A/N: Hey, guys! I have a legitimate excuse for the late update – I was off-island. =)
Anyway, I kind of loved/loathed writing Goran in this bit because, as someone who has been manipulated and beaten down for years, he is more of an abuse victim than a prince and it was difficult finding resistance in him. He got there, though, so I was able to finish the chapter!
Also, I'm on tumblr now! tinyfierce DOT tumblr DOT com. I'm still learning the ins and outs of tumblr and deciding what kind of content I should post, so let me know what kinds of things you'd like to see! Snippets of upcoming chapters? Minific? Notes on the stories? Answering questions? BUTTS?!
(But really, feedback on what to post would be appreciated xD)
Enjoy the chapter!
As they approached the western city gate, the sight of meticulously polished and very visible sentries at their posts caused Hawke to slow her horse to a halt.
"I think I may have noticed a flaw in our plan," she said dryly to the Bann, who scratched his beard.
"Big group's a bit conspicuous, I'll give ye that," he muttered. "Wouldn't take more'n five minutes before word got out t' those who wouldn't want us t' get very far."
Mairead thumbed the wooden gaatlok vials on her belt. "I could always cause a distraction."
"And blast one of our best defenses t' rubble?" He raised an eyebrow. "Can think of a lot of folk who'd be more'n a bit pissed off a' that."
Sighing, Hawke set them back in place. "Then I'll have to do something a bit more juvenile." She dismounted, flexing her fingers. "But when I get back, you'd best have a pig." And before Guinn could ask what in Andraste's name she meant by that, she ducked behind a nearby house and blended seamlessly into the shadows like candle smoke in fog.
The shade of the trees provided excellent cover, and she moved with ease from one wall to the next. In short work, she was flush against the stone of the gate, and a few steps was all it took for her to slide silently into one of the unlit guard stations. A passing sentry's keyring glinted in the light like a signal, and years of lifting far more difficult things off of far more paranoid targets had made Hawke an expert of relieving others of their property. Sure enough, he didn't so much as miss a step when the collection of iron trinkets disappeared from his belt.
And when Hawke slunk back to the group, the Bann was waiting for her with muddy knees and a squirming piglet under one arm.
"Just made an arse of myself," he huffed. "I'm hoping that there's a point t' it."
"Trust me," the Champion said as she pulled a length of leather cord from her satchel and tied it around the squealing animal's neck. "My brother and I used to do this to the templars all the time back home. And if a couple of unruly children were successful..." She picked up the energetic little porker and admired her handiwork. "Then as an adult, I should be golden, right?"
She set him down facing the gate and, with a friendly slap on the rump, sent him careening toward the stiff-faced guardsmen.
There were shouts, tiny high-pitched shrieks, and the clanking of half a dozen sets of armor taking off in a generally southward direction. As their footsteps died out, the group approached the now-abandoned gate.
"I'll be damned," the Bann muttered, handing Gryphon's reins back to Hawke. "Tying th' city keys t' a beastie creates a mess of panic."
"Sometimes," she said gruffly, sliding into the saddle. "Depends on how fast the pig is."
Goran studied the lock, hands shaking with what must have been an equal mix of fear and adrenaline. "I hadn't thought to – I could go try filch a set of keys, perhaps from a guard station?"
"There is no time," Sebastian warned him, "and no need." He pressed his shoulder to the bars, reaching between them to extend his arm. "Your kilt pin, quickly! They've taken anything of use to me."
Despite some initial confusion, the current prince managed to find the ornament nestled into the folds of tartan wool, fumbling to free it and press it into his cousin's waiting hand. Immediately, the archer set to work, turning the delicate metal point-inward to the lock of his cell door.
The sculpted crest, a pair of arrows crossed in the center of the Chantry's fiery halo sigil, dug into his skin as he gripped it tightly. Not what he had ever imagined using the Crown Jewelry for, but Sebastian supposed it was apt, in a way.
"How did you get here alone?" He glanced up quickly to the door, working from muscle memory alone.
"I told the guards that I wanted to offer you a chance to make amends for the attempt on my life before you died."
Sebastian winced as one curved point drew blood, but continued. "Not Loudain's men, I take it?"
"Crown guards." Goran tried to pull his eyes away from the impromptu lockpick, but failed miserably and instead stared outright. "You know how to pick locks?"
