For Kiara, tomorrow came all too soon, and with tomorrow came a bevy of maidservants carrying an alarming amount of clothing and cosmetics and hair accessories, flitting about like a charm of slightly-mad hummingbirds. One separated herself from the swarm and introduced herself as Tasia, her new lady's maid.

Kiara laughed. Tasia did not.

"I'm sorry. What in the Maker's name do I need a lady's maid for? I can dress myself, you know. I've managed for years, believe it or not."

Tasia arched an eyebrow and gave her a impudent little smile, flashing a deep dimple in her left cheek. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but… I believe you may be unfamiliar with Starkhaven court fashion. Nobody can dress herself for a formal function. Not appropriately, in any case."

Kiara blanched, wondering if this, then, would be the battle that defeated her. Not an ogre or bandit or blood mage—but a tiny blonde armed with silk and satin and terrifying determination.

"Very good," Tasia said, as though by her silence Kiara had indicated her assent to the approaching makeover. "Tea first, and breakfast, and then a bath. That ought to leave us a few hours."

"A few… hours?"

Tasia laughed then, and never had Kiara heard a more frightening sound. It chilled her to her very bones. It was so… delighted. And sweet. And absolutely in no way going to accept no for an answer. "Don't worry, my lady. I know my work. We'll be rushed a little, but we'll persevere."

"…Rushed." Kiara's voice emerged hardly louder than a whisper. Tasia very pointedly pretended not to hear it. Kiara had a fleeting desire to fling herself back into bed and pretend to be poisoned again—though, in truth, she felt remarkably well-recovered—but before she could act on it Tasia had put a steaming cup of tea in her hands—also perfectly prepared with milk and sugar—and guided her to a table set with breakfast. Three of the effervescent maids were already making the damned bed. She told herself she didn't want to ruin their hard work and tucked in to her bread and fruit and still-steaming oatmeal.

After she'd been fed and watered and expertly bathed—with no shortage of blushes on her part—Kiara perched on the end of her flawlessly-made bed and watched in a numb daze as maids held up dress after dress for her inspection. She, of course, said nothing. Tasia pondered and chastised and yea'd and nay'd until a pile of dresses hung in colorful lines, filling two wardrobes. At one point Tasia looked utterly scandalized and snapped, "Maribel, what is that?"

"A… dress, Tassie?"

"A dress? A dress? Pray tell, what is the trimming on that dress?"

The girl looked confounded. "R-rabbit fur, Tasia. It's very soft."

Tasia sighed, a sound of complete and utter disappointment. "The prince specifically told us, no rabbit! Her Ladyship is allergic to rabbit. Would you like to be responsible for Her Ladyship breaking into hives? Sneezing all through Court? Having to go to bed early with no dancing?"

"Dancing!" Kiara cried, aghast. "No one said anything about dancing."

Unsurprisingly, she was ignored.

Maribel had tears in her eyes. "I'm—I'm so sorry, Tasia."

"Take it away. Ugh, I don't even want to look at you right now. Go! Go, go, go!"

Maribel scurried from the room, toting her rejected confection.

"Sebastian told you I was allergic to rabbit fur?"

"Are you not?" Tasia asked. "Because that really was a beautiful gown."

"No, no I am allergic," she said quickly. "It's just… I had no idea he knew about it."

"Well. He is the prince," Tasia said, as if this explained everything. Perhaps in her mind it did.

Soon afterward, Tasia finished her deliberations. With a single clap of her hands, the pile of rejected gowns was carried away by several of the servants. She looked frightfully pleased with herself. "That will do until you have dresses of your own made, my lady."

"Of my own?" Kiara echoed.

"Other ladies of the court supplied these. They're… on loan, you might say. Even the most determined seamstresses couldn't create a wardrobe like this overnight."

"No. I… suppose they couldn't."

