Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

by Patrick Weekes

  Remache had taken a wound in the fight against the dead warriors, and though Lienne healed it as best she could, he was still clearly pained by it. Lienne herself was still shaken from the blast that had knocked her unconscious, and in addition, she seemed unaccustomed to any real exercise. They both struggled to stay with the group, glaring daggers at Celene when she offered to slow down.

  Whenever they reached another eluvian and came into an ancient tomb for a few hours of precious rest and relief from the pain of the paths, Remache and Lienne retreated to talk to each other in quiet whispers, glaring at Celene and Gaspard in almost equal measure. In Remache’s case, at least, the glare might have come from the fine new scar that graced his face, courtesy of Celene’s dagger.

  Regardless of the cause, Celene guessed that neither of them would yield graciously if Gaspard lost the duel with Michel. Either she or they would die before seeing the light of day again.

  It was a relief to have simple enemies, Celene found. She needed no pretense with them, no concern for their feelings or second-guessing of their motivations. She would kill them before they killed her, and that would be that.

  Gaspard, meanwhile, marched with military precision and made polite conversation as they walked the otherworldly paths.

  “Amazing to see what the elves did,” he noted, gesturing at the painful light of the path. “Messes with your eyes, though. Wonder how the elves put up with it.”

  “The elves see it differently.” Celene did not precisely want to speak with him, but he was making an effort to be polite in honor of their truce. Besides, there was always the chance that he could let something slip in casual conversation.

  There was the chance that she could let something slip in that conversation as well, but Celene was willing to risk it. As Gaspard himself had noted, he could never defeat her in a battle of words.

  “Any idea why?” Gaspard asked. “The big eyes? Or some kind of spell?”

  “Likely the latter,” Celene said with a shrug.

  “Fascinating. Your mage said we were moving faster than it seemed, too. Think about that. Faster than if we were riding, and with no one on the surface the wiser. Oh, what a military mind might make of that, as much as I’d hate trying to sleep down here.” He chuckled. “Ser Michel, where would you send your forces?”

  Michel glanced at Celene cautiously, and she nodded. “First to Val Royeaux, much as you would, my lord.”

  Gaspard raised an eyebrow. “Well, it makes sense for me. It’s a masterful strike at the heart of Celene’s power. Bit careful from your side, isn’t it?”

  “I am the empress’s sworn protector, my lord,” Michel said politely. “And the true power of the eluvians is moving faster than a horse or a ship. We could afford to take a defensive first step, provided it was quick, to dispel any rumors and gather enough forces to launch assaults on your strongholds.”

  “Ah, point taken,” said Gaspard, and looked over at Celene. “You chose well for your champion.”

  Celene smiled. “And you might remember that they are my forces, though I agree with my champion’s assessment. Would you like to know where I would send them second?”

  Duke Remache, pale and sweating, snorted. “As though you would tell us truthfully. This is a fool’s game.”

  “Hardly, Remache,” Celene said with an elegant sideways glance that would have cut him dead at court. “This conversation distracts the mind most pleasantly from the discomfort of the paths. And besides, when we reach the chamber and the keystone, we will settle this. Whoever loses is unlikely to survive. I lose nothing by telling him my plans, which spring not from the noble tradition of the chevaliers, but from whatever trifling understanding I may have gained in my twenty years of ruling the largest empire in the known world.”

  Gaspard grinned. “Well said, cousin. And where do you strike, then? My home in Verchiel, I imagine?”

  Celene shook her head. “Lydes.”

  As Remache sputtered in outrage, Gaspard threw back his head and laughed. “Maker’s breath, Celene, I’d forgotten how well you played the Game.”

  “Destroying Verchiel leaves you with nothing to lose…”

  “No, no, I see it now. So you destroy the homes of Remache and any other lords who took my side. Terrorize them, show them what happens to any who oppose the throne.” Gaspard nodded. “Instead of a bold hero fighting to avenge his home, I’m a danger to any lord who allies with me. I might as well be walking around with the plague.”

