Asunder E-Book

David Gaider

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 640

Beschreibung

Return to the dark fantasy world created for the award-winning, triple platinum game, Dragon Age™: Origins in this third tie-in novel! A mystical killer stalks the halls of the White Spire, the heart of templar power in the mighty Orlesian Empire. To prove his innocence, Adrian reluctantly embarks on a journey into the western wastelands that will not only reveal much more than he bargained for but change the fate of his fellow mages forever.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by David Gaider

Title Page

Copyright

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

Epilogue

Also Available from Titan Books

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS:

Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne

Dragon Age: The Calling

DAVID GAIDER

DRAGON AGE

ASUNDER

TITAN BOOKS

© 2011 Electronic Arts Inc. Dragon Age, the Dragon Age logo, BioWare and the BioWare logo are trademarks of EA International (Studio and Publishing) Ltd. EA and the EA logo are trademarks of Electronic Arts Inc.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Dragon Age: Asunder

Print edition ISBN: 9780857686473

E-book edition ISBN: 9781781162293

Published By

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street

London

SE1 0UP

First edition December 2011

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright © 2011 by Electronic Arts, Inc.

www.titanbooks.com

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

1

I am the Ghost of the Spire.

It was an unpleasant thought, one Cole had turned over and over again in his mind. They said ghosts didn’t exist, that the dead didn’t really walk amongst the living, but some people believed in them even so. They believed a dead man could become lost on his way to the Maker’s side, forever adrift in a land of shadow.

Cole wasn’t dead. Yet at the same time, he didn’t exist, and he walked amongst the living.

He’d overheard a pair of mages talking about him once, even if they’d no idea they were doing so. He’d discovered them late at night, huddled in one of the White Spire’s dark hallways. There were many such hidden corners in the great tower, places where mages went to escape from the suspicious eyes of watching templars, and Cole knew them all.

Cole knew far less about the mages themselves. He knew, however, they’d taken a great risk sneaking out of their chambers. Few of the tower’s templars were kind, and most believed that mages constantly conspired to commit unspeakable horrors . . . when the truth was usually much more mundane. Most of their conversation consisted of gossip. The mages whispered secrets to each other, sometimes idle speculation about romantic entanglements and other times much more serious things they knew to be true but could never talk about in the open. Occasionally he came upon mages meeting for a romantic liaison instead. They secretly pressed flesh upon flesh, a desperate act of intimacy between people for whom such fleeting moments could only be stolen.

He’d found the pair who spoke of him only by chance, overhearing their muted whispers as he passed in the shadows. One was a homely woman with long hair the color of straw, the other a gangly elven boy. Both he recognized, but only by sight. They were older apprentices, the sort who had little talent for magic and who’d already spent too long preparing for the inevitable. Someday soon they would be called away by the templars for their final ordeal, and Cole would never see them again . . . or he’d see them roaming the halls as emotionless Tranquil, stripped of their abilities and doomed to spend their lives in passive service to their tormentors.

Cole remembered the dread in their eyes. The homely woman sported a bruise on her cheek, its mottled purple already beginning to fade. From their hiding place the pair watched furtively for any sign of wandering guards, starting at the slightest sound. Even the skittering of a passing rat caused them to jump, yet they did not budge from their hiding place.

For all their alertness, they’d been completely oblivious to Cole’s approach. Not that he expected anything different. He’d walked right up beside them, leaning in close to listen.

“I tell you I saw it,” the woman insisted, her voice tinged with awe. “I was walking through the lower passages to get a book for Enchanter Garlen, and there it was.”

“The ghost.” The elven boy didn’t bother to hide his incredulity.

“Oh, there can be dragons but not ghosts?” Her voice grew indignant. “The Chantry doesn’t know everything! There are things in the Fade they couldn’t possibly begin to—”

“It could have been a demon.”

She paused, her face blanching in sudden fear. “But . . . it didn’t try to speak with me. I don’t think it even saw me. I thought maybe it was a visitor, someone who’d gotten lost, but when I followed it around the corner it was just gone.”

The elven boy frowned, his voice lowering to a whisper difficult even for Cole to overhear. “You know what they teach us. When a demon comes, it won’t seem harmful at first. It’ll be something to make you curious, until later when it begins to corrupt you. . . .”

She stared off, her mouth pressing thin with worry. She looked right through Cole, but only a single thought ran through his mind: Did she really see me?

The elven boy sighed and hugged her close, murmuring comforting words about how he didn’t mean anything by his warning. Maybe she was right. The woman nodded numbly, fighting back tears. “What did it look like?” he eventually asked.

“You’re humoring me.”

“No, I want to know. Maybe it was a templar?”

“You think I don’t know every templar in the tower by now? Some of them far better than I’d like.” She touched the bruise on her cheek, and the elven boy scowled but said nothing. “No, he wasn’t in armor or robes. He was just a man, not much older than you. Shaggy hair, maybe blond? Leathers that looked like they badly needed washing. There have been others who’ve seen him, and their descriptions match what I saw.”

“Perhaps he was a laborer working in the tunnels.”

“When was the last time anyone did work down here?”

He was at a loss, and shrugged. “I know, it’s just . . .”

“I got close enough to see his eyes.” The woman frowned, thinking back. “He looked so sad, like he was lost down here. Can you imagine?” She shuddered, and the elven boy grinned reassuringly.

“So that’s the infamous Ghost of the Spire. The others will be so jealous.”

Her answering smile was faint. “We probably shouldn’t say anything.”

“Probably not.”

They stayed there for a while longer, and Cole lingered. He’d hoped they might talk some more about what the woman saw, but they didn’t. They held hands in the dark and listened to the muted sounds of the chant that floated down from the tower’s chapel far above. When the midnight service ended there was nothing left but silence, and the pair reluctantly returned to their chambers.

