The Stolen Throne

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.”

“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.

There was silence for a time, and then Rowan backed off reluctantly. Loghain sighed heavily and turned away. He couldn’t face those eyes.

“Loghain,” Maric began slowly, “I know you never promised you would stay. I know I was dumped in your lap and all of this should never have happened.” He grinned sadly and shrugged. “But it did. You’re here and I’ve come to rely on you. We all have, even the Arl. Please don’t walk away from this.”

Loghain winced. “Maric . . .”

Holding tightly on to the staff, Maric got down on his knees. Alarmed, Rowan ran over to support him, to try to pull him back up, but he refused. The staff quivered, and he grunted with effort as he dropped down fully and then looked up at Loghain. “Please, I’m begging you. You and Rowan are the only friends I have.”

Rowan stopped short, her hand flinching away from Maric as if he were red hot. She stiffly backed away from him, her face a mask of stone.

Loghain stared down at Maric, horrified by the grandiose gesture. Worse, he felt his resolve crumbling. This had felt so much clearer in the night. Now he felt like a coward. “You are opening your wound,” he complained at Maric.

Maric winced, holding his bandaged side gingerly. “Umm . . . probably, yes.”

“Must be from all the exertion,” Rowan commented dryly.

Loghain shook his head in disbelief. “Maker’s breath, man, aren’t you supposed to have some dignity? Somewhere?”

“Me? Dignity?”

“Being the supposed future King and such.”

“I think Rowan took my dignity.”

She snorted derisively, folding her arms. “There was nothing else worth having.”

Maric chuckled and then looked up at Loghain again, serious. “So does this mean you’re staying, then? I practically ran here in my smallclothes, you know.”

“If you had, that would certainly make this quite the picture, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m serious.” Loghain could see that he was, serious beyond a doubt. “I don’t think we can do this without you.”

Apparently he should have sneaked off while it was still dark, leaving his leathers and everything else behind. Because there was no other way he was going to escape, was there? He sighed irritably at Maric. “Well, if you intend to come running after me every time I try to leave—”

“Not every time.”

“Very well. I’ll stay.”

Maric grinned broadly and struggled to stand back up, but did so far too quickly. He cried out in pain and almost fell, but Rowan rushed forward and caught him first. Her armor scratched against his bare chest, and he flinched in her arms, laughing at the same time. “Ow! Careful with those!”

“How very manly you are, my prince,” she sighed.

They laughed and smiled at each other, a moment that quickly faded as Rowan’s smile faltered. After she helped Maric to his feet, she moved away. He glanced after her, baffled, before the quickly spreading bloodstain on his bandages drew his attention. “Ahhh,” he breathed, “Wilhelm will frown at me for certain now!”

Loghain regarded his warhorse, standing there all saddled up and ready to go. With a silent shake of his head, he began untying the bags. Rowan turned to go, but Maric held up his hands to stop her. “Wait!” he shouted. Then he grabbed the staff and quickly hobbled out the door, a man on a mission.

She stared after him, frowning. “What has he planned now?”

Loghain shrugged. “With him, it could be anything.”

The two of them stood there in the dust and hay listening to the faint sounds of commotion outside and the occasional nickering of the horses. Loghain thought he should speak, but as the tension built, it seemed to become an insurmountable obstacle. He returned his attention to the saddle, feeling Rowan’s eyes on his back.

After what seemed like forever, she spoke, her voice pained and hesitant. “Were you leaving because of me?”

He stopped. “I was leaving because I was the lesser man. According to you.”

She flinched.“I . . . shouldn’t be the only reason you stay.”

“You’re not.” He turned toward her, his gaze hard. “He is.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes brimming with tears she didn’t shed. He didn’t have to say anything else. They stood where they were, the distance between them filling the entire room, neither of them speaking. The moment stretched into agony.

Loghain wondered if he would have to remember this moment, if he would have to memorize the curve of her jaw, the gray eyes that blinked at him from under those brown curls, the strength behind her desperately unhappy frown. He wondered if he would need this memory as a shield, if he was indeed going to stay. Surely he was mad.

Eventually Maric hobbled back through the door, Arl Rendorn and several other soldiers in tow. Rowan and Loghain looked away in different directions, their moment abruptly ended. The Arl appeared nonplussed and quizzically looked at Maric, who seemed rather pleased with himself.

