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"Perhaps settling them here, along the bank," Evelyn suggested, her slender finger tapping the map of Haven laid out on the table.
Olgierd thought it was the best suggestion for where to house the rebel mages so far, but he could see the protest forming on Rutherford's lips before it came.
"It will spill over into the training field," the commander disagreed. "Where will the troops drill?"
"We've not the time to fell the trees beyond the gates," Olgierd pointed out. "Lady Evelyn's suggestion is sound."
Olgierd and Triss had farewelled Ciri just this morning as she left for the Storm Coast with an unusual assortment of people. She'd taken Blackwall, the self-loathing Grey Warden, and Solas, the enigmatic elf from nowhere in particular. Dorian Pavus and Sera had gladly attached themselves to her company as well.
After seeing how badly the future had shaken Ciri, Olgierd had been reluctant to stay behind. She had rallied admirably, however, taking her anger and grief and turning it into crystalline determination to set things right. By the time they set off this morning, she was even laughing again.
Josephine, Cassandra, and Vivienne had coaxed Olgierd into helping prepare to receive the hundreds of mages set to arrive two days hence. There was a dearth of Harrowed mages in the Inquisition's ranks, and his close friendship with 'the Hand of the Maker' made him better suited than most in their eyes. And Triss wouldn't allow them to leave her out of it. So here they were, gathered in the spymaster's tent to make plans – Vivienne, Evelyn, Letia, Triss, and Olgierd, with Rutherford, Cassandra, Owain, Raúl, Rona, Lady Josephine, and Maxwell. The Templar from his Harrowing, Rylen, had been present for a time but left looking pale and pained.
They'd been at this for three hours, since just past Ciri's departure. Every little detail needed to be hammered out in advance, and there was scant time to do so. Barracks, provisions, duties, lyrium – Olgierd had found himself drawing on old lessons of estate management as he'd offered what little advice he could. Triss was far better suited than he was at this, though she couched every excellent idea as a question in keeping with her story of being an apprentice turned apostate.
Cassandra leaned across the table, and Olgierd turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.
"The tents are only a temporary measure," Cassandra assured Rutherford. "We will have more permanent buildings erected to house our people and theirs in a matter of weeks."
"We should consider a new site for the Inquisition," Maxwell said. "The rebel mages are going to strain our resources, and we're too isolated from roads and trade routes."
"That will take time that we don't currently have," Josephine told him, "Though you're right, of course. We'll need to consider it after the Breach is closed. I'll have to reach out to the Chantry, see what favors they'll do for us to smooth our path to a new headquarters."
She looked mildly displeased by the thought. Interestingly, Cassandra and Cullen didn't seem too eager to tie themselves closer to the Chantry, either.
Perhaps their interference with the mages here cost them some goodwill, he mused. For his part, his resentment over being backed into a corner over the Harrowing had faded some, though his memories of the event itself lingered like a bruise.
"Speaking of the Chantry, are you sure it's a good idea to ask them for lyrium?" Triss asked. "They'll probably turn us down, given the amount we're requesting."
"The Chantry will be hesitant, no doubt. So much lyrium in the hands of mages will worry them," Rutherford said. "But they must be made to see the necessity. While the Breach remains, we're all in danger."
"And what if they use that hesitation to wring concessions from the Inquisition?" Evelyn shook her head. "We should explore other options."
"The Dwarven Merchants' Guild would be expensive, but they won't moralize while they sell to you, and the lyrium won't come with strings attached," Raúl said.
"It won't please the Chantry if we use the coffers they have filled to purchase lyrium from another source, but you have a point," Josephine said. "I'll write some letters and see if I can move things along. As it is, it will be a month at the earliest for so much lyrium to be shipped here."
Owain raised a hand to quell the discontent that arose at Josephine's words. "Getting the lyrium here any faster won't do any good with Ciri away. Two weeks to the Storm Coast, a week there, two weeks back. A month is faster than we need."
"Thank you, Knight-Lieutenant," Rutherford said. "And I'm sure we'll find plenty to do in the coming month."
