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She landed heavily but kept her feet beneath her as the time portal threw them out in front of Alexius' stunned eyes. Serpent-quick, she snatched the amulet from his hand and pressed Zireael's blade to his throat.
"One reason, Magister," she spat. "Just one. Tell me why I shouldn't relieve you of your head right here and perhaps I'll let you keep it."
Alexius stared at her with thwarted fury. He held still, not daring even to breathe too deeply.
Felix came over with a hand outstretched. "Please, my lady. My father will surrender. There's no need to kill him. Won't you, Father?"
The visions of Geralt's corpse, of Olgierd's death at the hands of an ensorcelled Lambert, clouded her mind, and for a brief moment, she was tempted to make him beg. She narrowed her eyes at Alexius.
"Well, Magister?"
Alexius nodded shallowly and winced as the keen edge scraped his throat. "Yes. You've bested me, Lady Morhen. Felix..."
"It's going to be all right, Father," Felix assured him.
The grief that filled Alexius' face almost stirred Ciri to sympathy. Almost. "But you'll die!"
Felix smiled faintly. "Everyone dies."
"Take him away," Ciri ordered Leliana's agents. She didn't lower her blade until two armed and hooded scouts came to flank him.
"Thank you," Felix said quietly as the scouts led Alexius off. The magister seemed older, shrunken, a slump to his shoulders as he walked away.
"I did it for you and Dorian," Ciri said, her voice sharp. "Don't think for a moment he deserved it."
"I know." The slump to Felix's shoulders matched his father's. "He was a good man once."
Perhaps he had been, to raise someone like Felix and be worthy of Dorian's regard. But the things she'd heard from friends and family in that future, the images of those chaotic final moments, were impossible to forget. And none of that would have come to pass without Alexius.
Olgierd and Cassandra joined them by the dais, and Ciri had to blink back tears of relief at the sight of Olgierd walking without pain. His cry as Lambert's sword had pierced him still echoed in her ears, and she shook her head to clear it.
"Well!" Dorian said, looking about the hall. "I'm glad that's over with."
As if on cue, the front doors slammed open and the sound of tramping feet marching in perfect unison filled the room. Twenty soldiers in steel and fur paraded in, taking up posts along the outside of the room and ignoring the dead Venatori at their feet.
Dorian seemed tempted to take a step back. "Or not."
A handsome, well-dressed man strolled between the two rows of soldiers. He was quite tan, with dark blond hair. As he drew closer, Ciri could see his eyes were a rich, warm brown, and his face bore faint laugh lines. Triss followed in his wake, looking only mildly concerned.
"Grand Enchanter," the man began, "When Arl Teagan came to Denerim accusing the mage rebellion of handing over his castle to Tevinter, I was rather surprised at you. Fortunately for you, I'm inclined to listen when people explain this sort of lunacy to me."
He nodded to Triss, who smiled.
Fiona approached him nervously, wringing her hands. "King Alistair – Your Majesty, I assure you, we never intended –"
King Alistair held up his hand. "Trust me, Grand Enchanter, I heard the tale. A Tevinter cult and unstable time magic? I understand where the blame lies. But Arl Teagan will no longer allow the mages sanctuary in Redcliffe, and after what happened here, I can't afford to alienate my nobles by asking them to host your mages, either." He sighed. "I'm sorry. But your rebellion is no longer welcome in Ferelden."
Fiona flinched. "Where will we go? We have hundreds who need protection!"
"You don't remember it, but you offered the Inquisition an alliance when we met in Val Royeaux," Ciri said, pushing down her roiling emotions and stepping forward. "We came here to deal with the Venatori and secure that alliance. We've done one of those things. With your agreement, Grand Enchanter, we can do the other."
"A true alliance? Will the Inquisition honor such terms?" Fiona asked. She looked from Ciri to Cassandra.
"We will," Cassandra told her. "This is the Hand's decision, as we agreed before coming."
"Then my people will be proud to join you." Fiona held out her hand, and Ciri shook it firmly.
