"Careful, Inquisitor. You'll ruffle—yes, that's good. Stay where you are. Dr Pavus, Serah Tethras, if you could budge together a little so we can fit you all in … excellent. Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you would look straight into the camera and smile …"

Bethany forced herself not to blink when the camera flashed, and maintained her strained smile. This had taken longer than she had anticipated, and she had never been any good with being photographed. Her hands were clenched around the gilded armrests of the chair she had been made to sit in; she forced herself to relax them. "Very good, just a couple more … and that's it, thank you very much."

She breathed a sigh of relief. That was the first part of the evening defeated. Vivienne must have noticed her discomfort, for she said: "Steel yourself, dear. You must do your best to enjoy the evening, and all the rest will fall into place."

"I'll try." She slipped a finger in between her collar and neck to loosen the grip her bowtie had on her, but Vivienne cruelly slapped the hand away.

"Now, now, dear. You don't want to ruin your uniform just yet. You'll get used to it."

"I guess." Originally, Bethany had wondered out loud why they couldn't just wear their normal Inquisition uniforms and had to have special dress uniforms tailored. After all, the service uniform did include a tie. At that, Josephine and Leliana had given her a Look and she had quickly realised the virtues of shutting up. Earlier today, then, she had been made to not only have her hair done, but also put on a starched white shirt and waistcoat, a black tailcoat with elaborate gold epaulets, a white bowtie and a dress sword. You have to look presentable, after all, Leliana had innocently explained.

Of course, that hadn't prevented Josephine and Leliana from reneging on their own advice. Both of them had opted for elegant, voluminous ballgowns—Josephine's in dark blue and gold, Leliana's in green—that advantageously framed their features and looked to be considerably more comfortable to move in. And, of course, neither of them was lugging half a kilogram of unwieldy gilded steel around on their hips. Traitors. At least the others—Cullen, Cassandra, Dorian, Varric and Solas, that is—shared in her misery, and Vivienne's and Blackwall's Orlesian respectively Warden uniforms looked to be quite similar in style.

Behind the photographer, Lavellan checked her phone. She was wearing the same uniform as the rest of them, but with less elaborate epaulets, no sword and an aide-de-camp's gold aiguillette on her shoulder. "Motorcade's here," she announced. "We should get going."

"Quite right. This has taken longer than I thought it would." Tactfully, Josephine refrained from mentioning that this had in part been due to Bethany's continual disruption of her bowtie.

She rose to her feet, and quickly they left the wood-panelled sitting room with the oil portraits of long-dead Orlesians on the walls where they had posed for the picture, and made their way downstairs to the entrance hall. The Inquisition's representation in Halamshiral had originally operated out of a rather plain building on the outskirts of the city, but the Empress Celene's relocation to the Winter Palace had made it considerably more central to Josephine's operations. The local chantry, as it happened, owned a significant portion of the inner city, and had recently seen a vacancy emerge when a minor, but ancient bank had exchanged its historic premises for a more modern office building in the financial quarter. Some shrewd diplomacy later, Josephine had secured the elegant neo-classical building for use by the Inquisition's permanent resident and their staff for a rent that was merely felonious rather than criminal.

Right now, it served as their base of operations for one of the most important events in the history of the Orlesian Empire: the 9:42 Diplomatic Ball. "I still don't see what makes this ball so important," Bethany asked yet again as she, Josephine, Cullen and Leliana took their seats at the back of a rented limousine with the Inquisition's flag on the fenders. "I mean, I get that it's a big event, but why would Gaspard be here? Isn't he endangering himself by coming to Celene's own palace? What does he want?"

There was a note of exasperation in Josephine's voice. "You have to understand, Inquisitor, that the central doctrine of Orlesian foreign policy for almost a thousand years has been the translation of the empire. Some emperors have ignored it, others have fought for it, but it's at the very centre of their self-conception of a nation. In their view, there can only be one empire at a time, and by that they understand the supreme and universal dominion of the world. At first, that empire was that of Arlathan, then Tevinter. Today, it is Orlais."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"It means that the Orlesian emperors have always considered themselves the leaders of the free world in an almost religious sense. More importantly, it means that they must be seen to be the leaders of the free world, and the annual Diplomatic Ball is a key ceremony for that. All ambassadors and permanent representatives accredited to the Orlesian court are summoned to do homage to the emperor. For them, it's the cost of doing business with Orlais. But for the Orlesians, it symbolises that the sole true empire that rules the world is theirs. If Gaspard wants to be emperor, he must be seen to have a good claim of representing that empire. So he's there to put the ambassadors on the spot. Most foreign governments have been noncommittal on whether they support him or Celene, and neither side can be sure of foreign support. With Gaspard there in person, they will be forced to make a choice of which claimant to pay homage to first. In other words, he's trying to escalate the situation and humiliate Celene, and that counts for more in Orlesian politics than you might think."

"Okay, I can see that. But he's still endangering himself. Why doesn't Celene just have him arrested when he enters Halamshiral?"

"Because Gaspard isn't a traitor, not really. Everyone knows he's playing for the throne, but he's not come out and said it. The Chalonais rebels consider him their figurehead, but so far he's been coy about firmly committing to standing against Celene—he's been playing it pretty cleverly, in fact. As a member of the imperial family, he can only be indicted before the Council of State, and Celene and her government know full well that there isn't enough evidence or support to convict him of treason. If she had him arrested and put on trial now, it would be considered a considerable overreach that violates centuries of constitutional precedents. There would be an uproar even among some of her loyalists, and it would seriously weaken her position. And since Gaspard is also the highest-ranked peer of the empire, she can't exactly disinvite him. So she'll be looking to humiliate him, especially by securing the support of the diplomatic corps. Assemblywoman Briala, the leader of the Marcherite Labour Party, will also be important. She leads the largest opposition bloc in the National Assembly, but she's not clearly on either side and used to be personally close to the empress. If Celene can recruit the MLP into the government coalition, that's a major coup for her."

"And that's why the Starkhaven Accord are there—to broker peace. But if Gaspard isn't officially the leader of the Chalonais faction …"

"It's a bit more complicated than that. The new Commissioner-General, Dr Hildebrandt Wormseley, is at Halamshiral, but the Accord is mostly interested in preventing further escalation. War's not good for business, and the Accord is getting pretty antsy about what might happen if rebel groups get their hands on part of the empire's thaumic arsenal."

"They already have," Bethany pointed out. "Vivienne told us as much when we met Roderick."

"And I suspect the Accord knows that. But if there's a chance they can contain the situation through backchannels, there's no need to raise a panic. Either way, Grand Chancellor Roderick and Commissioner-General Wormseley intend to mediate an agreement between Celene and Gaspard. I don't expect much will come of it; the word on the grapevine is that their sherpas are refusing to even talk face-to-face without the Accord's negotiators acting as go-betweens. More importantly, there's not a lot Gaspard can offer. The rebellion is about taxation, about social tension and unrest, not about him. Even if he denounces it, it will go on."

"So they're just hoping for the best, then? Trying to appeal to both sides' better nature?"

"Well, it's in their self-interest to keep things from boiling over. Armed unrest and occasional skirmishes in the Dales is one thing, but things turn complicated as soon as thaumic weapons get involved. They're just as terrified that something might go wrong as we are."

Bethany leant back in her seat. Again, she reached for her collar to adjust the bowtie; Leliana leant forwards and slapped her hand away like a stern mother. With an annoyed glare, she summed up what Josephine had said. "Okay, so Gaspard wants to enhance his legitimacy from appearing around foreign diplomats. Celene can't do anything about it, but will try to humiliate him and recruit the MLP. And the Accord and the Chantry want to keep things from further escalating. That leaves us. What are we looking to get out of it?"

"Ideally? The firm support of the Orlesian Crown. With Ferelden having turned their back on us, we need a new source of funding to maintain our operations. Orlais has been noncommittal, so we're hoping for firm assurances."

"That's the bare minimum we're after, though," Leliana pointed out. "In the long term, we would want to end the Orlesian civil war. In all seriousness, that option isn't on the table tonight. But if what you said you saw in the future is true …"

"What you said," Bethany interrupted. "The future you told us about."

There was a brief pause. "Very well. If what I said is true, the empress will be assassinated, presumably by agents of Corypheus. There are assassination attempts against people like her all the time, of course, but an attack tonight would be the most likely to succeed. She'll be out in the open, after all, surrounded by strangers and in full view of the television cameras. Either way, we'll be prepared for anything. I have placed several agents in strategic segments of the palace staff, and Cullen's people have established a perimeter around the palace."

Bethany frowned. "Won't that be noticed? There gotta be background checks."

But Leliana only shrugged. "We're sure they've noticed, but it's not exactly surprising. Everyone has spies, after all. So long as ours stay away from anything too important, they'll be tolerated."

"Huh." She closed her eyes. "What about the other thing? Operation Supervisor."

Before he responded, Cullen pulled out a small plastic device, about the size of a remote, and made a sweeping gesture with it. When it didn't seem to react in any way, he returned it to the inside pocket of his tailcoat. "We're monitoring the compound Calpernia's intel led us to. From what we can tell, Samson and his lieutenants are holed up inside."

"So why haven't we attacked yet?"

Cullen only shifted in his seat, and Josephine responded in his stead. "Legal issues, mostly. Dumas-sur-Roche lies in what might charitably be described as 'no man's land.' It's controlled neither by the government forces nor by the Chalonais rebels, but fiercely contested by both. Civil society has all but broken down. The Chantry are doing their best to provide some limited local government, but they're stretched thin. Any unsanctioned action on our part would inflame tensions between all three sides, unfortunately. I was hoping to speak to the Defence Minister tonight, see if we can find a multilateral solution that takes out Samson while working for all parties."

"Add to that that Ser Raleigh is a Kirkwaller, and thus a citizen of the Starkhaven Accord. It's not a huge concern, but that's something we'll need to smooth over."

Bethany nodded. "Alright. Do what you can. If we get this guy, we strike a blow against Corypheus."

"Agreed. Now, let's go over the details one more time …"

The rest of the drive to the palace was spent rehearsing the lessons in court etiquette Josephine had given her over the past few days. Leandra Amell had taken care to raise her children in a manner befitting their patrician heritage, despite the rather less exalted circumstances in which they had been born, but apparently genteel Kirkwall manners weren't going to cut it at the imperial winter palace of Orlais. There was a bewildering amount of ceremonial she apparently had to learn, from specific dances and forms of address to the peculiar manner, pre-agreed upon by Josephine and the Imperial Household Ministry, in which she would have to approach the throne.

By the time their small motorcade reached the palace grounds, a vast grouping of public and private parks right near the city centre of Halamshiral, with a consequently astronomical ground value, the bowtie around her neck had faded from her mind and she no longer felt near suffocating. The sword at her side was still annoying, but she was actually starting to feel more comfortable. There was something about the uniform—perhaps it was the waistcoat, or the starched shirt front—that seemed to force her to keep herself erect, seemed to bind her together. When the door of the limousine was opened for her, she managed to step out onto the red carpet into the camera flashes of the assembled press with sure feet. She helped Josephine out of the car and Cullen did the same for Leliana, their gowns impeding their movement. Behind them, the limousine holding the rest of the Inquisition delegation was already rolling up to the red carpet.

"Well then," Josephine said, grinning as she pulled back her long blue gloves, "let's do this."

A pair of imperial guards in polished steel cuirasses and helmets over bright blue uniforms leaned in to open the gate to the outermost courtyard of the palace proper for them. As soon as they stepped through it, the noise of the city and the clamouring of the press and protesters outside seemed to retreat, replaced by the rippling of a fountain, muffled laughter and conversation, and even a bit of birdsong.

"Alright," Josephine said, turning to them as the rest of the Inquisition's delegation entered the gardens behind them. "Now, remember what we talked about. But do try and have fun, alright? This is a party, after all."

Before Bethany could think of a suitably snippy remark, a servant in a white and black livery with gold trimmings approached them, carrying on a small silver tray a sealed envelope. "Your Worship, Mesdames, Messieurs. Welcome to the winter palace. Mme l'Inquisitrice, a note for you from a certain gentleman."

"A certain …" She glanced at Josephine and Leliana, but neither of their faces revealed any foreknowledge. "Well, that doesn't sound at all ominous. Thank you." She took the envelope and unfolded it. There were only a couple of handwritten lines, rather neat and narrow: Mme l'Inquisitrice, I would be much obliged were you to meet me on the south terrace—Chalons. She looked up. "Chalons?" she echoed. "As in, the Grand Duke of Chalons?"

"I cannot say, Mme l'Inquisitrice, it was given to me through an intermediary."

Josephine frowned. "Well, if it is Gaspard, you don't want to keep him waiting. Can you handle him on your own?"

"Uh, I guess."

"Excellent. Now excuse me, I think I've spied the Grand Cleric of Val Chevin over there."

With the aid of the servant's directions, Bethany left the rest of the delegation behind and slowly made her way through the gardens. She caught quite a few eyes as she did so, she noticed, and quite a few hands went to cover mouths for exaggerated whispers. She could make out only the occasional fragment, but she heard the words 'Tevinter' and 'terrorist' multiple times. Bethany couldn't keep from flushing red, but she managed to keep her head high and her eyes straight ahead. Thanks, tailcoat. Still, her heart was racing. Blessed Lady, steel my soul …

The south terrace, it turned out, was a rather lovely pavilion overlooking part of the gardens and the city of Halamshiral. Shrouded in elaborate arrangements of trees, bushes, hedges and fountains, it seemed to be designed to shield its occupants from prying eyes. A pair of beefy-looking bodyguards in deep blue uniforms were guarding the entrance to the terrace, but stepped aside without prompting when she approached. "His Imperial Highness awaits you inside, Your Worship."

Highness, Bethany noted, recalling Josephine's etiquette lessons, not Majesty. The diplomat had been right; without the official recognition of the Council of Heralds and the National Assembly, not even Gaspard's closest allies presumed to call him emperor.

Slowly, she passed through the gate in the hedge and entered the open pavilion. The grand duke—dressed in a rather plain olive-coloured uniform—had his broad back to her, and was quietly talking to a pale woman in her forties who could only be described as striking, or perhaps regal. For an instant, Bethany thought it was the empress—she had the same pale blonde hair, the same sharp, hawkish features. But, no, this woman was younger, clearly.

The lady subtly nodded in her direction when she entered the pavilion, and the grand duke turned around to face her. Bethany was tempted to bow like a page girl in some period drama, but then remembered Josephine's etiquette lessons. The Inquisitor must bow to no one but the Divine and her Maker. "Ah, Mme l'Inquisitrice. Welcome to Halamshiral; it is good to finally meet you. My sister, Florianne."

"Your Imperial Highnesses."

