A/N: So many thanks to all those who have followed and reviewed! And thanks and love and cookies to Cara Sterling for her beta!

Chapter 3

The room was too hot. Cor blinked, groaning as he came half awake. Still black as the pit, not a gleam of light from the window—no. He was in Iona's room. No windows, no hint of a breeze like in his own airy chambers.

Rhythmic throbbing pulsed from every inch of his body. Thump. Thump. Thump. His heartbeat, hammering against the inside of his skull, loud enough to fill his ears.

Growling, he pulled the pillow over his head and rolled over, tugging the blanket with him and bunching it under one arm. More sleep was what he needed. Quiet, feminine murmurs sounded at his side, and then the delicious sensation of floating away into blackness.

A shriek tore him from the Fade, slicing through his dreams with the scent of blood-red terror. Cor's eyes flew open to witness a scene plucked from his worst nightmare. Iona's scream had woken him, but the only other sound she made was a wet gurgle, the blade that protruded from her throat effectively silencing her.

Shock and fear shriveled Cormac's heart as he watched Iona slip from the soldier's arms, her lovely eyes bugged wide in a glassy stare. It was instinct that saved him from sharing her fate, his numb body rolling to the side as the same soldier lunged, intending to murder him with the very blade Iona had just died on. The sword plunged into the mattress, and a flurry of feathers flew as the mercenary yanked his weapon free.

Cor scrambled on hands and knees, his mind blank but for one driving need: survive. Dimly, he registered the scrape of stone against his palms, the grunt of the soldier at his back, the sword's whistle as it cut through the air and sparked on the marble flooring. Gritting his teeth, he turned and hooked his arm around his adversary's knees, sweeping him to the ground with a tremendous crash.

Panting, Cor dove atop the soldier and drove his fist into the man's nose, then lunged for the sword, reaching it with his fingertips. The soldier grunted, scrabbling at him, and then Cor jammed the blade through his enemy's neck.

The sword clattered to the ground, and Cor stared at his hands, vaguely aware of the redness dripping from them. The world shook as he climbed to unsteady feet, a raucous scraping filling his ears. Unbearable. What is that? he thought as he gathered Iona in his arms.

She wasn't. She couldn't be.

Trembling hands smoothed her fair hair from her face, leaving bloody trails in their wake. She shouldn't be this still, shouldn't be this wide-eyed. Like a doll. If he could only wake her.

"Iona," he grated. The awful sound stopped when he spoke, but picked up again as soon as the name had left his lips. It was only then that he realized he'd been hearing his own arduous breaths.

"Iona." Giving her a shake, he grimaced, the racking sound of his lungs too loud to bear. So still. "IONA!"

Footsteps in the hallway snapped his head toward the door. Coming. They were coming to finish the job. Finish him.

Shaking, Cor lowered Iona to the floor, gripping the soldier's sword as he crept to the wall beside the door and laid his body flat against it. Clapping one hand over his mouth, he closed his eyes, silencing his panicked wheezing.

The seconds crept by like years as he recalled Iona's lifeless body and listened to the booted feet approach the room.

"Check," a bored voice said through the stone wall. "He hasn't come back yet."

"Damn it, Howe said kill, not rape," another voice swore.

Howe? Cor blinked, his mind tumbling in a confused whirl. What?

No more time for thoughts. The door swung open—and Cor stabbed, the blade sliding through a chink in the man's armor. An unearthly bellow filled the room, and Cor dropped the blade and darted out the door, escape his only goal.

"That's Cousland!"

"Get him!"

Fresh agitation surged in his veins. Never had he felt so clumsy. He slipped and slid on legs like rubber, his bare feet gripping the granite he careened down the hall. Shouts echoed at his back, the soldiers pounding behind him, their hobnailed boots crashing on Highever's ancient stone. Cold air whipped his bare skin—shit! Was he even dressed?! He'd fallen asleep nude. Why did he care if he was naked?! Iona was dead! The castle was under attack!

