The Stolen Throne

“The usurper had her body sent to Denerim. He’s declared a holiday, had her paraded—” She stopped herself short, her voice raw. “You don’t want to know this.”

“No. Probably not.” He’d heard about the usurper’s fondness for putting his enemies on display, and no doubt the Rebel Queen was a great prize for him. His mind shied away from the unbidden images that conjured. None of them were pleasant.

Loghain leaned forward, clearing his throat with exaggerated politeness. “Not to interrupt, Your Ladyship—”

“Rowan will do,” she interrupted.

Loghain glanced questioningly at Maric, who spread his hands as if helpless. “Not to interrupt, Rowan,” he repeated, “but perhaps we should get under way. You might not be the only one who saw our fire.”

She stepped back from Maric, all business once again. Studying the horizon with concern, she nodded. “Good point.” She turned back to the horsemen watching politely from nearby. “Leave two of the horses here. The rest of you can double up. I want you to ride back and inform my father that I’ve found the Prince.”

The men looked uncertain, perhaps reluctant to leave her unguarded. “Go,” she repeated more forcefully. “We will be right behind you.” And they went, exchanging their places on the horses without comment—the one soldier whom Loghain had dragged from his steed limping and needing assistance—before riding off in a cloud.

“Father’s had some odd reports,” Rowan commented to Maric as they left. “There’s been a lot of men sighted in the Hinterlands. The usurper’s men, looking for you—or so we thought.” She sighed heavily. “We may have stayed here too long.”

“And you sent away your guards?”

“As distractions,” Loghain said with a hint of approval.

Rowan remounted her horse. “If we did run into the enemy, a few more men wouldn’t make much difference.” She glanced at Maric and smiled mischievously. “Besides, as I recall, you’re a fine rider. We’ll just outrun them if need be.”

Maric ignored her and mounted his own horse. It was a shaky business, requiring several bounces as the startled animal proceeded to pace forward and drag him along before he was actually on top. Once perched precariously on the saddle, he did his best to try to stay there. His discomfort was pronounced enough to make the horse nicker nervously. “I fall off horses,” he explained to Loghain with a sickly grin. “It’s this thing I do.”

“Let’s not run into anyone, then.” Loghain seemed to have no trouble riding, and as if to prove it, he trotted around Maric and brought his horse to stand beside Rowan’s. Maric watched him with a grimace and thought, Well, of course he’s a good rider, too. Why wouldn’t he be?

Rowan seemed to be thinking the same thing, glancing curiously at him. “You have experience riding? That’s unusual for a—” She paused, searching for a tactful word.

“A commoner?” he finished for her. He snorted derisively. “That’s an interesting worldview coming from someone who lives in the wilderness and probably has to beg her meals from cowards.”

Rowan’s jaw set and her eyes flashed with anger. Maric decided against warning Loghain about her temper; he was a grown man, after all. The sort who could ride and everything. “I meant,” she said curtly, “that it’s not everyone who has access to horses.”

“My father raised them on our farmhold. He taught me.”

“Did he teach you your manners, too?”

“No, that was my mother,” he replied coldly. “Or at least she tried to before she was raped and killed by the Orlesians.”

Rowan’s eyes were wide as Loghain turned and rode away.

Maric steered his horse over toward hers with difficulty. “So,” he announced, “that was a bit awkward.”

She stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two extra heads.

“Just to change the subject—” He cleared his throat. “—are we planning on following those other men you sent off? Because if we are, they’re getting out of sight really quickly. Really quickly. In fact . . . Well, there they go.”

“No,” Rowan said firmly. “We’re taking a slightly different route.”

“Shouldn’t we get under way, then?”

“Yes.” She put her helmet back on and rode ahead without another word, the green plume trailing behind her.

Watching her, Maric wondered how it might have been for Rowan in a normal world. Fereldans were a rugged and practical people, and women who could hold their own in combat were respected as much as the men, but it was different among the nobility. Had it not been for the rebellion, the Arl would have had his daughter wearing fine dresses and learning the latest dances from the Orlesian court rather than helping to lead his army.

Rowan’s family had made many sacrifices for the rebellion. Arl Rendorn had given up his beloved Redcliffe to the usurper. His wife, the Arlessa, had died from fever on the road, and he had sent his two younger sons, Eamon and Teagan, away to live with cousins in the far north. Who knew if the Arl’s sons would even recognize him if they returned now?