Behind them, the silhouette of Halam'shiral burned, and the smell of smoke would not leave Briala even though they were miles away by now.
She followed Felassan deeper into the woods, but her mind was not on the trail. She could still see the glowing lines of the city, burning under the torches lit by Celene's soldiers.
She put a hand to the back of her head. Her bun had come half-undone, and she felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She wanted for a knife.
The nobles of the Orlesian Court had banned the practice of shaving one's head to denote grief. They didn't like their servants to display their mourning. But Briala could cut her hair, at least—show to her brethren that she cared, that she knew someone had died, that--
But she had no knife.
“Felassan,” she said.
He glanced over his shoulder, violet eyes catching the light for a moment. “Yes?”
“Lend me your knife.”
He frowned slightly. “Why?”
She wasn't sure he'd understand. She had no idea what grieving was like among the Dalish. She hadn’t ever thought to ask, and he had never told her. So she simply told him “I don't have a weapon, hahren.”
He gave her a long knife from his belt.
Briala grabbed a hank of hair in one hand and started hacking at it with the knife. After a minute, Felassan took one of her hands and stopped her. She glared at him.
“Let me, da'len,” he told her, his tone gentle. “You're too angry. You'll cut something other than hair, and then where will we be?”
She scowled, but released her hold on the knife. He took it back from her, and carefully sliced away at her hair.
“Among the Dalish, they do this too,” he said quietly. “Sometimes.”
“Not all the time?” Briala whispered, staring as her thick brown hair fell to the forest floor. She suppressed a shudder as she remembered how Celene had run her fingers through her hair, and squeezed her eyes shut, recalling Celene's voice. She had thought her hair was beautiful.
He shook his head. “No.”
He cut her hair as close to her head as he could manage.
“There,” he said, and gave her the knife back. “Now might we please continue?”
Briala nodded, and stuck the knife in her belt. Her head felt much lighter, and the sound of Celene's voice was no longer so close.
The forest they walked was dark, the shadows wells of inky blackness and the air heavy and solemn, even the sky overhead seeming close and lending an air of claustrophobia. Her chest was tight and she followed Felassan very closely, for fear that she would lose her way if she lost sight of him. In contrast, Felassan moved easily, as if he had trod this path many times, his bare feet not making a sound.
“How will we find them?” Briala asked, eyes darting to the tree branches high overhead that swayed in the slight breeze.
“Oh—there are signs,” Felassan said, his tone light and airy. “Hopefully, we will find your Empress and her champion sooner, however. Before the Dalish find them.”
“What will happen if they do?”
He gave a dry smirk that was devoid of humor. “Nothing good, I can assure you, da’len.”
She stepped over a large tree root, barely missing tripping over it. “And what do you want to do with them, if we find them?”
“I? Nothing. It is up to you what we do.”
Briala shivered, and they walked on.
They found both Michel and Celene deep in the forest, in a tiny, ruined village. The village had been burned, the peasants long since fled. Celene and Michel were obvious beacons of ragged finery in the ashen village.
Celene looked worse for wear, her once-fine clothes ripped and torn, a bruise on her cheek and ashes in her blonde hair. She wore ill-fitting armor clearly taken off of someone else, and sat astride an exhausted horse. Michel was much the same, only he was not mounted on a horse, and he glared when he saw them.
“Briala!” Celene exclaimed, and slid off the horse to stand on shaking legs. She gave a halting step towards Briala, then stopped, as if remembering herself.
Briala's heart pounded in her ears. She bit the inside of her cheek and gathered herself together. “Celene,” she nodded. “Michel.”
Celene looked at her, eyes squinting against the half-light of the forest. “You cut your hair,” Celene said at length, blinking.
Briala looked away.
“Why?”
“You know why,” Briala muttered.
“I don’t.”
Briala glared at her.
“Well, this is all very well and good,” Felassan put a steadying hand on Briala’s shoulder. “But we need to move on.”
“What are you doing here?” Michel growled.
