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Two days of rest. That's all they got before they had to head back to the Hinterlands. Sera arrived in Haven the day after them on a gray mare with red ribbons tied in her mane, and she eagerly added herself to their traveling party. She spent the day poking around the small village, avoiding the 'important people' while she stuck her nose in their belongings.

Ciri used the time to catch up with Triss and to do some maintenance on her armor and swords. She saw Olgierd infrequently; she'd passed Josephine's office and seen him returning Varric's book only to borrow another, one with an embossed map of Thedas on its cover. They seemed at ease with one another, smiling and chatting freely, and she was glad to see it. He could use a few more friends.

She hadn't spent much time with Owain, either. After her realization the other evening, she'd had a flighty moment of idiocy, thinking she should never spend time with him again. In truth, he was simply busy, as was she. But every time she passed the field, he saw her, and he never failed to raise a hand in greeting, smiling warmly in her direction. And she never failed to return his smile.

She'd simply proceed as friends and colleagues, as they had been. That would work, wouldn't it? She wasn't a foolish child languishing over an unobtainable man. She had no rash romantic fantasies to throw herself into the sea to solve the problem of her pining. She'd just carry on, and things would resolve themselves. They had to.

The two days of rest had passed quickly. Before Ciri knew it, they were saddling their horses again and riding out of Haven, well-wishing cries ringing in their ears. Their group was larger this time with Triss and Sera along. Ciri had initially worried that they'd have the same problem they'd faced before, of awkward silences and faltering conversations. But Triss was at her most convivial, doing her best to integrate with the Thedosians without trouble, and Sera was garrulous and free-wheeling. Conversation rolled along, and the trip back to the Lake Luthias camp went easily.

Ciri was heartened to see that the fighting had died down in the Hinterlands after they'd dealt with the Templars. The rebel mages were nowhere to be seen – likely they'd retreated to the Witchwood with no Templars to skirmish with – and the farmers had cautiously begun to return to their homes. Signs of devastation still scarred the landscape, but there was hope.

They rode into the peaceful lakeside camp around midday. Scouts hurried to take the horses to the picket line, unsaddling them and setting out a fresh trough of water. Malika greeted them with a cheerful grin and a bounce in her step, moss-green eyes lively beneath the hood of her uniform.

"Your Handiness!" she hailed Ciri. "Did you know there's an entrance to the Deep Roads nearby?"

Varric groaned as Malika handed Ciri a heavy iron key with a sharp geometric pattern down the shank. "Leave me out of it. I've had enough of darkspawn and the Deep Roads for a lifetime."

"Where is it?" Ciri asked.

Malika gestured vaguely beyond the treeline, toward the main body of the lake. "Behind the big waterfall. The Valo-Kas mercenaries found the key in the villa you sent them to clear. Shokrakar said she'd send one of her people to meet you at the camp by Dennet's farm with a report."

"Any news of the Grey Warden?"

"He's up there by the lake," Malika said. "Living out of an abandoned summer cabin. We've been keeping a distant eye." She shivered. "He's...burly. Like the Maker took a dwarf and made him big. Real big. Are you recruiting him? Will you recruit him?"

Ciri laughed. "We just had questions. But maybe."

"Yes!" Malika cleared her throat. "I mean. We learned some things. His name's Blackwall. When you cleared out the Templars and the mages retreated, bandits moved in. He seemed to take it real personal. We're guessing he was a recruiter or something because he rallied the local boys, said he'd teach them to fight. He called them conscripts, but I'm guessing he didn't mean it."

"Wardens are picky when it comes to their recruits," Varric said. "Hawke and Blondie practically had to beg that Warden in the Deep Roads to take Junior."

"Anyway," Malika said, "He's up there with three farm boys, preparing to make a stand against the bandits."

"Then there's no time to waste," Cassandra said.

"I don't fancy the chances of one warrior and three farm boys against a band of hardened cutthroats," Olgierd added. He rested a hand on the hilt of his saber. "Best we lend him a hand."

