beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!
The chest had been deposited hastily in the corner of the foyer this time, parked between a bookshelf and a statue. Ciri unlatched the lid and began distributing the weapons and armor to her companions. She pulled out Olgierd's rune-scribed robe and saber from the bottom and frowned at the drying smears of blood along the inside of the chest.
"We might have to leave the clothes on the top of the lid this time," she said as she passed his belongings over. "Yours might not show bloodstains, but mine definitely will."
"Better not," Sera countered. "Anyone comes in after us and sees your gown minus a body, they'll know somethin's up."
Ciri grimaced. "You have a fair point."
Cassandra unlaced her again, and she made short work of changing into her armor. Olgierd took her gown and chemise and drew their sleeves through his robe's, leaving only the bottom several inches of the skirts showing as he carefully folded them together.
"That should keep it safe enough," he said with a small smile.
She shot him a grateful look. It seemed silly to care about their clothes at a time like this, but she hadn't owned anything nearly so fine in years, and the thought of ruining it just added to her current worries.
Sera shut the trunk on their clothes and started up the carpeted marble stairs, her bow in hand and an arrow already nocked on the string.
"Have you been to this wing before?" Ciri asked her as she stepped quietly behind. She adjusted her dagger at her waist, so it sat closer to her hand.
"Twice, when I first got here and had a poke around," Sera said distractedly. "Think I remember the route. This way – yeah, this way."
She led them through an archway and into a lavish hall decorated with pillars and oil paintings of monarchs of ages past. Crown molding coated in gold leaf glinted down from far above their heads. The carpet runner beneath their feet was plush and thick.
Ciri looked around at the closed doors all up and down the hall, wondering where to start.
"You wanted to poke around for Gaspard's men, yeah?" Sera asked.
"The captain is in the garden, but the more evidence we pull together to keep Gaspard from taking the throne, the better," Ciri said.
She approached the nearest door to continue her investigation, but a strange, muffled shouting drew her attention farther down the hall.
Sera rolled her eyes. "Thought this place was supposed to be empty."
"So did I."
Ciri turned from the door and headed in the direction of the shouting, resting her hand on her dagger's hilt. She found the noise coming from behind a warded door that gave off a low, static crackle.
"Hello?" a faintly panicked male voice called out from within. "Is anyone there? Somebody? Anybody?"
She fished out the token Josephine had given her and pressed it to the handle. The static dissipated, and she let herself in.
The room behind the warded door was utterly gorgeous, sumptuous in the extreme. A private study and sitting area greeted her first, complete with a greater-than-life-sized statue standing between two enormous bookcases. A short marble staircase in the center of the room seemed to lead to the bedchamber.
The voice called out again, and this time she heard manacles clank. "Please! Are you still there? Let me go!"
Ciri led the way up the stairs and walked around the enormous bed to stare down at the completely nude chevalier shackled to it, somehow – ridiculously – still wearing his helmet with the yellow feather.
"I'm sure there's an explanation for this that will make sense," she said, fixing her eyes on his rapidly reddening face.
"Honestly, it's not what it looks like!" the chevalier sputtered. "The empress – she beguiled me, convinced me to betray the grand duke! She promised me I would be rewarded. This…is not what I'd hoped for."
Sera snorted with laughter. "Yeah, bet I know what you'd hoped for."
"Really?" Ciri sighed. "Unbelievable."
"I beg you, Your Worship, don't tell Gaspard!" the chevalier pleaded. "She knows everything! His surprise attack, all his troop movements in the palace – it's been turned into a trap! The moment he acts, he'll be arrested for treason."
"Tell Gaspard? Oh, no," Ciri said. "I have a much better idea. You'll tell Duke Cyril de Montfort and Marquis Renaud Mantillon of these plans yourself."
His humiliated, reddened cheeks drained of color. "The Council of Heralds? You sign my death warrant, madame. I'd be a traitor twice over."
Ciri looked him hard in the eyes until he averted his gaze uneasily. "Go to them. Tell them I sent you. They'll want this information."
He swallowed heavily and slumped in his manacles. "I…yes. I'll go to them. Why not? I've betrayed them both now. I'll be lucky to get out of this night alive, let alone with the right to my feather."
Sera slipped past Ciri to start picking the locks on the manacles. "Stupid feather," she muttered under her breath.
"What's that?" the chevalier asked.
"I said," Sera said loudly, "stupid feather." She gave him a hard, sharp-edged smile. "But I bet you never did anythin' rotten to earn it. Did you?"
The chevalier looked at Sera's ears, then at her bow, and paused as he took in the armor and weapons of the people surrounding him, and his own very vulnerable nudity.
"It is tradition," he said, his voice weak.
"Bollocks to your shite tradition. Wot's it got you, anyway? Tied to a bed with your bits out, in trouble with everyone."