“Looking to lose ourselves in the forest,” Felassan said, a smirk playing about his mouth. “And what are you doing here?”
“Gaspard has blocked us from reaching Jader,” Celene explained. “We’d hoped to circle around.”
Briala sniffed. “Then in that case, we wish you good luck on your journey,”
Felassan glanced at her, his expression unreadable.
“You’re not joining us?” Michel asked.
“Celene arrested me,” Briala said, her hands curling into fists. “And put me in prison, and burned down Halam’shiral. Of course I am not joining you.”
“I put down the rebellion,” Celene said. “As I was forced to do. Gaspard was spreading rumors about my softness on elves, and with the uprising--”
“And what of throwing me in prison?” Briala demanded.
Celene shook her head, made another half-step, but stopped at Briala's glare. “Had you been there, you would have suggested the option yourself. It protected both me and you from his rumors and his supporters.”
Felassan tilted his head to one side, inspecting Celene with curious violet eyes. “You will never make it to Val Royeaux on your own,” he decided, looking at their tattered clothes and their bruises. “Gaspard quite wishes to find you.”
Celene inclined her head in elegant agreement. “That he does. But even if he does not, he will return to Val Royeaux and claim it in my absence, dashing any hopes you have of winning my favor.”
Felassan laughed. “My word, Your Majesty, but you do have a way about you, yes? You wear stolen armor and ride a stolen horse, your empire is unsteady beneath you, and you still think to grant favor? You have little idea who I even am.” he looked to Briala. “What a fascinating one she is, no?”
Celene straightened her back. “The armor and the horse belonged to an Orlesian soldier, and therefore were always mine.” her head tilted up in the perfect expression of royal pride. “As for my favor—if the Dalish help me, harass Gaspard’s forces and bring me back to Val Royeux, you will know what my favor can bring.”
The smirk was still on Felassan’s face as he considered. “The Dalish will never do it,” he said. “They would rather run, or kill you. The last time they made a deal like this, or so the stories go, they won the Dales from a prophet—but lost them to your bloodline anyway.”
Celene was unmoved. “Gaspard will drown the Dales in blood to be rid of you.”
Something flashed in Felassan’s eyes. “Oh?”
“And if he doesn’t, whatever is brewing within the Chantry is sure to stampede over you, without me to help guide it.”
“Hm,” Felassan considered. “What are you prepared to offer?”
“A chance for your leader to convince me the Dalish are worth the fits it will give my nobility if I allow them to help,” she said, and tilted her chin up. “Anything else is for your Keeper’s ears alone.”
Felassan gave her a grin. “Why, my lady, that is quite curious enough to have my attention,” he said. “I shall bring you to the Keeper—or one of them, at least. Perhaps he will even see things as I do, who is to say?” he focused his attention on Briala again. “That is, if you wish to.”
Briala sighed, weighing her options. “If you think it wise, then we shall go,” she said, her tone weary. “Gaspard has scouts, and you are leaving a trail anyone could follow. We’ll need to avoid villages and towns--”
“Oh, the Clan we are looking for has no dealings with shemlen,” Felassan said. “No fear of human spies—we won’t go near them at all.”
“On foot, or horseback?” Briala asked.
“On foot,” Felassan said. “Horses tire too easily, and eat too much, and leave too much of a trail besides.” he made a face, frowning at Celene’s horse. “And I dislike them.”
“Don’t Dalish elves have horses?” Michel asked, confused.
“No, the Dalish use halla. They are different. They are like—do you know harts?”
“Yes.”
“A small hart, then. They eat more like a deer, or a goat, and are much better mannered than horses. Come along.” Felassan turned, and looked at Michel over his shoulder. “And such a pleasure to see you again, Michel,” he said with a grin.
“Wait,” Celene said. “What of my army?” she asked. “If I am not there to guide them, they will run rampant.”
Felassan nodded. “Quite true,” he said. “If you do not wish to follow us, you do not have to. Go to your army instead.”
