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"Here it is," Mihris called out quietly as she drew to a stop ahead of them.

Ciri squinted at the dark smudge between the rocks. The entrance to the temple of Dirthamen was almost invisible in the afternoon shade. Dark trees held a still, oppressive gloom, and the air was quiet, as if even the birds didn't wish to break the silence. Something rustled in the branches up above, and she glanced up to see ravens peering down at their small group.

They'd been traveling for two weeks, first a long ride to the Waking Sea, then a short boat trip across to Val Chevin. They were three days out from that city, still hugging the coast. Mihris led them unerringly, certain of the path.

Sera shuddered. "Looks creepy."

"We anticipated something unpleasant," Ciri said. "We're forewarned, which is half the battle already."

"Right," Sera said skeptically. "'Somethin' dark.' Nice and specific, real helpful."

"A vague warning is better than no warning at all," Olgierd said.

Mahanon cleared his throat and nodded at the half-hidden entrance. "We can stand around arguing, or we can go in. Daylight is wasting."

"An excellent point," Dorian agreed. "But, and bear with me, is it safe to leave the horses out here?"

The ravens rustled their wings above their heads again, and a sudden breeze kicked up the fallen leaves around the horses' hooves.

"Probably not," Ciri said with another glance upward. "It would be best if one of us stayed behind –"

"Me," Sera interrupted. "You go do elfy demon stuff. I'll keep the horses safe." She grimaced. "Just don't take too long. I don't want to have to come lookin' for you."

"We'll come back soon," Ciri promised.

They dismounted beneath a particularly large, gnarled oak tree, and Mahanon retrieved stakes and rope from his saddlebags to knock together a makeshift picket line. With the horses secured, the six of them set off into the temple, leaving Sera behind.

Just beyond the inconspicuous entrance, the stairs leading down were in remarkably good condition for a several-thousand-year-old temple. The walls closed in on them, dark and oppressive. At the bottom of the staircase, a lone brazier stood affixed to the wall, its tinder long gone.

Mahanon pulled tufts of fur and bits of wood shavings from his belt pouch. As he went to set them in the brazier, Mihris caught his wrist.

"There's no need to waste your tinder, lethallan," Mihris said softly. White light emanated from the top of her staff. "I can light the way for us."

"Even better," Mahanon said. "Lead on."

They passed beneath a low archway into the first room of the temple. Just beyond the opening, the stone floor was covered in damp moss, and the walls were slick and shiny with water. Twenty-five feet from the stairs, the floor dropped off, and water, dark and still, covered the ground below.

Solas probed its depth with the end of his staff. "It's no more than a few inches deep," he said as he pulled his staff back. "Though that may change as we go on. Stay alert."

"Is there anything…in it?" Dorian asked.

"Stay alert," Solas repeated with a hint of amusement.

Dorian sighed and shook his head.

Mihris led the way, her soft white light reflecting off the dark water as they splashed through it. They passed through another low archway, and Ciri looked around in interest. The trees they'd ridden beneath up above had broken through with their roots down below, adding a strange wildness to the area. Pale ferns grew along the edges of the walls, the stones they hugged rough with moss and lichens.

"What's that up ahead?" Mahanon asked quietly.

Ciri looked in the direction he pointed. It was too dark to make out, but it seemed to be a statue of some sort, large and looming in the distance. An animal, she guessed, judging by the vague shape and position. They headed toward it, tiny waves bouncing away as they walked through the flooded chamber.

Mihris raised her lit staff as they approached the base of the statue, and Mahanon frowned.

"This is an insult," he said, crossing his arms. "Why would the Dread Wolf have a place of honor in the Keeper of Secrets' sanctum?"

Solas' lips thinned, and he opened his mouth to say something. Mihris beat him to it.

"Peace, lethallan. Fen'Harel was a friend to the gods before he betrayed them. This temple is old, likely older than that betrayal. Dirthamen honors his friend. It wasn't an insult at the time."

Ciri looked up at the statue of Fen'Harel. The wolf rested peacefully on all fours, its tail wrapped around its back legs and its face turned to the side to face them, staring sightlessly. It was overgrown with vines and ferns. Nestled between its front and back paws was a waist-high, blank stone marker.

