The gossiping of her maids reminded her, and as soon as she was reminded, Kiara felt the sick weight of having allowed herself—even momentarily—to forget. She was, after all, more attuned than most to even a whisper of the word mage spoken. One of the girls had definitely said mage. Kiara was all too certain it had been followed with the word burning.
"Has something happened?" she asked. Tasia pinned up another curl. The chattering maids glanced up from their work, eyes wide. Kiara supposed she'd made another faux pas—nobility was supposed to be above the talk of servants. She didn't think she was ever going to get used to the pervasive idea of willful blindness. And deafness. Or needing four women to help her get ready to do nothing more strenuous than eat dinner.
"Nothing to worry yourself about," Tasia said serenely, shooting a murderous look at the girls who'd been caught out. "Hearsay and rumors."
"I like hearsay and rumors," Kiara said. "Has—have there been more deaths in the city?"
The maids looked at each other, and then at Tasia, who somehow managed to glare without ever once losing her cheerful smile. The redhead frowned while the brunette wrung her hands and said, "Tasia's right, my lady. It's just gossip."
"Funny how often there's truth in gossip," Kiara pressed. "Tell me, please."
It was Tasia who replied. "My lady, please, you—"
"Tasia. I swear on all that's holy if you say some variation of needn't concern yourself I will hit you. Hard. I do concern myself. I will continue to concern myself. I've been concerning myself with matters not unlike this since I was old enough to punch bullies in the nose. Do I make myself understood?"
Her maid nodded, lowering her hands and twisting her fingers together. It was the closest Kiara had ever seen Tasia come to discomposed. To soothe some of the sting, Kiara added, "Come on, Tasia. Don't tell me you don't know everything going on around here. There must be things you can tell me."
Tasia bit her lip before shooing the other servants from the room. Then she turned to Kiara and said, "The rumor is there's been another death. This was no mage, though—it was a templar who dared speak against the crowd. They burned him in the… mage's place. He bought the mage time to escape, but at the cost of his own life. I… I met the man once, my lady. He was kind. No one deserves a death like that, but he deserved it even less."
Kiara frowned. She lifted her hand to run it through her hair, and stopped halfway, staring at her palm, unwilling to undo all Tasia's work. "And what's been done?"
Tasia lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug. "I know the prince has increased patrols to the very limit of what he has available; they have successfully stopped three other attempts to raise pyres. The guards aren't complaining, but neither are they happy. They're doing double duty, my lady. They can only manage so long."
Shaking her head, Kiara folded her hands in her lap. They ached to do something, anything, but… "And what about—?"
Before she could finish, Tasia interjected, "Lady Kiara, please. Perhaps it's better you speak to the prince himself? I do not wish to repeat rumor as truth. And I do not know his mind. Surely… surely he will tell you, if you ask."
Kiara closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and allowed Tasia to continue with her hair. It seemed silly that anyone should care about curls and jewels with death threatening innocents outside the palace doors, but… she knew tradition well enough to know screaming about it would change nothing. She'd be thought mad, perhaps, and not taken seriously. Which was precisely what she did not want. So she would dress for dinner and dance if she was asked and she would plan and plan and not forget.
After a moment or two she asked, "Has Starkhaven always been… hostile to mages?"
Tasia's hand jerked, nearly driving a pin into Kiara's scalp. "No, my lady. Not hostile. I had… I had a cousin at the Circle here before it burned. I saw him sometimes on feastdays. I always thought… our Circle and our Chantry worked well enough together, until the burning. Or at least they gave every indication of doing so."
"It was burned by renegade mages? At least, that's the rumor I know."
Tasia nodded. "Perhaps renegade mages who did not approve of how well our Chantry and our Circle worked together?"
"If it was the same… brand of renegades, it seems likely. Such cooperation wouldn't have helped their cause. They want the world to believe such cooperation is impossible. As far as I understand."
Tasia lowered her eyes, but not before Kiara spotted the telltale shine of tears. "My cousin died. He didn't… I know he didn't want to escape. He told me once the Circle was family to him because no one judged him for what he was. It was home." The maid fell silent and slipped a few more jeweled pins into Kiara's coiffure. "I have heard other rumors, my lady. I heard you… I heard you are sympathetic to mages. That you fight for them. That you believe in their cause. In their rebellion."
Kiara grimaced. "Sometimes rumors are only that, Tasia. I prefer to say I attempt to judge each person as I meet them, and not by what I'm told they are. I've known… a number of mages, yes. Some were good. Others were not. But the same can be said for anyone. I've met merciful warriors and bloodthirsty nobles and I firmly believe burning buildings down and killing innocents is never an effective way of spreading any kind of hopeful message. I don't like knowing some mages feel held against their will—the Circle in Kirkwall was a dark place, I fear—but nor do I support the actions of this latest rebellion."
"That is… something of a relief, my lady."
"Fear is a most potent weapon, Tasia, and I believe someone wants to wield that weapon against Starkhaven. I need to figure out who. And why."
Tasia cocked her head, her brow furrowed. "But… why, my lady? Begging your pardon, but you're not of Starkhaven."
Kiara snorted. "I wasn't really from Kirkwall, either, and it didn't stop me getting pulled into that mess."
Somehow a silent Tasia was even more frightening than a talkative one. The girl put finishing touches on Kiara's hairstyle and applied light cosmetics without speaking another word, and Kiara found herself anxious. "We… heard… you were involved in the destruction of Kirkwall's Chantry, my lady," Tasia said at last, her voice muted and completely bereft of her usual cheer.
"I wasn't!" Kiara retorted at once. Then she remembered hunting through muck and sewers and fighting poisonous spiders by the dozens all to help Anders find ingredients for the mysterious potion she'd been naive enough to think might actually help him. Heart heavy, she added, "Not intentionally. I… would never have done such a thing. Never. You have to believe that."
