25 Kingsway


Well, that was anti-climactic, Cullen thought, as two of Kirkwall's finest hauled Gregor Thompkinson up the stairs to the main house.

Whoever had built the estate had clearly been a long-standing member of Kirkwall's nobility, with the sharply-honed sense of paranoia that went with the position. The enchanted doorway was only one of the secret entrances to the cellar. Another had been behind the false wall, which under the impact of Aveline's boot had revealed itself to be no more than chips of stone mortared onto a hinged wooden pallet.

It was to this second exit Thompkinson had fled when they'd opened the enchanted door, leaving his guards and his mage ally to face the music. Unfortunately for him, in his panic he'd dropped both his lantern and the key to the solid oaken door on the other side of the hidden room. Aveline had simply stalked over to the plump, dishevelled figure grovelling on the floor, trying to find the key by touch, and kicked him hard enough in the backside to knock him face-first into the wall.

The oaken door revealed another set of stairs, the lack of dust showing they were well-used. The Bull led the way up them, Cullen close behind, the rest following — but the stairs simply let out into an outbuilding used, by the look of it, to store supplies for Thompkinson's dungeon as well as to shelter his access to it.

They returned down the stairs, to find that Aveline had already extracted from Thompkinson the information that there were no other guards closer than the gatehouse, and no other girls held elsewhere on the premises.

"I didn't even need to hit him," Aveline said with disgust as two of her men seized the prisoner and began to drag him toward the stairs.

"Pity," the Bull rumbled.

"Exactly," Aveline said tightly. "Did you see the room on the second floor, at the back?"

"Yes," the Bull said. Cullen raised an eyebrow, and the Qunari shook his massive head. "You don't want to know. Believe me."

Back in the foyer of the house, Aveline sent a squad to take care of the gate guards with instructions to send a rider to the city as soon as it was clear for wagons to transport the women they'd freed. Then she turned to where they huddled together, eyeing the armed men around them with suspicion and fear. "You're all safe," she said. "The man who did this is under arrest. Those of his guards who survived the fight are, as well. We're arranging to take you back to the city, where you'll be fed, and sheltered, and give your statements. But first — which one of you is Jean Hanmount?"

A small silence, and then a voice with the unmistakable flat vowels of Denerim said, "Who wants to know?"

For some reason — probably the brandy he appropriated — Alistair seemed to find that extremely funny. Cullen ignored his giggles, and took a step toward the women. "Jean. Thomas is safe."

"Of course he's safe," Jean — for it had to be Jean, with that accent, without a question as to who Thomas might be — said, stepping forward. Her resemblance to Killeen was slight, but there: the features more delicate, but the same wide flexible mouth, and those unmistakable eyes. "He's been adopted by a rich family."

"Ah —" Cullen paused. Better to break it gently, a piece at a time. "No, he … hasn't been adopted. Killeen is taking care of him, until you —"

"Killeen?" Jean said incredulously. "What's Killeen doing with my son?"

"Resh-cuing him fr'm blood mages in Darktown, f'r one," Alistair said from his position propped against the wall.

"Blood mages?" Jean said, eyes shocked and wide.

Cullen's voice rode over hers. "Darktown?"

"Not v'ry good blood mages," Alistair said with a careless wave of his hand. "Sub-par sac-rasm."

Cullen crossed the room without thinking about it and took the other man by the upper arm. "Darktown?" he demanded again.

"Ouch," Alistair said. "Yes, you know — twisty tunnels, bad smell, people going stabbity-stab. Darktown."

"Didn't mention that, did she," Aveline said from behind Cullen, sounding amused.

"No." Cullen released Alistair and the man sagged back against the wall. "No, she did not."

"Charged off like she was the Champion herself, only even Hawke was never reckless enough to go into those tunnels alone," Aveline said.

"Alone," Cullen said flatly. "In Darktown."

"She had me!" Alistair protested. "Not eniter— entirely useless. Once I caught up."

Cullen ran his fingers through his hair. "Maker's balls."

"Stop talking about my blighted sister," Jean said sharply, "and go back to the bit about the blood mages."

Cullen blinked, trying to find the right words past the mental image of Killeen disappearing headlong down one of the twisting staircases that led down into the under-city, the bright glimmer of her mail and the smooth cap of her hair vanishing forever into the dark … he felt a clutch of near-panic as if she were, at that instant, making that insanely foolish decision, a surge of utter fury at her recklessness, her carelessness with a life that meant to very much to him.

"Madame de Follette sold him," Aveline said bluntly. "Like she sold you. For different uses, but the same end."

"I don't believe you." Jean lifted her chin haughtily. "I wasn't sold, I was hired."

"Most employers don't lock their staff in the cellar," Aveline said.

"That was for our safety!" Jean said, and there was a murmur of agreement from a few of the others. "We weren't locked in! You were locked out!" Her eyes narrowed. "And how do we know you're really the Kirkwall Guard, anyway?"

"She is, Jean," one of the women said nervously. "That's Captain Aveline."

