The Stolen Throne

The Arl studied Maric for a moment, frowning. He seemed as if he was about to say something but then thought better of it. He smiled faintly. “Who knows what that mage might have done to Rowan had you not acted? You might have saved her life, Maric. I think she knows this.”

“She would have done the same for me.” Maric shrugged.

“Of course.” The Arl abandoned the effort. He reminded Maric of numerous sundries, some reports of looting in Gwaren, and the need to restore order to the populace as soon as possible. He also mentioned the idea of sending out messengers to other Fereldan nobles to announce Gwaren’s liberation, but by then, the details were swimming in a haze of fatigue. Maric’s injured side was throbbing, and before he knew it, he was drifting in and out of consciousness.

Finally Arl Rendorn chuckled and told Maric he would handle the remainder of the details himself. He told Maric to rest, and then left the tent.

Maric listened for a time to the sound of the men putting up other tents in the manor’s courtyard next to his own. It amused him to eavesdrop on their banter, their earthy jokes and easy laughter. Eventually they realized they were outside the Prince’s tent and started shushing each other in increasingly loud measures before finally finishing their task and leaving to raid the cellar of an abandoned tavern they had spotted down by the docks. Part of Maric wanted to go with them, but chances were he wouldn’t even have successfully crawled out of his bed. It was for the best, he supposed. Chances were he would just have made the men nervous, anyhow.

With silence came sleep. He had no idea how much time passed before he stirred again. The shadows were deep in the large tent, and his wounded side throbbed far less than it once had. A figure was quietly entering through the flap, a flickering lantern in its hand casting the shadows that had stirred him.

Maric blinked his bleary eyes, and for a moment he thought he saw the silhouette of a shapely woman behind the light. “Rowan?” he asked uncertainly.

But as the figure entered, he saw quite clearly that it was not her at all. Katriel, the elven messenger, stood at the entrance, clean and changed into fresh garments. Maric thought the glow of the lantern made her seem almost unearthly amid the shadows, her golden locks falling around her shoulders like a beautiful, ethereal spirit that had come to visit him in the night.

“I . . . I am sorry if I am disturbing you, my lord,” she said hesitantly. Her green eyes fluttered away from Maric, and he realized that aside from his bandages, he was covered only by the thick furs on his bed. “I should leave you be.” She covered the lantern with her hand and made as if to retreat.

“No, wait,” Maric said quietly, sitting up. He could not get up, of course, and pulled the furs to keep himself covered. He blushed, but at the same time was grateful the elven woman hesitated.

She looked back at him, biting her lower lip nervously. He found himself admiring the curve of her simple white dress. “I see someone found something for you to wear?” he asked. “Those men did not hurt you, did they?”

“No, my lord. You came just in time, in shining armor just as in the tales.” She smiled at him, and their gazes touched, and bashfully she looked away. She then noticed the bandages around his midsection as if for the first time. “Oh, no! It’s true! They said you had been injured badly, but I had no idea!” Almost unwillingly she stepped forward and touched his bandage with her delicate hands.

She was full of nothing but concern, but still Maric’s back stiffened at her touch. His blush deepened as she jumped back.

“Oh, I apologize, my lord, I should not have—”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “No need to apologize. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, there’s no way we would have had time to prepare. We are in your debt.” Then he paused, perplexed. “But . . . I have to admit I’m not sure why you’re here. In my tent.”

She stood there awkwardly, staring back at him, and then slowly smiled. He thought her smile looked very warm and genuine. “I . . . I had to see it for myself, my lord. I prayed that the man who so bravely saved my life would not perish, but I had to know for certain. . . .”

“I’m fine, Katriel. Really I am.”

Her eyes twinkled with sudden delight. “You . . . remember my name?”

Maric was taken aback by the statement. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

“I am just an elf, my lord. Your people . . . Most of them do not see us. They look, but they do not see. My mother was maid to a human man her entire life. He never once called her by her name.” She then realized whom she was talking to and looked horrified, curtsying low. “Oh, my . . . I am forgetting myself. I should not—”

He chuckled, holding up a hand to cut her off. “It’s fine. And of course I remember you. How could I not? You’re beautiful.”

She paused, tilting her head slightly as she regarded him. Her elven eyes shone bewitchingly in the firelight. “You . . . think I am beautiful, my lord?”