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?”
Maric wasn’t sure how to respond, even though he knew he didn’t want to take it back. He was suddenly very aware of his lack of clothing, and awkwardness threatened to overtake him. Katriel stepped forward slowly, her eyes holding his in the silence. She put the lantern on top of a chest by his bed and then sat down on the edge.
Their faces were only inches apart. Maric was breathing heavily, but still couldn’t bring himself to look away from her. Even her smell was intoxicating, like a rare flower that bloomed only in the darkest gardens. Enticing and sweet without being cloying.
She reached out, and silently she ran a slender finger from his bandages up along his chest. His skin shuddered where she touched, and he gulped. It was the only sound in the hushed darkness.
“I would stay with you, my lord,” she whispered. “If you would have me.”
He blinked and looked down at the furs, blushing again. “I . . . I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated,” he stammered. “I mean, I wouldn’t want it to seem like . . . I wouldn’t want to take advantage. . . .”
Katriel touched her finger to his lips, quieting him. He looked up at her, and found her gazing at him from under heavy lids. “You are not, my lord,” she said seriously, her voice husky.
“Please . . . don’t call me that.”
“You are not,” she repeated.
The distance between them closed as if they were drawn together, and Maric kissed her. Her skin was as soft as he’d imagined, and she melted under his every touch.
Outside the tent, Rowan watched in stony silence as the lantern light within was extinguished. She wore a red dress of silk, a Calabrian garment that bared her shoulders. The sharp-faced woman who sold it to her had pointed out that Rowan was too muscled to wear such a dress, that her shoulders were too broad. The silk felt luxurious against her skin, however, so much different from the leather and metal she was used to. So she had bought it despite the woman, though she had never once had the occasion to wear it since.
She regretted wearing it now, and regretted coming, yet as she stood there in the darkness, she found she could not will herself to move.
The guard slumped nearby, fast asleep and snoring lightly. Rowan shook her head in exasperation, tempted to kick the man awake. What if it had been an assassin come to visit Maric instead of the elven woman? But they were all exhausted from the long battles, and no doubt the guard was assigned to his post while nearly asleep on his feet. She could forgive the nameless guard his lapse in judgment, but only his.
When she heard the first faint moan coming from inside, finally she stepped away. Perhaps it was only her imagination, but either way, she decided she could not stay where she was. I do not want to hear this, she told herself, coldness clutching at her heart.
Her steps were stealthy as she maneuvered among the tents. Many bodies were slumbering on the ground, some even on top of each other. The smell of ale was everywhere. The celebration had been lengthy after the Orlesians had taken to the forest in disarray. Even though looting was discouraged, they couldn’t help but look the other way as the men scoured the town’s taverns for ale barrels and wine. They deserved a celebration after two such fine victories.
Rowan had watched them drink, but did not partake. All she could think about was thrusting her sword into the mage, the fury she had felt blinding her reason. Making him suffer was all that had mattered to her. Was there to be nothing more to her life than blood? She had gone to Maric thinking . . . thinking . . .
You weren’t thinking at all, she scolded herself. This was a terrible idea.
She came out of the tents into the unoccupied portion of the manor’s courtyard. On clear ground, Rowan slowed to a stop. She breathed the night air deeply, standing stiffly under the glare of the moon. She felt ill, and part of her wanted nothing more than to rip the dress away from her skin, tear it into shreds. She wanted to keep walking, to leave the manor grounds and become lost within the restless shadows of the forest.
“Rowan?”
She turned sharply toward the sound and saw Loghain approaching. He was bandaged and wearing a simple longshirt and leather trousers, and he seemed more than a little confused to see her. Finally he stopped, staring at her with those unsettling eyes. They made her shudder, as they always did.
“It is you,” he said, his tone guarded.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you . . . decided to put on a fine dress and go for a walk?”
She said nothing in response, folding her arms around herself and staring at the ground. Instead of leaving, however, Loghain remained where he was. She could feel those eyes fixed on her even if she didn’t see them. The forest shadows beckoned, but she ignored their maddening call.
“You look beautiful,” he told her.
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