Tasia patted her shoulder. "I believe you, my lady. Now… your dress. Silver or gold?"
Kiara knew a change of topic when she heard it. "Can't I wear red?"
Tasia covered her open mouth with both hands and stared, aghast. "With your hair? Maker's breath, my lady, no! Never! Oh. Andraste! Red!"
"Better go silver then," Kiara replied levelly, even as she turned her troubled thoughts over and over and over. Mages were a convenient target—mages were always a convenient target—but this… this had the ring of falsehood all over it. She had yet to see—or hear—anything to indicate even a single mage might be in the city. It was all pointed fingers and hearsay and frightened people turning against their innocent neighbors. Someone was using mages as their scapegoat, but to what purpose?
"Red," Tasia tutted. "Just imagine! Red!"
#
Some mysterious law of placement meant Kiara spent the entirety of dinner listening to a bland young courtier praising her archery skills—and her beauty, her wit, and her charm, though he couldn't possibly have any experience with the latter—while she covertly gazed down the table at Sebastian. He seemed no more pleased with the seating arrangement than she was, if the strained look on his face and the troubled expression of the young woman trying to converse with him were any indication.
She wasn't sure if it was the conversation with Tasia, the courtier's inanity, or the leftover strangeness of having kissed Sebastian, but Kiara found herself ill-adapted to the task of making herself amiable. She cut her food into tiny pieces and ate hardly any of them. The courtier asked her four times how old she'd been when she'd shot her first bow before she answered him with a curt, "Three. It was a small bow."
No matter how she tried, she could not completely block out the dim buzz of conversation all around her. People were speaking of fashion and dances and gossiping about their friends. She didn't hear the word mage whispered once, and it disgusted her. Lady Violet's new hairstyle was evidently more important a topic than how many people were fearing for their lives in the dirty streets beyond the palace walls.
Part of her wanted to rise to her feet and shout, "A week ago you had a different prince and two months ago you had a different prince still and people are dying—innocent people are dying—and all you can find to discuss is the weather and what color Lady So-and-so says ought to be the next triumphant new fashion?" Instead she pushed her tiny pieces of food around her plate and thought of running.
As soon as she was able—certainly before it was polite—she excused herself. Sebastian half-rose to follow her, but she shook her head and darted away, pleading a headache. He frowned, but did not press her. As she strode away, feet tangling in her froth of skirts, she wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
She supposed it was thanks to this fabricated illness that the healer was waiting for her, sitting by the fire with her hands folded in her lap. Kiara sighed. "Did someone send for you?"
"Prince Sebastian indicated you were unwell. I thought it best to check. No one has survived Maker's Light as you did, my lady. We don't want to take any chances."
"I'm fine. Can you keep a secret? The headache was a lie. I just can't… abide their talk tonight."
"It has a tendency to drift toward the shallow, doesn't it? And now I imagine they are all talking about you. You have had quite a day."
"I suppose."
"Strength in a woman is… rarer here, I think. Considered less a charm and more a defect."
Kiara sighed again, throwing herself into the chair opposite Jessamine, squirming when her stiff undergarments poked her uncomfortably. "Yes, well. Plenty of folk in Kirkwall would happily dwell on my strength as a defect, too. They can start a club."
"Perhaps you will be the exception to the rule. The… contest went over well. People speak of you with greater respect now."
"Oh, the bloody contest. I wish I'd stayed in bed."
Jessamine laughed gently. "I did ask you to stay in bed, if you'll recall."
"You did at that." Kiara chuckled mirthlessly. After a brief silence, she asked, "Why did you leave Kirkwall, Jessamine? If you don't mind my asking."
Jessamine shrugged one delicate shoulder. "Marriage. Many years ago, now. He died young, but I didn't want to go back to my mother's house, so I stayed."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was… he was a weak man. His death forced me to become strong. I… wanted something honorable, and it turned out I had some talent for the trade of healing. I was able to… make something of myself. My work is important."
"Especially given your shortage of mages."
Jessamine raised her eyebrows, startled, and when she spoke it was in a lowered tone though they were the only ones in the room. "No one speaks of the mages here, my lady. You'll find yourself the focus of uncomfortable scrutiny. We have no mages in Starkhaven. Not anymore."
"Except the ones being killed by their countrymen."
Jessamine turned her palms over and stared at her hands as though seeking answers she might find written there. Slowly, she shook her head. "You and I both know those innocents are no mages, my lady. Mages do not go easily into the fire, not when they can control it themselves."
When Kiara spoke her voice was low and dangerous and brooked no argument; she startled even herself with her vehemence. "I will get to the bottom of this."
The healer inclined her head slightly and did not argue. When the moment passed, she turned her hands over again and brushed imaginary wrinkles from her robes. "And you are certain I can do nothing for you right now, my lady? A sleeping draught?"
Kiara shook her head. "They make me too groggy the next day. Even Amelle's—" she bit her sister's name off sharply, but Jessamine only raised an eyebrow.
"Your sister knows a little of healing too, then?" Jessamine asked, smiling.
"A little."
"A good talent to have, especially when one's sister is Champion of Kirkwall. Perhaps I shall meet her one day."
Without thinking, Kiara replied, "I hope not." At Jessamine's wounded expression, she amended, "Oh, it's not you. It's here. Everything's so unsettled. She… it's better if she stays in Kirkwall. She's earned a vacation from this kind of city-wide madness."
"Some might say the same of you, I imagine." Jessamine rose and curtsied; Kiara tried to parse the gesture for lingering hurt feelings, but saw nothing to indicate them. "If that's all, my lady, I'll leave you to your rest."
