Not even for the bounty courts had Sebastian seen the Great Hall so teeming. He knew it was important for as many people, common and noble alike, to be present for this, but he couldn't help feeling uneasy. He'd plotted strategy with his Eyes, with Corwin, with Kiara, trying to cover every angle and every eventuality, but he was haunted by how suddenly Maisie had turned. He remembered the sound of her blade sliding through Elias' light armor. Again and again he relived seeing the light go out of the old Captain's eyes. Some things could not be prepared for. He feared some things could not be guarded against, not truly, not completely.

That's why they call it betrayal.

Seated upon his throne, on the dais at the far end of the room, Sebastian was entirely aware how visible he was. If he'd once thought himself a target because of his shiny white armor, it was nothing to the raised chair, the white doublet, and the band of gold encircling his brow, but he was less worried about his own safety than he was for the safety of the woman at his side. Sebastian trusted Kinnon to do his duty, but arrows and knives were fast, and silk was no kind of armor.

Kiara sat beside him, shoulders straight and chin lifted. If her chair was not quite as ornate as his, the difference was negligible. He had listened carefully to the crowd when they entered, but no one cried out against her as he'd feared they might. Many—especially from the side of the room harboring the common folk, he noted—rained blessings and thanks upon her. They called her Princess, and their acceptance heartened him, and filled him with resolve. Petty fools like Aileene Caddell and her daughter meant nothing in the face of such support.

Somehow, even garbed in cold white and gold, she managed to look warm and approachable. She looked like Hawke. She looked like the woman who'd so startled him so many years ago with her confidence and her capability and her indefatigable belief in right and good and balance, who'd constantly striven to see the best in people. He didn't even think it was his own (admittedly significant) partiality—she looked like a monarch.

She looked like the kind of monarch who would strive to do good, to be just and fair and kind and merciful. She looked like the kind of monarch he wanted to be.

But she still clenched her hands tightly around the arms of her chair when the guard brought Jessamine and Morven in. Then her eyes flickered to his, the tension in her hands eased, and her lips turned up in the briefest of smiles.

Maker, but he adored her.

Jessamine and Morven walked in under their own power. They had been well-cared for. They were dressed in clothes befitting their station. They'd had baths and ample food and comfortable beds upon which to sleep.

Start as you mean to go on.

He hadn't wanted to begin his reign with mistreatment. He'd come too close to it with Morven; he could see that now. The man looked much-recovered—less thin and bruised about the eyes—though Sebastian noticed that he kept some distance between himself and Jessamine, and his steps were still labored after his long illness.

Even with her hands bound, Jessamine walked with her head high, her expression twisted with condescension. The dark dye had been washed from her hair, revealing heavy streaks of grey beneath, but she looked neither old nor tired. She looked determined. She looked resolved.

She looked like she was going to make this as difficult as she could.

#

From the corner of his eye, Fenris saw Amelle's hands — hands that had been folded neatly upon her lap — twist together until her knuckles turned white. He turned his head slightly and noted the way she clenched her jaw, the way she held her head a little higher, as if in defiance, when Jessamine walked in. Color warmed her cheeks, and he knew it was anger. He could hardly blame her.

Anger was an emotion with which Fenris had long been intimately acquainted, and this instance was no exception. Even now, nearly a week after the carnage in the square, nearly a week after a poisoned blade had cut into his body and all but doomed him, the moment he laid eyes on the woman, his rage sparked anew. He wasn't sure if he would ever be able to purge the sight from his mind's eye: Amelle, bloody and insensible and only moments from being burned alive. Would that Fenris had killed Jessamine himself — but few would have learned of the depth of her treachery. As his fury surged to the fore all over again, it twisted with the memory of helplessness and fear, and he had no choice but to choke it back and sit and wait for the woman to offer some measure of defense for her actions when he knew no such defense was possible.

His own anger he could… deal with, if not precisely ignore. Amelle's, however, ran the risk of manifesting itself in… unfortunate ways. And Fenris knew only too well Amelle's feelings about Jessamine were… incendiary, to say the least. When he heard her attempt to draw in a slow, calming breath — only to be stopped, he was certain, by the restrictive undergarments she'd been cajoled into (and the mere thought of which he found incredibly and inappropriately distracting, all things considered) — Fenris reached beyond the arm of the chair he was sat in and closed his hand over both of hers. He wasn't in the least bit surprised to find Amelle's skin unnaturally warm. But the contact had been enough to surprise and distract her, and as she exhaled, the tension in her hands relaxed, her skin cooled, and her fingers twined around his.

It was at that moment, while Jessamine was surveying the throne room, filled nearly to overflowing, her eye fell on him. He knew too well his would-be murderer recognizedhim, and that recognition slid sharply into shock and disbelief. Strangely, though Fenris had already heard more than once, from more than one source, that he ought to have been dead, the look of shock upon Jessamine's face was what solidified that fact for him.

Amelle's fingers flexed, tightening around his, and when Fenris glanced over again, he spied the unmistakably triumphant upward tilt of her lips as she sat up straighter, her green eyes cool, her bearing confident. No matter what looks Jessamine sent their way, he knew Amelle was prepared to face them with head held high. He was filled with admiration and respect all over again, thanking Andraste he had not perished upon that platform, else he would have missed this moment entirely.

