by David Gaider
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.”
