Celene turned, saw the tea, and sighed. “I do what I can, Bria. I have pushed the nobles to help the elves.” She took the saucer, lifted the cup to her lips, and inhaled slowly. Briala saw the set of her shoulders ease ever so slightly.
“I know. You have done more than anyone since Andraste herself granted us Halamshiral.”
“Sadly, I do not believe it within my power to grant the elves Halamshiral at the moment,” Celene said with a tiny smile.
Briala matched her smile, and took Celene’s hand. “I will table that suggestion, then.” Gently, respectfully, she led Celene to the overstuffed couch and pulled the empress down beside her. “The throne cannot bring this Lord Mainserai to justice, and the elves will cause you nothing but trouble for it. So let me help.” She took a breath. “Send me to Halamshiral.”
Celene was silent for a moment. Her hand went still in Briala’s grasp. “You will kill Mainserai?”
Briala nodded, confident and businesslike. “I have the contacts to lead the elves. I can give them the blood they need, then gentle them before they think to turn to another target. It will be an unexplained crime for the city watch, not a rebellion, and if anyone asks your opinion, you can suggest that a lord who is so uncouth as to kill a harmless creature should learn to look to his own defense.”
Celene reached out, gently, and put a hand to Briala’s cheek. She leaned forward, and when they kissed, Celene’s arms went around Briala, fiercely tight.
Then she stood, picking up her mask and sliding it back into place as she did, and walked slowly to the window, silent the whole time.
“Clean and quick, Bria,” she said.
“Your Radiance.” Briala bowed and left to pack her things.
* * *
Empress Celene slept alone that night.
It wasn’t as though Briala visited every night, of course. On some nights, Briala’s duties kept her up late working, and when Celene visited another lord’s estate, discretion kept them in separate beds.
But it had been some time since Briala had been away.
She woke up before dawn each morning, cold and alone, watching the darkness outside the window as though if she stared hard enough, she could see all of them. The mages, the templars, the elves, even Gaspard and Remache and whomever else Gaspard had turned. They all lurked outside the palace, creeping closer each night as she slept, waiting for her to make the mistake that let them attack.
Each morning, she made her tea, drank until the headaches faded to a distant buzz at the back of her head, and poured herself into old books of interest to nobody but scholars.
She passed the next few days quietly, listening to speeches and accepting gifts. News of the elven uprising in Halamshiral reached the ears of Val Royeaux, and the assembled nobles and courtiers shook their heads and grumbled about the spoiled elves of Halamshiral not knowing how good they had it compared to Ferelden and the rest of Orlais, where they lived in the alienages. Comte Pierre sent apologies for the shameful behavior of his city and made it clear that he would have the matter under control shortly, which left nobody satisfied. The nobles of Val Royeaux asked what Celene would do, and Celene gave polite non-answers and silently wished Briala a swift journey.
She attended a performance at the Grande Royeaux Theater three days after Briala’s departure, and that was when she discovered how far things had gone.
The Grande Royeaux had been established almost two hundred years ago. It had a reputation as the greatest theater in the empire, with the most famous performers, the most distinguished playwrights, and the most extravagant sets and effects—including, at some performances, smoke and flame conjured not through an alchemist’s powders but by a mage who had obtained permission to come from the Circle and lend his expertise. As a result of having to constantly outdo its competitors, however, the Grande Royeaux had also come to the attention of both the Chantry and the throne for performances that bordered on the scandalous. Mad Emperor Remille had restricted the theater to wordless pantomimes for fear that plays would somehow foment rebellion against his rule, and Celene’s uncle, Emperor Florian, had nearly shut the Grande Royeaux down altogether after one tasteless play made light of the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden.
Celene had made a point of supporting the theater, financially and politically. She had pushed back against Chantry complaints, and on occasions when a play referenced her, either literally or metaphorically, she was always seen to laugh or applaud appropriately, a cultured empress with no concern for what might be said of her on the stage. In return, the playwrights of Orlais had always been kind.
Her coach stopped before the main entrance, by the lush carpet rolled out to signify that one of the grand nobles had deigned to attend the performance. Outside, the crowd stood at a respectful distance.
“Orders, Majesty?” Michel asked. He had been quiet but vigilant since Briala had helped him escape Gaspard’s trap, eager to redeem himself for his perceived failure. He had haltingly tried to apologize at one point, as Briala had suggested he might, and Celene had quickly silenced the conversation, making it clear that Ser Michel was blameless in the matter.
Now was not the time to have a champion who did not believe in himself.
“Observe, as always.”
Ser Michel nodded and stepped out of the coach, then turned and extended a hand to assist her. Outside, servants who had ridden atop the coach quickly swept dust from the lush carpet and pushed back commoners and lesser nobles as Celene stepped down.
Something was off in the crowd. She felt it instantly. They bowed, of course, but the tenor of their murmurs was wrong. As Ser Michel escorted her inside, with servants carrying the long train of her dress and spraying rosewater into the air before her so that the smell of the crowd would offer her no offense, she watched from the corner of her half-mask and listened as best she could.