It was not a journey he wished to take again, but it appeared the destination was going to be worth the effort.

#

Sitting still was hard. Sitting still when Kiara wanted nothing more than to be strangling the patronizing bitch standing below her was even harder.

Hardest of all was knowing she could do nothing without undermining Sebastian's authority. So sitting it was. Sitting calmly. Breathing. In and out. Over and over.

Sitting still.

As if sensing this frustration, Jessamine turned her pale eyes toward Kiara. The woman's lips smiled a smile that came nowhere near touching her eyes. Even with bound hands, the woman executed an effortlessly graceful curtsey toward the dais.

Somehow it was the most mocking gesture Kiara had ever seen. Her stomach twisted and she felt her throat tighten in rage on Sebastian's behalf. He deserved better, and not just because he'd been born to a ruling family. What had Jessamine ever wrought but deception and destruction? She would burn everything Sebastian held dear, everything worth fighting for and protecting. For what? Revenge? Power?

Still, Kiara managed to keep her face still. From the corner of her eye, she saw Fenris reach out and cover Amelle's hands with one of his.

She nearly killed them both.

Breathing. In and out. Over and over. Sitting still.

Beside her, Sebastian gestured for silence, and when that silence fell—eerie, really, with so many people all around—Jessamine lifted her chin and laughed.

Beside his mother, Morven grimaced, dipping his chin and lowering his gaze to an obliging spot of floor a foot in front of his booted toes. Fenris scowled. Amelle closed her eyes, and her face went so still for a moment that Kiara knew it was taking every effort for her sister to remain in control of her power. On Amelle's other side, Cullen's expression was livid, and he went so far as to rise an inch from his chair before remembering his place and sitting again.

Jessamine, laughing, saw it all. There was no doubt in Kiara's mind.

Sebastian ignored the laughter. He turned his piercing gaze toward Jessamine and waited until she was finished. Then he said gravely, "You stand accused of murder, conspiracy, and high treason, Jessamine. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty, of course," she replied lightly, lips still smiling and eyes still cold. "You have the wrong woman, Your Highness. You've accused someone named Jessamine. That isn't my name."

Kiara watched a flicker of dismay shadow Sebastian's features, and for a moment she wished they were less on display if only so she could reach out and comfort him the way Fenris had reached out to Amelle. "The name you call yourself means little. The charges stand against you."

"Names mean everything," she objected, in the same infuriatingly insouciant tone. "Who would you be without your name, Sebastian Vael? Who would your parents have been? Would you be permitted your foreign bride if she didn't have some tenuous connection to an acceptable name? Names are power. I had a name that was stolen from me, just as your parents once tried to steal your name from you. Do you blame me for wishing to have my rightful name returned? Can you, when you have fought so long and broken so many vows for the right to claim your own name once and for all? We are not so different, you and I, Sebastian Vael."

For all her composure, Kiara couldn't help flinching when she realized the woman's tactic. By allowing her to speak, Sebastian was allowing her to put him on trial. Every word she spoke undermined him, but to silence her would be… the expedient thing to do, perhaps, but not what today was meant to represent. Kiara looked toward her sister and found Amelle's eyes already turned her way, and her expression said she had come to the same conclusion.

Even if he had Jessamine executed—even if justice was done—Jessamine could still win. She could plant seeds of doubt that would grow into sedition and unrest.

And it all came down to how Sebastian handled her leading questions and troubling impertinence.

Sitting still was unbearably hard.

#

I could kill her. Right here. Right now. I might even be able to make it look like an accident.

It was a bad day when Amelle Hawke was actually considering spell combinations and how quickly and surreptitiously she could cast them — all the while surrounded by bloody templars. And yet, there she was. Considering. A flash of frost, enough fire to make it melt, and a jolt of lightning just as Jessamine — or whatever her name was — walked through would have been more than sufficient to stop her heart, Amelle knew. Overlooking the fact that she was surrounded by templars who would be able to sense it if she so much as summoned a single snowflake and wouldn't hesitate in the slightest to smite her for it, she was sure it was a great plan. Amelle was even reasonably certain Cullen wouldn't be terribly disappointed in her for it. Not if the way he was glaring at Jessamine now was any indication.

And then she realized killing Jessamine meant she'd probably be the one tasked with reviving her so she could stand through the rest of her trial. And that would have only served to make a bad day worse.

Fenris' hand still rested atop hers and she breathed in deeply, supremely thankful for the contact.

And then Jessamine spoke and every ounce of fury Amelle had thought she'd purged one way or another over the past week came raging back. She squeezed Fenris' hand tightly and closed her eyes — the sight of that woman alone was enough to make sparks, ice, and lightning spiral forth from her hands — and she simply focused on every breath, because if she controlled her breath, she controlled her mana, and if she controlled her mana, she wouldn't explode into an icy, fiery ball of sparks.

Then, from her left came a cool pulse, barely-there enough for her to feel, but one glance at Cullen told her she hadn't imagined what she felt. The mild wave of cleansing energy left her feeling vaguely out of sorts, but it served its purpose, dousing every possible negative manifestation of anger. And though she wanted nothing more than to crush and burn and freeze and shatter the murderous, lying bitch before them now, Amelle had learned a thing or two about political savviness in the intervening years to accept such measures would have done little to improve Starkhaven's opinion on mages in general and on Amelle in particular.

