by David Gaider
Maric felt responsible for those lost lives. Loghain could see that. He had stared at the streets full of dead men and women who had fought against mounted knights only because they believed in him, and Loghain had seen that a part of Maric’s soul had shriveled up right then.
It had been a desperate situation when they had fallen upon the chevaliers in Gwaren only days after having been handed a narrow defeat by them, and luck had played into their hands. The usurper’s men had not considered the possibility that they might come back, and their attention was wholly upon slaughtering the ungrateful populace. Maric had been filled with a righteous fury, and even when the enemy finally routed and fled the field, Loghain had been forced to hold him back from ordering them chased down. The rebel force had been decimated, and was in no shape to go anywhere. It had taken both Loghain and Rowan to convince Maric to stand down. They had to recover, and had many dead to burn.
And that was what they had been doing for days, now. Burning the dead. The air had been filled with acrid smoke that never seemed to go away. Only the Legion didn’t take part in their rites. They grieved for their heavy losses but also seemed satisfied that their men had died in a glorious battle. Nalthur shook Maric’s hand before the remaining dwarves took their dead back into the Deep Roads, promising to return soon. Loghain hoped they didn’t meet their end at the hands of the darkspawn after all. A sobering thought, to think that such creatures had existed beneath their feet for so long, forgotten.
At first Maric had insisted on walking through the streets of what remained of Gwaren, watching the funeral pyres and joining in the prayers said by the few Chantry priests that remained. But the eyes of the people were upon him wherever he went. The way they watched his every move and whispered behind his back, the way they bowed low whenever they spotted him and refused to get up even when he begged them to; their worship disturbed him.
Returned from the dead, they whispered. Sent by the Maker to free them from the yoke of the Orlesians at last. Despite the fact that Maric’s mission had not changed, suddenly it seemed real to them. Suddenly it seemed possible, their loss at West Hill forgotten. And Maric would kill himself to make sure their belief was vindicated.
There were already tales being brought to them of the people stirring in the west, and the usurper clamping down hard—supposedly the palace in Denerim was lined with so many heads, they did not have enough space to keep them all. Yet the patience of the people seemed to be at an end. Their ranks were swelling as fit survivors in Gwaren rushed to join the rebels, and Loghain assumed that would only continue once they left for the west. Ferelden’s champion had braved death itself to come to their aid. So, despite their precarious position, Maric wrote letters in an attempt to fan this blaze as if he could do so purely through will alone.
Perhaps he could.
Loghain walked quietly across the room, mindful of the fact that there were soldiers sleeping in the hall right outside. They had so few tents left, and no energy remaining to erect them. Most of their men collapsed out of exhaustion wherever they could, trying to get what little sleep they might. Most of them were still hungry. Tomorrow would bring only more of the same.
“Maric, we need to talk,” he said gravely.
Maric looked up from his most recent letter, his eyes red and bleary from fatigue. There was a look in them that Loghain didn’t like, a nervous energy that Maric possessed ever since they had emerged from the Deep Roads and seen just how little of their fighting force had made it back to Gwaren.
Outside the rain continued to fall, lightning occasionally flashing across the night sky. It was a welcome deluge, scouring the air clean of the smoke. Except for the single candle on his desk, Maric had no light to write with. Finding a proper lantern might have been difficult, as the chevaliers had sacked the manor almost completely and left it short of everything, so naturally Maric elected to do without. Really, he should have retired to his bedchambers long ago, and Loghain half wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t demand that Maric get some rest.
But this discussion could not wait any longer.
“Talk?” Maric asked, blinking in confusion.
Loghain sat on the edge of the table, crossing his arms as he considered his words. “About Katriel.”
Maric snorted, waving his hand angrily. “This again?” He picked up his quill to return to his writing. “I thought we settled this in the Deep Roads. I don’t want to discuss it any more.”
Loghain moved the parchment away from Maric. In response, Maric looked up at him in irritation. “Nevertheless, we’re going to,” Loghain stated evenly.
“So it appears.”
“Maric, what are you doing?”
Now the other brow joined the first, and Maric looked surprised. “What am I doing about what?”
Loghain sighed heavily, and rubbed his forehead in agitation. “You love her. I understand that, better than you think. But why? How is it that this woman, who showed up out of nowhere, can have you wrapped around her finger?”
Maric looked vaguely offended. “Is it so wrong that I love her?”
“Do you intend to make her your Queen?”
“Maybe.” Maric looked away, avoiding Loghain’s eyes. “What does it matter, anyhow? Who knows if I’ll ever sit on the throne? Does it always have to be about the future?”
Loghain scowled, and glared at Maric until he reluctantly looked back. The fact that he could barely meet Loghain’s gaze said plenty. “Arl Rendorn is dead.” The words came out reluctantly, but Loghain said them anyway. “Rowan has no reason to keep your betrothal. Are you truly going to let her get away?”
Maric looked down. “She’s already gotten away,” he said gravely. “Do you think I don’t know?” The words hung between them until Maric looked back up, and their eyes met. Of course he knew, Loghain thought bitterly. How could he not?
Loghain put a hand on Maric’s shoulder. “Go after her, Maric.”
