Asunder (3 page)

            "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. T en, 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.

            Chapter 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 house hold, 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.

            T us 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.