“I will stab both of you,” said Laudine, brandishing a long pin from her hair.
Weeks in a small coach had not gelled their group into a team, despite their surprising effectiveness. Between Genitivi’s details, Philliam’s links, and Laudine’s rhythm, they had written a path that traveled backward from the strange end of the Inquisition. A tale that upended history, revealing that Arlathan, the ancient elven capital, had not been destroyed by Tevinter, but by the strange magics that caused the rise of the Veil.
The division of the mortal realm from the Fade was not a natural state that had always existed. It was an event, a moment in time that had literally shattered the elven empire. Pieces of that glory now drifted beyond dream and will, with the Dread Wolf stalking between. But other pieces remained, displaced in the physical world. And in the gap between accepted fact and fantastical guesses, there were clues a group of squabbling writers now chased to hidden secrets.
If they didn’t kill each other first.
Genitivi had spent his life collecting careful facts, cataloging the glory of the Maker as he crisscrossed the nations of Thedas. He was the epitome of the horseshoe-haired scholar, fingers permanently stained by inky recollections. His tomes were heavy and exhaustive, the pride of many academic institutions. Reverence that was not shared by current company. Philliam had famously earned Genitivi’s ire by paraphrasing several of his works and serializing the bloody bits.
Genitivi accused Philliam of denigrating history.
Philliam accused Genitivi of holding it captive from the public.
Laudine thought both had their heads up their arses.
“There’s nothing for miles,” said Philliam.
“Blame her,” said Genitivi, pointing at Laudine. “If we had stayed on the road, we would have markers. Waypoints. A pillar every hundred yards.”
The Imperial Highway was an elevated road of gigantic stone slabs, each section held aloft by pillars rising like the arms of a buried giant. It started in Minrathous, and nearly bridged the whole of the Imperium. Magisters of old could march their domain from end to end, looking down upon everything they ruled, in every sense. It was a relic of Tevinter at its height, from a time when the spoils of empire could afford to maintain it. Its polished surface had been the gentlest part of their journey. Leaving it to find their goal had meant hours of searching amid ankle-testing stones and sand.
“There’re no relics to be found on the road.” Laudine sniffed. “Present company excluded.”
“Brace yourselves,” said Mateo. His hand was on a marked stone that only a practiced treasure hunter could have seen amid the scrub.
Philliam had been focused on his next insult. He hadn’t noticed the postholes that ringed the large stone slab beneath them—the remnants of a long-rotted railing. He’d dismissed their flat respite as an offcut of some long disused quarry. Not, as Mateo’s careful eye had spotted, the top of a supply shaft that had served the Deep Roads some millennia before.
“Wait—” he said, as Mateo didn’t.
The stone clicked, and mechanisms long out of alignment dropped them into free fall. They braced, as Mateo had suggested, against the only supports available: each other, their screams a bitter harmony.
“Writers,” muttered Mateo.
* * *
“That enough context for you?”
“Quite, thank you.”
“Don’t forgot, Mateo was shirtless the entire time.”
“I didn’t find it as impressive as you did.”
“You’re still so very green.”
“Just let me continue. We’re nearly there.”
* * *
Philliam thought they would return to Orlais as heroes. The journey underground had gone surprisingly well, despite its terrifying start. As the slab had dropped, cables slack with age had found their proper tension. Unseen bellows were pulled closed, and the air pushed by their fall was collected and redirected within the shaft. The descent had ended without injury, if not gently.
Mateo reassured them that it was a dwarven design—or maybe Tevinter—and that regardless of age, he’d only ever heard of one failing. When asked who had survived the two-mile drop to make the report, he had smiled proudly.
“That’s why I know to brace.”
After that, Phillian, Genitivi, and Laudine had jointly decreed that, as they were technically his employers, they should be consulted before any future lever-pulling. But despite his casual bravado, they had to admit the man knew his business. Mateo led them expertly through the Tevinter mine, directing them to a dwarven crosscut, and even daring a rough-hewn tunnel likely clawed by darkspawn during the first or second Blight.
