by David Gaider
For a long moment Cole did nothing, shifting from foot to foot as he watched her. Then he hunched low, placing the stone on the floor beside him. Its flickering intensified, sending his shadow dancing madly across the walls. He could smell the girl even over the cell's foulness: heavy sweat, laced with sick. She trembled, no doubt certain he was here to hurt her. So he waited.
After a time, a pair of reddened eyes peeked out from behind her arms. She was pretty, or had been once. Now she was haggard, exhausted by what ever ordeal she'd gone through to get here. The girl blinked at the glowstone's light, incomprehension warring with terror. She stared at Cole and he stared back.
"You can see me," he said. His relief was palpable.
The girl yelped as if struck, scrambling to get as far away from him as she could. She backed herself into a corner of the cell like a caged animal, panting rabidly. Her filthy hands clawed at the walls, as if doing so might allow her to get through. Cole waited until her desperate efforts slowed and she locked eyes on him once again.
"You can see me," he repeated, more confidently this time.
"I didn't mean to burn it down," she whispered through ragged breaths. "The fire came out of my hands, but I don't even know why. It all happened so fast, I tried to warn them. . . ." The girl clamped her eyes shut, tears spilling down filthy cheeks. She wiped her face with a shaking hand, smearing the dirt across her face.
Cole waited. Eventually, her sobs quieted and she looked over at him again, more guardedly this time. Still crouched across from her, he hadn't moved, and he saw the first glimmer of curiosity.
"Are you a mage, then?" she asked. "They said one would come."
He hesitated. "No."
"Then . . . who are you?"
"My name is Cole."
That was hardly the answer she was looking for. She stared expectantly at him, but he said nothing. "But . . . if you're not a mage," she finally asked, "then what are you doing here? What do you want from me?"
"I came because you can see me." He reached under his leather vest and drew a dagger from its sheath. It was an ornate blade with an elaborate brass hilt carved in the shape of a dragon's head. The length of it gleamed in the blue light, and the girl's eyes fixed upon it in stark disbelief. "I felt it when they brought you here," he continued. "I knew you would, even before I met you."
The girl's mouth opened, and then clicked shut again. When she spoke her voice was very small. "Are you . . . going to kill me?"
"I think so. Yes."
A small gasp escaped her. "Because I'm a mage?"
"No, it's not that."
"Then . . . why? What have I done to you?"
"You haven't done anything to me." Emotion welled up, a desperation that he had pushed deep down inside him now fighting to escape. It left him breathless, and for a moment he cradled his head on his knees and rocked back and forth. Part of him wondered if the girl would use her magic on him while she had the chance. Would she conjure fire, like the templar warned? What would that be like? Could she kill him?
But she did nothing. Cole fought to regain his center and exhaled once, long and slow, before looking up again. The girl was frozen. She couldn't look away from his dagger, and perhaps hadn't even considered she could do something to stop him.
"I'm . . . fading away," he muttered. "I can feel myself slipping through the cracks. I have to do this, I'm sorry."
"I'll scream."
But she didn't scream. He saw the idea crumble inside with the realization that doing so would only call the templars back, if it brought anyone at all. Even faced with an armed man directly in front of her, that possibility was still worse. It was something he understood all too well. Slowly she slumped to the ground, defeated.
Cole inched forward, his heart thumping madly in his chest. He reached out and touched the girl's cheek, and she didn't flinch away. "I can make it go away." The words were gentle, and he held the dagger up to prove his promise. "The pain, the fear. I can make it quick. You don't have to stay here and see what they have in store for you."
She studied him, eerily calm. "Are you a demon?" she finally asked. "They say that's what happens to mages. The demons come and turn them into monsters." Then she smiled, a lifeless grimace that matched her dead eyes. "But you don't need to do that. I'm already a monster."
He didn't respond.
"I said I didn't mean to burn it down. That's what I told them, too. But I lied." The confession spilled out of her like cold venom. "I listened to my mother, my father, all of them screaming, and I did nothing. I wanted them to burn. I'm glad they're dead."