Wisely, the chevalier closed his mouth and looked away, his cheeks reddening again. Once freed, he sat up slowly, drawing the silk coverlet over his lap in a belated show of modesty. "I…I suppose I should find my armor," he said. "Don't worry; I'll report to Duke Cyril and Marquis Renaud. You have my word."
Ciri gave him a short nod and headed back down the stairs, Sera at her side and Olgierd and Cassandra just behind them.
"To the garden?" she suggested once she'd shut the door on the chevalier.
"Might as well," Olgierd agreed. "Finding that mercenary captain will likely be the final nail in the coffin of Gaspard's ambitions."
Sera led them to a door at the far end of the hall. It opened into a space that was clearly under construction, with scaffolding and piles of boards lining the walls, and furniture and statues hidden beneath sheets.
"Garden's that way," Sera said with a gesture to the lone door at the other end of the space.
Ciri flinched and flexed her marked hand as they approached it, her palm sparking and tingling painfully. "Careful," she warned the others in a low voice. "There's a rift out there."
Cassandra tensed. "A rift? Then why would the captain be there?"
"There's only one way to find out," she said, and she pushed open the door and stepped through, her hand on her dagger again.
A faint emerald glow lit the garden ahead. She walked out quietly from between two carved marble pillars, only to stop short. Eight Venatori archers stood surrounding them in a half-circle, bows drawn taut and arrows aimed unerringly at their hearts. Above them, a sleeping rift shifted lazily.
A voice called out, and Ciri tore her eyes from the arrows to search the balcony above her head.
"We meet again, mongrel!"
She blinked at the painted face. The voice was vaguely familiar, but…
Olgierd snorted. "You? That shrieking popinjay from the market in Val Royeaux?"
"Have a care who you mock, dog lord," the bard said with a sneer. "I am not the one in danger."
Cassandra snapped her fingers. "Cock! That's who he is. I remember him. Agnesot's toady."
"Le Coq!" he almost howled. He took a deep breath and stared down at them furiously. "Vicomte Loys le Coq. Not that you'll need to remember my name for long. No. I have been charged with delivering your deaths tonight."
"Wot, another one?" Sera asked. "Pfft. Get in line, prick."
A strangled screech escaped le Coq. "Silence! You are surrounded, fools! You heathens, you traitors! My patron will reward me handsomely for your death, mongrel, and Divine Renata will grant me a fortune when I bring her your head."
Ciri's eyes sharpened on le Coq's painted face, and the Iron Bull's words from earlier came to her. Bards discarded their masks and painted their faces when their activities couldn't be traced back to their patron.
A vicomte had to have a very powerful patron.
There were only so many players with that much power and prestige in the Orlesian Grand Game.
And only one of them had been keen on sending her to the royal wing of the palace.
"Well," she said calmly, holding her hands at her sides, "you certainly have us at a disadvantage. But if you could answer just three questions for me, I'd be most appreciative."
"I will be generous, half-breed, and give you two," le Coq said. He gave her a mocking bow. "After all, you were kind enough to waltz into our trap."
Ciri chose her words carefully, all too aware of the eight arrows pointed her way. "You spoke so ardently in Celene's defense when we first met. Why are you in the company of the Venatori now?"
"She is weak," he said scornfully. "The Divine and my patron opened my eyes to the truth. Our great empire will crumble with Celene at her helm. Her death is a stepping-stone to a greater world. Sometimes –" He broke off, and for just a moment he looked conflicted. "Sometimes, one must ally with a monster to defeat a greater evil. Orlais will rise triumphant tonight, and her chief enemy, the wretched pretender to the dynasty, will fall instead."
"Oh, you poor, deluded fool," Olgierd said under his breath.
Le Coq didn't hear his murmur, and he gave Ciri another sneer. "And your final question before you die?"
"Is Florianne the one filling the Red Divine's coffers, or is it another one of Corypheus' lackeys?"
Le Coq stiffened, and he gestured to the archers. "Loose!"
In the corner of her eye, Ciri saw Cassandra shove Sera down flat as Olgierd disappeared in a burst of black and red smoke. Her palm still stinging terribly, she drew on her magic and threw herself through space and time. She came out behind an archer, her sword drawn, and struck him across his spine. The keen edge of the blade split the cloth armor, slicing deep into flesh and bone. The archer cried out and went limp.
She disappeared again, her hand a heavy, numb weight at her side. Another archer fell. Then another, and another. On she went. She reappeared by the panicked eighth archer and parried a wild shot, only to thrust her sword forward and end his life. She groaned quietly and clenched her hand as she glanced around the garden.
"Merde," le Coq moaned.
Ciri looked over to see him sprawled across the grass, Olgierd looming over him with his saber at his throat. One of his knees looked badly out of joint.
"Did you throw him from the balcony?" she asked.
Olgierd smiled faintly. "Seemed the fastest way to get him down."
Cassandra got off Sera and extended her hand to her, and Sera took it, springing to her feet. "Lady Ciri!" she exclaimed, looking her up and down in concern. "Should you have done that? Are you well?"
