“She told me something.”
Loghain looked at him expectantly. “And? She babbled many things, Maric.”
“She told me that a Blight was coming to Ferelden.”
He nodded slowly. “I see. Did she say when?”
“Only that I wouldn’t live to see it.”
Loghain rolled his eyes and walked a step away, running a hand through his black hair. It was a gesture of exasperation with which Maric was well familiar. “That is a prediction that almost anyone could safely make. She was trying to scare you, no doubt.”
“She succeeded.”
He turned and glared at Maric scornfully. “Did she not also tell you I was not to be trusted? Do you believe that now, too?”
There was a tension in that look, and Maric knew why. The witch had said of Loghain, “Keep him close, and he will betray you. Each time worse than the last.” It was the only one of her pronouncements to which Loghain had been privy, and obviously he remembered it well. Perhaps he thought that if Maric believed one, he believed the other. Loghain had never betrayed him, not to his knowledge. It was something to keep in mind.
“You think it’s a coincidence?” Maric asked, suddenly uncertain.
“I believe this witch was serving her own purposes, and would lie about what ever she thought convenient. Magic is not to be trusted, Maric.” Loghain closed his eyes and then sighed. He shook his head slightly, as if what he was about to say was madness, but he opened his eyes anyhow and spoke with conviction. “But if you truly believe that the witch’s warning has merit, let me be the one to go into the Deep Roads, not you. Cailan needs his father.”
“Cailan needs his mother.” His voice sounded hollow, even to himself. “And he needs a father who isn’t … I’m not doing him any good, Loghain. I’m not doing anyone any good here. It will be better if I’m out there, helping the kingdom.”
“You are an idiot.”
“What you need to do,” Maric ignored him, “is to stay. Look after Cailan. If something happens to me, you’ll need to be his regent and keep the kingdom together.”
Loghain shook his head in frustration. “I can’t do that. Even if I believed this cryptic warning, I would not agree that it was worth placing you in the hands of these Orlesians. Not without an entire army to surround you.”
Maric sighed and sat back in the throne. He knew that tone. When Loghain believed he was in the right, there was no dissuading him. He would sooner call the guards in here and attempt to have Maric locked up in the dungeon than see him do this.
In Loghain’s mind, the Grey Wardens were Orlesian. The First Enchanter was Orlesian. This had to be some manner of plot—not that it would be the first. There had been several assassins over the years, as well as more than a few attempts by disaffected banns to overthrow him, and while Loghain could never prove that the Empire was behind them all, Maric did not disbelieve his theories. Perhaps he was even right about this.
But what if he wasn’t? The witch had been crazy, almost certainly, but Maric still found it impossible to discount her words entirely. She had saved their lives, put them on the path out of the Korcari Wilds when otherwise they would have died. He had almost forgotten her warning about the Blight, but the very instant First Enchanter Remille had told him of the Wardens’ request for an audience, he had remembered.
The thought of a Blight here in Ferelden was almost too much to bear. The old tales spoke of vast swarms of darkspawn spilling out onto the surface, blackening the skies and tainting the earth around them. They spread a plague by their very presence, and those the disease didn’t kill, their armies did. Each Blight had come close to destroying all of Thedas, something the Grey Wardens knew better than anyone.
Surely such a disaster was worth risking almost anything to avert. Loghain could dismiss the idea, but Maric was less convinced. What if the witch was correct? What if the whole point of receiving such a prophecy was that it gave you a chance to try to prevent it?
“You’re right,” he admitted with a heavy sigh. “Of course you’re right.”
Loghain stepped back, folding his arms and looking at Maric skeptically. “This is new.”
Maric shrugged. “They’re desperate and asking too much. We can give them advice, maybe even draw out a map with as much information as we can remember. But going into the Deep Roads again? No, you’re right.”
“You give them advice.” Loghain frowned. “I have had my fill of Orlesians for one evening. Especially that lickspittle Remille. You know he cannot be trusted, I assume?”
“He’s Orlesian, isn’t he?”
“Fine. Joke about it if you wish.” He turned and began walking toward the small door off to the side of the dais. “I will send someone to tell the Grey Wardens to come back, but do not take too long with them. There is much that needs to be done in the morning, Maric. The ambassador from Kirkwall wishes to discuss the raider situation off the coast, and I trust that if you can stir yourself for an audience such as this, you can manage it for actual business?”
“I’ll do that,” Maric answered. As he watched his old friend storm off, he found himself left with a weary hollowness. Perhaps he even felt a bit of pity, and then guilt for pitying a man who had done so much for him. For all of Loghain’s protests about how he remained in Denerim to help run things, Maric knew why he really didn’t return to Gwaren. A perfectly lovely young wife was there, raising their perfectly lovely young daughter.
They were all running away from something. The Grey Wardens and the First Enchanter returned to the hall tentatively, looking around and obviously confused by the fact that Loghain was now missing from the dais. Maric felt about ten years older, hunched over on his throne and nowhere near ready to lead anyone anywhere.
Genevieve strode forward, the picture of a mature yet confident warrior. It made him think of what Rowan might have been like had she lived to that age. She would never have been so crisp and businesslike, however, he was sure. Rowan had been all heart, always showing concern for her kingdom and doting on their son every chance she got. She had enjoyed being a queen just as she had enjoyed being a mother, far more than she had ever enjoyed being a warrior.
In fact, he found instead that the white-haired Commander reminded him far more of Loghain.
“Have you changed your mind, King Maric?” Genevieve asked, with the tone of one who expected that this was the only reasonable course of action.
“No,” Maric answered with a grim smile, though from her tense frown she obviously found this of no reassurance. “Provided that no one else knows I am traveling with you and we move secretly, I will go with you. Loghain will remain here. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
She shook her head, dispensing with any hesitation. “Not at all. We need to move quickly, and I am certain nothing I could say would make you more aware of the risk than you already are.”
“Good.” He stood and strode down the dais toward her. She looked distinctly uncomfortable as he shook her hand. “Then let’s dispense with the ‘king’ business, shall we? I’m as tired of it as you are, believe me.”
“As you wish … Maric.” There was the slightest hint of a smile as she inclined her head. Perhaps she wasn’t as like Loghain as he had thought. “But if you’ll allow me one indulgence, perhaps I might assign one of my people to you? Someone to watch over your safety and see to your needs?”
“If you feel that is best, by all means.”
Genevieve beckoned to the young man she had introduced earlier, the one who had committed the crime. The lad was darker-skinned than the rest: Rivaini blood, perhaps? The boy grimaced, reluctant to approach, though a warning look brought him quickly enough. Once he stood at the Commander’s side, he sighed as if the entire effort was an imposition of severe magnitude.