Amelle was in trouble.

She'd known it from the moment the arrow whistled out of nowhere, striking her painfully, and with startling force in her shoulder. She remembered that — stumbling forward with the impact of the blow, the pain of it radiating down her right arm, even the soft damp earth as she fell to her knees.

Instinct had demanded she pull the arrow free and heal the wound. Granted, it was common knowledge you were never supposed to pull arrows out, but Amelle also knew herself well enough that she was confident a breath of well-aimed mana would knit muscle and sinew and skin back together again.

But when Amelle had drawn in that breath and stretched out to touch the living, pulsing swirl of power residing within her, nothing happened. She couldn't … reach her mana, couldn't touch it. Unlike those troubling days in Kirkwall, however, her mana wasn't simply depleted. It was eerily—terrifyingly—silent, but worse, much worse, was the very means she used to feel for her mana felt sluggish and numb. Clumsy. Blind. Amelle tumbled forward, landing hard on her elbows, breathing deep and forcing herself to concentrate, but everything felt too thick, like molasses or mud, like trying to wade through the silt at the bottom of the pond back in Lothering.

Suddenly her vision swam and blurred, nausea clawing at her gut; Amelle fought the rising tightness in her throat, gulping hard against the urge to retch. Magebane. Whatever this is, it's got magebane in it.

And then a sickening, heavy crack—someone had hit Varric from behind, sending him sprawling forward with a grunt—Bianca rattled strangely, almost forlornly against his back; even the crossbow had known something was wrong.

It was the sight of Varric—Varric—lying upon the grass, blinking hard and struggling to focus, fingers twitching as if in effort to reach back for Bianca, that bade Amelle open her mouth to yell, to cry out, to scream — to do something. Anything. But to her horror, little more than a ragged, panting breath had come out when she tried yelling the dwarf's name. But Varric's eyes rolled back and his lids fluttered shut as unconsciousness finally overtook him.

Everything swam, like water too deep, too far over her head, and Amelle's arms shuddered. Like jelly. Blackberry jam on thick-sliced bread, sweet upon her tongue—no, not sweet. Arms and legs like rubber, like jelly and jam, her throat burning with bile and too much blood trailing down her arm. Amelle sunk to the ground, cool grass tickling her cheek like so many spiders' legs.

Move, spirit healer. Go. Go now, rabbit. Move. You must move, rabbit.

The voice in her head was faint, faint like words called to her at the end of a long, deep tunnel, but no less urgent for all that.

Yes. Yes, she had to move. She had to try.

Summoning the last of her strength, all of it strangely slippery in her mind, Amelle pushed herself to her knees, crawling toward where Varric lay. Surely he was only sleeping — he needed someone to wake him. She needed to wake him.

Darkness swallowed her vision soon after that. Gone was the urge to choke and gag and retch, gone were the numb and rubbery limbs, gone was the voice calling to her so desperately.

It became ever harder to remember, harder to stay awake, harder to move. She woke to find herself on the dirt floor of a small room. It was dark — Amelle had always hated the dark, had fought against it with light kept ready at her fingertips, but now no light came, and that scared her even more than the dark could. Lightless fingertips flexed, her wrists closed in shackles that weighted down her hands. It seemed so strange to her that iron had any business being so heavy; Amelle couldn't lift her hands, couldn't move, couldn't think.

Things were bad; she knew that much. Didn't have to think to know she was afraid, and not just because she was locked in the dark and weighed down to the floor.

She knew what came in the dark, what had always come to her in the dark.

Desire.

Vengeance.

Despair.

They all came, taking turns with her, playing with her like jackals taunting their prey.