"Former Knight-Lieutenant," Owain corrected him.
Rona muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath, eyeing Rutherford balefully.
"Are any of us truly formerly of our Circles, Ser Owain?" Vivienne asked, directly contradicting what she had told Olgierd just a week and a half before. "They will stand again, and I doubt a man of character such as yourself will allow them to be guarded by men and women of ill intent. I pray you have the decency to return to your post."
Letia laughed. "Maker's tears, Vivienne. The Circles are dead. The Inquisition granted the rebellion legitimacy by allying with Fiona. What was the Chantry's response, Lady Montilyet?"
"A letter of stiff disapproval from Grand Cleric Oudine, and the grand cleric of Val Chevin broke from the Chantry to join Agnesot's faction. They're also sending an emissary to 'maintain closer ties.'"
"A letter and a lackey," Letia said with satisfaction. "That's all they can afford to do."
"Not quite," Cassandra cautioned her. "If the Lady Hand continues this path, we may lose their support entirely."
"They've done little for us so far as I've seen," Olgierd said, and he wondered when exactly the Inquisition had become an 'us.' "They've helped us not a bit with the nobles in Orlais, and the last time Ciri did something they disliked, they made demands of us as recompense."
Rutherford nodded, taking Olgierd's point. "It's less what they can do for us, and more the legitimacy they lend us. We're a young organization. The Chantry's approval goes a long way to smoothing our path."
Josephine looked approvingly at Rutherford. "Precisely. And with the Circles and the Templars gone, the Chantry looks to us to fill the gap. There is a mutual need. It's not so dire as you believe, Cassandra. The Chantry will adapt, or it will fall."
"It will fall," Raúl predicted. "These grand clerics jump ship at every inconvenient decision. Stubborn sciocche, all of them."
Josephine pressed her lips together to hide a smile. "Your optimistic assessment of the situation is appreciated, Ser Raúl."
"Shall we take a break?" Evelyn suggested. "I think we're due for lunch."
"Maker's breath, yes," Rutherford agreed. He stood abruptly. "I'll be in the tavern if I'm needed early."
That seemed to be the signal for everyone to stand and disperse. Olgierd had only just begun to walk away when a smooth, slender hand caught his wrist in a firm grip. He turned to see Vivienne standing just behind him, an expectant look on her face.
"We never spoke of my offer for you to join the Monstimmard Circle," she said. "When the rebel mages arrive and the Inquisition forms its delegation to welcome them, what shall they call you?"
"Your offer is appreciated, First Enchanter," he said. He expected she had half a dozen reasons for offering, and at least four of them were in good faith. "But I've lived my entire life a free man. I've courted, married, and widowed. I've ridden a horse the length and breadth of my homeland with nothing and no one to stop me. I've buried all my family, I've had and lost and regained a fortune, I've caroused in taverns and made friends and enemies of scholars and blackguards alike. I doubt the Circles will come back, but assuming you're right – assuming you're right, I'd go mad inside one within a fortnight.
"Let them call me a mage of the Inquisition if they must. Properly Harrowed and acceptable by Chantry law. But I'll not be a Circle mage," he said. "I'll gladly call you my colleague, if I may."
Her cool brown eyes softened slightly at his response. "That's a shame, but I must admit I wasn't truly expecting otherwise. Allow me to extend my best wishes to my newest colleague, then. Should you need anything, I'm always available."
She patted his arm and walked past him out of the tent. He heard a soft laugh behind him and Josephine came to his side, the scent of her perfume teasing his nose.
"It seems Enchanter Vivienne has taken a shine to you, Messere Olgierd," she said. "She does not bestow her favor lightly."
"A formidable woman, that one," he said, nodding. "I'd rather not stand against her if I can help it."
"A sentiment most would agree with," Josephine agreed.