As Ciri and Fiona spoke, recognition filled King Alistair's eyes, and he began to smile. There was something impish to the expression, and when he spoke, she mentally swore at Maxwell once again.
"So you're the Hand of the Maker I've heard so much about," he said. "And also my long-lost sister, if what my courtiers tell me is true."
Fiona shot her a sharp look.
"It's not," Ciri said hastily. "Your Majesty."
"That's a shame," he said. "I always wanted a sister. No plans to steal Ferelden's throne out from under me, then? No deeply-held desires to rule a kingdom of your own?"
"That is quite possibly the last thing I'd ever want," Ciri said. Cintra was lost to her thanks to the false Cirilla, and Nilfgaard remained a place of dread for her, filled with men and women who'd haunted her nightmares and stalked her movements for years.
"The Hand is a humble woman of strong convictions," Leliana interjected as she walked out of the shadows. Her face was unscarred, her eyes unclouded by the long year of suffering she'd faced in the future.
King Alistair looked delighted to see her. "Leliana! You haven't aged a day."
Leliana laughed. "Flatterer. I see you've learned to speak to women, finally."
Ciri watched as a transformation seemed to come over the Inquisition's spymaster. She spoke to the king with genuine warmth, a small but honest smile on her face. This can't possibly be the sharp-eyed woman who unnerved me so at the first meeting.
"Forgive me for interrupting your reunion, Your Majesty, but I'm afraid it's not over." Ciri glanced at Dorian, who seemed to be doing his best to remain unnoticed. "The magister used his time magic to send me into the future." The images rose up before her eyes again, gruesome and intrusive. "The people there had much to say, and one of them shared information you should know."
King Alistair gave her his full attention. "Go on, Lady Cirilla."
"I was told that you and your soldiers died just outside Redcliffe Castle to Venatori forces in that future," Ciri said. "It hasn't been long enough for them to flee the village or the castle. They're likely still here."
"I died? I will die? Maker, what a headache." King Alistair grimaced. "Thank you for the information. I'll take the men out and scour the village and the surrounding area."
"Perhaps our people could be of service," Leliana suggested.
"Not quite like old times," King Alistair said with a wry smile. "You, me, and twenty of Ferelden's finest instead of Elissa and her dog."
Leliana giggled – giggled – and said, "If one of your men sits on another's shoulders, they might make a good substitute for Sten."
The king laughed. "It would be very wrong of me to order that. Will you join your scouts, Leliana? And will you come, Lady Cirilla?"
Ciri hesitated. "We can assist you in Redcliffe, but then we must return to Haven, Your Majesty. The things I learned in the future will need to be addressed, and we must prepare to close the Breach."
"Lady Ciri is right," Leliana sighed. "A pity. I would have enjoyed the hunt."
"I'll want a report on that future, Leliana, if the Inquisition is willing to share," King Alistair said. "That's my kingdom at stake, you know. No sneaky bard nonsense from you, old friend."
Leliana's smile was perfectly guileless. "The Inquisition is always willing to share with its allies. You'll have a full report on everything pertaining to Ferelden."
"That should calm the whining at court." King Alistair winked at Ciri. "Ferelden nobles are an irritable bunch. They're never happy unless they have something to fight."
"Speaking of, shall we go track down these Venatori before they disappear?" Leliana asked.
"We should start with the castle," King Alistair said. "There are all sorts of hidey-holes they could be tucked away in." He held out a hand, and one of his soldiers handed him a sword. "Let's go."
Fiona stepped forward, determination written across her face. "Allow me to offer my services in this, Your Majesty. These Venatori came here for us. I would help you drive them out."
"Your assistance is appreciated, Grand Enchanter," King Alistair said with a nod. He looked to his soldiers and raised his voice. "Men! Move out!"
Ciri found herself falling into step behind the neat rows of marching soldiers, well behind the chatting king and spymaster. Olgierd, Triss, and Cassandra clustered around her, with Dorian and Felix taking up the rear. The two Tevinter mages seemed to be doing their best to remain inconspicuous, not wishing attention to fall on them after Alexius' actions.
"You saw the future?" Olgierd asked quietly.