She frowned and ran her hand over the marker. "There must be something here. Does anyone see a brazier nearby?"

Olgierd summoned fire to his hand and ventured off, Mahanon at his back. Dorian and Solas went toward the other side of the chamber. Ciri waited with Mihris by the vine-covered wolf statue as seconds crept into minutes. At last, a flare of pale, blue-green light came from Dorian's side of the chamber.

"Dorian and Solas found it," Ciri called out softly, pitching her voice to carry down the silent halls. "Olgierd? Mahanon? Come back."

"On our way," Olgierd called back.

Solas and Dorian arrived with the veilfire torch just as Olgierd and Mahanon returned. Solas held it out to the stone marker, and a complex, twisting glyph appeared in its light. Ciri brushed her fingers across it and paused at the hushed whisper that echoed through her mind.

"We few whisper here where shadow dwells.
Some words remain unuttered.
Truths are pushed down, down
Where they shall never arise again."

"Solas, Mihris," she said quietly, pulling her hand back, "what do you make of this?"

Solas touched the glyph and frowned. "The secrets of this temple have remained unspoken for too long. They wish to be known."

"You have the right of it," Mihris agreed. "We'd do well to shine a light on whatever happened here."

"And that's what we'll do," Ciri said. "Come on. I think I see something glowing down this way."

They followed the faint green gleam down the wet hall and into another chamber. There, set into a recessed arch in the wall, the green light intensified, and Ciri narrowed her eyes at its source. A statue of a hooded elf bearing a platter stood beneath the arch, and on the platter, a severed elven head – an Elvhen head? – gave off the bright glow of magic. The elf's features hadn't even begun to decay despite having been dead for thousands of years.

She looked it over with a small shudder. The head's eye sockets were empty, and its ears had been cut off with a sharp blade right where they met the skull. The cheekbones were quite prominent, and the jaw was long and strong. And the hooded statues looked similar to the sorts of statues one might find in old elven ruins on the Continent.

"Fenhedis," Mahanon swore quietly, eyeing the head with unease. "What foul things did our ancestors do in this place?"

"Do any of you understand this magic?" Ciri asked.

Dorian shook his head. "A Mortalitasi summons spirits into corpses or undoes possession of the dead. Despite the stigma outside of Nevarra, it's a fairly benign field of magic. This? This is death magic, and well beyond me."

"I've not seen anything like it before in my life," Olgierd said.

"Mihris?" Ciri asked.

Mihris looked hesitant. "I don't know. What I…learned…from Imshael isn't always so easy to understand. This is part of what amused him, that much I'm sure of."

"I know of this magic," Solas said. "I have seen it in the Fade. It is a brutal punishment reserved for the worst criminals of Elvhenan, meant to keep the condemned's consciousness from completely fading." He nodded to the glowing, severed head. "He no longer thinks, but some part of him is still present even now."

"That's despicable," Ciri said flatly.

"It is." Solas stepped toward the statue and lifted the head from the platter, and a hoarse screech echoed through the temple.

Ciri whirled to see a half-dozen undead appear out of nowhere, clutching swords and advancing on them with empty eyes.

Dorian threw a barrier over them as Olgierd flung flames at the nearest pair of skeletons. Ciri drew Gynvael and lunged at the leftmost corpse, lashing out with her blade. Arrows and lightning flew past her. Fire roared. The undead fell.

Solas, still holding the head in one hand and his staff in the other, continued as if there had been no interruption. "There will be more pieces of this priest elsewhere in the temple. I suspect we'll have to unite the pieces to break the spell that lies over this place." He frowned. "The 'Head of Misery' – what a pleasant thought to make intrude into someone's mind."

Mahanon grimaced but handed him a length of thin, sturdy rope, and Solas bound the head tightly and secured it to his belt.

"How do you know he's a priest?" Ciri asked.

"Inference," Solas said as they turned to leave the chamber. "It would have to be someone with ties to the temple. Someone Dirthamen's priests felt betrayed the god or committed blasphemy."

"I always imagined our ancestors being…" Mihris trailed off. "Enlightened. Better than us. All the stories of Arlathan's crystal palaces in the trees, and the wisdom the Elvhen would gain through immortality… This sort of death is base cruelty."

