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Tarquin’s boots pounded down the fancy stone-flagged streets of Hightown, lit by clean, white light from the mage lamps posted every thirty feet. The hour was fashionably late, so the streets were occupied with the occasional carriage traveling to and fro the evening’s entertainments. Which meant waiting drivers and private estate security gave him the hairy eye as he ran past. He wouldn’t be surprised if at least one of these carriages shared his destination.
The Vesperian family were hosting a fancy party at their richer-than-rich estate. Tarquin didn’t know what it was about and frankly hadn’t cared enough to ask. He only knew that Ashur, of course, was in attendance and the party had started an hour ago.
Enough time for the inane small talk to have finished, he imagined. Enough time for the host speeches and toasts to have started, he feared.
The trouble hadn’t started as anything obvious, as it so rarely did. Tarquin hadn’t even been aware of it until three days ago and it hadn’t turned emergent until thirty minutes ago.
Neve had come across a piece of information through her network which, nowadays, ran far deeper and into less savory channels with the Threads’ cooperation. An invoice for a party-sized set of glass drinking flutes sounded innocuous. The special customization for gold filigree made it an expensive, but standard request for any family in Hightown. The even-more-special added magic elements lining the filigree began to narrow down exactly which highblood families might be interested in creating a memorable moment at their party.
Again, none of it seemed particularly interesting.
Then Neve noticed that the magic element—a solution to be applied beneath the filigree—had been sourced from a secondary supplier. No doubt some sort of charm. Maybe it lit up the glass, or colored the drink something fanciful. At the same time, however, Neve heard chatter through a different branch of her network that altus families were eagerly anticipating the announcement of a party hosted by the Vesperians. She felt it was worth a little more digging.
The supplier of the magical solution was indeed known for their work in charms and benign effects. Deeper in their books, however, were paid invoices for known-to-Neve fences and scam artists. One such invoice, dated two weeks prior, detailed a clear solution which, when applied to any sort of vessel, would show an “alternative result” under any detection spells cast on it.
Most often this type of charm would be applied to paint and ordered in large quantities. It was commonly be used by smugglers. This order, however, was a single two ounce vial meant to be applied to glass drinking flutes, ones appropriate for a toast.
Even though connecting lines had been drawn, the situation still lacked an indication of harm. It wouldn’t have been the first party to surprise its guests with hidden “favors.” Altus mages were some of the more paranoid of the lot, so a little harmless subterfuge was necessary.
Highbloods, Tarquin had remarked three days ago. All that careful breeding and no accounting for sense.
Neve confirmed the order of glassware had been picked up by one of the Vesperian staff, but she hadn’t received a definitive answer to their suspicions until the final hour.
She’d marched into the hideout, metallic heel striking the floor, and smacked a piece of paper onto the table in front of Tarquin. There was a single word on it, not one that he recognized.
“What’s that?”
“A fast-acting poison which was purchased by someone named,” she smacked another paper on top of that one, “Sterling. An alias used by a man in the discrete employ of the Accorsi family.”
“Right…”
“A rivaling lineage to the Vesperians,” she explained. “They confirmed their attendance to this party.”
“Right. So—”
“That’s not all,” she interrupted. Another piece of paper. “A slightly different poison. Purchased by yet another alias, Magpie,” more paper, “who is sponsored by the Legatus family.”
“Shit. Two…”
Neve held up a finger and placed a fifth paper on top of the forming pile.
“Poison,” Tarquin guessed. A sixth paper. “Another family.” He waited, but Neve only put her hand on her hip and looked at him with arched brows. “Three families are trying to poison the party? How—what—”
“We have no way of confirming their targets, but all of these families are in attendance tonight. And thanks to the anti-detection charm on all of the glassware, no one will be able to tell that their drink has been tampered.”
“What the hell is happening at this party? What’s so important, other than the obvious?”
“Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find that answer and we’ve run out of time. The party has already started.”
Tarquin reflexively glanced at the timepiece sat atop the bookshelf. “Fucking shit. We haven’t got anyone that close to Hightown tonight.”
“Better start running.”
