Chapter 28

~ Blackest Treason ~

The ballroom turns in tight circles, even those not on the dance floor spinning around each other in carefully coordinated steps. My eyes search for Leliana - I need to tell her all about Morrigan, about private messages and missing elves and all manner of tiny secrets I don't quite understand.

But my gaze catches on masks that Josephine has had me memorizing for weeks, so much more vivid and dangerous in person than in flat illustrations. Cullen stands in the same corner that he occupied when I left, arms crossed and shoulders tense as a tall woman with tanned skin and a green half-mask leans close. A pair of young ladies giggle behind hands beside him, and I grit my teeth. He shouldn't be here. I move toward him, hugging the edge of the room.

"...the color of your eyes is a rare thing indeed. I'm sure you hear that quite a lot," the green-masked lady purrs, her lips dangerously close to his skin.

"No. I have never heard such a thing." He leans away, and I know that lean. I know the shadows that lurk behind those lovely amber eyes. I know what it is to fear attention, to shrink from touch.

My stomach turns. I've looked at him like that, I know. I've pulled away from him like that, I know. But he's never done it to me, not once. Even though he has as much cause to fear as I do.

"Surely you know how lovely your jaw is, then."

"No."

"Surely - "

I slip past the last group of whisperers that separate me from Cullen. I'm unsure how much of my anger shows through layered masks of Tranquility and gold, but I'm certain it's more than Vivienne or Josephine would approve of.

"Excuse me, my lady." My voice is sharp and steady, any gentle intonations left far behind. "I must steal away my Commander for a moment."

"My lady Inquisitor," She blinks big eyes behind her mask. "I must regretfully depart, then. Save a dance for me, my Knight-Commander?" she asks, and the tiniest sparks threaten to turn to something more in my clenched fist, for Cullen Rutherford is not a Templar anymore. But Cullen puts a light hand on my back, and his fingers still my readied tongue.

"No, thank you," he says simply. He turns with his hand still on my back, guiding me through the ball room, head low and ready for secret conversation.

"Are you all right?" Cullen murmurs. "I have men in the gardens if you need to make an escape that way, but we can use the balconies or even the front door if we must. I can - "

"Nothing is wrong. I am just checking in."

Muscles unwind under red velvet, and his lips soften under his half-mask. I want to push away the gold filigree that sits so awkwardly on his cheeks, want to steal him away, tell him that he can hide in the library with Cole and the quiet. Except that I need him, this man who would rescue me if something were to go terribly awry, because tonight I prefer to live.

"All well is here," he says.

"Good." I stand awkwardly, and he stands awkwardly and we don't move for far too long.

"What's happened?" Cullen asks.

"I just spoke with one Lady Morrigan, who killed a Venatori agent this evening." I glance at a pair of whispering lords as they pass by in low, clacking heels. I guide Cullen further into the corner.

"What house is Lady Morrigan from?" Cullen asks, his eyes following mine into the crowd. "I don't recall any nobles by that name."

"Not a noble. She is Celene's occult advisor in Vivienne's absence." His brow furrows, but I shake my head. I do not wish to speak of apostates today. "There's something going on with Venatori in the Servant's wing."

"I can alert my men - "

"No. I will go. Do you know where Cassandra is?"

He shifts his weight beside me, but nods.

"Can you tell her to gather weapons and meet me there?"

"You need to be careful."

"I know." We sink into a corner behind a table of tiny cakes, and for a moment, the world feels unmoored, dreamy and unreal, where assassins eat undersized deserts, all danger turned sickly sweet. "I had thought to bring Sera and Blackwall as well."

He nods, eyes scanning the ballroom. "Have you checked in with Leliana?"

"That is where I am going."

"Good." His hand tenses on my back, and I'm reluctant to move away. For a split second, I think that this endeavor is indeed one that his soldiers could carry out. Except servants are going to the kitchens and never coming back, and I won't send men to their deaths for nothing if I am here, if magic courses through my veins. Besides, Venatori could means rifts, and I am the only one who can fight a rift. Only. I take a deep breath.

"Can I…" I want to ask if I can do anything for him. If I can help him escape the fears that Cole murmured to me in the library, but I don't want to say it out loud. I don't want to make it worse. "Will you...will you save a dance for me?"

"No, thank you."

