It wasn't a great distance to the platform to begin with, but every step Kiara took brought her closer to Jessamine far too quickly. She had a plan, or something like one, but it was mad. Whether it was mad enough to work, she still wasn't sure.
But, by the Void, she was going to try.
Jessamine, perhaps unsurprisingly, did not notice Kiara's approach at first. She was entranced by the power of the crowd hanging on her every word, hungering for fire and death and all that Jessamine had within her power to provide. They were two entities, feeding off each other. It left Kiara feeling vaguely nauseated, but she shoved that down and kept walking, her head held high.
Jessamine's cheeks were flushed with exhilaration, but power and perhaps madness had contorted her features into something sharper and crueler than any expression Kiara remembered the woman wearing before. Something uglier. She felt as if she were laying eyes on Jessamine for the very first time. Perhaps she was.
"Do you not wonder of the woman so constantly found at our prince's side?" the woman shouted out over the mob. "A foreigner twice over, she pours poison in his ear, and he is weak to resist her charms. He indulges her every whim, an artfully controlled puppet — but who is the so-called Champion of Kirkwall? A Fereldan refugee who slithered and slunk up the rungs of power like a snake, crushing the city within her coils until it fell! And fall it did!"
The crowd roared. From the corner of Kiara's eye, she saw a flash of blue — Isabela's headscarf. Cullen was nearby, too, she had no doubt. She could feel Varric's eyes following her every step as she made her way to the platform. Their presence alone bolstered her and she hoped as she'd never hoped before they would trust she hadn't lost her mind entirely. She didn't dare risk looking back at Sebastian.
"Like a serpent, she moved silently through Kirkwall, hissing lies to all who would listen, until she had gained their trust. This Hawke would have us believe she wishes to be one of us, but she is merely planting the seeds of our own destruction! Starkhaven, heed me: though they have hidden it from you, though they have lied and dissembled, I know the truth: Prince Sebastian intends to wed the foreign puppetmaster. He would put your city in her hands!"
Cold fear seized Kiara, and she forced herself to take another step. And another. Whatever the crowd was screaming, it wasn't joyous.
They will never have me now. They will never trust me now.
But perhaps I can still save them from this.
Jessamine crowed her wordless triumph, and then flung one arm out, pointing at the bound Amelle, who remained still against the stake. Kiara wondered for a moment if Fenris had already been too far under the influence of Maker's Light, and misjudged when he'd plunged his hand into Amelle's chest. Was she… was this all for naught? She shook her head, and kept walking. No—she could not entertain doubts; to do so now would ruin everything before it even began.
"But that deception is not even the worst of the crimes your prince and his intended have committed against you, Starkhaven. There is a deeper secret, a more dangerous lie of omission. I present you with the shame they would bring on Starkhaven! The sister of the Champion of Kirkwall is an apostate mage!" The crowd erupted, boos and hisses filling the air and echoing back down upon them until the noise seemed to fill Kiara's head, her ears ringing with it.
Throughout all, Amelle remained motionless, sagging against the ropes that held her, her chin still resting against her chest, showing no sign whatsoever of consciousness. It wasn't until Kiara was finally standing upon the platform she saw the barest hint of color upon her sister's cheeks. That was all she needed.
The moment Kiara set foot on the platform, the crowd hushed with an almost eerie speed.
I can do this. It's still mad, but I can do this.
Jessamine paused for breath and Kiara stepped forward, clapping lazily.
"Oh, well said. Very eloquent. Somewhat off the mark, of course, but nobody's perfect."
"Ah, you've deigned to join us." Jessamine, playing to the crowd now more than ever, added smugly, "It is said one must only speak of a demon and wait for it to appear."
Kiara snorted indelicately and laughed, shaking her head. "I fear you're sadly misinformed, Mistress Jessamine."
"Do you mean to say this is not your sister? If so, I call you false, for I spoke with her myself — she came to Starkhaven looking for you."
"Oh, that's my sister, beyond a shadow of a doubt." She strode over to the stake and, heart pounding, placed two fingers beneath Amelle's chin and lifted. Amelle remained limp, but Kiara's heart leapt as she felt the warmth of her sister's skin. Not dead. Not yet. "We have the same nose. But as you say, she came looking for me. Not the other way 'round. As you're no doubt aware, one must be left behind before one can attempt such a venture, no matter how foolish." She pulled her hand away with what she hoped was the air of cruelty, letting Amelle's head loll forward again.
Turning her back on Amelle, Kiara faced Jessamine. Her heart was pounding, but she felt her lips smirking. Believe me. Jutting her hip, Kiara raised an eyebrow. Not too much. Don't overplay it. "Mages," Kiara spat, imbuing the word with all the potent vitriol she could manage. "I am sick to bloody death of mages. Give me freedom, they whine. Then, when you do? It's all blood magic and abominations and buildings blowing up." Kiara brushed her hands down the front of her armor and then flicked them lightly, as though ridding them of filth. "Do you have the slightest idea how hard it is to get abomination out of your clothes? I've spent a small fortune keeping myself in clean tunics."
The crowd had silenced when she began speaking, and now she heard someone laugh. It was a brief sound, but it made Jessamine glare, and that was enough. Kiara thought it was probably Varric, but more picked up the mirth.
Believe me, she pleaded. Believe me.
#
Cullen didn't try to follow Isabela's movements through the crowd; she was too quick for him. Instead he watched the flash of blue that marked her headscarf. He stopped abruptly when he heard the clash of swords behind him.
As suddenly as she'd disappeared, the pirate was at his side again. "No," she said quietly. "You can't change what's happening, but we can be a step ahead."
"What is happening?" Cullen asked, trying to peer through the crowd and having little luck.
"Andraste's ass, make it a little more obvious, why don't you? Half of Sebastian's guard has turned against him, led by the blonde knight. Daisy? Lazy?"
"Maisie?" Cullen asked. "But… she was one of Hawke's guards. She was always—"
"Hold that thought, Handsome. Now turn it over."
Cullen frowned, but her meaning hit him a moment later.