The west facing ballroom, spacious, gilt, and aglow with soft mage-lights, hosted a gathering of thirty to fifty people—Ashur had lost count halfway through the greetings. The side doors were open so the guests could spill into the courtyard garden for a semblance of privacy. He was fortunate not to have been bothered with the magnificent headache which was formal seating. Albanus couldn’t be seated with Gaius, and Candida should not be within eyeshot of Fabricia or else seven different kinds of hells would be unleashed.
Truthfully, little had been conveyed to him about the nature of the party. He was still undecided if this was a blessing in disguise.
Corimer Vesperian, with the broad and stately frame Ashur had inherited, moved around the space with an impressive, affable countenance. He was not a man to be hurried or to appear harried by any measure. When the man finally asserted his social dominance with an even-heeled statement spoken with his eminently unruffled manner, it was difficult indeed to openly refute him.
Pulcheria Vesperian, dark hair shot through with elegant silver, glided among the party-goers with eyes sharper than the metal points of her claw rings. She had a generous smile which she often deployed with clever observation. Ever-gracious, she had cultivated the reputation of such an exemplary hostess that no one could accuse her outright of social maneuvering.
And so Ashur mingled and, as if it were second nature, mentally filed away all the little cues and implications people gave away when trying to push an agenda or ferret out secrets in oh-so polite, demure ways. It was a skill, he feared, that he would never lose.
Hightown’s finest ate and drank and whispered among the rosebushes for a solid hour, at which point everyone reconvened inside as if an invisible and inaudible signal had been set off. The attendees took their appointed places eagerly, so perhaps Ashur wasn’t the only one left in the dark. It would be just like Pulcheria to engage interest through deliberate obfuscation.
The Vesperians stood together at one end of the room. Behind them, the table of small, exotic hors d’oeuvres and bottles of wine far older than Ashur, with waitstaff holding trays of fluted glassware standing by.
The room itself seemed to hold its breath while Pulcheria observed the guests with a lovely smile.
“It is with tremendous gratitude that I thank each and every one of Minrathous’s lauded families for their time and presence here tonight. I daresay we are the envy of Hightown this evening.”
Murmurs of agreement, a few chuckles.
“Corimer and I have invited you all into our home to share with us, again, an announcement of great, personal importance. The last such occasion, you will recall, was when our youngest, Ashur,” an elegant gesture toward him standing at her side, “had been announced for consideration by the grand clerics for the title of Divine. His election was the most profound moment of my life. Every parent strives to see their offspring elevate themselves and so few ever do. Certainly, there is no higher elevation than True Divine.”
She presented him again, to the polite clapping of their guests, and Ashur bent his head no more than a Divine should grant all others. Pulcheria clasped her hands gently together, tucked against her chest, as she gazed lovingly at her son. Ashur held her gaze until she turned to address her audience once more.
With a trace of self-aware amusement, she said, “I must confess I can’t imagine anything that could possibly compete…except for one.” She drew out a coy smile and the tension in the room heightened to a palpable vibration. “May I ask for the Laurus family to join us?”
Barely audible murmurs and the soft sibilance of whispers traveled through the room as one of the waitstaff opened a door to the hall and allowed entrance for three people. Horentius Laurus, his wife Iovita, and his third daughter Tertia joined the Vesperians and greeted Corimer and Pulcheria with understated gestures of affection. The Laurus family acknowledged Ashur appropriately, sans any physical contact and at a respectful distance.
Pulcheria and Iovita shared warm smiles as they parted, and Ashur knew his mother’s expression to be wholly and deeply genuine. In that moment, he felt a droplet of dread fall into his stomach.
“Iovita and Horentius have entertained a deepening friendship over this last year and undertook long and extensive conversations with us in the past few months. After what felt like endless hours of research and excruciating scrutiny of data, we finally and very happily arrived at a decision which truly feels guided and blessed by the Maker.”
Ashur’s chest rose with a deep breath as an internal pressure ballooned within him.
“I have the supreme pleasure of announcing this: the Vesperians and the Lauruses will be bonded by blood and vow on Summersday through the unity of my son, Ashur, True Divine, and Iovita’s daughter, Tertia.”
A clamor of applause rose up but it all seemed to dim beneath a sudden ringing in his ears. At a gesture from Pulcheria, the waitstaff departed from their posts and began offering flutes of golden champagne to the guests.