It made her chafethat she should have no choice but to sit quietly while Jessamine tried to pour an entirely different kind of poison into the ears of everyone listening. Was there an antidote for her words? Amelle wasn't sure — she knew too well how the tide of public opinion could shift and sway, catching one up in its current before ebbing away entirely. She could only hope Jessamine overestimated the power she held and, consequently, the power of her words.

Kiara caught her eye, then, and Amelle pursed her lips, shaking her head just the barest fraction. This isn't good, Kiri. It's not good at all.

Fenris' fingers tightened around hers and she looked over to see the scowl darkening his features as his jawline tightened. The white lyrium markings glowed softly, barely evident in the bright, sunlit hall. But Amelle knew.

He's trying to figure out how to kill her, too.

#

If only a holy smite didn't announce itself quite so visibly. Blinding beams of white light and a sound like a thunderclap didn't lend itself to subtlety.

Cullen had never wanted to smite anyone—mage, abomination, aristocrat—quite as much as he wanted to smite Jessamine. But even sending out the brief pulse of will necessary to soothe Amelle's distressed sparks of power was enough to earn a slantwise glance from one or two of the templars guarding the Revered Mother. He sincerely doubted he'd be able to slip a smite—no matter how well deserved—past their notice.

More the pity. A smite would do wonders to silence the woman, and silence was what they needed. Cullen had stood at Meredith's right hand for too many years, listening to her spew words of poison couched in borrowed authority, to be deceived by Jessamine, no matter what name she wished to use. It mightn't be the stories of templars and mages Meredith used, but Jessamine's words were no less divisive, and he knew it.

She knew it too. It was written all over her smirking face.

Sebastian waited until the woman was finished speaking. Then he waited longer. Seconds passed, ticking away until silence had filled the room for at least a full minute. Cullen was aware of the sound of dozens of shuffling feet and rustling skirts all around him.

"A week ago you stood on a platform and nearly killed a woman."

"A mage," Jessamine reminded him. "I nearly killed a mage."

Cullen felt the shift in the room. For all that the people seemed willing to accept Sebastian—and Hawke, for that matter—the prejudice against mages ran deep. Kirkwall was not so far away. Anders' deed was not forgotten.

"You nearly killed a woman," Sebastian said evenly. "You took the law into your own hands. You used poison and treachery against the innocent people of Starkhaven. You challenged the rightful ruler of this city. Whatever name you call yourself, many witnesses saw you—you and no one else. You stand accused of murder, conspiracy, and high treason. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty," she repeated, but there was an edge to her tone.

Sebastian had outmaneuvered her by refusing to so much as acknowledge her words against him, focusing instead on the crimes so many had witnessed firsthand.

Cullen very nearly smiled.

Until, of course, she changed tactics. She was a gifted actress; he had to grant her that. She turned an expression suddenly pleading on the gathered crowd. "It was not for me," she said, voice low but still pitched to carry. "My son was innocent. His birthright was stolen from him. He was made to pay for crimes that were his father's, but never his. I only wanted the best for him. I only wanted to make things right. What mother would do less for her child?"

On the dais, Sebastian remained cool and poised. Beside him, Hawke's eyes narrowed, and a faint frown creased her brow.

But it was Morven who raised his Vael eyes—so like Sebastian's, but cold, cold and hard and wounded—and spat, "Oh, Mother, please. That's a charming story and I can see you're very taken with it, but it's also complete and utter bullshit."

#

A wave of shocked gasps and rustling movement passed from one end of the hall to the other, followed by the low murmur of voices.

Like magic, it all died the moment Sebastian raised his hand. Amelle was impressed.

She looked again at Morven, the raw hurt shining through the cracks in his sullen facade. She didn't need to wonder if Morven was telling the truth; the look on Jessamine's face was enough to prove he was.

But the look, a rapid shift between dismay, rage, and fear, disappeared after only the barest instant, swallowed up by a tragic expression of mournful martyrdom. Once again she was the wounded party, once again she was the victim, and Amelle's eyes darted up to Sebastian, who was watching Jessamine with the same cool impartiality he'd worn from the start. She felt a little swell of pride; he wasn't acting, he wasn't playing to the crowd — he was simply himself.

"Your contribution is noted, Morven," replied Sebastian calmly. "You will have ample time and opportunity to state your own defense."

Morven gave a stiff nod, but did not turn his hateful gaze away from Jessamine. The glare only grew colder the longer she did not look at him. Turning to face the masses, Jessamine addressed them, ignoring her son.

"My own child," she said, her words a near-perfect facsimile of maternal heartbreak. "My son, has been turned against me — and Starkhaven has seen this before, has it not? When the Circle fell and burned, set to flame by the very mages within it!" She shot one arm out, pointing at Morven, her eyes wide and tearful as she cried, "My son is being controlled by blood magic!" Jessamine turned, then, and Amelle realized the woman was pointing at her. "By that mage!"

Amelle found she could do little more than blink. Her eyes flicked up to Sebastian, then to Cullen, both of whom looked, as far as Amelle was concerned, appropriately incredulous. When she looked at the other templars sitting around Cullen, a number of them looked skeptical — thank the Maker — and only one or two were watching her as if they thought perhaps they'd missed something. The Revered Mother's expression was inscrutable, but Amelle was starting to think that wasn't anything unusual.