“I would have little chance to survive here.”
“That is your own doing,” Briala said, her voice chilly. “And no one else's. Decide now.”
Celene sighed, and dismounted her horse to follow them on foot. Celene decided to leave her horse free, so it might return to civilization on its own. With a dubious glance at each other, Celene and Michel followed Briala and Felassan through the forest.
They had been walking for a few hours when Briala decided to ask Felassan a question that had been bothering her.
“How will your people see us?” Briala wanted to know.
Felassan looked away from her. “We will have to gain loyalty Clan by Clan. West of the Frostbacks, the Clans have little contact with each other.”
“And east of them?”
“The eastern Clans maintain a bond with each other, a holdover from the Blight, as I understand it,” Felassan explained. “But that is neither here nor there. There are no strong ties between the western Clans and the Coalition.”
“The Coalition?”
“What the Clans of the east call themselves.”
“Hm. And will they help us?”
“Why should they?” Felassan shrugged. “There is no reason the Dalish would help a shemlen.”
“She has helped them,” Briala insisted. “How much better off are the elves of Orlais under her rule?”
“You make two mistakes, da’len,” Felassan said.
Briala scowled. “I apologize, hahren. What are they?”
“You say that she has helped the elvhen of Orlais?” he shook his head. “Untrue. All the gains made are those you have made.”
“With respect--”
“Oh, hush,” Felassan waved a hand. “You need not ascribe things you have accomplished to someone else. Without you, your empress would be no friend to elves. Where did Gaspard’s rumors come from? Even he could see it.”
“Fine—but in either case, their lives are better. If what you say is true, and it is my doing, and not Celene’s, that has improved their lives, then anyone could see that I have no influence over Gaspard. If the lives of the elvhen of Orlais are to remain well, then Celene must remain in power. I can hardly make changes if I have no influence. My work would be undone.”
Felassan chuckled, his gaze oddly wistful. “You think like Fen’harel.”
“How so?”
He sighed and thought for a moment. “Here is a story not often told,” he said, and Briala relaxed, easing into the familiarity of his storytelling. “There was a young noble in fair Arlathan. The Queen of Arlathan had two daughters, understand, and one was killed—a terrible tragedy, you see, for the girl was very young, not even a hundred years old.”
“And that was so young, in Arlathan.”
Felassan nodded. “Indeed it was. There was much moaning and wailing, and there was a great ceremony to commemorate her passing. All the nobility and all the peasantry and the artisans and servants and priests of the city were there. And during the ceremony, the young noble saw a beautiful lady, so fair and perfect that his heart broke. However, by the rules of the ceremony, he could not speak to her, or her family. He had no idea who she was, or who her family was. So what was he to do?”
“What was he to do?” Briala asked.
“Well, this lad was not so very clever, so he immediately took his problem to the gods—nobles are wont to do these kinds of foolish things, instead of simply trying to solve the problem themselves. He prayed to Mythal for love, to Dirtha’men for the secret of her name, and to Andruil for luck in his hunt for the woman.”
“Andruil would never have granted him that,” Briala interjected, remembering Felassan’s other stories about the gods. Andruil in particular had a vindictive streak.
“No, no, she would not have. She would have laughed, had she heard his prayer, and quite possibly hunted his lady love down herself. But, the point is that none of the gods answered him. So, being a foolish lad, he turned to Fen’harel, who honestly was probably a bit annoyed with this request, and so gave him the kind of answer that Fen’harel is wont to give. He came to the lad’s dreams that night, and can you tell me, what did he say?”
Briala could see immediately the solution. “Kill the Queen’s other daughter, then look for the woman at the second ceremony.”
“There you are,” Felassan smiled. “Of course, it would never have worked—the lad would have gotten arrested, and probably executed, and in any case during the funeral ceremony there would have been hundreds of people there, so who is to say he would have even found her at all?”
