He remained where he was, staring her down with his pale blue eyes. “We can offer you directions, if you like. You’ll find the thaig the same way we did, no doubt still infested by a horde of giant spiders. I suggest bringing fire.”
“We need more than directions! This is a matter of urgency!”
“Maric and I were there briefly, eight years ago.” The contempt was obvious in his voice. “What is it you expect us to remember, fool woman?”
“Something!” she insisted. “Anything!”
“I’ll go,” the King quietly announced behind them.
It took a moment for the others to hear him. Loghain was just about to launch another retort at the furious Genevieve when he paused. He turned around slowly, staring at King Maric in confusion. “What did you say?”
“I said I’ll go.” The King seemed equally surprised by his statement, as if the words had come unbidden from his mouth. “I’ll do it. I’ll lead them.”
A pin dropping in the throne room would have made more noise. Duncan coughed nervously and glanced at Fiona kneeling next to him. She looked as bewildered as he felt, and shrugged at his unspoken question. She had no idea why the King would suddenly agree, either. The entire situation was too bizarre. The First Enchanter appeared as if he were rooted to the spot, his face twisted in discomfort.
“You’ll do no such thing!” Loghain lost his composure completely. Duncan almost thought the man might draw his sword. On his own king? Things worked very differently in Ferelden, after all.
Genevieve stepped forward, horrified. “We could not put you at such a risk! You are the King of Ferelden, and this is a dangerous task we ask for.”
“I quite agree.” Loghain added his voice to hers. “No one should be risked on such a foolish plan … No, it is not even a ‘plan’! It is a faint hope based on … what? How can you even be certain this Grey Warden of yours is still alive?”
She gritted her teeth, studiously fixing her gaze on the King. “We are certain.”
“How? What is it that you aren’t telling us?”
King Maric stood from his throne, cutting them both off. “I am going,” he said firmly. “I will take them down to Ortan thaig. I believe I remember the way.”
Teyrn Loghain stared at the King accusingly, clearly full of heated objections but unwilling to continue voicing them in front of an audience. From the way the King looked back at him, almost resentfully, Duncan could tell there was a fight waiting to happen. He could tell that this Loghain was more than an advisor. He seemed almost like a brother, perhaps. Or the King’s keeper.
Genevieve seemed at a loss, but bowed low and backed off. Duncan could understand her confusion. He had thought the idea of asking the Hero of River Dane to come was desperate enough, but this bordered on the ludicrous.
Surely the King would soon change his mind, and the Grey Wardens would be asked to fend for themselves. Perhaps they would even be kicked out of Ferelden again; he really couldn’t say. Duncan wasn’t sure that would be a bad thing, either. Abandoning the entire idea of heading into the Deep Roads and facing horrible creatures like the darkspawn had its appeal.
First Enchanter Remille crept forward toward the throne, his hands out in supplication. “Is His Majesty certain that this is wise? Wouldn’t the Teyrn be a better choice to—”
“No,” the King cut him off. “I have made my decision.” He sat back down in his throne, keeping his eyes locked on Genevieve and refusing to look in Loghain’s direction. “I will contact you shortly, Commander, to make arrangements. Until then, I’d like it if you all left me alone with the Teyrn.”
The First Enchanter looked as though he wanted to speak again, but Genevieve shook her head at him. She bowed gracefully to the throne and turned to leave. Duncan and the others went with her. The two men on the dais barely noticed them go. Once the hall was cleared out, Maric sat back in his throne and waited for the inevitable recriminations from Loghain. He wore that suit of heavy grey armor every time Maric saw him now. He had taken it from the commander of the chevaliers at the Battle of River Dane, a war souvenir that he had worn to the victory parade in Denerim years later. The people had loved him for it, and Maric had been amused.
The amusement had lessened over the intervening years. At first, Loghain and Maric and Rowan had worked tirelessly to restore Ferelden after the war. There had been so much to do, so many issues left behind by the Orlesian withdrawal that it seemed like there was never enough time for anything.
It had been a breathless time, exhilarating in its way. Harsh decisions had needed to be made, and Maric had made them. Each one had taken a small piece of his soul, but he had made them. Ferelden had grown strong again, just as they had always wanted. Loghain was a hero, and both Rowan and Maric were legends. When Rowan finally gave him a son, Maric had thought that perhaps a bit of happiness was finally possible.
And then she had died, and everything had changed.
Loghain stared at him as if he had no idea who Maric was. Suddenly, he drew his sword and pointed it at Maric’s chest.
“Here,” he offered curtly.
“I have my own sword, thank you.”
“It’s not for you to take. It’s for you to throw yourself on, since you seem so eager.”
Maric pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He had known Loghain to dislike dramatics, once. It seemed that the years had given him an appreciation for it. “Perhaps you’d prefer to throw yourself on it instead?”
“I’m not trying to kill myself.” Loghain’s expression was dark, almost hurt. “This will make it quicker, easier. At least this way we’ll have a body to burn. I won’t need to explain to your son why his father went off on a mad mission and never returned.”
“The darkspawn are real, Loghain. What if the Grey Wardens are telling us the truth?”
“And what if they aren’t?” Loghain walked over to the throne, putting his hands on the armrests and leaning down to look Maric directly in the face. “Even if you think the fact that they have come from Orlais meaningless,” he pleaded, “you must know that the Grey Wardens have always had their own agenda. They serve no nation, and no king. They will do what they think is best to deal with this threat, and won’t care about you, or Ferelden, or anything else!”
He had a point. Two centuries ago, the Grey Wardens had taken part in a plot to overthrow the Fereldan king. It had failed, and the order was exiled, but what few people knew was that it had taken the entire Fereldan army to drive them out. Thousands of men pitted against less than a hundred, and the Wardens had very nearly won. They were a force to be reckoned with, no matter their numbers.
“It’s not just that,” Maric muttered.
“Then what? Because Rowan is dead?” Loghain stood up, pacing a short distance away as he shook his head. “You’ve been like this ever since I returned. You barely see your son; you barely lift a finger to rule the nation that you restored from ruins. At first I allowed it as part of your grief, but it has been three years now. It’s as if you wish to disappear.” He turned to look at Maric, his eyes full of so much concern that Maric couldn’t meet them. “Is that really what you want? Does the madness of this plan mean nothing to you?”
Maric steepled his hands together and considered. He hadn’t wanted to tell Loghain, but it seemed like he had no other choice. “Do you remember the witch we met in the Korcari Wilds?” he began. “Back during the rebellion, when we were fleeing the Orlesians?”
Loghain appeared taken aback, as if he hadn’t expected a rational explanation. He hesitated only a moment. “Yes. The madwoman who nearly killed us both. What of her?”