Sebastian had three stacks of paper on his desk: to do now, to do yesterday, and should have been done last week. In the war between him and the paperwork, it was clear paper was dominating the field. Putting his head in his hands, he dug his fingers into his scalp and groaned.
"Now, Highness," murmured Corwin from the doorway, "one thing at a time. Let me see."
The Steward took the should have been done last week pile in hand and flipped through the stack. "Aye, no, no, aye, sign this, this, this, and this one here," he said at last.
"How do you know?" Sebastian asked, baffled. "It seems impossible to say no to anything. They all sound so sincere."
"They are all sincere, Highness. But your resources are finite. You haven't learned the boundaries yet; do not fret, it will come."
"I'm… not cut out for this, I'm afraid."
Corwin smiled, picked up the second pile of papers, and gave them the same brusque treatment. "Ahh, for a sovereign every time I've heard those words. I'd be a wealthy man indeed."
"My grandfather… my father. Surely they never—"
"They were men, Your Highness, as you are a man. With limitations and fallibility and doubts. You are doing a fine job. Better to care too much than too little, as with the princes since your father. Caring will always serve you well, but you mustn't let yourself be taken advantage of. People will always try." He waved a piece of parchment. "As this fellow is attempting to do."
Pulling his hands from his hair, heedless of the disarray left in their wake, Sebastian lifted his quill and began signing his name to the pages Corwin placed before him. What had seemed a daunting, impossible task became—if not pleasurable, at least bearable.
After three hours shut up in his office with his Steward and countless pots of strong tea, Corwin began shuffling the papers into new piles and said, "Enough for now, Highness. Even princes must rest. We've accomplished enough for today."
Sebastian protested, but weakly.
"Come now, my lord, your people must see you out and about, or they will wonder and they will question and they will worry and they will talk. Your father hunted, trained, played with his sons, took walks with his wife. Your grandfather spent at least as much time with his fiddle as he did with his paperwork. It is never all petitions and paperwork, no matter how these last days have been spent. The pretender prince appears to have spent all his time drinking and dancing and spending money that wasn't his to spend. We are behind. Once things are caught up, this will all become far more manageable. I promise you."
Sebastian chuckled. "Your assurances give me hope."
"The Vaels have managed for six generations, Highness. I daresay you're equal to the task. Now. Might I suggest fresh air? Best to keep to the palace until the city's calmer, but perhaps you might show the Lady Hawke about the grounds. She is a stranger here, after all."
Sebastian gave the man a wry smile. "Ahh, proof you don't know her, Steward. She's probably already been over the palace from dungeon to turrets to gardens, turning over every book and looking into every cabinet as she went, and Andraste be with anyone who dared attempt to stop her."
Years of holding a position where discretion was paramount kept Corwin's surprise limited to the startled twitch of one spindly, white eyebrow. On another man the expression would have been equivalent to widened eyes and a dropped jaw.
Sebastian's smile widened into a grin as he rose and stretched the kinks from his back. Too much sitting. "It's not an honorary title, Champion of Kirkwall," Sebastian added. "She didn't earn it for her talent at embroidery."
Corwin smiled fondly at this. "I would not have thought so, Highness. She's an archer?"
"How did you—?"
The Steward chuckled as he stoppered the ink and gathered abandoned quills. "Your family has long employed me as a watcher and a listener, young Vael, and not merely as an organizer and a paper shuffler. I observed the callouses on her hands, the muscles of her arms—especially her forearms, and the way she carries herself. She is too… present to be an apostate mage; too lithe and light-footed for a swordswoman. At the presentation, she seemed uneasy with the knife you'd given her. She is an archer."
Sebastian was certain his face manifested surprise far more obviously than the Steward's did, but he didn't attempt to mask it. "I am not certain we pay you enough, Corwin."
"I am always willing to accept an increase in wages, my lord." Though he spoke the words lightly enough, the Steward's expression shifted slightly toward concern and he added, "Before you depart, I… wonder if I might speak to you."