  “I am pleased that you are able to appreciate the wisdom of Celene’s plan to destroy Lydes,” Remache said coldly. “A pity I cannot be so clearheaded with respect to the destruction of my city.”

  “It’s a good plan, you must admit,” Gaspard chided. “And besides, Remache, I don’t plan to lose.”

  “Even still,” Celene said, “that isn’t using the eluvians to their true potential. Look at them.” She gestured up ahead, where the elves were distant silhouettes in the twisting purple light. Even as she tried to look, the light turned her eyes away, and when she looked again, the elves were gone. “They move even faster than we do.”

  Now Gaspard frowned. “An army of elves, Celene?”

  “A force of some sort, at least,” Celene said. “Scouts, skirmishers, able to be anywhere in the empire quickly and unseen.” At Gaspard’s shocked look, she smiled. “Consider the idea my gift to you, should you survive to use it.”

  “Majesty,” Michel said, “that seems too much power to be trusted to the elves. Perhaps one or two as a guide in a large force of men, but if they were united, grouped together, they would get ideas.”

  “They already are grouped together, my champion.” Celene frowned. “And they had no shortage of ideas at Halamshiral.”

  Gaspard snorted. “Please, Celene. When we put the elves in the slums, we don’t put them in there with silverite armor and warhorses and hope it never occurs to them to cause trouble. This?” He stared at the runes glowing painfully bright on the path. “This is enough to tempt anyone. And you, cousin, think entirely too much of the elves.”

  “I suppose we shall see,” Celene said with a smile.

  Gaspard didn’t smile in return. “You had to burn a good chunk of Halamshiral, and still you think them worth your trust. That Dalish clan consorted with demons to get access to these mirrors. The elves will never be happy, Celene. Not in our forests or our slums…” He gave her a hard look. “… or our beds. Not as long as Orlais is the empire of men.”

  Celene opened her mouth, ready to argue the point. The elves deserved the chance to show that they could be trusted, and when she gave them that chance, she knew they would be grateful. Ancient Tevinter had built its empire on the backs of slaves, and history had shown that such grudging and unwilling labor never produced the greatness that could be achieved by citizens who believed in their cause. Elves serving Celene out of love, passionate and loyal to her and what she represented, would give Orlais the strength it needed to weather the coming storm.

  But in the end, it was pointless to argue—if Celene won later, Gaspard would be dead, and if she lost, she herself would die. No matter which way the battle ended, she doubted she would convince Gaspard that he was wrong.

  She sighed, fell silent, and hurried to catch up with the elves up ahead.

  * * *

  For Briala, the next several days passed in a blur of magic.

  When they were awake, they walked the paths. Briala, Felassan, and Mihris stayed ahead. No matter how careful they were, they always looked back to see that the humans had fallen behind.

  Each time a path ended at another eluvian, they explored the half-collapsed ruins that lay beyond to ensure that they were alone. Then came a meager meal from Gaspard’s rations and what little food Felassan had taken from the Dalish, and then, finally, it was time to rest.

  And then Briala was with Celene again. They tumbled into each other’s arms with time for little more than a quick embrace, and when they slept, Briala dreame
d of great elven spires reaching to the heavens, of cities built on magic, where elves laughed and traded and fought and loved. When Felassan nudged her awake each morning, her mind was clear and alert, while beside her, Celene was groggy and winced as one who had drunk too much the night before.

  It made Mihris laugh to see the shemlen, whose name in Elvish meant “the quick ones,” move so slowly. Briala, who knew what it was like to lose family to violence, let the Dalish girl have her bitter joke.

  And it was easy enough to ignore her and bask in the beauty of the paths, now that she was used to it, to listen to the subtle song that called to her with each step. It felt as though she were finally where she was supposed to be. The light, the sound, even the peculiar gray dimness of that little world that lay off the path between the eluvians, all of it felt like home in a way that Celene’s family estate never had. Briala let it lull her into a pleasant waking meditation as they walked the shining roads.

