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Contents 21 страница

It reminded her of those slow lazy moments after they made love, when anything seemed possible, and Briala could believe that promises would be kept.

Celene smiled as she caught Briala’s look. Her eyes widened at the state of Briala’s armor, but she still seemed genuinely happy that Briala had survived.

“And now,” Gaspard said, before Briala could think of what to do, “regrettably, it is time for us to determine who controls the eluvians, Celene … and which of us remains down here with the dead.”

Though her heart hammered in her chest, Celene stood and presented Gaspard with icy calm. “Do you intend to attack now, with my champion injured, while your own healers keep you in perfect condition?”

Gaspard laughed, a deep guffaw that echoed off the still-beautiful walls of the great hall. “Celene, if I’d intended to do that, I wouldn’t have had Lienne heal your elf. Maker’s breath, I could’ve just not pushed so hard, and she’d have died pinned under this damned thing.” He gestured at the dead varterral.

Celene’s breath caught. When the great thing had struck, her heart had stopped for a moment. She had done all she could, short of likely getting herself killed trying to distract the beast, and she would never forget watching helplessly as the woman she loved vanished beneath the monster’s claws. “So you plan no treachery, beyond that you have already undertaken?”

Gaspard sighed and shook his head. “It would be easier. And nobody up on the surface would know.” Then he smiled. “But I’d know. And I swore an oath. So we will settle this with honor, Celene.”

“You against my champion?” Celene asked. “And no magic, beyond that which both of you carry yourselves?” She looked over at Lienne for emphasis.

Formal duels in Orlais could have rules for what equipment was carried, what magic was allowed, and even what combat style was used. Given the lack of dueling blades in this pit beneath the earth, the best Celene could hope for was to keep Lienne from using her magic to strengthen Gaspard and hex Michel.

“Agreed.” Gaspard nodded. “And if I win, you even have my oath that no harm comes to your elves.”

Celene saw Briala give him a brittle smile, and she felt the rush of the same anger that must have taken her love. “If you win, I will die, and I doubt you consider your oaths binding to those you call knife-ears.”

Gaspard shrugged. “Take it as you like, Celene. Ser Michel, if you need treatment from Lienne, you are welcome to it.” He looked over at the dead varterral and grimaced. “After nearly being eaten by that monstrosity, I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

“Thank you,” Michel said. “I would appreciate that.”

“And I for one will take a few moments to scour some of that thing’s cursed acid from my shield and armor.” Gaspard nodded to Michel, then withdrew some distance away, to another spot with a few undamaged benches. Mihris went with him, still shaking her head and stepping gingerly. Lienne stayed, laying her glowing hands upon Michel for a few moments, and then followed.

When neither Gaspard nor those loyal to him were within earshot, Celene sank back onto the bench. She would have traded half her empire for a bed at that moment. “And so it all comes to one fight,” she murmured.

The Game. All of her work. Years of keeping different factions loyal and trying to drag the greatest empire in Thedas into an age of civility, and now everything hung upon the outcome of one fight in the depths of an elven tomb.

“Michel,” she said gently, and he came over. Briala and Felassan approached as well, but hung back, understanding that this moment was for her and her champion.

“Your Imperial Majesty.” He bowed.

She steadied herself. “Can you defeat him?”

Michel drew himself straight. “He is a chevalier, Empress. He is well trained, well equipped, and prepared to fight to the death.” He took a breath. “But I can, and will, defeat him.”

Celene let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and then smiled. “And would you tell me if you couldn’t, Michel?”

“Probably not, Majesty.” He smiled. “But I will do my best to prove myself a man of my word.”

“You always are. And when I reclaim my throne, I will owe it to you, my champion.”

“No.” He shook his head, still smiling. “When you reclaim the throne, you will owe it to your own strength, Majesty. No one who saw you don dead men’s armor and cut the throats of those who opposed you would ever doubt that you had earned the right to rule.”

“Thank you, Michel. Fight well.” He bowed again and went a few paces away, rolling out his shoulders and stretching his arms.

Celene turned to see Briala and Felassan still there, waiting for her to say something. “Felassan,” she said, “Gaspard has agreed to an honorable duel, but when he first attacked me at Halamshiral, it was through treachery. We cannot trust him. His apostate, the girl Lienne, uses magic to help warriors or weaken their enemies.”