For five perfectly silent minutes Kiara was left alone after the healer quietly closed the door behind herself. She attempted to squirm her way out of the binding gown, but to no avail; all the buttons ran down her spine, and all the bending and twisting in the world couldn't make her arms reach them. Tasia found her this way—twisted into an inhuman knot of arms seeking buttons—when she entered. The maid said nothing, guiding Kiara to her feet and beginning the work of undoing the dozens of tiny fasteners.
When she was safely out of her dress and clad in the blessedly loose silk of her nightgown, Kiara sat on the edge of her bed and looked at Tasia with pleading eyes. "What are the chances I could just be… left alone tonight? No servants. No questions."
Tasia frowned. "It could be arranged, my lady, but—"
"Please. Arrange it."
"Very well. Are you certain you wouldn't like—"
"Please, Tasia. Please. I need… I'm not used to this. Any of it."
"But you're a lady. I heard the way you were introduced. Kiara Hawke, Lady Amell."
Tasia's mortified expression startled a laugh from Kiara. "Oh, Tasia. Forget the horror of red dresses. What will your reaction be when I tell you Kiara Hawke, Lady Amell keeps precisely one servant… and that one only because she stumbled into my service. Trust me, this is… all far more grand and terrifying and overwhelming than anything I'm used to."
Tasia straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. Then she smiled—a sweet, genuine smile completely unlike the one she wore as part of her uniform. "Then if you'll permit me a moment of impertinence, I think you're doing remarkably well, my lady. You have nothing to be ashamed of. And I'll… make sure you're left alone. At least for tonight."
Kiara was so grateful to her maid she felt a momentary pang of regret that she planned to abuse the girl's trust, just a little. As soon as Tasia was gone, Kiara rummaged through her wardrobes—and honestly, who needed wardrobes in the plural?—until she found dark, plain clothing. She thought longingly of her still-missing armor as she dressed. Then, flipping her bow over her back, she went to the window. She'd examined it already, of course, and found the sill sturdy and the wall positively pockmarked with excellent holds. It took very little effort at all to lower herself out the window and into the darkness.
Freedom. She only wished it didn't taste just a little of dishonesty.
And besides, she knew Varric would say unfiltered information was worth it.
She only hoped when she asked his forgiveness later, Sebastian would agree.
#
Really, it was only the last couple of feet she struggled with. The handholds were suddenly and irritatingly few and far between. Kiara was glad of her height when she reached for the windowsill and was able to haul herself the rest of the way into her room.
A swift glance revealed the chamber was in the same state she'd left it, not that she'd doubted Tasia's ability to ensure she was left alone. She sincerely doubted anyone crossed Tasia more than once.
The fire had died down and needed to be stoked, but otherwise the room was as warm and inviting as the city had been cold. She shook her head. Even the taverns were quiet, and she'd never known anything as insignificant as mere murder and mayhem to keep people from drinking. Still, it hadn't been a completely worthless adventure—she'd stopped a mugging on the way back, and she'd heard rumors she could pass on to Sebastian. Somehow without him knowing how she'd heard them, preferably.
Closing the draperies at the window, she flipped her bow from her back and stood it beside the bed. Her nightgown lay on the pillow where she'd abandoned it; she hated thinking of sullying the silk. Skulking through the city and scaling walls was sweaty, filthy work, but a bath was out of the question.
Not until she was halfway to the pitcher and basin across the room did she realize she wasn't alone. Without hesitation, she dropped into a crouch and pulled the knife from its jeweled sheath at her waist—probably it was too fine to have taken out with her, but beggars couldn't be choosers and it was the only knife she had.
Sebastian sat in one of the chairs at the fireplace, elbows on his knees and head bowed. He glanced at her before looking down at the floor again. "You're slipping, Hawke," he said. "You should have noticed my shadow right away. I wasn't even trying to hide."
"I didn't expect—"
"Clearly."
She slid the knife back into its sheath, and the hiss of metal against metal was jarringly loud in the otherwise silent room. Sebastian didn't move, except to curl his dangling hands into fists. "Where were you?"
Something about his tone raised her hackles. "I'm not sure it's any business of yours," she retorted, though the words emerged rather more muted and less vitriolic than she'd intended. It was hard to be exasperated with someone whose posture looked so… defeated.
"You're in Starkhaven, Hawke. Everything here's my business. Or did you forget?"
It was the shift back to her surname that wounded her most of all. Hawke was a million miles from a kiss in a courtyard. Hawke and Highness were all but strangers.
"Where were you?" he repeated.
"I went for a drink," she replied. "I thought you said I wasn't a prisoner here."
"Guests usually opt for doors."
"I didn't want to be followed."
"Because you were going for a drink? Armed, dressed in black, in a hostile city?"
"Yes," she snapped. "What do you think I was doing?"
"I don't know what to think, Hawke."
She took a step forward, her own hands curling into fists. "Are you accusing me of something, Your Highness?"
"You lied about feeling unwell. You disappeared into the dark after begging your maid to cover for you. You… put on your performance this afternoon."
"I put on my performance?" she scoffed, gesturing broadly, taking in his palace and his clothing and the head still wearing its crown. "I don't even recognize you. You want to know where I went? I went to find out why the people of Starkhaven are killing people they accuse of being mages. And I went for a damned drink in a place where I didn't have to wear a dress half as wide as I am tall, where no one knew me, where no one expected anything of me. The truth is I couldn't take another bloody minute of… of that dinner. The prattle. The boredom. The fact that everyone was talking about fashion and fingernails instead of matters of importance."
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you… doubt me." Putting his hands to his knees, he pushed himself back into the chair, his spine straightening.
"Doubt you?" Kiara sputtered. "What are you—?"