Sebastian leaned against the desk, tilting his head in silent query. "Have I made an unforgivable social gaffe? Did I slight someone last night? I did try to at least greet the principals."
"No, no, neither. Nor does it concern your worries about Lady Hawke's safety or the mage trouble in the city, no. Well, not directly."
"What then? The pretender? These whispers of an Exalted March being called against Kirkwall—perhaps even against all the Free Marches?"
Corwin shook his head. "Not so dire. It is… you must have a coronation, Your Highness. Not secretly, silently, as Goran and the pretender did. Especially with things as they are, you must consider wooing your people a little. Make it a feast day. A great event. Something for them to plan and remember and love you for."
Sebastian waited for the man to say whatever it was that was truly troubling him, but Corwin fell silent. "I intend to," Sebastian said, raising the end of the sentence into the hint of a question. "There's something else."
Corwin looked practically discomfited, and Sebastian found himself nearly squirming in response. "Forgive me, Prince Sebastian, if I offend. I wonder… you see, you are…" Corwin coughed uncomfortably.
Sebastian grimaced. "Maker, man! Spit it out. Speak your mind."
"You have no heirs, Your Highness."
Sebastian blinked. "I have no wife. Of course I have no heirs."
"Aye, Your Highness. And you are, forgive me, no longer as young as you once were. Your father—"
The weight of realization twisted his gut. "Had three sons by the time he was my age."
Sebastian wasn't sure what he'd been expecting—news of a new Blight, an Exalted March on his doorstep, flood, famine, pestilence, plague—but it certainly hadn't been… this. Though it pained him to speak the words, he added, "And you fear the people will see me as another temporary measure, a priest prince who will allow the Vael line to sputter and die. You think it will make them restless, and will keep them from feeling secure with me on the throne."
Corwin nodded reluctantly, and Sebastian sighed as the dull throb behind his eyes promised to become a headache of monumental proportions. Pushing his thumbs to his temples, he inadequately attempted to massage the pain away.
The Steward coughed again. "Your Highness, although I know it is a subject of the most personal nature, I wonder if you have considered—"
Sebastian interjected before the man could finish his thought, "—Maker's blood, Corwin, I've done nothing but consider things since my family was murdered. I—and the Maker, may He forgive me—know my responsibilities." After an uncomfortable pause, Sebastian added, "I suppose you're concocting some kind of… list? Of appropriate… candidates?"
At this Corwin's eyes did widen. "I… am not sure I believed it would be necessary, Highness. She is perhaps a trifle rough around the edges, and certainly she plays none of the Court's little games, but I think she suits you quite well. And she is titled. That will make things… easier."
A faint flush infused the Steward's cheeks, but it was nothing to the heat in his own. "You already have someone picked out, then?"
Corwin's mouth opened and closed twice as the Steward struggled to find words. Finally he managed, "Why, I—thought you had, Highness."
"I've only been back a week, and most of that time has been spent worried half to death about—oh. Oh. I see."
Sebastian clutched the edge of his desk until his knuckles whitened and his bones ached. Corwin had the grace to avert his eyes. "Forgive me, my lord. I have overstepped."
The Steward bowed and made his exit, leaving Sebastian to his swirl of troubled, uncomfortable, impossible thoughts. He almost wished for more paperwork, just for the distraction. Instead, he chose the better option: he lifted his bow, and let his rapid, long stride eat the distance between his study and the practice yard.
#
Even before he exited into the training yard, Sebastian knew he wasn't going to find the solitude he longed for there. A crowd cheered—he supposed the guards were staging an impromptu sparring match or mock battle of some kind. He hoped they wouldn't ask him to participate. He hated the bloody sword. Always had. And getting stabbed through the chest with one hadn't done much to improve his opinion, frankly.
Clearly, by the sound of things, a favorite was winning. The sunlight blinded him a moment, and he put his hand up to shield his eyes. When the brightness faded he could only stare at the source of all the commotion.