"Oh." A blush heats my cheeks. I'd stumbled into the words before I knew what I was saying, and it was among the worst questions I could have asked. "I am sorry. I would prefer to avoid dancing anyway. I do not know why I - "

"No, I apologize. I've been rejecting the question automatically. I d-don't have much experience - that is - " He clears his throat, and his cheeks darken to rival his coat. "I'm not one for dancing. The Templars never attended balls."

"Right," I whisper. "I must...I must go to Leliana."

"Inquisitor," he murmurs. The title is formal, but he takes my hand softly, as if it were something precious to hold.

"Commander?" I answer. Our eyes meet, and for a split second, the ballroom dissolves into something sugary and unreal.

"Maker watch over you."


The kitchens are a mess of dead elves and bloody hor d'oeuvres. I'm glad I haven't had the stomach to sample any of the food, because surely it would be on the floor by now. Their livery bears the heraldry of noble houses, houses that hated them, that kept them low and expendable.

Little people.

How long has it been since I asked Cullen to dance? Just a few skinny minutes ago, I was blushing while these people lay dead.

Sera spits.

"Gaspard's men, perhaps?" Cassandra whispers. Her sword gleams in her hand, and she holds her shield like she means to use it.

"Or Briala's," Blackwall muses.

"No. The servants were working with her," I whisper.

"Surely not all of them. Perhaps there was an argument - "

"These sods were killed with swords," Sera says. "Can't you see that? Swords. And magic. Nobody gives little people enough swords and magic to do this."

"Venatori," I say. "Setting up a base of operations. Slaughtering any witnesses."

Sera adjusts her grip on her bow, her strong arms bare where she pushed up the sleeves of her tunic. "Whoever it is, let's fill their squishy heads with arrows. Lots and lots of arrows."


There is a dead Council emissary in the gardens. His body lays face down on immaculate pavers, limbs splayed as if he were running away. Ivy and lattice cast delicate shadows on his bloody back, on the knife that bearing Gaspard's crest that stands straight in the center of his back.

The Grand Duke will answer for this, Cassandra growls, but I am silent. The dagger is very obvious evidence for this night of double-speak and misdirection, and I do not trust the bare face of this clue.


"Fancy meeting you here. Slumming in the servants' quarters with the rest of your people for once?"

The hallway is covered in Venatori corpses. It's been a long time - too long - since I stopped to remind myself of the fact that all these assassins are people. Maybe they're little people, like the servants, sent on bloodier errands than making cakes or dusting trophies. But there were so many in these gardens. I wonder how many of them had families to speak of, the kind that write letters, the kind that wait at home.

But in front of me is a living elf, all dark skin and bright eyes and confidence in the face of so very many of the dead.

Briala.

"Shouldn't you be dancing, Inquisitor? What will the nobility say?" she continues, looking directly at me as if there were nothing else to look at in the world. My own eyes dart around me, but Cassandra touches my back and nods as she and Blackwall move to check for survivors. I stand straighter, let myself be the Herald that Vivienne sees.

"Hello, Ambassador," I say simply. She waits for me to continue, but it's my turn to study. At first glance, she looks very relaxed for a person who just lost a great deal of spies. But her left hand tremors at her side, knuckles betraying what her face hides so well.

"Your reputation for getting results is well-deserved," she says. "You've cleaned this place out. It will take a month to get all the Tevinter blood off the marble." She moves to the balcony, and I am grateful for air that doesn't taste like copper and sweat. "I came down to save or avenge my missing people, but you've beaten me to it."

"I am sorry for their loss."

"As am I." She looks me up and down, her eyes catching on my staff and the anchor that glows on my left hand. "So...the Council of Herald's emissary in the courtyard...That's not your work, is it?"

"Of course not."

"I suspected as much. You may have arrived with the Grand Duke, but you don't seem to be doing his dirty work. I knew he was smuggling in Chevaliers, but killing a Council emissary? Bringing Tevinter assassins into the Palace? Those are desperate acts. Gaspard must be planning to strike tonight."

"Someone is, at any rate." I wait for her to contradict me, to insist on Gaspard's guilt. But she just lifts her brow and nods, the barest of smiles clinging to her pretty lips.

"I misjudged you Inquisitor," Briala says. "You might just be an ally worth having."

"Oh?"

"What could you do with an army of elven spies at your disposal? You should think about it."