He looked down on her lovely face and his heart twisted again. He'd not been blind to her beauty, not from the moment he'd been introduced. She had a lively intelligence and a kind heart, an idealism that should have been worn away by the harsh realities of life. The warmth he felt in Josephine's presence was a familiar one, and he half damned himself for it. He'd told Ciri he'd not cause heartbreak to another undeserving woman. Yet here he was, making soft eyes at a gentle lady.
"Shall we go to the tavern together, Messere Olgierd?" she asked.
He held out his arm for her with a silent curse at his own weakness, and she delicately placed her fingers on his forearm. "But of course. Fancy a wager on the meal? Five coppers says it's mutton stew again."
She smiled a secretive smile at him. "Messere, has no one ever warned you about gambling with an Antivan?"
He chuckled. "If it's anything like gambling with my family, purses will be emptied, favors will be owed, and someone's trousers will be –" He stopped abruptly as Josephine blushed. "My apologies."
"No, it's quite all right," she demurred. She darted a glance up at him as they walked, and he was relieved to see laughter in her eyes. "That is exactly how it goes."
"My thanks," he said quietly. "For your favor. That was kind of you."
Her hand tightened on his arm for a moment. "I'm relieved you came through," she said, her voice equally soft. Her eyes met his again, and she looked away with another blush. "But perhaps this is not the time to speak of such things."
He thought of the dried rose carefully put away in his saddlebags, of the silk handkerchief folded and tucked up his sleeve, and smiled ruefully at her. "Perhaps not."
Try for happiness. Damn it all, Ciri. He'd sworn to leave his past behind. But he'd not court a woman who didn't know the truth of him.
Oh, Iris. Forgive me. But I must live in this world without you.
The air shifted mere hours from the Storm Coast. Where before it had been rich with the smell of earth and trees, it now carried the briny scent of saltwater and seaweed. Ciri took in deep lungfuls with her eyes closed, smiling to herself. Skellige smelled much the same on its coasts, and many of her fondest memories came from her childhood summers and winters there.
She heard a sigh of satisfaction beside her and opened her eyes to see Blackwall taking a deep breath as well. "Ah, cold salt air."
"There's nothing like it, is there?" she said.
"Been a long time since I was on the coast," he said. "I always liked the sea."
"Give me a city any day," Dorian interjected. "Preferably one with a sewer system."
Blackwall scoffed. "Dandy."
"Someone has to class up this ragged bunch of miscreants – do any of you know how to use soap?" Dorian asked.
"Soap...soap..." Sera said slowly. "That's, er. The sudsy stuff, yeah?"
Dorian tutted playfully, and she snickered.
Traveling with the three of them and Solas had been marvelously entertaining, though she missed having Olgierd and Triss along. For the first few days, she'd felt adrift without the people who shared her ties to the Continent. But Cassandra, Josephine, and Vivienne had made a compelling argument for Olgierd to stay behind, and Triss wouldn't have missed the arrival of the mages for the world.
She'd feared early on that Blackwall and Dorian would dislike each other, but Dorian had complimented the Grey Wardens using Ciri's words to him from their conversation earlier. After a moment of being quite visibly taken aback, Blackwall had allowed that not all nobles were useless assholes, either. Ever since they'd seemed to argue simply for the fun of it.
Solas had attempted to connect with Sera over their shared heritage, but she rebuffed him at every turn, drawing closer to Blackwall instead. Her tutor took pains not to let on how it frustrated him, but every day that was met with rebuttal ended with a lengthy lesson in magic for Ciri. She now had a half dozen useful spells under her belt, all ones that she could incorporate almost seamlessly into her swordplay. She still had trouble regulating the strength behind them, but Solas assured her it would come in time. He'd also taught her a few useful words and phrases in his language, and she'd finally learned the meaning of what he'd been calling her since Val Royeaux.
"Shall we ride on?" Solas asked. "The scouts at the camp will be able to direct us to the Iron Bull and his mercenary company."
Ciri nodded. "I hope they still wish to be hired. We did take much longer than anticipated to meet them."
"It's their loss if their commander changes his mind," Blackwall said. "Still, it's worth trying, at least."
