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Olgierd watched as Evelyn came to the mouth of the small tent and exchanged quiet words with Sister Leliana. He weighed the odds of the healer and the advisors allowing him entrance and found them stacked against him. And if Ciri was sleeping, it wouldn't do to wake her. She'd seemed exhausted when she'd sent them off ahead of her.

She'd still managed to beat them to the pass. A wide-eyed soldier had told him of her arrival once he'd made it there himself. She'd appeared in their midst in a flash of pale green light, his old dagger clutched in one hand, the other shining like a beacon in the night. "It's done," she'd said, and keeled over unconscious, her injuries and the strain of the fight finally catching up to her.

The more credulous among them – and there were many – were already spreading the tale that the Maker Himself had delivered her to safety. And the Chantry officials didn't seem to be doing anything to quell that belief.

He turned and trudged away through the calf-deep snow past the ragged row of makeshift tents and sputtering fires, shivering violently as the wind blew down the pass. People looked up as he passed, nodding or raising a hand in acknowledgment. He nodded back but kept moving.

The winds blew harder as he reached the start of the pass. He chafed his hands together and blew into them quickly, wrapping his arms around his chest for extra warmth. The two thin layers of silk and linen he wore offered precious little protection from the elements, even with the fox fur trim. He peered down the mountain. It was a sea of black at this hour, but he knew that Haven was down there, buried beneath hundreds of tons of ice and snow.

Most everyone in the Inquisition had lost everything they had brought to Haven. Only the people with rooms in the Chantry still had their belongings. Some kind soul had the foresight to take Ciri's bags and crate with them as they evacuated, and they'd been placed in the largest tent along with the rest of the advisors' belongings and bedrolls.

Olgierd had naught but the clothes on his back and the sword on his belt. His faithful Ifrit, his saddlebags...his lute and Iris' rose...all were lost to him. In one blow, he'd been sundered from mementos of both his brother and his wife.

"You must let her go."

He closed his eyes, grimacing as the voice of his brother's lookalike came to him. Had he not tried? Did he not see a future for himself here in Thedas, away from Redania and the nightmare of his past mistakes?

"You think if you tell her, she'll push you away," a voice piped up from behind him.

Olgierd jerked around to see the pale, scrawny boy from the gates who'd warned of the attack. Cole. He peered up at Olgierd from beneath his oversized hat with ghostly blue eyes and continued to speak.

"You don't want her to, but it's what you think you deserve," Cole said. "Safer that way, no chance of hurting her. Can't break her heart if she walks away."

Olgierd dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. "Are you in my head?"

"Your thoughts are loud," the boy said, wide-eyed. He drew closer. "You're afraid, but you shouldn't be. The curse made you cold, closed, but you cared until you couldn't. Now you're open, healing, hurting. Iris was –"

"Watch your tongue when you speak of her," Olgierd growled.

"Adventure told you to let her go," Cole said. "You're afraid to because you think she'll be gone forever if you do. You try to remember the good parts, but the bad parts press in around the edges. She told you the Olgierd she loved was gone, but he came back!"

"What of it!" he demanded. "So what if I did? She died, and I wasn't there for her!"

The scrawny boy took another step toward him. The brim of his hat almost brushed Olgierd's nose. "You didn't know what would happen when you caught Mirror's attention. You made bad choices, but the curse wasn't your fault. She won't walk away when you tell her the truth. Listen to Adventure. It's time to let go."

He stared out at the dark expanse below, a strange sort of melancholy filling him. His hand dropped from his sword hilt – why was he holding it? It was good that he was alone for this. Saying goodbye was difficult with an audience.

"Farewell, my love," he whispered. "You were too good for me."

He turned back to the camp and followed the single line of boot prints he'd laid down to get to the mouth of the pass. Something felt eased within him, like an old burden had been lifted. He laughed under his breath. He'd come all the way out here to brood, as Ciri would no doubt have accused him, and ended up finding some measure of peace instead.

Someone called out to him, and he looked over to see the horsemaster from the Hinterlands beckoning, a frown on his face. Olgierd shivered again and trudged in his direction.

