Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

by Patrick Weekes

  Briala swallowed. “You’re not weeping, as far as I can tell. Nor are you sitting on your throne.” She stepped away, her movements fast and jerky. “With your permission, Your Radiance, I shall go indulge myself in my luxury.”

  Celene watched her lover stalk back to the campfire.

  Then, because Briala had been right, Celene went back to practicing, and aimed her second strike higher.

  The next morning, they left the gold-and-red of the woods and skirted the edges of farmsteads already bare in anticipation of the autumn chill. After days in the woods, darting from one open area to the next with an eye out for Gaspard’s men gave Celene pause.

  Celene looked at the sky, which showed high clouds and the promise of a chilly day. “Is it safe to be out in the open?” she asked Michel.

  “I fear we have little choice, Majesty.” Michel looked across the plains, eyes scanning the distant horizon. “To stay in the safety of the forest, we would have to circle far to the east. That gives Gaspard too long to find us. The farms and plains should be safe enough this far from where Gaspard would expect to find us. There’s a small village near a lake up ahead that’s far removed from any major roads. It should be safe to get supplies and information, according to Briala’s knife-ear.” He grimaced at the mention of Felassan, darting a look at the elves up ahead.

  “You don’t trust him?”

  Michel frowned. “He’s said nothing yet to mistrust … but he’s Dalish. He’s as much an enemy to you as Gaspard and his men.” He chuckled. “Though at least he has the courtesy to let us know with those ridiculous tattoos.”

  Celene had read more than one treatise on the Dalish. The university did not think the Dalish worth a class of their own, but they were studied in history courses covering all of Thedas. She thought she remembered that the tattoos Michel mocked were signs to honor one or another of their ancient gods. She had always found their culture interesting, exotic, and infinitely sad. How much knowledge had been lost to scholars the world over because the Dalish had refused to admit that their empire had fallen? How long would they hide in the wilderness before acknowledging that the world had changed?

  “We are safe, though, to the best of your knowledge?” Celene asked.

  “Yes.” Michel was still scanning the distant horizon. “Felassan said that if Gaspard’s soldiers were patrolling the area, they would have sent the birds wheeling in the sky.”

  “How very elven of him.” Celene smiled. “Then if we are free, let us make use of our mounts. We can wait for Briala and Felassan in the village.”

  She kicked her mount’s flanks without waiting for a response, and the gelding, after a moment’s confusion, broke into a gallop. They thundered past the elves, Briala shooting Celene a shocked look, and then Celene was alone on the plains.

  The gelding had been skittish and prone to bolt to begin with. Once it became clear that this was no panic, no battle, but simply a chance to run, it embraced the ride. Celene felt his smooth stride, the bunch and flow of liquid muscles sliding smoothly as the grass whipped her legs. She clung to the reins, hunched forward with the smell of cold wind and wet horse in her nose, free for the moment of everything but the ride.

  After a time, when she felt the gelding tire, she let him slow back to the fast trot that he could likely maintain for hours at a time, though Celene’s legs would regret it later. Up ahead in the distance, she saw the silvery glint of the small lake and the huddled buildings around it. A slash of dirt through the grass from the northwest marked the small road from Halamshiral.

  She heard hoof beats behind her, and a moment later, Michel dropped his charger to a trot as well, patting Cheritenne on the flank. She half expected some word of censure from her champion for galloping off without warning, but he simply gave her a tiny smile and shook his head. She found herself almost disappointed. Debating an empress’s right to take a frivolous ride would have been a lovely way to pass the time.

  A moment later, Michel stared at the village in the distance, frowning.

  “Something is wrong,” he finally said.

  “What is it?”

  He squinted. “There are fields to the west and north, but they haven’t been harvested. The crops will be wasted if they’re not out of the ground soon. And if the lake holds fish, there should be boats on the water at this hour.”

  “Why, Ser Michel, how very rustic of you to notice such things.” Celene chuckled. “One would think you grew up in a village yourself.”

  Michel blushed. “It is my duty to notice, Majesty. I could be wrong.”

