The Stolen Throne

The main thing that helped Maric during those long months was the usurper’s unpopularity. By ruling through fear, Meghren made no secret of his antipathy toward his own subjects. This meant most of those Maric sought out were at least willing to listen and offer sympathy even if they were skeptical of actually joining the rebel cause. Joining the cause, after all, meant abandoning one’s home. It meant having one’s ancestral lands handed over to an Orlesian lord who would bleed them dry, and many of the nobles were reluctant to subject their people to such treatment.

No, only the truly desperate and those without options joined the rebels. What made Maric optimistic, as well as sad, was that as the months passed, it became apparent that more and more nobles were being pushed to that extreme. Already Maric had heard of banns that had been forced off their estates and took what men they could muster and made for the rebel army. King Meghren might have gained an Orlesian ally in whatever lord he handed their land to, but Maric gained a loyal and determined rebel as a result.

Real trouble came in the spring, once rumor had begun to circulate of a small group of strange travelers with a conspicuous golem moving through the Hinterland roads. When the usurper’s men descended upon them, Maric was forced to flee for his life. Wilhelm insisted they return to the army, but instead Maric veered north and made the journey to Kinloch Hold, the ancient tower that was the home of the Circle of Magi. The spire rose impossibly out of Lake Calenhad, the impressive remnants of the old Imperial Highway still leading out to it even though boats were required to actually reach the tower today.

The mages were ostensibly neutral in any political conflict, and the First Enchanter received Maric nervously at the tower entrance. He was a tiny man, almost wizened in his advanced age, and he informed Maric in a tremulous voice that the Grand Cleric was in attendance at the same time. The implication was clear: the Chantry didn’t yet know about Maric’s arrival and the mages would be more than happy if he simply moved on, nobody the wiser.

Their concern was understandable enough. The Chantry watched the Circle of Magi closely and offered them no trust whatsoever. If there was even the suspicion of involvement by the mages with the rebellion, the Chantry’s templars would be unleashed upon them. Very likely even Wilhelm’s presence was cause for alarm.

Still, Maric had never met Mother Bronach previously. He knew her only by reputation. When else was he ever going to have a chance to meet the woman when she wouldn’t be flanked by an army of templars?

The First Enchanter blanched when Maric explained his intention. Maric almost felt sorry for the man. After a great deal of fuss and many terse messages sent back and forth to the Grand Cleric’s entourage, Maric was finally ushered alone into the vaulted assembly chamber at the heart of the tower.

It was an impressive room, great columns reaching up to a ceiling a hundred feet up while small glass bulbs dangled and glowed with dim magic to form a starlike array overhead. Normally it served as a forum of debate for the senior mages, but today it would serve as neutral ground. The Grand Cleric sat stiffly by herself, wrapped in her glittering red robes, and rhythmically tapped her withered fingers on her chair. As he approached, she eyed him accusingly but did not deign to acknowledge him otherwise.

He was sweating profusely. How very large the chamber was, for just the two of them. He felt dwarfed and somehow insignificant.

“Prince Maric,” she said with forced politeness as he reached her.

He fell to one knee and lowered his head in a show of respect. “Mother Bronach.”

A tense silence ensued, after which Maric rose to his feet again. The priest regarded him with interest, not entirely displeased by his display. “You are fortunate,” she began crisply, “that I am not here with a proper honor guard. I would have taken you prisoner immediately. Surely you understand that.”

“We wouldn’t be talking, if that were the case.”

“Indeed.” She tapped her fingers on the chair again, and Maric got the feeling that she was studying him. Looking for a weakness, perhaps? Trying to see if he matched his no doubt lacking reputation? He wasn’t sure. “Are you an Andrastian, boy? A believer in the Maker and His Chantry?”

He nodded. “My mother taught me the Chant of Light.”

“Then submit to the proper ruler of Ferelden. End this nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” he snapped. “How can the Chantry support putting an Orlesian on Ferelden’s throne?”

Her eyebrows shot up. Mother Bronach was not accustomed to contradiction, he surmised. “It is the Maker’s will,” she said with belabored patience.

“He is a tyrant!”

She paused, pursing her lips as she watched him. “How many innocent lives had your mother wasted in this hopeless struggle? How many will you? Do your people not deserve peace?”