Tasia ignored this, striding back and forth before the open wardrobes in an effortless swish of skirts. Kiara supposed this would be the … completely wrong time to admit she was unaccustomed to wearing the very long gowns evidently in fashion in Starkhaven and held her tongue, silently imagining the inevitable moment she tripped over a hem and landed flat on her face. Light-footed rogue or not. She hoped it wasn't at a pivotal moment during today's presentation, but she… doubted it.

Tasia plucked at one gown and shook her head. "No, too presumptuous to put you in white and gold today, I think," she murmured to herself. "Soon enough, soon enough. The grey would look lovely with your coloring, but… no, we need something more formal. Hmm." All of a sudden the woman stopped, clasped her hands, brought them to her mouth and squealed. Kiara supposed it was meant to be a delighted noise, but it made her want to dart to the window and fling herself out of it, height be damned. "Perfect," the maid whispered. "Oh, perfect, perfect, perfect."

Then the torture began. After only a few minutes, Kiara was utterly broken. She moved when Tasia told her to move, stepped when Tasia told her to step, held her breath when Tasia told her to hold her breath. She bent, twisted, reached, stood with her arms outstretched and in the end found herself with a waist several inches smaller, a bust to rival Isabela's, wearing eight thousand layers of petticoats under a silk gown the precise hue of Sebastian's eyes. She blushed at this, but didn't waste her breath protesting—she knew Tasia wouldn't listen, and her undergarments meant breath was in rather short supply.

The maid led her across the room—and oh Maker was she going to make an ass of herself when she fell over in this cake of a gown to say nothing of the horror of dancing—and propped her in front of the vanity.

"You have lovely hair, my lady," Tasia said. Kiara stared into the mirror, somewhat baffled and entirely out of her element as the girl expertly pinned sections into an elaborate style she could never have duplicated on her own. Between the dress—with its expanse of exposed bosom—and the hair—with its expanse of exposed neck—Kiara felt alarmingly vulnerable.

"T-thank you," she stammered. "I'm… sorry. I'm not used to having such a fuss made of me."

Tasia laughed, as if Kiara had been jesting. "I daresay you'll get used to it, my lady."

"Oh, I doubt that. Besides this is… somewhat beyond the pale. Most days I think it's an accomplishment if I get a brush through my hair."

"Well," Tasia declared, "when you're… well. Like I said, best not presume. But I doubt you'll have to make due without me for some time, my lady."

"My name is Kiara."

Tasia laughed again. "Oh dear, no, my lady. Distinction of rank ought to be preserved or you'll find your servants stealing from you and your peers disrespecting you. I daresay you'll find yourself used to all this soon enough."

Kiara said nothing more, allowing the woman to do as she wished. By the time she was finished—hours indeed!—Kiara stood, stepped close to the floor-length mirror and… stared. She looked like herself, which she hadn't exactly expected, but it was a different version of herself, certainly. A sparkling clean version, with manicured hands and perfectly coiffed hair and the kind of expertly applied cosmetics that looked like no cosmetics at all. And she was embarrassed to admit she was even coming to love the vastly impractical, undeniably gorgeous froth of a gown. Even if it did leave too little of her bosom to the imagination. She was only grateful Tasia had relented and allowed her to wear flat slippers in place of the certain-death heels she'd first set her sights on.

"I look…"

"The word is beautiful, my lady," Tasia supplied helpfully. "Though we would also accept elegant, charming, lovely or even ravishing, if they were on offer."

A knock sounded at the door, but Kiara hardly noticed. One of the other maids darted to answer it. Kiara swished her wide skirts a little and even managed a little spin. "I look like a princess," she told her reflection.

"Of course you do!" Tasia cried, sounding almost affronted. "I told you, I know my work!"

Kiara turned toward the maid to thank her, and found herself instead facing Sebastian. He was wearing white and gold again, but the cut of these garments was more elaborate. A sword with a jeweled hilt was belted around his waist. A thin circlet of gold encircled his brow, and she found herself staring at it intently as color slowly inched its way from her bosom to her hairline. It was not the first time she cursed the fair skin of a redhead, but it was, possibly, the most vociferous.