"There you go. Yes, whatever Hawke has planned, that girl can ruin it. She's been following Hawke and Sebastian around since day one, and we have to assume she's been listening carefully. Guards and servants… the highborn always seem to forget they've got ears that hear just as well. We need to silence her before she ruins everything."
"You don't mean—"
Isabela grimaced. "Templars she gives me. Spare me the sermon and I'll try not to kill the girl. Unless she asks for it. Deal?"
Cullen felt vaguely unclean as he nodded, but he nodded all the same. Isabela arched an eyebrow. "I don't suppose you've got some spooky templar superpower that'll knock the girl out?"
"Not unless she's a mage. And not with any measure of subtlety."
"Figures," Isabela said with a disappointed roll of her eyes. "Fine. Plan B. As I've said before, Handsome, you're tall. You're also big and solid. So put yourself in her path, and I'll do the rest. As usual."
He did as she asked. Maisie was following Kiara through the crowd and it took very little effort at all to push his way in front of her and simply stop. "Move aside, serah," the young woman commanded the back of his head. "Serah, move aside before my blade moves you."
He was standing so close he felt Maisie go suddenly still. The crowd was loud, but still he heard Isabela whisper, "Now, now, Goldie. I think it best you hold your tongue. One wrong move and Backstabber here lives up to its name. Only it'll be the kidney it finds. You ever seen a death like that? Kidney is a terrible way to go. Sorry, is he tickling you? Inconsiderate fellow. Now listen closely. My friend there's going to stand in front of you and you're going to stay so still and so quiet no one knows you're there."
"It doesn't matter what you do to me," the knight said, spitting defiance. "There are others who—"
"Goldie," Isabela warned, voice so terrifyingly smooth it almost made Cullen shiver, "is there some part of quiet you don't understand?"
Maisie didn't answer.
"Good girl. Now let's watch the show, shall we?"
Cullen was tall enough he could see over most of the crowd. Hawke's sartorial jape made a few people laugh, but Cullen wasn't one of them. What is she planning? What is she doing?
Getting you all killed, whispered an unpleasant little voice in the back of his skull.
In the silence left after the ripple of laughter ended, Cullen heard Sebastian's voice. "Ready archers," he called. "On my mark."
"I'd rethink that," Jessamine called back. Cullen couldn't see her smirk, but her voice was thick with it. He imagined it looked a good deal like Morven's twisted sneer. "You're not the only one with archers, Your Highness. And mine walk in the light of the Maker. His blessing is upon their arrows. He would not see His faithful struck down."
Poison. More poison.
Behind him, Isabela swore creatively. Maisie remained silent.
For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.
He hoped the bloody Chant had the right of it.
#
She noticed some kind of commotion in the crowd—near Sebastian, but not affecting him. Kiara looked away, but where she'd placed her attention had not escaped Jessamine. Distract her. Misdirection. Look over here while I use my other hand to pull the cheating card from my sleeve. Without looking down, Kiara nudged Fenris' body with her toe. He'd gone completely rigid. Time. All we require is a little more time.
"Shall we discuss the points upon which you are mistaken?" Kiara asked lightly. Jessamine narrowed her eyes. "Unfortunately one lies at our feet here. This elf isn't a Vael dog, he's a Hawke dog. And he was acting under my orders, not the prince's."
Forgive me, Fenris.
"Much the same thing," Jessamine shot back. "You would both see me murdered."
Kiara sighed, long-suffering. "Wrong again, I'm afraid. Fenris is a good soldier, as long as you point him at the right target. His last master was a Tevinter magister who treated him ill. Drove him a little mad, if it's truth we're dealing with here. I always have to keep him leashed around mages or… well, you saw what he did."
"He was coming for me," Jessamine growled.
"It was the mage whose heart he aimed for," Kiara contradicted. "He would have ended this before it could begin, and without a messy pyre to clean up afterward, but you stopped him too soon." She jerked her chin at Amelle. "She's broken, but he didn't have time to finish what he'd begun. You and I are not so very different, Jessamine. We are strong women. Clever women. More than that? We are survivors, aren't we?" Kiara turned in a slow circle, hands outstretched. "There is an Exalted March on the horizon and we survivors would rather find ourselves on the winning side, wouldn't we?"
Kiara thought she saw Amelle twitch. She hoped she saw Amelle twitch. She prayed it was not her eyes playing tricks. Then Kiara kicked Fenris again—forgive me—and said, "You've cost me a good dog. Though, if I am not mistaken, there is still time to revive him. He's a valuable weapon, of more use to me—and you—alive."
Jessamine regarded her steadily. Believe me. Then she reached into her robes and withdrew a tiny vial of golden liquid. "If I am not mistaken, there is rather a shortage of Maker's Light antidote in Starkhaven just now," Jessamine said lightly, almost teasingly. "Some healer with clumsy hands bungled the last batch and then knocked a candle onto the recipe. Foolish girl. This vial's good, though." Very calmly, without once taking her gaze from Kiara's, Jessamine reached out, extending the vial.
And then she dropped it. The bottle shattered, spilling its golden hope in a useless puddle.
"Clumsy hands," Jessamine said. "They'll be the doom of us all."
"Your loss," Kiara replied, rolling her shoulders in a shrug she hoped looked indolent and unconcerned. Oh, Fenris. I'm sorry. "But dogs are easy enough to come by."
"So they are," Jessamine replied, narrowing her eyes skeptically. Kiara kept her expression cold and haughty as twin flashes of memory and inspiration entwined and sprung almost fully-formed into her mind.
"It was a game we played as children. Exalted March. We thought it sounded terribly romantic and epic and exciting. I'm afraid we were... rather ignorant of the greater implications. Our parents were horrified when they discovered it."
Fenris' voice, higher-pitched and strangled: "You played a game... called Exalted March?"
"We were bored, creative little monsters, yes. Oh, don't give me that look. Carver and I didn't slaughter her every time. Sometimes she even managed to convince us of the error of our ways. And now she's managed to convince me I can't even be mad anymore. Not properly."
