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Contents 3 страница

That was before the whole of Orlais had become her responsibility.

Now, she read reports and studied documents by glowlamps until her head throbbed and it was too late to drink more tea, then threw herself into bed and squeezed her eyes shut, willing her mind to stop darting from problem to problem like a small dog chasing rats in the wine cellar. She woke well before dawn, her heart hammering from whatever worry had drawn her from sleep, and fenced with her fears until she found an idea worth getting up to write down.

The only time her mind gave her respite was when Briala slept beside her.

Her elven lover made soft sleeping sounds, and Celene stroked her hair absently. The black curls lightened to gray with the pre-dawn light, then slid to the light brown of cinnamon as the sun brought color to the room.

Dirt-brown, Celene had called it, when Briala had waited upon her as a girl. Horse-dung brown, an ugly shadow of Celene’s spun-gold locks. Back when they had both been children, before Celene had known the value of having a friend who could be trusted, who wasn’t a competitor in the Game.

She watched Briala’s throat, where her pulse fluttered. Her skin was darker than Celene’s, though she spent most of her days inside and showed no tan lines at the bare skin around her eyes. Briala tried to ignore it, but Celene knew that she was quietly ashamed of it. Not the ears that gave her away as elven even beneath the mask, not the lovely liquid eyes, but her sun-touched skin, dotted with a spray of pretty freckles.

Celene trailed a finger down Briala’s bare arm, smiling as the elven woman came awake.

“You might have told me you couldn’t sleep,” Briala said.

“You earned a rest,” Celene said with a smile, and kissed her cheek.

“How was the rest of the ball?” Briala asked, stretching as she rose. She slid out of bed and went to a small closet where Celene’s enchanted teapot had been filled last night.

Celene smiled. “I believe you caught the most exciting parts.” She fumbled for her robe, then caught it as Briala slid it over with her free hand even while mixing the tea. “Bann Teagan sent a letter with his sincere gratitude, and he says that he is now returning to Ferelden before he can stumble into any more trouble. Marquis de Montsimmard wishes for funds to hire mercenaries to assist the templars in tracking apostates who flee the Circle, a problem that has grown only worse since the disaster at Kirkwall. And of course, Comte Chantral of Velun continues to believe Lake Celestine to be such an unimaginable paradise that the Empress of Orlais should wish to marry it.”

Briala laughed. Chantral had been polite, earnest, and clumsy for years now. “Anyone else?” She poured the tea and passed Celene a cup and saucer.

Celene took her first sip of the morning, and the tiny bit of tension at the back of her skull eased at the hot spice. She smiled, inhaled the scent, and put the cup down to pull her robe over her shoulders. “Thank you.”

Briala shook her head and smiled. “It is but enlightened self-interest, Majesty. I have seen you without your morning tea.”

Celene sniffed indignantly, then picked up her cup and saucer and took another wonderful sip. “There is news from Lydes,” she said after a moment, finally answering Briala’s question.

“Duke Remache?” Briala stopped looking through the gowns in the armoire, turning to Celene with wide eyes.

“Not long before you and Ser Michel destroyed dear Gaspard, Remache declared the grand duke to be an oaf, uncultured and boorish. He said that Gaspard would not be invited to the winter hunt in Lydes this year, and that if I found his suit agreeable, that Gaspard would not be hunting in Val Firmin, either.”

Briala was planning Celene’s dress for the day as she listened, picking out jewelry and accessories that would complement Celene’s scheduled activities. “That is a much more generous offer than earlier. If Remache can pull those lords and ladies with him, Gaspard will have no one left to listen to his calls for war with Ferelden.”

“But to lose my midnight visits from you?” Celene asked with a smile. “I think that price too high.”

Briala’s lips twitched in a smirk. “You would hardly be the first ruler to receive the occasional midnight visit from someone other than your lord husband.” But her eyes didn’t meet Celene’s as she said it. “And if marrying into Ferelden is no longer an option…”

“I fear it is not.” Celene had once, in her younger years, hoped to do through marriage what Meghren and his apocryphal mabari had failed to do by force. With the strength of Ferelden behind it willingly, the Orlesian Empire would have had the power to drive back Nevarran aggression and even give Tevinter pause.