"Been looking for you," Dennet said tersely. "Help me get your beastie settled, would you? He's riling up the herd."

He clapped Dennet on the shoulder, smiling in relief. Ifrit lived. "You saved the horses?"

"Aye, and if you asked me if I could pull it off a second time, I couldn't. Blind luck, I tell you. Follow me."

Dennet led him off a ways into a copse of trees. Olgierd could hear the tramping hooves and the low neighing before he spotted them. Then they were there, almost fifty horses with all manner of coats, their leads tied to trees and makeshift picket lines and a handful of grooms tending them by torchlight.

Ifrit lunged at a groom as he came close, squealing loudly. His sides heaved as he breathed heavily, and Olgierd could see white around his soft brown eyes. The horses around him shifted anxiously, picking up his mood.

"Get back!" Olgierd snapped at the groom.

Ifrit swung his head toward Olgierd as the groom backed off. "Easy, boy," Olgierd soothed him. "Easy."

He kept up the quiet stream of words until Ifrit finally snorted at him, the whites of his eyes hidden again. He patted his temperamental gelding's cheek softly and rubbed his strong neck. "Yes, that was terrifying, wasn't it? But you're a brave horse. You have to set a good example for the rest of the herd, don't you?"

Ifrit blew hot, hay-scented air in his face at that.

"Zephyr is rubbing off on you," Olgierd said with mock-sternness. "Mind your manners."

He heard a soft laugh and looked to the side to see Rutherford tending to his own horse, a sturdy bay. "Do you always talk to your horse?" the commander asked.

"I don't pretend he's the greatest conversationalist," Olgierd said, "But I got into the habit a few years ago when it was just the two of us on the road together. The sound of my voice keeps him calm when he gets in a mood."

He gave Ifrit a final pat on the neck and beckoned the groom back.

"Will you spare a moment, ser?" Rutherford asked. "I've been meaning to speak with you."

Olgierd looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, Rutherford held his gaze. "I've no pressing business elsewhere. But if this is going to be a lengthy conversation, could we seek out a fire? I'm chilled through."

"Of course," Rutherford agreed.

Olgierd followed him away from the herd and through the camp to the fire flickering brightly by the largest tent. Josephine fairly leaped off the crate she was using as a stool as they approached, looking him over worriedly.

"Ol – Messere Olgierd!" she exclaimed. Her hand twitched at her side. "Are you well? Have you seen a healer yet? Your robes are a mess!"

"It's not my blood, Lady Josephine," he assured her. He held out his hand, and she placed hers in it a hair too fast to be entirely proper, her slender fingers soft against his rough palm. He bent to brush a kiss over her knuckles gently, looking up to meet her eyes without standing from his bow.

She blushed, her hazel eyes bright with surprise.

"Your token was better than any armor, my lady," he said softly. "I've no doubt your kindness saved my life."

"Messere, you are too flattering by half," she protested, but a smile curved her lips nonetheless.

"Then I'll flirt half as much, and satisfy that charming modesty of yours as recompense for the lack of compliments I'm allowed to give," he told her, standing straight again. A small part of him wondered at his timing. But this felt right.

"We must never leave work unfinished, Messere Olgierd," she chided him with a hint of playfulness, the blush fading from her cheeks. "I shall take the half you're leaving unsaid, and return them to you in kind."

He laughed quietly. "You drive a hard bargain, Lady Ambassador."

"I – you may call me by my name, if you like," she said, looking up at him through long lashes.

"I'd like that," he said. "But only if you call me Olgierd."

A cross "a-hem" interrupted them as they stood there staring at each other like fools, and Olgierd looked to the fire to see Cassandra and Leliana still seated by it, Cassandra watching with dreamy-eyed interest and Leliana with an expression of a tailor measuring a man for his funeral suit. Rutherford, still standing by, seemed amused.

"Apologies, Commander," Olgierd said. "You wished to talk."

Rutherford cleared his throat. "Yes. Ladies, if you don't mind –"

"Not at all," Leliana said with a sharp smile. "We'll be in the tent. Come, Josie. I'd like a word."