Kiara stood at the center of a growing crowd, flushed, laughing, head thrown back and bow in hand. This, however, was not even the strangest part. Instead of her customary leathers, she was wearing one of the confectionery court gowns, vastly inappropriate to the activity. The hem was inches deep in mud, and sweat had darkened the sunshine-yellow silk. Whatever style her hair had worn was lost to sweat-damp curls and fallen tendrils.
As he watched, still unnoticed by the crowd fixated on her, she paused, considered, and aimed. An arrow flew to pierce the heart of a flower held aloft by a nervous-looking soldier fifty paces away from her.
The crowd roared.
Part of him wanted to roar with them. Part of him wanted to flee. Corwin's words and all they represented, all they'd stirred within him, everything he'd sought so hard to repress and avoid for so long, were too fresh in his mind. Those words had opened a door he'd thought safely locked. He'd turned the key himself years ago—no. No, Kiara Hawke had turned the key. He remembered the moment exactly; he was embarrassed to realize it still ached. It had been one of their discussions about his… future. The one where he'd more or less made the decision to stay in the Chantry. She'd said, "You're wise to stay here. No one trusts a man who breaks his oath." She hadn't hesitated. She hadn't required so much as a moment to… consider. Before that… it would be a lie to say he'd not had feelings for her. A part of him—the part that wore his Brotherhood like a too-tight shirt—had been instantly attracted. To her looks, certainly, but also to her intelligence, her determination, her kindness. In his arrogance, he'd even thought her a little partial to him, once upon a time.
But then she'd all but insisted he stay where he was, and he certainly hadn't had the heart to ask her how she truly felt about the recent… shift in his priorities. He was afraid she would always see him as an oathbreaker. An oathbreaker who'd left her in her hour of greatest need, no less. He was grateful she had forgiven him enough to embrace friendship, but he knew there could be no more between them, no matter what his feelings. No one trusts a man who breaks his oath. And without trust there could be no love. He knew that. It stung.
But of course Corwin had known none of this when he'd spoken. It… could not surprise Sebastian that the man had observed his partiality. He had thought it hidden better, but nearly losing her to the Maker's Light had unhinged him, had loosened the mask. Certainly enough for a man observant enough to note a calloused hand and muscular forearm to see the truth.
He was just turning to leave when he heard her voice call out, "Sebastian! Oh, how wonderful! Come, show them how it's done."
Caught, he faced her. His cheeks felt hot and his palm was abruptly sweaty against the grip of his bow. "I—hadn't intended to—"
She laughed again, and he steeled himself because it… it hurt. Corwin wasn't wrong, after all. He would have to marry, and soon. Likely one of the sweet, perfectly acceptable, perfectly fitting young ladies who'd smiled at him so beguilingly last night. So hopelessly. A girl he'd feel nothing for, who would never hold a candle to the woman now beckoning him to cross the courtyard, with one hand on her hip and her bow in the other, hair like fire in the sun, with her pert retorts and her infectious amusement and her impish smirk.
He felt sorry for that poor girl he'd have to marry. Oh, she'd be Princess, and mother to future generations of Starkhaven rulers, but no one—no one—would have his heart while his heart knew Kiara Hawke was in the world. He would strive to be kind to the girl. He would try not to make the inevitable comparisons. He would try. And try and try.
He had a feeling he would fail.
"You're carrying your bow and you're in the practice yard," she retorted, grinning. "You can't fool me. Are you afraid of a little audience? I know it's been ages since you practiced properly. Afraid I'll show you up?"
Her smile went even more mischievous and he felt his stomach drop. He knew that look. He'd seen it before. It never went well for him.
Kiara threw her arms wide, making everyone her accomplices as she cried, "My friends, it appears we have a shy prince on our hands. Whatever can we do to entice him to join us?"
A little page standing nearby looked up at him with wide eyes. "Won't you, Your Highness? She was saying how… she was saying how good you are, before. She said you were the best."
