Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  The right words to talk his way out of this.

  She looked to the ground; her face grew hot at the idea that she had aided the very person she was sent to stop.

  Nicolas laughed, a biting, taunting sound. “You didn’t know, did you? Who did you think he was? Who did you think you were helping?”

  A man who would kill a boy in broad daylight to silence him. A man with connections, with easy access to the victims and their families. A man who the most powerful people in Nevarra City both feared and admired.

  The pain in her head was unbearable, but Sidony pushed it away and concentrated.

  “Was it not enough for you that I paid the debt you owed to your previous employers? That I saved you from their incessant pursuit? What else could you possibly desire?” Reinhardt asked, his ire fully on Cyrros again.

  “Nicolas, I need you to shut up and let me explain.”

  “Do you know what this is going to do to my standing in court? After I’ve dragged myself forward, you’ve knocked me even further from the throne!”

  Their shouting was distracting, and Sidony screwed her eyes shut against the sound. She reached out with her magic, trying with everything she had to finish the spell Reinhardt had interrupted. A moment later, she felt it: a response from the room where they had found Reinhardt’s wife.

  “Maker help you, Nicolas, if you don’t quiet yourself—”

  She could sense it leaving the room where they had discovered it, moving down the hall, toward the parlor …

  “No, we’re done, Cyrros. If I have to throw you to the wolves along with the Mortalitasi, then I will—”

  It was outside the door, and Sidony beckoned it inside.

  “I didn’t kill your wife or the other bastards you hired me to kill either. Someone else got to all of them first, Nicolas! Someone who obviously knows what you’re planning. The mage and I were trying to find out who—”

  Cyrros cried out in surprise as Nicolas’s scream echoed around the room, but neither of the men managed to drown out the sickening crunch of nails and teeth sinking into flesh.

  Sidony’s eyes flew open, just in time to see the corpse of Reinhardt’s wife attack her husband. Lord Reinhardt howled in pain and confusion, his arms uselessly pulling at her rabid form, blood pouring from every gash his dead wife opened upon his body.

  Cyrros’s knife flew into his hand, and he quickly backed into the wall.

  Reinhardt’s screams disappeared almost as soon as they began. His lifeless body crumpled, and the former Lady Reinhardt spun toward Cyrros.

  His eyes darted to Sidony.

  “Tell me.” Sidony pulled herself up uneasily. “How many dead nobles did you hope to lay at the Mortalitasi’s feet? At my feet? How many other necromancers did you plan to use? It must have felt like the Maker himself smiled upon you last night, when he put two death mages right in your way.”

  Lady Reinhardt took a step forward.

  “I’m telling the truth, mage. I didn’t do this.” He gestured toward the walking corpse. “Any of it.”

  His knuckles turned white around the hilt of his knife.

  “But the Maker is smiling on me now. I was looking for an assassin,” Sidony said. She jerked her head toward Lady Reinhardt’s corpse, and it collapsed in a heap on the floor. Purplish-white fire erupted in Sidony’s open palm.

  “And I found one.”

  “Mage! Stop!” Cyrros stepped away from the wall, and rushed toward her.

  “My name is not Mage!”

  She thrust her arm forward, tearing away her bonds, flinging the siphoning spell and hitting him square in the chest. The skin on his extremities turned dark purple, then black, as the curse drained the very life from his body.

  * * *

  She waited until night had completely fallen before she left the apartment. None of the staff ever returned, so she sat inside with the corpses, until she was sure she could escape the house without drawing outside attention.

  Under the cover of the moonless autumn night, she slipped out the back door, without notice.

  Except for the shadowy figure—still as death, its necrotic aura chilling her to the bone—waiting at the end of the street. Watching.

  I am going to have an interesting report for Pentaghast, she thought, as she turned and walked the opposite way.

  * * *

  Henrik’s body had been moved to the tomb that had waited for him since he joined the Mortalitasi order. Despite the horrific appearance of his mangled corpse, he seemed almost comfortable in the tableau the other death mages had arranged for him: sitting at a desk, surrounded by books on necromancy. Alone.

