreat for more private audiences. Meghren had had the sturdy and practical Fereldan furniture replaced by more ornate Orlesian furnishings, all mahogany and bright satins that were works of art on their own. Vivid red paper covered the walls, a practice Severan knew was becoming popular in the Empire.

  Meghren threw himself down upon a padded settee, yawning again and rubbing his forehead. “Is this what passes for an evening of entertainment in this backwater? Did you hear the musicians they brought in?”

  Severan shook his head. “Before or after you had them sent running from the chamber?”

  “Bah! What I would not give for a real orchestra! Or a masquerade! The country lords I am sent from Orlais would not know a proper basse danse if it kicked them in the arse!” He snorted with derision and sat up, glaring at Severan. “Do you know what one of those local fools from the Bannorn gave me? Dogs! A pair of filthy dogs!”

  “Hounds are valued in Ferelden,” Mother Bronach interjected, her voice laden with disapproval. “Those were warhounds, a mating pair. From such a minor bann, it was a gift that showed great respect, Your Majesty.”

  “Great fear, more like,” he sniffed, barely mollified. “I am sure it was some kind of insult, giving me beasts still half covered in dung. All o
f those backward fools in the Bannorn are alike!”

  “It is indeed sad that you must be inflicted with so much dung on your birthday, Your Majesty,” Severan said calmly.

  Meghren threw his hands up and sighed. “Tell me, good mage, the news you carry is a response from our Emperor.”

  Severan hesitated. “I . . . do have a response, yes, but that is not—”

  “Nothing is more urgent than a letter from Florian.”

  Severan straightened his robes, steeling himself. “His Imperial Majesty sends his regrets. He is certain that your duties will continue to hold you in Ferelden, and so there is no place within the Imperial court for you now.”

  Meghren sank into the cushions. “Ah. Still no forgiveness, then.”

  Severan almost sighed in relief. Some days a letter from the Emperor could result in a tantrum or far worse. But not today, evidently. “You were expecting a different response than the last fourteen attempts?” he asked reprovingly.

  “I am the eternal optimist, good mage.”

  “The definition of insanity, Your Majesty, is to perform the same action repeatedly and expect different results.”

  Meghren tittered with amusement. “You are calling me insane?”

  “Insanely persistent.”

  Mother Bronach’s lips thinned. “You are still a king, Your Majesty.”

  “Better to have been made a lowly baron in the provinces,” the King complained. “Then I could still keep a house in the Val Royeaux, still visit the Grand Cathedral.” He sighed heavily. “Ah, well. I may be the King of a backwater, but at least it is my backwater, yes?”

  “Shall I begin another response? Fifteenth time’s the charm?” Severan asked.

  “Perhaps later. We shall see if we can wear him down, yes?” He then considered for a moment, and his look became serious. “Now, then. This news you carry, it is from the Hinterlands?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well? Out with it.”

  Severan took a deep breath. “The information I received was accurate. The rebel army was exactly where it was supposed to be. The attack, however, did not have the result I wished. Many were killed, but the rebels slipped the noose.”

  Meghren’s brows shot up. “Oh?”

  “There is more. Prince Maric lives, and is with the rebels. He led a distraction and held out with a handful of men atop a cliff before escaping with the rest of his army.” Severan held out a large scrap of cloth. It was tattered and soiled, but the deep purple color could still be seen. “The rebels were inspired, rather than dispirited.”

  Nettled, the King frowned at Severan as his fingers drummed on the arm of the settee. “Inspired? You told me he would not be there. The boy was supposed to be killed along with the mother.”

  “He was tracked to a camp of outlaws,” Severan answered slowly. “They were slaughtered, but somehow he escaped into the Wilds and survived.”

  “So am I to understand this correctly?” Meghren continued to drum his fingers, his tone irritable. “The boy, the incompetent prince, managed not only to escape your men in the forest, but trekked through the Wilds and appeared safe and sound, just in time to lead the spirited defense of the rebel army?”

  “I am as incredulous as you, Your Majesty.”

  Mother Bronach’s face was hard with anger. “His spells bring you nothing, King Meghren! Throw him out! He serves his pride and nothing else!”

  “And what have you done for the throne except provide a string of platitudes each more useless than the last while you demand tribute for your hungry flames?”

  Her eyes went wide with outrage. “The Maker will never allow Ferelden to prosper while it keeps a cancer in its very heart!”

  “Your Maker is gone, as is said in your own Chant of Light. He has abandoned His own creation and has no care for anything further. So spare us your useless prattle, woman.”

  “Blasphemy!” she roared.

  “Silence!” Meghren shouted, his face twisted in fury. Mother Bronach calmed reluctantly in response as the King rubbed his face in agitation. “You said that without their beloved Queen, the rebels, they would be done, Severan. You said you could wipe them out with the one blow.”

  “I . . . Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Pride,” the priest declared.

  Meghren raised a hand to cut off Severan’s reply. “Obviously, this boy Maric is more than you assumed.”

