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!”
Gareth grabbed Loghain’s wrist with his free hand, and for a moment they fought over control of the knife. It wavered dangerously at Maric’s throat and made a shallow cut once into the skin. Loghain snarled with rage, but when he looked at his father, he seemed shocked at the aghast expression on his father’s face.
“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.”