Maric angrily jumped up from his chair, sending it skittering back along the floor, and stormed away from Loghain. When he looked back, his face was frustrated and contemptuous. “How can you ask me that?” he demanded. “How can you ask me that?”
“She is your Queen,” Loghain stated firmly. “I have always known that.”
“My Queen,” he said the words distastefully. “How long ago was that decided for us? I don’t know that’s something she even wanted.”
“She still loves you.”
Maric turned away, distressed and shaking his head in exasperation. He turned back and started to say something, but then thought better of it, regret playing across his face. He looked up at Loghain accusingly. An awkward silence developed, neither of them knowing quite what to say next. Lightning flared once again outside in the night sky.
“You want to know why I love Katriel?” Maric spoke with a clipped, furious tone. “She sees me as a man. This gorgeous creature, an elf, she looks at me and she doesn’t see the son of the Rebel Queen. She doesn’t see me as awkward Maric, or the fellow who can’t quite stay in his saddle or hold a sword.”
“You aren’t any of those things any longer, Maric. . . .”
“When I went to her rescue, she didn’t doubt that I could save her. When she came to me in my tent that night, she wanted me. Me.” He held out his hands to Loghain as if pleading with him to understand. “No one . . . no one’s ever looked at me like that. Certainly not Rowan.” He looked pained thinking of her, his eyes drifting off. “I . . . I know she loves me. But when she looks at me, she sees Maric. She sees the boy she grew up with. When Katriel looks at me, she sees a man. She sees a prince.”
Loghain frowned. “A lot of people see that. A lot of women, too.” He snorted. “You must see the way they look at you, Maric. You can’t be that big an idiot.”
“Katriel is special. Have you ever seen someone like her? She’s saved us, she guided us down in the Deep Roads, she’s fought at our side.” Maric pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, shaking his he
ad. “Why can’t you see that? I don’t know that she’ll be my Qnueen, but would that be so wrong?”
“She’s an elf. Do you think your people would accept an elven queen?”
“Maybe they’ll have to.”
“Maric, be serious.”
“I am serious!” Maric stormed about the study, his ire building. “Why is everyone so set on telling me what decisions I have to make? How am I ever going to be a king if I don’t make any of my own decisions?”
“You think this is a kingly decision, do you?”
“Why not?” Maric asked acidly. “Suddenly you’re an expert on being a king?” Then he immediately regretted his words, holding up his hands. “Wait, I didn’t—”
“You’re going to need to make some hard decisions, Maric,” Loghain interrupted, his icy blue eyes narrowing. “Ones you’ve been avoiding. You have an enemy to defeat, and while I may not know much about being a king, I do know what it takes to win a fight. The question is, do you want to win or not?”
Maric said nothing, glaring at Loghain incredulously.
Loghain nodded slowly. “I see.” Part of him didn’t want to continue. He felt his heart constricting, and wondered how it was that he had come to this point. A few years ago he had been content to let his father lead the outlaws. His own decisions didn’t affect anyone outside of himself, and he preferred it that way. Then Maric brought him into this world, and into the rebel army. Now with Arl Rendorn dead, there was no one else; the rebels lived or died based on everything they did. If they didn’t make the right decisions now, the Orlesians won. The usurper won.
“Then there is something you must know,” he said reluctantly.
“Not about Katriel, I hope.”
“I had her followed.” Loghain got up from the table and paced to the far side of the room. He felt uneasy. “She didn’t go to Amaranthine, Maric. She went north. To Denerim.”
Maric’s eyes narrowed. “You had her followed?”
“Not easily. Maric, she went to the palace.”
It took a moment for the implication to sink in. Loghain could see the connections being formed, even as Maric shook his head in denial. “No, it can’t be true,” he protested. “What are you saying?”
“Think about it, Maric,” Loghain insisted. “Who could have destroyed us so completely at West Hill? After all the efforts we made to prevent the nobles here from getting word out, who could have arranged the trap so neatly? Who had your trust?”
“But . . .”
“Why did Arl Byron never mention such a skilled spy? He told us about others, Maric, and then he conveniently died, along with everyone in his command. Anyone who could have confirmed who she was.”
Maric held up a hand, incensed. “Maker’s breath, Loghain! We already went over this. Katriel saved our lives. If she’d wanted to kill me, don’t you think she could have done that?”
“Maybe that wasn’t her mission, Maric.” Loghain stepped toward Maric, keeping his eyes level and his gaze hard. “Maybe her mission was merely to get into your confidence. Which she has done. And now she went to Denerim, to the royal palace. Why? Why do you think she would do that?”
The question hung in the air. Maric reeled from Loghain, looking anguished and sickened all at once. Outside lightning flashed, followed shortly by a peal of thunder.
“You don’t know,” Maric protested. He was grasping at straws, now. “She could have a reason, she could . . . It doesn’t have to be what you think.”
“Then ask her,” Loghain said. “She’s on her way here now.”
Maric looked up at him, his eyes narrowed. The lightning flashed again outside the window, lighting Maric’s face and making plain his suffering. “On her way,” he repeated. “Then that’s why you . . .”
“I needed to know. And so did you.”
