Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  “You’re not enough,” said Shayd. “Not alone.”

  He smiled, and gently brushed a smear of plaster dust from her cheek. “I’m not alone,” he said. He heard the chaos beginning in the upper courtyard and smiled. Then he turned, heading for the stables. “We’re the response. I’m responding.”

  Regret flowed out of the tavern doors. Its eyes had re-formed, and it blinked in the sunlight. It looked for prey, for the doubts it needed to heal itself.

  It found Rat. She was standing in the center of the courtyard, her head low.

  “I run,” she said, her fists tight on Harritt’s hammer.

  “Little one,” said Regret. It stepped forward. Fire erupted to its left. It didn’t bother to avoid it. Cabot was half hidden by a barrel, but his presence and nature were no longer a surprise. The demon extended an arm, and Cabot fell to a knee. Elan readied her pouches, but another arm stilled her as well. Too many eyes looked back at Rat, annoyed.

  “I run!” she yelled, shaking.

  “Good,” said Regret, and leapt.

  Rat rolled to the side, head low. The demon passed, bemused. When it landed, it didn’t bother turning its body. It simply re-formed, its head facing backward. It loped after her, toying, snapping.

  Rat turned past the tavern to the south wall. She ducked down a small set of stairs but was soon exposed in the center courtyard. The stone closed in, became the Deep Roads, but it didn’t matter where she was. Her knight had asked her to run. So she ran.

  Regret was puzzled, then growled low. It had briefly enjoyed toying with her, but this was unexpected. It focused and Rat slowed, but she didn’t stop, and it was no longer amused. It bounded after her. Straight into a gauntlet of her friends.

  Voth hurled ice from the gate, his staff crackling with frost. The ground grew slick in scattered places, and Dagna tossed runes, charging the earth with lightning. Rat weaved between, but the demon couldn’t keep its many legs clear. Shocks traveled up its body, enraging it. It turned to face them, and something hit it from the opposite direction. Morris pushed his cart past with Harritt perched atop, throwing housewares. Another shock, another volley. Cabot and Elan stirred. The Rat wouldn’t stop. More distraction, more noise.

  Regret had had enough.

  Sutherland was at the stables. He touched the frame where they had found the caretaker, tracing the blood with his finger. He thought of the Inquisitor.

  “You stood for us,” he said quietly.

  Shayd shifted nervously on the nearby stairs. The stairs to the kitchens. Where Sutherland could have started, and now, where he might end. He smiled at that, then turned to look down the length of Skyhold.

  “Just like you,” he said to himself, and he walked forward, slowly, deliberately. He saw flames at the Herald’s Rest. Chaos in both courtyards. A demon turning, growing arms for each of his friends. Even Dagna’s smile faded. All because he’d brought them here.

  Sutherland stopped, and held his sword upright in front of him, the blade flat against his forehead. He closed his eyes and breathed deep.

  “I regret!” he yelled, as loud as he could.

  The demon froze, its dragon-canine ears twitching. It was split seven ways, trying to still all these mortals at once. It was frustrated, frenzied. But Sutherland’s call was like a beacon.

  “I regret acting alone!” yelled Sutherland.

  Regret turned to face the young warrior, its many eyes shifting around its head, centering on him. The one it couldn’t touch! It could kill them all in turn, but this new sensation was so tempting, and so familiar! It was as if Sutherland was echoing the regret that had drawn it to Skyhold in the first place. Its arms grew more talons.

  “I regret using my friends!” yelled Sutherland.

  The demon sneezed like it had been doused with a strong spice. It ran at Sutherland, leaving his friends, passing Rat. And as it ran, it reached, and easily plucked at Sutherland’s open mind. It drew out the doubt that would give it leverage and sustenance. The fool wasn’t even looking! It hated and pitied these mortals so much!

  Regret leapt at its prey, teeth and talons bared like a bramble.

  Sutherland’s eyes were closed. He seemed helpless. And then, like his friends had said, he saw the moment of his greatest regret. The moment that made him doubt more than anything. He saw Skyhold, his friends hurting, and a demon.

  “I regret now!” he yelled.

