“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.”
“He was tracked to a camp of outlaws,” Severan answered slowly. “They were slaughtered, but somehow he escaped into the Wilds and survived.”
“So am I to understand this correctly?” Meghren continued to drum his fingers, his tone irritable. “The boy, the incompetent prince, managed not only to escape your men in the forest, but trekked through the Wilds and appeared safe and sound, just in time to lead the spirited defense of the rebel army?”
“I am as incredulous as you, Your Majesty.”
Mother Bronach’s face was hard with anger. “His spells bring you nothing, King Meghren! Throw him out! He serves his pride and nothing else!”
“And what have you done for the throne except provide a string of platitudes each more useless than the last while you demand tribute for your hungry flames?”
Her eyes went wide with outrage. “The Maker will never allow Ferelden to prosper while it keeps a cancer in its very heart!”
“Your Maker is gone, as is said in your own Chant of Light. He has abandoned His own creation and has no care for anything further. So spare us your useless prattle, woman.”
“Blasphemy!” she roared.
“Silence!” Meghren shouted, his face twisted in fury. Mother Bronach calmed reluctantly in response as the King rubbed his face in agitation. “You said that without their beloved Queen, the rebels, they would be done, Severan. You said you could wipe them out with the one blow.”
“I . . . Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Pride,” the priest declared.
Meghren raised a hand to cut off Severan’s reply. “Obviously, this boy Maric is more than you assumed.”
“Perhaps.” Severan was not ready to assume the opposite was true just yet, either. “It is also possible that he found help, somehow. He certainly has the support of the Queen’s lieutenants. The daughter of the former Arl of Redcliffe, Lady Rowan, is said to have slain your cousin Felix in the battle, for instance. Rode him down in cold blood.”
“Felix?” Meghren shrugged. “I never liked that one.”
“Still, the backbone of the rebels proved to be far stiffer than I’d imagined. I do apologize for my mistake, Your Majesty.” He bowed his head down low. “I ask for another chance.”
Meghren grinned slyly. “You have something in mind?”
“I always have something in mind.”
The young king chuckled and glanced over at the Grand Cleric, who stared intently down at her hands folded in her lap. “I suppose your advice is the same as always, my sweet lady?”
“Marry a daughter of Ferelden,” she said wearily, as if she had said this many times before, “and produce a child. You cannot rule this country until you are truly its King.”
All humor vanished from the King. He glared at Mother Bronach, who paled but did not flinch. “I rule this country,” he snapped, “and I am its King. You would do well to remember this.”
“I speak from the perspective of your people, Your Majesty. They are good, simple folk who could accept you—”
“They are ignorant fools,” he snapped, “and they will accept me because they have no choice. So long as the chevaliers remain, so do I.” He calmed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Then he turned back to Severan. “You have another chance, good mage. We will do things your way the once more, but only because I have no wish to marry some dog-faced local. That is clear?”
Severan bowed again. “I will not fail you, Your Majesty.”
Severan returned to his quarters deep within the palace, greatly relieved Meghren had not sent him back to the Circle of Magi. Within the Circle, under the watchful gaze of the Chantry’s templars, his every spell would be scrutinized and monitored. At least in King Meghren’s employ he had power, even if he had to use it carefully. Men like Meghren were permitted by the Circle to have one of their mages as an advisor under the condition that the mage was watched by the Chantry. Meghren could defy Mother Bronach’s wishes only to a point.
He cursed whatever luck had allowed Prince Maric to ruin his plan. It had been an excellent one: the Theirin bloodline and the rebellion both wiped out. The King would have been allowed to return to the Imperial court, and Severan, the hero of the day, might even have been left as governor.
But now? Now he had to try again.
Severan’s quarters were dark, as befitted his mood. With a wave of his hand, the lantern hanging by the door flared brightly. As the room was bathed in firelight, he noticed a figure leaning against one of the posts of his great bed.
“Greetings, my lord mage.” It was an elven woman, beautiful in the way that only her kind could be, with porcelain skin and slanted eyes an impossible green. This one was dressed in leathers that accentuated her curves, and her golden honey curls cascaded around her shoulders artfully. She was a spy, of course. The fact that he could see the dagger sheathed at her waist meant she was not here to kill him, or so he assumed. If he was wrong on that point she was certainly welcome to try.
“Do you always enjoy standing in dark rooms?” Walking into his quarters, he brushed by her and quickly gathered up the many papers that were spread over his desk.
She chuckled, watching him with keen interest. “If my purpose here was to read your precious letters, do you not think I would already have done so, my lord?”
“Perhaps you did. If so, then I should have you executed, no?”
“I am here at your invitation.”
He put down the papers slowly, nodding. “You are the bard, then.”
“I am.” She bowed politely. “Our mutual friend in Val Chevans sends his regards, just as he sends me.”
Severan stepped toward her, taking her delicate chin in his hand and turning her face from side to side to scrutinize her more closely. She did not bat an eyelash. “He sent me an elf, did he? You seem very tarted up for one of your station.”
“I can be less so, my lord.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Bards in Orlais had a notorious reputation. They masqueraded as minstrels or actors, traveling from court to court in the Empire ostensibly to entertain their noble patrons while plying their true trade in secret. Politics in the Empire were a devious business, and thus bards were never in short supply. One would think the nobility would simply stop receiving entertainers altogether, but the truth was that the possibility of any traveling minstrel being a dangerous spy added an exotic allure. That a nobleman might be important enough to be spied upon, and courageous enough to take in a possible spy, made the temptation too much for any self-respecting aristocrat to bear.
“If my lord believes an elf cannot do as he needs . . . ,” she began.
“No.” He released her chin. “Simply remember your place. I have a contract with your master, and that means you are now mine.” His gaze was steel, and he was pleased to see that she did not flinch. He wondered if there was a single elf in Ferelden who could manage the same. “Succeed in your task and you will be rewarded. Fail and you will end up begging for scraps in the alienage along with your fellows, wishing you had stayed in Orlais. Is that sufficiently clear?”
She went silent for a moment, her face assuming a calm veneer. Stiffly she bowed to him again. “I understand,” she said smoothly. “I am told the contract is for a single task, yes?” Stepping away from him, she perched on the edge of the bed and regarded him with an artful come-hither look. “Is it to be something of a . . . personal nature?”
“No need to exert yourself for my benefit.” He waved her off contemptuously. “Do you know who Prince Maric is?”
The elven woman paused, thinking. “Yes, I think I do,” she said, her tone now all business. “The son of the proper Queen of Ferelden, out hiding with her in the wilderness somewhere? Is that not so?”