The Chariot card: Outside a walled city, an armoured prince drives a stone chariot lead by two sphinxes. He reins in the mysteries, seeking purpose and cohesion in an unruly world.
There was little change in Skyhold's rotunda, despite the mysterious disappearance of its former occupant. The scaffolding hadn't been moved. There were books still piled beside the couch where Solas had once slept and one unfortunate tome had been left splayed open against the arm of his chair.
That last detail made Veda wistful. She still felt a bit like that abandoned book, spine cracked, pages lying open that would never be read.
She picked it up, examining the last pages his eyes had glanced over. It was not one of his many dense academic texts on the Fade, but instead, an illustrated compendium of tales told by Keeper Gisharel of Clan Ralaferin.
On one page, there was the story of Fen'Harel and the Courser, one that every Dalish child knew by the time they could grip a bow or distinguish spindleweed from blood lotus. On the other, there was a drawing of Fen'Harel himself, a massive black wolf rendered mostly in silhouette except for his bared teeth and the gleam in his eyes.
It was an odd thing to catch Solas reading, Veda thought.
Few of the Dalish bothered with Gisharel's stories, either because they'd been fed similar ones since birth, because the lore had been watered down and made more palatable to human tastes or because they objected to the myths being published at all. If the books were popular, it must have been among City elves who were curious about the old ways or among curious humans, who found such stories exotic and treated them as fanciful inventions.
If Solas were inspecting them, Veda imagined it would be from interest in what the elven pantheon had become in the popular imagination – not because he required Gisharel's simplified history of Arlathan.
She glanced between the menacing wolf on the page and the stylized images of howling wolves Solas had featured in his mural. There was another one sketched on the wall now, an image hastily done in red conte: a large wolf standing over the impaled body of a much smaller dragon. He must have started it before the final battle. She wondered if he'd known that it would always remain incomplete.
So many wolves. It was like Solas to find the beauty in misunderstood things, yet their presence felt more purposeful than that. Was it how he thought of himself? Veda peered down at the snarling wolf on the page. It was hard to see much resemblance.
She set the book down and investigated the other items still cluttering his desk. There was a shard he'd kept from the Solassan Temple, a lantern, a paintbrush, a broken stick of conte and an unwieldy-looking torch resting on its side.
Another element out of place. If he'd been using the torch, it must have been for painting at night. But why not simply bring the lantern closer to where he was working? And why had he taken the trouble to move the torch away when the work was done? Wouldn't it have been easier to leave it on the scaffolding, as he did his paints and palettes?
Veda picked up the torch, examining it more closely. It wasn't scorched or charred, as if it had never been lit. She sniffed it. It smelled like the night air before a thunderstorm, a scent that she knew all too well. Veilfire. When there was smoke, there was fire. Where there was Veilfire, there was a secret waiting to be revealed.
She placed her hand over the wick of the torch, concentrating on a memory of fire: the hearth that blazed at her clan's camp, illuminating the faces of all who huddled around it. The Veilfire shot up around her fingers, carrying the remembrance of that warmth and security in its ethereal light.
Torch in hand, Veda approached the mural. The Veilfire cast its faint glow over the howling wolves and the Breach in the sky, showing nothing new, although she'd been so certain they contained a hidden meaning. It wasn't until she passed the first gap in the mural that an image materialized, filling in the empty space. The new image depicted Solas (the bald head was a dead giveaway) kneeling beside her prone form. He held her hand gently, palm upward, examining the mark. The glow of it shone upon his face. She stared at the image in shock. It was so...unexpectedly sweet. She'd been bracing herself for something terrible.
Veda edged along the wall and the Veilfire brought another image to life: two hands held out before a rift. The larger hand clasped the wrist of the smaller glowing one, thrusting it towards the rupture.