Ciri nodded. She forced herself to look at him, to see him clearly. Her mind attempted to superimpose the Olgierd of the future onto her friend, but his easy stride and well-rested face gave clear lie to the vision.
Cassandra frowned. "Was it that bad?"
"Later," Ciri said. Her throat went tight at the question. "Ask me later."
A cry went up ahead – one of the Venatori had been discovered. Ciri readied herself for battle. For Geralt and Lambert. For Varric and Blackwall. For Josephine and Cullen. For Olgierd and the Trevelyans.
Later came sooner than she'd have liked. They parted with the king and his men at Redcliffe's gates, having scoured the castle and the village clean of any remaining Venatori presence. Varric, Blackwall, and Solas had joined them in the hunt through the village, not objecting when Ciri led them down to the docks for a quiet word with the elven widower after the fighting ended. Felix left them at the gates as well, preparing to make his way back to Tevinter alone.
Ciri and her companions – including Dorian – rode ahead, leaving the winding caravan of enchanters, mages, and apprentices to make their own, slower journey to the small village in the mountains. Leliana joined them as they rode. Ciri's poor mood set the tone for the ride. There was little conversation to be had, all of it faltering and hesitant. Ciri's skin itched and her shoulder blades drew together as she felt their eyes on her, but no one dared to breach the topic of the future.
Not, at least, until they'd stopped for the night. Once the tents were pitched and the picket line was secured, Leliana turned from lighting the campfire to direct a look of sharp intent at Ciri.
"You have been unsettled since you returned from the future," she stated. "We will discuss it in the War Room, of course, but if there's anything you would like to speak of now –"
"No," Ciri said vehemently.
Cassandra and Olgierd exchanged a look that made her stomach knot. All around her, they stood and watched, waiting patiently while her emotions boiled beneath the surface. Their eyes held curiosity, sympathy, even dread – and it was too much to bear. She wasn't sure what she felt. Relief, certainly, and a great deal of anger. Her heart had broken, and then abruptly the cause had been undone.
But that hadn't taken the pain away.
"Something happened to me in that future," Olgierd said. "You'd not have looked at me that way when you reappeared otherwise."
Ciri looked away immediately.
"It is best to share your burdens with friends, da'len," Solas advised. "Do not try to carry on under the weight of your secrets alone."
She almost laughed at the absurdity. In the future, he all but begged her to keep her secrets. Now he advised her to share them. As much as she liked him, she suspected he was a bit of a hypocrite.
Triss reached out, face kind and concerned. "Please, Ciri. Let us help."
"Geralt died!"
Triss took a step back at the shout that tore from Ciri's throat. Ciri clenched her fists, shaking, unable to meet anyone's eyes for long.
"You went home for help, and they came. Geralt died right in front of my eyes. The magister's men crippled Olgierd, tortured Leliana – I saw Olgierd die right as I came back through the portal." To Lambert, ensorcelled by blood magic.
"The Inquisition fell. Orlais and Ferelden fell. The Veil fell. The Qun invaded the north. Varric and Blackwall were dead before I arrived. Keira and Lambert had been captured by the Elder One's army. Everyone was dead and it was all because I was gone –"
She stalked away from the fire, away from her caring, prying friends. She could faintly hear Dorian speak as the gloom of night swallowed her, but her heart pounded in her ears so loudly she couldn't make out his words.
The stars above shone bright and cold, and she stared upwards, wondering what it was that Olgierd found so captivating about them. She tried to take deep, even breaths, but the iron band around her ribs made it impossible. Her stomach knotted as ghastly visions of that final fight in the future played out before her eyes once more, marring the beauty of the night sky.
"You'll come get us if you need help."
"No," she whispered. "Never."
This was twice now she'd seen Geralt dead. He'd recovered from the first, and the second time had been undone. But she'd not stand to see it happen a third time.
"The Veil was gone in the future?"
She turned to see Solas and Olgierd standing a short distance behind her. Solas had asked the question. He seemed quite intent on her answer.
"I didn't see it," she said shortly. "We were only ever inside the castle. But you called it an abomination."
