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Contents 10 страница

“My lord,” Pierre said sadly, and shut his eyes and nodded.

“Yes, I am,” Gaspard said, and stood up.

He left the prison tent and walked to the great pavilion where his men were speaking with Remache. “Jader,” he said as he walked in.

Remache shot him a surprised look. “Pierre gave up Celene’s location?”

“All in how you ask, Remache.” Gaspard nodded to his men, who were already marking off spots on the road to Jader. “Seryl is Celene’s. Assuming we didn’t get every damned bird that left the city…”

“We did not, my lord,” said Ser Beaulieu.

Gaspard smiled. “Ah, well. One can always hope. Seryl will be ready, and given that her city is built to hold off half the dog-lords of Ferelden if need be, that’s going to be an ugly fight.”

“Blockade, my lord?” asked Ser Laguerre.

Gaspard nodded. “Across the Imperial Highway and through the trees … here.” He pointed at a likely chokepoint. “I want to be able to walk from the Waking Sea to the Frostbacks on their shoulders.”

Ser Beaulieu grinned. “Might be hard to catch the empress with you on our shoulders, my lord.”

“Maybe Remache, then,” Gaspard said, gesturing at the lord. “He’s lighter. Same goes for the west, as well. If she was smart enough to lie to our man Pierre, she could be running for Val Royeaux already.”

Remache smiled thinly. “We block Celene from Lady Seryl to the east, and we hold Halamshiral, as well as Lydes. She is trapped.”

Gaspard grimaced. “She didn’t rule this empire for twenty years just by throwing balls and banquets,” he said, remembering what his cousin had said on that hunting ride a few weeks back.

“She’s trapped once she stands before me in chains.”

Briala kicked on the panel separating her compartment from the front seat of the prison coach.

It took a while, but eventually the guard slid the panel back. “What the hell do you … Maker’s breath!”

The arrow was lodged in Briala’s armor. “Came through the bars … late in the battle. Tell Gaspard I’ll talk. Just need … water…” she said, coughing through the words. As the guard gaped at her, she coughed again and fell back.

She’d had nothing to use for blood, but her dark armor would have made it difficult to see anyway, and she was hoping that the guard was too tired after the day’s battle to notice.

Moments later, she heard the jangle of keys on the prison coach’s door, and the guard rushed inside.

She looked up, swung the shackles, and caught him across the face. As he stumbled back, she sat up and drove the arrow up under his chin into his throat.

He stopped shaking a moment later, and Briala stepped outside.

The horses were gone, and she’d killed the only guard. The wagon was inside the perimeter of Gaspard’s forces, and his command pavilion was over to the left. The fastest path out of Gaspard’s army was to the right. She turned and climbed up to the driver’s seat, and was relieved to find her dagger, bow, and arrows in a storage locker.

Nobody was yet looking at her.

The important thing about growing up elven was learning how not to attract attention. It had mattered less in Celene’s house than in the alienages, but her mother had still made sure that Briala was only noticed when she wanted to be.

Humans were hunters, but they were also farmers. When the deer ran, the humans had to chase it. When the scared rabbit froze, the humans had to loose an arrow. That was their way—proving their mastery, their skill.

But few humans tracked the movements of their cattle. The idle, complacent sheep walking from one tuft of grass to the next wasn’t a target the humans felt compared to master.

It was time for Briala to be a nice, lazy sheep and walk out of Gaspard’s army in broad daylight.

The dead guard’s thin wool cloak lay on the seat where he’d taken it off once the day’s heat and his chainmail shirt had left him sweating. She pulled it around herself, hiding the fine drakeskin armor, and brought the hood up to hide her ears.

She tucked her bow up under her arm and looked around the coach until she saw a bucket. It was old and stained, likely used for something she didn’t want to think about, but at the moment, it was worth more to her than gold.

An elf in fine armor with an ironbark bow would be spotted in moments.

But as she hefted the bucket, hopped down from the coach, and headed toward the perimeter at a slow, lazy shuffle, she was just another servant taking too long to fetch water for her master, her thin cloak pulled up for warmth against the autumn chill.

