The Stolen Throne

“Prince Maric is alive,” Severan said. “He was in Gwaren.” He immediately regretted it, as Meghren’s eyes went wide with rage. Even so, he said nothing immediately. He merely stared at Severan, and the mage began to consider if he should retreat.

“Alive? How?” Mother Bronach asked. She looked truly shocked, Severan noted. So she had not heard that part, at least. He supposed he should take some small satisfaction from that fact. It would provide him a modicum of comfort should he be inadvertently skewered.

“Yes,” Meghren snarled. “How is he alive? Again? And how could he be in Gwaren?” He pulled out his sword from the scabbard, his look menacing.

Severan frowned at him severely. “I will remind His Majesty that I said we had not found the prince’s body at West Hill!” He slammed his fist down on a nearby wooden post, startling one of the horses. “How many times did I protest that we needed to be certain before you made your announcements? From all my reports, Prince Maric appeared in Gwaren just prior to the attack. The entire town thinks he rose from the dead! Raised up by the Maker!”

It was a gamble. Severan maintained his angry stare, the sweat continuing to pour down his brow, and after a moment Meghren sighed and pouted. “But there were so many burned corpses! You said any of them could be the boy!”

“I said they might be. I told you to give me time for our search parties to make sure! If you had at least waited until we had recaptured Gwaren . . .”

Meghren turned toward Mother Bronach, throwing up his hands. “Bah! This is your doing, woman!”

“My doing?” She stood up from her stool, gathering her red robes around her. “Prince Maric or no, how is it that we were not able to defeat a small group of rebels? The boy may have survived the battle, but he cannot work miracles!”

“We did defeat them,” Severan said. “It was a close thing. They managed to get the help of dwarves from somewhere. Not a large number, but they were difficult to take down.” His eyes glanced toward Meghren nervously. “They were able to cleave through almost half the chevaliers. The casualty numbers have been . . . extraordinary.”

“Half!” Meghren exploded. Then he closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm. “But you said they were defeated? The rebels, dwarves, and all?”

Severan nodded. “Our numbers were too great. They retreated into the Brecilian Passage, where we would have followed and slaughtered them all . . .”

“Would have?”

“That is when the riot began. Before the commander could regroup your forces and begin the chase, the people of Gwaren rose up. Swarmed the lines, I’m told, completely unexpectedly. Commander Yaris was killed, among others.”

Mother Bronach took a step forward, alarmed. “That is no riot, surely.”

“Rebellion,” Meghren breathed. His eyes were wide with shock.

Severan held up the parchment, nodding. “The fighting in Gwaren has been bloody, and the town is aflame again. We’re not sure what is happening now, but there is the possibility that the rebel force may have doubled back and attacked Gwaren once more.”

“Can we not send more men?”

“It gets worse,” Severan began uneasily. “Word has gotten out.”

Meghren snorted. “So?”

“Perhaps you don’t understand, Your Majesty.” Severan strode toward Meghren and looked him straight in the eyes. “Word has gotten out that Maric lives. That he has returned from the dead, presumably to save these poor Fereldan fools from your rule. There was a riot in Redcliffe this morning, and the talk is spreading.”

Meghren backed away. He spluttered indignantly, but at the same time he looked precariously uncertain. “What? Riots? How dare they!” He waved a finger in Severan’s direction. “Send the call out! I want levies supplied! Every last member of the Bannorn will send troops this time!”

“They won’t send men if they’re frightened that their own lands are going to rebel underneath them. The Arl of Redcliffe has sent word asking you for assistance, asking you to send men to help him right away. He won’t be the first.”

“I am not here to help them!” Meghren stormed about the stable, outraged. “I want executions! Anyone who might even be suspected to be a sympathizer for those rebels, I want them hanged! These Fereldan dogs must learn who is their master!”

“Your Majesty . . . ,” Severan cautioned.

“Do it!” Meghren roared. The horses in the stables reared up on their hind legs, whinnying in response. “They will see what it means to trifle with the might of Orlais! Them and the dog prince both!”

Both Severan and Mother Bronach stared at him, somewhere between shock and horror. Meghren looked from one to the other, as if waiting for one of them to speak. As if insisting on it, in fact. Neither the mage nor the priest knew quite what to say, however. The prospect of preemptive executions being committed throughout Ferelden might not have the effect he imagined. Even a beaten and cowed dog might still bite, if cornered.