Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

by Patrick Weekes

  “Excellent, Majesty.” Michel swung himself up into the saddle. “If you are ready.”

  They crossed the Imperial Highway, riding quickly back into the woods after Michel gave the word that the long stretch of ancient road was clear for miles in both directions. The Frostback Mountains were a tiny smudge off to the east, and smoke still rose from Halamshiral itself ahead of them to the west.

  With her course now set, Celene could almost enjoy the beauty of southern Orlais. Instead of bouncing in a coach, catching glimpses of the road through the window, she could see the vast woods and smell the leaves going crisply golden with the fall. With a tiny smirk at herself, she remembered that she had wished she were riding on horseback, not so long ago. She would be more specific in the future.

  From time to time, Michel would raise a hand, and then he and Celene would dismount, holding the horses still and remaining quiet as Gaspard’s men rode by. For all Celene’s training, Michel’s senses were keener than hers here. She might be able to tell when a lyre was ever so slightly out of tune, but Michel caught the hoof beats long before she did.

  At times, they followed a small animal trail, but when a group of Gaspard’s men came their way on that, they disappeared off even that trail, blades drawn as the riders passed close enough for Celene to note the family emblems on their tabards. Remache’s men, reinforcing Gaspard from Lydes.

  Then they came to the edge of the woods, and Michel swore very quietly. Coming up behind him, Celene quickly saw why. A gentle hill ahead swelled up to a great grass-covered summit. At the top, a troop of Gaspard’s men looked down with a wonderful view of the surrounding area.

  “Do we go back?” Celene asked, keeping her voice low.

  Michel shook his head. “To where? We know they are searching behind us. I suggest straight south.” He pointed to a dried riverbed near the edge of the forest. “If we stay low, and move quickly, we may yet pass unseen.”

  Celene nodded. “When you are ready, then, my champion.”

  He let out a low chuckle. “I fear that if we wait until I am ready, we will be caught in the first snowfall of winter. I would suggest waiting until nightfall, but I would not risk the horses in the darkness.”

  “Let us go, then.”

  They walked the horses now, with what seemed like exaggerated care, though Celene knew from watching Michel how well sounds could carry for those trained to listen. Riders swept around them, closer now. She heard no cries, no sign that the riders had any idea where she was, but her heart pounded nevertheless. It was one thing to know how many men Gaspard had under his command. It was another to have to sneak by them.

  Then they were at the edge of the woods. Michel took the reins and, with a grace surprising in a man so heavily armored, led both horses down into the dry riverbed. Celene followed, moving low through the tall grass. Her stolen horse danced nervously until Cheritenne whickered and nudged him along. She felt the itch of eyes upon her, and though she knew it for nothing more than her body’s fear, she dared not look back up the hill.

  Finally, she joined Michel, who was already in the saddle. She mounted, looked back to ensure that they were blocked from view, and then started riding.

  And for all that, they rode less than a minute before their third encounter.

  They rounded a bend, moving the horses at a trot, and found themselves face to face with a pair of elves who had doubtless found themselves sneaking through the riverbed for the same reason Celene and Michel had.

  The elves were crouched behind a fallen tree trunk that offered partial cover. One of them was a Dalish mage, judging by the tattoos that marked his face and the green-glowing staff he held ready.

  The other was Briala.

  Briala’s face was stained with sweat and dust, and her forehead was marked with scratches that had likely come from rushing through thick foliage. She wore the drakeskin armor Celene had given her, with a cheap brown cloak over it.

  Her lovely bow was raised, an arrow nocked and ready to fire at Celene’s heart.

  For a moment, no one moved.

  Celene thought of a hundred things to say. She thought of the daggers tucked into sheaths at her forearms, of the poison almost certainly adorning the arrow’s tip. She thought of the bars on the prison coach, the ache in her legs from riding. Her neck itched, and she almost laughed at the urge to scratch it.

  Then Briala lowered her bow. “Celene.”

  Celene let out a long breath. “What were you doing coming this way?”

  “Looking for a clan where we might lose ourselves,” the Dalish elf said. “What are you doing coming this way?”