"You, uh, look very… princely," she offered lamely.

Beside him, Tasia rolled her eyes. "Did you receive my request, Your Highness?"

Sebastian jerked his head away and stared at the maid as though she was an abomination who'd suddenly sprung fully-formed from thin air. In fact, Kiara was certain she'd seen him look less alarmed about suddenly-appearing abominations, over the years. He held his closed fist out to the maid, opened it, and dropped a handful of something into her waiting palms. "It's… what they could find," he said, sounding slightly strangled.

Mostly Kiara was just happy she wasn't the only one Tasia had that effect on.

Tasia curtsied gracefully and approached Kiara with the forthright determination of a groom about to tackle a skittish horse. "My lady, if you would bend down just a little?"

Kiara obeyed and then started when the thing Sebastian had dropped into Tasia's hands turned out to be a waterfall of a necklace made up of hundreds of tiny diamonds and sapphires.

"Now, now," Tasia soothed. "It will be over soon."

And it was. The necklace was heavy, cascading over her collarbones and glittering on her décolleté. She was afraid it brought more attention to her cleavage than less, which did nothing to help the blush—why, why could I not have been born a swarthy brunette?—but it did complete the outfit. And it was pretty. And Sebastian was looking at her again.

"A girl could get used to this, you know," she mused jestingly.

"Of course," replied Tasia. "I told you so."

For an instant, Kiara thought the maid was going to reach up and affectionately pinch her cheek, but instead she only curtsied again and hurried all her hummingbirds from the room. They were gone as swiftly as they'd come, leaving Sebastian and Kiara silently looking at each other.

Sebastian shook his head, offered his arm, and spoke first. "You look—"

Kiara accepted the arm but interjected before he could finish his thought, "—It's too much. It's—I mean, look at me."

"I am," he replied gravely. "And you have the most terrible habit of not letting me finish my sentences. I was going to say beautiful. You look beautiful, Kiara Hawke."

She almost protested, embarrassed, but she remembered her mother telling her accept a compliment when it's offered, darling time and time again and so she took as deep a breath as the boning and corsetry of her gown would allow—oh dear the things that did to her breasts—and said, "Thank you. You, um, wear a crown well."

His smile was wry. "This old thing?"

And because they both laughed then, she felt relaxed instead of terrified.

"Oh," he said suddenly. "I nearly forgot. Here." He produced a slim dagger on a jeweled belt, and when she looped it around her waist, it looked for all the world as if it had been an intended aspect of her costume. "The sheath's ornamental," he explained. "The blade is real. I pray you've no need to use it, but… a bow is rather an conspicuous weapon to bring into a gathering meant to reassure."

More even than the necklace, she felt her heart skip at this. "Oh, Sebastian," she minced, to mask her genuine—and also embarrassing—delight, "you always did know the way to my heart was through weaponry."

He huffed another slight laugh and offered his arm again, and together they walked toward the Great Hall.

#

The doors to the Great Hall were closed, bracketed by guardsmen and trumpeters. Kiara blinked. Perhaps it was only the novelty, but the palace seemed grander than the Viscount's Keep. She tried to remember how she'd felt the first time she'd visited there, but couldn't. It was just a place to her now—a place where Aveline could be found, where work was handed to her, where very bad things occasionally happened. She had no reference point for Starkhaven's palace, yet, except the knowledge—the very alarming, overwhelming knowledge—that it was Sebastian's.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Absolutely not," she replied, aiming for humor. Unfortunately her voice wavered, and instead it came out sounding all too genuine. She glanced slantwise up at him and smiled. "I'm fine. Really. Unless you want to run away right now. I hear Antiva's lovely this time of year. Great wine."

"Tempting," he replied.

Pages pushed the doors open as the trumpeters pulled a melody of strident notes from their instruments. Kiara started forward, but Sebastian placed his free hand atop the one still clutching his arm and shook his head slightly. A herald then stepped forward and cried, "Kiara Hawke, Lady Amell, Champion of Kirkwall. His Grace, Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven."