The memory of that first meeting at Haven crested over her like a wave of icy water. She hadn't been thinking about Solas then, beyond a moment's outrage at how readily he'd seized her arm and pushed her towards the rift. It had been hard to hold onto that spite when the anchor in her hand pulsed with energy, a miracle coursing under her skin, and she'd realized that the tear in the Veil was closing.
It was only later, thinking over what had happened, that Veda would recall Solas' grip upon her wrist and wonder at how decisive he'd been, the complete ease with which he'd touched her. It only made sense when she remembered that he'd been tasked with caring for her during those three days of fevered sleep, when it'd seemed that she'd never awaken. During those days, he would have wiped the sweat from her brow, drawn blankets over her when she shivered, soothed her when her sleep was troubled, defended her when mobs marched to the cabin, intent on her death. It made sense then that Solas' hand would encircle her wrist with an almost proprietary ease, that he wouldn't waste a moment on introductions and niceties, when he knew her so well – even if to her, he had been a complete stranger.
As Veda circled the rotunda, more and more images came to light: their first kiss in the dream of Haven he'd remade for her, how she'd tried to comfort him after Wisdom perished, their dance at Halamshiral - even his hands cupping her face as he removed her vallaslin, even that was recorded in the secret mural and hoarded away like treasure.
Solas had painted some of these images after he'd left her, when he refused to speak to her of anything beyond duty and the defeat of Corypheus. She'd thought him cold and unfeeling because that was the face he'd shown her, yet in the quiet of the night, he'd painted every emotion he'd refused to indulge during the day.
Every secret image was a confession of love, so personal that each line and curve gave off a faint emanation of yearning, each colour seared her eyes with unspoken longing. It gave Veda hope.
She gazed at his last portrait of her. The features and colouring were recognizably her own, but he'd made her skin more luminous, imbued her with a quiet grace that spoke more of the painter's heart than her own beauty. He'd painted himself in the moment when he'd removed the last of her vallaslin and she was struck by how well he'd remembered even the smallest details of that precious final happiness, before everything had gone awry.
There was only one part of the scene that was out of place. Instead of depicting the waterfall and the stone halla that stood watch over the grotto, Solas had put a mirror in the background, between their kneeling bodies. The mirror didn't reflect anything around it, but instead seemed to ripple with ominous shadows. Not just any mirror then, but an Eluvian.
Veda thought back to something that Cole had read from Solas' thoughts during their last days in company: "He hurts, an old pain from before, when everything sang the same. You're real and it means everyone could be real. It changes everything, but it can't. They sleep, masked in a mirror, hiding, hurting, and to wake them..."
Solas had interrupted Cole before he could go any further, but the mention of a mirror where people were hiding had immediately set her mind whirling with thoughts of the Eluvians.
Now here was another mysterious mirror, depicted in the space between the painted figures, an obstacle in what should have been their deepest intimacy. Was it an Eluvian, or what lurked behind that Eluvian, that had stopped Solas cold in the midst of their kiss?
If he'd escape into the Crossroads as Morrigan had once done, it would explain how he'd managed to elude Leiliana's agents so thoroughly. Of course, they'd let him study Morrigan's Eluvian and even given him the aid of Michel de Chevin, who remembered the routes he'd taken through the Eluvian network in his travels with Celine and Briala.
Veda had few other clues. Exploring the Eluvians was the most promising place to start. She put out the veilfire in a quick gesture of dismissal. The Crossroads would be the next domain of the Inquisition.
Fen'Harel watched the two elves blundering along the paths of the Crossroads, looking less like guards than like children lost in the woods. Their impractical clothing and bare faces marked them as city elves. Their accents marked them as Orlesian. Followers of Briala, no doubt. They might be at ease wending their way through servants' corridors and Alienage alleys, but they were bereft of magic or the primeval spirit of the Elvhen. The Crossroads would be an uncomfortable place for those unfamiliar with the arcane.
The male elf was the more inquisitive of the two, although his curiosity was only exceeded by his foolishness. He stopped to examine a shattered Eluvian, tracing his fingers over the cracks in the glass.