Sebastian turned and looked at her at last, and what she saw in his eyes forced her physically backward. She'd expected anger, or disappointment, or frustration—her disregard for personal safety had induced all those emotions in him before. She hadn't expected him to look so bruised, so wounded, so betrayed. She hadn't expected him to look afraid.
"Do you honestly believe that simply because I'm not wandering the streets knocking heads together I'm not using all the resources available to me? You haven't the slightest idea what avenues of recourse political power like mine provides."
"If I don't know what you're doing it's because you haven't bothered telling me," Kiara said. "People are still dying."
"Do you think me ignorantof it, Hawke? Do you think I liked having to put an arrow through that innocent woman's throat as she burned? Do you think I'm not haunted by her open mouth and silent scream—silent because the voice had already been burned out of her?" Sebastian put a hand to his breast and Kiara realized he was rubbing absently at the spot he'd been wounded. His voice was tight and pained, his accent somehow stronger filtered through his emotion. "Again and again I tried to warn you: this is not Kirkwall. But it is my homeland, and for all its flaws I want to protect it. I want to see it whole and hale."
"I… understand," she whispered.
"No!" he cried. "I do not think you do! You want to fix without bothering to understand. Your dedication is admirable, but in your willful blindness you may cause more harm than good, and the risks you're willing to take with your own person border on suicidal."
"You think I have a death wish because I snuck out of your cozy, guarded palace? I'm hardly helpless, Sebastian."
He snapped, "Do you know the Royal Archers are under orders to shoot on suspicion? Do you know the guard is wound tight because they—and I—know they can't be everywhere? How would you have looked to them, creeping through the dark with your black clothes and your bow?"
"But I… didn't know."
He stood, putting a hand to the back of the chair as if to bolster himself. His brow was pinched, the muscles tight in his jaw and at the corners of his eyes. "And do you know about the Prince's Eyes? I know you do not. They are my spies, Hawke, and they have a network to rival even Varric's."
She shook her head.
"And because you do not know about the Eyes, you don't know they have already stopped three attempts on your life since you woke from the first nearly successful assassination attempt. Once when someone poisoned your food before it reached your chambers. Once when an assassin waited to stab you, but chose not to because you were too surrounded by guards in the practice yard. Once when they caught a false courtier at the ball last night who would have slipped a poisoned handkerchief into the bosom of your dress as you danced together." Sebastian ticked each instance off on his fingers. She watched the movement warily, disbelief warring with horror within her.
"That's not—"
"Behind their smiles and their inane conversations, people are trying to kill you, and you are making it easy for them. You underestimate them, just as you underestimated Anders and Knight-Commander Meredith and Gascard duPuis—"
Livid, she took a step toward him. He did not flinch. "Don't you dare—"
She saw his arms trembling as he crossed them over his chest; she couldn't tell if he meant the gesture to rebuff her or to comfort himself. The anguish in his eyes made her think the latter. "You are not invincible. I sat by your bedside and watched you dying, knowing I could do nothing. I imagined the words I'd have to speak to your sister. I imagined her face. I imagined her tears, her broken heart, the immeasurable grief. I replayed it a hundred times in those three days. A thousand. Please don't make me do it again." Kiara twisted her face away sharply, as though he'd slapped her. Still he spoke. Still he pressed. "These words may sound harsh, I know, but it appears you will not listen unless I cause you pain. I am sorry for it, but not sorry enough to stop. Even if you're angry with me—even if you hate me for them—I would rather scream the cruelest, truest words I know than stand idly by and let you be murdered out of your own obstinate unwillingness to see danger." His cheeks were flushed, his breath uneven. The distance between them was no more than two feet, but it felt an impassable chasm, too wide to cross, too deep to navigate.
"So, what? You want me to stay safe by never leaving my room?"
Sebastian closed his eyes, clearly steeling himself. "I want you to stay safe by returning to Kirkwall."
Kiara barked an incredulous laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, Sebastian. I'm not going anywhere."
His gaze turned icy. "You'll go if I tell you to go. Starkhaven's troubles are none of your con—"
He didn't get the chance to finish the word concern before she slapped him. Her palm stung, and she pulled her hand back almost as rapidly as it had darted out, pressing it tight to her breast. Sebastian blinked, his lips still parted to speak even as the red handprint blossomed on his cheek. "How dare you?" she whispered. Before he could respond, she said, "How many attempts have there been on your life, if they've cared enough to make attempts on mine thrice? Half a dozen? More? And you… you want me to leave you?" She cursed them for weakness, but she couldn't keep the tears from welling in her eyes—the slap had burned her rage away, leaving grief in its wake. Hunching her shoulders slightly she lowered her face, unwilling to look at him. "Amelle thought you were going to die. She didn't want you to die, but she thought you were going to. She didn't say it, and she probably told herself not to even think it, but I've been watching her work for most of my life. I know the look she gets in her eyes when she has a patient she thinks she's going to fail. You're not the only one who's ever sat hopeless at a deathbed, Sebastian. The whole bloody world is full of danger. I—and you—at least are equipped to try and stop some of it. I'm willing to take risks, and, like you, I'm not willing to sit idly by. Don't ask me to be something I'm not and I'll do you the same courtesy."
Her slap had brought them physically closer together; she could feel the heat of him. She could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. Still he said nothing. "But maybe you're right. About my… stubbornness. I—if you don't want me here, I'll go." Her breath caught on the edge of a sob she wouldn't allow herself to utter. "For what it's worth, I… I don't want to. I-I can be useful, you know I can. M-make me one of your Eyes. Stick me on the ramparts with a bow. Put me to work. Give me an occupation. Let me do something."
