The Stolen Throne

18

Maric waited quietly in the dark chantry, contemplating the marble statue of Andraste that towered above the holy brazier. The robes hung heavily on his shoulders, and he found the thick wool lining hot next to the brazier’s flame, but even so he had to admit he liked them. Rowan had produced them from somewhere, claiming they would make him look more regal. And they did. The purple was a nice touch.

Rowan had been quite attentive since that night in Gwaren. She was always at his side, always ready to offer advice or even just a simple smile. This wasn’t the Rowan he had known. It was a stranger, if a helpful one. When he looked into her eyes, he saw only a wall there, a wall she put up to keep him out. It had never been there before, and he supposed that was his doing. An unspoken agreement had been forged, and with it came a distance he could feel no matter how close they lay.

The army had been on the march for two weeks now, heading westward across the Bannorn and spreading the word of his return. The number of recruits that they were getting now was astounding, increasing every day. There were reports of violence all over the country as farmholders up and left their lands, as townsfolk pelted Orlesian guardsmen with rocks and burned Orlesian businesses. Attacks on Orlesian travelers had prompted the usurper to increase the guards on the roads threefold, and with each reprisal against the people, their resolve only stiffened.

The executions were brutal, he was told. There wasn’t a single settlement in Ferelden where rows of heads didn’t line the roads leading in as a demonstration of what defying King Meghren meant. The thought of them all haunted Maric. Yet still the people rebelled. They had had enough.

Already the banns were coming over to the rebels. Yesterday there had been two banns, old men who had not even come to his court at Gwaren. Two days before it had been an Orlesian, of all things, a young man who had fallen out of favor with the usurper and had begged to be allowed to keep his lands if he joined the rebels. He even promised to marry a Fereldan woman, offered even to change his name. The family that had once owned his lands was now dead, executed to the last child long ago, but Maric still wasn’t sure what he was going to do about that.

It was all coming together so quickly. He reminded himself that if West Hill had taught them anything it was that it could fall apart just as fast. Still, this felt different. For the first time in his memory, the rebels had momentum. It was undeniable to everyone.

Outside, off in the distance, a bell began to ring.

It would be time for them to arrive soon, then. The flames in the brazier bathed the statue above him in a soft glow, while the rest of the chantry was left in shadow. The darkness made everything serene, he thought. Andraste looked down upon him kindly, her hands clasped in prayer to the Maker.

It was her most common depiction. Andraste as the prophet, the bride of the Maker, and the gentle savior. If the statue were more truthful, Andraste would have held a sword in her hand. The Chantry didn’t like to dwell on the fact that their prophet had been a conqueror; her words had stirred the barbarian hordes to invade the civilized world, and she had spent her entire life on the battlefield. There had likely been nothing gentle about her at all.

And she had been betrayed, too, had she not? Maferath, the barbarian warlord, had grown jealous of playing second husband to the Maker. The more lands he conquered, the more the people adored Andraste, and he wished glory for himself. So he sold his wife to the magisters, and they burned her at the stake, and Maferath became synonymous with betrayal. It was the oldest story in Thedas, one that was told time and time again by the Chantry thoughout the ages.

He wondered if Andraste won her battle in the end, even though she met her end in flames. But somehow Maric felt more like Maferath. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Footsteps on the stone alerted Maric to the fact that they had arrived. Slowly he turned about and watched as a group of men filed into the chantry one by one. The bright brazier was behind him, which meant that these men no doubt saw only his silhouette . . . and that was good, for he didn’t want these men to see his face.

Bann Ceorlic was the first. The man had the good grace to look uncomfortable and keep his eyes on the ground. The four others that followed him were all familiar to Maric. Even though he had last seen them at night, in a dark forest, he knew them all too well. These were the men who had betrayed his mother. They had lured her with promises of alliance and then killed her where she stood.

All five of them shuffled in and stood before the altar, avoiding Maric’s gaze. The altar was several stairs above them, and so Maric felt as if he loomed over these men. Good. Let them wait in the silence as he stared down at them. Let them see Andraste staring down at them, too, and let them wonder if she was praying for their forgiveness or offering them their last rites.

A bead of sweat rolled down Ceorlic’s bald head. None of them said a word.

Loghain strode into the chantry shortly behind them, and the door was closed. He nodded across the chamber to Maric, and Maric nodded back. The tension that had grown between them was nowhere to be seen for the moment, but Maric knew it wasn’t gone completely. They had barely spoken since the army had left Gwaren, and perhaps that was for the best. Maric didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to go back to the easy banter they had once enjoyed, not this cool silence that had replaced it. Part of him knew it wasn’t going to happen. The way Loghain went stony silent and blank whenever Rowan was present, the way Loghain studiously avoided them both, told him that the night with Katriel had changed something between them. Perhaps for good.

So be it. There was nothing to do now but what had to be done.

“Gentlemen,” Maric greeted the five noblemen coolly.

