“We . . . have taken Gwaren,” he said simply.
Meghren snorted with derision. “And how is that not good news?”
Severan fingered the rolled-up parchment nervously. “It . . . is uncertain we will be able to hold it, Your Majesty. It was very difficult to take. There were . . . unexpected circumstances.” A new bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Severan prayed that Meghren did not notice it.
Thankfully, he seemed more occupied with his own annoyance. He tapped a boot on the wooden floor impatiently, his hands on his hips as he looked around the stables, perhaps in search of someone to commiserate with him. Finally his head snapped back toward Severan. “Unexpected circumstances?” he said viciously. “The remnants of those fool rebels, that’s all that were left there, you said. I sent the chevaliers and half the men that took West Hill. More than enough, you said.”
“Prince Maric is alive,” Severan said. “He was in Gwaren.” He immediately regretted it, as Meghren’s eyes went wide with rage. Even so, he said nothing immediately. He merely stared at Severan, and the mage began to consider if he should retreat.
“Alive? How?” Mother Bronach asked. She looked truly shocked, Severan noted. So she had not heard that part, at least. He supposed he should take some small satisfaction from that fact. It would provide him a modicum of comfort should he be inadvertently skewered.
“Yes,” Meghren snarled. “How is he alive? Again? And how could he be in Gwaren?” He pulled out his sword from the scabbard, his look menacing.
Severan frowned at him severely. “I will remind His Majesty that I said we had not found the prince’s body at West Hill!” He slammed his fist down on a nearby wooden post, startling one of the horses. “How many times did I protest that we needed to be certain before you made your announcements? From all my reports, Prince Maric appeared in Gwaren just prior to the attack. The entire town thinks he rose from the dead! Raised up by the Maker!”
It was a gamble. Severan maintained his angry stare, the sweat continuing to pour down his brow, and after a moment Meghren sighed and pouted. “But there were so many burned corpses! You said any of them could be the boy!”
“I said they might be. I told you to give me time for our search parties to make sure! If you had at least waited until we had recaptured Gwaren . . .”
Meghren turned toward Mother Bronach, throwing up his hands. “Bah! This is your doing, woman!”
“My doing?” She stood up from her stool, gathering her red robes around her. “Prince Maric or no, how is it that we were not able to defeat a small group of rebels? The boy may have survived the battle, but he cannot work miracles!”
“We did defeat them,” Severan said. “It was a close thing. They managed to get the help of dwarves from somewhere. Not a large number, but they were difficult to take down.” His eyes glanced toward Meghren nervously. “They were able to cleave through almost half the chevaliers. The casualty numbers have been . . . extraordinary.”
“Half!” Meghren exploded. Then he closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm. “But you said they were defeated? The rebels, dwarves, and all?”
Severan nodded. “Our numbers were too great. They retreated into the Brecilian Passage, where we would have followed and slaughtered them all . . .”
“Would have?”
“That is when the riot began. Before the commander could regroup your forces and begin the chase, the people of Gwaren rose up. Swarmed the lines, I’m told, completely unexpectedly. Commander Yaris was killed, among others.”
Mother Bronach took a step forward, alarmed. “That is no riot, surely.”
“Rebellion,” Meghren breathed. His eyes were wide with shock.
Severan held up the parchment, nodding. “The fighting in Gwaren has been bloody, and the town is aflame again. We’re not sure what is happening now, but there is the possibility that the rebel force may have doubled back and attacked Gwaren once more.”
“Can we not send more men?”
“It gets worse,” Severan began uneasily. “Word has gotten out.”
Meghren snorted. “So?”
“Perhaps you don’t understand, Your Majesty.” Severan strode toward Meghren and looked him straight in the eyes. “Word has gotten out that Maric lives. That he has returned from the dead, presumably to save these poor Fereldan fools from your rule. There was a riot in Redcliffe this morning, and the talk is spreading.”
Meghren backed away. He spluttered indignantly, but at the same time he looked precariously uncertain. “What? Riots? How dare they!” He waved a finger in Severan’s direction. “Send the call out! I want levies supplied! Every last member of the Bannorn will send troops this time!”
“They won’t send men if they’re frightened that their own lands are going to rebel underneath them. The Arl of Redcliffe has sent word asking you for assistance, asking you to send men to help him right away. He won’t be the first.”