"Kiara, stop. Please." The gentleness in his voice now only made everything worse, because gentleness meant he was going to send her away. He was attempting to do it kindly. She almost wished for his anger back again; it would have been easier to take than tenderness. She felt her heart constrict and a traitorous tear traced the curve of her cheek. "You're… right. I ought to have… spoken to you before now. I certainly shouldn't have kept the potential dangers from you."
"No, you shouldn't have."
"Please. I—please let me speak. Let me say what I must, and then perhaps you may find you do not wish to stay."
"I can't think of anything you would—"
"Kiara, please."
Reluctantly, she snapped her jaw shut. Then, stepping around him, she took the other seat in front of the fire, and gestured for him to return to the one he'd vacated. He bent and placed a couple of new logs in the hearth first, and she found she couldn't read the line of his back any more than she could read the set of his shoulders or the tone of his voice. She folded her hands tightly in her lap to keep them from fidgeting. When he was satisfied with the blaze, Sebastian sat back. "I am Prince of Starkhaven now," he said at last.
"All the Your Highnesses were a bit of a tip off."
"Ahh, you jest." His slantwise glance was shrewd. "Which means you are uncomfortable. What I mean, however, is that notions of one day becoming Prince of Starkhaven have ceased to become vague considerations for a future that might never happen. I am Prince of Starkhaven now, and will be until I die. It is done. There is no going back."
She had known this—obviously she had known this—but still, the certainty and finality of his tone startled her. "So you're staying here forever, is what you mean."
"That is what I mean, aye." He sighed. "More than that, I have new responsibilities. The new responsibilities mean I must break completely with… with my old vows. There can be no return to the Chantry for me now."
"I didn't think you—"
"I am afraid if you do not recognize me now, there will come a time soon when I am naught but a stranger to you. There are things I must—You told me once no one trusts a man who breaks his oath. To accept my new role I must become an oathbreaker. Many times over."
"Sebastian, that's not what I—" She began, but when he raised his eyebrows, she stopped, swallowed, and began again. "You're right, I said that."
"Very decisively."
"And you've never said anything decisively you thought better of later? I know that's not true, unless you are still planning on taking Starkhaven's army to Kirkwall." He frowned at her, but she waved her hand, dismissing the words. "I know you're not. I was… I thought it was what you needed to hear. You were so torn. I thought you—wanted me to make things clearer. Black and white." She shook her head. "When really, it was always very grey, wasn't it? I… never know what to say to you. Everything comes out wrong. Maker's blood, I said those words to you years ago, before I properly knew you. I've never turned my back on you; do you think I'm going to start now?"
He took a deep breath and released it slowly, audibly.
"Are you asking me if I trust you?" Kiara asked.
Quietly, he replied, "I—suppose I am."
"Maker, but you're an idiot. When have I ever held back? You were there when I told Anders I didn't trust him. You were there when I told Merrill I couldn't trust her. Why would I have kept quiet around you? Trust you! Whatever vows you made are between you and the Maker. If He can forgive you, I daresay I can."
"It's not a joke, Kiara."
"And I'm not joking. Look, if you want my honest opinion? You're about the only person I've ever met I'd entrust a nation's welfare to. Maybe the Maker agrees with me. It's just taken Him forever to bully you into listening. No one could accuse you of being submissive."
He almost smiled. "Who am I to argue with you and the Maker?"
She rolled her eyes. "No one but the bloody prince of Starkhaven." Her moment of mirth was short-lived. "Do you want me to go? Is that it?"
He did not answer right away, and the longer he was silent, the more she feared he would simply say yes and have done with her. "Maker help me," he breathed. "No. I… do not."
The corner of her mouth turned up in a slight smile. "That's all settled then. No one's going anywhere. Now, can I join your super secret spy network?"
"No."
She shot him an exaggerated pout, but his expression was still troubled and he did not smile.
"Guard duty, then?"
"Kiara," he said warningly. After a moment a ghost of a smile broke through all the anxiety and worry and perturbation. "If you're very good, perhaps I'll let you help with my paperwork. Corwin keeps telling me I need a proper secretary."
Before she could reply—in horror, obviously—a soft knock interrupted them. They both jumped, looked at each other, and then looked at the door. Kiara eased her knife free of its scabbard, holding it close to her thigh, hidden by the arm of the chair. "Come in," she called.
Ser Kinnon entered, bowed, noticed Sebastian, and bowed again more deeply. "Ahh, my lady, Prince Sebastian," he said, rubbing absently at the purpling bruise on his jaw. "Forgive the… interruption, and so late. Your Highness, we, uh, have been searching for you some time."
"What is it?" Sebastian asked coolly. Kiara frowned at the tone; it was such a shift from the almost-joke of only a moment earlier. She couldn't help noticing the way Sebastian's eyes narrowed as he focused on the man still standing awkwardly in the doorway. Kinnon shifted under the gaze, lowering his own eyes and keeping his head bowed.
"The prisoner, Highness. He has attempted to kill himself. Unsuccessfully, but his survival is by no means assured. We thought you might… want the opportunity to speak with him. Just in case."
Sebastian rose at once. "I do. Thank you for bringing this to me, Ser Kinnon."
Kiara rose too, the exhaustion of her night roaming the city instantly fled.
"…Kiara."
She bit her lip. "Let me at least see the bastard who ordered my death?" When Sebastian nodded reluctantly she added, "Besides. You and I both know getting answers from recalcitrant villains is something of a forte."
Ser Kinnon laughed until Sebastian glared him silent. Kiara found herself wondering what the guard had said to earn the bruise.
After slipping her knife back into its sheath and crossing the room to arm herself with her bow, Kiara followed the men into the hall, and tried not to think about how many times plots on her life would be foiled before she could find her way back to her bed.