Sebastian rubbed the back of his neck reflexively, cursing—any number of things, really. Corwin. His bow. Anders. The big-eyed page. Kiara Hawke's smile.
"Still he hesitates," Kiara intoned, and he had to admire her performance. Her audience was riveted, hanging on her every word. One morning in the practice yard and he knew every one of his guards would die for her. He supposed it was a good thing, considering. "Whatever shall we do?"
Someone near her said something but Sebastian was too far away to hear what it was. Kiara giggled, her face glowing. "Oh, yes," she said. "A fine suggestion. Ser Kinnon here wishes to know if you'd agree to a contest, my lord."
The dark-eyed knight grinned at her, and then gave him a mild salute. Sebastian thought he recognized him as the knight who'd helped carry Kiara to the palace when she'd been poisoned. His partner, the blonde woman, leaned up against the wall, dressed in practice leathers and watching the entire exchange impassively.
"A wager," Ser Kinnon said.
Sebastian was doomed. Utterly doomed.
He couldn't say no, not if he wanted to retain even the semblance of respect from the men and women of his guard.
He couldn't say no because this Kiara, with her bright eyes and her laugh and her charisma and her heart was the Kiara he'd thought lost forever. He'd thought her murdered in Kirkwall's Chantry, and buried with the rest of Anders' victims. He'd seen her ghost from time to time in the weeks since, but this was her alive, and he could not be the one to kill her again.
He bowed slightly and was rewarded with another laugh. The crowd parted for him then, and he moved to her side, heedless of the bows and salutes and curtsies at all sides. She laid her hand on his arm when he drew near enough, and the touch—even this slight touch—sent a brief shudder through him. If she noticed, she gave no indication. Damn Corwin. Damn him. Leaning close, she murmured, "I'm sorry. I got carried away. Are you—your wound—"
He arched an eyebrow. "Happened almost two months ago, Kiara. Whereas you were waking from a poisoned sleep just days ago. I should be asking if you're feeling up to it."
She inclined her head, accepting the point. "Oh, very well. But what shall we bet, Sebastian? What will satisfy them?"
He smiled gently. "You're the one with the gambling habit."
She grinned. "No. Fenris is the one with the habit. I just like to take his money." She sighed dramatically and raised her voice, "But money is too common a wager for a man of your means. I'm not sure it would provide adequate motivation."
The little page had followed in Sebastian's wake, and now he took a tentative step forward, paused, and looked very studiously at the ground beneath his feet.
"Do you have an idea, young master?" Kiara asked, crouching to the child's level. The boy looked at her, blushed bright red, and mumbled something unintelligible.
Kiara leaned closer, saying quietly, "Whisper it to me. I promise not to laugh."
The boy put a little hand on her shoulder and leaned close to her ear. She didn't laugh. But her cheeks followed the child's lead and flushed a becoming shade of pink. "Oh. I—I'm not sure the prince would like that one very much."
"All the better," retorted Ser Kinnon, laughing. Sebastian glared at the man, envisioning rounds of dismal patrol. In the rain. Or cleaning middens. Surely middens always needing cleaning somewhere. "What was it?"
"A kiss," the little page uttered stridently.
Ser Kinnon smirked. "Hardly seems fair. I'd throw a match if it meant kissing you, my lady."
Sebastian went cold. Then hot. Then imagined in exquisite detail the painful death he could order for the smirking knight.
Kiara had lost a little of her enthusiasm—he could see it in her eyes. And this hurt him more.
"Very well," Sebastian said evenly. "A wager. But we'd best make it a fair one. It wouldn't do for Ser Kinnon to believe I'm 'throwing the match' as he says."
Kiara was watching him carefully, and though she was still smiling for the benefit of her audience, her eyes were shadowed with something else. Concern. A little distress. The little page was watching him too. "A kiss from the lady is a fine prize, if I can earn it, and if she will consent. But what if she wins?"
"A kiss from me," said Ser Kinnon.