Briala considered the story, trying to see what Felassan was telling her. “What stake did Fen’harel have in all this? Why did he answer when none of the other gods did?” she asked at length. “I suppose he had a quarrel with the Queen?”
“Oh, many quarrels. Fen’harel had quarrels with everyone.” Felassan smirked.
“But what has that to do with me?”
“You think like him,” Felassan insisted. “The point of the story is not the noble, or the answer given, it is Fen’harel himself. You are to think, why would he care about this lad? Or the Queen, or hier daughters? Why did he answer, when none of the other gods did? And that is the trick of it. It is Fen’harel’s story, but he has hardly appeared at all. And so, you think like this, you work behind the narrative, your cause unseen and hidden. What does it matter the blood, if you reach your ends?” he shook his head. “But the Dalish do not think like that, da’len. Causes matter, and blood matters.” there was a strange bitterness to his words.
“You said I made two mistakes,” she said. “What was the second?”
“You think of the people as the shemlen do,” he told her. “Blood, eyes, ears, height, language—who cares where they are from, or where they are born? Elves are elves are elves. But the Dalish do not think like that either. You say that they are better off under Celene’s rule. But who are they? The Alienage elves, the Dalish? The elves of the Circles? No, no, a Dalish elf will give you a hundred reasons it does not matter who sits upon the throne.” he shook his head. “Why should they care for the cities? They do not live in them.”
Briala was silent, and they walked quietly, side-by-side.
After a while, a thought occurred to her. “If you are so sure that they will not help...” Briala said with a frown. “Why are we doing this at all?”
“Because perhaps they will surprise me,” Felassan said. “Or they will find the situation as amusing as I do. Who is to say? I am not always right.”
“So you hope to be wrong?”
Felassan’s expression turned melancholy. “Everyone hopes to be wrong, sometimes.” he said softly.
Despite her exhaustion from the travel, Celene practiced her knifework any time they stopped.
Celene was good at knifework. All nobles were at least fair hands at a weapon. They had to be, to survive the Game. Briala knew all the weapons Celene had gone through—longbow, broadsword, shortsword, hand-axe, even a warhammer, before she came to knives as her weapon of choice.
One evening, Briala watched Celene practice. Briala’s own knifework was slapdash and dirty, a peculiar combination of observed noble styles and street fighting. Celene’s was elegant, perfect, entirely noble and not very practical unless one was fighting another noble.
She went through a pattern that Celene’s old etiquette teacher had called the butterfly. She made a mistake in the pattern, a slight error that the governess would never have accepted. She went through the pattern several times, never correcting herself, and eventually Briala could no longer bear it.
“You are off on the second strike,” Briala told her, her arms folded. It was the first time she had spoken directly to Celene, and her chest felt tight.
Celene stopped and turned to face her. “I do not believe so,” Celene said, her voice calm, her daggers held loose in her grasp. “The lead hand parries the incoming thrust, and the back hand slashes over the arm to block an incoming thrust before you move into the throat. Like so:” she demonstrated.
Briala peeled her lips from her teeth in a grimace. She still did it wrong.
“Perhaps,” she said. “Perhaps not. But ultimately, it does not matter. Life is hardly so pretty as all of that.”
“And knifework is hardly pretty, as you well know, so one mistake hardly matters. Who are you to say, in any case? You always preferred archery to knifework.”
“I have used both. Can you say the same?” Celene said nothing, so Briala pressed forward. “What if your opponent is a darkspawn, or a demon? A man with shortswords instead of blades? An Antivan who has learned other knifeworks? What if your weapon is a peasant blade from a butchery, not a silverite knife?” she shook her head. “No, things are not always as perfect as they are in the palace of Val Royeaux.”
Celene sighed and lowered her blades. “Bria...”
“Do not call me that.” Briala turned away, running a hand over her short-cropped hair. “Do not explain why. I do not care to hear it. I know why. I just...” she sighed, and looked over her shoulder, eyes forlorn. “I wish you had cared more.”