“I think we need to do what we were discussing a few days ago, Your Grace,” Maric announced, breathing heavily and sweating from all the running about.

The Arl looked dubiously at Maric. “You mean now?” Then he noticed the warhorse and the packs, and frowned. “Going somewhere?” he asked Loghain directly.

Loghain shrugged. “Not anymore.”

“Yes, I think we should do it right now,” Maric insisted.

Arl Rendorn chewed on that thought for a moment as the other soldiers looked at him questioningly. Then he nodded. “As you wish. Perhaps it is for the best.” He turned to face Loghain. “Loghain Mac Tir, you have served your prince well in these past years. You have proved yourself to be an able leader of men, and there is—”

“Wait,” Loghain interrupted. “I said I would stay, I don’t need—”

“Let me finish.” The Arl smiled. “There is not a day that has passed where Maric and I have not commented on how we value your presence. Your current rank is no indication of your importance to our cause. Thus, despite your lack of knighthood, we feel it is fitting that you be given the rank of commander.”

Loghain had been about to interrupt again, sensing some kind of reward forthcoming—but he stopped short. He’d no idea that Maric intended this. The protest caught in his throat, and he stared at the Arl, flabbergasted. Maric grinned in delight.

“This places you immediately beneath me in the chain of command, Loghain,” the Arl continued. “My orders to the other officers will be relayed through you, and I would expect you to take on more logistical duties. This is provided, of course, that you are willing to accept the promotion?” The corner of the Arl’s mouth twitched ever so slightly with amusement. “You have proved yourself to be . . . unpredictable over such matters in the past, after all.”

Loghain stared, his mouth agape.

“It’s not a bribe,” Maric mentioned. “I just wanted you to know that I was—”

“I’ll do it.” The words tumbled out of Loghain’s mouth almost before he realized he was saying them. He looked up and saw the Arl’s hand offered to him and shook it numbly.

“Well done.” The Arl grinned.

Loghain retrieved his hand and turned toward Maric, who was grinning and offering his own hand. Loghain stood there silently and stared at it as if he had no idea what it signified.

After a moment, Maric awkwardly lowered his hand. “Err . . . is something wrong?”

“No.” Loghain stared hard at the ground, grimacing.

Then he awkwardly lowered himself to one knee before Maric. His face felt hot and flushed, and he knew he must have looked quite the fool. The shocked soldiers behind the Arl looked at each other incredulously.

Maric looked down at him with abject horror. “What are you doing?”

Loghain frowned thoughtfully, but then nodded. He knew this was what he needed to do. “I may be no knight,” he said firmly, “but I’m certain it wouldn’t do to have a commander in your army who hadn’t sworn an oath of some kind.”

Now it was Maric’s turn to be flabbergasted. His mouth dropped open, and he looked helplessly from Arl Rendorn to Rowan and back to Loghain. “No! No, no, I don’t need any kind of oath from you!”

“Maric—”

“You misunderstand, I would never . . . I mean I know how you feel, your father was a completely—”

“Maric,” Loghain interrupted. “Shut up.”

Maric’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

Behind them, Rowan slowly retreated to the doorway. No one noticed as she silently turned and left.

“If you really want me to stay,” Loghain began, looking up at Maric, “then I will. And if you are going to trust me with your army, if you’re going to trust me that much, then I’m honored. I may not be highborn, and I have no idea how much my word is worth to you . . . but you have it. You are my friend and my prince and I swear to serve you well.”

Maric swallowed hard. “Your word means a great deal to me, Loghain,” he said simply. He seemed deeply touched.

Slowly Loghain stood back up. Arl Rendorn nodded at him silently, pride in the old man’s eyes. The soldiers behind the Arl saluted. He stood there dumbly in front of them, not sure what to say.

Maric grinned like a fool. “Commander Loghain,” he said aloud, as if testing out the title.

Loghain chuckled ruefully. “That does sound strange.”

“I’m willing to bet there’s still a wine bottle or two to be found from last night.”

Loghain snorted. “Full of swill, perhaps.”

“And what better way to celebrate your promotion?”

“Will you put on a shirt, at least?”

“Fine, fine. If you insist.” Maric chuckled, shouldering his staff and hobbling out the door.

Loghain waited a moment, shaking his head in quiet disbelief. I am a fool, he thought.

Then he followed Maric out.