A/N: This story returns! Much to my own surprise, I'll admit. Cara did such a beautiful job with the prologue and the first chapter, and then I dropped the ball. Hard. But she continued to encourage me, and I finally found the thread of inspiration I needed. :-) Enjoy, my friends!

Chapter 2

The lead-packed practice blade swung down, clashing against the shield strapped to Cormac Cousland's arm. A jarring shock reverberated through his bones as he stumbled to his knees.

Dairren backed off, grinning. "Yield, Cor?"

"Yield," Cormac grunted. He'd have a bruise the size of an apple. "Maker's hairy balls, Dairren. Since when are you murder with a sword?"

"Since I became a squire." Dairren sheathed his blade, one hand outstretched to help the fallen lad to his feet. "Rigorous training program. I won't be tending horses and sweeping stalls forever, count on it."

"With that arm? There's not a chance." Cor grimaced as he slung the shield down, flexing his numb fingers. "I won't be able to write for a week. More's the pity."

Dairren loosened the clasp on his helmet. "Your tutors will just have to wait for you to heal."

"That's what I'm saying!" A gentle breeze cooled Cor's forehead as he tossed his gloves to the ground. From the clammy dampness of his gambeson, he'd worked up quite a sweat, and likely was fragrant as a plow horse. "What about this so-called blight, then? Any chance you'll see action?"

Dairren shrugged. "Who can tell. Last I heard, no. But if the king calls, we'll answer. For now, Ostagar seems to have enough soldiers."

"Fergus and father are leaving tomorrow," Cormac offered. "Taking Highever's troops south."

"Well then, I'm sure to stay home, if Highever is joining the battle. Come on," Dairren invited. "Let's get back. Mother will want me to be presentable for the salon this afternoon."

"Damn salons," Cor grumbled. "Let's fake sick and get out of it."

Dairren laughed as they strolled back toward the castle. For as long as Cormac could recall, he and the lad had been the best of friends, Dairren's mother Lady Landra bringing him along whenever she visited. The Theirins and the Howes, too, had been frequent visitors, all of them running about together like a pack of pups. Now that they were older, though, the dynamic had altered. Dairren was more serious, less interested in pranking about.

Why do things have to change? Cor sighed to himself. Life had been such a lark when they were children. There'd been a time when he couldn't wait to grow up, certain that adventure had just been waiting for him to claim it. With a name like his, why wouldn't he grow up to be a hero?

But as the years had passed, and the rose-colored haze lifted from his dreams, Cormac had realized just how boring life had the potential to be.

King Maric had been lost at sea, and Cailan had taken the throne and married Anora Mac Tir. It was expected, but after that, they saw little of Cailan, the eldest Theirin being the first of them to fall to responsibility. Then Fergus had gone with Teyrn Cousland on a trip to Antiva, and returned with a bride of his own, their son Oren arriving a year later. Cormac liked Oriana, and Fergus seemed happy. But watching his fun-loving older brother settle into his role as heir to Highever had been... depressing.

Then Nathaniel Howe had been sent to the Free Marches as a squire, and Thomas had died in a hunting accident. That had been terrible, the young generation's first experience with the swift hand of mortality. Delilah had divorced herself from Amaranthine shortly thereafter, much to the chagrin of her father Rendon. Cormac had never really figured out just why that had happened, but from what he'd managed to gather, Delilah had fallen in love with a shopkeeper and renounced her nobility. It was something Cormac almost understood.

Next, Alistair had gone all moony-eyed over his twin sister, Cathryn. Cormac couldn't deny that Cat was a gem; smarter than most noble girls, with a sense of humor and intelligence to boot. But Alistair wasn't supposed to fall in love with her. Now when the crown prince came to Highever, it wasn't to spar and go on hunting trips.

And now, Dairren would go the way of Nathaniel and become a squire. Cormac sighed again, his steps heavy. I'm the only one left, he thought glumly.

"M'lords."