One last check of weapons and they turned and left the camp on foot, heading up the overgrown path to the lake. Ciri was eager to finally meet a Grey Warden. It would be interesting to see how similar they were to the Witchers of the Continent. Perhaps he'd be willing to join the Inquisition, as Malika hoped.

They rounded the final bend in the path, and the lake unfolded before them, shady trees and calm blue water. At the far end, a tall, narrow waterfall thundered down. She made a mental note of its location – they'd come back at a later date. They forded the lake at its shallowest part, water sloshing past their knees, and made their way to a small islet where a brightly-colored ram frolicked.

Ciri led the way, single-file, down a long, narrow dock that connected to the other side of the lake. There, she could see the cabin Malika had spoken of. A man in a dark green gambeson and worn breastplate strode back and forth before three young men in peasant clothing, all holding wooden shields and listening with nervous intent to the man's words. He spoke with authority, as a military officer might advise new recruits.

She stepped off the dock and walked toward him. "Are you Warden Blackwall?"

He spun toward her, face like thunder. "How do you know my name?" he demanded as he stormed up to her.

Triss cried a warning, and Alzur's Shield and Blackwall's physical shield overlapped in front of Ciri, knocking an arrow askew.

"Never mind," Blackwall snapped as bandits materialized from behind the trees with loud cries. "Help or get out. We're dealing with these idiots first."

Ciri unsheathed Zireael and leaped to engage the nearest bandit. The one to her right went up in flames as she parried and struck. Sera whooped as the one to her left dropped with an arrow through his eye. Her opponent fell, and she turned to find another.

The skirmish was both quick and bloody. Smarter bandits might have turned back, seeing the numbers on their side, but they were well-armed and angry. Ciri cut down a man lunging for Blackwall and dodged a blow from another attacker. He stiffened and fell with a choked-off cry, Cassandra's sword through his chest.

In the aftermath, Blackwall looked troubled. He stopped by one of the bandits and shook his head, then looked to the three farm boys, still clutching their shields and weapons, miraculously uninjured.

"Good work, conscripts," he said, "Even if this shouldn't have happened. They could've – well. Thieves are made, not born. Take back what they stole. Return to your families. You saved yourselves."

The farm boys fell over themselves to thank him, and he watched them go with a glint of paternal pride in his eyes. Then he turned back to Ciri and her companions, and the paternal pride was replaced by a flinty look.

"You're no farmer," Blackwall said. "Why do you know my name? Who are you?"

Now that the fighting was over, Ciri was able to take a moment to examine Blackwall as closely as he was looking them over. He was, as Malika had said, burly, with shoulder-length black hair and a thick black beard, both threaded with gray. His face was tanned and weather-beaten, his cheeks ruddy. His gray eyes were wary beneath strong brows.

She chose to be frank, judging that honesty would put him at ease. "I'm Ciri. Inquisition scouts told us your name, Warden Blackwall. We have some questions for you about the disappearance of your fellow Grey Wardens."

"Yes," Cassandra added. "The timing of their disappearance makes us wonder if it has anything to do with the explosion at the Conclave."

Ciri shot her a quelling look. She'd wondered that herself briefly, but they hadn't discussed it. She knew that on the Continent, the different Witcher schools were in principal supposed to be neutral. But the Witchers of the School of the Cat were little better than assassins for hire, and Letho of Gulet, a Witcher of the School of the Viper, had killed two kings on Emhyr's orders. It wasn't out of the question that the Grey Wardens were involved.

Blackwall looked genuinely shocked at the suggestion. "Maker's balls, the Wardens causing the explosion? That can't be. No, you're asking, so you don't really know, do you?"

"Then tell us," Ciri prompted him. "Whatever you know might be useful."

"First off, I didn't know they disappeared," he said. "But we do that, right? Soon as the Blight's over, the job's done. Wardens are the first thing forgotten. But I'll tell you this for sure: no Warden blew up the Conclave. Our purpose isn't political."

That sounded right to Ciri. "No one's here to accuse anyone," she assured him. "We're just looking for information. Why haven't you left like your brothers and sisters?"