Kiara's eyes widened when they entered the Hall. It was double the size of the one in Viscount's keep, with vast, vaulted ceilings held up by polished marble pillars. At the far end was a raised dais, upon which stood the golden throne. Behind the throne was a floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting the Starkhaven coat of arms, white samite embroidered with golden threads. Stained glass windows cast pretty, colored shadows across all the white, and the sunlight made the gilding twinkle. Where Viscount's Keep always felt militaristic, Starkhaven's palace was elegant, refined, and—even though she was aware of the danger—the most accurately descriptive word that came to mind was peaceful.

The feeling of peace faded somewhat as Sebastian led them slowly through the crowd, his chin held high and his eyes watchful. He did not smile. All the humor of their moment in the hall was gone. Though no one was brazen enough to point and jeer, a feeling of tension thickened the air, buzzing in her ears with the persistence of an angry hornet's nest. She swallowed, trying to emulate Sebastian's reserve. Mostly she sent up a stream of prayers that she wouldn't fall. The applause was deafening and she couldn't help thinking it would be excellent cover for an assassination. No one would hear the bowstring twang. The hairs rose on her bare, exposed nape. The hornets buzzed and buzzed, and she tightened her hand on Sebastian's arm because what she wanted most was to be clutching a bow. Or to be hiding in the shadows. But they reached the dais without shots being fired, and, more amazingly, without her stumbling. Sebastian helped her climb the steps and then he turned to face the crowd and raised his hands.

Silence fell. Instantly. Even the swish of skirts and shuffle of feet sounded muted. And as hundreds of eyes focused on her, Kiara thought uncomfortably she'd had dreams far more menacing than this waking experience. She wished she still had Sebastian's arm to hold on to, but instead she clasped her hands loosely before her and waited, glad at least her vast skirts hid her knocking knees.

After a moment, Sebastian began to speak. He didn't shout. He didn't have to. The acoustics of the room carried his voice effortlessly. "Lords and Ladies of the Court," he began, "well met. I stand before you now, knowing the past days, past weeks, past years have been tumultuous ones. I know I have been at the root of some of this confusion, and I ask your forgiveness for it. I cannot undo the decisions I made then, but I can seek to make amends now. It is what my father would have wished, and my grandfather before him."

Kiara didn't turn to stare at him, though she wanted to. She listened. And as she listened, she realized—perhaps even for the first time—that Sebastian knew this world. He belonged in it. He did not tremble as he looked out over the sea of faces and coiffures and finery; he'd seen it all his life. Perhaps he'd found sanctuary and even home in the Chantry, but this was as much a part of him as that.

He spoke clearly, evenly, truthfully about the events he'd witnessed in Kirkwall, and about the role he'd played in them. He explained that the Chantry's destruction had not been the work of all mages, but of a group of a few rebels, led by a man who'd allowed vengeance to color his decisions. "I wish you to understand the import of this," he said, "because it concerns the woman standing before you now. Not a week ago, she was nearly assassinated, nearly held to account for crimes she did not commit. If there must be blame, lay it where it belongs, at the feet of the mage Anders. He is not welcome in Starkhaven. Not now. Not ever. But no one, no one else is to be punished for his crimes. Not all mages. Not Kiara Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall has fought tirelessly, at great peril to herself and sometimes at great personal cost, to right the wrongs she sees in the world. You will accord her with every respect you would give me. She is under my protection. To insult her is to insult me. To wound her is to wound me. And to wound me is to wound Starkhaven. It will not be borne."

A ripple of activity and sound swept through the crowd at this, but still no one rushed the dais with a blade and no arrow sang as it arced toward them. Kiara noticed shocked expressions on some faces, and horrified ones on others, but still more seemed… reassured. Pleased, even. Satisfied. Hopeful.

He is their prince, she thought. They've been wanting him to speak to them like this for years.

