The streets of Minrathous are never truly empty, even the ones that run underground. The Catacombs are as ancient as Minrathous itself. Officially, they’re for storage—a place to hold a year’s worth of food and supplies, securing the city’s survival in case of blight or Qunari invasion. Unofficially, they hold as many shady corners, forgotten places, and dark secrets as you’d expect.
Pale blue wisp-lights had been lit along the underground passage, dim but enough for me to move without creating a light of my own. The high ceilings disappeared into the shadows above. The walls were largely plain, though even here there were echoes of the ornamentation found on the buildings above—a pillar carved like a dragon, a fresco meant for almost no one to see. A faint vibration ran through the ground beneath me and I stopped admiring the art.
It wasn’t long before I could make out the flicker of orange light up ahead. A voice echoed back to me off the stone walls. Another vibration ran through the ground and I felt a strange buzzing in my head. It was thick with a feeling I couldn’t understand and an expansive need for emptiness.
“Corypheus’s fall was a test,” came Aelia’s voice. She sounded strained, but no less resolute for it. “Would we surrender Tevinter as well? Deny it a chance to rise? What is our answer?”
“Our lives for the glory of Tevinter reborn.” The answer came from more voices than I could take alone.
I moved toward the light, ignoring the sick feeling in the back of my head. I pulled myself behind a pillar before getting too close and took in the scene in front of me.
“The seals are broken,” Aelia said. “The traitors could not escape their blood debt. The Loyal paid their own and will be rewarded. We reach the Hour of Minrathous’s Return.”
A small crowd of Venatori—thirty or so—stood in front of Aelia. I could see now why her voice was strained. It appeared breaking the seals was only the start of the ritual. If this had been Corypheus’s plan—and the demon was as bad as Flavian claimed—there was a fair chance the final steps were meant for a god, or whatever he had been.
That hadn’t stopped Aelia.
A bleeding Venatori lay slouched at her feet, his arm limply held up to hers, his skin an unlively gray. Aelia herself was focusing all her power into a large stone obelisk. It rose the full height of the catacomb and there were deep cracks in the stone at its base.
Below the obelisk, a shadow moved at odds with the lights that cast it. Looking at it caused the buzz in my head to grow louder. Whatever I was looking at, it was the edge of something deeper. If this was a demon at all, it was older and larger and more nameless than any demon I’d ever heard of and so much worse besides. If that thing rose, there wouldn’t be a Minrathous left.
I cursed under my breath. What did I think I was going to do? If I’d stayed away, I would die with everyone else, but I could have done so in bed. Maybe with a good book or a nice supper. But since I was here …
The man at Aelia’s feet was already dead. Moving fast, I hit him with a snap of cold magic.
Aelia let out a yell of frustration as the source of her power literally froze up. She caught sight of me at once but held her place by the obelisk. Going after me would mean dropping the ritual, and she loved her false god and warped dreams more than she hated me. Still, I’d slowed her down.
“Bring her here!” Aelia yelled, which turned out lucky for me.
Limited to attacks of the nonlethal variety, I managed to hold back the first set of attackers. A frost slick on the catacomb’s stone floor sent several Venatori reeling while another found himself pinned in ice. Focusing, I pulled at the air around the cultists, slowing them down. But there were thirty of them and only one of me and I couldn’t last forever. In the end, two Venatori caught me and dragged me toward the stone obelisk.
“Minrathous is broken,” Aelia said, as her followers held me at her side. The shadow pulsed uncomfortably close. I didn’t think it could hurt me yet, but I twisted away from it all the same.
Minrathous buried people every day. It closed its eyes and pretended they didn’t exist, that the power grabs and politics weren’t tearing it down—and it was about to be torn down for it.
I was starting to regret not having that nice bed and supper again, when I caught a glimpse of movement just outside the ring of light.
Knight-Templar Rana Savas.
