All things being equal, one could briskly walk the distance between Starkhaven's chantry and palace in twenty minutes. The streets were broad, and the path relatively straight. Of course, on this particular occasion, things were not at all equal. As soon as they emerged from the house, the guard formed a tight knot around them, conducive to protection from the mob still screaming for murder, but not very convenient for speed.
Sebastian knew speed was paramount. The forty minutes he'd given Captain Elias was a generous estimate, and he feared the hour would expire before then. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to remain calm, to keep his chin high, to project Prince instead of terrified fool.
Glancing toward the unused stake and its unlit pyre, he glimpsed Isabela. She had pulled herself out of the crowd and was standing on the platform, gazing toward the house, alarmingly exposed should any archer take aim. She met his gaze and he saw her tense as though to ready herself for an attack. Very slowly, very firmly, he shook his head. Even at a distance, he saw the surprise on her face. He mouthed the word go and hoped she saw it, hoped she knew what it meant. Starkhaven was not safe for them now. It was safe for no one, but at least he had his name to wear as armor. He hoped it would be enough to protect Hawke, too.
Then Sebastian forced himself to look away, to fix his sights on the palace, and to pray no one in his cadre of guards decided to knife him before they made it before the pretender prince. It went against every instinct he had to be so caught out, so open, so visible. He hadn't even room to draw his bow if he needed to, but he kept it securely in one hand, an arrow dangling from the other.
As they moved—slowly, too slowly—through the square, the crowd parted before them. He kept pace with the guards carrying Hawke. She was completely stiff now, and very pale. When he surreptitiously brushed the backs of his fingers along her uninjured cheek, he found the skin clammy and alarmingly cold. "This is taking too long," he said aloud. Captain Elias tensed.
"It's not so easy with a crowd such as this. They're as like to kill you as throw themselves at your feet, you know. Even with those eyes."
Sebastian didn't know about that. Most of the people who caught glimpses of him seemed immediately stunned into silence. Some dropped to their knees. Some bowed. Only a few continued spitting their epithets of hate.
"Captain," called one of the guards from the front. "There's a dwarf here giving us some trouble. Says he knows… him."
It had, perhaps, been foolish of Sebastian to assume what Isabela knew Varric would know shortly thereafter. He'd thought them nearer each other. Varric must have been working his way through the crowd as soon as the first arrows flew, with Isabela as his cover.
"Should have been the other way around," he muttered. "Range covers. Melee attacks."
"H-highness?"
"Bring this dwarf to me. At once."
The guard gave him a skeptical look, but reluctantly complied. Sebastian waited, poised, so the moment Varric appeared, shrugging off the guard's not-so-helping hand, he said coldly, "I do not know you, dwarf."
Varric's eyes widened and darted around, taking in the many guards with their many swords. Sebastian knew the instant Varric noticed Hawke, because the dwarf took a step forward and nearly had himself impaled on the nearest guard's blade. "What—?"
"You would do well to leave." Sebastian kept his voice grim, grave, and prayed the Maker would give him strength. Strength and the right words. A hint of betrayal still lingered about Varric, and Sebastian was half afraid the man would attempt some mad rescue. With a final intense glare, Sebastian turned away from Varric and pointedly directed his next words to Captain Elias. "We waste too much time tarrying. Let the dwarf go. He will make no more trouble, I think. I imagine he will run right along home, fast as his little legs can carry him. The Champion must have the antidote. Soon. Do not stop again, Elias. For anything. Or anyone."
Sebastian didn't dare watch as the guard escorted Varric away. He could only hope Varric would hear the intended message and do nothing idiotic.
Once they were away from the chantry courtyard, their pace picked up. Still not fast enough for Sebastian, but as fast as the soldiers carrying Hawke could manage.
Almost casually he asked Elias, "What happened to Goran?"
Elias looked about nervously and shouted at his men to pick up the pace before answering, "Ahh, the prince had an accident. Riding accident. Skittish horse took a fright. He fell and cracked his head and never woke up again. We're told. Your Highness."
"I didn't think Goran was much of a rider."