"Mother used to try to lock me in my chambers when ambassadors with daughters were about," Sebastian hastily explained. "And I've only improved since moving to Kirkwall."
"I can imagine. But a chantry brother...?" He trailed off, and his cousin understood.
"Picking a lock is not inherently a sin against the Maker," he replied evenly. A quick jerk in his wrist, and the final latch popped open, freeing him. Wrapping his bloody hand in the kerchief Goran offered, the resourceful would-be prince gave his best mollifying smile. "It's the actions that follow that decide whether or not you require penance."
A sound from the main access hall caught his attention, and he quickly stiffened.
"Come," he issued, taking off for the far end of the cell block, Goran at his heels. "The sentries use this corridor least of all. It may prove to be our best option."
True to his observations, the dimly-lit, narrow hallway was completely deserted. From what he could glimpse through the occasional barred window, they were on the northern perimeter, ducking out of sight as guards paced their rounds along the fortified parapets just outside. A few tight corners and breath-stealing close calls later, the sound of footsteps called for the use of the ornamental pin again to hurriedly pop open the nearest door.
"Hurry," Goran desperately whispered as they grew closer. "We've got to hide!"
Despite the sharp pains in his palm and fingers, Sebastian sprung the lock and pushed his cousin inside without so much as a glance into the room's contents. He quickly slipped in behind him, silently closing the door and pressing himself to the wall beside the viewing panel.
And not a moment too soon. He held his breath as the clanking of armor grew louder, closer...
...and then passed them by completely.
Exhaling slowly, he finally turned to see where they had taken shelter. Chests and racks lined the walls, a single torch illuminating musty wooden crates with poorly-scrawled labels. Goran walked over to one of the wall racks, tapping his fingertip on a spiked mace.
"An armory?"
"A small one," Sebastian confirmed, moving from one wall to the other, checking what was available to him. "It isn't the main store, but we are very fortunate." Either that, or the Maker was giving them a warning of what was to come. He ran his hands along a set of sturdy-looking, identical bows clearly designed for economy and practical use rather than fine skill and finesse.
Picking up the nearest one, heavy and unfamiliar in his hand, the archer lamented the loss of his grandfather's legacy. The bow had been taken from him upon his entrance to the palace gardens, and Maker only knew where it was now. Loudain may have had it destroyed out of spite, or someone in the castle who recognized its value may have made off with it.
Still, he slung a full quiver over his shoulder and slid the clunky, inelegant bow across his back. There was no time to get used to a new weapon, he knew, and coupled with the injuries he sustained in his hand from the kilt pin, that would put him at a disadvantage.
"Cousin," he called in a low voice, careful to keep below notice. "Have you any fighting strengths?"
Sheepish, Goran tugged at his doublet. "I used to wave a plank menacingly at deer eating the crops back on the farm."
I can take that as a 'no.' Sebastian set his jaw and scanned the room for anything resembling a large slab of wood, wide and flat. After a moment's search, he yanked a rather squat shortsword from a labeled crate on his left.
"Sword it is, then," he said, handing it hilt-first to the crown prince, who reluctantly accepted it. The way he nearly dropped it from the unexpected weight wasn't exactly confidence-inspiring, but it would have to do. At least he seemed to have determination on his side and was fairly strong from the years of manual labor – that would serve him well.
They couldn't dally much longer. Even if they managed to escape the prison itself, the band of Antivan Crows already had over an hour's head start toward his unpredictable fiancee.
"We will wait for the next patrol to pass," he instructed his cousin, crouching down by the door for the moment's rest it would grant. "Then we can make our next attempt, and pray to the Maker that they weren't headed for my cell."
Hawke and the Bann's company of men had ridden right from the city gates as fast as their horses could carry them. Now, though the roads directly around the city were wide and maintained, they were about to pass into the forest paths, which were often overgrown and would drag them down considerably if not traveled heedfully.
Not that they hadn't encountered... hindrances on the main roads. And, from the looks of things, their obstacles were far from over.
The group pulled their horses to a slow trot as the forest line came into view. As they approached, one man in the road turned into ten, then twenty. They slid from behind trees, crept out of shadows, blocking their path. As Hawke assessed each individual pain in her backside as they appeared, she noted that their apparent leader bore the sigil of the Antivan Crows crosswise over his hip.
