Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne

by David Gaider

  He chuckled, holding up a hand to cut her off. “It’s fine. And of course I remember you. How could I not? You’re beautiful.”

  She paused, tilting her head slightly as she regarded him. Her elven eyes shone bewitchingly in the firelight. “You . . . think I am beautiful, my lord?”

  Maric wasn’t sure how to respond, even though he knew he didn’t want to take it back. He was suddenly very aware of his lack of clothing, and awkwardness threatened to overtake him. Katriel stepped forward slowly, her eyes holding his in the silence. She put the lantern on top of a chest by his bed and then sat down on the edge.

  Their faces were only inches apart. Maric was breathing heavily, but still couldn’t bring himself to look away from her. Even her smell was intoxicating, like a rare flower that bloomed only in the darkest gardens. Enticing and sweet without being cloying.

  She reached out, and silently she ran a slender finger from his bandages up along his chest. His skin shuddered where she touched, and he gulped. It was the only sound in the hushed darkness.

  “I would stay with you, my lord,” she whispered. “If you would have me.”

  He blinked and looked down at the furs, blushing again. “I . . . I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated,” he stammered. “I mean, I wouldn’t want it to seem like . . . I wouldn’t want to take advantage. . . .”

  Katriel touched her finger to his lips, quieting him. He looked up at her, and found her gazing at him from under heavy lids. “You are not, my lord,” she said seriously, her voice husky.

  “Please . . . don’t call me that.”

  “You are not,” she repeated.

  The distance between them closed as if they were drawn together, and Maric kissed her. Her skin was as soft as he’d imagined, and she melted under his every touch.

  Outside the tent, Rowan watched in stony silence as the lantern light within was extinguished. She wore a red dress of silk, a Calabrian garment that bared her shoulders. The sharp-faced woman who sold it to her had pointed out that Rowan was too muscled to wear such a dress, that her shoulders were too broad. The silk felt luxurious against her skin, however, so much different from the leather and metal she was used to. So she had bought it despite the woman, though she had never once had the occasion to wear it since.

  She regretted wearing it now, and regretted coming, yet as she stood there in the darkness, she found she could not will herself to move.

  The guard slumped nearby, fast asleep and snoring lightly. Rowan shook her head in exasperation, tempted to kick the man awake. What if it had been an assassin come to visit Maric instead of the elven woman? But they were all exhausted from the long battles, and no doubt the guard was assigned to his post while nearly asleep on his feet. She could forgive the nameless guard his lapse in judgment, but only his.

  When she heard the first faint moan coming from inside, finally she stepped away. Perhaps it was only her imagination, but either way, she decided she could not stay where she was. I do not want to hear this, she told herself, coldness clutching at her heart.

  Her steps were stealthy as she maneuvered among the tents. Many bodies were slumbering on the ground, some even on top of each other. The smell of ale was everywhere. The celebration had been lengthy after the Orlesians had taken to the forest in disarray. Even though looting was discouraged, they couldn’t help but look the other way as the men scoured the town’s taverns for ale barrels and wine. They deserved a celebration after two such fine victories.

  Rowan had watched them drink, but did not partake. All she could think about was thrusting her sword into the mage, the fury she had felt blinding her reason. Making him suffer was all that had mattered to her. Was there to be nothing more to her life than blood? She had gone to Maric thinking . . . thinking . . .

  You weren’t thinking at all, she scolded herself. This was a terrible idea.

  She came out of the tents into the unoccupied portion of the manor’s courtyard. On clear ground, Rowan slowed to a stop. She breathed the night air deeply, standing stiffly under the glare of the moon. She felt ill, and part of her wanted nothing more than to rip the dress away from her skin, tear it into shreds. She wanted to keep walking, to leave the manor grounds and become lost within the restless shadows of the forest.

  “Rowan?”