Amelle looked back to Jessamine, to Sebastian, and then, briefly, to the Revered Mother. With hesitation she hoped didn't look too studied, she raised a timid hand and cleared her throat. Sebastian and Kiara both looked at her — and suddenly it wasn't so hard to seem a little cowed.

"Amelle?" Sebastian said carefully, even as his eyes asked, what are you doing?

"With respect, Highness," she said, smiling as openly, as guilelessly as she knew how. "I wonder if I might request permission to pose a question or two to the accused. As she has accused me of no very small crime."

For a horrible heartbeat of time, Amelle was certain Sebastian would say no. His lips seemed ready to form the word, but instead he turned his eyes to the Revered Mother, who gave him only the barest nod.

"Permission granted."

Amelle caught Fenris' concerned look, but only smiled and squeezed his hand before releasing it. When she stood, the swish of her skirts was lost in the clank of armor as several of the templars seated with the Revered Mother — Cullen included — stood as if to accompany her. But Revered Mother Illona only turned her head a fraction and every last templar who had stood sat again.

"Perhaps one," Amelle said.

"One?" the Revered Mother asked.

"Your choice."

Then she sent Amelle a serene nod, and with no discernible signal from the Revered Mother, the templar seated to her left rose. Amelle sent the burly, copper-haired man a smile, which seemed to baffle him. After a moment, he nodded, following her down to where Jessamine stood.

"Stay away from me, mage."

Amelle linked her hands behind her back, her smile never wavering. "You seem to know a great deal about a mage's powers, Mistress Jessamine."

"Everyone knows what your kind can do."

"Sicken cattle, spoil milk, ruin crops, control the minds of the weak and innocent? Do I have the right of it?"

Jessamine sniffed a little. "You should know better than I."

"Oh, by all means — enlighten me. Perhaps you would like to expound on what you think I'm capable of."

"You are a mage," she said coolly, as if that satisfied all.

"Well. Yes. We've established that. But you did just accuse me of controlling your flesh and blood's mind with blood magic."

"And what else would turn a son against his mother so?"

Amelle turned to face the templar. Maker, but he was tall. And so broad armor seemed utterly unnecessary. His thick ginger mustache curled almost comically at the ends, as if daring anyone to say anything against it.

"With respect, Ser…?"

The templar looked about, uncertainly. "Liam," he answered in a deep, gruff, rumble of a voice, then adding, uncertainly, "…miss."

"Can you please explain to Mistress Jessamine the full scope of a templar's abilities?"

He blinked, heavy eyebrows furrowing. Amelle's smile didn't budge. Ser Liam looked at her, his lips twitching to the left as if he were trying to find an ulterior motive in the request. Finding none, he shrugged massive shoulders and, addressing Jessamine, said, "Sensing magic usage. Cleansing and counteracting spells. Incapacitating mages through application of will."

She looked at Jessamine, but the older woman only looked scornful, as if Amelle were wasting the woman's very valuable time.

"I beg your pardon, Ser Liam," Amelle said, "but you did say templars can sense magic, didn't you?"

"I did."

"Can you please tell me if Morven is being controlled by a blood mage?"

He blinked at her. Again. Still, she smiled.

"Do you sense any magic right now, Ser Liam?"

"You're a mage," Jessamine hissed. "Of course he does."

It took a moment, but Ser Liam's frown deepened as he turned to Jessamine. "No, I do not. The mage in question," he nodded briefly at Amelle, "has reasonable control over her abilities, but one of my… fellows some moments ago released a cleanse. Whether intentional or not, such an act would have neutralized the mage's mana usage." He paused, and then something dawned on him and he added, "Before your… assertion of blood magic against the mage."

Amelle wiggled her fingers at Jessamine. "I'm out of juice for the moment, I'm afraid." She turned again to Ser Liam. "And can you tell me—if Morven were under the influence of a blood mage, could you counteract that?"

Ser Liam straightened up and squared his shoulders. "Of course," he answered, looking mildly offended.

"With the aforementioned cleansing ability?" When Ser Liam nodded, she stepped out of his way and gestured at Morven. "I'm sure no one—Mistress Jessamine included—would argue if you were to counteract any spells plaguing Morven right now, Ser Liam."

The templar looked at her like she was crazy. "There is no magic upon him, miss."

"All the same. Would it be a terrible inconvenience? You know. Removing all doubt?"

With a curious glance at both Sebastian and Revered Mother Illona, Ser Liam shrugged again and Amelle sidestepped just in time as the templar released a blinding, shuddering wave of cleansing energy—right over Morven.

#

Kiara began to suspect what her sister meant to do almost as soon as the tentative hand rose into the air.

Asking permission to speak was a nice touch. Kiara saw Sebastian stiffen, and though little of it showed on his face, she felt his reticence. She even understood it. More voices tended to complicate a conversation, and this conversation was very nearly the most important of his life.

Jessamine knew it; it's why she was talking so bloody loudly.

Kiara knew her sister well enough to be certain Amelle would never dream of muddying the waters without very good reason. When Sebastian gave his permission, Kiara released the breath she'd been holding.

As Amelle spun out her questions, Kiara looked away from the tableau spread out before her, watching the crowd instead. Weeks ago even the allegation of magic—blood magic, no less!—would have had the entire crowd up in arms, chanting for death, erecting a pyre.