Florianne gave a slight laugh. "So serious. Keep in mind that this is a party. Enjoy yourself. I have some people I need to talk to, Inquisitor, you'll excuse me. Gaspard, don't bore the Inquisitor too much, will you? I'll leave you to it." She briefly patted her brother's arm, then left the pavilion.

Once she was gone, Bethany produced the note she had been given. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Ah, yes, indeed. Walk with me, Inquisitor, the gardens are lovely just after sunset." Bethany followed Gaspard as he led her on a ponderous stroll through a veritable maze of hedges, flowerbeds, pavilions and fountains. The gardens seemed to stretch on forever, and each carefully-hidden lamp cast bizarre shadows where they broke up the moonlit night. A strong smell of crystal grace and hyacinth lay in the air, and though it was unseasonably warm for late Drakonis, Bethany was near-shivering. "You were in Minrathous recently, weren't you?" Gaspard opened after a while. "As I recall, you were meeting with Archon Calpernia the very instant Radonis died."

Bethany raised an eyebrow. That wasn't exactly a secret, and as far as she knew the tabloids and Internet had already made much of it. "That's true, monseigneur. We were together at her office when she got the news."

"Hmm. It's a tragedy, of course. Radonis was a good man, and a decent leader. Someone we could have worked with. Calpernia is … an unknown."

"The Archon only wants what's best for her people," Bethany said, trying to reassure him. Since their meeting in Minrathous, she had talked to Calpernia twice on the phone—it was, she had to admit, flattering that the Archon had talked to her more than to most heads of state. But beyond that, she liked to think that Calpernia and her had connected in a unique way, bound by shared experiences and a blossoming friendship as much as by shared interests. At some point, Bethany would have to tell Josephine about the Archon's calls to her private phone, but so far they hadn't spoken a word of business. Somehow Bethany knew the diplomat wouldn't approve. "You can reason with her. The things she said on the campaign trail—about Orlais, about the Tevene space program and military—are just talk. Rhetoric, nothing more. Peace and cooperation are in everyone's interest."

The grand duke chortled darkly. "Your words in the Maker's ear. But enough about Tevinter. Tell me, Inquisitor, what brings you here tonight? I don't believe you came all this way just for the canapés."

She had to laugh at that. "No, I'm afraid not. The Inquisition is here to—well, observe the peace talks. Lend a helping hand, if we can. It's our job to restore law and order, after all. It's why we exist."

"Please, Inquisitor. I detest the Game, but I know how it is played. You're here because you want something."

"Peace?" she offered.

"Ferelden no longer funds you, isn't that right? Donations are drying up. Your troops are demoralised from the attack on Haven; some of them have left the Inquisition. You need the support of the empire."

Bethany's smile froze in place. How much could she say? Josephine had told her to simply leave the negotiations to her, and hadn't gone into much detail. Better keep it general, to be on the safe side. Don't be silly, some part of her said, you're the inquisitor, not her. But reason won the better of her, and said with a thin-lipped smile: "The Inquisition is impartial. We are concerned only with restoring order, not with taking sides. We'll welcome any support you may be able to give us."

The grand duke rolled his eyes. "I recommend you don't say something like that again, unless you want your Lady Montilyet to have a stroke. The elite of the empire is assembled here tonight—some of the most powerful people in the world, graduates of the Grandes écoles and veterans of all the pillars of the empire. Most of them are expert players of the Game. If you want to survive in there, you better get good fast."

"Why?" The grand duke's bluntness had taken her aback. She thought she'd been fairly diplomatic. "What did I say wrong?"

"You're trying to be coy—inscrutable—noncommittal. All that tells me is that you don't really have a plan. That you don't even know what you want. A plaything, not a player. You want to be proactive, not reactive." A bell rang, and Grand Duke Gaspard glanced at his wristwatch.

"Am I keeping you from something?"

"Not at all. In fact, we have some more time. Let me be blunt with you, Inquisitor. I am concerned about some of the company you have been keeping. Archon Calpernia may be charming and charismatic, but she is not to be trusted. You should look for allies closer to home. Allies you can count on."

"Allies like you?"

"Allies like Grand Chancellor Roderick, for instance. Right now, the Chantry is your best option. They can't give you money or troops, but they can give you moral authority and divine sanction. You've already taken the first step towards playing the 'Herald of Andraste' card, but you're not moving far enough. Roderick is an administrator yearning for guidance and legitimate authority. Use that. Co-opt him. Remake the Chantry in your own image and turn it into your instrument."

Bethany blinked, stared. Her mouth was dry. "I'm not ..." She broke off. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I wonder," said the Grand Duke, chuckling. "That air of innocence—is there anything to it, anything at all? You are a smart woman; you must know your own power." Before Bethany could make reply, the bell rang again, twice this time. "Ah, but we must cut this short. That's the summons to the Hall of Homage. Inquisitor, may I have the pleasure of your company?" He offered her his arm, and somewhat hesitantly she took it.

The Hall of Homage, the Grand Duke explained, leading her through the gardens, which were now almost empty, had once served as the throne room, where the emperor or empress received foreign diplomats and regional dignitaries, promulgated laws and edicts and performed all the other ceremonies of state. After the court had moved from Halamshiral to Val Royeaux at the end of the Storm Age, it had fallen into disrepair until modern technology had enabled the court's annual moves to the milder climes of Halamshiral during the winter. Now, it was used again for the occasional ceremony, including the Diplomatic Ball.

The Grand Duke indicated a brisk pace, and quite quickly they had reached a set of archways flanked by guards in polished steel cuirasses and elaborate masked helmets. Through the thick marble walls, the faint clamouring of a large crowd could be made out. "Ready to face the music, Inquisitor?"

She tried to think of something clever to say. She nodded.

On Gaspard's arm, Bethany entered the Hall of Homage. At once, she felt blinded by the light of electric candles and sconces, reflected and prismed by hundreds of tiny crystals that hung from the frescoed ceiling in heavy chandeliers, and by the tall mirrors lining the walls on either side of them. It was warm in the hall, no doubt a consequence of the throngs of people gathered in it, yet a gentle breeze seemed to fly through it, bringing necessary refreshment. Once her eyes had somewhat attenuated to the sudden brightness, Bethany realised that the back wall of the hall was composed of five massive floor-to-ceiling windows interrupted by marble columns. The middle window was made of stained glass, although there was no way to determine what it depicted now that the sun had gone down. In the other windows, all wide open and leading out onto a large terrace looking out over the city, swayed large silk banners of the Orlesian flag. Yet Bethany's eyes were intractably drawn towards the massive throne in front of the middle window. A huge sunburst emerging from the floor as half a wheel formed the backrest, and resting lions the arms. Both shone brightly in the chandeliers' light, and Bethany would not have been surprised to learn they were shaped from solid gold. Royal blue cushions were embedded into the seat and backrest, the latter embroidered in gold with the imperial coat of arms. It was the sort of overloaded, almost gaudy thing she had expected, and yet she could not but be awed.

Bethany issued a slight gasp at the sight of the hall, at the scale of it. In the silence that slowly descended over the hall as all eyes turned to them. it felt like a scream. She flushed. Then, suddenly, to their right, a young elf in an embroidered silk herald's tabard slammed a carved rod of wood onto the floor and exclaimed: "His Imperial Highness, Field Marshal the Grand Duke Gaspard of Chalons, Prince of the Blood and Marshal of Orlais! Accompanying His Imperial Highness: the Right Worshipful and Learned Enchanter Bethany Revka Hawke, Lady Amell of Kirkwall, formerly Viscomital Reader in Force Magic at that Circle, and leader of the Inquisition!"

Oh, bugger.

She could make out the Inquisition delegation in the crowd lining the hall. Josephine was staring, slack-jawed. Clearly, this hadn't gone as planned. Before Bethany had time to react in any way, Gaspard tugged on her arm and lead her forwards towards the centre of the hall. "Thank you for going along with this," he told her in a subdued voice as most of the guests slowly returned to their conversations, occasionally throwing aghast glances in their direction. "I have some people to see, so you will excuse me. I trust I will have the privilege of your first dance this evening, Madame?"

"Uh," she made. "Maybe?"

"Splendid. Have a good night." With these words, he gave a slight bow and departed into the crowd.

The Inquisition delegation met her halfway back. "What on earth where you thinking, Inquisitor?" Josephine snapped. "Walking into the hall like that, at the side of the grand duke? We cannot be seen to be aligning ourselves with a rebel warlord if we are to have any hope of coming to an agreement with the Orlesians. You may just have thrown our entire negotiating platform overboard ..."

"Calm down," Cullen interjected. "You can spin this, I have full confidence in you." He turned to Bethany. "What happened, Inquisitor?"

She could only sigh. Oh, Maker, this was starting out to be even worse than she'd feared. "He played me. I wasn't thinking. Mea culpa. We'll just have to work with it."

"Yes. Yes, clearly. I can go speak to the prime minister's private secretary to smooth things over, for now. In the meantime, just ... don't do anything foolish, okay?"

Bethany flushed red. Josephine was right, she had to be on her guard. "I won't."

The Antivan gathered her skirts and hurried away, leaving her with Cullen and Leliana. "One more thing, Inquisitor," the latter said, quietly. Bethany had to strain her ears to hear what she was saying over the music, chatter and ringing of champagne flutes.

"Yes?"

"While you were talking to the grand duke, I got a text from my station chief in Halamshiral. Multiple agents have reported unusual activity among the palace staff. You see, the empress lives in a suite in the east wing when she is in Halamshiral these days. The residence in the west wing hasn't been used in years and is normally kept sealed. Tonight, servants were seen entering it, and Cullen's people have reported seeing lights in the windows."

"That's not much to go on. They could be cleaning, doing maintenance ..."

"Tonight? Unlikely. So I had my people run checks on the servants seen entering the residence—turns out, all of them are elves, none of them were employed in the palace a year ago, and none of them had any business being in the residence tonight. And that's not the only thing. An hour ago, Assemblywoman Briala—I mentioned her—was shown entering the palace grounds on live TV. As far as I can tell, no one has seen her since. Something's up."

Bethany raised an eyebrow. "You think she's got something to do with it?"

"Briala knows the residence—she used to sleep there, after all. What's more, she's dangerous. Graduated from the College of Bards a couple of years before I did, got posted in the palace as a counterintelligence agent ... I don't have anything solid, but my gut says she's involved somehow. And if she's willing to risk being caught breaking into the residence, I want to know why."

"Right. Okay. So what do we do? Do we investigate?"

"We don't really have the wherewithal to do anything right now. I'll stretch out feelers, see what I can find. In the meantime, how about you go talk to ... oh."

Leliana was interrupted by the sound of a herald's baton being slammed against the marble floor and ringing out throughout the hall, once, twice, thrice. All conversation ceased, and all eyes turned towards the doors. Someone stifled a cough, as loud as thunder in the sudden silence. "All rise," the herald declaimed, "for Her Imperial Majesty, Celene, by the grace of the Maker and the constitutions of the Nation, Empress of Orlais, Queen of the Dales, Sword and Shield of the Faith, and sovereign over all the world, long may she reign! Accompanying Her Imperial Majesty the Empress: Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Florianne of Lydes, Princess of the Blood!"

Bethany felt the urge to bow, but no one else did, leaving her to merely stare. She had, of course, seen the Empress before—on the news, online, in books—but never in person. Celene was a fair bit shorter than she appeared on television, and deep, severe folds lined her pale face. Her lustrous, barely greying blonde hair was done up in a strict bun, and she wore no jewellery but a plain gold sunburst pendant and a large signet ring. Her gown was equally plain: the sleek and sophisticated deep blue satin dress featured no ornamentation of any sort. Yet despite this, Celene's presence immediately bound all present.

The empress briefly paused in the doorway and let her eyes sweep across the assembled revellers, then joined her fingertips together in front of her waist and, with perfect poise, made her way towards the throne and took her seat there. A microphone was promptly moved before her. Once she had settled in, she said in Orlesian: "In the name of the Most Merciful, Most Holy, the all-powerful lord of lords and Creator of All That Is And Is Not, We bid you welcome. Let us begin." Smoothly transitioning into Common, she added: "Who comes before Our sunlit throne?"

A sort of queue had formed around the space before the throne, without any prompting whatsoever. Now, the man at the top of the queue stepped forward, bowed, took another step towards the throne, and went down on one knee. Two members of the Imperial Guard in polished cuirasses approached, carrying between them a large, flat object in a velvet shroud.

"His Excellency, Monsieur Friedereich von Hohenheim, the ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary of the Marcherite Republic of the Anderfels," one of the heralds proclaimed.

"Your Imperial Majesty, on behalf of President Beckmesser I offer you greetings, thanks, and homage. I beseech you to accept a customary gift on behalf of your nation from ours, that commemorates our shared history and deep and lasting friendship." The guardsmen uncovered the object they were carrying. It was a large, plain-looking book bound in red leather. When they opened it, Bethany could make out elaborate scrollwork and miniatures on each page. "This is a manuscript copy of the Most Holy Chant of Light, scribed and illustrated by the Anders artist Angelika Erlanger, who won the Golden Gryphon at the Antivan Triennale last year. We hope this codex will find a worthy place within Your Imperial Majesty's library, and serve as a pious reminder that each of us, however high or low, is but a child among children of their Maker."

The empress gave a barely perceptible nod. "On behalf of the Orlesian nation and the empire, We thank you, ambassador, for your homage and tribute. As a sign of Our grace and favour, We have been moved to grant you the following boon:" An aide stepped to the throne, holding an embossed leather folder for the empress' attention. "That your pious loyalty to Our imperial throne be rewarded with the grant of one seat aboard the space capsule Excellence SM-102 that is due to launch Expedition 63 to the Space Station Liberté in the spring of 9:46; and further, that this seat shall be filled by a fully-trained crewmember of your nation, whomever you may choose, and that said crewmember shall be considered a full crewmember and participant of Expedition 63, until such time as they may complete their mission." Without really looking, the empress picked up a pen and put her signature on the paper the aide was presenting to her. The ambassador rose, bowed, and retreated without turning his back to the throne.

Bethany raised an eyebrow. A fancy Chant for a spationaut? Josephine had explained to her that a central part of the ceremony was the exchange of gifts between the ambassadors and the empress—or, in the Orlesian view, tribute. Yet she had not mentioned that the empress' favours tended to far outstrip the 'tribute' she received.

The Anders Chant was quickly removed, and a dark-skinned, grey-haired woman in a deep green evening dress took Ambassador von Hohenheim's place. "Her Excellency, Madame Marcellina Scuomeni, the ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary of His Majesty the King of Antiva."