"I go months without seeing other Wardens," Blackwall said. "I travel alone, recruiting. Not much interest in joining as the Archdemon's been dead a decade, and no need to conscript as there's no Blight coming."

"Yet you called the farmers 'conscripts,'" Olgierd observed. "Then let them go. How does that square with recruiting?"

"Treaties give Wardens the right to take what we need. These idiots forced this fight, so I 'conscripted' their victims." Blackwall shook his head. "They leaped at the chance. I taught them to fight and told them to stand. Next time they won't need me."

The Warden looked down at the bodies of the bandits scattered about, and his shoulders slumped. "It's a pity it came to this. Grey Wardens can inspire, make you better than you think you are. In another life, some of these men might have been heroes."

Ciri felt herself warming to this gruff warrior. Empathy for the enemy was a rare trait.

"So where'd they all go, then?" Sera asked. "And why are you still here, Beardy?"

Blackwall shrugged. "Maybe they returned to our stronghold at Weisshaupt? I don't really know. Can't imagine why they'd all disappear at once, let alone where to. As for me, maybe a runner got lost or something. Maybe there was a new directive and I missed it. My job was to recruit on my own. Planned to stay that way for months."

Ciri nodded slowly, reluctant to part but out of questions. "Thank you, Warden Blackwall. I don't think we need anything else from you. However…."

"Aye?"

"I can't say for sure that we'll uncover the mystery of your missing Order any time soon, but we'd be happy to have you join us," she said. "Can you put your recruiting on hold and stand with the Inquisition a while?"

He thought a moment, then nodded firmly. "Aye, I'd be glad to. We both need to know what's going on, and perhaps I've been keeping to myself for too long."

Ciri reached out, and he shook her hand. "I'm glad to hear it," she said sincerely. "Is there anything you need to collect? A mount? We're camped just beyond the ridge there. You're welcome to come with us, or to meet us back at Haven."

"I have my pack in the cabin," Blackwall said, jerking his thumb at the building in question. "No horse. And I'll take you up on your offer."

They waited as Blackwall retrieved his pack, then made their way back down to the camp. Blackwall introduced himself around, and Cassandra struck up a conversation with him as they walked. She seemed to share Ciri's admiration for Grey Wardens. Blackwall deflected her praise, demurring that many Wardens had hardly lived 'righteous' lives.

"Still," Cassandra said, "It is never too late to do better, and become more than what you are."

"That is the hope," Blackwall agreed as they entered the camp.

Ciri cast a sidelong look at Olgierd. He wore a curious expression on his face as he watched Blackwall – half caution, half recognition.

"What is it?" she asked him quietly.

He shook his head. "It can keep. Better I tell you later, away from the others."

Whatever it was, it seemed to trouble him. She'd find the time to ask him later.

Malika greeted them with a bright grin. "You're even better up close," she said to Blackwall. "Wow."

He looked at Ciri uncertainly.

"Blackwall, meet Scout Malika," she said, privately amused. "Malika, there's a time and a place."

Malika just grinned harder. "Malika Cadash," she said, shaking Blackwall's hand. "I'm Her Handiness' fourth favorite dwarf. Formerly of the Carta, now an upright citizen. I read Conscripted By Love, you know. Is it true what it said about Grey Warden stamina?"

Sera guffawed, and Blackwell's ruddy cheeks turned a shade darker. "The Grey Wardens are dedicated to protecting people from the Blight," he said sternly. "We give of ourselves so that others don't have to."

Malika's grin fell. "Oh, shit – did I offend you? I didn't mean to offend you."

"That said," Blackwall continued, mouth twitching, "Stamina on the battlefield does translate to stamina elsewhere."

Sera laughed harder. Malika's eyes lit up, and she smiled widely, a blush dusting her cheeks.

"If that's all, Scout Malika," Cassandra interrupted, "Someone needs to go to Horsemaster Dennet with a request for a mount for Blackwall. If he's reluctant, let him know that his watchtowers are completed, and the wolves have been dealt with."