Now? They watched. They waited. The few whose faces twisted in hate and prejudice, the few who cried out for death, were quickly silenced by their peers.

Some gasped and cried out when the templar released his cleanse; templars might be a common-enough sight, but their talents weren't, and they did tend toward the gaudy, all sudden flashes and white light. The only fainting happened amongst the nobility, of course. It took some effort to restrain the desire to sneer. Then it took an equal amount of effort not to laugh when no convenient savior stepped in to catch Serie Caddell as she fell—entirely too gracefully—to the floor. The brunette barely caught herself before her head hit the floor; Kiara saw the girl glare up at the people around her, all of whom had neglected to pay any attention to her whatsoever.

Kiara could hardly blame them. When she returned her attention to Amelle and the templar, Jessamine and Morven, she found the latter blinking his eyes but otherwise unharmed. Amelle remained at the templar's side, her posture very carefully non-threatening, hands folded and expression serene.

Sebastian asked, "Well, Morven?"

Morven gave his head a shake and raised his eyes to meet Sebastian's. "If you're asking me if I think my mother's a raving, psychotic lunatic who never gave a damn about anything or anyone in her life, the answer's still resoundingly aye."

Kiara bit down—hard—on the inside of her bottom lip to keep from smiling. Or worse, bursting into laughter. Beside her son, Jessamine's cheeks burned pink and her pale eyes flashed. Whatever her words claimed, it was anger now, and a far cry from anything resembling maternal concern. "It's a trick!" the woman cried. "They are all in this together. The blood mage has arranged it all. They are all suspect, all of them! They are all her thralls! She told the templar to—"

Maker's balls, Kiara thought, remembering Meredith's mad allegations when Cullen stood up to her. Where have I heard this before?

His voice as sharp and hard as a whip-crack, Sebastian commanded, "Jessamine, be silent."

No one seemed more surprised than Jessamine herself when she obeyed him.

"Thank you, Lady Amelle," Sebastian said gravely. "For your reasoned thoughts, and for the demonstration. If that's all?"

It wasn't a question, of course. Amelle accepted the dismissal with an inclined head and a curtsey sent toward the dais. When she was comfortably seated once again, Sebastian's gaze returned to Jessamine. Kiara wished she could describe the woman as chastened, but the calculating quality to her silence only indicated she was trying yet again to change tactics.

Before she could speak, Sebastian said, "I think we have had quite enough of your histrionics, deception, and fear-mongering. One more outburst, and you will be muzzled. Do I make myself clear?"

The woman's lips twisted. After a moment, she nodded.

"You stand accused of murder, conspiracy, and high treason. How do you plead?"

"It doesn't matter how I plead," she replied, bowing her head. "You've already decided I'm guilty."

"Are you?"

When she looked up at him, her eyes were hard and cold. "Perspective is everything, Your Highness. Everything I did, I did because I felt I must. Things were stolen from me; I wanted them back. Did I kill? Of course I did. Did I deceive? Who hasn't? You're angry because what I wanted and what you wanted were at odds with one another. Who's to say we wouldn't have been allies in a different life?"

"That never would have happened."

Kiara only realized it was she who'd spoken the words when every bloody pair of eyes in the room abruptly fixed on her. Near the front of the crowd, she saw Isabela elbow Varric and stick out a hand, evidently demanding a payment. Amelle looked pained, and Sebastian long-suffering.

Shit. What was that about too many voices in a conversation?

#

All in all, it shouldn't have been a surprise Kiara hadn't been unable to hold her tongue. Truthfully, he'd have been concerned if she'd managed complete silence for the duration. It wasn't what she'd said, but rather her timing that was the main issue. Then again, she was going to be Starkhaven's Princess. And it wasn't as if the people didn't already know his beloved had something of an outspoken character.

It was just one more thing Jessamine could use against him.

But only if Sebastian let her.

With a breath he smoothed his initial reaction from his features. Aye, she had surprised him; aye, her timing could have been better — but she was to be his wife, and she was to rule with him. He would not dismiss her. Start as you mean to go on.

Jessamine sneered and let out a short huff of incredulous laughter. "Are you going to let a foreigner speak for you?"

"She speaks not for me, but with me," countered Sebastian calmly. "As it happens, my betrothed is not incorrect in her summation. My wants are simple — a prosperous Starkhaven, its subjects happy and secure and, above all, unafraid. When I returned to Starkhaven from Kirkwall, I found it near unrecognizable. Bullies lorded over merchants. The chantry was empty. People were afraid. If your actions are any reflection upon your wants, the good of the city ranked very low on your priorities."

"I only—"

"Rained poisoned arrows down on innocents, so desperate and determined were you to have your way. You have shown no remorse for the lives taken, and the lives endangered. You have shown no contrition for your deception. And you do not deny having done any of those things. You have proven yourself to have been acting in no one's best interests but your own, and at incalculable risk. I am not angry because your wants did not coincide with my own; if I am angry at all, it is because of your utter lack of concern for any life other than your own. And that is why Lady Kiara is correct: we never would have been allies. Your ambition did not even allow you to ally with your son."

The hall was utterly silent. Even the soft rustlings of breath and movement had succumbed beneath the hush. He did not look around, though he ached to, but Sebastian knew such a move would read as uncertainty, and if ever he had to appear certain — as certain as he was — it was now.