Cole hadn’t followed them. Instead he’d sat where they sat, letting the silence fill him. He knew he wasn’t a demon. He’d never seen one before or spoken to one, that he knew of, and unless someone could be a demon and have no inkling of it, that just wasn’t possible. A ghost, however? That he wasn’t so certain of.

He remembered when he first came to the tower. Like every other mage before him, he’d arrived in terror, dragged through the halls by a templar’s rough hands. He’d no idea where this strange place was, or even how long they’d traveled to get there. Much of the journey had been spent blindfolded and unconscious, and his unsympathetic captors refused to tell him anything. As far as he’d known, they were going to kill him.

He remembered being pushed down a dark corridor, empty save for a few apprentices who scurried to get out of the way. Most of them averted their eyes, and that only served to heighten Cole’s fear. He was being brought to a dungeon, a black pit from which he was never going to emerge, for his crime of being a mage. The templars called him that word in curt, ugly tones when they needed to call him anything. Mage. Before that day it wasn’t a word Cole had associated with himself. It was something he’d only heard on the tongues of priests, a watchword for those who had been cursed by the Maker.

And now that’s what he was. Cursed.

They’d tossed him into a cell. He’d lain there on the damp stone floor, whimpering. He expected a beating but none came. Instead, the cell door had slammed shut with a deafening crash; while Cole was initially relieved, once the men were gone that relief evaporated. They’d left him alone in the dark with only the rats for company. The creatures scurried invisibly around him, nipping at him with razor-sharp teeth. He’d tried to crawl away from them but there was nowhere to go, nothing to do except curl up into a ball and pray.

There in the cold and the nothingness, he’d prayed for death. Anything would be better than waiting for the templars to return, anticipating whatever new torment they had planned for him. The priests said demons were drawn to mages, to transform them into terrible abominations—but Cole couldn’t imagine anything more frightening than the templars themselves. He couldn’t shut his eyes enough to block out the memory of their uncaring eyes.

He didn’t want to be a mage. He didn’t want to discover how one became a mage, and found nothing wondrous in the idea of magic. Fervently he prayed to the Maker, over and over again, for deliverance. He prayed until his voice was hoarse, prayed for the templars to forget he even existed.

And then he’d gotten his wish. That’s exactly what they did.

Perhaps he’d died there in the darkness, and forgotten. Maybe that was how ghosts came to be: they were those who passed on and refused to accept it. Thus they remained, lingering in a life that didn’t want them anymore.

He shut his eyes tight. Maker above, he thought, if I’m dead then give me a sign. Don’t you want me at your side, just like the priests all said you would? Don’t leave me here.

But there was no answer. There never was.

If he was dead, why did he still sleep? Why did he still hunger, and breathe, and sweat? These were not things that a dead person did. No matter what they called him, he was no ghost and no demon.

But that didn’t mean he was real.

Up above, the White Spire swarmed with people. There were many levels in the great tower, filled with sunlight and wide spaces. Cole rarely went up there. He was much more comfortable down below, among the things the templars had forgotten as well as the things they wanted forgotten. The bowels of the tower reached deep into the earth, and they were his home.

The first few floors of the tower’s lower chambers were innocent enough. They contained the kitchen stores, as well as the armories, giant chambers filled with enough equipment and weapons to outfit an army of templars. Beneath that were the archives—rooms upon rooms filled with the books they didn’t keep in the upper libraries.

There were books about magic there, as well as books of music and philosophy, books in forgotten languages, and even the forbidden books they put under lock and key. Normally the archives stood empty, but sometimes Cole would find a mage spending long hours reading by candlelight. He would never understand what they found so interesting about words and pictures. Books were all just old paper to him.

Far more interesting were the levels that lay beneath the archives. The oldest part of the tower was called “the Pit,” and few but Cole ever explored its depths. There were flooded passages down there long ago sealed behind bricks, only to crumble from neglect. Rickety stairwells led to ancient storerooms, some filled with only dust, and others with strange-looking relics. A great mausoleum stood as silent testament to templars who had died centuries ago, faded statues of forgotten heroes towering over marble caskets. He’d found hiding places for treasures, the owners of which had long since perished. He’d followed dark tunnels that went in circles, or had collapsed, or even led into the city’s sewers. Did anyone up above even know about those?

He knew every part of the Pit, all save for the area that lay at its heart. The dungeons were there, hundreds and hundreds of cells on multiple levels. More than the templars could ever want, and far more than they used. The oldest were filled with little more than the silent echoes of the tormented, left like indelible imprints in the stone. It made his skin crawl. Cole avoided the dungeons, only going there when he absolutely had to. When he needed to.

Like now.

Torches weren’t used in the dungeons. Instead they put glowstones inside glass lamps, things which flickered like flame but cast a cold and blue light. Magic, he knew, for he could feel the whisper of it caressing his skin as he passed. Even so, only a scant few were used. Just enough for the guards to see their feet.

There was one entrance, an intimidating stretch of hall with a vaulted ceiling and multiple iron gates, which could be closed in an instant. Anyone caught within when that happened would be skewered by spikes flying out of dark holes in the walls. Cole shuddered as he walked through. It wasn’t the only death trap in the dungeon. The templars would rather have their prisoners die than make it out, and the old scorch marks on the walls told of those who had made the attempt.

On the other side of that hallway was a single guard station, a simple room with a small table and a couple of chairs. He saw an open bottle of wine and two half-filled goblets, and plates covered with the cold remnants of the evening meal. A cloak hung on the wall peg, with two dirt-smeared helmets sitting on the floor beneath it. No guards were present, and the inner doors stood wide open. They must be within.

Cole hesitantly stepped into the prison. The stench of fear, old and new, immediately assaulted his nostrils. The cells here were used often. How many prisoners might be present now he had no idea, though he knew there was at least one. He heard fearful whimpering farther down the hall.

