Kiara didn't sleep the night before the trial. She tried. For hours she lay in her soft bed, on her silken sheets, and she tossed and turned. Her thoughts raced, but when she tried to pin them down, to make sense of them, they fluttered away from her on the sound of mockery and laughter.

Finally, when the crack between the draperies at the window had shifted from black to pre-dawn-silver, Kiara rose from her rumpled bed. She even tried to make it, but as she pulled the sheets taut on one side only to have them end up hopelessly off-kilter on the other, it became clear why the job was always tackled by at least two of the hummingbird maids in Tasia's flock. Somehow, when she finally gave up, it looked even worse than it had when she'd first risen.

It was Jessamine on her mind partly, but not entirely. Kiara didn't doubt Sebastian's justice. She knew Jessamine would pay for her crimes. Even if Sebastian disregarded the strange grey area of crimes relating to one apostate mage, Kiara knew very well the woman was guilty of high treason. She would be sentenced to death. And the madness would end.

Will it end? Or will someone else pick up her torch? In six weeks or six months, will we be facing the same thing? It will not be loudmouths like Aileene Caddell. It will be the friend with a kind smile, waiting for the opportune moment. It will be knives in the dark or poison in the wine. There will always be something.

Kiara was used to danger. She was used to fighting. She was even used to people wanting to kill her.

She was also used to fleeing. Oh, she'd stayed in Kirkwall long enough, but every day she'd woken thinking she could go if she wanted. She'd almost fled after her mother died. She'd almost insisted they flee after the Arishok, and Cullen's aborted attempt to take Amelle away. She'd almost fled a dozen times, more, but then she'd imagined starting over somewhere foreign, somewhere new, and she'd stayed.

But she had always known the escape route was available. Like her father had taught her all those years ago, she always knew where the exits were, and she always knew how to reach them.

And she knew if she stood next to Sebastian Vael today and allowed all of Starkhaven to see her in the place he'd asked her to occupy—in his realm, in his life—there would be no going back. Her escape routes would be lost, and her exits would be closed. He hadn't said so in as many words, but Kiara knew today was more than Jessamine's trial… it was hers. Stay or go. Raise your chin or bow your head. Bend or break. Refugee or princess.

Everything about today is a decision.

Sitting before her looking glass, Kiara searched the reflection. It was the same face, of course. A little older, a little more tired. But also happier, more satisfied… more hopeful.

She couldn't bear the thought of letting someone like Jessamine, or worse, Aileene Caddell and her ilk, chase her from anything that brought hope back.

There will always be something. Even if I ran, even if I hid, there would always be something. Better to choose the thing that comes with hope, and joy, and promise.

Kiara heard Tasia's soft laughter a moment before the maid pushed the door open, and her hushed whisper of, "Oh, go back to your post, you idiot. You're not half as amusing as you think you are."

In the reflection, Kiara watched Tasia's eyes sweep the room, noting the empty bed first. For a moment, the girl paled; Kiara wondered if Tasia had doubted her resilience, too. Or perhaps Tasia, too, feared betrayal, plots, actions taken.

Then the maid saw her at the vanity, and she smiled her dimpled smile, and Kiara couldn't help smiling in return.

Tasia settled the tea tray she carried on the sideboard and wordlessly prepared a cup. After Kiara had taken a great, fortifying sip, Tasia said, "I had your armor cleaned and mended." Her tone was not entirely without distaste, but Kiara knew she'd comply meekly. Today was not a day for arguing about archery gowns.

Who are you today, Kiara Hawke?

Armor was wrong. Kiara knew that. Today she was not the Champion of Kirkwall. Today she was not even the swift, silent girl who was good with a bow and who drank with the common-folk in their taverns and inns.

So she shook her head. Tasia's relief was palpable, but almost as quickly as her eyes widened and her lips smiled, the maid schooled her features back into a neutral mask.

She knows, Kiara thought. She knows what today means, too. For me. For her.

"The… pale blue, my lady? Or the yellow silk?"