Ciri took another breath of the clean sea air and nudged Zephyr down the path. Her companions fell in behind her, Sera chattering freely about some escapade from her time as a Jenny. Her voice rose to a loud, excited pitch as she reached the high point of her story.
"An' the stupid nob was runnin' about for ages, screechin' about ghosts in his cellar," she cackled. "You shoulda seen it, Beardy!"
Blackwall guffawed. "Good on you, girl. Orlesian nobles could all stand to be taken down a peg or four."
Dorian chuckled appreciatively. "Very clever. That reminds me of the time Felix and I convinced Magister Origanus that his decanter had been used to bind a demon and that he was imbibing little bits of it with every drink. Andraste's ashes, the face he made! I thought he was going to cry!"
Ciri looked to Solas. He seemed slightly bothered by Dorian's anecdote. She shrugged and smiled at him, and he shook his head and smiled back.
"Naturally, the only thing to do in those cases is an ancient elven ritual to appease the angered spirit," Solas said dryly. "Such rituals are best performed nude under moonlight if circumstances allow, of course."
"How did you know?" Dorian asked, looking delighted. "That's exactly what we talked the drunken old goat into doing."
"I had a feeling that's where this was going."
The remainder of the ride passed quickly as they all attempted to outdo each other with tales of their own cleverness in outfoxing deserving victims. Blackwall and Solas were cagier, but even their vague stories had Ciri and Sera giggling so hard they could barely keep their seats in their saddles. Even the sudden change in the weather couldn't put a dent in Ciri's good mood. They rode into the camp damp and smiling amidst a heavy gray drizzle.
"Your Worship," Scout Harding greeted Ciri as she dismounted from Zephyr. "It's good you've come. We have some problems out here. Iron Bull and his Chargers have been helpful, but they can't be everywhere at once."
Behind Scout Harding, a boulder moved. Ciri did a double-take. The boulder was, without a doubt, the largest Vashoth she'd seen yet. He had massive horns and old scars and injuries across his gray skin that looked like he'd wrestled a griffon and won. The Iron Bull – for it could only be he – strode over and stuck out an enormous hand for her to shake.
"So. You're the 'Hand of the Maker,'" he said. "Nice to finally meet you. You missed the show we had planned with the 'Vints, but at least your scouts appreciated it."
"It couldn't be helped," Ciri said. "Things became...complicated."
"Yeah, mages tend to do that." His lone eye roved over her companions and he added, "Especially 'Vint mages."
Dorian bristled, and Ciri sighed internally. Fantastic, she hadn't even hired him yet and already there were personality clashes.
"Perhaps you hadn't heard that I'm a mage as well," she said as a gentle warning.
He was unfazed. "I heard. I also heard you prefer to fight with a sword. But that's beside the point. Come on. We should talk privately."
"You'll have to wait," Ciri said. "The horses need seeing to, and I need to get a report from the scouts on the area."
"We can take care of the horses, Your Worship," Scout Harding offered. "And there's nothing that needs your attention in the next few minutes if you want to speak with Iron Bull now."
"Very well." A familiar scout came forward to take Zephyr's reins, and Ciri smiled. "Scout Ritts, how are you?"
"Better now that you've made it out here, Your Worship," Ritts replied. She seemed stressed, but the heartbreak that had darkened her eyes in the Hinterlands had faded. "We've had a rough go of it."
"We'll see what we can do to help," Ciri promised.
Ritts gave her a sharp nod. "I believe you."
Ciri followed the Iron Bull away from camp, up a sloping cliff covered in wet grass. He stopped at the edge by an ocularum, its glittering gemstone eye dull in the hazy gray light.
"Your people speak highly of you," the Iron Bull said.
"The Inquisition's scouts are good people," she said. She had to crane her neck to look up at him. "The Hinterlands would still be a disaster without their work."
"An organization as big as the Inquisition, most people at the top don't know the people at the bottom," he said. "You know your scouts' names. They take pride in that."
"They're the ones to take pride in," she told him. "You wished to talk?"