"Did I have a choice?" Ciri countered. She winced and shook out her hand again. "I'm…it's fine. It'll keep, anyway."
Le Coq tried and failed to rise as he pulled a dagger from its sheath at his waist. Olgierd scoffed and kicked it from his hand, sending it skidding across the grass.
"Merde!" he swore again. He glared up as Ciri approached with Cassandra and Sera. "I won't surrender, mongrel! You're too late to stop us. We've already won!"
Ciri sighed and crouched down beside his head. "A friend of mine told me once that mercy is my strength," she told him. "A Carta dwarf once jeered at me for being too merciful. I'm not sure where to draw the line sometimes, though I always try to err on the side of kindness. But –"
He reared his head back and hawked a glob of spit at her, and she rocked back on her heels as Olgierd dug the tip of his saber a little deeper into le Coq's neck.
"– But I am rapidly running out of mercy tonight," she said evenly, wiping the spit from her cheek.
Olgierd's sword flashed, and le Coq's throat split open. He choked and coughed, staring up with wild eyes, then slumped back, his face slack.
Ciri stood and turned away from le Coq's body. Olgierd came to her side and took her hand gently by the wrist, turning her palm up. They both frowned at the slightly widened lines. The two longest ones seemed to have grown fractionally.
"Never again," he told her.
"I can't promise that."
"Can you at least let that be?" he asked her with a nod at the inactive rift curving gently in the air above them.
She winced. "I think I must."
She'd strained the mark beyond its capacity by teleporting so much in so quick a succession. She doubted she'd be able to use it again until after Triss or Solas drew more magic from it in Skyhold.
"Mm-mmf! MMF!"
"Bet you coin that's our captain," Sera said, peering into the darkened garden.
"I certainly hope so," Ciri said. She led the way away from the bloody scene and toward the muffled sounds of struggle.
She found the source just around the corner, tied to a pole and red with fury behind a dirty gag. A rugged-looking man in battered leather and steel armor surged forward in his bonds as he spotted them, straining at the ropes holding him. "MMF! HMMF!"
Ciri cut him loose with her dagger, and he ripped the gag from his mouth with a gasp and a curse. "That painted Orlesian arsehole! Never would have got the drop on me without them fucking Tevinters helping him."
"Why did they have you tied up here?" Cassandra asked him.
Sera snorted. "Obvious, innit? He's the bait."
"I knew Orlesians were stingy bastards, but I didn't think Gaspard would have me staked out over a damned bill," the mercenary captain griped. "I haven't even sent my men in yet. Not going to now. You can bloody count on that."
"This wasn't Gaspard's doing," Ciri told him. "It was his sister's. But you're too late, anyway. Celene already knows about his plan of attack. You'd only lose men if you followed through."
"Good enough for me," the captain said firmly. "Already seemed too risky when we took the job. Asked for triple the usual pay for it. Stinking poncy cheesemongers," he muttered under his breath.
"Would you be willing to talk to a few of those 'poncy cheesemongers'?" Ciri asked. "Duke Cyril de Montfort, Marquis Renaud Mantillon, Comtesse Solange Montbelliard, and Lord Laurent de Ghislain? They ought to know what Gaspard had planned. If you testify to his plans, the Inquisition will protect you from reprisals."
The captain frowned to himself, then nodded. "Fine. You want me to talk to a duke, or a lord, or sing a blasted song in a chantry, I'll do it."
He brushed past them and stomped back toward the door they'd come from, muttering to himself again.
"Should we follow him?" Cassandra asked Sera.
"No. This way's faster." She led them to a door along the far side of the garden and shoved it open. "Straight shot through the chapel and we're there."
They rushed through the lavish chapel, Ciri barely taking note of the vibrant stained-glass windows and painted panels, and sped down the dark staircase at the other end of the room. The walls grew rougher as they descended, the marble floor giving way to common flagstone. The staircase ended at a grim, empty stairwell and a plain archway on the left side of the room. Sounds of movement came from just beyond.
Ciri gripped Gynvael again and nodded to the others. Cassandra hefted her shield before her and charged through with a shout.
A painted bard went flying as the shield smacked him across the jaw. Sera's arrow speared another Venatori archer through his mask's eyehole. Ciri rushed to the downed bard and lashed out with her blade before he could rise again. Olgierd threw a fistful of flames at a Venatori warrior and followed through with a cleaving blow as the man screeched in pain and panic.
"Come on," Sera urged them the moment the fighting stopped.
She shoved open a door at the other end of the hall to reveal another small garden full of scaffolding, a massive statue of Andraste in the center. They followed her through, past the statue and around a scaffold to another door. Finally, finally, their surroundings looked familiar again. The patterned marble flooring, floor-length windows, and tall, stately blue drapery all seemed to indicate that they were getting closer to their destination.
