Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  She had never cared for the pageantry of this tradition or understood why the rich and powerful spent so much to revere their dead. The dead were all the same: just food for scavengers or tools to use in battle. If the nobility thought retelling the heroic triumphs of their bloodlines year after year meant they shared in those accomplishments, they were mistaken. Nevarran nobles weren’t good for anything anymore.

  Except maybe Cassandra Pentaghast.

  * * *

  Sidony had found it amusing how Pentaghast’s brow furrowed as she read the letter Sidony had brought to her. She couldn’t say she had felt the same kind of alarm when she had first received it.

  Pentaghast’s concerns had been so great that she immediately whisked the letter away to a meeting with the other Inquisition leaders. They could not easily overlook claims that a Mortalitasi—one of the influential and highly respected mages charged with tending Nevarra’s dead—was planning to assassinate a member of Nevarra’s already unstable line of succession. Especially when those claims came straight from another Mortalitasi, one that Sidony once knew.

  Later, Pentaghast—bearing her usual grave expression—had summoned Sidony to the Inquisition’s war room with a simple order: Return to Nevarra City and put an end to the Mortalitasi’s plot. Quietly, and before further intervention was required.

  Sidony had protested—she had no desire to set foot in that place ever again. “There are other Nevarrans in the Inquisition; send one of them.”

  “None of the other Nevarrans have your intimate knowledge of the Mortalitasi,” Pentaghast reminded her.

  “And none of the other Nevarrans would rather feed themselves to a wyvern than return to Nevarra City,” Sidony replied.

  “Any mage in the Grand Necropolis could be involved. If we send anyone else to question Lord Henrik, do you think he would trust that they were not sent to silence him?”

  “I don’t care,” Sidony spat. “I have no interest in getting mixed up in whatever diplomatic scuffle is brewing between the Mortalitasi and the nobles.”

  “The matter is simpler than you’re making it out to be, Sidony.” Pentaghast’s voice began to echo off the ceiling of the war room. “Go to the Grand Necropolis. Learn which Mortalitasi is this would-be assassin, then stop them. There is already so much tension among the royal families, something like this could be what tips the whole country into chaos. The Inquisitor does not wish to see that happen to Nevarra. Not if we can stop it.”

  “That doesn’t sound simple to me.”

  Pentaghast sighed. “Our only lead has asked for you, and you will be the one to go. That is an order.”

  Sidony had snatched the letter out of Pentaghast’s hand before turning to go.

  “Lord Henrik has put himself in a precarious position by informing us of this. Do you really not wish to help him?” Pentaghast had asked. “He saved you, raised you. Taught you what you know.”

  “A Mortalitasi does not save anyone. Anything that isn’t a corpse just gets in their way. You should know that better than anyone, Seeker.”

  It was the last thing Sidony had said before storming out through the war room’s massive door.

  Those words echoed in Sidony’s head as she continued down the bustling street, louder and louder until she had to duck into an alleyway, out from under the stony glares of the statues. The more she looked at them, the more they twisted and contorted until all she could see was the vacant face of Henrik’s lifeless body. He got in a Mortalitasi’s way—but which one?

  She leaned against the cool stone wall of the alley, deep in the slanting shadow cast by the setting sun, and let out a harsh breath. Her teeth clenched as a memory filled her vision, one of her, deep in the Grand Necropolis, standing next to a granite table used to prepare the dead for their interment. She balled her hands into shaking fists and pressed them to her eyelids, fighting against the sight of Henrik’s withered body on the table. But no matter how hard she fought, the memory of his mangled limbs, and his skin drained of all color, would not leave her mind.

  She bent forward at the waist, remembering how she had demanded the other Mortalitasi tell her what had happened, how their voices had shouted over her questions, desperate to stop the scene she was making. The accusations and threats she had hurled, even as they grabbed her by the arms and forced her from the Necropolis, did nothing to make them tell her what she wanted to know. About what happened to Henrik. About anything he might have known about an assassin scheming in the shadows, poised to strike. An assassin hidden well within the ranks of powerful mages—considered nigh untouchable by most of Nevarra.