Cor snapped out of his morose musings. On the path before them stood Iona, Lady Landra's personal maid. Rather than her usual blue frock, she'd dressed up, wearing a fine green gown. The salon, Cor thought. Yet another reminder of his irksome duties.

She dropped a low curtsey as the two of them approached. "I've been sent to fetch you. But you were already returning—have you finished your sparring?"

"We're done, Iona." Dairren smiled at the young elven woman. "I suppose Mother wants me to prepare for the salon?"

"Yes, m'lord."

Dairren clapped Cor on the shoulder. "See you there, brother?"

"If I don't come down with the flu," Cor jibed. It was tempting to plead illness... without a doubt, his mother had a few noble girls she planned to put on parade for him. But Eleanor Cousland would know he wasn't really sick, and the tongue-lashing that would follow wouldn't be worth it.

Iona hung back as Dairren continued toward the castle. Her angelic eyes dipped toward the ground. "My lord," she murmured. Her flaxen hair shimmered in the late afternoon sun, softer than spun gold.

For answer, Cormac wound her into his arms. She melted into him, her head tipping back as his lips covered hers. This luscious elven lass had been his first, and was still the only one he preferred. Desire burned through him, ardor blazing a heated path through every pore.

She shied away a moment later, her hands fluttering against his chest. "We shouldn't," she demurred. "So close to the castle—someone could see us."

"I don't care," he growled, capturing her mouth again. One hand rose to brush the swell of her bodice. "You consume me, Iona."

She giggled. "Such words, Cor."

A grin teased his lips as he nuzzled her neck. "Can you get away now?"

"No." She sighed. "Lady Landra will want me to trot behind her and carry her teacup. And won't Teyrna Eleanor expect you there, as well?"

"Mm." He sidled them both off the path, his hands resting on her hips as he kissed her again. "We won't be long."

"Cormac Cousland!" Iona giggled as she scolded him. "In full sight of the path? Are you mad?"

"Only for you," he whispered.

"Tonight," she replied as he dragged his mouth over the creamy expanse of her neck. "I'm yours after Lady Landra goes to bed."

"I can't wait that long," he protested.

"You'll have to," she chided with a chuckle. "Now, go get cleaned up, and I'll see you at the salon. You smell like a horse."

"You love it." He nipped at her neck, breathing the soft fragrance of her hair.

"I do," she smiled as she backed away and smoothed her hair. "Go, Cor." With a last squeezing of fingers, Iona hurried back up the path, her skirts gathered into one hand.

Cormac watched her go, his eyes lingering on the sway of her slim hips. If his mother ever discovered the years-long relationship he'd built with the elven maid, the Void might just open up and his dear mother shove him into it. Yet the whole point of today's salon was to introduce him to yet another potential wife... Cor's eyes slipped shut as he contemplated the measures he'd have to take to avoid this one. I'm going to need a drink to get through this. Something a lot stronger than tea.

"So, there we were, the board nearly cleared. Mother had backed my king into a corner, and there was only one move I could make. So I reached—and the dog knocked the board to the floor! He just tore through the room, the table toppled, the pieces scattered... whatever were we to do?" Edith Packton's plump mouth pouted. Her coppery hair had been twisted into a cascading knot of curls, and Cormac was certain that no woman's mouth was naturally that color.

"Very interesting. Go on," Cor said politely, his eyes flitting across the room to Iona. She hovered behind Lady Landra, and gave him a private smile when she caught his gaze.

Edith frowned. "Go on? What else is there to say? It was ghastly, Ser Cousland. Simply ghastly. How were we to finish, after something so horrid?" She paused, perhaps sensing that she was losing him. "But tell me something, Cormac." Her voice purred the words, her hip shifting to the side. "Do you find it hard, being named after the hero who defeated the witches of the Wilds? I would feel as though I had to live up to such a name. In my opinion—"

"Will you excuse me, Lady Packton?" Unable to stand another word, Cormac reached for her hand and lifted it to his mouth.

"Of course," she murmured, her eyes narrowing with annoyance.