"You were right, Zev," she confirmed, reining Gryphon to a halt.
"Am I not always?"
As the blond elf and MacDougall flanked her on either side, Hawke flexed her fingers. The assassin leader was walking up to them in long, measured strides, clapping lazily and giving them and their horses an appreciative yet calculating once-over.
"Well!" he called, his voice a thick Antivan accent positively dripping with a smugness that Hawke wanted to slap right off of his tattooed face. "Not a scratch on you!"
"Ah, you mean those?" The Champion thumbed over her left shoulder, and Zevran held up a sack clanking with disassembled trap components.
"A commendable effort, to be sure," the former assassin offered, honey-gold eyes gleaming. "If a bit amateurish."
If the Crow leader was insulted by Zevran's blatant taunt, he made no show of it. His grin stayed perfectly in place, and he spread his hands in a shallow mock bow. "Of course, we expected no less from the illustrious Champion of Kirkwall! Rumors of your exploits have reached our ears even in beautiful Antiva." He tapped his lips with one finger, his smirk only broadening. "Though not much goes beneath our notice. We take– "
He was interrupted by Hawke's loud, theatrical groan as she nearly doubled over in her saddle.
"I don't have time for this," she moaned, dragging herself back upright and looking thoroughly displeased. "Maker, do they teach you to talk like this in the crows?!"
"Yes," Zevran called from beside her, not missing a beat as he ticked them off on his fingers. "Poison-making, thievery, and then the condescending banter."
"Let me make this clearer," Mairead continued, ignoring him. "Step aside. Don't keep us held up, and we won't kill you."
The egoistic Crow raised a hand, signaling his fellows. "I'm afraid I can't do that."
Hawke had already drawn her daggers.
They always said that.
Another corner led to another hallway, to another identical row of rooms and identical windows with identical views. Sebastian fought down the frustration threatening to overpower his adrenaline, which was considerable in itself.
Nearly an hour they had been doing this, tracing circles in the prison. He and Goran had made it to one single-flight set of secluded circular stairs on a stroke of sheer timing and luck, but had encountered none since. One level. All of the dodging and hiding and running and near misses, and they had only made it down one level.
Three left, the archer checked, confirming with a quick glance stolen out of a window to gauge their height. Two if we're willing to jump.
Clanking footsteps from around the corner caught his attention, and he motioned for his cousin to keep up. They'd been down this specific corridor at least a dozen times, and he knew from experience that the record-keeper's room second on the left was unlocked. They darted in, bolting it silently behind them and crouching in the shadows.
Goran was naturally rather good at following close and keeping quiet, Sebastian mused, sparing a glance for the crown prince hugging his own knees in the corner. Except for one close call when he had noisily knocked over a spear on the floor above, he hadn't been much of a hindrance. The part of the 'rescuer,' it seemed, had fallen to Sebastian after the first two minutes of being the intended rescuee.
The fear was a problem, however. His hesitation and jump at every noise was... less than ideal. Unsurprising, though, for a man who'd previously fought the likes of hungry foxes and irritated chickens and was now faced with the prospect of well-armed and fully-trained men of the crown.
Still, Sebastian knew that their slow progress was not enough. He was out of his cell and they were out of sight sure enough, but that they were taking such a long time with so little distance gained meant that the guards would soon discover that their highest-priority captive was missing.
A deliberate-sounding ruckus of shouting and clanging shot through the windows, coming from the wing overhead where he had been confined. As the alarm echoed through the halls, the clamor of running feet and clinking of armor quickly became thunderous and agitated. A heavy patrol barreled past the very door he rested against, Sebastian's quickened pulse keeping time with their footsteps.
It had begun.
Hawke coughed as she ran through a cloud of acrid smoke, emerging to a pile of dead or unconscious Crows and the Bann's men trying to calm the horses.
"You could've warned me that you were going to use lyrium dust!" She glared at Zevran through reddened eyes as he followed at her heels.
"It crossed my mind, yes." He sheathed his daggers, reaching for the reins of his horse. "Ingenious of you to light it on fire. Well done."
The explosion that had resulted from using flame augmentations (while completely unaware of what the assassin had been tossing about) had half-tempted the Champion to kill him for that nasty surprise.
"It got the job done," she huffed, whistling for Gryphon, who pulled free from the soldier holding him. "How did you even get it? You're no templar – no one in their right mind would sell it to you."