In her mind's eye she saw Amelle, so very many years younger, her hair still long enough to fall into curls that bounced upon her shoulders, her tiny body writhing almost comically on the ground, kicking her feet and flailing about as she coughed dramatically.
"You rotten templar," Mely hacked, seized by another round of convulsions. "You got me. You… got… me… I'm dying. Dying! Dy…ing… Everything's getting dark… darker… darkerrrrr…"
Kiara watched, dispassionately. It was possibly the longest death scene Mely had attempted yet. "Carver," she sighed, "the Divine Kiara orders you to kill the maleficar quickly."
"Cut off her head?" he asked.
"Cut off her head," she answered.
Mely's eyes went suddenly wide, then closed as she lay perfectly still on the ground. "I'm dead! I'm dead already!"
"You claim to be on the side of the Maker, Champion, but we have heard the rumors from Kirkwall. We have heard you fought on the side of the mages. We have heard you opposed Kirkwall's Knight-Commander."
Kiara snorted and gave the woman a pitying look. "Jessamine, I would have thought you above believing mere rumors. Kirkwall's Knight-Commander was compromised. I witnessed with my very eyes as the woman imbued statues of stone and bronze with life and set them upon her own templars. If that's not dark magic, I don't know what is. Of course I opposed that." There was a gasp from the crowd. Kiara suspected it was Isabela, but the source didn't truly matter. "Really," she drawled, "all of this secrecy and suspicion do no credit to either of us."
"And what of the letter you wrote your sister upon waking?"
"The letter that recommended she remain in Kirkwall?"
Nodding, Jessamine added, "The letter that assured your supposedly despised sister you were in good health and that she must remain in Kirkwall."
Kiara smiled coolly. "Since you clearly read the letter, perhaps you'll be so kind as to remind me what the post-script was." She tapped her temple. "Old age, you know."
"You assured her you would send for her when it was safe."
Spreading her hands as if that explained all, Kiara said, "And I left her in the company of Kirkwall's acting Knight-Commander and one very effective mage-hating dog. I'm sure you're familiar with the old saying? The one about not cutting off one's nose to spite one's face? My timid little rabbit was serving her purpose well until you startled her and sent her running from her burrow. Everything would have worked out neatly if you'd not intervened." Her smile grew colder at Jessamine's shock. "I was biding my time, Jessamine. I'd planned to send for her later. When I could assure her the sort of welcome she deserved." She cast a glance at Amelle, who, yes, had more color in her cheeks now. She still remained limp, however, and Kiara bit back a hysterical giggle — Of all time times for Amelle to learn how to play dead—or at least unconscious—properly…
Kiara turned again to pace the length of the platform when she saw it — the wound at Amelle's shoulder, which had been a bloody, gaping hole, was now very nearly shut. The blood remained upon her skin, of course, but the wound… the wound was healing. Kiara's eyes darted to Amelle's hands, still bound behind the stake. They had been rubbed raw to bleeding, but now only the faintest red lines remained.
Just a little more time, then.
Jessamine strolled closer, still appearing to wear the veneer of skepticism, but now with a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes. Kiara kept her expression bland, almost bored.
"Your sister's letter from Kirkwall was hastily scrawled, you know. Written as if by one in a hurry to get to her sister's side."
Kiara lifted both eyebrows and crossed her arms over her chest. "Really," she drawled. "Little rabbit's reply to me outright ignored clear instruction?"
Jessamine turned an angry pink, and said, "Surely you understand I only acted in Starkhaven's best interests."
Kiara rejoiced a little at the obvious discomposure, but she maintained her aloof facade. "Well. At least you have noble intentions when you read someone else's mail." A few other voices in the crowd laughed — she was certain Varric was among them this time — and with that dry remark, she felt the crowd's attention begin to shift. Once again, Kiara began to pace the platform, hands linked lazily behind her back, every step as leisurely as if she were taking a garden stroll. "Clearly tired of the ineptitude of ill-qualified princes, you decided to take matters into your own hands and discredit the final remaining Vael… preemptively, shall we say?" She tried to sound as if she approved, and though a shadow of confusion flickered over Jessamine's face, she nodded.
"They have no idea what it takes to rule."
"Indeed. But we wander from the point. You decided Sebastian's shame should be heaped upon his shoulders in the form of one whiny, timid, pathetic little mage, good for little more than patching up common-garden injuries?"
"I had heard Sebastian Vael had been near death!"
Kiara clucked her tongue at Jessamine, shaking her head. "And what have we learned about rumors today, Jessamine? Honestly." On the final syllable, Kiara turned on her heel and began striding in Amelle's direction again, when she saw, quite clearly, that her sister was holding out five fingers. Then, very slowly and deliberately, Amelle's thumb folded in, leaving four.
She's almost ready. Kiara's heart thudded hard, once, and she felt the familiar tingle of adrenaline as she turned to face the crowd.
"I can't help but feel as if Mistress Jessamine has wasted your time here today, friends. You came out for flames and violence and discovered a woman who put too much faith in rumor."
"You deny then you were secretly engaged to Prince Sebastian?"
"I deny my personal life is any of your business," Kiara retorted. "I am what I am, Jessamine. Just as you are what you are. Survivors. And to survivors? The ends always justify the means. And I have a good forehead for a crown, don't you think? What is it to you if Sebastian thought so?"
They will never trust me now.
Crossing her arms again, Kiara rocked back on her heels as if deep in thought, then turned back to Amelle — three fingers, now — as if indulging an afterthought. "I do believe I've spotted a flaw in your plan, however. You see, it's to do with mages being burned."
"I think you're contradicting yourself, Champion," sniffed Jessamine, with an air of superior condescension that would have normally made Kiara grit her teeth. Instead, she only smiled wider, fixing the crowd below — many of whom were watching her, Jessamine forgotten — with a conspiratorial wink.
"I think you'll find I'm not, Mistress Jessamine. Believe it or not, when I started offering money for mages, I was only acting in Starkhaven's best interests." Jessamine grimaced to hear her own words thrown back at her, but Kiara didn't allow the moment of triumph to register. "I see you're confused. Allow me to clarify: you see, one of the first ways in which my sister's magic manifested itself was fire. Many mages have control over the elements. As such—" Here she gestured widely at Amelle's body and saw all fingers had been drawn in, "—no true mage can die by fire."