"Narcissa, is that you?" Aveline asked, and a small, blonde girl came forward hesitantly. "Flames, Narcissa, I didn't even know you were missing! You mother said you went to your aunt's."

Narcissa nodded. "That's what we told everybody. When I —" Her hands rested on her stomach. "Captain, my little girl — Madame de Folette had her adopted, too."

"We found some children," Aveline said, "some of them girls. They're being looked after. We'll take you to see them."

Narcissa nodded, eyes filling with tears.

"If you think I'm going anywhere with you after you break in here and kill people," Jean said, "then —"

"Shut up," Aveline said bluntly. "I've had your sister turning my city upside down looking for you and some of my people have been hurt in the process. You're coming back to Kirkwall, willingly, or bound and gagged and tossed in the back of a wagon. I don't actually care which."

"I don't think I like —"

Aveline turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Jean with her mouth open. Cullen found himself drawn along beside the Guard Captain, her grip firm on his elbow. "Flames," she said, "as stubborn as Killeen but without the brains. The gate should be clear by now. Take your associates and head back to Kirkwall, let Killeen know her sister's safe and she'll be able to see her tomorrow."

"When were you going to tell me about Darktown?" Cullen asked.

"I'm not her mother, nor yours," Aveline said, "so watch your tone. I appreciate your help tonight — that Vint needs his leg looked at, by the way — but if you've got something to say, say it to Killeen."

I have something to say, all right.

Cullen gathered the others, located mounts from among those ridden in by the Guards, and they started back toward the city. The borrowed horses were nowhere near the quality of mounts from Master Dennet's stable, and Cullen felt his anger grow with each jolting mile, each frustrating interval of walking to spell the horses. In the first, Cullen reined his mount back beside Alistair's and extracted the rest of the details from him — details which did nothing to cool his temper.

He needed to see Killeen, alive and unharmed, to prove that his memory of her striding out the door to the stables, face glowing with the anticipation of being reunited with Firefly, was truer than his imagination of her taking a knife in the back in the dim nightmare of Darktown — needed to hear her agree with him that she had been unutterably, unbearably foolish, that she would never, ever make such a mistake again — and the horses, the Blighted ill-conditioned, under-bred horses, could not take the pace his heart demanded.

The Bull tried to engage him in conversation once or twice, when the pace of the horses allowed, but Cullen gave only the tersest of answers and eventually the Qunari gave up.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, until finally the city walls loomed ahead. A further infuriating delay as the gate guards dithered over opening them at such a late hour, the Bull's massive horned shape no doubt contributing to their reluctance.

Andraste give me strength. "Light, Dorian," he snapped, and the mage unslung his staff and raised it above his head, the orb at the end brightening until Cullen could see his shadow cast against the gates as clearly as if it were full day. He stood in the stirrups and turned so the guards could not but help have a clear view of his face. "I am Commander Ser Cullen Rutherford!" he bellowed. "Open in the name of the Inquisition!"

"That's him, all right," he heard one guard mutter to the others. "Knight-Commander Cullen."

"Your fame precedes you," Dorian said, letting the light fade. "Or follows, in this case, I suppose."

"If it opens this gate, I little care which," Cullen snapped.

Bolts scraped, the gates creaked open. As soon as the gap was wide enough to admit him, Cullen spurred his weary horse through, leaving the others to catch up as they could. Hooves clattering on the cobbles, the Guard horse made a last weary effort and raised a jolting trot along the curve of the street that all vehicles and animals had to take to reach Hightown, coming to a halt outside the Hawke Estate when Cullen drew back on the reins.

He swung down and hammered on the door. "Dalish! Rocky! Open!"

Hoof-beats behind him — a glance showed him horns, the flicker of the wall-sconces lighting Dorian's unmistakable profile beside the Bull. Cullen turned back to the door and pounded on it again. "Stitches! Open this Blighted door!"

The grille slid back with a clang and then he heard the bolts, the key — the second the lock snicked open he thrust the door open and strode in.

Killeen stood there, mail coat half-unbuckled, sword belted at her waist, hair dishevelled and a crease from her pillow tracking sideways across her cheek to bisect the pale scars of the abomination's claws.

Alive, unharmed — and yet the irrational fear that had dogged him on the road didn't lift, as if she might be but an illusion of the woman he loved, some creature of the Fade while Killeen herself lay somewhere beneath Kirkwall's streets, life spilled by some footpad's knife —

She was but an arm's length from him and yet he didn't dare raise a hand to touch her in case his fingers met nothing but air.

Then Killeen moved, grabbing the collar of his coat and pulling her toward him. Cullen covered her hand with his own, stepping into her, and her fingers beneath his were warm and strong and real. He seized her in his arms, crushing her to him to feel the solidity of her body despite the armour that encased him, thinking this is real, this is true, she's alive, damn her for a Fade-touched fool — her lips were warm and soft beneath his, her mouth tasted of wine and spice as he kissed her hard, plundering her mouth …

She arched against him, tongue stroking his — and then tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his mouth from hers, glaring at him.

"Where in the Fade have you been?" she snapped.