  Even the rooms that connected the eluvians were marvelous in their own way, though none were as large as the one where they had fought the corpses. They passed through chambers filled with urns and more sarcophagi, and even great bedchambers where the elves who had not died but instead gone to the eternal sleep of uthenara had lain for their long rest.

  When they came to the first of these rooms, Felassan stopped and looked at the ancient corpse half-lying under satin sheets. To Briala, it looked no different from the ones they had fought on that first terrible day, but Felassan’s face was twisted with grief.

  “Unnecessary,” he said quietly, and Briala, curious, came out of her reverie and looked.

  The body lay in a resting position, with clean white bedding pulled up carefully over the chest, leaving only the head and shoulders exposed. It had not awakened to die, nor struggled. Though the skin was withered down to worn leather pulled taut over the bones, nothing had picked those bones clean of flesh.

  But there, at the throat, Briala saw a single thin cut, along with the tiniest trace of old bloodstains on the pillow.

  “For mercy?” Briala asked. “A quick death, so that he would not starve with the servants?”

  Mihris sneered. “Stupid flat-ear. Those who found the peace of uthenara needed no mortal sustenance. They could sleep for all eternity and never starve.”

  “Almost, da’len,” Felassan said. “Most of those who entered uthenara could survive on a simple potion. Water, with honey and herbs added to keep the body alive. Servants would brush it across the lips of the dreamer at the full moon, and then smell the naked wrist of the dreamer at the new moon. If they smelled the perfumed scent of the herbs, it meant that the concoction had been drawn into the body, and they would keep feeding the dreamer. If the wrist was bare of scent, then it meant that the dreamer had learned to draw sustenance from the Fade itself, and would never need to be fed again. Those true dreamers were placed in beds of purest white, signifying the dreamer’s achievement of perfection.” He smiled and shook his head. “Or so the old songs say.”

  Briala looked at the white satin sheets. “Revenge, then.”

  “Such a waste.” Felassan shook his head. “This one could have helped.”

  “How?” Briala asked. “Their empire was falling. You told me that those in uthenara could visit people in dreams. What would they say, beyond wishing us luck in the alienages?”

  “You know nothing,” Mihris said. “From the Fade, the ancients could see our whole world. They could tell us where our enemies would be, and in what number. Where the Veil was thin, they could send spirits to do their bidding and help us.”

  “They could kill their enemies as they slept!” Felassan’s face shone with excitement. “They could grant wishes to dreamers whose souls were pure! Or they could lie there and do nothing except inspire overly romantic Dalish folktales.” He smirked.

  “We will never know what they could have done for us.” Mihris spat on the floor. “Since some foolish servant cared more for revenge than for the good of the people.”

  Briala glanced over. “I’m sure you’re better than that, Mihris.” As Mihris looked at her, anger twisting the tattoos on her face, Briala smiled. “Though I know you blame Ser Michel for the death of your clan, I’m certain that since Empress Celene is the best hope for the elves, you will stay your hand against her champion.”

  Mihris clenched her fists, and Briala thought for a moment that fire glittered in her eyes. “You are gutter trash, flat-ear.”

  “And you have never seen the gutters where we fight to survive,” Briala said without heat. “Your clan could have helped the elves in the cities, taken in the strays, as your Keeper said. Instead, you rode around in wagons and searched for gifts left by our ancestors. You summoned demons and brought your doom upon yourselves.”

  Mihris snarled and stalked to the far side of the room without reply.

  “That was cold, da’len,” Felassan said, looking after the mage.

  “So was she.” Briala sighed. “How many times did I pass you information, thinking I was working with them? And all the while, they cared only for themselves.” She shook her head. “At least Gaspard is honest about it.”

  “And Celene does not care only for herself?”

  “She cares for…” Briala looked at the body in the bed. “She cares for me. And she will help the elves to make me happy.”

  Felassan smiled. “Gaspard is not the only one who is honest.”

  “Celene has known nothing but power and luxury all her life. Little wonder she needs help to see the plight of those in need,” Briala said, looking back at the eluvian they had come through. The humans still had yet to join them.

