The Stolen Throne

3

Maric had no idea how long they continued running. Panic transformed much of their flight into a blur, and even when the sharp edge of fear had worn off, he found it difficult to get his bearings in the rain and darkness. They were deep in the Korcari Wilds now, he knew. The forest’s dangerous reputation had yet to prove itself, but it certainly looked unlike anything he had ever seen before. The giant trees twisted like they were frozen in the throes of agony, and a perpetual cold mist clung to the ground. It gave the forest an ominous feel, one that deepened the farther they ran. One of Maric’s tutors had explained the reason for the mist, something relating to one of the region’s old legends, but he couldn’t recall any of the particulars. Especially now, when it took everything he had to keep pace with the seemingly tireless Loghain. Hours of panicked running through the thick and uneven foliage had turned into exhausted trudging, and finally become a limping crawl.

Maric collapsed in a natural alcove formed by the roots at the foot of a fallen tree. It was an elder poplar, papery white and ten times as wide as himself, and some unknown force had ripped it out of the ground. Massive exposed roots snaked around the alcove like giant tentacles, and a bed of thick moss and delicate white flowers grew in the shade.

Dim light filtered down from overhead, and he could just barely make out the overcast sky through patches in the tree canopy. Had they been running the entire night? It seemed impossible that he had survived a second consecutive night fleeing through the wilderness. At least the storm had petered out a few hours before. As Maric lay there inhaling the scent of moss, sweating and gasping for air, he felt the mist settle coolly on his skin and was grateful for it.

“All spent, are you?” Loghain said with annoyance, returning from a short distance ahead. Maric suspected the man was almost as exhausted as he was. He, too, was pale and had rivulets of sweat running down his face and over his stained leather armor. Despite his heavier burden, however, he didn’t seem inclined to slow his pace. Maric was beyond caring.

“I think we lost them,” he gasped, still trying to catch his breath.

“Are you sure?” Loghain drew his belt knife and hacked viciously at one of the low-hanging root tendrils that hovered near his head. “You’re a prince, aren’t you? You’re an important person. You might have the entire Fereldan army after you. They may have unleashed a small horde of mabari hounds into the forest to sniff you down. They might even have mages scrying after you.” He strode over to where Maric lay and stared at him with fury in those cold eyes. “Just how safe do you feel, Your Highness?”

“Err . . . at the moment? Not very.”

Loghain snorted in disgust and walked away several steps. He stood there, staring into the mist and bristling. “The truth,” he stated, “is they’re not going to come into the Wilds. This is savage country, and dangerous. They’d be stupid to follow us. About as stupid as we were desperate to flee this way.”

“That . . . makes me feel so much better.”

“Good.” Loghain’s calm tone was icy. “Because you’re on your own from this point.”

“You’re just going to leave me out here.”

“I got you out safely, didn’t I? You’re here, you’re alive.”

A chill ran down Maric’s spine and settled uncomfortably in his gut. “You think that’s what your father intended?”

Loghain’s eyes went wide. With two quick steps, he was on top of Maric, hauling him up off the moss and throwing him against the fungus-covered tree. Maric gasped, the wind knocked out of him, as Loghain lifted a threatening fist. It hovered, as if he wasn’t willing to actually punch Maric, but judging by the furious expression on his face, he wanted to. “You shut up about him,” Loghain hissed. “You’re the one who got him killed! You don’t get to tell me what to do. You can’t knight me to make me throw my life away for you.”

Maric coughed, trying to regain his breath. “You think I meant for any of this to happen? I didn’t want your father to die. I’m so sorry. . . .”

Loghain went rigid. “Oh, you’re sorry? You’re sorry!”

Maric saw the punch coming and closed his eyes. His chin exploded into a ball of white pain and he bit down hard on his tongue. Metallic-tasting blood filled his mouth as he collapsed on the moss below, too exhausted to put up any resistance.

“How wonderful that you’re sorry!” Loghain raged, towering over him. “I watched my father die, along with everyone he promised to protect, but how much better it is now that I know you’re sorry!” Tearing himself away, he stalked several feet off and stood there with his back turned, fists clenched at his sides.

Maric gasped and spat out blood and saliva, much of it dribbling down his chin. His jaw throbbed like it was about to fall off. Gritting his teeth and sucking back the blood welling out of his tongue, he forced himself to sit up. “I watched my mother murdered, right in front of me. And I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.”

Loghain made no sign he was even listening.

Feeling shaky and weak, Maric continued to speak. “I was running from her killers when I met you in the woods. I had no idea that you weren’t going to just throw me to the wolves once you found out who I was. I was going to go my own way, but you convinced me to follow you.” Maric held out his hands in supplication. “Why did you do that? You knew I was being chased. You knew there was danger.”