Unfortunately, King Cailan had already been married at the time. Given how much blood had been shed to put a new king on Ferelden’s throne—and how much Ferelden still had to rebuild after the most recent Blight—any perceived manipulation from Orlais would be taken as another attack.

She could have married another Fereldan noble, of course, but that would have caused the opposite problem. The more warlike nobles, like Gaspard, would clutch at their swords even if Celene married a Fereldan king, indignant that the empress of the world’s greatest nation had lowered herself to marry the king of the dog-lords instead of one of them. If she married anything less, too many more would agree with them.

And in her heart, Celene honestly would as well.

“It is worth considering,” Briala said, interrupting Celene’s thoughts. Celene glanced over to see that Briala was refilling her teacup, her eyes still downcast.

“It is not.” Celene took the elven woman by the shoulder and gently tilted up Briala’s chin until those beautiful eyes met hers. “If I tie myself to some lord, it will be for more than good hunting grounds on the Deauvin Flats.” Perhaps it was selfish. Perhaps it was a mistake in the Game, even. But Celene had lost enough of her own life to the Empire of Orlais already … as had Briala.

Briala’s gaze softened. “Majesty.”

“Now tell me what to expect from the minister of trade this morning.”

“He’ll be asking you to approve an alteration to trade taxation laws throughout the Dales.” Briala turned Celene around as she spoke, peeling her robe away. “Revenue has been poor in the area, and he’ll suggest a small tax increase per wagon.”

“But?” Celene sighed as Briala’s fingers went to work on her back, kneading away the tension already present in anticipation of a day laced into a tight corset.

“He’s attacking the elven merchants.” Briala’s nimble fingers worked their way across Celene’s shoulders and then down her spine, and Celene leaned back a little into her lover’s hands. “Well, any of the less wealthy merchants, really. They use caravans of smaller wagons, while the merchants with noble backing use larger ones. A tax increase per wagon will hardly affect the nobles at all, but it could break many of the poorer merchants.”

“What about an increase in the tax per stone of cargo?” Celene asked. “Factor in the weights of different goods, and it should affect the nobles and the commoners more evenly.”

“I would have to check the numbers, but that might also bring in more coin for the throne,” Briala said, still working on Celene’s back.

“Thank you.” Celene looked to the window. The sun had crested the horizon, and the room was bright with daylight. Reluctantly, she pulled her robe back up and stepped away from Briala’s calming fingers. “I would like you to find out how Gaspard fares today. If the captain of the guards has no further information, we may have to hook the bard.”

“She has not formally left Gaspard’s employ,” Briala said. “My people lost track of her. I have them searching, but an Orlesian bard can be difficult to find when she wants to be.”

Celene smiled. “Always. The sapphire hairpin, do you think, or the Antivan diamond-lace?”

Briala frowned and held both up for a moment, looking at Celene critically. “The sapphire suits you better, but to meet the merchants … Antivan diamonds are a reminder of our trade.”

Celene had been thinking the same thing. “Then we sacrifice my fashion upon the altar of appropriate symbolism.”

Briala stepped in, smiling, and kissed her gently. “You are a martyr, Your Radiance.”

Then she plucked her mask from the dresser, moved to the mirror that hid the passageway to her room, and was gone.

Celene lifted her teacup to her lips and inhaled deeply. When she had finished her second cup, she would ring for her servants, and Briala and others would come to dress her, style her hair, and apply the day’s makeup.

None but Briala would ever know about that first cup of tea, or a few stolen moments with the woman who let her sleep at night.

* * *

Gaspard acknowledged Comte Chantral of Velun’s bow and waved the man to a seat. The Marquis de Montsimmard was already there, sipping his brandy.

They were in the smoking room in the home Gaspard kept in Val Royeaux. The burgundy walls and rich ironwood tables were decorated with trophies won from the hunt or from battle. In one corner, a snarling werewolf’s head was mounted next to a massive darkspawn greatsword, and on a table before them, a rose carved from a single massive chunk of amber sat in a decorative crystal vase, marking a tournament Gaspard had won in his younger days.