"Your Imperial Majesty, on behalf of His Majesty King Enzo of Antiva and the Royal Signoria I offer you greetings, thanks, and homage. I beseech you to accept a customary gift on behalf of your nation from ours, that commemorates our shared history and lasting friendship." The same pair of guardsmen presented the empress with an elongated velvet cushion, upon which lay a sword. "As agreed upon in the treaty of 7:21, Antiva submits to you a blade of the finest Llomerryn steel, forged by Master Elgric Battista Antonetti, the third master craftsman of that name to lead the Antonetti S. Silvestra forge. As each Antonetti sword we have had the honour of presenting to you and your storied ancestors, may it serve you well in your defence of your nation, in war and in peace."

Again, the empress nodded, shooing the guardsmen with the sword away without so much as looking at it. "On behalf of the Orlesian nation and the empire, We thank you, ambassador, for your homage and tribute. As a sign of Our grace and favour, We have been moved to grant you the following boon: the Merveilleux-class guided missile cruiser Téméraire, presently berthed in Rialto, which shall be your king's to do with as he sees fit from noon tomorrow, local time." Again, the empress signed. Again, no one seemed particularly surprised.

When the ambassador of Nevarra exchanged five gold and five lyrium rings for oil drilling rights in part of the Orlesian New World, it dawned upon Bethany that this wasn't about the gifts. Most likely, everything that was exchanged here tonight had long been agreed on by diplomats and negotiators. And quite possibly, Orlais received recompense in cold, hard cash, or other favours—but the ceremony, the exchange of gifts, was key. When other countries had to come and humbly supplicate themselves, they offered tribute to the one true empire. When Orlais showered its loyal subjects in gifts, it did so out of imperial magnanimity. Recalling Josephine's explanations, Bethany wondered how many of the ambassadors had spoken to Gaspard already, if any. He had no gifts to offer them, after all.

One by one, the ambassadors accredited to the imperial court did homage, each receiving a very real 'boon' in return for a symbolic tribute. Something was missing, though: she knew that the Qunari did not maintain formal diplomatic relationships with any other power, so their absence was unsurprising, but neither the dwarven nor the Tevene ambassadors had done homage to the empress. Only at the very end of the ceremony—when every other ambassador appeared to have done their part—the empress said: "But We see one among us who has not recognised his empress, who shies away from the light and avoids Our embrace. Does Our well-beloved niece, the Queen of Minrathous, not send her envoy to do homage?"

So smoothly that he must have practised beforehand, the Tevene ambassador approached the throne. Unlike his colleagues, he did not kneel, and only gave a slight bow. "Madam, it is not the Queen of Minrathous who scorns and defies you: it is the Archon Calpernia, to which title she lays claim, and all her people, for you are no empress of ours. You shall hear no homage from me today,"

Empress Celene did not twitch an eyebrow. "It saddens Us to see our well-beloved niece of Minrathous so led astray, wandering far from Our love. Demonic lies and magics, We can see, have blackened her heart, and she shall find no succour or redemption if not in the word of her Maker. Receive, then, despite your scorn, Our grace and Our love, for We would not see even the foulest of Our children falter lost to the Void. Go, then, and take this to your mistress; may it light the sacred flame of right-thinking in her heart." A guardswoman handed the ambassador a plain book with a golden sunburst on the cover, the Chant of Light. Wordlessly, the ambassador withdraw as the audience applauded. This, too, had been scripted.

Having heard homage, the empress quickly disappeared into an adjoining room. Not soon after, Bethany spied Grand Duke Gaspard and several of his people joining her, no doubt for negotiations. The guests took to the dance floor as a chamber orchestra began to play light tunes. A handful of people cast glances in her direction, but she knew that none of them would actually approach her until she had chosen a first partner herself—fat chance of that. Unsure of what to do, she went to look for Josephine for further instructions, when the phone in her tailcoat's inside pocket started to buzz.

Expecting some sort of update from Cullen's people, she was surprised to find herself being called by an unknown number. Not many people knew her phone number, and most of them would not have called her tonight. After dismissing the idea of not answering the call, Bethany quickly hid away in an alcove between two pillars and took up. "Hawke?"

"Good evening, Inquisitor," ArchonCalpernia's clear mezzo answered. "I hope you're enjoying the party."

Bethany had to force herself to remain calm, despite the surprise and the odd heat she felt in her stomach at hearing the other mage's voice. "Archon," she said, exhaling, "I—I didn't expect you to call. How did you get this number?"

"I control six different intelligence services. You're looking delicious tonight, by the way. Love the tailcoat. Look up and to your right."

Flushing red at the compliment, Bethany followed the direction and looked up to the galleries. A thicket of television cameras was assembled there, chronicling and broadcasting the proceedings to the world as they swept across the hall. One, however, seemed to remain fixed on her in particular. "Are you ... are you watching me?"

"Mmh. I want to see you dance later. Maybe I'll have my ambassador approach you later in my stead. Wish I was there myself." Oh, sweet Andraste, she was not going to lose that mental image anytime soon. "Anyway—on to business. I've got some information you might be interested in ..."

A shadow slid over the wall and softly dropped into the flowerbed below, trampling the crystal graces. It did not take but an instant to look around before it rushed across the lawn into the shadowed alcove of a small statue along the wall. Heavy footsteps could be heard, chatter. "All I'm saying is—" and "No, damn it, it's not gonna happen. Halam won't win the championship for at least ..."

The shadow watched silently as the two soldiers passed by, blending into the alcove with its breath held. Its hand went to its weapon—but no, it was too soon. It would see more use later that night.

The shadow waited until the soldiers were out of sight. Then, it disappeared, moving ever closer to the centre of the palace.

One of Leliana's people, an elven maidservant who had introduced herself as Engraver, guided them through a seemingly endless maze of hidden passages—bare, gloomy concrete corridors, so narrow one had to keep one's arms close to one's side, with the occasional half-hidden door leading to one of the palace's hundreds of state rooms. At some point, Engraver had explained that they'd moved into the residence, abandoned for the most part but tonight the centre of considerable activity.

"We only just came across them ourselves," Engraver explained in a half-whisper, moving swiftly as she led the way. One of the tournants found them when he went to use the staff bathroom down the hallway."

"Found them? How?"

"The smell, Lady Herald. Whoever put them there didn't think to open a window, or turn down the heating. It's right here." Engraver softly opened a narrow wooden door so well-hidden in the wall Bethany would never have found it on her own. Almost immediately, a cool spring breeze hit them, carrying the stench of early putrefaction with it. Someone had, it appeared, opened a window after all, but it was barely sufficient to keep her from gagging.

They entered the elegant bedroom to the covert whispers and rapid-fire camera clicking of the Inquisition agents already present. With every step, their feet descended deep into the carpet. Five corpses lay on the ground, somewhere between a pile and a careless array. All of them were human, three men and two women, dressed in sensible yet anonymous business attire. And all five of them had had their throats cut. Bethany half-covered her mouth with the back of her hand. "Have you identified the victims?" she asked, trying to recall their MO when she'd served in the MCIS.

"We've got a good idea of who three of them are," Engraver reported. "All of them junior advisers to members of the Council of Heralds. Still working on the other two, but probably same story there. Cause of death appears to have been a stabbed throat in all cases—deep, straight through the carotid arteries. Quick, quiet death."

"That's what they taught us at the College of Bards," Leliana commented, sounding vaguely interested. "Slitting someone's throat is easy, but it's also messy, slow, and loud. You want to go at it from the side." Bethany took as inconspicuous a step as she could manage away from her.

"No signs of struggle, so whoever got them probably came up to them from behind. We're clearly dealing with an experienced professional here. A bard, maybe, or a high-class hitman. Or it could be foreign agents."

"Hmm. Any thoughts, Engraver?"

The maid bit her lips. "Just the one, Your Worship. We found a fair bit of blood in the Arlessant Corridor, just by the portrait of the Duke of Rivollieu"

"So ... is there anything special about that spot?"

"The floorboards. They creak something terrible whenever a human walks across them, too loud for someone right in front of you not to notice. But when it's an elf like me, or most dwarves, you can't hear a thing. Because we're usually lighter, you know. The victim would have heard their assassin coming up on them. A dwarf would have chosen an easier method to kill than to reach all the way up to their victim's throats, so ... I'd say our suspect is an elf."

Bethany bit her lip. So Calpernia had been right: Briala's agents were up to something. It only made sense, after all. What, though, did she have to gain from killing advisors to councillors? "The Council of Heralds ... it deals with succession, right?"

"Not usually—that tends to be fairly straightforward. They normally deal with heraldic matters, serve as a court of appeal for disputes of honour involving the nobility, and keep track of the principal bloodlines of the empire. It's only in the past couple of years that its role as the arbiter of disputed succession to the imperial throne has come into the foreground, for obvious reasons."

Nodding silently, Bethany examined one of the dead bodies. Glassy eyes stared past her at the ceiling. A clean stab, as far as she could tell, though covered in gore. She grimaced, glad she hadn't eaten anything. Partly to distract herself, she cast a few quick spells to examine the Fade—no, nothing, of course not: the deed hadn't been done here. "Why would Briala kill the advisors, though?" she wondered out loud. "Why not the councillors themselves? To send a message? To weaken them?"

"Anyone can hire an elven assassin," Leliana pointed out. "Engraver, any news yet on which councillors the three you've identified worked for?"

"Madame Montbelliard, Monseigneur de Ghislain and Monseigneur de Chalons."

"Bastien de Ghislain was Gaspard's father-in-law before the accident, and Germain is his uncle. The Comtesse Montbelliard is the odd one out. Her husband is a senior civil servant in the Department of the Colonies. Celene knighted him two years ago. By all appearances, she's loyal to the empress."

Bethany raised an eyebrow. "You think Celene is trying to sabotage Gaspard by targeting his supporters?"

"Not Celene. She's far too smart for that, and keeps a tight rein on her people. You want to put pressure on someone, you don't murder their advisors, especially not in such a ham-handed manner."

"So by having them killed under her roof, at a party she's hosting," Bethany slowly reasoned, connected the dots, "someone is trying to discredit her. Make her take the fall for the murders. Briala?"

"Briala has nothing to gain from taking down Celene. Her party depends on being useful and necessary. As soon as the empress feels secure enough to appoint a minority government, or rule by decree like Alistair in Denerim does, she'll cast the MLP aside; whereas with Gaspard still around, Briala and her assemblypeople are the kingmakers propping up the government."

"But who else could it be?"

Leliana shrugged. "Could be Gaspard himself. Maybe Ghislain and Chalons are wavering, now that peace is on the table, and he thinks he can intimidate Montbelliard into crossing the aisle. It's the kind of thing I could see him doing. Foolish and artless, that is."

"Gaspard wouldn't have his own allies murdered," Bethany objected. "What would be the point of that?"

"Assistants can be replaced. Councillors, not so much."

Bethany shivered slightly at the cool nonchalance in Leliana's voice. "Alright. Let's assume it was Gaspard's people. Where does Briala come in then? She's been behaving suspiciously as well."

"Good question. She's probably playing her own game. That doesn't explain why she appears to be skulking around the west wing. I can't think of any plot that would require her personal presence in a part of the palace no one has lived in for years. She's isolating and weakening her position by absenting herself from the ball, not to mention arousing suspicion. I daresay we should look into her more closely."

"Agreed. Agent Engraver," she called, asking for the elf to join them. "How many people can we spare inside the palace? Enough to scour the west wing for Briala?"

"Impossible. We'd need all year. But we can probably send people to check some of the most likely places."

Bethany nodded. With any luck, Briala would have answers for them. "We can't afford to ignore any leads right now. Do it." She looked around the room. "In the meantime, I'll try talking to some of the Councillors. If their enemies are willing to kill their aides, they will know."

While the ball's attendees at the Imperial Winter Palace in Halamshiral were feasting, dancing and paying homage to their empress, halfway across the empire Edric Cadash was crawling through mud.

Trying to get into a better position, he cursed his luck. The ground underneath him had long turned into a congealed mess of soil, leaves and twigs, while rain continued to drizzle down on him. The poncho helped, somewhat, but his trousers and boots were freezing and soaked. If he attempted to fire his rifle now, he suspected there was a good chance it would jam.

He decided to ignore the fact that he was starting to lose all feeling in his toes and adjusted the clunky aftermarket night vision goggles mounted on his helmet. The image was grainy and a monochrome green, but it was better than having to rely on just his natural dark-vision. He knew for a fact that the Carta occasionally transported batches of high-tech goggles designed for the military of Orzammar to the surface, but of course that suggestion had fallen on deaf ears when he's brought it up to the quartermaster.

Cadash quickly scanned his surroundings, then signalled for his partner to follow him. Trevelyan moved through the mud at a speed he would have thought to be impossible for a human, what with their long, clumsy limbs and all. "Anything?" Trevelyan whispered.

Not bothering to reply, the dwarf shook his head. This wasn't the first time they'd moved to observe the secluded forest compound, and as per usual nothing much seemed to be going on. The windows were still blacked out, allowing only a sliver of light past them to reveal signs of activity. Behind one window blind, a faint blue sheen suggested a television. The goggles, of course, did not allow for such distinctions.

"Damn it," the human said, still whispering. "You'd think they'd have to do something eventually. We've been observing them for weeks now, and the most interesting thing that happened was a pizza delivery."

He shrugged. He'd been on longer stake-outs.

"We should just take them our," Trevelyan continued. "These Red Templars are a menace."

That would have been rash, Cadash knew, and would have wasted a valuable opportunity to further investigate their operation. Still, he could not disagree with Trevelyan's assessment that nothing of interest had occurred in the six days they had observed the compound. But neither was their any obvious sign their operation had been detected.

Cadash crawled back into the undergrowth when the noise of an engine reached his ears, faint at first, but approaching quickly. Shortly afterwards, cones of light cut through the trees as a dark minivan appeared on the forest track leading to the compound. The dwarf and the human exchanged a look, and adjusted their night vision goggles to compensate for the sudden illumination. "Another delivery?" Trevelyan whispered, but he did not bother replying as he took care to memorise the van's license plate.

The car came to a slow stop just outside the compound's main building just in front of the ridge they were hidden on. The engine and the lights were turned off and the driver cabin's doors opened. Above the main building's entrance, a bare lightbulb flickered on as two humans stepped out, both carrying sidearms. A male and a female human in blue coveralls exited the car, and all four moved to the back of the van, where they opened the rear doors and removed something from the boot.

Whatever it was, it must have been heavy, for it took all four of them to lift it. They awkwardly made their way back into the building, moving gingerly, as though their cargo was extremely fragile and they were afraid of dropping it. Cadash could only catch glimpses of it between the humans carrying it, but it seemed to be a large wooden crate, about two metres long and a metre tall and wide. It bore no obvious markings as far as I can see.

"Hold on a moment," Trevelyan whispered. One of the humans, a haggard man with shaggy dark hair and beard had a last look around before closing the door behind them. "The guy at the far left, did you recognise him?"

"Mhm," Cadash grunted affirmatively, not waiting for an answer before withdrawing through the undergrowth.