Pale blue made Kiara think of Jessamine's healer's robes, stained with blood and poison and the filth of betrayal. Yellow was life and light and sunshine and kisses in wooded bowers. She shook her head again.

"No, Tasia. Today is no day for half measures." Kiara looked straight ahead, into the mirror, meeting Tasia's eyes. Then she nodded once, firmly. "Today… today I must look regal."

Behind her, Tasia dropped into a deep curtsy—deeper than she'd ever curtsied before—and inclined her head. "Of course," she said quietly. "Of course, Your Highness."

Kiara didn't correct her. Today mightn't be her wedding day, but it was—in so many ways—her first day as Sebastian's princess.

#

It was strange to sleep alone.

Three days Amelle had spent at Fenris' bedside, sleeping when she could, always seeing his profile upon waking. Before that had been night after night of setting camp, of sleeping upon the ground, and even though they'd not been speaking at the time, she'd still grown used to waking in the middle of the night and spying Fenris in the campfire's dwindling light, either asleep himself or keeping watch. Amid Kirkwall's madness, she'd stolen sleep when she could, as had Fenris, and the sight of him asleep on the couch in the library or slouched and dozing in a comfortable chair had been one she'd grown accustomed to.

Now there was no madness, no campfire, no poison, and two nights of no sleep. Now there were soft beds with cool sheets and plump pillows and no reason whatsoever for Amelle to be curled on her side in the bed, watching the fire dance and flicker in the hearth as she had for the past several hours. It would have died out hours ago, but she'd been awake to keep it going. Spero was curled up asleep on one of what felt like no less than a dozen pillows, whiskers twitching as the kitten dreamed.

It wasn't the emptiness of the room — save the kitten — that kept her awake now; it was the finality of what lingered only hours away. Amelle had tried very hard not to think about Jessamine, but it was difficult. She found herself reliving those moments upon the platform, face to face with the Revered Mother as she asked Amelle what punishment she would have put to Jessamine. She remembered so clearly the hate in her breast, mingling with fear and rage as Fenris lay so near death at her feet. Amelle would have seen her die then, would have killed the woman with the very magic Jessamine had suppressed in her.

Do it, a silent, silken voice had whispered to her, winding through her mind and sending a chill down her spine even then. She has wronged you. She deserves nothing less than your vengeance. A violent shiver wracked Amelle's frame as she sat up and shoved the blankets back with the same force as she shoved the thought aside, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. At the sudden movement, Spero's head lifted and it blinked sleepily, then gave a wide yawn. Amelle scooped the kitten up and rubbed her fingertips behind its silky ears — one white, one grey — smiling when the kitten's throat vibrated with a soft purr. The tiny warm body and its soft fur pushed back the memory of the demon's whisper like sunlight burning away clouds and Amelle let out a shaky breath.

"Well, at least one of us slept well last night, hmm?" she asked, carrying the kitten against her breast as she went to the window and peered past the heavy drapery: it was still dark. With a breath and a flick of her fingers, the candles lit with a hiss and a spark and Amelle went back to the window to watch the sunrise bring light to shadow, chasing off the darkness.

She thought of Jessamine — angry, desperate, murderous Jessamine. She would stand trial for treason and she would be found guilty and she would be punished. She would have to face her victims — including those Jessamine doubtless thought dead — and she would be made to answer for her crimes and face the consequences.

But is it justice?

In truth, Amelle hated that word now. She wasn't sure what it was anymore, only what it wasn't.

It was true, Jessamine would not cause such trouble again. And treason, Amelle also knew, was the sort of thing that destabilized lands — Teyrn Loghain's betrayal of King Cailan at the Battle of Ostagar had shown that vividly enough; Ferelden's recovery had been a long one, with wounds going far deeper than darkspawn-infested Deep Roads.

More than that, betrayal shook and cracked the very foundation of friendships — she thought of Kinnon's betrayed face, pale and shocked, unable to make sense of Maisie's actions. And, of course, Anders rose in her mind like a ghost from the mists, his betrayal stinging her still, feeding the cycle of vengeance behind justice's facade.

