Bann Ceorlic was the first. The man had the good grace to look uncomfortable and keep his eyes on the ground. The four others that followed him were all familiar to Maric. Even though he had last seen them at night, in a dark forest, he knew them all too well. These were the men who had betrayed his mother. They had lured her with promises of alliance and then killed her where she stood.
All five of them shuffled in and stood before the altar, avoiding Maric’s gaze. The altar was several stairs above them, and so Maric felt as if he loomed over these men. Good. Let them wait in the silence as he stared down at them. Let them see Andraste staring down at them, too, and let them wonder if she was praying for their forgiveness or offering them their last rites.
A bead of sweat rolled down Ceorlic’s bald head. None of them said a word.
Loghain strode into the chantry shortly behind them, and the door was closed. He nodded across the chamber to Maric, and Maric nodded back. The tension that had grown between them was nowhere to be seen for the moment, but Maric knew it wasn’t gone completely. They had barely spoken since the army had left Gwaren, and perhaps that was for the best. Maric didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to go back to the easy banter they had once enjoyed, not this cool silence that had replaced it. Part of him knew it wasn’t going to happen. The way Loghain went stony silent and blank whenever Rowan was present, the way Loghain studiously avoided them both, told him that the night with Katriel had changed something between them. Perhaps for good.
So be it. There was nothing to do now but what had to be done.
“Gentlemen,” Maric greeted the five noblemen coolly.
They bowed low. “Prince Maric,” Bann Ceorlic said cordially. His eyes shifted about nervously, searching the shadows of the chantry behind Maric. Perhaps for guards? He could look all he liked, Maric thought, for he wasn’t going to find any. “I must say,” the man continued, “we were all rather . . . surprised when we received word of your proposal.”
“You’re here, so it seems you are at least willing to consider it.”
“Of course we will,” the Bann smiled solicitously. “It is not easy to see the Orlesians gorging themselves upon Ferelden’s wealth, after all. None of us is pleased to live under the tyrant on our throne.”
Maric snorted. “But you’ve made the best of it.”
“We’ve had to do what was necessary to survive.” The man had the good grace at least to lower his eyes when he said that. What he “had to do,” after all, had been to kill Maric’s mother. Maric stared down at the Bann, trying to control his temper. It was not easy.
One of the other noblemen, the youngest of the five present, stepped forward. He had curly black hair and a goatee, and slightly swarthy skin that spoke of his Rivaini mother. Bann Keir, as Maric recalled. Maric didn’t remember the young man from that night, but everything Maric had learned said that he had indeed been there.
“My lord,” Bann Keir said politely, “you have asked for us to support your cause, to supply you with our men that currently march with the usurper’s army, in return for amnesty.” He traded a quick look with Bann Ceorlic and then smiled smoothly at Maric once again. “Is that all? Our forces are not insignificant, after all. To ask us to abandon the usurper’s side solely in exchange for your . . . favor . . . implies that your position is stronger than it is.”
He was charismatic, Maric had to give him that. Bann Ceorlic looked displeased, and Maric suspected that the young bann had hurried up and gotten to the point far more quickly than Ceorlic would have liked, but the other old men all stared at the ground in a manner that said they agreed. They wanted more.
“You killed Queen Moira Theirin, murdered her in cold blood.” Maric said the words surprisingly easily. He walked down the steps toward them, regarding the young Bann Keir with a look that he hoped seemed neutral. “That is regicide, an unforgiveable crime. I offer you forgiveness anyhow, in exchange for doing what is already your duty, and yet you want more?”
“Our duty,” Bann Ceorlic interjected, “is to support the King.”
“An Orlesian king,” Maric snapped.
“That has been put on the throne with the approval of the Maker.” Ceorlic gestured toward the statue of Andraste. “We are in a difficult position, and the difference between a rebel and our future ruler could be small indeed.”
Maric nodded slowly. He was among them, now, and he stopped before Ceorlic and stared him directly in the face. “And this was why you lied to my mother, lured her to her death with promises of an alliance that was never going to happen? Did you need to do that? Does the Maker approve of treachery, now?”
The nobles backed away uncertainly, Ceorlic with them. He looked at Maric indignantly. “We did as our King bade us to!” Ceorlic and the others beside him drew their swords, glancing at Maric and Loghain with obvious fear on their faces. Loghain drew his blade and stepped forward threateningly. Maric drew his own sword, glittering runes shining in the dim chantry, but did so only calmly and held out a hand to prevent Loghain from moving any farther.
Bann Keir did not retreat, however. He folded his arms and regarded Maric and Loghain contemptuously, not even bothering to draw his blade like the others. “There’s no need to fear them, my friends. Prince Maric needs our troops. He needs them badly, or he wouldn’t have called us here.”
Maric turned toward the young man. “Do I?” he asked, his tone dangerous.
“You do.” Keir shook his head at their swords as if they were only amusing to him. “You don’t think we would have come here without telling everyone in the Bannorn where we were going? Invited to holy ground, on condition of truce? Do you really think the noble Prince Maric would kill us here, where everyone would know it?” He chuckled lightly. “What would people think?”
Maric smiled coldly. “They would think it was justice,” he said, and barely taking a step, he spun around and lashed out with the dragonbone blade, cleanly severing Bann Keir’s head at the neck.
It took a moment for the shock of the act to settle in.
Bann Ceorlic and the other three men stared, dumbfounded, as Maric turned calmly toward them. The pale dragonbone dripped bright red blood, Maric’s eyes shining with an intense light of their own. Loghain slowly edged around the group, cutting them off from their exit.
“You’re mad!” Ceorlic shouted. “What are you doing?”
Maric didn’t remove his eyes from the man. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“This . . . this is murder! In a chantry of the Maker!” another bann cried.
“Do you expect,” Loghain snarled, “the Maker to come down and protect you? If so, then I suggest the four of you begin praying.”
Bann Ceorlic raised a hand slowly, sweat pouring down his face. “You need our men,” he said carefully, though Maric could hear the quivering in his voice. “Keir was right about that, you do this and our children will fight you with their last breath! They will tell everyone about this cowardly, dishonorable act!”
Maric took one step toward the four men, and all four of them jumped back, startled. Maric smiled coldly once again. “Your children will be given exactly one day to denounce the acts that you committed to earn your deaths here. If they agree, and join my forces without reservation, I will remember that your ill-considered acts were done for their sakes.” He raised the longsword, the tip of the blade pointing toward Ceorlic. “And if they refuse, I will ensure your families die and your lands be given to men who know the meaning of words like cowardly and dishonorable.”
The room was silent save for the crackling of the fire in the holy brazier. The tension hung thickly as the old men glanced from one to the other, their swords held before them. Maric could see their calculations. Two to one, they were thinking. They were not so young as their opponents, but they were skilled enough with their blades.