  Sutherland turned his sword edge-on. He set his back foot, braced his weapon against his shoulder, and leaned in. And he let Regret come.

  Regret expected resistance. It had never been accepted. Never owned. What started as a leap was now a forward fall, and it flailed against its own momentum. It hit the blade jaw-first, bisecting body and cleaving limbs. The creature split wide.

  Sutherland was quickly enveloped, surrounded and buffeted by animated plaster. And for a moment, he had the strangest view of his life in Skyhold. Fragments of the fresco passing before his eyes, corrupted by the demon, now severed again. What had he done?

  His sword began to drag in the heart of the beast, forcing him back. It found the gap between gorget and pauldron and cut into his shoulder. He fell to his knee, the weight of Regret wearing him down. But he kept going. He stood for his friends. Even from the ground, he’d stand for them.

  “Just like you.”

  Regret washed over Sutherland. He fell backward, tumbling. And then all was quiet.

  He blinked.

  He was on his back. The sky was pale and clear overhead. The banners on the ramparts were still. The chill remained. Sutherland’s head and heart were pounding. Had he failed? Had Regret healed as fast as he’d cut? He didn’t know if he had another strike in him.

  Then he heard something moving. Many things were moving. He propped himself up on one arm and looked behind him.

  The demon was reeling. It hadn’t been cleanly halved, and a third of its bulk trailed behind it. It was missing several limbs and was having trouble forming more. It was reaching, searching for the doubts that would heal it, restore its strength.

  It had found Sutherland’s company, and it went hungry.

  Shayd was a blur. She rolled in low, ducking talons, and punched a horizontal cut with her left blade, opening it wide by lunging up with her right. Her daggers were wet with a liquid he knew not to ask her about, and it seared Regret with alchemical hate. Voth swore in elven and channeled a spell that hurt just to feel it cast. The demon’s surface rippled and cracked as will became pain. Rat ran between, swinging Harritt’s hammer, mashing a foot into a painted stain on the cobbles. They cut and cast and crushed together, and every wound stayed.

  Sutherland had joined the Inquisitor and never regretted it. Sutherland’s friends had joined his company, and he’d just reminded them why.

  The demon scrambled backward from the onslaught. It would reach the rotunda. It would sleep and plan and come back stronger. This was all their fault. They would learn how smart it was. The regret that had drawn it to Skyhold had a very long memory.

  And then it hit walls made of flames and runes and a half-filled cart. Dagna and the others blocked its escape. They were the little people, who supposedly didn’t matter. But inspiration had once made them the heart of Skyhold. And now they were again.

  Regret stood no chance. The doubt it fed on had evaporated. It flailed and gasped, and its legs crumbled beneath it.

  It fell to the ground by the main gate, and was still.

  Sutherland shakily got to his feet. “Did I miss anything?” he said.

  He stumbled.

  Helpful shoulders were instantly at his side, supporting him, swarming him with relieved handshakes and backslaps. Everyone crowded.

  All except Shayd. She stood, daggers at her sides, still furious from the fight. She brushed a hand across her nose and sniffed.

  Sutherland wondered if he’d rather face Regret again.

  And then her daggers were on the ground, and she was in his arms, almost knocking him ov
er. He held her as tight as he could, despite his bloodied shoulder. And as the chaos faded, he felt the pall cast over the fortress—the cold and stillness—start to lift. He’d done more, just like he’d vowed. It had just taken a while to realize what his promise truly was.

  And then they all looked back at Regret.

  Its dismembered limbs were now strange piles of dry plaster. Some of the pieces were large enough to see details of the fresco. A careful hand might paste them all back on the wall, restore it, though that didn’t occur to anyone in the moment.

  The core of the creature lay on its side, its too many eyes drifting unfocused. It could re-form, given time, but at this point even a few simple wounds would return its mind and will across the Veil. For a moment, the sunlight illuminated something within—a sliver of the spirit that might have been. Not the opposite of regret. A different flavor, or shade. Contemplation. Introspection. It felt the echo of the actions that had summoned it. There might have been a better choice, said a thought it had not been allowed.