The pair of Inquisition soldiers closed and locked the door behind them before resuming their silent guard in the deserted hallway off the main ballroom.

A projector had been set up on the large conference table occupying most of the room, throwing images from Cullen's laptop against the wall. The commander had taken the seat at the head of the table, with Leliana and Josephine to his left, Bethany seated to his right, and the other Inquisition agents and officers crowded around the rest of the room. The table had long been covered in laptops, documents, and cardboard cups of cold coffee.

"Twenty minutes ago, Operation Supervisor had its first sighting of the primary target," Cullen declared, pulling up the now-familiar photograph of Ser Raleigh Samson smiling into the camera next to a satellite image of the compound. Cullen was still wearing his tailcoat and sword, both now awkwardly catching on his chair whenever he moved. "We have two separate reports identifying Samson at the compound. Moreover, it appears he received a delivery of some sort. Our agents simply describe it as a large crate of apparently considerable value and importance, but have no clue what it might contain."

Bethany removed her bowtie and unbuttoned the starched collar. "What could it be?" she wondered. "Lyrium? Weapons? Cash?"

The voice that replied was distorted almost to the point of incomprehension, being routed through radio and laptop speakers. "Doesn't look like it, ser. No way that crate could be used for safely storing lyrium, and the way they were moving it, it looked pretty fragile. Heavy, too."

"It might be some kind of magical artefact," Leliana suggested, crossing her legs to reveal a fair bit of skin under the slit skirt of her gown. "Either way, speculation is getting us nowhere."

Cullen nodded. "This setting off alarm bells for anyone else?"

"Whatever it is, I don't think we like Samson having it," Josephine concluded. "Now that we also have confirmation that he's there, shouldn't we take action?"

A stone seemed to appear in Bethany's throat as she realised what she meant. Samson was a threat, undoubtedly, and if he was behind the attack on Haven and Ella's death then, yes, she wanted him dead. But something about discussing it so coldly felt disconcerting. Call her old-fashioned, but at the very least the guy deserved a fair chance, right?

"I am inclined to agree. We may not get another opportunity like this. I've got a rapid response team an hour's helicopter ride away; I can have them join Leliana's people right away."

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to her. Oh, right, a decision. They wanted her to decide on whether to send Inquisition forces into a stronghold full of heavily-armed red templars and kill or be killed. You have to make these kind of choices, a voice told her, and she wasn't quite sure if it was her own sense or her Lady. Did it have to be right now, though? They were busy enough with the ball and the murders as was. "Just ..." Her cheeks burned red-hot. "Get your people there and keep me updated. If anything changes, tell me about it."

"It will be difficult to hide the arrival of my teams," Cullen suggested, frowning. "Once they're in place, the enemy will know something's up."

"But we'll know if anything happens. They're trapped right where they are. We can deal with this later; right now we've got more urgent business to focus on."

Cullen and Leliana exchanged a look, but did not object. "I'll ... give the order, Inquisitor."

"Right. In the meantime, I want to figure out what's going on here." Bethany rose to her feet. "I'm going to talk to the councillors, see what they know." It was not, she decided, that she didn't want to make a decision regarding Operation Supervisor. Rather, the stakes in play were so vastly disparate—a minor lieutenant of Corypheus and a mysterious shipment versus the future of the Orlesian empire and the Inquisition within it—that she could not allow herself to be distracted.

Besides, she reasoned, leaving the communications room, she was good at investigations. She'd take a murder over a diplomatic function any day, even now. You won't always have that luxury. If you are to do any good in the world, you must learn how to work it.

Lavellan met her outside, chatting with the guards. "What's afoot, then?" she asked as Bethany approached.

"Three murders and a missing assemblywoman. Come, I need to speak to the Comtesse Montbelliard."

"Chubby little lady in green, with that weird kind of bird nest hairdo? Saw her just now, on the south-side terrace."

"Lead the way."

As usual, Bethany struggled to keep pace with the elf as she was led through hidden pathways and back corridors that Lavellan navigated with such ease as though they were the forests she had grown up in. "Heard about the murders," she said, "The staff are talking 'bout little else right now. A lot of palace guards have been moved to the residence."

"Is security worried the assassin might still be around?"

"Maybe. From what I'm hearing, none of them have attempted to secure the corpses or drive our people away. They've just been patrolling the residence and gardens."

Bethany's brow furled. "They could be looking for Briala. She still hasn't shown herself at the party, despite what she said." Evidently, someone else had had the same idea as her. "Do you think—" She stopped herself. Let's not go there until we have to. "Nevermind."

Through a half-hidden door, Elliana and Bethany stepped out onto a wide, airy corridor. It was reasonably deserted: two guards, flanking a pair of doors with their rifles resting by their feet, their stillness broken only by the occasional side-eyed glare at the Navy officer noisily being sick into a potted plant.

To their left, frosted glass doors flanked by guardsmen led out onto the terrace. "The Montbelliard should be through there," Elliana reported. "At least, that's where I last saw her. I'll leave you to it."

Her companion departed. Bethany had a quick glance at herself in one of the mirrors lining the corridor—creeping through hidden pathways and investigating the murdered aides had left her somewhat dishevelled, and she did her best to fix her bowtie and smooth out her sash. Then, she stepped out onto the balcony ...

Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Celene, by the grace of the Maker and the constitutions of the Nation, Empress of Orlais, Queen of the Dales, Sword and Shield of the Faith, and sovereign over all the world, turned to face her, a faint smile on her rosy lips. "Inquisitor," she calmly said, indicating a nod. They were completely alone. "How good of you to join me."

Bethany stopped dead in her tracks. "You ... Your Majesty. I was expecting someone else."

A faint smile played around the empress' lips. "Ah, yes, Madame Montbelliard. I asked her to step aside for a moment so we could talk privately."

"Well, I'm ... honoured." I guess. "Is there ... anything I can do for you?"

"Join me. We haven't had a chance to speak before."

Cautiously, Bethany stepped up to the railing, half expecting some nasty surprise. People who meant you well generally didn't resort to trickery to meet. Keeping the empress in her eye, Bethany regarded the city of Halamshiral stretched out in the valley before them, a sea of bright lights against the midnight blue sky.

"You caused quite a stir, you know, arriving as Gaspard's plus one. Not the best way to kick-start the Inquisition's involvement in Orlesian politics."

She blushed, but only a little bit. Josephine had already chewed her out over her thoughtlessness, after all. "Madame, I can assure you that the Inquisition has no intention of ..."

"Oh, rubbish. How many men do you have under arms in the empire? Ten thousand? Twenty? Inquisition forces are enforcing martial law in departments where local government has broken down during the war, and most pressingly you are here tonight. Whether your organisation intended this or not, Mme l'Inquisitrice, rest assured that you are already deeply involved. What remains to be seen is the nature of that involvement."

The empress turned to face her, leaning on the railing. "Your actions in Ferelden have been ... troubling. Even before the attack on Haven, it seems to me the Inquisition had more success in further inflaming the war between mages and templars than ending it. I cannot blame King Alistair for asking you to leave."

Bethany bit her lip. It had been a while since she had thought of Haven, thought of Ella and all those who had died there as a consequence of her choices. At the time, she had been driven to the brink of despair, but now the guilt felt rather more like an old companion: she had been forgiven and absolved, once more, by the hands of her Lady as by Divine Justinia before. "Mistakes were made," Bethany said, trying to sound diplomatic. "But our mission remains the same as it's always been—to restore order to the world. We'll work with anyone who shares that goal."

The wryest of smiles appeared on Celene's face. "I see. And how do five murdered diplomatic aides fit into that?" She must have read the surprise in Bethany's eyes, for she added: "This is my home, Mme l'Inquistrice, where every wall has ears and every locked door might as well be made of glass. You are certainly moving in interesting circles tonight."

It was all Bethany could do not to roll her eyes. If I have to hear one more veiled allegation ... "Madame, surely we all share a common cause here." At least, that's what she was pretty sure Celene would want her to think, if she was behind the murders. "We all want to see the murderer brought to justice and see these peace talks to a successful end."

The empress raised an elegant eyebrow. "Do we, now? Madame, your sources of information are clearly superior to mine. As I see it, whoever had these poor young people murdered sought to influence the councillors. All the victims served my supporters on the Council of Heralds. An attack on them is an attack on me. We are both aware of certain parties who would stand to benefit from that. All that remains to be seen is which of them is responsible."

Unless that's what you want me to think ... Bethany had to stop herself right there. She'd clearly been spending too much time around Leliana. "As you say, Madame."

Staring past her into the night, Celene produced a small silver etui from one of the folds of her gown—try as she might, Bethany could not make out the hidden pocket it must have come from—and took out a cigarette and a long, milky white horn holder. "What intrigues me most about these events is how neatly things happened. By all accounts, your Inquisition agents were the first to find the corpses, purely by accident—not Briala's spies, or Gaspard's, or mine, but those of an outsider. You are immediately informed by your spies—that would be that mysterious phone call you took earlier, I assume. And all the while, my dear old friend Briala has been lurking around the west wing. Would you?" The empress held out her cigarette, and Bethany quickly conjured a small flame on her fingertip for her to light it on. Celene took a slow, deep drag, her eyes shut, then exhaled a small smoke cloud into the wind.

"I am not sure what you're implying, Madame."

"In truth, neither am I. Do you even know yourself who is pulling your strings? What is clear is that someone meant for you—an outsider—to find the bodies. To convey a message via a herald—if you'll pardon the pun—who is above suspicion of having ulterior motives."

Bethany didn't need to ponder that long to put one and one together. "You think someone is trying to upset the peace talks. Sow distrust between the parties. If the Inquisition is the one spreading the news, rather than Gaspard or the Accord or yourself, every other side is equally suspect."

"Indeed. Which makes me wonder who could benefit from disrupting these talks. Certainly not the Orlesian people, fourteen per cent of whom Briala claims to represent. The Accord has no strategic interest in escalating civil war in the empire. But Gaspard stands to benefit from discrediting me. So does Briala, whether she is in league with him or not. You will do me the courtesy of accepting, for now, that I have nothing to gain from crippling and attacking my key supporters in the Council of Heralds."

She did her best attempt at a noncommittal smile. "As you say."

The empress' smile was decidedly more amused. "It is a good thing you were born a mage. You would have made a dreadful politician. No offence."

"Uh, none taken. I think. You want me to look into Gaspard and Briala, then?"

Celene made a dismissive gesture, turning away again. "Do what you will. I shan't stop you. But..." and here she grew quiet, "I consider it a matter of some interest that Briala and Gaspard have both gone above and beyond propriety to monopolise you tonight. What's more, Briala's absence is ... unusual. She would never admit it, but she adores these occasions." Her stern, regal features seemed to melt at these words, softening into an image of serenity. "Did you see what she was wearing when she arrived? That shabby suit, those dull shoes? She spent more time and money perfecting that look than any of those noble ladies outside. She feeds on their disapproval, their stares and whispers. Always has. She needs it as much as I need love. To know that she is in a place she does not belong, being scorned by everyone around her, and know that they are powerless to do anything about it. That she will crush them all one day."

The empress looked up, past her, out onto the brightly-lit glow of the city. "It's what drew me to her in the first place," she said, quietly, as though Bethany wasn't even there. "I loved that. Of all my handmaidens, she was the only one with guts."

Bethany bit her lip. She knew she was observing something that was not meant for her. Except, perhaps, it was. "You were close," she stated after a while, feeling incredibly silly to point out the obvious like that.

But that seemed to pull the empress out of her nostalgic reverie. "Indeed," she said, curtly, and straightened her back. "Which makes this turn of events all the more concerning. Briala knows this palace, knows me, like the back of her hand. Her and Gaspard ... they would complement each other, make a formidable pair. Briala has the cunning, the political mind, and the support of the elves; Gaspard brings legitimacy, the military, and most of the Dalish notables. If they are working in concert, I'm done for."

Bethany raised an eyebrow. "With all due respect, Madame, that would end the civil war."

The empress only laughed. "You have guts to say that to my face." Or a complete lack of sense, Bethany quietly added, blushing furiously. "It is true. Your Inquisition could very well live with the end result, and I don't intend to convince you otherwise. But know this—I shall not go gently."

Celene left those words hanging in the cool evening air for a while as she looked out over the city. Bethany had to wonder just what, exactly, 'not going gently' entailed. From the corner of her eye, just inside past the balcony doors, she could see a young woman in an Army uniform chatting to one of the guards. A bulky black briefcase was handcuffed to her wrist. A shiver ran down Bethany's spine as she realised what it must contain.

"All that is why," the empress said, as casually as if they had been discussing the weather, "I find it rather interesting that Briala has yet to return to the public areas of the palace. In fact, I am informed she is continuing to move towards my personal apartments, evading the guards and staff along the way."

"You, er ... you think she's plotting against you?"

Celene's face fell. "Maker, I hope not. But ... it seems the most likely explanation." She took a deep breath. "There is something else, Inquisitor. I am telling you this in the understanding that it will remain private. I don't want you to go and cause a panic, or endanger the peace talks. The guard colonel on duty informs me that several patrols have failed to report in. At least two guardsmen have been found dead on the palace grounds, not far from the residence. The guard has reinforced their presence there, but with half the division fighting demons and rebels down in the Dales ... All we can tell is that the killer isn't trying to escape. They're coming in from the outside."

Clearly, the evening hadn't already been stressful enough. Equally clear was that the ominous warnings Bethany had received in the future could no longer be discounted as fantasies, neither by herself nor by the Inquisition's other leaders. "You don't seem very concerned," Bethany pointed out. "Not considering. You don't think they might be trying to assassinate you? That would make Gaspard emperor by default, wouldn't it?"

Celene merely shrugged. "Assassination isn't Gaspard's style. If he wanted me dead, he would have killed me long ago, face to face. But my cousin knows full-well that he stands to lose more than he stands to gain from my death. His legitimacy and authority, such as they are, would be shot to pieces, and the civil war wouldn't magically end. The empire needs a political solution, and so does our family."

Somewhat hesitantly, Bethany nodded and bowed slightly. The empress might be unconcerned, but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more going on than either of them realised. "I understand. Regardless, Madame, I would advise you to be cautious. By your leave."

Celene gave a magnanimous little nod. "I was pleased to have finally made your acquaintance, Inquisitor. I hope this won't be our last interview. In the meantime, enjoy the party."

She found Leliana waiting for her in the hallway, focused on her phone. She looked up as she approached. "Sorry about that. If I'd known the empress was going to ambush you ..."

Oddly peeved, Bethany brushed her off. She was the Inquisitor, after all, and didn't require constant chaperoning. "I handled it. Any news?"

Leliana glanced over her shoulder. "Supervisor reports some activity. We think our team may have been spotted. Cullen advises ..."