Solas was quiet for several seconds. When he spoke, there was an undercurrent of tension in his voice. "Do you suggest that the Dalish are better? Most of the clans can't even read their own language. Some hunt humans for sport. Your people claim to be the rightful heirs to the Elvhen legacy, yet most of you are insular, distrustful nomads who wander the land telling tales of the past and dreaming of the future, content to ignore that your present is hard and unpleasant."

"Solas!" Ciri snapped.

"No," Mihris said softly. "I don't believe the Dalish are better than our ancestors. I just thought our ancestors were better than this."

Ciri caught Solas' eye and shook her head at him in disappointment. "That was unfair of you."

Unfair, and more unkind than usual.

Solas paused, then sighed slightly. "It was. Ir abelas, da'len. I am…defensive…of the Elvhen. But you are correct. This is base cruelty, regardless of the priest's crimes. No people are without flaws, and the Elvhen were no exception."

"Ma'lanastan," Mihris said, forgiving him with a gentle nod.

The glowing head's empty sockets stared blankly out as they walked back down the flooded hall, and Ciri suppressed a shiver. It really did look eerily like one of the Aen Elle, almost. Or –

She glanced up at Solas.

Prominent cheekbones and a long, strong jaw.

She looked away before he noticed her scrutiny. His ancestor's blood was strong in him. Some tiny part of her whispered that she should remember that, take note of it, and she did, tucking her observation away for later.

It was likely nothing worth noting. She was hundreds of years removed from Lara Dorren, and yet she looked remarkably like her. Heritance was odd like that sometimes.

A flowing sheet of water blocked their path at the end of the hall, and Mihris swept the light of her staff around in search of a solution.

"There," Olgierd said, striding to a wall where a lever was mostly hidden by the shadows.

He hauled down on it, and it gave way with a grinding of rust and a protesting of gears. The water ahead slowed to a trickle, then stopped. Just beyond the archway, another gleam of green light shone.

Dorian raised the veilfire torch as they crossed the threshold into the next chamber. Another blank stone marker sat just to the side of the entrance, and the faint sound of fine china shattering rang through the air as another glyph formed on its surface. He reached out to touch it, then drew back, looking mildly disturbed.

"I think they were recording their final days," he murmured. "Poor people. So much confusion and loss."

Ciri, Mihris, Mahanon, and Solas were quick to follow suit, and a ghostly voice whispered in Ciri's head, forlorn and lost.

"Dirthamen is gone, he said.
Our Highest One brings to us this gravest news.
What shall we do? Where shall we go?
What of the old secrets that burn within our hearts?"

"'Dirthamen is gone,'" Mihris echoed. "This must have been right after Fen'Harel's betrayal, when he locked the Creators and the Forgotten Ones away in the Fade and the Void. To think these priests once stood in the presence of the Keeper of Secrets – to think they felt His loss personally…"

"No doubt it amused the Dread Wolf to sow such chaos," Mahanon scoffed, turning from the glyph. "Legend says he spent centuries after his great trick in a far corner of the world, hugging himself and giggling madly in glee."

Solas' shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, and he said, a sharp edge to his voice, "It is fascinating that Fen'Harel is both a cackling madman and a cunning mastermind in your fables. I suppose the contradiction does not bother you. He is whatever your stories need him to be."

Mahanon opened his mouth to retort, and Mihris caught his arm and shook her head.

"I understand you see different versions of our myths in the Fade," she said, looking at him evenly. "What knowledge do you have of Fen'Harel that the Dalish don't? What does the Fade show him to be?"

Solas paused, and Ciri's eyes dropped from his face to the cord around his neck. For the first time since meeting him, his odd amulet suddenly took on new and weighty meaning.

A canine jawbone, old and darkened with time.

Had Fen'Harel had worshipers back in the days of Arlathan? Adherents? Followers?

Had it once belonged to Solas' ancestor?

She looked back up at his face quickly and saw that he was still gathering his thoughts. At last he spoke. He sounded tired and faintly bitter. "Perhaps he was both."

"Or neither," Ciri offered, hoping to erase the expression on his face.

"Perhaps," Solas said again. His eyes softened as they met hers.

