They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me -
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:-
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
—When we two parted, Lord Byron

—

To say that Fenris did not want to be in this garden was to say that Danarius could be bothersome when he was vexed. That the Minanter was a slightly damp trickle, that the long journey back from Kirkwall had been difficult.

Three days had gone by since Fenris had run aground on the rocks of Hawke in her wedding dress. For better or worse it had been a defining moment for them both. Her frankness had flayed him open to the bone, and he thought she both knew it and regretted it, a step too far in the dance neither of them could escape. They had both made serious effort at civility after that, though that silent pain came nearly as sharp, and he saw Hawke's composure crack more than once before she turned her face away to hide it.

So when Sebastian had leaned back in his chair after dinner this evening and asked them both with naked hope if they might take a turn in the garden together, Fenris had not seen a graceful way to refuse. He knew Sebastian had been heartened by this change in their behavior; he knew Sebastian wanted desperately for his brother and betrothed to manage some amicable alliance. If only it were so easy.

But now Sebastian walked with Hawke on his arm, Fenris to his left and a pace or two behind, and every step brought only pain.

The grounds themselves were a marvel, painstakingly constructed by a Vael princess some hundred years ago. Holly and laurel had been coaxed to great heights, then trimmed back into beautiful topiaries; the hedges ran waist-high in some places and taller than a man in others, their lovely curves and bends hiding a dozen alcoves and stone benches where a pair of lovers might disappear for a few minutes. Roses bloomed on every path, mostly the white and yellow of Starkhaven, and enormous, thriving wisteria tumbled over the walls in cascades of blue, purple, and white blossoms, their scent hanging sweetly in the air. Enormous stone vases overflowed with ivy and honeysuckle.

The lamps had been lit in the gardens as twilight fell, and they peeped out now like stars, beautiful iron-wrought cages fitted over glass as clear as water. Their warm glows had been set adroitly throughout the garden, hidden between bushes, set on tall elegant poles, hung on long strings above their heads to light their way. The polished stone paths gleamed beneath them; the pools of the standing fountains caught their shine, held it wavering in the black water, and gave it back again, brighter, glittering.

By daylight the gardens were beautiful. By night, with the open gold doors of the palace wafting out soft strains of Starkhaven music, with the hushed whispers of other lovers just out of sight, they became something altogether spellbound and strange, almost sacred.

Fenris could see it in Sebastian's face. His voice had grown lower and huskier with every measure; his tall frame had bent ever nearer to Hawke. Her smiles as she looked up at him had grown soft, intimate. The lamplight strayed to her eyes and shone there.

They had been designed as a matched pair, surely. She fit so well against his height; his archer's hands were graceful, tender at her waist. Even his valet had conspired successfully with her maids, the cream of Sebastian's tufted doublet a careful complement to Hawke's own gown of cream embroidery on pale, soft green.

Fenris fell back; they did not notice. The prince and his princess continued on a few steps more, then came to a natural stop beside a great fountain in the center of the garden. A slender nymph in white marble lifted a vase above her head; clear water poured from it and laughed its merry way down into a dozen waiting cups held by stone children. Beyond the fountain the avenue continued with a gentle curve towards the great palace doors still standing open, and the light from the great hall washed through the falling sheet of water to turn it warm and golden.

Sebastian and Hawke had become shadow. Fenris could see them only in silhouette, outlined here and there when the lamplight snared on Sebastian's crown, on the opals at Hawke's throat as her breath caught. It lingered on the lines of Sebastian's hand as he cupped Hawke's face, slid longingly to the curve of Hawke's cheek. Then Sebastian bent, and he kissed her, and not even the candleflame could tell where one shadow ended and the next began.

The kiss was not long. Sebastian drew back, searching Hawke's face; Hawke smiled at him, her hand over his against her cheek, and he drew her fingers to his mouth and kissed them. Then he tucked her arm into his once more, and as if nothing at all had changed, they continued around the fountain and towards the palace.

Fenris stayed where he was.

He felt curiously blank. He had expected pain, had braced himself for it. But—only a little hard to breathe, and his eyes burning, and nothing else. Good. He might be safe yet to stand with Sebastian at his wedding. This numbness was not so terrible; in many ways it mirrored his service with Danarius, this total sublimation of all he was, of everything he wanted. Except this time he had stepped into it by choice, his eyes open. He with his duty, and Hawke with hers, and Sebastian trapped in the endless ties between, unable to understand why his heart had been torn to bleeding.

Was there another way? He could not see it. Better to accept what was, then, and stop fighting so hard against what would come after.