Sera jerked her thumb at the door to the right. "Ballroom's through there."
"We'll make a scene if we enter in armor," Olgierd murmured.
"There's no helping that now," Ciri sighed. "Let's go."
Ciri slipped through the door quietly and looked around. Blessedly, no one seemed to have noticed their arrival yet – or if they had, they were waiting to see how they should react first before rushing to judgment. Across the ballroom, Florianne strolled along with Gaspard, both of them nodding regally to courtiers and occasionally waving. They hadn't seemed to have spotted her yet.
She saw movement in the crowd coming her way and relaxed slightly at the sight of Owain's reassuring bulk and Triss' chestnut hair. Leliana and Cullen came just behind them.
Owain looked her over, veiled worry in his eyes. "You ran into trouble?"
"More than we expected," Ciri said quietly. "Florianne set us up. One of her lackeys was there with over a half-dozen Venatori archers. We weren't meant to come back at all, let alone in time to deal with her."
"So Florianne – Papillon – is Corypheus' agent?" Leliana asked. "Then she means to assassinate Celene as well as you."
"That's what le Coq said," Ciri confirmed.
"Celene's about to give her speech," Cullen told them. Sure enough, at the far end of the ballroom, courtiers were clearing out, and Celene was making her way to the railing. Ciri caught sight of Florianne's standing collar as she headed slowly in Celene's direction.
"How do you want to handle this?" Triss asked.
"Get our people into position," Ciri said. The sour knot in her stomach tightened, and she added, "Wait until Florianne strikes to apprehend her."
From the start, she'd hated the thought of saving Celene and letting her go on to commit another atrocity. After what she'd learned tonight, she knew she couldn't do it. The 'lesser evil' could go hang. Sometimes all there was was the least wrong decision, and from where she stood, this was it.
At her side, Cassandra jolted. "Lady Ciri?"
"She's too dangerous," she said, every inch of her fed up and exhausted. "Her, Gaspard, Florianne. They're all too dangerous. And I'm not inclined to give any of them another chance."
Sera whistled under her breath.
Cullen bowed with his fist over his heart. "By your command."
Owain gave her a nod, his face free of judgment, and the knot let up just the slightest bit. They turned to carry out her orders without argument.
Olgierd leaned in to speak into her ear. "It might be best if I positioned myself by Josephine and her sister. She worries for Yvette's safety."
"Of course. Go to them."
He flashed her a brief look of gratitude and strode off, leaving her with Cassandra and Sera. The three of them moved carefully through the crowd for a better look at Celene and Florianne.
The court herald's voice cut across the low chatter as they approached the railing. "Let all gathered attend! Her Imperial Majesty will now address the court!"
He bowed and stepped out of the way as Celene drew forward. Ciri studied the crowd, her attention split between Celene's words and the people watching her.
"My friends, we have lost much…"
Gaspard stood on the dais directly below her, his hands folded behind his back and his shoulders squared. She couldn't quite make out the lower half of his face from here, but she assumed he was playing along, secure in the assumption that his attack would go off smoothly.
There was no sign of Florianne yet. Celene's speech was full of meaningless platitudes that her courtiers ate up, and at its end, the ballroom swelled with enthusiastic applause. Ciri slowly began to make her way toward the empress, Cassandra and Sera at her heels.
"Tonight, the war dividing us must end!" Celene swept an arm out to the side, and Florianne stepped from the shadows to join her at her side.
"My friends, we are here to witness a historic moment," Florianne said grandly, her hands gesturing as she spoke. "A great change is coming for all of us." The tone of her voice changed slightly, and Gaspard looked up sharply as she added, circling behind the empress, "Isn't that right, Gaspard?"
Florianne's arm jerked forward, and Celene let out a pained gasp. A dark stain began to spread across the stomach of her gown. She crumpled to a heap at Florianne's feet as the grand duchess wrenched the dagger out. Courtiers screamed in panic, grabbing at each other and rushing toward the vestibule. Ciri elbowed her way through the milling crowd, her eyes fixed on Florianne.
"Florianne!" Gaspard cried out from below. "What have you done?"
"Don't be coy, brother!" she laughingly called back. "This was just as we planned! I did this for you!"
He recoiled. "For me? Have you gone mad?"
Ciri finally broke through, and she saw that Duke Cyril and Briala had arrived on the other side of the walkway. Duke Cyril held a rapier in his trembling hand, and Briala stood steady at his side, two gleaming silverite daggers in her grip.
"Not for you," Ciri said coldly. "For Corypheus. It appears the butterfly has spread her wings and flown to a new patron."
"I will deliver Corypheus the entire south of Thedas," Florianne declared, "and when he enters the Black City and claims his godhood, I will rule it in his name!"
"You are a lunatic," Briala whispered, her eyes wet.
"Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons." Duke Cyril stopped and blinked away angry tears. "You have committed high treason against the empire and her imperial majesty. Surrender quietly or face justice now."