Maric shook his head in disbelief. He looked as if he were about to vomit. “I . . . what am I supposed to do with this? I can’t just—”
“You are a king,” Loghain said harshly. “You will need to make a decision.”
The two of them stood there in uncomfortable silence. Maric leaned against a wall, folded over with his hands on his knees as if preparing to become sick. Loghain looked at him from across the room, keeping himself cold and reminding himself that this was necessary.
The candle on the table guttered dangerously as the sound of rain increased outside. The winds were blowing in from the ocean, and bringing with them a freezing storm that would chill the entire coast before morning. The seasons were changing. By the end of the month, there would be snow again. Either the rebels acted before winter settled in or they would be able to do nothing until spring.
So they waited.
It did not take long. The door to the study creaked open, and Katriel quietly entered from the dark hallway outside, having maneuvered carefully past snoring soldiers. She was in traveling leathers and drenched from the rain, her blond curls clinging to her pale skin. Her long cloak dripped onto the floor.
Katriel paused, immediately becoming aware that something was amiss. The tension in the room was palpable. Her green eyes flicked from Loghain on one side of the room, glaring at her, and Maric on the other, standing up straight now and looking pale and ill. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, her expression deliberately neutral.
“My prince, are you well?” she asked. “I would have thought—” She glanced back at Loghain suspiciously. “—you might be asleep. It is very late.”
Loghain said nothing. Maric walked toward her, his emotions playing across his face. He was tortured by his torn loyalties; even Loghain could see that. Maric took Katriel by her shoulders and looked into her eyes. She seemed passive, almost resigned, and did not flinch away from him.
“You went to Denerim,” he stated. It was not a question.
She did not look away. “Then you know.”
“What do I know?”
Grief filled her, or was it shame? Tears streamed down Katriel’s wet face, and she would have pulled away if Maric did not hold her there. She sagged as if the strength had drained out of her, but still she did not look away from Maric’s fierce gaze. “I tried to tell you, my prince,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I tried to tell you that I wasn’t who you thought I was, but you wouldn’t listen. . . .”
Maric’s mouth thinned as he clenched his jaw, and his grip on her small shoulders became visibly tighter. There was seething fury in his eyes. “I am listening now,” he said, each word enunciated carefully.
Her eyes swam red with tears. They said to him: Don’t make me do this, Maric. It doesn’t have to be this way. And he ignored them, answering with tears of his own. Loghain looked on gravely and did not interfere.
“I am a bard,” she said reluctantly. “A spy. From Orlais.” When Maric did not respond, she continued. “I was brought here by Severan, the King’s mage, to find you, to bring you to him, but—”
“And what of West Hill?” Maric asked, almost too quietly to hear.
Katriel shrank as he towered over her, crying pitifully, but still she did not look away from him. “It was me.” She nodded.
Maric let her go. He released her shoulders almost gingerly and stepped away, sick horror on his face as he looked at her. It was true. All of it was true. Maric turned from her and looked toward Loghain, twisted up with agony and tears freely streaming down his cheeks.
“You were right,” Maric muttered. “I have been a fool.”
“I’m so sorry,” Loghain told him gravely. He meant every word.
“No, you’re not,” Maric gasped. But there was no venom in his words. He turned away from Loghain and made to walk away, his gaze falling on Katriel again. She stood there, vulnerable and shaking, crying as his gaze went from horror to disgust, and then calmed to icy rage.
“Get out,” he spat at her.
She flinched at his words, but did not move. Her eyes were hollow and hopeless.
“Get out,” he growled,
more forcefully. Slowly Maric drew his dragonbone longsword from its scabbard, the glowing runes overpowering the faint candlelight and filling the entire room with an icy blue tint. He held the deadly sword before him in an overt threat. His whole body shook with a seething rage.
Ignoring the sword between them, her anguished eyes fixed solely on Maric, Katriel began to slowly walk toward him. “You said you didn’t care who I was before, or what I had done.”
Maric went cold, his eyes narrowing as he backed away from her. “I trusted you, I . . . believed in you. I was willing to throw it all away.” His voice broke, and he gulped back a surge of grief-stricken tears. “And for what?”
Katriel nodded and continued to walk toward him. “If you believe nothing else, my prince,” she whispered calmly, “you must believe that I love you.”
“Must I?” He raised the sword sharply to bar her way. “You dare.” He set his jaw firmly, refusing to retreat any farther.
She stepped forward again, her eyes solemnly fixed upon him. Letting out a scream of blind rage, Maric rushed toward Katriel with his blade raised high. The runes pulsated as he halted in front of her, sword poised over his head. She didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat, didn’t attempt to stop his swing. She merely stared at him, tears coursing down her cheeks. He lowered the blade to his side, his knuckles white as his hands shook.
He couldn’t stand to look at her, but couldn’t look away.
Katriel closed the last distance between them to gently touch Maric’s face. She said nothing. His whole body began to shake violently. With a cry of anguish and rage he threw off her hand and suddenly ran her through. His sword barely made a sound as it cleanly passed through leather and then flesh. Katriel gasped, clutching at Maric’s shoulders as he embraced her, her blood gushing out over the sword’s hilt and his hand that held it.