Josephine's hand slipped from his as she followed the others into the tent. He watched until the flap closed behind them, still smiling slightly. He didn't know why, but for some reason, the thought of telling her of his past didn't seem quite as daunting. Soon, he resolved. She deserved to know him completely.

He joined Rutherford at the fire, taking Josephine's crate and holding his hands out to the flames. Rutherford sat beside him in silence for a long moment, staring at the crackling fire. He seemed unusually hesitant, conflicted even.

"I find it helps to just talk if you don't know where to begin," Olgierd said.

Rutherford looked up at him. "Ah – yes." He shook his head. "You may find this surprising, but I became a Templar because I wanted to help mages. As an initiate, I thought that was my life's calling. Protecting mages from dangerous magic and from those who would do them harm."

"What changed?"

"The Circle Tower was overrun by abominations and blood mages when I was nineteen. I'd only been a full Templar for a year. They killed so many of us...tortured me," he added in a whisper. "It changed me, changed how I saw mages. I'm not attempting to justify it, but –"

"But you look at a mage and you see an enemy," Olgierd interrupted.

"A living weapon would be more accurate," Rutherford said, his eyes haunted. "And yet, the Inquisition was rescued by mages only a few hours ago – and three of them were apostates, no less. Not a single mage turned into an abomination on the battlefield despite the danger. I'd be an ass to keep clinging to my fears."

"Most wouldn't hold your fears against you," Olgierd said.

Rutherford scoffed. "That's kind of you, but no. My prejudice has already compromised my working relationship with my colleagues and allowed the Chantry to divide us when we should have been a united front. I've discussed this with Cassandra, and she agrees with me. We erred when we ceded to their demands."

"You speak of the Harrowing." Olgierd was surprised to hear him say so. Of all the advisors, Rutherford had seemed the most rigid.

"I do believe that the Harrowing is necessary, and I'm relieved you agreed to it," Rutherford said. "But we should have never made it a requirement for staying with the Inquisition. The loyalty you and Triss Merigold show to the Hand is unquestionable. And I fear we frightened poor Minaeve terribly by including her in that demand."

Olgierd shrugged. "I frighten her by breathing too loudly in her direction. She's a skittish thing."

"You do cut an intimidating figure, ser," Rutherford said with a slight smile.

"Souvenirs of an ill-lived life," Olgierd said, lightly touching the deep scar along the side of his head.

"I suspect we both have stories to tell." Rutherford sighed and shifted on his crate. "Regardless, I wanted to apologize. We wronged you. I wronged you. It's past time I left the Templars behind me and lived up to my duties."

"Apology accepted," Olgierd said easily. He had no interest in making the man grovel, not after hearing his tale. "Perhaps the Inquisition can be a fresh start for the both of us."

"Cullen Rutherford," Rutherford said, holding out his hand. "Of the Inquisition."

Olgierd grasped it, shaking his hand firmly. "Olgierd von Everec. Likewise, Commander."

"You know, like Josephine said, you can call me by my name," Rutherford offered. He looked back into the fire and sighed again. "Maker, what a mess. I don't suppose you know where we can go from here."

"How dire is our situation?" Olgierd asked. "Were we able to bring much food with us?"

"Enough to feed everyone for a week and a half, maybe more," Rutherford – Cullen – said. "We had plenty of dried goods within the chantry. But the horses will starve without feed. We can't go to Chertswold. The army came from that direction. It's sure to have been overrun. And the nearest village after that is over a week away."

"Ciri will be able to collect provisions once she's awake," Olgierd said. "As for where to go, I'm unfamiliar with the Frostbacks. Perhaps Sister Leliana might send her scouts out once it's light."

"Lady Ciri can get provisions? Just how far can she Fade step?" Cullen asked. "From Haven to the camp was just under two miles. That should have been impossible, but she is the Hand of the Maker."

"Don't let her hear you call her that." Olgierd considered Cullen for a moment. "I don't believe there's a limit to how far she can travel."

"Maker's breath." Cullen covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide. He took a shaky breath and collected himself. "That's – all right. She saved everyone last night. I know her and I trust her. She's a good person with a true and kind heart." He said it slowly, carefully, as if doing his best to convince himself.

