Asunder Read Free Page B

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