A woman shouted, "But my brother was burned a mage! Burned to ashes, he was, and you're telling me it was for nothing? You're telling me he was burned for a lie? Maker, no! Noooo!"
Kiara made a mental note to have a conversation with Isabela later about melodrama. Also, about believable accents.
The crowd, however, seemed not to have noticed.
"It was no lie," Jessamine called out. "It was no lie when those other heathen maleficarum died."
"Prove it!" shouted Isabela.
"Prove it!" echoed the crowd.
Jessamine's eyes brightened and the smile she turned on Kiara was a cruel one. It seemed to say I know something you don't know. "Shall we put your theory to the test, then, Champion of Kirkwall? By your own admission this woman is your sister, correct?"
"Yes," Kiara said. "Same nose. We've covered that territory."
"And you swear she is a mage?"
"No question about it. The little rabbit's glowy blue magic hands have healed more broken-winged birds and sick babies than you'd ever care to see in your life. Creepy, you know, seeing broken things mended before your eyes."
I know something you don't know, Jessamine.
Jessamine did not pause, but the crowd began to murmur. And not in any way that sounded supportive. Jessamine's grin widened, and she did nothing to hide the exultation when she shouted, "Let the Maker's justice prevail! The Maker's power is greater than a mere mage's. He has incapacitated her so she cannot defile His world with her impure powers! Let us see Him control the fire and burn this witch to ash, just as he did with the others! When she burns as the others did, you will have your proof. Even a mage who knows the elements cannot defy the Maker's will."
Jessamine reached for one of the torches at the corner of the platform and thrust it into the kindling at Amelle's feet.
The dry wood sputtered and smoked, but did not take. Jessamine urged the torch deeper into the pyre. "Maker! Maker, heed your humble servant! Let your fire speak!"
For an instant Kiara heard Meredith's voice echoing in her head.
Then the fire came. But it was not the kindling that caught. In an instant, Amelle's restraints flashed into flame and fell. The burning torch guttered in a whoosh of icy air and Jessamine stumbled back, skittering along the ground.
In a voice raspy and hoarse from disuse, Amelle said, "Oh, I think the Maker's spoken loud and clear."
#
Kiara knew how to win over a crowd, and Amelle had never been so thankful for it as she was during those long minutes when she felt Fenris' lyrium infusion trickle through her, just enough to counteract the magebane and whatever else it was Jessamine had been using to incapacitate her, just enough to allow her own mana to replenish itself, slowly. Too slowly.
Though, really. Timid? Whiny?
All through her sister's improvised diatribe, Amelle stood, barely breathing, listening intently to what was said as well as what was left unsaid. Kiara and Jessamine dueled with words and innuendo instead of blades. With her eyes closed, Amelle heard Varric's husky chuckle when Kiara cracked a joke, Sebastian's hoarse shout, and Isabela's travesty of an accent. She didn't hear Cullen, but she'd no doubt he was present somewhere. Focusing on that, she listened to their voices, trying to figure out their placement, and trying desperately not to think about Fenris, who'd not moved from the spot where he'd fallen.
Fenris. His last words to her still rang in her ears and made hot tears prickle behind her lids.
Breathe, she reminded herself, when a hitching sob threatened to break free. Slowly. You can do this.
As her mana returned, Amelle slowly, carefully healed her own injuries first, holding her power back — the half dead and deeply unconscious weren't meant to glow. After what felt like an eternity, the throbbing in her shoulder died away and the feeling returned to her aching fingers. She kept breathing, slowly, shallowly as she listened, concentrating, waiting. The opportune moment would reveal itself — if she'd learned nothing else from playing cards with her sister, it was the perils of showing your hand too early.
Then Amelle felt the sudden heat from the torch Jessamine held, and when she peered through her eyelashes she saw Kiara's barely-restrained smirk.
It was time.
Amelle drew in a deep breath and nearly sighed in relief as she felt her mana swirl and dance inside of her, then let her own flames manifest. The heat had been too-long absent from her hands, and as the rush of fire poured from her fingers, she realized how desperately she'd missed the pounding of it in her blood. The rope singed and smoldered as Amelle opened her eyes and lifted her head. The collective gasp — and at least one terrified scream — pleased her far more than it ought to have done, but when she spied Fenris on the ground, pale and rigid, blood still seeping from his stab wound, triumph vanished as fury flashed anew in her chest like a particularly violent spark set upon dry kindling. For a moment lasting no longer than a single heartbeat, Amelle wanted nothing better than to burn the bitch to ashes where she stood.
No time. Later.
The older woman's eyes widened, and Amelle saw Jessamine raise her hand — the signal to her archers, she was certain. That only served to prod her anger forth, bubbling like molten rock inside of her; energy tingled impatiently against her skin, ready and waiting at her very fingertips.
But she had more important things to focus on right now. Sucking in a breath of mana, she redirected the fire that wanted so dearly to pour from her hands, dropped to her knees and took Fenris' head in her hands, cradling it as she shifted her mana until it manifested in that dearly familiar hotcold thrum. Blue-white light surrounded her hands and threads of it wound around Fenris, sinking into his skin. It was as if, after being smothered for so long, the energy had built up inside her, bursting to get out. Now she did not hear Compassion's voice calling to her from too far away, but rather the welcome sensation of phantom hands over hers, warm and comforting.
But Fenris still wasn't moving. His breathing was slow and labored, and his expression betrayed nothing, gave no indication at all that he'd received any healing magic at all. His body was strangely rigid, and his skin too hot to the touch. The wound's bleeding had slowed—nearly ceased entirely—but other than that, there was no change. She closed her eyes and probed deeper; Compassion's touch sank into Fenris' skin, finally allowing her to sense the corruption in his blood. Poison of some kind—one that did not react to her methods, evidently.
Ice pooled in her stomach and fire swam in her veins as she lifted her eyes to the older woman who was watching her, derision writ large on her face.