Sebastian's imagination took the man's death to an entirely new level. Truly, he was a little horrified. Starvation, perhaps. There could be flogging. A great deal of flogging. Or rats. Slowly being devoured by hungry rats.
"You boys and your kissing," Kiara said. Her tone was fond, but he could see her mind working. "Do you think of nothing else? As for me, hmm… what do I think of?"
"Weaponry?" offered Sebastian. He was rewarded by another of her genuine smiles, and this was untouched by shadows.
"Precisely. Weaponry."
Ser Kinnon, clearly desperate to meet his end, supplied, "The Starkhaven Bow, then."
"A kiss from me is hardly worth a family heirloom," Kiara protested.
Sebastian said, "It's a fair wager."
Kiara's pale eyes were wide. "Sebastian."
He smiled, attempting reassurance. He wasn't sure how successful he was. "But you've always maintained I'm the better shot," he said. "Are you changing your tune?"
For the first time since he'd stepped into the courtyard, she met his gaze and held it. She looked as though she was searching for something, and whatever she saw made worry shift into determination.
"Well, then," she said at last. "May the best shot win."
#
The initial challenges were far too easy for both of them, but the crowd soon caught on and pressed them to ever more elaborate heights. Soon it was not enough to hit a bull's-eye; they had to take turns hitting each other's arrows. The targets were moved farther and farther away, half hidden behind obstacles, made smaller. Sebastian found himself smiling every time someone called out a new trial. The bow felt good in his hand, and after one or two unsteady shots—not enough to give Kiara the upper hand—he loosened up and was able to ignore the distracting sound of the cheers and catcalls. His world became aim and arrow and target. Pull, release.
It was not as easy to ignore Kiara. She smirked over her shoulder at him, and hit an apple placed atop a distant wall. He raised his eyebrow, aimed, and instead of hitting the apple itself, did one better and sliced through only his fruit's stem. Kiara laughed.
"Show-off," she murmured as they stood waiting for the next challenge to begin.
"It's a very serious competition," he replied mildly. "And you started it."
She grinned and butted her shoulder against him. "You're being very accommodating. I promise I'll give your bow back when no one's looking."
He raised both eyebrows at this. "Oh, I don't intend to lose. That last shot must count for more than yours."
She narrowed her eyes, peering at him. She looked puzzled, but not distressed. "Some days I don't know what to make of you, Sebastian Vael."
He shrugged one shoulder, feigning diffidence. "Blame Kinnon and your romantic page, there. I'm afraid I've grown quite accustomed to my bow. The stakes are too high."
Frowning just slightly, she asked, "And you're not worried about… I don't know, the Maker striking you down? For the… other?"
"I wasn't until now."
"Sebastian, I'm serious."
He inclined his head to accept her point. "I know you are. You… you've an out if you want it; I did say you had to consent. You may always refuse." Her lips parted and her eyes widened. He changed the subject swiftly, unwilling to follow the other any further for fear of saying too much. Or the wrong thing entirely. "Now answer me something, Kiara, because I admit I can't figure it out. Why the gown? Not that you don't look fetching, but it seems an… odd choice for archery practice."
She snorted, composure regained. "There was no choice about it. Tasia hid my armor. And anything with legs sewn into it. She's a monster. Who thinks I'm in the library right now, reading love poetry or Starkhaven history. It was the only way I could escape without her following."
He shook his head apologetically. "She'll punish you later."
"I know. I'm terrified." She gave a leisurely stretch and smiled broadly. "But for now? It's worth it."
They were interrupted then by Ser Kinnon—the bastard had named himself the informal master of ceremonies, earning himself at least another month of midden duty, if Sebastian had any say. "The final challenge," he said, full to the obnoxious brim with his self-importance, "will determine the winner. Thus far it has been too close to call."
Sebastian crossed his arms over his chest and glared down—small-minded as it was, he felt indescribably pleased to stand several inches taller than Kinnon. "The challenge, Ser?"