"For what it's worth," Olgierd said as he stood to leave, "Your younger self would be proud of you."

Cullen looked up at him curiously. "What would your younger self make of you, ser?"

Olgierd shook his head. "He'd think me soft. But he had some hard lessons ahead of him."

He left Cullen behind with one last look at the closed tent. If he couldn't speak to Ciri, he ought to find Triss. She'd organized mages before, during the pogroms in Novigrad. She might have some good ideas for how to get through this.

Ciri wandered the grounds of a great fortress. Its walls shifted and changed every time she looked away, first light and airy, then squat and gray, tall spires, exaggerated crenelations, straw roof, slate roof, brick walls, granite, wood, large then small then large again. In the corner of her eye, she thought she saw ghostly people, thought she heard faint whispers in Elven, Orlesian, Common, other unfamiliar languages.

"Welcome to the place where the sky was held back," Avallac'h said, sweeping an arm in front of them grandly. "You aren't far from here now."

"Will you let me remember this?" Ciri asked. She stared up at the shifting glass window of the main building in admiration, watching as it changed from thick, smoky plates to delicate multi-colored artwork.

"The essentials," Avallac'h allowed. "Ask your 'tutor.'"

"Why would he know?"

Avallac'h favored her with a condescending smile. "He is a dreamer. He would live in the Fade if he could. I have no doubt that he knows the history of almost any ruin in Thedas."

"There's more to it than that," Ciri pressed. "What is it?"

"Don't be so hasty, Zireael," Avallac'h said. "You've had a long day."

Ciri looked at the grounds, watching as weeds became flowers, then an earthen training ring, then weeds again. "You said there were wolves at the door. Then Corypheus attacked with the Templars. Is that what you meant?"

"Is that what you think I meant?"

She shook her head slowly. "No. I think you were warning of danger from within. Weren't you?"

Avallac'h's smile grew sharp-edged with satisfaction. "Be on your guard, Zireael." He plucked a weed, and it blossomed into a delicate, five-petaled white flower, then faded into a blade of grass.

"Who is it?" she asked. "Who would betray us?"

"I wonder," he murmured. "The winds are shifting. Perhaps the harellan will have a change of heart."

"Solas hasn't taught me that word," she said. "What does it mean?"

"Your tether is stronger now," he told her, changing the subject abruptly. "I am sorry."

She looked down, discomfited by his gaze. A glint of something, a ghostly echo of a shackle around his ankle, caught her eye, and she looked up sharply. "Are you sure you don't speak of yourself?"

He twitched his foot, and the chain faded from view. "Interesting. You shouldn't be able to see that."

She disliked the speculative look in his eyes as he watched her. It felt far too much like the way the real Avallac'h had looked at her when she'd first appeared in Tir ná Lia.

"I want to wake up now," she told him, taking a step back.

"As you wish."

Ciri woke up to low voices, a dull ache in her right shoulder, and a heavy, tingling feeling in her left palm. She sat up slowly, wincing, and stopped at the sight of the unfamiliar canvas walls. The thick wool blanket slipped from her legs off the bedroll to the cloth-covered ground, and the voices stopped. At her side, Owain blinked awake, yawning and stretching atop a tiny stool.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her, his voice a low, sleepy rumble.

"Ugh, sore." She sat up straight, crossing her legs in front of her. Someone had changed her out of her armor and into clean clothes, the warmest set she owned, and from the feel of her injuries, one of the healers had already treated her. "Evelyn and Maxwell?"

"Both fine," he assured her. "Evelyn treated your injuries while you slept."

"They do feel better than before," she said, gingerly testing her shoulder's range of motion. "The army hasn't found us?"

"No, the avalanche stopped them cold." His lips twitched at the unintended pun. "We're deep in the Frostbacks somewhere. It's safe for now, but we'll need more food soon, and better shelter than a handful of tents and some carpets and wall hangings thrown over spears."

"Sounds like there's work to be done." She winced again and stood carefully, then bent and lightly kissed his cheek. "Thank you for staying with me."