She passed a row of tents where most of Gaspard’s soldiers were resting, roasting food over cookfires. They’d taken off their armor, and their undershirts were stained with rust and sometimes blood. Other servants hurried to and fro, with bandages and food and everything else an army needed to stay alive and moving. A few were elven, and they shot her surprised looks, but none of them stopped her.

She was tempted by the line of horses, with only a token guard and a few serving boys and farriers to get past, but she kept walking. Servants with buckets didn’t ride horses.

Still no alarm sounded, and Briala walked, slowly, casually, pausing to shift the bucket to her other hand when the perimeter guards ahead met a scout. She tried to ignore the sweat trailing down her neck.

The scout finished talking to the perimeter guard and headed for the command tent. Briala started moving again.

She moved a moment too soon.

The guard didn’t notice, looking out for threats in the other direction, but the scout, trained to see everything, glanced her way. Just a glance, but it was the end of her walk with the bucket.

The guard wore chainmail and had both a crossbow and a short blade for close work. Briala saw a waterskin at his waist, new enough to be shiny, and also saw that his blade was belted too high for an easy draw. A novice, then.

The scout was more dangerous. He carried a longbow, which meant that he was trained, and a pair of woodsman’s hatchets. By his bow-legged gait, he was tired from riding all morning, but he was still alert enough to have noticed something about her. It could have been a glint from her armor, or the shape of her bow beneath the cloak, or even just something in her walk that drew his attention.

Briala kept walking. So did the scout, heading toward the command tent off to Briala’s right and behind her.

As soon as he was out of her line of sight, she heard his pace change. He was good enough that it wasn’t obvious, but fatigue made a scout’s instincts kick in, and his footsteps were suddenly quieter. He was circling, coming back toward her.

Without lifting her head, Briala angled slightly to the right. It wasn’t enough for her to see him, but even as he started to close, she put herself cleanly between him and the perimeter guard.

She needed five steps.

“Hey, you, girl,” came the call from behind her. Casual, as though he was about to ask for a sip of water.

Four. Three. She tightened her grip on the bucket.

“Hey!” the scout barked, and now there was no hiding it. Any servant would have stopped and turned around. The perimeter guard shuffled.

Two. One.

“Guards!” the scout yelled, and she heard the creak of leather and wood as he lifted his longbow.

The perimeter guard turned and saw her just a few feet away. His eyes widened as he took in the armor, and he jerked the crossbow up.

Briala threw the bucket at him and rolled as he fired.

The bolt split through the cheap wood, sending splinters flying into the guard’s face, and she heard it hiss past her ear, close enough to rip the hood of the cloak.

The scout had been behind her. He had enough training to see the crossbow come up, and Briala heard him dive to the ground even as she did. The bolt hit nothing but the bucket.

But the scout was also tired from riding, and it took him one critical moment for his tired legs to coil beneath him and kick him back to his feet.

By then, Briala was already back on her feet, her bow drawn and leveled, and by the time he saw her, her arrow was in his heart.

She turned to see the perimeter guard fumbling for his sword. She stepped in, drew her dagger, and had it across his throat before his blade cleared its scabbard.

Briala started walking again. She got five steps before the shouts sounded behind her, and then she broke into a run.

It was fifty yards to the trees. Heart pounding, Briala ran without looking back. A bolt thudded into the turf in front of her. Another hit her back—a glancing shot, deflected by her drakeskin, but still enough to make her stumble. She’d have a bruise tomorrow.

She reached the trees and kept running. Low-hanging branches, fiery with red and gold in the autumn, slapped her face and tore at her cloak. A crushing pain drove the breath from her lungs as another bolt caught her on the shoulder, and she staggered, tripped on a spidery root, and slammed into the ground with an impact that sprayed brown leaves.

Briala heard hoof beats.

She’d been trusting that the trees would keep her safe, that the guards wouldn’t come into the forest after a single running elf. Judging by the shouts, she had been wrong.

She scrambled to her feet, peering back through the branches, to see at least a score of men charging toward her, plus several more on horseback. The horses wouldn’t help them as much in the trees, at least if she kept to the thickest parts of the forest, but trying to lose so many …

She raised her bow. There was no way she could outrun them, and if the fight was coming, it was best to let it come on her terms.