"Surrender?" she said with a sharp laugh. "Never! For Corypheus! Kill them!"
Sounds of fighting broke out across the ballroom at her words, and Ciri looked away from her for a scant moment and saw a dozen painted bards clashing with Inquisition soldiers and the imperial guard. She turned back to see Florianne race out the double doors leading to the garden, and she held in a curse and tore off after her.
Florianne spun around at the top of the stairs, her dagger held at the ready. From behind Ciri, Duke Cyril and Briala came around to flank her, with Cassandra and Sera moving in to fill in the gaps.
"Really, Inquisitor, you played your part beautifully," Florianne taunted her. "Celene and Gaspard destroyed in a single blow. The Council of Heralds will fight over the throne for ages, and while they do, Corypheus will come. Truly, I wasn't lying. There is much to admire about a masterstroke like that."
"You conniving fiend, Florianne," Duke Cyril spat. "Orlais will survive your treachery! We on the Council will do our duty!"
"Your duty is to stand aside and let a new world be born from the ashes of the old," Florianne retorted.
"A pity you won't live to see it," Briala said as she adjusted her grip on her daggers. "You die tonight."
Florianne sprang over the railing into the garden, her skirts flying up dramatically. Briala flew after her, and Ciri rushed to follow. She heard footfalls thump behind her as the others followed suit. She drew Gynvael and rolled away from a blindingly fast dagger strike, coming up to parry another swift slice at her abdomen.
Sera sent arrows flying that Florianne seemed to dodge with uncanny ease. Cassandra's blows never reached her.
Ciri, Briala, and Duke Cyril surrounded her, striking at her with sword and dagger. Florianne whirled and dodged, feinted and parried, their blades only managing to graze her.
Briala swore and called out to Duke Cyril. "Her hand!"
Ciri saw his gaze flicker, just for the barest moment, to Florianne's left hand, and his face grew grim.
He redoubled his attack, circling to face her head-on. Ciri struck again and again, each attack thwarted, but each one drawing the tiniest bit more of Florianne's attention. Sera began hurling insults along with her arrows, and Florianne's brow furrowed with every fresh taunt. Cassandra angrily stalked the sidelines, impatiently looking for an opening.
"Aaargh!"
Three bloody fingers and a shining silver ring fell to the grass, and suddenly, Ciri's next slash hit flesh and bone. Duke Cyril's rapier scored a deep cut across Florianne's chest. Briala ended it with a hard stab to her ribs.
They stood over her corpse for a few seconds, just catching their breath. Then, slowly, Duke Cyril bent to pick up the blood-covered ring, and he examined it with a hard eye.
"As you thought," he said to Briala. "One of Dowager Marquise Mantillon's little gifts to those who measured up to her standards in the Grand Game. You recognized it from…from Celene's hand, I presume?"
Briala nodded. "And Gaspard's."
"Of course." He spotted Ciri's confusion and explained, "Rings that make you nearly unbeatable in combat. Faster, more agile, able to deduce your opponent's next move. She only gifted them to those who arranged the death of another." He clenched his hand around it briefly, then extended it to Briala. "You fought well, Ambassador. You'd fight better with her ring."
Briala took it cautiously, and she gave him a respectful nod as she pulled out a linen handkerchief to wipe the blood from it.
Duke Cyril turned to Ciri, his grief clear even through his mask. "I've heard of your powers, Inquisitor. Everyone has. Your Fade step is said to reach for miles. How did you not save my cousin? Our empress?"
Briala's eyes flickered at that, but she stayed silent.
The hard knot in Ciri's stomach made an abrupt reappearance. She stood by her decision, but she liked Duke Cyril, and she found herself reaching for an explanation that she hoped wouldn't add to his pain.
She held out her aching, marked hand, the jagged green lines crossing her palm shining in the moonlight.
"It's killing me," she told him. "Every time I use magic, every time I 'Fade step,' the mark pulls open wider. I'm under orders not to, but I was forced to tonight anyway in the royal wing thanks to Florianne's trap. I feared I might lose my hand if I used it again so soon."
He stared down at her palm, then into her eyes searchingly. She held his gaze, and after a long moment, he sagged and looked away. "The Maker's blessing is a heavy burden to carry," he murmured.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Your Grace," Ciri said quietly. And she did truly regret his grief.
He sighed and shook his head. "Come, Inquisitor, Ambassador. We should tell the court that the danger has passed."
The fighting had died down inside the ballroom as the five of them returned. Ciri's advisors swarmed the door from one direction, Olgierd shadowing Josephine and Yvette Montilyet clinging to her sister's sleeve like a burr. The rest of the Council of Heralds came from the other direction, accompanied by Grand Duke Gaspard and two imperial guards. A rather flustered-looking herald hovered behind the Council, wringing his hands.
"Ci – Inquisitor," Josephine exclaimed. "Are you alright?"
"We're fine, Josephine," Ciri assured her. "And you? Did the fighting reach you?"