Gaspard waved to the servant who had shown Chantral in, and the servant scurried away, closing the door behind him.

“Fancy a glass?” Gaspard said, and Chantral winced, making the absurd strings of black pearls on his mask rattle sympathetically.

“I fear that if I spend too long in my cups, I will end up spending little time in my saddle.” Chantral, like Gaspard and Montsimmard, wore riding leathers rather than normal finery. The empress had invited the nobles of Val Royeaux to go hunting later in the day.

“What’s this?” Montsimmard asked, laughing. He was a big man, quite a soldier in his youth, though he’d gone to fat after a bad break in a grand melee had left his sword arm permanently weakened and forced him to hang up his blade. Nevertheless, a tall yellow feather rode atop his glowing lyrium mask, marking him as a chevalier. “Cannot hold your brandy, Chantral? What is there to do in Velun besides drink?”

Chantral stiffened, and Gaspard raised a hand. “Peace, men. Montsimmard, don’t be an ass.” Montsimmard chuckled, raised a glass, and drank deeply. “So, Chantral. What did you think of last night’s performance?”

Chantral lowered himself into a great overstuffed chair, his idiotic pearls rattling again. “I found it troubling, my lord.” He nodded at Gaspard. “I see you recovered your feather.”

“Oh, we have dozens of the things,” Montsimmard said, chuckling. “They’re always getting torn or dirty, and that’s just from balls. During tournament season, you’re damned lucky not to need one after every bout.”

“But,” Gaspard said, gesturing at the new feather on his own mask, “the heart of the matter remains. Rather than answer a demand for satisfaction with an honorable duel, Celene chose to curtsy to Ferelden.”

“Using the mark of the chevaliers as a toy,” Montsimmard said, and there was no mirth on his face now. “She may as well play toss-the-hoop with the imperial crown.”

“I am no chevalier, as you well know,” Chantral said, which Gaspard frankly took as something of an understatement. The stiff and slender Comte of Velun had likely never even shed blood in battle. Still, his heart was in the right place, as he added, “But I too love Orlais. My father died fighting in Ferelden. I would not see his sacrifice turned into a moment’s amusement for the empress.”

“You are not alone.” Gaspard gave Chantral the smile he used in tournaments, the one that made opponents wonder what he knew that they didn’t. “There are many like us, men who are willing to save Orlais from the woman who would give it to our enemies with a kiss and a wave.”

Chantral froze. “You speak of treason, my lord.”

“I speak of the good of our empire, Chantral.” Gaspard stifled a sigh. The man had clearly known the purpose of the meeting, but like a fainting noble’s daughter, he needed to be teased into it. “Celene has ruled for twenty years, yet refuses to marry, even when this empire desperately needs strength and stability. She flirts with Ferelden and toys with you, even as our mages and templars look at what’s happening in the damned Free Marches and get dangerous ideas. She does nothing.” He finished his own brandy with a large gulp, letting out a breath as it burned its way down his throat. “And with that deadly inaction, she has committed treason.”

There was a long moment of silence. Montsimmard gave Gaspard a quick glance, and Gaspard shook his head slightly. It had been a calculated risk. Even if Chantral refused to join them, he could likely as not be made to stay silent with some gentle pressure. And as a chevalier, Gaspard would never be so thuggish as to kill the man in the middle of the smoking room.

“I think,” Chantral said, “that I will have that drink after all.”

“Good man.” Montsimmard poured another glass and passed it over, and Chantral took it with trembling fingers.

Gaspard smiled. Celene probably thought that she had won last night’s encounter, and perhaps, in the minds of court fops and dandies, she had. But those weren’t the men Orlais needed in the coming fight.

“I plan to approach her on the hunt today,” Gaspard said, “and offer her my hand. Perhaps she will see reason at last, and all of this will just be idle conversation among men over brandy.”

“It will be difficult to make your case in front of the assembled peers,” Montsimmard said, pouring himself another glass from the decanter, “much less her damned champion.”

“I can find some way to speak with her privately,” Gaspard said, chuckling, “and as for the champion, I believe he may be indisposed this afternoon.”