Loghain didn’t answer. He remained with his back turned, and for several minutes all he did was cut at low-hanging roots with his knife and toss them aside. Maric couldn’t tell if Loghain was ignoring him or just thinking.

Eventually Maric wiped his mouth gingerly with the back of his hand. The flow of blood had lessened, though his jaw still hurt and his ears were ringing. With effort, he pulled himself back to his feet.

“I wish I’d known earlier, about your father,” Maric continued. “He was willing to give up his life to save me. And why? Same reason he led all those poor people, I’ll bet, when where he belonged was with the rebel army. He was a great man, even I could see that. That’s why I knighted him.” Tears welled up in his eyes, and his voice became hoarse. “My mother was great, too. Let me tell you, if I . . . If I’d had the chance to say good-bye to her, I wouldn’t have wasted it.”

Loghain did not move, or even look at him.

It was obvious nothing Maric said was going to get through to him. Maric wiped the tears from his eyes and nodded. “But I get it. I don’t expect you to stay and help me, I really don’t. You need to go back to the camp, see if . . . anyone survived. If I were you, I’d want to get back to my people. How could I not understand that?” He wiped the last smears of blood from his chin. “So . . . thank you for saving me.”

With that, he straightened the torn and wet coat and left. The boots were still his good ones, he figured. He had the dagger the sister had given him, and was not completely helpless. With a bit of luck, he could find a route back out of the forest. Maybe he would run into some passing merchant caravan. The dwarves came this far south on the way to Gwaren, didn’t they? It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing. At this point, he had little choice but to try.

Maric trudged across the treacherous terrain, leaving Loghain well behind him. The mist made traveling difficult; he couldn’t see where he was stepping most of the time, and his boots got caught between gnarled roots or in small depressions in the mud. Eventually he cut down one of the low tree branches, making himself a stick to help him find firmer ground in the mist. The forest around him seemed to be getting thicker and darker, if possible, when he realized that he really had no idea even which direction he was going. He couldn’t tell where the sun was, as he could barely see the sky. For all he knew, he could be heading farther south into the Wilds.

As he stood there, scratching his head in confusion, he heard steps behind him. He turned to find Loghain approaching. Maric had to admit that he had never felt quite so relieved to see anyone, especially Loghain in his formidable leather armor, stepping as easily in the mist as he might have on even ground. The man certainly didn’t look happy. Those icy blue eyes glared at Maric as if to say, I’m going to regret this.

Maric waited for Loghain to get near. Loghain didn’t say anything right away, but grimaced and unslung his bow, then adjusted the half-full quiver on his back. When he looked up again, he held up a single finger. “One, you have a way with words.”

“Really? You’d be the first to say that.”

Loghain ignored him, holding up a second finger. “Two, I don’t imagine my father meant for you to get away just to die like an idiot in the Wilds. Which is exactly what would happen if I didn’t help you.”

“No, I’m fine. You don’t owe me anything—”

Loghain grunted noncommittally. With a quick motion, he pulled an arrow from his quiver and fired it right past Maric’s head. Maric was so startled, he didn’t know what to think. He stepped back, and then jumped as he noticed something writhing on the tree behind him. He jumped even farther when he realized it was a shiny black snake at least as large as his arm. The arrow pierced it about a foot behind its head, staking it to the tree, where it frantically writhed.

Loghain stepped up to it, drawing his belt knife and cutting off its head with some difficulty. Angry red blood gushed from its neck, and its convulsions slowed. Yanking out the arrow, Loghain pulled the snake corpse down from the branches and turned back to Maric. “We sometimes saw these outside the Wilds. Silent Crawlers. Poisonous . . . but tasty enough if you can ignore the smell.”

“Oh,” Maric said, nonplussed.

“So I’m going to see you out of the Wilds and get you back to the rebels.” He looked at Maric sternly. “Once that’s done, we’re through. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then no thanking me. I don’t want any reward.”

“Right.”

“And I’m not calling you ‘Your Highness.’”

“Please don’t.”

Loghain’s scowl deepened, like he had been half hoping for an argument. Since there was none forthcoming, he waved vaguely in the direction Maric had been heading. “At least you were walking in the right direction. Accidentally, I bet. Are you hungry?”

Maric eyed the long, shiny snake corpse dangling from Loghain’s hand dubiously, but his stomach growled before he could answer.

“Then let’s find something else besides a snake to eat. And a place to light a damned fire.” He brushed by Maric and headed off, not waiting to see if Maric followed.