  Sutherland limped into its view, as did Voth, Shayd, and Rat. Dagna was collecting fragments for testing. Ser Morris kept his cart at a discreet distance, despite Harritt urging him forward. Cabot and Elan reminisced behind his bar.

  “Go quietly, spirit,” said Voth, without judgment. Then he brought the small blade from his satchel and stabbed the demon in the side, holding it there.

  Shayd spat and said nothing. She picked up one of her daggers and drove it deep, staring the creature in the eye. She would never say that it felt good. But it did.

  Sutherland hesitated. Regret would linger, he knew. You couldn’t let it just lie there. For a moment he thought of the farm, his father, and the day he really left. The demon stirred.

  “I knew I’d known you once before,” said Regret.

  “That’s not my mistake you taste,” said Sutherland, returning to the present. “It’s yours.” He pushed his sword down, leaning on the crossguard.

  The demon chuckled, its body flattening, layers of plaster losing tension. “Succulent,” it wheezed. It glimpsed the spirit realm beyond the Veil, and a faraway glimmer. Familiar, and somehow far brighter than what had drawn it here. It knew where it would go.

  Rat stepped up, her head high. Sutherland looked at his squire, at his company, his friends. He smiled at the direction he’d tried to give them. Like he’d been given. Regret had taken Skyhold—they were all his response.

  He nodded at Rat.

  Rat hefted her hammer, brought it down on the demon, and a lazy breeze blew in the garden.

  By order of the Most Holy, Her Divine Victoria,

  you who have served are to be commended.

  And though the Herald guides you no more,

  and legion and name are retired,

  know that you served good and true.

  Change comes, both to and because of the Inquisition.

  And we are blessed with the ability to accept and move on,

  to leave dread and regret behind.

  Know that Skyhold remains, its fires bright.

  Forevermore it is where you are from, not where you are bound.

  Attempt no travel there.

  Let the past guide you to a new direction.

  And be well.

  LUCK IN THE GARDENS

  SYLVIA FEKETEKUTY

  I’ve been called many things—a liar, a knave, a scoundrel—even a hero, once or twice. I don’t like being called lucky, though. That comes and goes, and it’s best not to be superstitious about it.

  “Oh ho! A Lord of Fortune, shunning luck?” Very funny, you wits. Luck is twisting things to your own good, or noticing when they go well. Aren’t we lucky to be here this evening? To sit by a fire, with a barrel of beer rolled out of the cellar an hour ago and a circle of what I might call the best drinking companions I’ve had for some time here in Dairsmuid? Ones, I might add, who are very kind to so patiently listen to me begin this humble story.

  Because for all I’ve just complained about it, maybe luck was with me in Minrathous. I’m not sure how I survived that city otherwise. Have another round with me, for I’ll need it to ease into the remembering. Minrathous! Oldest and most astounding and most vile place I’ve ever made coin in.

  * * *

  Give me the fresh coasts of Rivain over any city, and Ferelden’s strapping lads over any other kind, but you have to be impressed by Minrathous. It towers. Their titanic buildings block out the sun. Some even float in the air, kept there by ancient, crackling magic. From the incense-spewing temples to the stink of the slave markets to the dragons carved across every inch of stone, history bleeds from the rock. Its crowds are like nothing you’ve seen either, a sweating, shouting, arguing, laughing river of people sloshing through the streets.

  And let me tell you: every Tevinter noble’s breeding goes out the window when their palanquin’s stopped behind a broken ox cart or dance troop. Some of those swears sounded like they came from the dawn of the Imperium.

  Now, beware of who you steal from in Tevinter, and not just because they somehow found a way to make prison crueler than in Starkhaven or Orlais. You slip a purse from the wrong belt, and it can be a hapless bodyguard or a cringing maid who gets blamed, for everyone there knows slaves are shifty. Maybe it doesn’t bother you, but a Lord of Fortune’s got to have some standards that sets them apart from common glory-seekers, and that’s one for me.

