“What do you mean?” Gareth demanded, his tone steel cold.
The battle for the knife paused. Loghain did not relent, but he seemed disturbed by his father’s sudden change. “They killed the Rebel Queen in the forest, the news is everywhere. That’s the mother he told us about, Father. He just left out the most important part, didn’t he?”
Gareth’s expression was unreadable as he digested this. He stared off into space, beads of water running down his forehead.
Outside, the chaotic shouts continued. Bewildered, Sister Ailis gathered her robe around her and rushed to close the door.
The sound of the wind hissing around the door seemed to stir Gareth from his reverie. He turned his head slowly and stared at Maric as if he had suddenly transformed into something terrifying. “Is this true?”
“I . . . I’m sorry,” was all Maric could say in return.
There was a pause. Gareth violently shoved Loghain away, the knife clattering down to the floor as Loghain fell against the far wall of the room.
Then in one smooth motion, Gareth dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Your Highness . . .” Gareth’s voice trailed off into a quiet croak.
Maric looked around the room, completely at a loss in the sudden stillness. The way they stared at him, it was like they expected him to do something but he had no idea what. Pull out a crown, perhaps. Burst into flames. That might be helpful, actually, he thought to himself. The storm pelted the hut with renewed force, the only sound in the room. The moment seemed to stretch on forever.
“You bow to him?” Loghain finally asked in an incredulous voice, staring at his father. Then his tone became harsher, angrier: “You’re protecting him? He lied to us!”
“He is the Prince,” Gareth said, as if this was explanation enough.
“He’s not my prince. He’s going to get us all killed!” Loghain jumped to his feet and strode over to Gareth with purpose. “Father, they aren’t just coming through the forest! They’re coming through the valley as well! We’re surrounded, and all because they want him!”
“Look”—Maric tried his best to sound reasonable—“I don’t want anyone to be hurt on my account. Just hand me over. I’ll go willingly.”
“Maker preserve us,” Sister Ailis stared at Maric in dawning horror.
Gareth stiffly stood up and walked over to the door, opening it. He stood there, looking out into the storm while they listened to the sounds of the people scrambling in the dark. His people. Off in the distance, terrified screaming could be heard, coupled with the deep-voiced shouting of strangers.
“They’re here already?” The sister asked in a tremulous voice. Gareth merely nodded. “Then what are we to do?”
Loghain snatched up his blade from the ground. “We give him to them,” he argued. “Father, he said it himself. We need to make a deal.”
“No.”
In a fury, Loghain leaped forward and grabbed his father’s shoulder, spinning him around. “Father—” The word was stated with unmistakeable emphasis. It said listen to me. “—we don’t . . . owe him . . . anything.”
Gareth’s expression became sad, and with a gentle gesture he reached up and removed Loghain’s hand from his shoulder. Loghain did not resist, and the fury seemed to drain out of him as realization grew in his face. A witness to the moment that passed between father and son, Maric didn’t immediately understand it.
“Can you get him away?” Gareth asked.
Loghain looked numb, but he nodded.
“Wait,” Maric protested feebly, raising a hand. “What?”
Gareth sighed. “We need to get you to safety, Your Highness. Loghain knows the forest. You can depend on him.” With a swift motion, he drew his sword. “I will buy you time. I and everyone I can gather.”
“You could come with us,” Loghain said to his father, his voice hopeless.
“They would just give chase. No, that won’t do.” He glanced over at Sister Ailis, who was watching with tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Ailis. I had hoped for . . . something else.”
She shook her head emphatically. Her eyes glowed fiercely despite the tears. “You have no need to apologize to me, Gareth Mac Tir.”
Maric’s sense of calm was rapidly draining away. Could they actually be proposing what he was hearing? Listening to the distant screams, it was all becoming real far too quickly for his liking. “Stop!” he cried. “What are you talking about? This is madness!”
Loghain stared at him like it was Maric who had gone mad, but Gareth stepped up to him and put a strong hand on his shoulder. “I served your grandfather, once.” Gareth’s voice was firm and steady, and Maric stared up at him with wide eyes. “The Orlesians don’t belong on that throne, and if your mother is truly dead, then it is up to you now to remove them.” He paused, setting his jaw, and when he continued, his voice cracked with emotion. “If I can help you do that, then I will give anything, even my life.”
“Father . . .” Loghain’s protest died on his lips as Gareth turned toward him. Maric could tell that Gareth was resolute, and perhaps Loghain saw the same. Still, Loghain bristled with rebellion, furious at his father . . . perhaps for giving so much to someone they barely knew, the very person who had put them in danger. Maric could hardly fault him for that.
“Loghain, I want your word that you will protect the Prince.”
“I can’t just leave you here,” Loghain insisted. “Don’t ask me to just leave you, I won’t do it. . . .”
“That’s exactly what you will do. Your word, Loghain.”
Loghain looked stricken, and for a moment it seemed he teetered on the point of refusal. He shot a deadly look at Maric, no doubt blaming him for all of it, but Gareth awaited his answer. Reluctantly he nodded.
Gareth turned back toward Maric. “Then you need to go, Your Highness. Quickly.”
He was completely serious. Maric didn’t doubt that for a second, and he believed that Loghain would keep his word despite how reluctant and torn he looked. Still, Maric was stunned. If only he had known, he clearly could have trusted this man as soon as he arrived. He tried to think of something he could say in return, and a thousand inadequate apologies came to mind, along with something his mother had once told him.
What they will give us freely, she had said, is never free for them. Remembering that is the only way we will be worthy of it.
“Were . . . were you a knight, Gareth?” he asked.
The question seemed to take the man by surprise. “I . . . No, Your Highness. I was a sergeant-at-arms once.”
“Then kneel.” It was Maric’s best imitation of his mother’s tone, and it seemed to work.
Face blank with shock, Gareth knelt.
“Sister Ailis, I will need you to bear witness.”
She stepped forward. “I will, Your Highness.”
Maric put his hand on Gareth’s head, hoping fervently that his memory was not so faulty as he feared. “In the name of Calenhad the Great, here in the sight of the Maker, I declare you a Knight of Ferelden. Rise and serve your land, Ser Gareth.”
The man stood stiffly, his eyes glinting beneath furrowed brows. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“For what it’s worth,” Maric apologized. There was nothing more to be said.
Loghain stepped forward, interrupting the moment. His face was stony as he gestured to Maric. “We need to go. Now.”
Maric nodded. Before he could move, the sister put up a hand and rushed over to the pile of clothes she had been mending in the corner. She pulled out a large woolen coat and without a word began helping Maric to put it on.
As they did so, Gareth turned quietly to his son. “Loghain . . .”