It would have to wait, Bethany decided, and waved her off. "Tell me if anything actually happens. For now, we've got more urgent matters to work on."

"Oh?"

"Celene's people are tracking Briala moving towards the imperial residence. She wants us to intercept her, look into what she's doing, and find out whether she's working with Gaspard. The empress wasn't all too subtle about that."

"She thinks we will be able to establish a connection with her that her own people can't," Leliana deduced. "If Briala is aligned with Gaspard, that's obviously a source of some concern to the empress. The questions remains, what are we supposed to do about it? The Inquisition can't be seen to take sides, or we'll lose credibility with everyone involved."

"If there is a chance that we can contribute to a peaceful resolution, we have to take it. I'm going to try and intercept Briala before she reaches the empress's suite and figure out where she stands. Prevent her from gaining leverage that could upset the talks, if necessary."

Leliana raised an eyebrow. "Josephine won't like that. The Inquisitor is one of the stars of this year's ball; it's been hard enough to make excuses for your absence when we went to investigate the—the incident earlier."

"Josephine can handle it."

"Still, I don't like it. Did Celene tell you about the assassin zeroing in on the empress as we speak? Putting you in harm's way is out of the question. I'll go."

Bethany was about to protest—she was the Inquisitor, this was her decision to make, and she'd be far more useful out there negotiating with the assemblywoman than she would be making nice with diplomats, nobles and celebrities at the ball—but couldn't really think of a way to make that line of argument sound convincing. After all, her past attempts at negotiation had been less than stellar, and Cullen was probably still awaiting a decision concerning Operation Supervisor. "... fine," she ended up saying, probably sounding somewhat snappier than she would have liked. Calpernia wouldn't take this kind of insubordination, part of her pointed out, and neither would Marian. "Take Lavellan and Varric with you. For safety."

"If you insist. Go let yourself be seen at the party, for now—take a dance or two with someone inoffensive."

That forced a somewhat lopsided smile on Bethany's face as she tried to imagine herself trying not to step on some octogenarian's feet. "Gee, sounds like fun. See you later, then. Maker be with you." For an instant, her attention was caught by a rising sound of laughter from the direction of the ballroom. And though she was never really sure if it was actually happening, let alone how she did it, the next time Bethany looked in her direction, Leliana had disappeared without a trace. She grumbled some unkind words under her breath.

Conscious that handling corpses and withering under the glare of an empress can't have done her appearance any favours, Bethany had a waiter point her to the nearest bathroom. Even if she'd had a purse of cosmetics with her, she wouldn't have dared touch the uncannily immaculate mask a makeup artist / probable blood mage had replaced her face with just a few hours ago, so there wasn't much she could do to freshen up beyond washing her hands and adjusting her clothes. Fiddling with her bowtie in front of the gold-framed mirrors, of course, immediately brought the damn thing back to her mind. She didn't quite feel as though she was going to choke anymore, and supposed that the fact of her having forgotten all about it meant it wasn't actually as bad as she made it out to be, but she didn't feel any more comfortable in the unfamiliar garment for that knowledge.

She was washing her hands (vigorously, as if to scratch away the persistent itch in her marked palm) when a young, masked blonde in blue stepped into the otherwise deserted bathroom. Ignoring the line of unoccupied sinks to either side of her, she made a beeline straight for the spot to Bethany's right and started to do her makeup. Here we go again ...

"Having an interesting evening?" Bethany briefly considered asking her straight-out who she was working for, before settling for a noncommittal noise and proceeding to ignore her. "It would appear that the peace talks are at something of a stalemate," the other woman continued undeterred as she lined up what looked to be eight different eyeliners from her purse by the sink. Bethany wouldn't have thought it necessary to apply eyeliner at all when one was wearing an Antivan-style mask covering the entire upper portion of one's face, but then again what did she know. "I hear the empress and the grand duke have yet to meet face to face tonight. I doubt their sherpas even still remember the meaning of 'sleep'."

Making no effort to continue the conversation, Bethany dried her hands. "Well, I'm sure cooler heads will prevail in the end. If there is nothing else ..."

Finally, the other woman dropped the game. Very carefully, she put down her eyeliner on the marble countertop. "You are involving yourself in matters which are not your concern, Mme l'Inquisitrice," she said sweetly. "The Inquisition is celebrated by the people of the Empire because of the severity of the threats which it combats. Everyone can get behind the heroes defending us against demons, heretical templars or Fade-crazed mages. And most people would be greatly satisfied to see the Holy Mother Chantry brought into the Dragon Age at last. Who better to lead the charge than the Herald of our Sacred Lady, following in the footsteps of the late Divine Justinia? And when, if not now, that the old order has been swept away and war ravages the lands of Cantantia?"

Bethany frowned. She'd heard that argument before tonight. "You're working for Gaspard."

"I work only for the good of the empire, Madame, only the good of the empire! That there is but one ruler who can give it the strength it needs in these dark times is neither here nor there. I only request that you focus your efforts on those matters which benefit not only you, but all of Cantantia, while avoiding the quagmire of petty intrigue and partisanship." The lady gave a deep curtsy. "Please bear the honest well-wishes of an admirer in mind as you proceed with your holy task, Mme l'Inquisitrice. Enjoy your evening."

Bethany conjured a small flame in her fist as she watched the younger woman leave. The heat was almost calming. If anyone else wishes me a good evening tonight with that two-faced smile on their lips ... Then, she forced herself to release her fist, and the flame with it. There was no point in getting upset. Of course Gaspard would have noticed her interview with the empress, and of course he'd try to counter-steer.

She took some deep breaths to steady herself, then looked herself over in the mirror. She still didn't look like anyone she recognised, but that wasn't a bad thing. With a sigh, she left the bathroom and returned to the Hall of Homage.

The ball was in full swing: an orchestra had set up on the narrow end of the hall opposite the sunlit throne, playing a lively waltz, and pairs of dancers were crowding the floor, revolving around each other and around the room like orbitals, watched from the sidelines by more-or-less appreciative crowds. Bethany's own experiences with dance did not extend beyond the faint memory of listening to her high school classmates chat about the lessons they'd undertaken in preparation for their Leavers' Ball, but she had to admit there was something hypnotising about the smooth motions of the dancers, the orbits within orbits and graceful rhythms, the swirling of gowns and sharp contrasts of black tailcoats and white shirt fronts and gloves.

Perhaps she had let herself become just a bit too entranced, for she barely noticed the lady approaching her until they were almost face to face. "Your Imperial Highness," she said, blinking slightly. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Florianne smiled. She was wearing a delicate gilded filigree mask that would not have hidden her features from any but the most casual observer. "Indeed there is, Madame l'Inquisitrice. You may dance with me. Come." The grand duchess reached out her hand, and before she knew what she was doing, Bethany had taken it and found herself being led slowly but firmly to the dance floor.

"I, er, I fear I'll embarrass you. I'm—not much of a dancer."

"That'll be quite alright," Florianne said, undeterred. "I'll lead."

Remembering her lessons through the trance of acute panic, Bethany remembered to bow as the orchestra launched into a stately polka, and received a curtsy in turn—and then the grand duchess's hand was in hers, and her arm slung around her waist, and they were moving, jumping and turning in step with the rhythm. Bethany's skin felt red-hot, and not by the physical exertion.

"I am surprised," she gasped, her palm pressed against the grand duchess's as they moved around each other, hip to hip and face to face, "that you approached me so early. After all ..." (Perhaps this was getting to her.) "After all, I was only just talking to your brother's messenger."

Florianne arched an elegant brow. "I'm not here on Gaspard's behalf. Or rather, not by his request." Clasping her hand, she made her pirouette and land in her arms so naturally that even Bethany herself for a moment thought she had done so on her own. "You also have an older sibling, don't you? Your sister."

A chill went down her spine, immediately driving away whatever excitement she might have felt, but she nodded and tried to hide her discomfort. "Yes. Marian."

"Then you understand what it means. Even my darling brother tends to forget I exist, much less what I can do for him."

"It sounds frustrating," she responded diplomatically. Bethany couldn't speak to that herself—Marian had never cut her out or underestimated her abilities, hardly. But she had never asked her advice either, or questioned whether she would support her decisions. All of that had gone without saying, from the day Marian had joined the military via the expedition to the Deep Roads to their separation in the days following the Kirkwall rebellion.

Now Florianne gave a thin-lipped smile. "Quite. Still, that is why I am talking to you now." For a moment they separated, and when they were face-to-face again, the grand duchess's smile had been replaced by a mask of cool calculation. "At this point, it has become impossible to deny the unusual activity around the palace tonight. If I'm not mistaken, you were involved in at least some of it quite closely."

"You could say that," she responded, somewhat cautiously. Surely she must know at least as much as herself? Unless Gaspard was truly keeping her in the dark for whatever reason. A suspicion arose within her: after all, she knew Florianne was one of the mediators who had arranged the peace talks. If her brother was keeping the incursions into the palace and the assassinations secret from her, it seemed to imply he did not want the empress to hear about it from her. "It is true that there have been a series of ... incidents," she allowed, catching herself as an idea came to her. "The Inquisition is assisting palace authorities in any way we can, though. In fact, we have already apprehended the intruder who was infiltrating the palace through the gardens." There, she thought, let's see where this leads. If Leliana's people found anyone probing into Inquisition activities in that area of the palace grounds, they would reveal themselves as being Florianne's team. And from then on ... the gears in her mind were turning. If things went well, they might be able to co-opt one of either Gaspard's or Celene's principal agents while gaining a powerful ally in the imperial family, should neither claim turn out to be true.

But the expression on Florianne's face, quick though it had come and gone, was not one she had expected. "Truly?" she asked, urgently sliding her hand in Bethany's down to clasp her wrist, a mix of fear and shock plain in her voice. Then, she relaxed her features and regained her composure. "Apologies. I had not heard of this before. This is, of course, excellent news. But—you mean to say there have been multiple incidents? What about the other assassin? The elf who murdered the councillors' aides."

Bethany frowned. It was true Engraver had speculated the killer was an elf, but she had no idea where Florianne had gotten that from. Rumours spread fast in Halamshiral, evidently. "We're working on that," she admitted.

"Of course. I have full confidence in the Inquisition. I have also ordered the Imperial Guard to reinforce their presence in the west wing, just to make sure something like this happens again. In truth, I have my own suspicions."

"Oh?"

"There can be only one person who benefits from sabotaging the peace talks: the one who has the most influence to use, who would be reduced to insignificance once her votes are no longer needed."

"You mean Briala."

The grand duchess smiled and led Bethany into a swift pirouette. "Think about it, Inquisitor. My cousin and brother both have too much to gain at the negotiation table, and too much to lose through crude violence."

Bethany bit her lip (then caught and forced herself not to). There was no denying that Florianne had a point there, but given the empress's suspicions ... "If we assume Briala is responsible, what makes you think she's working on her own? If your brother were to win the throne, he would be just as dependent on her votes in the National Assembly as the empress is now. Except unlike now, none of the other parties would be willing to support Gaspard's government."

The grand duchess scoffed. "I would be surprised. We both know my brother ... doesn't have a mind for politics. He's in this fight because he sees the throne as his birthright and his sacred duty, and is content enough to leave the details to his advisors. If there is any connection, he won't know a thing about it."

That did not absolve him of responsibility, Bethany knew, but left it at that. Still, there was something else that had stuck with her—Florianne's off-handed comment about standing in her brother's shadow. "Your brother doesn't have any children, does he?"

Barely hidden behind her mask, Florianne raised an eyebrow. "He does not," she said cautiously. "His union with poor late Calienne was never blessed."

"Then if the empress were to die and Gaspard take her place, you would be the heiress presumptive. First in line to the imperial throne. And, of course, the same would be true if Gaspard were to pass away."

The grand duchess' features hardened, and her hands tightened their grasp around Bethany. "I don't think I like what you're implying."

I bet you do. "Of course not. My apologies, I didn't mean to offend." She couldn't hide the smile from her face. It hardly amounted to anything, she knew, but in some way this felt like a victory. She wanted me to believe Briala had the aides murdered. And Celene pointed me towards her as well. I think it's time to meet the assemblywoman on everyone's lips myself.

Halfway across the empire—which is to say, the real empire, the fertile, populous crescent stretching from Halamshiral to Val Firmin in the west and Val Chevin in the north—the last guests shuffled out of a large, warm office with a view of the Old Quad of Toussaint College below its latticed gothic windows. It was one of those offices that were wonderful to curl up in and read the hours away, provided a college porter kept the fire in the chimney going and the cat didn't ruin the worn old Qunari rugs and well-used upholstery in the many mismatched armchairs and sofas many an unprepared undergrad had squirmed on, squeezed in between overflowing bookcases. The window panes, radiator plumbing and electrical wiring may not have been replaced in half a century, but then they had nothing on the carved figures on the mantlepiece: dragons, griffons, and a strange chimera that few people now recognised as the mythical aardvark. It was the office of Dr Marcel Faber, Imperatorius Professor of Modern History, FIS, FIHS, FNA. That may not have been what he introduced himself as, but it was in his email signature.

As the last of the guests departed, Marcel now found himself clearing away the remaining glasses. They'd heard a fascinating paper by a colleague in town from Ostwick and continued their discussion of it over an even more fascinating bottle of old port (or two), so that the hour had gone rather later than usual. Some of the others would pay for it in their 9am lectures.

The college mouser, Fernand, brushed against Marcel's leg on the way to whatever bit of rug had drawn its interest. Fernand had lived in this office for as long as anyone could remember, undeterred by varying human occupants, and these days only rarely left its warmth to earn his keep. Years of faithful service had earned him the right to share the office, and have its door opened and closed whenever he wished to go in or out (or not).

Humming faintly and wildly off-tune, Marcel carried the port glasses and decanter to the sink in the small adjoining room, when he noticed a light in one of the windows across the quad, warm and bright behind gauzy curtains. The Old Quad was surrounded entirely by offices, not students' rooms, and all the seminar rooms were on his side of the courtyard. He didn't have to think long to remember whose office that was: he had noticed its occupant working late every night for the past week or two. "Might as well get it over with now that everyone else's gone home ..." he murmured to himself, put down the glasses and decanter by the sink, and returned to his desk, where he sent a quick message from his phone.

Very soon, while he was washing the glasses, he noticed the light across the quad turn off, followed by a slight figure hurrying across the lawn: barefoot as always, judging by her skipping gait on the cold, damp grass, with her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of a coat. Soon after, there was a knock on his door.

"Come in," he called, returning to his office with two clean glasses and the remainder of the port, just as Merrill Sabrae, Lecturer in Elven Antiquities, put her tattooed head through the door. He'd heard that some colleagues had initially mistaken her for a student, but unlike new-agey teenage elves painting their faces with henna and peppering their sentences with mangled elven, Merrill's Dalish credentials were indisputable. "Come in, come in," he repeated. "Have a seat. Can I offer you anything? Port, tea, water?"