Scanning along the shadows now, I caught Knight-Captain Jahvis’s eye. He gave me a curt nod. To his left, Brom was making his way to the far side of the circle. People will surprise you. All three templars were carrying enchanted weapons designed to subdue mages—swords for Jahvis and Rana and a heavy mace for Brom. The weapons looked almost ordinary, but I could see the faint shine of Fade-touched metal and knew they’d be marked with the Circle’s seal. In keeping the mages happy, Minrathous templars need to be assigned those weapons for specific and approved circumstances only. I had a feeling Knight-Captain Jahvis had skipped that part.
Aelia tilted her head toward me and I lowered my eyes, not wanting to give the templars away before they were ready.
“You do know that whatever you’re raising—” I began
“Minrathous’s salvation.” Aelia’s voice was even more strained than before. Without blood to fuel her, she was having trouble maintaining the ritual on her own.
“Sure, that,” I said. “There’s no way you can control it.”
“It will fulfill its purpose,” Aelia said. “Minrathous will return to its former glory.”
“Did it have glory?” I asked. If she hadn’t needed to focus on the ritual, I’m fairly certain I’d be dead for that.
Another tremor ran through the Catacombs. Dust shook from the ceiling and the shadow pulsed farther outward. Whatever it was, it didn’t care about glory or anything like it.
“You and I shattered the seal,” Aelia said. “You and I can finish this.” She drew a knife from her waist and handed it to one of the Venatori holding me.
“Better people than you or I will do that,” I said.
A beam of light directed from Rana’s sword struck the crowd, paralyzing anyone it hit. Those that could still move rushed to defend themselves from their new attackers.
Distracted, one of the Venatori holding me loosened his grip and his friend met the full force of my newly freed fist. I brought my elbow back hard, hitting the first Venatori square in the stomach, before pushing them both back with a blast of ice.
The shadow heaved as the templars fought the Venatori. It was darker now, thicker, too, but still formless. I saw a steel-haired Venatori stumble near the writhing darkness. Before he could straighten back up, the shadow was wrapped around his wrists. The cultist jerked to his knees. His body convulsed. Silence fell suddenly on both sides, broken by the screams of the old man as he sunk from view.
If I’d thought there’d been chaos before, I was wrong. Some Venatori continued to fight, others ran. I saw Brom lose his balance as the earth trembled again. He hit the ground with a metal clang and was swarmed by a trio of Venatori. Before I could move, a beam of light shot from his mace, knocking his attackers back and sending another cultist into the shadow. Brom rose awkwardly to his feet, one arm limp by his side, his movements hampered by whatever magic the Venatori had cast at him. I saw Rana race toward him, stopping the large templar from being pulled into the shadow himself.
Through it all, Aelia had not broken the ritual. There was fresh blood on her arm—she’d taken on fueling the magic alone.
I crossed the space between us and grabbed her by the wrist. She tried to shake me off, but I hung on, concentrating on slowing her bleeding, patching her wounds just enough.
“You won’t—” But before she could finish, I punched her in the face. Aelia stumbled backward and the connection broke.
The swift disruption of the ritual knocked us both back. Aelia screamed as she realized the shadow was gone. I sent a wall of ice up and over the obelisk. It wouldn’t hold back disaster on its own, but it was enough to hold secure un
til the justicars sent experts smarter than me to deal with it.
Rana joined us and dragged Aelia to her feet.
“Telling the knight-commander went well after all,” I said dryly.
“It will,” Rana said, and she sounded both thrilled and appalled by the rule bending that had brought her here.
“We weren’t looking into Lady Varantus,” Knight-Captain Jahvis said. “We were tracking down a missing mage. Neve Gallus.” My smile was sincere. He looked tired and I was feeling sympathetic.
“Good work here tonight,” Jahvis said to his templars. Rana smiled. Brom just shrugged. Of the two, I sided with Brom.
I knew what would happen next. The demon—or whatever it was—would be sealed. No one would talk about it because doing so would admit the Venatori still had too much power. Some of the Venatori would face their crimes, others would claim they were victims of blood-magic control. The ones who had money would find that it was enough of an excuse.