  “Gaspard has blocked Jader,” Celene said without hesitation, “and as he controls Lydes as well, we had hoped to circle around.”

  Briala nodded, seeing the sense of it. “Then we wish you good luck on your journey.” Her Dalish companion raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re not joining us?” Ser Michel asked, an incredulous smile on his face.

  Briala looked at him directly. “Last night, Celene arrested me, as I believe you know. It was just before she burned Halamshiral.”

  “Just before I put down the rebellion, yes.” Celene straightened her shoulders in the saddle. “As I was forced to do once Gaspard started spreading rumors about my soft treatment of the elves.”

  “And throwing me in prison?” Briala asked. Her voice was calm, but her great dark eyes shimmered with anger and hurt.

  Celene sniffed. “Had you been there, you would have suggested the option yourself as a way to protect my reputation from Gaspard and you from supporters who might see you as an inconvenience to be silenced.”

  Briala said nothing, but the Dalish elf cocked his head, curious.

  “You’ll never make it to Val Royeaux on your own,” he said. “This Gaspard fellow really wishes to find you.”

  “I imagine he does.” Celene smiled. “But even if he does not, he will turn to Val Royeaux and claim it in my absence, at which point you will lose any chance you have of winning my favor.”

  The Dalish elf grinned. “You wear stolen armor and ride a stolen horse, shemlen. You have no empire at the moment, and your big offer is your favor?” He turned to Briala. “I like her.”

  “The armor and the horse belonged to an Orlesian soldier, and as such, they were in truth always mine. As for my power…” She smiled thinly. “If the Dalish support me—harass Gaspard’s men, lure him into fighting here, and then get me to Val Royeaux before he can make his claim for the throne—you will see what my generosity can bring.”

  “That’s awfully vague,” the elf said. “Last time the elves made a deal like this, they got the Dales. Well, at least until your people decided to declare an Exalted March and take it back.”

  “Gaspard will drown the Dales in blood to be rid of you forever.” Celene looked at the sky to the west, where Halamshiral still smoked. “And if he doesn’t, you’ll be lucky to survive whatever madness the templars and the mages come to without a firm hand to keep them in check.”

  “What are you prepared to offer?” the elf asked.

  “A chance for your leader to convince me that the Dalish are worth the fits it will cause among my nobles if I allow elves to help,” Celene said evenly. “Anything more is for your Keepers’ ears.”

  The Dalish elf was silent, staring at her as if weighing her.

  Finally, Briala nodded. “We need to move. Gaspard has scouts, and even a blind dwarf could follow the trail you’re leaving. We’ll need to avoid the villages and the larger farms as well—he could have men anywhere. Felassan, can they keep the horses?”

  “If they are unused to walking, they will need them.” The Dalish elf looked at Ser Michel. “Pleasure to see you again, Michel.” He and Briala left the clearing, heading south, and Michel and Celene followed, their horses crackling through the dead leaves with each step.

  “I expected her to leave,” Michel said quietly.

  “And yet your sword stayed in its sheath th
is time.”

  Michel smiled. “You have surprised me before, Majesty. And I am pleased to have been wrong.”

  “As am I,” Celene said, looking at her lover ahead on the trail. “As am I.”

  9

  Briala walked south toward Felassan’s Dalish clan.

  She had dreamed of them as a child—the mythical elves who lived alone with no humans to rule them. It had been as fantastical and impossible as stories of the Fade. On days when Celene had been cruel, she imagined living among them as a princess, forcing Celene to clean her clothes. On days when Celene had been kind, she imagined both of them playing in a land where spirits did the cleaning, and nobody was a servant.

  As Briala had grown older, she had, like most elves, entertained the occasional thought of running off to find the Dalish. Everyone claimed to have a friend who had a cousin who had left the alienage or the lord’s house and found the legends of the Dales, only coming back briefly with fine clothes and mystical face-tattoos. But as a servant in Celene’s family’s household, Briala had gotten to hear stories about the raids, the hidden trade routes, the banditry, and the plans to wipe out the renegade elves that lived in the forests to the south. She had realized that they were just another group. There was no magical spirit realm. There were no princesses.