Desire slithered through the dark as she lay on the dirt floor, her mind open and weak, foul dark lips brushing her ear as the demon whispered all of its promises. Promises that it would make her stronger than she could even possibly conceive, promises that she would return to her loved ones, to the ones who loved her, to the one she wished could love her. It promised such beautiful things. Strength and love and eternal life, if she desired it. Anything she desired—anything at all. It showed her a sister who did not constantly fear for her; it showed her Carver and Mother and Papa, all healthy and whole and happy, if only she joined them; it showed her Fenris, forgiving her pride, forgiving every one of her transgressions—

It showed her their children. Amelle saw her own rounded belly, felt squirming red-faced life in her arms. Fat cheeks and tiny toes and eyes a deeper, darker green than she could fathom. It showed her and showed her and showed her still more, until Amelle's head ached with sobs she could not voice, her eyes stinging and blind with tears. Her fingertips did not tickle a pudgy belly; her shackles were too heavy, too tight, biting too painfully into her skin.

Vengeance came next, its voice hissing, hissing like a sword pulled from its scabbard, about the power it would give her, enough—more than enough—to crush, to decimate those who had dared do this to her. Its breath was foul, a stench like steel and blood and so much rot as it promised her mastery of every arcane art. She would burn the forests and dry out the rivers, razing everything in her path until they'd paid. They deserved whatever she decided to bring down upon their heads, deserved it twice—thrice—over. She would punish them, their children, their children's children, until any and all who dared breathe her name did so in voices trembling with awe and fear.

But no fire flickered from her fingers. No power swam through her veins. Just the cold, hard-packed dirt, making her back ache. Vengeance laughed at her weakness, a terrible gurgling laugh that sounded too much like a throat being slit.

Then a tiny cold hand folded itself in hers, around hers, holding her hand—or did she hold it?— as little fingers ghosted a path across her forehead as if to soothe her. A girl, no more than eight, with pale features and huge eyes gleaming green in the dark, knelt by her side, holding her hand and stroking her hair. The girl's own hair was long, falling past her shoulders in a tumble of wide, springy curls; the ends of her hair tickled Amelle's cheek, and though she tried to twitch away from it, she found she could not. With the girl came the scent of something long-burnt, burnt like shriveled vines and waxy pods.

I'm sorry about the peas, Papa.

Cold fingers caressed her brow. You're all alone, she said. They've given you up for dead.

That little hand, those little fingers, gliding across her forehead, sending ripples of cold throughout Amelle until she shivered with it.

You know they'll never find you. You'll be dead before they do. Better if you stay with me.

Icy lips kissed her cheek.

Won't that be fun? Just the two of us. We'll play every day—there'll be a garden with roses and we'll have the grandest tea-parties and you'll never have to be alone again. We'll always have each other. I'll never leave you. I'll never forget you. Not like they have. They've forgotten you already. You're lost.

Unloved.

Unmourned.

They came, one after another after another, over and over again, looming as they'd never done before, whispering more temptingly than she'd ever heard. Promises. So many promises.

When Amelle tried to banish them, her lips only moved silently; when she tried to cover her ears, she found the chains at her wrists wouldn't reach; when she tried to shut them out of her mind, she found her mental fortitude nonexistent. They swirled through the darkness and danced before her eyes, promising sweet, tempting revenge upon those who would dare do this to her. They promised her freedom, power. They told her she was alone, she would always be alone — she would die here, alone and forgotten.

Amelle dared not sleep, for they came to her more frequently then, taking over her dreams and twisting them until she woke, exhausted, her face wet with tears and silent screams burning in her throat.

So despite the weakness she felt in her limbs, and despite the fog filling her mind, Amelle stayed awake, lying on her back in that tiny room, staring out into the darkness, the black space where the ceiling surely ought to have been.

Jessamine — Amelle knew now she was no healer; she could not be a healer; no true healer would twist her abilities in such a heinous manner — came in frequently, though Amelle had no idea when or how often. She only knew when Jessamine came to see her, it was going to hurt.

And hurt it did.

Her shoulder burned. Such an odd burn — not like her fire or her lightning. It pulsed, burning ever hotter with every throb, and when Jessamine emptied a vial of something into the wound, it throbbed harder and burned hotter than Amelle could have even begun to conceive; something stank, and it was impossible to tell if it was the poison or the wound itself. Screaming brought no relief, because she could not scream, though she dearly wanted to. She wanted to scream and curse and swear at this woman. She wanted to utter words her father had taught her, the words that would bring a rain of fire upon this tiny room and the people who brought her here.