  She turned sharply toward the sound and saw Loghain approaching. He was bandaged and wearing a simple longshirt and leather trousers, and he seemed more than a little confused to see her. Finally he stopped, staring at her with those unsettling eyes. They made her shudder, as they always did.

  “It is you,” he said, his tone guarded.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “So you . . . decided to put on a fine dress and go for a walk?”

  She said nothing in response, folding her arms around herself and staring at the ground. Instead of leaving, however, Loghain remained where he was. She could feel those eyes fixed on her even if she didn’t see them. The forest shadows beckoned, but she ignored their maddening call.

  “You look beautiful,” he told her.

  Rowan held up a hand to stop him, taking a painful breath before speaking. “Don’t do this,” she protested weakly.

  Loghain nodded somberly, and for a long moment he said nothing. The wind whistled through the stones of the manor walls, and the moon shone high overhead. It was easy to pretend there was no army camped around them, no sleeping soldiers and men in their tents a stone’s throw away. They were alone in the darkness, a gaping chasm between them.

  “I am not a fool,” he said quietly. “I see how you look at him.”

  “You do?” Her tone was bitter.

  “I know you are promised to him. I know you are to become his Queen.” He stepped toward her, taking her cold hands in his. She looked away from him, grimacing, and it only made him look at her sadly. “I have known these things since I first met you. For three years, I have tried to accept that this is how it must be, and yet . . . still I can’t stop thinking of you.”

  “Stop!” she hissed, pulling her hands away. Loghain stared at her, his eyes tortured, but she couldn’t care, couldn’t. Angry tears streamed down her cheeks as she backed away from him. “For the love of the Maker, don’t do this,” she begged.

  Loghain’s stricken look twisted up her insides all the more. She clamped down on her anguish and turned away. “Just leave me alone. Whatever you thought . . . Whatever you wanted from me—” She wiped at her eyes, and found herself wishing again that she was in her armor instead of that flimsy, useless dress. “—I cannot . . . I will not be that woman.” Her tone was brusque and final.

  Rowan fled, her back stiff and the train of her red dress trailing behind her. She didn’t look back.

  9

  Dawn had come and gone in Gwaren, and the town was already bustling with activity. Those residents who had spent the previous two days in hiding were now slowly coming out into the streets, eyes blinking in disbelief at the devastation surrounding them. The morose skies blew in salty spray from the ocean, disguising the stench of decaying corpses that was already beginning to permeate the air. The town was almost too still, a gloom cast on the wreckage like a shroud that was only just now being disturbed.

  Arl Rendorn was quick to realize that order was needed. After waking a number of officers who were still half drunk from the previous night’s exertions, he got much of the rebel army up and moving. Men were sent to patrol the streets and spread the message: The people of Gwaren would be safe under Prince Maric. The grain stores were opened and matters of shelter seen to for those who had spent the night huddling in the burned-out husks of their homes. Most important of all, the soldiers started collecting the dead.

  It was not long before plumes of black sickly smoke rose from the pyres, quickly snatched up by the breeze and scattered. The stench of burning flesh was everywhere, and a dark grease settled over every surface. Those who ventured outside did so with handkerchiefs covering their mouths. Even so, laundry was still hung on
the lines, and a smattering of fishing boats still sailed out into the waves. Life had to go on, no matter who ruled.

  Atop the hill overlooking the town, the manor was largely peaceful. Those who had not been wakened to assist with the activity in town slept on, though here and there signs of activity could be seen. A few of the Teyrn’s servants had tentatively returned, uncertain of their status but unwilling to abandon the only home they had ever known. Likewise, the camp followers that kept the army in food and clean linens were already tiptoeing about the manor’s halls, taking stock of its food supplies and sweeping up the worst of the debris.

  The manor’s stables were still quiet, the majority of its new occupants either sleeping on their feet or munching away quietly on hay. One of the larger warhorses had been brought out of its pen, and patiently soaked in the dusty morning sunlight as Loghain saddled him. There were several saddlebags waiting to be tied on, as well, though none of them were particularly heavy. One did not load a warhorse down with giant packs like a mule.