His female companion glared at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "You aren't supposed to touch that."
"You aren't in charge, so don't order me around."
"They're Briala's orders."
"Relax. It's not like I'm using the password. Besides, it's broken."
"Orders are orders. Besides, you fall into one of those things, I'm not pulling you out."
Fen'Harel followed them, the Veil wrapped around his body like a cloak, obscuring his shape so that he melted into the mists. He wanted to see how they would use the gift of the Crossroads, but it seemed that they had little understanding of the Eluvians or their potential.
Ostensibly, the elves were on patrol, but not even they knew why these abandoned paths needed protection. They performed their walkabout, then returned to the mirror from which they'd entered.
The woman pressed her palm against the Eluvian's murky glass. "Fen'Harel enansal."
The Dread Wolf's blessing. It had been a long time since he'd heard those words. Nowadays, his name was invoked only in curses.
The glass glimmered with pale blue light. Her hand pushed through the glass, then the rest of her disappeared behind the mirror. The other guard followed behind her, almost tripping over his own feet in his eagerness to escape.
Fen'Harel was almost tempted to smile at the irony. Callow children playing with toys they couldn't begin to comprehend. This is what he'd sacrificed his entire world to create. This was his legacy.
Veda unlocked the door and slipped into the darkened room.
Morrigan's Eluvian was still propped against the wall, collecting dust. To the casual observer, it would seem a poorly made mirror, its glass holding only the dimmest reflections, warped shadows flitting across its surface like ripples on a still pond.
The Eluvian been too unwieldy for Morrigan to carry with her when she and Kieran had made their sudden, mysterious departure from Skyhold. Josephine, ever the diplomat, had offered to have it shipped to Morrigan's new location, an offer that had amused the apostate immensely.
"Truly?" Morrigan smirked. "'Tis a kind gesture, I'm sure, but there is one insurmountable problem: I have no intention of revealing my whereabouts to anyone. I remain an apostate, you'll remember. One no longer under the protection of the Orlesian empress. Consider the Eluvian a gift. In time, your Inquisition may have need of it."
Thus, the Eluvian had remained behind lock and key, a remnant of elven magic that made for a strange contrast with the altar to Andraste down the corridor. Veda had considered its presence every time she passed through the garden and glimpsed the door that hid it, but she was too mired in her sadness to think of a good use for it – until now.
Veda put her marked hand against the mirror. The glass around her palm glowed faintly, as if it recognized the magic that had created the Anchor, yet the glass didn't melt into the shimmering portal that had taken her and Morrigan to the Crossroads. Something was wrong. Something was missing.
Veda thought back to the actions Morrigan had performed each time she'd opened the portal. She hadn't seen the witch with a keystone or any other magical tool.
Had Morrigan's lips moved as she opened the Eluvian, murmuring a password so softly that only the glass had taken in her words? No. Veda had been standing too close to her for that.
What other ways could one use to pry open a magical door? Kieran had passed through the Eluvian to the Fade with little effort, but he was Morrigan's flesh-and-blood, Mythal's grandson and possessed an Old God's soul besides. Veda had hoped the Anchor might grant her similar powers, but if so, Morrigan's mirror wasn't affected.
Other doors had yielded to elemental spells, so she tried a burst of flame, a jagged dagger of lightning, a crackling trail of frost. The glass remained solid, impervious to every effort.
Veda gritted her teeth together. She would open it again. It was simply a matter of time and study. Consulting with Dorian might help, especially if she appealed to his pride. Although he cultivated an air of effortlessness, in truth, he gnawed away at questions of magical scholarship like a Mabari with a bone. Together, they'd find a way to get through the Eluvian, even they had to do the magical equivalent of Cassandra ramming her way through a poorly bricked wall.
Veda locked the room and went in search of Dorian. He wasn't ensconced in his favourite leather armchair in the main library or in his room attending to his elaborate regimen of "me time," so she assumed that she'd find him in the tavern.