"You're going to wish you hadn't done that."
"Go on, then, mage," Jessamine spat. "Kill me. Murder me. Martyr me. Show them what you're made of. Fire and hate and death. Like all your kind. They are right to fear you."
Fire and hate and death.
Amelle glanced down at Fenris' face, so horribly ashen—paler still for all the healing magics she was pouring into him—and her throat tightened with what might've been a sob, but could easily have turned into a scream, a howling cry of rage and pain and grief. Her fingers itched to rain fire down on Jessamine, to crush her, to destroy her, but…
Fire and hate and death. That is not who I am.
Kiara, standing halfway between Amelle and Jessamine, turned her head slightly. Her expression was fierce and proud and so full of love Amelle had to swallow the tears that threatened. You can't start now or you'll never stop. Later. "You know what you're made of, Mely."
Amelle did. And it wasn't fire and hate and death. Taking a deep, centering breath, she looked again at Fenris' face between her hands. Then, regathering all the mana she could, she pushed it all forward, all at once, urging, willing the power flowing through her from the Fade to right the wrong still paralyzing the elf's body and making him fight for every breath.
Bathed in the blue-white light of her magic, she almost imagined his tattoos were glowing—please, let his tattoos glow—but it was only a trick of the light.
#
When the first arrows began to fly, Kiara dropped, rolled, and sprang to her feet close enough to Jessamine that any arrows aimed at her would have an equally likely effect of hitting the older woman.
"Call them off!" Kiara shouted. "Your bloody archers will take out half the crowd!"
"And if they do?" Jessamine shrieked back, her eyes wild and her skin ghostly-pale in the light Amelle's magic was giving off.
"They're innocent!" Kiara ducked and wove. She was in too close for her bow to be of any use, but she had the knife she carried for when she was caught in hand-to-hand situations.
She wasn't particularly good with it, but she had it.
"If my men can take yours, I'll consider a few innocent deaths a small price to pay."
An arrow sang, nearly catching Jessamine unawares. Kiara wasn't certain whose arrow it was. Again she danced aside. She was already breathing too heavily, and her palm was slick on the hilt of her pitiful blade. Bloody Isabela always made it looked so damned easy. Kiara tried to land a blow, but Jessamine spun away, pulling a second knife from within her robes. The first was still in her right hand, stained with Fenris' blood. The second looked as menacing as the first, and from so near, Kiara could see the discoloration of the poison on its edge.
"Dance with me, Kiara Hawke," Jessamine jibed. "I've seen you in court, you remember. You may be a demon with a bow in your hands, but you're no dancer."
Kiara was forced to jump back, nearly falling, when Jessamine rushed her, robes swirling. She couldn't watch both left hand and right, so she was forced to keep out of the woman's reach entirely. Arrows fell. One shaft shattered at Kiara's feet.
Time. All we require is a little more time.
Behind her, Amelle still glowed.
Kiara dared not bring the fight too near her sister, but she knew she had to keep between Jessamine and Amelle. Darting forward again, she aimed a sweeping kick toward the older woman's legs, which Jessamine avoided with disdainful ease. The move had left her terribly out of position, so it was all she could do to fling her arm up. Luck, or fate, or the bloody Maker kept the knife from hitting her. Jessamine's edge caught Kiara's and the two blades locked hilt to hilt.
This time when she kicked out, Kiara caught Jessamine's knee and the woman went down hard. Her second knife nearly caught Kiara's arm, but Kiara twisted at the last moment and instead the knife lodged in the platform.
"Maker's balls, Varric," Kiara bellowed. "How much more of a signal do you bloody need?"
But wherever Varric was—and whatever was keeping Bianca busy—no miracle crossbow bolt appeared, and Jessamine reared above Kiara holding her remaining blade—the bloody one, of course it was the bloody one—in a fierce, two-handed grip. The older woman's expression was feral, mad.
And Kiara was trapped.
#
The world exploded into noise around her, but still Amelle knelt, still she cradled Fenris' head, and still she willed the power of the Fade to channel down her arms, through her hands an into the elf, willing it to undo, fix, or heal whatever was wrong. Whatever in the Void this Maker's Light was, beyond incurable—and Amelle refused to believe that. The wound itself had closed—and perhaps that was progress—but whatever poison swam in Fenris' veins remained stubborn to her ministrations.
Please, Fenris. Please. Heal. You must heal.
He did not rouse, and she didn't look up until she'd heard an arrow whistle past her ear. Chaos reigned around her — the harsh clanging of clashing swords, the whizzing and singing of arrows shooting past, and her sister locked in single bloody combat once more.
The Arishok fought with more honor.
She looked down once more at Fenris—no change there, and it made her heart twist in her chest.
He would be furious with you right now, you know. Expending mana on him when others need you. He would be arguing with you if he could.
That truth of it brought a blinding rush of tears Amelle fought to blink back. She looked up again in time to spy Jessamine bearing down on her sister, armed with the very poisoned blade that had left Fenris in this condition.
"Fire, hate, and death, huh?" she muttered through her teeth.
Slipping one hand beneath Fenris' head, cradling it, Amelle concentrated harder, letting power flow down her arm and past her palm until the air shuddered and a red glow engulfed Jessamine, holding her perfectly still. Paralyzed. Still kneeling, she glanced around quickly — Cullen and Isabela were surrounded by the crowd, though not everyone in the crowd was advancing on them. At the far end of the courtyard, Sebastian fired arrow after arrow, aiming at targets only he could see. That left Varric. Where in all the bloody Void was Varric? She craned her neck and saw him high above, two of Jessamine's zealot followers closing in on either side.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, clearing her mind and letting energy surge and swell within her, waiting to be channeled into a spell. When she whispered the words and released the spell, she felt tendrils of protective, defensive power rush out in all directions, each one finding its target before expanding and shielding them from harm, including herself and Fenris — and then she took his head in both hands once more and whispered yet more incantations into his ear, begging with him to wake as she twisted and pulled and pushed at her mana, willing it out, focusing it until she saw the glow of her own power grow brighter and brighter, a painful mimicry of Fenris' light.