Satisfying his own appetites, she thought. Just as Sebastian had against the Flint mercenaries, just as Kiara and I had against Gascard DuPuis, just as Fenris had when faced with Hadriana and Danarius. Selfish actions, all. Oh, it was all easy enough to justify as for the greater good — killing the mercenaries meant they would never tear another family apart; slaying DuPuis meant ridding the world of another blood mage and would-be necromancer; killing Hadriana and Danarius meant two fewer magisters would enslave and abuse those beneath them — but the truth of the matter was that those actions were selfish ones, fueled by anger or hatred. Had she killed Jessamine that day in the square, it would not have been justice — there was too much anger, too much hate in her heart for it to have been just. She knew that now.

When Sebastian took Jessamine's life, it would be quick, and she would not suffer. She knew he would not relish the task, and would get no satisfaction from the act that would rid her of their lives forever. These were the consequences and repercussions of Jessamine's actions — treason carried with it a death sentence. Justice cannot be fueled by anger or hatred, she thought, watching the sky lighten from inky black to dusky purple.

"Magic can heal a broken bone," Father had said to her once, "but it can't undo the damage done by a hurtful word, rabbit. Before you act, before you speak, think about what you're saying. It may make you feel better to freeze and smash your brother's sword because he was cruel, but you've only served to hurt him as he hurt you, and rather than coming to an understanding, you've served only to breed resentment. Think, rabbit. Before you do them, think about the things that can never be undone."

"Yes, Papa."

"Now, go apologize to your brother."

She had, of course. And Carver had been insufferable over it, much as she'd expected. But then—as now—her father's words stayed with her: Think about the things that can never be undone. The things we could never take back, never unsay, never erase.

The edge of the sun was just visible over the horizon, a sliver of golden light piercing the dark. Amelle blinked at the sudden brightness and turned away from the window, cradling Spero against her chest.

"Our mistakes make us who we are, Spero," she murmured, as a brisk knock sounded at the door. It would be a maid bearing a breakfast tray. "As do the mistakes of others."

#

Sebastian had fully intended to sleep, but one thing led to another, and that other thing led to eight dozen more things, and by the time he looked up and realized he ought to take himself to bed, the sky was already brightening on the horizon and the opportunity was gone. His back was stiff from sitting so long in the same attitude, and his eyes were gritty with sleeplessness. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up from his desk, leaning heavily on his arms.

Not for the first time, he wondered what he'd been thinking when he'd decided on giving Jessamine a trial. If he'd executed her then and there, he could be sleeping now, sleeping and not worrying about how the events of the day to come might unfold.

A polite knock preceded Corwin. When Sebastian saw the steward was carrying a tray laden with breakfast and blessed, blessed tea, he could have kissed the man. Corwin poured him a cup—strong, black, fortifying—and said, "Your manservant said you did not sleep last night, Your Highness. I thought I might find you here."

Sebastian waved his hand at the desk. "I was distracted."

Corwin arched a white eyebrow and shook his head. "You are taking a short vacation after today, methinks, Highness. Your desk will keep a day or two."

Sebastian snorted. "The papers on that desk will breed like rabbits if I leave them for two days."

"You exaggerate. They will only breed like dogs." On Sebastian's uneasy look, Corwin continued, "Less babies to a litter. I will see to the more pressing matters myself. You must sleep, my lord. Your dedication is admirable only until exhaustion sees you making mistakes."

Leaning back in his chair, Sebastian cradled the warm cup between his palms and closed his eyes. Sleep hovered, but he shook it off. No time. After.

"Remind me, Corwin," Sebastian said, "why in the Maker's name did I think this was a good idea?"

Because it was not the first time Sebastian had asked the question of his steward in the days since Jessamine's arrest, Corwin replied immediately and succinctly, "Because you must start as you mean to go on, Your Highness. Let the woman condemn herself with her own words. Let your people see you fair, and just, and without cruelty."