"I was glad to," he said, catching and holding her eyes. "Whenever I can't stand with you, I'll be sure to welcome you back."

"You're a good man, Owain Trevelyan."

"I try to be," he said simply.

He stood as well, and she had to back up a step as he went from chest height to towering over her. His broad hands drew her into a careful embrace, mindful of her healing injuries. She leaned into him for a long, quiet moment, wrapping her arms around his back.

"You honestly can't imagine how relieved everyone was when you came back. How relieved I was," he said.

She smiled up at him, slowly pulling back. "I keep my promises."

"I'll rest easier, then." He sighed and let her go. "I should go check on the soldiers now that you're awake. We'll speak later?"

"Of course."

He opened the flap and ducked his head and shoulders to step outside. Shivering, Ciri started to hunt around the tent for her boots, her toes freezing in her wool socks. A light cough caught her attention.

Tucked in the corner were two people she wasn't particularly pleased to see. Revered Mother Giselle sat on a folded blanket, her habit mussed and stained, and Revered Mother Kordula, the Chantry emissary, sat beside her on a small stool, spots of blood spattered across the white front of her robe. Her borrowed mace hung from her narrow hips on an old leather belt.

"There is something you should know before you set foot outside that tent," Revered Mother Kordula said. Her thick Nevarran accent only seemed to lend weight to her words.

Ciri paused reluctantly in her search for her boots. "What is it?"

"You must understand the appearance of the situation," Mother Kordula said. At Ciri's blank look, she sighed and turned to Mother Giselle.

Mother Giselle said gently, "The people saw you stand to defend them – and fall. And then return to them in a flash of light, triumphant. The enemy was overwhelming, and your actions are easily interpreted as miraculous. Your title begins to seem a worthy one, and our trials ordained."

"Nonsense," Ciri protested. "I 'Fade-stepped.'"

"Also nonsense," Mother Kordula dismissed with a soft snort, "But that is beside the point."

Ciri took a deep breath, trying not to snap at them. "Then what is the point?"

"I was assigned to your Inquisition for many reasons," Mother Kordula told her, "Chief among them to verify whether the claims of your holiness had merit – an understandable concern given your poor choices where the rebels and apostates are concerned. You neither confirmed nor denied it when you met with Grand Cleric Oudine, and so we reserved judgment. But this latest act changes things."

"No mage in Thedas has the power to do what you did, Your Worship," said Mother Giselle. "The Maker blessed you with an extraordinary gift. You could be the herald of a new and brighter age...or the harbinger of a great and terrible fall."

"It was just a Fade step," Ciri insisted. She had a terrible feeling the two revered mothers had planned out this conversation, and her suspicion grew stronger at the knowing look in Mother Kordula's honey-brown eyes.

"I am an Anaxas, Your Worship," Mother Kordula said, standing and brushing a crease from her blood-spattered robes. "Magic runs in my family. My cousin Viuus writes to me frequently. I am familiar with what is normal and what is not."

"Some would claim it is your Elvhen blood that allowed you to perform such a feat," Mother Giselle said as she rose as well. "The Chantry, however, believes that your magic is a gift from the Maker."

Mother Kordula picked up the thread. "Therein lies the problem of your continued denial of your holiness. You have two, perhaps three, miracles attached to your name, and the Chantry is tied to your fortunes. Further refutation will only damage the Chantry."

"You want me to lie?" Ciri asked incredulously. Am I not already telling too many?

"I want you to think beyond yourself," Mother Kordula snapped. "The oldest and most venerable institution in Thedas depends on what you say and do going forward. Your petty fears –"

"Are not unfounded!" Ciri hissed, backing up a step. "Your last prophet was burned alive at the stake!"

Mother Giselle picked up the blanket she'd been sitting on and draped it around Ciri's shoulders. She spoke soothingly, the way Ciri did when Zephyr was riled. "Those were dark and barbarous times, Your Worship. Nothing of the sort will happen to you now."

"You can't make that promise." Ciri backed away further, clutching the blanket. "If anyone asks me, I'll still deny it, but I won't volunteer my opinion. Just...leave me out of your plots."

