The Stolen Throne

Honor, of course, might not be quite the word for it. The native Fereldans were terrified the King would strip them of their land as he had done to so many of their fellows in punishment for some crime, real or imagined. The Orlesians, those members of the aristocracy who had chosen to seek out their fortunes away from the Empire and had been given those stripped lands, feared much the same. The King, after all, was a bored and capricious member of an ancient aristocracy, who had been sent to assume the Fereldan throne only after angering the Emperor—his first cousin and, so the scandalous rumor claimed, onetime lover—and now took out his own displeasure on subjects who had little choice but to bow to his whims.

Severan had tactfully informed the King that the rebels might have been curbed by now if he just took a lighter hand with the locals. Despite his hatred of the rebels and the embarrassment they represented, the King refused to heed the advice. He would do as he wished, and no one could tell him otherwise.

Just as he did with his court, Severan thought, recalling how the King had tried to bring the Orlesian tradition of wearing masks to the Fereldens. He had declared that all members of the nobility would be required to wear as fancy and as beautifully adorned a mask as they could acquire, and that at the end of each court, the wearer of the mask that pleased him the least would be punished. Needless to say, the frantic run on masks and the demand for those who could make them almost resulted in riots in the streets. Finally, when a would-be assassin managed to slip into the palace by wearing such a mask, the commander of the royal guard begged the King to lift the edict for the sake of security. The collective sigh of relief when the King finally did so was almost palpable.

King Meghren was a tyrant, and one did not honor tyrants; one appeased them. So the nobility put on a great show of adoration for their beloved monarch, their smiles a thin veneer covering their terror. The King, meanwhile, knew the nobles were acting. The nobility understood this, but also knew that the charade was required of them, nevertheless.

Such was the sad state of things in Orlesian-occupied Ferelden.

Severan could not have cared less. He was from neither Ferelden nor Orlais, but from across the Waking Sea and far to the north, as his swarthy skin implied. He would have watched his own land be subjugated with no more than a raise of his eyebrow, for mages had no true home at all. His interests were his own, and the King accepted this. Severan’s ambition was as reliable as the rising sun, and that was why he remained King Meghren’s closest advisor.

“Amaranthine brings to its beloved King a sword of finest silverite, fashioned in the dwarven halls of Orzammar! May it serve him well in the years to come, and offer proof to all of Thedas that his might cannot be denied!”

As Severan entered the throne room, he saw the young Arl was standing amid the rows and rows of nobles seated at their supper tables, giving an overdone speech as several elven servants scampered up to the throne to present a long ornate case to the King. King Meghren, meanwhile, was the very picture of boredom. He was slumped low in the throne, one leg thrown over an arm and propping up his head with a hand. The King was a handsome and virile young man, all dark curls and olive skin to go with that crooked sneer—yet today he looked very much like someone who had overindulged for too many days nonstop. Which was exactly the case.

Meghren sighed heavily and stirred himself enough to sit up as this new gift was presented. The area immediately around the throne was already littered with other gifts, which had been ignored or discarded with little more than a shrug. Mother Bronach stood immediately behind the throne, scrutinizing the proceedings intensely. She was a severe woman, her face lined with the cares of her office as the Grand Cleric of the Holy Chantry in Ferelden, and despite her small frame she loomed as large in the chamber with her resplendent red vestments as the King did. Meghren rubbed his nose in his rumpled velvet doublet and took the sword case from the prostrating elves, who immediately withdrew.

Lifting the brilliant blade out of the case, Meghren gave it a few practice swings and regarded it with interest. “Of the dwarven make, you say?”

The Arl bowed low, sweating despite the presumed pleasure that the King had deigned to take notice of his offering. “Yes, Your Majesty. It was a gift from the King of the dwarves, made to the first of my line long ago.”

“Ah, so then it was not made for me.” A hush came over the chamber, general dinner conversation halting as the nobility picked up on Meghren’s icy tone.

The Arl blanched. “It . . . it is of great value!” he stammered. “Never has a finer blade been made! I thought . . . surely you can see—”