  It was fortunate, then, that Loghain had little to take. He had found his old studded leathers in one of the supply wagons during the night after an hour’s search by torchlight. It felt good to be wearing them again, like a pair of familiar boots long ago worn in. After a bit of hesitation, he had decided to keep his lieutenant’s cloak as well. He had earned it, after all. Then he had acquired a tent and some camping gear with the help of a very startled young maid. All of this had been done quietly, with the hope that he would be gone and on his way before the rest of the manor awoke.

  Sadly, that was not to be. Loghain heard angry steps approaching and identified them as belonging to Maric even before he stormed into the stable.

  The Prince was sweating and pale, blond hair askew. The fact that he had arrived in a rush was painfully apparent, as he was wearing neither shoes nor shirt—only a pair of baggy trousers no doubt donned in haste. The heavy bandages around his chest were already spotted with dark bloodstains from the exertion. Maric leaned heavily on a wooden staff he was using as a crutch and stood panting in the doorway, glowering at Loghain indignantly.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Maric demanded, gasping for breath.

  Loghain ignored him, keeping his attention focused on tying up the saddle.

  Maric frowned and hobbled inside, scattering the loose hay that covered the floor. A fat tabby, which had been cleaning itself contentedly nearby, decided that enough was enough and trotted out the door he had left open, tail jutted indignantly up in the air. Maric marched over to Loghain and stopped an arm’s length away, almost stumbling and cursing the staff as he tried to maintain his balance.

  “I know you’re not due to ride anywhere,” he said warily. “And I already know that you’ve been sneaking around, collecting your things.”

  Loghain didn’t look up. “I’m not sneaking.”

  “So what do you call it? Saddling up before dawn, not bothering to say anything to anyone? Where are you going? Are you coming back?”

  Loghain finished tying the saddle with an exasperated tug and then spun on Maric, his teeth clenched in fury. He paused, sighing inwardly as he saw Maric’s confusion growing. With a grimace, he looked Maric straight in the eyes. “I should have left a long time ago. I said I was going to bring you back to your army, and I did. But now it’s time for me to go.”

  “I knew it!” Maric stormed a step away and then spun back about, clearly frustrated that his injury prevented him from properly pacing. “As soon as they told me what you were up to, I knew that’s what you were doing!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Maker’s breath, Loghain, why now? What brought this on, all of a sudden?”

  Loghain’s face was stone. He turned back to his horse, picking up one of the sacks. “It’s simply time. You’re fine, Maric.” His tone sounded hollow, even to himself. “You don’t need me.”

  “Don’t be an idiot!” Maric scoffed. Then he stopped, regarding Loghain curiously. “Are you angry at me about the charge yesterday? I had no idea what that mage was going to do to Rowan, I just thought that—”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Then what?”

  “I need to go back,” Loghain stated firmly. The emphasis was such that Maric didn’t need to ask where he meant. “I need to find . . . what’s left of my father. I need to bury him. I need to know what happened to everyone else, if they got away or not. What happened to Sister Ailis?” He looked at Maric seriously. “These are people he cared about. He wouldn’t want me to abandon them. I’ve done my part, here. I need to go and . . . I have a duty. And not just here.”

  “So why does it feel like you’re running away?”

  Loghain sighed. This was the man who had stumbled into Loghain’s life and brought all his troubles with him. Because of him, Loghain’s father was dead and Loghain had been swept up into a war he never even wanted to become part of. Yet somehow over the last three years, Maric had become his friend. How had that happened? He still wasn’t sure.

  Outside, the sounds of the manor stirring to life could already be heard, men shouting and boots running. No doubt Maric had roused the entire army before coming. He wasn’t about to make this easy, was he? How very like him.

  Loghain chuckled wearily, scratching his head. “I’m not used to talking this much,” he admitted.