  “I doubt it, my champion. Shall we wait for Briala and Felassan?”

  At her suggestion, Michel grimaced. “Elves in a village like this … they may do more harm than good. Perhaps the village deals with the Dalish, but perhaps they attack elves on sight as Dalish raiders.”

  Celene nodded and looked back to where Briala and Felassan were specks in the distance. “Then let us continue on our own, with care.”

  They rode in at an easy trot, joining the road and coming into the village from the northwest. As soon as they passed the low fences that passed for the village’s defenses, Celene could see the wrongness.

  The village was silent, and it smelled of ashes. The wooden buildings, simple but sturdy, with fresh thatching in preparation for the coming winter, were whole and undamaged, but as they rode into the open dirt clearing that marked the village square, Celene saw not a single soul.

  “Pyres.” Michel pointed, and Celene saw stacks of charred black wood in the center of the square. There were too many to count, some large enough for a group, and some small and ringed with stones to mark a peasant’s Chantry burning.

  “Their loved ones in Chantry fires, and the attackers burned as a group.” Michel nodded, then raised his voice and called out, “Hello the village! Anyone here?”

  There was a long moment of silence, broken only by shutters rattling in the wind.

  Celene shook her head. “Someone must have burned the bodies.”

  She saw the spear from the corner of her eye and turned, but it sailed wide, missing her and Michel by yards. It had come from one of the shops behind them, but she could not be certain which.

  “I have no quarrel with you,” Michel called out, “but I am sworn to protect this lady. Threaten her, and as a chevalier, I swear that I will burn your village to the ground.” He drew his sword and rode slowly toward the buildings. “Come out, and I swear no harm upon you.”

  They came out.

  Commoners. Peasants. An old man in butcher’s leathers. A matronly woman with a sloppily bandaged arm. Children peeking out from behind doors and windows. Celene took them all in with her gaze, committing them to memory. Their clothes were dirty. Their eyes were hooded with fatigue and fear.

  She would see Gaspard die for this.

  “They came back before the harvest,” said the butcher. “Rode in and took what they wanted. We didn’t give them any trouble, my lord.”

  “Did they say why?” Michel asked. He had sheathed his sword.

  “Not at first,” said the matronly woman. By the flour on her clothes, Celene guessed her to be a baker. “But when they were deep in their cups, they said that they were to watch for trouble from Jader.”

  “Jader.” The butcher spat. “Two days ago, Lady Seryl’s men rode in and cut down every man and woman working the fields. Killed our guards, killed everyone in the village square. When they’d finished killing the other soldiers, they fired arrows out onto the water, killed most of our boys in the boats. They took all the food they could find. They spent the night.” A collective flinch splashed across the crowd. “Said we had been assisting enemies of the throne, that this was a lesson to anyone who’d help Gaspard’s men.” At the last, his voice broke. “My lord, I don’t even know who Gaspard is.”

  Celene looked around the village square. She saw the tiny scorch marks, the spots where the blood hadn’t fully soaked into the earth. The men from Jader. Loyal to
her, fighting for her throne. She swallowed.

  “You need to bring in the harvest,” she said.

  Michel turned to her, one eyebrow raised slightly.

  “I understand that you are scared. There are nobles fighting in battles that have already hurt you.” She looked at the pyres in the park. “But you must bring in the harvest. You must go back out on the lake and bring in the fish. Otherwise, you won’t survive the winter.”

  “Half of our village is dead, my lady,” the butcher said, his fists clenched and his face red, though he kept his eyes on the ground.

  “Then that’s less food you’ll need,” she said. “But you need to get back to work, nevertheless. Unless you wish to lose the whole of your village.”

  “And if they come back?” the baker asked, scratching at her bandaged arm.

  “Welcome them with open arms,” Celene said without hesitation. “Bow to them, whichever noble they say they serve. Give them what food they ask for, and hide enough so that you’ll survive even if they take a great deal.” She looked at the baker. “And if they spend the night, throw them a feast, fortify the wine, and slit their throats as they sleep.”

