Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne

  Maric stared down at her, his hateful expression dissolving into disbelief and horror. The moment stood suspended and still, Maric exhaling in a burst as he realized what he had done.

  Katriel gasped again, and this time bright blood rushed out of her mouth, spilling down over her chin. She looked at Maric with eyes wide, tears flowing freely, and she slowly collapsed as the strength ran out of her. Maric caught her, still not letting go of his sword.

  He looked over to Loghain. “Help me! We have to help her!”

  Loghain, however, remained where he was. His expression was grim as Maric and Katriel continued their slow descent to the floor, but he made no move to approach them. Maric’s expression of horror only grew as he realized Katriel was already dead, her lifeless eyes still staring into his.

  He began to shake. Convulsively he let go of the longsword and scrambled away from her on the floor. Blood was already beginning to pool beneath her, and she folded forward like a limp doll. As her body covered the blade’s bright runes, the room sank into shadow.

  Maric shook his head. He lifted his hands and saw that they were covered in blood, dark and black in the dim light, and he stared at them as if he could not quite comprehend what he had done.

  The door shook as someone pounded on it. Several voices could be heard outside, and the muffled voice of a soldier asking if all was well could be heard.

  “Everything is fine!” Loghain shouted. Not waiting for a response, he crossed the floor toward where Maric sat. He put a hand on Maric’s shoulder, and Maric looked up at him with wide, bleary eyes. “Stop,” he said. His tone was firm. “She betrayed you, Maric. She betrayed all of us. This is justice.”

  “Justice,” Maric repeated hollowly.

  Loghain nodded grimly. “Justice that a king must dispense, whether it pleases him to or not.” Maric looked away, but Loghain shook his shoulder roughly. “Maric! Think of the days to come. How much justice will you need to hand out, when you sit on that throne? The Orlesians have dug their fingers in deep, and you will need to pry them out!”

  Maric looked dazed. He shook his head slowly. “You and Rowan both told me what she was, and I refused to listen. I should not be King. I am a fool.”

  Loghain slapped Maric, hard.

  The ringing sound of the blow hung in the air, and Maric stared at Loghain in shocked disbelief. Loghain crouched down, his face close to Maric’s and his eyes intensely ablaze. “There was a man,” he whispered in a bitter voice, “a commander among the Orlesians who sacked our farmhold. He told his men to take whatever they liked, and then laughed at our anger. He found it amusing.”

  Maric looked about to speak, but Loghain held up a hand. “He said that we needed to be taught a lesson. They held us there, me and my father, and made us watch as he raped my mother.” He shuddered. “Her screams were . . . they are burned into my mind. My father raged like an animal, and they knocked him out. But I watched it all.”

  Loghain’s voice became hoarse and he swallowed hard. “The commander killed her when he was done. Slit her throat and then told me that the next time we forgot our taxes it would be death for us all. When my father awoke he cried over her body, but it was worse when he saw me standing there. He left and was gone for three days. I didn’t know until he returned that he had followed after the Orlesians and had killed the commander in his sleep.”

  “That was why we had to flee,” Loghain sighed. He closed his eyes for a long moment and Maric simply stared at him silently. “He was a wanted murderer. He thought he had failed her, failed me, but not for one moment did I ever think that what he did to that Orlesian bastard wasn’t justice.” He gestured to Katriel’s slumped corpse. “Tell me, Maric, that her treachery didn’t call out for blood.”

  “You wanted this,” Maric realized, his voice quiet.

  Loghain looked him in the eyes, unrepentant. “I wanted you to see the truth. You told me you wanted to win this war. This is how it must be. The alternative is to be done in by treachery just as your mother was.”

  Maric looked at him reproachfully but said nothing. Absently he wiped his hands on the floor, and uneasily got to his feet. Loghain stood and watched him, but Maric only turned and stared helplessly at Katriel’s body. It remained slumped where it was, a great red stain on her back where the sword pierced her, and a pool of blackness around her.

  He looked sickened. “I . . . I need to be alone.”

  Maric stumbled to the door leading to his bedchamber and quietly went inside, shutting the door behind him. Loghain watched him go. Outside, lightning flashed again and lit up the darkness.

  Rowan stood at her window, restlessly watching the lightning.

  The patter of rain against the stone eased her nerves, but it couldn’t make her want to sleep. Her muscles ached from the days of marching and fighting, and while her wounds were healing nicely, they itched under their bandages and threatened to drive her mad. She assumed that Wilhelm would want to see to her injuries personally at some point, but she almost wished he wouldn’t. Some scars are deserved.