Maker save me, he prayed as he crossed the room. In his pocket was a flask he'd taken to carrying for just such an occasion, and tempting as it was to put it to his lips and drain it, a bit more discretion was necessary here. His mother and Lady Landra conversed in one corner, and his sister Cat entertained little Oren on one of the couches, along with a few other nameless women drawn in by the three-year old's dimples.

"She seems nice," Iona murmured as she joined him at the refreshment table.

"She's a mabari in heat," Cormac said bluntly. "Sneak away with me."

"I can't." A tiny smile upped Iona's mouth. "Later."

"Now," Cor returned in a low voice. Darting a furtive glance around the room, he turned his back on them as he poured a measure of brandy into the china cup, followed by a spoonful of punch.

Iona reached for a cup of her own, ladling punch into it. "I have to deliver this. Lady Landra is waiting."

Cor snagged her hand. "You're intoxicating."

"Speaking of mabari in heat." Iona's mouth twitched as she set down the cup. "You're going to cause a scene."

"Then come with me." Cor poured the depth of his need into his stare, hoping she'd feel the smoulder that burned through his blood.

Iona crimsoned as his eyes raked her body. "My lord-"

"Trouble, Cormac?" Eleanor Cousland's frosty voice cut through the fire that had developed between them. Iona mumbled a greeting to the teyrna, then picked up her cup and fled.

"No, Mother." Cor lifted his own cup, forcing a smile to his face. "I was just getting Edith a cup of punch."

His mother's mouth pursed as she surveyed her son, but then she nodded and strode off.

Disgusted, Cor put the cup to his lips, and was shocked to taste regular punch without a drop of alcohol. He looked at the cup, frowning, then his eyes widened as they flew across the room to Lady Landra.

The duchess had drained her glass and handed it back to Iona. Did she even notice? Cor wondered. That hadn't been a thimbleful of booze—more like tumblerful. Iona came back to the table a moment later.

"She wants a refill," Iona said quietly as she reached for the ladle.

A wicked idea blossomed in Cor's brain. "Here." Halting her, he twisted the top from his flask. As he filled the cup, he told Iona what had happened. Iona's blue eyes opened wide as he doctored Lady Landra's cup once more. "It'll put her out of commission," he finished. "No interruptions tonight."

"You're evil," she whispered, but the wicked sparkle in her eye betrayed her love for his plan.

Maker's breath, how much can one woman drink? Cor stared, watching Lady Landra's face grow brighter with every swallow. Yet she glided about the room with the grace of an aging swan, her skirts swept aside with one veined hand as Iona trotted meekly behind. Shaking his head, Cor stalked across the room and flopped down on the couch beside his twin sister, who was playing with their nephew.

Cat grinned at him in welcome, then turned to the child. "Oren, tell uncle what you were telling me."

"No!" Oren had found the long braids woven through Cat's chestnut hair and was inspecting them with great seriousness.

"Come on," Cat wheedled the three year old on her knee. "I'll give you a cookie if you do."

Cor grimaced as Oren grabbed chubby fistfuls of his sister's hair, but she only laughed as she reclaimed the dark strands. "No, Oren," she chided. "That hurts Auntie."

"Why it hurts?"

Cor pulled in a large gulp of punch, wishing he'd saved a bit of the brandy for himself. Across the way, Edith Packton's eyes seemed likely to set fire to the drapes if she continued to glare at him in such a furious manner.

"Unca Cor," Oren chirped. "Al'stair send dis!"

Cat grinned in triumph as Oren held up a much wrinkled letter. "He did indeed, Oren!" Cor's sister praised the little one as she eased the letter from his chubby fist. "Now show him what he sent you."

The other hand held up a toy soldier, his arms dangling between two sticks, carved so it jumped and danced when squeezed. Oren thrust it at Cor, a stream of babble pouring forth as the tiny boy told him all about how it worked.

"Very nice," Cor mumbled.

"Oren, go play with Nana," Cat instructed, sliding him from her lap with a fond kiss. Oren toddled off, his wooden soldier held tight to his chest.

"You're a natural with him," Cor observed. Somehow, this made everything even worse. "I guess you and Alistair will want to start a family right away?"

