Dwarves didn’t ride very well, but Utha did her best to suffer the indignity quietly. Really, Duncan thought she rode far more gracefully than the few other dwarves he had seen do it. Usually her people preferred to ride in carriages or carts, and not on the animals themselves, though he’d heard that in Orzammar the dwarves sometimes rode oxen. He’d asked Utha about it once, and from her grin he could tell she found the question amusing. Maybe it wasn’t true? He didn’t know; he’d never been to Orzammar.
Kell retrieved his warhound, Hafter, as soon as they’d left the palace. He was a giant of a dog, all muscle and teeth and shaggy grey hair. Duncan had no idea what breed of dog Hafter was supposed to be, only that he could tear out a man’s throat in defense of his master. In fact, Duncan had seen him do so. Hafter bounded merrily along beside the hunter’s horse, long tongue hanging out of his mouth. One would never guess the happy hound could transform into a killer at the slightest command.
Julien and Nicolas kept mostly to themselves, as they often did. Duncan supposed they had fought back to back for so long they were simply more accustomed to each other’s company. Sometimes Genevieve rode with them, but usually she rode up front with Kell. There she kept her gaze intently fixed on the horizon, as if by sheer will she could somehow bring it closer.
Normally Duncan would have ridden with Fiona, and they would have chatted amiably during the trip as the quieter Grey Wardens shot them dark looks. He had come to know the elven mage fairly well in the months since he’d joined the order. Now, however, she mostly stayed away. On the few chances he did get to speak to her, she seemed agitated, and as soon as King Maric returned to Duncan’s side, Fiona would scowl and move her horse away. She didn’t trade a single word with the man, and brusquely ignored any of his attempts to make conversation.
The King had glanced at him quizzically, and he’d shrugged in response. Who could tell why the elf did anything? Not him.
The first night they spent in a village had been uncomfortable, to say the least. Genevieve hadn’t liked the idea of being exposed, but they had left the city too hurriedly to properly equip themselves. A tense night had been spent in an inn, the King hooded and kept far from prying eyes. Duncan had rested on the wooden floor next to the King’s cot, shivering and swearing at the icy Fereldan weather that seeped through his threadbare blankets and made for an unbearably sleepless night.
After that they’d avoided most of the small hamlets that dotted the road, skirting the edge of the central Bannorn as they headed westward. Only once had the King insisted they stop at a par tic u lar farmhold on the outskirts. It seemed unremarkable to Duncan, just a holding made of cracked and worn whitestone and fenced pastures given over mostly to goats and sheep.
Who was within was anyone’s guess, and the Grey Wardens waited outside for the King to finish his business. Fiona had bristled at the brief delay even more than Genevieve, and her scowl at King Maric once he returned left little to imagine as to what she thought of the entire business. He ignored her, and she spent the next hour whispering an angry complaint to the Commander loudly enough for the rest of them to hear. Duncan assumed that they were meant to.
Afterwards Genevieve had driven them double time, stopping to camp only when it was absolutely too dark to ride and mercilessly stirring them all as soon as the first sliver of sun was sighted on the horizon. Duncan was happy to do the majority of the complaining, not that anyone listened to him. They were all exhausted and tense. The more time that passed, the more agitated Genevieve became. Finally reaching the shores of Lake Calenhad had been a relief.
Now King Maric sat not a foot away from Duncan in the small boat, staring out across the lake with his eyes half closed as the wind washed across his face and ruffled his blond hair. He seemed to take plea sure in it, Duncan observed, and even after giving up his fur cloak didn’t seem the least bothered by the cold.
The King apparently noticed that he was being watched, and regarded Duncan in return. Duncan should probably have felt self-conscious at being caught, but didn’t. For a king, this fellow was a very odd man. Who had ever heard of a king just up and leaving his palace, heading off into possible danger without so much as a send-off? The group of them had snuck out of Denerim like criminals, and not even Teyrn Loghain showed up to give them a proper scowl. It was very likely nobody even knew the King had left. The man deserved to be stared at.
“Are you curious about something?” he asked Duncan, slightly bemused. His breath came out in a plume of fine mist.
“Is that silverite?” Duncan asked, pointing at the King’s armor, as fine a suit of plate as he’d ever seen. It seemed light as well as comfortable, and reflected the dim sunlight with a brilliance that he couldn’t help noticing. The amount that such a suit of armor would fetch on the black market boggled his mind.
“It is. I haven’t worn it since the war, however. I’m surprised it still fits. Have you seen silverite before?”
Duncan pulled out one of his daggers and showed it to the King, who raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was made of silverite, as well. “I have two of these,” Duncan explained.
“You’re full of surprises. Should I ask where you got them?”
“You can if you want, but I won’t tell you.”
The King smirked. “Aren’t you supposed to do what I ask? I seem to recall that being mentioned at some point.”
“Fine. I bought them with the vast fortune that was left to me by my parents. They were once the ruling Prince and Princess of Antiva until they were unfairly deposed, and one day I will return to claim my throne.”
King Maric chuckled gamely, and for a moment Duncan thought that maybe this King wasn’t such a bad fellow after all. Then, as another chill gust of wind blew across the boat and set Duncan’s teeth to chattering, the life drained out of the King’s smile. A shadow passed behind the man’s eyes, and he turned to stare out grimly over the water once again.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” he muttered.
It was proving difficult to reconcile Maric the Savior—the man who, according to everyone, had single-handedly wrested his nation back from the Orlesians and then set about rebuilding it into a force to be reckoned with—with the sad fellow that sat across from him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned anything about a throne? Maybe thrones were bad.
“My chances are pretty bad anyhow, I’m told.” Duncan smiled apologetically. “And Antiva is a terrible place. All full of assassins and … Antivans. So maybe I’m better off.”
The oarsman glanced back, huffing and puffing from the exertion as he rowed, but made no comment on their exchange. Duncan wasn’t certain the man knew he was ferrying the King of Ferelden across the lake, to be honest. Genevieve had made all the arrangements and had already gone across with the First Enchanter.
The King was silent for several minutes, simply staring out at the lake. Just when Duncan thought that he should probably go back to shivering in his furs, however, the man abruptly turned and asked a question. “What are the darkspawn, exactly?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I’ve seen them,” he admitted, “and I was told a little about them back then, but you people are Grey Wardens. Your order has been dealing with them for centuries. You must know more about them than anyone.”
Duncan chuckled. “They’re monsters.”
“And?”
“And what? I’ve been a Grey Warden for six months, maybe.”
“So that’s it? That’s all you know? That they’re monsters?”