  He had been wrong about a Mortalitasi planning to assassinate the nobles—another victim of Cyrros’s network of well-placed rumors and gossip—and she resented him for using that mistake to drag her back to the city that she hated, to protect people that she despised. But buried deep below the resentment, she knew that he had called on her for help because he still trusted her, after all this time. Even after she abandoned him.

  And she had failed to protect him, even after the many years he had kept her hidden away from the vicious games the rest of Nevarra was playing outside the halls of the Necropolis.

  She had begrudged his insistence that she join the Mortalitasi, hated his resistance to learning anything about the world outside Nevarra City, but she never wanted this for him. Before she returned to the Inquisition—and did everything in her power to never see Nevarra City again—the least she could do was ensure he had reached his resting place.

  When she returned to the Necropolis, she hadn’t expected the other Mortalitasi to accept her apology for her previous behavior, but she was grateful when they did. To her surprise, one of the death mages, an older man with silver hair and a mustache, had happily escorted her to Henrik’s tomb.

  “I heard you came to say goodbye to dear Henrik,” a bright voice rang out behind her.

  “No,” Sidony said, turning to face Antonia as she entered the tomb. “I am just … making sure he’s where he wanted to be.”

  “Oh.” The corner of Antonia’s lips quirked upward. “For a moment, I thought there might actually be some warm, sentimental feelings in there—” Antonia pointed to the center of Sidony’s chest.

  Sidony hummed a response. She would soon be free of the woman’s gibes.

  “Since you’re leaving us—again—I take it Cyrros helped you find what you were looking for?” Antonia asked.

  “He did,” Sidony replied. As far as you know.

  Antonia smiled.

  “You did good work.”

  Sidony raised a brow.

  “Killing Lord Reinhardt and his pet assassin.” Antonia smiled. “They would have brought chaos upon the kingdom if they had been allowed to see their plan through.”

  Sidony clenched her jaw.

  “Forgive me,” she began, “but why did you say you knew about Reinhardt and Cyrros? That is information I have not even reported to the Inquisition yet.”

  Antonia carried on as if Sidony had never spoken.

  “These nobles … responsible for guiding the country, and this is the example they set? To grow so desperate for power that they resort to climbing over each other’s corpses to reach the throne?

  “So many people tell me they’re ready for change, for the kingdom to be taken in a new direction, without the uncertainty of the old royal blood and their constant struggles for control. With the line of succession in such disarray, maybe it’s time for the Mortalitasi to intervene…”

  A stabbing cold ripped through Sidony, a chill that had nothing to do with her surroundings.

  “I told you before, Sidony. The people of Nevarra, noble and common, know our worth. They see the value in counsel given by a Mortalitasi. Why, I could tell them the Maker himself willed their daughter to jump from a window, and they would believe me. They would find peace in that. I could say that there’s no point in examining the crate of wine that killed their brother for poiso
n, and they would trust in my wisdom.”

  She pointed a finger toward Henrik.

  “If I say this doddering old recluse is dead because he’s grown too fond of drinking during his experiments, no one will question me.”

  She turned back to Sidony.

  “And when I send a bitter, unpleasant girl to get a two-bit assassin and his upstart master out of my way, she will take them down for me. She will destroy them, without even a second thought, and show the rest of Nevarra just how far the nobility is willing to go for power.”

  The chill seeped deeper into Sidony’s bones. The weight of Antonia’s words hung heavy in the silence.

  A tranquil smile illuminated Antonia’s face, and her eyes glanced to Sidony’s hand.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “My ring. You still have it.”

  Her hand extended toward Sidony.

  Eyes never leaving Antonia’s, Sidony pulled the trinket from her finger. As she dropped the ring into her waiting palm, she felt it: the waves of death and decay, of a cold void, emanating from the dark figure she’d come to recognize, standing in the corner.