#
If Kiara was tired—and she must be—she gave no indication of it as she kept pace with him. Her brow was perhaps a little pinched, her cheeks a little pale, but nothing to cause him any great alarm—and he was constantly verging on alarm where Kiara was concerned these days, it seemed. Even now he felt a pang of panic when he looked at her. He could have sent her safely home to her sister, to her friends, to her life in Kirkwall. Weakness, his own damnable weakness, had not allowed him to say go when she was peering up at him with tear-filled eyes, pleading to stay.
For his own sanity, he hoped Kiara never learned how impossible it was for him to deny her when she looked at him that way.
"So tell me, my lady," Sir Kinnon began. Sebastian cleared his throat. Conspicuously.
Kiara, oblivious, raised her eyebrows. "Tell you what?"
Kinnon glanced shiftily at Sebastian, weighed his options, and blurted, "Where did you get your bow?"
Her smile was wry. "Oh, this old thing? One corpse or another, I imagine."
Kinnon's eyes widened as he mouthed the word corpse.
"Actually, it's the Jackal's Longbow, is it not?" Sebastian said pointedly, as Kinnon quivered. "The one we looted from the High Dragon at the Bone Pit, I believe."
Eyes wide, the knight echoed, "High… Dragon?"
"Indeed," Sebastian intoned.
Kiara rolled her eyes. "The bloody thing nearly killed us all, but you're right. This was in the dragon's hoard."
"Dragon's… hoard."
Laughing even as she shook her head, Kiara added, "I thought nothing could be worse than trying to duel the Arishok armed only with a bow, but that battle just about proved me wrong. Every time we turned around another wretched batch of little dragonlings came from nowhere. Who knew High Dragons could breed like that?"
In a tiny voice, Kinnon repeated, "Arishok. Bow. Dragonlings."
"Yeeesss," Kiara said slowly, as though attempting to explain something simple to someone of slow intellect, "you know, baby dragons."
They reached the dungeon then, and as Kinnon held the door wide, Sebastian was gratified to see genuine fear in his eyes. Good. Perhaps if he thought more about infant dragons, he'd ogle less. Kiara grinned over her shoulder, "I shouldn't tell you this, Sebastian, but Fenris admitted he still has nightmares about the things. Not even about the High Dragon—about the babies. He dreams they're eating him from the feet up and there's nothing he can do about it."
"I can hardly mock him for it," Sebastian returned. "For me it's the spiders."
Kiara shuddered. "But that only makes sense. Spiders are spiders. And any spider five times as big as you are is just wrong."
At the door, Kinnon whispered, "…Giant spiders."
The amusement ended as soon as they entered the guards' quarters, however. The pretender was laid out on a pallet, surrounded by a wall of armored soldiers, not that he looked terribly capable of doing much damage. His skin was a terrible ashen grey that made his blue eyes all the more startling. Sweat stood out on his brow, and his limbs trembled uncontrollably. Sebastian wondered what poison the man had used, and how he'd come by it.
"Oh," Kiara said, stopping so quickly Sebastian nearly walked into her back. "But he's… he's not your brother?"
Sebastian shook his head. Of course. She'd been unconscious the last time she was in the same room as him. "He will not tell me who he is."
"But his eyes."
The pretender turned his head and grinned at them, his Vael eyes mocking even through their glaze of pain, his expression somehow feral. "They're Vael eyes, bitch, no matter what the Chantry Brother tells you."
Sebastian closed his right hand into a fist, but it was unnecessary; Kiara strode across the room and stood beside the pallet, arms crossed over her chest, glaring down. "Name calling, is it? Sebastian, you didn't tell me we were dealing with a toddler."
Sebastian loved watching her work.
"Sit him up," Kiara ordered; the guards didn't even glance at Sebastian for permission before they obeyed, pulling the groaning impostor upright. "Put him in a chair and make him stay there. He did this to himself; he can bloody sit up straight and answer some questions before his gut-rot kills him. And someone send for a healer, if you haven't already." She grinned down at the man. "You'd be amazed how long a good healer can keep a dying man alive."
The blonde knight who'd helped Kinnon carry Kiara back after the poisoning snapped to attention and departed swiftly. Maisie, Sebastian thought her name was. He had to start learning. They'd respect him more if he knew them by name. His father had. And his grandfather. He'd have Corwin draw him up a list.
As soon as the pretender was sitting, held in place by a guard on either side, Kiara pulled up a chair of her own. Straddling the seat, she leaned her arms on the chair's back and set her chin on her hands. She stared at the fraud until he was twitching with discomfort, but her expression remained bland and inscrutable.
"So," she said conversationally, "we haven't been properly introduced."
"I know who you are, whore."
With an exaggerated wince of dismay she said, "Oh dear. Clearly you're not familiar with the details of my personal life. I think you were closer with the last insult. Your poor mother. Wherever she is, she must be appalled at your manners. Shall we try again? I'm Kiara Hawke. And you are?"
"Connall Vael, whore."
Kiara's sigh was put upon. "Do we have to have a conversation about literal definitions of words? Don't use them unless you know what they mean."
Sebastian crossed the room to stand near—but not too near; she wouldn't appreciate it—Kiara's left shoulder. She didn't glance back at him, but the pretender narrowed his eyes, his mouth twisting in silent disdain.
Still wearing her careful cloak of nonchalance, Kiara tilted her head. "Something tells me the real Vael boys weren't raised to call ladies such names. Who are you?"
The pretender let out a barking, rough laugh. It gurgled slightly near the end, and Sebastian wondered just how long the man had left. "You should ask your Chantry bitch about all the whores he's known."