They bowed low. “Prince Maric,” Bann Ceorlic said cordially. His eyes shifted about nervously, searching the shadows of the chantry behind Maric. Perhaps for guards? He could look all he liked, Maric thought, for he wasn’t going to find any. “I must say,” the man continued, “we were all rather . . . surprised when we received word of your proposal.”

“You’re here, so it seems you are at least willing to consider it.”

“Of course we will,” the Bann smiled solicitously. “It is not easy to see the Orlesians gorging themselves upon Ferelden’s wealth, after all. None of us is pleased to live under the tyrant on our throne.”

Maric snorted. “But you’ve made the best of it.”

“We’ve had to do what was necessary to survive.” The man had the good grace at least to lower his eyes when he said that. What he “had to do,” after all, had been to kill Maric’s mother. Maric stared down at the Bann, trying to control his temper. It was not easy.

One of the other noblemen, the youngest of the five present, stepped forward. He had curly black hair and a goatee, and slightly swarthy skin that spoke of his Rivaini mother. Bann Keir, as Maric recalled. Maric didn’t remember the young man from that night, but everything Maric had learned said that he had indeed been there.

“My lord,” Bann Keir said politely, “you have asked for us to support your cause, to supply you with our men that currently march with the usurper’s army, in return for amnesty.” He traded a quick look with Bann Ceorlic and then smiled smoothly at Maric once again. “Is that all? Our forces are not insignificant, after all. To ask us to abandon the usurper’s side solely in exchange for your . . . favor . . . implies that your position is stronger than it is.”

He was charismatic, Maric had to give him that. Bann Ceorlic looked displeased, and Maric suspected that the young bann had hurried up and gotten to the point far more quickly than Ceorlic would have liked, but the other old men all stared at the ground in a manner that said they agreed. They wanted more.

“You killed Queen Moira Theirin, murdered her in cold blood.” Maric said the words surprisingly easily. He walked down the steps toward them, regarding the young Bann Keir with a look that he hoped seemed neutral. “That is regicide, an unforgiveable crime. I offer you forgiveness anyhow, in exchange for doing what is already your duty, and yet you want more?”

“Our duty,” Bann Ceorlic interjected, “is to support the King.”

“An Orlesian king,” Maric snapped.

“That has been put on the throne with the approval of the Maker.” Ceorlic gestured toward the statue of Andraste. “We are in a difficult position, and the difference between a rebel and our future ruler could be small indeed.”

Maric nodded slowly. He was among them, now, and he stopped before Ceorlic and stared him directly in the face. “And this was why you lied to my mother, lured her to her death with promises of an alliance that was never going to happen? Did you need to do that? Does the Maker approve of treachery, now?”

The nobles backed away uncertainly, Ceorlic with them. He looked at Maric indignantly. “We did as our King bade us to!” Ceorlic and the others beside him drew their swords, glancing at Maric and Loghain with obvious fear on their faces. Loghain drew his blade and stepped forward threateningly. Maric drew his own sword, glittering runes shining in the dim chantry, but did so only calmly and held out a hand to prevent Loghain from moving any farther.

Bann Keir did not retreat, however. He folded his arms and regarded Maric and Loghain contemptuously, not even bothering to draw his blade like the others. “There’s no need to fear them, my friends. Prince Maric needs our troops. He needs them badly, or he wouldn’t have called us here.”

Maric turned toward the young man. “Do I?” he asked, his tone dangerous.

“You do.” Keir shook his head at their swords as if they were only amusing to him. “You don’t think we would have come here without telling everyone in the Bannorn where we were going? Invited to holy ground, on condition of truce? Do you really think the noble Prince Maric would kill us here, where everyone would know it?” He chuckled lightly. “What would people think?”

Maric smiled coldly. “They would think it was justice,” he said, and barely taking a step, he spun around and lashed out with the dragonbone blade, cleanly severing Bann Keir’s head at the neck.

It took a moment for the shock of the act to settle in.

Bann Ceorlic and the other three men stared, dumbfounded, as Maric turned calmly toward them. The pale dragonbone dripped bright red blood, Maric’s eyes shining with an intense light of their own. Loghain slowly edged around the group, cutting them off from their exit.

“You’re mad!” Ceorlic shouted. “What are you doing?”

Maric didn’t remove his eyes from the man. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“This . . . this is murder! In a chantry of the Maker!” another bann cried.

“Do you expect,” Loghain snarled, “the Maker to come down and protect you? If so, then I suggest the four of you begin praying.”

Bann Ceorlic raised a hand slowly, sweat pouring down his face. “You need our men,” he said carefully, though Maric could hear the quivering in his voice. “Keir was right about that, you do this and our children will fight you with their last breath! They will tell everyone about this cowardly, dishonorable act!”

Maric took one step toward the four men, and all four of them jumped back, startled. Maric smiled coldly once again. “Your children will be given exactly one day to denounce the acts that you committed to earn your deaths here. If they agree, and join my forces without reservation, I will remember that your ill-considered acts were done for their sakes.” He raised the longsword, the tip of the blade pointing toward Ceorlic. “And if they refuse, I will ensure your families die and your lands be given to men who know the meaning of words like cowardly and dishonorable.”

