Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

by Patrick Weekes

  They were not her people.

  The words should have hurt, but Briala felt empty instead. She looked at elven children laughing and playing, elven hunters joking about their skill, elven cooks singing old songs while their apprentices cleaned up the dishes from breakfast. Through the open door of one of the wagons, she could see an old couple sleeping, snoring softly. There were no princesses, no Fade spirits whisking through the aravels to do the laundry, but it was still more than she could have ever dreamed of. None of them ducked their heads or watched with concern for the humans. None of them feared a human walking into their camp to cause trouble.

  And they let the alienages burn, because the elves in the alienages were not their people.

  She came back to the argument between Felassan and Thelhen. The Dalish Keeper had finished yelling. He seemed tired. Felassan was calm, as always, and smiling faintly.

  “Fine,” Thelhen said finally. “Your … apprentice … may walk the camp, though you vouch for her behavior. And her life is forfeit if she approaches the elgar’arla. The shemlen warrior remains bound, and the noble will be guarded until she awakens. I will speak with the clan elders and see whether they will hear what this noble has to say.”

  He gestured irritably, and a young woman holding a slender staff of her own came over and untied Briala’s bonds. She was not yet twenty, and the tattoos on her face were fresh and sharp, a year old at most. Her fingers were deft, but callused from work. The linen of her tunic had clearly come from trade with humans, though it had been stitched in an elegant pattern Briala didn’t recognize and trimmed with fur and wire-wrapped crystals.

  Briala tried to read the look the young woman gave her. It was not disgust, but it was not welcoming.

  Thelhen and the young woman left, and Felassan helped Briala to her feet.

  “You never told me,” she said.

  “Oh, Briala, by the way, the people you’ve idolized for most of your life are actually pompous idiots.” Felassan shook his head. “Would you have listened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you have heard?” His expression did not change, and he began to walk out through the aravels. Briala followed him.

  “They don’t care.”

  “They do not. Well, that’s unfair. They care for the past.” Felassan pointed at one of the cooks singing in the elven tongue. She was mixing dough in a cheap tin bowl that had been painted with icons of Sylaise the Hearthkeeper. “They care a great deal for it, in fact. They spend their lives searching for old bits to preserve and pass on. The old language, the old empire, the old secrets. But the present?” He shrugged. “The present is apparently much less exciting.”

  “So while we struggle and endure and burn, they dig in old ruins to learn the elven word for ‘diamond’?” Briala kept her voice low as she looked around the camp.

  “Mi’durgen.”

  “I helped them.” This time her voice broke a little. “Not just the elves in the alienages that aren’t their people. I helped them, with what I gave you over the years.”

  “I know, da’len. So does Thelhen, much as he hates to admit it.” Felassan glanced to the side, and Briala noted the elven hunters watching them as they left the camp and walked into the forest. “That is why you and your friends are still alive.”

  “What do we do?” she asked, looking at the trees warily. In the morning light, they were just trees, the few leaves still hanging from the branches brown and dead. None looked ready to come to life and crush them. “Can we try another clan? Your clan, maybe?”

  “Ah, no. My clan is nowhere near here.” Felassan winced. “Despite the name, most of the Dalish clans have fled the Dales. Scattered to make it harder for anyone to attack everyone at once. If your empress wants help getting back to Val Royeaux before Gaspard…” He shrugged. “We wait for the healers to waken her. You say that she is very persuasive. Last night, she moved the trees.” He smiled absently. “Perhaps today, she will move mountains.”

  * * *

  “Shemlen.” The elven warleader standing over Michel said it with a sneer, then grinned at his men.

  Michel was bound, tied near one of the wagons. Celene lay nearby on a bedroll, with an elven girl—an apprentice mage, judging by her staff—tending her. Her color was better than it had been last night, or what little of it he’d seen last night. They had stitched the wound from where she had fallen and hit her head, and the elven girl was using healing magic to reduce the inflammation. She hadn’t spoken a word to him, just leaned over Celene, her hand extended and glowing with a cool white light that made Michel’s skin crawl.