Celene’s eyes flashed. “It would have been a locked suite in the palace for a few years, nothing more!” she hissed. “It would have changed nothing.”
“Is that what you think I care about?” Briala snapped. Felassan and Michel were both looking their way, and she lowered her voice. “That is not the problem. Your hair still has ashes in it, for the love of the Maker.”
Celene shook her head. “Our empire can withstand few wars,” she said, her eyes closing in weariness. “I wanted my legacy to be the university, the beauty and culture that made us the envy of the world. Instead, the empire might fall, and I would be the Empress who ruled over while it did.”
“No,” Briala sneered. “Gaspard would never let your precious empire fall. You would be the only ousted Empress, dishonored and forgotten. Another casualty of the Game, like everything else.”
“Believe as you will,” Celene declared. “But you have the luxury of mourning the elves of Halam’shiral. Sitting on my throne, I see all the cities of the empire. If I must burn one to save the rest, I will weep, but I will light the torch!”
“I do not see you weeping now,” Briala said. “Nor do I see you sitting on your throne I do not see that burning anything has helped your empire stay whole.” she shook her head. “With your permission, Your Radiance, I will engage in that luxury of mine.”
Briala walked away, her hands shaking. At length, Celene returned to her forms, and did not follow her.
Felassan came to sit by Briala, who continued to shake.
“Love,” he said quietly, stroking her cropped hair. “What a terrible thing, no?”
“I do not love her,” Briala hissed.
“If you did not, da’len, she would not hurt you so much,” Felassan sounded distant and sad. “But to love a Queen is to accept something terrible.”
“You speak from experience, hahren?” Briala’s voice was soft. “I hadn’t thought the Dalish had queens.”
“No, da’len. Not my experience, at any rate.” he did not elaborate. “It will be well enough,” he told her, voice soft. “All will be well, and all manner of things will be well. In time.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Sometimes one does not have to be sure. One merely has to hope it to be so.”
After a certain point of travel, they came to the end of the forest.
Felassan was unhappy. “We can either skirt the villages and farms and lose time, or cross the farms as quick as we can to get to the edge of the forest,” he said, folding his arms.
“Is it safe to be out in the open?” Celene asked.
“Not particularly.”
“I fear we have little choice,” Michel said. “We would lose a great deal of time going to the east, and in any case, there is a village across the fields where we can resupply.”
“That would have been safe enough at one time,” Felassan said with a shrug. “But that was before Gaspard was on your heels.”
In the end, they went as quick as they could through the fields, and ended up bypassing the village entirely. It took an entire two days, but they got back to the forest with minimal fuss.
It was a clear and cold evening when Felassan cornered Michel.
Briala and Celene were on opposite ends of their camp, as far away from each other as was possible. Felassan, instead of speaking with Briala as he was normally wont to do, instead rounded upon Michel.
“Why do you stay with her?” he asked.
Michel narrowed his eyes. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you speak of,” he sneered. “I swore an oath.”
“An oath, yes, yes,” Felassan waved a hand. “But I see your eyes in the darkness.” a smirk flitted across his face. “They shine. Like Briala’s. Like mine.”
Michel glared at him. “What would you have of me?” he hissed.
“Nothing. Only to know.” Felassan’s violet eyes flashed for a moment. “You abandoned your people, did you not? Why?”
“You are not my people. She is not my people. You are an idiot.”
“No, you are not my people. That much could not be clearer. You must have done it for power, no?” Felassan's voice was idle as he wondered. “A way out of the slums? Round ears and a small nose will get you far, yes?”
“Do not presume to judge me,” Michel hissed. “You speak of what you do not understand. You know nothing of the slums—my life there...” he shook his head. “The Academie gave me honor, and the peace of knowing that if I am true to it, I may die with a happy heart.”
“Honor,” Felassan chuckled. “What a precious concept. You are only true to your honor as long as your secret is kept safe. How terrifying to must be, to spend your life as something you do not believe you are.” his voice softened, a strange sorrow weighing him down. “Heroic battles, and comely maidens following you to your bed—and you enjoy none of it.”
