“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.”
She fought the urge to feel sorry for him, to pat him on the shoulders and tell him it would be all right. “Somewhat, yes,” she commented.
Maric looked up at her, his eyes moist. “Your father is dead. You made a huge sacrifice to come and find me. I understand, I just can’t help but think of them all. They were there because of me.”
Rowan sat down stiffly, saying nothing.
“My father once led the outlaw camp too near a nest of blight wolves,” Loghain said softly. “He knew they were there, but took us anyway because the other direction led us to the law. We lost fourteen people, six of them children.” He grimaced at the memory. “My father was . . . upset. He wanted everyone to stop looking to him for guidance. Sister Ailis told him that she would rather have a leader who found it difficult to lead than one who found it easy.”
He reached across the fire and patted Maric reassuringly on the shoulder, in the awkward manner of one who was completely unfamiliar with such gestures. Maric stared at Loghain in astonishment. “Wow, you’re pretty good at that,” he chuckled.
“Shut up.” Loghain grimaced.
“I agree with Maric.” Rowan smiled grimly. “Console me, now.”
“You know”—he looked at her with complete seriousness—“the Arl may not be dead. Maric isn’t dead. Just because the dwarf told you there’s a head in front of the palace doesn’t mean it has to be your father’s.”
She was surprised by his answer and fought to hold back sudden tears. “You
“There might not be any head.”
She shrugged. “I hope you’re right.” She didn’t believe it, however.
The three of them sat there in front of the fire, watching it slowly begin to dwindle in strength. Maric huddled in his shirt, shivering. They shared a sense of exhaustion that left them hollow and empty.
“I guess we should decide what to do,” Maric finally announced with a deep sigh. “We’re bad at this, aren’t we?”
“Perhaps the army is better off without us?” Loghain suggested, amused.
“Better off without Maric, maybe,” Rowan commented.
“Ow!” Maric chuckled. “I felt that! I’ll remind you both that it was your idea to save me. I would have been fine killing those . . . six soldiers? Were there six?”
“Try eight,” Rowan said dryly.
“Try eleven,” Loghain corrected. “The three Katriel killed.”
Rowan rolled her eyes. “Ah, yes. Let’s not forget her.”
“I thought I was just seeing double.” Maric smiled. Then he looked at Rowan queerly. “You slapped me.”
“Would you like me to do it again?”
“Why did you slap me?”
Loghain cleared his throat to get their attention. “We were deciding what to do,” he reminded them. “I think the only thing we can do is try to find a route through the Brecilian Forest. If we can reach it, that is.”
Maric nodded glumly. “Do we have any other choice?”
“Actually you do,” came Katriel’s quiet voice as she returned to the camp. She carried the rabbits, freshly skinned, as well as a small bundle of wood and sticks under one arm. Maric stood to help relieve her burden, and she immediately crouched down to restore the fire.
Loghain waited patiently, watching her work, until finally he couldn’t wait any longer. “We have another choice? You heard us speaking, I take it?”
“Half the countryside could hear the three of you, ser. I was not trying to, but I heard most of it from the stream.” She dug around with the new wood, and the flames roared back to life, the moist bark hissing and popping violently as it began to blacken. “And yes, you have another option.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Rowan sighed.
Katriel nodded, frowning. “I know, my lady. I am merely . . . hesitant to mention it.” Satisfied with the fire, she took the carcasses from Maric and began skewering them on a pair of branches. “Have you heard of the Deep Roads?”
Loghain nodded slowly. “The underground roads that once belonged to the dwarven kingdoms. But they no longer exist.”
“Oh, they exist. The dwarves closed off the Deep Roads when they fell to the darkspawn long ago. The entrance into the Deep Roads from Orzammar is sealed, normally.” She looked at Loghain pointedly. “You can, however, enter them from the surface . . . if you know where to look.”
Maric blinked. “And you . . . know where to look?”
Katriel nodded. “I do, Your Highness. Or, rather, I believe I do.”
“And one of these . . . Deep Roads goes to Gwaren?”
“Believe it or not, Your Highness, Gwaren was built on top of a dwarven outpost. The humans came later, to use the port that the dwarves had built and abandoned. They even took the outpost’s name, though they doubtless no longer remember it.”
“And just how do you remember it?” Rowan asked. “How do you know this?”