* * *

It had been years since Ser Michel had felt the shiver of dread, but it came to him when he saw the note lying on the bed in his chambers. It was a sudden pulsing awareness, a tightness on the skin across his face that made his teeth ache in their sockets.

Ser Michel de Chevin, read the folded note. The hand was fine and neat for the first two words, but on “de Chevin,” the lines were slanted and scratched. A normal reader might think that the sender’s hand had slipped, or that their pen had broken.

Michel opened the letter. It held a time and a place, nothing more, and no signature.

As Celene’s champion, Michel knew her daily schedule by heart. This morning, she was meeting with the trade ministers, a normal function he would not be expected to attend. In the afternoon, however, she would be hunting with the nobles still in Val Royeaux after last night’s ball. He would need to be at her side for that, both for the sake of appearance and for the practical knowledge that many titles changed hands during “hunting accidents.” If he kept the meeting short, one way or another, Michel believed he could be back in time.

The empress’s champion was a figure who walked the periphery of the court. Though the name “de Chevin” showed that he came from noble blood, he was expected to eschew all personal ambitions, to have no loyalty save to the empress and the honor of the chevaliers. Though he was sworn to defend Celene from assassins and fight on her behalf in any challenge, he was as much confidante as guard, privy to a thousand secrets and expected to be her eyes and ears when she was not present. In any fight, in any public setting, he was the living embodiment of the empress herself, in just the same way that Grand Duke Gaspard, standing in Tevinter or Ferelden, would be a living embodiment of the might of Orlais.

Not, Michel admitted as he dressed himself, that Gaspard would appreciate the comparison at the moment.

He dressed in riding clothes. The jacket was reinforced with patches of steel along the sleeve, as were the breeches on the outside of the legs. While it didn’t offer the protection of his full armor, it let him move and gave him a few options in a fight. Today, his armor wasn’t an option. Today, he was the living embodiment of nothing and nobody.

He wore his mask until he was outside the palace, having left undetected through a servant’s door, and then slipped it into a pocket inside his jacket. Walking through Val Royeaux without his mask, he was just another man. He could have been the son of a merchant, or a soldier on leave.

Though he did not hurry, agitation kept his pace naturally quick. Soon, he was leaving the wealthy district near the palace. Off to his left, he saw a line of green beneath a tower. A few minutes later, it was a park, situated on a low hill that left it visible from most of the city. At the top of the hill, the tower was revealed to be the center of a small fortress: the Academie des Chevaliers.

The Academie was accessible by a narrow path that led through the park. By ancient tradition, only chevaliers were allowed to walk on the lawn, along with students who were using the park for exercises.

Michel saw such a group now, a dozen young men—and one or two women—in bulky training armor, climbing up the trees. Grunting with exertion, they pulled themselves up to the highest branches, grabbed a bright bolt of cloth, and then climbed back down as a master yelled at them to hurry up. As soon as their feet touched the ground, a weighted training sword and shield were shoved into their arms, and the instructors would attack with padded staffs. Michel remembered his lungs burning, his exhausted arms flapping like branches in the wind as he tried to keep his shield up. When the drill was complete, the instructors grabbed the bolts of cloth and flung them back into the trees, and it all started again. Michel stifled a grin as one student slipped and tumbled to the ground. By the look on the instructor’s face, the boy would be doing extra drills tomorrow.

The years he had spent in the Academie had been the best in his life. He had entered with nothing except a letter of introduction from Comte Guy de Montfort confirming his blood and a purse full of gold to pay his tuition. He had exercised from dawn until dusk, learning how to stand, how to breathe, how to make his body move when the muscles would no longer listen. He had learned the forms for the greatsword, the sword and shield, a long blade matched with a short. He had learned how to make a trained warhorse move as though its legs were his own, and how to fight from an untrained horse without getting himself killed. He had fought in plate, in chain, and in leather, learning how to instinctively use each type of armor to his advantage.

And he had learned the proud history of the chevaliers. He had learned to hold duty and valor in battle above his own life. He had learned to lift his shield to block a blow meant for a comrade, to accept his own death as the inevitable outcome of a life lived in pursuit of honor.

When the trials at the Academie were done, he and the other senior students were taken out into the city. They were taken away from the palace, from the history books, from the tales of glory. They were driven in coaches into the slums after dark.