Then Hawke glanced back at him from the other side of the fountain, just once. Her eyes were blue in the lamplight, cutting through him like an arrow, and for an instant her brow creased with grief. Then the pain hit, sudden and overwhelming as a knife in his back. Except—

Except—

Hawke tore away from Sebastian, her face white. "Fenris!"

He staggered. The voice behind him cursed; he ducked away from the gloved grasp at his arm and spun. Something was wrong with his shoulder—a man stood there in black, crouched low, a mask over his face. A knife in his hand glinted wetly in the lamplight.

He heard Sebastian roar—"Guards! To me!"—and the man leapt again.

Fenris ducked back, stumbled against the fountain. He had no sword—never did after dinner, no one could dance with a sword—where was—protect Hawke—protect the prince—

The man lunged. Fenris caught his wrist this time, used the leverage of his weight to twist and heave the man over his shoulder. He landed on white stone, gasping, and before he could move again Fenris lit his good arm elbow to fingertip and tore out the man's heart.

But there were more. Six figures—eight—nine stepped out from between bushes, detached from the shadows of hedgerow and stonework. There were shouts from the palace, running feet—

The air hissed like a wasp. A masked man fell backwards, a short dagger sprouting from his eye. Sebastian shouted again—Fenris knew his handiwork—and the assassins sprang.

His mind cleared.

This was a relief. Here his feet knew every step, thoughtless, perfect. The power in his skin sang, shining white, leaping eagerly at his demand. He had been made for this.

A woman in black came at him with a rapier. It was a thin, delicate weapon, made for thrusting; the tip caught him twice, but he was stronger, and on the next strike he lunged and caught her wrist. He broke it and she screamed, and he wrested the hilt from her weakened grip.

The woman reeled back, breathing hard. Fenris lifted the rapier, but before he could strike back, a light kindled on the clasp of the woman's belt. It burned brighter than reflected torchlight, grew brighter yet; then the toggles of her black jerkin began to shine, and the harrowed reflections of torchlight in the fountain, and the glass lamps strung in delicate arches above the path.

Hawke stood alone in the avenue, ramrod-straight, her hand outstretched. Her face was white and stern. She took a breath; her fist clenched.

The woman burst into flame. Every swollen flicker of light in the garden leapt to her in a burning tower; she shrieked, staggered, fell, and died. The fire, unsatisfied, leapt to another, a man in black with a shortsword in either hand. One sword clanged to stone, the hilt blazing red and orange—

Fenris barely spun away from the dagger snapping across his cheek. This man was faster, lithe and low, but Fenris was armed now. Two passes—three—the man fell dead, bleeding from his heart and his throat, staring sightlessly at the black sky. Another filled his place instantly—this one fell faster yet, clutching his stomach, coughing blood.

Hawke had stolen all the light from the garden. It came now at odd intervals from unexpected places—a man screaming as he flung himself, burning, into the pool—in a blazing arc above as fire fell like a hammer on his fellow. He could see—he could not see, blinking afterimages into blackness—a woman staggered backwards into him, clutching her eyes, and Fenris reached for her heart and squeezed.

Across the promenade Donnic in full plate grappled with a man in robes, both the man's bared wrists neatly cut and bleeding power Fenris could feel in his teeth even at a distance. The man clenched his fists and Donnic recoiled, his arm thrown over his eyes, and something red and glistening steamed between them. The man laughed—Fenris knew that laugh, a distant root-bound hollow in a rainy wood flashing before his eyes—Decimus—but the light flared and dwindled too quickly, and he could not reach Donnic. A sword barred every step, or a knife, or an arrow—and when he looked again they were both gone.

Someone had given Sebastian a bow. Fenris could hear the prince's prayers as he loosed over and over, arrows singing as they flew. Arrow-shafts burst from hearts, from eyes. A woman in black raced towards Fenris with her arm raised only for Sebastian to strike her in the open mouth. Her head jerked back; momentum carried her feet forward, and she fell dead to her back at Fenris's feet, lips closed hollowly around the fletching.

Fenris whirled, ready, and found—

Silence.

The gardens had gone still. Bodies in black lay scattered around them like autumn leaves. Murky ash smudged over stone and hedge and path alike, and in the fountain a burned woman had fallen across the marble sill and died. Blood spattered across the nymph's vase.

Something was wrong with his arm; he could not hold the rapier properly. The world seemed dim and too sharp at once, his ears ringing. "Hawke? Hawke?"