  “You know, there’s an old story about Fen’Harel.”

  “I’m shocked, hahren.”

  “You wound me.” He smiled. “In the story, Fen’Harel was captured by the hunting goddess Andruil. He had angered her by hunting the halla without her blessing, and she tied him to a tree and declared that he would have to serve in her bed for a year and a day to pay her back. But as she made camp that night, the dark god Anaris found them, and Anaris swore that he would kill Fen’Harel for crimes against the Forgotten Ones. Andruil and Anaris decided that they would duel for the right to claim Fen’Harel.”

  “And what happened?” Briala asked.

  “What do you think, da’len?” Felassan smiled. “You have heard enough of my stories over the years.”

  Briala thought for a moment. “Fen’Harel found a way to trick them both and escape.”

  “He called out to Anaris during the fight and told him of a flaw in Andruil’s armor just above the hip,” Felassan said, nodding, “and Anaris stabbed Andruil in the side, and she fell. Then Fen’Harel told Anaris that he owed the Dread Wolf for the victory and ought to get his freedom. Anaris was so affronted by Fen’Harel’s audacity that he turned and shouted insults at the prisoner, and so he did not see Andruil, injured but alive, rise behind him and attack with her great bow.” He smiled again and looked at Briala. “Anaris fell with a golden arrow in his back, badly injured, and while both gods slumbered to heal their wounds, Fen’Harel chewed through his ropes and escaped. You have heard enough of my stories over the years, da’len.” His stare settled upon her, calm but unyielding. “Perhaps it is time you wrote your own.”

  “I’m not a god.” Briala felt foolish even as she said it, and Felassan’s chuckle made her flush.

  “That is for the stories to decide.” He broke off as Celene, Gaspard, and the rest of the humans finally stepped through the eluvian, looking exhausted and pained. “For now, go to your empress.”

  * * *

  Celene’s head ached by the time Felassan called for a rest at what she assumed was the end of the day. The room they found themselves in was a small circular chamber with pallets arranged in a circle. In the middle of the room, a fire blazed cheerily in a great metal bowl that had no fuel Celene could see.

  “I found food in a chest by the wall,” Briala said, and Celene looked over to
see her toasting what looked like a fresh piece of bread over the fire. “Felassan said that it was safe, preserved by magic somehow.”

  “I’ll take it over more trail rations.” Gaspard dumped his gear and began unbuckling his armor. It was still scratched and dented from their fight.

  “What was this chamber?” Celene asked, sitting down by the fire. She was not cold, but despite its magical origin, the natural firelight was blissfully welcome to her eyes after so much time when the only light sources were the painful glare of the path or the otherworldly glow of the mages’ staffs. “And to cook over that fire … Are we violating any customs of the ancient elves?”

  “None that matter,” Felassan said cheerfully.

  “In this chamber, the somniari performed the great rituals,” Mihris said, glaring at Briala and Felassan. “Sacred herbs were thrown into the eternal fire, and the smoke guided the elven dreamers into the Fade.”

  “That’s a lovely story, Mihris.” Felassan smiled. “It may also have been a place where they cooked. Or just as likely, a place for the dreamers to be protected while they slept, rather than trusting the servants not to kill them in their beds.”

  “Prudent,” Gaspard said, pulling off his breastplate with a grunt.

  Celene thought of her magical teapot. She had always thought of it as a simple bit of elegance, a privilege of her position. After walking through crypt after crypt and finding so many ancient elven mysteries, Celene could understand the peasants who would be fearful of such a trinket. She herself would not trust in magic so easily once she was back on the throne.

  Nevertheless, she stretched out her hands toward the fire, taking in the warmth.

  Then Briala was beside her. “What are you thinking?”

  Celene shifted to lean against Briala. They both smelled of armor that had seen too much battle, of sweat and blood and cookfire smoke and clothes that had been left out in the rain. She had never imagined she could find Briala beautiful even so, but after a long day’s journey, she was ready to curl up with her and just forget everything.