As she drew back her bow, the ground beneath her heaved.

She thought for a moment she’d been shot again, and she dropped to her knees as the whole world around her lurched, the ground bucking and heaving like water in a birdbath after a rock was tossed in.

Trees swayed and danced, and leaves hissed and rustled as they shook free. The riot of red and gold filled the air before Briala, and she could see nothing of the men out on the open field. She could hear the screams and shouts of horses and men, though. She held still and let the ground twist and shake beneath her, gritting her teeth to stop them from rattling.

When the leaves cleared, Briala saw the field again. Most of the men were on their knees. Some of the horses were riderless, and one had fallen and wasn’t moving. The men had their swords drawn and turned wildly from side to side, looking for an enemy to face as the earth itself turned against them.

“Aneth ara, da’len,” Felassan said, and Briala jumped to her feet. She would have sworn that she had been alone, but now her mentor stood at her side, his cloak clean as always, his staff raised toward the men in the field. “So glad you could make it.”

“You were waiting?” Briala asked, and her mentor smiled.

“I wasn’t going to go in there,” he said, shuddering. “That’s an army! But I suspected you had matters well in hand … or possibly well in bucket.”

His staff flared a brilliant green, and overhead, the hazy afternoon sky fell into darkness. Lightning split the air, a blue-white bolt that dazzled Briala to blindness even as the crashing thunder made her guts tremble. The horses screamed as another bolt crashed down upon the field, and then more, until Briala lost count.

“All right, I’m ready to leave whenever you are,” Felassan said with a tired smile. Squinting through the lightning-lit darkness, Briala saw scorch marks on the field and unmoving, charred bodies.

“I believe so, yes,” Briala said, and followed her mentor deeper into the woods.

* * *

Celene and Ser Michel encountered the first group just a few hours after escaping Gaspard’s ambush.

They had ridden north from the battle into woods that were light enough that they could still ride but thick enough to hide them from view at a distance. Michel had pushed his stallion for just a few minutes, then slowed to a trot, and finally to a walk.

“I’m sorry, Majesty,” he had said before she could ask. “Riding double, we would ride Cheritenne to death at that pace, and we will need him to carry us for some time yet.” He patted his horse’s flank, and the horse whickered agreeably.

“I trust in your expertise, Ser Michel,” she had said. “Do what you must to get us out of here alive.”

And so they had walked along an old hunting trail for a few hours, Ser Michel squinting at the hazy sun and keeping them moving northeast in hopes of circling around Halamshiral itself and returning to the Imperial Highway on the far side. Celene had stayed silent, ignoring the chafing of the parts of her ceremonial armor she was still wearing—armor that had never been meant for real use, for all the beautiful filigree lining the breastplate that was now crushed and forgotten behind them.

Then, all at once the woods came alive.

Ser Michel tensed. That was all the warning Celene had before a crossbow bolt hissed past them. Michel leaned forward, and she thought for a moment that he’d been hit. Then, almost falling from the saddle, he lunged out with his blade, and she heard a dull twang and saw the rope that had been stretched across the trail snap away to either side.

Had Michel panicked and spurred Cheritenne to a gallop, they would have hit the rope and likely broken all of their necks. Instead, as armored men leaped out from behind trees, they had a fighting chance.

The attackers were all around them. Celene saw chainmail and simple weapons, but there were at least half a dozen men, plus a few more hanging back with crossbows. Those odds would be difficult even for a chevalier of Michel’s valor. With her slowing him down, the odds were even worse.

“Can we flee?” she called as Michel spurred his stallion and brutally rode down the nearest man.

“No!”

“Then kill them!” Celene ducked and slid down to the ground.

She heard her champion swear, and then a pair of Gaspard’s men were upon her.

They sneered, holding their swords loosely and leaving their shields low. They must have been searching for her for hours, and had to be as tired as she felt. “Surrender now, Empress,” one of them said as the other circled around her. “You’re unarmored, and you’re no warrior. Perhaps Gaspard will show some mercy.”