Yes, Vengeance rasped in her ear, the sound filling her head. Do it. Kill them all.

Time blurred and wove together, though Amelle couldn't count the hours. More than one day, she was sure. But she could not count them, could not remember how often Jessamine came to see her, how many times she poured that foul fire into Amelle's body.

She wondered where her sister was. Wondered if this woman had killed Kiara, if that was why no one had found her yet.

She's forgotten you, the little girl told her solemnly. You've always only been an obligation. She's free now. Aren't you happy for her? She's free of you. You can't go back to her now, not when she's so happy…

They crooned to her, cajoled her, whispered poisonous words in her sister's voice, her mother's voice, her father's voice, and though it made Amelle angry — oh, how desperately she wanted to be angry, to feel the fire's hot rush as it crackled forth from her palms — she found she could only curl on her side and weep silently.

Jessamine opened the door and came in, gripping Amelle by her wounded, throbbing shoulder and turned her. Amelle cried out, a harsh, guttural whisper, and the woman only smiled, patting Amelle's head as if she were a naughty child.

"It's nearly over."

The shackles fell with a dull clank and Amelle felt her wrists pulled brutally together, rough rope binding the raw, reddened skin. She was lifted up, carried out, and tossed heavily in a cart, then covered with something heavy that smelled rotten and made Amelle's face itch.

Whenever—however—it ended, it would not end well. Amelle wanted to care, she knew she needed to care — to fight — but she was tired. Her only hope was that whatever became of her, Fenris would not see it.

Fenris.

The cart jostled along, Amelle's head bumping heavily with every jolt; her eyes prickled until they stung, water blinding her until she blinked.

"Once we've got Kiara back, I think… perhaps we ought to—there are… there are things we maybe ought to—to discuss?"

"…Perhaps you are right."

She'd never get the chance now. Not that there was a great deal she could tell him at the moment—and the absurdity of the thought made a peal of mad laughter bubble up in her throat, only to come out a ragged exhale. Nothing like laughter at all.

Come to me, my dear little mageling, and you may say whatever you wish to him, and he will reply however you wish. Just come to me and all will be well.

The cart stopped and the burlap pulled back as she was hoisted up and out of the cart. The sun was bright — painfully so, after so many days in darkness, and she closed her eyes, trying to turn her head away from so much light. It burned, burning bright red behind her closed lids. Red like fire.

They burn mages here.

I'm a mage.

Her legs didn't want to cooperate as she felt herself carried up and up and up, the toes of her boots dragging and scuffing across the platform. But it was so hard to stand. She was held in place even as lengths of coarse rope lashed her flagging, limp body to the stake. The sun was still so bright; she turned her head away from it, and realized, distantly, that it would soon get brighter.

A trap. All of it. You led her to you, brought yourself to her. Like a lamb to slaughter.

Not a lamb. A rabbit.

'M not a rabbit, Papa.

Rabbit…

When Amelle could lift her head, she saw people. Angry people. There was shouting — so much shouting — until the shouting turned into a wordless, mindless roar. Something pelted her shoulder and when she blinked down she saw a dented, rotten apple roll across the planks. Another came. Then another.

Amelle reached again for her mana, to direct it somewhere — to heal the festering wound that now made her entire right side ache and throb with the heat of infection, to burn and fray the ropes holding her, to do something instead of standing here, waiting to die as overripe fruit thudded messily against her body. But there was nothing inside of her. Her entire life that force had been normally like an ever-running current, pulsing with power and energy, but the current was still. Dead. Dark.

Rabbit. Rabbit, listen to me. Spirit healer, you must listen.

Friend or foe? Spirit or demon?

Do not give in, Rabbit. You must not lose hope. You must not lose yourself. It is a fate worse than death; you told the templar yourself. He remembers that. He is your friend; he has not forgotten you.

Friend, then? Or another demon sounding too like Compassion's voice?

She screwed her eyes shut and tried — tried so hard — to listen for Compassion, then she tried to latch onto the Chant of Light. There were words, and she knew them, but the words weren't coming, wouldn't form in her mind — everything in her head felt too slippery and the words slid away from her like soft, loose sand. Maker help her, she couldn't even pray.