“Yes.” Felassan looked over to where Lienne was now tending Gaspard. “Creation magic. It’s a bit like her healing abilities.”

“Or like the ring you wear,” Briala said, “the one Lady Mantillon gave you.”

Her voice was strained. Celene realized that she must still be feeling her injuries. “Yes, I imagine the Black Fox ring uses a similar enchantment.” She spun the old ring on her finger.

“Actually…” Felassan started, then shrugged. “Fine, somewhat similar. However, her skill with hexes—weakening her opponents—is what you should be worried about. She’s quite skilled.”

“If she tries it,” Celene asked, “can you stop her?”

Felassan nodded. “I believe so.” He cocked his head, looking at Celene curiously. “If I had the power to bolster Michel, or hex Gaspard, would you wish it of me?”

“Michel has said that he can defeat Gaspard,” Celene said. “We will respect his confidence.” Felassan smiled slightly and nodded, then walked off.

Then Celene and Briala were alone. She held out a hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Briala took it and sat down. Her armor hung from her, shredded by the monster’s attack, and her shirt was torn and bloody underneath it.

“When that thing…” Celene broke off. “I almost lost you.” She could still see the beast standing over her, poised to strike. She could still see Briala firing, defiant in the face of the great monster’s rage, while Celene, heart pounding, could only stand and watch, unable to help without risking the varterral falling back upon her.

Briala’s hand tightened on Celene’s, though she didn’t look over. “And yet, here I am.”

“We are almost there, my love,” Celene whispered. She drew out the keystone the demon had given her, the ruby the size of a child’s fist, and held it for a moment. “Once Gaspard is dead, we will have the eluvians. With them, we will have Orlais. And with that,” she finished, “we will bring your people into a new life.” However long that took, for the elves’ own safety as well as the empire’s.

Briala looked down, and a tear fell from her eye. “You would give me that amazing gift.” Her fingers, still twined through Celene’s, toyed with the ring on Celene’s hand. “Gifts … when did Lady Mantillon give you this one?”

Celene pulled her hand free. She tucked the keystone ruby into a pouch at her waist, then held up her hand and looked at the puzzle ring, intricate twining shapes she could never quite follow. “You know, I am not certain I remember. It was after my father died, and I was alone. She must have felt sorry for me, an orphan in the court. Yes, I recall now. She said it would help me keep my wits about me, that I might need them.”

It was a bittersweet story. In another life, it might even have been true.

Briala nodded, and another tear fell, sparkling for a moment on the blue drakeskin armor on her leg. “Of course.” She looked up at Celene, and though her eyes were wet, she smiled. “I never thought you lost your wits. It was one of the reasons I always loved you.”

She leaned over, and with surprising force, pulled Celene into a kiss. Her soft lips were urgent this time, her breath hot as Briala traced kisses down Celene’s jaw and throat. Briala’s strong arms wrapped around Celene, pulling her closer as Celene returned the kiss, and her hands gripped Celene tight, cradling Celene’s neck and waist.

“I will never forget this,” Briala whispered, and then she pulled away. “I must return something to Gaspard.”

She stood, her hands self-consciously tugging at her ruined armor now, and walked off, still limping and exhausted from the fight.

Celene went to Michel a moment later. “Are you ready?”

“I am, Empress.” He seemed stronger, relaxed again, and his breath was even, though his armor was still dented and scored with acid. Celene hoped that Gaspard’s had fared no better.

“Then take these.” She held up both of her rings. “Your duel with Gaspard allows the best in weapons and enchanted items. There is no dishonor in fighting with everything you can bring to bear.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Michel nodded. “We are certainly not using training blades,” he said, holding his fine silverite longsword up and giving it a quick spin. He slid the ruby ring onto his smallest finger, and flames immediately danced along the length of his blade. He put Lady Mantillon’s gift ring on his other hand, blinking and testing its weight.

Then he picked up his shield, battered and scored as it was. “Thank you, Empress. I am ready.”

“You are a chevalier, Ser Michel, and you are my champion. Win this for me.”

She turned to Gaspard, ready for the duel that would decide the fate of Orlais.