Cat twirled the diamond ring on her fourth finger, one corner of her mouth quirking upward. "I suppose. If he wants to."

"You know he will." Cor heaved a tragic sigh. "Everyone's getting all... mature. All that's left is me, and if mother has her way, I won't last the season."

"Have you at least tried talking to Edith?"

"To her? Yes. With her?" Cormac snorted. "Impossible."

Cat sighed. "Look, I promised Oriana I'd see to Oren. She wasn't feeling well today... don't tell Fergus, but she thinks she may be expecting again."

Maker's sake! Before long, Fergus would be nothing more than a husband and father, his brother lost to him completely. "Bully for her," he groused.

"You're being a real prat, you know that?"

He slid a sidelong glance at his twin. "How am I supposed to be?"

"You could be happy."

This was so saccharine he nearly laughed. "Not everyone lives happily ever after. Cathryn."

"No, Cormac. You have to want to, first." Eyes flashing, his sister's fist collided with his shoulder, knocking him back a few inches before she flounced to her feet to follow Oren.

Cor grunted as he rubbed his shoulder, annoyance simmering. It hadn't hurt, but what gave her the right to dictate anything to him? Just because she was marrying the prince, just because she'd found her perfect destiny...

A flurry of activity at the salon doors caught his attention. His brother, and his father—in full armor?

Interested, Cormac sat up. No one came armored into Eleanor Cousland's parlor. Even now, his mother marched across the room, storm clouds rolling across her face as she met them at the door. Chuckling to himself, Cormac watched, certain they would be bustled out with little ceremony. Perhaps there would even be a row after dinner over it.

But the ice in his mother's eyes melted as she listened to her men. Her smooth brow wrinkled, a touch of fear evidenced in the tightness of her knuckles. After a moment, she found her composure, nodded to them both, and closed the salon doors, turning back to the room with a bright smile.

Cormac was stunned. That was all? She'd simply dismissed it? Just what had been said between the three of them?

And to top it all off, no one else had noticed. The salon continued, the vapid nobles laughing and sipping tea as if the world hadn't just been turned upside down.

Irritated, Cor surged to his feet and marched across the room, reaching the teyrna in three strides. "What is it?" he murmured.

"Nothing." The teyrna's lips barely moved, her porcelain smile steady.

"Mother." Cor pulled her around with a firm hand. "Tell me."

Eleanor's steely eyes flashed warning. "This is hardly the time or place."

"Then, Father and Fergus didn't just come here to tell you something really important? In their armor?" Cormac scowled. "How stupid do you think I am?"

"Lower your voice," Eleanor hissed. "I will tell you. Later."

"I'm not a child—"

"You're not a man, either." Teyrna Cousland glared icicles. "Now, do as I have asked you and speak with these ladies. Edith Packton may not be your final choice, but there are others here who are just as worthy of the Cousland name. You will choose one to court. Or I can promise you that you'll never see that elven tart again."

Gaping, Cormac released her, watching in disbelief as his mother smoothed her skirt, patted her hair, and made her rounds. Smiling. Chatting. Laughing. As though she had not just delivered an impossible ultimatum.

Resentment simmered in his gut. How dare she. How could she?

Spinning on his heel, he nearly plowed into Lady Landra. "Pardon, m'lady," he muttered, intending on hurrying after his mother, but was stopped by Landra's hand on his arm.

"Master Cormac," she greeted him, her speech a touch slurred. "How handsome you look."

Clearing his throat, he attempted a smile, what little patience he still possessed draining away like water from a leaky bucket. "Thank you, m'lady. You're looking quite beautiful as well."

To his surprise, Landra giggled. Like a woman half her age. "Do I?" Her lashes fluttered, a coy smile curving her wrinkled lips.

Instantly, Cor's snarky attitude drained away. His mother wished him to choose a match? Fine.

With a wink at Iona, he snagged Landra's hand, lifting it to his mouth as he bent at the waist. "I daresay, my lady," he murmured, his lips brushing her aged skin. "The stars in the sky would be shamed by your radiance."

