As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage,
Man's mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells —
That bird beyond the remembering his free fells;
This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life's age.
Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage
Both sing sometímes the sweetest, sweetest spells,
Yet both droop deadly sómetimes in their cells
Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage.
—The Caged Skylark, Gerard Manley Hopkins
—
They departed Kirkwall an hour after dawn on the following day. It was a grey morning for late spring, overcast and chilly; the white carriage had been emptied and repacked with a slightly different arrangement of mostly the same trunks and cases, and its two broken spokes had been discreetly repainted gold. His dozen Starkhaven guard stood at attention in full regalia, along with the six Kirkwaller guards who would ride with them. Druvond carried a pole whose pennant snapped and cracked in the mountain wind, the Starkhaven cup flaring white on a gold field before dying away.
The princess stood with her family on the steps of the castle. Her gown beneath the brown fur wrap was gold trimmed in white; her hair had been braided with gold ribbon, and pearls hung from her ears. Her face was as white as marble, but she smiled as she embraced her mother and kissed her father's cheek, and despite how she might have spent the previous evening, her eyes were clear. Carver's hug lifted her from the stone; Bethany kissed her forehead and pressed letters into her hand. "I'll see you in a month," the princess said, and her father took her hand and held it tightly.
"Captain," he said, his voice carrying, and Fenris stepped forward. Her father passed her hand into Fenris's waiting one, and then he took their joined hands in both of his. "Captain Fenris, in the name of my wife Leandra Amell, who is queen of Kirkwall, I charge you with the safe delivery of my daughter to the prince of Starkhaven. I charge you with this at the cost of the lives of your men and your own life."
"I accept your charge, Your Majesty," Fenris said, and took Hawke's hand from her father's. "I will keep the princess safe. You have my word."
"How very dour," Hawke said, pulling free of both of them. "Let's get on the road before it rains."
Merrill stood waiting at the carriage door, in her green kirtle once more, her short black hair braided away from her face. She stepped out of the way as Fenris handed the princess inside, then lifted up the train of Hawke's golden gown and tucked it beneath her before embarking herself. "This is so stupid," he heard Hawke say as he closed the door behind her. "Look at this poor lark, come all this way just to ride all the way back in the same cage in the same cursed carriage. If the captain would let me just ride a horse—"
"We ride on," Fenris said instead, swinging up atop Lethendralis, and his guard let out a shout. The gelding's saddle had been polished by the stables to a gleaming black; he saw his own face mirrored in the pommel, black brows drawn down hard over green eyes, dark skin and a set jaw. "To Starkhaven," he called, the carriage and company lurching into motion behind him at last, and he rode for the open gate. As they descended the mountain, it began to rain.
—
The route back to Starkhaven, despite being expected to take more than six weeks, had been planned down to the hour. No more roadside camping with Kirkwall's princess in tow, no more stops to swim in a cold refreshing river. There were days of plains-road to traverse first, and weeks to cross the whole breadth of the Planasene Forest, all before they would reach the edge of Starkhaven's grasslands. Another two weeks would be needed to cross that flat, rich country, to pick up the wide curling ribbon of the Minanter and follow the river up to the capital.
They stayed in inns each night, rooms emptied of all other guests courtesy the Starkhaven treasury. The innkeepers bowed and scraped, goggling at the royalty under their roofs; at the end of each meal Hawke thanked the guard for their courtesy and company, went upstairs with Merrill, and—as Merrill informed Fenris—wrote letters to her family which she did not send. Even the bright laughter of Druvond and the mirthful wit of Linnea could not return easy levity to the company, and Fenris's mood darkened with every day they traveled north.
The Kirkwaller guards were civil, the relaxation of the mountain's sparring sessions vanished behind businesslike attention to their princess. They were not friendly with Hawke the way Aveline had been, but she knew their names and chatted with them here and there as they passed the carriage on horse or ate together at dinner.
Only once did Hawke ask Fenris to ride outside the carriage. He wished badly to say yes and could not; she saw it in his face, looking up at him with her hand on Lethendralis's neck, and she turned away and embarked again without complaint. He had expected her to fight, to point out his enormous hypocrisy. Somehow this calm acceptance was worse, this understanding that the carriage he had denied her was now her erstwhile prison, and Fenris, wretched, directed the company onwards.