  “You know,” Antonia said, following Sidony’s gaze to the corpse. “When I learned that Henrik had sent for you, I was furious. The last thing I needed was a thorn in my side in the form of a churlish little deserter who abandoned the Mortalitasi.

  “But you turned out to be useful after all,” she said with the same calm smile.

  Antonia retreated from the tomb. The corpse that had haunted Sidony at every turn, cataloging her every move, dutifully followed its mistress into the dark.

  Alone in the tomb, Sidony froze under the watch of Henrik’s lifeless body. The man who had taught her everything she knew, whom she had rebelled against for years, stared vacantly at her from his resting place.

  Cyrros had used her. Even if he had never gotten the opportunity to pin the deaths of the nobles on her, he had still managed to run her ragged across Nevarra City, chasing a killer who was sabotaging his work and tarnishing his reputation. Rage flared within her as she thought of killing Cyrros and Nicolas; she thought she’d been preventing a political catastrophe on behalf of the Inquisition, but she had been nothing more than Antonia’s pawn.

  Even Pentaghast—in her own way—had used Sidony. Did it matter to her that Sidony wanted nothing to do with the fate of her home country?

  The Inquisitor does not want to see that happen to Nevarra.

  Or did it only matter that the Inquisitor was pleased?

  She met Henrik’s blank, twisted expression. He had never been what she wanted or even what she thought she needed. For most of her life, he had felt like a jailor instead of a father, or even a teacher. He had insisted she stay hidden away from the world, discouraged her from learning anything outside the lessons of death magic. But he had never used her.

  And now she’d give anything to hear what he had to say.

  She could go to the other Mortalitasi, tell them what Antonia had done; but her standing with them was still precarious at best. It would be her word against that of a prominent Mortalitasi, one who could accuse an agent of the Inquisition of murdering a Nevarran lord without question. A situation Antonia would no doubt use to her benefit.

  And if Sidony removed Antonia from her own game, whose pawn would she become then? Who would be waiting in the wings to fill Antonia’s place? In Nevarra, there would always be another waiting to climb over the ones who fell.

  The silence of Henrik’s tomb was suffocating, as the dead man’s stare became unbearable.

  It didn’t matter if anyone else benefited from what happened to Antonia. Sidony couldn’t take failing him again.

  * * *

  The statues came alive that night. Countless points of light from candles at their bases and in the hands of revelers illuminated every crevice in every stone face, every wrinkle in the fabric draped around the stone bodies, every flower scattered at their feet.

  The autumn pageant all of Nevarra City had been preparing for was here, and every one of the city’s residents filled the streets with laughter and dancing. The crowds were perfect for concealing Sidony as she walked the boulevard, but they made it almost impossible to find who she was looking for.

  But predictably, the brassy-haired, bright-faced death mage shone like a beacon, even among the masses. She was surrounded by admirers looking for counsel, for guidance, for just a smile, all of which Antonia freely gave.

  Sidony watched as the little girl she had given a stack of gold to approached Antonia, the letter Sidony had given her outstretched in her little hand. Antonia beamed, and when she took it, the girl ran in the opposite direction.

  The smile faded as Antonia read the crumpled parchment.

  What was she feeling as she read the words from Henrik’s hand, the hand Sidony had easily reawakened for this purpose? Was it confusion? Fear?

  For the first time, Sidony saw Antonia’s face darken. She excused herself from her enchanted audience and looked around, searching, but Sidony’s face effortlessly blended into the crowd.

  Antonia turned and disappeared between two statues standing guard at the mouth of an abandoned back street, and Sidony followed.

  The darkness in the alleyway would mask the two mages from outside eyes, and the noise of the crowds would drown out Antonia’s screams. And in the time it would take for someone to discover the Mortalitasi’s body, Sidony would be too far from Nevarra City to hear their screams.

  They had met in an alley, and in an alley, they would part.

  THE STREETS OF MINRATHOUS

  BRIANNE BATTYE

  The streets of Minrathous are never truly deserted, but they do a decent impression of it after midnight. Not that it calmed Quentin Calla’s nerves. He scurried down the quiet alley, head on a swivel as if afraid he was being followed.