He cocked his head at her in curiosity. "I said that?"
"You wanted me to tell you, specifically, that you'd seen what the world was like without the Veil, and that it was a waking nightmare."
She couldn't see his face in the darkness, and the tone of his voice was unreadable as he said, "I see. Thank you, da'len."
Guilt tinged her relief at hearing him call her da'len again. She'd been confused at first by his scorn for the Dalish, but after seeing how he'd reacted in the future, she thought she understood. While the advisors of the Inquisition had spread the rumor of Ciri's Elvhen ancestry far and wide, she suspected Solas was truly a recent descendant of the Elvhen. It would explain why her magic felt familiar to him, why he knew so much about the ancient elves of Thedas. He was lonely and thought he'd found kin where he'd least expected to.
I will lie to you, just as you wished. But please don't hate me should the truth come out.
"Ciri, look at me," Olgierd said.
She did so reluctantly and found her friend standing easily on both feet, alive and well. She swallowed hard against a lump in her throat, her eyes stinging painfully.
"What happened in the future was no fault of yours. The deaths are on the magister's head if we're to blame anyone – him and this Elder One."
"That's not true," she argued. "I should have been there – I could have stopped all of it from happening!"
"What did I tell you before?" he said, shaking his head. "For all your gifts, you're no god. You must accept it."
Solas seemed to stiffen for a moment, then he said, "If you'd stayed in the present, we'd have never learned of what was to come. Perhaps you could have stopped it all from occurring. It's more likely that you would have been imprisoned or killed with Cassandra and Olgierd."
"So you're saying this was the best possible outcome?" she asked bitterly. "Seeing my father and Olgierd dead, seeing Lambert broken by blood magic, was better than staying behind to fight?"
Solas drew closer. "As painful as it is to accept, yes. It was. But take heart. We know what we face now. Together, we can stop this Elder One from enacting his plans."
She tried to make out his face in the dark, but all she could see were his shining eyes. "Together?" she echoed, suddenly very tired. Her head hurt from the tumult of emotions lashing through her.
"I could not abandon you now," Solas said. "And this Elder One sounds as dangerous as the Breach."
"You already have my sword for as long as you wish it," Olgierd said. "The Elder One and his plan change nothing about that."
She remembered the Olgierd of the future, tired and crippled but sincere in his declaration that the Thedosians were his people, and she shook her head. "You should wish for more than that," she said softly. "In the future, you told me to tell you to try for happiness."
His silence spoke volumes. Finally, he sighed and said, "You ask much of me, Ciri, but I'll try."
"Come, da'len," Solas said. "You should eat something, and get some sleep. I believe Dorian has satisfied the others' curiosity for now. No one will bother you if you don't want them to."
Supper held no appeal, nor did returning to the fire and the scrutiny of her watchful companions. Sleep, however, did sound like a good idea. She walked back toward the camp on reluctant feet, her steps slow and dragging.
Olgierd slung an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. "No one thinks less of you for needing a moment to yourself."
"You died for me in that future," she told him, her voice quiet.
"And I'd do it in this life as well."
Ciri stopped, forcing Olgierd to come to a halt as well. Solas turned to watch as Ciri cried out in frustration and anguish. "But why? I don't want people dying for me!"
"How is it you haven't learned this yet?" Olgierd asked her. "A friend worth dying for – a cause that's worth your life – is something to cherish. You're a dear friend, Ciri. You say I wished to be happy in that dark future? You're part of my happiness, and I'd give my life to protect that."
To her eternal mortification, she felt tears fill her eyes, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. "You're terrible," she muttered and instantly wished she could take back the offhand words she so freely used with Eskel and Lambert. But Olgierd just chuckled.
"Diabolical. Bred in the bone, I'm afraid. Come now, dear. Back to camp."
She followed Solas and Olgierd back toward the fire, her face warm with embarrassment from her outburst of emotion. To her relief, the reactions to their return were subdued. She was greeted with small smiles and nods, and nothing more.
Ciri took a seat at the fire between Olgierd and Solas, fighting the urge to yawn. Triss came over with a bowl of stew and pressed it into her hands, a question in her cornflower blue eyes.
