The Masked Empire by Patrick Weekes

Author:Patrick Weekes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

10

Ser Michel had grown up in the slums of Montfort, and then in a noble’s estate. Years of training with the chevaliers had taught him how to keep himself and his horse safe in the forests, but he had never grown to like them.

He detested them, in fact. And now, as Empress Celene followed Briala and Felassan toward the Dalish, they were leaving the plains and returning to the forest for what promised to be an uncomfortable journey.

He knew that they were vulnerable on the open plains, visible for miles in every direction. He understood that the damned Dalish made their homes in wild lands like the forests and hills. None of that changed the sick wash of dread that passed through him when he left the open air and rode into the twisted branches and dead leaves.

Felassan said they were getting close, and Michel, though no great tracker, could see the signs. The trails they rode were too wide to simply be animal trails, and the clearings where they stopped to rest hid the ashes of recent campfires under a carpet of dead leaves. The forest around them twitched and crackled and seemed to watch.

They stopped in one of the clearings that night. Briala had brought down a small deer, and Felassan skinned it with quick efficiency. Celene, to Michel’s surprise, built the fire and gathered herbs from nearby to season the venison. He would have placed a strong wager against ever seeing the Empress of Orlais build a fire, but she seemed to know what she was doing.

Michel himself tended the horses. His own stallion, Cheritenne, was doing well, though he’d lost some weight. Celene’s gelding was still skittish, and his coat wasn’t in good condition. Michel rubbed him down as best he could with the limited equipment he had on hand. He hadn’t had to care for his own horse since his training days, and his servants had carried the brushes and picks to tend to the horses each night.

“Sorry,” he said, using a spare leather strap to wipe the sweat from Cheritenne’s flanks. “Best we have on hand.”

Cheritenne grunted, then let out a snort and lifted a leg for Michel to tend his hoof.

Michel chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.” He looked through the small bag that held the tools he used to maintain his armor. A small iron pry bar might work well enough as a pick.…

“Keep the horses tied tightly tonight.”

Michel blinked and looked over to see Felassan staring at him, lit with flickering gold by the campfire. The elf held a long thorny twig between his thin fingers, staring at it intently. In the firelight, the tattoos on his face seemed to twist and move of their own accord. Briala and Celene were nowhere to be seen. Likely they had gone off into the darkness to practice with their daggers.

“I know how to see to the horses.” Michel turned away. “You knife-ears don’t even ride.”

“Neither do peasants, chevalier.” Behind him, Felassan chuckled.

Michel

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