* * *

By mutual agreement, Michel and Gaspard chose to start their duel far from where they had fought the varterral. The shattered rubble would have made for treacherous footing, and neither Michel nor Gaspard wished for this duel to be decided by something so ignominious as slipping on a rock.

Down near the bottom of the great bowl of the hall, the twisting runes of the labyrinth covered most of the flat area. However, between the outer edge of the circle of runes and the first row of marble benches was an open area about ten paces wide. It sloped slightly toward the labyrinth, Michel noted, testing his footing, but not so much as to affect his fighting style.

The benches were on his left. The edge of the rune circle was on his right. Just in front of the rune circle stood the rest of their group: Lienne and Mihris, Celene and Briala, and Felassan a little apart from them all.

Before him stood Grand Duke Gaspard. His shield, like Michel’s, was still scored with acid, and his armor bore traces of the scratch he’d tried so hard to buff out. The scratch could catch a blade, if Michel aimed it just right, and Michel’s blows would catch on the shield a bit more easily instead of glancing off.

He had fought chevaliers before, in both honorable duels and battles against those who incurred Celene’s displeasure. They had been the most difficult fights of his career—until he had come down into these elven ruins, anyway—but they had also been the simplest.

They had all trained at the Academie. They knew the same drills, the same techniques, had studied the same lessons. There were no surprises. The battle was won by the man who had trained harder.

And that man had always been Michel.

Michel drew his blade, and flames flickered and flowed across its length. Gaspard noted the flames and smiled as he drew his own blade. “Death before dishonor, Ser Michel.”

“Death before dishonor, Ser Gaspard.” Here, and only here, did the rank of chevalier matter more than any other title.

They saluted.

Then they moved.

Gaspard moved in with his shield high. Michel battered it with a blow, then back-stepped as Gaspard’s blade slid in for a low stab. Slamming his shield down on the blade, he knocked it clear, lunged in with his shoulder to knock Gaspard’s shield out of position, and thrust high.

Gaspard was a hair faster, and the flames of Michel’s blade just licked the feathers on Gaspard’s helmet as the grand duke slid away.

Shields clashing, they came together and broke apart, circling.

Gaspard grinned, the gesture twisting his mustache, and came in with a high backhanded slash that Michel flicked away with an easy parry. A moment later, Gaspard slashed again, and even as Michel moved to parry, he saw the feint coming and turned instead, bringing the whole of his shield against the sudden reversal and low thrust that would have skewered his leg. Gaspard’s shield slammed into his side, but Michel ignored it and threw a low kick that caught Gaspard in the back of the knee.

“Damn.” As the grand duke slipped, Michel spun away, stepped, pivoted, and turned with a backhanded blow that carried the full weight of his body behind it. Gaspard got his shield up, but the flaming blade sheared through the acid-weakened metal and chopped into Gaspard’s breastplate, just below the shoulder.

“Hah. Should have expected that.” The grand duke stumbled back, wincing, and slashed his blade through a quick spin to keep Michel from following up. He ended it with a grimace and a quick nod, then saluted again. “You are a worthy champion.”

Michel rarely talked during fights. He’d always found it distracting and thought those who did were either fools trying to bolster their confidence or cunning men using their words as one more weapon.

Gaspard came in again, swinging hard. Michel took it on the shield, and Gaspard closed before Michel could counter. Their shields locked, and Gaspard stepped in close and brought his heel down on Michel’s foot, following with a hard shove.

Many trainees at the Academie had ended up on their backs in the dirt after such a move, a blade at their throats. Michel dropped to one knee, letting the push slide over him, and stabbed high. Again, metal screeched as his flaming blade tore through Gaspard’s armor, this time chopping half of the grand duke’s pauldron free.

Michel was certain he’d given Gaspard a disabling wound, if not a mortal one, and the grand duke stumbled back.

In an instant, Michel realized he had misjudged the grand duke. While some few lords did the bare minimum of training and forgot their lessons after earning the yellow feather of the chevaliers, Michel had been certain Gaspard had stayed in peak fighting shape. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to the rigors of long battles, or perhaps he had relied too much on his fine armor. Either way, the duel was over.

Michel stood, ready to deliver the merciful blow to end it.

And in that instant, Gaspard’s stumble turned into a spin, and the grand duke’s booted foot slammed into Michel’s breastplate.