Her secret told, the girl took a deep breath and blinked back tears. She looked at Cole expectantly, but he only sighed. "I'm not a demon," he said.
"But . . . what are you, then?"
"Lost." He stood and offered his hand. She hesitated, but then numbly nodded. He brought her to her feet, where she stood only inches away. There in the glowstone's blue light, a strange intimacy enveloped them. He could see every mark on her skin, every stain the tears had left on her cheeks, every strand of hair.
"Look at me," he asked her.
She blinked in confusion, but complied.
"No, look at me."
And she did. The girl looked at Cole, looked into him. He was going to kill her, and she knew it. He went through life, unnoticed and quickly forgotten by all, but to her, at that moment, he was the most important thing in the world. She knew what he was, now. Cole was her deliverance, a way out of a world filled with terror. He saw weary relief in her eyes, mixed with the fear. In those eyes he was anchored, and he felt real.
"Thank you," he breathed, and plunged the dagger into her chest.
She gasped in shock, but did not look away. He thrust up, digging the blade deep into her heart. She convulsed, a spurt of bright blood erupting from her mouth. T en, with a final shudder, she collapsed into his arms.
Cole held her close, staring down into her eyes. He drank in every moment as the life ebbed out of her. It was an instant that seemed to stretch out into forever . . . and then she was gone.
Trembling, he allowed the body to slide off the dagger and slump lifelessly to the floor. He was only dimly aware of the warm blood covering the blade, his hands, the entire front of his leathers. He couldn't stop looking at those eyes, staring off into nothing. He knelt down and closed them, leaving a streak of scarlet across her lids. Then he stumbled back, leaning against the cell wall. It was difficult to breathe.
You need to stop.
It took every bit of will he had left, but he tore his eyes away from her. Like a drunken man, he stumbled toward the glowstone and snatched it off the floor, wrapping it back up in the cloth until the cell was plunged into blessed darkness once again. He took slow and deliberate breaths as he brought himself under control.
He'd almost forgotten what it was like to be connected, to feel like he belonged in the world. Part of him was certain the templars were about to come running, that the entire White Spire would realize all at once who he was— the escaped mage who walked in their midst. The Ghost of the Spire.
They would come with their spells and their swords. They would wrestle him to the ground, and then he would be locked away in a cell again. He would be lost in that blackness until they came to deal with him once and for all. This time they wouldn't forget him. This time the door would open and they would see him lying there, and by then he would be begging them to end it.
But no one came.
No one ever came.
Chapter 2
Among the nobility in Orlais, custom dictated that masks were to be worn when in public. These delicately crafted works of art were painted to indicate the affluence of one's family. Some were anointed with tiny jewels laid out in tasteful patterns, while others were inlaid with silver and gold. Still others went over the top with their decorations of peacock feathers or glittering dragon scales. To have a more beautiful mask than one's rivals was seen as an advantage, and thus the Empire's m
askmakers numbered among the most influential and sought- after of its artisans.
Servants wore a simpler version of the mask traditional to their master or mistress's house hold, a clear message to any who saw them: I am owned, and you harm me at the risk of incurring the wrath of the one I serve. To wear a mask to which you were not entitled was extremely dangerous. A wise nobleman guarded his masks like he guarded his reputation.
To be without a mask in Orlais, then, was a statement. It said you were either a peasant not even useful enough to be part of a noble house, or that you considered yourself above the Game. To the elite, however, nobody was above the Game. You were either a player or a pawn, nothing else.
Justinia V, Divine of the Chantry and the guest of honor at the evening's festivities, was not masked. Nor were the flock of priests attending her. The priesthood wasn't above the Game, precisely, but an exception to it, and any nobleman was expected to maintain an unimpeachable veneer of respect when speaking to a priest regardless of what they wore. Many priests engaged in the Game even so, and some even claimed the Divine was one of its best players. The priesthood simply played by different rules.