  The elven warriors had spoken to Michel, of course, but their vocabulary was limited.

  “Shemlen,” their leader said again. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, with muscle on his arms that spoke of a lifetime holding a blade, and he was the oldest of the warriors standing over Michel. “Do you know what we do to your kind here? Well…” He pretended to think about it. “In truth, it depends on how much time we have. If we’re in a hurry, we’ll just shoot you, like a wolf with the water sickness. But if we have a few days, there’s a game called Fen’Harel’s Teeth.”

  Some of his warriors laughed along. At least one of them, though, the youngest, stopped and stared awkwardly off to the trees.

  “We take your clothes and lash your hands together,” the elven warleader said, “and we give you leggings of hard leather, with little nails driven through, so that every step you take sends them digging in. We give you a hundred-count head start, and we see how long you can elude us when every step you take is—”

  “It must absolutely burn you that you can’t touch me,” Michel said, without changing expression.

  The warleader blinked, then recovered. “Once Keeper Thelhen has what he needs, we’ll do more than touch you, shemlen.”

  Each time he said the word “shemlen,” there was a little pause, where he looked at Michel to see if he’d drawn blood. Michel suspected that the elf would do the same thing after a sword-thrust, and noted it in case it became relevant later.

  In any case, the warleader could only be disappointed. Each time he threw that insult at Michel, it just made Michel smile more.

  “And until your leader has what he wants, will you posture some more before a bound captive?” Michel asked. “Unless I become too threatening, in which case you might go scare the children or yell at the trees.”

  The warleader glared. “Felassan called you a chevalier. He said they were the greatest of shemlen warriors. Perhaps I will show you what a true master of the blade can do.”

  “Like those children playing with sticks by your wagon?” Michel gestured with his chin over to where the warriors were training. “The man you have training them drags his feet when he sidesteps. In a real fight, I’d have his leg off in three heartbeats.” The warleader glanced over despite himself, as did his warriors. “You should spend more time training your people … Or did you not notice the problem yourself?”

  “You insult my clan.” The warleader raised his hand.

  Michel snorted. “You insult your own clan, if you cannot control your temper to obey your master’s orders. I have given insult to neither your blood, your history, nor your way of life. Only the personal honor of a mongrel who lacks manners.”

  “Nevertheless.” The warleader’s hand cracked hard across Michel’s face, and when Michel’s vision cleared, the elf was smiling again. “Know your place, shemlen.” He turned to his warriors. “Watch him. If he does anything suspicious, kill him.”

  The warleader stalked back to his wagon, leaving the others to stand guard.

  Michel settled in comfortably to wait. After a time, he performed quiet muscle exercises to keep his limbs from going numb. One of the warriors noticed—the youngest, who’d seemed uncomfortable earlier—but said nothing.

  It was relaxing, almost like meditation in the Chantry, to have no duties and no responsibilities. He let his awareness wander, taking in the motions of the
camp. The cooks prepared the midday meal, a stew of wild rabbit mixed with vegetables and spices, served along with what Michel recognized from thirty yards away as peasant bread. It was almost equal parts wheat, salt, and grease, and in lean winters, it was sometimes the only thing that could put meat on a peasant’s bones.

  It had been years since Michel had eaten it. Watching an old elven woman drizzle honey across a piece now, he remembered his mother putting a bit of sugar on his piece, sugar she’d stolen from the tavern where she worked. His mouth watered, and he looked away.

  The young warriors stopped training with blades and took up bows. Hunters came back to camp with rabbits or deer. As the hours passed, Michel was forced to admit that the camp was run well, more like a military camp than the cave full of knife-eared bandits he had expected. Every elf was busy, moving with purpose on their duties, and unlike a military camp, the people he thought of as servants weren’t treated any worse than the hunters or the guards. They called happily to each other across ranks, trading greetings or jibes like a family.