"I ask you one final time, Jessamine. How do you plead?"

#

Jessamine lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and spat.

If Amelle hadn't come too close to not one but two cleanses, she wasn't certain she could have stopped herself from reacting. It wasn't the spittle itself—the woman was too far from the dais for her action to actually affect Sebastian in any real way. It was the vulgarity of the gesture; the pure disrespect it evinced.

Beside Amelle, the faint silvery glow of Fenris' markings intensified.

Now was probably not the best time to have to explain to a magic-shy nation the nature of a glowing, irate elf who might or might not physically rip Jessamine apart with his bare hands. This time it was she who reached toward him, pressing fingertips feather-light to the back of his hand. He bowed his head and the glow dimmed until it could be explained away as a trick of the light falling through the stained glass windows.

Behind Kiara, Ser Kinnon drew his sword. He didn't move toward Jessamine. His grim expression—so odd on his usually-laughing face—didn't alter. He stared down at the defiant bitch wearing her smug smile, and he drew his sword.

Amelle felt the shift even before she could figure out the right words to explain it. Paltry a gesture as it might have been, a threat was a threat. Jessamine had threatened the prince of Starkhaven. Ser Kinnon reminded her what the price of contempt was.

And the crowd seemed to agree with Ser Kinnon.

"Very well," Sebastian said. "You have made your stance clear. The punishment for murder is death. The punishment for conspiracy is death. The punishment for high treason is death." A kind of weariness strained his voice; a dread. Justice cannot be fueled by hate or anger. "Were your crimes less vile, less exhaustive, there might have been clemency, but you have twisted and destroyed too much. Jessamine—"

Once again Morven spoke. His voice broke on the final syllable, but it was sure, and it carried enough to silence Sebastian mid-utterance. "Her name is Laymia. Laymia Vael."

Jessamine—Laymia—flinched as though struck. Amelle couldn't help thinking it was, perhaps, the first genuine reaction they'd seen from the woman. She did not look at her son, but the flash of betrayal was writ clear upon her face.

"Laymia Vael," Sebastian said, as though he'd not been interrupted at all, "for your crimes against Starkhaven, you are condemned to die."

The reaction was very nearly what Amelle would have expected from the woman. As a pair of palace guards flanked her, taking hold of her arms, she didn't resist them, holding her head high. Contorted with mad fury, her face was not as poised as the rest of her.

Then her son stepped forward, his bearing and expression nothing whatsoever like his mother's, only grim resignation without pride.

Sebastian inclined his head and his voice rang through the hall, steady and sure, "Morven Vael, you have been charged with conspiracy, high treason, and attempted murder, as well as the crime of impersonating a royal. How do you plead?"

Morven lifted his head, and regarded Sebastian and Kiara steadily.

"I plead guilty," he replied, taking no joy in the words, but owning them all the same. Amelle had never seen the resemblance before, but it was entirely evident now — the determined set of his jaw, and of course the eyes, but also in the way he spoke. Amelle snuck a glimpse at Sebastian and saw his eyebrows lift — a far tinier show of surprise than she assumed he felt.

"Have you anything to say for yourself in defense of these crimes?"

"I do."

#

Morven took a step forward and inclined his head, regarding Sebastian. Sebastian noted the man had a little more difficulty looking at Kiara.

"I do not envy you, cous—" Morven caught himself and stopped, mouth snapping shut on the slip. "Highness."

If the slip was enough to catch Sebastian's attention, Morven's words were enough to surprise him. "Would you care to elaborate?"

Morven took a deep, steadying breath before beginning. "I was raised with the word birthright whispered in my ear, raised to believe I deserved that throne and that crown. I was raised to want the title, the freedoms, the privileges, the liberties being Prince of Starkhaven afforded. I grew up believing I deserved them. If ever I went hungry, I was told once I was prince, I would have as much food as I wished. When I was older, I was told once I was prince, I would have as many horses and sets of fine clothing as I desired. When I was older still, I was told claiming my birthright, this thing supposedly stolen and denied me, would mean endless nights of wine and women." His lips twisted. "No one, however, explained how all these privileges would mean I'd have to rule, I'd have to take responsibility not just for my actions, but for the lives of all the people of Starkhaven."

Sebastian dared not look directly at Morven's mother, but he could almost feel the quality of her glare as her son spoke on:

"I did not care for ruling. And what did I care for Starkhaven? It was the place I'd been told we had been banished from — a place filled with people who had stolen everything from me. I even came to believe Starkhaven and its people stole my own father." Morven shook his head, and for a moment—just a moment—Sebastian let himself imagine a world like the one his cousin must have known. Through no fault of his own. Not in the beginning. "Your reappearance meant I would no longer rule — something I had been doing a rather half-assed job at anyway, if we're honest — but it also meant the wine would stop flowing and the courtesans would stop fawning over me. And I was quite accustomed to all that. I did not want to give it up."

Sebastian lifted his eyebrows and Morven laughed a little, humorlessly.

"I do not envy you the decisions you are called upon to make. I recall very well how it feels, and I would be lying if I said part of me was not glad to be rid of the weight of responsibility. Of course that is a realization helped along by several nights spent in contemplation after one's mother attempts to poison one."