And deeper still they found the impossible.
Natural caves and the occasional support beam suddenly gave way to delicate elven carvings, the stone floor abruptly changing to mahogany hardwood. There was no doorway, no planning or joinery. It was as if a pocket had suddenly formed in the rock, replaced by the notion that shelves and reading desks should simply be there. They had turned a corner and stepped into an elven library. When Arlathan “fell,” a piece of it had “fallen” here.
With hunches proven right, Philliam was in his glory, salivating over tomes that had waited centuries—perhaps millennia—for new readers. And better, somewhere in here could be the means to defend the world. Mateo stood guard, Laudine called out symbols and meanings, and Philliam stuffed tomes into a satchel.
Genitivi provided the first low point, interrupting their celebrations as he slumped slowly in a corner, weeping.
“Lies. I have written lies.”
He had a book in his hand, one of the tomes Laudine had noted as potentially useful. Its contents would take years to interpret, but the leatherwork on the cover was obvious. It portrayed a landmass recognizably Thedas, but with none of the borders, historical or modern, that he had so carefully cataloged.
“I found the Maker in everything,” he said. “At the end of every discovery was His Glory. I thought he led me here as well.” Genitivi regarded the book angrily, but gently set it aside, as though his reverence for knowledge would not allow him to throw it. “I thought we would disprove this madness.” He stared at the room, his eyes looking just as shattered. “The dust on those shelves is my career,” he said. “How much did I ignore? How much is beneath, deliberately hidden by willful blindness?”
For once, Philliam struggled to respond. He’d never devoted himself to anything, but his career had greatly depended on the work of those who had. Especially Genitivi—he was an institution. He couldn’t just crumble.
“You never lied,” Philliam offered. “Interpreted, perhaps.”
Laudine scowled. Philliam cringed, and tried again, kneeling in front of his slumped peer.
“A true scholar wouldn’t turn away now,” he said. “That’s not why the Maker gave you your skills.” Philliam picked up the leather-bound tome, fingering the map. “We need you to help make sense of this, whatever the truth.” He offered the book back to Genitivi.
Genitivi looked at Philliam.
“Don’t leave this to a hack like me,” said Philliam.
The old man smiled.
“Trouble,” said Mateo, staring into darkness as air from the tunnel gently tossed his long dark hair.
That was the second low point. Someone else descending the shaft, following the easily marked trail they had left. The Antaam arrived soon after.
Philliam thought that was as dour as things could get. He’d never been so wrong in his life, and he never would be again.
* * *
“Accurate, I suppose, but … it feels less convincing now. I am surprised it worked.”
“It was sweet in the moment. Very out of character.”
“I didn’t see you helping.”
“I do, very shortly.”
“Must we revisit this?”
“You wanted detail, old man.”
* * *
Philliam, Laudine, Genitivi, and Ma
teo were back at the bottom of the supply shaft they had first descended. They were on their knees, their hands at their sides, a spear held at the back of each of their necks.
Their captors were led by a seven-foot gray-skinned statue. She wore leather across her legs and torso, tied with intricate red ropes. Her face and arms were painted with the interlocking symbol of the Antaam, the military third of Qunari society. The paint—vitaar—hardened the skin and was toxic to non-Qunari, meaning her armor was actually the weaker link in her defense. Her horns curled backward. Her long white hair trailed down her back—free, but still controlled.
“My name,” she said, “is Rasaan.”
She stepped thoughtfully in a line before them, plying, offering. The group hadn’t been mistreated, despite Mateo killing two soldiers during their initial meeting. The questions had started remarkably gentle, almost grateful. Rasaan had apparently followed the same threads they had, but she’d admitted she wouldn’t have found the shattered library without them.
Her interest, however, was far more specific than theirs. Rasaan wanted names.
“Fen Harel,” she lectured, “is a name given by enemies. Its translation, ‘Dread Wolf,’ isn’t true.” She turned, considering one of the tomes now piled on the slab. “The name given when he lied to us—and to your Inquisition—was chosen by a self-styled martyr. ‘Solas’ is also not true.”