Elias swallowed. "Well, that might account for the accident then, mightn't it?"
"And this fear of the mages? These… burnings? When did that start?"
"Not sure as I can say. Escalated round about the time Starkhaven heard about Kirkwall, I imagine. Didn't seem much of anything at first—whispers in the dark, the kinds of tales mothers tell their children to make 'em behave, naught else. Nothing to alarm. Then Goran had his accident not a week after we learned of Kirkwall and… people started to talk. The prince died so sudden-like, and people started whispering about magic being the cause of it. And then, not two days later, your brother came back. Said he'd been in hiding, afraid for his life after what had been done to the Vaels. But with Goran dead…"
"And what has he done to stop the attacks on mages, this supposed brother of mine? He cannot be ignorant of the trouble. He's been on his throne more than a month, if what you tell me's true."
Elias looked mildly affronted that Sebastian would doubt him. Or perhaps he was offended that Sebastian doubted this new prince of his. "He's done what he could, Highness, I'm sure, but it's harder than you think. The people are… angry. Angrier than they've ever been. They think everyone's a mage, or hiding one. Turned against the Chantry, even. So new to his throne, I don't think the prince wants them turning against him, too."
In a tone of mockery that soared over the captain's head, Sebastian replied, "Good to know he's got his priorities in the right order, then."
The encounter with Varric had cost them valuable minutes, and he knew there couldn't be more than fifteen left on Hawke's clock by the time they finally reached the palace gates. There was some discussion amongst the guards and a few threats on both sides before they were allowed entrance. Sebastian noticed which guards saluted him and which didn't, filing away faces and expressions for later. If he survived until later, of course. He glanced down at Hawke. If either of them survived. Later seemed a very far way off.
Stepping into the palace, walking its familiar halls, seeing its familiar tapestries, noticing the places where they'd fixed—or not fixed—something he remembered broken, bordered on surreal. He half expected his mother to glide around a corner and scold him for having the audacity to appear in public with such people and wearing such clothes. But of course his mother could not appear, and his clothing—appropriate or not—was the least of his worries.
Sebastian noticed three things as soon as he and his commandeered escort entered the throne room: it was still decorated in the white and gold of the Vael family, but the tapestry depicting the Vael coat of arms was gone from behind the throne; the room was entirely too full of courtiers for a random midweek morning; the man sprawled in the great golden seat was not a brother of his.
Shifting his grip slightly, he brought his bow near. The Starkhaven Longbow. He remembered his grandfather upon that throne, wise and evenhanded and merciful, promising his young grandson a legacy, if only he could prove himself. His grandfather would have been disgusted to see the state of the room now. For a moment, the bitter taste of bile choked him. Outside innocents were burning, but here they were drinking wine in the middle of the day, laughing at inanities, listening to the troubadour in the corner, paying court to the fraud sitting in his father's chair, his grandfather's chair, the chair belonging to six generations of Vaels.
The impostor hardly shifted when the band of guards entered. He lifted his eyes only briefly before turning back to the lovely girl offering him wine. A lazy smile pulled at his lips, even as he pinched the servant's bottom in full sight of the gathered court. Sebastian grimaced, but held his tongue. "Captain Elias," the pretender said, "I trust your mission was successful?"
The voice was close, just as the appearance was close, but Sebastian knew his brother. He remembered the way Connall had moved and smiled and never would have treated the throne with such disdain.
"You are no brother of mine. You are no true Vael," Sebastian declared, his voice ringing through the chamber. A rustle of whispers followed his words, and more than one lady with delicate sensibilities swooned into the arms of a convenient gentleman. His lip curled. The artifice of it all was maddening. A glance down at Hawke brought him back to himself, reminding him that more important things stood to be lost.
At the sound of Sebastian's pronouncement, Captain Elias raised his hand. Maker, let it be swift. But the rain of arrows or forest of steel Sebastian expected did not materialize. Instead, the entire escort of guards stepped backward, fanning out around Sebastian in a half-circle that could have been as much to guard Sebastian as to protect the false prince. The knights beside him lowered Hawke gently to the stones. She did not so much as twitch. The rise and fall of her chest revealed just how beleaguered her breathing had become.