  The baker looked up, surprised, and then nodded.

  “And what of you, my lord and lady?” the butcher asked. He was sweating, though the morning air was cool. “What would you have of us?”

  Celene met his nervous look with a steady stare. “Only what you can spare.”

  They rode back out of the village a short time later and found Briala and Felassan by the road.

  “Are you all right?” Briala asked Celene, and Celene flinched. She had clearly become too used to hiding behind the masks, if her face gave her away so easily.

  “We’re fine,” Michel said roughly. “The village is a waste. Come on. We need to keep moving.”

  Celene nodded and followed him as they circled well around the village and headed south. She watched it as they rode, looking back every few moments until it was a speck in the distance, with a tiny glimmer of the lake next to it.

  When it was gone, finally, she turned and let out a sigh.

  “You spoke well, Majesty,” Michel said without looking over.

  “I did not even learn the name of the village.”

  “It does not matter.” He grimaced. “Their story is one of dozens. Every soldier who has served in battle has seen it, at one time or another.”

  “And Gaspard knew.” Celene felt her jaw clench and released the tension. At court, they would have tittered at her lack of control. But then, they were so very far from court today. “He so desires the throne that he would put countless lives through that.”

  “I don’t know that it ever occurred to him, Majesty.”

  “We will end this.” Celene gripped the reins until her fingers ached. “My people deserve better.”

  Michel said nothing, but he nodded solemnly, and for a while, that was enough.

  * * *

  In his camp southeast of Halamshiral, Gaspard sat on a sturdy collapsible chair by one of the crackling fires and drank hot spiced wine while taking reports from his scouts.

  “Who knew Lady Seryl had it in her?” he asked Remache. “Destroying her own villages just to burn us out of them. Impressive woman.”

  “Indeed.” Remache frowned. “And the report from that little village … What was it? You say the scouts saw hoof prints?”

  The scout nodded respectfully. “Lac d’Argent, my lord. The villagers insisted that they had seen no one, but my men saw hoof prints that they swore came from a well-shod warhorse and not some farmer’s old mare.”

  “Well,” Gaspard said, nodding, “it’s something. First damned hint we’ve had of her in any village or town.” They needed something to go on, and it wouldn’t be Celene’s elven handmaid, who had earned several guards a whipping with her daring escape.

  Remache sniffed and pulled uncomfortably at the neck of his riding leathers. “You can direct this war from Val Royeaux, my lord. Are you certain it is seemly for you to chase Celene yourself?”

  They’d been riding lightly, checking the most likely locations where Celene might try to hide. It was hardly a forced march. And still, Remache acted like Gaspard was dragging him through the Deep Roads.

  Gaspard nodded to the scout commander, who bowed and retreated from earshot. “Sitting in Val Royeaux, I’d be surrounded by Celene’s nobles trying to fight me, arguing that Celene could still be found, and that I had no right. Meanwhile, my nobles would be demanding to know what was in it for them,” he said, sipping his wine, “and threatening me with vague waves of the hand if I didn’t do things their way. We can afford a few days to search. If I come back with Celene dead, no man in this empire will get in my way.”

  “But for now,” Remache pointed out, “Lady Seryl is in your way. You took Halamshiral by surprise, but you do not have all your forces. I doubt you can take Jader if Lady Seryl is prepared for you, and we have run into more of her scouts each day.”

  “Do you have a suggestion, Remache?” Gaspard asked. “Or are you just pissing in my wine?”

  Remache pursed his lips. “Put out word that Celene is dead. Go back to Halamshiral, gather your forces, and march to Val Royeaux with your armor shining. If she shows herself to fight your claim, kill her. If not…” He gestured casually. “Once you sit upon the throne, she may complain from exile like a barking dog, for all the good it does her.”

  Gaspard grunted. “I will not say that she is dead, not when I do not know it.”

  “You said she was sleeping with her elven handmaid,” Remache said, raising an eyebrow.