Evangeline also wasn't wearing a mask. As a templar, she technically fell under the same exemption as the priesthood. It was an exemption, however, that the nobility largely ignored.
She was also the only one in the palace ballroom wearing armor and carrying a weapon. Her templar plate had been polished to a shine, and she wore her finest red tunic, the one with the Chantry starburst sewn in gold thread. She'd even put her black hair up into the sort of elegant braid used by the ladies of the court. Even so, it paled in comparison next to all the glittering gowns, the bouffant wigs with their fancy combs and pearl strands, the resplendent jewelry twinkling in the firelight, and she knew it.
Evangeline knew very well what the ladies of the court who looked her way were thinking, and she knew the sorts of things they were whispering to each other behind their delicate fans. Someone as pretty as she could have found a husband. The fact that she had joined a warrior order meant she either came from a poor family or, far worse, was too uncouth to join the ranks of proper society.
Neither of those things were true, but it didn't matter. She wasn't there to play the Game. She was there to serve as the Divine's honor guard, a visible reminder to those who might use the celebration as an excuse to cause trouble.
Ostensibly the ball was being thrown by the Empress, but Her Imperial Majesty was nowhere in evidence. According to everything Evangeline had been told, she was instead at the Winter Palace in far- off Halamshiral— either enjoying her latest lover's attentions or dealing with a rebellion, depending on who you asked. Either way, it was clear the event had been arranged by palace bureaucrats, not that any of the guests seemed to mind. To show up was to prove you were worthy of an invitation, and that fact alone made it worthwhile. The ballroom was packed.
The Divine sat in an enormous, ornately carved wooden throne that had been brought in especially for the occasion. It was high up on a dais, providing a vantage point from which she could overlook the entire chamber. It also meant that anyone who approached her needed to do so from below. Orlesian nobles disliked being reminded of their subservience, even by someone who was unquestionably their superior, and so, once the long line of polite well- wishers earlier in the evening had ended, few chose to approach at all.
T us the guest of honor sat there in rigid silence, with only attendant priests keeping vigil at her side. She watched the throng of dancers whirl around the ballroom, her expression kept neutral so none could accuse her of boredom. If she felt uncomfortable in the voluminous red robe and the glittering headdress, she made no indication of it. Evangeline thought the Divine was the very picture of icy grace, yet most of the comments she overheard were about the woman's age. Her predecessor had held the office for almost fifty years, so long that the Empire had become accustomed to the idea of a doddering and ancient Divine. Now things had changed, and some expressed a desire that Justinia V not live to get any older.
In typical Orlesian fashion they only did so quietly, of course, and with daggers hidden behind their backs. This was the Maker's chosen they were discussing, after all. Evangeline found their eagerness to justify such sacrilege with petty sneers and barbs almost sickening, but such was the way of the Empire.
The musicians, a large troupe assembled high up in the ballroom's upper gallery, suddenly started a faster tune. Those on the floor below applauded their choice and began assembling themselves for the tourdion. It was a lively dance that had become popular ever since a recent rumor claimed the Empress favored it.
The dancers lined up across from each other and assumed the posture droit, right foot slightly in front with the weight evenly distributed. Then they began: a small kick in the air with the left foot followed by a small hop with the right, alternating until on the fifth step they performed a small jump back into posture. Then it began again.
All the kicking and hopping made for quite the spectacle. There was much drunken merriment on the ballroom floor, though some of the dancers clearly devoted themselves to the endeavor with practiced grace. The crowd on the sidelines clapped loudly in admiration, and even the Divine and her priests joined in.
As the tempo of the music increased, the pace of the dancing became frenzied. Suddenly there was a cry of alarm— a young woman spilled to the ground, tearing her skirt and taking three others down with her. Worse, her mask flew off and landed on the floor with a great clatter. The music ground to a halt as a murmur of interest mixed with amusement erupted.
