The Stolen Throne

Rowan held up a hand to stop him, taking a painful breath before speaking. “Don’t do this,” she protested weakly.

Loghain nodded somberly, and for a long moment he said nothing. The wind whistled through the stones of the manor walls, and the moon shone high overhead. It was easy to pretend there was no army camped around them, no sleeping soldiers and men in their tents a stone’s throw away. They were alone in the darkness, a gaping chasm between them.

“I am not a fool,” he said quietly. “I see how you look at him.”

“You do?” Her tone was bitter.

“I know you are promised to him. I know you are to become his Queen.” He stepped toward her, taking her cold hands in his. She looked away from him, grimacing, and it only made him look at her sadly. “I have known these things since I first met you. For three years, I have tried to accept that this is how it must be, and yet . . . still I can’t stop thinking of you.”

“Stop!”

she hissed, pulling her hands away. Loghain stared at her, his eyes tortured, but she couldn’t care, couldn’t. Angry tears streamed down her cheeks as she backed away from him. “For the love of the Maker, don’t do this,” she begged.

Loghain’s stricken look twisted up her insides all the more. She clamped down on her anguish and turned away. “Just leave me alone. Whatever you thought . . . Whatever you wanted from me—” She wiped at her eyes, and found herself wishing again that she was in her armor instead of that flimsy, useless dress. “—I cannot . . . I will not be that woman.” Her tone was brusque and final.

Rowan fled, her back stiff and the train of her red dress trailing behind her. She didn’t look back.

9

Dawn had come and gone in Gwaren, and the town was already bustling with activity. Those residents who had spent the previous two days in hiding were now slowly coming out into the streets, eyes blinking in disbelief at the devastation surrounding them. The morose skies blew in salty spray from the ocean, disguising the stench of decaying corpses that was already beginning to permeate the air. The town was almost too still, a gloom cast on the wreckage like a shroud that was only just now being disturbed.

Arl Rendorn was quick to realize that order was needed. After waking a number of officers who were still half drunk from the previous night’s exertions, he got much of the rebel army up and moving. Men were sent to patrol the streets and spread the message: The people of Gwaren would be safe under Prince Maric. The grain stores were opened and matters of shelter seen to for those who had spent the night huddling in the burned-out husks of their homes. Most important of all, the soldiers started collecting the dead.

It was not long before plumes of black sickly smoke rose from the pyres, quickly snatched up by the breeze and scattered. The stench of burning flesh was everywhere, and a dark grease settled over every surface. Those who ventured outside did so with handkerchiefs covering their mouths. Even so, laundry was still hung on the lines, and a smattering of fishing boats still sailed out into the waves. Life had to go on, no matter who ruled.

Atop the hill overlooking the town, the manor was largely peaceful. Those who had not been wakened to assist with the activity in town slept on, though here and there signs of activity could be seen. A few of the Teyrn’s servants had tentatively returned, uncertain of their status but unwilling to abandon the only home they had ever known. Likewise, the camp followers that kept the army in food and clean linens were already tiptoeing about the manor’s halls, taking stock of its food supplies and sweeping up the worst of the debris.

The manor’s stables were still quiet, the majority of its new occupants either sleeping on their feet or munching away quietly on hay. One of the larger warhorses had been brought out of its pen, and patiently soaked in the dusty morning sunlight as Loghain saddled him. There were several saddlebags waiting to be tied on, as well, though none of them were particularly heavy. One did not load a warhorse down with giant packs like a mule.

It was fortunate, then, that Loghain had little to take. He had found his old studded leathers in one of the supply wagons during the night after an hour’s search by torchlight. It felt good to be wearing them again, like a pair of familiar boots long ago worn in. After a bit of hesitation, he had decided to keep his lieutenant’s cloak as well. He had earned it, after all. Then he had acquired a tent and some camping gear with the help of a very startled young maid. All of this had been done quietly, with the hope that he would be gone and on his way before the rest of the manor awoke.

Sadly, that was not to be. Loghain heard angry steps approaching and identified them as belonging to Maric even before he stormed into the stable.