"Yeah." He paused. "Look, I'm gonna level with you. If you'd showed up for the fight with the 'Vints, I'd have used that as a way to advertise the Chargers' skill, use that as my in to the Inquisition. As it is, we've been keeping this other merc band off your scouts' backs for the past month. Ask them about it if you need confirmation."
"I will," Ciri said. She looked up at him curiously. "I don't imagine most mercenaries would have stayed a month past a meeting point just for a chance to be hired."
"No," the Iron Bull said slowly, "And this is where I level with you. Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?"
She hadn't, but reasoning and intuition brought the answer to her swiftly. "I assume it's a Qunari organization," she said. "Likely a secretive one, if you didn't expect me to know of it."
He nodded approvingly. "They're spies. Or, well – we're spies."
She stiffened.
The Iron Bull kept his posture loose and nonthreatening as he continued. "The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic like that could cause trouble everywhere. I've been ordered to join your organization, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what's happening. But I also get reports from agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, and I'll share them with your people."
Ciri's hand twitched around a phantom sword hilt. She had no doubt his eye spotted the movement. "Why even admit it?" she asked. She'd done a fair job putting the dark future from her mind, but his admission brought Leliana's words to the forefront. The Qun had invaded Antiva and Rivain without the Inquisition to stop them. Had this man been part of that?
"No point hiding something like that from something called the Inquisition," the Iron Bull said easily. "Look, the Antaam want to know if they need to launch an invasion to stop the whole damn world from falling apart. I'm not too excited about the idea. So whatever I am, I'm on your side."
"I – one moment," she said. Her voice came out thin and strained.
The Iron Bull nodded affably, and she stalked a short distance away, keeping him in her line of sight as she stood and thought. Her mind raced, and she cursed under her breath. Why was it that the first time Cassandra stayed behind in Haven, she had to contend with something like this? Cassandra and Cullen would certainly disapprove of inviting a known spy for the Qun into the Inquisition. Leliana and Josephine would likely see the benefits.
And if she turned him down, what then? The Qun wouldn't give up. The next spy would be a merchant or one of Josephine's assistants, and they'd never know.
Perhaps this was part of how she kept the northern countries safe. Perhaps inviting in the spy was the first step in preventing the invasion from the dark future.
She strode back and frowned up at him. "We'll have a trial run, here on the Storm Coast," she told him. "You'll travel with me while we deal with these other mercenaries and with the rifts in the area. If I like what I see, the Chargers are hired."
He grinned at her. "Sounds fair. I should have mentioned, you aren't just getting the Chargers. You're getting me. You need a front-line bodyguard, I'm your man. Demons, dragons – the bigger the better." He looked thrilled at the prospect.
"We've faced plenty of demons, so I expect you'll get your chance at those," Ciri said. "But even if I do hire you, you send nothing that Leliana doesn't approve of. Do you understand? You can't compromise the Inquisition."
"Understood," the Iron Bull said. "I'll run it all by her. Might piss off my superiors." He flashed her a grin. "If they knew about it."
She hesitated. "You said you get reports from spies in Orlais."
"Yeah, that's where I usually operate," the Iron Bull said.
"Have you ever heard of a bard called Papillon?" she asked.
His scarred face contorted in surprise. "Man, you pissed off the wrong person. They're a veteran bard, we assume female but we don't know for sure. They only involve themselves in seriously underhanded political games among the Orlesian nobility. No deaths have been directly traced back to them, but wherever rumor of their name pops up, someone's usually been offed."
"Great," Ciri muttered. Leliana probably had the same information and hadn't seen fit to tell her. "Come on, 'the Iron Bull.' Let's get back to the camp. I want to know more about these mercenaries."
"You can call me Bull if you want, or Iron Bull," the Iron Bull said as they began walking. "Most people do."
"If you like," she said.
They returned to the camp to find the scouts and her traveling companions still tending to the horses. Ciri jumped to help, lending a hand in picking stones from Sera's mare's hooves and brushing down Zephyr. Once they were all seen to and tied to the picket line, Ciri turned to Scout Harding.