There was laughter, too, along with the idle chatter of two men. Their voices echoed. Cole crept inside until he saw the first hints of blue light ahead. Two armored templars stood in front of an open cell, one holding up a glowlamp. Neither wore a helmet, and thus he recognized them—not enough to know their names, for he knew few, but enough to know that these two were merciless hunters, templars who had served their order for so many years that whatever pity they’d once been capable of had been ground into dust.

“Careful,” Lamp Holder cautioned. “This one knows how to conjure fire.”

The other, whom Cole thought of as Big Nose, snorted contemptuously. “I’d like to see her try it.”

The whimpering came from within the cell. Lamp Holder rolled his eyes and turned away. “I wouldn’t worry. There wasn’t much fight left when we caught her. Even less now.”

“Huh. Think she’ll make it?”

“Probably better if she didn’t.” The pair exchanged knowing glances as the despairing cries became louder. Big Nose shrugged and slammed the cell door shut, fumbling with a large ring of iron keys until he found the one he wanted. The lock slid into place with an ominous sound.

The templars turned and walked toward Cole, whispering to each other. A joke, followed by cruel chuckling. He stayed where he was, nervously holding his breath as they drew close. When they reached him, however, they did what most everyone did: they walked around him, completely oblivious that they’d done so. It was never a sure thing, and Cole always half expected that someone might see him. Half hoped, even.

The key ring he lifted from Big Nose’s belt as he passed.

Then they were gone. The glowlamp was gone with them, the only source of light in the prison, and now it was plunged into darkness. Cole slowly let out his breath, waiting for the sound of their footsteps to fade. He could still hear faint weeping behind the cell door. Nearby, water dripped onto stone with a rhythmic tap-tap-tap. Rats squeaked as they emerged from the walls. But he heard nothing in the other cells. If there were prisoners, they were asleep or as good as.

He should move. He tried to will his feet into motion, but they were frozen. He felt immaterial, as if he were made of the same substance as the shadows and the first step would cause him to be forever lost in them. The panic rose, and his heart pounded. Sweat poured down his face.

Not now, he quailed. Not yet!

Cole reached out for the wall. Part of him was fearful his hand would merely pass through, that he would stumble and fall . . . and keep on falling. Down and down he would go, one final scream swallowed by a black oblivion. But his hand touched stone. Blessedly cool stone. He gasped gratefully and pressed his face against it, letting its chill hardness scrape his skin.

His breathing slowed. He was shaking, but he was still real.

It’s not too late.

Fumbling in a pocket, he produced a small bundle of cloth. Carefully he unfolded it and the azure radiance of a glowstone emerged. For what was coming next, he would need light.

It took several tries until he found the key the templar had used. It turned ever so quietly until the lock sprang with a jarring clank. Then he paused—the weeping inside had abruptly halted. Not waiting to see if the noise elicited a response from the guards, Cole pulled the door open and stepped into the cell.

The glowstone revealed a tiny cell, encrusted with filth. It was empty save for a single bucket and a girl cowering in the corner, dressed in filthy rags splattered dark with blood. Hers? Or someone else’s? The girl’s black hair hung in wet ropes down her shoulders, and she protectively shielded her face with her arms.

For a long moment Cole did nothing, shifting from foot to foot as he watched her. Then he hunched low, placing the stone on the floor beside him. Its flickering intensified, sending his shadow dancing madly across the walls. He could smell the girl even over the cell’s foulness: heavy sweat, laced with sick. She trembled, no doubt certain he was here to hurt her. So he waited.

After a time, a pair of reddened eyes peeked out from behind her arms. She was pretty, or had been once. Now she was haggard, exhausted by whatever ordeal she’d gone through to get here. The girl blinked at the glowstone’s light, incomprehension warring with terror. She stared at Cole and he stared back.

“You can see me,” he said. His relief was palpable.

The girl yelped as if struck, scrambling to get as far away from him as she could. She backed herself into a corner of the cell like a caged animal, panting rabidly. Her filthy hands clawed at the walls, as if doing so might allow her to get through. Cole waited until her desperate efforts slowed and she locked eyes on him once again.

“You can see me,” he repeated, more confidently this time.

“I didn’t mean to burn it down,” she whispered through ragged breaths. “The fire came out of my hands, but I don’t even know why. It all happened so fast, I tried to warn them. . . .” The girl clamped her eyes shut, tears spilling down filthy cheeks. She wiped her face with a shaking hand, smearing the dirt across her face.

Cole waited. Eventually, her sobs quieted and she looked over at him again, more guardedly this time. Still crouched across from her, he hadn’t moved, and he saw the first glimmer of curiosity.

“Are you a mage, then?” she asked. “They said one would come.”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Then . . . who are you?”

“My name is Cole.”

That was hardly the answer she was looking for. She stared expectantly at him, but he said nothing. “But . . . if you’re not a mage,” she finally asked, “then what are you doing here? What do you want from me?”

“I came because you can see me.” He reached under his leather vest and drew a dagger from its sheath. It was an ornate blade with an elaborate brass hilt carved in the shape of a dragon’s head. The length of it gleamed in the blue light, and the girl’s eyes fixed upon it in stark disbelief. “I felt it when they brought you here,” he continued. “I knew you would, even before I met you.”

The girl’s mouth opened, and then clicked shut again. When she spoke her voice was very small. “Are you . . . going to kill me?”

“I think so. Yes.”

A small gasp escaped her. “Because I’m a mage?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then . . . why? What have I done to you?”

“You haven’t done anything to me.” Emotion welled up, a desperation that he had pushed deep down inside him now fighting to escape. It left him breathless, and for a moment he cradled his head on his knees and rocked back and forth. Part of him wondered if the girl would use her magic on him while she had the chance. Would she conjure fire, like the templar warned? What would that be like? Could she kill him?