"Elias! What is the meaning of—"
Sebastian saw the moment the false prince noticed him. All the color drained from the pretender's face, leaving his skin grey above the white and gold of his fine doublet. He put his hands to the arms of the throne and made as if to push himself upright, but failed. "S-sebastian. Brother. We thought… we thought you dead. W-we were told—" The fraud shook his head, gathering himself together, and when he spoke again, his voice was stronger. "Thank the Maker, brother! We heard rumors, of course, so many rumors, but we never thought to see you alive! Our family rises from the ashes—surely Andraste herself smiles upon us. Embrace me, brother; it has been too long!"
By the end of his speech, the impostor was smiling again, his cheeks flushed, his pallor vanished. His crowd of courtiers applauded lightly. He made a fine sight sitting in his golden chair, the sunlight falling through the stained glass windows illuminating his face and sending colored shadows dancing over the white silk he wore. The man wore his finery with casual ease, and he certainly looked the role, but Sebastian could sense the lies on him. The man stank of deceit.
And so Sebastian remained unmoved. "It is a clever disguise, I'll grant you that. I am not surprised—disappointed, perhaps, but not surprised—it was enough to convince the court. Andraste smiles upon our family? Did she not smile for Mother and Father then? For Angus? For your wife and daughter? You may wear something like his face and speak in something like his voice, but you are not Connall Vael, and I will not embrace you."
A wounded expression flitted across the fraud's face, and he slumped back in the throne, glancing around the room beseechingly. He looked for all the world as though he was the one with the right to be injured, the right to be affronted. The courtiers murmured behind their raised hands, their raised fans, but the guards were a silent wall between him and them.
Sebastian's grip tightened on his bow, whitening his knuckles.
"The antidote for Maker's Light. Give it to her."
"Her?" asked the impostor lightly, as though the murmurs of the crowd had fed him, had given him security of place once again. He sipped from his goblet. "You cannot be serious, brother. I ordered her… neutralized. The Champion of Kirkwall is an enemy of Starkhaven. She deserves her fate. As do all who stand against the Crown."
Sebastian had an arrow readied and the bowstring pulled taut in less time than it took the pretender to blink. A flicker of fear erased the man's smile; Sebastian considered his action worthwhile if only for this.
"Give her the antidote."
"You cannot pretend to be ignorant of her crimes, brother. It was she spurred the mages to rebel, she who chose to side with the maleficarum." The pretender leaned forward, eyes on Sebastian's. The eyes disturbed him the most—they were too much like his own. They were Vael eyes, but not ones he knew. The piercing blue so like his father's, his grandfather's—his real brothers.
"I will not ask again. Give her the antidote."
The pretender rose, and all his courtiers rose with him. He waved them down and tilted his head, regarding Sebastian as a master might regard his disobedient dog. "Or what? You're not going to shoot me, brother. You're practically a man of the cloth. What would the Maker think?"
And then the fraud laughed.
Put the point through his throat. See how he laughs then.
Aiming carefully, Sebastian released the arrow. It arced through the air, the white fletching flashing. It did not pierce the laughing prince's throat. It nicked his left ear and sliced through a lock of red-gold hair before thudding into the throne behind. Blood mixed with the fine strands as they fell to the impostor's white-clad shoulder. One hand shot to the injured ear, and the man was so startled wine sloshed over the rim of his goblet. A deep red stain seeped down his front.
"What is the meaning of this? I am Prince of Starkhaven! I will not be attacked in—"
"Give her the antidote!" Sebastian roared, starting a fresh round of whispers. "Give her the antidote, or so help me the next will not be aimed to startle."
"Guards! Seize him! Seize him at once! The bastard shot me. Would you stand idle as assassins take your prince?"
And still, the guards around Sebastian stood silent as statues, watching.
Captain Elias took a single step forward. "Prince Connall," he said. "My men will seize him at once if you can tell me what words your father spoke to you the first time you fell from your horse."
The impostor was livid with rage. With his face so twisted by hate and fear and distress, he no longer resembled Connall at all. "You would dare—?"