She lowered her arms, her shoulders hunched in defeat, and the one behind her raised his sword. He probably thought he was doing it quietly.

She stepped, turned the blow on a vambrace that, though ornamental, was still made from silverite, and put her dagger through her attacker’s eye. The magic from her ruby ring sent fire skimming along the blade, and smoke poured from the dead man’s mouth as he fell, gaping in blank horror.

Celene turned to see the man who’d spoken to her raising his shield. The ring on her other hand hummed with magic, and she saw each of his movements with the clarity of a master painter. She could feel the tiny movements he was hiding, meant to move him into range to attack by surprise, and sense the movements that would turn his blow away. The ring was old, a gift from Lady Mantillon, who claimed that it had been worn by a legendary noble thief called the Black Fox.

“You’re correct,” she said, and drew a second dagger. “I am no warrior. I am your empress, and for lifting a blade against me, your life is forfeit, as are the lives of all in your family. Now tell me, what foul beast of burden spawned one capable of such treason?”

He hesitated. Which, of course, had been all she wanted. Every man, unless he was trained, would pause when asked a question in such a tone. Even if he didn’t answer it, he would hesitate.

She moved in, the ring guiding her into the memory of years of training at Lady Mantillon’s insistence. She skipped around his shield and outside his striking arm, checked the arm with a slash, and stabbed up at his throat with a quick one-two strike.

He flinched, and his shield came up.

It was all Celene needed. She dropped to a knee behind him, reversed her grip, and stabbed deep into the back of his unarmored leg. As he screamed, her other dagger came up into his crotch.

They were both still flaming, of course, and she took a little petty satisfaction in that.

As the man dropped to his knees, shrieking and retching, Celene rose to a defensive crouch, then turned and twisted on instinct as a bolt snapped past her. She charged the shooter as he struggled to wind his weapon, and he finished cranking it just as her daggers punched through his leather armor and pinned him to a tree.

Celene pulled her blades free and turned at the sound of clashing metal. The last of Gaspard’s men swung a long-handled axe, trying to knock Michel from the saddle. Her champion turned the blow, and Cheritenne reared back and sent Gaspard’s man staggering back with blows from his hooves. A moment later, Michel’s blade sheared through armor and bone, and the man fell screaming, clutching at the bloody stump of his elbow.

“You risk yourself, Majesty.” Michel leaned over in the saddle and finished the man off with a clean strike to the head.

“I could hardly sit behind you and provide nothing more than another target, Michel.”

He grunted, swung down from the saddle, and quickly checked Cheritenne’s flank for cuts while the horse snorted. “My duty is to protect you.”

“And mine is to rule Orlais,” she said, “but both of us may need to tend to our duties with a certain flexibility for the time being.”

“True.” He chuckled and looked over at the men she had killed. “And well done.”

Celene looked around at the carnage. “This is likely not our last fight. I believe I would do better without such heavy armor.”

“Many of these men are wearing chainmail.” Michel squinted at the daggers. “Though I suspect you’d prefer leather or hide?”

“Something I can move in, Michel.”

He pointed at one of the men who’d held the trip-rope. He was wearing hunter’s leathers, and what was left of them seemed clean and well cared for. “That one will do. I damaged the armor on his arm and leg, though, and … I believe the helmet is finished.”

She took a closer look, and then quickly looked away. “Yes, I believe you’re right. Strip him.”

Celene turned to the man she’d stabbed to death, the one with the crossbow. His unseeing eyes were open. She closed them absently as she examined his armor. “This one is unharmed except for the chestpiece,” she called over.

“Excellent. I should just be a moment. And…” He paused, and Celene looked over, then raised an eyebrow as he led a rangy brown gelding out from the trees. “I believe we need no longer ride double.”

It took Ser Michel a few minutes to strip the armor and adjust the straps for Celene’s slender frame. He worked with brisk efficiency while Celene stripped off the remains of her heavy ceremonial armor and got the feel for the stolen horse. It was thin and skittish, but it moved well, and by the time Michel was ready to help Celene into her armor, she had the horse firmly under control.

They encountered the second group a few hours later, as Ser Michel led Celene south toward the Imperial Highway.