  “Nonsense. You talk to me all the time. Rowan always says I’m the only one who can make you string more than three words together at once.” Maric grinned, and then his face became very serious. He reached out and put a hand on Loghain’s shoulder, the hand of a concerned friend. “So talk to me. Do you really have to do this now?”

  “If not now, then when? It’s been three years.” Loghain turned back to the task of tying the saddlebags. “I’m not one of your rebels, Maric, not really. Nor am I one of your knights. There’s no place for me here.”

  “I could knight you.” It sounded almost like a threat.

  Loghain locked stares with Maric, and the challenge hung there in the air for a long moment. Then Maric relented, reluctantly. Nothing more needed to be said on the matter.

  Maric leaned on his crutch and watched Loghain prepare his bags and gather his quiver. He remained silent, though it was evident that he desperately wanted to continue objecting.

  The sounds of activity increased outside until Loghain heard new footsteps arriving. Armored footsteps. He stiffened and sighed inwardly, purposely not looking as Rowan walked in a moment later, her heavy plate newly scrubbed and gleaming. Her brown locks were still wet from washing, the damp curls plastered against her pale skin. She was still lovely, he thought, even if her expression was icy and stiff.

  “What is going on?” she demanded.

  Maric was about to answer but hesitated as Rowan shot a pointed look in his direction, frowning. He seemed taken aback, and clearly uncertain what he had done to deserve such a hostile greeting.

  “I’m leaving,” Loghain announced, interrupting the confrontation.

  Rowan’s head snapped back to Loghain, her expression softening into confusion. “You’re leaving? For good?”

  “Yes. For good.”

  “I’ve been trying to convince him to stay,” Maric chimed in, sighing with exasperation.

  Rowan stood in the doorway, shifting in her armor uncomfortably. She opened her mouth several times as if to speak but said nothing, and Loghain did his best not to notice. If Maric was aware of the tension, he made no indication of it. He turned and hobbled toward one of the horse pens, leaning against it with a wince. Finally Rowan found her voice. “Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Not like this.”

  “There’s no reason for me to stay,” Loghain said gruffly.

  “What about the Orlesians?” Maric asked. “I know how you feel about them. We’re finally making headway against Meghren. Don’t you want to see him defeated? If you were going to do anything for your father, why not do that?”

  Loghain snorted scornfully. “You don’t need me for that.�
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  “You’re wrong! We do!”

  Rowan stepped forward. “Maric is right. You told my father once that he is not flexible enough. All the best plans have been yours, Loghain. Without you, we would not be here.”

  “I think you are giving me too much credit,” he snorted. “The Night Elves were my doing. Everything else you could have done on your own. I am only a lieutenant, if you’ll recall.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with our memories.” Rowan’s cool expression returned. “If you truly wish to leave now, with so much left to be done, then we cannot stop you.” Her eyes became hard. “But I had assumed you a better man.”

  Maric’s eyes widened with shock. Loghain went still. He clenched and unclenched his fists in fury while Rowan stood her ground, unflinching. “I have done everything that was asked of me,” he said in even, angry tones, “and you would demand even more?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” She nodded. “We do not have the same luxury you do, Loghain, to come and go as it pleases us. We either defeat the Orlesians and drive them from Ferelden or we die. But if there are more important things to concern yourself with, then by all means . . . leave.”

  “Rowan,” Maric cautioned uncertainly.

  She ignored Maric and walked up to Loghain, placing her face an inch away from his own. He did not flinch away. “Are you not a Fereldan?” she demanded. “Is this not your future King? Do you not owe him your loyalty? From what Maric has told me, your father understood that.”

  “Rowan, don’t,” Maric said more forcefully.

  She gestured toward Maric. “Is this or is this not your friend? Have the three of us not shed blood together for years now? Is that not a bond that is more important than anything?” The plea in her gray eyes betrayed her harsh words. Loghain found it hard to hold on to his fury.

  So he said nothing.