But she did nothing. Cole fought to regain his center and exhaled once, long and slow, before looking up again. The girl was frozen. She couldn’t look away from his dagger, and perhaps hadn’t even considered she could do something to stop him.

“I’m . . . fading away,” he muttered. “I can feel myself slipping through the cracks. I have to do this, I’m sorry.”

“I’ll scream.”

But she didn’t scream. He saw the idea crumble inside with the realization that doing so would only call the templars back, if it brought anyone at all. Even faced with an armed man directly in front of her, that possibility was still worse. It was something he understood all too well. Slowly she slumped to the ground, defeated.

Cole inched forward, his heart thumping madly in his chest. He reached out and touched the girl’s cheek, and she didn’t flinch away. “I can make it go away.” The words were gentle, and he held the dagger up to prove his promise. “The pain, the fear. I can make it quick. You don’t have to stay here and see what they have in store for you.”

She studied him, eerily calm. “Are you a demon?” she finally asked. “They say that’s what happens to mages. The demons come and turn them into monsters.” Then she smiled, a lifeless grimace that matched her dead eyes. “But you don’t need to do that. I’m already a monster.”

He didn’t respond.

“I said I didn’t mean to burn it down. That’s what I told them, too. But I lied.” The confession spilled out of her like cold venom. “I listened to my mother, my father, all of them screaming, and I did nothing. I wanted them to burn. I’m glad they’re dead.”

Her secret told, the girl took a deep breath and blinked back tears. She looked at Cole expectantly, but he only sighed. “I’m not a demon,” he said.

“But . . . what are you, then?”

“Lost.” He stood and offered his hand. She hesitated, but then numbly nodded. He brought her to her feet, where she stood only inches away. There in the glowstone’s blue light, a strange intimacy enveloped them. He could see every mark on her skin, every stain the tears had left on her cheeks, every strand of hair.

“Look at me,” he asked her.

She blinked in confusion, but complied.

“No, look at me.”

And she did. The girl looked at Cole, looked into him. He was going to kill her, and she knew it. He went through life, unnoticed and quickly forgotten by all, but to her, at that moment, he was the most important thing in the world. She knew what he was, now. Cole was her deliverance, a way out of a world filled with terror. He saw weary relief in her eyes, mixed with the fear. In those eyes he was anchored, and he felt real.

“Thank you,” he breathed, and plunged the dagger into her chest.

She gasped in shock, but did not look away. He thrust up, digging the blade deep into her heart. She convulsed, a spurt of bright blood erupting from her mouth. Then, with a final shudder, she collapsed into his arms.

Cole held her close, staring down into her eyes. He drank in every moment as the life ebbed out of her. It was an instant that seemed to stretch out into forever . . . and then she was gone.

Trembling, he allowed the body to slide off the dagger and slump lifelessly to the floor. He was only dimly aware of the warm blood covering the blade, his hands, the entire front of his leathers. He couldn’t stop looking at those eyes, staring off into nothing. He knelt down and closed them, leaving a streak of scarlet across her lids. Then he stumbled back, leaning against the cell wall. It was difficult to breathe.

You need to stop.

It took every bit of will he had left, but he tore his eyes away from her. Like a drunken man, he stumbled toward the glowstone and snatched it off the floor, wrapping it back up in the cloth until the cell was plunged into blessed darkness once again. He took slow and deliberate breaths as he brought himself under control.

He’d almost forgotten what it was like to be connected, to feel like he belonged in the world. Part of him was certain the templars were about to come running, that the entire White Spire would realize all at once who he was—the escaped mage who walked in their midst. The Ghost of the Spire.

They would come with their spells and their swords. They would wrestle him to the ground, and then he would be locked away in a cell again. He would be lost in that blackness until they came to deal with him once and for all. This time they wouldn’t forget him. This time the door would open and they would see him lying there, and by then he would be begging them to end it.

But no one came.

No one ever came.

2

Among the nobility in Orlais, custom dictated that masks were to be worn when in public. These delicately crafted works of art were painted to indicate the affluence of one’s family. Some were anointed with tiny jewels laid out in tasteful patterns, while others were inlaid with silver and gold. Still others went over the top with their decorations of peacock feathers or glittering dragon scales. To have a more beautiful mask than one’s rivals was seen as an advantage, and thus the Empire’s maskmakers numbered among the most influential and sought-after of its artisans.

Servants wore a simpler version of the mask traditional to their master or mistress’s household, a clear message to any who saw them: I am owned, and you harm me at the risk of incurring the wrath of the one I serve. To wear a mask to which you were not entitled was extremely dangerous. A wise nobleman guarded his masks like he guarded his reputation.

To be without a mask in Orlais, then, was a statement. It said you were either a peasant not even useful enough to be part of a noble house, or that you considered yourself above the Game. To the elite, however, nobody was above the Game. You were either a player or a pawn, nothing else.

Justinia V, Divine of the Chantry and the guest of honor at the evening’s festivities, was not masked. Nor were the flock of priests attending her. The priesthood wasn’t above the Game, precisely, but an exception to it, and any nobleman was expected to maintain an unimpeachable veneer of respect when speaking to a priest regardless of what they wore. Many priests engaged in the Game even so, and some even claimed the Divine was one of its best players. The priesthood simply played by different rules.

Evangeline also wasn’t wearing a mask. As a templar, she technically fell under the same exemption as the priesthood. It was an exemption, however, that the nobility largely ignored.

She was also the only one in the palace ballroom wearing armor and carrying a weapon. Her templar plate had been polished to a shine, and she wore her finest red tunic, the one with the Chantry starburst sewn in gold thread. She’d even put her black hair up into the sort of elegant braid used by the ladies of the court. Even so, it paled in comparison next to all the glittering gowns, the bouffant wigs with their fancy combs and pearl strands, the resplendent jewelry twinkling in the firelight, and she knew it.