For the next three days, the pair of them traveled the deep forests of the Korcari Wilds. It was slow going, considering that Loghain didn’t want to backtrack and was instead leading Maric west. Despite what he’d told Maric, Loghain wasn’t convinced the men after them wouldn’t follow them into the dense forest. At the very least, their pursuers might leave men stationed just outside the Wilds, hoping that he and Maric had hidden within the less dangerous fringe area and might be forced to come out soon.

Of course, that assumed they were even aware the two of them had fled into the Wilds. People had escaped the camp in all directions, and no soldier who had seen them face-to-face survived to tell of it. Still, Loghain believed in assuming the worst. Despite difficult travelling through rough terrain, he thought it best to get as far from the hills as they possibly could.

Shelter proved to be their most immediate issue. Thankfully, the Wilds were full of fallen, ancient trees, sometimes toppled in large groups that made Loghain wonder just what sort of force could do this. His mind turned to tales of dragons, but there had not been actual dragons seen south of the Waking Sea since they had been hunted to near extinction, long ago. Not that there couldn’t be other giant creatures lurking in the Wilds. Maric had heard tales of things like great savage bears as large as a house and the blue-skinned ogres with horns as long as a man’s arm. He supposed they should be just as thankful that those weren’t anywhere in evidence at the moment, either.

The fallen trees offered cover for the night, and for the first two nights, there was no rain. Loghain kept the fire going as long as he dared while Maric shivered in his sleep nearby. The fire wasn’t enough to keep the persistent mist at bay, which meant it clung to the clothes and the skin and left one feeling constantly damp and chilled. Each morning Maric had been more and more difficult to awaken, his skin pale and teeth chattering. Luckily, that was their biggest challenge—there was plenty of game to be found, and Loghain was able to detect the larger predators quickly enough to give them a wide berth.

Maric, for his part, was proving difficult to hate. He kept pace and had yet to complain, not about being hungry or exhausted or anything else. He also did as he was told and had saved himself more than once from blundering into danger by responding instantly to Loghain’s barked orders. If he had one flaw, it was the talking. The man chattered constantly and amiably about almost anything. If it wasn’t his amazement at the size of the trees, it was his assessment of the size of the Wilds or his recollection of the lore on the Chasind people that were supposed to live in the forest. Loghain listened quietly to the constant prattle, wishing nothing more than for him to shut up. After the second night, Maric became quieter and Loghain was disgusted to discover he actually missed the sound.

It must have been easy for the man to make friends, Loghain surmised. Even exhausted and half covered in filth, Maric had a natural, easy charm. As Maric was the favored son of a Queen whom Loghain’s father had all but worshipped from afar, Loghain truly wanted to despise him. He had every reason to despise him. But the truth was, he just couldn’t maintain the cold fury he had felt before, and that was almost worse than anything else.

On the third night, it rained. Freezing without a fire, Loghain and Maric huddled under an outcropping of rock, their breath coming out in plumes through chattering teeth. That night, the wolves made their appearance. Tentatively the beasts hovered nearby, gathering their courage before making any sort of attack. Several times, Loghain sent them running with a shot from his bow, only to have them edge back into sight later on. Loghain had only so many arrows and no way of making more, so he conserved what he had and used them only when there was no other choice.

By the time morning came, the wolves had decided there was less vigilant prey to be found elsewhere. Loghain was weary, chilled to the bone, and became more than a little concerned when he found Maric shivering and unable to wake up. So pale, he was almost white, Maric could at best be roused to a strange state where he uttered delirious nonsense through his chattering teeth.

Loghain built a fire, no mean feat considering that mist and rain had drenched almost everything. He dug for dead wood, searching for dry moss and twigs hidden away out of sight. And then came frustrating hours of smoke and embers, and him nearly nodding off while trying to maintain focus. When the flame finally caught, he could have jumped for joy and would have given much to listen to Maric ask twenty different questions about how he managed it.

He settled for finessing the fire into a sizable blaze. More damp wood was added, and more moss, and more sticks . . . and after those dried and caught fire, he repeated the process. Eventually he had what he needed: a crackling pyre that gave off more heat than smoke. He pulled Maric as close to the flames as he dared and sat nearby, trying to keep an eye out for the wolf pack’s return. After a time, the warm glow made his lids heavy and he fell asleep.

Loghain woke up hours later, discovering that Maric was not only already awake but also tending the fire. He was pale and shaky, but mobile. Maric nodded to Loghain, silently acknowledging his thanks with a slightly embarrassed grin, but Loghain only frowned back. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve put me through?” he demanded.

Maric rubbed his arms, shivering. “I’m, uh, very happy not to be dead. And that you didn’t leave me here. To freeze.”

“The wolves would have eaten you long before you froze.”

“Well, that’s something.”