"Indeed," replied Sebastian dryly, draining his cup of tea in one gulp. "That sounds exactly the kind of daft thing I might think was a good idea."

Corwin smiled a fond smile as he refilled Sebastian's teacup. "The last two princes—and, indeed, even your father to some degree—hid behind their crowns and their thrones. Trust is better earned than bought, and the more transparent you are with your people, the less they will doubt you."

With a final sigh—one that embarrassingly turned into a yawn part way through—Sebastian rose from the desk and clapped one hand to Corwin's shoulder. "I know. Start as I mean to go on. Beginning with making myself presentable. Thank you, Corwin. For the tea. And the rest."

"Highness, if you will permit me an impertinence… I know you intend to include your lady and her… companions. Any rashness on their part may reflect poorly on you."

"I'm aware," Sebastian said, without affront. "But it's important they be there. Many of Jessamine's crimes were enacted against them."

"The elf—"

"Fenris knows the importance of today. So long as Amelle remains in good health, I believe he will hold his peace." Sebastian smiled wearily. "And if, Maker forbid, some harm should befall Amelle, Fenris may be the least of our worries."

"Does harm include words, Your Highness? Jessamine will doubtless speak harmful words."

"Your concern does you credit, Corwin. But I will not change my mind on this score."

The steward bowed his head. "Your Highness."

"There will occasionally be things we do not agree upon, Corwin. This is one of them. But I would rather hear your concerns than have you remain silent. Now, I must go put on my costume. This mummer's farce won't begin without me."

After he'd submitted to the less-than-tender ministrations of his manservant, Sebastian went to Kiara. This, more than anything that stood to happen with Jessamine, was the root of his greatest anxiety. As the guards fell in around him—a half-dozen; his Eyes would take no chances today of all days—he wondered if he would knock on her door to find an apologetic note. His stomach twisted at the thought, and he beat the doubt away. No, she will not flee. I know her. I know her.

Ser Kinnon was standing guard outside Kiara's chambers. Even Sebastian could see the man was still subdued—he served with a different partner on every rotation now, and though he did not speak of it, it was clear Maisie's defection had struck a deeper blow than he let on.

The knight put a fist to his heart in salute. "Your Highness."

"Ser Kinnon. Is my lady within?"

Kinnon nodded. "Being bullied by Tasia, no doubt. Maker preserve her."

Sebastian almost smiled. The faintest thread of jealousy still kept him from liking the man, but he'd long since stopped plotting punishments. "Will you stand at her side today, Ser Kinnon?"

A flush crept up the knight's neck. "If you… it would be my honor, Your Highness."

"Captain Elias trusted you. Kiara trusts you. I hope the day will bring no violence, but if violence must occur, there is no one I trust more to step between Kiara and danger."

At this a faint smile pulled at one corner of Kinnon's mouth. "You say that as though she'd let me step between her and danger."

Sebastian huffed a laugh. "Aye, well the greatest challenge in being Kiara Hawke's personal guard is guarding her from her own tendencies to jump straight into the thick of things."

"Noted, Your Highness."

Sebastian knocked before entering. When Tasia called out, he pushed open the door. On his peripheral vision he saw the little blonde dip into a vast curtsy, but he had eyes only for Kiara.

Tasia had outdone herself. Kiara was garbed from head to heel in Starkhaven white and gold. She wore no jewelry, but Tasia had woven golden ribbons into Kiara's hair, reminiscent of the crown she would soon wear. Sebastian felt his breath catch at the sight of her.

Unlike the first time he'd seen her in such finery, she was not shy. She did not blush or duck her head or stammer. She rose and spread her skirts in her own curtsy—when did she learn to do that so gracefully?—before offering him a grim smile. He'd seen that same smile a hundred times, a thousand. It was the one she smiled before battle.

"My lady, you are a vision."

Her regal demeanor disappeared in an all-too-familiar grimace. "I'm a vision of discomfort. To the Void with corsetry, Sebastian Vael. Only for you."

He kissed her hand before taking her arm. "Best see this done, then."