Drivel. Poetic nonsense. But it worked.

Lady Landra simpered, one hand lifting to linger at the bosom of her dress. "Oh, the things a man will say to capture a woman's heart."

"The truth is all I need," Cormac declared, drawing the dowager close enough to smell the lemon that Iona used to freshen her clothing. From the corner of his eye, he spotted his mother. Her eyes sparked with danger.

Excellent.

"Lady Landra, you are the sweetest flower in the whole bouquet," he crooned, laying it on thick. "Roses would wither in envy of your fair complexion."

Another giggle, Landra's cheeks pinking with pleasure. "My lord. This is most unseemly."

"I cannot help myself," Cormac sighed, pulling her in and looping an arm around her waist. "My lady... unseemly it may be, but you do not know the agonies that have lived in my heart. You cannot suspect the lengths to which I would go, the miles I would travel to make you mine. I would walk through fire, dance on hot stones, crawl through the caves of the Frostback mountains. I would—"

Lady Landra needed no further invitation. His pretty words halted as she yanked him down, her lips mashing against his. The sound of a shattering teacup was followed shortly by his mother's shriek.

It was quite the best salon Cormac had ever attended.

"How could you?" Eleanor raved, stalking back and forth in the family room. "How could you?!"

"She kissed me," Cor protested. "She practically fell on me. I caught her, and then the next thing I knew her tongue was in my mouth. You can't blame me for that!"

"Don't even pretend you didn't orchestrate every moment of that encounter." The teyrna whirled on him, unbridled anger pulsing in the vein at her neck. "Are you trying to tear this family apart?"

"For the love of Andraste, I didn't do anything!" Cor bellowed. "Maybe you shouldn't expect me to do things I hate. Did you ever consider that? Mother?"

Eleanor's hand snaked out, her palm connecting with his cheek in a resounding smack. Cor sucked in a breath of surprise, blinking away unexplained wetness at the sting.

Neither spoke for a moment, the shock of what had just happened settling over them both.

"Your father and Fergus are gone with the army to Ostagar," Eleanor said at last, her voice calm and crisp once more. "Earlier than expected. Arl Howe brought Cailan's letter, and they were forced to move out this afternoon."

"Nice of them to tell me," Cor muttered, feeling insolent.

"I am telling you. Just as I said I would."

"It would have killed you to tell me earlier?" Cor sneered. "Oh, that's right. You're more concerned with the family image than you are with keeping us informed."

Eleanor's hands curled into fists at her sides, her lips thinning to a tight slash. Another moment passed as she reined in her temper. "You are the man of Highever until they return. I expect you to act like it."

"And just what does a man do, Mother? Please, list my duties for me. How else will I know if I've done them?"

"Know this, my son." Eleanor's voice lowered to a perilous level. "You tread on thin ice. I have tried to allow you your own time, but enough is enough. If you cannot find a bride in Ferelden, you will be shipped off to join the royal army, in service to your country. And Cormac, you are not cut out for the army."

"Why wait? I'll go now," Cor bit out, seeing red.

"You will stay here," Eleanor continued, her voice still riding that maddeningly even keel. "You will pen a letter to Edith Packton, apologizing for your terrible behavior. You will also apologize to Lady Landra—"

"If she ever wakes up," Cor muttered.

Once again, Eleanor's lips pinched together as she fought for control. "One final thing. Should I find Iona in your bed, she will be gone before you can breathe her name. Do not test me on this."

"I hardly think Lady Landra will appreciate you killing her servants," Cor snapped.

"Sending her to Aeonar would hardly be a death sentence," Eleanor returned. "Though I don't expect she would enjoy her stay. And Maker knows she would never see her daughter again."

"The mage prison? She's not a mage," Cor protested, mild horror uncoiling in his stomach as his brows furrowed. "Aeonar makes no sense!"

"It is remote, its whereabouts all but unknown, and scullery maids are needed everywhere. As I said, Cormac, do not test me."