I'm sorry, Kiri. I tried to be good. I tried to be better.

Open your eyes, rabbit. Spirit healer, open your eyes.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

#

The bitch has my sister.

Kiara could scarcely think of anything else. A year might have passed, or a day, or an hour and she'd have been hard pressed to explain what she'd been doing since the moment she put two and two together and came up with the worst four imaginable. The bitch has my sister.

When Sebastian appeared at her doorway, looking haggard and drawn and vengeful all at once, she felt the world drop out from beneath her. She'd seen that look before. No, what happened to my family was murder! "No," she said, unable to catch her breath, her heart breaking. "No."

"We have reason to believe Amelle is still alive," Sebastian said, and she could breathe again.

Kiara was wearing her armor, though she didn't remember putting it on. Her bow was near the door, next to a full quiver of arrows. And though it was the last thing in the world she wanted to remember, she couldn't stop thinking of the way the light went out in her mother's eyes, the way the patched-together creature that had once been Leandra had said you've always made me so proud.

She'd still come too late, though. You know me. I always save the day. Pride meant nothing when you came too late.

Don't think. Don't think, just do.

For days she'd been shouting at everyone and everything with the temerity to enter her space, to ask her questions, to offer condolences, but now, standing in her room, thinking about her mother, her sister, Kiara found she had no words at all. She slung her bow over her back. She strapped on the quiver of arrows. And then she followed Sebastian and Cullen into the hall.

The bitch has my sister.

Kiara heard the crowd even before they turned the corner and saw them. They sounded angry, of course. They were loud. She couldn't make out words, voices, but she knew the tenor of their cries. Will Sebastian have to put an arrow through this victim's throat? she wondered. Then she choked the thought away, denying it, smothering it. Will the fire take her, or the smoke? Will she burn, or suffocate?

Beside her, Fenris glowed. It was that glow on her peripheral vision she saw move first. Before she could think to reach out a hand to stop him, before she could open her lips to utter a cry—of warning? of despair? of relief?—he was gone, barreling through the crowd. Glowing. Something so dangerous had no right looking so pretty.

I never knew he was so fast.

He was gone before she could so much as call his name.

#

Lyrium was Fenris' constant companion, buzzing along and beneath his skin, sharpening his focus and protecting him, making him faster, more resilient. For all he despised the markings, he could not deny how much he depended on them now.

The moment he saw Amelle — pale and insensible, blood soaking her sleeve, ropes cutting into her flesh as they held her fast to the thick post — rage and fear, such a nauseating combination, struck him hard, twisting in his gut. The former made his brands glow bright while the latter pushed him forward, moving so swiftly through the crowd that they were little more than a grey-brown blur in the corner of his eye. He heard someone cry out behind him.

He did not stop. He could not stop.

#

"No!" someone shouted, just behind Kiara, as Fenris ran. Behind and to the left. Cullen. Beside her, Sebastian's bow was drawn, and the white fletching of an arrow was pulled close to his ear. The crowd shouted. A woman screamed. Amelle, she thought. But no, the scream was not her sister's. It was hers. Amelle — bloody, pale Amelle — appeared barely aware of her surroundings; her head lolled limply, as if it took too much effort to hold it up. Jessamine stood beside her, shouting to the crowd; Kiara could not hear the words, not over the din, but she knew the speech by this point. She'd seen tableaus like this one unfold too many times since arriving in Starkhaven — Jessamine was crying out to them, condemning mages as a blight upon humanity.

And then she would set the kindling alight.

No.

There was a familiar creak and click and Kiara knew Bianca was settled in Varric's hands, awaiting only the lightest touch of his finger.

"Say the word, Choir Boy, and she's toast."

Sebastian shook his head. With a muttered curse he dropped the Starkhaven bow back to his side and rested a hand on the dwarf's shoulder. "Wait, Varric."

"For what?"

"If Jessamine is executed now," Cullen said quickly, his own hand resting lightly upon the pommel of his sword as if he wished to draw it, but did not dare,"the crowd will call it murder and they will turn on us."