Michel got his shield up even as he staggered back, and the follow-up blow glanced away. But even as Michel watched for what he had been certain was going to be a charge, the blow he’d set himself to block with his shield slid to the side and up under his guard. With a delicate hooking motion, Gaspard sliced neatly through the cuisse and into Michel’s thigh.

Or perhaps he had judged Gaspard correctly after all.

He was still stumbling, and the hot knife of pain across his leg nearly sent him to the ground. He set himself hard and chopped down, but Gaspard had already sidestepped the blow. With a grunt of effort, the grand duke rammed the jagged, still-smoldering upper edge of his shield into Michel’s visor.

Blinding pain seared Michel’s eyes, and he dove away on instinct, even as another blow chopped past his shield and bit through his breastplate. It hit just above the thigh, where the Dalish warrior captain had pierced his armor with a lucky stab, and Michel fell back, only to feel the crushing power of another kick smashing into his breastplate as he went down.

Michel’s armor creaked as his back slammed into something hard. One of the marble benches. He’d gotten disoriented and lost his mental map of the battlefield, a mistake that would have gotten him flogged back in training. He forced his eyes open, blinking hard at the heat and pain that put a veil of red over everything. He could still see. The visor had taken most of the blow. He saw Gaspard moving in for the kill.

He got his shield up, turned the blow, and took another kick to the breastplate instead, a crushing blow that drove the breath from his lungs. The next blow battered his shield aside, and he rolled with it as the follow-up strike tore a chunk from the marble bench he’d been leaning against.

Through vision blurred with pain, Michel saw Gaspard.

The grand duke was grinning again, confident of his victory, and Michel could not disagree with the man’s assessment.

* * *

Briala watched as the fight turned. Michel had seemed to have the upper hand, but then every attack he made went harmlessly wide, while Gaspard connected with blow after brutal blow.

She had seen battles turn before. She had watched duelists lure their opponents in with masterful feints and suggestions of weakness. She had seen warriors on the verge of defeat stand and take their enemies by surprise with one last stunning burst of strength.

This was different.

Michel struggled back to his feet, taking another slash that glanced off his armor as he did. He parried desperately, his armor throwing sparks as Gaspard battered him with blow after blow.

Beside Briala, Celene clenched her fists. Her breathing had sharpened.

On the other side, Mihris and Lienne were quiet.

That was when Briala knew.

She turned and stepped beside them. “Stop,” she said, not raising her voice.

“Stop what?” Mihris said, not looking at her.

“You’re hexing Michel,” Briala said to Lienne, who smiled but said nothing. To Mihris, she said, “And you’re hiding it, masking the glow that usually forms around the magic.”

“What?” Celene turned, and when she saw Lienne’s smile, called to Gaspard, “Gaspard! Stop this at once!”

Gaspard and Michel locked blades, and Gaspard flung Michel back, slamming Celene’s champion hard into one of the benches again.

“They can’t hear you,” Mihris said.

“The grand duke will, as far as he knows, win his fight fairly,” Lienne added, still smiling. “And when you protest, he will think you a woman without honor who cannot accept defeat.”

“Felassan,” Celene said, “put them down.”

Felassan’s lip twitched, but even as he raised his staff, Mihris raised hers. The head glowed a sooty red. “Are you certain that’s a good idea?” she asked. The tattoos on her face twisted as she smiled. “I’ve been flooding this whole area with ambient energy to mask Lienne’s hex. If you used your little purging trick, the resulting explosion would do a great deal of damage to the Veil. Who knows what might come through this time?”

“You know,” Briala said, “since that’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”

Mihris smirked and said nothing. Lienne kept her staff up, dividing her attention between Briala, who was closest, and Gaspard and Michel.

The noble girl, Briala thought. Gifted but untrained, saved from the Circle by indulgent parents, unused to a hard hike or any other kind of labor. She was the point of weakness. She was the place to start.

“What gave it away for you, da’len?” Felassan asked behind her.

“Gave what away?” Celene asked.

Michel swung hard, but his blow glanced harmlessly off Gaspard’s shield. Gaspard’s counterstrike screeched as it tore away armor and cut into Michel’s side.

“A hundred little things,” Briala said. “At the camp, Mihris was a healer, but gave no sign of being a truly gifted mage—certainly not gifted enough to change the magic in her staff. It was white before, wasn’t it?”