  “I suggested it was possible. And in any event, that was the Game,” Gaspard said, dismissing it with an absent wave. “This is honorable battle. There is a line that no chevalier will cross.”

  “Gaspard.” Remache said it bluntly, and Gaspard looked over, surprised that Remache had it in him. “The nobles allied to your cause came to help you seize the throne, not kill the empress. You wish to justify your claim to the throne? Make your way to Val Royeaux and prove to them that you can rule.”

  A call came before Gaspard could reply, and he sat up as one of his scouts came into the firelight. “My lord! We found an enemy soldier in the woods and took him alive. By his colors, he belonged to the empress, not Jader.”

  “Good man. Bring him here.” The scout bowed and left at a jog, and Gaspard gave Remache a grin. “Or perhaps our luck is changing.”

  Remache raised an eyebrow. “He’s much more likely a simple deserter than one of her cohorts, Gaspard.”

  “That’s why we question him.”

  Gaspard heard the rattle of armor as the prisoner was brought into the firelight, one of his men at each arm. The soldier was a grizzled old veteran, and his padded tunic was marked with both old blood and new, showing that he hadn’t been taken without a fight.

  “Bring him closer. Into the light.” His men did as he commanded. Gaspard set his cup down by the fire, stood, and squinted at the man thoughtfully. Finally, he said, “How’d they find you?”

  The soldier ducked his head. “I was hungry. I caught a fish by the stream. Didn’t want to eat it raw, my lord, so I risked a campfire. That’s how your men found me.”

  “You can train for years, fight with honor in campaigns, and still never learn how to make a campfire that won’t be seen from a mile away.” Gaspard smiled. “So, then. How did you end up here, a week’s travel from Halamshiral?”

  The soldier kept his head down, but Gaspard saw the little catch at his jaw. “I fled after the battle. I thought I could make it to Jader.”

  Remache made a tiny gesture, and Gaspard nodded. “I don’t think so. Men, where did you find him?”

  “By a small river to the north.”

  “Looking for a boat, I’d wager.” Gaspard stepped closer. “And a single man, even on foot, would have gotten closer to Jader than this. Unless you ran into the men we had blocking the roads.”

  “Yes.” The so
ldier nodded jerkily. “I ran into your blockade, my lord. I turned back, but then I saw your forces coming, and I thought I could find a village with a boat and escape on the Waking Sea.” He could not meet Gaspard’s look, and the words were muttered fast, clearly memorized earlier as his story if he were caught.

  Remache coughed, and Gaspard looked over in irritation. “Yes, I’m aware that he’s lying.” He turned back to the soldier. “It’s not a bad story, soldier, but you’re terrible at telling it. And a man in your position … I have to wonder why you’d bother lying.” He stepped closer still, until the soldier had to look up at him, his eyes baggy with fatigue and darting with fear. “I’d expect you to come in surrendering and asking to change sides. After all, you’re a veteran, a survivor. You know when the battle is lost. You know to back the right lord.”

  He flinched at that, and Gaspard knew.

  “But you won’t, will you? Because you’ve seen her,” he breathed. “In these woods. You’ve seen her. You know she’s still alive, and you know where she’s going.”

  “I don’t!” the soldier blurted, and that was true, if desperate.

  “But you could tell me what you know,” Gaspard said, “and see if your useful information led me to spare your life.”

  “I could, my lord.” Now the lies were done with, and the soldier straightened and met Gaspard’s gaze. “But though I am no lord or chevalier, I still have my honor.” He squared his shoulders. “I am Empress Celene’s personal scout, by her decree, and I will die as such.”

  Gaspard met his gaze, then nodded slowly and looked out to where his men stood waiting. He looked back at the soldier. “I can respect that. Swift and painless, or in battle?”

  The soldier let out a long and shaky breath, then squared his shoulders. “In battle, my lord.”

  “Good man.” Gaspard gestured to the men, and they stepped away. Gaspard wore only his riding leathers, so he didn’t need to worry about giving Celene’s soldier armor to ensure that they met on equal terms. “Swords!”