  Michel wasn’t certain when the music started to move him, but he felt the slow relaxation ease him into a soothing rhythm as he sat and watched the camp. The music had no source, no melody. It was not even a sound, exactly. It was simply a pleasant and drowsy feeling, like being rocked to sleep by a lullaby. Even as part of his mind was confused, noting that the rest of the camp was walking and moving to the same invisible rhythm, the rest of him was calm and content.

  It seemed perfectly natural when one of the warriors leaned down and cut Michel’s bonds. The warrior’s eyes were vacant, staring peacefully at something only he could see. The other warrior was smiling at nothing, shifting idly from side to side in a slow rhythm.

  Michel stood, without fear or preparation. The healer kept tending Celene, preparing more herbs with a mortar, humming gently to herself. The warriors tapped their hands against their legs to the melody. No one seemed concerned as the warrior they had been guarding stood up, and Michel himself was not concerned, either. A voice at the back of his mind was shouting in alarm, urging him to grab a weapon, but he ignored that part of his mind and walked calmly past the wagon where he had been kept.

  As he walked, turning his back on the guards without fear, his pace was in step with the tune that the healer had been humming. The elven scouts at the edge of the camp paid him no mind. One of them was whistling the same melody to herself.

  A trail led from the camp into the forest. Michel walked at an easy pace, allowing the melody to guide him along the winding path that led down a gentle slope, until the trees ended in a little clearing.

  It was as if the Maker had scooped out a fistful of earth to make the clearing, leaving a bowl-shaped indentation perhaps a hundred yards across. In the center of the bowl stood a circle of stones, etched with runes that glowed faintly in the afternoon light. In the center of the circle of stones stood a human man in a dark coat. He was short and balding, with a thin black beard and glittering beady eyes.

  He was whistling the tune, snapping his fingers and tapping his feet in time to the beat.

  Michel was almost to the circle of stones when the runes on the nearest stone flashed.

  The music spun away, torn like cobwebs, and Michel shuddered and fell to his knees. It was like waking up from a deep sleep to find himself mid-conversation. Everything seemed too sharp and bright. The grass beneath Michel’s hands was cold and slick, and it felt as though the ground were twisting.

  “Want to hear a joke?” the man in the circle asked. From his light accent, he could have been a minor noble in Celene’s court.

  Michel’s whole body was shivering, and his teeth were chattering madly. He tensed his muscles, forcing his body through the centering exercises a chevalier used to fight drugs or magic. “What … what…”

  “Ser Michel de Chevin walks into a tavern,” the man in the circle said. “The barman looks at him and says, ‘We don’t serve elves here.’ Ser Michel says, ‘Fine with me. There’s no good meat on them, anyway.’” He laughed long and hard.

  “What did you do to me?” Michel stood with an effort, moving into a fighting stance rather than risk trying to stand upright. The ground still tilted beneath his feet, but the centering exercises were helping. He kept his breath even and slow, ignoring the prickle of cold sweat that had broken out all over his body.

  “Distracted the guards and freed you from bondage to those damned knife-ears,” the man in the circle said with gusto, “all as an act of charity.” He cocked his head. “Oh, specifically? A little trick from the Fade, encourages people not to notice you. Useful for getting out of troublesome situations or watching ladies undress. Not,” he added, “that I ever would. Because that would be wrong.”

  Michel looked at the man, and at the circle of stones. “You’re a demon.”

  “Spirit,” the man said, smiling broadly. “Please, call me Imshael.”

  “Why?”

  Imshael, if that was his name, smiled. “Well, you have to call me something.”

  Michel glared. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I brought you here because you and I have a similar problem.” Imshael stepped forward until he neared the edge of the stone circle and smiled thinly. “We’d both like to be somewhere, and someone, we’re not.”

  The demon left no prints in the grass where he walked. His black coat was finely tailored, and the buckles of his black boots glittered.

