to slip into the palace by wearing such a mask, the commander of the royal guard begged the King to lift the edict for the sake of security. The collective sigh of relief when the King finally did so was almost palpable.
King Meghren was a tyrant, and one did not honor tyrants; one appeased them. So the nobility put on a great show of adoration for their beloved monarch, their smiles a thin veneer covering their terror. The King, meanwhile, knew the nobles were acting. The nobility understood this, but also knew that the charade was required of them, nevertheless.
Such was the sad state of things in Orlesian-occupied Ferelden.
Severan could not have cared less. He was from neither Ferelden nor Orlais, but from across the Waking Sea and far to the north, as his swarthy skin implied. He would have watched his own land be subjugated with no more than a raise of his eyebrow, for mages had no true home at all. His interests were his own, and the King accepted this. Severan’s ambition was as reliable as the rising sun, and that was why he remained King Meghren’s closest advisor.
“Amaranthine brings to its beloved King a sword of finest silverite, fashioned in the dwarven halls of Orzammar! May it serve him well in the years to come, and offer proof to all of Thedas that his might cannot be denied!”
As Severan entered the throne room, he saw the young Arl was standing amid the rows and rows of nobles seated at their supper tables, giving an overdone speech as several elven servants scampered up to the throne to present a long ornate case to the King. King Meghren, meanwhile, was the very picture of boredom. He was slumped low in the throne, one leg thrown over an arm and propping up his head with a hand. The King was a handsome and virile young man, all dark curls and olive skin to go with that crooked sneer—yet today he looked very much like someone who had overindulged for too many days nonstop. Which was exactly the case.
Meghren sighed heavily and stirred himself enough to sit up as this new gift was presented. The area immediately around the throne was already littered with other gifts, which had been ignored or discarded with little more than a shrug. Mother Bronach stood immediately behind the throne, scrutinizing the proceedings intensely. She was a severe woman, her face lined with the cares of her office as the Grand Cleric of the Holy Chantry in Ferelden, and despite her small frame she loomed as large in the chamber with her resplendent red vestments as the King did. Meghren rubbed his nose in his rumpled velvet doublet and took the sword case from the prostrating elves, who immediately withdrew.
Lifting the brilliant blade out of the case, Meghren gave it a few practice swings and regarded it with interest. “Of the dwarven make, you say?”
The Arl bowed low, sweating despite the presumed pleasure that the King had deigned to take notice of his offering. “Yes, Your Majesty. It was a gift from the King of the dwarves, made to the first of my line long ago.”
“Ah, so then it was not made for me.” A hush came over the chamber, general dinner conversation halting as the nobility picked up on Meghren’s icy tone.
The Arl blanched. “It . . . it is of great value!” he stammered. “Never has a finer blade been made! I thought . . . surely you can see—”
“Emperor Florian, he has given me a blade,” the King interrupted. He swung the silverite sword idly to one side of the throne, each swing like a slow pendulum slicing at some invisible head. “Made by the finest crafters in the Val Royeaux, it is a thing of great grace and beauty. Shall I inform him, then, that you consider your blade to be superior?”
The Arl’s eyes went wide. “No, I . . .”
“Perhaps it is your opinion I should return to him the gift? After all, there is no point in keeping the inferior blade to collect the dust, is there?”
The entire chamber was silent now. The Arl glanced about the room, pleading with his eyes for help from the assembled nobles, but everyone was looking elsewhere. He suddenly dropped to one knee, lowering his head. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It was a presumptuous gift! I apologize!”
Meghren smirked, and looked up as Mother Bronach stepped forward from behind the throne. Severan despised the woman utterly, a feeling that was mutual. “If I may offer a suggestion, Your Majesty?” she asked.
The King waved his assent. “Yes, yes, of course.”
“If the blade is as valuable as the Arl suggests, a gift made of it to the Chantry would do much to prove Amaranthine’s piety in these dark times. There is much that remains to be done, after all, before the holy braziers of Ferelden shine with the glory that befits a great nation.”
“How true,” the King cooed. He arched a brow at the Arl. “So how will you have it, Your Grace? Shall you instead give your blade to the Mother Bronach?”
The Arl’s bow was quick and breathless. “Of course, Your Majesty!”
Mother Bronach snapped her fingers at two palace servants that stood nearby. They rushed forward and gently took the sword from King Meghren, placing it back in the case and running off while the Mother watched. Once they were gone, she bowed low to the King. “The thought is most appreciated, Your Majesty.”
He sighed and turned his attention back to the Arl, who remained bowed. “So, what will you do now, Your Grace? Can this mean you have no birthday gift for the King?”
Shocked, the Arl opened his mouth several times as if to speak, but no sound came forth. The silence in the hall became excruciating, not a single fork or knife touching a single plate. Several Orlesian chevaliers, the elite knights of the Empire easily distinguished by their bright purple tunics and feathered hats, stepped forward with their hands on their sword hilts.
Meghren suddenly laughed, a maniacal sound that cut through the hush in the hall. He continued to laugh until the assembled nobles slowly joined him. They twittered uncertainly at first and then became louder and louder. Meghren clapped his hands as the room roared with amusement. The Arl of Amaranthine remained quiet, sweat pouring down his brow.
“I jest, my friend!” the King declared. “You must forgive me! Such a gift made to the Chantry in my name? What more could I ask?”
The Arl bowed low, his head almost touching the floor. “I am relieved, Your Majesty.”
