The Stolen Throne

“Ah.” The elf nodded, but seemed disappointed. “Then you are with the others who fled here from beyond the woods?”

“Others?” Loghain spoke more quickly than he thought wise. “There are . . . others who have come before us? Recently?”

The elf’s purple eyes watched Loghain dispassionately for a moment before answering. “There was one, a man that our hunters caught far away from here.”

“Where is he now?”

“I will need to bring you to him,” the elf sighed unhappily. He stood up, turning to some of the others who stood nearby. Polite-sounding orders were given in their language, along with gestures that indicated Loghain and Maric and some place beyond the encampment. The other elves looked at each other, clearly uneasy about whatever they had been asked to do. They approached and began untying Loghain and Maric’s ropes.

“I am sorry,” the elf said, “but if you are indeed from the same place as the other man, we will need to take you as we did him. Please do not struggle.” From his tone, he seemed to think they actually might.

Maric looked around, seeming confused. As his ropes loosened, he brought his hands forward and rubbed his wrists gingerly. “Where are you taking us, exactly?”

“To the asha’belannar. The Woman of Many Years,” the elf explained. “The humans that live in this forest call her the Witch of the Wilds.”

Loghain’s skin went cold. A witch? Sometimes mages escaped from the clutches of the Chantry, refusing to be herded into one of their towers along with everyone else who showed even a hint of magical promise. They were branded apostates, and the Chantry would send their mighty templars to hunt them down and either return them to the tower or kill them. Most, he understood, were killed, and runaway mages lived in mortal fear of being found. One apostate had come to the outlaw camp, a thin man whom Sister Ailis had seen through immediately. Father sent him away, not wanting trouble with the templars, and the mage had reluctantly gone. He could just as easily have turned his spells on them in anger, Loghain thought.

So was this witch an apostate, hiding out in the Korcari Wilds, someone so desperate to keep her secret that she killed anyone who arrived from outside the forest? It was possible, yet something else tickled at the back of his mind. There was a legend, an old tale about this forest that he couldn’t quite summon to his memory. The idea, however, that she might be something else, possibly something worse, was unsettling.

Maric seemed full of questions, but a forceful look from the elf quieted even him. The Dalish were frightened of this “Woman of Many Years,” and that disturbed Loghain more than anything else.

The elves lined up to watch them leave, rows of them staring with baleful curiosity, murmuring among themselves in their strange tongue. Several elves spat at the ground as they walked by, and terrified children were herded away and out of sight. Loghain felt like a condemned man. Perhaps he was.

Several hours passed as they marched through the Wilds, and the elves accompanying them stayed grim and quiet, refusing to answer even the simplest questions. The one in the bright robes had yet to introduce himself, though he glanced back at Maric and Loghain with irritation whenever they fell behind. Loghain would have reminded the elf that neither he nor Maric had been fed or allowed to rest, but it seemed none of the Dalish had any interest beyond getting to where they were going.

Deep in the thick of the forest, where the white mist turned into an obscuring fog and the sun barely reached, there stood a simple weathered hut with a roof of brown moss and old branches. It lay at the end of a short path, and thick, dark ivy crept up the walls on all sides. More significant were the ropes of skulls hanging along the path: rat and wolf and some Loghain couldn’t even identify, all tied together with feathers and sticks and mud. They dangled ominously, a sign staking claim to this land. Maybe there was magic here, too, for Loghain felt a strange sensation running up his arms and into the back of his neck. The air bristled with power, and the way the mist flowed seemed to beckon them in farther.

The young elf in the colorful robes stopped then, and so did the hunters. He pointed toward the hut. “There, that is where you need to go.”

“What’s going to happen to us?” Maric asked.

“I cannot say.”

Loghain paused, unease growing as he noticed what were surely human skulls hanging in the ropes. Looking back at the elf, he nodded respectfully. The elf did the same.

“Dareth shiral. I wish you and your friend well.”

Unfortunately, he didn’t sound as if he expected that to be the case. The elf and his two companions turned and walked away, leaving Loghain and Maric standing in the shadows. The smell of the woods was fresh and clean after the recent rains, the sound of excited birds clear far up in the trees.

“Do we leave?” Maric asked hesitantly.