For a moment, Sebastian remained still and silent, parsing Morven's words for traps or double entendres or deceptions. He supposed the man might be lying to him, but he would have had to be a very, very good liar indeed; his words rang with truth. "You would lay the blame at your mother's feet, then?"

Morven bowed his head, and red-gold hair fell to cover his face. Sebastian could see the uneven lock near his ear that his own arrow had shorn in their first confrontation. The wound on the curve of his ear was still scabbed-over.

As the crowd waited to hear his response, an uneasy sort of energy pervaded the chamber. It wasn't sound, it was nothing Sebastian could silence, but it reminded him just how much damage this man's ignorance and short-sightedness had caused. Perhaps he'd never lit a torch himself, but his inaction meant the blood of innocents was as much on his hands as on his mother's.

But it was also on the hands of very nearly every person in the room. And Sebastian could not punish them all, much as he might like to. He remembered the woman at the first burning he'd witnessed, the one whose misery he'd ended with an arrow through the throat. He remembered the feel of that arrow between his fingertips, and the deep horror of realizing there was nothing, nothing else he could do.

He remembered the sound the chantry in Kirkwall had made as it died. He remembered the sullen defiance in Anders' eyes. He remembered Kiara refusing to kill the mage, when all Sebastian had wanted was to see the light go out of those eyes, to see that defiance at last crushed the way it had crushed so many others.

He remembered. And for an instant, he hated. Not just Laymia Vael and her son. Not just the townsfolk with their fear and their prejudice. Not just Anders. Not just himself. For an instant he hated everyone. He hated that he lived in a world where such things could happen.

The line between justice and vengeance was such a thin one. It was so easy to put a toe over without even realizing it.

At length, Morven raised his head. There were pinched lines around his eyes, and the rims of his lids looked just red enough to hint at unshed tears. When he spoke, however, his voice did not waver. "I could," he replied. "I could blame her. I could scream and cry and plead. I could, but I won't. I was never completely ignorant. She influenced me, aye, but I wasn't brainwashed. There were times when some quiet voice in the very back of my skull said 'Maybe this isn't the best choice' but I ignored it. I made choices to suit myself. Maker, if my mother had required me to do something that went counter to my desires, I probably would have defied her. But she didn't. And I didn't. I've been weak my whole bloody life, and it would be beyond weak to blame everything on someone else now, so I won't. I made decisions. Most of them were bad. Many of them broke laws. I deserve my punishment. Your Highness."

Morven's eyes swung to Kiara, and Sebastian followed his gaze. Kiara did not flinch. She hardly even blinked. But Sebastian could see the thoughts churning behind the smooth facade of her face; he just had no idea what they were. "I owe you an apology, my lady," Morven said, dropping his voice. "My… behavior toward you was—" he shook his head, wincing, "—it was unconscionable. It was a bloody crime. There are… a lot of people I won't get the chance to apologize to, and I—I'm not looking for your forgiveness. I'm just sorry. That's all. You were a convenient target, and an even more convenient scapegoat."

Kiara swallowed, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. It was a gesture of nervousness, but her voice betrayed none of it. "Are you sorry you acted the way you did—said the things you said—or are you sorry you got caught?"

Morven huffed another mirthless laugh. "Both, if I'm honest. You… you had the right of it, when you told me I was acting like a toddler. It just… took me a long time to see it. You know, since I was acting like a toddler and all."

It was all evidently too much for his mother. This time when she sneered and spat, the spittle reached its target, sliding down her son's cheek. He twitched, but didn't even attempt to wipe it away on his shoulder. "You're weak now," she growled. "Have you no pride, Morven? You would grovel before a Fereldan nobody? For what? Mercy? You are a Vael."

"I had pride, Mother," he replied. "A bloody abundance of look where it got me. I'm not groveling. And I'm not asking for mercy. I'm apologizing. For a wrong I am fully aware I've committed."

"What punishment do you deserve?" Kiara asked abruptly. She colored slightly and sent Sebastian an apologetic look, but he only smiled at her. There were murmurs in the crowd.

Morven's brow furrowed. "I know the punishment for treason is death, my lady. To say… to say nothing of the other crimes. No matter what she says, I'm not groveling."

"Death, then?"

His frown deepened and he repeated, "The punishment for treason is death. I'd have put to death anyone accused of treason against me. The law is the law."

Kiara nodded. "Death, then." Then she quirked an eyebrow. "Say death wasn't an option. What punishment would you deem adequate for crimes such as yours?"

He seemed confused, and something about the tenor of his confusion solidified Sebastian's certainty he wasn't running an elaborate con or attempting a tricky deception. Kiara's question had genuinely rendered him speechless. Morven turned his bafflement on Sebastian, as though expecting him to somehow put a stop to it.

Instead, Sebastian commanded, "Answer her, cousin."

If Morven's near-slip had surprised Sebastian, Sebastian's own intentional use of the word appeared to rock Morven to the very core. Befuddlement disappeared beneath bald shock and he blinked once, then twice, processing what it was, exactly, that Kiara had asked of him.

"If… not death," he began slowly, "then I should say… banishment runs a fair second for such crimes."

"It would seem to me," Kiara replied, "that banishment created a large part of this problem in the first place. What else?"

