Meghren threw himself down upon a padded settee, yawning again and rubbing his forehead. “Is this what passes for an evening of entertainment in this backwater? Did you hear the musicians they brought in?”
Severan shook his head. “Before or after you had them sent running from the chamber?”
“Bah! What I would not give for a real orchestra! Or a masquerade! The country lords I am sent from Orlais would not know a proper basse danse if it kicked them in the arse!” He snorted with derision and sat up, glaring at Severan. “Do you know what one of those local fools from the Bannorn gave me? Dogs! A pair of filthy dogs!”
“Hounds are valued in Ferelden,” Mother Bronach interjected, her voice laden with disapproval. “Those were warhounds, a mating pair. From such a minor bann, it was a gift that showed great respect, Your Majesty.”
“Great fear, more like,” he sniffed, barely mollified. “I am sure it was some kind of insult, giving me beasts still half covered in dung. All of those backward fools in the Bannorn are alike!”
“It is indeed sad that you must be inflicted with so much dung on your birthday, Your Majesty,” Severan said calmly.
Meghren threw his hands up and sighed. “Tell me, good mage, the news you carry is a response from our Emperor.”
Severan hesitated. “I . . . do have a response, yes, but that is not—”
“Nothing is more urgent than a letter from Florian.”
Severan straightened his robes, steeling himself. “His Imperial Majesty sends his regrets. He is certain that your duties will continue to hold you in Ferelden, and so there is no place within the Imperial court for you now.”
Meghren sank into the cushions. “Ah. Still no forgiveness, then.”
Severan almost sighed in relief. Some days a letter from the Emperor could result in a tantrum or far worse. But not today, evidently. “You were expecting a different response than the last fourteen attempts?” he asked reprovingly.
“I am the eternal optimist, good mage.”
“The definition of insanity, Your Majesty, is to perform the same action repeatedly and expect different results.”
Meghren tittered with amusement. “You are calling me insane?”
“Insanely persistent.”
Mother Bronach’s lips thinned. “You are still a king, Your Majesty.”
“Better to have been made a lowly baron in the provinces,” the King complained. “Then I could still keep a house in the Val Royeaux, still visit the Grand Cathedral.” He sighed heavily. “Ah, well. I may be the King of a backwater, but at least it is my backwater, yes?”
“Shall I begin another response? Fifteenth time’s the charm?” Severan asked.
“Perhaps later. We shall see if we can wear him down, yes?” He then considered for a moment, and his look became serious. “Now, then. This news you carry, it is from the Hinterlands?”
“Indeed.”
“Well? Out with it.”
Severan took a deep breath. “The information I received was accurate. The rebel army was exactly where it was supposed to be. The attack, however, did not have the result I wished. Many were killed, but the rebels slipped the noose.”
Meghren’s brows shot up. “Oh?”
“There is more. Prince Maric lives, and is with the rebels. He led a distraction and held out with a handful of men atop a cliff before escaping with the rest of his army.” Severan held out a large scrap of cloth. It was tattered and soiled, but the deep purple color could still be seen. “The rebels were inspired, rather than dispirited.”
Nettled, the King frowned at Severan as his fingers drummed on the arm of the settee. “Inspired? You told me he would not be there. The boy was supposed to be killed along with the mother.”
“He was tracked to a camp of outlaws,” Severan answered slowly. “They were slaughtered, but somehow he escaped into the Wilds and survived.”
“So am I to understand this correctly?” Meghren continued to drum his fingers, his tone irritable. “The boy, the incompetent prince, managed not only to escape your men in the forest, but trekked through the Wilds and appeared safe and sound, just in time to lead the spirited defense of the rebel army?”
“I am as incredulous as you, Your Majesty.”
Mother Bronach’s face was hard with anger. “His spells bring you nothing, King Meghren! Throw him out! He serves his pride and nothing else!”
“And what have you done for the throne except provide a string of platitudes each more useless than the last while you demand tribute for your hungry flames?”
Her eyes went wide with outrage. “The Maker will never allow Ferelden to prosper while it keeps a cancer in its very heart!”
“Your Maker is gone, as is said in your own Chant of Light. He has abandoned His own creation and has no care for anything further. So spare us your useless prattle, woman.”
“Blasphemy!” she roared.
“Silence!” Meghren shouted, his face twisted in fury. Mother Bronach calmed reluctantly in response as the King rubbed his face in agitation. “You said that without their beloved Queen, the rebels, they would be done, Severan. You said you could wipe them out with the one blow.”
“I . . . Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Pride,” the priest declared.
Meghren raised a hand to cut off Severan’s reply. “Obviously, this boy Maric is more than you assumed.”
“Perhaps.” Severan was not ready to assume the opposite was true just yet, either. “It is also possible that he found help, somehow. He certainly has the support of the Queen’s lieutenants. The daughter of the former Arl of Redcliffe, Lady Rowan, is said to have slain your cousin Felix in the battle, for instance. Rode him down in cold blood.”
“Felix?” Meghren shrugged. “I never liked that one.”
“Still, the backbone of the rebels proved to be far stiffer than I’d imagined. I do apologize for my mistake, Your Majesty.” He bowed his head down low. “I ask for another chance.”
Meghren grinned slyly. “You have something in mind?”
“I always have something in mind.”
The young king chuckled and glanced over at the Grand Cleric, who stared intently down at her hands folded in her lap. “I suppose your advice is the same as always, my sweet lady?”
“Marry a daughter of Ferelden,” she said wearily, as if she had said this many times before, “and produce a child. You cannot rule this country until you are truly its King.”
All humor vanished from the King. He glared at Mother Bronach, who paled but did not flinch. “I rule this country,” he snapped, “and I am its King. You would do well to remember this.”
“I speak from the perspective of your people, Your Majesty. They are good, simple folk who could accept you—”
“They are ignorant fools,” he snapped, “and they will accept me because they have no choice. So long as the chevaliers remain, so do I.” He calmed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Then he turned back to Severan. “You have another chance, good mage. We will do things your way the once more, but only because I have no wish to marry some dog-faced local. That is clear?”
Severan bowed again. “I will not fail you, Your Majesty.”
Severan returned to his quarters deep within the palace, greatly relieved Meghren had not sent him back to the Circle of Magi. Within the Circle, under the watchful gaze of the Chantry’s templars, his every spell would be scrutinized and monitored. At least in King Meghren’s employ he had power, even if he had to use it carefully. Men like Meghren were permitted by the Circle to have one of their mages as an advisor under the condition that the mage was watched by the Chantry. Meghren could defy Mother Bronach’s wishes only to a point.