She looked around for her boots again and shoved her feet into them hastily, then pushed open the tent flap and left the scheming revered mothers behind. The frigid wind cut through her like a knife as soon as she left, and she shivered violently, pulling the blanket around herself more securely. She ducked her head and began to walk toward the largest tent she saw.

"It's her!"

"It's the Hand of the Maker!"

"Maker be praised, she's awake!"

She jerked to a halt and looked around, wide-eyed, at the exclamations. A handful of people approached her slowly, reverently, their clothes still scorched and bloody, their skin bruised and bandaged. In the near distance, heads turned to see what the commotion was all about.

She vaguely recognized them. One served food at Flissa's tavern. Another assisted Harritt in the smithy. Two were foot soldiers in the Inquisition army. A fifth was a scout she'd interacted with a few times – Donnel, she thought.

"Your Worship!" Donnel gasped, reaching out to her cautiously. "You did it – you stopped that fiend. You saved us."

Her grandmother's diplomacy and her mother's eloquence failed her, leaving her fumbling for words in the face of their unnerving worshipful expressions. "I had help."

"Yes," agreed the smith's assistant. "Just like Andraste with her disciples, you'll never stand alone."

"I'm – that's –" Fuck. "Excuse me," she said firmly, spinning on her heel and stalking off through the snow.

A low alto voice began singing behind her, and as she walked away she glanced over her shoulder to see Mother Giselle walking slowly from the tent, Mother Kordula at her heels. The would-be worshipers fell silent as Mother Giselle's voice grew louder.

"Shadows fall, and hope has fled.
Steel your heart, the dawn will come.
The night is long, and the path is dark,
Look to the sky, for one day soon,
The dawn will come."

Ciri watched in dismay from a distance as more people began to join in. She looked to the large tent and saw Leliana and Cullen both raising their voices in song.

Then people began to fall to their knees, and her stomach lurched.

Holy Fire, she thought for the first time in over two months as the voices swelled in a triumphant chorus. Enlighten, burn, and cleanse. She hurried away, eager to escape.

Solas called out to her quietly from beside a tent as she passed by. "A word?"

She nodded and followed him up a slight rise away from the camp. His staff lit the way with a faint blue glow. It almost matched the deep indigo of the sky above, lightening to a soft azure toward the horizon. Dawn finally approached.

"The revered mothers are canny politicians," he said as the camp's noises faded into the distance. "It takes great skill to turn a moment of despair into one of hope. You should take heed of how they do it. It's a skill worth cultivating."

"I fear what they wish to turn me into," Ciri confessed. "I'm not holy; I'm not even Andrastian. Yet they'd hang the fate of their Chantry around my neck. I can't be that for them. I won't."

She almost pitied Oudine, trying to hold on to the remaining grand clerics while claiming Ciri was the Maker's Hand. Every choice Ciri made only seemed to divide them further.

"They are desperate, lethallin," Solas said. "Every day they lose more influence and power, and the pragmatic among them look to you not as a holy icon, but as a way to save the Chantry from failing."

"Maybe it should fail," Ciri muttered.

"You would not be the first to suggest so," Solas said. He looked at her curiously, changing the subject. "What happened after you sent us away? I looked back as the dragon descended, but feared to linger."

"It blew fire on a crate of explosives," Ciri said. Her back twinged at the memory. "I lost Zireael, my steel sword, when I went flying."

"My condolences," Solas said. "I know it held great importance to you. But better your sword than your life."

The Witcher in her agreed. The girl who'd survived horrors with that sword at her side didn't want to. "I know," she said reluctantly. "It just held a lot of memories."

"Go on," Solas prompted her. "What happened then?"

"The Elder One appeared. He looked like a man, but twisted, monstrous – inhumanly tall and skeletal, with blackened claws for fingers and bits of red lyrium sticking out of his skull, and his breastplate was fused to his ribcage." Ciri shuddered. "He claimed to be one of the magisters that breached the Golden City from the Chantry tales. One of the ones that caused the Blight. He called himself Corypheus."