He saw her shape across the fountain, saw her throw up her hand as if loosing a bird. Light caught again in the lanterns, rippling in fat waxy drops from each to the next; the torches on their pillars gently swelled and settled into a steady glow once more. Then she was kneeling beside him—when had he fallen?—and her warm hands were on his cheek, his shoulder. "Fenris, I'm here. You're bleeding—"

"The prince—where is the prince—"

"He's coming, he's all right—he's here—"

"Fenris!" Sebastian's voice. Familiar, kind even through the worry, all the consonants burred. "Fenris, brother—here, you, to me! Bring a doctor!"

He could not think clearly. Firelight smeared across his eyes. He could not seem to catch his breath. "Are you hurt? Hawke, are you—"

"I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. Stop talking, you've got to be still."

"Sebastian—"

"Nothing but scratches." His worried face joined Hawke's above him. A heavy russet brow, chestnut hair swept back. Blood in one eye—his forehead was bleeding. Fenris must have let one slip past. "Look at me, Fenris." His prince's hand pressed down on his shoulder. It hurt—

"Hawke." He lost their faces. Only stars, and lamps like stars. "My guards."

"They came just in time. They were wonderful. No one's hurt but you."

Someone was crying. It came muffled, as if from very far away, and above his head, one by one, the stars winked out.

—

He came back to himself slowly. He was lying on his stomach, face propped to the side with pillows. The world was bright; sunlight fell warm on his face, his arms, his bare back.

The back of his left shoulder blazed with agony. He tried to move, groaned at the white-hot pain, and gave up.

A hand came to rest on his arm, slid to the back of his neck. A familiar hand, warm and soft. He relaxed into its touch.

"It's all right," Hawke murmured. There were other voices behind hers, unimportant, ignored. "We have you. Go back to sleep."

He could trust Hawke. That was a solid truth, like a stone held in his closed hand. He could trust that was real if nothing else.

"Go back to sleep," she said again, softly, and he did.

—

It was evening when he woke again. The sun had just gone down, its warmth still lingering in the air; when he forced his eyes open he saw the sky through the window, stained purple and blue with twilight. He knew this place: the medics' rooms, the hall of healing. White walls, white bedsheets, silver trays of bandages and stoppered vials on every table.

His shoulder still hurt, but bearably now. They must have given him something for the pain. The world was pleasantly blurred at the edges, his limbs loose and soft. He was still on his stomach, pillows propping his face to the side. White cloth wrappings stretched over his bare chest, holding the thick bandage in place on his back; the linen sheets were cool and soothing on his skin. He could not feel his markings at all.

Someone leaned forward beside him. "There you are."

"Sebastian." His tongue was thick, cottony; his mouth was dry as dust. "Water."

Half the cup's contents soaked the sheets by the time they were done, but Fenris did not care. Sebastian set the cup on the table by the bed, then brushed some of Fenris's hair from his eyes. There were tired lines on his prince's face, and the chestnut hair hung in unusual disarray around his golden circlet. The cut across his forehead had scabbed shut, a thin dark line in his bronze skin. Still, he was smiling.

"How long?" Fenris croaked.

"A little less than a day, no more."

"You haven't slept."

"You've slept enough for all of us."

Fenris snorted, winced at the twinge. It was so hard to speak. He had to shut his eyes to gather the strength. "What happened?"

"You were stabbed in the back. The healers say the blade was poisoned. Luckily, it doesn't seem to have killed you." Sebastian squeezed his hand. "Though it made a good attempt."

"Fool." He caught his breath. "With the assassins."

Sebastian laughed. The sound was a comfort, and Fenris sighed. "They are all dead. Your very capable White Guard swept the palace eave to root-cellar. There was nothing on their bodies to indicate their master with any real certainty, though the spymaster has a fair guess."

"Tevinter."

"Three swords were stamped with a Minrathous house. One woman had a letter in her belt suggesting she had been hired by Kirkwall, but Harding believes this to be forged. A thin thread on which to hang a war."

"Their entry?"

"The north gate to the gardens, the one that overlooks the buttery in the lower yard. The same route you and I used in the siege, do you remember? The bricks were never replaced." Sebastian's jaw tightened. "They killed Sergeant Karras and broke the gate. We only found his body this morning."

Fenris had not liked Karras at all. A cruel man, eager to abuse his power. "Unfortunate."

"Aye." Sebastian leaned back in his narrow wooden chair, folded his hands behind his head. "Lady Merrill has spoken with the woods and reports they came from the north, in one small group. There is no evidence they had any assistance from inside the palace. No clear goal. We do not know if you were their only target or only incidental."

