Padric was on watch at the edge of the camp, perched on a rock that allowed him to keep an eye on the valley below without being easily spotted himself. The lad was a couple of years younger than Loghain, but a skilled shot with a bow and could usually be counted on to show some sense. On the other hand, Dannon was standing next to Padric now, which didn’t bode well. The pair abruptly stopped whispering as he drew close.
“Any sign of the men my father sent out?” Loghain asked Padric, making no comment about what he had interrupted.
“Not yet,” Padric offered shyly. He turned and scanned the hillside below. “There’s been no sign of anything.”
“There’s some talking about leaving,” Dannon announced. He crossed his arms and glowered at Loghain. “Tonight, maybe, if nothing’s said.”
“It’s stupid.” Padric kept his eyes on the valley. “Even if someone knows that blond fellow’s here, so what? They going to come all the way out here for one man?”
“I agree.” Loghain turned and stared at Dannon. “But if you want to join the cowards, Dannon, why don’t you go ahead and do that? Assuming you aren’t the only one.”
“You said yourself that boy’s dangerous.”
“I said we don’t know who he is. We will soon enough. And if my father thinks it’s worth us leaving, then he’ll say so.”
Dannon squirmed. “This was your doing,” he groused. “You’re the one that wanted to bring him, not me.” With that, he hurried off.
Padric looked relieved to see Dannon go. He smiled his thanks to Loghain and turned back to his watch duties. “He’s right, though. It’s odd.”
“What is?”
“Well—” He nodded out to the valley. “—the men who got sent out, some of them should have come back by now.”
“How overdue?”
“An hour. Maybe two. It hasn’t rained yet, so I don’t know. . . . I was thinking Henric would have come back, at least. He’s been worried about his girl, with the baby and all.”
Loghain’s stomach felt like it sank. “You let anyone know?”
“Just Gareth.”
He nodded and headed down the trail on his own. He wanted to take a look for himself, and it would do no good hanging around the camp while his father tried to keep a lid on the hysteria—justified or not. Loghain thought it was understood that the outlaws traveled together under a purely provisional basis. His father kept them organized and fed, and Sister Ailis kept them united—and it also didn’t hurt that few of them had anywhere else they could go—but they were on the run, each of them for their own particular reasons, and people that desperate didn’t hold any loyalties. His father believed differently, and maintained that it was in the worst of times that people needed to cleave together the strongest. Whenever Gareth would say that, Sister Ailis would smile at him and get all teary-eyed. For that single moment that faith of his father’s would seem like it could almost be true. But Loghain knew better. If things ever got bad enough, Dannon wouldn’t be the only rat to abandon the sinking ship.
Loghain was gone most of the afternoon, hoping to put his worst fears to rest. First he backtracked along the path the three of them had taken the previous night, confirming they indeed had not been followed. He returned to the Southron Hills and followed three of the trails he knew, hoping to run into one of the men his father had sent out, or anyone, really. But travelers this far south were few, and he saw only a flurry of horse tracks heading toward Lothering. By the time dusk fell and a storm began releasing torrents of ice-cold rain, Loghain was truly worried.
It wasn’t until he ventured down a hazardous path not far from the town that he finally spotted someone. The route was most often used by smugglers, allowing them to avoid the more patrolled roads in the north on their way toward the western mountains and the dwarves there who cared little for human laws. There were many such paths in the hinterlands, and few who used them had any legitimate reason to be there.
A lone horseman appeared, hood pulled up and his steed stepping carefully in the slippery mud. By the quality of his cloak Loghain would have guessed him a messenger for one of the city guilds, only he didn’t appear to be in any kind of hurry.
Loghain approached from well down the road, in full view. It was a friendly gesture, though the rider was wary enough to keep a hand on his sword hilt as he paused and waited. Lightning flared in the gray sky and the rain intensified, but Loghain’s leathers were already as drenched as they could possibly get. When he got within twenty feet, the rider backed his horse away and half drew his blade. The message was clear: You’ve come close enough.
“Greetings!” Loghain called out. When the rider did not respond immediately, he reached over his back and removed his bow, slowly putting it down on the ground in front of him.
This seemed to reassure the rider somewhat, though the horse whinnied nervously and pranced about on the spot. “What do you want?” he finally called back.
“I’m looking for friends!” Loghain shouted. “Men dressed like me. One of them might have come down this way, I’m hoping.”
“I haven’t seen anyone,” the rider responded. “But Lothering is filled with so many people they’re sleeping in the streets. It’s insanity. Your friends are probably there, if anywhere.”
Loghain sheltered his eyes from the rain with a hand, trying to make out the rider’s face under the hood. He couldn’t. “Lothering is filled with people?”
“You haven’t heard?” The rider seemed genuinely surprised. “With all the soldiers passing through, I would have thought half the Kingdom had heard already.”
“No, nothing.”
“The Rebel Queen is dead.” The rider sighed sadly, adjusting his hood as the rain splattered down. “Bastards finally caught her in the forest last night, they say. I tried to see the body before I left, but there were too many mourners.” The rider shrugged. “They say the young Prince might be dead, too. If you’ll pardon my saying so, let’s hope that isn’t true.”
Loghain’s blood went cold. “The Prince,” he repeated numbly.
“With any luck, he’s still out there somewhere. Considering all the soldiers I saw, he’d better be running for his life.” As the rain continued to pour, the rider nodded politely and gave Loghain a wide berth as he passed by.
Loghain remained where he was, his mind racing. Lightning flashed high overhead.
Maric picked listlessly at the soup they’d brought him, idly curious about the exact kind of animal that had provided the gamey meat swimming in the broth. Finally, Sister Ailis took the bowl away from him and returned to her sewing. She spent her time patching blankets and clothing, humming softly to herself all the while. He caught pieces of the Chant of Light, if he wasn’t mistaken, though the exact verses eluded him. Truthfully, he had other things on his mind.
Such as getting out of the hut. He could hear activity going on outside, like they were packing the entire camp up. The sister denied it. Maric had asked three times if the men Gareth was waiting for had returned before the burly guard outside the door promised he would tell the sister immediately should the situation change, and it had not. Maric sat on the bed, fidgeting. He toyed again with the idea of confessing everything, but where would that get him? What would Gareth do, suddenly saddled with a fugitive who was far more dangerous than he had imagined? Better to get out, get away from these poor people, and find his own way back to the rebel army. Yet the closed door and a single guard proved to be an incredibly effective deterrent to this plan.