“It’s not going to be good.” Maric grimaced.
She slowly sat down on the log beside him, letting the warmth of the blaze wash over her. “No, it’s not,” she agreed, rubbing her hand over her face in exhaustion. “First things first. At least some of the army still lives. They were routed at West Hill, but not all of them were killed.”
Maric brightened. “Well, that’s not so bad, is it?”
Rowan steeled herself, watching only the dance of the flames on the wood. “My father is dead.” It was strange how easily the words came out. When the dwarf had told her, she thought all the breath had rushed out of her right there in the road. The fact of it had become this . . . weight on her chest that she couldn’t remove.
Maric stared at her, stunned. “No . . . oh, Rowan! What about your family?”
Rowan thought of her two younger brothers, Eamon and Teagan, still with cousins in the Free Marches. She hadn’t even considered how they might be handling the news. Eamon would be fifteen now, Teagan only eight. They were still just boys. “I don’t even know if they’ve heard the news,” she admitted grimly.
Loghain frowned thoughtfully. “Are we certain? That it’s true?” he asked.
“His head is outside the palace, right next to—” She cut herself off, clearing the catch in her throat. “But, no. I’m not sure. The usurper has announced victory, and says that Maric is dead as well.”
Maric looked up from his hands, his eyes hollow. “What?”
“That’s the claim. The Arl and the Prince, both killed at West Hill.” She glanced at Maric, crooking one corner of her mouth in grim amusement. “Apparently your body was not distinguishable from those of regular Fereldan men and thus couldn’t be found, according to the usurper.”
“Well that’s just rude.”
She sighed. “Be that as it may, some of our army managed to flee. According to the merchant, the word is they’ve run to rejoin those we left behind in Gwaren.”
“Then we need to get there, and soon.”
“Not so fast.” She held up her hand. “The usurper is chasing them. Even if we thought we could reach Gwaren before the usurper’s army does, they’ll be blocking the Brecilian Passage. They’re between us and Gwaren.”
“What about hiring a ship?” Maric asked.
She shrugged. “We’ve no money. The merchant says that the roads to the east are all blocked, crawling with soldiers. It’s why he left.”
“Smuggler?” Loghain’s eyebrow shot up.
“That’s what I thought.” She nodded. “We could go back to the northern coast, try to find a—”
“No,” Maric interrupted. “Not north.”
“Then we get off the roads, try to get to the Brecilian Forest? Go through it to Gwaren without using the passage?”
Loghain rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Difficult. I’d need to find a path through the mountains, and I don’t know that area. If we try to stay closer to the passage, it’s bound to be crawling with the usurper’s men.”
None of them spoke. The fire crackled somberly as new gusts of cold wind blew across the camp. Each of them searched for an answer that wasn’t forthcoming, and none of them wanted to admit it. The truth hovered in the air before them like a black, unwelcome cloud.
“So that’s it?” Maric’s voice was cracked with emotion, and he stood up angrily. He looked from Loghain to Rowan and back. “That’s it? If Arl Rendorn is dead and we’re here, that means that nobody’s there to lead the army!”
“There is still the chain of command,” Loghain grunted. He looked troubled, however, and stared into the fire. “The Arl was not a fool, and neither were his lieutenants. There are men who will do what must be done.”
“You know what I mean,” Maric snapped. He looked like he was trying to hold back enraged tears. “Maker’s breath! Why did you come after me? Why?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Loghain scoffed. “You’re the last of the royal blood.”
“I don’t want to hear that anymore,” Maric sighed in exasperation. “This isn’t about putting the blood of Calenhad on the throne. This is about getting that Orlesian bastard off it. Because if he was a good king for Ferelden, none of this would matter.”
Rowan shook her head. “I think you—”
“No,” he interrupted her. “I know exactly what I’m saying.” He stared hard at Loghain. “Loghain, if you hadn’t come after me, you might have made a difference in that battle. At the very least, you might have gotten more of them out alive.”
Loghain did not meet Maric’s stare, instead frowning into his steepled hands. He said nothing.
Maric sighed deeply and shook his head, his anger evaporating. “You both saved me, and while I’m grateful . . . you have to be prepared to let me go. My mother died. I could die. I would rather die than have the blood of all those men on my hands.”
“You’re insane,” Rowan snapped. “Their blood is not on your hands.”
“If you both had been where you were supposed to be, maybe we might have won. Maybe you could have pulled your men out in time, and you would be in Gwaren right now.”
“I suppose we’ll never know, will we?” Rowan stood up and glared at Maric. “Quit being such a damned idealist. We’re struggling just to survive—have you forgotten?” She walked up to him and pushed his chest, hard. Maric stumbled back into the lean-to and almost knocked it over, barely keeping his feet. He righted himself and stared back at her, more in indignation than in anger.
“I’m sorry you feel guilty that we came after you,” she continued, “but you’re important. Those men would all have willingly laid their lives down for you, had we told them what was at stake. That’s why they were there!”
“I was responsible for them!” he insisted. “Just like you were!”
“We’re responsible for you! You’re the bloody Prince!”
“And this is my command!” he shouted stubbornly.
The stood there, staring at each other, the fire popping loudly in the wind. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him. How very noble he could be, yet at the same time, how very stupid he could be as well. Did he really think she could just abandon him when there was anything she could do about it?
Loghain continued to stare into the fire thoughtfully. “Maybe you have a point, Maric, but there’s no point in fighting over it now. We’re not leading anything at the moment.”
Maric looked over at him. “But when we are . . .”
Loghain glanced up at Maric, eyes intense in the firelight. “Next time, I don’t come to your rescue. You’re on your own.” Something significant passed between the two of them. Rowan could see it, but she couldn’t understand it. Still, Maric seemed pleased by it.
He turned and looked at her next, apparently expecting her to agree with Loghain. She stood there and let him look at her, feeling nothing but rage building up inside her. “Is this a command, then?” she asked, acid dripping from her voice. “A royal command from Prince Maric to one of his commanders?”
Maric set his jaw. “I’m only asking for a promise.”
She slapped him. The crack of the blow sounded in the quiet, his head snapping back. He rubbed his cheek, confusion and hurt in his eyes. Loghain made no comment, only his eyebrows shooting up. “I’d rather the command,” she said icily.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled pitifully. He stumbled backwards and turned to sit back down on the log, his shoulders slumping dejectedly. “I just . . . I suppose this must seem very ungrateful of me.”