"A mount," Malika repeated. "Right." She saluted Ciri and left the camp, tossing Blackwall one last smile before she left.

"Hold a moment," Blackwall said. "What's 'Her Handiness' supposed to mean?"

"You really have been on your own," Varric said. He waved a hand at Ciri. "Meet Ciri, our very own Hand of the Maker."

"I'm not," she said hastily at Blackwall's wide-eyed look. She held up her hands in front of her defensively. "The title was foisted upon me. I had no say in the matter. I'm not the Maker's Hand."

"Aye," Blackwall said, still staring. "I have been alone too long."


Supper was, as always, mutton stew. They chatted as they ate, telling stories of past adventures and making light jokes. Malika had returned a short time ago with a bay gelding for Blackwall, and she passed on Dennet's thanks for their work. As the sun began to set, Sera let out a light belch and stretched in her seat.

"Phwaw, 'scuse me. Oi, Ol-geerd, got a question for you."

Olgierd raised a coppery brow at her, smiling slightly. "I'm all ears, my dear."

"You havin' a go at my ears?" she said indignantly, then laughed. "Only joking. I know they're big. Shut up. So I was pokin' around Haven, right, and you wouldn't believe the things some people have hidden in their stuff. Smutty books, bedroom toys, letters with all sorts of secrets – Ciri has a pair of baubles at the bottom of her bag. But you. You're weird."

"Do tell," Olgierd said. "How am I 'weird?'"

"Well, a nob like you should have gold and fancy trinkets, a big purse of sovereigns. You just have a dried-up old rose. Wot's that about?"

Ciri watched as the smile slipped from Olgierd's face and grief touched the corners of his eyes. "It's a memento of my wife," he said quietly. "The last thing I ever gave her. I've nothing else of her, save my memories."

Sera looked momentarily abashed. "Shite. Sorry. Thought maybe you were just rubbish at collecting flowers or somethin'."

Olgierd laughed softly. "Nay, I've just the one."

A scout came around to collect their empty bowls, and Solas stood, gesturing to Ciri and Triss. "You wished to try a spell," he said. "Now is as good a time as any."

Blackwall looked at Ciri in confusion. "You're a mage? But you fight with a sword."

"I am," she said. "As is Olgierd."

His gaze traveled around their group, from Solas to Triss to Olgierd and back to Ciri. "I don't have anything against mages, nor their rebellion. Everyone deserves a second chance."

"Good to hear," Varric said. "From the way things are shaking out, we're likely looking to ally with the rebel mages."

"The Chantry won't be pleased," Cassandra said, shaking her head in disapproval.

"The Chantry is currently the least of my concerns," Ciri said. She stood, dusting off her knees. "Where did you want to do this, Solas?"

"Over here, by the water." He led Ciri and Triss past the tents to the shoreline. Olgierd and the others followed at a distance.

"You've been doing your meditative exercises for weeks now," Solas said. He raised a hand, and a faint light gathered under his skin. "You're familiar with the practice."

In response, Ciri raised her unmarked hand and pulled on her magic. She could feel the rush, the intent, as the Source within demanded she use it to teleport, but she held it back carefully.

"Yes, good," he praised. "Now–"

"What does it feel like?" Triss asked.

"It wants to move," Ciri said. "Like lightning in a bottle. I pull it up, and it thinks I wish to step between. Holding it still is difficult."

Triss nodded. "Go on."

"Curious," Solas said. "I should have asked. Of course your natural gifts would interfere. But no matter. Now, the next step is to take your magic and shape it into a spell. We'll begin with the most basic, the arcane bolt."

With Solas' calm voice in her ear guiding her through the process, Ciri felt for the shape of her magic, the prickly energy of it, the rush of potential, and she took just a pinch and molded it into a small, dense sphere. It vibrated in her hand, still invisible to the naked eye.

"Now release it," Solas ordered her.

She did so, and it shot from her hand with dizzying speed, a bright white streak of light, and buried itself deep in the cliff face opposite them. She whirled to face Triss, beaming. "Did you see? I did it!"