As she entered the courtyard, a messenger came barreling towards her. "Lady Inquisitor, Commander Cullen wishes to see you at the front gates."
"What's going on?"
"There's an unknown force gathering across the bridge."
"I see." Veda found it hard to believe anyone would try to lay siege to Skyhold, not if they were in their right minds. Perhaps this was another offended Avvar, preparing to fling goat carcasses at their walls?
"I'll be right there."
The messenger nodded, seeming relieved at her quick assent."Thank you, my lady."
She found Cullen pacing before the gates, Skyhold guardsmen in ranks behind him.
"I trust you've heard about our latest 'visitors'?" he said. "They haven't the numbers to mount an attack, but they could pose trouble for our merchants and noble guests."
"Do you have any idea who they are?"
Cullen frowned, his brow furrowing. "They're...elves. Not the Dalish, I should think. No aravels, for one thing, and their attire is peculiar to say the least."
Veda's heart leapt into her throat. Perhaps Solas was among them. He'd been fascinated by Briala's rebellion. It was possible that he'd gone to Valle Royaux to see it for himself.
"City elves? Maybe Briala's people?"
The commander shook his head. "These don't look like any city elves I've ever seen. First off, they're much better armed."
"Have you a spyglass? I'd like a closer look before we make any decisions."
Veda knew she shouldn't be jumping to conclusions. There were millions of elves in Thedas and any of them might have reason to come to Skyhold, whether for work, for shelter or to appeal for help. There were also more than a few elven bandits who might think the Inquisition's guests would make for easy pickings. She had no cause to believe that it was Solas out there, besides the fact that her heart wished it so.
Cullen handed her a brass spyglass and they climbed the battlements to survey the approach to Skyhold.
The wind whipped and whistled around them at that dizzying height. Beneath them, the castle bridge looked pitifully frail, a narrow path arcing over an icebound canyon that seemed as wide and fathomless as the Waking Sea.
At the far end of the bridge, there was a small encampment, perhaps twenty souls altogether. Many of those assembled wore armour. Not cheap leather, either. Their metal pauldrons gleamed in the afternoon sun.
Cullen was right. Few city elves would be able to afford such armour, even if there were merchants willing to sell it to them.
Veda leaned against a turret, bringing the spyglass up to her eye. She trained her gaze on the mysterious soldiers and adjusted the barrel of the spyglass to make the image as clear as she could.
She saw a hooded elven man with a bow on his back. Not Solas. Not even close. Yet...could it be – Abelas?
No, the profile was all wrong, although the costume exhibited some notable similarities. Another ancient elf? One of Abelas' followers?
But what would possess Abelas to bring Mythal's followers to Skyhold? Veda had already offered him the opportunity to join the Inquisition, an invitation that he'd flatly refused. None of the ancient Elvhen seemed like the type to change their minds, then come creeping back with their tails tucked between their legs. They were the sort who'd staunchly hold to their principles, even if it meant certain extinction. They were Solas' people, through and through.
"Your assessment, Inquisitor?" Cullen asked.
"I wish to parley."
"Are you certain? They've sent no messenger to the gates."
"I recognize these people. They're the Elvhen that we spared at the Temple of Mythal."
Cullen blinked, raking a hand through his hair. "Wait – you're telling me, those are ancient elves? Immortal, ancient elves?"
"I'm not sure whether they're immortal or if they just avoid aging with uthenera – but yes, they're very old and very...odd."
"I should say so. Who brings a friendly force to a castle without sending a messenger ahead?"
A few minutes later, Veda sat astride her hart, riding across the castle bridge towards the Elvhen encampment. Standard bearers marched beside her, holding aloft a banner of the Inquisition and a white flag signaling their peaceful intentions. Behind them came a line of guardsmen, in case Abelas and his friends decided to hit the white flag with a barrage of arrows.