He watched the excitement bloom on his mother’s face, observed the firm handshake delivered by his father. Finally, he turned to Tertia, an understated beauty with hooded eyes and faint freckles across her elegant nose. A slender smile looked gracefully at home on her equally slender lips, but her sparkling green eyes revealed the magnitude of her excitement.
Ashur was certain she was a lovely person—his mother wouldn’t tolerate less—but as he stared at her, as a flute of champagne was pressed into his hand, he felt something deep within him cracking.
Pulcheria stepped forward, lifting her glass. The entire room followed suit. “Please join me in a toast to honor and celebrate this next bold adventure. May our future’s future be bright and everlasting—”
A commotion at the garden-side doors broke the tableau. Shouting from outside immediately preceded a man running into the ballroom. At a glance, he did not belong to the staff, security, or even the local populace. His leather battle coat was Templar-issued, but practically no one currently on the estate would recognize a Templar without their full plate.
Ashur’s heart gave a tender, confused thump as Tarquin’s gaze cut across the room to meet his.
“Poison! The drinks have been poisoned!”
Vesperian security grabbed Tarquin from each side and kicked out his legs. His knees crashed hard to the floor. They wrestled him face down and pinned his arms to his back.
Ashur’s fingers went numb. Perhaps he dropped the flute in his hand; he didn’t check. “Unhand him—”
“Don’t drink it—”
“What is the meaning of this?” Pulcheria demanded. “Who are you?”
“It’s been concealed! Don’t drink it!”
She silenced Tarquin with a swift gesture. “As this is my home and you have brought yourself uninvited, I will have your attention and you will answer my questions.”
One of the guests collapsed to the floor.
As gasps spread among the crowd, another guest fell forward onto their table and upended it with a crash. All at once people began to recoil, tripping two others in their haste, and spilling champagne all over the floor. One wiry man dumped his drink into the flute of his robust partner, who returned an open-mouthed look of offense.
“Your Holiness—”
“Please, help—”
Ashur was already in motion. He knelt beside the first afflicted person and touched his hand to their pulse. His sent his healing magic racing after the toxin burning through their veins. Once he was certain of its eradication, he moved swiftly to the next victim. And the next.
“I think a small bit of it got into my mouth…”
“I tasted it and spat it right back out. Was that rude…?”
“She splashed me. She threw it right at my face! She could have killed me!”
“You hag! I tripped over your fat ankles!”
“You know, Beatrice, I feel faint. I really do.”
“As do I! We should ask to be checked over, shouldn’t we?”
He put a stop to it after that one.
Between attending to those who had taken ill (and those who had not), Ashur attempted to keep an eye on the situation developing by the courtyard doors. The instant he had ascertained there were no other true victims, he moved with haste back to where his parents stood over their party-crasher.
Tarquin was still pinned to the floor, cheek against the marble, and the only response he seemed to give to his mother’s questions was, “I cannot say, ma’am.”
From the tiny lines of tension around her mouth, Pulcheria was prepared to escalate her efforts.
He touched her shoulder. “Mother, peace.” She turned a swift look on him, which he ignored for the moment. Addressing the guards in Vesperian livery, he said, again, “Unhand him and allow him to his feet.”
The guard on the right made an awkward face. “Beg pardon, Your Holiness, but we must abide by the mistress’s command. It is her estate.”
Ashur stepped closer. “And as its scion I am commanding you: unhand him.”
From the corner of his eye he caught Pulcheria giving a restrained nod to the guards. Immediately, with a bow of their heads, the two members of ground security withdrew to the doorway. Tarquin pushed himself up with a groan and Ashur extended a hand to help him to his feet. Their hands and eyes lingered for a fraction of a moment; Ashur was entirely unharmed and Tarquin seemed no worse for wear. Although, he did have a stray leaf stuck in his hair.
“Ashur, will you care to explain? Who is this man?”
He faced his mother. “Tarquin is a Templar.”
Pulcheria swept her eyes over him. “I have never seen him among your guard.”
“He serves mostly in the archive, though less frequently these days.”
“You trust his word?”
“Implicitly.”
She shifted her attention and addressed Tarquin directly. “Would you explain your claims to your Divine?”