Sebastian could see what Kiara was doing, what path she was attempting to lead Morven down, and he had to confess he was fascinated to discover where this particular line of questioning would lead. Morven frowned, looking into the middle distance; Sebastian had no idea what thoughts were running through his cousin's skull, but they were enough to render him silent — thoughtfully so — for some minutes.

What answer is she looking for?

Sebastian watched Kiara from the corner of his eye. She leaned forward ever so slightly in her throne, fingers curved around the arms of the chair. She was so perfectly still, Sebastian suspected she wasn't breathing either.

"If neither death nor banishment were an option, I…" Morven pursed his lips in a disgusted grimace and as his gaze turned inward, Sebastian got the distinct impression his cousin was remembering every one of his transgressions. He swallowed hard, then lifted his head and looked again at Kiara. "I have done Starkhaven… a disservice. If neither death nor banishment were an option, I would… work off the debt."

"How so?" Kiara asked, all mild curiosity, but Sebastian spied a certain avidness in her face and he had the distinct feeling Morven had answered well.

"Perhaps… working as a groom, or stable—"

His mother's outraged shriek cut off his words, rebounding deafeningly off every surface. Wild-eyed, she thrashed in the guards' grip, "You are a Vael! A Vael! I did not raise you to be a servant! You bloody spineless, worthless excuse for a man. Would that I had drowned you at birth—"

Sebastian sent the guards a fierce glare. "Remove her. Now."

The men did as they were told, but Laymia Vael's demented shouting took far too long to fade as she was dragged bodily from the hall, the echoes of her hateful screams ringing in everyone's ears.

With a brief look at Kiara, Sebastian tipped his head at Morven. "Continue."

His cousin swallowed hard before going on. It was as if he'd ventured into uncharted water — unchartable water — and could not quite decide if the answer he was giving was the right one. Traitors were executed. When they weren't executed, traitors were banished. What happened when neither previous option was viable was clearly not anything he had devoted a great deal of thought to.

Neither had Sebastian, for that matter.

"I would work off my debt, like I said. As a groom or stablehand, maybe."

"Earn your forgiveness from those you wronged?" asked Kiara, her fingers now tapping lightly, rapidly against the arms of her throne.

Morven colored slightly, but nodded.

"You like horses?" Kiara asked.

Again he blinked. "I… aye. But that's not… liking isn't why I'd… my lady, forgive me, I don't understand the question."

Sebastian was near enough to see her lips twitch briefly. "It was simple enough. And you answered it. But tell me what you meant, why you said liking isn't why you'd… choose horses, I presume?"

"It's a punishment," Morven explained. "I understand the concept of punishment, and it doesn't usually involve things you like. But I'm… I'm good with horses. No one would have to teach me. I wouldn't have to waste someone else's time. I wouldn't have to be… more of a burden. It would be… it would be appropriate to start at the bottom and… work. I could have said I'd have joined the laundry staff, or I'd have asked to be a hall boy. I know their work is hard and thankless, but someone would still have to teach me. Even if… even if all I did for the rest of my days was muck out stalls, it's something I already know."

"And it's awfully thankless," Kiara agreed gravely. "Thank you for your answer. It was… illuminating."

And Sebastian had to admit it had been.

When he rose from his throne, everyone else who'd been granted a seat rose with him. He felt the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. A quick glance toward Revered Mother Illona revealed little; the woman was gazing thoughtfully at Morven, but her thoughts remained shrouded. "Laymia Vael will die today. Her execution will not be public—"

He was forced to halt as the crowd cried its displeasure. Executions were always public. He knew it. They knew it.

He wasn't going to cave to them.

He didn't raise his hand. He didn't gesture at all. He stood on his dais, looking out over the crowd, and he waited. It took several minutes, but gradually the crowd stilled, and grew silent once again. "Her execution will not be public," he repeated. "There has been public execution enough in Starkhaven. I will not add to it. There will be witnesses. Those witnesses will carry word. The law is clear, and the law has spoken, but this is a death, and death is no cause for celebration."

Death is never justice.

No, he thought. But adherence to the law? With due ceremony and gravity?

He wasn't certain what Elthina would have thought, but it was the best he could do. It was all he knew how to do.

"Morven Vael," Sebastian continued. "Your crimes are no less vile than your mother's, but I cannot help noticing you seem, at the least, touched by remorse. Your guilt you have admitted to, freely and without hesitation. The sentence of death is commuted. You will return to your prison to await punishment."

Morven shuddered and fell hard to one knee. Two of the guard stepped near, but he managed to regain his footing. He bowed, but with his bound hands, the obeisance was shaky and he nearly stumbled again.

This time when he looked toward the Revered Mother, Sebastian found Illona's gaze already upon him. Her expression was still guarded, but something in her eyes spoke of… pride, he thought. Approval, perhaps.

"Revered Mother Illona," he requested politely, "might these proceedings hear your blessing?"

She inclined her head. "The Chantry finds these proceedings fair and just. You are commended for both your impartiality and your mercy, Your Highness." She bowed her head, and her voice took on an unearthly tone as she spoke from the Chant, "Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever, but the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortune of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction." Sebastian rather suspected the words were meant as much for those who'd been disappointed by his decision as anything else, and he admired the Revered Mother's presence of mind. She smiled kindly at the gathered crowd and added, "My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours. For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one. Go in peace, my children."

Now for the hard part, Sebastian thought grimly.