The room was silent save for the crackling of the fire in the holy brazier. The tension hung thickly as the old men glanced from one to the other, their swords held before them. Maric could see their calculations. Two to one, they were thinking. They were not so young as their opponents, but they were skilled enough with their blades.

Let them come.

With a shout of terror, one of the elder banns made a break for the chantry door. Loghain gracefully swept low toward him and knocked his legs out from underneath him. The man went down hard on the stone floor. He gasped and opened his eyes wide in fear as he saw Loghain rise above him, holding the sword pointed down toward his heart.

Loghain made no expression as he thrust the sword down into the man. The blade penetrated with a wet, crunching sound and a single strained groan escaped the Bann’s lips.

Ceorlic raced toward Maric with a war cry, his sword held high to strike, but Maric raised a foot and connected with the man’s chest, pushing him back and slamming him against the wall. A second man rushed at Maric’s side and swung his blade low, but Maric parried easily.

He turned and swung the blade in a wide arc at his attacker. The man raised his blade, but the magical longsword sliced through it. Sparks flew and the man screamed in agony as Maric’s blade cut a deep slash across his chest. Blood spurted from the wound as Maric spun around again, slicing into the man’s abdomen. The Bann fell heavily to the ground, clutching his chest as he died.

The third ran at Loghain, charging him at full speed as he shouted in a mix of rage and terror. Loghain frowned in annoyance at the man, quickly pulling his blade from the one he had just slain and thrusting it before him like a spear. The charging Bann practically skewered himself on the blade, rushing up half its length until he stopped, quivering, bright blood running from his mouth.

Ceorlic watched them from the wall, horror twisting his features into an ugly grimace. His eyes flickered from Loghain to Maric and back again, and he threw down his sword to the floor. It clattered there noisily as he sank to his knees, shaking in abject terror.

“I surrender!” he shouted. “Please! I’ll do anything!”

Maric walked up to him slowly. The man cowered before Maric, and then lost what little dignity he had left as he bowed his forehead to the floor and crawled toward Maric’s boots. “Please! My . . . my armies! I’ll raise double the men! I’ll say that . . . that the others attacked you!”

“Pick up your sword,” Maric told him. He glanced toward Loghain, who only nodded coolly as he pushed the dead man off his blade.

Bann Ceorlic rose to his knees, looking up at Maric and putting his hands together in prayer. “For the love of the Maker!” he cried, tears running down his face. “Do not do this! I’ll give you anything you wish!”

Maric bent down and grabbed the man by the ear. He felt his rage bubble up, remembered how this man had run his sword through his mother, how he had raced through the forest while his men chased him. This man’s treachery had started all of this, and Maric was going to end it.

“What I want back you can’t give me,” he said, shaking with rage as he thrust the longsword through Ceorlic’s heart.

The man’s eyes went wide with shock. Blood trickled from his mouth, and he stared uncomprehendingly at Maric as he gasped. Each gasp became weaker, and Maric slowly lowered him to the floor. When he drew his last breath, Maric gritted his teeth and yanked the blade out noisily from Ceorlic’s chest.

The shadows grew longer in the chantry as Maric crouched there over Ceorlic. Five dead men surrounded them, their blood spreading and cooling on the stone and the statue of Andraste looking down from the dais upon it all. Loghain stood only a few feet away, but Maric thought he might as well have been alone.

“It’s done,” Loghain said evenly. There was a hint of approval in his voice.

“Yes. It is.”

“There will be an outcry. They weren’t wrong about that.”

“Maybe so.” Maric slowly stood up. His face was grim, and he felt as if something hard had settled within him, as if his heart had become a little more still. It was a strange feeling, peaceful and yet oddly disquieting. He had avenged his mother, but all he felt was cold. “But they can’t pretend, now. They have to choose a side and suffer the consequences, and they have to know I won’t forgive. Not now.”

Loghain looked at Maric, those icy blue eyes piercing into him uncomfortably. Maric tried to ignore it. He couldn’t tell what Loghain was thinking any longer. Was he pleased? This is what he had wanted. A Maric who did what needed to be done.

Loghain turned to leave, his black cloak swirling behind him, and then he paused at the door. “I had word shortly before we came. The two legions of chevaliers sent from Orlais will be crossing the River Dane in two days’ time. That is where we’ll need to engage them.”

Maric did not turn to look at him. “You and Rowan will be leading the attack.”

“You won’t reconsider? . . .”

“No.”

“Maric, I don’t think the—”

“I said no.” Maric’s tone was final. “You know why.”

Loghain hesitated only a moment, and then nodded firmly and left. The rush of wind through the chantry as the door opened was freezing cold, eagerly telling of the coming winter. The flame in the brazier fluttered wildly and then finally went out.

The die was cast. Maric felt the disquiet in his heart calm at last, leaving only an icy silence. There was no turning back now.