Maric glanced at his hands and saw that they were still filthy, stained practically up to his elbows with dried blood and dirt. He accepted the wet rag without comment.
“That is a great deal of blood on your hands,” she said pointedly.
“It’s not mine. Mostly.”
Her gaze was even, calculating. “And how do you feel about that?”
He wiped his hands slowly, keeping his own eyes firmly on the task. He knew what she was asking. His first instinct back in the forest had been to keep his identity secret, and it was probably the correct one. After all, Sister Ailis had said it herself: these people were desperate. Maric had no idea what the usurper would pay for him, but it was probably more than these people had ever known. You didn’t have to be poor to know that the promise of wealth could corrupt anyone. He wondered how many gold sovereigns it had taken to put that sword through his mother’s gut.
“He attacked me. I was defending myself.” His voice sounded hollow and fake, even to himself. “They killed my mother.”
Saying it out loud didn’t make it feel any more real.
The sister watched him a moment longer, her eyes sharp. “Maker watch over her,” she intoned, relenting.
Maric hesitated. “Maker watch over her,” he repeated, his voice husky with grief. Sister Ailis placed her hands on his, a gesture of understanding. He jerked his hands away more roughly than he intended, but she said nothing. For a long, awkward pause he stared at his half-cleaned hands. She took the bloodied rag from him and soaked it again.
Lamely, he changed the subject. “So if you are a priest, what are you doing here?”
The sister smiled, nodding as if this were a question she had heard many times before. “When the Maker returned to the world, He chose for Himself a bride that would be His prophet. He could have looked to the great Imperium, with its wealth and its powerful mages. He could have looked to the civilized lands of the west, or the cities of the northern coasts. But instead He looked to a barbarian people on the very edge of Thedas.”
“
“An educated man?” The sister seemed impressed, but Maric cursed his need to show off. She cradled the golden holy symbol around her neck, regarding it as one might an old friend. “People forget that Ferelden wasn’t always as it is now, the homeland of the Maker’s prophet. Once it was reviled by the civilized world.” She smiled gently, her eyes twinkling. “Sometimes that which is most precious can be found where you would least expect to.”
“But aren’t these people . . . ?”
“Criminals? Thieves? Murderers?” She shrugged. “I am here to guide them and help them with their struggle, as best I can. The things that each of them has done shall, in the end, be judged by the Maker and no one else.”
“The magisters judged Andraste in the end, after her crusade. They burned her on the cross for her troubles, you know.”
Her chuckle was amused. “Yes, I seem to recall hearing that somewhere.”
They were interrupted as Loghain marched into the hut. He was cleaner than Maric remembered, and now wore armor fashioned from studded leather straps. It looked heavy, and the great bow slung over his shoulder was intimidating. Unusually good equipment for a poacher, Maric thought to himself. Perhaps sensing the scrutiny, Loghain glared at him. Unlike with the sister, there was nothing guarded about the suspicion in his eyes. Suddenly self-conscious, Maric pulled the blanket up to cover his lack of clothing.
“So he’s decided not to sleep the entire day away,” Loghain commented dryly, not taking his gaze away from Maric.
“He is doing better,” the sister noted. She picked the water bowl off the floor. “His injuries were not inconsiderable. You did well in bringing him here, Loghain.”
His eyes flicked toward her. “We’ll see about that. Has he said anything to you?”
Maric raised his hand. “Err . . . I’m right here. . . .”
Amused, Sister Ailis arched a brow at Loghain. “Indeed. Why don’t you speak to him?”
“I intend to.” Then, to Maric: “My father wants to see you.” Not waiting for a reply, he spun on his heel and marched back out into the sunlight.
The sister motioned toward a pile of clothing in the corner of the room next to the small table. “Your boots are under the table. I’m afraid I had to burn everything else. There is nothing fancy in the pile, but I’m certain you will find something suitable.” She turned to leave.
“Sister Ailis,” Maric called out. She paused at the door, looking back, and suddenly he found himself at a loss for words.
“I wouldn’t keep Gareth waiting,” was all she said. And then she was gone.
Maric stepped out into the camp. In the bright afternoon it almost seemed like any other bustling village. Clothes were being beaten on rocks in the nearby stream, rabbit meat was being smoked at several central fires, tents were being mended by clutches of chattering women, small children were scampering underfoot. They might have been thinner and filthier than he was accustomed to, but it was not all that different from other places in Ferelden. The Orlesians were hardly the kindest rulers. There was plenty of refuse about, enough to tell him they had camped here for months. Long enough to build the hut he had just walked out of, at least. Several tough-looking men garbed mostly in rags marked Maric’s appearance and openly stared at him with chilling, calculating looks. Loghain’s fine leather armor was definitely the exception here.
Looking around, it was easy enough to spot Loghain standing not far away and speaking to a larger man that Maric assumed must be his father. The man was dressed in the same kind of studded leather armor and had the