"Just tea, please," she answered, barely more than a whisper. "If it's not too much trouble."

He observed her from the corner of his eye as he put the kettle on, squirming awkwardly on the edge of an ancient armchair humans twice her breadth had gotten lost in. She was pale, he noticed, more so than usual, and from the way her coat draped around her waifish form, he suspected she'd lost more than a few kilograms of weight recently. "You should have joined us for the seminar earlier," he mentioned. "Ellyn—Ellyn Brooker from Ostwick—was here, talking about the Storm Age reception and negotiation of elven ruins in the Dales. Figured that would have been right up your alley."

"Oh, I ... I thought that was Wednesday."

Marcel paused. "Today is Wednesday." He took a seat opposite her. "Listen, Merrill, there's something the faculty council has asked me to discuss with you. How long have you been here now,,? Ten months?"

"Eleven next week."

"Right. Now, you know how thrilled all of us in the department are to have you here, not to mention the College. As you know the university council had some concerns about hiring you given your, uh, unique background, but we were convinced you'd make a fantastic addition to the faculty." Realising how that must sound, he quickly added: "Which you are."

"Thank you," the elf murmured, shifting uncomfortably. The kettle beeped, and Marcel rose again to pour the tea.

Now for the difficult part, though. "Still, there have been some ... complaints. From students. About you." He paused, waited in vain for a reply. "Merrill, is it true that you failed to show up for your undergraduate seminar on Cultures of Magic and Magical Cultures last week?"

The elf shifted and avoided his eyes. "I've been very busy," she murmured.

"So have I, but you know that's no excuse. After the initial complaint, we've heard from other students, claiming that you'd failed to mark work they'd submitted months ago. And you haven't published anything either, as far as I'm aware. Our students ..." He broke off with a sigh and rubbed his temples. "Listen, I know this is still all new to you, and I can't even begin to comprehend what you must have been through in Kirkwall. But you need to fulfil your contractual obligations. You're in a unique position as is—I can't think of anyone else who was elected to an early career fellowship at Toussaint without having any formal education, let alone a doctorate. If not for Ferdinand Genitivi's glowing recommendation, we would never have gotten the college council to bring you on board. If you keep this sort of thing up, I can't guarantee that you'll be confirmed when your probationary period ends next month. Do you understand?"

Merrill quietly nodded. "I'll do better."

"I know this can't be easy for you. Academia can be pretty soul-crushing, especially if you're not used to it. When I first got a fellowship, I was in for a pretty major culture shock, and that was after almost a decade at university, whereas you're in completely new waters here." He paused. "It's too early for you to take a sabbatical, but if you like, I can recommend some people you could talk to. The college counsellor is very good, or ..."

Marcel hadn't expected the elf to interrupt him (ever), but she did. "I'm fine," she insisted. "I'm fine. Thank you for trying to help, but I don't need any. I'll do better, I-I promise."

Hesitantly, he nodded. He felt like the villain here. "Right. Well, we'll see how it goes. But, please—there's no shame in seeking help. If you don't want to talk to a professional, my door is always open."

The elf continued to avoid his gaze and murmured something incomprehensible as she rose from the armchair. He escorted her to the door, then briefly watched her hurry down the hallway. Such a promising young mind, he thought with a heavy heart. He gave her a year, at most.

Merrill was seething as she stormed down the narrow, deserted corridors, ancient floorboards that creaked under each human footfall barely making a sound under her bare feet. Along the walls, the dusty portraits of long-dead humans appeared to mock her delusions. Of course this had happened, she had been a gullible fool to hope it wouldn't. Stupid Merrill, lazy Merrill, good-for-nothing dangerous monster Merrill ...

Darn it, she should never have taken Ferdinand up on his offer. She wasn't—this wasn't right, she knew, not her place. It sounded so easy, listening to her colleagues chatting when she dared take lunch at the high table in hall: teach this class, publish in that journal, lead an interdisciplinary research centre along the way ... She didn't have to look at the faculty website and see herself listed as one of a handful of 'Mme's among dozens of professors and doctors to know that she didn't belong here. It was obvious in the way students mistook her for a classmate, in the bare walls of her office, and in the way everyone seemed to be on tiptoes around her, as if at any moment the dangerous, unhinged Dalish apostate from Kirkwall might erupt in a whirlstorm of blood. It was obvious in the way Ferdinand's infrequent emails no longer asked how her work was going (because they both knew the answer would always be the same).

She took the narrow, slippery stone stairs from the quad to her office in fast, furious bounds, and found herself face to face with a door that simply read 'Mme Merrill', struggling with her keys. In the dark, and given the state she had worked herself up into, it was all she could do not to drop them. Finally, she tore open the door and reached for the light switch.

"Good evening."

Merrill froze at the unfamiliar voice. As the lights slowly came to life, she saw a strange woman before her, standing in her office as though it was her own and leafing through one of her notebooks. "Uh, are you a student? You really shouldn't be in here ..." But even as she said that, she realised that this was a foolish guess. The woman's clothes were clearly expensive, from the slinky purple diagonally-cut jacket to the skinny black leather trousers and laced boots, she carried herself with obvious self-assurance, and, most alarmingly, had a plain wooden mage's staff pinned under her arm. At once, Merrill's eyes flew to the large file cabinet in the corner of the room. With some relief, she saw that she had locked it before leaving, and it had not been opened.

Accordingly, the strange mage ignored the question and turned to face her. "My name is Morrigan," she said, calm and melodious as though she hadn't just invaded a stranger's office in the dead of night. "I have been searching for you for quite some time. Though I did not expect to meet in person."

Merrill did her best to look stern and intimidating, though she feared little more came of it than a frown. One of the dozens of precise, straight scars on her left forearm was itching, and without noticing she moved to scratch it. Where was her razor? Desk drawer, right. "And what do you want from me? If this is about Kirkwall, I'm done with that part of my life, and I want nothing more to do with it."

"Kirkwall doesn't interest me," Morrigan said, closing the notebook and setting it on Merrill's desk. "But since you are here, you might as well spare me the search. I have your notes, where are the shards?"

She froze as the room temperature seemed to drop by half. How could this be? No one knew about them, no one at all. Not even Varric had known she had gathered up most of the shattered mirror to secreted it away, let alone that she had escaped Kirkwall with them. And she had always been careful, keeping the pieces separate unless her experiments demanded otherwise, half at her home and half in her office ... once again, her eyes went towards the locked cabinet in the corner. This time, the stranger Morrigan noticed, and smirked.

"Very good. I shall be taking them."

"I—I don't know what you're talking about. There are no shards of anything here."

The stranger rolled her eyes. "Do not take me for a fool. I know they are here." She looked around the cramped office. "I wonder, where?" Slipping her hand down her staff, she used it to tap lightly against the desk, the bookshelves, the couch, holding the heavy branch as easily as though it was a mere twig. "Could it be so simple?" The staff's head came to rest on the file cabinet.

"Stop it!" It took Merrill a moment to realise that it was she who had spoken. "They won't be any use to you. And—they're not yours," she added between ground teeth. "I won't let you have them." She felt her fingernails digging into her palms.

At that, however, Morrigan merely scoffed. "I will have my patrimony, which is mine by right. One way ..." She switched her staff to her dominant hand, and let its endcap slam against the floor. "... or the other."

One crucial moment was all it took for Merrill to be blindsided. From one instant to the next, the woman in front of her had shifted and in her stead stood a great mass of quivering flesh and midnight-blue fur and claws—the bear was upon her before she had time to properly react, slamming her down that her head felt like it had split on the old stone steps by the door, and pinning her down under its weight. Above her, a narrow snout and drooling mouth full of teeth. The bear raised its paw to strike and crush her head—

Merrill unleashed all her mana in a wild, unfocused blast, not a spell but an exertion of raw, unbridled Will. The force hit the bear square in its chest, and it was hurled away from her, flying through the room until it impacted hard against a bookshelf. Cheap plywood burst under the weight, and even the ancient stone walls seemed to groan and quiver under the impact. This time, she saw the change coming; saw the bear grow leaner and its limbs lengthening unnaturally, heard the sickening wet sound of bone and flesh realigning themself. She could hardly stand to watch, and instead scrambled to her feet and picked up the heavy oaken staff Morrigan had dropped when she'd transformed.

A bolt of lightning came her way, then faded against her instinctively-raised barrier. Well, that had been easier—oh, shoo. It had been a feint, she realised, as her weakened barrier was shattered by the impact of two more lightning bolts, both considerably more powerful than the first. Clever. Whoever this Morrigan was, she clearly had experience in battlemagic, not to mention the shapeshifting. To buy time, Merrill replenished her barrier, and realised how drained she felt. She had extended so much of her mana in pushing the bear off her that she was not sure she would be able to sustain another barrage ...

The human had recovered as well, stumbling just a little bit—dizzy from the impact, perhaps? Or was it the sudden transformation back into human shape? No matter; Merrill raised the staff and used its unfamiliar shaping to channel residual mana seeping in even now through a loosening Veil, sending tufts of flame her opponent's way. The witch clearly was not overly bothered by them, as her fingers stretched and distorted in an intricate gesture unfamiliar to Merrill—what was she shaping? No time! With a lunge and a cry, she hurled herself at the human woman, striking out with the butt of the staff for want of mana. A blow to the thigh, then to the upper arm, before Morrigan grew wise to it and gracefully sidestepped her next strike.

The brief bout, however, had bought her time, and let her recover a little mana. She had to end this quickly, she knew; every moment that passed with her scraping at the bottom of the barrel put her at a disadvantage. But now, Morrigan was off-balance, and distracted; she would expect another blow with the staff: Merrill bundled her thoughts, her Will, stretched it until it formed a point, then a spear, and as she unleashed one more strike with the tip of Morrigan's staff as a feint, she released it like a javelin—

Nothing happened, she felt her eyes widen as she realised what had happened. That gesture she couldn't figure out? The blow hit air much as the spear had, striking the wall behind the witch where the bookshelf had been. The bookshelf; she had recently purchased a copy of Modalities of Ritual Performance in Middle Period Mythalic Cults by Ettore Grimaldi of Antiva which she'd been meaning to read, she'd met him once at a conference and stammered her way through an introduction, that had been in midsummer and she'd drunken spritz on a restaurant terrace watching the sun set on the roofs of Rialto; such a beautiful city (she'd only been once)! In the Towers Age, the city had been home to a quaint local festival involving a bull with tomatoes pierced on its horns, and oh befuddle she'd been hexed.

Accordingly, she barely saw the black swarm of insects—no, not insects, manifestations of sheer chaos playing havoc on the fabric of reality, taking now the shape of a mosquito, now that of a hornet, now reverting to that of a perfect sphere and oh for June's sake, focus! The swarm enveloped her without physically touching her body, but she could feel it sapping her strength by its mere presence, as though her very cells were rebelling against this affront to reality. She had enough presence of mind to establish a simple arcane shield around her, unable to think of a spell that would have defended her better, or dispelled the swarm, without exerting a ruinous amount of her meagre mana reserves. If it had an impact on the draining of her strength, she did not feel it, but the hex had been broken and her thoughts cleared, despite the thumping in the back of her skull that had taken its place.

She had no time to figure out if that had been caused by the fall, the magical exertion, or something far worse, for through the black curtain of the entropic swarm she saw Morrigan preparing her coup de grace. This time, she recognised the gesture; it was one of the optimised and peer-reviewed Circle spells she had originally learned from Anders and Bethany in their first year in Kirkwall, though in Morrigan's fingers (or were those talons?) it looked more like a contortionist dance than the minimal one-two-three mnemonic she was used to.

Though she saw it coming, she could muster no way to act against it, and sound found her body squeezed from all sides by a telekinetic vice, its grip slowly tightening—except that it wasn't on all sides. Indeed, her limbs had remained unaffected even as her chest was constricted and her eyes and eardrums pushed inwards. For a moment, confusion flared within her, then she realised that Morrigan had cast a different, far more elaborate version of the spell than she was familiar with. Rather than imprisoning her victim in a simple cylinder that applied force to different body parts at different times, the witch had shaped her Crushing Prison around her like a bespoke garment, leaving the limbs free as what must be a cost-cutting measure. How much mana does she have to waste? But it also left her one more opportunity. This was her office, and she knew exactly where she was: right in front of the desk.

She drew on her remaining reserves of mana to push the faltering ward towards her enemy, stunning her once more—at once, the pressure from the Prison intensified, blocking out most other sensations, but she had to find her knife. Where was her knife? Right top desk drawer, right behind her; focusing as best she could, blindly, she fumbled for the drawer—there! No, damn it, wrong side. Morrigan had noticed what she was doing and bound her wrists in place, all the while intensifying the pressure on her. Her brain screamed for oxygen, her eyes felt close to bursting, desperately she tried to find some mana left in her—

Like a scythe, her Will cut across her palm, drawing blood. At once, conjoined with the pain, she felt the familiar dull pressure at the back of her skull, felt the feelers reaching out from Beyond, enveloping her. As her life's blood dripped onto the carpet, her body became supercharged, her muscles prickling and her senses sharpening, her heart racing as raw, unbridled power came not from the Fade, but from within her: through sheer force, she broke through the Prison and dispelled the swarm and launched into the counterattack.

The heavy oaken staff came alive in her hands, dead wood moving as though alive, serpentine, to attack its onetime mistress, putting her off-balance with rapid strikes it was all she could do to ward off. Merrill widened the cut on her palm, relishing the pain that came with the torrential burst of power. How long had it been since she'd fought like this? Lightning gathered in her hands and around her brow, blowing through Morrigan's feeble barriers one by one, until it singed her clothes and made her gasp in pain.

"I won't let you take them," Merrill ground out between clenched teeth, half to herself, half to her opponent, and with one final effort, reached out with all the strength of her mind. She sought and found the sympathetic connection, exerted her Will upon it, and twisted ... For a long, terrible moment, neither of them moved, and Merrill saw the horror of understanding dawning on Morrigan's face.

Then, the silence was shattered by a bestial scream, scarcely recognisable as human, as Morrigan's body quivered and twisted under Merrill's firm control and the witch's veins filled with liquid fire. At first, her skin turned purple as blood vessels burst under the pressure. Then, her skin began to form blisters. Morrigan's eyes—she did not look at the eyes. The scream turned into a gargle, then into a whimper, then it was gone. The body looked scarcely human when she let go of it and it sank to the floor. The nauseating stink of boiling flesh filled the air, causing her to choke. Morrigan did not move. The staff resumed its original form and slid to the ground by its mistress' side.