Skidding around a corner, Cormac ducked into a spare room, leaving the door ajar as he held his breath and prayed not to be discovered. The soldiers ran on, the noise of their pursuit fading—but they'd be back when they realized he'd eluded them. This was no safe haven. Why had he dropped the blade?!

Eyes burning, Cormac pressed his palms to his lids, ignoring the wetness that stained his skin. No time to think. Had to get to his room. Get his clothing, his armor, his sword. Everything was in his chamber.

After that, he could find his family.

Stumbling, he caught the doorjamb as he stepped back out into the hallway, holding on for dear life as he regained his balance. The hall was clear, and he dashed, eager to run from this wing of Castle Highever.

Smoke drifted past the window of the tiny guest room he'd sequestered himself in. Cor risked a glance, edging his flattened body upward to peer over the timeworn estate. In the distance, the old barn had been set ablaze, the frenzied whinney of escaping horses carried on the wind. Cor's heart twisted. Rampant destruction, and to what purpose?

Like a desperate fugitive, he'd snuck through the grounds of his ancestral home, avoiding the invaders. The screams of those who weren't as well hidden tore at his heart. Servants, human and elven both, and even some of the guests who'd attended Mother's salon—none were being spared. But what was he to do about it? He had no weapons, no armor, nor even any clothing. And Howe's soldiers would love to get their hands on my naked-as-a-jaybird ass, he griped to himself.

But he still had no idea why Howe's soldiers were attacking. There were no other emblems on the shields, no other family standards he'd seen. Only the bear of Howe. It just made no sense! Rendon Howe was his father's best friend. Cor and his siblings had grown up with the Howe children. There was no logical reason for one of Ferelden's oldest families to go rogue and begin a rampant slaughter. ...Was it possible that Howe's men were acting independently?

Whatever, Cor told himself bleakly as he lowered from the window. That's a puzzle for later. People are dying. I won't be one of them.

Time had passed while he threaded his way through Highever's maze, attempting to reach the family quarters without getting flayed alive. How much time? An hour, maybe? It felt more like forever. Just how much ruination had been done to his home? How many had been killed?

Holding his breath, Cor crawled back to the door and pressed his ear against it. A silent count of thirty as he listened, his palms clammy against the polished wood.

No hint of sound from the hallway.

Reaching up, he wrapped trembling fingers around the handle and twisted, easing the bolt from its home in a smooth, silent motion, still holding his breath. Fully disengaged now.

Sparks danced before his eyes, his lungs screaming for air as he nudged the door open an inch.

Then another inch.

No sound from the hallway.

Cor's heart picked up again. The halls were the most vulnerable place. He was close now...one mad dash would do it.

With a breath for courage, Cor peeked fully out the door, then slipped through. His bare feet moved silently over the floors as he darted toward the family quarters, edging on hysteria.

He nearly wept when he closed the door behind him. Safe. Safe at last.

For all his care in getting there, one would think he might have taken an extra moment to be sure there was no threat behind that solid door.

One would think.

As soon as the latch slipped behind him, he realized his mistake. Dismay sliced through the relief, but his frantic eyes saw nothing out of the ordinary, his ears heard nothing out of place. No sign of soldiers, no hint of any struggles. Was the wing untouched? Every door stood wide open but his own—just as he'd left it...

The silence was uncanny.

Drawing a deep breath, Cor marched to his door and yanked it open. Once he was clothed and armed, he could see about finding his family...

A cry of horror spilled from his lips, the scene before him burned into his memory for all time.

His sister... Cat.

Sweet Cathryn. The brat he'd grown up with, the prissy girl turned quiet beauty. His twin...his other half, on the floor. Her white nightdress slashed to ribbons, the fabric stained scarlet. Like ink spilled upon parchment, her clothing had become the blotter that bore the drips from a murderer's pen.

Her eyes... Vacant. Staring. Empty.

Like a rag doll tossed aside by a bored child, she'd been flung against the wardrobe to land in a limp heap. Her head lay at an odd angle, her neck snapped. But despite her bloody, terrible appearance, there was no pain in her endless gaze, and her shining hair was only mussed.