"I saw," Triss said. She smiled. "Yenna would be proud of you."

"Very well done, da'len," Solas said. "Though that was much more force than one usually puts behind an arcane bolt."

"Did I do it wrong?" Ciri asked. From her spot at the edge of the water, she could just barely see the deep hole in the rock on the far side of the camp that her spell had left.

"Not at all," Solas assured her. "Many powerful mages have difficulty altering the strength of their spells when they start out. The ancient Elvhen were known for their great feats of magic, and the power behind their spells was immense. Delicacy and precision are learned, not innate. You will get there."

Sera called out from her vantage point several feet away. "Wait – that stupid rumor was true? Great. Don't go getting too elfy on me, 'just plain Ciri.' I like you normal, even with your magic."

"I'll do my best," Ciri said lightly. Privately, she thought that she'd be in trouble if she took to wearing squirrel tails like the Scoia'tael or raiding worlds for human slaves like the Red Riders. "Thank you, Solas. Truly."

"It was my pleasure," he said. "Would you like to try another?"

"I – perhaps tomorrow. I had a thought about how to deal with the mages in the Witchwood, and I'd rather we did it sooner than later."

Cassandra looked up at the darkening sky. "The day is nearly gone. If it cannot wait, then we should be off."

"No," Ciri said, and braced for disagreement. "I mean to take Olgierd, Triss, and Solas. The rest of you should meet us at the camp by Dennet's farm in a few hours with the horses."

"Not a chance!" Cassandra protested. "It's far too dangerous. These are the same apostates who wreaked havoc at the Crossroads when we first came, if you've forgotten. They will not hesitate to attack you."

Olgierd spoke up. "I've my doubts about that, Seeker. We haven't seen any sign of them this time. Their fight was with the Templars, not us."

"We have to give them a chance," Triss said. "They were invited here, weren't they? The Templars chased them, refused to let them go in peace. Maybe they'll listen if we approach them as fellow mages."

"I don't like this," Cassandra said, shaking her head. "This is the very definition of the 'malign influences' Grand Cleric Oudine warned against."

Ciri cut Triss off before she could argue further. "Trust me," she said. "Please."

As Ciri expected, Cassandra backed down, though her frown spoke volumes. "Very well. But we will come after you if you aren't at the camp by midnight."

"That should be enough time," Ciri said, "Provided the scouts have located the mage hideout in the Witchwood."

In point of fact, they had, and armed with their location, Ciri set off with Olgierd, Triss, and Solas, leaving Cassandra and the others behind to manage the horses and the bags. As they walked down the steep path toward the main road, Ciri judged that the four of them qualified as 'alone' enough to broach the subject of Olgierd's earlier concern.

"You were troubled before," she said quietly. "What was it about Blackwall that bothered you?"

Olgierd glanced at Triss and Solas, then sighed. "He hates himself."

She blinked, surprised. "How can you tell?"

"Like recognizes like."

"Owain said that many Wardens were once criminals," Ciri said. "Perhaps it's something from his past."

"Perhaps," Olgierd echoed. "Whatever it is, the memories ride him hard."

They walked on in silence for a minute, then Ciri reached out and elbowed Olgierd.

"What was that for?"

"'Like recognizes like?'" she repeated, glaring up at him.

He chuckled, rubbing his ribs where her elbow had dug in. "Apologies. I meant nothing by it, Ciri. I'm better than I was. I do appreciate the second chance your father gave me – and with you around, I've little chance to brood."

"Good."

Triss looked curious but didn't voice the questions Ciri could see in her eyes. Instead, she asked, "What exactly are we doing with the mages?"

"Talking, hopefully," Ciri said. "They can't stay where they are. There's too much bad blood; the farmers have honest grievances against their presence."

"It's the Templars' fault," Triss said hotly.

"They instigated the conflict here, certainly," Solas said. "But these mages didn't shy away from a fight, nor did they consider what might happen if the farmers and peasants were caught up in their hostilities."

