The Stolen Throne

“Doesn’t it? Have you forgiven them already, then? You no longer remember her cries as they held her down? The laughter of the soldiers as they held you back and made you watch? Your father when he—”

“Stop!” Loghain shouted, his voice filled with as much terror as fury. Maric watched in shock as Loghain launched toward the witch as if to strangle her. He lurched to a halt before he reached her, hands clenched tightly into fists as he struggled against his impulse. The trees around the hut seemed to creak in anticipation, like coiled springs. The witch merely rocked and watched him quietly, unconcerned. “You see too much, old woman,” he muttered.

“In fact,” her tone was dry, “I see just barely enough.”

“Please.” Maric stepped forward. “Tell me what you want.”

She studied him for a moment, and after taking a final bite from her apple and chewing on it in the quiet, she tossed it over her shoulder. It fell with a dull thud in the rotted leaves and moss. An instant later, something long and white slithered out from the shadows and snatched up the core. It was buried under the leaves, almost out of sight, but still Maric got the impression that it wasn’t a snake at all.

“You should thank me, young man,” the witch purred. “Fleeing into the Wilds as you did, what do you suppose would have happened to you? Taken by Chasind wild folk, slain by the Dalish, eaten by any one of the many creatures that lurk within its crevasses. Do you truly think this one outlaw alone could have seen you through it all?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She arched a brow at Loghain. “He has quite the estimation of your capabilities, doesn’t he?” When he said nothing, she turned to gaze intensely at Maric. “Keep him close, and he will betray you. Each time worse than the last.”

Maric was unmoved. “So you brought me here to speak riddles at me, then?”

“No, no.” She waved a hand absently. “I brought you here to save you.”

Maric stared at her in disbelief. He wasn’t quite sure she could have said anything else that would have been less surprising. Well, perhaps a confession that she was actually made of cheese. But this ranked a close second.

“I’ve snatched you up from the brink of the proverbial pit,” she continued, “and I’m going to send you back out into the world. Safe and sound.” The witch reclined in her chair then, looking very much pleased with herself.

“And what do you want in exchange for this . . . help?” Loghain demanded.

“A promise.” She smiled. “Made by the King to me in private, and then never spoken of again to anyone.”

Maric blinked in surprise, but Loghain stepped in front of him. “And if he refuses?” he demanded.

She gestured toward the forest outside. “Then you are free to go.”

Loghain turned to Maric, and his opinion was evident in his expression. Mages were not to be trusted, and this old woman less than most. Perhaps Loghain thought the witch might let them leave even if Maric refused and they could take their chances. Perhaps they could even get their weapons back from the Dalish. The one who had brought them hadn’t seemed completely unreasonable, after all. . . . If they could make some kind of trade, they might even get a blanket or cloaks or . . . who knows what else.

The wind whistled in the trees far overhead. Maric wondered for a moment if they danced, for it almost seemed as if they did. Restless trees dancing to the music of the wind as they stood there in the shadows and silence. He looked at Loghain searchingly, asking for help, but there was no response. They were cold, battered, and exhausted, and in the middle of the Wilds. What choice did they have?

“I accept,” Maric said.

4

They spent the night outside the witch’s hut, next to a fire that had roared into life with a single tap of her foot. It stayed lit all night, even though Loghain couldn’t tell what was being burned inside it. Magic, he assumed, and decided it was best not to think about it too closely. There were a great many things about the hut and the objects around it that he didn’t want to think about too closely—the feeling that the marionette corpses hanging in the trees were watching them, for one. The way the trees seemed to change configuration around them, for another. Indeed, in the morning, the path they’d arrived on led away in a completely different direction.

Loghain also didn’t want to think about what sort of promise the witch had elicited from Maric. He had gone into her hut and had remained there for hours, long enough that Loghain grew concerned. He had been trying to peer in through its one filthy, grit-covered window when Maric walked out the door, alone. The man seemed shaken and quiet and was resistant to even the most casual efforts Loghain made to inquire about what had gone on. So it was to remain a secret, after all.