"Maker, Cat—" Cor sobbed in disbelief as he stumbled toward her, begging for a miracle. "No, please. Please. Cat..."

His plea fell on deaf ears. Cormac shook as he scooped her into his arms, broken sounds choking from a throat so tight it pained him even to breathe.

MInutes crept by while he held her mangled body, one hand stroking her hair as he rocked her like a child. When was the last time he'd actually hugged her? When he'd told her he cared about her? Her final words to him had been to tell him he was a selfish ass. Just when had they grown apart?

They'd held each other as children, each keeping the other safe from the perils of the darkness. There had been late night confidences, lessons together, the struggles of growing up...a friendship that went beyond siblingry.

What would he do without his twin?

After the day's events, he'd intended to leave Ferelden—but she'd have still been there. Alive. Happy in her castle, married to her prince, a piece of home that would stay in his heart no matter where life took him.

Her body weighed almost nothing, or so it seemed, as he lifted her from the floor and laid her upon his bed. Tears blurred his vision as he brushed quivering fingers over her eyelids, closing them forever. Then in a moment of whimsy, Cormac lifted his quilt and tucked it around her.

She seemed so peaceful now...not really dead at all. Only asleep. A much better picture to carry away with him, if he could only sponge out the horror that had embedded itself in his mind.

Dropping to his knees, he rested his forehead on the coverlet, his fingers lacing above his head as he prayed. Watch over her, he begged, his throat smarting. Tell her I love her. Tell her Alistair loves her. It's all she ever wanted.

Quiet dread arose as he lifted his head, dark realization seeping over him. Alistair, Cat's fiance.

Perhaps Mother can break the news to him, he thought, his stomach flipping at the thought. Their wedding had been only months away.

Dragging his palm across his eyes, he forced himself to turn away and stand, gritting his teeth. If Cat was dead, it was possible that she wasn't the only one. Shoving aside his grief, he marched to the wardrobe door and flung it open.

But to his surprise, his wardrobe held more than clothes. Cringing in the bottom of his closet was Oriana, little Oren held tight in her arms. "Cormac!" she whimpered, then burst into tears.

"Oriana?!" Boggled, Cor snatched at his clothing, heat rising in his cheeks as he fumbled into his pants. "What happened?"

His sister-in-law hardly seemed to notice his nudity, the bundle of child in her arms muffling her sobs. "Are they gone?" she sniffled at last. "Where's Cat?"

Words failed him. He glanced back at his bed, his stomach churning.

"Cat and I were in in my room," Oriana said as she worked her way out of the closet, hampered by her armful. Cor took the little one from her, allowing her to wipe her eyes and scramble out of the wardrobe. "We heard them all of the sudden—Cat and I tried to get out, but more were coming. We ran in here to hide, and Cat shoved the two of us in the wardrobe." Trembling hands reached for her son, who had yet to wake. "Where is she, Cormac?"

Cor pulled his lower lip between his teeth. In Oriana's arms, his nephew woke, sleepy eyes blinking. A whimper slipped from his pink mouth. "Mama. Hot."

"Hush," Oriana murmured, her hands smoothing sweat-dampened hair from Oren's forehead. But then her eyes widened, and Cor reached once more for Oren as the blood drained from Oriana's face. "Oh, Maker help us... Cor, she's—"

Little Oren turned as well, leaning out of Cor's arms to see what his mother had been distracted by. "Auntie," he demanded, plump arms reaching. "Unca Cor! Go!"

"No, Oren," Cor mumbled, adjusting his grip on the squirming toddler.. "Auntie Cat is...sleeping."

Oren seemed to accept this. "Ny-ny," he said, then leaned his rumpled head on Cor's shoulder and slid his thumb into his mouth.

Oriana had sunk down at Cat's side, agony written on her face. "She was protecting us," she whispered. "If it weren't for me—"

"Stop it," Cor bit out. He couldn't go down that road. Not now. "Take Oren. I need to armor up."

"What are you going to do?" Oriana collected the little boy once more, her eyes shimmering with tears.

"I don't know. But you're going to Mother's suite to wait, and locking the door and shoving a wardrobe in front of it. And you're waiting there until someone comes to get you—or you'll take Oren and escape through the tunnel."