"Have you been to the apothecary in front of the palace?" With a fond smile, he pulled up on his mount's reins. "He has a lovely daughter."
"Why do I even ask these things," Hawke mumbled, scanning the group for MacDougall. He was easy to spot; a giant barreling toward you on an equally enormous horse is exceedingly difficult to miss.
"If they sent an advance guard," he huffed, "then we're gettin' close." He rolled back his sleeves roughly, and Hawke caught a sight of a sizable, freely bleeding gash before he pulled a bandage over it and slapped a bracer on top. "Mercs means they're nervous."
"And nervous means they're going to hurry things along," Mairead continued, following his train of thought. "Sebastian's running out of time."
A shout from the Bann gathered the group up quickly, and not seconds later they had resumed their breakneck pace, winding through the narrow forest paths. As the wind whipped her hair around her neck, Hawke swore under her breath. They were coming. They knew where he was, what Bann Loudain was trying to do, they had Sophie – the only thing they needed so desperately was more time. She could only hope that Sebastian could buy himself a delay somehow. Even a few moments could make the ultimate difference.
This, Hawke thought dryly, would be a good time for him to reconcile himself to lying.
It was amazing how a prison could feel so vast and yet so damningly small at the same time.
Deciding to move into the open rather than risk being discovered while cornered in a small room, the two royal fugitives had been relentlessly chased by sentries down seemingly endless corridors and corners, only to encounter more guards at every turn. Sebastian led the way, loosing volleys of arrows enough to scatter the men, praying not to injure anyone too grievously as he darted through the chaos with Goran close behind him.
"They wouldn't raise a hand against the crown prince," Sebastian called over the din behind them as they rounded into a clear stretch. "You should find a safe place and stay there until this is finished."
"I can't," Goran protested, tugging at his cumbersome regalia as he struggled to keep up with the seasoned fighter ahead. "What if you get caught? I have to explain that I– "
"If it were men of the crown, that may have a chance," the archer countered grimly. "But Loudain's men will claim that I kidnapped you," he flung open a set of doors and burst through, "forced you to release me, and shoot me on sight." He pressed himself flat to one wall in an alcove, motioning for Goran to do the same. After a unit barreled through the intersection ahead, oblivious to the pair hiding in the shadows, Sebastian pushed off his heels and continued. "And there is no way to predict which we will encounter at any time."
It wasn't just an argument – it was the unfortunate state of things. The colors the guards bore seemed to be entirely at random; they would flee from a group of crown soldiers only to nearly crash into a squadron of Loudain's armed lackeys within the minute. Though as much as he could, Sebastian took more care with his shots when evading the former, doing what he could to spare those not in the conniving Bann's pocket.
They were still, after all, people of Starkhaven.
Hope welled up a surge of reserve strength as he caught sight of a staircase enclosed in a circular tower to their left. The alarmed calls and unsheathing of swords coming from behind them were motivation enough to make a break for the rare avenue of escape, Sebastian ushering Goran ahead of him and slamming the door shut as soon as they were inside. Before joining his cousin, the archer took a moment to shove the deadbolt into place and jam a stolen dagger into the handle of the door that led to the floor above, sealing off both possible entrances. Just in the nick of time, as both began to shake angrily with the force of pursuers behind them.
The crown prince nervously shifted from one foot to the other in the few seconds it took for Sebastian to catch up, and followed closely as they turned the next corner into a quiet, narrow hallway. They took advantage of the momentary reprieve to catch their breath and calculate their approximate location relative to the massive front gate, the only means of entrance or exit that was not a cliffside window.
"This will be easier alone," Sebastian murmured, continuing their earlier discussion, "if I do not have to worry for your safety."
Goran blanched. "But– "
"At the next opportunity, we will hide you." Hands on his knees, the rightful prince lifted his head to look the pale, exhausted pretender to the throne in the eye. "You are still prince, and my kin. I couldn't– "
He trailed off as shadows from torchlight moved against the far wall, revealing two sentries assuming a post by the doors into the next wing, a prime means of egress that was protected – rightly so – in the event of an escape alarm. Though they were relatively stationary, any sentries at all were still too close for comfort, and Sebastian found himself eyeing the locks implanted in the doors beside him. Gently, he placed a hand on his cousin's chest and pushed him flat against the wall, indicating the shadows with a nod. A kind of panicked understanding crossed Goran's face, and he slid a few paces to the side to allow Sebastian access to the door lock he was intent on breaking through.