It was still dark when we left the Catacombs. The city was hushed, if hardly sleeping, with no idea what had happened.
“Minrathous is broken,” Aelia spat at me.
“I know,” I said. “But you aren’t the one to fix it.”
I left Aelia to the templars. I wanted sleep more than anything, but there was one more stop I had to make.
* * *
If Rana Savas had been surprised to see me at her door in the middle of the night, Otho Calla was baffled to find me at his before sunrise the next morning—and more than a little annoyed to be woken by a servant to see me.
“What do you want?” he said, then caught sight of my bloodstained coat and dust-filled hair. “Venhedis. If you’ve brought trouble…”
“For what it’s worth, you weren’t wrong to give Quentin a second chance,” I said. “He’d left the Venatori. There’s nothing ‘unsavory’ in his last days either.”
Otho ran a tired hand over his face. “Does it matter now?”
“It might to you. That’s your decision. You wanted the truth—you have it.”
“I already paid you,” he said, but I was already leaving.
“I know.”
I heard the heavy door to the Calla house start to creak close behind me, then pause.
“Why didn’t he just tell me?” Otho called after me, but the plea in his voice was for someone already dead.
I paused, resting a hand on the carved dragon at Otho’s front gate. Morning light was starting to push through the city, people already moving through the street in front of me, ready to start the day.
Why hadn’t Quentin told him? The easy answer was he couldn’t. But had he wanted to? Had he tried? Did it matter?
“I don’t know,” I said and walked away.
THE WIGMAKER JOB
COURTNEY WOODS
In a cold, dark room beneath the streets of Vyrantium, Ambrose Forfex prepared for the wig show of the season. Using a thimble as a gauge for thickness, he measured out a lock of hair. His slender fingers brushed through the strands. The silky texture made him tremble.
There were no imperfections. No split ends. No breakage. Only hair—lush and velvety—in its purest form.
A throaty sigh escaped the Wigmaker’s lips. “Flawless.”
The approaching pitter-patter of footsteps interrupted the moment—his moment. Two hooded figures stopped at the entrance of the Wigmaker’s workshop. They didn’t dare enter.
“Ambrose. We need to talk,” one of them said.
“Your boots sound like dead fish slapping against cobblestone.” Ambrose sniffed.
“Upstairs,” the other replied.
Ambrose let the tresses slip ever so delicately through his fingertips. “I’ll return soon,” he murmured, then followed the pair up the staircase to the main living quarters.
Only when they were safely in the sitting room with the curtains drawn did the figures lower their hoods. They were both altus, the highest class of mage in the Tevinter Imperium.
“You need to cancel the event,” Crispin Kavlo stated. His father was a magister and he had grand plans to follow in his footsteps.
“Need?” Ambrose mocked. “How dramatic.”
“This is serious,” Felicia Erimond said. Her brother Livius had introduced Ambrose to the Venatori—opened his eyes to a future where the Imperium could once again be great.
“Someone’s put a contract on your head. Just like the others. The Crows are coming.” She whispered the last part as if those words alone could summon the infamous assassins.
Ambrose stifled a groan. “The dragon does not fear the crow.”
“It does when it’s already killed eight other dragons,” Crispin snapped. He had begun to sweat. His eyes darted toward the closed doors and windows like a caged animal’s.
“Look at you—quivering over Antivan propaganda.” Ambrose leveled the man with an unimpressed glare. “This is why the Imperium is in shambles.”
Without warning, the Wigmaker grabbed Crispin’s arm. The younger mage winced and tried to pull away as Ambrose dug a pointed thumbnail into his forearm. Blood, crimson and thick, seeped from underneath the nail.
“Crows are flesh and blood. Nothing more.” He muttered a quick spell to close the wound. “The show will go on.”
Crispin jerked back and held his freshly healed arm against his chest.