The woods were thicker north of Halamshiral, and Celene had to trust Michel’s directions as they picked their way down the animal trail. With two horses instead of one, Michel had pushed them back to a trot, and Celene already felt the ache in her legs and at the base of her spine from the unaccustomed exercise. The leather armor fit well enough to protect her in battle, but it hadn’t been made for her, and she could already feel where she’d have blisters later.

And then, without warning, four armored men stepped out onto the trail with swords raised.

“We’ll have the horses,” the one in the lead called out.

Celene slid a dagger out, keeping one hand steady on her horse, who wasn’t trained to ride through battle like Ser Michel’s mount. The four men wore chainmail under filthy tabards, and their blades were the short swords spearmen used when joining battle at close quarters.

Then, beneath the dirt and blood on their tabards, she saw the golden lion on a field of purple.

“You’re my soldiers,” she said, and immediately felt like a fool.

They squinted, and one at the back, an older veteran with a thick mustache, went pale and stepped back. “Empress Celene!”

The leader was younger and angrier, and more blood spattered his armor. He sniffed. “Not my empress.”

Ser Michel drew his longsword. “If Orlesian blood still flows in your veins—”

“Not in her fine armor anymore, is she?” the leader of Celene’s men said to his fellows, talking as though Michel weren’t there. “And I don’t see hundreds of shining chevaliers ready to do her bidding. That might be because most of them are lying dead back at Halamshiral … while you ran away.”

Ser Michel’s sword flashed once.

“If Orlesian blood still flows in your veins,” he repeated as the other man hit the ground, “and you wish for it to remain there, you will show your empress proper respect.”

The three men looked at Michel, and then at Celene. Then, hesitantly, they bowed.

“We fled once our commander signaled the retreat, Your Imperial Majesty,” the old soldier said. “I swear by the Maker, we fought with honor until then.”

She nodded. “My champion is leading me to Jader, where we will rally our forces.”

She started to command them to come with her—to rebuild the army that would grind that bastard Gaspard into the dirt—but she saw the old soldier’s face tense, and she paused instead.

“Your Radiance,” he said hesitantly, “we were making our way toward Jader, but Gaspard’s men have blocked the road.”

“Gaspard must have suspected you might try to get there,” said another soldier. “They had archers and horsemen. We barely made it back into the woods.”

“Then we will…” Celene paused, catching a tiny headshake from Ser Michel. “… Find another path.”

“What are we to do?” asked the third man, barely a man at all. He hadn’t spoken until now, and his voice cracked with fear. “Will they take us in at Halamshiral after…” He trailed off.

“We must try to make it back to Val Royeaux,” the old soldier said, then looked at Celene and hastily said, “unless the empress wishes us to do otherwise.”

“What?” The young soldier was near tears. “We can’t get past Gaspard’s men! We barely escaped before! We’re not scouts!”

Michel glanced at Celene, a tiny wordless question in his look. She could have ignored it, could have let him take charge and claimed to have a clear conscience … but that way led to trouble.

And besides, it was beneath the honor of the empress.

“Then what will you do?” she asked, and the steel in her voice silenced the men. “When Gaspard’s men find you, what will you do? When they ask you where your empress is going, when they ask you what you know, or where you saw her, what will you tell them to save your life?”

The younger man gave her a hopeless look. “I … I…”

Celene grimaced. She knew the answer as well as the young man did. It made it easier, though no less grim. “Do it,” she said to Michel.

The old soldier shut his eyes as Michel’s blade cut down the youth. The other soldier raised his own blade, and Michel knocked it aside, then cut him down as well. It was shockingly fast, the speed from which silence became a crash and a cry.

The old soldier had not moved. He opened his eyes to see the blade a hair’s breadth from his throat.

“I am no scout,” he said, looking at Celene, “but I am a soldier, and I have known no other empress but you. I will go where you order. I will fight Gaspard’s men to the death. And if they take me alive, I will tell them nothing.”

“Even after my champion killed your friends?” Celene asked, and looked down at the three bodies lying still on the trail.

“They were good comrades.” The old soldier’s voice shook, but his gaze was steady on Celene. “But my oath is to you, Your Radiance, not them. I die for you, not them. And if you need to know that no man knows which path you have taken, I will die for you now.”