Solas looked her up and down swiftly. "Did the healers notice anything amiss? Did he do anything to you?"

Ciri detached her marked hand from its stranglehold on the blanket and held it out to him. It shone brightly in the faint blue light of the pre-dawn sky. "He tried to remove it using an orb of some sort. It had these fine, curved lines all over it, almost like a fingerprint."

"What happened?"

"It felt like it buried a hook in the mark," she said, "And then yanked. It was..." She grimaced and flexed her hand. "Agonizing. He called it an anchor. He said it was permanent, that I'd spoilt it through 'clumsy flailing.' But it feels like he did something to it by trying to take it. My hand felt like a lead weight when I Fade-stepped to the camp."

"An anchor?" Solas echoed. "It is an apt description. And it's proven useful many times over. We shall have to find a way to keep it from interfering with your magic."

"The sooner the better," Ciri agreed.

"But there is a problem beyond that, lethallin. This orb you saw, you're sure of its pattern? What of its make, its size?"

"Metal," Ciri said, "Though I'm not sure what type. An alloy of some sort. And it was about the size of four of my fists held together."

Solas nodded, as if her words confirmed his worst suspicions. "It is an artifact of our people, one of immense power. He must have wielded it when he created the Breach."

"What is it, exactly?" Ciri asked.

"A magical focus," Solas explained. "Such orbs were used by Elvhen mages to channel power from the gods. They were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon. All that remains are faint memories in the Fade, and paintings in old ruins. Or so I was led to believe."

Ciri had known that the Elvhen were powerful mages, but the thought of that small metal ball being capable of causing so much damage in the wrong hands made her shudder again. "Which orb do you think he carries? And how did he get his hands on it?"

"It's impossible to know." Solas frowned. "Should the humans learn of this –"

"They mustn't," Ciri interrupted. "The humans would turn on elves as a scapegoat. The Chantry would cut its losses, then come for me. And then we'd never bring Corypheus to justice."

"That has always been the way of things," Solas agreed. "We must keep this to ourselves."

Ciri hesitated. "Triss and Olgierd know how to keep secrets. And they have no fondness for the Chantry."

Solas contemplated her, and she returned his gaze steadily. Finally, he nodded. "They do seem to be cut from a different cloth than most humans. Even from most mages. If you believe them trustworthy, then I will follow your lead."

"I'll tell them later," she said, glancing over her shoulder at the camp behind them. "When there aren't so many ears to listen in."

"Wise of you," Solas said. He shook his head as if dismissing the conversation. "At any rate, did you have any questions?"

She bit her lip and looked back at the camp, spying a ragged, wide-brimmed hat off in the distance. "What Cole said at the gates," she began cautiously.

"That you aren't from here?" Solas shook his head. "I have a suspicion that Cole is more than he seems. His perception of the world is different than the average person's. No doubt he was referring to your Elvhen blood."

He sounded convinced. She looked up at his face and read nothing but complete assurance.

"You're probably right," she agreed, feeling a familiar sting of guilt.

"Was there anything else?"

A name, half-remembered, came to her, and with the name came strange images that didn't quite make sense. "Yes," she said slowly. "Is there a fortress in these mountains? Somewhere the sky was held? I think I must have dreamt it, all of it at once, every instance it's ever been occupied. I remember it being lovely and graceful, but also grim and sturdy."

He looked at her sharply. "There is, yes. Skyhold. It's several days' journey to the north. I saw it in the Fade not too long ago. It has been abandoned for over a century, claimed and abandoned and claimed again. Your dreams serve you well."

"Will you help me find it?" she asked.

"I will provide directions, but you should lead them," he said. "The Inquisition looks to you for leadership. Be their guide, their lodestar. Right now, they have nothing. You will deliver them to a mighty fortress."

That didn't sound much different than what the revered mothers wanted from her, but Solas had yet to steer her wrong.

"I never set out to become anyone's god," she said plaintively.

He smiled, his eyes full of sympathy. "Believe me, lethallin. Hardly anyone does."

She hitched her blanket higher and looked to the soft light of the horizon. "We'd best get started."