Please.
#
As soon as Jessamine's arm went up and the first arrows began to sing out all around him, seemingly heedless of where they landed or whom they might injure, Cullen uttered a brief curse, turned, and wrenched Maisie's sword from its scabbard to keep the woman from drawing it herself and using it against them. The knight glowered at him, but whatever Isabela was doing with the knife kept her silent.
He turned, trying to peer through the crowd, trying to mark out a route that would take him to the platform and the madness there. The crowd shifted and roiled like an angry sea, and every time a path seemed to open, it was gone again before he so much as blinked.
"You'll never make it through the crowd," Isabela warned. "Hawke'll have it under contro—Andraste's saggy tits that was close! Shit, Hawke's going to get herself pincushioned up there."
"She needs help."
Isabela sighed. "Of course she does. But Hawke is Hawke. She'd rather you stay down here, keeping all the little innocent sheep from getting their wool clipped."
Cullen knew the pirate was right—damn her anyway—but knowing didn't make it easy to watch. Much of the crowd began to move when the fighting began—trying and failing to get away, he thought. There were too many people packed into quarters too close for comfort. Those who weren't struck down by errant arrows were as like to see themselves crushed beneath pounding feet or smothered in the press of terrified townsfolk.
It galled him to admit it, even to himself, but he simply wasn't used to battles like this one. In his world, battles were black and white. Mage and templar. His allies wore flaming swords upon their breasts and—more often than not—the things he fought were abominations. In robes. So many demons. So many deaths. He had powers to help him in that kind of fight, but no cleanse or holy smite would aid him here; the only mage was one whose powers he absolutely did not want to disrupt. Here, trapped in the square of a city he didn't know, he couldn't tell friend from foe.
Even the woman he had, until a moment ago, felt certain was an enemy was now staring wide-eyed and horrified at the platform. Tears brightened Maisie's eyes, making their blue strangely startling. "Oh, Maker," she breathed. "Oh, Maker, what have I done?"
"What'd I tell you about being quiet, Goldie?"
But Maisie did not heed Isabela's warning. She looked at him instead, pleadingly, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and biting down hard. "This wasn't meant to happen," she said. "You have to believe me. This wasn't meant to happen. This wasn't what she promised."
"And yet you sound surprised," Isabela opined. "You know what, sweetheart? Here's a tip. When people ask you to do something that you know damn well is going to hurt anyone and everyone you've ever cared about? Even if it sounds good on paper? It's probably the wrong bloody thing to do."
"It wasn't about revenge," Maisie argued. "It was supposed to be justice."
Isabela spat a curse under her breath. "Isn't it always? Come on, Handsome. I don't like our positioning here. We'll let Princess deal with this one."
Maisie bowed her head, the fine golden strands of her hair falling to obscure her face. "I yield, messeres. I will go with you peaceably."
Isabela rolled her eyes at him over the woman's shoulder. "Color me surprised. And forgive me for keeping you right where Backstabber can see you. Save your speeches for Hawke. She's the one you need to appeal to. And if anything happens to the people she cares about because of what you've done?" The pirate shook her head, her meaning perfectly clear.
"It's too late," Maisie said hollowly. "But it wasn't supposed to be like this."
"It never is," Cullen said.
Isabela dragged Maisie along at knifepoint, and Cullen followed, his blade in one hand and Maisie's in the other but hesitant to use either.
He couldn't have said if a minute or an hour had passed—they still hadn't returned to Sebastian's side, he knew that much—when a man risked life and limb to climb to the platform. He was a plain man, in plain clothes, with nothing so bold as a flaming sword or a robe and staff to declare his allegiances—not that those lines in the sand meant as much to Cullen any longer. Behind the man, Amelle still glowed, the blue-white light so fierce and strong Cullen could hardly see her form within it. He wondered if she was giving herself yet another nosebleed, and whether her healing here would prove as futile as the first cases in Kirkwall. He desperately hoped it would not prove so. Blessed Andraste, aid her, she does your work. Jessamine was trapped in a red prison, teeth still bared in a rictus snarl, and Hawke was just getting to her knees, looking shaky and rubbing at the back of her head. She hadn't fallen down poisoned, though; the flush of relief nearly overwhelmed him.
"Listen!" the plain man in his plain clothes screamed. "All of you, listen!" Not everyone stopped, but Cullen thought the crowd no longer pushed quite so hard, and some of the sounds of fighting ceased. The man clearly took this as the best he would get and continued, shouting as loud as he could, "Words are words. We heard a lot of 'em. They don't always mean what we think they mean. Deeds are deeds, and that's what you don't know. That's what you haven't seen, some of you. The Champion's no monster burning babies and killing kin—you there, Verra, you know what Tiny was doing, you let him steal your money for months; Tiny broke your son's arm and there was nothing you could do until the Champion came. You know it and I know it. And Kalon—you should be ashamed of yourself carrying on like this. Your business has never been better, since the Champion ended Tiny's reign. Dinag, Morl, Cindin, all of you! You pretend now you didn't sit with this woman down at The Spotted Pig and let her drink you straight under the table? You let her buy your drinks that night and nary a complaint, but now you're calling for her blood? You oughta be ashamed, the bloody lot of you. You stand with her or you slink back to your homes, but by the Maker, you stop pretending she's ever done anything to wrong you."
A rogue arrow whistled by the man's ear, but he didn't so much as flinch. Cullen had to admire the man—he'd seen seasoned soldiers break and run under circumstances half as terrifying as the one the plain man in his plain clothes faced. "I don't know about our new prince yet—we haven't had him long enough for me to make up my mind—but I tell you one thing, and I tell it to you true: he chose a good woman. I never met a noblewoman who'd do the kind of things for us lowborn I've seen this woman do, and damn if that don't count for something in my book. I don't know this angry lady in blue who has nothing good to say, but I know Kiara Hawke. And she's no monster. Go home. Starkhaven's seen enough blood, enough shame, and it weren't the mages brought it down on us."
Even Cullen paused, taken in by the man's honesty, by his heartfelt plea.