"I thought things were supposed to be different once you got the crown, Princess," Isabela muttered darkly. "Listen, while Fenris is distracting this bitch, I can—"

But Fenris had reached the platform, his tattoos aglow in the morning light, and it was soon clear to Kiara a mere distraction was the furthest thing from the elf's mind. He leapt upward, bypassing the steps entirely, his path leading straight to Amelle. He paid no attention to Jessamine, no attention to the crowd. He reached out with one hand, as if to shred the ropes with one clawed gauntlet, when Jessamine, a knowing, catlike smile at her lips, stepped deftly in front of him.

What is she doing? And then came the darker thought: What does she know?

Then Kiara saw Fenris' body language change, knew what he planned. His lip curled in a snarl she was much too far away to hear as he drew one sharp, clawed gauntlet back and thrust forward—

He's going to kill her, she realized, the thought surfacing too quickly, too suddenly, leaving Kiara with a plunging, sick tightness in the pit of her stomach. He's going to kill her, and they're all going to turn on us.

But Jessamine moved more quickly than Kiara would have expected from a woman her age. She must have been quite the dancer in her day, came the incongruous, nauseating thought. There was a flutter of robes and a glint of silver, and as Fenris rushed forward, intent upon nothing beyond crushing Jessamine's heart, the sharp, curved dagger was thrust neatly into his gut.

The crowd was suddenly silent.

#

With Jessamine before him, arms flung wide as she fed her ridiculous lies to the crowd, Fenris' path was simple: recover Amelle, bring her to safety, and then end this woman for every moment of suffering she'd caused.

But then she was in front of him, as if she could impede him, as if anything at all could possibly deter him from his path. Perhaps he'd not planned to kill her yet—and perhaps Hawke might have decided there would be mercy for her later—but the moment she slipped in front of him, blocking him, this woman became little more than an obstacle, and he would deal with her as such.

Even the flash of sunlight upon her blade had not fazed him, for he had undergone worse than mere knife wounds in his years fighting by Hawke's side. The pulsing rush of lyrium as his markings glowed brighter and stronger throbbed in his ears like a heartbeat, nearly drowning out the sensation of the sharp, curved blade plunging unerringly into his body.

Nearly, but not quite.

The sharp sensation surprised him, not because she had wounded him, but because he felt it. In his surprise, his markings went suddenly dark.

Instantly, he knew something was very wrong. Blood streamed thickly from the wound, but after the initial shock, Fenris felt nothing. He pressed one hand against the tear, but he neither felt the clawed tips of his gauntlet against his skin, nor did he feel the blood seeping stickily through the armor and slicking his hands.

As Fenris pulled himself off Jessamine's blade, he saw the red of his blood spatter against the cool blue of her robes. A healer's robes. Grimacing, he pressed his hand harder against the the wound, but did little to staunch the flow of blood. He barely felt the platform beneath his feet as he turned and staggered toward Amelle.

If he was to die, there was still one thing left he could do.

#

"Do you see?" the woman cried, brandishing the blood-streaked blade, every word ringing in the sudden stillness. "An agent of the so-called prince of Starkhaven would have me executed brutally before you! Murdered! And for what? For my audacity to expose to you his greatest secret! His greatest shame! The truth he has kept from you all!"

All we require is a little more time, Sebastian had told her, with grass in his hair and his lips swollen with kisses. "Time," Kiara whispered. Beside her she felt Sebastian stiffen, and when she glanced up, his features had gone so unnaturally still she knew he was remembering the same thing.

But before Jessamine could speak her secret, someone in the crowd screamed—not in rage this time, but in fear—and the sound reverberated oddly, and was echoed by others.

Swinging her head around again, Kiara squinted, shaking her head, unwilling to believe what her eyes told her she saw. Fenris had pulled himself off the bitch's blade, but instead of going at her again with his clawed fist, he'd turned, one hand clamped tight over the wound and the other outstretched toward Amelle. Her sister's lips formed the elf's name; it looked as if she were screaming, but no sound issued forth. Kiara almost imagined she could hear the blood dripping, but of course Fenris was too far away. She could see it, though. Heal him, Mely.