“… don’t see her…”
“Wouldn’t be here…”
Inside, Celene accepted a bow from the current owner of the Grande Royeaux Theater, a plump woman who had put her merchant family’s money to good use. Tonight, the woman wore a simple but fashionable gown embroidered with a laughing mask on one side and a weeping mask on the other, and thick tradesman’s makeup just close enough to Celene’s to honor the empress without attempting to imitate her. Beneath the makeup, however, the lines on her face spoke of worry.
Celene would have given anything to have Briala there. Her handmaid and lover was even better than Celene at pulling facts together from the smallest observations, and she could go places Celene could not, invisible in her servant’s mask. As it was, she smiled politely as the theater owner led Celene to the royal booth, a richly decorated box that offered Celene and her guests a beautiful view of the stage, while offering the crowd a beautiful view of their empress.
One of Celene’s servants poured her tea, while another laid a purple velvet cushion down on Celene’s seat—no matter how nicely decorated the royal booth was, it would not do for an empress to sit on what still amounted to a wooden bench. A third servant sprayed rosewater into the air until the smells of sweat, salted food, and theater smoke were banished to satisfaction.
“I believe I will take wine tonight,” she said to the servant with the teapot.
“Yes, Your Radiance.”
“While you fetch it, please send my compliments to Mademoiselle Archet upon the lovely new curtain. Also…” Celene squinted thoughtfully at the lamp on the wall. “Take another girl with you and find fresh candles. I do believe these are guttering.”
“Yes, Your Radiance,” said the servant, and left with another.
The candles were doing no such thing, and Celene rarely took wine at the performances, and her servants knew both of these things. They also knew that Celene would want them to listen to the crowd, ask polite questions, and find out what was happening. None of them had Briala’s skill, of course, but one did not personally serve the empress of Orlais without knowing how to play the Game.
A quiet knock at her door made her turn. Michel rose and opened the door, then turned to Celene. “Duke Remache of Lydes, Majesty.”
“Show him in, Michel.”
Duke Remache stepped inside and bowed. “Your Imperial Majesty. I saw that you were in attendance, and if it is not presumptuous, I hoped that my own unworthy company might be welcome.”
She bade him sit with a graceful flick of the wrist. “If it is not to the detriment of your own companions, I would be pleased.”
He nodded and sat in the chair beside hers. Michel quietly stood at the back of the private booth.
“For though Tevinter’s mages rule, we see, ’tis better magic serve on bended knee!” Andraste proclaimed down on the stage.
“An odd performance,” Celene murmured. “I expected a romance or a tragedy, but this?”
Remache glanced at her. “And what do you think it is, Your Majesty?”
“I would suspect a comedy, but even the Grande Royeaux would not do that to the life of Andraste.” Celene smiled. “Although it might be the first recorded Exalted March on a theater.”
Remache laughed quietly.
Down on the stage, Andraste was convincing the rebels to ally with the elves. “Against such magic, how can freedom reign? Our forces thus arrayed will not suffice! But with sweet justice as our own refrain, the elves shall come to aid us … once or twice!”
The crowd laughed nervously, and Celene saw the darkness below lighten as hundreds of faces turned up to look at her.
Shartan, the heretical elven warrior whose story of joining Andraste’s fight against ancient Tevinter had been stricken from the Chant of Light, had walked onto the stage.
He had been cast as a woman, and she was wearing a dress, her hips swaying with comic exaggeration and her wooden prop ears huge, so that even those at the back of the room could tell that she was an elf.
She kissed Andraste’s hand, and the crowd whistled.
Celene felt the world go still around her. The back of her neck tightened, and she held herself motionless.
After a moment, she said, “I had thought to bring up a matter you had proposed earlier, Duke Remache.”
“I am not certain I recall any matter that requires further discussion, Your Radiance.” He did not take his eyes off the stage as he said it, and he was smiling as he watched.
“I see. I would so hate to ruin your enjoyment of the performance,” Celene said. “Tell me, do you see many?”
“Only those I have paid for myself.”
“It would appear that Gaspard paid for this one,” Celene said, keeping her face from betraying any emotion that the crowd might see from below. “With a feather.”
“Oh, I am no chevalier to care about fencing with feathers,” Remache said, still not looking over, “but Gaspard cares greatly for the hunting in Lydes, while for you, it seems merely an obligation.”
Down on the stage, Maferath waved his arms in outrage, the lone force of reason as Andraste and Shartan flirted and teased and completely ignored the war with Tevinter. “When rulers to their hearts become a slave, ignoring duty to cavort with elves, does any heart so noble and so brave not see the need to take the fight themselves?”
“Am I to understand,” Celene said without looking over, “that Maferath will be the hero making the necessary sacrifice by betraying Andraste?”
“Well, in this version of the play, Andraste seems to have taken an elven lover and forgotten her duty, Your Majesty.” Remache paused. “Still, I wouldn’t want to spoil the ending.”
“I know one ending. The playwright will be executed,” Celene said. “Possibly the theater owner as well.”