Fenris scoffed, caught his breath at the jarring streak of pain. "A fine consolation. Sebastian, there was a man who fought Donnic. A man in robes, bleeding at the wrists."

Sebastian's brow darkened. "Decimus, my lady tells me. Yes. We had him wounded at the end, and he swallowed poison rather than be taken alive. He died just as Druvond did in the prisons, smiling." He shook his head. "A dangerous man. Perhaps a good thing he did not survive."

"And Donnic?"

"Perfectly fine. A little bruised, no more."

The relief would have knocked him flat had he not already been so. And yet— "Decimus was there in Kirkwall, in the carriage party. He tracked us in the woods."

"Yes. And our scouts saw him welcomed by a Tevinter guard at the border a month ago."

"It cannot be a coincidence." He saw again Hawke's frank despair when she had recognized his voice among the trees. "Sebastian, you must call Tevinter to account for him."

"It has already been done, my friend. Harding sent crows to Leliana at Skyhold before dawn, and not an hour ago a formal missive of inquiry went out to Tevinter's so-called Archon. We will see what Minrathous has to say about inviting in a man who fomented the slaughter of innocents."

Sebastian did not anger easily. To see him wrathful now was almost worse than the pain. "We do not yet know their goals. It may be as simple as regicide."

"Perhaps. Or your retrieval, if this is less Tevinter in whole and more your old master. Or simply the death of everyone in the garden, for the chaos that would follow." He rubbed the back of his neck restlessly. "Regardless, there are none alive to say." There was a long pause; the prince blew a breath upwards that stirred his hair. "Fenris, did you know she could do such things?"

He struggled to follow the prince's mind through the lethargic haze, then gathered up the thread again and sighed. "Yes. She showed me her power early, when we were forced to hide from Decimus among the trees. I did not…receive it well, at the time. But it became useful more than once."

"It is stronger than I thought."

"Yes."

"A little terrifying."

Fenris smiled into his pillow. "Yes."

"But beautiful."

Lightning lanced through his shoulder. "At least uninvite the Tevinter ambassador to the wedding."

"My lady has done so already." The door creaked open; Sebastian looked up and smiled. "As if you heard us speaking of you. Come in, m'eudail. He's awake."

Hawke stepped into the twilight-blue room, Orana behind her. In her hands she carried no fire, only sprigs of valerian, prophet's laurel, and fresh yarrow, which she immediately began to crush on the table beside him with a mortar and pestle. Sebastian laughed again. "I think a bouquet is better enjoyed before it's destroyed, my lady."

"Perhaps," Hawke said, "but this one's meant to be drunk." She looked to Fenris, and her eyes softened. "Welcome back."

"Such as it is." He could not see injury on her from where he lay, but— "Are you all right?"

"Right as rain." She finished her work, and Orana produced a steaming kettle cupped in a thick cloth. She poured it over the leaves into a small cup, and in a few minutes a familiar, soothing aroma filled the air. Hawke strained it again through the cloth back into the cup, then looked to Sebastian. "You'll have to help him with this one, my lord. Don't think I can't see that water-stain on the bed, and I don't have enough yarrow for another brew."

Sebastian smiled, but with his help Fenris turned to his side, propped up his weight on his good elbow. The prince was careful, tender; Hawke was, too, as she lifted the cup to his lips for him to drink. There was something painful in that kindness, some shining band so tight around his heart he could not breathe, but soon enough the cup was empty and Hawke withdrew, and the hurt eased.

Orana took the cup and kettle and slipped from the room. Hawke drew up a second chair and sat beside him. "Fortunately enough, you seem to heal quickly. The healers think you will be up and about by tomorrow."

"Sooner than that," Fenris said, and ignored Sebastian's pursed lips. The smell was soothing, familiar; it brought back to him the memory of trees, of waking without nightmares.

"Is it the markings?"

"Yes. For better or worse." He flexed his hand and clenched it. A distant rill of power shimmered feebly up his fingers. "The fight ended quickly. I did not use all their strength, so what is left will be spent on recovering from injury. A boon I will not turn away."

Her mouth twisted. "I should have been faster. I was trying to protect Sebastian."

"You were more than enough." Her eyes were so blue in twilight. The world still felt smudged, unreal. For a moment fire rose in his mind, leaping like a golden dancer across the dark pool's reflection; he blinked and the room was white again, calm, still. "You told me once that you had to ask for that strength each time."

"Yes."