  Therefore it was with great pleasure I spotted a man wearing the vestments of a slaver, clearly alone, yelling at a pair of lithesome dancing girls to move out of his way. After a tumble and cringing apologies (“Watch yourself, man!” “Pardon, sir, pardon!”), I slipped away with a pouch of coins he had no right to anyway.

  I’d been given a tip on where to find information for a job in the city. I made my preparations, and changed. I fancy myself decent at disguises, and I know my way around a cut of clothes. Makeup and wigs I learned on a stage in Ferelden, and an elven friend taught me posture and how to curl a voice high or low. She said I had “an uncanny vocal range,” although she had me beat on accents. (To this day, I can’t match her knack for imitating a Free Marcher’s brogue.) Through this tale, people call me sir and madam, but I’ve always just thought of myself as myself, and had great fun in the bargain.

  Well, of course I can also disguise myself as some of the other peoples. There are things the mind focuses on first, you see. We recognize dwarves by their width as well as their stature. Elves are slim, but it’s their eyes and ears we recall. Humans have the most variety in the shoulders, and all anyone sees about quanari are height and horns—

  * * *

  What was that? Yes, you’re right. Enough boasting about my craft now. Back to the job in Minrathous. I waited at an inn that stank of the fish being gutted on the dock, until the moon topped the towers of the Archon’s palace. Then I made for a tall, skinny building like hundreds of others around the docks.

  As I slipped along the paths by the canals, the low fog curled around the water. There were splashes. Not unusual. But combined with the way the fog moved, it bothered me after a while. It was as if there was something stirring up the mist that I wasn’t fast enough to see. It didn’t help at some point I thought I’d heard a sigh, coming out of some dark grate by the canal. I told myself it was nerves, just some fish looking for a way back to the sea, when I came across a splash of blood caking one sloping brick wall.

  I stared dumbly. The blood, still wet, was sprayed far up the brickwork. It could have been a gutted fish flopping about, or the remains of some fellow in a bad way. Looking back now, I’m not sure that’s all it was, but at the time I pressed on. If I’d known what was going to happen, if I’d been able to read that omen, there’s a good chance I’d have run to the docks to throw myself on the first boat out of the city.

  * * *

  When I eventually got to the tall building that was my target, the door was forbiddingly barred. So I crawled through an unlatched, painted window three stories
above. Sorry? No, no ropes. Only pitons. Five years in Master Ignaldo’s Fabulous Circus of Rivain will cure you of a fear of heights, one way or another.

  Anyhow, what looked like a salt-encrusted clapboard building from the outside was just as dull inside. For the first two floors. Someone had converted the third into golden-pillowed luxury. Velvet couches and silk-covered lounges sat arranged like they were awaiting a party. Marble side tables held goblets and pitchers and crystal bowls. An enormous table of solid oak, polished and glossed to a sheen, had been hauled up three flights by some unlucky sods. The last extravagance was dozens of globes of colored glass strung from the ceiling that clinked as I brushed them on my way down.

  A cabinet full of bottles was a fraction less full after my inspection, but only a fraction. I had to stay sharp. I retreated into the rafter ledge, where I could see and not be seen. After an hour, some elves—dressed like paid servants, not slaves, to my surprise—arrived to fill the bowls with fruit and the pitchers with wine. For light, they chimed metal sticks against those glass globes, which began to glow.

  Oh, that sort of magic is everywhere in Minrathous. What they consider mere conveniences would delight and amaze us poor barbarians.

  The servants left, and soon after their masters swept into the place. Not all of the finely dressed mages were magisters of the imperial senate. Some were only breathtakingly wealthy. The sat down at the table, and a servant brought out a pack of cards, and the camaraderie began.

  “It’s your turn, Manius.”

  “Come on, man, take your drubbing.”

  “I think he’s saving that for the Sighing Pearl this evening.”

  There was raucous laughter, and Manius threw down a hand that was decent but not enough to beat the table. Another round began. I was pleased my informant’s word was good: this was a secret game of Wicked Grace for the slumming elect, mages who’d discreetly set up a club in the last place anyone would look for them. As the mages bet on piles of coins that would make a miser weep, the group was jovial and chatty as a flock of birds and snippy as Orlesian dowagers.