No one moved to help the young woman. She was left to scramble awkwardly to her feet, holding up the remains of her skirt as she chased after her mask. An imperious- looking woman in a towering wig of white curls, clearly her mother, ran out onto the floor to grab her arm and pull her off. The mother's face was hidden by her golden mask, but her every movement spoke of mortification rather than concern.
An adept observer might have noticed that another young woman in a brilliant yellow gown had been the culprit responsible for the fall. They might also have noticed that as the musicians began a new, slower song to recover from the interruption, she moved to intercept the gentleman across from whom the fallen girl had been dancing. Truth be told, Evangeline suspected everyone present knew exactly what she had done and why. They would also quietly approve of her maneuver. The Game was as merciless as it was contemptible.
Evangeline kept her place in front of the Divine's dais, scanning the crowd carefully. Her legs were sore from standing for so long, and the musky stench of sweat covered by sweet perfume was slowly becoming difficult to bear. Still, she had to be vigilant. The trouble with so many masks was that any of them could hide an assassin. Anyone here could be a stranger, and not a single other guest would be aware they didn't belong. She had to hope the army of guardsmen just outside the ballroom had been diligent in their duty. In the meantime, she could only wait. Another hour, perhaps, before the Divine politely retired, and then her duty would be ended.
"You cannot wait to get away, I see."
Evangeline turned to see that one of the Divine's attendants had approached her from the dais. This was one she'd seen before: a woman with short red hair and vividly blue eyes who carried herself in a manner so controlled and graceful that Evangeline wouldn't have been surprised to discover she wasn't a priest at all, despite the robes. A bodyguard, perhaps? It certainly made sense that the Divine wouldn't trust her fate to a lone sword. Evangeline was hardly offended.
"Her Eminence need not fear I'll abandon her," she replied.
The woman held up a hand, smiling disarmingly. "Oh, I did not mean to imply that you might. You do a better job of guarding your feelings than most templars I've encountered. Even so, this must be a very boring assignment for you."
Evangeline paused, not quite sure how to respond. "I think my Knight- Commander believed I might be more . . . comfortable in this setting, considering the f
amily I was born to."
"But you're not."
"I left that life behind a long time ago." She looked out over the crowd of dancers, who were just finishing the latest song. They vigorously applauded the musicians in the gallery, and then dispersed into conversation. It was like watching a pack of wolves at work. They ferreted out the weakest of the pack, isolating them in anticipation of the kill. The only violence done, however, was with soft words and promises. The ballroom was a battleground, already littered with bodies, and yet no war was being won. At the next social gathering this scene would play out again, and again at the next, as regular as the tide. "All that wealth and influence, and what do they use it for? Their own advancement, while their world crumbles around them."
The red- haired woman seemed impressed. "I would agree with that. I know Her Eminence would, as well."
"That makes at least three of us, then."
She laughed heartily, and extended her hand. "Pardon my atrocious manners. My name is Leliana."
"Knight- Captain Evangeline."
"Oh yes, I know. There was a great deal of discussion as to who would be guarding the Divine to night. Many of those in your order of similar rank, after all, have expressed certain . . . attitudes which cause us great concern."
There was a tone in the woman's voice which roused Evangeline's interest, as if there was far more to what she was saying than she was letting on. When Leliana strode a short distance away to a side table and poured a glass of wine, Evangeline followed.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "What sort of concern?"
"You're aware what happened in Kirkwall."
"Isn't everyone?"
Leliana gestured to the row of stately windows on the far side of the ballroom, through which the White Spire was clearly visible. It was one of the few structures besides the palace itself which could be seen from anywhere in the capital city, and at night it was lit by magic to make it appear a brilliant sliver of white cutting across the dark— the sword of the Maker, as the templars liked to call themselves. "The Circle of Magi in Kirkwall rebelled and plunged the city into war, and we've been feeling the effects across Thedas ever since. The templars now have two ways they can view it: either as a challenge to their authority . . . or as a lesson to be learned."