Watching the Inquisitor examine the statue of Fen'Harel produced an odd out-of-body feeling in Solas.
He had known his fate would be tied to hers the moment he realized what had happened to the orb—what had happened to the anchor that Corypheus wanted for himself. Solas had saved her life because there was no other option, followed her to the Inquisition because he had no other choice. The last thing he had expected to find in this human was someone worthy of respect, someone open to the possibility that there was more to spirits and to the Fade than what she had learned in her Circle.
He had come to think of her as a friend, as much as someone like him was capable of being a friend. And he was increasingly sorry for all the lies of omission he had to make in this Temple. Pretending he didn't know every word of the ancient inscriptions on the statues. Staying quiet as Morrigan confidently announced half-truths—half-truths gleaned through careful study, he knew, but half-truths nonetheless. He would not conceal anything that might keep them safe, but neither could he tell the others all he knew.
"Why would this be here?" Morrigan asked, her eyes following the Inquisitor's. "It depicts the Dread Wolf, Fen'Harel. Setting Fen'Harel in Mythal's greatest sanctum is as blasphemous as painting Andraste naked in the Chantry!"
Solas clenched his jaw and remained silent.
"There are statues of Maferath, Andraste's betrayer, in some Chantries," Cecily mused. "Perhaps this serves a similar purpose?"
"In elven tales Fen'Harel tricks the gods into sealing themselves away in the Beyond for all time. This could be a reminder of vigilance for the faithful," Morrigan agreed.
Solas could not keep silent at that. "For all your knowledge, Lady Morrigan, you cannot resist giving legend the weight of history. The wise do not mistake one for the other. "
"And pray tell, what meaning does our elven expert sense lurking behind this?" Morrigan asked archly.
"None we can discern by staring at it." Solas hoped that would be the end of it.
"Perhaps we'll have time to study this place later," Cecily said wistfully, giving the statue one last look. "We should move forward."
"I did not expect the Well to feel so … hungry."
Morrigan's description was surprisingly astute. Solas could feel that hunger as well—all of that knowledge, all of that history, that powerful will, yearning to reach beyond the confines of the Well.
"I am willing to pay the price the Well demands," Morrigan said, open longing on her face as she gazed at its waters.
The Inquisitor's expression was less entranced. She raised her chin in determination—or perhaps resignation. "As am I, if it means stopping Corypheus."
Solas's blood ran cold.
Morrigan turned to her in horror. "You lead the Inquisition. This is not a risk you can take. I am the best suited to use its knowledge in your service."
"I don't think it's just knowledge, Morrigan. It's will," the Inquisitor said quietly. "The will of the ancient elven priests. That's what Abelas was telling us. Drinking from the Well will put you under a compulsion, a geas."
Morrigan seemed impressed in spite of herself. "That … would match the legends," she admitted. "You are right, we must be cautious. But we do not know what this geas will entail—or even if you are entirely correct. Let me drink."
The Inquisitor shook her head. "I cannot ask this of you."
"You are asking nothing!" the sorceress said, frustrated. "I am willing, and I wish this."
"Inquisitor, please. Let her take the risk," Cassandra agreed. "You are too important to our cause."
That was not an argument that would hold weight with the Inquisitor, Solas suspected. She was no fool—she knew the role she had to play, knew that she must occasionally send others into dangers that she could not face herself. But she also knew her duty. If the Inquisition needed the Well's knowledge, she would consider it her responsibility to gain it, whatever the personal cost.
Someone had to partake of that power if they were to stop Corypheus. And Solas did not trust Morrigan. Perhaps it would be better for the Inquisition if the Well went to someone who had its best interests in mind.
But it would not be better for their Inquisitor.
"Cecily," he said urgently.
He did not normally use her given name, and it had the desired effect; she went still and met his eyes, clearly giving extra weight to his words. "If Lady Morrigan will risk the price, let her do so—but you should not drink from the Well."
I have lied to you in so many ways that you will likely never know, and you trusted me. Trust me now, my friend, when I tell you the truth. Do not drink. That Well will make you Mythal's creature and you will never again be free.
"All right," the Inquisitor said at last. "Lady Morrigan, the Well is yours. Are you truly certain—"
But the sorceress was already walking into the Well.