Kiara rolled her eyes dramatically. "You are something else. Name calling and rumormongering. It's a wonder Starkhaven survived you. I suppose it's fortunate we arrived when we did. Did your wagging tongue start the rumors about the mages, too?"
"Oh, the Champion of Kirkwall loves mages, doesn't she? No matter what they do. No matter whom they kill. It's why so many were willing to take the shot to end her life. Do you think you've found them all? Do you think you've even come close?" The pretender's giggle was hollow and eerie and far more disconcerting than the laugh had been. Sebastian saw a couple of the guards shudder.
Kiara did turn at this, shooting Sebastian an expressionless look. "He doesn't have very good information, does he? I do hate a pointless endeavor."
Slowly, languidly, Kiara faced the impostor once again. He looked startled at her evident lack of concern, and the giggle died in his throat.
"I won't ask again," she said. "Who are you?"
"Connall Vael."
"Sebastian? His fingers."
Sebastian grabbed the hand he'd wounded with his shot in the Great Hall while the guards held him still. Kiara flipped her knife from its jeweled sheath and held it out to him, hilt first.
"What?" the pretender cried. "You can't cut off my fingers! You won't. You're Chantry!"
"Was," Sebastian said mildly. "But even so, if you were at all familiar with the Chant of Light—as I most assuredly am—you would know not a single verse prohibits the removal of a liar's fingers. Indeed, the Maker tends toward harsh punishment when it comes to that particular brand of sin. I believe I am only doing the Maker's will."
The impostor tried to curl his hand into a fist to protect his digits, but Sebastian's body wasn't wracked with poison and it was easy work to keep the hand flat. With a theatrical flourish he brought the knife close.
"Wait!"
In her most bored voice, Kiara asked, "Did you have something to say? Your name perhaps?"
"It is Vael," the man gasped. Sebastian drew a single, gleaming drop of blood with the sharp point of the blade. "Maker, stop! It's Morven Vael."
Kiara raised her eyebrows in silent question.
"I know of no Vael by that name," Sebastian said. But as soon as he spoke, some ancient ghost of knowledge whispered in the back of his head. He couldn't chase it down. An old memory. An old story. An overheard whisper. He'd always been good at listening. He just hadn't always been as good at making sense of what he heard.
Kiara replied, "Thumb first, maybe. A man's all but helpless without his thumbs."
The pretender wailed, jerking as much as the restraining guards and his own poisoned body would allow.
"Of course you don't know my name!" he screamed. "You wouldn't! You were a babe in arms when my family was banished."
Kiara asked the question Sebastian was thinking. "What are you talking about? Explain yourself."
"My thumb!"
Her smile was cold. "Talk and we'll reopen negotiations about your thumbs."
"You're a demon! An abomination!You're a foreign-born, self-important bitch! You should be crawling on your knees before me! I'm a Vael and you're a tarted up whore with pretensions—"
Sebastian didn't take the man's thumb clean off, but the cut was deep, would be irritatingly slow to heal—if he managed to survive the poison—and bled copiously. He hadn't thought the man's color could get worse but he was proven wrong when ashen turned positively ghostly.
Kiara frowned at him.
"I slipped," Sebastian said, shrugging. "I get twitchy when pompous fools fling slanderous, offensive words about."
Some of the fight had gone from the fraud. He stared at his bleeding hand, his eyes wide and glassy. "You cut me," he said weakly. "I didn't think you'd do it."
Sebastian snapped, "Do you have trouble with your memory? I shot you twice; you think I'd hesitate with a knife? Answer the lady's questions."
"She's no lady—"
The knife moved to hover over the man's index finger.
"I am actually a lady, as it happens," Kiara remarked. "Both physically and by peerage. Someone has evidently given you tremendously flawed information about me. Now tell me, why was your family banished?"
The pretender's adam's apple bobbed as he watched the knife. "My father plotted against his brother. He was discovered. Their father couldn't bring himself to kill one of his sons, so my family was banished. Entirely. Never to be heard from again. On pain of death."
Kiara glanced at her fingernails as though utterly bored. "Who was your father, then?"
"C-Connall Vael. Wait! The Connall your brother was named for. Brother to Lachlan Vael."
Sebastian shook his head, disbelieving. "Connall Vael died."
"No. Not then. Later. Your—our—grandfather sent us away. We were dead to him. But not dead. I-it's true. I swear it."
"By your thumbs?" Kiara drawled.
The pretender squealed, squeezing his eyes shut. Sebastian tightened his fingers around the hilt of the knife.
"I don't think he's lying," Kiara said. "He's pissed himself."
"I-I'm not lying," the man whimpered. "I'm not lying. The old prince spread the story about our death. In the histories we were killed on a trip to Antiva. In reality, we were banished. The fight went out of my father. He was weak. He didn't resist the punishment."
Kiara's tone took on a harder edge, and her eyes narrowed as she peered at him. "So thirty years later you woke up and decided you'd return to the world you'd been banished from, take over a city, name yourself Prince? Impossible. You must have been a child then, too."
"We didn't think anyone… I didn't think anyone was alive who would contest it, after Kirkwall," the man mumbled. "Couldn't do it under my name; we lost succession rights. But I… knew I… resembled your brother. Everyone said so, the whole time I was growing up. Thought I could pull it off, thought the city'd be happy to see a real Vael again after that oaf Goran." He blinked up at Sebastian, and his eyes took too long to focus; the poison was progressing. "Better a false Connall than a real coward. Hiding behind the skirts of the Grand Cleric all those years. Hiding behind your foreign-born whore. See if you do better. They'll eat you alive."
"I'll take my chances," Sebastian said.
Jessamine entered then, still blinking sleep from her eyes, her hair askew and the clasps of her robe done up wrong. She'd come at a run, and Ser Maisie, carrying a box of tinkling potion bottles and jars and vials, followed a moment later. The healer curtsied to Sebastian and said, "Is it the Champion—? I came as quickly—oh."