"Desperate people do terrible things to survive," Triss said. "Is it that surprising that they defended themselves, even when innocents were caught in the middle?"

"Surprising? Not at all," Solas replied. "Merely disappointing to see."

"We'll see what they have to say for themselves," Ciri said. "Let's not judge them beforehand."

They crossed the main road, now quiet in the aftermath of the Templars being routed from their stronghold. A flicker of light shone at the edge of the woods, and they made their way toward it. As they passed the treeline, the flickering light resolved into a warm campfire. A man and a woman sat around it, staves within arm's reach. The younger of the pair, a lanky, pink-cheeked teenage boy with a shock of white-blond hair, leaped up as they approached.

"Stay back!" he cried, brandishing his staff. "Leave! I – I'm dangerous!"

"Easy, lad," Olgierd said soothingly. "We're all mages here."

"Prove it!"

In response, Olgierd summoned flames from the campfire, and before he could extinguish them, Triss called them from his hand to hers. Solas merely gestured to the staff on his back. Ciri stepped through the ether, moving from one side of the campfire to the other and back.

The young man gulped, his knuckles white on his staff. "Are – did you come from Redcliffe? We won't go back."

The older woman spoke up, drawing Ciri's attention. She had graying brown hair and olive skin, and her dark eyes were calm. "Peace, Jance," she said in a slight Orlesian accent. "I don't think our visitors mean any harm. Do you?"

"Not at all," Ciri said. "We came to find the mages in the Witchwood. We only want to talk, I swear."

She nodded thoughtfully and stood, grabbing her staff. "Smother the fire, Jance," she ordered her companion. "We'll take our new friends back to the cave."

She and Jance led the way deeper into the woods, past an abandoned hut and a strange, primitive-looking stone statue. "I am Letia," she introduced herself, "Formerly Senior Enchanter Letia. This is Jance. He was an apprentice before the Circles fell."

"I'm Ciri," Ciri said in return. "These are my friends, Triss Merigold, Olgierd von Everec, and Solas."

"No ranks?" she inquired.

"You find yourself in the company of four dastardly apostates, former Senior Enchanter Letia," Olgierd quipped.

"Ah, then you'll fit right in," she said with a smile.

The woods grew darker, thicker, the canopy overhead dense and tangled. Odd totems dangled from branches. A distinct chill permeated the air, and strange spires of ice protruded from the forest floor. The mages had clearly marked out their territory as best they could – any idiot who ignored the signs and blundered past would be met with a faceful of fire.

"Here we are," Letia announced.

They'd arrived at a cave marked by an unnaturally frozen pond and ringed by glowing, glyph-covered boulders. The entrance gleamed and crackled with the color of flames. By one of the boulders, two sellswords rested.

"Hail, Letia!" one of them called. "Who're these?"

"Guests of mine," Letia said. "Fellow mages looking for a chat with our people."

"Aye, fine," the other said. "Shout if anyone needs killing."

Letia led the way to the cave entrance and touched the tip of her staff to the glowing barrier. A blue-white light emanated from the spot where they met, radiating out until the barrier had melted away. "Come, come," she said, waving them after her.

The inside of the cave was quite cozy, to Ciri's surprise. Lanterns set on ledges gave the interior a warm glow. There was little in the way of proper furniture, but she saw cushions and blankets, and a number of bedrolls neatly tucked in a wheelbarrow against the cave wall. Perhaps a dozen mages, men and women of all ages, humans and elves, all looked up as Letia and Jance entered with them at their heels.

A brown-skinned elven woman with a thick black braid stood, scowling. "What are you thinking, bringing strangers here?"

"They're mages, Melora," Letia said calmly. "Apostates. They say they only want to talk."

"Apostates?" Another mage stood. This one was human, a man. "Then you weren't with the rebellion."

For some reason, they all seemed to relax at that. Ciri exchanged looks with Triss and Olgierd. "No," she said slowly. "We intend to speak with the Grand Enchanter soon, but I thought we should address your concerns first."