At least Merrill made her smile. She was not strictly royalty herself—the Dalish were ruled more by a collection of clans than by one bloodline—but she was the nominative successor to a clan which often traveled near Starkhaven, and when that clan had struggled with a hard winter it had been Merrill they'd sent to Starkhaven for aid. Fenris was not exactly sure what had transpired between the clan and Merrill on her return; he knew only that she had come back to Starkhaven on the first day of spring as a near-permanent emissary from her people, standing barefoot at the castle gates with nothing in her hands but a mirror, framed in gold, which did not reflect what it saw.
Regardless, Merrill did not need great encouragement to sustain a conversation, and Hawke seemed to like her despite the prattle. The few times Fenris heard her laugh were when Merrill pointed out to her a bird's nest in the trees, or a family of voles alongside the road, or when she retold some childhood fairy story of dogs and princesses and fires. He caught himself thinking of taverns and fiddles and scowled.
"Let her ride the little pony," Merrill said at last, nine days into their journey. They had finally crossed into the forest; the road wove between thick-boled oaks and firs with sharp green needles, and the villages and cottages dotting the roadsides had grown few and far between. The rest of the company had already gone into the inn, a two-floored manor of red brick and black shingles blooming roselike among the trees; Merrill had cornered Fenris in the yard while he checked the horses, relentless as a wall of thorns. "She's withering inside. It's terrible to watch."
"It's not safe. Better for her to be withered and alive than hale and dead."
"Captain," Merrill said, looking up at him with eyes leaf-green and just as opaque. "She is wounded. This will help."
He clenched his jaw, but the next morning he suggested to Hawke that she dress for riding, if she could, and the smile she gave him was dazzling as daylight.
The mood of the company brightened as if a shroud had been pulled away from a lamp. Hawke laughed more easily than she had in weeks, pointing out bridges and streams she had known from youth, coppices of pine and elm where she had hidden with her brother during this travel or that journey, that here as a girl she had once watched hare being born. Some stories were clearly invention—near one place she claimed she had seen fire burn an acre of trees and had found a witch standing in the ash, who became a dragon and flew away as they approached—but she took their gentle teasing well and laughed with the guards in turn. She told tales her father had given her of how this river carried power in its waters, or this tree was holy, or that Andraste herself had once blessed this bird for its singing.
"Have you been to Starkhaven before, Your Highness?" asked Murena one evening as they rode. Twilight had begun to fall; there was still light to see, but it was purple and waning thin, and they were an hour yet from the inn. Fenris did not know how they had fallen so behind—some hundred little things, no one great delay—but they were close enough he did not worry. Their long trail of carriage and horses stretched back several dozen yards along the road; Merrill's head peeked from the carriage window as she leaned out to watch them follow.
"Oh, yes," Hawke said, and reined Merrill's piebald pony to ride alongside the guardswoman. "Several times, but the last was—let me see. Five years ago now. No, six."
"Were you already engaged then? Your Highness."
"No. Prince Sebastian had only held the throne three years, and the north had not yet sworn fealty. Besides, there was a princess from Nevarra who looked like a much more suitable match."
The embattled north had kept Fenris away from the capital almost six months. He had been glad then to not be forced to suffer visiting royalty; he had not foreseen his unfamiliarity with Kirkwall's crown daughter would lead so directly to his own discomfiture. Murena glanced at the princess. "Did you take this road then, too?"
"No, we sailed. Three weeks by sea, on one of Kirkwall's best barques." Her eyes were distant, fond. "But of course, the pirates were not so bad then."
"I had thought…" That was stone-skulled Hanley farther back, stupid and enormous and rich, some great confusion written on his face. "I had thought Your Highness couldn't sail. On account of seasickness."
Hawke blinked, and Fenris's brow furrowed. "No," she said slowly. One of the Kirkwaller guards laughed from the back of the company, loud and bright. "I'm afraid I sail just fine. My brother would have disowned me if I didn't."
"Hold!" came Linnea's voice from the head of the line, and the caravan rippled to a slow halt. Fenris spurred his horse ahead. "A tree, Captain, look."
A tree. A giant of an oak, fallen lengthwise across the path as effectively as a stone wall. The trees grew far too close to either side for the carriage to go around; even a horse would be a tight fit, and the oak was wider than Fenris was tall. Impossible to shift.
"We can leave the carriage," the princess said behind him. "You can take Lady Merrill with you. She's lighter than I am."
"Yes," said Fenris, and looked back in time to see the arrow strike Petra in the chest and knock her stone dead from her horse.