Evangeline knew very well what the ladies of the court who looked her way were thinking, and she knew the sorts of things they were whispering to each other behind their delicate fans. Someone as pretty as she could have found a husband. The fact that she had joined a warrior order meant she either came from a poor family or, far worse, was too uncouth to join the ranks of proper society.

Neither of those things were true, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t there to play the Game. She was there to serve as the Divine’s honor guard, a visible reminder to those who might use the celebration as an excuse to cause trouble.

Ostensibly the ball was being thrown by the Empress, but Her Imperial Majesty was nowhere in evidence. According to everything Evangeline had been told, she was instead at the Winter Palace in far-off Halamshiral—either enjoying her latest lover’s attentions or dealing with a rebellion, depending on who you asked. Either way, it was clear the event had been arranged by palace bureaucrats, not that any of the guests seemed to mind. To show up was to prove you were worthy of an invitation, and that fact alone made it worthwhile. The ballroom was packed.

The Divine sat in an enormous, ornately carved wooden throne that had been brought in especially for the occasion. It was high up on a dais, providing a vantage point from which she could overlook the entire chamber. It also meant that anyone who approached her needed to do so from below. Orlesian nobles disliked being reminded of their subservience, even by someone who was unquestionably their superior, and so, once the long line of polite well-wishers earlier in the evening had ended, few chose to approach at all.

Thus the guest of honor sat there in rigid silence, with only attendant priests keeping vigil at her side. She watched the throng of dancers whirl around the ballroom, her expression kept neutral so none could accuse her of boredom. If she felt uncomfortable in the voluminous red robe and the glittering headdress, she made no indication of it. Evangeline thought the Divine was the very picture of icy grace, yet most of the comments she overheard were about the woman’s age. Her predecessor had held the office for almost fifty years, so long that the Empire had become accustomed to the idea of a doddering and ancient Divine. Now things had changed, and some expressed a desire that Justinia V not live to get any older.

In typical Orlesian fashion they only did so quietly, of course, and with daggers hidden behind their backs. This was the Maker’s chosen they were discussing, after all. Evangeline found their eagerness to justify such sacrilege with petty sneers and barbs almost sickening, but such was the way of the Empire.

The musicians, a large troupe assembled high up in the ballroom’s upper gallery, suddenly started a faster tune. Those on the floor below applauded their choice and began assembling themselves for the tourdion. It was a lively dance that had become popular ever since a recent rumor claimed the Empress favored it.

The dancers lined up across from each other and assumed the posture droit, right foot slightly in front with the weight evenly distributed. Then they began: a small kick in the air with the left foot followed by a small hop with the right, alternating until on the fifth step they performed a small jump back into posture. Then it began again.

All the kicking and hopping made for quite the spectacle. There was much drunken merriment on the ballroom floor, though some of the dancers clearly devoted themselves to the endeavor with practiced grace. The crowd on the sidelines clapped loudly in admiration, and even the Divine and her priests joined in.

As the tempo of the music increased, the pace of the dancing became frenzied. Suddenly there was a cry of alarm—a young woman spilled to the ground, tearing her skirt and taking three others down with her. Worse, her mask flew off and landed on the floor with a great clatter. The music ground to a halt as a murmur of interest mixed with amusement erupted.

No one moved to help the young woman. She was left to scramble awkwardly to her feet, holding up the remains of her skirt as she chased after her mask. An imperious-looking woman in a towering wig of white curls, clearly her mother, ran out onto the floor to grab her arm and pull her off. The mother’s face was hidden by her golden mask, but her every movement spoke of mortification rather than concern.

An adept observer might have noticed that another young woman in a brilliant yellow gown had been the culprit responsible for the fall. They might also have noticed that as the musicians began a new, slower song to recover from the interruption, she moved to intercept the gentleman across from whom the fallen girl had been dancing. Truth be told, Evangeline suspected everyone present knew exactly what she had done and why. They would also quietly approve of her maneuver. The Game was as merciless as it was contemptible.

Evangeline kept her place in front of the Divine’s dais, scanning the crowd carefully. Her legs were sore from standing for so long, and the musky stench of sweat covered by sweet perfume was slowly becoming difficult to bear. Still, she had to be vigilant. The trouble with so many masks was that any of them could hide an assassin. Anyone here could be a stranger, and not a single other guest would be aware they didn’t belong. She had to hope the army of guardsmen just outside the ballroom had been diligent in their duty. In the meantime, she could only wait. Another hour, perhaps, before the Divine politely retired, and then her duty would be ended.

“You cannot wait to get away, I see.”

Evangeline turned to see that one of the Divine’s attendants had approached her from the dais. This was one she’d seen before: a woman with short red hair and vividly blue eyes who carried herself in a manner so controlled and graceful that Evangeline wouldn’t have been surprised to discover she wasn’t a priest at all, despite the robes. A bodyguard, perhaps? It certainly made sense that the Divine wouldn’t trust her fate to a lone sword. Evangeline was hardly offended.

“Her Eminence need not fear I’ll abandon her,” she replied.

The woman held up a hand, smiling disarmingly. “Oh, I did not mean to imply that you might. You do a better job of guarding your feelings than most templars I’ve encountered. Even so, this must be a very boring assignment for you.”

Evangeline paused, not quite sure how to respond. “I think my Knight-Commander believed I might be more . . . comfortable in this setting, considering the family I was born to.”

“But you’re not.”

“I left that life behind a long time ago.” She looked out over the crowd of dancers, who were just finishing the latest song. They vigorously applauded the musicians in the gallery, and then dispersed into conversation. It was like watching a pack of wolves at work. They ferreted out the weakest of the pack, isolating them in anticipation of the kill. The only violence done, however, was with soft words and promises. The ballroom was a battleground, already littered with bodies, and yet no war was being won. At the next social gathering this scene would play out again, and again at the next, as regular as the tide. “All that wealth and influence, and what do they use it for? Their own advancement, while their world crumbles around them.”