"I'll be fine, Triss," she said quietly. "Thank you."
"Dorian explained everything," Triss said. "If you need to talk, I'm here."
"Thank you," Ciri said again.
Triss smiled and retook her seat on the other side of the fire beside Varric. Ciri picked listlessly at her supper, the low hum of conversation around her a gentle lull to her senses as exhaustion nibbled at her mind. Finally, she set the half-finished bowl at her feet and slumped against Olgierd, eyes drooping shut.
"Do you need help moving the Hand to her tent?" Dimly, she recognized Cassandra's voice.
A large hand, rough with calluses, smoothed back her hair gently. "Nay, Seeker. She's fine where she is."
As she drifted deeper into sleep, she thought she heard a voice softly singing. It carried her down, away from the hazards and tumult of the day.
"I will go up a steep mountain.
I will sing the song that is quiet,
That is quiet, that is quiet.
I will sing the song that is quiet,
That is quiet, that is quiet.
I will sing the song that is quiet.
"And the sun rises very early.
Our mother woke us up early,
Woke us up early, woke us up early.
Our mother woke us up early,
Woke us up early, woke us up early.
Our mother woke us up early.
"And these are your children, so look after them.
You begot these children, so look after them,
So look after them, so look after them.
You begot these children, so look after them,
So look after them, so look after them.
You begot these children, so look after them.
"I will go up a steep mountain.
I will sing the song that is quiet,
That is quiet, that is quiet."
Ciri left the War Room meeting feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth. For every question Cullen, Cassandra, and Chancellor Roderick had, Josephine had three, and Leliana five. No one, least of all Ciri, had been satisfied by the number of questions she had to answer with "I don't know." At least Dorian was able to assure them that with both the amulet and Alexius contained, the time magic couldn't be replicated by anyone.
Cullen and Cassandra were rightly concerned about the news of the Elder One's use of blood magic and his massive demon army. Leliana seemed more intent on Ciri's information about the Qun invading the northernmost countries of Southern Thedas. Josephine feared what it would mean for Thedas if Celene's assassination were successful and Orlais fell. And Chancellor Roderick had seemed to age a decade upon hearing of the deaths of the grand clerics and the fate of Lydes.
She and Dorian left them sorting out scouting missions and supply lines for lyrium, closing the door behind them firmly. She turned to Dorian to see the same weariness that she felt written across his face.
"You plan on staying, then?" she asked.
He gave her a halfhearted smile, then turned serious. "Alexius – my mentor – took a theoretical project meant to explore the wonders of magic and turned it into something hideous. I helped him create it. A part of me feels responsible for what happened to the mage rebellion. And to us."
"I don't blame you for that, you know," Ciri told him. "You came to us with your concerns, stood with us against him. It speaks to your character."
"Well don't say that too loudly, or people might get the right idea," Dorian quipped.
"Would that be so bad?" she asked.
She'd seen the way the locals looked at him with suspicion and disdain. He stood out as badly as she had at Vivienne's salon. News of the Venatori had already reached Haven's inhabitants, and Dorian was a convenient target for their misplaced ire. Even Mother Giselle, who'd struck Ciri as a level-headed woman, seemed to view Dorian with distaste.
"No," he admitted. "These Southerners do seem dreadfully provincial in their attitude toward the unknown. I've never been 'the dread Tevinter magister' before. I suspect the novelty will wear off quickly."
"You're not a magister, though," Ciri said. She was fairly certain that was the case.
"No, that particular honor falls to my father," Dorian said. "I'm an altus. The Magisterium is made up of the heads of the original altus families – as well as a few laetan magisters, of course." He laughed at her apparent confusion. "Not to worry. No one expects Southerners to grasp our politics in the first conversation."
Ciri frowned. "I should put the effort in if I'm to understand the Venatori and the Elder One."
"Consider my knowledge at your disposal, my dear lady," Dorian told her, dipping into a playful bow. He straightened and said more seriously, "I'm sure a great deal was said in the future that I wasn't present for, but Solas said something that made me wonder."