"Iron Bull said the Chargers have been helping our scouts deal with another mercenary group. Could you tell me about that?"
"They've been lifesavers, Your Worship," Scout Harding said. "This group calls themselves the Blades of Hessarian. Their leader took offense to your existence, apparently, so they've been attacking us whenever they see us. The Chargers have cut down on casualties since they started going on our patrols with us."
"We lost Erron, Myles, and Lora," Scout Ritts added. "Bastards."
Ciri remembered Scout Erron. That was damnable news. "I'm sorry, Ritts."
"We did find something out when we...found their bodies," Scout Harding said. "Not everyone in the Blades of Hessarian is happy with their leader. They have this tradition where he can only be challenged by someone wearing something called the 'Mercy Crest.' You win, you're in charge of their group. We made it for you, just in case."
Harding dug into her belt pouch and fished out a carved, green stone amulet on a dark leather cord. She held it out to Ciri, who took it carefully, holding it up to examine it. The amulet was shaped like a downward-pointed sword backed by flames, and the leather cord had an odd scaly feel to it.
"Scout Tavin carved it," Scout Harding said. "And you don't want to know what a pain it was trying to tan deepstalker hide in this weather."
Scout Ritts snorted. "Not to mention hunting the shits."
"Thank you both – and thank Scout Tavin when he returns." She turned to the Iron Bull, rubbing her thumb absently over the amulet. "Why didn't you challenge their leader?"
"Religious zealots are more the Inquisition's speed than mine," he said. He shrugged his massive shoulders. "My guys are eccentric enough without adding a weird offshoot of Andrastianism into the mix."
"Thoughts, anyone?" she asked her companions.
"Bad leadership doesn't mean bad men," Blackwall said gruffly. "You could steer them on a better path, help them find a new direction."
"A fair point," Solas said. "Though I doubt the scouts would take kindly to working alongside the people who've been trying so diligently to kill them this past month."
"We won't argue against it if you do," Scout Harding said. "More blades for the Inquisition wouldn't be a bad thing, even if it's them."
Ciri tucked her wolf's head medallion beneath her jerkin and slipped the amulet over her head. "I may as well see what this mercenary leader has to say for himself."
The Iron Bull cocked his head at her. "Do you usually try diplomacy before you have to get violent?"
It was her turn to shrug. Back on the Continent, she rarely encountered a monster intelligent enough to speak to, and she hardly ever got involved in the affairs of people these days. She found that Thedas required her to reach for a rather rusty set of skills, ones drawn more from the women in her life than the men. "I prefer to."
He nodded without comment, and she wondered what insight he'd gleaned from her words.
"Where will we find them?" she asked Scout Harding.
Scout Harding pointed north. "Farther down the coast. They have a little fort built at the bottom of a hill. It's not hard to find."
She'd worked with vaguer directions. "Was there anything else?"
"Yeah, actually," Scout Ritts said. She looked at Blackwall. "You're the Grey Warden, right? We found some stuff here on the coast you might be interested in."
They waited for a moment while Scout Ritts ducked into a nearby tent. She came back with a bundle of papers and a small metal and leather object, all of which she passed to Blackwall. He took them from her carefully, his eyes widening at the sight of the object.
"Most of those papers are journal entries," Scout Ritts told him. "Seems some Wardens were looking for someone here on the Storm Coast. Maybe you know who?" Blackwall shook his head, and she continued, "The other papers are a copy of the Grey Warden treaties. Harding thought maybe Lady Montilyet should have a look at that. And that's a badge of some kind."
"A Warden-Constable's badge," Blackwall told her. "My thanks, Scout Ritts. Ciri, you should take these treaties for the ambassador. I'll – do you mind if I keep the journal entries?"
"As far as I'm concerned, they belong to your order," Ciri said. She accepted the topmost parchment from him and gave it a quick glance. The neat letters covered the page in dense legal terms, but she could make out that it was a binding agreement of aid to the Grey Wardens.
