Unknown - Dragon Age

Of course, the few local Orlesians who had been unable to flee the terrifying prospect of rebel control were the least pleased by their situation. They were less fortunate folk, servants to the wealthy gentry as well as guardsmen and a handful of merchants and entertainers. Poor or not, Loghain was not

about to risk them proving their loyalty to King Meghren by assassinating Maric. The guards had been rounded up and imprisoned in the manor’s dungeon while the rest were being carefully watched.

They weren’t the only potential problems, Loghain was certain. The smiles of the locals would fade quickly if the wind changed direction, without a doubt. Maric scoffed at the idea, but even Rowan agreed that security needed to be tightened around the manor. Taking over a town was one thing; controlling it was quite something else.

In time, the usurper would rouse a sufficient force that they would push through the Bercilian Passage and attack, and Arl Rendorn worried about exactly when that was going to happen. Gwaren was defensible but difficult to retreat from, after all. Their saving grace was that the sea lanes remained unhindered. Ferelden had never been a seafaring culture, and thus the usurper had been forced to resort to offering exorbitant bounties for those willing to raid ships bound for Gwaren. Much to his frustration, there were few takers. Those nobles who had arrived by ship had reported little in the way of obstruction. If the rumors were to be credited, Meghren was fit to be tied over the ability of the rebels to seemingly come and go as they pleased and already had a new set of heads adorning the palace gates.

Arl Rendorn worried that eventually the Emperor would send the usurper a fleet to patrol the coast, but it had not happened yet. For the moment they were safe. Gwaren’s occupation was a black eye to the Orlesians, showing that Maric was strong enough to hold his own court, the first since his grandfather’s time. So the curious had come.

At least half the room, Loghain surmised, consisted of men and women who had never marched with the rebels. On the surface, these were all loyalists, the old and the dispossessed who all were affecting relief and loyalty at the rebels’

progress. The wine was flowing freely, and all the ruddy faces were smiling broadly, but Loghain wondered at the end of the day how many of them would offer more than encouragement? Very few, he imagined, and even then only if the usurper didn’t find out about it.

Rowan insisted that even their presence was a risk, a level of defiance against the King that they would not have dared before Gwaren was taken. After all, how certain could anyone be that news would not reach Denerim? Some of these men had to be spies. The King was not known for giving anyone the benefit of the doubt, so Rowan was certain that either hope or desperation had brought some of these men here.

Remembering the time they had spent in the Bannorn, Loghain was inclined to agree. Still, diplomacy was Maric’s job.

The hall had reached a fever pitch of chattering voices and clinking wine goblets when Maric finally stood from his seat. Loghain thought he looked small in his black robe, an erminelined garment that they had appropriated from the former owner of the manor. He did look regal, however, and would have looked more so were it not for the nervous sweat dripping from his face.

The noise in the hall hushed, and many of the nobles took their seats at the tables. Loghain remained standing, as did the Arl and Rowan and many of the other rebel guards who watched from the walls. A soldier stepped out from behind Maric’s chair carrying a large staff and a scroll. The staff he ceremoniously stamped on the stone floor three times, the thumping sound ringing throughout the hall and causing the last whispers and fidgets to cease. The soldier presented the scroll and read:

“On this, the ninety-ninth year of the Blessed Age, thou art welcomed to the court of Prince Maric Theirin, son to she who was Queen Moira Theirin and heir to the blood of

Calenhad, First King of Ferelden. Bare not thy blade, and respect shall be shown to thee in turn.”

The soldier stamped the staff again, once, and Loghain quietly joined the entire room in chanting a low and solemn, “Our blades are yours, my lord.” If only it were truth and not a formality.

The soldier put away the scroll and bowed low to Maric before withdrawing. Maric continued to stand there, gauging the crowd. Some of the nobles began whispering to each other, but most watched closely.

He’s going to disregard everything the Arl told him, isn’t he? Loghain thought to himself. Rendorn had spent many hours coaching Maric on exactly what he should say, the formalities observed in a true court. But Loghain saw in Maric’s eyes that he had different plans.

You cheeky bastard , Loghain thought.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Maric began. His voice carried easily throughout the quiet hall. “Many of you have been asking me about it tonight. I know some of you were at Redcliffe when Arl Rendorn declared my mother the rightful Queen, but I didn’t ask you here to witness a coronation.”

A stir of surprised voices erupted, but Maric held up a hand. “When I am coronated”—he raised his voice over the din—“I intend for it to be while seated on Calenhad’s throne and with the crown that currently sits on the usurper’s head!”

Shouts and cheers greeted Maric’s cry, many of the nobles standing and clapping their hands vigorously. Some were quiet and perhaps even shocked, Arl Rendorn among them. Loghain watched the poor man pale, seeing his careful coaching go awry. Maric looked out at the hall intensely, fire in his eyes. Loghain approved.

“So why are you here?” Maric began again, before the shouting subsided. He walked forward into the hall, moving slowly among the tables. The noise in the room quickly quieted. “Part

of it is to recognize that we have made the first step in reclaiming our homeland. If only Teyrn Voric were still alive. He was a friend of my mother’s, and I would have been very happy to see him sitting back on this chair that belonged to him. But we know what happened to him, don’t we?”

The room grew somber, and the few whispers that continued stopped as other nobles looked up at Maric. They knew only too well. “Teyrn Voric was accused of giving us safe harbor, so Meghren had his entire family hanged. He let them dangle in Denerim Square until they rotted, and then he gave Gwaren to one of his own cousins.”

The room was silent. Many eyes dropped, some in remembrance and some in shame. There was no one present who was not painfully aware of the price the Orlesians had exacted after their victory, or of the sacrifices that had been made by those Fereldans who had chosen to remain with their holdings and their families rather than join the rebellion.

“Meghren’s power is in the chevaliers, those men sent to him by the Emperor. Without them, the Fereldan people would have risen up long ago. I hear your question: ‘What can we do against the chevaliers? They defeated us once during the invasion, and even if we defeat them now, the Emperor will just keep sending more!’

“We have gained new information, information that gives us a rare opportunity to strike back against the chevaliers themselves.” He paused to let that news sink in, and the level of surprised whispering increased. “We suffered a great loss to learn this. Arl Byron is dead, but because of him we now know that the pay for the chevaliers is being sent from Orlais and will arrive at the fortress of West Hill on the northern coast. Well over five thousand sovereigns—their pay for the entire year.”

The whispering had dropped to a hush, and for a moment the entire room stared at Maric with wide, startled eyes. “Without that coin, Meghren will be forced to either outrage

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