as if his heart had become a little more still. It was a strange feeling, peaceful and yet oddly disquieting. He had avenged his mother, but all he felt was cold. “But they can’t pretend, now. They have to choose a side and suffer the consequences, and they have to know I won’t forgive. Not now.”
Loghain looked at Maric, those icy blue eyes piercing into him uncomfortably. Maric tried to ignore it. He couldn’t tell what Loghain was thinking any longer. Was he pleased? This is what he had wanted. A Maric who did what needed to be done.
Loghain turned to leave, his black cloak swirling behind him, and then he paused at the door. “I had word shortly before we came. The two legions of chevaliers sent from Orlais will be crossing the River Dane in two days’ time. That is where we’ll need to engage them.”
Maric did not turn to look at him. “You and Rowan will be leading the attack.”
“You won’t reconsider? . . .”
“No.”
“Maric, I don’t think the—”
“I said no.” Maric’s tone was final. “You know why.”
Loghain hesitated only a moment, and then nodded firmly and left. The rush of wind through the chantry as the door opened was freezing cold, eagerly telling of the coming winter. The flame in the brazier fluttered wildly and then finally went out.
The die was cast. Maric felt the disquiet in his heart calm at last, leaving only an icy silence. There was no turning back now.
19
A dragon had taken to the air.
Loghain had seen it first thing in the morning. He had been disturbed in his sleep by the strangest sounds coming from far off in the distance, and had gone out of his tent with the sun just barely a sliver of pink and yellow peeking over the western mountains. He had stood there in the dim light, frost clinging to his tent and his breath coming out in white puffs, listening for the sound again.
For a moment he had thought it might be the chevaliers arriving at the river crossing early, that their scouts had been wrong. When he heard the sound again, however, he knew immediately that it couldn’t possibly be them. He couldn’t identify what it was until he walked out past the tents and the sleeping soldiers wrapped in frosty blankets and stood at the edge of the valley. There he hopped up on some rocks and looked at the entire sweep of the land beneath him, the mighty River Dane cutting a twisting path through the rocks with the morning mist still clinging to the ground as if reticent to awaken.
It was a majestic sight, and even better was the dragon that flew over it. From a distance it seemed almost small, gliding slowly in the air with the snowcapped mountain range behind it. Had it been closer, it would have been a giant beast, large enough to swallow a man whole. As it was, when the dragon roared, he could feel the rumble in the ground even from this far away.
They had said there were no more dragons. The Nevarrans had hunted the beasts mercilessly more than a century ago, until they were said to be extinct. But here she was, gliding free in the morning wind. This was the first time she had come to the Fereldan side of the mountains, apparently, as for two weeks now she had been laying waste to the Orlesian countryside.
The Chantry had taken it as an omen. The Divine in Val Royeaux had declared the next age was to be called the “Dragon Age.” Of all things.
The scout who had heard the news said that some were saying it was supposed to mean the coming century would be one of greatness for the Empire. But as Loghain watched the graceful dragon glide through the chill fog, its leathery wings spread wide, he wondered if that was really so.
He heard the footsteps crunching on the frost behind him, but didn’t turn around. The entire camp was still and barely moving, but he already knew who would be up this early. He knew the way she walked, the sound of her breath.
Rowan stepped quietly onto the rocks beside him. Her brown curls fluttered in the crisp breeze, frost clinging to her armor, which had been newly polished for the coming battle. Loghain kept his eyes on the distant dragon, trying not to lose sight of it as it dipped low into the foggy valley. It could always turn and fly up here and feast on the men conveniently clumped together in the camp, but somehow he knew it wouldn’t.
They watched in silence for several minutes, saying nothing. Only the wind rustling against the rocks could be heard, along with the occasional dragon roar far off in the mist.
“She’s beautiful,” Rowan finally murmured.
Loghain didn’t say anything at first. It had been difficult to remain, to feel her anger when she looked at him. Rowan hadn’t forgiven him; he knew that. Very likely she never would. But Maric had asked—no,
“They say that Ferelden is in revolt,” he finally said. “Denerim is burning, or so the last rider that joined us during the night told us. The usurper is paralyzed.”
Rowan nodded slowly. “Considering what the Chantry said, I’m not surprised.”
“What they said?”
She looked at him curiously. “You hadn’t heard? The Grand Cleric of Ferelden herself, Revered Mother Bronach, declared that Maric was the rightful holder of the throne. She went as far as to call Meghren a dangerous tyrant, and proclaim that the Maker had sent Maric to save Ferelden.”
Loghain’s eyes went wide. “The usurper isn’t going to like that.”
“Evidently he has his hands full at the moment.”
“You mean he hasn’t put her head on a pike yet?”
“He’d have to catch her first, wouldn’t he? Perhaps she shouted her pronouncement very loudly from the