Tarquin’s eyes trailed carefully to Ashur. “Word came through the usual means of a potential threat to the Vesperian party. I received confirmation that multiple poisons would be included at the toast and their presence would be undetectable.” Tarquin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I arrived as quickly as I could.”
Ashur desired to touch him in reassurance. All he could offer was, “I thank you for your haste. All is well.”
Her voice a touch softer, Pulcheria asked, “You said multiple?”
Tarquin nodded. “I did, ma’am.”
A thoughtful look crossed her face. “I see.”
“You don’t seem concerned.”
She smiled gracefully. “Familiar ground and, no, I’m not concerned. What ill could befall us in the presence of the Divine?”
Tarquin’s blank expression, a little wide around the eyes, broadcast his bewilderment to Ashur.
“Now,” she continued, “the trouble has passed, you have fulfilled your duty to your Divine, and I see no further need for your presence here. Tonwald will show you out.” Pulcheria reached for Ashur’s arm. “I should like that you spare some of your attention to your new betrothed. I’m certain Tertia would benefit from a comforting word.”
Tarquin made a brief, shocked sound as if an inhaled breath hit the back of his windpipe wrong.
Between the dread curdling in his stomach and his rabbiting heart, Ashur suddenly felt a little faint himself. Tarquin’s eyes flicked wildly between him, his mother, and the room beyond. Searching, no doubt, for the woman who had been pledged to the Divine. Tonwald the guard stepped up to lead Tarquin away, but he stood frozen to the spot. He looked at Ashur, lips parted soundlessly, as Tonwald secured a grip around his bicep.
The pure panic in his eyes unmoored him.
Both of them had been blindsided tonight, however Tarquin lacked the advantage of knowing they were on equal footing in this latest twist. How many seconds remained before the fear in Tarquin’s gaze turned to agony, betrayal?
Had it only been two weeks ago that Ashur had kissed him for the first time? Two weeks since witnessing the sweet blush overtake Tarquin’s cheeks, the endearing stammer as he realized the thing they had both danced around for months was finally happening. The flush of excitement, the eagerness of their hands, the private look of happiness Tarquin showed only when they were alone together.
Things new and precious, and Ashur felt their fragility keenly as he balanced on the knife’s edge.
“No.”
For the first moment all evening, Pulcheria appeared off-balance. “No?”
“I will not attend to Tertia; she was not harmed. She is also not my betrothed.”
The edges of her smile quivered as she kept her expression in place. “Of course she is. Iovita and I have agreed to it.”
Tarquin hadn’t moved an inch, gaze rapt upon the conversation unfolding.
Ashur carefully smoothed off the roughness in his voice. He would have to be as genteel as his parents’ reputations to avoid later, more private accusations of dramatizing.
“I have no wish to appear churlish, Mother, but an agreement between yourselves has no bearing on what I or Tertia agree to. As my opinion has not been consulted, I cannot consent to any bonds made in my name.”
Corimer, watching silently one pace beyond his mother, finally joined them by placing a hand on Ashur’s shoulder. “Son, the decision has already been made. It is done.”
Ashur had borne that hand’s weight many times in his adolescence. It had always felt so heavy, and yet this time he hardly noticed it.
“On the contrary, nothing has been done. Nothing will be done. I won’t be trothed to a person I did not choose.”
The ballroom behind them rang with silence as not a single person dared to whisper over the dialogue for fear of missing even a solitary word spoken.
Pulcheria dropped her voice very low as she said, “From where did you get such an idea as choice? We did not teach you this selfishness. The number of hours I have spent researching and negotiating the best path forward for our House and our family line—you think you can simply dismiss me?”
Corimer added, “This is the way our bloodline survives. There are no other alternatives.”
Ashur stood in front of them, the third point on a very close triangle, with each of their hands touching him in some gently demanding way. This had been the rhythm of his whole life until recently. Upon becoming Tevinter’s True Divine, a necessary distance had grown between himself and his family as his title required time and attention his parents could no longer hold for themselves.
With care, he took each of their hands in his. “There is always an alternative if you are brave enough to take it.”
Pulcheria’s patient expression began to strain. “My son, you don’t understand the careful work it takes to ensure a correct, healthy match. If this is a matter of preference, well, you wouldn’t be the first husband to keep a lover of any kind alongside his wife. Accommodations can be made, but the bloodline must persist.”
