She remained silent, her mouth thinning into an angry frown.
“Aren’t you happy to see me at all?” he asked.
She punched him. Her gauntleted fist slamming into Maric’s jaw sent him sprawling on his back. Lifting a curious brow, Loghain watched Maric lie there, groaning and clutching his face, and then turned back to regard the female knight. She was furious now, her look daring him to go ahead and defend Maric.
He sheathed his sword. “Yes, you definitely know him.”
Maric was glad to see Rowan. Overjoyed, in fact. Or had been, until she punched him in the face. As far as he was concerned, there had been entirely too much punching in the face lately. After picking himself up off the ground, hasty explanations were made—and none too soon. Rowan had stirred herself into a fury. He had always had a knack for provoking her temper. When he was a child he often blithely enraged Rowan and then ran to his mother for protection. She would simply smile down at him in amusement and leave him to Rowan’s tender mercies. By the time he got older, he’d learned to see the warning signs for himself . . . though apparently that skill had become a tad rusty.
Rowan and her men had seen their fire from a distance and assumed Loghain was Maric’s captor. In fact, she had seen Maric reclining and believed him unconscious or dead. Upon discovering that he not only didn’t run away when he had the chance but actually defended Loghain, she had then assumed they were conspirators and Maric had . . . what? Run away, he supposed, though she stopped short of saying just that. It took a considerable amount of convincing before Rowan grudgingly believed that they had been on their way to the rebel camp and that Loghain was, in fact, responsible for Maric’s survival to date.
“Oh,” Rowan said, finally looking at Loghain. She didn’t seem all that impressed. “I suppose I owe you an apology, then, ser.” Her overt suspicion didn’t make it sound much like an apology, but Loghain seemed more amused than offended.
“It seems that you do,” he said, offering his hand. “Loghain Mac Tir, at your service.”
“Rowan Guerein.” Her look remained dubious, probably since most men would have bowed and perhaps taken her fingers in the usual courtly fashion, even if Maric knew she didn’t care for it. She took Loghain’s hand, and he gave it a firm shake. She removed her hand from the contact a bit too eagerly, as if Loghain had some unsightly and possibly infectious skin condition that she was much too polite to comment on. “And I doubt I’ll be needing your service, ser.”
“It’s a figure of speech, not a proposal.”
“It’s Lady Rowan,” Maric interjected helpfully. “She’s the daughter of the Arl of Redcliffe . . . who is probably still with the army, I hope?”
“Yes . . .” Rowan’s gaze lingered uncertainly on Loghain a moment longer before she turned her attention back to Maric. She frowned at him with concern. “We searched everywhere for you, Maric. Father’s all but given you up for dead. He’s wanted to move the army for days, now, but I begged him to let me keep looking.” She softened, touching his cheek with uncharacteristic tenderness. “Maker’s breath, Maric! When we heard what they had done to the queen, we were so afraid they’d killed you, too! Or worse, put you in one of the usurper’s dungeons . . .” She hugged him tightly against her breastplate. “But you’re alive! You are!”
Maric allowed himself to be crushed, sending Loghain a pleading look that said, For the love of the Maker, help me! Loghain merely stood by, appearing vaguely entertained. When Rowan released Maric, she paused and stared at him as if uncertain how to proceed.
“Your mother . . .”
“They killed her in front of me.” He nodded miserably.
“The usurper had her body sent to Denerim. He’s declared a holiday, had her paraded—” She stopped herself short, her voice raw. “You don’t want to know this.”
“No. Probably not.” He’d heard about the usurper’s fondness for putting his enemies on display, and no doubt the Rebel Queen was a great prize for him. His mind shied away from the unbidden images that conjured. None of them were pleasant.
Loghain leaned forward, clearing his throat with exaggerated politeness. “Not to interrupt, Your Ladyship—”
“Rowan will do,” she interrupted.
Loghain glanced questioningly at Maric, who spread his hands as if helpless. “Not to interrupt, Rowan,” he repeated, “but perhaps we should get under way. You might not be the only one who saw our fire.”
She stepped back from Maric, all business once again. Studying the horizon with concern, she nodded. “Good point.” She turned back to the horsemen watching politely from nearby. “Leave two of the horses here. The rest of you can double up. I want you to ride back and inform my father that I’ve found the Prince.”
The men looked uncertain, perhaps reluctant to leave her unguarded. “Go,” she repeated more forcefully. “We will be right behind you.” And they went, exchanging their places on the horses without comment—the one soldier whom Loghain had dragged from his steed limping and needing assistance—before riding off in a cloud.
“Father’s had some odd reports,” Rowan commented to Maric as they left. “There’s been a lot of men sighted in the Hinterlands. The usurper’s men, looking for you—or so we thought.” She sighed heavily. “We may have stayed here too long.”
“And you sent away your guards?”
“As distractions,” Loghain said with a hint of approval.
Rowan remounted her horse. “If we did run into the enemy, a few more men wouldn’t make much difference.” She glanced at Maric and smiled mischievously. “Besides, as I recall, you’re a fine rider. We’ll just outrun them if need be.”
Maric ignored her and mounted his own horse. It was a shaky business, requiring several bounces as the startled animal proceeded to pace forward and drag him along before he was actually on top. Once perched precariously on the saddle, he did his best to try to stay there. His discomfort was pronounced enough to make the horse nicker nervously. “I fall off horses,” he explained to Loghain with a sickly grin. “It’s this thing I do.”
“Let’s not run into anyone, then.” Loghain seemed to have no trouble riding, and as if to prove it, he trotted around Maric and brought his horse to stand beside Rowan’s. Maric watched him with a grimace and thought, Well, of course he’s a good rider, too. Why wouldn’t he be?
Rowan seemed to be thinking the same thing, glancing curiously at him. “You have experience riding? That’s unusual for a—” She paused, searching for a tactful word.
“A commoner?” he finished for her. He snorted derisively. “That’s an interesting worldview coming from someone who lives in the wilderness and probably has to beg her meals from cowards.”
Rowan’s jaw set and her eyes flashed with anger. Maric decided against warning Loghain about her temper; he was a grown man, after all. The sort who could ride and everything. “I meant,” she said curtly, “that it’s not everyone who has access to horses.”
“My father raised them on our farmhold. He taught me.”
“Did he teach you your manners, too?”
“No, that was my mother,” he replied coldly. “Or at least she tried to before she was raped and killed by the Orlesians.”
Rowan’s eyes were wide as Loghain turned and rode away.
Maric steered his horse over toward hers with difficulty. “So,” he announced, “that was a bit awkward.”
She stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two extra heads.
“Just to change the subject—” He cleared his throat. “—are we planning on following those other men you sent off? Because if we are, they’re getting out of sight really quickly. Really quickly. In fact . . . Well, there they go.”