"Has the answer ever been no?"

She laughed, embarrassed, but her eyes were bright. "Not yet."

"I should have known." He sank back into the pillows, pleased at his own annoyance. "If this power is meant to be a gift, you should return it."

"But then how would I impress you? Besides, if you haven't learned by now that everything I touch becomes unnecessarily dramatic, you don't know me at all."

He chuckled. "I could not miss it, even with a blade in my back. Did you frighten off the Guard?"

"Not yet. Sergeant Donnic even kindly offered me a bucket of water to douse the embers under my fingernails when all was said and done, and all my maids showed up right on time for my morning scouring. Lieutenant Rylen did request I avoid burning the wisteria next time."

"They are resilient in the face of danger."

"You trained them to be so."

Hawke smiled at him; he smiled back. Then—all at once he became aware that Sebastian was smiling, too. That Sebastian was in fact still there, had watched them return to the easy familiarity of the road like pulling on an old warm cloak. His face had lit with surprise and pleasure.

For a moment, helped by whatever made the world so soft, the weight had lifted. For a moment duty had been forgotten and he had let his heart speak. Hawke, too—he saw it in her face, in the veil that fell silently behind her eyes.

She smiled again. Reserved, polite. Distant. "Well, Captain, I'm sure I've talked your ear off. I hope the tea helps. Rest well."

She stood. Sebastian caught her hand and kissed it, then let her go. "Your Highness," Fenris said, and the door closed behind her.

They were silent a moment. Sebastian looked a long time at the place where the door had closed, then at last turned with no small gladness to Fenris. "You've become friends. I knew you could."

His shoulder ached again—the tea, the movement, the conversation, he didn't know. "Believe what you will."

"It grieves me it took bloodshed for you to see it, I suppose."

"Sebastian." He eased down again to his stomach, rested his cheek on the pillow. "I am leaving An Taigh Gheal after the wedding."

"I would like—what?"

"I am leaving. For the north."

His prince's eyes focused sharply on him, an archer's dangerous attention wholly snared. "Fenris, what are you saying?"

"I will go to the outpost at Laverock. It's near the Tevinter border; from there I can learn more about these attacks. About who sent them."

Sebastian jerked forward. "You can't be serious. Fenris, we need you here."

"Rylen is a capable soldier and a good man. Donnic will give wise counsel. Starkhaven will learn to endure without me."

"Forget Starkhaven. I need you here." He took his hand in both of his. "I cannot imagine a future in this city without you here beside me."

"You saw it when you thought we were dead." This was cruel, this was cold—he could not do it another way. "You survived it well enough."

"Those were the worst months of my life."

His prince's voice was raw with pain. Fenris's eyes burned. "Sebastian, forgive me. I must—I must go. I have no choice."

"Is this about Danarius?"

The name shocked him. He had spun so far down in his own unhappy situation that he had forgotten his master. But—yes—the hatred surged belatedly, familiar and comforting in its own right. He spooled out the thought and followed it. "Laverock is only a few days' ride from Minrathous. From there I can send spies, can hear Tevinter's lies myself. I can send out sorties to the tributaries of the Minanter, to the villages with no allegiance. I can gather information on what forces Tevinter masses at its borders." Yes. It was a workable plan. "To be attacked like this again—I will not allow it."

"How long do you intend to be gone?"

"As long as I must."

Until the wound heals, and even the scar has faded. Until the jealousy has settled like a cold stone instead of a hot coal. Until your children are grown, and your children's children wonder who I am when I pass by.

Tears stood in Sebastian's eyes. "My friend, please reconsider. I beg you. I would rather endure a hundred attacks than lose you here."

"And when another guardsman is killed, or two, or five? What then—what will be enough? When some assassin strangles Lady Flora in the orchard, or catches the princess by the fountain with Orana instead of you?"

"Surely someone else can go."

"Perhaps." He set his jaw against the throbbing pain. "My decision is made, Sebastian. I ask you to honor it. As a friend."

Sebastian bent over his hand, and Fenris felt the dampness of his tears. But he did not argue when he raised his head, and his eyes were fond. "I will miss you very much, my friend."

That was true. His heart clenched, and that was true, too. He had not thought the long-ago road to Kirkwall would have ended here with the loss of all he loved. But there was no other way, not one that left him with any part of a heart, and at least this way he might cut Tevinter's knees from under her. At least this way some good might yet be done.

He forced the words past the lump in his throat. "And I you."

Sebastian smiled, tremulous and pained, and they sat together in silence until the healers came to coax the prince away.