though he’d seen them in some of the castles Mother had brought him to. Still, even then he’d never spoken to them.
The elf looked up at him, tears streaming down from eyes so incredibly green, he couldn’t look away. “My name is Katriel,” she said quietly. “You are too kind, Your Highness. Thank you.” With his help, she retrieved a cloth package from where it had fallen nearby. As she stood up, she attempted to keep her tattered shirt together. It was hardly possible. Maric removed his purple cloak and put it around her shoulders.
She stared at him with horror and tried to get away from his cloak. “Oh, no! No, my lord, I couldn’t!”
“Of course you can. It’s just a cloak.”
Reluctantly she allowed him to close it around her, blushing and looking away. Maric found himself staring at her neck, at how it gracefully flowed down into ample cleavage only barely concealed by the cloak. She seemed like such a delicate creature. He had heard that elven women held a certain fascination for men, the kind that made them popular in the brothels of Denerim. He had never been to the capital city, however, and had never understood what the appeal could be—until now.
He started as Rowan walked back into view, an annoyed look on her face. He stepped away from the elf almost too quickly, and Rowan’s expression darkened into a scowl.
“This is Katriel,” Maric offered lamely. Then he belatedly looked back at the elf. “And this is Lady Rowan. My, ah . . . She is my betrothed.”
Katriel turned to Rowan and curtsied. “I am grateful to you as well, my lady. I had asked them for help. It seems I should have been more careful.”
“I’ll say,” Rowan muttered. “Just what were you doing out here at all?”
“I had no other choice.” The elf turned to Maric, self-consciously clutching the cloak tighter around her. “I have been looking for you, my lord. The horse I was given died not far from here. I ran the rest of the way, but there was so much chaos. . . .”
Maric was confused. “You were looking for me?”
From underneath the purple cloak, Katriel produced the package she carried. It appeared to be several scrolls bound in leather casings. “I came as quickly as I could. I am a messenger sent by the Arl of Amaranthine.”
Rowan eyes went wide with alarm. “A messenger!”
Katriel’s green eyes lowered nervously. “His Grace has been defeated. I did not see it with my own eyes, but he said he would hold the attackers as long as he could. He said it was vital that I reach you, my lord.” She held out the scrolls again, and Maric reluctantly took them. She seemed relieved, her charge fulfilled.
“Defeated!” Rowan strode toward the elf in outrage. “What are you talking about? When did this happen?”
“Four days ago,” Katriel replied. “I sped here on the horse I was given, and it died from exhaustion. But I had no choice. The same men that attacked His Grace were not far behind me in the forest.” She looked at Maric pleadingly. “I had to reach you before they arrived, my lord. His Grace said that was more important than anything!”
Maric took a step back, stunned. He opened one of the scrolls and read it, his eyes scanning the content even as it confirmed what his sinking gut was telling him.
“What?” Rowan demanded. “What does it say, for the love of the Maker?”
Faced paled, he looked up at her. “We sent Byron to draw their attention, and he got it. A full legion of chevaliers, with mages. The King had to have planned it.”
“And they’re coming here?”
“They’re perhaps a day behind me, my lord,” said Katriel. “I wish I knew for certain.”
Maric and Rowan stared at each other, unmoving. Overhead, the faint sound of thunder could be heard in the gray skies. Rain would prevent the spread of the fires in Gwaren, though much damage had already been done. Fighting still raged inside the manor, and the town was in complete chaos. It would take more than a day to get the situation under control, and even if they did, the only routes out of Gwaren were out on the sea or back through the forest, toward the approaching army.
They were trapped.
8
Loghain frowned. The shop he was crowded into smelled faintly of fish, and it contrasted sharply with the nervous fear of the elven archers who crouched next to him. The group of them were hiding in the shadows, waiting quietly for the enemy to appear.
From his vantage point by the window, Loghain could see most of Gwaren’s town square. It was the kind of place where merchants would have gathered regularly to sell their wares. Normally it would have been full of bright colors and barrels and crates and people, but in the early morning light filtering down from the clouds, all he could currently see was smoke and debris left over from the previous day’s battle. The rain had prevented the fires from gutting the town completely, but still many of the buildings around the square were ruins, smoke smoldering up from their blackened bones. Pieces of wood and belongings no doubt dropped by people fleeing into the forest littered the cobblestones right next to the bodies of the fallen, which they had not had time to collect.
The attack on the manor had barely been finished when Maric and Rowan madly rode up the hill to inform them of the approaching army. Arl Rendorn, who had been wounded by a stray arrow, promptly broke into an uncharacteristic string of expletives, but Loghain tried to think it through. The messenger sent by Arl Byron brought useful information: the composition of the usurper’s forces, no doubt gathered by Byron’s scouts prior to the enemy’s attack.
Loghain wondered why the Arl hadn’t come himself. If an elven girl had ridden hard enough to escape from the usurper’s attack, then so could he. Surely one of his commanders could have led his men if he truly wanted to delay the enemy. But it seemed there was no shortage of men who were willing to sacrifice themselves for others in the world. He had to wonder if he would do similarly, given the chance. He still wasn’t quite sure how he had ended up staying with the rebels when he said he would leave once he did what his father had asked him to do,
