curves, and her golden honey curls cascaded around her shoulders artfully. She was a spy, of course. The fact that he could see the dagger sheathed at her waist meant she was not here to kill him, or so he assumed. If he was wrong on that point she was certainly welcome to try.
“Do you always enjoy standing in dark rooms?” Walking into his quarters, he brushed by her and quickly gathered up the many papers that were spread over his desk.
She chuckled, watching him with keen interest. “If my purpose here was to read your precious letters, do you not think I would already have done so, my lord?”
“Perhaps you did. If so, then I should have you executed, no?”
“I am here at your invitation.”
He put down the papers slowly, nodding. “You are the bard, then.”
“I am.” She bowed politely. “Our mutual friend in Val Chevans sends his regards, just as he sends me.”
Severan stepped toward her, taking her delicate chin in his hand and turning her face from side to side to scrutinize her more closely. She did not bat an eyelash. “He sent me an elf, did he? You seem very tarted up for one of your station.”
“I can be less so, my lord.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Bards in Orlais had a notorious reputation. They masqueraded as minstrels or actors, traveling from court to court in the Empire ostensibly to entertain their noble patrons while plying their true trade in secret. Politics in the Empire were a devious business, and thus bards were never in short supply. One would think the nobility would simply stop receiving entertainers altogether, but the truth was that the possibility of any traveling minstrel being a dangerous spy added an exotic allure. That a nobleman might be important enough to be spied upon, and courageous enough to take in a possible spy, made the temptation too much for any self-respecting aristocrat to bear.
“If my lord believes an elf cannot do as he needs . . . ,” she began.
“No.” He released her chin. “Simply remember your place. I have a contract with your master, and that means you are now mine.” His gaze was steel, and he was pleased to see that she did not flinch. He wondered if there was a single elf in Ferelden who could manage the same. “Succeed in your task and you will be rewarded. Fail and you will end up begging for scraps in the alienage along with your fellows, wishing you had stayed in Orlais. Is that sufficiently clear?”
She went silent for a moment, her face assuming a calm veneer. Stiffly she bowed to him again. “I understand,” she said smoothly. “I am told the contract is for a single task, yes?” Stepping away from him, she perched on the edge of the bed and regarded him with an artful come-hither look. “Is it to be something of a . . . personal nature?”
“No need to exert yourself for my benefit.” He waved her off contemptuously. “Do you know who Prince Maric is?”
The elven woman paused, thinking. “Yes, I think I do,” she said, her tone now all business. “The son of the proper Queen of Ferelden, out hiding with her in the wilderness somewhere? Is that not so?”
“The Rebel Queen is dead. You might have seen her head outside the gates.”
“Is that what that was? It was looking a little green and putrid.
“Nevertheless, the boy is her heir. And he is alive. I need you to get close to him.”
The elf considered the idea, twirling one of her locks between her fingers thoughtfully. “That will take time.”
“Time we have.”
“And are we to negotiate my reward, then?”
“Complete your task first,” he said dismissively. “Afterwards, King Meghren can and will provide whatever reward you desire.”
She stood from the bed and then bowed again, this time low and servile. “Then it seems you have a bard at your disposal, my lord.”
Severan nodded, pleased. One more chance, then, to destroy the rebellion.
In the distance he heard the muffled sounds of forced laughter in the throne room. The laughter was punctuated by someone screaming in pain, probably for Meghren’s amusement. It was the only reason the King delighted in such gatherings. Someone always had to suffer before the night was through.
Someone always suffered.
7
In the months that followed their retreat from the valley, things were as difficult for the rebel army as Arl Rendorn had predicted. Pressing farther into the western hills made it too dangerous for the usurper’s forces to follow, but left them in harsh territory with little food or supplies. They fished in the mountain streams and hunted in the thin forests, but still the men hovered just short of starvation. With few proper tents, few blankets, and fewer ways to stay occupied and entertained, they were scattered, restless, and short of nearly everything.
Nor were they left alone for those months. Small groups of the King’s soldiers made occasional forays into the hills to probe the rebel defenses, a threat that kept the rebels vigilant. Stretched to the point of exhaustion, they found it more and more difficult to maintain a watchful eye. When a small group of enemy soldiers made it right to the command tent and were taken down by guards not twenty feet from where Maric ate his scant dinner, Arl Rendorn determined that they could no longer afford to just stay hidden within the hills.
It was Loghain who led the first small groups of archers out under cover of darkness. Elves naturally saw better in darkness than men, so he recruited those few that marched with the rebels as runners and camp followers to join his group. Though surprised by their sudden elevation, they quickly stepped up to the challenge. Within weeks they had racked up an impressive body count, enough so the enemy began to fear the appearance of