"The emergency tunnel," Oriana breathed, realization dawning on her face. "Bryce and Eleanor have one in their room? Not just the one in the larder?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't they?" His dress armor hung from a stand on the other side of the room. After shrugging into a soft linen shirt, Cor set about buckling himself into the ornate metal and leather. Oriana sank down upon the small couch, patting Oren's back absently as she watched him dress with careworn eyes. "Help me, would you?" Cor asked.

Wordless, his sister-in-law laid the child on the cushions and hurried over. "You've got to have some kind of plan," Oriana fretted as she fastened him up. "You can't just charge through the castle—"

"Of course I can," he snapped, sliding his sword into the scabbard over his shoulder. "Do you have a better idea?"

"Find Eleanor." Oriana completed the last buckle of his greaves and climbed to her feet, brushing off her hands. "Bryce and Fergus are gone, Maker be praised. But Eleanor could be anywhere."

Cor nodded, mentally combing the castle. "So, I should check—"

"Start with the kitchens," Oriana said briskly, her tears quelled by the task set before them. "And then the vault. She may have gone to the other escape tunnel, or sequestered herself with the family treasures. Or check Lady Landra's quarters." One more quick wipe of her tear-streaked cheeks, and she hurried back to the settee, scooping Oren up in secure arms. "See me to their room, would you? And wait for me to secure the door?"

Cor nodded, pulling on his gloves.

Oriana slipped an arm around his waist, holding him close for a moment. Tears quivered in her voice. "Good luck, Cor. And...come back alive."

Cormac nodded once more, giving Oriana a rough hug. "Don't worry for me. Just take care of Oren."

"I will." Oriana's eyes slid to Cat's motionless form. "I owe her that."

With his sword in hand and little to lose, Cormac stalked the silent halls, looking for trouble, begging the Maker to send a lone invader stumbling across his path. But now it seemed there weren't many left—all noises seemed far away, any sounds of struggle echoing from a distance.

Still, he was determined. There had to be someone around here—either worth saving, or worth killing. Dairren, Landra, his mother...at this point, he'd even be glad to see Nan, Highever's sharp-tongued cook. His earlier flight was a shame he never wanted to repeat, especially with the sight of his sister's sacrifice at the forefront of his memory. Cathryn hadn't hesitated to give her life for her nephew. Could he do no less?

Of course, if he'd been in his room, Cat might not have died.

That crippling thought cycled through his head, the words chasing round and round. She'd be alive if not for you, the accusing voice whispered. As would Iona. But both are dead—because of you. Selfish, selfish, selfish...

Cor clenched his teeth.

"Ser Cousland!"

The familiar voice yanked him from his thoughts. "Gilmore!" Gladness rippled through him at the sight of one of his father's most loyal knights. "Thank the Maker. I was beginning to think everyone was dead!"

A few others in the armor of Highever trailed behind Ser Rory Gilmore, crossing their arms over their chests and bowing to Cormac. Gilmore bowed, as well, but then Cor clapped him on the back and clasped his arm. "Enough propriety," Cor said. "Tell me what you know."

"Rendon Howe led the attack," Rory told him as they fell in beside each other. "From what we can gather, this was well planned. Teyrn Cousland and Fergus have gone with the bulk of the army, leaving a day earlier than planned, and Highever is stripped bare."

Cor's head whirled. "Son of a bitch," he muttered.

"That's not all, sir." Gilmore hesitated. "We've been unable to locate Lady Cathryn and Lady Oriana-"

"Oriana and Oren are safe," Cor cut him off. "Cat is dead."

"...oh." Gilmore paled. "Ser, I..."

"Not now," Cor gritted. Sympathy would send him spiraling. "Go on. You were saying?"

Gilmore swallowed. "...Lady Eleanor, sir."

"Where is she?" Cor slowed, pinning Gilmore with a poisonous stare.

"Howe has her. They're in the vault. He sent us to find you."

Molten rage simmered in Cormac's gut. "Lead the way," he growled.

