Unknown: Dragon Age

“Umm, yes,” he gulped. “Hello. You must be Gareth?”

“That I am.” Gareth scratched his chin, staring down at Maric as if he were a curiosity. Loghain stood a step behind, his expression now decidedly neutral. “My son tells me you ran into a bit of trouble near Lothering. You were being chased by Bann Ceorlic’s men.”

“There were others, too, but yes.”

He nodded slowly. “How many were there, exactly?”

“I’m not sure. It seemed like a lot.”

“All in the forest? Bann Ceorlic’s not even from these parts. Do you know why they were there?”

“No,” Maric lied. The lie hung there while they stared at him, Loghain’s eyes narrowing further. Apparently Maric could add “terrible liar” to his list of flaws. Not something he would consider a very kingly virtue, had his mother not constantly told him that the complete opposite was true. Suddenly his throat felt dry and scratchy, but he stood his ground. “They chased me after they killed my friend.”

Gareth pounced quickly. “Your friend? Or your mother?”

Of course Sister Ailis had told him. Maric’s mind was suddenly awhirl, trying to remember what he had and had not said so far. The effort made the lump on the back of his head throb. “My mother is my friend,” he explained lamely.

“And why were you and your mother in the forest? You’ve no more business there than the Bann, surely.”

“We were just . . . traveling through.”

Gareth and his son exchanged a significant look that Maric couldn’t read. The elder man sighed and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Look, Hyram,” he began, his tone completely reasonable, “with our situation here . . . we have to be very careful, always. If the King has soldiers out there, we need to know why.”

Maric said nothing, and Gareth’s expression darkened with anger. He turned and gestured at the other people in the camp, some of whom had begun to gather around. “You see these people?” Gareth stated evenly. “They are my responsibility. I aim to keep them safe. If those soldiers are coming this way—”

Maric looked around nervously, increasingly aware of the growing crowd he was attracting. He swallowed hard. “I wish I knew.”

“I shouldn’t have brought him,” Loghain swore.

Gareth barely heard his son, however. Instead he stared at Maric with a mystified expression. “Why would they be after you?” His brows furrowed. “What have you done?”

“I haven’t done anything .”

“He’s lying!” Loghain seethed. He drew his belt knife and stepped forward menacingly. The crowd of onlookers murmured excitedly in response, smelling blood. “Let me kill him, Father. This is my fault. I should never have brought him here.”

Gareth’s expression was unchanged. “He’s not lying.”

“What does it matter? We need to get rid of him, so let’s do it now.” Loghain lunged forward at Maric, but Gareth interposed an arm between them. Loghain stopped short, staring at his father with surprised confusion, but Gareth was still looking intently at Maric.

Maric stepped back uncertainly, but several men with deep frowns blocked his path. “Look,” he said slowly, “I can just leave. I didn’t mean to bring any of you harm.”

“No,” Gareth stated. It was the sort of tone that left no

room for argument. He glanced at Loghain. “How certain are you that you weren’t followed?”

Loghain considered the question. “We lost them halfway back. No doubt about it.” He grimaced. “That doesn’t mean they can’t find us. We’ve been here too long. How many locals know we’re out here by now?”

His father nodded, accepting the answer, and then looked back at Maric. “I’ve sent men out, and they’ll find out what’s going on soon enough. If we’re in danger, I’d appreciate knowing it now. Are we?”

Inside, Maric quailed. Bann Ceorlic and the others would surely keep looking for him, and eventually they would track him down. For a single moment, he considered telling them everything. But would they even believe him? And if they did believe him, would that be better or worse? “Yes,” he finally blurted out. “Yes, I . . . You’re in danger if you keep me here.”

Loghain snorted derisively and turned to Gareth. “Father, we’ll find out if we’re in trouble soon enough. We don’t need him here to make it worse. We should kill him to be safe.”

Several of the nearby men nodded, their eyes shining dangerously. Gareth, however, frowned at Loghain. “No. We won’t be doing that.”

“Why not?”

“I said no.” Father and son locked glares. The crowd was dead silent, not eager to get involved in what was evidently an old argument. Maric kept quiet. He wasn’t an idiot .

“Fine.” Loghain finally relented, rolling his eyes. “Then let’s pull up. Let’s not wait.”

Gareth considered it. “No.” He shook his head. “We’ll wait for the men to return. We still have time.” He then spoke to one of the burlier men standing nearby. “Yorin, take Hyram—or whatever his name is—back to the sister for now. Watch him.” The man nodded as Gareth raised his voice to address the

many others who had gathered around the spectacle. “Everyone! We may need to pull up soon! I want everyone alert!” The decision had been made and they knew it. Already the crowd was dispersing, though their looks and whispers were agitated. They were frightened.

Loghain shot a dark look at Maric, who was taken by the shoulder and led away. Behind him, he heard Loghain speak to his father. “I bet I could get the truth out of him. The whole truth.”

“It may come to that. For now, we treat him as he appears to be: a frightened young man who needs our help.”

Gareth’s tone was final and Maric heard nothing more of the exchange—Yorin was steering Maric back toward the log hut, and he didn’t struggle. Overhead, above the tall trees, dark clouds were already obscuring the afternoon sun. It was going to rain, and hard.

“Well, who do you think he is, then?”

Loghain ignored Potter’s question as he restrung his bow. One of the small contingent of elves who traveled with the camp, Potter could be counted on to do little more than laze about and spread idle gossip, and Loghain didn’t want to contribute to the growing panic any more than he already had. It would have been far better for everyone if his father had let him force “Hyram” to spill whatever secrets he was withholding. And he was withholding something—Loghain could almost smell it. For a moment there it had seemed that Hyram was going to tell them, but then nothing. And Father had let him walk away.

“Well, come on!” Potter insisted, kneeling beside Loghain. “You must know something! You were walking with him all night, weren’t you?”

The elf was missing most of one of his long delicate ears,

making his head look decidedly lopsided. He also had a nasty scar down his face, leaving one empty eye socket and a permanent sneer. That these had been “presents” from an Orlesian lord was all Potter had ever let out about it.

A slaver, Loghain guessed. In most cities, elves lived freely enough in their slums, the poorest of the poor. Their enslavement had ended long ago at the hands of the prophet Andraste, but the practice still secretly flourished in the more remote corners of the Empire. Potter had come close to speaking of his ordeal one night when they had been deep into the drink, the bitterness threatening to spill out of him like so much poison. But then he had swallowed it all down even further, flinching from company until he had successfully numbed himself into oblivion.

Everyone had their secrets. Loghain sighed and forced himself to give Hyram the same benefit of the doubt as his father had. It was not easy.

Читать дальше