  “I’ve heard of things like you,” Michel said, trying to remember the old stories. “You’re a desire demon.”

  “Choice. Spirit.” Imshael’s smile never wavered. “Do I look like a desire demon? Do you want me to strip down and put on something filmy and sheer?” At Michel’s glare, the demon sighed. “There are all kinds of spirits, boy. Spirits of love, and honor, and valor, and justice…” He waved a hand absently, turning to pace along the edge of the circle. “And yes, also rage, and hunger, and pride. We all carry some connection to this world to bring us through the Veil.”

  Michel began to walk around the outside of the circle, keeping pace with the demon. His body had largely recovered from whatever the demon had done, but for a little loose-limbed shakiness, as though Michel had just finished a good workout. The yellow autumn grass crumpled beneath his steps as he walked. “And what brought you?”

  “Nothing, this time. Those damned elves called me here into this circle.” Imshael rapped a knuckle against one of the stones as he passed it, then winced as a spark of crackling energy stung his hand. “Trapped me in here. I can’t leave, and I can’t return to the Fade. I can’t even use my power.”

  Michel remembered the song that had touched the minds of everyone near him. “You used your power on the whole camp.”

  “What, that trick?” Imshael smirked. “No. My power is a bit more … consequential.”

  Michel was silent a moment, then gave in and asked the question. “Why have they brought you here?”

  “They want me to help them regain a bit of their history. You know about history, Ser Michel?”

  “Not especially, demon.” Michel kept walking.

  “See, you think of Halamshiral as the old elven capital, but before that, before the boys in Tevinter had their fun, the elves had a much grander place to call home.”

  “Arlathan.”

  Imshael grinned. “Ah, so you did listen to the lessons in the slums from your dear old elven mother!” At Michel’s glare, he raised his hands in apology. “Sorry, sorry. You mortals always get touchy about those thoughts leaking out of your head. Yes, Arlathan. But that was just the capital of the ancient empire. All of this—Orlais, Fereldan, those bits over to the west—all of it was part of Elvhenan. Now, if you dig deep enough under most of Orlais, you run into the old tombs where the noble elven dead were buried.” Imshael’s eyes narrowed. “And as it turns out, most of those tombs are connected by the eluvians.”

  Michel stopped and turned to face the demon. “There are secret passage
s beneath Orlais?”

  Imshael snorted. “Secret passages? No, boy, you’re thinking of dwarves. The elves weren’t much for walking. The eluvians are magical mirrors. You walk into one of them, journey through a kind of in-between place for a bit, and come out the other side several days’ ride elsewhere.” The demon tapped one of the circle stones again, grimacing at the spark of energy that stung his fingers. “Old elven magic. Always have to respect old elven magic.”

  “And you use these to travel.” Michel looked closely at the demon. There was a trap. There was always a trap. Every story that had the young man dealing with the demon always had the demon spring a trap.

  The key was that in some stories, the young man could twist that trap back around on the demon and win the day.

  “Yes, you use it to travel. Good on you for listening. You could get from Jader to Val Royeaux without seeing daylight if you wanted.” Imshael stopped and shot Michel a look. “Don’t get any ideas, chevalier. It’s a lot of old, dangerous magic and some texts you’d probably just burn. I don’t imagine there are any magic swords for you to find down there.” He started walking again, still leaving no footsteps. “Regardless, the eluvians have been sleeping ever since your lads took Halamshiral. Our friend the Keeper is trying to get me to awaken them.”

  Michel hurried to catch up. “So why not do as he asks?”

  “Deeply concerned for my welfare, are you? I’m touched.” Imshael smiled, but it twisted into a snarl after a moment. “He can’t give me what I need. A rage demon feeds on anger. A pride demon lives off the delusions men use when they stare in the mirror every morning. And I need a choice. Thelhen wants the eluvians awakened, but there’s nothing more to it. He won’t submit to the consequence of his actions. Do you understand?”