Celene looked at Michel, whose eyes were on the old soldier and whose blade shone silver in the hazy afternoon light.

“Go,” she said, “and if you find your way to Val Royeaux, tell your commander that you left as a pikeman and returned as the empress’s personal scout.”

Michel’s blade went back into its sheath. He didn’t look at Celene as the old soldier bowed, and swallowed, and hurried off into the trees.

“I know,” she said when the old soldier was gone. She could feel Michel’s silent objection from yards away.

He shook his head. “It is hardly my place, Majesty.” A different man might have valued his duty over his loyalty and cut the man down before Celene could object, keeping her safe against her wishes.

In that moment, she valued Ser Michel more than ever. “It is absolutely your place until I order otherwise.” Celene sheathed her dagger. She hadn’t realized she still had it. “Yes. It would have been safer to leave none of them alive to tell of our whereabouts.”

“But he was loyal to you,” Michel said, “unlike these cowards. And while I will always urge you to safety, I understand the worth of a single loyal man right now.”

Celene’s legs burned from riding, and her back ached as well. She slid down from her horse and stretched, grimacing. This spot with its three dead men was as good as any for a short break.

It was not as though three more dead soldiers would greatly change the balance of the scales.

“How many died for me this morning, Michel? In that field?” she asked. She finished her stretch, then swore, whipped out her dagger, and sank it two fingers deep into a tree with an angry stab. “Or in the elven slums, as I sought to silence rumors with blood?”

“Majesty, you know the elves did not die for you.” Michel dismounted and started dragging the bodies off the trail. “They died for their own blind selfishness. Whatever your reasons, they rebelled, and your actions were entirely justified. And your soldiers died for you with honor, killed by a traitor who will die for his crimes.”

“But they still died, Michel.” Celene yanked her dagger free and wiped it on her sleeve. Her eyes burned, but she would not shame herself by weeping. Her head was pounding, as it always did until she had her afternoon tea. “Not for honor and glory, not to defend Orlais from darkspawn or foreign invaders, but as part of the Game. They died because Gaspard beat me.”

Michel did not look up from his work. “You fought at a disadvantage, Majesty.”

“Michel, I rule the empire.”

“Yes.” He looked up for a moment and grinned. “And you know what that means. You must actually rule, while Gaspard merely watches from the crowd like a thin-blooded courtier watching a tournament, telling the world that he might have done better were he in the saddle. And besides…” He went back to dragging the bodies. “He has not beaten you until he is crowned.”

“No. He beat me.” Here in the forest, she could admit that. And that may have been the part that hurt her most of all. She would never match Gaspard in a duel, would likely never outride him. While she had cajoled and charmed, Gaspard could lead by example, inspiring those who followed him. Celene’s wits, her mind, her skill with the Game: these had been the weapons she had wielded, confident that in a fight on those terms, she would always prevail.

Until today.

“Perhaps he should take the cursed throne and see what joy it brings him.” Her voice was but a whisper.

The last body clanked as Michel shoved it under a bush, and he looked over at her. “I’m sorry, Majesty. I’m afraid your words were lost in the clatter. With Jader blocked, I recommend we find some way back to Val Royeaux.”

Yes, for any disagreements she might have with him on matters of politics, Celene could have asked for no better man as her champion.

She cleared her throat. “Lydes is loyal to Remache. We cannot risk passing through the city.”

“Verchiel?” Michel asked.

“Also risky, but we cannot go around the whole of the Waking Sea.” Celene frowned. “If we take too long, Gaspard will seize Val Royeaux in my absence. He has enough loyal nobles to do it.”

“Agreed,” said Michel. “And were I Gaspard, I would be expecting you to head north for the Waking Sea. My men would be searching for you there.”

“Southwest?” Celene asked. She would have given half the Heartlands for a map right then. In this part of the Dales, grassy plains were dotted with small patches of forest, where the Dalish elves hid like bandits. There were countless small villages and a great deal of farmland, none of which would help her right now. “Past Lydes, and then north to Verchiel?”

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

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

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