"And so I present Kiara Hawke, Lady Amell, Champion of Kirkwall to you. I present her to you, and with this presentation I offer a warning: today, and only today, will I allow you to speak against her. Voice your concerns. Ask your questions. But after today, I will have none of it. If I hear whispers or rumors I believe have come from you, I will act upon them as I would act upon all traitorous deeds. She is no prisoner here; she is not a criminal. She will not be treated as one, or hidden away, or scorned, or accused of crimes she had no part in committing. She is an honored guest in our Court, and you will all treat her thus. Do I make myself understood?"

Kiara understood. No one spoke.

Then, and only then, did Sebastian offer a smile. It was warm and inclusive and genuine and she found herself believing in him. It was the oddest sensation. She wanted to follow him, wanted him to protect her the way he sought to protect his people, his principality. And, apart from anything else, was was glad—in that moment she was unabashedly glad—he'd taken up his birthright after all. No matter what else it meant, she was glad.

"I've put you on the spot, I know," he added gently. "Speak to me this evening, if you would speak at all. Tonight is a night for free discourse, without fear of repercussion." Some of the tension dispersed at this, as though the entire room heaved a silent sigh of relief. "Mark me, however: there shall be no violence. I will have no more bloodshed in these halls. And now you shall meet her, and dine with her, and speak with her. I trust you will learn, as I have done, that she is a woman to be respected, to be admired."

They did not have to walk through the crowd again; a convenient passage behind the throne allowed them to escape to a pleasant, quiet antechamber. Thoughtful servants had set out a plate of food and a carafe of wine. Kiara's stomach growled, reminding her she'd eaten nothing since the breakfast Tasia had forced upon her hours earlier.

"I suppose we'll know more after dinner, and after the Steward briefs me about the things said behind my back," Sebastian said, offering her a glass of wine. "But I think it went remarkably well, all things considered."

"Because no one tried to kill us?" She ate three perfect strawberries in rapid succession, followed them with a sliver of exquisite cheese, and decided she was going to be quite put out if her constrictive undergarments kept her from devouring a single morsel of such delightful food.

"That is setting the bar rather low, but aye. And now we eat, and speak, and mingle, but mostly we listen. People give more away during a dance than at any other time."

"No one said anything about dancing," Kiara groused. "I was recently poisoned. I think that should excuse me."

Sebastian smiled. "Oh, something you'll learn about Court functions: there's always dancing. No one wants to do it, and everyone must."

"That's… stupid."

The smile widened into a grin. "No one said it wasn't."

She paused, another strawberry halfway to her lips. "Thank you for your words in there. I… it meant a great deal to me."

"I spoke the truth."

She lowered her eyes. "Still. After what Anders did, I forgot about the other things. The good things. And I thank you for reminding me. And for… vouching for me."

He was silent a while before saying, "Power can be a weapon in the wrong hands. It can be used to cause great harm; we have both seen it done, time and time again. But it can also be a gift. We will use it for good, Kiara. We will set things right."

"The curious thing is that I believe you."

"You should," he replied, swallowing a strawberry of his own. "I am entirely in earnest."

"Do we… have to go in now?"

Sebastian's laugh was low and pleasant as he sat in one of the chairs and leaned back. "Maker, no. The single most valuable advantage of being Prince is possessing the right to a fashionably late entrance. Eat your strawberries."

#

Kiara ate and mingled and nursed a single glass of wine, and all the while she listened. Kirkwall was mentioned often enough, and not just by people awkwardly asking her questions about it—though there were plenty of those, too. She had known—of course she had known—the cataclysmic destruction of the chantry would have far-reaching implications. To hear it spoken of in Starkhaven, the foolish games of Exalted March she'd played with Carver and Amelle as children were soon to become reality.

"Is it true," asked one woman, whose hair towered above her, shaped into the improbable likeness of a birdcage complete with tiny silk birds, "you stand against the Chantry, my dear?"

Kiara didn't say 'I'm not your dear' nor did she punch the woman in her upturned nose. Instead she smiled as gracefully as she could manage and replied, "On the contrary. Unfortunately the former Knight-Commander had become… compromised. She would not be reasoned with. And as too often happens with unreasonable people, the altercation ended in violence."