And then an arrow took the plain man in his plain clothes straight through the heart and as he toppled down into the crowd, Cullen heard Hawke's scream of horror, of despair. She stood frozen, empty hands outstretched; any archer could have taken her then, he thought, just as they'd taken the plain man in his plain clothes. But no arrows flew. For a moment, a heartbeat, a heartbroken breath the entire courtyard was still.
But when the crowd started screaming again, it was Kiara Hawke's despair they echoed, and Cullen knew the tide had begun to turn.
#
Amelle had to wonder if the time she'd spent chained in that tiny room had addled her wits. A solitary man, standing up to an angry mob with arrows—poisoned arrows—flinging every which way? She could scarcely believe her eyes, and yet there it was, there he was, pleading with them more effectively, more eloquently than Amelle was sure anyone else could do under the circumstances. But before the crowd could react, before the man could say another word, an arrow shot down from above and, with a sickening thunk, sank into his body. He lurched once, then fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Her sister's scream tore the still air and cut through her own grief.
Go to him. You must. She knew it was her conscience, her good sense speaking, but for a moment it sounded eerily like Fenris' voice and Amelle wondered yet again about the state of her wits. She looked down at him, her heart wrenching in her chest—still no change at all.
But he yet breathes, she told herself, distantly aware of the tears sliding down past her nose and falling, splashing on Fenris' armor. Pressing a light kiss to his forehead, she sniffled and dashed her tears away with her ruined sleeve. He is not dead, not yet. I have not failed him, and I may be able to help the others. I can still do something to stop this madness.
Finally, she stood, the light from her healing energy casting a soft glow upon her skin. She kept her mana focused on healing, protection, and defense—they were all still going to need it. She looked around and saw hardly anyone paid any heed to the glowing girl they'd all been so ready to burn earlier, and that alone made an unhinged sort of giggle bubble up in her chest.
Wits, definitely addled.
Amelle walked to the edge of the platform, looked down at the man who'd fallen only seconds before, and climbed down to tend him. He was not the first to be injured, not by a long shot, but he'd spoken rationally, and in this climate that mattered more than almost anything else.
Someone cried out above the din, "What's she doing? What's the mage doing to Joff?"
She knelt beside the man—Joff—and cast a shield around them both; it was enough to stop the most well-intentioned bystander as well as the most ill-intentioned arrow. Mindful of the arrow still lodged in his chest, Amelle turned the man in her arms. She found relief in the fact that he was trembling, for all that his breaths were labored — he was still alive, at least, but not for much longer. Blood had already pooled beneath him. Too much blood.
"Shh, it's going to be all right," she whispered. Blood stained his lips and his eyes were wide with terror, but not—she thought, she hoped—at her.
Placing one hand over the wound, Amelle pulled the arrow free, grasping the fletching and letting the shaft slide past her fingers, whispering thanks to Andraste this tip at least was not poisoned. Jessamine had evidently stretched the truth about every arrow. Once the shaft was free — and its journey out was a hundred times worse than its journey in, she knew — Amelle placed both hands over the flowing wound and drew in a breath, her mana shifting and pulsing inside of her until it coursed out of her hands and into Joff's injured body.
She was only half aware of the bodies crowding around her, but then a few of them cried out:
"Witch!"
"She's hurtin' him! She's killin' Joff!"
"Shut up and watch, you imbeciles! If she was going to kill him, she'd have let the arrow do its bloody job."
That almost made her smile. Oh, Isabela, how I've missed you.
With another breath and a flash of light, Amelle coaxed the flesh and muscle together again, urging it to heal. It had been so bloody long since she'd healed such a straightforward injury, she was nearly startled to discover how quickly, how effortlessly the wound knit.
Joff blinked owlishly up at her.
"I'm not dead," he said faintly, a tremor to his voice.
"Not today," replied Amelle with a little shake of her head.
"And you're… you're the Champion's sister?"
"Sometimes to her annoyance, yes."
He blinked again and swallowed hard. "Can you… can you help stop this?"
"I don't know," she answered honestly, still keeping her voice low, "but I think it's time I helped try."
Joff nodded jerkily as Amelle helped him sit up. Then, after a second or two, she helped him to his feet.
"Name's Joff," he said a bare second before realizing his clothes were stained with copious amounts of his own blood. He went vaguely grey as he looked down at himself.
"I'm Amelle," she said, pulling his attention away from his bloodied clothes. "Now, promise me, Joff, you'll not do anything quite so foolish again."
He offered Amelle a tremulous smile. "I'd promise, but my wife'd cuff me on the head for lying."
It took a moment for Amelle to realize how quiet the square had become. People who'd been screaming only moments before now watched, breath held, as Joff clasped Amelle's hand briefly, before making his unsteady way around the edge of the crowd, where a red-haired woman with a tear-streaked face pulled him into a fierce hug.
Amelle looked around—the fighting continued on the outer edges, but the air felt… strange. Charged with something she couldn't quite define.
Then, from behind her she heard a snarl and Amelle knew the paralysis spell had worn off. "Fire, hate, and death! She's planted a demon in his head! Watch and—"
Eyes narrowed, Amelle turned and flicked her fingers at Jessamine. Another red glyph shimmered to life and surrounded her. "Oh, will you shut up?"
High above arrows still flew but — surrounded by her shield — Amelle climbed onto the platform, took another breath, and felt the almost intoxicating warmth of healing magic shift and change inside her, rushing beneath her skin and turning hotter. Then she flung both hands to the sky and let forth a burst of intense heat: any arrows caught in midair went alight and fell to earth in ashes.
If there had been anyone else who'd not yet had her attention, that little stunt seemed to do the trick.
"Fire, hate, and death!" Amelle yelled out, her throat aching as she shouted, her voice sounding odd to her own ears — strained and rough with disuse and emotion both. "That's what Jessamine claimed to be protecting you from! Fire!" She pointed at the stake and kindling. "Hate!" She turned and shot her other arm out, pointing at Jessamine herself, caught and paralyzed in the midst of her own fury. "And death!" She held out both arms to the crowd. "Look around you! Look! How many of your own have fallen today? Because this woman cared more about her own actions than their repercussions?"