Sebastian vividly remembered the day Elias spoke of. A great deal had been made of Connall's first riding lesson—it was the first step out of the nursery and toward manhood—and he'd been so jealous of his big brother sitting atop his pony. Sebastian remembered clinging to his nursemaid and weeping for sheer envy.
Then Connall had done the unthinkable—he'd fallen from the horse's back. Whilst the horse was standing completely still. Everyone had laughed—it was hard not to when confronted with the image of a tiny prince sitting startled in the mud, glaring at the horse as though it had somehow betrayed him.
The angry false prince jabbed his wine glass in the direction of the guards. "Seize him! And seize Elias! They conspire against me."
The serving girl beside him said meekly, "But, Highness… why not simply answer him?"
The impostor slapped her so hard she went tumbling to the dais in a puddle of skirts and spilled wine. Before he could raise his hand a second time, Sebastian's second arrow struck through the very center of his palm. The false prince screamed, staring at his arrow-pierced hand as though he did not recognize it.
Spittle flew as the prince rounded on his court. "Andraste's fucking tits! You would stand by whilst this monster murders your prince? You are all traitors! Traitors!"
No one moved to help the bleeding prince. No one whispered now. No one spoke at all. Two or three ladies swooned, but this time their fright was genuine. The room was eerily silent, save for the quiet whimpering of the injured serving girl and the false prince's ragged breathing.
Into the silence, Sebastian said, "Everyone laughed at Connall save Father, when he fell. Father crouched next to his embarrassed, frustrated son and said gently, 'It's not the falling off that counts, Con. It's the getting back on after you've tumbled.' Then he offered Connall his hand instead of simply picking him up like a child, and when Connall accepted it and hauled himself to his feet, Father added, 'And don't blame the horse, boy. He was just doing his job. Always be first to accept the blame if you're at fault.'"
"Aye," said Elias. "That is exactly how it happened. Exactly what was said. And later, Prince Connall repeated those words to his own daughter, when she first fell from her horse. They are not words he ever forgot." Turning to Sebastian, he asked, "Highness? What do you want us to do with him?"
"Put him in the dungeon. I would speak with him later. First, the antidote. Please."
Elias gestured to his men, and four of them split away from the escort and moved to surround the pretender. The impostor was trying desperately to pull the arrow from his bleeding hand, but it stuck fast.
"You can't do this to me! I'm the bloody prince of Starkhaven! My word is law! I'm the prince of Starkhaven!"
"No," said Sebastian wearily, "you are not. I am."
Captain Elias dropped to one knee, hand over his heart. His guards followed suit. Slowly, a ripple went through the crowd, until everyone knelt, silently pledging their allegiance. Sebastian only felt cold. So many years of fearing it would take armies to overtake his homeland. So many years of avoiding this moment, and it had all been so… simple, really. Two arrows and a story.
Two arrows, a story, and a wound Hawke might never recover from. If these were the price of his crown, Sebastian thought it far too dear indeed.
Sebastian did not recognize the court healer who attended them, though he recognized the insignia upon the breast of her blue robes. She moved to aid Hawke but Sebastian extended his hand and she reluctantly dropped the tiny vial into his palm. He opened it and sniffed; it bore the signature scent, sweet and strange, of the antidote he remembered his old archery master passing around.
Such a little thing. Kneeling at Hawke's side, he lifted her until her head rested in his lap. It took some force to pry her locked jaw open—too late, too late—and she would wear bruises when she woke. By gently massaging her throat, he made sure she swallowed every drop.
Don't take her, don't take her, don't take her.
A litany of prayers ran through his mind, each chasing the next until his mind was a jumble of pleas and invocations and even demands upon Andraste, the Maker, Fade spirits of Hope and Faith and Compassion. He bowed his head over Hawke's prone figure, her head so inert and heavy upon his legs, unwilling to let the gathered court see his tears.
"Your Highness," the healer said softly, "I fear—"
"No," Sebastian said. "She is stronger than this. I know her. She is stronger than this."
But he knew it was too late. The hour had passed.