They crossed the room to examine the hooded statue and the platter with the gleaming green body part. Ciri wrinkled her nose when she saw what lay there. A tongue cut out at the root, still faintly moist thousands of years later. For a long moment, no one reached for it. Then Dorian sighed and extended a hand.

Another hoarse, chilling scream echoed through the temple's halls. Ciri drew Gynvael again and turned to face the undead that rose around them. As fire and lightning flew once more, and she lunged forward, sword extended, a thought went through her mind.

This temple was exposing more secrets than just its own.


"Is everyone alright?" Ciri asked.

They stood in the bowels of the temple's sanctuary, the very heart of the abandoned building. Water lapped around their ankles, and the only light came from Mihris' staff and the two ancient torches on the walkway up above. A magically sealed door on the far end of the chamber stood waiting, still guarding its secrets after all these many years.

"We're as well as can be expected," Olgierd replied.

They were tired and ragged, but potions and spells had healed the injuries they'd accumulated over the past two hours. The undead hadn't been the only trouble they'd faced. Some of the body parts had summoned arcane horrors, and those had made for grueling fights. Luckily, Solas had cast the spell to cover Ciri and Olgierd's blades in flames, and Gynvael had been of more use against the demons this time.

All their fighting and exploring had allowed them to uncover the whole sad, sordid tale. In the days immediately after their gods' disappearance, Dirthamen's high priest – the Highest One – intended to seal himself and the rest of the temple's priests in to be entombed alive in order to preserve the secrets they kept. The priests, angered and frightened at their god's loss, killed the Highest One and abandoned the temple.

Ciri understood the priests' fear and anger. But it had been a cruel, gruesome death, and its effects had tainted the temple for thousands of years.

Perhaps that had been the point. No one had breached its inner sanctum since. An extreme way of achieving the Highest One's ends, but he got his way. Their secrets had been kept.

She looked at the six short, unadorned altars that stood empty in the shallow water, then at the others.

"I suspect we're supposed to put the Highest One's pieces here," she said. "And then…Solas? Do you know?"

"And then his essence will reform into whatever it's been becoming over the last several thousand years," Solas told them. "Something powerful – and dangerous. Once we defeat it, the temple will be safe."

"And we'll be able to get through that door," Mihris said with a nod to the door in question.

"Most likely," Solas agreed.

Ciri pulled the ears from her belt pouch and set them on the nearest altar. 'The Ears of Unheeding,' the magic had whispered. The green magic flared brightly and disappeared into the altar. Solas followed suit with the mutilated Head of Misery, as did Dorian with the Tongue of Secrets. The Heart of Despondency, the Eyes of Sorrow, and the Hands of Torment all followed.

A rushing, bubbling noise came from behind them, and she turned to see a wildly churning mass of green energy swirling around an Elvhen device of some sort. It appeared remarkably similar to the ones she'd been activating all across Thedas – the ones meant to strengthen the Veil.

"I believe merely touching it will release the Highest One," Solas said, "in whatever form he now takes."

She drew Gynvael and squared her shoulders. Her companions spread out around the seething mass of green, and a barrier settled across her. Her blade lit with fire. She approached the artifact cautiously and extended her marked hand.

The green energy pulsed, and a despair demon flew from the artifact like an arrow from a bow, shedding ice crystals in its wake. It screeched and dove at Olgierd, who lashed out with his fiery blade. It recoiled and fled, flying across the chamber toward Solas.

The water grew cold, then icy, as the temperature plummeted. Ciri could see her breath before her in faint plumes of vapor. Her feet grew numb in her boots. Fire crackled and roared through the air, chasing the Highest One this way and that.

It sped toward her, and she struck out with Gynvael. It screeched in pain as her sword sliced into its body. She flinched and spun away as frost encrusted her armor.

It followed, breathing on her again. Tiny shards of ice pelted the back of her head and neck as she ducked and dodged. She rolled out of the way into the half-frozen water and came up swinging, her sword still lit.

The Highest One let out a final scream, its body stiffening, and fell into the water, dissolving into nothing but ichor and ice crystals.

Ciri shivered uncontrollably as she turned away and sheathed her sword. She'd need to get dry and warm soon, or chill would set in. The terrain hadn't favored them at all.