“Pride,” said Laudine. “It means pride.”
Rasaan stopped and cocked an eye. “Very good,” she said.
Names were important to the Qunari. They were named for their roles, and roles defined their identities. Their actual birth names were records, lists that identified breeding, ancestry. With this “true name” you could track a person back through the best and worst of themselves. Find flaws. Exploit weaknesses. Know what they had failed to be.
Names appeared to be even more important to Rasaan. Especially names deliberately changed. She wheeled to gesture down the tunnel, to the now nearly empty, strangely displaced room.
“You came here seeking information. As have I. There is no greater advantage than to know an enemy’s true name.” She turned, smirking. “If only to make them say it.”
“We’ll let you know what we find,” said Philliam, regretting it.
Rasaan regarded him sternly, then smiled.
“You will,” she said with certainty.
A soldier approached from behind, and she nodded a command. Books were piled on the stone slab. She turned back to the kneeling four.
“You. Warrior,” she said to Mateo. “What is your name?”
“Mateo.” He shrugged.
Rasaan regarded him strangely, considering his tone. “I don’t think so,” she said. “But it’s all you know, isn’t it?”
Mateo furrowed his brow, but said nothing.
“You. Mouth,” she said to Philliam. “What is your name?”
“I go by Philliam,” he said, adding “a Bard!” out of reflex.
“Your true name?” said Rasaan, clearly knowing it wasn’t.
Philliam started, then paused. He hadn’t said his family names in a very long time.
“Philliam Bernard Aloicious Trevelyan.”
“It sounds foreign on your tongue,” said Rasaan. She leaned in close, whispering, “You may have become what you pretend.” She smirked at the smooth image Philliam presented, and it suddenly felt very hollow to him.
“You. Elder,” she said to Genitivi.
Genitivi was quick and demanding. “I am Brother Ferdinand Genitivi, emeritus scholar of the University of Val Royeaux, servant of His Glory, and this is not the agreed-upon procedure for the handling of prisoners by treaty of—”
Rasaan stopped him with a raised index finger. “I know your work,” she said. She knelt again, her eyes dead-straight with his. “My Antaam are in Tevinter as officially as you are. Does that change your tone?”
Genitivi blanched.
“Brother Ferdinand Genitivi,” he said carefully. “Emeritus scholar of the University of Val Royeaux, servant of His Glory.”
“Oh,” cooed Rasaan, “still the titles.” She took his hand, intertwining their fingers, hers dwarfing his. “If I took your profession, took you from your titles, what would be your name?”
Genitivi looked confused and shook his head. “Brother Ferdinand Genitivi, a servant of His Glory.”
Rasaan tightened her grip, bending his fingers back painfully.
“What would be your name?”
“I am a servant of His Glory!”
There was a small crack.
“I have a name you’ve never heard!” interrupted formerly Sister Laudine.
Rasaan tilted her head, interested, and loosed her grip. Genitivi cradled his hand. Philliam looked at Laudine, alarmed, silently mouthing What are you doing?
“Very well,” said Rasaan, stepping in front of the smaller woman. She kneeled again. “I assume you are as these two. A scribe with a title.”
Laudine nodded. “You’ve never heard my true name. I’ve never said it to anyone.” She lowered her voice as she spoke, and Rasaan instinctively leaned forward.
“Go on, then,” she said, bemused. They were almost embracing.
Laudine whispered low in Rasaan’s ear. Philliam saw the reaction, and it mirrored his.
“Saarebas-alit an,” said Laudine.
She didn’t know much of the language—Qunlat was coarser than ancient Elven—but she’d said enough. Saarebas literally meant “dangerous thing,” the Qunari word for mage. Basalit an was a foe worthy of respect.
Rasaan’s gray skin went white. She hadn’t bound the captives as mages.