Kinnon cleared his throat and took half a step backward. Sebastian permitted himself a self-satisfied little smile as Kinnon glanced away from him. "Blindfolded shooting. Regular targets. Closest to the bull's-eye wins."
Sebastian looked to Kiara. She was grinning. "Sounds fun," she replied. "Sebastian?"
"As you wish."
They were given a moment to fix the targets in mind while the area around them was cleared of stragglers. For the first time since the contest had begun, Sebastian noticed just how many people were watching them. The courtyard itself was full to bursting, the walls nearly as packed, and every window that opened out into the space seemed to have one or two faces peering out of it. He was certain one of those peering faces was Tasia's and he felt a moment of genuine pity for Kiara.
He permitted himself to be blindfolded, but not before he noticed it was the detestable Ser Kinnon providing the same service to Kiara. Clenching his jaw, he wondered how bad—or good—his aim could possibly be on this shot. Surely being blinded would clear him of any accusation of deliberate wrongdoing?
"On the count of three," Ser Kinnon declared. "One."
Sebastian pushed thoughts of the man from his mind, and visualized the target. He'd been careful not to move his feet during the blindfolding, but he knew Kiara would have been clever enough to do the same. No advantage there.
"Two."
He took aim, the feel of the bow strong and sturdy and precise in his hand. The breeze on his cheek was coming from the east; he adjusted his aim to compensate. The noise of the crowd became dim, distant. His own heartbeat was steady. He inhaled, then released his breath just as deliberately, his focus narrowing until it only encompassed the point of his arrow, the target, the tension of the bowstring between his fingers.
Even blind, he knew he could hit the center of the target. He'd never been more certain of anything in his life.
"Three."
Sebastian paused, deliberately shifted the point of his arrow an inch to the right, and released. The twang of the string echoed in his ears, followed a moment later by the thunk of the arrow's point sinking into the target. Reaching up, he removed the blindfold.
His arrow's white fletching quivered exactly one inch from the bull's-eye.
Kiara had missed her shot by two inches.
She tugged at her own blindfold before Kinnon could help her. She didn't even look at her target. She glanced at Sebastian's and gave him a rueful smile. "Looks like I lost," she said.
The wide-eyed little page clapped his hands, and Kiara laughed, scooping him up for an impromptu, sweaty hug. "I feel like you're the one who really wants the kiss," she remarked. The boy blushed and shook his head, but didn't protest when she pressed her lips briefly to his forehead. For an instant, Sebastian found himself embarrassingly jealous of a six-year-old. When she set the child down, he lingered near her skirts, gazing up at her with unabashed adoration.
Sebastian wished he didn't understand the boy quite so well.
Stepping close to him, Kiara smiled. "Well," she said, "I hope the Maker doesn't strike you down. At this proximity I don't feel good about my chances."
He lowered his voice. "You could have made that shot."
She arched an eyebrow. "You could have made yours. You tried to throw your match. I didn't let you."
"I—" he got no further. Without giving him a moment to prepare—or protest—Kiara dropped her weapon, rose on her toes, and took his face between her hands. Then she pressed her lips softly, almost chastely, to his.
Afraid she would dart away just as quickly, he panicked, dropping his own bow and bringing one hand to her waist to pull her close. Without breaking contact, he slid his other hand into the damp curls at the nape of her neck and returned the kiss before she could prematurely end it. He aimed for tender, but he couldn't help the ardency, the urgency that crept in. This may be the only time, a cruel voice whispered, and he parted his lips just enough to allow the tip of his tongue to taste the curve of her full bottom lip. She gasped, uttering a tiny mewling cry against him, but she didn't attempt to pull away. Indeed, he couldn't help feeling just a little gratified when she slid her own hands away from his face to tangle in his hair.
The Maker struck neither of them down.