And for a moment, I do. I picture a network of Briala's people, lifted from lives where they're cut down in kitchens to make room for assassins who never cared about them at all. I want to see elves empowered to fight. I want to uplift eople with ears that match mine. I glance at Sera, but she curls her lip as if the thought of such an alliance smells worse than the bodies behind us.

"We should get back to the ball," I say, and Briala grins.


The four of us creep back through gardens, and when we reach the door back to the ball, we check each other for stray blood stains and little rips in our clothes. Dagna's enchantments have held well, and I remember the light in her eye as she told me all the magic that went into making them work. It feels unreal in a way, to hold Cassandra's hands in my hands, to help her clean blood from beneath her fingernails despite her untouched finery. It feels like being in the Fade. This whole night has felt a little like being in the Fade.

"What are you thinking, Inquisitor?" Cassandra whispers, her eyes darting to end of the hallway. Blackwall has gathered our weapons and stashed them in an ornate vase, one that probably cost more than all our fine weapons put together. It has little red lilies painted on it, as if someone knew it would have to match bloody weapons some day.

"I think that dagger is too obvious. And I think someone helped the Venatori enter the Palace tonight."

"Not Gaspard, then. The elf, perhaps? Briala?"

I wince. Even Cassandra, who calls me friend, who has been so fierce about quelling any racism in the Inquisition, does that. Briala is 'the elf,' first. Before she is a spymaster. Before she is a woman who rose out of poverty. Before she is Briala. I shake my head.

"The Venatori killed her people."

"If the Venatori are her people now - "

"No." I bite my lip, scolding myself for my own certainty. Cassandra closes her mouth, and our hands switch places so she is making sure my hands are presentable for the rest of the night.

"Celene certainly did not invite her own assassins. If not Briala or Gaspard, who?"

"Perhaps she does not know their true purpose." I sigh and pull my hands away, wishing they still didn't feel so very dirty. "Perhaps you are right."

"Inquisitor - " She looks at me like there's more to say, but words die on her lips. A bell tolls in the distance, and she sighs.

"To work," I whisper. Cassandra's expression darkens and her shoulders hunch, clear discomfort returning at the thought of returning to this strange upside-down world of taffeta and gold.


The Duchess Florianne asks me to dance as soon as we return to the ballroom.

My ears haven't yet reacclimated to the glittering timbre of a masquerade full of crystal and voices and false laughter. Fighting was quieter, less unsettling, and my feet don't quite feel like they're touching the ground at all anymore. My hands, outstretched according to half-remember choreography, ache to point at the elven corpses that we left behind.

Perhaps in a moment I will fly away toward the ceiling, a little sparrow unmoored from fancy shoes. Perhaps this will all turn out to be a dream. Perhaps Myrrha is hiding in the shine of a chandelier, her red hair camouflaged by sparkling fire. Perhaps I will wake tomorrow to a truer world, where masks don't hide intentions quite as effectively as they do in this one.

"It took great effort to arrange tonight's negotiations. Yet one party would use this occasion for the blackest treason."

I try not to grit my teeth as we twirl, my knees remembering to bend a fraction of a beat too late. She speaks of Gaspard, of strikes, of her brother's betrayal.

I study her carefully, this ice-white duchess, eyes bluer than sky against snow. It all settles over me, slippery and gossamer as lies. Except maybe everything sounds like lies, now. Maybe she's the most honest woman I've met in hours.

"The attack will come soon."

She whispers that into my ear, breath tickling the point. I must pretend that my ears do not inform her opinion of me, at least until the music stops.

"In the royal wing garden, you will find the captain of my brother's mercenaries."

That last whisper smells like heavy perfume and a trap.


Applause and gossip usher me from the dance floor. I will my cheeks not to heat, for I did not become a capable dancer in those minutes. Not even close. The applause is for Florianne, and more for decorum than an appreciation of artistry or grace.

A hand grips my arm, and frost flies to my hand.

"Inquisitor. A word."

I let out a sharp breath at the sound of Leliana's voice, and I let her usher me to a corner, where Cassandra, Josephine, and Cullen wait.

"What happened in the servants' quarters?" Cullen asks immediately, his eyes traveling over my skin. "I heard there was fighting."

"Yes. There was."