  Then came the day in the reading room, and her flight to the Dales. And Felassan.

  She looked over at him. They had been walking for more than a week now, adding to the food in Ser Michel’s pack what she and Felassan could bring down in the forest, and her mentor showed no sign of fatigue. Behind them, Celene’s face was lined with pain after long days in the saddle, and even Ser Michel showed some discomfort, though he hid it behind his chevalier stoicism.

  “What will they think of us?” she asked Felassan, and he looked over, one eyebrow raised. “Your people?”

  “The Dalish.” Felassan let out a slow breath, thinking over the question. “We’ll have to gain their loyalty clan by clan. They don’t have much contact with each other. Don’t want to risk an attack from the shemlen compromising the safety of more than one clan. Of course, staying deliberately separated has led to clans growing more and more different, losing their commonalities. I imagine that’s a metaphor for … something.” Felassan smiled. “It will be interesting to see.”

  “Interesting.” Briala looked back at Celene and Michel, who were just out of earshot, if Briala kept her voice down. “That’s an understated way of phrasing it.”

  “Accurate, though.” Felassan smiled as a falling leaf twirled past his face. “A thunderstorm is interesting. A wildfire is interesting. I have stood in the middle of both and watched things change.”

  “You do not think your people will help Celene?”

  “Why in the world would the Dalish help a shemlen?”

  “Because she has helped them.” Briala felt her hands clench into fists and relaxed them with an effort. “How much better are the elves of Orlais because of her rule?”

  Felassan sighed. “You make two mistakes, da’len.”

  “I apologize, hahren. What are my mistakes?”

  “You say that she has helped the elves of Orlais,” Felassan said. “This is untrue. What gains they have made are due to your work, not hers.”

  “With respect—”

  “Oh, stop.” His voice was patient but firm, and he did not look over at her. “Without you, your empress would have been no friend to the elves. Even her rival Gaspard could see that.”

  Briala ducked her head. “But if their lives are better, does the cause matter?”

  “There was a young noble in fair Arlathan,” Felassan said, “and it happened that the elven king lost one of his two daughters to a serpent’s bite. At the ceremony to commemorate her life, the young noble saw an elven lady so fair and perfect that his heart broke—but by the laws of ancient Arlathan, he was forbidden to speak with her during the ceremony, and he did not learn who she was, so he could not ask her family to court her. The young noble prayed to the gods that he might meet the elven lady again. He prayed to Mythal for love, to Dirthamen for the secret of the elven lady’s name, and to Andruil for luck in the hunt for this woman. And finally, he made an offering to Fen’Harel … and the Dread Wolf was the only one who answered. In a dream that night, he told the noble what he needed to do to see his heart’s love again. Do you know what he said?”

  After a moment’s thought, Briala sighed. “Kill the king’s other daughter.”

  Felassan chuckled. “You begin to think like Fen’Harel.”

  “It was only logical,” Briala said. “There would be another ceremony, and—”

  “It was a compliment, da’len.” Felassan shook his head. “Causes matter. To understand the truth of events, you must understand why as well as what occurred. The elves of Orlais are better off, but the cause is you, not her.”

  “But they are better off.” Briala sighed and stepped over a twisting root. “You said that I made two mistakes. What was the second?”

  Felassan looked over, and behind the lines of the vallaslin, the expression on his face was one of very old sadness. “You think of elves as the shemlen do. Blood or no blood. Knife-ears or flat-ears. You say that they are better off under Celene’s rule. Who are they? The alienage elves? The Dalish?” He smiled. “And why must the Dalish care for the fate of the elves who live in the cities?”

  After that, they walked for a time in silence.

  * * *

  Celene endured the ride with grim resolve.

  She still wore her own boots and underclothes, which had been custom tailored to fit perfectly. The stolen armor chafed, but after the first night, she padded the sections that did not fit with skill learned from emergency dress repair at the balls of her youth.