She was panting from the exertion, her heart beating hard and fast. Dark shapes danced before her eyes, gradually subsiding along with the pressure at the base of her skull. The whispers, and the grasping tentacles faded until they were scarcely noticeable. Merrill forced herself to take deep breaths: in, out, in, out, until her natural connection to the Fade had reasserted itself over the wild throbbing in her palm.

With calm came perspective. When she opened her eyes again, she was still in her office, now demolished. There was a chill in the air, and none of the electric charge she remembered, but the damage to the Veil was as plain to see as a torn curtain. Before her, on a blood-soaked carpet and surrounded by the tattered books, lay the disfigured and abused corpse of a human woman, motionless. Merrill took a deep breath, forced her fists to unclench, then sank to her hands and knees.

For a moment, she hovered there, in that dreadful in-between state between nausea and emesis, though finding neither the release the latter would have brought nor the clarity of the former. She was shivering—why was it so cold all of a sudden? Now that the adrenaline had subsided and her heart rate dropped, she was starting to feel the pain, as well: groaning, she slowly forced herself to her feet. Looking around her ruined office, she adjusted the belt on her coat. Her own staff was still in the corner she'd left it in. Morrigan's lay at her feet, still vibrating faintly from the magic that had coursed through it.

And still, a dead woman lay before her, murdered by her hand. It wasn't that she hadn't done it before. Nor could she say she particularly regretted killing Morrigan. But it had never been so ... personal. Oh, Elgar'nan, what have I done? She—she would have to hide the body, and ... and she'd lose her job, and her home, and what about her research, and ...

Varric. Varric would know what to do, he knew his way around this sort of thing. And he was—he was with the Inquisition, wasn't he, with Bethany, she'd seen him on TV. She'd be safe, or as safe as she could ever be, if she could get them to help her. Merrill couldn't quite place the shiver that ran down her spine: fear? Anticipation? No matter.

She packed only a few things: her notes and reading glasses, a few small mementos she kept in her office, and of course the heavy album containing the shards, each individually wrapped in felt. For a moment, she was tempted to open it, cast just a few quick spells before the battle rush subsided and the cut on her palm closed—but thought better of it. There would be more than enough time—eventually. "I'll solve your secret yet," she murmured as she stuffed the album in her bag.

Then, having one last look around—at the broken furniture, the bloodstains, the mutilated corpse—Merrill grabbed her staff and walked down into the quad, leaving the door open. Despite the battle that had overlooked it, it was calm out here, and she sucked in the cold winter air. Every ancient cobble stone felt distinct under her bare soles, but not familiar. Slowly, leaning on her staff, she walked out of the deserted college into the brightly-lit street lined by ancient colleges, stately libraries and cheap eateries. Not a person was in sight. She accelerated her steps, finding firmer footing on the pavement than on the cobblestones, and then broke into a jog, and by the time she knew what she was doing, she was running.

Finding Briala was easier said than done. Bethany had not taken into account the sheer size of the winter palace.

As they were led by torchlight through corridor after unlit corridor lined with covered and wrapped artworks, Engraver lectured the Inquisitor, Dorian, Solas and Varric on the nature of the complex: informing them, for instance, that the palace numbered over 1600 rooms, including a chapel, a library containing over a million volumes, and a full-sized theatre. The west wing alone contained about three hundred fireplaces and twenty-eight staircases. At present, less than five hundred rooms were occupied or in use—largely by the empress's personal staff and household. The west wing, meanwhile, and its numerous state apartments, had not been used in years.

This, Engraver pointed out, meant that security and staff presence was minimal, that power, heating and even running water were inaccessible in large parts of the wing, and that there were a million places to hide. "I can't tell you where Briala is," she explained apologetically. "All I can do is point you towards her most likely location. Better known as the imperial apartment."

"She's spent all evening here," Varric pointed out. "This isn't a simple get in, get out affair. She's searching for something—something very well-hidden."

"Hidden documents? Secret letters that could be used as blackmail against her, maybe?"

"Or against the empress," Dorian pointed out. "Celene can't be eager to read about her affair with an elven politician in the papers."

"Either way, Celene doesn't want her getting it. And neither, it seems, does Gaspard."

They proceeded further into the west wing, past statues and paintings and tall arched windows overlooking sprawling gardens in the moonlight. Bethany would never have found her own way here, and wondered how Engraver managed. The elf certainly didn't have to resort to a map as she led the party through seemingly endless rooms and corridors. "There," the agent finally announced, stopping in front of a somewhat nondescript pair of doors. "The grand apartment is through there. I need to return to my duties. Good luck." And before Bethany could ask how they were supposed to find their way back, the elf had disappeared into the darkness.

"Let's hope Briala is here after all," Dorian said, sighing. "I was eyeing those little canapés when you dragged me out here."

Bethany lightly tried the door. To her surprise, it opened easily, having been unlocked. They entered into a large vestibule, unlit like every other room they had passed through, and filled with furniture covered in plastic. The next room was a smaller parlour, then a private dining room, an office—next, she knew, was the imperial bedchamber, and still no light. She reached for the door handle.

"You won't find anything there, Inquisitor."

Somehow unsurprised, she turned to face the speaker, a diminutive brunette elf in a baggy green pantsuit. "Assemblywoman Briala," Bethany said, nodding her head slightly. "We meet at last."

The smile that flashed across the elf's face was bereft of mirth. "I wish I could have made my introductions at the party. As it is, I fear I look rather too much the part of the devious criminal."

"You can't deny this doesn't look good. Celene and Gaspard both suspect you of foul play. What are you doing here? What have you been looking for?"

Briala raised an eyebrow. "The answer to that depends on how much you already know."

"What about?"

The assemblywoman clucked her tongue. "From the beginning, then. How about you open that door?"

Somewhat hesitantly, she followed the suggestion, and Varric by her side lit out the room behind it with his torch. As Bethany was about to step inside, she thought better of it, and waved for Briala to precede her. "After you."

If the elf was insulted by the demand, she didn't show it, and walked ahead of them into the bedchamber. Bethany conjured up a ball of light in her palm as she followed, bathing the room in a cold blue light. The empress' bed was massive, canopied, and positively covered in gold decorations, and raised behind a gilded balustrade that separated it from the rest of the room. And while the gold shone eerily in the magelight, that was not what caught her attention. "Is that ..."

"An eluvian."

Gaping, Bethany looked up and down the mirror. She remembered sitting with Merrill at her apartment in the Alienage, helping her clean the blighted shards she had brought with her from Ferelden and put them back together. But her friend's mirror had been miniscule by comparison. This one towered over them, a sleek and imposing rectangular monolith reflecting their awed faces.

"Holy shit," Varric murmured behind her. She had to concur.

"From your reaction, I suspect you're familiar with them."

"Yes," Bethany muttered, still fixed on the mirror. "A good friend of mine had one—it had been destroyed. She was trying to restore it."

"She gave up on it after you left, though. We—that is, your sister, Blondie and I—eventually convinced her to destroy it. That damn thing was eating her up inside."

Solas scoffed. "That was no fault of the mirror. They are tools, nothing more." He turned to Briala. "I confess I know but little of the eluvians. But it seems to me they are useless trifles, bereft of the power they once held without some way to activate them."

The assemblywoman chuckled at that and crossed her arms. "You are better-informed than you give yourself credit for. Here's something new, though: there is a master key. A single keystone that can unlock every eluvian in existence. It was created about two years ago by a powerful desire demon called Imshael, at the behest of a Dalish clan. To make a long story short, first the empress came into possession of the stone, then I."

"I suppose we needn't wonder what sort of things the empress and yourself were of mind to do with it," Solas scoffed, even as Bethany's head was still spinning at the idea of instantaneous transportation between any two mirrors in the world. "Once, the eluvians served to build a starlit empire that span across Thedas. But in this day and age, I should expect everyone's minds immediately turned towards conquest and brutality."

Bethany thought it better not to ask whether Solas might be overly idealising Arlathan. She didn't know much ancient history, but you didn't get to be an empire without a fair bit of conquest and brutality. So she turned to Briala. "If that is true, then how come neither Celene nor you have used the mirrors? If I'm not mistaken, you could end the civil war in a heartbeat with them."

"Indeed." Briala smiled. "The weapon to end all wars, that's how Celene described it to me. Numbers become irrelevant if you can move halfway across the continent in seconds. When we destroyed Vyrantium during the Great War, Templar commandos had to personally smuggle the bomb into the city at great risk. Now, we have planes and missiles, but those take time to reach their targets and can be destroyed en route. With the eluvians, all you need to slaughter millions on the other side of the world is a good, hard push."

A chill ran down Bethany's spine. What had the empress said, again? I shall not go gently. For that matter, she had to wonder what others would do with the power of the eluvians. Gaspard certainly was no saint, and neither was Briala. Perhaps, after all, the only reason the world had yet to go up in flame and madness was that everyone was equally afraid of the escalation

"The truth is," Briala continued quite calmly, "that I can no longer access the network. I don't know what caused the change. I thought I had locked Celene out, permanently, when I took the keystone from her. Evidently, though, she's found another way."

"Are you sure she has regained control?" Solas asked. "Perhaps the eluvians themselves turned against being abused."

The assemblywoman scoffed. "If I knew how she had taken control, I would not be here. My agents informed me that the empress regularly met with an apostate of some notoriety here in this room, an advisor of sorts. I put two and two together and here I am."

"An apostate?"

"A Fereldan woman, named Morrigan. I don't know how she came into Celene's employ, but from what I hear she's a known maleficar who fought in the Blight. For the past year, she has been travelling around Thedas, tracking down eluvians and information about eluvians."

Bethany frowned. "So you were trying to find out what they'd done to lock you out. That explains why Celene wanted me to suspect you of being behind the murders. Does Gaspard know?"

"He has used them himself. Neither of them want to risk me regaining control of the eluvian network. They know I wouldn't use it to benefit them."

"What have you been using them for, then," Dorian interjected. "Because all I'm seeing is a conniving two-bit politician complaining about how the other kids won't play nice. I don't believe for one second that you have no skeletons in your closet."

The elf merely shrugged. "True enough. I will disappoint you, though—most of my explorations through the network were spent opening and exploring new connections. Eventually ... well. There are matters that require action. Strong, decisive action, not good intentions hampered by parliamentary procedure. I would like to believe the Inquisition shares some of my priorities."

You haven't actually told us any of your priorities. "Why are you telling us all this?" Bethany asked eventually. "You could have made up a story. We would not have known about the eluvians if not for you."

"Would you have believed me I was trying to recover some sentimental keepsake at the risk of my life? Perhaps I forgot my toothbrush when I left. I know you probably came here suspecting me of having murdered Council aides and plotting to assassinate the empress. All I can say to that is the truth."

Bethany turned away and, with a sigh, reached up to massage her brows. This was all very interesting, no question there, but she had about enough of this. And they were still no closer to finding any trace of the assassin. "Return to the ballroom with us," she said. "That is not a request, by the way."

Briala gave an elaborate bow. "I surrender myself to the most holy Inquisition, then. My search here has been fruitless one way or the other. It is time I attend ..."

The door to the bedchamber was opened, then closed. Something small and heavy rolled across the floor, clattering on the marble until it came to a halt before Varric's feet. "What the—move!"

He needn't have said it, and in fact his words were swallowed by the commotion as people leaped away best they could, trying to get clear—Bethany had remained frozen, rooted to the ground, and stared at the grenade, not quite sure of what was going on. What was—

A flash of light, bright as the morning sun, piercing and glaring like a spear. A thunderclap that set her ears ringing and caused her to stagger. Maker, the conscious part of her cried, Maker, protect your servant—

Stumbling, she bumped into the balustrade and steadied herself on it. Evidently, she was yet alive, though she could neither see nor hear. "What ... what was ..."

Only seconds later had her eyes adjusted sufficiently that she could make out Dorian, crouched in the centre of the room, collapsed over a shimmering dome he had conjured. The marble floor inside of it was blackened with soot. "Dorian!" Ears still ringing, she stumbled to his side. He did not move, nor open his eyes, as she knelt by his side. "Dorian, can you hear me?" Bethany reached for his wrist ... there, a pulse. And there, shallow breaths.

"He's drained," Solas coughed from behind him, rousing himself from the imperial bed to which he had leapt. "His mana—that was quick thinking. We would be dead if not for his shield."

"Maker's breath, Sunshine, we can't even go to parties without people trying to kill us. Did anyone catch who attacked us?"

"I ... I think I've got an idea. That agent of yours ..." But Bethany was already out of the door before Briala had finished the suggestion. Was that—there, around the corner! Her fireball only barely missed the hem of a maid uniform, blasting the bookshelf behind instead. Instantly, it collapsed; she had to shield herself from falling volumes as she ran past. "Stop!" she shouted, "Engraver!" Another corner, the dining room, with no one inside and two doors—at random, she picked the one on the right, and was proven right by the sight of a dark silhouette running down the corridor in front of her. Got you now ... Winter's Grasp.

She watched the Inquisitor's return alongside Briala from the gallery, sipping champagne as below them the empress withdrew into private consultations with the Herald. When she returned the empty flute to a wandering servant and reached for another, the phone in her purse rang.

The person on the other end wasted no time on pleasantries. "Our friend has failed."

"I can see that. There'll be another opportunity."

"No. Celene dies tonight. There was a pause. She silently cursed her mysterious backer; that distortion made it nearly impossible to get hidden meanings. Thankfully, the voice soon added clarification. "You will do it."

She almost dropped her champagne flute. "You—you can't be serious. This is not what we agreed. I can't just ..."

"It will happen tonight," the voice repeated. "Either Celene dies by your hand or I will release the records of our communications."

"You—you bastard, this is not—you can't make me do this, I won't ..."

"Your fate is in my hand. Pray that you do not fail as well."

"Please, I—I'll do anything, you still need me. We had a deal! We had a deal, dammit!"

There was no reply.

Having handed Engraver over to the Inquisition's agents and informed Celene of the events and having reintroduced her to Briala, they found themselves crowded around the communications room once more. "This is on me," Leliana admitted the instant she had heard the news. "Engraver was one of my best agents. I never suspected ... she'd been with us for months, nearly from the beginning. Maker, she recruited assets for us. This is an unmitigated security disaster. We're going to triple-check everyone she worked with, everyone she was in contact with. If she was recruiting double agents under my nose, you will know. I swear it."

"What's done is done," Cullen commented. "Celene is alive and the peace talks can continue."

Josephine objected, reapplying her make-up with a tiny hand mirror. "Engraver was not acting on her own. There might still be other assassins afoot, not to mention their sponsor. How long until we can interrogate her?"

"Several hours, at least. I'm afraid Hawke chilled her a little aggressively."

Bethany blushed at that and murmured "had to do something ..." Josephine was right, though. "No complacency. The empress is still in danger."

"Of course, Inquisitor. Now, I have an update from Operation Supervisor for you ..."

Bethany rose from her seat. "How long until they get there?"

