Dragon Age

them searched for an answer that wasn’t forthcoming, and none of them wanted to admit it. The truth hovered in the air before them like a black, unwelcome cloud.

“So that’s it?” Maric’s voice was cracked with emotion, and he stood up angrily. He looked from Loghain to Rowan and back. “That’s it? If Arl Rendorn is dead and we’re here, that means that nobody’s there to lead the army!”

“There is still the chain of command,” Loghain grunted. He looked troubled, however, and stared into the fire. “The Arl was not a fool, and neither were his lieutenants. There are men who will do what must be done.”

“You know what I mean,” Maric snapped. He looked like he was trying to hold back enraged tears. “Maker’s breath! Why did you come after me? Why?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Loghain scoffed. “You’re the last of the royal blood.”

“I don’t want to hear that anymore,” Maric sighed in exasperation. “This isn’t about putting the blood of Calenhad on the throne. This is about getting that Orlesian bastard off it. Because if he was a good king for Ferelden, none of this would matter.”

Rowan shook her head. “I think you—”

“No,” he interrupted her. “I know exactly what I’m saying.” He stared hard at Loghain. “Loghain, if you hadn’t come after me, you might have made a difference in that battle. At the very least, you might have gotten more of them out alive.”

Loghain did not meet Maric’s stare, instead frowning into his steepled hands. He said nothing.

Maric sighed deeply and shook his head, his anger evaporating. “You both saved me, and while I’m grateful . . . you have to be prepared to let me go. My mother died. I could die. I would rather die than have the blood of all those men on my hands.”

“You’re insane,” Rowan snapped. “Their blood is not on your hands.”

“If you both had been where you were supposed to be, maybe we might have won. Maybe you could have pulled your men out in time, and you would be in Gwaren right now.”

“I suppose we’ll never know, will we?” Rowan stood up and glared at Maric. “Quit being such a damned idealist. We’re struggling just to survive—have you forgotten?” She walked up to him and pushed his chest, hard. Maric stumbled back into the lean-to and almost knocked it over, barely keeping his feet. He righted himself and stared back at her, more in indignation than in anger.

“I’m sorry you feel guilty that we came after you,” she continued, “but you’re important. Those men would all have willingly laid their lives down for you, had we told them what was at stake. That’s why they were there!”

“I was responsible for them!” he insisted. “Just like you were!”

“We’re responsible for you! You’re the bloody Prince!”

“And this is my command!” he shouted stubbornly.

The stood there, staring at each other, the fire popping loudly in the wind. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him. How very noble he could be, yet at the same time, how very stupid he could be as well. Did he really think she could just abandon him when there was anything she could do about it?

Loghain continued to stare into the fire thoughtfully. “Maybe you have a point, Maric, but there’s no point in fighting over it now. We’re not leading anything at the moment.”

Maric looked over at him. “But when we are . . .”

Loghain glanced up at Maric, eyes intense in the firelight. “Next time, I don’t come to your rescue. You’re on your own.” Something significant passed between the two of them. Rowan could see it, but she couldn’t understand it. Still, Maric seemed pleased by it.

He turned and looked at her next, apparently expecting her to agree with Loghain. She stood there and let him look at her, feeling nothing but rage building up inside her. “Is this a command, then?” she asked, acid dripping from her voice. “A royal command from Prince Maric to one of his commanders?”

Maric set his jaw. “I’m only asking for a promise.”

She slapped him. The crack of the blow sounded in the quiet, his head snapping back. He rubbed his cheek, confusion and hurt in his eyes. Loghain made no comment, only his eyebrows shooting up. “I’d rather the command,” she said icily.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled pitifully. He stumbled backwards and turned to sit back down on the log, his shoulders slumping dejectedly. “I just . . . I suppose this must seem very ungrateful of me.”

She fought the urge to feel sorry for him, to pat him on the shoulders and tell him it would be all right. “Somewhat, yes,” she commented.

Maric looked up at her, his eyes moist. “Your father is dead. You made a huge sacrifice to come and find me. I understand, I just can’t help but think of them all. They were there because of me.”

Rowan sat down stiffly, saying nothing.

“My father once led the outlaw camp too near a nest of blight wolves,” Loghain said softly. “He knew they were there, but took us anyway because the other direction led us to the law. We lost fourteen people, six of them children.” He grimaced at the memory. “My father was . . . upset. He wanted everyone to stop looking to him for guidance. Sister Ailis told him that she would rather have a leader who found it difficult to lead than one who found it easy.”

He reached across the fire and patted Maric reassuringly on the shoulder, in the awkward manner of one who was completely unfamiliar with such gestures. Maric stared at Loghain in astonishment. “Wow, you’re pretty good at that,” he chuckled.

“Shut up.” Loghain grimaced.

“I agree with Maric.” Rowan smiled grimly. “Console me, now.”

“You know”—he looked at her with complete seriousness—“the Arl may not be dead. Maric isn’t dead. Just