  The matter is simpler than you’re making it out to be, Sidony.

  Simple. Except for the fact that the Mortalitasi refused to answer her questions, and the only man who could have guided her to the killer she was hunting was dead. With no one to turn to for answers, she had failed before she had even started.

  The sun slipped away into twilight. Sitting in the darkened alleyway, Sidony remembered another moment.

  She couldn’t recall how old she had been at that time, or how long it had been since her mother had chased her from their home after discovering Sidony’s magic. She had been curled up in an alley just like this one, struggling to conjure even the smallest spark to keep out the bitter cold, when an austere-looking man had bent down beside her and peered at what she was doing.

  She had scrambled away, thinking she had met her end. This man had come to imprison her, or kill her, or whatever else the rest of the world did to little girls with magic.

  “You’re scaring the poor thing, Henrik,” a bright-faced woman with hair the color of burnished brass had said from where she hovered in the alley’s opening.

  “It’s all right, Antonia. She just needs some help,” the man had replied. He stretched his hands toward Sidony, and she tentatively leaned forward. A bright, dancing flame burst from his palms, engulfing Sidony in warmth; her first magic lesson.

  For all the years she had lived with Henrik after that, he had been a recluse, immersing himself in his studies within the Necropolis and in training Sidony. She searched her memories, and she couldn’t think of a single person he had ever trusted, or even called a friend; except for that mage—Antonia—in the alleyway that night.

  If she was the only person Henrik trusted enough to know that he had taken a young, cast-off mage from the streets, what other secrets had he confided in her?

  * * *

  The woman was easy enough to find. Few Mortalitasi came into the city unless they were tending to the business of a death, and even fewer Mortalitasi matched Antonia’s description.

  Sidony only had to ask a few people before she picked up a trail. Each person she questioned was spellbound when they realized exactly who the “old friend” Sidony was looking for was. They eagerly pointed her to the place where they saw the woman most: a nearby tavern frequented by heavy gamblers.

  Night had completely fallen by the time Sidony found the place. Inside, she spotted Antonia instantly, dressed in unadorned burgundy robes and wearing the same bright face she saw the night Henrik found her.

  In the Inquisition, Sidony had witnessed a fair share of things that were odd or unexplainable, but seeing a death mage tucked away in the corner of a rowdy tavern, happily poring over a small stack of books while the other patrons not-so-subtly watched from a respectful distance, was something else entirely.

  Sidony walked to the back of the dimly lit room, rolling her eyes as those she passed pretended not to stare over their cups.

  Wood scraped across stone as she roughly yanked the chair opposite the yellow-haired Mortalitasi backward and sat down. A man wearing a loose shirt and apron rushed over, but one scornful look from Sidony sent him back behind the bar. Antonia’s serene look lifted into a smirk as she flipped the next page of her book.

  A moment passed in silence, broken only by the sounds of scraping parchment, a wine goblet being picked up and put back down, and the soft murmur of c
onversation from the rest of the tavern.

  Words were difficult for Sidony on most occasions, and now she was really unsure how to begin. This woman may have been someone Henrik trusted, but she was still a Mortalitasi.

  What do you know? Who are your allies? What could she possibly ask that didn’t give away who she was really looking for?

  “Still silent as the grave. That hasn’t changed,” came the voice from the other side of the table.

  “What?” Sidony asked.

  “The night that I met you, you refused to so much as say hello,” the death mage replied, eyes still turned down toward her book. “Henrik often told me how difficult it was, raising a young girl who wouldn’t open her mouth and speak.”

  “I speak when it’s necessary.” Sidony paused. “How much time has passed since you’ve last seen me? More years than I can count, yet you still know me on sight?”

  Antonia closed her book and smiled. Not out of amusement; it was a calm and tranquil expression.