The red-haired woman seemed impressed. “I would agree with that. I know Her Eminence would, as well.”

“That makes at least three of us, then.”

She laughed heartily, and extended her hand. “Pardon my atrocious manners. My name is Leliana.”

“Knight-Captain Evangeline.”

“Oh yes, I know. There was a great deal of discussion as to who would be guarding the Divine tonight. Many of those in your order of similar rank, after all, have expressed certain . . . attitudes which cause us great concern.”

There was a tone in the woman’s voice which roused Evangeline’s interest, as if there was far more to what she was saying than she was letting on. When Leliana strode a short distance away to a side table and poured a glass of wine, Evangeline followed.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “What sort of concern?”

“You’re aware what happened in Kirkwall.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

Leliana gestured to the row of stately windows on the far side of the ballroom, through which the White Spire was clearly visible. It was one of the few structures besides the palace itself which could be seen from anywhere in the capital city, and at night it was lit by magic to make it appear a brilliant sliver of white cutting across the dark—the sword of the Maker, as the templars liked to call themselves. “The Circle of Magi in Kirkwall rebelled and plunged the city into war, and we’ve been feeling the effects across Thedas ever since. The templars now have two ways they can view it: either as a challenge to their authority . . . or as a lesson to be learned.”

“And what does that have to do with me? I don’t believe I’ve expressed an opinion one way or the other.”

“Haven’t you?” Leliana sipped from her glass, studying Evangeline over it with amusement twinkling in her eyes. “You say the nobility do nothing useful with their influence. Am I not to read from this that you feel the templars are different?”

Again with the hidden meaning. “Of course I do. We protect the world from the mages and the mages from themselves—not because they ask us to, or because the task is an easy one, but because it is the right thing to do.”

“That sounds like an opinion to me.”

“It is one I happen to share with the rest of my order.”

“If only that were so.” Leliana appeared somber for a moment, but then shrugged. “There are many who believe a war is inevitable, and that the Chantry has not done enough to support efforts the templars have made to prevent it. They say we must begin picking sides.”

“And you’re saying I was chosen to guard the Divine tonight because you believe I’ve picked a side?”

“I cannot say. That might be worth a discussion.”

Evangeline paused, taken aback. The red-haired woman continued to drink her wine, her innocent air making it appear as if they discussed nothing of importance.

Across the ballroom another templar entered into view. This was a young man, one of the junior members of the order, and the sheen of sweat on his face said he’d come here quickly. He spotted Evangeline with a look of immense relief and raced through the crowd toward her. “Ser Evangeline! Thank the Maker I found you!” He stopped short as he drew near, belatedly realizing he’d interrupted their conversation.

Leliana laughed lightly, not seeming the least bit offended. “There is no need to worry, young ser, though I hope you have a good reason for bringing your sword. There is only supposed to be the one, after all.” She tilted her head toward the blade that hung at Evangeline’s belt.

The young templar glanced down at his weapon, still in its sheath, and blushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think . . .”

“You have a purpose here?” Evangeline reminded him.

“I, uh . . . I do!” Relieved, he took a folded parchment from his tunic and handed it to her. “I was sent by the Knight-Commander. There’s been another murder at the White Spire.”

“There has?” A chill ran down Evangeline’s spine as she opened the parchment. It was a note summoning her back to the tower as soon as the Divine retired for the evening. It also mentioned the Lord Seeker had taken a personal interest in this latest murder. Reading between the lines, it was clear the Knight-Commander considered this an unwelcome development. “Tell him I will return as soon as I’m able.”

The templar nodded, but instead of leaving, he hesitated. He stared at Leliana, chewing his lip uncertainly, and she arched a curious eyebrow in response. “I’m sorry, madame, but I think I might have a message for you as well.”

“Oh? From the templars?”

“No, there was a servant outside looking for you. A red-haired priest with the Divine, he said. I was told there is an old friend asking to see you.”

“An old friend?” She appeared intrigued. “Did this servant say which one?”

“No, madame. He said this person came from Ferelden, if that helps.”

“It does.” She turned to Evangeline and curtsied. “It seems our conversation will have to continue another time, good ser. Maker watch over you until then.”

“And you.” Evangeline watched the woman leave with the young templar, and found her curiosity piqued even more than before. It was said that the Divine kept agents at her side, and that some of them were bards—master manipulators of the Game, sometimes spies and even assassins. If this woman was one, then their conversation had been a very dangerous one.

Evangeline casually glanced around the ballroom, wondering how many people had witnessed their discussion and remarked on it. Would word get back to the Knight-Commander? This was a difficult time for the templars. The rebellion in Kirkwall had sparked unrest in every Circle across Thedas, and the resulting crackdown had made things very tense. Everyone was jumping at shadows, with conspiracies seen in every corner. The White Spire was no exception.

Thankfully, no one appeared to be paying her any attention. The Divine was an ornament to these proceedings, as far as the Orlesian nobility was concerned, and Evangeline was a bodyguard to be paid no heed. She let out a slow breath and returned to her post in front of the dais. What she should be concerned about were the murders. Her investigation had gotten nowhere, and in the current climate that was an unforgivable failure. With any luck, there would be more evidence this time.

The ball was slowly winding down, the musicians already making their final bows and putting away their instruments. Some of the men were retiring to the palace’s “evening room,” which was a polite way of saying they were going to drink heavily and smoke kohl pipes and otherwise engage in activities their wives wouldn’t approve of. Conveniently, this left the women free to complain about their absent husbands and indulge in some matchmaking. Others were already making apologies—those would be the ones cutting their losses, getting out before they did further damage to their reputations—even if leaving before the guest of honor would be seen as an admission of weakness.

