Unknown: Dragon Age

Outside, off in the distance, a bell began to ring.

It would be time for them to arrive soon, then. The flames in the brazier bathed the statue above him in a soft glow, while the rest of the chantry was left in shadow. The darkness made everything serene, he thought. Andraste looked down upon him kindly, her hands clasped in prayer to the Maker.

It was her most common depiction. Andraste as the prophet, the bride of the Maker, and the gentle savior. If the statue were more truthful, Andraste would have held a sword in her hand. The Chantry didn’t like to dwell on the fact that their prophet had been a conqueror; her words had stirred the barbarian hordes to invade the civilized world, and she had spent her entire life on the battlefield. There had likely been nothing gentle about her at all.

And she had been betrayed, too, had she not? Maferath, the barbarian warlord, had grown jealous of playing second husband to the Maker. The more lands he conquered, the more the people adored Andraste, and he wished glory for himself. So he sold his wife to the magisters, and they burned her at the stake, and Maferath became synonymous with betrayal. It was the oldest story in Thedas, one that was told time and time again by the Chantry thoughout the ages.

He wondered if Andraste won her battle in the end, even though she met her end in flames. But somehow Maric felt more like Maferath. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Footsteps on the stone alerted Maric to the fact that they had arrived. Slowly he turned about and watched as a group of men filed into the chantry one by one. The bright brazier was behind him, which meant that these men no doubt saw only his silhouette . . . and that was good, for he didn’t want these men to see his face.

Bann Ceorlic was the first. The man had the good grace to look uncomfortable and keep his eyes on the ground. The four others that followed him were all familiar to Maric. Even though he had last seen them at night, in a dark forest, he knew them all too well. These were the men who had betrayed his mother. They had lured her with promises of alliance and then killed her where she stood.

All five of them shuffled in and stood before the altar,

avoiding Maric’s gaze. The altar was several stairs above them, and so Maric felt as if he loomed over these men. Good. Let them wait in the silence as he stared down at them. Let them see Andraste staring down at them, too, and let them wonder if she was praying for their forgiveness or offering them their last rites.

A bead of sweat rolled down Ceorlic’s bald head. None of them said a word.

Loghain strode into the chantry shortly behind them, and the door was closed. He nodded across the chamber to Maric, and Maric nodded back. The tension that had grown between them was nowhere to be seen for the moment, but Maric knew it wasn’t gone completely. They had barely spoken since the army had left Gwaren, and perhaps that was for the best. Maric didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to go back to the easy banter they had once enjoyed, not this cool silence that had replaced it. Part of him knew it wasn’t going to happen. The way Loghain went stony silent and blank whenever Rowan was present, the way Loghain studiously avoided them both, told him that the night with Katriel had changed something between them. Perhaps for good.

So be it. There was nothing to do now but what had to be done.

“Gentlemen,” Maric greeted the five noblemen coolly.

They bowed low. “Prince Maric,” Bann Ceorlic said cordially. His eyes shifted about nervously, searching the shadows of the chantry behind Maric. Perhaps for guards? He could look all he liked, Maric thought, for he wasn’t going to find any. “I must say,” the man continued, “we were all rather . . . surprised when we received word of your proposal.”

“You’re here, so it seems you are at least willing to consider it.”

“Of course we will,” the Bann smiled solicitously. “It is not easy to see the Orlesians gorging themselves upon Ferelden’s

wealth, after all. None of us is pleased to live under the tyrant on our throne.”

Maric snorted. “But you’ve made the best of it.”

“We’ve had to do what was necessary to survive.” The man had the good grace at least to lower his eyes when he said that. What he “had to do,” after all, had been to kill Maric’s mother. Maric stared down at the Bann, trying to control his temper. It was not easy.

One of the other noblemen, the youngest of the five present, stepped forward. He had curly black hair and a goatee, and slightly swarthy skin that spoke of his Rivaini mother. Bann Keir, as Maric recalled. Maric didn’t remember the young man from that night, but everything Maric had learned said that he had indeed been there.

“My lord,” Bann Keir said politely, “you have asked for us to support your cause, to supply you with our men that currently march with the usurper’s army, in return for amnesty.” He traded a quick look with Bann Ceorlic and then smiled smoothly at Maric once again. “Is that all? Our forces are not insignificant, after all. To ask us to abandon the usurper’s side solely in exchange for your . . . favor . . . implies that your position is stronger than it is.”

He was charismatic, Maric had to give him that. Bann Ceorlic looked displeased, and Maric suspected that the young bann had hurried up and gotten to the point far more quickly than Ceorlic would have liked, but the other old men all stared at the ground in a manner that said they agreed. They wanted more.

“You killed Queen Moira Theirin, murdered her in cold blood.” Maric said the words surprisingly easily. He walked down the steps toward them, regarding the young Bann Keir with a look that he hoped seemed neutral. “That is regicide, an unforgiveable crime. I offer you forgiveness anyhow, in

exchange for doing what is already your duty, and yet you want more?”

“Our duty,” Bann Ceorlic interjected, “is to support the King.”

“An Orlesian king,” Maric snapped.

“That has been put on the throne with the approval of the Maker.” Ceorlic gestured toward the statue of Andraste. “We are in a difficult position, and the difference between a rebel and our future ruler could be small indeed.”

Maric nodded slowly. He was among them, now, and he stopped before Ceorlic and stared him directly in the face. “And this was why you lied to my mother, lured her to her death with promises of an alliance that was never going to happen? Did you need to do that? Does the Maker approve of treachery, now?”

The nobles backed away uncertainly, Ceorlic with them. He looked at Maric indignantly. “We did as our King bade us to!” Ceorlic and the others beside him drew their swords, glancing at Maric and Loghain with obvious fear on their faces. Loghain drew his blade and stepped forward threateningly. Maric drew his own sword, glittering runes shining in the dim chantry, but did so only calmly and held out a hand to prevent Loghain from moving any farther.

Bann Keir did not retreat, however. He folded his arms and regarded Maric and Loghain contemptuously, not even bothering to draw his blade like the others. “There’s no need to fear them, my friends. Prince Maric needs our troops. He needs them badly, or he wouldn’t have called us here.”

Maric turned toward the young man. “Do I?” he asked, his tone dangerous.

“You do.” Keir shook his head at their swords as if they were only amusing to him. “You don’t think we would have come here without telling everyone in the Bannorn where we

were going? Invited to holy ground, on condition of truce? Do you really think the noble Prince Maric would kill us here, where everyone would know it?” He chuckled lightly. “What would people think?”

Maric smiled coldly. “They would think it was justice,” he said, and barely taking a step, he spun around and lashed out with the dragonbone blade, cleanly severing Bann Keir’s head at the neck.

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