Maric stood and slashed his blade around in a wide arc at the same time. The longsword cut through the man’s brigandine easily, leaving a deep gash that fountained blood. The man stumbled to his knees, and as Maric leaped past him, he stabbed downward into the side of the man’s neck. The soldier died, gurgling.
The other saw Maric charging, and his eyes went wide in fear. He turned to run and began to shout for help at the same time, but Maric pulled his blade out of the first soldier and thrust it quickly into the chest of the other. The man’s shouts died on his lips. Grimly and quietly, Maric stepped forward and finished running the soldier through.
There were more shouts nearby. The camp was in confusion, but the distractions he had planted would last for only so long. They would all be here soon.
Looking back at the dead mage, Maric paused. The man had paid for his arrogance. He had paid for helping the usurper keep his iron grip on the kingdom, and for whatever plan had brought him to Ferelden in the first place. If Maric owed him anything, it was for sending Katriel to him. For that, Maric had faced him alone. He had made it quick.
But now there would be no mercy.
I’m coming for you next, Meghren.
With that silent promise, Maric turned and stepped into the darkness outside and fled. Loghain and Rowan had fought a battle for him today, but the rest he intended to fight for himself. The stolen throne would be returned, and Ferelden would be free once more, and let the Maker pity any of those who stood in his way.
EPILOGUE
“But did they win?”
Mother Ailis smiled with amusement at young Cailan as he squirmed in excitement in his chair. For a twelve-year-old lad, he had listened rather intently to the tale, she thought. He was always fascinated with such tales, and loved the ones that involved his father the best. And why not? He wasn’t the only boy in Ferelden who idolized King Maric, after all.
She smoothed Cailan’s blond hair absently with a weathered hand and nodded. “Yes, they did win.” She chuckled as the boy clapped his hands in delight. “As you must have guessed. If they hadn’t, would you be here today, young man?”
He grinned. “Probably not.”
“Probably not,” she agreed. “Loghain led the army to a great victory, decimating the Orlesian army so terribly that Emperor Florian refused to send the usurper any more forces. We lost so many of our own. Nalthur and the Legion died bravely, as did half of our army. Even your mother almost died. But it was a great day for Ferelden, and that was how Loghain became known as the Hero of River Dane, a title that he still carries to this day.”
Cailan flipped through the book in his lap, a fine book filled with delicate paintings that had been presented to the young Prince as a gift by the Orlesian ambassador. It had been the first representative sent since the crowning of the new Empress two years ago, and the man had been practically laden with gifts of all kinds. Bribes, Teyrn Loghain had called them.
Naturally, young Cailan loved the pictures of chevaliers and battles in the book, and if they fired his thoughts of Ferelden’s victories rather than the Empire’s greatness, the ambassador certainly didn’t need to know. Cailan was surrounded by books, some open and half-read, others discarded or lovingly read a dozen times. Queen Rowan had worked tirelessly while she was alive to fill the palace with books, and she supposed the lad loved them as much as he had loved her.
Cailan looked up at her in confusion. “But what happened to the usurper? He wasn’t at that battle, was he?”
Mother Ailis chuckled. “No, no, he was not. It was three more years of battles before your father brought him down. King Meghren refused to admit defeat right until the bitter end. At the last, he and the last few of his supporters barricaded themselves within Fort Drakon here in the city.”
“The one inside the mountain?”
“That’s the one. He held out there for six days, until finally your father challenged Meghren to a duel. Teyrn Loghain was furious with your father for doing it, but naturally, the usurper couldn’t help but accept. He was very sure he was going to win.”
Cailin grinned widely again. “But he didn’t!”
“No. That he did not.” She paused, wondering for a moment if she should continue. But the King had said his son should know everything, had he not? Then he must know everything. “Your father dueled Meghren on the roof of Fort Drakon, and when he killed the man, he took off his head and placed it on a pike outside the gates of the palace. That was the last head ever to decorate this palace.”
The boy nodded, accepting this news with equanimity. He returned his attention to the book in his lap, his long blond hair falling once again in front of his eyes. Mother Ailis watched him for a time, reaching out and brushing the hair aside again. There was little other sound in the library other than the rushing fall winds outside the windows.
“What are you thinking now, dear boy?” she asked him finally.