Ciri glanced about the chantry. Only a few brothers and sisters occupied the building at present, but there was a scout in the corner standing idly by that made her tense. And they were too close to the War Room door for her comfort.
"Come with me," she said quietly, leading him off to her room. He followed, his dark eyes alight with curiosity.
Once the door was safely shut behind them, she turned and looked up at her new friend, swallowing down her apprehension. "Go on."
"He said, 'the Elvhen are not from your world,'" Dorian said. "Your father and that other warrior had cat eyes. And you shouted something about stopping a white frost. You can trust me to keep your secrets, Ciri, but I'd like to know what I've stumbled into."
Ciri studied his face carefully. She'd met him only two and a half weeks ago. She'd spent a total of nine days in his presence. But there was something about him, something sincere beneath the flippant wit, that drew her in. Still, she'd need to proceed carefully.
"What exactly do you think you've stumbled into?" she asked.
Dorian looked at her, then down at his hands, fiddling with a fine gold ring. "There's a treatise from the Glory Age tucked away in the corner of the Vyrantium Circle library where all the crackpot theories get banished. I read it as a boy and laughed over it – thought it absurd. Other worlds? Nonsense! But it's true, isn't it? You're not from here."
"No," she admitted. "I'm not."
"I think I need to sit down," Dorian said faintly. He dropped onto her bed with none of his usual grace, staring at her with wide eyes.
"There are many worlds," she said, voice quiet. She glanced at the door, stomach tight with nerves. "Some are so different you'd hardly recognize them. Others are almost like...like visiting a neighbor's house. My world is like that."
His poleaxed expression slowly began to fade, and keen interest shone in his eyes. "And how did you come to be here?"
"There are portals scattered across the worlds. Some take you a short distance, while others can carry you to another world instantaneously," Ciri said. "A talented mage can use them easily. We – I found one while exploring near my parents' home. A nobleman threw a letter through asking for help when I activated it, and I came to Thedas to see what I could do."
"'We?'" Dorian said swiftly. "Wait, don't tell me. Triss Merigold and von Everec. You're too close to them for them to be recent acquaintances."
"You're right," she admitted. "Please – don't judge us for lying. The thought of what the Chantry might do if they knew was enough to keep us silent."
"No, I'll keep your secrets," he said. "And you're probably right. There's little Southerners like more than crying 'heresy' at the first sign of something new and different. But how did a letter from a nobleman see you turned into the 'Hand of the Maker'?"
"The nobleman needed someone to bodyguard their children for the journey to the Conclave, and we were curious. I certainly had no intention of ending up with this mark, or being proclaimed as the Maker's Hand," Ciri said.
"I should hope not!" Dorian said. He gave her a sharp look. "This portal, it opened in the Trevelyan estate, I take it?"
He was even cleverer than she'd thought. "Don't tell anyone," she ordered him.
"My lips are sealed." Dorian shook his head in disbelief. "It's almost impossible to believe, you know. But your father's eyes, and Solas' words… I thought myself rather cosmopolitan. Now I learn I've been occupying one small patch of one world. You must find us all as rustic as I find Fereldens."
"Not at all," she assured him. "The people here are much the same as the people back home. The good and the bad are remarkably similar. We have the Empire of Nilfgaard, you have the Orlesian Empire and the Tevinter Imperium. We have Temeria, you have Ferelden. We have the Church of the Eternal Fire, you have the Chantry. We have Witchers, you have Wardens."
"And that's what your father and that other man were?" Dorian asked. "Witchers?"
"Of the School of the Wolf," Ciri said. "That was Eskel who came with Geralt and Yennefer. Lambert is another Witcher. He's the one who –" She faltered. "Anyway. They trained me, as did Vesemir and Coën. I'm a Witcher as well, though I've not undergone the mutations."
"Fascinating," Dorian breathed. "And what do Witchers do, exactly?"
She looked at his shining eyes and judged he'd prefer the more romantic version of the facts. "We're from an ancient order of monster hunters, trained to protect civilization from otherworldly threats. Rumor and superstition tend to malign our work. We're often shunned, but we're needed. Monsters would have overrun the Continent without Witchers to hold back the tide in the early days."