She and Blackwall put their new acquisitions away in their saddlebags, and Ciri turned to her companions. "Iron Bull will be joining us today. We make for the mercenaries, and we'll deal with some rifts while we're in the area. Any questions?"
"Just like normal, then," Sera said. "Sounds easy."
"I have one," Dorian said, eyeing the Iron Bull skeptically. "Are you a Qunari or Tal-Vashoth?"
"Why?" the Iron Bull asked. "Looking to join up, 'Vint?"
"Never mind," Dorian said. "That answers my question. Watch your back, Ciri. You don't want to know what they do to their mages under the Qun."
She expected he was right. But it was a conversation for another time. "Come on," she said. "We have work to do."
They headed off up the coast, the light rain still pattering down as they left. It made for treacherous terrain, the long grass and the stones slick beneath their feet. Dorian swore in Tevene as his foot slipped on a patch of mud, and Blackwall caught him with a strong hand.
"Easy there."
Dorian nodded stiffly, the air about him not too dissimilar to that of a cat that had misjudged its leap. Blackwall chuckled.
"You need better boots."
"I'll have you know these are the finest money can buy," Dorian sniffed. "Genuine snoufleur leather, hand-dyed in Antiva."
"That's your problem," Sera said. "Snoufleur's slippy as anything. Pretty, yeah. Warm, sure. But dead useless when it's wet out. You need ram or bearskin boots. Or get Harritt to put hobnails in the soles."
Dorian looked aghast at the thought. "Hobnails? In my boots?"
Sera shrugged and leaped lightly from one wet rock to another. "Or keep slipping. Your choice."
"Hobnails," Dorian muttered in disgust.
Ciri laughed. Something about Dorian reminded her of Dandelion, had Dandelion attended Ban Ard Academy instead of Oxenfurt College, perhaps. She doubted he had a woman in every town like her father's bard friend, though. She'd realized with no small amount of chagrin why she'd taken to Sera so quickly, too. Her wild, manic cheer, long streak of ruthlessness, and colorful tunic and leggings brought to mind her erstwhile companion Iskra from her days in the Rats, and her choppy, straw-colored hair could have been stolen straight off Mistle's head. She had to wonder what that said about her that she was so fast to befriend a woman who reminded her of one of her lowest points.
Enigmatic, aloof Solas seemed a brother to Avallac'h at times, particularly when he couldn't curb his condescension. She knew he kept secrets, but she could hardly judge him for that when her own were so great. In truth, she wasn't sure what to make of him now that she thought she'd ferreted out what he was hiding. His loneliness was far too apparent to her for her to hold him as another Avallac'h.
She'd thought Blackwall would remind her of a Witcher, given his profession, but oddly – oddly he didn't. Instead, she was reminded most keenly of Ves and Vernon Roche, veterans of Temeria's Special Forces. He seemed to have that steady, straight bearing that a military man ought to possess, but his earthy humor was born straight from a Temerian tavern. She could easily imagine him saying 'whoreson' instead of 'Maker's balls.'
Dorian slipped again, and Ciri steadied him. "Kaffas, what I'd give for paved streets."
"It shouldn't be far," she assured him.
To her relief, her words proved true. The fort was less than an hour away by foot. They spotted Inquisition patrols as they walked, and the Iron Bull pointed out his men to Ciri with a note of pride in his voice. She recognized Cremisius Aclassi – 'Krem', according to the Iron Bull – and made note of Skinner, Dalish, and Rocky. Twice they were almost intercepted by small bands of men and women the Iron Bull identified as the Blades of Hessarian.
"Mercy Crest, comin' through!" Sera shouted, and the mercenaries melted back into the sodden landscape.
Finally, the rugged wood walls of the small fort came into view at the base of the hill they stood on. They descended the slippery slope carefully, Dorian swearing under his breath, and rounded the side to find the entrance, guarded by a man and a woman.
The guards tensed, hands drifting to the hilts of their swords, then their eyes alighted on Ciri's amulet and they both abruptly relaxed.
"You've come with a challenge, then," the man said gruffly.