Your bodies have been tested, and found strong, the masters had said. Your minds have been tested, and found sharp. The masters had passed around a skin of strongwine, pushed the students out of the coaches, and said, now, test your blades. Thrice this year, the elves of these streets have done injury to a lord of Orlais, and once to a lady. Go forth and mete out the justice of the chevaliers of Orlais.

Michel had known that the tale the masters had told was most likely a lie, and that even if it were true, they had no way of knowing which elves had committed the crime. He had also known that the truth was not the point of this last test. He had drunk the wine, and tested his blade.

Ser Michel de Chevin had never looked back.

He turned away from the Academie des Chevaliers and walked into the slums.

A short time later, he walked into the tavern indicated on the note. It was a seedy hole, and this early in the day the men inside were drunks and thieves with nowhere else to go.

Melcendre, the dark-haired bard from the banquet last night, sat alone at a flimsy old table. She wore leathers today instead of a dress, and knives rode at her hip instead of a lute. She smiled as he came inside.

“Ser Michel,” she said, her smoked-honey voice full of amusement. “You honor this humble tavern with your patronage.”

He sat. “Why am I here?”

“Perhaps I wanted you to remember your childhood,” she said with a sweet smile. Michel’s fingers gripped the table until the old wood creaked. “Ah, no sense of humor among the chevaliers. I have had to learn and relearn that lesson each time I have dealt with them. The perils of making a living by your wits, you understand. And now that I think upon it,” she added, “I wonder if they would laugh when they discovered that there is some doubt about the blood of the young nobleman they trained. Do you think they would laugh, Ser Michel?”

“Do you think you are the first to seek to embarrass me for being a distant cousin to the Chevins, for coming from a dead line?” Michel glared as the bard raised a finely plucked eyebrow and kept his voice stern and confident. “To question my birth is to question my honor, singer. After the embarrassment of a formal inquiry, I will be vindicated, while you will most certainly be dead for this insult.”

Melcendre said nothing.

It had been worth a try. Michel softened his voice. “Still, it would be an embarrassment, and I have little interest in your death. What is it that you wish? I don’t imagine you would have called me here unless I had something you wanted.”

The bard chuckled and snapped her fingers. Behind Michel, every man in the tavern drew a blade.

“Ser Michel, you have already delivered it.”

Michel listened to the metallic hiss of blades coming out of scabbards behind him.

“Six?” he asked the bard.

She smirked. “Seven, but who’s counting?”

Michel spun, kicked the chair at the men behind him, and moved.

His blade—not his formal blade, but a red steel longsword that was good enough to use but simple enough to avoid attention—slid out of its sheath and into the first man’s throat in a flawless execution of Duelist Catches an Apple.

None of the men had even moved yet, and as the shocked cry went up, Michel shouldered the dying man into one of his comrades, then stabbed through him and into the other man with a perfectly aimed thrust he’d learned from Second Shield. Both men fell as Michel yanked his blade free.

Seven was now five. Melcendre had drawn a dagger, but kept well back from the melee.

The rest were moving now, swinging at him, and Michel dove into their midst. He batted down most of the strikes on the right with a great sweeping blow, took one on the reinforced forearm of his jacket on the left, and broke through the circle where they’d tried to pin him.

No second blade, so much of Bear Mauls the Wolves didn’t apply. He kicked his fallen chair to the left to slow the men down, then moved right, holding his longsword with both hands as he swung low at the nearest enemy’s knees. The man in front of him moved to block his strike, and Michel used his two-handed grip to reverse direction and stab up, catching the man with a shallow but ugly cut across the face.

Four. Melcendre had a table between her and Michel, looking at him nervously.

Michel swung back to his left, knocking aside a blow he’d only heard, and stepped in to smash his pommel into his enemy’s face. He was too close to stab the man, but he stabbed past him, another nasty maneuver from Second Shield, and caught the man behind him by surprise in the knee. With a roar, Michel lunged forward and drove both men backward. They hit a table and fell, and Michel stepped back and stabbed once, twice, ending them.

Three and two. From the corner of his vision, he saw Melcendre break for the door.