Mihris reached Ciri first, with Olgierd and Solas right behind her. The young elf raised her staff and waited for Ciri's nod of permission. A wave of soft heat passed through her from her head to her toes, and she swayed in relief.

"I used to be a healer," Mihris said quietly. "Before everything. It's still what I'm best at."

"I feel better than I did before we came here," Ciri told her with an encouraging smile. "Thank you."

Mihris nodded, and Olgierd gave her a careful once-over.

"I'm fine," she assured him.

"Can't have you dying from something as ignoble as a sniffle," he gently teased her.

"The indignity," she said dryly. "Come on. Let's see if killing the Highest One – again – unsealed that door."

"I believe it did," Solas said. "The energy in the temple feels different. Can you sense it?"

Ciri stopped and tilted her head back, ignoring the rustling and murmuring of her companions. "I can," she said after a long moment. The air felt ever so slightly less oppressive.

They splashed across the flooded floor to the door at the far end of the chamber. Ciri set her hand on the handle, and a light shock, like static, went through her palm. Then, with a faint click, the tumblers within disengaged.

"Let's see what secrets were worth all of this," she said and pushed the door open.

The hinges squealed in protest, but a hard shove made them cooperate. Mihris shone her light on the room's contents as they filed in, and Ciri looked about in interest.

It was plain. Undecorated. No art or statuary to mark the worship of their god of secrets. The walls and floor were bare, and the two chests in the corner were simple.

But in the center of the room stood a plinth bearing a small stone tablet, and that, Ciri suspected, was what all the fuss had been about.

Solas headed directly for it, and then paused as he stared down at the tablet. A strange look slowly crept across his face. Bewilderment, frustration – utter disbelief.

"I cannot read this."

Mihris joined him. "That isn't Elven," she said, looking between the tablet and Solas. "I think…I think this is the secret that amused Imshael."

Ciri came to stand at Solas' shoulder, and she looked down at the small tablet. One glance and she immediately had to control her expression.

She couldn't read it, either. Not fully. But some of the words had similar roots to Laith aen Undod, and to Ellylon.

"Secret."

"Magic."

"Empire."

"Die."

She looked up at Solas once again. Smaller ears. Prominent cheekbones. A long, strong jaw.

And now, a tablet covered in writing from what was assuredly a lost branch of the Aen Undod, hidden away in an Elvhen temple.

The Aen Elle were long-lived, but not immortal. Did this tablet explain how the elves of the Aen Undod became the Elvhen of Thedas?

Why had they hidden it? Why forget their origins?

"We'll take it back to Skyhold," Ciri said when she realized she'd been quiet for too long. "Solas, I'm sure you know of spirits in the Fade you can ask for help."

"Several," Solas confirmed. "One of my oldest friends, a spirit of wisdom, may be of great help."

"This is the Dalish's legacy," Mahanon protested. "We should be sending it to Keeper Istimaethoriel in Wycome."

"I don't see any reason why we wouldn't eventually do that," Ciri said, turning away from the plinth to placate him. "But Solas' Fade resources are invaluable, and we can bring scholars to the Inquisition that aren't available to the Dalish."

"Swear it," Mahanon demanded. "Swear the tablet goes to my clan when we get answers."

"I swear, Mahanon."

Solas frowned briefly at that but didn't speak up to disagree. Ciri carefully lifted the stone tablet from its place on the plinth and handed it to Solas, who took it from her gently and tucked it away in his pack.

Olgierd pried open the lid to one of the chests and let out a soft noise as he peered inside. "Whatever secrets they held, I fear they're lost for good."

Ciri walked over and looked over his shoulder to see crumbled fragments of parchment, long broken down by time. "I suppose the Highest One would be pleased that most of their secrets will remain undiscovered."

"But not their greatest," Solas said. His face was fierce with determination.

"If that's the end of it, then we should get back to Sera," Dorian suggested. "She's probably wondering if she needs to come in after us."

"I hope nothing gave her trouble out there." Ciri gave the room one more careful look over, then nodded to herself. "Let's get out of here. It's past time we returned."

