“Of course you do.” Katriel cut her off. “Don’t be foolish. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I only meant—”
“I know what you meant.” The elf stared into the fire, her eyes picking up the flickering of the flames. The harsh lines of her frown deepened. “I am not here for any love of Ferelden, or out of any hatred of Orlais. There was a time I would never have dreamed that I might do what I have, but I have discovered that even I have limits. Some things are worth protecting.”
She’s here for Maric, Rowan thought as she watched. She could be mistaken; Katriel’s tone was so sad and even . . . regretful? Perhaps she wasn’t talking about Maric at all.
Even so, there was something about Katriel’s demeanor that rankled. What kind of servant was she that she spoke so? That she rode horses and knew how to use a dagger? She had never claimed to be a milkmaid, Rowan reminded herself, but there was certainly more to her than met the eye. There was far, far more than the timid, frightened elven maid that she and Maric had discovered being assaulted in Gwaren. She had been exhausted then, and unarmed, but still something did not sit right.
Perhaps it was jealousy. The way Maric had looked at Katriel, like she was an exotic and intoxicating flower, was a way he had never looked at Rowan.
She realized that Katriel was staring at her again and hurried to explain. “I never meant to insult you. I was merely trying to be friendly.”
“Oh? Is that what you call it?”
Rowan frowned. “Yes. It is.”
“Are we to be friendly then, my lady? Is that what you are suggesting?”
“It would be easier,” Rowan snapped. “If you’d prefer we be something else, then by all means, let me know.” The two of them locked gazes, and Rowan did not flinch. Neither did Katriel. In the cold silence that ensued, Rowan decided she had given this woman her last apology.
“What’s going on?” The groggy voice came from the lean-to. Bleary-eyed, rumpled, and with his head bandaged, Maric looked more than a little worn for the days he had spent sleeping. For a moment, the challenge between Rowan and Katriel lingered, and neither of them responded to Maric’s query. Then Katriel turned, harshness melting into a warm smile. Without responding, she went over to help Maric stand up unsteadily and led him to sit by the campfire. Shirtless, he rubbed his arms vigorously and complained about the chilly breeze.
Rowan watched quietly as Katriel presented him the mostly mended shirt, which he accepted gratefully and slipped on. There was an awkward familiarity between them. His words hitched, and the elf seemed to find excuses to touch his arms with her delicate, slender fingers.
She felt like an unwanted outsider.
Her face clouded with grief, and it took effort for her to push it back down. It was best just to get this over with, wasn’t it? “Maric,” she said grimly, “I . . . have bad news.”
Maric belatedly realized that she had spoken and he grinned crookedly. “About my shirt? Looks pretty good now,” he joked. Gingerly he began to test the bandage around his head.
Rowan pressed her lips together in annoyance. “No. This isn’t about the damned shirt.”
Maric looked confused by her tone. Katriel stared into the fire, pretending not to notice. “Shouldn’t we wait for Loghain?” he asked.
“Wait for me to do what?” Loghain said as he casually walked into the camp, a pair of rabbit carcasses tossed over one shoulder. Infuriatingly he was the only one with any skill at hunting. She had tried her hand at it, but it was pointless. She couldn’t even fish. So they needed to rely on him to survive now, which was maddening.
Upon noticing Rowan’s anger, Loghain paused, frowning at Maric. “What did you do now?”
Maric blinked in surprise. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”
“We should talk,” Rowan snapped. “Now.”
Katriel gracefully stood, walking to Loghain to relieve him of the rabbits. He looked at her curiously. “There’s no need. I can skin these myself.”
“There is a need,” she insisted. “I wish to feel useful.”
That was enough to give him pause. Katriel succeeded in taking the carcasses and quietly leaving the camp to go down to the nearby stream. Loghain watched her go, his look curious. Rowan saw that Maric watched her go as well, his look something else completely. He can’t even be bothered to hide it, she thought angrily, restraining the urge to choke him. In his condition, it would hardly be a challenge.
Finally Loghain shrugged, walking over to the fire and crouching to warm his hands. He removed his bow and laid it down beside him. Rowan noticed that there were only a few arrows left in his quiver. “So let’s hear it,” he sighed.
“It’s not going to be good.” Maric grimaced.
She slowly sat down on the log beside him, letting the warmth of the blaze wash over her. “No, it’s not,” she agreed, rubbing her hand over her face in exhaustion. “First things first. At least some of the army still lives. They were routed at West Hill, but not all of them were killed.”
Maric brightened. “Well, that’s not so bad, is it?”
Rowan steeled herself, watching only the dance of the flames on the wood. “My father is dead.” It was strange how easily the words came out. When the dwarf had told her, she thought all the breath had rushed out of her right there in the road. The fact of it had become this . . . weight on her chest that she couldn’t remove.
Maric stared at her, stunned. “No . . . oh, Rowan! What about your family?”
Rowan thought of her two younger brothers, Eamon and Teagan, still with cousins in the Free Marches. She hadn’t even considered how they might be handling the news. Eamon would be fifteen now, Teagan only eight. They were still just boys. “I don’t even know if they’ve heard the news,” she admitted grimly.
Loghain frowned thoughtfully. “Are we certain? That it’s true?” he asked.
“His head is outside the palace, right next to—” She cut herself off, clearing the catch in her throat. “But, no. I’m not sure. The usurper has announced victory, and says that Maric is dead as well.”
Maric looked up from his hands, his eyes hollow. “What?”
“That’s the claim. The Arl and the Prince, both killed at West Hill.” She glanced at Maric, crooking one corner of her mouth in grim amusement. “Apparently your body was not distinguishable from those of regular Fereldan men and thus couldn’t be found, according to the usurper.”
“Well that’s just rude.”
She sighed. “Be that as it may, some of our army managed to flee. According to the merchant, the word is they’ve run to rejoin those we left behind in Gwaren.”
“Then we need to get there, and soon.”
“Not so fast.” She held up her hand. “The usurper is chasing them. Even if we thought we could reach Gwaren before the usurper’s army does, they’ll be blocking the Brecilian Passage. They’re between us and Gwaren.”
“What about hiring a ship?” Maric asked.
She shrugged. “We’ve no money. The merchant says that the roads to the east are all blocked, crawling with soldiers. It’s why he left.”
“Smuggler?” Loghain’s eyebrow shot up.
“That’s what I thought.” She nodded. “We could go back to the northern coast, try to find a—”
“No,” Maric interrupted. “Not north.”
“Then we get off the roads, try to get to the Brecilian Forest? Go through it to Gwaren without using the passage?”
Loghain rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Difficult. I’d need to find a path through the mountains, and I don’t know that area. If we try to stay closer to the passage, it’s bound to be crawling with the usurper’s men.”
None of them spoke. The fire crackled somberly as new gusts of cold wind blew across the camp. Each of them searched for an answer that wasn’t forthcoming, and none of them wanted to admit it. The truth hovered in the air before them like a black, unwelcome cloud.
“So that’s it?” Maric’s voice was cracked with emotion, and he stood up angrily. He looked from Loghain to Rowan and back. “That’s it? If Arl Rendorn is dead and we’re here, that means that nobody’s there to lead the army!”