Many eyes turned to Joff, who was still looking down at the bloody spot on his tunic where the arrow had protruded from his chest, wonder etched on his features.
"This woman is no healer, and she is no friend to Starkhaven. She wanted to burn me not to prove her devotion to the Maker and His Bride, but because I healed a man she did not wish to see healed. I saved a life she wanted extinguished! For two days she did nothing but pour poison into my body and tell me of everything I'd ruined because I did not let Sebastian Vael perish in a Kirkwall alleyway. Look at the carnage she's wrought today! Does this sound like a woman on the side of the Maker? This is not justice. There is no holiness in vengeance. Is the kind of woman who would rain down poisoned arrows upon the innocent people of Starkhaven the kind of woman on whose side you wish to fight?"
"Shit no!" Isabela cried out. And again, the crowd echoed her.
"Thank you, child," said a quiet voice just behind and to her left. "I do believe you've made your point."
Amelle swallowed hard, reining in the power that flickered at her fingertips. Even if the fine robes of a Chantry Revered Mother hadn't indicated the newcomer's identity, the regiment of templars flanking her would have made her position clear enough. There could be no ignoring them, with the swords flaming on their breastplates. She knew very well there was nowhere to run, no hope of escape, but her father's lessons rang in her ears and adrenaline bade her flee.
The Revered Mother was younger than she would have imagined—far too young to be throwing around the word child willy-nilly—with a smooth, unlined face and eyes both kind and shrewd. When Amelle straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, she thought she saw the faintest ghost of a smile playing at the corners of the cleric's lips, but she couldn't be sure.
In her peripheral vision she caught a glimpse of Kiara's telltale hair as her sister drew near.
"Revered Mother," Kiara greeted. Calmly, Amelle thought. "I'm afraid all this commotion on your doorstep has rather disturbed your peace. Pray, forgive us."
"The runner His Highness sent from the palace was what disturbed our peace, Lady Kiara, as you well know. I am only sorry it took us so long to arrive." The Revered Mother returned her clear gaze to Amelle. "It might be best if you let the rest of your power fade now, child. You know it makes the templars so very itchy."
"I-I would, Revered Mother," Amelle said, still desperately trying to parse the cleric's words for humor. "But—they're shields, protecting… protecting the prince. And keeping that bitc—keeping Jessamine—"
This time Amelle was certain it was a smile that pulled at the Revered Mother's mouth. "This woman Jessamine has done you great wrong, child," the woman said, loudly enough for her voice to carry throughout the square; it was a voice used to speaking sermons, and the people paused, listening. "What would you do with her?"
Is there an equivalent of whatever poison she used on me for non-mages?
Amelle glanced down at Fenris' still form. She could hear the wounded moaning in the crowd. If she wasn't dragged off in chains, there were some she might still save. This bitch killed them, with her poisoned arrows and her single-minded fury. Their blood is on her hands. Drown her in a vat of this Maker's Light whose antidote she claims to have destroyed and see how she likes it.
When Amelle looked to Kiara, she found her sister's face preternaturally still; the expression gave her nothing. It offered no criticism or judgment, but neither did it offer aid. There was bright red blood on Kiara's face. Behind her sister, Amelle could see Jessamine in her bright red prison.
Not red enough. Not prison enough. I could crush you. And then set you on fire. See if you'd take it as well as you gave it out.
But none of these would bring back the dead. None of these would end the cycle of vengeance. None of these would make Fenris open his eyes.
Amelle swallowed to moisten her dry throat and let the magic fade. One or two of the templars at the Revered Mother's side shifted in relief, but none moved toward her. Templars already standing ready caught Jessamine between them as the red prison dissipated, and though she squirmed and shouted, they held her tight.
"Her crimes were not just against me," Amelle said at last. "I was but one of her victims. The… the prince is the voice of the law in Starkhaven. Justice dictates… justice dictates he must be the one to pass judgment."
The look the Revered Mother gave her was a sad one, but Amelle saw approval there as well. It won't be enough. I'm an apostate mage. There will be no eleventh hour reprieve to save me from these templars. "And so it shall be. You are wise, child. But you know I must—"
Amelle wondered where they would take her. Starkhaven's Circle was long gone. Kirkwall's was no more. If the rumors were to be believed, Circles were falling all over Thedas. She hoped the prison they found for her would be a comfortable one. Beside her, Kiara seemed poised to fight, all coiled energy and clenched fists.
But before the Revered Mother could make her pronouncement—and before Kiara could do anything brave and stupid—Amelle heard the clank of armor draw near. She turned her head, expecting to see more of the Revered Mother's templars come to take her into custody, but it was only one templar. Cullen stopped when he reached her side, his face as impassive as Kiara's.
"Revered Mother, a moment?" Cullen interrupted.
The woman inclined her head, lips still almost-smiling. "And you are, ser? A templar I see, but not one of mine own."
"No, Your Reverence. I am Cullen, Knight-Commander of Kirkwall."
Acting, Amelle thought. And not really even that anymore.
But Cullen's voice didn't waver on the lie, and the Revered Mother said, "Far from your home, Knight-Commander. This mage falls under your jurisdiction, then. You must be here for her."
"She does. And I am."
"And you would… take responsibility for her?"
Cullen didn't hesitate. "Yes, Your Reverence."
The Revered Mother nodded once, firmly. "Very well then, Knight-Commander Cullen. I remand her into your custody. See you keep a close eye on her."
"Your Reverence."
Amelle was immensely pleased the sudden wave of relief didn't turn her knees to jelly and send her sprawling to the ground. She didn't dare look at Cullen. She was afraid her expression would say too much.
More seriously, the Revered Mother said, "I wonder if we might beg a little healing from you, though, before you go. We have no Circle to turn to for aid, and our healers—" The cleric glanced toward Jessamine and shook her head. "You have seen our healers. Starkhaven would be in your debt. More so than it is already."
Amelle inclined her head.
"No nosebleeds," Cullen whispered at her side.
"No nosebleeds," she agreed. Oh, Fenris.
