211'/>post while nearly asleep on his feet. She could forgive the nameless guard his lapse in judgment, but only his.
When she heard the first faint moan coming from inside, finally she stepped away. Perhaps it was only her imagination, but either way, she decided she could not stay where she was.
Her steps were stealthy as she maneuvered among the tents. Many bodies were slumbering on the ground, some even on top of each other. The smell of ale was everywhere. The celebration had been lengthy after the Orlesians had taken to the forest in disarray. Even though looting was discouraged, they couldn’t help but look the other way as the men scoured the town’s taverns for ale barrels and wine. They deserved a celebration after two such fine victories.
Rowan had watched them drink, but did not partake. All she could think about was thrusting her sword into the mage, the fury she had felt blinding her reason. Making him suffer was all that had mattered to her. Was there to be nothing more to her life than blood? She had gone to Maric thinking . . . thinking . . .
She came out of the tents into the unoccupied portion of the manor’s courtyard. On clear ground, Rowan slowed to a stop. She breathed the night air deeply, standing stiffly under the glare of the moon. She felt ill, and part of her wanted nothing more than to rip the dress away from her skin, tear it into shreds. She wanted to keep walking, to leave the manor grounds and become lost within the restless shadows of the forest.
“Rowan?”
She turned sharply toward the sound and saw Loghain approaching. He was bandaged and wearing a simple longshirt and leather trousers, and he seemed more than a little confused to see her. Finally he stopped, staring at her with those unsettling eyes. They made her shudder, as they always did.
“It
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you . . . decided to put on a fine dress and go for a walk?”
She said nothing in response, folding her arms around herself and staring at the ground. Instead of leaving, however, Loghain remained where he was. She could feel those eyes fixed on her even if she didn’t see them. The forest shadows beckoned, but she ignored their maddening call.
“You look beautiful,” he told her.
Rowan held up a hand to stop him, taking a painful breath before speaking. “Don’t do this,” she protested weakly.
Loghain nodded somberly, and for a long moment he said nothing. The wind whistled through the stones of the manor walls, and the moon shone high overhead. It was easy to pretend there was no army camped around them, no sleeping soldiers and men in their tents a stone’s throw away. They were alone in the darkness, a gaping chasm between them.
“I am not a fool,” he said quietly. “I see how you look at him.”
“You do?” Her tone was bitter.
“I know you are promised to him. I know you are to become his Queen.” He stepped toward her, taking her cold hands in his. She looked away from him, grimacing, and it only made him look at her sadly. “I have known these things since I first met you. For three years, I have tried to accept that this is how it must be, and yet . . . still I can’t stop thinking of you.”
Loghain’s stricken look twisted up her insides all the more. She clamped down on her anguish and turned away. “Just leave me alone. Whatever you thought . . . Whatever you wanted from me—” She wiped at her eyes, and found herself wishing again that she was in her armor instead of that flimsy, useless dress. “—I cannot . . . I will not be that woman.” Her tone was brusque and final.
Rowan fled, her back stiff and the train of her red dress trailing behind her. She didn’t look back.
9
Dawn had come and gone in Gwaren, and the town was already bustling with activity. Those residents who had spent the previous two days in hiding were now slowly coming out into the streets, eyes blinking in disbelief at the devastation surrounding them. The morose skies blew in salty spray from the ocean, disguising the stench of decaying corpses that was already beginning to permeate the air. The town was almost too still, a gloom cast on the wreckage like a shroud that was only just now being disturbed.
Arl Rendorn was quick to realize that order was needed. After waking a number of officers who were still half drunk from the previous night’s exertions, he got much of the rebel army up and moving. Men were sent to patrol the streets and spread the message: The people of Gwaren would be safe under Prince Maric. The grain stores were opened and matters of shelter seen to for those who had spent the night huddling in the burned-out husks of their homes. Most important of all, the soldiers started collecting the dead.
It was not long before plumes of black sickly smoke rose from the pyres, quickly snatched up by the breeze and scattered. The stench of burning flesh was everywhere, and a dark grease settled over every surface. Those who ventured outside did so with handkerchiefs covering their mouths. Even so, laundry was still hung on the lines, and a smattering of fishing boats still sailed out into the waves. Life had to go on, no matter who ruled.
Atop the hill overlooking the town, the manor was largely peaceful. Those who had not been wakened to assist with the activity in town slept on, though here and there signs of activity could be seen. A few of the Teyrn’s servants had tentatively returned, uncertain of their status but unwilling to abandon the only home they had ever known. Likewise, the camp followers that kept the army in food and clean linens were already tiptoeing about the manor’s halls, taking stock of its food supplies and sweeping up the worst of the debris.
The manor’s stables were still quiet, the majority of its new occupants either sleeping on their feet or munching away quietly on hay. One of the larger warhorses had been brought out of its pen, and patiently soaked