The man came closer. He was lean and pale, a bit taller than average height, with shaggy black hair and a short, full beard. His dark eyes were full of skepticism as he looked them over. "Not to look a gift mage in the mouth, but how is it you intend to address our concerns? And what makes you think you have the pull to see Grand Enchanter Fiona?"

"We're with the Inquisition," Ciri said honestly. "After we took care of the Templars, we saw that the mages in the Witchwood weren't causing any trouble. I – we – wanted to meet you, not fight you."

"I believe in your cause," Triss added. "We all do."

Melora, the elven woman, laughed harshly. "That's rich. The rebellion doesn't even believe in our cause. We were 'politely' encouraged to leave – our magic wasn't pretty, safe, or useful enough to sell to the public as worthy of freedom."

"I taught the Entropy school in the Ghislain Circle," Letia said. "We have some here who are quite talented in Entropy or Spirit magic. We have a spellbinder, we used to have a necromancer – Melora here got her hands on a forbidden tome and learned to shapeshift. And Levyn–"

"I'm just an itinerant healer," the man – Levyn – interrupted. He rubbed his beard with a rueful look. "Any rumors to the contrary should be ignored."

"And you grew a beard because you'd be so welcome in Redcliffe," Melora scoffed.

"Like I said," Levyn said. "Rumors."

"I've run into my share of those," Ciri said. "Terrible things."

Levyn smiled. It made him look years younger. "A bit of advice. If a charismatic bald mage ever offers to give you private lessons, run the other way. It'll only end in tears."

"Meet my tutor," Ciri said dryly, "Solas."

Solas inclined his head, looking as amused as Ciri felt. "A pleasure."

Levyn laughed and stuck his hand out to shake. "As long as you aren't a power-hungry blood mage, I suppose it is. And the rest of you are?"

Ciri introduced them around again, and Letia and Levyn pointed out the other ten mages who'd otherwise kept quiet. She did her best to keep them straight in her mind, but she suspected Triss would remember them better than she would.

"Now," Letia said. "What is it the Inquisition wants of our humble group?"

"I want you safe and free," Ciri said. "The Inquisition disapproves of us being here, but I talked them into it."

"You know you'll have to relocate," Triss said, looking around at the cozy cave. "The locals suffered too much from the fighting between you and the Templars to keep turning a blind eye."

"We've discussed it," Letia said. "But where to go, that's the question. The Hinterlands were ideal before the Templars arrived."

Levyn leaned against the wall of the cave, arms crossed. "There used to be over forty of us. It made for cramped quarters, but I'd prefer that to twenty-eight dead mages. The Templars did that."

"The Inquisition did some of that, too," Melora said accusingly.

"That fight at the Crossroads between the mages and the Templars was getting farmers and refugees killed," Solas said. "We stepped in to save innocents. I always called out to the mages to stay their fire. None ever did."

"Staying their fire would make them easy fodder for the Templars," Letia sighed. "Enough, Melora. You know some of our brethren had a certain disregard for bystanders."

Melora huffed, but let it go.

"Have you had any trouble with abominations?" Triss asked.

The silence that fell was telling, and for a long, uncomfortable moment, no one would meet their eyes. Then Levyn spoke up.

"Once," he said. "Templars cornered Mileva on the West Road by one of the cabins. Jance was there. Jance?"

Jance shook his head furiously.

"I'll tell it, then," Levyn continued. "Jance said they grabbed her by the arms, ripped her robes. They were dragging her into the cabin, laughing. So she let a demon in and she tore them apart. She killed eight Templars and two mages before she was stopped."

"Stopped?" Triss asked, face pale.

Melora gave her a scornful look. "What do you think happened?"

That explained why Jance was so jumpy. The more she heard of Templars, the worse she thought of them. And Cullen and Chancellor Roderick thought it was a good idea to reach out to them, to ally with them? No. Never.

"May the soil lie light upon her grave," Olgierd murmured. "Poor girl."

"We've been without Templar oversight for years," Letia said. "Mileva is the only one we lost to a demon. Levyn has been on his own for a decade now, and he's none the worse for it. You're mages. You know that what they teach about possession isn't entirely true. We don't need to constantly be on guard once we're trained."