Lienne looked at Mihris’s glowing red staff, because after a question like that one’s natural inclination was to look, even during a moment of stress. Her attention left Briala, just for a moment. Just as Briala had planned.

Briala took one more step with an easy grace that didn’t draw the eye, and then slid her dagger smoothly into Lienne’s stomach.

The young noblewoman gasped, and her face went deathly pale as she staggered.

“You’re quite a healer, Lienne.” As the noble girl fell, Briala caught her and eased her to the ground. “I’m certain you can heal yourself, if you try. But do you think you can heal yourself and hex Ser Michel at the same time?”

Lienne shot her a venomous look, panting through the pain. “I … will see … you dead … you knife-eared bitch.”

It was a noble’s threat. Briala remembered Lienne’s mother, Lady Montsimmard, complaining about the food until the chatelaine threatened the servants with a whipping. That was probably where Lienne had learned it. Talk loudly, threaten the servants, and make it clear that you can do whatever you want to them with no repercussions.

But they were not in Val Royeaux.

“Will you? Then I’d be a fool to show you any mercy, wouldn’t I?” Briala asked, and slit her throat.

It had been for the duel, yes, but a part of her laughed as the knife slid across the skin, the same part that had watched Lady Mantillon die and found some justice in the world.

Among the marble benches, Gaspard’s blade came down, but this time, Michel’s shield caught it cleanly, and Michel’s blade came up and struck a glancing blow off Gaspard’s helmet. The grand duke staggered back, and Michel rose, bloodied but alive, and once again fighting with his full strength.

“I will see Michel dead.” Mihris raised her staff.

“That would be your choice,” Briala said, “Imshael.”

Mihris paused, and Celene gave Briala an incredulous look. Felassan nodded.

“As I was saying,” Briala went on as if she hadn’t just murdered a noblewoman, her mind so amazingly calm that her thoughts felt like pieces of crystal sliding into place in some great dwarven puzzle, “your grasp of magic has increased, and you speak about it with far more knowledge than a simple Dalish healer would have. And right now, you’re clouding Michel’s and Gaspard’s minds to prevent them from seeing us, just like the demon did to tempt Michel out to the circle in the first place. All of it made me wonder why Imshael would spare one Dalish girl, if, as you said, the rest of your clan had been slain.”

“Because she made a choice,” Felassan said. “She wanted revenge against Michel for unleashing Imshael upon her clan, and she was willing to allow herself to be possessed to make it possible.”

Celene looked at Mihris in disgust. “Possessed by a demon?”

“Spirit,” Mihris corrected, and then caught herself and chuckled. When she spoke again, her voice had deepened to that of the man who’d stood in the circle. “Ah, pity. You’re a bit more cunning than you look. Yes, Empress, I offered young Mihris here a little additional power in exchange for getting to come along.” The thing inside Mihris smiled. “None of which explains why I shouldn’t just kill bold Ser Michel now to fulfill my end of the bargain.”

Michel and Gaspard were clashing again in earnest, blades ringing with the uneven pattern of two master warriors, but Briala ignored it. Michel’s life and her plan hinged on her thinking very quickly.

“You could have killed him before, after we first fought. You didn’t. Why?”

“Because Mihris has to choose it,” Felassan answered, as the demon turned to him with a curious smile. “It let Mihris have the choice to attack, knowing we would kill her, or stand down and abide by the truce. She chose to abide.”

“Then she made her choice,” Briala said, looking at Imshael. “And your end of the bargain is fulfilled.”

The demon shrugged. “Possibly, love. But if you and your pretty empress gain the eluvians, what does it matter? All I want is a world to explore and desperate, motivated people to play with. What can your empire give me that Gaspard’s cannot?”

“I will free the elves,” Celene said. “Think of the chaos, the opportunity. The balance of power—”

“Will be carefully managed, just as always.” The demon gave Celene a knowing look. “You will free the elves when you are ready, when it is safe. You offer me a stately dinner,” he said, waving Mihris’s staff idly, “when what I want is the ravening, bare-fisted gluttony of a starving man. The elves, the templars and the mages … they might kill a few thousand people, but that’s just fire and swords. Fire and swords are dull.” His eyes glittered. “There are so many more things in this wonderful world, so many more ways to mark the measure of a man.”

