The Stolen Throne

Severan lowered his head and bowed, the silk of his yellow robes shimmering. With his hair thinning and his features made entirely of sharp angles, he was nowhere near as handsome as the King. The finest compliment Severan had ever received was from a young prostitute who had said he looked clever, that his tiny eyes could seize her, chew her up, and spit her out all with a single gaze. He had liked that so much, he’d waited until morning to have her dragged off to prison. “I have news, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Could you not have sent a messenger?” Mother Bronach asked, the chill remaining in her voice.

“When I have news for you, dear woman, I will always send a messenger.”

Meghren slowly sat up and yawned, rubbing his bloodshot eyes and blinking rapidly. He stood, straightening his rumpled doublet and waving to his servants not to follow. “Then let us be quick.” He walked off, Mother Bronach and Severan following quickly and leaving the noise of the throne room behind.

The sitting room was used as a retreat for more private audiences. Meghren had had the sturdy and practical Fereldan furniture replaced by more ornate Orlesian furnishings, all mahogany and bright satins that were works of art on their own. Vivid red paper covered the walls, a practice Severan knew was becoming popular in the Empire.

Meghren threw himself down upon a padded settee, yawning again and rubbing his forehead. “Is this what passes for an evening of entertainment in this backwater? Did you hear the musicians they brought in?”

Severan shook his head. “Before or after you had them sent running from the chamber?”

“Bah! What I would not give for a real orchestra! Or a masquerade! The country lords I am sent from Orlais would not know a proper basse danse if it kicked them in the arse!” He snorted with derision and sat up, glaring at Severan. “Do you know what one of those local fools from the Bannorn gave me? Dogs! A pair of filthy dogs!”

“Hounds are valued in Ferelden,” Mother Bronach interjected, her voice laden with disapproval. “Those were warhounds, a mating pair. From such a minor bann, it was a gift that showed great respect, Your Majesty.”

“Great fear, more like,” he sniffed, barely mollified. “I am sure it was some kind of insult, giving me beasts still half covered in dung. All of those backward fools in the Bannorn are alike!”

“It is indeed sad that you must be inflicted with so much dung on your birthday, Your Majesty,” Severan said calmly.

Meghren threw his hands up and sighed. “Tell me, good mage, the news you carry is a response from our Emperor.”

Severan hesitated. “I . . . do have a response, yes, but that is not—”

“Nothing is more urgent than a letter from Florian.”

Severan straightened his robes, steeling himself. “His Imperial Majesty sends his regrets. He is certain that your duties will continue to hold you in Ferelden, and so there is no place within the Imperial court for you now.”

Meghren sank into the cushions. “Ah. Still no forgiveness, then.”

Severan almost sighed in relief. Some days a letter from the Emperor could result in a tantrum or far worse. But not today, evidently. “You were expecting a different response than the last fourteen attempts?” he asked reprovingly.

“I am the eternal optimist, good mage.”

“The definition of insanity, Your Majesty, is to perform the same action repeatedly and expect different results.”

Meghren tittered with amusement. “You are calling me insane?”

“Insanely persistent.”

Mother Bronach’s lips thinned. “You are still a king, Your Majesty.”

“Better to have been made a lowly baron in the provinces,” the King complained. “Then I could still keep a house in the Val Royeaux, still visit the Grand Cathedral.” He sighed heavily. “Ah, well. I may be the King of a backwater, but at least it is my backwater, yes?”

“Shall I begin another response? Fifteenth time’s the charm?” Severan asked.

“Perhaps later. We shall see if we can wear him down, yes?” He then considered for a moment, and his look became serious. “Now, then. This news you carry, it is from the Hinterlands?”

“Indeed.”

“Well? Out with it.”

Severan took a deep breath. “The information I received was accurate. The rebel army was exactly where it was supposed to be. The attack, however, did not have the result I wished. Many were killed, but the rebels slipped the noose.”

Meghren’s brows shot up. “Oh?”

“There is more. Prince Maric lives, and is with the rebels. He led a distraction and held out with a handful of men atop a cliff before escaping with the rest of his army.” Severan held out a large scrap of cloth. It was tattered and soiled, but the deep purple color could still be seen. “The rebels were inspired, rather than dispirited.”

Nettled, the King frowned at Severan as his fingers drummed on the arm of the settee. “Inspired? You told me he would not be there. The boy was supposed to be killed along with the mother.”