"Yes," she replied. "Let's hear what the bitch has to say for herself."

"Kiara…"

She winked up at him. "You're the one who has to remain aloof and impartial." On his look, she rose to her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'll be good, I promise."

He turned his head and captured her lips with a more insistent kiss of his own. When he pulled away, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling. "Thank you, love," he whispered.

"For what? Promising to be a good girl?"

"No, not just that."

A shadow crossed her features. "I'm not going anywhere."

He kissed her again, briefly. "Except the Great Hall."

She wrinkled her nose. "Except the Great Hall."

#

It felt good to get into his armor again, Fenris thought. The familiar weight of it, the feel of leather, of the grafted spirit hide against his skin made him feel at once more himself and less like he'd ever been so incapacitated in the first place. The armor had been stripped of him while he'd been in the grip of Maker's Light, and had been sent off to be mended and cleaned. He'd never seen such expert work done on his vestments, and he wondered for what wasn't the first time if the items had been treated thus because they were to have been for the honor of a dead man.

It was an unnerving thought. Discovering how ill he'd been made it seem scarcely possible that he should feel so well, but he did. To own the truth of it, mere hours after waking Fenris had felt well enough to leave his bed, to walk around, to move. However, that was a notion to which Amelle—and Sebastian, for he'd been visiting at the time Fenris expressed such a desire—had objected vehemently. And when the matter of the trial arose, Sebastian had asked if two days' time was too short a wait. Indeed, two days had felt like an eternity at the time, but Fenris had gravely reassured his friend that he would be well enough to attend the trial.

That time had revealed a number of things, not the least of which was the strangeness of his recovery. Maker's Light was fatal if the antidote was not administered in time. This had been the case in every instance but his—a fact he heard reiterated extensively. What it meant to Fenris was that Jessamine's intent had not been to wound or merely incapacitate — she had poisoned her blade knowing whomever she cut would die. And he had.

It was not something Amelle was inclined to discuss, and perhaps she feared making that fact common knowledge would prove ill for her—how many people would have called her gift necromancy? Fenris did not pretend to understand the finer details, but he was no reanimated fiend and Amelle Hawke was no necromancer. His heart beat as it ever had, breath filled his lungs, he thought, moved, behaved as ever. He was himself, and he knew who he had to thank for it. The only lingering reminder of his illness was that sleep occasionally eluded him, and when Fenris did sleep, he found himself plagued by strange dreams. But despite dreams, despite whether or not his sleep was restful, Fenris still woke in the morning, still breathed, was still alive.

The very reason he was still alive was a little farther down the corridor; he saw one of the maids step out of Amelle's room carrying a breakfast tray. She braced it against one hip as she closed the door, but when she lifted her eyes and spied Fenris, the maid startled suddenly enough that she nearly dropped the lot of it. Fenris reached out and steadied the tray as the young woman collected herself, ducking her head, bobbing a quick curtsey.

"Beg pardon, messere. Y-you… surprised me."

He always felt out of his element around the scores of servants in the palace and this moment was no exception. He offered her a brief, stiff nod, and jerked his chin at the closed door.

"Is she within?"

"Aye, messere."

He peered at the breakfast tray and frowned to discover how much food remained. "Did she not eat?"

"M-my lady said she didn't s-sleep well, messere. Didn't feel up to eating, she said."

He must have been frowning, for the maid looked truly dismayed, turning her gaze to the floor. Suppressing the urge to sigh, Fenris took the tray from her hands. "I… will attempt to persuade her to see reason," he said, and then looked again at the tray and hesitated. "If… if you might bring a fresh pot of tea…?" He despised asking any of Sebastian's servants for anything, but the young woman nodded and bobbed another curtsey.

"As you wish, messere." And with that, she scurried off.

Balancing the tray upon his forearm, Fenris knocked briskly on the door. He heard laughter and Amelle's amused voice approaching from the other side.