He looked up at her, his large eyes somber. “Did my mother and father not love each other?”
Ah. She took a deep breath. “That’s not it at all, child.” She smiled gently at him. “They became King and Queen of Ferelden, and that was of great importance to them both. There was much work to be done to rebuild this nation once it was freed, and they knew that they needed to stand united in order to do that.”
Ailis saw that the boy didn’t understand, and she sighed deeply and cupped his cheek in her hand. “They had great affection for each other, and in time, that grew into love. When your mother died,” she broached the subject carefully, “it made him so sad that he stayed within his chambers for weeks. You remember, yes?”
Cailan nodded glumly. She remembered the time, as well. Months of wasting illness and not a thing even the finest mage of the Circle could do to help the Queen, and in the end, she had quietly closed her eyes and gone to sleep. For weeks afterwards, King Maric had shut himself off, staring into the fire or sitting at his desk. He said nothing at all and barely responded to anyone. He ate little, less with each passing day, and the entire castle had become alarmed. The nation mourned its beloved Queen, and they feared it might soon be mourning its King, as well.
Ailis had been at a loss for what to do. There had been no one she could turn to in the palace, certainly not Loghain. After the war, Maric had elevated Loghain to the nobility and made him the Teyrn of Gwaren. All of Ferelden had celebrated that day; the very idea that one of their own, a hero born of the common folk, could be raised to noble rank appealed to them greatly. Teyrn Loghain had married a fine woman and fathered a wonderful daughter, and yet despite the supposed legendary friendship between him and King Maric, he never once came to the palace.
Whenever Loghain’s name was mentioned in front of the Queen, she had always become very quiet, and the King would glance sadly in her direction. The first time it had happened, Ailis knew. One could not help but know. And thus Loghain’s name was not often spoken in the palace. The King would go to Gwaren on occasion, but whenever he did, the Queen would find reason to remain behind and Ailis would spend those days in the Queen’s quiet company.
So she had sent a messenger to Gwaren, and Loghain had come. His face stone, he had gone into the King’s chambers and shut the door and there he stayed for hours. And then, without warning, they had emerged. Without a single word to anyone, they had gone to the site where Rowan’s ashes had been placed and they mourned together.
“I remember,” Cailan sighed.
“What your father felt for the elven woman, Katriel, was very different. That does not mean that he did not love your mother, however. Never doubt that he did.”
She remembered when Loghain had found her. She had been living in a small village north of the Wilds then and had heard of a man asking after the outlaws who had been slain years before by the usurper’s men. He had been searching for his father. When Loghain finally spotted her in the hospice, he ran and swept her up in his arms, laughing with a joy that was so unlike anything she had ever seen in him.
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And then she had brought Loghain to the place where she had spread his father’s ashes, along with the ashes of so many he had tried to protect. It had taken her such a long time to put them all to rest on that hill. And there in the rain, she had held him like a child as he wept, and she wept with him. He begged her for forgiveness, and she told him he needed none whatsoever.
Gareth would have been proud of his son. She was sure of it.
Cailan closed the book, admiring the detailed embossment on the leather covers, and then he looked up at her quizzically. “Am I going to be the King someday, Mother Ailis?”
“When your father passes, yes. Let us pray that is not soon. I certainly doubt I will be alive to see it.”
“Will I be as good a king as my father?”
She chuckled at that. “You are a Theirin, my dear boy. You’ve the blood of not only Calenhad the Great in you but also Moira the Rebel Queen and Maric the Savior. There is nothing you cannot do if you put your mind to it.”
The boy rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation. “That’s what Father always says. I don’t think I’ll ever be as good a king as he is.”
So much like his father, indeed. Ailis tousled his hair fondly and rose from her chair. “Come, young man. Walk with your old tutor, and let us find your father in the gardens. You can tell him yourself what a fine listener you were today.”
Cailan leaped from his seat, grinning. “Do you think he’ll tell me another story? I want to hear more about the dragons!”
“I think there is time for more stories later. But not today.”
The young prince had to be satisfied with that, so he excitedly raced down the palace hall and was gone in an instant. Shaking her head in amusement, Mother Ailis picked up her cane and slowly began chasing after him.
David Gaider, Dragon Age
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