Loghain turned to leave. “I’m going to hunt, while I can. I’d appreciate it if you managed to not freeze while I’m gone. Do you think you could do that?” He didn’t wait for a response and felt pleased by Maric’s slightly injured expression.

On the fourth day, Loghain realized they were being followed.

The wolves had not returned, which was odd. After a time of having the strange sensation of being watched, he heard something out in the bushes. Whoever was out there—and he did think it was a who, since he doubted a predator would have spent so long stalking them—was skilled. Try as Loghain might, he could not spot anyone in the shadows.

He held up a hand, quieting Maric. “Don’t look now,” he muttered, “but I don’t think we’re alone any longer.”

To Maric’s credit, he didn’t look. “Are you sure?”

“Well, it is difficult to hear much with you blathering on like you do.”

“I’m not blathering!”

“Really? It’s no wonder you nearly froze to death the way you spend all your energy moving your mouth.” Their eyes glanced around nervously, without making it obvious what they were doing.

Maric made a subtle motion to his left. Loghain followed it, not quite believing that Maric could be capable of spotting something first. Then, he saw it. Just ahead, in the deep shadows between two of the taller trees, two points of light glinted at them, like a cat’s eyes as it watched you in the dark.

Like elf eyes.

“Blast!” Loghain swore, his panic catching him off guard. In a single motion, he shoved Maric to the ground and unslung the bow from his shoulder. As he dove for cover he heard an arrow whistling toward him. It sank into his shoulder with considerable force, sending him stumbling backwards with a grunt of pain.

“Loghain!” Maric shouted. He leaped up and ran to where Loghain was sprawled, gasping when he saw the arrow had passed almost completely through Loghain’s shoulder. Bright blood stained the tall grass. Looking around, his eyes wide with fear, Maric pulled out his dagger.

“Run!” Loghain rasped at him, trying to clutch at the arrow shaft and get up at the same time. But it was too late. Elves materialized out of the shadows around them, running toward them with barely a sound. They were dressed in hunting leathers, their foreheads tattooed in vivid colored patterns representing their pagan gods. The expressions in their bright alien eyes said murder. Some held bows trained while others held amber-colored ironwood blades in hand.

Maric raised his dagger, but even as he did, a thick net landed over them both. The elves were on them, grabbing at arms and legs and shouting angrily in their strange language. Loghain struggled, hissing in pain as the weight of the net forced the arrow farther through his shoulder, but it was futile. Maric thrashed in the net next to him until there was a loud thumping sound and Maric slumped to the ground. A moment later, held down by many strong hands, Logain felt something hard slam his head and he, too, slipped into darkness.

Loghain awoke to the sharp tingle of pain in his skull and a bath of heat on his face. He could hear a roaring fire nearby, a large one, and before his eyes opened, he could tell he was seated against some kind of pole with his arms tied together behind it. Was he going to be cooked, then? Roasted on a skewer over a roaring fire? Was that something elves did? It seemed unlikely, considering the arrow wound in his shoulder was now treated and bandaged. At least he was finally warm.

He opened his eyes and the light hurt.

Sure enough, he was set up before a bonfire with Maric slumped next to him. Beyond the fire was a group of long, oddly shaped covered wagons, circled in the forest clearing. Each of the wagons had a mast with one triangular sail attached to both it and an elegantly shaped piece of wood off the back, which could have passed for a rudder. Though Loghain had never encountered a landship before, he’d heard enough stories to know one when he saw it.

It was certain, then. These were Dalish elves, wanderers who had remained together in tightly knit clans ever since the destruction of the elven homeland long ago at human hands. Many elves had submitted to human rule and lived in the cities as second-class citizens, but the Dalish had refused. They had fled, and today remained aloof and hostile toward all outsiders. They worshipped strange gods and kept to the most remote lands, passing through forests that parted before them like waves on the sea, and beware the hapless traveler who encountered them unawares.

Travelers like Loghain and Maric. Loghain had no idea how much of the tales were true, as he had never so much as seen a Dalish up close before, but their ambush led credence to the rumors.

The heat from the bonfire was almost blistering this close, so Loghain twisted to try to pull away from it as much as he could. His face felt raw, and a trickle of thickness down his cheek told him his head was still bleeding from the earlier blow. A cloying smell not unlike jasmine lurked in the air along with the aroma of cooked meat. Beyond the smoke, he could see several elves seated on the other side of the fire. They were dressed in simple colorful robes—reds and blues and golds, mostly—and were eating from wooden bowls, their pale eyes flickering occasionally toward him.

Maric stirred and started groaning painfully. Loghain watched him until he finally cracked open an eye, recoiling instantly from the bonfire just as Loghain had. “Maker’s breath!” he croaked, then began coughing hoarsely.