“I am not here to help them!” Meghren stormed about the stable, outraged. “I want executions! Anyone who might even be suspected to be a sympathizer for those rebels, I want them hanged! These Fereldan dogs must learn who is their master!”
“Your Majesty . . . ,” Severan cautioned.
“Do it!” Meghren roared. The horses in the stables reared up on their hind legs, whinnying in response. “They will see what it means to trifle with the might of Orlais! Them and the dog prince both!”
Both Severan and Mother Bronach stared at him, somewhere between shock and horror. Meghren looked from one to the other, as if waiting for one of them to speak. As if insisting on it, in fact. Neither the mage nor the priest knew quite what to say, however. The prospect of preemptive executions being committed throughout Ferelden might not have the effect he imagined. Even a beaten and cowed dog might still bite, if cornered.
“King Meghren,” Mother Bronach began slowly, in the tone she reserved for those times she knew she was about to make him truly angry. “Perhaps now is the time to be merciful. Prove to the people you are the worthier king, and marshal your strength first before you—”
“Never!” he bellowed, spinning on her. His face was red, and Mother Bronach took a step back reflexively, stumbling against the stool behind her. “This is not a contest! I am the only king, and these others are . . . are malcontents! I will not let this spread further!”
With a step he was up close against her, his gritted teeth barely an inch away from her face. The Mother pressed herself against the wall, turning her face away from his in terror. Severan even thought for a moment that perhaps he should intervene; this was the Grand Cleric of Ferelden, after all. Even Meghren could not hurt her without consequences. But then he remembered that he didn’t particularly like the woman. Let her squirm.
“You will tell them,” Meghren commanded, his tone low and threatening, “that this dog prince is no savior, that he has not returned from the dead. You will tell them this, yes?”
She nodded, refusing to look him in the eyes. “I . . . I will say it was a mistake—”
“Not a mistake! He is a demon. A thing of evil risen from his grave.”
She nodded again, quickly.
“That’s not bad,” Severan considered, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “That might work.”
“Of course it will work.” Meghren stepped away from Mother Bronach, and she exhaled loudly. She composed her robes, beads of sweat running down her forehead. He turned toward Severan, much calmer now. “You will deal with the rebels, my mage. You can do this, yes?”
Severan nodded. “I will send word to the Emperor. He promised us two full legions in his last letter, if we needed. But he warned us that there would be no more after that, Your Majesty.”
Meghren stared at the floor, considering. “Will it be enough?”
“Added to what we have left? Yes. It should be more than enough. We can finish the rebels and then turn our attention to any uprising. They haven’t the strength to stand against you.”
“Then do it.”
Severan turned to leave, but Meghren grabbed him by the arm and spun him about. Meghren’s stare was intense. “But this will be your last chance, my mage. That is clear, yes?”
Severan nodded, and he was released. It may be your last chance as well, Your Majesty, he thought to himself. He merely bowed low, however, and retreated from the room. A moment later, Mother Bronach did the same. She did not look pleased. Meghren was oblivious of them both, already wrapped up once again in an annoyed inspection of his golden armor.
As Severan crossed the long hallways back into the palace proper, thoughts whirled about in his head. If he was careful, this situation could still be turned to his advantage. Meghren had been forced to recognize that the situation was serious. A quick defeat of the rebels would make him most grateful—a better result even than defeating the rebels at Gwaren would have been.
Already most of the palace knew to look to Severan for their commands. The Orlesian commanders responded solely to his orders. The nobility came to him when they needed problems solved. Even the chamberlain came to Severan when it came time to determine Meghren’s daily schedule, and they both made sure that he was kept busy doing what he did best: pleasing himself. Ostensibly all decisions were made by him, but anyone who was anyone important in Ferelden knew better. Without Severan, Meghren wasn’t capable of finding his smallclothes.
He still had to handle Meghren with care. Severan hadn’t yet gotten to the point where he could survive a direct confrontation, should the man get it into his head to realize what was happening. And with Mother Bronach still whispering into his ears, that was always a possibility.
With any luck, his rage against her tonight could be stoked. It was something to consider. For now, however, he had to keep his mind on the rebels.