  When the knock came at her door, she didn’t respond at first. The chill wind blew in through the open window and tugged at her nightgown, and the lightning flashed again. She felt the rumble of thunder that followed in her chest, and for just a moment it filled up the emptiness. It felt good. It felt right.

  The door opened, hesitantly at first, and then he walked in. She didn’t need to ask who it was. Taking a deep breath, she turned and watched Loghain as he closed the door behind him. His grim expression said a lot.

  “You told him,” she said.

  He nodded. “I did.”

  “And? What did he say? What did she say?”

  Loghain seemed uncertain, pausing for a moment to choose his words carefully. She didn’t particularly care for that idea and arched a severe brow at him, prompting him to hold up a hand. “Katriel is dead,” was all he said.

  “What!” Rowan’s eyes widened in shock. “She didn’t return? Did the usurper—?”

  “Maric killed her.”

  Rowan stopped short, stunned. She stared at Loghain and he stared back at her, his icy blue eyes unswerving. Certain things began to fall into place, and her heart went cold. “You told Maric everything, didn’t you?” When he didn’t respond, she marched up toward him angrily. “You told him that Severan has put out a price on her head now, that she must have—”

  “It doesn’t change anything,” he stated firmly.

  She shook her head in disbelief. Loghain was all ice and sharp corners now, staring at her like a man whom she didn’t even know. She tried to imagine what must have happened, what Maric must have done. She couldn’t picture it. “Loghain,” she could barely get the words out, “what if she really loved him? All this time we thought she was just using him, we thought she could hurt him—what if we were wrong?”

  “We weren’t wrong.” Loghain’s look was intense, and he set his jaw stubbornly. “She did hurt him. We thought she was a spy and we were right. We thought that she had been responsible for West Hill and we were right.”

  Rowan took a step back from him, horrified. “She saved his life! She saved our lives! Maric loved her! How could you do this to him?” Then she realized the part she had played in this. It was her scouts who had spotted Katriel sneaking away. She had conspired with Loghain to have her followed, had kept the information from Maric to prove that her suspicions were correct, and they had been. But Katriel had surprised her, too. Even so, she had let Loghain go to confront Maric alone. Despite everything that had happened, the thought that Maric might forgive her, that Maric might choose her . . .

  “How could I do this to him?” she breathed, sickened.

  Loghain strode toward her and grabbed her by the shoulders, his fingers digging in. “It is done,” he snapped. He stared down at her, his face steel, and for a moment she was reminded of the moment at West Hill. She had rushed to him to make the decision she could not, and he had made it. They had abandoned
their men and run to do what they felt they had to.

  “Rowan,” he began, his voice filled with anguish, but then he banished it completely. “It is done, and it can go one of two ways now,” he stated. “Either Maric wallows in self-pity and is no use to anybody or he realizes that being a king and being a man are not always the same thing.”

  “And why do you come to me, then? It’s done, as you said.”

  “I cannot reach him now,” he said evenly.

  It took a moment for her to realize what he was suggesting. “But I can,” she finished for him. She stepped away from Loghain, her eyes narrowing at him, and he let her go.

  “You are still his Queen.” His voice could not hide the ache when he said the words, try though he might to hide it.

  Tears came unbidden to her eyes. Grimacing, she folded her arms and stared challengingly at Loghain. “And if I do not wish to be his Queen?”

  “Then be Ferelden’s Queen.

  She hated those eyes that bored into her relentlessly. She hated his arrogance, that he assumed he knew what it meant to be a king and what it meant to be a man, as if he knew anything of either. She hated his strength, the strength in those hands that had held her in utter darkness beneath the earth.

  And most of all she hated the fact that he was right.

  Rowan rushed at Loghain to pound her fist angrily into his chest, but he grabbed her wrist. She tried to punch him with her other hand and he grabbed that, too, and then she struggled with him and burst into furious tears. He just held her wrists, stoic and unmoving.

  She never cried. She hated crying. She had cried once when her mother had died. She had cried a second time when her two younger brothers had been shipped off to the Free Marches to be kept safe from the war. Both times her father had stared at her, so mortified by her tears and so clearly incapable of assuaging her grief, she had sworn that she would never cry again. She would be strong for her father, instead.