They'd come about halfway across the bridge when a party of Elvhen emerged from the encampment and started towards them. Veda recognized Abelas at their head and waved hopefully. He didn't wave back – it could be that he didn't know the meaning of the gesture or it could be that he didn't care to greet a shem like her. She was still stinging from the way he'd dismissed her and all her fellow Dalish at the Temple of Mythal.
Abelas gestured towards Skyhold. "This is the Inquisition, I take it?"
"It is indeed." Veda didn't bother to conceal her pride. She and her friends had found Skyhold a wreck and had turned it into a force to be reckoned with, not only in Fereldan or Orlais, but through all of Thedas. Surely that was worth celebrating.
Abelas' expression was sour and decidedly uncelebratory. "You occupy an Elvhen ruin. Are you incapable of building for yourselves, that you must take the leavings of my people?"
What a promising start. Abelas certainly was a cheery sort.
Veda took a deep breath, pushing past her annoyance. "We came to Skyhold after the destruction of Haven. I know little of its history. Perhaps you'd like to share?"
"You'd do better to ask your Elvhen companion. Solas, as he called himself. He knows its story better than I. If I'm not mistaken, it was once his stronghold."
Skyhold had been Solas' stronghold? From how long ago? It was another thing Solas had kept from her. She could fill a castle with his lies and half-truths and omissions and there still wouldn't be enough room.
Underlying her disappointment, Veda felt a hint of amusement. Solas was not only an ancient elf but...unexpectedly wealthy. Vivienne might actually have given the affair her seal of approval if she'd known he was a rich apostate hobo of impeccable pedigree whose estate they were living in. Madame de Fer was practical like that.
"I'd ask him many things if I could. You see, Solas isn't here anymore."
Veda watched Abela's face, hoping that his expression would give something away, a clue to Solas' whereabouts, but she found only a frown, a look of genuine dissatisfaction.
"That is unfortunate. My purpose in coming here was to speak with him. We have undertaken this journey for naught."
"Banal nadas, Abelas," Veda said, unable to resist the urge to throw in one of her few phrases of ancient Elvhen. "What is it you needed from Solas? The Inquisition might be able to help."
"That is unlikely."
"But not impossible. Come, your people have had a long trip. They're tired and no doubt in need of supplies. Meet with me in Skyhold, while they rest in barracks. If you decide that an alliance won't work, you'll be free to leave and you'll go in better condition than you came."
"Why should I trust you with my people's lives? Out here, they may be cold and tired, but they are free. Once they venture inside your walls, they put themselves into your power."
"That works both ways, doesn't it? I'd be letting you into my fortress. If you came with bad intentions, you could harm us as well. But we haven't hurt one another yet and I don't see any reason why we should start now. If you'd actually deign to talk to me, I think you'd find we have more than a few goals in common."
Abelas turned, conferring with two of the other priests in Elvhen. Beneath their hoods, their eyes were veiled in shadow and it was hard to discern how they were taking her offer. At last, Abelas signalled that they'd come to a decision.
"We will gamble upon your honour. Treat my people well, Inquisitor, and you will have no cause for complaint."
Within hours, the Elvhen had moved into Skyhold, provoking a number of incidents with worried nobles and merchants fearful that the Inquisitor had invited Dalish bandits into the castle. Abela's people settled into the barracks where the off-duty scouts were stationed. By that evening, reports were circulating that the new elven scouts had taken a public bath en masse in the open room, but aside from a no-shame approach to nudity, they were a quiet group, taking their meals in the courtyard as they watched the soldiers practicing.
Predictably, Sera didn't like them.
"They're right creepy, eh? Sometimes you walk by them and they're whispering to themselves, all quiet-like, and their eyes aren't looking right. They're looking at nothing." Sera shivered. "And that Abelas. He's barmy. Who names himself 'Sorrow'? 'Oh, hi, I'm Sorrow. Pleased to meet you – not!'"
