Loghain steered clear of Sister Ailis’s hut once he was finished with his bow, not wanting to tempt himself. The sister had her own way of questioning new arrivals to the camp, and he respected the fact that she was often able to elicit information when neither he nor his father could. Many saw the sister as being the camp’s leader almost as much as his father was, and certainly his father had relied on her advice for many years now. There had been a time when Loghain hoped the affection between the two of them might grow into something more, for both their sakes. Sister Ailis, however, had her calling, and his father had never been the same since they fled the farmhold. It had taken Loghain a long time to realize it, but a part of Gareth had been broken that night. Sister Ailis knew what his father needed better than Loghain ever would, and he had to be content with that.
Padric was on watch at the edge of the camp, perched on a rock that allowed him to keep an eye on the valley below without being easily spotted himself. The lad was a couple of years younger than Loghain, but a skilled shot with a bow and could usually be counted on to show some sense. On the other hand, Dannon was standing next to Padric now, which didn’t bode well. The pair abruptly stopped whispering as he drew close.
“Any sign of the men my father sent out?” Loghain asked Padric, making no comment about what he had interrupted.
“Not yet,” Padric offered shyly. He turned and scanned the hillside below. “There’s been no sign of anything.”
“There’s some talking about leaving,” Dannon announced. He crossed his arms and glowered at Loghain. “Tonight, maybe, if nothing’s said.”
“It’s stupid.” Padric kept his eyes on the valley. “Even if someone knows that blond fellow’s here, so what? They going to come all the way out here for one man?”
“I agree.” Loghain turned and stared at Dannon. “But if you want to join the cowards, Dannon, why don’t you go ahead and do that? Assuming you aren’t the only one.”
“You said yourself that boy’s dangerous.”
“I said we don’t know who he is. We will soon enough. And if my father thinks it’s worth us leaving, then he’ll say so.”
Dannon squirmed. “This was your doing,” he groused. “You’re the one that wanted to bring him, not me.” With that, he hurried off.
Padric looked relieved to see Dannon go. He smiled his thanks to Loghain and turned back to his watch duties. “He’s right, though. It’s odd.”
“What is?”
“Well—” He nodded out to the valley. “—the men who got sent out, some of them should have come back by now.”
“How overdue?”
“An hour. Maybe two. It hasn’t rained yet, so I don’t know. . . . I was thinking Henric would have come back, at least. He’s been worried about his girl, with the baby and all.”
Loghain’s stomach felt like it sank. “You let anyone know?”
“Just Gareth.”
He nodded and headed down the trail on his own. He wanted to take a look for himself, and it would do no good hanging around the camp while his father tried to keep a lid on the hysteria—justified or not. Loghain thought it was understood that the outlaws traveled together under a purely provisional basis. His father kept them organized and fed, and Sister Ailis kept them united—and it also didn’t hurt that few of them had anywhere else they could go—but they were on the run, each of them for their own particular reasons, and people that desperate didn’t hold any loyalties. His father believed differently, and maintained that it was in the worst of times that people needed to cleave together the strongest. Whenever Gareth would say that, Sister Ailis would smile at him and get all teary-eyed. For that single moment that faith of his father’s would seem like it could almost be true. But Loghain knew better. If things ever got bad enough, Dannon wouldn’t be the only rat to abandon the sinking ship.
Loghain was gone most of the afternoon, hoping to put his worst fears to rest. First he backtracked along the path the three of them had taken the previous night, confirming they indeed had not been followed. He returned to the Southron Hills and followed three of the trails he knew, hoping to run into one of the men his father had sent out, or anyone, really. But travelers this far south were few, and he saw only a flurry of horse tracks heading toward Lothering. By the time dusk fell and a storm began releasing torrents of ice-cold rain, Loghain was truly worried.
It wasn’t until he ventured down a hazardous path not far from the town that he finally spotted someone. The route was most often used by smugglers, allowing them to avoid the more patrolled roads in the north on their way toward the western mountains and the dwarves there who cared little for human laws. There were many such paths in the hinterlands, and few who used them had any legitimate reason to be there.
A lone horseman appeared, hood pulled up and his steed stepping carefully in the slippery mud. By the quality of his cloak Loghain would have guessed him a messenger for one of the city guilds, only he didn’t appear to be in any kind of hurry.
Loghain approached from well down the road, in full view. It was a friendly gesture, though the rider was wary enough to keep a hand on his sword hilt as he paused and waited. Lightning flared in the gray sky and the rain intensified, but Loghain’s leathers were already as drenched as they could possibly get. When he got within twenty feet, the rider backed his horse away and half drew his blade. The message was clear: You’ve come close enough.
“Greetings!” Loghain called out. When the rider did not respond immediately, he reached over his back and removed his bow, slowly putting it down on the ground in front of him.
This seemed to reassure the rider somewhat, though the horse whinnied nervously and pranced about on the spot. “What do you want?” he finally called back.
“I’m looking for friends!” Loghain shouted. “Men dressed like me. One of them might have come down this way, I’m hoping.”
“I haven’t seen anyone,” the rider responded. “But Lothering is filled with so many people they’re sleeping in the streets. It’s insanity. Your friends are probably there, if anywhere.”
Loghain sheltered his eyes from the rain with a hand, trying to make out the rider’s face under the hood. He couldn’t. “Lothering is filled with people?”
“You haven’t heard?” The rider seemed genuinely surprised. “With all the soldiers passing through, I would have thought half the Kingdom had heard already.”