“Careful,” Loghain cautioned.

“I could really do without being hit on the head anymore.”

“Complain to the Dalish. Perhaps they take requests.”

Maric sat up, squinting past the fire. “Is that who they are? I was wondering about all the markings on their faces.”

“You don’t know about the Dalish?”

“Well, you know”—he shrugged—“I had other things I was supposed to learn.”

“Such as?”

“How to be taken prisoner by outlaws, apparently.”

Loghain smirked. “Here I thought you were just a quick study.” The Dalish were listening to them, and several more had come out of the shadows to stand next to their landships and stare. They seemed unfriendly and suspicious, if not outright hostile. What, then, did they have planned? Loghain felt almost on display, an exotic beast that was too frightening to be approached closely.

Maric sniffed, then shivered in disgust. “What’s that smell? Jasmine?”

“Maybe.”

“What do they do? Roll it up and smoke it?” He sniffed again and gagged at the stench until Loghain elbowed him. This wasn’t the time to aggravate their captors by possibly mocking some elven custom. Dalish weren’t fond of humans as it was.

Loghain struggled in his bonds, testing the ropes, until he noticed that even more of the Dalish had gathered to stare. This time it was hunters, dressed much like the ones who had captured them, in the same dark leathers and with the same ironbark blades. He had seen a blade like that before. Potter had arrived at the camp carrying one, in fact, claiming that he had traded for it with a pair of Dalish hunters years before. Stolen, more likely. Eventually Potter had pawned it, and for good coin. The Dalish were the only ones who knew how to mold the ironbark as they did: the blades were practically harder than steel and a fraction of the weight.

“Hello?” Maric suddenly called out to them, looking around. “Will any of you speak to us? Hello?”

“Quiet!” Loghain snapped.

“What? I’m just asking.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

Just then, a new figure emerged from the gathered watchers. This was a male elf, young with long brown hair and distinctly slanted eyes. His robe was covered in more complex designs than the others’, and unlike his companions, he wore a heavy leather cloak gathered around his shoulders. Loghain noticed, too, an ironbark amulet hanging around his neck. It was polished to a shine and carved with intricate runes that seemed to dance just beneath the surface. Magic. The thought made Loghain’s skin crawl.

The young elf approached, and noticing Loghain’s gaze, he smiled. He crouched down directly before Loghain and Maric, a gesture that was almost friendly and casual in its nature. “The amulet was a gift from our Keeper,” he said, his unaccented voice smooth.

“You speak the King’s tongue?” Loghain asked. He distinctly ignored the I told you so look that Maric shot his way.

“Most of us do, though only those who go out to trade with the outsiders get to use it often.” The elf’s manner was gentle, and his eyes seemed filled with compassion, unlike the expressions of the others around them. “Here in the clan, we try to keep our own tongue alive, just as we do our gods.” He tilted his head curiously. “Why are you here?”

“Because you attacked us, remember?” Maric answered, incredulous.

“You are outsiders. You approached our camp.”

“We had no idea you were even here,” Loghain said carefully.

“Ah.” The elf nodded, but seemed disappointed. “Then you are with the others who fled here from beyond the woods?”

“Others?” Loghain spoke more quickly than he thought wise. “There are . . . others who have come before us? Recently?”

The elf’s purple eyes watched Loghain dispassionately for a moment before answering. “There was one, a man that our hunters caught far away from here.”

“Where is he now?”

“I will need to bring you to him,” the elf sighed unhappily. He stood up, turning to some of the others who stood nearby. Polite-sounding orders were given in their language, along with gestures that indicated Loghain and Maric and some place beyond the encampment. The other elves looked at each other, clearly uneasy about whatever they had been asked to do. They approached and began untying Loghain and Maric’s ropes.

“I am sorry,” the elf said, “but if you are indeed from the same place as the other man, we will need to take you as we did him. Please do not struggle.” From his tone, he seemed to think they actually might.

Maric looked around, seeming confused. As his ropes loosened, he brought his hands forward and rubbed his wrists gingerly. “Where are you taking us, exactly?”

“To the asha’belannar. The Woman of Many Years,” the elf explained. “The humans that live in this forest call her the Witch of the Wilds.”

Loghain’s skin went cold. A witch? Sometimes mages escaped from the clutches of the Chantry, refusing to be herded into one of their towers along with everyone else who showed even a hint of magical promise. They were branded apostates, and the Chantry would send their mighty templars to hunt them down and either return them to the tower or kill them. Most, he understood, were killed, and runaway mages lived in mortal fear of being found. One apostate had come to the outlaw camp, a thin man whom Sister Ailis had seen through immediately. Father sent him away, not wanting trouble with the templars, and the mage had reluctantly gone. He could just as easily have turned his spells on them in anger, Loghain thought.