A misty rain drifted down, chilling the air as Cormac jogged with Ser Gilmore and his knights. The sky was dark, not a glimmer of starlight and no sign of even a thumbnail moon. The scent of smoke and blood drifted on the wind, thick enough to gag him. Every step cemented Cormac's conviction; Howe deserved a fate worse than death.

The family vault, receptacle of the Couslands' most valued artifacts, was buried beneath a thousand pounds of earth and stone. To the library they went, then down a stair, the faint torchlight vanishing with each step. The sturdy door was a solid slab of oak, a foot thick and aged to marble-hardness. The tree it had come from was likely centuries old, or so Bryce had been fond of telling him. Not that Cormac had ever listened much.

Two keys existed to the hefty lock on the vault door. One never left his father's belt. Another hung from a chain around his mother's neck.

As he'd expected, the door itself was locked. "Open up, Howe," Cor bellowed. "Let her go!"

Silence, then the sound of a key turning.

Cor drew his sword, tensing in preparation. Behind him, Gilmore and the knights did the same.

But when the door swung wide, it was Eleanor who met them, clothed in her nightdress. A long silver braid trailed down one shoulder. "Only Cormac," she said softly. "Gentlemen, please. Stand down."

Hesitant looks darted between Highever's men, but then Cor sucked in an angry breath as he spotted the silver blade shining at his mother's throat. Howe stepped out from behind Eleanor. "Please, Cormac." A benign smile twisted his aged mouth as he tipped his head. "Inside. And leave your weapons."

A silent moment passed, and then Cormac shoved his sword at Gilmore with an enraged oath. "Let her go," he ordered, stepping forward and spreading his hands. "I'm the one you want, anyway."

Howe only smiled in quiet amusement. "Inside. And shut it."

The closing of the vault's door was so final.

Cor's heart pounded as his eyes roamed the tiny room, hoping to find something—anything—that could be used as a weapon. He found much in the way of treasure, but little in the way of sharp and stabby. Chests of gold. An ancient suit of armor, encrusted with gems. A gold-framed mirror—perhaps if he broke it?

But then he spotted it. The Cousland family blade.

It had been decades since the sword had seen true battle; but for the occasional knighting, there was no need for it at all. Not since the rebellion. The blade hung upon the far wall, a single element within a larger mural of gilt curlicues and twining laurel. With so many sculpted pieces surrounding it, it was easy to lose track of the relatively modest sword. And how many times had Howe been in the vault? Once? Did he even know the weapon was there?

Cor sidled to the left, doing his best to make the movement casual. "You've got me here," he said darkly. "Now let her go."

"Cormac..." Howe chuckled as he slipped his arm around Eleanor's waist, placing her in front of him as the knife hovered near her collar. "You misunderstand me. I never promised to release her. But I very much appreciate your cooperation. I hear your sister wasn't as... compliant."

A sanguine haze filmed Cor's vision. "You son of a—"

The knife twitched at Eleanor's throat, Howe's smile fading into something far more sinister. "Careful, pup. You overstep yourself."

"I overstep?!" A crazed laugh tumbled forth. "Where do you get off! Rendon, when we were children we called you Uncle. We are kin. Just...why?"

"Politics," Howe said briskly. "You are too young to understand. But there are things worth dying for—and certainly worth killing for. Overturning Ferelden's order is among these."

"Overturning the order? How do we figure into that? Don't you want the Theirins?" Cor sidestepped once more.

Just as he'd hoped, Rendon countered, perhaps thinking Cor planned to rush him. Eleanor's throat moved as she swallowed, her gaze trained on the knife at her throat.

"Cailan and Alistair will be taken care of," Howe said pleasantly. "But that's really none of your concern. Right now, you probably want to know how you can stay alive."

"You can't let me live," Cor bit out. "You've killed Cat. I assume Fergus is already dead."

"Very good." Rendon nodded. "Bryce, as well."

His mother tensed, her eyes hardening to granite.

"So, I'm Highever's last male heir, and you can end it all, nice and neat." Cor sent up a silent prayer that Howe would not think of Oren. "You can't afford not to kill me." Another wandering step. He was at the room's center now.