“No, nothing.”
“The Rebel Queen is dead.” The rider sighed sadly, adjusting his hood as the rain splattered down. “Bastards finally caught her in the forest last night, they say. I tried to see the body before I left, but there were too many mourners.” The rider shrugged. “They say the young Prince might be dead, too. If you’ll pardon my saying so, let’s hope that isn’t true.”
Loghain’s blood went cold. “The Prince,” he repeated numbly.
“With any luck, he’s still out there somewhere. Considering all the soldiers I saw, he’d better be running for his life.” As the rain continued to pour, the rider nodded politely and gave Loghain a wide berth as he passed by.
Loghain remained where he was, his mind racing. Lightning flashed high overhead.
Maric picked listlessly at the soup they’d brought him, idly curious about the exact kind of animal that had provided the gamey meat swimming in the broth. Finally, Sister Ailis took the bowl away from him and returned to her sewing. She spent her time patching blankets and clothing, humming softly to herself all the while. He caught pieces of the Chant of Light, if he wasn’t mistaken, though the exact verses eluded him. Truthfully, he had other things on his mind.
Such as getting out of the hut. He could hear activity going on outside, like they were packing the entire camp up. The sister denied it. Maric had asked three times if the men Gareth was waiting for had returned before the burly guard outside the door promised he would tell the sister immediately should the situation change, and it had not. Maric sat on the bed, fidgeting. He toyed again with the idea of confessing everything, but where would that get him? What would Gareth do, suddenly saddled with a fugitive who was far more dangerous than he had imagined? Better to get out, get away from these poor people, and find his own way back to the rebel army. Yet the closed door and a single guard proved to be an incredibly effective deterrent to this plan.
An excellent start to your reign, King Maric, he chided himself. This is the kind of first-class problem-solving that will serve you well when you take charge of the rebellion.
“You’re very hard on yourself,” Sister Ailis commented, glancing up from her sewing. She was wearing a set of delicate dwarven spectacles that reminded Maric of his grandfather King Brandel . . . “Brandel the Defeated,” as everyone else remembered him. Maric himself remembered the man as being both very sad and very proud. His grandfather possessed a pair of golden spectacles that he would immediately hide whenever he was caught wearing them, lest someone think him going blind. As a child, Maric used to think it was a fun game to steal them and then race around the castle halls wearing them. At least it was fun until he was finally caught, usually by his mother. Mind you, even she had to stifle her giggles at the sight of Maric in those things, and reprimanded him mostly for his grandfather’s benefit. Afterwards in private she would laugh and kiss his nose, pleading with him halfheartedly not to do it again. Pleas he ignored, of course.
It was odd to remember that now. He hadn’t thought of his grandfather in many years. He looked away from the sister and then remembered she was waiting for a response. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I said you’re very hard on yourself. You’re frightened, anyone can see that.” Her smile was knowing. “Have you considered that perhaps the reason you’re here, young man, is because the Maker led you here?”
Maric wanted it to be true. He stared at the floor until the sister returned to her sewing and left him be. Maric didn’t want these people to be hurt on his account, and more and more it looked like his best option was simply to dash out the door the next time it opened. If they killed him before he got out of the camp, then so be it. At least he would no longer be putting them in danger.
He kept his stare on the floor for some time, listening to the beat of the rain against the hut and the frenetic activity of the people outside. Men were yelling, things were being covered, children were giggling and being hustled into tents. The smell of fresh rain filled the hut, a scent that Maric had reveled in when he was young because it meant Mother might be forced indoors. But now it only made him anxious. He felt like he was waiting, waiting for Loghain to finally come and kill him, Gareth to command his release, another round of questions, waiting for something to happen. In time he slept, though only restlessly and without dreams.
When the door to the hut finally slammed open, Maric was unsure how much time had passed. The rain had barely slackened, the air now thick and damp from it, and at some point the elderly sister had also fallen asleep in her chair beside the bed. She started awake, gasping in surprise, and clutched at the heavy amulet around her neck. Gareth was at the door, soaked to the bone, but those icy blue eyes shone with intensity.
“Maker’s breath, Gareth!” Sister Ailis exclaimed. “What’s wrong?”
“Men. Soldiers. Coming through the forest.” His mouth was pressed into a thin scowl, rivulets of water running down his armor and splattering on the floor. In two strides he was at Maric and hauled him up off the bed by the scruff of his shirt. Gareth slammed him hard against the log wall, seeming ready to explode with rage. “What did you do?”
Maric should have felt frightened for his life, but he didn’t. Somehow, he was calm. It was a bizarre reaction, he knew, since Gareth seemed willing to kill him and probably had every reason to. “I told you,” Maric said evenly. “They’re coming for me. I think if you just give me to them, they might not even bother with you.”
“Why?” Gareth bellowed. The wind slammed the door loudly against the wall, and rain blew in with a cold howl. Already, panicked shouts could be heard from throughout the camp. “Who are you!” Gareth shouted, slamming Maric against the wall again hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
“Gareth, stop!” Sister Ailis cried, clutching at his free arm.
He shook her off without looking at her. “Tell me who you are!”
“I can tell you who he is,” came a shout from the door. Loghain was standing there, pale and soaking wet and with murder in his eyes. His knife was out, and with two steps he had it against Maric’s throat. “Maker damn him, he’s the Prince! He’s the bloody Prince!”