So was this witch an apostate, hiding out in the Korcari Wilds, someone so desperate to keep her secret that she killed anyone who arrived from outside the forest? It was possible, yet something else tickled at the back of his mind. There was a legend, an old tale about this forest that he couldn’t quite summon to his memory. The idea, however, that she might be something else, possibly something worse, was unsettling.

Maric seemed full of questions, but a forceful look from the elf quieted even him. The Dalish were frightened of this “Woman of Many Years,” and that disturbed Loghain more than anything else.

The elves lined up to watch them leave, rows of them staring with baleful curiosity, murmuring among themselves in their strange tongue. Several elves spat at the ground as they walked by, and terrified children were herded away and out of sight. Loghain felt like a condemned man. Perhaps he was.

Several hours passed as they marched through the Wilds, and the elves accompanying them stayed grim and quiet, refusing to answer even the simplest questions. The one in the bright robes had yet to introduce himself, though he glanced back at Maric and Loghain with irritation whenever they fell behind. Loghain would have reminded the elf that neither he nor Maric had been fed or allowed to rest, but it seemed none of the Dalish had any interest beyond getting to where they were going.

Deep in the thick of the forest, where the white mist turned into an obscuring fog and the sun barely reached, there stood a simple weathered hut with a roof of brown moss and old branches. It lay at the end of a short path, and thick, dark ivy crept up the walls on all sides. More significant were the ropes of skulls hanging along the path: rat and wolf and some Loghain couldn’t even identify, all tied together with feathers and sticks and mud. They dangled ominously, a sign staking claim to this land. Maybe there was magic here, too, for Loghain felt a strange sensation running up his arms and into the back of his neck. The air bristled with power, and the way the mist flowed seemed to beckon them in farther.

The young elf in the colorful robes stopped then, and so did the hunters. He pointed toward the hut. “There, that is where you need to go.”

“What’s going to happen to us?” Maric asked.

“I cannot say.”

Loghain paused, unease growing as he noticed what were surely human skulls hanging in the ropes. Looking back at the elf, he nodded respectfully. The elf did the same.

“Dareth shiral. I wish you and your friend well.”

Unfortunately, he didn’t sound as if he expected that to be the case. The elf and his two companions turned and walked away, leaving Loghain and Maric standing in the shadows. The smell of the woods was fresh and clean after the recent rains, the sound of excited birds clear far up in the trees.

“Do we leave?” Maric asked hesitantly.

Loghain didn’t see what good that would do. If this was indeed an apostate, she could no doubt bring them to her whether they wished to go or not. “Let’s see who this Witch of the Wilds is,” he muttered, gesturing toward the hut. Maric looked at him as if he must be mad, but said nothing.

As they walked down the path, the shadows seemed to deepen. The trees towered more ominously overhead, and the mist twisted and danced around them. A trick of the light? In front of the hut sat a small rickety rocking chair as well as an old fire pit that had not seen use for many days. Small moldy bones surrounded the pit in neat piles.

“Is that . . . ?” Maric’s voice trailed off in horror, and Loghain followed his gaze up into the trees. There hung a corpse, a human man with clammy white skin like a fish. He was strung up by his neck and arms, dangling like a broken marionette, with flies and the smell of turning meat hovering in the air. There was no sign of injury, but he had been dead long enough to discolor, the skin glistening slightly as if sweating. The doughy, swollen face and bulging eyes were not enough to hide this corpse’s identity. Loghain knew exactly who he was.

“Dannon?” Maric whispered.

Loghain nodded. There were other bodies hanging farther in, just a few that he could see, hidden in the mist and shadows. Most of them were skeletons with nothing more than tattered cloth and scraps of wispy hair clinging to them.

“I see you’re already acquainted with my newest trophy,” came a new voice. A decrepit woman hobbled into view from among the trees. She was the very picture of a witch, wild white hair and a robe formed mostly of thick black furs and dark leather. Hanging down her back was a heavy cloak trimmed in fox fur, quite striking and delicately stitched. She carried a basket filled with large acorns and other items wrapped in red cloth, and she waved it absently in Dannon’s direction. “He never did introduce himself, foolish lad. I warned him after he started with the bellowing.” She stopped and appraised Loghain and Maric carefully, both of whom stared at her agape. “Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like either of you has the same problem. Good! That will make this easier.”

Her voice was cackling with easy amusement, which made the situation all the more surreal. Loghain wished the elves had left him with at least his blade. The old woman walked toward the hut without waiting for them and sat herself down in the rocking chair with a belabored sigh.