Michel looked away. “You do not know what you speak of. I’ve enjoyed my fair share.”
“Oh, I’m sure. And while you did, you checked every word to make sure no commoner twang slipped through, yes? Hurled ‘knife-ear’ around a little too often, so everyone would know you had nothing in common with the elves?”
“And how easy it must be for you,” Michel shot back. “Walking around with your life tattooed on your face.”
Felassan laughed. “Yes, it must be. For you see this and think that you see all that I am.” he shook his head, and tilted his head back to look at the stars. “Do you know what I’ve been, in my time?”
“A young Dalish elf, who ran through the forest and listened to stories?” Michel guessed.
Felassan laughed again. “Oh, well said,” he smirked, and Michel couldn’t help but feel somehow slighted. “But you are wrong.”
“How so?”
“We do not run. We ride.”
“You say so, but I have never seen one of your halla,” Michel snorted.
“Why would you? The Dalish would not take kindly to the phrase ‘knife-ear.’” again, Felassan’s eyes flashed in anger, and it made Michel want to flinch.
Michel turned to look for Celene, but did not see her. He did not see Briala, either.
“I don’t see either of them,” he said softly, trying to change the subject.
“I do hope they aren’t fighting again,” Felassan said, a concerned pinch to his face. “It upsets Briala so...”
Michel shifted, not sure how to respond to that.
“Or perhaps they have other things on their mind besides fighting,” Felassan sighed. “Ah, young lovers. Foolish, yes? But love does as it wills.”
“Do not be insulting,” Michel snapped.
“Insulting? Hardly. Love is never insulting. Foolish, and hard-headed, and doomed, but not insulting.”
Michel rounded on Felassan, his face red with anger. “If you believe your ward can lure the Empress--”
“Lure the Empress?” Felassan let out an incredulous laugh. “Do you really think anyone can lure the Empress into doing something she does not wish to do?”
“Why would she wish to do—that?”
“I have not the faintest idea. It seems a poor decision to me.” Felassan shook his head. “Truly, Briala should have more sense. To think she could even be tempted, after Celene burned down the Alienage—she needs to meet a nicer young lady, don’t you think?” he contemplated that. “Maybe a mage would do her good...” he muttered to himself.
Michel growled in frustration. “I meant Celene, the Empress of Orlais, sleeping with an elf!”
“Oh, shout it a bit louder, why don’t you?” Felassan rolled his eyes. “Now who’s being rude?” he shook his head. “You mean nothing but to shout ‘knife-ear’ loud enough that all the world knows the mask you wear. Look around you—who is here to care?”
“You know nothing of Orlais,” Michel scoffed. He waved towards the forest. “Perhaps out there, you may lie with whomever you like, but in the court...” he sighed. “It is one thing to have a dalliance with a servant girl, another to take her for a lover!”
“It’s a good thing Celene and Briala cannot stand one another, then, is it not?”
“You just said--”
“So you take my counsel, now?” Felassan raised his eyebrows. “And here I thought I was simply a foolish knife-ear who listened to tales.”
Michel clenched his fists. “You are impossible,” he snapped.
“So I’ve been told,” Felassan continued to smirk.
“I’m going to look for the Empress,” Michel declared, and turned his back on Felassan.
“Take care,” Felassan informed him. “The forest doesn’t always take so kindly to those that travel within it.”
Michel snorted, and left the clearing.
Celene and Briala were neither fighting nor lovemaking. Celene had come to speak with Briala, in the hopes they could come to an accord.
Briala was having none of it.
“What is it you wish me to say?” Celene demanded after being rebuffed by Briala one too many times. “That I am sorry? We both know I am sorry. It changes nothing.”
“It might help if you cared even the smallest bit,” Briala snapped.
Celene threw her hands up in the air. “If I admit to regret, you would pounce upon it and say regret does no good. If I asked you what would do good, you would say nothing. I will not twist in agony because you blame me for their deaths!”