"I hope you have good news," Josephine says. She cranes her neck as she speaks, scanning the crowd for others to look at. "It appears the peace talks are crumbling."

"There are dead elves all over the kitchens."

"Maker," Cullen breathes. "Do you think - "

"It was Venatori. Both Briala and Florianne blame their presence on Gaspard."

"But you are not convinced," Leliana whispers, her voice singsong and alive at the prospect of such a treacherous puzzle. I shake my head.

"I do not know. A council emissary was murdered with a knife bearing his crest, but it seems to obvious."

"What are your thoughts?"

"I think a lot of people are dead. I think the Grand Duchess pointed me toward the Royal Wing, and trap or not, I think I ought to go."

"You might consider some other options," Leliana says. "If the Empress is immune to warnings, perhaps the night could go another way."

"You're not seriously suggesting we let Celene die," Josephine says.

"I am only suggesting - "

"No." I stare right at Leliana, or this version of her that I barely recognize, clad in finery and dripping in the Game. "I came here to save the Empress, and that's what I intend to do."

"Inquisitor - "

"I said, no. None of you saw the future that I did. Even if I wanted to stand aside while someone was killed, I would not risk that future coming to pass. And if you had seen it, neither would you." I lift my chin and hold more defiance in my face than Tranquility.

Leliana is the first to look away.


"You do know this is a trap, don't you?" Sera says. "Because it feels like a trap to me."

I nod. We've freed a would-be double agent for Gaspard from Celene's bedchamber, we've stopped the arranged assassination of one of Briala's own people, and I am feeling much less inclined to ally myself with her revolution. With these three dancing around each other, the only player with enough distance to see a picture that includes the Venatori is Florianne.

"Sword at the ready, then?" Blackwall asks as we turn the corner toward the garden.

I toss my staff to adjust my grip, and Cassandra lifts her shield.

"At your word, Inquisitor," she says.


"Inquisitor, what a pleasure. I wasn't certain you'd attend."

Florianne stands on the balcony above, and soldiers point arrows at our heads. I count them quickly - we're outnumbered, but not overly so. If I put up a barrier as they loose their arrows, we can fight them off.

The anchor sends shooting pain into my palm, and the air in front of us shimmers. Lovely.

"You're such a challenge to read. I wasn't sure if you'd taken my bait."

Sera snorts, muttering under her breath about traps, but I stare right back at Florianne. I am unsure if the comment is a compliment or a reminder of my brand. Either way, I focus on the anchor, let the pain pour power into my hand. I look to Cassandra, and she nods. We all know what that shimmer means.

"Corypheus insisted that the Empress die tonight, and I would hate to disappoint him."

I lift a brow at her. "So you do know who you're working for."

"But of course."

"Then why do this?" I try to picture this pale creature before me in Corypheus' future, clad in butterflies while her eyes turn red.

"For power, of course," she says, as though Corypheus were part of the Game she plays at fancy parties, a thing to flit around on delicate wings. "In their darkest dreams, no one imagines I would assassinate Celene myself. All I need is to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike."

All I can think of are the elven bodies strewn across the kitchen. This is what they died for. For a foolish, pretty thing grabbing for power. I grit my teeth and summon frost to the tip of my staff.

"Kill her," she says, ordering my execution as casually as she ordered the deaths of all those other elves. "And bring me her marked hand. It will make a fine gift for the Master."

She walks away.

The hiss of arrows just barely off a bowstring echoes through this crumbling garden, and I throw up a barrier so they glance away like tossed twigs.

Cassandra holds up her shield beside me, and I hold up my hand to open the rift.


My feet ache from running in my fancy boots as we sprint through empty halls and abandoned bedchambers. A demon broke my mask, and I'm sure my hair no longer holds its carefully arranged curls.

I don't much care about curls or masks at the moment. I care about making sure an agent of Corypheus doesn't spill her cousin's blood in the name of the Elder One. I care about escaping this bizarre world, about getting the smell of perfume out of my nose. I care about escaping this place with my life.

We did indeed find the captain of Gaspard's mercenaries in the garden. It seems Gaspard had planned on killing Celene tonight. How many assassins are we looking for? Sera wondered. I wonder the same thing. This dance between Gaspard, Celene, and Briala feels clumsy and short-sighted now, moves made by people too focused on tiny movements and little lies to see the fervor that spins around them.