Ciri knew nothing of the sort, but she could appreciate her position. "So what would you like to do?"

Letia stroked her jaw with a long finger, a thoughtful look in her eyes. "This Inquisition seems rather liberal, taking on apostates and giving them authority to negotiate. Perhaps our people might join yours."

"I was warned that the Inquisition couldn't keep turning a blind eye to apostates and un-Harrowed mages," Ciri admitted. "It's not the Inquisition itself that's the problem, it's the Chantry oversight."

"Well, that fucks me completely," Levyn said. "And Jance."

"There's an apprentice in the Inquisition who's doing research," Triss said. "I met her when I arrived in Haven. A young woman named Minaeve. Jance might be all right."

"But not me." Levyn shook his head and looked at Letia. "You should go. You'll never get another chance like this."

"Levyn, no!" Melora protested. "We stick together, that's the plan."

"Plans change, Mel. Don't worry about me. I'll figure something out." He straightened and nodded at Ciri. "I'll walk you back to wherever you're staying – most of the way, anyway. I don't want to be seen if I can help it."

"We're camped out by Dennet's farm," Ciri said. "Do you know the area?"

He smiled. "I know a shortcut."

They made their goodbyes and followed Levyn out of the cave and past the frozen pond and glowing boulders, back toward the eerie statue. He veered sharply right at a narrow crevice, leading them through a skinny gorge with walls so high the moonlight barely reached them.

A strange wuffling sound came from up ahead, and Ciri froze. "What's that?"

Levyn kept walking. "It's just a druffalo. Come on. If we keep walking, it'll follow us back to the farms."

Sure enough, a hulking horned creature with thick, shaggy fur and beautiful, liquid black eyes met them as they rounded the bend, and it wuffled again, then lowed. Triss giggled.

"It's cute, for such a big guy."

"Don't make it mad," Levyn advised. "They'll trample you flat. And the horns aren't just for show."

The druffalo fell in behind them, wuffling and lowing, and their strange band walked on to the end of the gorge. It came out at a short waterfall, where the rift with the despair demon had been. Levyn turned to them and said, "I'll leave you here. Thank you for coming, really. I know Letia was getting worried about what we were going to do next."

"Take care of yourself, Levyn," Ciri said. "I'm sorry I can't help you."

He shrugged. "I knew it would end this way. But thanks. Maybe we'll see each other again someday."

"You called yourself an itinerant healer," Olgierd said. "The people at the Crossroads could use one, if you've a mind to lend a hand."

"Perhaps." Levyn looked thoughtful. "My face isn't really welcome in these parts, but it's been years. I would like to help if I can."

He disappeared back into the gorge, and they continued on, fording the shallow stream with the hulking druffalo at their heels and climbing the bank to the camp. Cassandra met them at the outskirts, pacing back and forth with her hand on her sword hilt.

"Finally!" she exclaimed. "I was about to set out for you – where did you get that druffalo?"

Ciri beckoned a scout over. "Find where this poor druffalo belongs," she said. "I've a feeling it's been missing a while."

"Well, Seeker, we've good news and bad news," Olgierd said as the scout led the druffalo off. "Though I'm not sure which you'll think is which."

"I didn't recruit apostates," Ciri said, and she smiled at the narrow-eyed look of suspicion Cassandra gave her.

"Speak plainly, Lady Ciri. My patience is thin," Cassandra warned her.

Ciri laughed. "Thirteen mages, Cassandra. Well, twelve and an apprentice. One of them is a senior enchanter. They had some insight into the politics of the mage rebellion as well."

She wished she could count Levyn as the fourteenth. Something told her she'd see him again, though.

"Tell me what possessed you to recruit so many mages," Cassandra said. "And explain what you mean about insight into the mage rebellion."

Ciri looked beyond Cassandra to see that Varric, Sera, and Blackwall were awake and armed as well, sitting around the campfire and listening in. "All right," she agreed. "It seems there won't be any sleep until we do."