Jessamine saw the pretender then, still being held to his chair. She frowned slightly and knelt beside him, taking his chin in hand and peering into his eyes.
"He took something laced with deathroot," Kiara said.
"How d'you know?" The pretender slurred, as though his tongue had grown too big for his mouth.
Kiara arched an eyebrow. "I'm the Champion of Kirkwall. I know everything."
Sebastian smiled slightly, because what he really wanted to do was shake the impostor until answers fell from his lips. "You're confusing yourself with the Maker again, Hawke."
She sighed. "It's the power. It goes to my head."
The pretender gazed back and forth between the two of them with horror-wide eyes. "You're mad. The both of you. Mad."
"Perhaps," Kiara said. "And do you know what I hear about mad people?"
He shook his head.
"I hear they have no qualms about cutting off thumbs. Entire hands, even. You said 'we'—who helped you? Who convinced you?"
"Didn't need convincing. Wanted to be prince. Pretty girls. Fine wine. Right, cousin?"
Sebastian glared at him, but it was Jessamine who spoke. She was frantically mixing together herbs from her supplies. "Why was I not sent for earlier? Can't you see he's dying?"
Before Sebastian could answer, Kiara said, "We sent for you as soon as we learned."
The pretender said, "Doesn't matter. Wanna. Did it to myself."
"Who helped you concoct your plot?" Kiara asked again. "Who? Make your life count for something and answer the damned question."
The pretender spat at her. The thick globule of spittle landed at her feet instead of on her, but before Sebastian could do much as twitch, Kiara's hand shot out and grabbed the wrist of the hand still holding the knife. Very calmly, she said, "Can you buy us time, Jessamine? He has answers we need."
"I'm trying." She added a pinch of something to the vial she held and swirled the contents until they changed to a uniform green. "Try this. Maker, look at his hand."
The pretender turned his face away, refusing to take the vial Jessamine offered. She jerked his face forward and forced his jaw open, tilting the vial until its contents trickled into his mouth. He tried to spit it out again, but she was relentless, dropping the empty glass and using her free hand to massage his throat into swallowing. A moment later his eyelids fluttered shut.
"Is he—?" Kiara began.
"Sleeping," Jessamine said. "The ingredients of a common sleeping draught can counteract acute deathroot poisoning, but he'll be all but comatose for days. I-I'm sorry. I couldn't think of anything else. It may already have been too late."
"You did well," Sebastian said. The woman glanced up at him. Exhaustion made her look old, older than her years. "Jessamine… how long have you been in Starkhaven?"
"Thirty-five years, Your Highness. Give or take. I spent most of them away from the city, though, learning my trade with a country healer."
"What happened to my father's brother thirty years ago?"
The woman tilted her head and her brow furrowed. "He died. Bandits on the road to Antiva. His whole family and all their retinue. No one speaks of it, Highness. No one dared. Your grandfather—your father—they were inconsolable."
And yet. And yet, the pretender had Vael eyes.
Corwin. Corwin would know. Even if everyone else in Starkhaven believed the lie, Corwin would know the truth. Sebastian felt certain of it.
"Thank you, Mistress. Please, tend to his hand and then you may return to your bed. I'm sorry we had to wake you." To his guards, Sebastian said, "Keep him under watch. Constantly. Sleep or no, I don't want him attempting something like this again. If he wakes, send for me, or send for Lady Hawke. Immediately."
Ser Kinnon saluted. Kiara, still holding tight to Sebastian's wrist, used the stability of his arm to lever herself upright; he saw her waver and tucked her arm through his. She smiled gratefully and let herself lean just slightly against him.
Ser Maisie and Ser Kinnon followed at a respectful distance as they made their way through the silent palace halls toward her rooms, their alert eyes missing nothing. Sebastian lowered his voice as he inclined his head toward Kiara's. "Thank you."
"I'm sorry I didn't get more. Just questions with no answers. I hate that."
"The answers will be somewhere. You… you unearthed more than I was able."
"Knives, Sebastian. If there's one thing I've learned from Isabela, it's that people always respond to knives." She glanced up at him through her lashes. "You, uh, didn't actually have to cut him, you know. The threat was enough."
"Oh, I had to cut him, I assure you."
She laughed, but it was a sad sound, turned inward. "I've been called worse."
"That doesn't make it acceptable."
"Oh, Sebastian," she murmured, resting her cheek against his shoulder. "Defending my poor honor all over the place. What would I do without you?"
When they reached her chambers, he opened the door and peered about, taking in all the dark corners and long shadows. Sitting on the end of her bed, she smiled at him. "I won't make the same mistake twice." Tapping her forehead with one finger, she said, "Don't worry. High alert."
He raised his eyebrows, finished his scouting mission, and then paused in the doorway. She looked so… troubled and small and alone. For a moment he tried to imagine himself in her place, suddenly transplanted into a foreign world she wasn't yet equipped to understand; Maker, he hardly understood it himself, and he'd spent more than half his life living in it. As terrified as it had made him, he couldn't help recognizing why she'd needed to escape into the anonymity of Starkhaven's night. Something similar had kept him safe within the Chantry's walls long after he recognized his rightful place was probably elsewhere.
"Fine," he relented. She glanced at him, tentatively curious. "I promise nothing, but after tonight I may be able to find a place for you in the… super secret spy network. Temporarily. Now go to sleep. You look wretched."
She beamed, and all the shadows and weariness and sadness were chased from her eyes. Weakness, he thought. If he could deny her nothing when she wept, it was nothing, nothing, to what he'd do for the chance to see her smile.