Ambrose crossed the room to a small but well-stocked bar. All this talk of Antiva was making him thirsty.
“The man who’s taken the contract is no ordinary Crow,” Felicia explained, careful to keep her voice steady.
Ambrose uncorked the wine with a wave of his hand and began pouring it into a crystal decanter.
“He’s Lucanis Dellamorte.”
The bottle clanged against the crystal. A crack splintered down the glass.
“Ah.”
Goose bumps pebbled the Wigmaker’s neck. He set the decanter back on the counter and sighed.
“Shit.”
* * *
In an unassuming inn, on an unassuming road, Lucanis Dellamorte sat with a whetstone in hand, his favorite sword resting across his knees. The monotonous movement of grinding stone against metal soothed him. Seven daggers of various size and shape lay polished and glistening on a rough wool blanket at his feet.
Music—mixed with laughter and gossip—choked through the floorboards.
Lucanis closed his eyes. His mind separated the sounds until they painted a picture.
A waitress rushed from the kitchen.
Two lovers took advantage of a shadowy booth. Their lips smacked together, wet and wanton.
A man cheated at Wicked Grace. The card up his sleeve strained against the starched fabric of his shirt.
None is a threat.
He relaxed.
“You’re not wearing that, are you?” Illario asked, while admiring his own reflection.
Lucanis glanced down at his ensemble. The jet leather greatcoat and black-on-black suit might have been conspicuous during the day, but for a night job, it was the tactical choice. He compared his outfit to his cousin’s high-collared, navy and gold tunic. It was something an Antivan thought a Vint would wear.
“At least I don’t look like a tourist,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Illario spritzed his hair with oil and slicked it back with both hands.
“No, you look like you’re attending a funeral.”
“Very funny,” Lucanis said flatly and returned to sharpening his blade. “It’s a job. Not a party.”
“Actually, it’s a job at a party. Might as well look our best.” Illario flicked open a straight razor to trim an errant follicle of stubble that was ruining his otherwise pristine five o’clock shadow.
“Any excuse to primp.”
“Hey—I’m only here because of you,” Illario grumbled. “We should be halfway home right now. Only ‘the Great Lucanis Dellamorte’ could delay a summons from the First Talon herself.”
Lucanis set his sword aside
. Illario was generally thick-skinned—except when it came to their grandmother. “Caterina can hardly complain. She’s the one who beat into me my commitment to contracts.”
Memories of sweat-filled days without food or water came unbidden. Lucanis’s back tingled from where his grandmother’s cane had bruised his flesh for letting his guard down or fumbling his footwork.
For years, he’d hated her. But his time as a Master Assassin had since taught Lucanis that Caterina’s cruelty was her way of making sure that he was prepared for this life—that he survived.
“All that effort training and grooming us, and the old woman still won’t step aside.” Beneath the bitterness in Illario’s tone was something rotten.
“Your time will come,” Lucanis assured him.
“Will it?” Illario’s piercing gaze met Lucanis’s in the mirror. “People talk. You’ve always been her favorite.”
He’d heard the rumors. For all their secrets and intrigue, the Antivan Crows were a chatty bunch.
“My talents lie elsewhere,” Lucanis said, gesturing toward the arsenal around him. “You’re the one with the silver tongue.”
“So, if she named you heir to House Dellamorte, you’d refuse?”
Lucanis opened his mouth to respond, when he realized someone was creeping up the stairs.
He listened. The footsteps were too quiet, too sure to belong to a drunk. A servant? Doubtful. When he’d bought out the floor, Lucanis had given the innkeeper explicit instructions to keep her people downstairs.
That left the Venatori … unless someone else on his long list of enemies had found him.
“Lucanis?” Illario pressed.
He held up a hand and clutched the worn leather grip of his sword.
Illario’s pretty-boy mask slipped as a coldness flooded his features. A retractable dagger shot out from under his sleeve.
The intruder was at the top of the stairs and moving closer.
Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights Page 27