“Well, come on, then,” she grumped at them, putting down her basket.

Loghain approached grudgingly, Maric a step behind him.

“You killed Dannon?” Maric asked incredulously.

“Did I say that?” she chuckled. “I don’t believe I did, in fact. If you wish to know the truth, the lad killed himself.”

“Magic,” Loghain swore.

The woman cackled with renewed amusement but said nothing more.

“Who are you?” Maric asked.

“I don’t care who she is,” Loghain asserted. “I don’t like being played with.” He stepped threateningly toward her. She responded by narrowing her small eyes, but nothing else. “I demand that you let us go.”

“You demand?” she seemed impressed by the notion.

“Err . . . Loghain,” Maric cautioned.

Loghain held up a hand, warning Maric back. He stepped closer to the witch, looming over her as she remained seated in her chair. “Yes, I demand,” he repeated slowly. “Casting spells does not impress me. You need time to cast, and I can break your neck before you lift a finger.”

She smiled at him, a broad grin full of teeth. “Now, who said that I would be the one to do anything?”

Loghain heard Maric’s sharp intake of breath behind him but turned only in time to see one of the giant trees reaching toward him with lightning speed. Great branches wrapped around him like giant hands, pulling him up into the air. Leaves fluttered all around while flies buzzed angrily through the air. He struggled and shouted, but it was useless. The tree stepped back into line with its brothers, and Loghain became another dangling trophy only a few feet away from Dannon’s bloated corpse. Panicking, he tried to shout to Maric, only to have smaller branches wrap around his mouth and hold his head still.

Maric crouched, eyes wide and heart pounding as he watched Loghain get snatched. It happened so quickly—how could a giant tree have moved so fast? Frightened, he glanced back at the witch, but she only rocked quietly in her chair, regarding him with vague annoyance.

“Are you to be next, then?” she asked.

“I’m . . . hoping not.”

“An excellent choice.”

Sweat trickling down his brow, Maric cleared his throat and carefully lowered himself to one knee. “I beg your pardon on behalf of my companion, good lady.” His voice was quiet, but the old woman appeared to be listening, fascinated. “We have been running for days now, and after the Dalish attacked us . . . we expected more of the same, despite the fact that you have offered no provocation. I apologize.” He bowed his head, trying his best to remember the courtly manners so painstakingly taught to him over the years by his mother. To think he had rolled his eyes at those lessons, assuming that he would never have an actual use for them.

The witch laughed shrilly. “Manners? My, but that is unexpected.” When Maric looked up, she grinned at him. “But the truth is that you don’t know what I intend for you and your friend, young man. I might intend to give you both to the sylvans, just as I did your friend, isn’t that so?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Yes,” she repeated slowly, “it is.” She waved a withered hand toward the tree holding Loghain, causing its branches to unwind. He was dumped to the ground, where he immediately jumped up and turned to face the old woman, enraged. Maric held up a hand warning him to stay back, and Loghain snorted as if to tell Maric he was angry, not stupid.

“So you are he,” the witch said, nodding with approval as she studied Maric. “I knew you would come, and the manner in which you would come, but not the when.” She let out a sharp guffaw and slapped her knees. “Isn’t it marvelous how very capricious magic can be with its information? It’s like asking a cat for directions—consider yourself lucky if it only tells you where to go!” She howled with laughter at her own joke.

Both Maric and Loghain stared at her blankly. Her laughter slowly quieted into a sigh. “Well, what did you think?” she asked. “That the King of Ferelden could pass through the Korcari Wilds and it would go completely without notice?”

Maric licked his lips nervously. “I’m assuming you mean the rightful King of Ferelden.”

“Right you are! If the Orlesian who sits on your throne were to run through this part of the forest all by himself, I would happily scoop him up instead of you! Failing that, I suppose you will have to do. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Err . . . good point.”

The witch reached down into the basket by her feet and drew out a large, shiny apple. It was a dark red, perfectly plump and ripe. She bit into it with gusto. “Now—” She spoke through her loud chewing. “—I have to apologize if the elves seemed overzealous. They were the only way I could cast out my net far enough to catch you as you passed.” She licked the apple juices off her lips. “But one does what one can.”

Maric thought carefully. “The elves . . . didn’t just happen to find us, then?”

“Now there’s a smart lad.”

“Who are you?” Maric asked breathlessly.

“She’s an apostate, a mage in hiding from the Chantry’s hunters,” Loghain insisted. “Why else would she be out in the middle of the Wilds?”

The witch rolled her eyes and chuckled again. “You’re friend isn’t entirely incorrect. There are things hidden in the shadows of your kingdom, young man, which you couldn’t begin to guess.” She looked directly at Loghain, her eyes suddenly sharp. “Yet I was here long before your Chantry came to this part of the world.”