Fenris stumbled as he took the first step, nearly falling to his knees; from a distance Kiara could see the sheer force of will keeping him upright. Even Jessamine seemed momentarily taken aback. A second step followed the first, and then a third. Somewhere in the crowd a child was wailing.

#

As Fenris staggered toward her, Amelle's wide eyes were bright with tears and her lips formed his name. She pulled, struggled, screamed, though no sound came, though tears coursed down her cheeks and tendons stood out on her neck.

The sky above her was blue. Bluer than even the healer's robe.

Fenris took a breath and shook his head to clear it, feeling the lyrium struggle to wake beneath his skin. He stumbled, but still couldn't feel the wood beneath his feet. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

And he was running out of time.

No.

No.

There had to be time.

Whether it took three steps or three hundred to cross the platform, Fenris didn't know.

After an eternity—there has to be time—he finally reached Amelle's side. Her lips still formed his name, over and over and over, and tears still streamed down her face… crying for him, not herself. He wanted to reassure her, had to reassure her, but there was no time. Something was wrong. Too wrong. Not right.

Lyrium fought magebane. Perhaps it might fight this Andraste's Wrath as well.

It had to.

Fight, Amelle.

He stumbled forward and landed hard against her, bracing himself upright though he couldn't feel his legs anymore and could barely feel his hands. That wasn't good. He needed his hands. He needed to act. Needed to speak. Not sure if he spoke them aloud at all, Fenris whispered the words of his heart. He closed his eyes. Willed the despised lyrium that had helped him so many times before to aid him once again.

He focused.

Saw the light reflected in Amelle's eyes as he thrust his hand into her chest and poured all he could into her.

Live. Fight.

His knees gave out, but Fenris didn't feel it.

Above him, Amelle sagged against the ropes, her eyes closed.

Above him, above her, the sky was so blue. Bluer than the healer's robes. Bluer than the dress Amelle had worn the night she gave him back his past and so much else went wrong. So very, very blue.

Fight, Amelle. Heal.

#

Fenris' hand touched Amelle's shoulder, stopped, and began to glow. Kiara reached for an arrow, but before she could bring it to her bowstring, she felt arms clasp her from behind.

"Wait," whispered Cullen urgently, tightening his arms around her. "It isn't what you think. He's trying—"

"He'll kill her. He'll kill her!" Kiara struggled, twisting and pulling, her breath coming fast and hard, but the templar's grip was strong.

"No," Cullen insisted, his voice as near frantic as she'd ever heard it. "Hawke, listen. If ever… if ever you've trusted me, trust me now. I know you're frightened but I promise you, he's trying to save her. Sebastian—Sebastian, stop your guards from firing."

Kiara dimly heard Sebastian issuing orders, and Elias echoing them in a tone that refused to be ignored or defied. Cullen didn't release her, and she stared at the platform refusing to blink. Her eyes watered. The water ran down her cheeks.

In the glow of the white light, Amelle's head flew back to hit the stake she was tied to, her mouth open wide in a silent scream. There is a hand inside my little sister's chest. There is a hand crushing my little sister's heart. For a moment, Fenris' cheek touched Amelle's, and Kiara thought she saw his lips move. Then the lyrium-glow died and Fenris fell. The sound of his armor hitting the wood was too loud, too heavy with the ring of finality. Once he'd landed he did not move again. Amelle's chin fell back to her chest.

Kiara was glad of the templar's presence then, glad even of his bruising grip, because without it she was certain she would have fallen. Like Fenris. Like Amelle.

Jessamine turned back to the crowd, and if she was still taken aback she hid it well. "And so the Maker strikes down those who would stand against Him," she said fervently. "In fire and lightning He strikes down the unbelievers, the wicked, the black. And those who would do His work and spread His truth are left standing."

"Tell that to Elthina, you lying bitch," Varric growled under his breath. "Tell that to the chantry at Kirkwall."

Kiara stared at her sister, at Fenris, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of them. Fenris remained still as death on the platform, and the blood dripping between the wooden planks upon which he rested started to form a small puddle on the stones beneath.