"At least fifteen minutes, I'm afraid. Trevelyan and his people will have to hold out that long. At least the enemy doesn't seem to be making any attempts to break the siege, yet."

"That only means whatever is inside that compound is too valuable to leave," Leliana grimly pointed out. "We should have attacked earlier. when we had the chance. Let's hope Matador are as good as their sales pitch promised."

Bethany ignored the implicit admonishment. Maker damn it, whoever had put her in charge again? Ah, right. Andraste. Sure does know how to pick 'em. She tried to recall Trevelyan's face—she hadn't seen him around in weeks, maybe months. Young. Eager. When she caught Lavellan's expression to her side, it was stony and tense, teeth ground and eyes straight ahead. He'll be fine, she wanted to say, but couldn't. "I ... I'll need to go, speak to the empress. She might still be in danger. What about the intruder?"

Cullen ground his teeth. "Dropped off the radar, it seems. The Imperial Guard are running themselves ragged looking for them. Several of my people have disappeared, as well, it seems. Whoever they are, they're good. We must assume they've breached the inner sanctum."

In other words, they could be anyone, anywhere. "Keep looking," she ordered. "And make sure the Imperial Guard can do their job without being crowded by our people. We've already uncovered one double agent in our ranks tonight. I don't want another."

"As you say, Inquisitor. I'll inform you of any changes."

Lavellan reluctantly following her, she returned to the public area. Evidently, the rumour of Engraver's betrayal and their near-death experience had spread, judging by the stares and whispers she received as she made her way to the library, which had been set aside for use by the negotiators. The guards at the door let her in without complaint, though Bethany noticed they seemed tense and more numerous than before.

Bethany passed by the small army of lawyers and diplomats and their towers of documents in the main reading room and found the empress on one of the balconies. To her surprise, she wasn't alone. "Your Imperial Majesty. Assemblywoman. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Mme l'Inquisitrice," Celene greeted her with a faint bow of her head. "Briala and I were just talking about you. Please, join us."

She raised an eyebrow, but complied. "We have to express our thanks to you," the empress continued, and Bethany wasn't quite sure if she was using the royal 'we' or not. "Not only have you apprehended an assassin, you have also prompted a conversation long overdue."

"I don't think I understand."

Briala crossed her arms. "I told you that Her Majesty had locked me out of the eluvian network, didn't I? She insists she has done no such thing, and that she has no access, either. I think I almost believe her."

"I, for one, am relieved to see that weapon taken out of this conflict. It was ... unpredictable. There could be no hope of trust between the parties with it in play. Now, I think, an agreement has come within reach."

"We're not there yet," Bethany cautioned. "I notice the Grand Duke isn't here."

"My cousin has gone for a walk in the gardens. To clear his head; I welcome that. I don't expect we'll reach a final settlement tonight, of course, but an armistice ..." The empress paused and looked at Briala. "Whatever may happen, I thank you, Mme l'Inquisitrice. Tonight, my throne stands more securely than it has done in years, and my heart is at peace. I believe Gaspard will agree to my proposal, with yourself and Briala standing as its guarantors." She smirked. "As for what comes after—take his guns away, and Gaspard is just an angry little kitty. But I'm still a lion."

Bethany had to laugh at that mental image. "Then I wish you the best of luck," she said. "Both of you." Briala gave her a grateful nod and smile. I don't know if it will have been worth it in the end, but at least something good seems to have come of tonight.

"I'll show the Inquisitor out," the elf said, rising.

"Don't be too long ... Brie."

Bethany almost stopped dead in her tracks and caught the assemblywoman glaring back at the empress. Brie? Then, the glare turned into a smile. "I wouldn't dream of it, Celery."

It was all she could do not to burst out laughing as Briala (Brie!) shepherded her outside the library. "What was that?" she half-said, half-guffawed once they were out of earshot. "Celery and Brie, really now?"

"Shut up. Not a word of this to anyone, or I will destroy your Inquisition faster than you can say 'religious tax exemption'." She sighed. "You've done a lot for us. I appreciate it. Has your double agent revealed anything about her backers yet?"

"She's still unconscious, I'm told. I would suspect Corypheus, but if that's the case I don't see how he could have recruited her without mortal intermediaries. Those might still be here, eager to strike."

Briala nodded. "We'll keep the empress safe. My people have already started to share intelligence with the Imperial Guard. Another thing: we believe our mysterious intruder is somewhere here in the Hall of Homage or thereabouts. So far, they have eluded us; we are discreetly surveying the guests. I'd advice you to be careful."

"Thank you, I will."

Slowly, Bethany made her way back towards the Inquisition comms room, avoiding the well-wishes and advances of the party guests along the way. She was sure she didn't cut much of a figure at this point: her hair and clothes had been thoroughly dishevelled by the grenade and chase after Engraver, and she had discarded her sword and bowtie entirely.

She came to a pause on the raised balustrade overlooking the dance floor and the throne in the Hall of Homage. The huge, floor-length windows behind the throne had been thrown wide open, allowing the guests to pass in and out of the gardens and letting the imperial banners hung in the windows billow in the wind like the sails of a mighty old ship-of-the-line. Beyond the chill and dark of the night, however, the hall was warm and alive with hundreds of voices, the rustling of cloth and the ringing of glasses. Unseen musicians played light chamber music. Thousands of electric candles, along the walls and on the massive crystal chandeliers on the gilded ceiling, bathed the room in a warm golden light, And there, at the head of the room, the sunlit throne, now unoccupied. At least for now, it seemed, Celene would continue to sit it, but the threat remained.

Once more, she quietly went through the list of suspects. If she wasn't completely mistaken, Briala's affection for the empress was genuine, and she would not allow Celene to be assassinated. Gaspard, however, remained an option. His 'going for a walk' in the gardens was somewhat suspicious, but he might simply have needed to get some air after learning of the new alliance between his rival and Briala. That he had motive to have Celene assassinated was clear, but—somehow, she couldn't picture it. Then there was Florianne, an outsider. She, too, would benefit from the empress' death, and she, too, had attempted to manipulate her, much as the others had. Still, she had been surprised how out of touch the grand duchess had appeared when dancing with her. Swallowing her claim that they'd apprehended the intruder, parroting rumours about the Council aides having been murdered by an elf ...

Except they had been murdered by an elf. Frowning, Bethany tried to think back to the rest of that conversation. Her reaction when she'd claimed to have apprehended an assassin had been odd, she recalled, but she couldn't quite place it.

As it happened, she caught a look of Gaspard and his sister re-entering the Hall of Homage from the garden, her arm in his. The grand duke must have spotted her from across the room, for he nodded slightly in her direction. At this distance, she couldn't make out his expression, but the way he moved suggested tension. Beside him, Florianne ... she was still masked, but her hands tightly clasped her skirts.

Could it be? The evidence was slim by any definition, but somehow it seemed to fit together. Florianne had organised the peace talks, after all, and had mentioned sending the Guard off towards the west wing. Working together with an assassin, that would have taken some of the pressure off the empress and helped clear a path. And once she was dead? Gaspard would be emperor, and Florianne next in line. And if she's willing to kill her cousin, why not her brother?

Across the hall, she watched the siblings exchange a few words, then separate. Gaspard went off towards the right side, having spotted his uncle the Duke Germain there. Bethany's eyes followed Florianne—who hurried up the stairs to the gallery, ignoring several guests who approached her. Headed towards the library. Let's see what she's up to.

Not letting the grand duchess out of her sight, she hurried her way past the thicket of chatting party guests to reach her. She wasn't sure what she would say or do, but she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. The guards won't stop her. Celene won't suspect her.

"Mme l'Inquisitrice, may I have the pleasure of your next dance?" She didn't bother to look in the direction of the asker, and was in truth barely paying attention to her.

"Not right now, Madame, I am quite—" She was interrupted by a strong hand tightly gripping her upper arm and twirling her around, and before she knew what was happening, a pair of hot, rough lips had claimed hers—

Gasping, she pushed her assailant away, supplementing her hand with a blast of raw telekinetic energy that sent the woman stumbling back into the crowd, causing some disturbance. What on earth—no matter; she turned back on her path, Florianne would not get away ...

That was when she saw her assailant's face, and froze as all else was wiped clear from her mind.

Oh, Maker.

Marian Hawke had never looked more out-of-place than she did now, steadying herself against some unfortunate bystanders in gowns and tailcoats. The sight of her took Bethany's breath away in more ways than once—her skin was sallow and her hair dull, her eyes tired and lined by dark rings. There were some new scars on her face, joined to the large gash across the bridge of her nose. Her clothes, including that damned old army greatcoat of hers, could charitably be described as threadbare. "Hey," her sister quietly said, a lopsided smile that did not reach her eyes on her craggy lips. "It's been a while."

A thousand possible responses flew through her head, a thousand thousand sensations, each more painful than the last. She remembered—Maker, how she remembered—what was it? A dingy little motel room, she knew not where, a cold and empty bed; the fires of the Gallows reflected in her eyes; pleading blue eyes above her behind a gas mask as she fades out of consciousness ...

Her throat was dry; she could scarcely breathe. "What ... why ..." she croaked, and silently continued why now why you why now when it's going so well and Maker what shall I do what will I DO. She felt herself stumbling and had to reach out to the balustrade to steady herself. "No, I ... no!"

"Bethany ..."

"Go! Go. I don't—I don't want to see you. Go," she stammered, even as every fibre of her being was screaming over the others, clamouring to be heard. Oh, Maker, that look, that look in Marian's eyes, that hurt more than being abandoned by her ever had. "Leave," she repeated, blindly, she couldn't deal with this right now, not now when things were looking up at last. Maker, blessed lady, what is happening what should I do how is this FAIR

"Leave!"

Not waiting for an answer, she turned, desperately tried to focus on anything that wasn't Marian or that terrible emptiness inside her, and saw Florianne, entering the library. Oh, Maker ... Still staggering, she broke into a jog, then a run, rushing her way through the crowd. "Bethany!" a voice cried behind her, but she shut it out, ignored it as best she could. She elbowed past a duchess and rammed into a marquis with her shoulder before she reached the library, where the guards barred her way. Without even thinking, she hurled them aside as she had struck Marian and burst into the library, there, the gallery, taking three steps at a time in huge bounds she climbed—

Like a still image, the scene would remain engraved in her mind.

Celene, seated on a chaise longue; Briala beside her, half-risen, and before them: Florianne, less like an angle of vengeance than a frightened child, clutching the pistol with both hands—

Bethany screamed something, she knew not what, but the sound broke and shattered on six rapid, deep thundercracks. A high-pitched, constant ringing droned in her ears, and she did not hear the gun hit the floor, its barrel still smoking. She did not hear Briala's outcry, or Florianne collapsing and bursting into sobs. She did not hear the empress scream, or cry, or say a word, but that was because she did none of these things.

Celene's mouth opened, then closed again, her eyes wide. Her hand went up to chest, hovered, trembling, above the six red flowers blooming on the pale skin of her décolleté, then sank. She looked at Briala, staring, her jaw again dropping—a shudder went through her body, and blood mixed with drool ran down her chin. "-ene, Celene, Celene," Briala cried, repeating her mantra as Bethany's hearing returned, slender elven hands running across the empress' face, trying to futilely seal her wounds, "Look at me, Celene, look at me, stay with me, do something you're a mage aren't you do something heal her!"

By the time Bethany had managed to focus enough to channel her mana into the wounds, it was too late. Her Imperial Majesty, Celene, by the grace of the Maker and the constitutions of the Nation, Empress of Orlais, Queen of the Dales, Sword and Shield of the Faith, and sovereign over all the world, died like all the rest, and long lived the emperor.

"Secure!"

"Secure!"

He leisurely swept the room with the light cone of the torch attached to his rifle, stepping over the monstrously mutilated body of a red templar, still faintly glowing from the lyrium growing inside her. "All rooms have been secured," he concluded. "Good work, folks."

"Well done, Bull," the voice on the other end of his ear pod commented. The commander sounded dead tired. "Sweep the compound for anything useful. That crate, especially. I want to know what was in that. Then get out."

"Copy that, boss. Aclassi, what's our status?"

"No casualties on our end," his lieutenant reported, coming up to him. "Think the Inquisition regulars lost some people before we arrived, but we don't have a count yet."

"Check with their CO, then. We'll medevac as many as we can in the choppers."

"Will do."

He continued through the compound, stepping over the corpses of red templars here and there. Even without them, it was a mess, precisely what one would have expected from a bunch of soldiers holed up in the middle of the forest for months. At one point he rolled over one of the corpses and shone a flashlight in the man's face. "That's Samson, alright. We got him."

"Happy to hear it. You owe us drinks when we get back to Skyhold."

"Not right now, Bull."

He shrugged, sending mountains of muscles and meat a-quiver under his oversized combat vest. He scooped up a few handfuls of documents in one of the rooms, picked up a laptop in another, but nowhere did he see anything fitting the briefing's description of the mysterious crate. "Boss, Aclassi. Might want to come down here. Staircase off the hallway."

"On my way." He went down to the cellar, having to duck to avoid hitting his horns on the low ceiling.

"Over here, boss," Krem called out, waving him over to a side room—a root cellar, where a couple of his people were already waiting. "You need to see this." He raised his torch.

On a plain metal table stood a sharply pointed cone of black metal, about 1.8 metres long and half a metre in diameter at its base. Its form was completely regular and entirely smooth, the metal was unmarked. "What am I looking at?"

"Can you get a closer look?" That was not the commander speaking, but the fancy Orlesian lady, the mage—Madame de la Ferre, was it? "If it is what I think it is, there should be a serial number on the underside." Obligingly, he detached the small camera from his shoulder strap and set it on the table, before gripping the smooth cone with both hands as best he could to turn it on its side. It was surprisingly heavy, and slightly warm to the touch.

He pointed the camera at the underside of the cone. True enough, there was a metal plaque there above some sort of electronic interface, a numerical code engraved on it. Above it, small, shallow letters read Tout est un dans les yeux du Créateur. "Got something," he reported in case the camera didn't catch the number. "The serial number reads one six four dash eight dash four one dash—"

"Fuck," said Madame de la Ferre.

"Everything alright? Care to enlighten us?" That was the commander, sounding just as puzzled as he was.

"It's—it's one of our Empty Quivers. A W904-type thaumic warhead and re-entry vehicle for ICBMs."

"Fuck!" Bull exclaimed, jumping backwards. "And I touched that thing?"

"Is it safe, Vivienne?" That was the Inquisitor, he knew, though they'd never met. Her voice sounded urgent, but tired. She hadn't spoken before.

"Perfectly. Obviously don't go opening it unless you have to, it does contain several kilograms of weapons-grade lyrium. But the weapon is completely inert unless triggered using the correct ignition sequence."

"Good. We're taking it with us. Bring it back to Skyhold."