As they began to leave, Ciri watched as Solas' hand strayed to his pack. She had a feeling he'd attempt to reach out to his spirit friend tonight, as soon as they made camp.

He wasn't alone in that. If the shadowy figure who dropped cryptic hints in her dreams didn't make an appearance tonight, she'd be quite annoyed. And they'd better have answers for her, for once.


Ciri found herself walking up a sloping cliff through thick, soupy fog. No matter how long she walked, the edge of the cliff never got any closer, and the fog never got any thinner. Avallac'h strode steadily at her side.

Ciri looked at his familiar face and found herself irritated. She knew it was a deception; she'd known it all along. But never had it bothered her quite so much before. He raised an eyebrow at her, as if aware of her poor humor, and kept his silence.

"The elves aren't native to this world," she said at last.

"As I said before, Zireael," he said. "They hid their origins. They forgot where they came from. Purposefully, as you've discovered."

"So this world –"

"It belonged to the spirits," he said. "To the great titans of the earth. Then the elves came, so foreign and magical, and they were made welcome."

"How did they go from welcome new arrivals to the Elvhen?"

"A choice was made," Avallac'h told her. "One, and then another, and then another, choice upon choice upon choice, pebbles creating an avalanche."

The fog slowly began to dissipate around them. Ciri could just barely make out the cliff's edge ahead of them.

"Why doesn't So – my tutor know about this?" she asked. "Wouldn't his ancestor have told him?"

Avallac'h gave her a small, condescending smile that had her wondering what she had missed. "Ah, yes. Your harellan's ancestor. Such a person would be thousands of years old, but still quite young compared to the ones who would be entrusted with such a secret. A spry youth compared to the likes of Elgar'nan or Dirthamen."

"You're infuriating, you know," Ciri muttered.

"Am I?" His condescending smile only deepened. "Alas for me. My self-esteem rises and falls on your good opinion."

Ciri scoffed and looked away. "If you're giving up the enigmatic spirit pretense entirely, can I at least have your name now?"

"That information isn't safe to share," Avallac'h said. "Some names echo through the Fade and draw unwanted attention."

"Like my tutor's."

"Precisely like."

Ciri fell silent, staring ahead at the approaching cliff's edge. "I don't like lying to him," she said after a long moment. "I know he's lying to me – about his origins, about his intentions, likely about quite a bit more – but I can't help feeling like I'm only making things worse."

"Possibly," Avallac'h said. "Or possibly you're doing the only thing you can to keep the wind blowing in your favor. Would he ever have had a change of heart had he not believed you shared a common origin?"

"No," Ciri acknowledged reluctantly. "But this tablet –"

"Let him uncover it himself. It may prove more helpful to your cause than you believe."

Just as reluctantly, Ciri nodded. A thought from earlier came to her, and she looked up at her dream companion's stolen face. "Why do the Dalish tales of Fen'Harel bother him so deeply?"

"Do they?" He sounded deeply amused. Almost vindictively so.

"Was his ancestor one of Fen'Harel's followers?" she asked. "He wears a canine jawbone – is that some sort of talisman?"

Avallac'h reached out and pressed a finger to her lips. "Again, Zireael. Some names echo. And not all the 'gods' are sealed away."

They reached the edge of the cliff and looked down, and Ciri stifled a gasp. The canyon below ran red with a river of blood. As she watched, bodies floated to the surface. One rolled over, revealing small, delicately pointed ears.

"What happened here?" she demanded. "Who did this?"

"I told you when we first met, Zireael," Avallac'h said, staring down with an unreadable expression. "The Elvhen dreamed of glory. The spirits showed them wonders."

"Lethallin!" Solas' voice rang out through the air, urgent and stressed. "Ciri, wake. Please!"

With a final uneasy look down into the bloody canyon below, Ciri wrenched herself from sleep and opened her eyes to see Solas looming over her bedroll.

"I'm awake," she yawned. "What is it?"

Solas sat back on his heels, his hands gripping his knees. "I was speaking to Wisdom about the tablet when something disturbed our conversation. A summoning ritual dragged my friend from the Fade right before my eyes."

Ciri sat up and blinked the last of her slumber away. "What can we do?"

"Find them," Solas said intently. His eyes burned with anger. "And get them back."