Hanley gasped, clumsily reining back his mare; Rudin shouted alarm and his horse reared, throwing him to the earth. Another arrow struck Linnea in the throat; she gasped and died, slumped over her horse's neck.
Fenris could not get clear. Lethendralis's ears were pinned flat to his head, but at every step some horse was in his way, some guard wide-eyed and shouting—Hanley fell like a mountain, three arrows in his chest, and struggled somehow to stand again. Murena turned to Fenris next, her drawn bow leveled at his heart, her eyes cold as stone—
Fenris threw himself from his saddle. Lethendralis reared, screamed, and bolted. Hooves pounded the earth near his head—he scrambled to his feet, dodged another falling body—Rudin, red-haired and coughing blood—and drew his sword. "Your Highness!"
More arrows. More than only Murena—they were in the trees. He couldn't tell how many. A riderless horse slammed into him, knocking the world askew; he caught his balance and watched Druvond slide the full length of his sword into Hanley's back. Hanley stared down, touched the tip of the sword stupidly, and then his eyes rolled up and he fell again without rising. The carriage door stood torn open, hanging crazily from one hinge.
"Captain!" A hand grabbed his arm—he yanked himself free and only barely managed to avoid cutting Merrill's throat. Her eyes were wild, panicked. "I can't find the princess. I can't—"
He jerked her out of the way of another arrow. It buried itself half its length again in the tree where she had been standing, and Merrill's eyes flashed green fire. She put her hand on the wounded oak, set herself, and looked again at Fenris. The fear had gone. "Find Hawke," she said, and there was another layer to her voice, a power like the earth he did not understand which drew around her like a rushing wind. "Keep her safe."
"Merrill," he started to say, and then her head jerked back on her neck, her eyes staring sightless into the grey dusk, and in the middle of the road a boulder the size of the fallen oak thrust itself fifteen feet from the earth.
Horses fell, screaming. A guardsman shouted—he could not tell who. Another boulder exploded out of the path. Two guards in Kirkwall black fought each other, their faces twisted in rage. He heard Druvond's voice calling for him, mocking and light; the carriage splintered at the haft as the draft horses panicked and tore themselves free. One of the lanterns hooked to the wooden bow fell, struck the earth, and shattered. Flame began to lick at the carriage's broken belly; beside him Merrill sighed, long and slow as a receding tide, and the fire grew.
"Find Hawke," she breathed again, doubled and alien, and the carriage burst into flame.
Fenris ran.
He could not find his horse; he could not find Hawke. He took a guardsman's arm and Druvond turned to face him, not Alaris; he narrowly parried Druvond's sword and recoiled, just in time for a rock as large as Hanley to burst out of the earth between them. The light was failing fast—already the carriage flame licked high as the overarching branches, brilliant and blinding, and if he did not find her soon—
There. A glimpse of piebald flank between two pines, off the road and hidden. Fenris fell back again from the fighting, dropped low to the brush, and circled as quickly as he dared around the combat. He saw Murena fighting Neville in the firelight, her bow broken and her face twisted with rage; he saw a Kirkwall archer fire two arrows into Alfric's back.
The pony was dead.
He could see at least two grievous blade-wounds, one torn deep on the flank, the second on the throat. Blood trailed over fern and bush back towards the road. Fenris wanted to shout; he wanted to tear the hearts from every one of them. He gripped his sword, still crouched, and forced his racing heart to steady.
A dagger-tip touched the back of his neck. "Give me one reason not to kill you," a woman breathed.
"Your Highness," Fenris gasped, and turned before he could stop himself. The blade cut a thin line on his neck, but he felt no pain.
Her eyes were red with smoke and tears. Her hair had come loose of its plait; her riding skirt was torn over her leather leggings, and she had blood on her shoulder and her cheek. The blade at his throat did not tremble once.
"Tell me, Captain," Hawke said again, leaning close as men behind them screamed and died, and he thought she was pleading. "Tell me you did not do this."
"Your Highness," Fenris said, and he gripped her wrist where she still held the dagger. "On the oath I swore your father, I knew nothing of this."
She hesitated; something caught fire in the carriage and exploded, sending shards of flaming wood and a shower of orange sparks into the trees. The sounds of fighting began to grow quieter.
Fenris forced her to meet his eyes. "We must go. Now."
She swallowed. "Yes," she said, and sheathed the blade at her waist, and they ran together into the night-dark woods, the lark singing behind them as it died.