  “Sidony, is it strange that I recognize a girl my very good friend used to tell me about every day? Henrik had his … frustrations with you, especially about you choosing to run off and leave the Mortalitasi, but he had so many fond things to say about you, too.”

  Antonia placed her book on top of the pile before smoothing her long plait over the front of her shoulder. Sidony idly wondered how her hair had retained its hue after all these years.

  “And honestly,” Antonia chuckled, “once you see that dark, sour-faced expression of yours, it’s hard to forget. That part hasn’t changed much either.”

  “I have no interest in trading petty barbs with you,” Sidony spat. “If you know who I am, then you know why I am here.”

  “I can probably guess, but please, elaborate. I’m enjoying your natural gift for conversation.” Antonia’s smile widened.

  Sidony sneered. She never expected this woman to freely give her the answers she needed, but she couldn’t read anything about her, or what she knew about Henrik’s suspicions—if she knew anything at all—or where her loyalties lay.

  Sidony could feel this lead slipping away, like she had when she discovered what had happened to Henrik.

  But if this woman had been Henrik’s friend, shouldn’t she be concerned about his fate? If Sidony could convince Antonia that she had returned to Nevarra City to learn what happened to him, play on her sympathies until she learned the truth … it could put her back on the assassin’s trail.

  “I’m here for Henrik. What happened to him?” Sidony asked. “I saw his body. That was no natural death. The others refused to tell me anything, then they threw me out.”

  Antonia frowned, and her eyes flicked away.

  “Would you like to come to a party?” she asked, looking back.

  Sidony worked her jaw and fixed her gaze squarely at the woman, trying to follow where she could possibly be leading. Her fists slowly clenched in her lap.

  “No, I would not,” she replied.

  “Are you sure?” The woman stood and gathered her few books under her arm. “I’m certain you’d find it very entertaining.”

  Sidony pushed back from the table and stood, her right fist flying behind her back, magic cracking and sparking in her palm. This woman would speak to her one way or another, and she didn’t care who saw.

  “I don’t find much of anything entertaining. Parties, least of all,” Sidony said as she stepped in Antonia’s way, blocking her from leaving the table. “You are not leaving until you answer my questions.”

  “Lady Antonia, is—is she bothering you? Should I—remove her?” The bartender who had cleaned the same glass at least six times since Sidony first sat at the table suddenly found the courage to approach the pair of mages.

  Antonia put up her free hand toward him. “As amusing as it would be to see you try, I think you’d better let me handle this,” she said. The barkeep’s confidence faltered, and he hesitantly backed away.

  The knowing smile Antonia wore vanished as she closed the distance between them. When she was close enough that no one, not even the nervous bartender, could hear her, Antonia spoke. “If I just turn you loose, you’ll get yourself killed.”

  Sidony relaxed her fist, and the tingle of magic subsided.

  Antonia adjusted her books and said, just as quietly, “Someone in this city has made a name for himself turning over every stone in Nevarra, unearthing debauchery and corruption for anyone who can pay for it.”

  Turning Sidony toward the door, Antonia guided her gently through the room. Eyes openly stared over rims of cups and over the tops of cards as they walked, the pretense of minding their own business abandoned long ago.

  “No one’s secrets are safe from him,” she continued. “Not the rich, not the powerful, not even those who hide down in the darkest depths of the Necropolis. If someone is hiding something from you, he can help you learn what it is.”

  They stepped into the chilly dark, and Antonia released Sidony. “In front of the statue of Tylus Van Markham, the one by the river, there’s a manor with a red door. Be there tomorrow evening.”

  For a brief moment, Antonia regarded her with a serious look. Then she turned and walked back up the avenue, flickering candles at the base of the monuments lighting the path in front of her feet.

  Damned statues.

  * * *

  The sun had fallen below the river’s opposite shore when Sidony finally stepped from behind the towering relief of Tylus Van Markham.