It didn't last long enough. He didn't want it to end. But the crowd was cheering and laughing and applauding, and their intimacy was stolen by the sheer level of soundaround them. When Kiara broke the contact of their lips a moment later, he didn't try to recapture her. Her cheeks were pink and her lips just a little swollen; he could feel her heartbeat racing—or maybe it was his own—and the flash of her pulse at her throat was rapid. He wanted to bend his head, to taste the skin where her jaw met her neck. He did not. She lingered, eyes still closed, allowing him to hold her just a little longer. Then she shivered slightly and pressed back against his hands. He released her, and she immediately dropped into a curtsy, eyes downcast.
He wanted to know what her expression hid, but she did not look up until she'd had time to school herself. Her cheeks were still flushed and her lips still rosy, but her countenance was carefully inscrutable. "Thank you, my lord," she said at last. "I am glad to see your shot as good as it ever was. I am certain it will serve Starkhaven well."
Then she turned and left, her head held high, her lips smiling, her adoring crowd watching her every move.
"You're a lucky man," groaned Ser Kinnon when she was gone. "She's just about the finest—"
Without thinking—surely he'd have thought better if he'd been thinking at all—Sebastian turned and landed a square punch to the unsuspecting man's jaw. Kinnon, completely taken by surprise, went down hard. Then, shaking his fist to ease the sting, Sebastian left, using the exit opposite the one Kiara had taken.
#
Kiara couldn't make sense of it. She turned the afternoon's events over and over and over in her head, but it seemed a moment taken from a dream, from someone else's life. What had been laughter and teasing and fun had turned so incomprehensibly surreal. Arrows and camaraderie and joking and Sebastian Vael had kissed her. Or she'd kissed him. Perhaps the moment had begun with her, but he was the one with the strong hands and the firm lips and the fingertips inappropriately—marvelously—tickling the nape of her neck. He was the one who'd taken her practically platonic peck and made it…
She blushed. The kiss had certainly not ended as platonically as it had begun. And she had no idea what to make of any of it.
As she moved through the halls, hopefully toward her rooms, a bath, and a change of clothes, she noted that instead of the vague distrust and sideways glances she'd met with on her way to the practice yard, servants and courtiers alike waved or smiled or threw gestures of polite obeisance her way. Surreptitiously, she pinched her own arm, but the pain was only pain—it did not wake her.
For all her teasing and all her harmless flirting, Kiara Hawke had kissed precisely four men in her twenty-eight years. The first was a boy called Cam when she was fifteen. He was a year or two older. She'd been curious to finally discover what all the fuss was about; he was willing, presumably able, and not terrible to look at. The girls her age seemed to talk of nothing else, but she'd found the entire venture disappointing and overly… moist. It had not been repeated.
Then, when she was eighteen, Jaran's family moved to Lothering. He'd been just handsome enough, and she just hormonal enough, that she'd let his kisses—less damp, more interesting, almost thrilling—lead to more. Four months in, just as Kiara was starting to fancy herself utterly in love, Amelle had slipped—her control was so much more tenuous then—and Jaran had seen it. Even now, Kiara wasn't certain if she'd left the door open on purpose, if she'd been subconsciously testing her lover, to see how he'd react.
Jaran had failed. Oh, how he'd failed. He'd seen a handful of sparks and started screaming for templars. Kiara had broken his nose in her desperation, nearly breaking his head along with it, and when he'd gazed up at her with terror in his blackened eyes as she threatened him, she'd known no lover could be worth Amelle's life, Amelle's freedom. So she'd… stopped looking. Stopped thinking about even the possibility. Then the Blight had come, the army, the fleeing, the death, the endless struggle.
Even years later, memory of the third kiss made her stomach lurch painfully. She'd been tired and lonely. Kirkwall wasn't home even though she'd been living there more than two years, and she'd been feeling… old. Old and a bit sad.
She still wasn't sure why she'd let Anders kiss her. She admired the work he did in the clinic, certainly, and he was charming when he wanted to be, but she'd never felt any particular attraction. There was a slightly harrowed, desperate look about him she could not find appealing.