“Blame you?” Briala gaped at her, shocked. “You killed them. Who else am I to blame?”
“It was them, or it was you!” Celene snapped. “I could put down the rebellion, or execute you to quell the rumors!”
“And is that meant to make me feel better? That elves died just for me, just for your--” she hissed through her teeth. “--dalliance?”
“Then tell me, by all means, tell me what I should have done!”
“Found another way!” Briala cried. “You should have found some other way!”
“Are you truly angry at me, Bria, or are you angry at yourself for knowing in the back of your mind I did what I had to do?”
She stepped closer, close enough to touch Briala. Briala's hands were cold.
“I swear to you, if there had been a way that left those elves unharmed, I would have taken it.”
She reached out, her hands delicate and careful like always. There was dirt under her nails and cuts on her skin. She put her hand on Briala's shoulder.
“How long have we been together, Bria? Do you think I never noticed you urging me to sympathy for the elves?”
Briala's stomach twisted, and she took Celene's hand by the wrist and squeezed. Celene let out a gasp of pain and snatched her hand back.
“Bria--”
“Don't touch me,” Briala snarled. “I—I trusted you,” she curled her hands into fists. “I trusted you—I trusted you to make things better!” she shook her head. “You're no different than the rest of them. Gaspard, the chevaliers—you're all the same. Doing everything for your precious empire while real people—my people—starve and die.”
“You--”
The woods gave a terrible cracking sound, and they both jumped, knives out.
“What was that?” Celene whispered.
Briala shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said.
There was another crack.
Celene and Briala both stepped back as one.
“I think we should go back,” Briala said.
“I--” Celene started, but was drowned out by another terrible cracking noise.
Then a tree began to move. It raised its branches, like arms. Then slowly, terribly, it lifted a root out of the ground, as if it were a foot.
“Oh, c’est des conneries,” Celene breathed.
“Absolutment,” Briala nodded, in total agreement. “We need to go back. Right now.”
Celene made no argument, and the pair of them turned and ran.
“I see you have not found them,” Felassan said, as Michel returned to the campsite.
“That isn’t the problem,” Michel said, looking troubled. “I could have sworn I heard--”
He was cut off when Celene and Briala came barreling into the camp.
“Felassan!” Briala called.
“What is it?”
“That--” Briala pointed over her shoulder at the thing following them. A massive tree, it lumbered towards them, making terrible creaking and groaning sounds as it went.
“Oh, fenhedis,” Felassan muttered.
“What is that?” Michel breathed, yanking his sword from its sheath.
“A sylvan,” Felassan’s hands were alight with fire. “A tree possessed by a spirit.”
“Trees can become possessed?” Michel’s sword arm was trembling, and he, Celene, and Briala all moved back while Felassan advanced.
“In the right circumstances, yes,” Felassan said. “Now quiet—or do you think to fell the tree with that dagger?” he looked at Michel’s sword, contemptuous. He raised his hands and threw a fireball at the sylvan.
The sylvan shrieked as it caught ablaze, and the ground under them quaked.
“Felassan!” Briala shouted, trying to keep her footing.
“I am trying!” Felassan snapped, and sent another fireball in the sylvan’s direction, this one white-hot.
The sylvan let out another bellow of rage, and tried to move, but the fire ate at it. It was harder to burn than a normal tree, and kept making awful jerking movements.
One more fire spell hit, and the sylvan fell, smoking and charred.
“Maker,” Michel breathed. Celene, Briala and Michel all stepped forward to try and get a better look, but Felassan put a hand out, forcing them back.
“What poison is the Keeper working?” Felassan muttered to himself, looking over the sylvan corpse.
“What do you mean?” Briala asked.
Felassan pursed his lips. “Well--”
There was another cracking sound, and Celene let out a cry. Felassan cursed, and lit a fire in his hands again as another sylvan came to life behind them. This one was even larger than the first, an ancient oak tree.