  She had also cried once in the shadows of the Deep Roads, she remembered. And it had been Loghain who had comforted her. Rowan stopped struggling and she rested her forehead on Loghain’s chest, her body racked with sobs. Then she looked up at him and saw that he was crying, too. They drew together, about to kiss . . .

  . . . and she pulled away from him. He regretfully let her hands go, his gaze searching for hers, but she remained resolved. It was done. Rowan turned away from Loghain and felt the chill wind blowing in through the window keenly. She waited for the thunder, but it didn’t come. Somehow it seemed as if the storm should wash everything away. Wash it all away and start over.

  “He’s waiting for you,” Loghain said behind her.

  Rowan nodded. “Yes.”

  She found Maric in his bedchambers, seated on the edge of his bed. Neither the room nor the bed was truly his, all appropriated from its former Orlesian owner, and thus Maric had never been quite comfortable occupying it. He seemed even less comfortable now, as if shrinking in on himself could somehow remove him further from his surroundings.

  The window was shuttered and closed up tight, leaving the air still. A lone lantern sat by the bed and threatened to extinguish as it used up the very last of its oil. Maric slouched and stared off into space, barely acknowledging Rowan when she sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. The silence in the room was deafening.

  It took a while for Maric to realize that she was there. When he turned to her, his eyes were sunken with grief. “It’s just as the witch said it would be,” he blurted out. “I thought she was just making no sense, but . . .”

  “What witch?” Rowan asked, confused.

  He barely heard her, looking off into the shadows again. “You will hurt the ones you love the most,” he quoted, “and become what you hate in order to save what you love.”

  Rowan reached up with a hand and brushed his cheek, and he looked back at her again without really seeing her. “Those are just words, Maric,” she said gently.

  “There’s more. Much more.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Katriel loved you. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  He seemed pained. He closed his eyes, reaching up to cover her hand on his cheek with his own, and it appeared to bring him comfort. There was a time she would have dreamed of this moment. Once she had thought of nothing but running her hands through his beautiful blond hair. Once it had meant everything to her to prove to him that she was what he wanted.

  “I don’t know that she loved me at all,” he muttered. “I don’t know anything.”

  “I think she did.” She pulled her hand away from his. “We think she went to Denerim to cut ties with Severan, Maric. Whatever it was she was supposed to do, I think she changed her mind.”

  He chewed on that idea. “It doesn’t change anything,” he finally said.

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  Maric looked deep into her eyes. He was so full of pain, she could barely stand it. “She tried to tell me,” he confessed, “and I didn’t listen. I told her I didn’t care what she’d done, but I was a fool. I’ve no business being on that throne.”

  “Oh, Maric,” she sighed. “You are a good man. A trusting man.”

  “And look where it’s gotten me.”

  “Look, indeed.” She summoned a wan smile. “Your people adore you. The men in this army would lay down their lives for you. My father loved you. Loghain—” She stopped short and struggled to continue. “—all of them believe in you, Maric. For good reason.”

  “Do you still believe in me?”

  “I never stopped,” she said with absolute sincerity. “Never. You’ve come so far. Your mother would be so proud. But you can’t always be a good man, Maric. Your people need more than that.”

  Maric seemed hurt by her words, though he said nothing. He hung his head low, weary and exhausted. “I don’t know if I can give it to them,” he breathed. Then he began to cry, his face racked by grief. “I killed Katriel. I put a sword through her. What kind of man does that?”

  She wrapped her arms around him, patting his hair and whispering that everything would be fine. Maric cried into her chest, the desperate sobs of a broken man. It was a sound that alarmed her and filled her with incredible sorrow.

  And then the lantern gave up at long last, and the room was blanketed in darkness. She continued to hold him, and after a time he quieted and they held each other in the shadows. Rowan lent him her strength, what little of it she had to give. He needed it. Perhaps this was what queens did. Perhaps they held their kings in the darkness deep within their castles and allowed them that moment of weakness they could never show to anyone else. Perhaps they gave strength to their kings because everyone else only took it from them.

  Loghain was right. Damn him.

  In the hushed darkness, Rowan leaned down and kissed Maric on the lips. He embraced her readily, eager for her forgiveness . . . and she gave it. He seemed so uncertain and hesitant, and that made it easier. His warmth and gentleness made her cry, but she couldn’t let him see that. Tonight, for him, she was strong. Tonight she embraced the role that she had been born for, and while it was like nothing she had ever thought it would be, it was instead the way it had to be.

  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 fe
el 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.