"It – it came quite near, but –"
"But Messere Olgierd was very brave!" Yvette interrupted, her eyes shining. She sobered abruptly as she looked around at all the serious faces.
"Enough of this nonsense," Gaspard cut in. He glared at Ciri and Briala and jabbed a finger at them angrily. "As your next emperor, I demand their arrest. These creatures have been all over the palace tonight. They must have known Florianne's plan. They could have stopped her!"
"Our next emperor?" Marquis Renaud echoed, his voice dangerously soft. "You will mind yourself, Your Grace. A half-naked chevalier is spilling a most interesting tale to the captain of the imperial guard right now. As is a foul-mouthed Ferelden mercenary. The Inquisitor's Qunari companion, the Iron Bull, relinquished an intriguing dagger into my custody not half an hour ago – one found in the back of one of our murdered emissaries, fashioned with your family crest on its hilt. Who, then, should we arrest?"
The unmasked half of Gaspard's face paled, but still, he protested swiftly, "I know nothing of any such dagger. The brute must have planted it."
"And where would he get your property?" Comtesse Solange asked. "No, this was either you or your sister, and given your threats against our Council, I'm not inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt."
"Really, Gaspard," Comte Lothair said. "Did Florianne's act outrage you because it is right and just to be outraged when the empress is assassinated? Or were you merely angry that she did it so publicly and foiled your plan to steal the throne tonight?"
Gaspard took a wary step back. "You cannot believe I'd mean to kill my cousin!"
Marquis Etienne de Chevin's voice was hard as steel. "We can, and we do. Guards. Take the grand duke into custody. The charge is treason."
For a moment it seemed that Gaspard would put up a fight. Then, as the guards each took an arm, it was as if he'd aged thirty years in a second, and all his spirit fled. He trudged away between them, his eyes staring sightlessly ahead. Silence fell in his wake, and none seemed keen to break it. At last, Duke Germain de Chalons spoke, an aching note of sorrow in his aged voice.
"And so ends the greatest of dynasties."
Marquis Renaud clapped him on the shoulder and was irritably brushed off. "We cannot let our grief forestall our duties," he said, looking around at the rest of the Council. His gaze included Ciri and Briala in his words. "By order of precedence, the throne falls to a cousin. And there must be someone on the throne before the night ends."
"Or," Comte Lothair began with a questioning look toward Ciri.
"I'm not a Valmont!" she exclaimed. "Honestly, what does it take to make people listen around here?"
"Bribery and a few well-placed deaths," Comtesse Solange said wryly. "A cousin, then."
"We are not Ferelden, after all," Marquis Etienne muttered.
Duke Cyril and Duke Germain glanced at each other, and Duke Germain shook his head.
"I'm far too old," Duke Germain demurred. "But Comte Brevin –"
"Old or not, put Brevin de Chalons forward and I'll call you out for a duel," Marquis Etienne interrupted. "The man cost me my good name with his lies about that elf-blooded peasant. He doesn't have the character for the throne."
"I withdraw the suggestion," Duke Germain said. "I'd forgotten, Marquis. I apologize."
"That leaves only you, Your Grace," Comtesse Solange said to Duke Cyril.
He let out a shaky breath. "Andraste, it does, doesn't it? It was never supposed to be like this."
Comte Lothair cleared his throat. "I'll open the floor to any objections to what appears to be our only option."
Duke Cyril laughed faintly at that, a soft, mostly humorless sound. "I can always trust you to keep me humble, my friend."
"We've had twenty years without an heir to the empire," Marquis Etienne said, "and you're unmarried. We can't afford such continued instability."
"I will marry, then, if I must," Duke Cyril said. "Within two years, if that satisfies."
Ciri, her advisors, and Briala stood by in silence as the rest of the Council politely, but rather incisively, asking him about policy, war, the treasury, the Game, and whether there was anything in his past or personal life he could be blackmailed with. His answers, while not entirely pleasing to them, managed to satisfy at all turns.
At last Comte Lothair nodded in satisfaction. "And in favor?"
Duke Germain stepped forward. "Given that my family seems out of favor for now, and you did just slay Empress Celene's assassin…I, Duke Germain de Chalons, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont's successor to the imperial throne."
The others spoke up with their votes in order of precedence, a heavy, solemn formality to their words.
"I, Lord Laurent de Ghislain, speaking as proxy for Duke Bastien de Ghislain, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont's successor to the imperial throne."
"I, Marquis Renaud Mantillon, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont's successor to the imperial throne."
"I, Marquis Etienne de Chevin, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont's successor to the imperial throne."
"I, Comtesse Solange Montbelliard, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont's successor to the imperial throne."
"And I, Comte Lothair Doucy, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont's successor to the imperial throne." He nodded again to a speechless Duke Cyril. "We'll need to do this again properly with ballots and a court scribe, and it won't be set in stone until the coronation itself, but it will stand for now. Soon we'll all be calling you Your Imperial Majesty."