"Monsters? Are they anything like demons?"
"No, we have those, too," Ciri said. "In fact, I've been rather curious about Thedas' lack of monsters given some of your animals' names. It's on my list of things to look into."
"And you believe Grey Wardens are like your Witcher school?" he asked. Something about the comparison didn't seem to sit well with him.
She nodded. "The Grey Wardens seem to be heroic on a larger scale. Witchers are usually content to save a village or a single person. We're not like the Wardens, turning back the Blight and saving Thedas from devastation every few Ages. But I admire them. They're the closest thing Thedas has to Witchers. They walk away from their old lives and dedicate themselves to fighting the darkness. It's not an easy thing to do."
"I hadn't given it much thought, to be honest," Dorian admitted. "Still, this must be something of a shock for you, if Witchers don't get involved in politics. You're neck-deep in all of Thedas' problems – they've practically deified you!"
"Actually –" She hesitated, about to peel back another layer of secrets. "It's common knowledge to the Inquisition's leadership that I was adopted as a child. My grandparents raised me for most of my childhood. They –"
She broke off at a knock. "Ciri?" Owain called through the door. "It's us. We heard you had a rough go of it."
"Another time," she said to Dorian and opened the door to let the Trevelyan siblings in.
Evelyn pounced on her the moment she came through the door, wrapping her in a tight hug. "You did it!" she said fervently. "You brought the mages to the Inquisition!"
"Almost," Ciri said as Evelyn drew back. "They'll arrive in a few days. They're not fully joining the Inquisition. They're staying separate, as allies."
"And what's next for you?" Owain asked.
Ciri smiled up at him. "It will take a while for the Inquisition to pull together enough lyrium in order for the mages to help close the Breach. We're off to the Storm Coast to recruit the Iron Bull and his mercenary company next."
Owain frowned. "Scouts reported that there have been skirmishes with another mercenary company in that area. Stay safe."
"I always do."
"Won't you introduce me to your friends, Ciri?" Dorian prompted her.
"Yes, of course. Dorian Pavus, these are the Trevelyan siblings I was telling you about. Knight-Lieutenant Owain –"
"Former Knight-Lieutenant," Owain interrupted. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Lady Evelyn, formerly of the Ostwick Circle of Magi –"
"A pleasure, ser," Evelyn said, curtseying shallowly.
"Max!" Maxwell said abruptly. "Maxwell. Is my name." He turned red but stuck his hand out for Dorian to shake.
Dorian looked delighted. "Charmed to meet all of you. May I call you Max? Or is it Maxwell?"
Maxwell shot a sideways glare at Evelyn as she started to giggle. "Never mind my imp of a sister. You may call me Max. Have you been given the tour yet? I'm afraid it's short and disappointing, but good company can liven it up."
"And you do strike me as good company. By all means, lead the way...Max."
The two were out the door in moments, leaving Maxwell's siblings laughing in their wake.
"You know, I already gave Dorian a tour of Haven," Ciri said as the door shut behind them.
"Doesn't matter, apparently," Owain said, chuckling to himself. "Oh, Maker. I haven't seen him so off-balance in years. Not since he came home from Starkhaven and met Raúl."
"Is that – do people not care, here in Thedas?" Ciri asked carefully.
Evelyn shrugged expressively. "If Maxwell were the heir, he'd be expected to marry and have children, and to keep lovers of any sex quietly on the side. But he's the youngest, so no one really cares, truly. Not in Ostwick, anyway."
If all of Thedas shared Ostwick's opinion, then that made this world better than her own in at least one respect.
Owain looked her over, his smile slowly fading. "What happened in Redcliffe? You look weary."
"Might we discuss it later?" she asked, wincing at the plaintive note in her voice. "I just finished speaking with the advisors about it, and I've no desire to revisit what happened."
"Of course," Evelyn assured her.
"I just –" She reached out and grabbed Owain's hand, large and strong and reassuringly warm with life. "I'm so glad to see you alive."
And this time, they'd stay that way.