It was just a precautionary measure, the chantryman reminded himself as he braced the now-scratched kilt pin against the makeshift bandages on his palm, every turn of his wrist eliciting a wince at the pain building in his wrists and forearms from using an unfamiliar, poorly aligned bow. Precision shots with such an instrument were like trying to thread a needle by throwing a rock at it. His skin burned beneath the leather and his muscles protested violently, but he pressed on.
He was so wrapped up in his pain and the intricacies of the inner lock mechanisms that he didn't so much as spare a glance up at Goran. The crown prince was watching the shadows move so intently, so determined to keep an eye on them, that neither man realized how close to the door he had gotten. An unexpected spring latch unhooking within the lock sent the makeshift pick digging into Sebastian's palm, and the resulting involuntary jerk drove his elbow straight into his cousin's ribs.
Sebastian could only watch in time-slowed horror as his curly head struck the bottom of a wall torch, raining embers and knocking the ill-fitting coronet to the ground.
It was the second time in as many days that the royal crown had touched earth.
"Goran!" he managed, voice strangled, but it was too late. His cousin spun and flapped his heavily ornamental garb in an effort to not catch fire, and the alerted guards were advancing, their shadows distorting the closer they came. Closing his eyes briefly and issuing a prayer, the archer remained crouched, drawing his bow and waiting.
White arrows on a red field entered his sights, and he spread his fingertips.
"Wait," Goran called desperately to the guards, "wait!"
They apparently either did not recognize him without the circlet or were too focused on the arrows pointed at them to take notice, and reached for their weapons. They hadn't even drawn them when Sebastian loosed a half-dozen quick shots in succession, pinning them solidly to the wall by their regalia.
Letting out a long breath, he braced a hand on the wall to help himself to his feet, and caught their vain struggles out of the corner of one eye as he held out a hand to Goran.
His cousin held out the full quiver he'd been carrying obligingly, letting Sebastian switch it for his own half-empty one before scurrying to pick up the mark of his station that lay dully glinting in the low light. As he clumsily shoved it back onto his messy head, the look on the guards' faces turned to an entirely different kind of alarm.
"The prince?" One guard's face contorted in angry bewilderment. "No one said– "
"What if we'd shot him," the other hissed, less bewildered, more angry. Jerking against his restraints in an unsuccessful attempt to free himself, he turned to Sebastian, who leaned against the wall, one forearm bracer unsnapped in an effort to massage the abused tissue beneath.
"What are you waiting for," he demanded, armor clanking in an echo of his frustration. "Take the killing shot already!"
Grimacing, the would-be prince re-tightened the straps. "I have no desire to end your life."
"But you're– "
"A Vael," Sebastian interrupted. "And a brother of the Chantry. I would not be either if I took life so easily."
The guard scoffed, but something in his partner's face changed at those words, studying Sebastian with a careful eye. The sound of armored feet approaching caught the attention of all present, the red-haired Vael quickly standing and motioning for the crown prince to move to his side.
"The middle hall," the second guard called.
Sebastian turned, stepping closer while still keeping an ear to the impending visitors. "What?"
If possible, the other guard was even more furious. "Nelson, stop!"
"It leads straight to the front gates."
"What," his partner spat, "are you doing?"
Angling his head to face him, the one named as Nelson glared. "What, and I suppose you've liked Loudain's men stomping in here and pissing on everything like they're the lords of us lowly peasants? We are men of the Maker and the crown above all, for Andraste's sake! Remember who you serve!" At the other guard's begrudging silence, he looked back to Sebastian and continued. "You can use the gatekeeper's steps to get to the ground floor. If you want to get out, make it fast and make it now."
Unsure of how to respond to such an unexpected gesture of loyalty and faith, Sebastian acknowledged him with a shallow bow of his head. "Maker watch over you."
"And you, Highness." It was unclear to which Highness the guard was speaking, but he met Sebastian's bright blue eyes without blinking. "Maker bless the Vaels."
With that, the two fugitives ran into the door the soldiers had been guarding and bolted it behind them.