"I have," Ciri said, trying to project her grandmother's unassailable confidence.
It seemed to work. The woman looked at her anxiously. "You should know – all the other challengers died."
"All the other challengers weren't me."
She walked past them into the small compound with her head held high, her companions and the Iron Bull at her back. Beyond the empty stable and the small building stood a blond, bearded mountain of a man, easily the same height as Owain. He wore an ugly scowl on his face as Ciri approached. Nearby on either side, two massive war dogs growled in cages. Ciri made quick eye contact with Blackwall and the Iron Bull, and they nodded.
"So you would challenge the Blades of Hessarian?" the giant of a man demanded. "You?"
"First I would know why you've killed Inquisition scouts," Ciri said. "What quarrel do you have with us?"
The man spat at her feet. "You wretch. You worm. You'd unseat Andraste from the Maker's side and take Her place. We stand against any who'd help you."
"I've never claimed to be holy!" Ciri exclaimed. "All I want is to seal the Breach and kill the man behind it. I've no interest in sainthood or the Chantry."
"That's not what your Inquisition put about," the man growled. "I call you liar. Heretic. Thief. You want to challenge me? Try it."
He raised a war axe and charged her with a shout.
Ciri slipped into the ether and came out behind him with Zireael drawn. His cry cut off with a choke as she shoved the blade through his chest. The war dogs howled and thrashed against the doors of their cages as his body slid from her blade and hit the dirt with a heavy thud.
"Would anyone else like to try?" she yelled at the mercenaries standing a short distance away.
It was stupid how quickly he had fallen. She was trained for far worse than him, and he had no tricks up his sleeves as the Templars did. But it was a waste – a pointless, bloody waste. Just one more reason why fanaticism ruins everything.
One of the mercenaries broke off and drew nearer, hands conspicuously held away from his weapons. "Well, that was unexpected," he drawled. "Still, tradition is clear. You lead us now. 'Lady Hand.'" He spoke her unwanted title with mild distaste.
"And if I don't want you?" she asked.
The man eyed her dripping sword cautiously. "Then you'll never see us again."
"What does this group of yours believe?" Solas asked. "You don't seem to follow normal Chantry teachings."
"Our ways are not theirs, but we serve Andraste," the man said. "And through her, we serve the Maker. We act as her Blade of Mercy, delivering justice to the deserving."
"The Inquisition's scouts didn't deserve that 'justice,'" Ciri said coldly.
"Perhaps not, but it was as he ordered," the man said, nodding at the corpse at Ciri's feet. "We'll follow you now. Justice is what you make it."
Damn.
"Fine," she muttered, then louder, "Fine. Your people may stay on the Storm Coast. I expect you to add to the Inquisition's patrols. Any information you receive or uncover should be sent to the Inquisition promptly."
"As you say, 'Lady Hand.'" The man bowed shallowly, a subtly mocking twist to his lips.
"Should I consider you the nominal leader when I'm gone?" she asked.
He glanced behind him at the other mercenaries then looked back at Ciri. "You may as well. I'm Ivor if you need a name to call me."
"Ciri," she said and stuck her hand out for him to shake.
He hesitated, then reached out, grasping it above his former leader's body. "Ciri. Not to rush you, but I'd like to bury the bastard. He was ours, and a decent man once upon a time."
Ciri quirked a smile at him. "So kindly get out?"
"Just so, Your Worship."
She nodded and led her companions back out of the compound, away from the hill and toward the rocky shoreline.
"Not bad," the Iron Bull said once they'd left the mercenaries behind. "He didn't know what hit him. So. What's the verdict?"
"I haven't even seen you fight yet," Ciri said. She thought, then nodded to herself. "Shall we get the locations of the rifts from one of the scouts?"
The Iron Bull grinned at her as Sera rubbed her hands together in glee. "Boss, we are gonna have so much fun together."
She knew then what her decision would be, though she wouldn't say until she saw him in combat. Worse, she could see it in his face that he knew as well. Damn it. I hope this is the right choice.