“I will not allow you to endanger my empire,” Celene said, her voice cold. “If letting you walk free put my people’s lives in such jeopardy, I would throw myself upon Gaspard’s blade.”

Imshael looked at her in surprise. “You actually would, wouldn’t you? And here I thought you prized nothing more than your throne.”

“You know, you’ve got a good point,” Felassan said. “Fire and swords are dull. But what if something bigger was coming?”

“I’m listening, Slow Arrow,” said the demon. “What could you possibly do that you and I have not seen a hundred times before while the sweaty mortals lusted and grappled and bled their lives away?”

Felassan said nothing, just smiled, twisting the tattoos around his face.

“Oh, my,” Imshael breathed. “Is that a promise?”

“Well, I was going for more of a threat.”

Imshael turned to Celene, who stared at him uncertainly. “Empress,” he said, “best of luck to you. I do believe you’re going to need it. Whatever happens, I believe that Orlais is going to be quite exciting for the next little while.”

Then light flared around Mihris, and she fell to her knees, her staff flickering back to icy white. For a moment, a smoky shape flickered around Mihris, a haze that clung to her body, and then it was shooting across the room through one of the mirrors on the wall. The mirror flared brilliant red, then darkened back to the inert dullness of its dormant state, and the demon was gone.

Gaspard and Michel broke apart, and both men spared Lienne and Mihris a glance. Then, wordlessly, they returned to their battle.

Briala looked at the labyrinth of runes. The pattern was complex, but while Celene and Michel claimed not to be able to see it, it made perfect sense to Briala’s eyes.

Then she looked at Celene, who gave her a grateful nod before turning back to watch the duel.

And finally, she looked at Felassan, who had told her the story of Fen’Harel tied to the tree.

* * *

“Thought I had you there for a moment,” Gaspard panted as he and Michel broke apart.

Michel made no reply. Gaspard had nearly gotten him with his words before.

His thigh was bleeding, a hot and steady pain, and he could feel the slow drip of blood pooling under his armor. His eyes still burned from Gaspard’s desperate trick with the shield, and the wounds to his side and just above his hip would slow him down before long. His arms ached, and his lungs stabbed with each breath. He hoped it was simple fatigue and not a cut that had gone deeper than he thought.

He damned his carelessness. He had not felt so sloppy since his first days at the Academie. Then, every drill was a threat, every exercise a risk of betraying himself as a pretender, a commoner.

A fraud.

Gaspard came in, and instead of just holding firm, Michel met the charge. The jangling crash of armor rattled them both, but Michel kept his footing and his leverage, got an arm up to knock Gaspard’s awkward short thrust aside with his vambrace, and slammed the hilt of his blade into Gaspard’s visor. The grand duke stumbled back, and Michel started an overhand blow, then smashed Gaspard with his shield and sent him crashing into one of the benches.

He had compensated for his fear at the Academie with anger. He had lost his temper during practice, fought hard and passionately, and picked fights with the other students. His instructors had seen the anger as the cover it was, and assumed he was frightened of failing. Over years, they had honed him into a fine weapon, forging that aggression into a disciplined fighting fury that had carried him through every battle he had been in.

Gaspard stepped onto the bench and looked down at Michel. “Coming, Ser Michel?”

Michel wasn’t foolish enough to charge a man on higher ground, but if he waited, his wounds would take him down in minutes at most. And Gaspard, the bastard, knew it.

Michel stepped up onto a bench himself, then leaped from it to the next one. Grinning, Gaspard matched him, leaping from bench to bench to close with Michel.

The benches were just a pace apart, close enough to fight from. They crossed blades, careful now, checking their balance and measuring each strike. Gaspard leaped to another bench, and Michel jumped over as well, and again they slashed, parried, blocked, and gauged each other’s strength.

Michel saw Gaspard move to leap again, leaped as well, and realized mid-air that Gaspard had faked his jump, and was waiting to strike as Michel landed. With a twist, Michel wrenched his shield up, landed, and immediately dropped from the bench and charged forward. Gaspard’s blow clipped the top of Michel’s battered shield, and then Michel plowed straight into Gaspard with all the weight of his body.

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