The Stolen Throne

“Emperor Florian, he has given me a blade,” the King interrupted. He swung the silverite sword idly to one side of the throne, each swing like a slow pendulum slicing at some invisible head. “Made by the finest crafters in the Val Royeaux, it is a thing of great grace and beauty. Shall I inform him, then, that you consider your blade to be superior?”

The Arl’s eyes went wide. “No, I . . .”

“Perhaps it is your opinion I should return to him the gift? After all, there is no point in keeping the inferior blade to collect the dust, is there?”

The entire chamber was silent now. The Arl glanced about the room, pleading with his eyes for help from the assembled nobles, but everyone was looking elsewhere. He suddenly dropped to one knee, lowering his head. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It was a presumptuous gift! I apologize!”

Meghren smirked, and looked up as Mother Bronach stepped forward from behind the throne. Severan despised the woman utterly, a feeling that was mutual. “If I may offer a suggestion, Your Majesty?” she asked.

The King waved his assent. “Yes, yes, of course.”

“If the blade is as valuable as the Arl suggests, a gift made of it to the Chantry would do much to prove Amaranthine’s piety in these dark times. There is much that remains to be done, after all, before the holy braziers of Ferelden shine with the glory that befits a great nation.”

“How true,” the King cooed. He arched a brow at the Arl. “So how will you have it, Your Grace? Shall you instead give your blade to the Mother Bronach?”

The Arl’s bow was quick and breathless. “Of course, Your Majesty!”

Mother Bronach snapped her fingers at two palace servants that stood nearby. They rushed forward and gently took the sword from King Meghren, placing it back in the case and running off while the Mother watched. Once they were gone, she bowed low to the King. “The thought is most appreciated, Your Majesty.”

He sighed and turned his attention back to the Arl, who remained bowed. “So, what will you do now, Your Grace? Can this mean you have no birthday gift for the King?”

Shocked, the Arl opened his mouth several times as if to speak, but no sound came forth. The silence in the hall became excruciating, not a single fork or knife touching a single plate. Several Orlesian chevaliers, the elite knights of the Empire easily distinguished by their bright purple tunics and feathered hats, stepped forward with their hands on their sword hilts.

Meghren suddenly laughed, a maniacal sound that cut through the hush in the hall. He continued to laugh until the assembled nobles slowly joined him. They twittered uncertainly at first and then became louder and louder. Meghren clapped his hands as the room roared with amusement. The Arl of Amaranthine remained quiet, sweat pouring down his brow.

“I jest, my friend!” the King declared. “You must forgive me! Such a gift made to the Chantry in my name? What more could I ask?”

The Arl bowed low, his head almost touching the floor. “I am relieved, Your Majesty.”

Still chuckling, Meghren clapped his hands loudly to signal that the merriment should continue. “Come, friends! Eat! Drink! Our celebration, it continues and is the sweeter now that the head of the pretender witch sits on a pole outside the gate! Is she not the pretty one?” He roared with laughter again, the nobles joining in too quickly. “And refresh the Arl’s goblet! Those robes, they are obviously too hot!”

The feast resumed, and Severan took the opportunity to cross the chamber toward the throne. The stench of wine and sweat hung thickly in the air. A number of the men and women quickly averted their gaze as he passed, becoming entirely interested in the pheasant on their plate or whoever was seated next to them. Severan understood. The Chantry had done its best throughout the ages to ensure that mages were vilified and held responsible for every catastrophe to have befallen mankind. To think that once mages had ruled over all of Thedas, and were now barely tolerated servants monitored by their Chantry watchdogs. A sad plight, to be sure.

King Meghren brightened when he saw his advisor approaching. Mother Bronach did exactly the opposite, her scowl twisting the lines of her face into something entirely unattractive. “Can you not even leave your King to enjoy a single celebration in peace, mage?” she murmured icily. “Must you darken his hall with so many guests about?”

“Now, now,” Meghren chuckled. “Do not be so hard on our dear friend the mage. He works very hard for his sovereign, is it not so?”