With a final swirling of skirts, Teyrna Cousland was gone, the door closed softly behind her.

Chest heaving, Cormac stalked to the closet and yanked it open. The teyrna had no idea what she'd just wakened. "I'll show her," he gritted. "I'll show everyone."

Three minutes later he'd stuffed a few changes of clothing and some personal items into a satchel. His purse was already full—Cor dropped it in the leather bag, as well.

There was nothing else he needed. He would armor up before he left. Thus prepared, Cor slung the bag over his shoulder as he stalked the hallways. Dinner was over, the castle was quiet. Most likely, Cat was in her room—writing to Alistair, Cor thought with contempt. He would drop her a note from the road. His twin was the only thing he would miss about Highever.

Just where he planned to go, he wasn't certain; he spoke Orlesian, so Orlais was a possibility. The Free Marches were reputed to be a haven for men who could carve out their own path—perhaps Starkhaven, or Kirkwall.

But before he left, there was someone he had to talk to.

"No." Iona shook her head, her lovely eyes huge with fear. "They'll hunt us."

"Of course they will," Cor said simply, his thumbs stroking the backs of her hands. "But they won't find us."

"There's nowhere you can go, Cor." Iona's dulcet voice spiked with panic. "Your parents will send birds to every other noble family in the country."

"Which is why we'll leave the country," he winked at her.

She stepped back, her hands sliding away from his as she sank down upon her bed. "I could never leave Amethyne," she whispered. "It's difficult enough to leave her in the Alienage. I'd always hoped that one day, Lady Landra would relent and allow her to live with me—"

"I won't make you make that choice," Cor urged. "Come with me. We'll go to Denerim, get Amethyne from the Alienage, and we'll travel. You can have your daughter—she's a dear little thing, I won't mind. I can book passage on the first available ship for all three of us."

"What if people question us?" Iona's teeth raked her lower lip.

"Then you shall be my maid, and I a foreign dignitary." Cor's eyes twinkled as he leaned in, switching to Orlesian. "Est-ce que la facilité de votre esprit?"

A grim laugh slipped from Iona's lips. "You know I don't speak Orlesian."

"But I do." Cor reached for her once more, sitting beside her on the bed. "It's foolproof. Think of it, Iona! The two of us, totally free, to do as we wish. Amethyne can grow up educated, you and I can be together for always."

"Cormac." The gentle voice he so loved was sterner than he'd heard in years—not since he was a lad. "This fantasy has to stop. You're a Cousland, a nobleman. I'm an elven maid, and I'm ten years your senior. It was fun while it lasted, but let us be realistic."

"No." Cor's brows lowered as he shook his head. "Iona, you're the only one I want. You're the only one I'll ever want. What do I care about my birthright? I'm walking away tonight, and I want you with me."

"And what will we do for coin?" Iona demanded in a bleak voice. "You say you want to support me and my daughter. How will you do it?"

Cormac blinked, seeking an answer, then grinned. "I'll figure that out. For now, I can bring enough coin with us that we won't need to think about it for a few years at least. More if we're careful."

A bitter laugh from Iona. "So, your plan is to steal from your parents, sneak away in the night, and flit from port to port until your money runs out. And you want me along—why? So you've always got a ready female? Because I'm cheaper than a whore?"

"What?" Cor's brow wrinkled in disbelief. "No, of course not."

"Because I won't do that," Iona warned him, her voice rising. "I won't be that to you. And I won't do that to my daughter. I have a good life with Lady Landra, I would be a fool to throw it all away..."

Cor snagged her chin, tipping her face up to his. "Iona, don't you love me?"

Wordless, she nodded, but the fear in her eyes did not lessen.

"Then come," he said softly, his mouth slanting over hers.

Iona whimpered, her fingers raking back through his hair as she returned his heated kiss. The ambrosial taste of her was more than Cor could bear... it had been too long since they'd seen each other, too long since he'd felt her moving beneath him. Before long, he was easing her back, his hungry hands taking their fill, his plan for a hasty exit forgotten as he made love to his sweet Iona.

~Eve Hawke