"Maker's breath, you don't have to knock again, Naissia, you just left," she said as she swung open the door, Spero cradled against her chest. But when she saw it wasn't the maid, Amelle blinked and color rushed to her cheeks. Her surprise ebbed into another of those smiles that seemed to light her eyes from within and likewise never failed to make his pulse beat that much harder.

He nodded, indicating the tray he held. "You have not eaten."

Amelle's smile faltered and she stepped aside, waving him in. "I'm not— I ate some of it, you know. You didn't see how high the thing was piled when they brought it to me!"

Fenris entered the room and set down the tray before turning to face Amelle. Every inch of her room was bathed in bright morning light, and that light hit her hair, illuminating red strands woven throughout the brown like threads of fire. The gown she wore was more richly crafted than any the dresses she typically favored — this one was silken, the color of doves' wings, with delicate but intricate pale blue embroidery twining along the neckline and down either sleeve like ivy. It suited her.

In her hands, Spero glared in consternation at its paw; one claw was hooked upon a bit of embroidery by her sleeve, and the kitten tugged a moment before letting out a plaintive mew. Looking down, Amelle unhooked the claw and freed Spero's paw, scratching the kitten behind its silken ears. She looked up to find Fenris taking in her appearance and her smile widened until her dimple showed. "I know, the kitten doesn't quite work as an accessory, but I think—"

"You look stunning."

The fierce blush began at her neckline, creeping up like fire past her collarbones and up her neck until two high points of color warmed her cheeks. "I… um. Thank you."

"It is the truth."

Amelle looked down, brushing an imaginary wrinkle from her skirts. "Yes, well," she mumbled, still blushing fiercely. "Thank you all the same."

It was nothing less than the truth — Amelle Hawke looked every inch a noblewoman's daughter, and something about the transformation left him feeling… vaguely unsettled. But the longer he looked at her, particularly in this light, he saw how pale she looked, particularly once her blush faded again. It served to make her the green of her eyes look more haunting and luminous, but she still looked pale, tired, and thin.

He thought of the magic she'd expended in Kirkwall — of every blighted fever she cured, every bloody nose she suffered, every time she pushed herself beyond the boundaries of sense. He had hoped she would have had time to rest afterward, but that wasn't to be, either. She'd been beset with Andraste's Wrath before she'd had ample time to rest and fully recover from the strains of Kirkwall, and then she'd exerted herself further to save him.

If she wasn't sleeping, either…

"You're scowling," she said quietly, taking a step closer to him and resting a hand upon his arm.

"You look exhausted," he replied sharply.

Amelle blew out a sigh, then grimaced, placing a hand upon her abdomen. "Andraste's tits, I cannot breathe in this thing. You would not believe the undergarments they had to—" She stopped suddenly and looked at Fenris. "Ah. Forget I just said that."

He arched an eyebrow at her attempt to shift the subject. "Amelle. Have you been sleeping?"

Amelle didn't answer right away, chewing on her bottom lip and scuffing one slippered foot against the floor. "…Not especially," she finally admitted, setting Spero down on the bed, "but don't mistake that for not trying."

His frown deepened as he indicated the tray. "And have you been eating?"

Making a face and looking down at the remains of her breakfast, Amelle said, "A little. See? I ate the fruit. And some of the toast — see?"

He glared again at the tray. There was still more food left than had been eaten at all. "A very little, I should say."

She sighed again. "If I can't breathe, I can hardly eat, can I? Honestly, shall I tell you about these undergarments, Fenris? I'm not sure you fully understand the situation here…"

He held his tongue, closing his his eyes as he shook his head, saying, "You have overexerted—"

"I have," Amelle answered, coming forward and clasping her hands in his. At this distance he saw the dark smudges beneath her eyes and realized the maid must have applied some sort of paint to diminish the effect. That realization only made his heart twist more sharply; two days had been more than enough time for him to recover, but Amelle's recovery would likely take even more time than that. As if sensing his thoughts, she rested a hand against the side of his face and looked into his eyes, never pulling her gaze away as she lowered her voice. "Yes. I absolutely have," she said again. "I have overexerted and overtaxed myself. I have spread myself too thin. I have. And…" she swallowed hard, her fingers stroking his cheekbone as her voice grew husky, "I would do it again in a heartbeat."