We reach the vestibule breathlessly, Blackwall favoring his left side and Sera with a large, bleeding gash above her eye. She spits blood on the marble, shaking her head at the taste.

"Can you two find a healer?" I murmur as we climb the stairs.

"Aye," Blackwall says. "Stitches is lurking by the trophy room."

"Good." I glance at Sera, and she's cursing under her breath, her lip curled into snarl. "Cassandra - "

"I am with you, Inquisitor." I look to her, still wearing her golden mask, tilted eyes bright and angry.


Cullen clings to the edge of the ballroom. When he sees us, he runs over. He puts a hand on my right arm, pulling my hand up immediately. It's swelling, I know. Broken, maybe. I'd hardly noticed.

He says something, but I hardly notice that, either.

"Where is Florianne?" I ask.

"What?"

"The Duchess. I must have a talk with her."

"Inquisitor, what happened?"

"She's going to kill the Empress. I am going to stop her." The statement should feel laughable, but it's starting to feel like the only choice, like nothing else is even the slightest bit possible. He shakes his head, but I can't pay him any attention.

"Aderyn, there's no time."

And yet, there is only one way to proceed.

Maker guide my footsteps, I pray. It's selfish to pray now, after so many weeks of faithlessness. The words feel shaky and unreliable, anyway. Everything that led me here was an accident, but I must stand tall anyway. I must walk with steady legs anyway.

Celene stands on the dais about the dance floor, sparkling from head to toe in blue and gold. Gaspard, Briala, and Florianne stand below, whispering and smiling out lies layered on lies from behind their fine masks.

I walk bare-faced toward them, head held high, brand naked for all to see. My mark flares, the aftershocks of a closed rift birthing green light that flashes against crystal chandeliers.

A hush falls on the court, and I keep moving. From the corner of my eye, I see Cullen pushing through crowds to keep up with me, see the flash of his sword coming free from its scabbard.

"Your grace," I call, as if titles matter any more. All four of them look to me, the Duke and the Duchess and the Empress and the Spymaster. In this moment, both hands hurting, I let go of the crowd. I let go of their opinions about dancing or shoes or masks or hair. My face is streaked with a blur of gold paint long past it's usefulness. My boots are speckled with blood. "What did you say in the garden? You just needed to keep me out of ballroom long enough to strike."

Murmurs skitter between hoop skirts ruffled sleeves, but I look right at Florianne. She looks anywhere but at me.

"Inquisitor," she says. I wonder if she prays behind that silver mask. I wonder if she is like me, if she calls on the Maker when she needs to scrounge for bravery, when she needs to fill herself up. Or maybe she calls to the Elder One, except that Corypheus is not a god. Not yet.

I stand my ground in the middle of the dance floor. It doesn't matter that the others stand above me, looking down. It doesn't matter that I cannot dance in three quarter time. From here, surrounded by all this empty space, I can see.

"You have clearly been through an ordeal," she says, her speech less lilting than it was on the dance floor, or presiding over my presumed murder. "Perhaps I could offer you a bedchamber to lie down in."

"Perhaps if you could find one that does not contain dead Tevinter cultists or assassinated council emissaries, I might accept." I lift a brow at Florianne, and any hint of a smile is gone from her face. "Tonight, you have framed your brother for assassination, invited Tevinter cultists into the palace, presided over the slaughter of dozens of servants, and ordered your archers to cut my hand off my corpse as a trophy. You did all of this so you could murder the Empress.

"I will not allow it."

I turn my palm upward, let the anchor shine. Silence hangs in sugary air, and a world of masks wait impassively while for something to happen. Florianne's arrest, perhaps. Mass chaos, perhaps. My assassination, perhaps. Some responsible human come to cart away the hysterical elf, perhaps. Florianne steps back.

"This is very entertaining. But you do not imagine anyone believes you wild stories?" She turns to Celene, who is still and fine as a statue.

"That will be for a judge to decide."

I try not to visibly relax. Stand tall. Be unnerving. I won't be small. In this moment, for these few minutes, I will be invincible.

I will not kneel.


Hey guys! I didn't die or abandon Addie. I just had a very busy time in the real world. But I'm here now! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and look forward to more soon, because this was almost a really huge chapter and I have some more words scribbled away already.

Thanks for reading. You're all the best.

Be well,

Jorie