Move, Mely. Move. Please move.

"You said he was saving her, templar," Varric said. "Care to expand on that?"

Cullen's grip loosened, but when Kiara's knees began to buckle, he caught her up again. She did not look away from her sister, sending prayer after prayer up to the Maker, promising Him anything in her power if her sister would only move.

"A vast number of things transpired in Kirkwall during your absence. And there is too much to tell of it even now. But I have seen Fenris do this before—"

"Aye, as have we," Sebastian growled, his voice thick with betrayal.

"No. He—at the time, Amelle was weak, her mana all but depleted," explained Cullen quickly, his words coming in an almost feverish rush. "Then, he'd — he'd at least time enough to remove his gauntlets. I cannot say what he did, but whatever the true scope of his abilities are, he used them to help Amelle in Kirkwall and I believe he has done the same now. If I am right, Amelle now needs only time."

Time. All we require is a little more time. Kiara's eyes settled on Fenris. He wasn't moving — wasn't even twitching. Almost as if…

Isabela's voice came from her right; she was watching from behind a pillar, hidden in its shadow. "I've seen Fenris get hurt before. Wounds worse than some piddly little letter-opener of a dagger," she muttered, sounding every bit as confused and troubled as Kiara felt. "He went down too fast." The pirate queen scowled suddenly. "What was on that blade? That's what I'd like to—"

The pounding of Kiara's heart, the tattoo that had thundered through her veins until she felt every single beat stopped and she sucked in a sudden gasp. Sebastian swore vividly beside her.

"Maker's Light," she breathed, now unable to tear her eyes away from Fenris. He must have realized something was wrong instantly — Kiara only barely remembered the moments after her own poisoning. Blue. Everything had gone blue.

Time was indeed of the essence; Amelle needed more, but Fenris had only an hour. Kiara's mind, which had felt sluggish with shock and terror, began to work, pushing through uncertainty and fear. They weren't too late. They still had time. Whether they had enough remained to be seen.

"Get yourselves into position," she whispered. "Get ready. Be ready for anything. If that bitch is carrying around poisoned blades—"

"She knows we're coming for her," Isabela supplied. Kiara nodded.

"Isabela, Cullen, try to hide yourselves in the crowd. If the mob looks as if it's going to turn against us, try to forestall that."

"Turn the tide of a bloodthirsty mob?" Isabela drawled, arching a dark eyebrow at her. "That runs rather counter to my usual skills, you realize."

"Use your imagination," pressed Kiara. "But try to avoid unnecessary bloodshed."

"I do love a challenge." She turned and shot a wink at Cullen. "Let's get moving, Handsome."

Cullen pulled his arms away from Kiara, but her legs were steady now, her mind made up. He shot her a look that said, I hope you know what you're doing, and with a brisk nod, he joined Isabela, who had already melted into the crowd with ease and stealth that never failed to amaze her.

"Varric," Kiara began, but the dwarf only slung Bianca on his back and nodded.

"I got it, Hawke. Get high up, keep her in my sights and have my big bag of dirty tricks open and ready."

"And wait for my signal."

A ghost of a smile—the first in two days—curved at Varric's mouth. "Let me guess: I'll know it when I see it. We've been working together too long, Hawke. I think the mystery's gone."

"Maker forbid," Kiara murmured as Varric vanished up a stairwell. "Sebastian," she began, and when she turned to face him she saw nothing less than complete comprehension in his eyes, and felt a sudden, fierce swell of emotion. "You already know what to do, don't you?"

He nodded once. "Like Varric, I suspect we've been working together too long."

"No such thing," she said with a brisk shake of her head. Kiara glanced again at the platform, but nothing had changed, and Jessamine still rallied the crowd before her. "Above all else, see if any of your archers have the antidote or know where any is hidden. If Jessamine's out to end us, I doubt she'll be so accommodating."

"And you?" he asked, though his eyes revealed all — the look he was giving her was too knowing.

Kiara straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, shooting him a sharp, determined smile. "I'm going to buy us some time."