As if sensing the opportunity, the Divine stood from her chair. The priests beside her stepped forward on the dais and began clapping loudly to get the crowd’s attention. It was effective, and there was a general din of excited conversation as everyone assembled in anticipation of a speech. Evangeline moved aside so as not to block anyone’s view.

Nodding thanks to her attendants, the Divine raised her hands. She was an impressive figure in her ceremonial robes and headdress, and by rights the nobility should have been bowing low and thanking the Maker Himself for having been granted the opportunity to meet His chosen, rather than treating her like just another guest with a fancy title. Naturally those present were far too jaded, or too proud, to show such obeisance—but they were willing to feign respect, and after a long moment the room was completely silent.

“Honored citizens, brothers and sisters,” she began, her voice ringing out. “We gather here tonight to give our thanks to the Maker, for it is by His will that we enjoy so many privileges: prosperity, freedom, an empire that stretches across half of Thedas. It is in this city that the Chant of Light first began its journey to the four corners of the world, and so it is fitting we stop to consider our role as the Maker’s favored children.”

The Divine paused, and with an enigmatic smile she descended from the dais. Evangeline almost choked in surprise, and the barely concealed alarm on the faces of the priests still on the dais told her this was very much unexpected. In fact, it was unheard of.

Marveling whispers spread through the ballroom as Her Eminence approached those closest. Some backed away uncertainly, while others had the good grace to curtsy or kneel. The leaders of the Chantry had always been aloof figures, rarely coming out of the Grand Cathedral except for state occasions. That this one agreed to come to a ball, even at the Empress’s request, had been something of a surprise. There was thus no real precedent for the nobles to draw from for anything but a formal audience.

She took the hand of a curtsying elderly woman in an elegant bronze dress, and the woman practically shook as she lifted her mask and kissed the Divine’s rings. Smiling gently, the Divine walked forward into the crowd; they parted readily before her. They practically recoiled, in fact, and Evangeline pictured them as a sea of hissing serpents despite all the wigs and fancy dresses.

Belatedly, she remembered her purpose and edged closer to fall in behind the Divine. Her eyes scanned over the crowd, which kept its distance even as it pressed in. Despite the horror behind those masks, it was easy to tell their curiosity had been piqued. An advantage, perhaps, of having a younger woman wearing the holy mantle?

“We should not allow fear to cloud our reason,” the Divine continued. “We must remember all of those who have defended us in the evil times of ages past, who allowed us our prosperity through their sacrifice. We owe them a debt, and yet we have been shamefully forgetful of that fact.”

The Divine paused dramatically, her eyes scanning over the hushed audience. “I speak of mages. The Chant of Light says, ‘Magic exists to serve mankind, and not to rule over him.’ And so it has been. The mages have served us well, in many wars over many centuries, yet in times of peace how well have we served them? We mean them no harm, yet have we not harmed them even so?”

“You lie!” The cry rang out from the crowd. For a moment, it seemed as if nobody was sure who had spoken. There was a murmur of shock, and quickly the nobles parted once again as a new man stepped forward. He looked no different than many of the other noble guests, a balding yet distinguished-looking gentleman in a black velvet surcoat. When he tore off his mask, however, it revealed a face twisted by grief and rage.

“You mean us every harm! It’s the Chantry that teaches them to fear us!” he continued. “You keep us under your thumb, reminding us again and again how you let us live only because we’re useful!”

The people on the floor continued to back away, giving the man a wide berth until he stood practically alone with the Divine, Evangeline only a few steps behind. She placed a hand on the hilt of her sword. If this man was a mage as he claimed, that meant he was dangerous. If she drew her blade, or if the guards outside clued in to the disturbance, then the Divine’s life could be placed in jeopardy.

To her credit, the Divine remained calm, raising her hands in supplication to the crowd. “Please, everyone,” she called out. “There is no need to be frightened. There are better ways to get an audience, I’ll grant you, but I’ll happily hear this man speak.”

The audience twittered nervously, not entirely convinced. Neither was the mage. “You’ll hear me speak? You’ve disbanded the College of Enchanters, silenced our leaders! You’ve done anything but listen to us!”

“I am listening,” she replied, “but order must be kept; surely you realize that. If there is to be peace, it cannot be accomplished through threats and demands. The lives of many more than just the mages are at stake.”

Evangeline watched the mage carefully. The man shouldn’t be here. From his words, he belonged to a Circle—perhaps even the White Spire, though she didn’t recognize him—but he had clearly escaped his templar watchers to come. She doubted it was merely for a chat.

He was trembling, seemingly only moments away from breaking down into tears—yet his fists remained tightly clenched at his sides. “We see no peace being accomplished,” he spat. “If Kirkwall was any example, it showed us that nothing will be accomplished unless we fight for it.”

With that he raised his hands, and bright red power began to coalesce around them. The chamber filled with an electric charge that tickled the skin, a thrumming that reverberated deep in one’s skull. Magic. The dam that had kept the crowd’s panic at bay suddenly broke. People screamed in alarm, and some began to rush to the ballroom doors. They pushed down whoever was in their way, trampling them if need be, and the panic gave way to cries of terror.

Evangeline leapt in front of the Divine. In a flash she drew her sword and brandished it at the man. Their eyes locked: templar and mage, the oldest of enemies. “Stand down,” she warned him. “You know what I can do. There is no need for this to end in blood.”

He let out a sound that was half laugh, half desperate sob. “And where else should it end? I’m dead already.”

The mage extended his hands, a wide arc of flame bursting forth, but Evangeline was already moving. “Get back, Your Eminence!” she cried, hoping the Divine would hear. She charged into the path of the fire, feeling the heat of it lick against her cheeks, and brought her sword down onto his chest.