Fenris thought of the rage and fear that had blinded him to all sense. Of Jessamine's blade. Of what should have been certain death. As would I, he thought. "You must rest."

"I will," she promised, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his lips.

"I will hold you to your word," he finally said, and though his tone was stern, Fenris hoped—dearly hoped—Amelle would never learn how difficult it was to maintain such a tone when her lips were kissing a path to his cheek, playing lightly against his skin, the light sensation chasing away the darkness of his thoughts.

With a sigh, Amelle settled against Fenris as he slid an arm about her waist. "Once this is all… over. I will. Maybe I'll even get a good night's sleep for the first time in…" She trailed off and let out a soft laugh, tucking herself more closely against him. If she found the sharp edges of his armor uncomfortable, she didn't say so. "For the first time in a while, I think."

With Amelle pressed against him so, Fenris was finally able to push the memory from his mind of her poisoned and delirious body, mere moments away from a horrible death of flame and smoke, and he pressed a kiss against her temple.

"Perhaps we both will."

#

Not for the first time since their mad flight from Kirkwall, Cullen longed for the heavy plate it had been impractical to bring with him. Part of him desired the solidity and stability it would have offered. The lighter armor was mostly leather, and though the polished breastplate still bore the templar sigil, he felt underdressed without the heavy pauldrons and gauntlets and vambraces.

He tried not to feel like a fraud as he belted the red sash around his waist. In five days since his lie, he'd waited daily for some word from the Revered Mother, some reprisal. She was, for all intents and purposes, the highest ranking Chantry official in the Free Marches, until a new Grand Cleric was named. Even with the upheaval in Kirkwall, there would be missives and updates sent from the new acting Knight-Commander. He was only surprised the Revered Mother had not known already; though it aided him, it did not speak well of his replacement.

Cullen paced the length of his room. It was lavishly appointed, putting even the Knight-Commander's rooms he'd inhabited so briefly to shame, and yet the fine furniture and silken draperies only made him uneasy. He was used to barracks, to austerity and simplicity. I don't belong here.

But he didn't know where he belonged anymore. After a lifetime of routine and hierarchy, he was adrift. He'd made his choices willingly, but now, with things slowly settling into normal for everyone else—for Amelle—he no longer knew where he fit.

A quiet knock disturbed his reverie. Expecting Amelle or perhaps Sebastian, Cullen was surprised when he opened the door and found none other than the Revered Mother, flanked by half a dozen templars—all in their full plate.

She has come to mete out her punishment, he thought. Strangely, it was not fear or despair he felt; it was an overwhelming sense of peace.

"Your Reverence," he greeted.

"Ser Cullen," she said, inclining her head to accept the courtesy. "Might I have a moment?"

"You needn't even ask, Your Reverence."

She gave him a faint smile before stepping past him into the room. When one of her templar guards moved to follow she shook her head and gestured for him to remain in the hallway. After a moment's hesitation, the templar obeyed, and the Revered Mother closed the door. Cullen was struck once again by the strange contrast of her youthful face, but the solemnity and serenity of her presence. She was young, perhaps, but the way she'd dealt with Jessamine—with the prince, even—indicated the wisdom that had likely seen her raised to her current position.

"I… I must apologize to you, Your Reverence. I thought to—"

"Illona," she interrupted.

"I—Your Reverence?"

"All the Reverences and Revereds have their time and their place, Ser Cullen, but not this time, and not this place. I wonder if you might allow me my eccentricity and call me by my name, at least for the length of this conversation. And my name is Illona."

Whatever he'd been expecting when he saw her standing outside his door, it had not been this.

She continued blithely, "I'd give my right hand for a glass of wine, but I suppose I shall make do with water, if you have some on hand. We've a long day ahead of us, haven't we?" She sighed. "I oughtn't jest. Blood will be spilled before the day is out, and that is no cause for rejoicing, even when the action is just."