He wasn’t fast enough as he turned, and hot pain slashed across his side as the man behind him connected. He grimaced, batted aside the second strike, chopped down across the man’s wrists, then slashed up and across his throat.

One left. The bard herself.

Michel dashed across the room and out the door, frantically trying to find her before she lost herself in the market crowd outside.

He saw motion in the corner of his eye, something thrown, and turned and slashed.

It was a thin cloth pouch, and it burst at his strike, sending a cloud of green dust into his face.

He stumbled back, coughing and choking as pain seared his eyes and throat. Blinded, unable to breathe, Michel wanted nothing more than to curl up on the ground, but years of training kept him on his feet, blade up and instinctively moving into a defensive spin.

It did him no good. Something blunt slammed into his head from behind.

He hit the ground, his last waking thought that his masters would have been disgusted with him for forgetting that he should have made the bard his first kill.

* * *

Celene was greatly displeased to find her champion missing when it came time for the afternoon’s hunting expedition in the gently tamed woods outside Val Royeaux. After last night’s victory, it was vital to keep momentum going, to keep Gaspard back on his heels for the few weeks it would take Divine Justinia to prepare herself and commit the Chantry to direct action in the growing hostility between the templars and the mages. The hunting trip would give her a chance to gauge the nobles who were undecided and point them in the right direction, and show the nobles allied with Gaspard that moving against her would have consequences.

Ser Michel was nothing if not punctual and responsible. He had left no message. It was clear that his absence was not intentional, then.

Celene dispatched Briala to find him. Then, because canceling the hunt would be an act of weakness, she called for her shining white mare, adjusted her riding skirts, and went off to battle.

The lords, and those ladies who rode, numbered perhaps a dozen, plus their servants, Celene’s guards (enough to protect her even without her champion present), and the huntsmen who handled the minutiae that the nobles did not care to attend to themselves. As they rode into the woods—carefully sculpted woods, enough to offer fine hunting, but not enough to pose a real threat to an inexperienced rider—there was noise all around Celene. Gruff orders from the servants to their underlings, banter and laughter amongst the nobles, the occasional barking of the hunting dogs. The nobles wore riding gowns or leathers, all of it accented with silver and gold and ribbons that complemented their riding masks. The servants trailed behind, always ready to rush up with a goblet of watered wine or a skewer of meat, cheese, and wine-soaked fruit for a rider more interested in eating than hunting.

Celene rode in icy silence, a polite smile frozen upon her face. In her agitation while ordering the search for Michel, she had neglected to take tea before she had left, and her nerves felt simultaneously raw and clouded at the lack.

Beside her, Grand Duke Gaspard rode in the place normally taken by Ser Michel.

“You did not bring a bow, Gaspard?” Marquis de Montsimmard called, bringing his stallion up close.

Gaspard looked back. “I did not,” he said. “I would not wish to frighten any of noble birth with the sight of blood.”

“Then what will you drink, cousin?” Celene asked without looking over. Gaspard chuckled.

“You cannot expect to bring down anything without a bow,” Lord Chantral called over. He was flushed and awkward in the saddle.

“If need be,” Gaspard said, still smiling, “I shall use a feather.”

The nobles went silent.

“Not your strongest weapon,” Celene observed, “given how easily you were disarmed last night.”

The nobles laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, not the rich reaction of a crowd on her side. Had she misjudged last night’s victory?

Then, up ahead, the dogs bayed in pursuit. Celene turned to the group. “Let us be off!” With a nod to her guards, she spurred her mount and rode off into the woods.

The other nobles were surprised—Celene’s hunts were usually a more relaxed affair, with the nobles riding as a group to find whatever poor animal had been treed or cornered by the hounds and then finishing the beast off with bows or blades. The exchange with Gaspard had shaken her, though, and she needed the disruption to gather herself for the next exchange. Her horse pounded through the woods, quickly losing the others as each noble found a different route through the trees, trying to reach the quarry first.

Then the clop of hooves behind her proved her wrong. It was a heavy horse with an experienced rider, and rather than appear to flee, Celene slowed her mare to a trot. Gaspard pulled abreast of her a moment later. “Your Imperial Majesty.”

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