“It isn’t my Chantry,” he snapped.

“As for your question”—she looked back at Maric—“the Dalish surely told you my name? I have many, and theirs is as good as any.”

“Then what do you want with me?”

She bit into her apple with a loud crunch and chewed it thoughtfully as she sat back in her rocking chair. “Why does anyone desire an audience with their sovereign?”

“You . . . want something from me?” He shrugged helplessly. “You probably would have been better off with my mother, if that’s the case. I don’t have much of anything.”

“Fortunes change.” The witch’s gaze shifted to far off in the distance. “One minute you’re in love, so much in love that you can’t imagine anything wrong ever happening. And the next you’re betrayed. Your love has been ripped from you like your own leg, and you swear you’d do anything—anything—to make those responsible pay.” Her eyes focused on Maric, and her voice became soft, caressing. “Sometimes vengeance changes the world. What will yours do, young man?”

He said nothing, staring at her uncertainly.

Loghain stepped forward angrily. “Leave him alone.”

The witch turned to regard him, her eyes delighted. “And what of yours? You’ve rage enough inside you, tempered into a blade of fine steel. Into whose heart will you plunge that one day, I wonder?”

“Maric and I are not friends,” he growled, “but I don’t want him dead.”

Her chuckle was mirthless. “Oh, you know what I speak of.”

Loghain paled, but regained his composure almost immediately. “That . . . doesn’t matter any longer,” he stated evenly.

“Doesn’t it? Have you forgiven them already, then? You no longer remember her cries as they held her down? The laughter of the soldiers as they held you back and made you watch? Your father when he—”

“Stop!” Loghain shouted, his voice filled with as much terror as fury. Maric watched in shock as Loghain launched toward the witch as if to strangle her. He lurched to a halt before he reached her, hands clenched tightly into fists as he struggled against his impulse. The trees around the hut seemed to creak in anticipation, like coiled springs. The witch merely rocked and watched him quietly, unconcerned. “You see too much, old woman,” he muttered.

“In fact,” her tone was dry, “I see just barely enough.”

“Please.” Maric stepped forward. “Tell me what you want.”

She studied him for a moment, and after taking a final bite from her apple and chewing on it in the quiet, she tossed it over her shoulder. It fell with a dull thud in the rotted leaves and moss. An instant later, something long and white slithered out from the shadows and snatched up the core. It was buried under the leaves, almost out of sight, but still Maric got the impression that it wasn’t a snake at all.

“You should thank me, young man,” the witch purred. “Fleeing into the Wilds as you did, what do you suppose would have happened to you? Taken by Chasind wild folk, slain by the Dalish, eaten by any one of the many creatures that lurk within its crevasses. Do you truly think this one outlaw alone could have seen you through it all?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She arched a brow at Loghain. “He has quite the estimation of your capabilities, doesn’t he?” When he said nothing, she turned to gaze intensely at Maric. “Keep him close, and he will betray you. Each time worse than the last.”

Maric was unmoved. “So you brought me here to speak riddles at me, then?”

“No, no.” She waved a hand absently. “I brought you here to save you.”

Maric stared at her in disbelief. He wasn’t quite sure she could have said anything else that would have been less surprising. Well, perhaps a confession that she was actually made of cheese. But this ranked a close second.

“I’ve snatched you up from the brink of the proverbial pit,” she continued, “and I’m going to send you back out into the world. Safe and sound.” The witch reclined in her chair then, looking very much pleased with herself.

“And what do you want in exchange for this . . . help?” Loghain demanded.

“A promise.” She smiled. “Made by the King to me in private, and then never spoken of again to anyone.”

Maric blinked in surprise, but Loghain stepped in front of him. “And if he refuses?” he demanded.

She gestured toward the forest outside. “Then you are free to go.”

Loghain turned to Maric, and his opinion was evident in his expression. Mages were not to be trusted, and this old woman less than most. Perhaps Loghain thought the witch might let them leave even if Maric refused and they could take their chances. Perhaps they could even get their weapons back from the Dalish. The one who had brought them hadn’t seemed completely unreasonable, after all. . . . If they could make some kind of trade, they might even get a blanket or cloaks or . . . who knows what else.

The wind whistled in the trees far overhead. Maric wondered for a moment if they danced, for it almost seemed as if they did. Restless trees dancing to the music of the wind as they stood there in the shadows and silence. He looked at Loghain searchingly, asking for help, but there was no response. They were cold, battered, and exhausted, and in the middle of the Wilds. What choice did they have?

“I accept,” Maric said.