For just a moment, it seemed that Marquis Etienne's eyes held a glint of triumph, and there was satisfaction in the set of Comtesse Solange and Lord Laurent's mouths. Then the moment passed, and Ciri couldn't be certain.
Duke Cyril's eyes glistened, and his voice shook with suppressed emotion. "I will not dishonor your faith in me. Nor will I dishonor the memory of my cousin."
Comtesse Solange swept into a low, graceful curtsey. "Your first command, Your Grace?"
"Celene's body should be seen to," he said after a moment, "as should those of the brave servants who fell to Florianne's conspirators in the servants' wing. And I should address the court as well, to allay fears."
"Wise of you," Marquis Renaud agreed.
"Lady Inquisitor, Orlais might have fallen tonight, or a traitor might have taken the throne, but for your actions," Duke Cyril said. "What reward would you ask of our empire?"
"Treat your people better," Ciri said simply. In the corner of her eye, Briala straightened. "The elves of Orlais deserve far more than they've been given."
Marquis Etienne frowned, but Duke Cyril just looked at her evenly. "You have my word."
"And I never could have stopped Gaspard without Ambassador Briala," she added. "She did just as much as I did, if not more."
"I have not forgotten the ambassador." Duke Cyril turned to Briala.
Briala looked at him warily.
"Ambassador Briala, without the diligent efforts of you and Inquisitor Morhen, we never would have uncovered Gaspard's treachery. I know…" He trailed off and said quite gently, "I know my cousin thought well of you, and had she lived, she would have seen you rewarded for all you did on her behalf tonight. There are vacancies in the nobility – deaths without heirs, or traitors who were recently stripped of their holdings –"
"You're surely joking," Marquis Etienne interjected.
"I am not," Duke Cyril said flatly. "The question is not 'do we raise Briala to nobility,' it is 'how high,' and 'which estate to go with it?' Do we give her Val Gamord and the title of marquise? Lac d'Argent as a vicomtesse? Perhaps Verchiel – she is, after all, the architect of Gaspard's downfall. And that's a duchy."
Duke Germain's face went red beneath his mask. "You will keep your hands off my family's ancestral estate!"
"Oh, but I'm liking this idea," said Marquis Renaud. "One might call it poetic justice, given the number of times Gaspard asked for leave to go and hunt the Dalish. We can't reward the ambassador with so paltry a title as vicomtesse."
Lord Laurent sighed as Duke Germain sputtered. "Fine! Marquise Briala of Val Gamord. May she prove less of a shifty criminal than the late Marquise Bouffon. Any objections?" There were some low grumbles, but no one outright objected. "The motion passes. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Marquise."
Briala dipped him a shallow curtsey, then turned and gave Duke Cyril a much deeper one. The soon-to-be emperor inclined his head to her gravely.
"Your Grace," she murmured. "Thank you."
"I should like to have a much longer conversation with you," he told her. "When the night is through."
"I shall make myself available," she said.
Duke Cyril looked to the younger members of the Council of Heralds, and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "Time to face the music, my friends."
As one, Ciri, Briala, the advisors, and the Council of Heralds all either curtseyed or bowed, and he drew in an uneven breath at the motion before squaring his shoulders and striding away. The herald, still hovering on the fringes of their crowd, broke off and hurried after him to speak hastily into his ear, and Duke Cyril listened and nodded.
The herald went ahead to the railing, and called out in a clear, carrying voice, "Let all gathered attend! Duke Cyril de Montfort will now address the court!"
There was a low susurration and some scattered exclamations as the quicker courtiers made the connection as to what Duke Cyril addressing them meant. Then the herald stepped aside, and they all fell silent.
Duke Cyril approached the railing and lifted a hand. "My friends," he began solemnly, "tonight has been marred by the most tragic of events. Treachery has stolen our beloved empress from us. Two separate plots of treason were uncovered tonight, one fostered within our chevalier order, the other concocted on behalf of the vile Corypheus.
"The danger has passed, but our heartache will take longer to fade. And with the death of Florianne de Chalons and the arrest of her brother Gaspard, it is with a heavy heart that I accept the crown that the Council of Heralds has seen fit to place upon my head."
Whispers broke out again, and he lifted his hand a second time to quell them.
"Now is the time for Orlais to come together, united as one people. The civil war is over, and we shall have peace. Let us build an empire with prosperity and harmony for all Orlais' subjects. And to lay the cornerstone of that foundation, I introduce to you the newest member of our court: Marquise Briala of Val Gamord, without whom Gaspard de Chalons' treason would never have been uncovered."
The whispers took on a different tone as Duke Cyril turned from the railing to beckon Briala to join him. It subsided grudgingly at her approach.