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

The voice was familiar, but the words it uttered were so unaccountably odd, so wrong Kiara stopped before she'd taken more than a couple of steps. She turned, looking for the source and found Maisie, her dagger held to Kinnon's throat. Kinnon's eyes were wide and when they met Kiara's he gave his head a tiny shake. Even that slight motion was enough to draw blood.

"What is the meaning of this?" Elias snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. Several of the guard flinched. "Stand down, Ser Maisie."

Maisie didn't flinch. "Forgive me, Captain. I cannot."

"It's an order, soldier!"

The pretty knight shook her head. "I have my orders, Captain. I'm afraid they supersede yours."

"Maisie, don't," Kinnon pleaded, heedless of the way his words brought more blood to his throat. "It's not too late. Put down your weapons. They'll be merciful. You don't have to do this."

"Oh, Kin," she replied, her tone fond and sad and completely unyielding. "I'm sorry, but I do."

Before he could so much as yelp, Maisie whipped her blade away from his throat and brought the pommel of her dagger down hard. Kinnon went down with a groan and a clatter.

"Why?" Sebastian asked.

"We have had too many bad princes," Maisie replied. "Someone must put an end to the madness."

Incredulous, Sebastian shook his head. "You think that someone is going to be Jessamine?"

"She understands what it's like for us," Maisie insisted, tilting her chin defiantly.

Strength in a woman is… rarer here, I think. Kiara remembered Jessamine telling her once. Considered less a charm and more a defect.

"We don't have time for this," Kiara said softly. "Maisie, even you must see you're hopelessly outnumbered. Don't make Elias kill you. Surrender."

Maisie turned her sad smile on Kiara. "No, my lady. You are the one hopelessly outnumbered. For every person you sent into the crowd just now, we have half a dozen. I am afraid you are the one who must surrender."

I can work with this.

Sebastian was standing directly behind her. She felt him touch the small of her back lightly, and she gave a brief, decisive nod. "Very we—"

Her consent was interrupted by Garreth Grayden—sweet, brave, stupid Garreth. She hadn't even realized he was part of the crowd. He's a lord. Of course he came.

He's your friend, Kiara. Of course he came.

The young lord's sword wavered in his hand as he faced the blonde knight. "You will not speak such treason," the lad declared, his voice breaking on the final syllable.

"Garreth," Kiara warned. "Now is not the—"

Garreth's cheeks were flushed, but his eyes were frightened. Was I ever so young? "She impugns your honor, my lady, and the honor of the rightful prince of Starkhaven."

"Honor is the least of my worries just now."

But Garreth—sweet, brave, stupid, quixotic Garreth—raised his blade. Maisie parried the first thrust easily. Garreth was a passable swordsman for his age, but only just. He was a better archer. He's a child. Maisie danced aside, turning Garreth's blade away. The boy left any number of openings, but Maisie did not take them. She doesn't want to kill him.

"Lord Grayden," Sebastian ground out. "Enough."

Garreth feinted and cut at Maisie. Elias stepped in then, drawing his own blade. But you're an archer, Kiara thought. This is not your battle.

For the second time a blade's pommel was brought down hard. This time young Garreth Grayden fell to the stones. Elias' lips moved in a silent prayer and then he took a dueling position. Maisie stumbled backward and shook her head.

"Captain, I don't want to—"

"The boy may be young and idealistic, but he had the right of it. You are a traitor. What you have done is treason. Die with a sword in your hand or die with a noose 'round your neck. We will have this out, Maisie. You and I. Maker forgive you."

But he's an archer. And she's a swordswoman. Kiara swallowed hard. "We don't have time for this," she repeated fervently.

But it hardly took any time at all. Elias gave no quarter and Maisie did not dance and feint and parry away from his attacks as she'd done with sweet, brave, foolish young Garreth Grayden. When the Captain left an opening she took it, and Elias fell to the stones with a blade in his belly.

Kiara's stomach twisted. She felt the prickle of tears in her eyes but she fought them down. Tears would not serve the role she was about to play. Elias, forgive me. Maker, forgive me.

"Take me to your lady, Maisie," Kiara said, heart heavy. "I believe the time has come for the truth to out."