awkwardly.
“I see that.” Rowan walked toward the lean-to, feeling those eyes following her every move. Maric was moaning irritably , but still asleep. His bandages had recently been changed; Katriel’s doing, no doubt.
She stood there by the tent, uncertain if she should discuss the dwarf’s news now or not. Maric and Loghain would just want to hear it again, and she was hardly in the mood to repeat herself. So she waited as Katriel watched, and the minutes passed with excruciating slowness.
Had Maric and Katriel continued to see each other after that night? She wanted desperately to ask but couldn’t bear to. She had avoided Maric back in Gwaren, and he had been too busy to notice. Once they were at sea, they were on different ships, but this made it harder to dodge the thoughts running rampant in her head.
This was so unlike him. All the years she had known him, she had never seen him chase after anyone. Some men did, even after they were married. She had been raised by a father clueless in such matters ever since her mother died long ago, but she knew that much. But what would the proper ladies of the court think of this? Rowan was a soldier, and no stranger to the lusts that men possessed—especially those of her fellow soldiers, men who could die tomorrow fighting what sometimes seemed a hopeless cause. Should she even be concerned? She was no lady of the court, and it seemed that to Maric she was more
Part of her had held out hope that Maric might come to her of his own accord. If this was more than a single night’s desire, if this was . . . something else . . . then she deserved to know.
Katriel pointed to the small pot lying by the fire. “I can boil some more water if you like, my lady. I boiled some earlier, but I needed to change His Highness’s dressings.”
“No, that’s not necessary.” Rowan said. “And there’s no need to keep calling me that, not out here.”
The elf frowned and lowered her gaze, busying herself by picking up a shirt she had been mending. Maric’s, Rowan assumed. She seemed too nettled to sew, however, and eventually put the shirt down in her lap with an exasperated sigh. “You all do exactly the same thing,” she said. “Even the commander, Loghain. It is as if you believe you are doing me a favor by pretending that we are equals.” Her tone was crisp and disapproving. “But we are not. I am not your servant, but I will always be an elf. To pretend otherwise is insulting.”
Startled, Rowan had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something far less kind than would be helpful. “You’re not from Ferelden, then,” she finally managed.
“Not originally. I was . . . brought here from Orlais.”
“I would have thought you might have learned by now. Orlesians might believe in the righteousness of their empire and that the Maker Himself put their rulers on their thrones, but it is not like that here. Here all men are proved by their deeds, even kings.”
Katriel snorted derisively. “Do you truly believe that?”
“Don’t you?” Rowan asked, annoyed. “What are you doing here, if you don’t believe that? Why would you help the rebellion in the first place?”
Katriel stiffened, and her eyes became hard, making Rowan regret her words. Many of the men who had been driven to the rebellion had done so out of desperation. They had difficult lives, and she could only imagine how bad it could get for an elf like Katriel. Rowan was hardly wealthy, living as she did, but even so, she knew little of true hardship. “I’m sorry,” Rowan sighed. “I don’t have any right to—”
“Of course you do.” Katriel cut her off. “Don’t be foolish. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I only meant—”
“I know what you meant.” The elf stared into the fire, her eyes picking up the flickering of the flames. The harsh lines of her frown deepened. “I am not here for any love of Ferelden, or out of any hatred of Orlais. There was a time I would never have dreamed that I might do what I have, but I have discovered that even I have limits. Some things are worth protecting.”
Even so, there was something about Katriel’s demeanor that rankled. What kind of servant was she that she spoke so? That she rode horses and knew how to use a dagger? She had never claimed to be a milkmaid, Rowan reminded herself, but there was certainly more to her than met the eye. There was far, far more than the timid, frightened elven maid that she and Maric had discovered being assaulted in Gwaren. She had been exhausted then, and unarmed, but still something did not sit right.
Perhaps it was jealousy. The way Maric had looked at Katriel, like she was an exotic and intoxicating flower, was a way he had never looked at Rowan.
She realized that Katriel was staring at her again and hurried to explain. “I never meant to insult you. I was merely trying to be friendly.”
“Oh? Is that what you call it?”
Rowan frowned. “Yes. It is.”
“Are we to be friendly then, my lady? Is that what you are suggesting?”
“It would be easier,” Rowan snapped. “If you’d prefer we be something else, then by all means, let me know.” The two of them locked gazes, and Rowan did not flinch. Neither did Katriel. In the cold silence that ensued, Rowan decided she had given this woman her last apology.
“What’s going on?” The groggy voice came from the lean-to. Bleary-eyed, rumpled, and with his head bandaged, Maric looked more than a little worn for the days he had spent sleeping. For a moment, the challenge between Rowan and Katriel lingered, and neither of them responded to Maric’s query. Then Katriel turned, harshness melting into a warm smile. Without responding, she went over to help Maric stand up unsteadily and led him to sit by the campfire. Shirtless, he rubbed his arms vigorously and complained about the chilly breeze.
Rowan watched quietly as Katriel presented him the mostly mended shirt, which he accepted gratefully and slipped on. There was an awkward familiarity between them. His words hitched, and the elf seemed to find