“To be fair,” Duke Remache said, “this last-minute change to the script was something of a surprise to the theater owner, as was the disappearance of her son … though I assume the lad will be found safely later tonight.”
“And what evidence will I find leading back to you, Remache?”
“None, Your Radiance, though I will make lavish donations to the Chantry in apology for a play I sponsored being undermined by some sick heretic.”
Celene stood. “Tell Grand Duke Maferath that I seem to have lost a wager on whether he was literate.”
Ser Michel opened the door, staring daggers at Remache, and Celene left, ignoring the murmurs from the crowd below.
She kept herself steady until Michel closed the door behind her. Then, when she was alone but for Michel and her servants in the darkened hallway, she lowered her head and took a deep breath.
They knew. Damn them all, they knew.
It was still possible that it was merely meant as metaphor, an attack upon Celene for letting elves into the markets and the university. But she did not think so. Duke Remache had said “an elven lover” very specifically, and such a thing, even through the metaphor of the stage, was not said in the Game unless one was certain.
Briala, the one part of her life she had kept as her own these many years, was being used to attack her. Gaspard and his thugs would take away that one comfort, the woman she loved, so that he could get the damned war he wanted.
“You have used your throne to defend the arts and scholarly sciences for so long,” a soft voice came from the shadows. “It seems so cruel for Gaspard to use them against you now.”
Celene looked over at the Divine’s red-haired representative, conspicuous with her Fereldan features and her unmasked face. “The theaters have always been fickle, Leliana. And I do not believe that the university has turned.” She looked at Michel. “Get the other servants and find out what they have heard. We are leaving.”
“Majesty.” Michel nodded and stalked off with the rest of her servants in tow, and Celene went into the shadows where Leliana stood.
She held up a tightly bound scroll. “Several of the professors have been asked to write papers about the elves. One will be saying that their large ears mark them as similar to rabbits, which means that they are simple prey animals, relying upon base instinct for survival and not to be trusted. Another will claim that anyone fornicating with an elf is insulting the Maker, as one who lies with animals.”
Twenty years of fighting to bring an empire of savages the grace and culture it needed to remain the greatest country in the world, and now the very people she had sought to help mocked her, threatened her with death, and played up her battle with Gaspard for the amusement of the commoners. Twenty years of relative peace, enlightenment, and safety for Orlais would be cast aside because playwrights and scholars could snidely reduce it to the foolishness of a love-struck girl cavorting with an elf.
Celene shut her eyes. “And what does the Divine think about this?”
Leliana smiled. “The Divine has never had a very high opinion of the theater, Your Radiance.” At Celene’s silence, the Divine’s representative sighed. “The elves are the children of the Maker, just as we are, and just as deserving of His grace.”
“But the Divine will not say that,” Celene guessed.
Leliana looked away. She had been trained as a bard, so every movement she made was likely deliberate, but Celene thought that her discomfort was genuine. “I have … been comrade-in-arms with elves. I would not see them harmed. But you did not ask for her support in that matter.” She looked back at Celene. “You asked for her support calming the templars and the mages.”
“Indeed.” Celene nodded. “And will she give that support?”
Leliana let out a breath. “She will,” she said, nodding slowly, “but in return, she needs t
o know that this matter with the elves is under control.”
Celene felt her heart break inside her, for all that she had known within moments how the conversation would go. She breathed a tiny sigh, and then said, “Of course. I could hardly ask the Divine to keep her affairs in order were I not willing to do the same myself. I hope you enjoy the coming ball in Justinia’s honor. I fear I will not be able to attend in person.”
“The Divine understands,” Leliana said, and in a soft, sad voice, added, “Walk with the Maker’s blessing.”
“Majesty!”
Celene looked up sharply and took a steadying breath as she pulled herself upright. It was Ser Michel, with Celene’s entourage close behind him. The two servants she had sent out to investigate earlier looked disheveled. One of them had had her makeup smeared across her jaw and mouth, as though she had been slapped. The other had streaks just below her half-mask, as though she had been crying.
“What have you found?” she asked, glancing into the shadows. Leliana had disappeared.
“As you saw in that play,” he said, grimacing, “the crowd is saying that you are too … lenient with the elves.” Celene waved in irritation, and he went on. “They claim that you tax them less, that you wish to let them run free from our laws. They say that you pity them, and some were speculating that you might have made secret deals with the Dalish to strip nobles of their lands and return the Dales to the elves. There is even talk about your Briala.” Michel looked at the wall. “They say she is, ah, that the two of you are…”
“The word is lover, Michel.”
“Yes, Majesty. That is what they are saying.” Michel’s fists were clenched at his sides. “If you like, I would be happy to return to the lobby and make it clear that such talk is unacceptable.”
Celene smiled and straightened. The servants needed to see her strength now. “No. That would silence one voice and give rise to a hundred whispers in its place. If the people fear that I am softhearted for the elves, it will take action to disabuse them of the notion.”
Dragon Age: The Masked Empire Page 10