  There was nothing to do for sore muscles, however, and so she bore the aches in her legs, thighs, and back. And when she would have asked that they stop and rest, she instead thought of Gaspard and ran through the two-score muscle exercises that Lady Mantillon had taught Celene to allow a young lady to remain poised and beautiful while standing in full view of a crowd filled with rivals who would seize on any awkward shift as a sign of weakness.

  At night, when Michel and Briala’s Dalish elf allowed them to stop, Celene stretched and then ran through drills with her daggers. She carried more magic on her wrists and throat and fingers than most outside the Circle would see in a single lifetime, including both the ring Lady Mantillon had given her and the ring that sent flames licking out of any weapon she wielded. That magic had given her sufficient strength and skill to kill a few unsuspecting soldiers.

  Against Gaspard and his chevaliers, though, Celene would need to be better. And for all she knew, she might well be facing Gaspard himself before this was finished.

  She was at the edge of the clearing in the firelight a fortnight later, running through a set of drills that Lady Mantillon had called the Butterfly while Felassan and Michel plotted tomorrow’s ride, when Briala said from behind her, “You’re off on the second strike.”

  Celene stopped and looked over her shoulder, hiding with a close-mouthed smile how sadly out of breath the exercises had left her. Briala had stripped off her armor and looked tired, dirty … and still lovely nevertheless, even as little more than a shadow kissed with golden light from the campfire.

  It was the first time that Briala had spoken to Celene beyond the simple logistics of which trail to follow or when to take the rabbit off the fire. Celene had given her lover her space, waiting for a sign.

  “I don’t believe so,” Celene said, keeping her voice calm and non-argumentative. “The lead hand parries the incoming thrust, and the back hand slashes across the upper arm to stop a counterattack before you move in to control the throat with both blades.”

  She demonstrated in the air, her daggers catching the firelight as she slid them through the air against an imaginary opponent. There was no actual fire on the blades—she had removed all her magical tokens to get a bet
ter sense of how far out of practice she was.

  “No.” Briala slid her own daggers out with unconscious grace, then sliced through the air. “The first isn’t just a parry. It’s a slash to the enemy’s wrist. The second strike isn’t to his striking arm. It’s to the throat.” Her strike was higher than Celene’s had been, a fast flick of the wrist whose grace and deceptive beauty gave the Butterfly its name. “That ensures that you’re in close enough to control the throat with your next move.”

  “You’re certain? You always preferred Lady Mantillon’s archery lessons to the knife-work.”

  “But I have used both,” Briala said. “And it is the throat.”

  Celene smiled. “If you’ve already slashed their throat, controlling it hardly seems necessary.”

  “Armor?” Briala asked. “Or magical protection? Or if you’re facing a darkspawn with tougher skin, or some creature from the Fade? Or if you’re using a peasant’s belt knife instead of a gleaming silverite blade because you’ve lost your throne?” She stepped in closer, and anger touched her face, drawing lines on her beautiful skin. “Things in the real world are often not as perfect as they are in the palace at Val Royeaux.”

  Celene sighed. “Bria…”

  “Damn you, Celene.” Briala’s big beautiful eyes filled with tears. They caught the light from the fire, shimmering in the darkness like a cat’s as Briala stepped closer. The pulse in her neck fluttered fast, though she moved as gracefully as always. “Don’t explain it. I know why. I just wished you had cared more.”

  “It would have been a locked suite in the palace for a few years, nothing more!” Celene kept her voice low, aware that Michel and Felassan had stopped planning and were looking their way. “It would have changed nothing for us.”

  “Your hair still stinks of the smoke from the people you burned,” Briala said. “That is a change.”

  The dead leaves crackled under Celene’s feet as she stepped forward. “How many wars can our empire survive in such a short time? I wanted my legacy to be the university, the beauty and culture that made us the envy of the world. Instead, I may be known as the empress under whom Orlais fell. You have the luxury of mourning Halamshiral’s elves and holding my heart hostage. Sitting on my throne, I see every city in the empire. If I must burn one to save the rest, I will weep, but I will light the torch!”