The Stolen Throne

A lone horseman appeared, hood pulled up and his steed stepping carefully in the slippery mud. By the quality of his cloak Loghain would have guessed him a messenger for one of the city guilds, only he didn’t appear to be in any kind of hurry.

Loghain approached from well down the road, in full view. It was a friendly gesture, though the rider was wary enough to keep a hand on his sword hilt as he paused and waited. Lightning flared in the gray sky and the rain intensified, but Loghain’s leathers were already as drenched as they could possibly get. When he got within twenty feet, the rider backed his horse away and half drew his blade. The message was clear: You’ve come close enough.

“Greetings!” Loghain called out. When the rider did not respond immediately, he reached over his back and removed his bow, slowly putting it down on the ground in front of him.

This seemed to reassure the rider somewhat, though the horse whinnied nervously and pranced about on the spot. “What do you want?” he finally called back.

“I’m looking for friends!” Loghain shouted. “Men dressed like me. One of them might have come down this way, I’m hoping.”

“I haven’t seen anyone,” the rider responded. “But Lothering is filled with so many people they’re sleeping in the streets. It’s insanity. Your friends are probably there, if anywhere.”

Loghain sheltered his eyes from the rain with a hand, trying to make out the rider’s face under the hood. He couldn’t. “Lothering is filled with people?”

“You haven’t heard?” The rider seemed genuinely surprised. “With all the soldiers passing through, I would have thought half the Kingdom had heard already.”

“No, nothing.”

“The Rebel Queen is dead.” The rider sighed sadly, adjusting his hood as the rain splattered down. “Bastards finally caught her in the forest last night, they say. I tried to see the body before I left, but there were too many mourners.” The rider shrugged. “They say the young Prince might be dead, too. If you’ll pardon my saying so, let’s hope that isn’t true.”

Loghain’s blood went cold. “The Prince,” he repeated numbly.

“With any luck, he’s still out there somewhere. Considering all the soldiers I saw, he’d better be running for his life.” As the rain continued to pour, the rider nodded politely and gave Loghain a wide berth as he passed by.

Loghain remained where he was, his mind racing. Lightning flashed high overhead.

Maric picked listlessly at the soup they’d brought him, idly curious about the exact kind of animal that had provided the gamey meat swimming in the broth. Finally, Sister Ailis took the bowl away from him and returned to her sewing. She spent her time patching blankets and clothing, humming softly to herself all the while. He caught pieces of the Chant of Light, if he wasn’t mistaken, though the exact verses eluded him. Truthfully, he had other things on his mind.

Such as getting out of the hut. He could hear activity going on outside, like they were packing the entire camp up. The sister denied it. Maric had asked three times if the men Gareth was waiting for had returned before the burly guard outside the door promised he would tell the sister immediately should the situation change, and it had not. Maric sat on the bed, fidgeting. He toyed again with the idea of confessing everything, but where would that get him? What would Gareth do, suddenly saddled with a fugitive who was far more dangerous than he had imagined? Better to get out, get away from these poor people, and find his own way back to the rebel army. Yet the closed door and a single guard proved to be an incredibly effective deterrent to this plan.

An excellent start to your reign, King Maric, he chided himself. This is the kind of first-class problem-solving that will serve you well when you take charge of the rebellion.

“You’re very hard on yourself,” Sister Ailis commented, glancing up from her sewing. She was wearing a set of delicate dwarven spectacles that reminded Maric of his grandfather King Brandel . . . “Brandel the Defeated,” as everyone else remembered him. Maric himself remembered the man as being both very sad and very proud. His grandfather possessed a pair of golden spectacles that he would immediately hide whenever he was caught wearing them, lest someone think him going blind. As a child, Maric used to think it was a fun game to steal them and then race around the castle halls wearing them. At least it was fun until he was finally caught, usually by his mother. Mind you, even she had to stifle her giggles at the sight of Maric in those things, and reprimanded him mostly for his grandfather’s benefit. Afterwards in private she would laugh and kiss his nose, pleading with him halfheartedly not to do it again. Pleas he ignored, of course.