"And yet, so intelligent," Howe drawled. "You know, your brother was hopeless at strategy. Your father intended to make you the leader of his armies. Did you know that?" So casual, the rich voice. And yet so sadistic, the words cruel enough to draw blood.

"No, I didn't." Cor risked another step, reigning in the mad desire to cant his eyes toward the ancestral blade. So close now. But as they pivoted, the sword was sure to enter Howe's line of sight. What then?

"It's a lie," Eleanor hissed. "Cormac is worth nothing, and he knows it. Ale and wenches, that's all he's good for." Her eyes bored into his, intense and frightening.

Cor's heart dropped, the breath whooshing from his lungs. "What?" he said faintly.

"You know it as well as I do," she continued, her stare burning brighter. "You're not worthy of the Cousland name. Even if he is the last, he'll never inherit, not if I have to spend my last breath preventing it."

"Why, Eleanor," Rendon clucked his tongue. "I knew you didn't like the lad, but to disown your own flesh and blood..."

"He's worth less than the dirt beneath our feet." Eleanor turned to Howe at last, catching his eye. "Let him go. Within a year he'll be begging in the streets. Isn't that a far greater justice than murdering him here?"

"Ahhh..." A sardonic laugh lifted. "A mother's love. So unpredictable. Eleanor, I admit—you almost had me. But..." More words from Howe's mouth, but Cor didn't hear them, distracted by his mother's eyes once more.

They flashed past him, to the sword on the wall, then to Howe. Once. Again.

Maker take me for an idiot! She'd been distracting Howe! Cor whirled, the last three steps easy and quick as he snatched the sword off the wall. Howe roared behind him, the sound mingling with his mother's shriek as he spun back. Eleanor had shoved away from her captor, breaking for the door of the vault and stealing Howe's attention.

A brief struggle...and Howe slumped, run through by the Cousland family blade.

Cor staggered back, letting go of the sword as the elder crumpled, the dagger that had held his mother hostage clattering to the floor. Like the caterpillars that curled when poked, Howe curved around the blade, shuddering and gasping.

"Mother—" Cor stepped over Howe, kneeling beside Eleanor and nudging his arms beneath her body. But a cry of pain stopped him, and the blood that bloomed beneath her fingers froze his heart. She'd been stabbed.

"Cormac." She winced, her face white and pinched.

"Mother—"

"Cat," she whispered, her bloodstained fingers curling around his in a death grip. "Dead?"

A lump rose in his throat as he nodded.

Grim acceptance lined his mother's face. For the first time, Cor noticed just how much his sister had resembled their mother.

"Oriana," she continued urgently. "Oren—"

"Alive," he assured her. "Safe."

A relieved sigh from his mother, her eyes closing for a moment before they dredged open once more, her breathing labored. "Howe lied," she gasped. "Your father—Fergus. Not dead yet."

"How do you know?" His brow furrowed.

"The troops..." she coughed, a froth of red coating her lips. "Think. If the Couslands were murdered, the troops would turn back, and Howe would be slaughtered. I'd...wager..." Another coughing bout overtook her. Cormac squeezed her hand, his heart withering as he watched his mother struggle to speak. "...orders are to kill them in the battle. Wait til...it looks natural."

Cor nodded, his mind racing ahead. "Someone has to warn them."

"You," his mother whispered, her eyes glimmering. "Ride tonight. Find them, and then tell Cailan. Warn him and Alistair!"

"I will," Cor vowed. "Mother, I—I—"

"I love you," she whispered, her eyes fierce. "What I said —I didn't—"

"I know," he said softly, though he hadn't. "I love you, too."

"Proud," she croaked. "Cor, I'm..." Another coughing fit overwhelmed her, the sound racked with liquid. An agonized moan, a sigh...and she lay still.

Cor choked back a cry, gathering her into his arms as he knelt upon the floor of the family vault. Soon he would ride, but for now he simply cradled his mother's body, his tears leaving salty drops on the snow-white fabric of her gown.

~Eve Hawke