She had power of her own, the same power that all templars shared. It was a power the mages feared. As the blade struck him she channeled it forth, feeling it surge through her and into her weapon. There was a bright flash as the mage’s flow of mana was disrupted, his flames guttering to a halt.

“Bitch!” he cried, staggering back. There was blood where his surcoat was rent. He ran his fingers in it, staring at the blood as if shocked to see it there. Then he looked at Evangeline, his face twisting into blind hate.

She rushed at the mage, realizing what he was about to do, but it was too late. The blood on his hands sizzled and evaporated as he drew mana directly from it. The blood on his chest smoked, and his eyes burned with a dark and evil power.

Evangeline felt the wave of force hitting her before she reached him. She attempted to raise her aura of protection, but the magic shattered it as if it were thin glass. It knocked the breath out of her, and she felt herself flying back through the air. She crashed to the marble floor, tumbling end over end as she slid. Her head hit something hard.

She lie there, the world spinning dizzily around her as she tried to push herself up. Her arms didn’t seem to want to cooperate. The screams in the ballroom were deafening, seeming to come from everywhere at once. She could also hear the shouts of the guards trying to get inside, but there were too many nobles trying to push past them. Somewhere behind her the priests were shouting, begging the Divine to run.

Evangeline felt the blast of heat before the flames struck her. She only barely managed to summon her aura once again, and this time it held. Even so, it buckled under the assault, and the pain as the flames seared her skin was agonizing. She screamed. Her vision dimmed, and she felt the last vestiges of power inside her ebbing away.

It might have been a moment or an hour later when Evangeline reopened her eyes, she wasn’t sure. She was crouched low on the floor, her blistered hands covering her head. Her sword was gone. She must have dropped it in the fall. The air was filled with the acrid smell of smoke—something in the ballroom had caught fire, and it was quickly spreading. The panic had redoubled, reaching a fever pitch as the guests tried to get out in whatever manner they could. Someone threw a chair through one of the vaulted windows, and it shattered with a resounding crash.

Then she looked up. She saw a pair of black boots. They belonged to the mage, and he was walking toward the Divine. Her headdress had fallen off, but her red robes were unmistakable even through the haze. She had retreated to the far side of the ballroom, backed against the wall like a cornered animal. She watched the mage approach her warily, refusing to give in to terror as everyone else had.

Evangeline saw the mage hold up his fist, power forming around it. “They already fear us,” he snarled. “Now let them have a reason.”

With a great cry, Evangeline pushed herself up. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she lunged toward the mage and just barely caught his surcoat. As she yanked him back, he attempted to twist around. Flailing hands sent a gout of flame hurtling upward. For a single moment it seemed as if the entire ceiling was awash in ribbons of red and black, a sea of fire that roiled and bubbled as it spread.

She threw the mage down to the floor, hard. He snarled at her, attempting to push her away. One of his hands caught her face and she felt his fingers digging into an eye, but she refused to be dislodged.

Her gauntleted fist came down on his face—once, twice, three times . . . and then something made a cracking sound. She stopped. The ballroom was still aflame, but none of it was the mage’s any longer. He was still, his features twisted in a mess of blood, vacant eyes staring up at her in silent accusation.

And then everything went black.

When Evangeline came to, she found herself seated on the floor of the terrace just outside the ballroom. Normally it was where the palace’s guests might have come to take in the evening air, a place of tranquility, but at the moment it was pure chaos. Swarms of people milled about, some weeping on the ground, some shouting. A noblewoman in a tattered dress wandered nearby, close to hysterics as she called out a man’s name. A fat nobleman sat on the ground nearby, his expensive surcoat blackened with blood as a guardsman tried to tend his wounds. In the distance she could spot the city guard running into and out of the palace, desperate to restore order.

How long had she been out here? Was the Divine safe? It was all too much to take in, the confusion flowing around her in a sea of random voices. She tried to get to her feet, but the pain slammed into her like a fist. Gritting her teeth, she eased back down and tried to maintain consciousness.

Smoke billowed out from the palace windows, and only now the fire brigade arrived with buckets in hand. With any luck they would get the flames under control before half the palace burned down. If that happened, the Empress might be less than impressed when she returned from Halamshiral.

That was, Evangeline reminded herself, if the Empress wasn’t somehow involved in the attack. Her absence the very night a mage slips into the palace to attack the Divine seemed more than coincidental. If that were the case, there was little the templars could do about it. If it wasn’t, someone would pay.

She was wracked by a spasm of coughing, and her vision blurred. “Are you all right, Knight-Captain?” someone asked her.

It took several blinks before she recognized Leliana, the red-haired woman she’d spoken to earlier. She knelt down next to Evangeline, a look of sincere concern on her face. “What?” Evangeline responded dumbly, feeling as if a fog seeped through her mind. She rubbed her forehead, and only belatedly noticed the blisters on her hands were gone. Her skin was whole.

Leliana smiled, reassured. “There are mages here now. I had one of them heal you, but there will still be pain. You inhaled a great deal of smoke, I think. I was worried . . .”

“I’m fine. Thank you.” Evangeline shook her head. The shouts around her were much clearer now, like the world was coming into focus. “The Divine . . . she wasn’t hurt, was she? Did she get out?”

“She did. She’s been taken to safety.” Evangeline breathed a sigh of relief. One less thing to worry about, then. “I want to thank you,” Leliana said. “I should have been here. If something had happened to Justinia while I was away, I would never have forgiven myself.”

“I understand.”

“Her Eminence is extremely grateful as well, I want you to know that. If there is ever anything you need . . .”

Evangeline nodded, but couldn’t bring herself to do more. Satisfied, Leliana squeezed her shoulder and then left. Already more templars were arriving. Order was being restored. Taking a deep breath, she got to her feet and straightened her armor. Despite the healing magic, it still felt as if her bones were covered in bruises and her lungs filled with soot.

Magic can’t do everything, she reminded herself.