Cullen went to the water jug and poured glasses for them both, glad to have something to do with his hands.

When she spoke again, her voice was again touched with mirth. "I fear I've startled you mute, Ser Cullen."

"Cullen. If you wish me to use your name without honorifics, I hope you'll do the same."

He handed her the glass, and she gave him an appraising look. "You were going to apologize for something, Cullen."

He bowed his head. "I was."

"For the wee falsehood you let slip the other day, I imagine?"

He felt the heat of shame creep up his neck. "You know. Your Reverence—"

"Illona," she repeated firmly. "And please do sit, Cullen. You're too tall for me to be comfortable sitting and craning my neck."

He sat, clutching his own glass of water close.

"To be frank," she continued, "that is the reason I came to speak with you today. I meant to come earlier, but… I have had to spend a great deal of time trying to alleviate the suffering caused by Jessamine's deeds. Other things had to be pushed farther down the queue."

"How?" he asked.

Her expression was kindness laced with just a touch of pity. "You must have suspected your successor would write to tell me of the change in leadership. Just as you wrote me when the last Knight-Commander left her post."

Left her post was more diplomatic a turn of phrase than any Cullen might have used, but he nodded. "You found out this week?"

"No," she replied mildly. "I knew then."

Cullen blinked at her, and only his honed reflexes kept him from dropping his water glass entirely. "But you… forgive me, you know she's an apostate mage."

"As do you, clearly."

"But you're… you're Starkhaven's Revered Mother."

Her eyebrows twitched, and he couldn't determine if it meant she was amused or disturbed. Her tone was still light, and he thought perhaps the pendulum was still in favor of amusement. "And you were Kirkwall's acting Knight-Commander, Cullen. Do you regret your decision?"

He closed his eyes. "I know I should, but—"

"Ahh, but I didn't ask about should. I asked if you did."

"No," he replied honestly. "I do not."

"Good. I like conviction."

"Revered Mother—"

"Illona."

"Illona," he nearly growled, exasperated. "I betrayed everything the Order stands for. And then I lied to you about it."

"And you don't regret doing so. I imagine you have reasons and justifications. Believe it or not, Cullen, I had reasons and justifications for my actions also."

Cullen raked a hand through his hair, already shaking his head. "I don't… I don't understand."

"The world is changing. We none of us know exactly what the new one will look like, but I am fairly certain it will bear little resemblance to the one we know now. The Chantry must bend—just a little—or it will shatter." She smiled sadly at his aghast look. "For too long what is expected has taken the place of what is good. Incarcerating your healer friend was what was expected."

"But it wouldn't have been good," he said softly.

"No," she said. "It wouldn't have been good." She looked past him at some spot in the middle distance, her expression gone soft and sad. "Growing pains hurt, but if we did not have them we would all remain children. It is, perhaps, time the Chantry grew up a little. Do you think me blasphemous, Cullen?"

His stomach twisted uncomfortably. "A part of me does."

She huffed a laugh. "No wonder the lie chafed. I think you are an honest man. I prefer your honesty, Cullen. The world has need of it. So, I think, does the Chantry."

"I do not think that will be the prevailing view when all comes out in the open."

Illona nodded thoughtfully. "It is in the Maker's hands. But those concerns are for another day."

Confused, he set his water down untouched and pressed his fingers to his temples. "Are you not here to arrest me then?"

"Not today, Cullen."

"Then why did you come?"

"I came to take your measure, of course." Before he could ask what she meant, she rose and once again fixed him with the vaguely unsettling, appraising look. "I think we will be expected in the Great Hall shortly. Would you do me the honor, Ser Cullen?"

Her tone told him the conversation was at an end, so he bent his head in acquiescence and offered his arm. "Your Reverence."

This time he was all but certain the quirk of the eyebrow denoted amusement, but the rest of her features remained serene.

For the first time since he'd uttered it the weight of his lie didn't twist his guts, and though he still wasn't certain where he fit or what the future would bring, he was glad at least for that small consolation as they walked to the Great Hall in silence.