The woman turned pale under her cosmetics. "Well, I would hardly know about that."

Kiara blinked innocently. "Isn't that why you asked me? I would rather have ended things peaceably—as the Chant says, 'Blessed are the peacekeepers.'"

The woman fluttered her fan so violently that all the little birds danced in her hair. "You know pieces of the Chant, do you?"

"A great deal of it, yes. I am devout, but not a zealot."

"Well. Well."

Kiara was rescued—though rescue was a debatable word—by a gentleman asking her to dance. Sebastian was right about that much—men did love to chat while they swirled her about the floor. Listening to them was made difficult by the concentration required to follow steps she did not know, but she managed.

"You have… heard about our mage trouble, then?" asked one young courtier, whose voice trembled and whose palms were sweaty.

"As far as I can tell your mage trouble doesn't involve mages," she replied succinctly. "It involves people mistakenly believed to be mages, and it involves troubling overreaction from a populace submitting to fear."

The young man blinked his dozy, dark eyes and replied, "You do speak your mind, my lady."

Her feet were hurting and her back was hurting and she was growing very tired, so she did not bother with nicety. "And I always shall. I'm also a killer shot, have been known to punch annoying individuals in the nose, and don't think every mage should be locked up because they have a drop of power in their blood. Maker, look at your own people. It's not magic making them act like monsters." A blotchy blush spread over the courtier's cheeks. With a sweet smile, she added, "And I dueled the Arishok. With a bow. That's a true tale. Feel free to spread it about." She gave a light shrug—more to ease herself away from his moist hands than anything else—and simpered, "I hope I don't offend, my lord."

On the contrary, his eyes woke up a little, and he gazed at her with an oddly disturbing mixture of terror and lust. He licked his lips and seemed about to speak again when she was once again rescued, this time by Sebastian.

"If I may, Lord Tyrin?"

The young man dropped his hands, bowed, and hastily backed away, never quite taking his eyes from her.

"Are you making friends, my lady?"

"Sweaty ones," she replied gloomily. "And ones with birds in their hair."

Before she could protest, Sebastian swept her into the dance. His hands were firm against her, but supportive, and blessedly dry. Her breath caught a little. He smelled of soap and sandalwood with the faintest undertone of bow resin. She couldn't help being surprised at how… well he moved, given his years away from all this. She doubted many Court dances where held in the chantry dormitories of an evening. He smiled reassuringly and she glanced away, embarrassed by the pang of impossibility abruptly twisting her stomach and making her regret her earlier appetite.

Bending his head close, he said, "I am concerned I hear nothing of those who must have helped the pretender find his place."

"The one who says he is your brother?"

Sebastian nodded, maintaining the mask of a somewhat indifferent expression as he followed the music and changed their direction across the floor. "He refuses to talk. And no one whispers about him. That in itself is strange. Even Corwin hears nothing. It is… it is as though he appeared from nowhere, wearing his dead man's face. But I know he must have had aid. He must have."

"Do you suspect… magic?"

"It… hadn't occurred to me to do so. Starkhaven's Circle has been gone for years."

She gave him a sad smile. "What I've learned is that you may be the only person in Starkhaven who isn't blaming everything from crop prices to illness to rainy days on mages."

"That does concern me as well. You know it does. I-I would not have thought Starkhaven so like to fall to prejudice."

She nodded, but still felt ill at ease. It seemed wrong to have eaten a fine dinner and be dancing in a golden hall whilst people outside feared for their lives, feared being named mage, feared being hauled before a mad tribunal of their peers and burned for fictitious crimes. She nearly stumbled, but Sebastian caught her. "There is another benefit to wearing this crown," he said mildly.

"Oh?" she asked, unable to keep the distraction from her tone.

"Now I've put in my appearance and done my duty, I can leave. And you may leave with me."

"Thank the Maker," she whispered fervently, and he chuckled.