  I was following him, but I wasn’t the reason he was spooked. The man didn’t know I was there. I let him get a good ways down the alley before tailing after.

  Quentin’s uncle, Otho Calla, was worried his nephew had fallen back in with the Venatori. The cult had lost its bite after their would-be god was struck down by the “glorious” Inquisitor. After that, a good number of cultists—who never admitted they were Venatori in the first place—distanced themselves from the whole affair. Of course, that didn’t stop remaining loyalists from acting delusional and stirring up trouble when the mood struck. That’s fanatics for you.

  Quentin paused halfway down the alley and started muttering to himself. His left hand closed around a gold chain at his neck. I channeled a bit of magic, ready for whatever he planned to do, then let it fade back. He was giving himself a pep talk. This wasn’t his part of the city.

  Quentin’s parents had disowned him years ago. Otho thought Quentin was up to something—something more than spouting cult mantras. He wanted to know if he’d been a fool to give Quentin a second chance. But going to the “proper” authorities draws attention—and what if he was wrong? He’d face scandal for nothing. Otho needed information. That’s where I came in. I don’t work with people in Calla’s circle often, but I couldn’t argue with the offer. If Quentin’s uncle was wrong, I’d save him the embarrassment of Minrathous gossip. If he was right, my information would give him enough time to play martyr and bribe the right people for a quiet arrest. The way I saw it, I was getting a controlling uncle off Quentin’s back or a dangerous Venatori off my streets. Either way worked for me.

  Pep talk over, Quentin walked into the open. The alley led to the docks. Quentin made his way to one of the storehouses—a brown brick building no different than its neighbors—throwing nervous looks left and right. It was a wonder I hadn’t seen him robbed on the way here. I moved to stand in the shadow cast by a stack of wooden shipping crates. The night air was warm and I could hear the slap of water on rock. I flexed my fingers, pulling a stream of cold air into being. A light mist formed—nothing too showy, but enough to cover my position. Quentin may not have been observant, but I wasn�
��t taking chances. I watched him pull a pouch from his pocket and sprinkle the contents over a brazier. The flames sputtered and turned pale blue. A signal.

  A figure in white and beige robes approached from the shadows. Unlike Quentin, they were unbothered by the docks or the late hour.

  “You’re here,” Quentin said, with the relief of a man who rarely sees things go right. “You’ll tell the others—”

  But I’ll never know what Quentin thought the “others” should hear.

  The figure that stepped into the light wore a full-face mask of polished bronze.

  “Who—?” Quentin started.

  Then the dagger was lodged in his neck.

  I hadn’t seen it coming.

  Quentin was down, the figure crouched over his body. I felt a sudden unease, that low drop in the stomach when blood magic’s in the air. The ground below us trembled and I grabbed the crates, adjusting my stance for balance. Then, as quick as it started, the shaking stopped.

  There wasn’t time to think. I stepped from behind the crates and began weaving a spell to hold the figure in place. Their limbs began to slow as my magic took hold and for a second, I let myself think I had them.

  But their hands were wet with Quentin’s blood.

  The figure’s fists snapped shut as they drew on Quentin’s vitals to push back. The speed and force of my spell collapsing staggered me. I pulled myself up, ready to counter their next attack, but that’s not what I got.

  The figure was already running down the docks. I flung out an arm, attempting to slow their escape, but I was still off guard and the magic went wide. My one leg may be dwarven-crafted metal below the knee, but that doesn’t keep me out of a chase. I was prepared to follow, but Quentin groaned.

  A glance in his direction was all it took. When I looked back, the masked figure had gotten away.

  Quentin had gotten away from me, too. There was too much blood, and too much had already sunk into the cobblestones. I knelt beside him and hovered a hand near the dagger at his neck. I noticed the gold chain was gone. The figure must have taken it. His eyes widened as the chill of my magic slowed his bleeding. I couldn’t stop it, but I could numb the pain—and let him talk a little longer.