Another patrol passed by, and as soon as they were out of sight, Sebastian and Goran cautiously moved out from behind the crates they'd used as cover. A second visual check, and the archer waved his cousin safely forward.
Every time they went undetected, Sebastian's relief rose up like an offering to the Maker. It was becoming more and more difficult the farther they progressed, as the groups of soldiers were increasing in frequency and size, and hiding spaces were fewer and farther between.
Still, the guard's words echoed in his head.
The middle hall.
If Hawke were here, he thought as they crept down the row of windowless doors, she would scoff at his decision to trust someone who had just pointed a sword at him. But Sebastian knew faith when he saw it; you couldn't counterfeit such heartfelt conviction.
Also, he had very little choice in the matter.
So when they came upon the split route, three identical-looking passages leading in vastly different directions, his feet only hesitated a moment before heading straight down the central path.
Not thirty paces in, his trust was rewarded: the grinding of a winch reverberated through the walls in the near distance. The guardsman had told the truth; they were nearing the gate.
Energized by the prospect of putting the prison behind him, Sebastian picked up the pace. Getting outside was only the first hurdle to overcome; he still needed to find himself and Goran horses and gain some distance between themselves and the Bann as they raced to aid Hawke.
He knew that she could look after herself. He knew, and yet...
He just couldn't leave her alone. He'd been a fool to think he would ever be able to again.
Light softly glowed through the barred window of the door in front of them, adding to the promise of what lay beyond. Without a second thought, he pulled it open and ran through. The long, hall-like room was bright with sunlight flooding in from the tall windows along one wall, and he was able to glimpse leafy treetops of the thick growth surrounding the prison. If that wall faced the forest and not the cliffs, then it further validated the guard's intentions and they were but a few doors away from the structure's one exit.
He crouched and spun at the sound of wood hitting stone as the door at the far end of the hall was violently flung open, men flooding in to block his escape. He turned toward the entrance, intending to double back, but yet more filed in through that same arch in a parade of white and red dotted with dark blue. Pulling Goran behind him, Sebastian backed up toward the windows and cast a glance downward. Much too far to jump.
They were trapped.
Cautiously – and very slowly – the exiled prince straightened. The crown guards and Loudain's men might have had their weapons drawn and trained on him, but they were not advancing. A tense silence hung in the air, the only audible noise the shuffling and clacking of armor and weapons as the soldiers stared the two fugitives down.
Ah, Sebastian realized as he met their eyes, they're waiting.
From the back, the tightly-packed bodies moved aside, re-forming as two figures made their way to the forefront.
"Brother Sebastian," Bann Loudain called, hands clasped behind his back. "You've caused quite the uproar."
The captain of the guard took a step forward, but Sebastian held his ground.
"Sebastian Vael," he announced civilly, "we wish to avoid further bloodshed. If you agree to submit peacefully, we can end this without violence."
There was a moment as Sebastian glanced about him when he actually considered surrender. They were far outnumbered, Goran could be injured or worse, and any resistance would undoubtedly result in his capture or death. What he needed was a distraction, something large enough to pull the attention of what was easily more than fifty trained soldiers.
"The last thing I ever wanted," he began, tracing the room with his eyes, "was to cause harm." His gaze alighted on the torch wheel above, and trailed up to the rope securing it aloft. "However, you must understand why I cannot simply resign myself to a wrongful death."
"This, coming from a chaos-sewing dissident," Loudain scoffed, advancing toward them. "You attack the prince, your own cousin, on holy ground, endanger his life in an attempt to save your own, and openly consort with known reckless, indiscriminate murderers and criminals!"
Sebastian prickled. "Hawke," he issued sharply, "is no more an indiscriminate murderer than you are the Prince of Starkhaven."
"Silence!" The Bann snapped, sending Goran recoiling. He was close now, enough for Sebastian to feel the heat of his irate, labored breaths. "You will say nothing, and I will see you die before you speak another treacherous word." He didn't release the locked glare he kept on Sebastian as he spat orders to the crown prince. "Your Highness," he growled, speaking the royal address like it meant 'prize idiot,' "we are overcome with relief to see you unharmed. You may now safely join us for your return." He turned on his heel. "You captor will be promptly dealt with."
He began walking back toward his men, but froze not five paces on. Frowning, he turned to see the space behind him empty, Goran still firmly behind Sebastian. That piercing, dark-eyed glare was now turned to his precious puppet as his patience visibly wore thin.