Initially, Veda had arranged to meet Abelas in the main hall, but he said he'd preferred the open air and so she suggested they talk over a meal in the garden's gazebo. During the dinner hour, most of the Skyhold's guests were in the banqueting hall and they would less likely to be interrupted if she found an opportunity to question him about Solas or the Eluvians.
It was dusk by the time they'd settled into the gazebo and fireflies circled the branches of the garden's birch tree. Abelas neglected his food, watching them.
"It's been a long time since I last ventured outside the Temple. The world is much changed," he murmured.
"It must be disturbing to see."
Abelas glared down at his plate as if the food had done something to offend him personally. Admittedly, the potatoes were a little overcooked, but Veda thought the rest quite tasty. Of course, the food in Arlathan was probably vastly superior, like everything else those smug Elvhen invented. Sometimes she just wanted to box their ears.
"There's little use in complaining," he said. "It is what it is. The end of my age was little better."
"What happened at the end of your age? Last time we spoke, you said Mythal was murdered and that Fen'Harel didn't do it. Who did? And what happened then?"
He gave a raspy chuckle, clearly out of practice with this laughing business. "Are the modern elves all so full of questions?"
"Yes. Probably. It's sad that ancient elves aren't full of answers."
"In my time, it was considered poor manners to bring up unpleasant subjects over food. Even among the slave class."
Ouch.
"I see. And you think I'm one of the slave class?"
"The vallaslin you wore marked you as belonging to Dirthamen. In my time, you might have been one of his priests, one of his slaves or the slave of one of his followers," he said. "Now those markings are gone, along with your service. This was the doing of the one who calls himself Pride?"
It took Veda a moment to realize he was referring to Solas. She nodded.
"I'm Dalish. We wore the markings to honour the Creators. We didn't know they were slave markings in the Elvhen empire. Solas told me the truth. I let him take them away."
Abelas eyed her bare face, looking at her with what seemed like a new regard. "That is not an act done lightly. The last time such rites were performed, the empire fell."
His gaze traveled down her neck and lingered on her chest, as if contemplating the swell of her breasts under her robe.
"Excuse me? Abelas? My eyes are up here."
Abelas glanced up, completely unapologetic. "Among other things, I was noting your amulet. Pride's handiwork. You were what to him? His lover?"
Veda's cheeks flushed, her composure undone by the directness of his question.
"That explains much," he concluded.
Veda came to a conclusion too: that Abelas had all the emotional sensitivity of Cassandra's right boot, but with none of its social grace. She would have been tempted to explain this as a product of centuries in uthenera, but Solas had slept longer and he was capable of astounding suavity when he tried. Maybe Abelas just didn't see a reason to try.
"Does it? I'm glad you find it so helpful, because it explains absolutely nothing to me."
"You are not of my people, Inquisitor, but we do have one thing in common: we both seek this Solas," he said. "Before I left the Temple, he said something to me that I didn't fully comprehend. I have since grasped his meaning and I wish to learn what he intends to do for our kind."
Veda narrowed her eyes in confusion. "Solas said he told you that he hoped you found a new name."
"Your Solas has been known to bend the truth."
Of course. Solas' translations had been just as opportunistic as the ones Morrigan had offered. He'd shared what he wanted to her know and played dumb about everything else.
"In other words: worst translator ever."
Abelas shook his head, his face evincing a rare and fleeting smile. It suited him. "A cunning man will be cunning. One might as well blame the wolf for his teeth."
Later, as Veda prepared for bed that night, her mind returned to that phrase. How peculiar and yet how apt it was that Abelas should compare Solas to a wolf. Wolves on the pages of books. Wolves on the walls. Wolves in the hills. Stone wolves surveying every expanse in the Exalted Plains, guarding every glade in the Emerald Graves. What did it mean?
Veda lay down, pressing her cheek into the pillow and drawing the blankets up to her chin. If only one could puzzle it out. She fell asleep before she could solve the mystery.
