The Stolen Throne

It was certain, then. These were Dalish elves, wanderers who had remained together in tightly knit clans ever since the destruction of the elven homeland long ago at human hands. Many elves had submitted to human rule and lived in the cities as second-class citizens, but the Dalish had refused. They had fled, and today remained aloof and hostile toward all outsiders. They worshipped strange gods and kept to the most remote lands, passing through forests that parted before them like waves on the sea, and beware the hapless traveler who encountered them unawares.

Travelers like Loghain and Maric. Loghain had no idea how much of the tales were true, as he had never so much as seen a Dalish up close before, but their ambush led credence to the rumors.

The heat from the bonfire was almost blistering this close, so Loghain twisted to try to pull away from it as much as he could. His face felt raw, and a trickle of thickness down his cheek told him his head was still bleeding from the earlier blow. A cloying smell not unlike jasmine lurked in the air along with the aroma of cooked meat. Beyond the smoke, he could see several elves seated on the other side of the fire. They were dressed in simple colorful robes—reds and blues and golds, mostly—and were eating from wooden bowls, their pale eyes flickering occasionally toward him.

Maric stirred and started groaning painfully. Loghain watched him until he finally cracked open an eye, recoiling instantly from the bonfire just as Loghain had. “Maker’s breath!” he croaked, then began coughing hoarsely.

“Careful,” Loghain cautioned.

“I could really do without being hit on the head anymore.”

“Complain to the Dalish. Perhaps they take requests.”

Maric sat up, squinting past the fire. “Is that who they are? I was wondering about all the markings on their faces.”

“You don’t know about the Dalish?”

“Well, you know”—he shrugged—“I had other things I was supposed to learn.”

“Such as?”

“How to be taken prisoner by outlaws, apparently.”

Loghain smirked. “Here I thought you were just a quick study.” The Dalish were listening to them, and several more had come out of the shadows to stand next to their landships and stare. They seemed unfriendly and suspicious, if not outright hostile. What, then, did they have planned? Loghain felt almost on display, an exotic beast that was too frightening to be approached closely.

Maric sniffed, then shivered in disgust. “What’s that smell? Jasmine?”

“Maybe.”

“What do they do? Roll it up and smoke it?” He sniffed again and gagged at the stench until Loghain elbowed him. This wasn’t the time to aggravate their captors by possibly mocking some elven custom. Dalish weren’t fond of humans as it was.

Loghain struggled in his bonds, testing the ropes, until he noticed that even more of the Dalish had gathered to stare. This time it was hunters, dressed much like the ones who had captured them, in the same dark leathers and with the same ironbark blades. He had seen a blade like that before. Potter had arrived at the camp carrying one, in fact, claiming that he had traded for it with a pair of Dalish hunters years before. Stolen, more likely. Eventually Potter had pawned it, and for good coin. The Dalish were the only ones who knew how to mold the ironbark as they did: the blades were practically harder than steel and a fraction of the weight.

“Hello?” Maric suddenly called out to them, looking around. “Will any of you speak to us? Hello?”

“Quiet!” Loghain snapped.

“What? I’m just asking.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

Just then, a new figure emerged from the gathered watchers. This was a male elf, young with long brown hair and distinctly slanted eyes. His robe was covered in more complex designs than the others’, and unlike his companions, he wore a heavy leather cloak gathered around his shoulders. Loghain noticed, too, an ironbark amulet hanging around his neck. It was polished to a shine and carved with intricate runes that seemed to dance just beneath the surface. Magic. The thought made Loghain’s skin crawl.

The young elf approached, and noticing Loghain’s gaze, he smiled. He crouched down directly before Loghain and Maric, a gesture that was almost friendly and casual in its nature. “The amulet was a gift from our Keeper,” he said, his unaccented voice smooth.

“You speak the King’s tongue?” Loghain asked. He distinctly ignored the I told you so look that Maric shot his way.

“Most of us do, though only those who go out to trade with the outsiders get to use it often.” The elf’s manner was gentle, and his eyes seemed filled with compassion, unlike the expressions of the others around them. “Here in the clan, we try to keep our own tongue alive, just as we do our gods.” He tilted his head curiously. “Why are you here?”

“Because you attacked us, remember?” Maric answered, incredulous.

“You are outsiders. You approached our camp.”

“We had no idea you were even here,” Loghain said carefully.