“Back,” Felassan said, pushing Briala behind him. “Let me--”
A flaming arrow buried itself in the sylvan, and it shrieked again, the noise piercing their ears painfully. It turned towards whoever had struck it, and another flaming arrow hit it.
Felassan hurled his own fire at the thing, and it made another horrible screeching noise.
Out of the woods came a pair of elves, each holding a bow, and each with the twining vallaslin of the Dalish on their faces. One of them called towards Felassan, who called back, and threw another ball of fire at the thing.
More flaming arrows and more fire spells felled it, and it collapsed in a smoking heap. The hunters both approached the sylvan, the taller one prodding it with the end of her bow. Briala stared at the Dalish hunters with naked awe. Celene seemed wary, and Michel snorted in open contempt.
Briala carefully approached one of the hunters.
“Mas serannas,” she said, stumbling a little over the words. “We owe you our lives, and--”
The Dalish ignored her, and the pair turned to Felassan. One of them spoke to Felassan in Dalish, and Briala could only catch a few words. They had a short exchange, still in that unfamiliar language, until Felassan caught Celene, Michel, and Briala watching him.
“Will you speak Common, at least out of politeness?” Felassan sighed, putting his hands on his hips.
The hunters glanced at each other.
“Felassan,” one of the hunters said, his tongue fumbling with the Common. “You've come at a very, very bad time.”
“Why?” Felassan asked lazily.
The hunters' eyes flicked to Briala, then Celene, then Michel. “Pala,” he cursed. “You can't make it much worse than it already is.”
Felassan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain later,” the hunter snapped. “I need to deal with these lot you’ve dragged here now.”
He muttered something in Dalish to his companion, who bound Michel and Celene’s arms. She moved towards Briala as well, but Felassan snapped at her and she moved away again.
“Come,” the hunter said. “Quickly, now. Before you draw more sylvans here.”
“Before we do--?” Michel was outraged.
“Yes, you. Now, quiet.”
“You said you would explain,” Felassan caught up with the hunter as he walked swiftly ahead, Briala close on his heels. “So, explain. And Common, for my friend here.”
The hunter rolled his eyes, but when he spoke, it was in Common. “We have Coalition elves coming in and disrupting the Keeper's work,” the hunter said in an undertone, so only Briala and Felassan could hear. “An ambassador came by after you left—interested in an alliance with us, and maybe the flat-ears in Halam'shiral.” he jerked his head in Briala's direction. Briala perked up.
“Is that so?” Felassan asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
“The thing is, the ambassador found the Keeper's work, and she didn't like it,” the hunter said. “She and Thelhen had a fight, then she left. Thought we'd seen the end of her, only she came back with three more mages. Said what the Keeper was doing was dangerous...” the hunter bit his lip and shook his head. “A lot of what she said I didn't really understand,” he admitted. “She talked about Keeper Merrill and the Coalition—how what the Keeper was doing would endanger everyone.”
“Keeper Merrill?” Felassan asked.
“Oh, Creators, don't you ever listen?” the hunter rolled his eyes. “Keeper Merrill's the one from Kirkwall. She's the one with the--” he stumbled over himself, his eyes darting to the others. “According to the ambassador, she's their expert on Elvhenan, more than anyone else.” he sneered. “Right. But anyway, she said that what Thelhen was doing was dangerous, and the rest of the Coalition thought so too, so here we are.” the hunter spread his hands. “And we do not have time for any of your nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” Felassan smirked. “Whatever could you mean?”
“Yes, nonsense. Mythal’s mercy, Felassan, can you stop being—you for ten minutes?” the hunter shook his head.
“I see your friends don’t like you much,” Michel muttered.
“Will ‘quiet’ not get through your thick shemlen skull?” the hunter snapped at him. “Anyway, Felassan, you’ve brought this here at a bad time. Just to warn you.”
“It doesn’t seem like any times are good,” Felassan said.
“Well,” the hunter shrugged, and said no more.