"You may now join us," he repeated, enunciating each word so as to be unmistakable.
Sebastian turned just enough to meet the prince's nervous gaze as it flittered back and forth between the Bann and his cousin. He was hesitating, his feet ever-so-slowly moving to take a step back toward the wall.
"Now," Loudain barked, pointing to the floor at his side as he would a dog.
Goran flinched, and that visceral jerk apparently traveled to his tongue as Sebastian watched his mouth snap open.
"I wish to pardon this man," he burst out, the words bubbling from his mouth like a terrified geyser.
There was silence in the room for a moment before the guard-captain regained his bearings. "Your Highness?"
Loudain's face had fury etched into every line, irises nearly black with barely-contained rage. And all of it was directed at the meek, mousy prince whom he had crushed beneath his heel for years.
Goran straightened a little, swallowing down what Sebastian was fairly sure was vomit. "I am prince," he repeated, only the tiniest measure louder than the first time, "and I pardon him."
"You are not in your right mind," the Bann hissed, covering the distance between them in quick strides and grabbing Goran roughly by the wrist. A chorus of adjusting weapons, some of which were cautiously now pointed at him, went ignored as he yanked the prince forward. "This man is after your throne!"
"I never wanted it!" Goran cried, pulling to no avail. "You did!"
"Enough," hissed the Bann, another insistent yank almost sending the prince tumbling.
"Let him go," Sebastian protested, but the captain of the guard stood between him and the conflict.
"Bann Loudain," the guard-captain interrupted carefully, "the prince wishes to speak." The not-so-subtle reminder of social standing was either ignored or missed entirely.
"He does not need to think," Loudain retorted, "and neither do you!"
The expression on the guard-captain's face at that flattened, and his tone lost all of its attempts at pleasantry. "My Lord, Prince Goran asks that you release him. Remember your position."
As they spoke, Sebastian's hand crept toward the stolen dagger at his hip. If he could sever the rope, the crashing chandelier could incapacitate at least ten, twenty guards and likely cause panic. He only needed the right angle, at the right moment. Slowly, he started to slide one foot.
Goran, he pleaded, you can do this. Give me just a bit more time.
"I'm not going back," the prince wailed, desperately trying to wrench himself free. "Not a day goes by that I don't pray to the Maker to be released from it!"
"Cease your whining," sneered the Bann. "Have I not done everything for you?"
"My Lord, the Prince's arm –"
"You've ruined my life!"
"I've made everything perfect!"
"Bann Loudain, this is the last time we will– "
"No more, Loudain! I'm done with your game!"
"Enough!"
Loudain pulled again, this time ripping the fabric of the sleeve he had grabbed hold of. It came off in his hand, and Goran skidded to a stop face first on the floor. As the Bann discarded the cloth and reached for him again, the smaller man scrambled upright, pulling his sword and waving it in front of himself clumsily. "Stay back," he warned shakily, attempting a few menacing-looking slashes through the air.
Unimpressed, Loudain took a step forward. "You fool no one, highness," he said dryly. "Toss it aside and end this embarrassing display." When Goran didn't obey, he moved closer again, only to be met with desperate, wild, skill-less swipes.
Even if the wielder has no skill, a sword is still sharp.
Loudain's head swiveled to the side, lightning-fast as the steel grazed his cheek. Goran looked on in horror, lowering his blade as the Bann slowly raised his fingertips to the bleeding slit in his skin. Disbelief was quickly replaced by fury, and Loudain snarled as he drew his rapier, stalking the prince back until Goran was flat against the cold stone of the wall.
"You," he spat, raising the sword to strike, "ungrateful little viper– "
There was a snap of a bowstring, and a wet, hollow thunk.
Sebastian froze in place, inches away from his target, as he saw the arrow pierce clear through Bann Loudain's neck.
The sound of the body collapsing into a crumpled heap of tartan and flesh on the floor was the only thing audible in the echoing stone. Every head turned toward the direction of the bowman, the entrance he and Goran had used.
Just past the doorway stood a lone guard some steps back from the rest, a red tunic with the Starkhaven arrows marking him as a crown guard.
His face, Sebastian realized. He'd seen that face before. As he lowered his bow, there was a large hole in each shoulder of his raiment, and recognition struck Sebastian immediately.