  “Perhaps.” Severan was not ready to assume the opposite was true just yet, either. “It is also possible that he found help, somehow. He certainly has the support of the Queen’s lieutenants. The daughter of the former Arl of Redcliffe, Lady Rowan, is said to have slain your cousin Felix in the battle, for instance. Rode him down in cold blood.”

  “Felix?” Meghren shrugged. “I never liked that one.”

  “Still, the backbone of the rebels proved to be far stiffer than I’d imagined. I do apologize for my mistake, Your Majesty.” He bowed his head down low. “I ask for another chance.”

  Meghren grinned slyly. “You have something in mind?”

  “I always have something in mind.”

  The young king chuckled and glanced over at the Grand Cleric, who stared intently down at her hands folded in her lap. “I suppose your advice is the same as always, my sweet lady?”

  “Marry a daughter of Ferelden,” she said wearily, as if she had said this many times before, “and produce a child. You cannot rule this country until you are truly its King.”

  All humor vanished from the King. He glared at Mother Bronach, who paled but did not flinch. “I rule this country,” he snapped, “and I am its King. You would do well to remember this.”

  “I speak from the perspective of your people, Your Majesty. They are good, simple folk who could accept you—”

  “They are ignorant fools,” he snapped, “and they will accept me because they have no choice. So long as the chevaliers remain, so do I.” He calmed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Then he turned back to Severan. “You have another chance, good mage. We will do things your way the once more, but only because I have no wish to marry some dog-faced local. That is clear?”

  Severan bowed again. “I will not fail you, Your Majesty.”

  Severan returned to his quarters deep within the palace, greatly relieved Meghren had not sent him back to the Circle of Magi. Within the Circle, under the watchful gaze of the Chantry’s templars, his every spell would be scrutinized and monitored. At least in King Meghren’s employ he had power, even if he had to use it carefully. Men like Meghren were permitted by the Circle to have one of their mages as an advisor under the condition that the mage was watched by the Chantry. Meghren could defy Mother Bronach’s wishes only to a point.

  He cursed whatever luck had allowed Prince Maric to ruin his plan. It had been an excellent one: the Theirin bloodline and the rebellion both wiped out. The King would have been allowed to return to the Imperial court, and Severan, the hero of the day, might even have been left as governor.

  But now? Now he had to try again.

  Severan’s quarters were dark, as befitted his mood. With a wave of his hand, the lantern hanging by the door flared brightly. As the room was bathed in firelight, he noticed a figure leaning against one of the posts of his great bed.

  “Greetings, my lord mage.” It was an elven woman, beautiful in the way that only her kind could be, with porcelain skin and slanted eyes an impossible green. This one was dressed in leathers that accentuated her curves, and her golden honey curls cascaded around her shoulders artfully. She was a spy, of course. The fact that he could see the dagger sheathed at her waist meant she was not here to kill him, or so he assumed. If he was wrong on that point she was certainly welcome to try.

  “Do you always enjoy standing in dark rooms?” Walking into his quarters, he brushed by her and quickly gathered up the many papers that were spread over his desk.

  She chuckled, watching him with keen interest. “If my purpose here was to read your precious letters, do yo
u not think I would already have done so, my lord?”

  “Perhaps you did. If so, then I should have you executed, no?”

  “I am here at your invitation.”

  He put down the papers slowly, nodding. “You are the bard, then.”

  “I am.” She bowed politely. “Our mutual friend in Val Chevans sends his regards, just as he sends me.”

  Severan stepped toward her, taking her delicate chin in his hand and turning her face from side to side to scrutinize her more closely. She did not bat an eyelash. “He sent me an elf, did he? You seem very tarted up for one of your station.”

  “I can be less so, my lord.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.” Bards in Orlais had a notorious reputation. They masqueraded as minstrels or actors, traveling from court to court in the Empire ostensibly to entertain their noble patrons while plying their true trade in secret. Politics in the Empire were a devious business, and thus bards were never in short supply. One would think the nobility would simply stop receiving entertainers altogether, but the truth was that the possibility of any traveling minstrel being a dangerous spy added an exotic allure. That a nobleman might be important enough to be spied upon, and courageous enough to take in a possible spy, made the temptation too much for any self-respecting aristocrat to bear.

  “If my lord believes an elf cannot do as he needs . . . ,” she began.

  “No.” He released her chin. “Simply remember your place. I have a contract with your master, and that means you are now mine.” His gaze was steel, and he was pleased to see that she did not flinch. He wondered if there was a single elf in Ferelden who could manage the same. “Succeed in your task and you will be rewarded. Fail and you will end up begging for scraps in the alienage along with your fellows, wishing you had stayed in Orlais. Is that sufficiently clear?”

  She went silent for a moment, her face assuming a calm veneer. Stiffly she bowed to him again. “I understand,” she said smoothly. “I am told the contract is for a single task, yes?” Stepping away from him, she perched on the edge of the bed and regarded him with an artful come-hither look. “Is it to be something of a . . . personal nature?”