  With the hood of her raiment pulled far around the sharp angles of her face, she had watched the guests as they filed into the smooth stone manor across the boulevard. The men and women attending the fête were dressed in fine garments and flaunting more jewels than the richest dwarven merchant.

  Sidony marched toward the manor’s entrance, tugging her hood away from her face and smoothing back her chin-length brown hair. Straightening her robes and wiping the city’s grime from her mantle did nothing to make her look as extravagant as the other revelers, but at least she wouldn’t stand out as much as she quietly slipped into the back of a raucous group of guests bursting through the front door.

  She barely had a chance to take in her surroundings in the imposing entryway before a yellow-haired blur swung her into an adjoining room.

  Antonia grabbed her arms before the defensive spell that leapt into Sidony’s mind could make its way to her fingertips.

  “It’s me!” Antonia hissed.

  Sidony calmed the spark of magic before stepping back and yanking her arms out of Antonia’s grip.

  “I apologize,” Antonia said, doing a poor job of stifling a laugh as she looked over Sidony, “but you stood out the moment you stepped inside the door. I didn’t want you to draw too much attention.”

  Antonia’s deep bloodred coat was designed to facilitate quick movement, the front cut to a length that put her black leather leggings and black boots on full display. Silver bangles twisted and coiled up her one bare arm, and despite the ensemble’s utilitarian quality, she was every bit as elegant and refined as the other nobles. She seemed as comfortable here as she was in the tavern.

  “And being shoved into a private chamber by a Mortalitasi dressed like a spindleweed bunch won’t draw attention?” Sidony asked.

  “No more than usual. Everyone’s used to that sort of thing at these parties.” That serene smile crept along Antonia’s face, as if she were merely explaining the ways of the world to an ignorant child.

  Sidony rolled her eyes. “Enough. I told you, I don’t like parties, and I’m not here for fun. Tell me where I can find this ‘secret dealer’ you mentioned.”

  Antonia sighed. “He’s upstairs. Flitting from crowd to crowd like a butterfly and pretending that no one notices him listening in. The lords and ladies feign disgust at his brazen eavesdropping to make their rivals believe that no one here would dare even speak to him.”

  “I’m not interested in their games,” Sidony sneered. Her fists clenched and unclenche
d a few times.

  “It’s part of it! They all turn around and whisper their gossip to him when they’re sure no one’s listening.

  “Open a book on Nevarra’s royal families and point to any name. By the end of the night, he’ll have pieced together enough of a scandal to bring them down. I’m sure he could blackmail the entirety of King Markus’s court if he wanted to—maybe even the king himself, if he were lucid enough to know he was being extorted.

  “If anyone can find the truth about what happened to Henrik, he can.”

  Or, Sidony thought, he can tell me which one of you is a murderer, and which useless noble is the prey.

  Antonia removed a ring from her hand—a large ruby cradled in a silver setting, detailed with what looked like finger bones—and slipped it onto Sidony’s finger. “At least try to look like you belong here.” She again smiled.

  Flexing her fingers, Sidony flattened her lips into a line as she toyed with the unfamiliar weight.

  “Do you do this often?” she asked. “Drink in taverns while you study? Revel with hypocritical nobles and their information dealers? I don’t remember many Mortalitasi leaving the Necropolis for these kinds of social calls.”

  “It’s gotten a bit too quiet down there for me, in recent years.” Antonia’s smile widened. “I’ve grown to prefer … livelier settings.”

  No serious answer, then, Sidony thought. She turned and opened the ornately carved door. Music and the sounds of a lively debate between nearby guests spilled into the room.

  “When the dead are brought to us,” Antonia said, “I feel … regret.”

  Sidony stopped in the door frame and looked at her. Antonia’s smile was gone, replaced by a far-off look. “Regret that I’d never known these people in life. What drove them, what terrifed them … what killed them.

  “The people of Nevarra hold the Mortalitasi in very high regard—they admire us. They appreciate our knowledge and our counsel, and they respect the important role we play in this country. Too many of my colleagues repay their confidence with avoidance.”