The partner of the guard who had directed him through the passages.
He nodded to his commander, who in turn issued orders to his men. "Bann Loudain attempted treason," he bellowed. "Gather and arrest his associates!"
The next few minutes were a blur, Sebastian gathering up his wilted, glassy-eyed cousin and propping him against the wall as best he could while many of Loudain's men either resisted arrest or attempted to flee. He met the eyes of the bowman who had felled the Bann, watching as he gingerly rolled his stiff shoulders back and returned an exasperated glare.
Don't misunderstand, that look said. I didn't do it for you.
With an acknowledging nod, Sebastian turned his attention back to keeping watch over his kin as the crown guards wrangled the last of Loudain's lackeys.
As the room settled, the guard-captain called his men to stand at attention. Every remaining soldier snapped upright, their shackled charges at their feet.
The captain clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat expectantly, and Sebastian gave his cousin something of a firm nudge to stand in front to be addressed.
Satisfied, the captain began. "We witnessed Bann Horace Loudain of Estonborough physically assault the crown prince of Starkhaven. We moved to his defense and were met with hostility." He lifted his chin, indicating the guard who had taken the shot. "When he drew his weapon, guardsman Boyd judged that it was a threat on the prince's life and acted according to our laws. He loosed a single arrow, killing the Bann instantly." He turned fully, this time. "Guardsman Boyd, is this correct?"
"Aye," Boyd confirmed, wincing as he leaned back against the rough-hewn granite. "Clean shot."
"Then, until further procedure..." The captain bowed at the waist. "Goran Vael, Crown Prince of Starkhaven, do you bear witness?"
"I bear witness," Goran mumbled blearily.
The second bow, directed at him, caught Sebastian off-guard.
"Sebastian Vael, son of the late Prince Thomas, do you bear witness?"
"I bear witness," he agreed quickly, and marveled as the captain proceeded to bark orders at his men, who dragged or marched their captives toward the cell block. He moved to stand beside him, watching the flurry of activity with interest.
"You acknowledged my nobility," he mused aloud, curiosity evident. "Even though I was accused of treason?"
"The prince pardoned you," replied the captain, signaling for the next group to be taken. After a moment, he shot him a sideways glance and added, "And I suspect we'll be seeing a lot come to light in the next few months."
"I do not envy you," Sebastian offered sympathetically, but the captain held up a hand.
"No offense meant, my lord, but of the two of us, I think you will have more to explain."
Isn't that the Maker's truth, the archer thought with a sigh, and the final unit gathered in front of their chief for orders.
"Go find the remainder of the Bann's men," he instructed. "Accept if they surrender, and jail them separately until we can figure out what to do with them." He inclined his head to take in Goran's blanched face. "Unless his highness has further instructions?"
Sebastian kept pointedly silent, despite a pleading look from his cousin to relieve him of this already. When it became clear that no help was forthcoming, he shook his head. "No, do what you think is best."
The captain nodded, excusing himself with a bow. "Your grace. My lord."
As soon as they were alone, Goran's already-pale face waxed with sweat, and at the sight of the Bann's corpse, he hurriedly found his way to a corner urn to empty the contents of his stomach.
Sebastian knelt by the pooling fabric and blood, reaching out with gentle fingers to close the Bann's eyes. He offered a prayer, entire and heartfelt, commending his spirit to the Maker. It was not his place to deny the Last Rites for any soul, he had long come to understand, no matter what acts or atrocities they may have committed in life. It was up to the Maker and no other to judge.
He had only barely finished the final verse of Benedictions when Goran's sudden alarm brought him to his feet.
"Sebastian!" He stood at the window, knuckles white from frantically gripping at the sill. "Cousin, more are coming!"
Panic set into his veins, exponentially growing harder and harder for adrenaline to overpower his exhaustion. He had thought that they were safe, that his name had been cleared. But, just as Goran had feared, a small gap in the treetops over the incoming road to Hangman's End showed the movement of another approaching onslaught.
Frantically, Sebastian whipped around to find the guard captain, to have him explain things, for assistance, for support – but he was long gone, seeing to his men and their prisoners.
His heart thudded in his chest as he watched a force of riders pour out from the trees, swarming the road that would have led to his freedom.
And he, the hopeful future prince of Starkhaven, with a dead Bann on his hands.
