The Stolen Throne

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.”