And he was blond. She'd never cared for blonds.
Still. It had happened one night when he was walking her home from a card game at The Hanged Man. He was teasing her without his prevailing vitriol; she'd laughed. She'd known he was flirting, and she let herself be admired. It was… nice. She'd hardly known him then, certainly hadn't dreamed what he'd become, but she knew the last thing he'd ever do was run to the templars to out her sister. He'd seemed… safe. How ridiculous.
So when they'd reached the corner near Gamlen's house, and he'd smiled and said something about losing himself in her eyes, she hadn't stopped him. Nor had she protested when he brought his fingers to her chin and tilted her head up. It hadn't been until his lips were on hers, until his tongue was seeking to deepen the kiss, until his body was pressing hers to the alley wall, until he moaned softly against her that she remembered. It wasn't his magic that distressed her, or his blondness, or his mild air of desperation; it was the spirit living within him. Abomination, said her father's voice.
She'd pushed Anders away gently but firmly, and his eyes had flashed, suddenly angry. They hadn't glowed blue, but she'd been painfully aware they could have. "What?"
"It's not—I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression—"
"What kind of wrong impression could kissing me possibly give?"
"I… don't… I'm sorry."
"You're a bloody tease, Hawke, you know that?" he'd snapped, before stalking off and leaving her to walk the rest of the short distance home by herself.
They'd never spoken of it again, though she'd caught him gazing at her with varying degrees of speculation and jealousy and thinly-veiled lust. She'd… learned to be more careful with her flirting, and she swore off kissing altogether. It was a bloody bother, and never worth the trouble.
And the fourth had been Sebastian Vael. She'd meant the gesture as a token—a nod to the crowd, and, yes, perhaps as a moment selfishly stolen for herself. She hadn't expected him to reciprocate. She certainly hadn't expected the sudden thrill of passion that had made her knees wobble and her heart race, that had tried—and failed, thank the Maker—to convince her hands to roam over the plane of his broad back.
She'd have given anything to have kept that fourth first kiss going, even as she knew she could not. It was Sebastian. Who'd sworn to love none but Andraste.
Hadn't he?
It was all so… confused.
Her reverie was shattered by Tasia's shrill cry of dismay. "My lady!"
Kiara blinked. She'd pushed the door to her own room open without having any sense of how she'd arrived. She was glad she hadn't walked herself directly into a wall or out a window or off a balcony.
Oblivious to Kiara's distraction, Tasia continued, "Why did you not tell me you intended to practice archery?"
"I thought the bow I was carrying might have tipped you off," Kiara replied dryly. Tasia did not so much as blink.
"If you had told me your true intentions, I could have provided an appropriate gown."
"A… gown. For archery."
Tasia gave her a look that clearly indicated the maid thought Kiara the stupidest woman in the world. Her lips tingled. Perhaps she was, at that, just not for the reasons Tasia believed. "Obviously, my lady."
Kiara sighed. "A gown. What about a bath? May I have one of those?"
"It's already prepared." Tasia smiled her dimpled smile and added, "You did very well, my lady. It was… quite thrilling."
"You… saw?"
Tasia giggled. "We all saw, my lady. The whole palace saw."
"Oh."
The petite maid sighed, pressing her hands to her breast. "And it was a lovely kiss. Just the kind of prize such a contest should have had. So romantic."
Kiara was glad when the woman moved behind her to begin unbuttoning buttons because her cheeks were burning again and she couldn't bear the maid's shining eyes and odd notions. "It was… nothing."
"Oh, I doubt that. Though I didn't hear what Kinnon said to the prince that made him so angry."
Kiara turned her head, looking over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. "What?"
"Oh, you were gone by then, I suppose. Kinnon said something—he can be an utter boor—and Prince Sebastian punched him. Right in the face! Kinnon fell completely over. Shocking!"
And now Sebastian was punching people for no good reason?
Pinch or no pinch, this was the weirdest dream Kiara had ever had.