“You have other sons, two of whom have already gifted you with grandchildren.”
“No family has or ever will overlook their brightest prospects,” she rebuffed. “Tell me, now, who has won your attentions? At the very least we can chart their lineage to be sure no conflicts exist.”
Ashur smiled. “He is not from any family you have met before.”
She began to raise a doubtful eyebrow, then stopped when she noticed Tarquin still standing nearby. “Tonwald, if you could please escort this solider to the foyer. I will address what he has witnessed once we have finished here.”
“No. He will remain here.”
She cut a shrewd look his way. Her fingers pressed tighter into his hand, claw points pricking his skin. “This is your alternative. This soldier.”
“He is not my alternative. He is my sole choice.”
A murmur rippled through the background. His mother’s fingers twitched reflexively against his hand.
“Let us retire to the courtyard,” she murmured, slipping away and through the doors, leaving a vacuum for them to follow.
As they moved outside, Tarquin caught his eye with a look that communicated both his outrage and his trust. Ashur’s conscience pricked at him and so he stopped halfway into the courtyard, several paces from the doors, aware that the removal of their persons from the ballroom hadn’t stopped the guests from approaching all of the windows left open to allow in the cooler evening air.
“I apologize for speaking without your consultation.” He smiled grimly. “This entire night has been a surprise.”
Tarquin’s shoulders lost some of their tension. He leaned closer to whisper forcefully at him, “You are out of your head!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t—” He bit off his words and sighed.
“This may change a lot of things—” Tarquin snorted “—but that doesn’t mean this, us, will be a bad thing.”
“They’re going to talk about you.”
“And about you,” Ashur returned.
Tarquin’s nose wrinkled. “I know what they’ll say about me. I’ve never given a toss what the highbloods think and I’ll not start now.”
“Are you certain?”
“Cat’s out of the bag, yeah? And it’s like you said—gotta be brave. It’s a new world now, or could be. Don’t we owe it to ourselves to see what’s possible?” He shifted his weight. “Besides, I heard the new archon is an all right bloke. Figure the two of you could get a lot done.”
“You’re incredible.”
Ashur took a deep breath through the dizzying emotions racing through him. No, he wasn’t capable of holding back. He lifted his hand to Tarquin’s cheek, fingertips gliding over his beard, and then slipped through his long hair to the back of his head.
The warmth of Tarquin’s eyes ignited and his lips quirked daringly as Ashur pulled him into a kiss.
From the windows, a flurry of whispers rose into the air like birds’ wings and Tarquin’s smile threatened to part their lips. So Ashur redoubled his efforts until he’d won both his full attention and a soft, exhaled moan. They fell into a close embrace and for a few moments they were the only two in the courtyard garden, among the scent of roses and jasmine, beneath the glow of evening stars and charmed lamplight.
Tarquin rested his forehead against Ashur’s. “I think that should put an end to your mother’s arguments.”
Ashur exhaled a laugh. “Most, if not all of them.” His hand found Tarquin’s and wrapped around it. “Ready for the future?”
Cocking his head back, Tarquin asked, “I don’t know. What kind of perks come with being the Divine’s consort?”
“First of all, my preference would be husband, not consort. Second,” Ashur leaned close and whispered into his ear, “the view of the city from the top of the Argent Spire, at dawn, with the sunrise setting the sea on fire—it’s second to none.”
“And I’m somewhere in this pretty picture?”
“In my bed, or,” Ashur said thoughtfully, “perhaps bent over the balcony railing.”
“Someone better be railing.”
“I’ll flip you for it.”
Tarquin’s hand went to his belt. “Think I’ve got a silver on me. We could flip right now.”
He laughed. “Quin. Later.”
Tarquin gazed at him, smile softening. “Love that.” He squared up his posture and squeezed Ashur’s hand. “Right, enough stalling. Future’s waiting.”
Their relationship may have been new, and this incredibly informal promise to one another still freshly conceived with many more details to discuss, but Ashur’s heart had been sure a long time ago. The Chantry may have opinions on what transpired here tonight, yet none of it would change the truth. If someone were to cut him open he was certain love would spill forth instead.
Hand-in-hand, they turned to face whatever came next.