Briala looked out across the crowd, her spine straight, and spoke. "There is little joy in being so honored in the aftermath of such a great loss. But this is a triumph, not just for me, or for elves, or even Orlais. It is a triumph for everyone. Over a thousand years ago in the Valarian Fields, elves and humans standing together defeated the Imperium. We can achieve so much more together now. As one, we will start by saving our world from the enemy who cast down the Divine and tore the sky apart."
"Inquisitor Morhen," Duke Cyril said, beckoning again. Ciri came forward as he continued. "Orlais stands ready to assist the Inquisition in its fight against Corypheus."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Ciri addressed the crowd. "Corypheus is an enemy out of the history books, pulled from the pages of the Chant. His powers are great, and his followers are many. But we have defeated him before. If we stand firm against him, he will fall again."
"And so we shall," Duke Cyril said. "But for now, let the music resume. Tonight shall be a celebration of Empress Celene's memory. Do not go forth in grief, my friends. Let Orlais' resilient heart be the rhythm that guides your steps tonight."
With that, the band struck up the notes for a sarabande, and Duke Cyril stepped back from the railing to applause.
"Poetic," Briala murmured to him.
"Marquise, we're Orlesian," he replied, that faint hint of humor resurfacing. He sighed. "Maker, when will this night be over?"
"Not quite yet," Comte Lothair said. "We need to join the imperial guard and take down the accounts of that mercenary captain and the chevalier who turned on Gaspard, to get an official record for his trial. And we must decide what to do with Celene's apostate."
"Let's get that over with, then." Duke Cyril bowed shallowly to Ciri and Briala. "Inquisitor Morhen, Marquise Briala, thank you for all your efforts tonight."
The Council of Heralds swept away, leaving Ciri with only the Inquisition members, Briala, and Josephine's sister.
"That was…unexpected," Josephine said. "You don't often get to see history being made. Normally the Council of Heralds sequesters themselves for such a decision."
"I imagine they felt they were pressed for time," Leliana said.
"Well, now that that's happened," Raúl said, "how would you like us to proceed?"
Ciri gave him a tired shrug. "Mingle. Dance. Shore up support for Marquise Briala and the new emperor. Have our soldiers continue to keep an eye out. Send someone to the royal wing to fetch the chest with our clothes. I'm going to go get some air."
She walked away toward the balcony she'd spoken to Briala on, feeling the prickle of concerned stares pepper her back. Briala called out after her as she reached the door, and she stopped and turned back.
"You kept your word," Briala said, her eyes intent on hers. "I won't forget it."
Ciri nodded to her solemnly, and she slipped out the door to plant her hands on the railing and just breathe, her head hanging low.
She'd told the spirit of command back in Crestwood that she had no interest in changing the fate of nations. Yet here she was tonight, an accessory to regicide. She'd ended a five-hundred-year-old dynasty.
The Lodge of Sorceresses would be proud.
But Duke Cyril – soon to be Emperor Cyril – was a good man. He'd ennobled Briala as his first act with the backing of the Council of Heralds, and it seemed like he had more planned for her. His speech to the court was encouraging as well.
She took another deep breath and felt the knot in her stomach release slightly. It had been the right choice. Florianne had been allied with Corypheus, and Celene's order to purge the alienage in Halamshiral had been monstrous. Now they were both dead, and a racist warmonger was in custody, likely to soon lose his life. Orlais' elves and human and dwarven commoners had a brighter future under Duke Cyril's rule.
Familiar footsteps sounded behind her, and she looked over her shoulder to see Owain step onto the balcony and shut the door behind him. He crossed the short distance to stand at her side, and when she leaned against him tiredly, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back to his chest.
"For what it's worth, I think you made the right decision," he told her quietly.
"It's worth a lot. Thank you." She rested her head against the cool silk of his doublet and closed her eyes. "I think they might have used me. The marquis, the comtesse, and the duke's son."
"Not Duke Cyril?"
"No, he was genuinely stricken." Or possibly a far better actor than she'd given him credit for.
"Does that change your mind about Celene and Gaspard?"
"No." Tension released from her shoulders as she admitted that. "Tell me something good came from tonight that didn't require bloodshed. I know you and the others were busy while I was running around chasing leads."
"Hm." His voice was a soft rumble beneath her ear. "Triss and Comtesse Solange negotiated something for the free mages. You'll have to get the details from her later. We made several trade deals, received promises of recruits and equipment. Oh, and my sister is speaking to Cullen again."
"Is that good?"
"That's for her to decide, I suppose." His arms tightened around her, and she turned in his hold and brought hers up to wrap around his broad back. "I never got those dances you promised me."
"I don't think I'm quite up to dancing," she admitted. "If we could just…stay like this? For a moment?"
"For as long as you like."
She relaxed into his embrace and tried to set her mind at ease. There was no going back and choosing a different path; this was the one they were forced to walk now, for good or ill, and she truly believed she'd made the right choice. But Duke Cyril's grief and Briala's wet eyes would haunt her sleep tonight.