Laudine clenched a first, and rift-green energy erupted beneath her. Stone was rent from the floor as Rasaan leapt back, but the guard behind Laudine wasn’t as quick. A pillar of rock smashed him into the ceiling, crushing his chest.
Mateo turned, grabbing the spear still in the hands of his shocked guard. He didn’t make the mistake of trying to pull the weapon free. Instead, he forced the tip down while pushing the spear back, driving the blunt end up into the Qunari’s neck. Vitaar or no, his windpipe collapsed. A second later the spear was embedded in Philliam’s guard, and he and Mateo tackled the one behind Genitivi. Genitivi himself crawled behind the pile of tomes on the slab, kicking weapons away in case reinforcements arrived.
Rasaan scrabbled backward. She ignored “the Elder” and “the Mouth,” moving steadily away from “the Warrior” and “the Mage.” Too many of her kith were still down the tunnels. If they ran back now, they’d be in a line, unable to gain advantage as Mateo blocked them and Laudine threw the earth in their faces.
Rasaan reached for the lever that controlled the mineshaft elevator.
Laudine stood lightly, hands upturned. Small fractures glowed in the air above her palms, stones orbiting both. Sweat beaded on her temple. She looked at Rasaan.
“I told you the truth,” she said plainly.
“I will see you soon,” said Rasaan.
She threw the lever, releasing ancient counterweights. The stone slab jolted upward, and as they tossed their last guard aside, Philliam, Laudine, Genitivi, and Mateo rose into the night.
At the top of the shaft, Philliam grabbed the most promising of the elven tomes, and the four of them started in the direction of the Imperial Highway and their coach. Behind them, the stone slab began another descent. There was no obvious way to destroy the mechanism. It had survived centuries more than they could inflict on it. Unless.…
Philliam looked hopefully at Laudine.
She shook her head. Her eyes were sunken, her usual elegance strained.
“I hid this, I’m not trained,” she said. “My ears and … eyes are ringing, I need a moment.”
“You will have it,” said Genitivi, “but not much more.”
With a whoosh and a thunk, the stone slab reached the bottom of the shaft. When it came back up, it would be carrying Rasaan and her kith. The ascent would take longer than the
drop, as theirs had, but it was still only a matter of minutes.
They ran.
A single Qunari was guarding their coach. Mateo gabbed him by the horns and broke his neck, nearly wrenching his head from his shoulders. Philliam could see wagons around a campfire about a mile away, but they didn’t have time to disrupt the few minders. They gathered the four horses they’d left grazing, and Mateo hitched them as fast as he could.
As he finished, a horn in the distance signaled that Rasaan was now in pursuit, and their expedition would soon come to its inevitable, violent end.
* * *
“Are we sure about this? I’m having second thoughts.”
“This is getting a bit speculative. ‘Crafting history’ is antithetical to what I—”
“Can you write?”
“You know that my hand—”
“Can you write?”
“My vision’s still—”
“Then both of you shut it. This part is mine.”
* * *
Mateo was driving the coach hard, pushing the horses well beyond their usual tradesman’s gait. Laudine was on the bench seat behind him, trying to get air. Genitivi was huddled in the coach box, cradling his hand, quoting details. Philliam was next to him, scribbling. They’d wrapped the few tomes they’d grabbed in burlap and were recording every detail of the journey, the descent, their discovery, and the enemy.
“It makes no sense,” said Genitivi, “that is not how Qunari behave.”
“You have experience?” said Philliam.
“You would be surprised.” Genitivi managed a chuckle despite the circumstances.
“She called them Antaam,” said Philliam.
“Her Antaam. Names are important to that one,” said Laudine. “Write it.”
Philliam did as he was told, ending the static details with dramatic flair. The stakes had to be known. The Fen Harel question. How many lives.…
And as he didn’t quite finish, Rasaan’s wagon entered longbow range. Mateo had kept their lead as long as he could, but his team was tiring, and Antaam horses were bred for endurance and war. Sparks lit up the road around them as arrows landed wild.
Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights Page 32
