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Ciri rode into the forward camp in the Emerald Graves to see a team of soldiers arm-deep in a bear carcass twice the size of Olgierd's Ifrit, skinning and butchering with an enthusiasm that seemed almost personal.

"I take it we missed something?" she asked as she swung down from Zephyr's back.

"Your Worship!" Scout Belette took Zephyr's reins and bowed. "That big thing tore through the camp this morning. Our soldiers tracked it back to its den and killed it." She cast a glare at the dead bear over her shoulder, one full of smug satisfaction. "We'll eat well tonight."

"It's been a while since I've had bear," Olgierd said, joining her on the ground. "An acquired taste, but good if cooked well."

Ciri looked around the campsite. "I need to speak with Ser Rylen and Chandler about their progress in the area. Where are they?"

Scout Belette bowed again. "I'll get them for you, Your Worship." She turned away and shouted, "Chandler! Hey! Rylen! Her ladyship needs you!"

Varric let out a loud snort of laughter, and Olgierd chuckled. Solas smiled faintly.

"Maker, woman, the lungs on you," Ser Rylen called back as he came over from beyond another of the Inquisition's standard-issue red tents. "You could deafen a statue." He nodded to Ciri amiably, thumping his fist to his heart in a casual salute. "Inquisitor."

"Ser Rylen," she replied. "You're looking well."

And he was; there were no dark circles beneath his eyes, and his lightly tanned complexion was free of the sickly pale undertone it had held for so long. He looked well-rested and hale, a far cry from the man she'd seen sweating and puking in an infirmary bed months ago.

"Feel well, too," he said. "And it's just Rylen now, no ser. 'Captain' Rylen, if you must."

"And you must," a woman's voice interjected. "He makes this amazing face when you're formal with him. Like this."

Ciri looked away from Rylen to see a rather pretty dwarven woman approaching, her thick black curls bound back in a sensible braid and tossed over her shoulder. Her skin was a rich brown, and her dark eyes flashed with humor. She wore the subdued green and rust orange of Leliana's agents.

"Chandler, I presume," Ciri said, holding out her hand.

Chandler gripped it and gave it a quick, businesslike shake. "Inquisitor. Let's fill you in, shall we?"

Ciri followed the two of them deeper into the camp to a table covered in maps and assorted correspondence. Behind her, she could hear the others getting the mounts squared away, and she knew they'd be along shortly.

"Fairbanks and his group of refugees were very helpful in pointing us in the right direction," Rylen began. He pointed to the largest map, which had a handful of dark Xes scattered across it. "Hard fighting, but we rooted them out. Found evidence that a couple of them were in bed with the Venatori, too."

"Sister Costeau was just a zealot, not in league with Corypheus, but she was still selling people," Chandler said. "No slavers on our watch. No idea why a chevalier like Ser Auguste would throw his lot in with anti-monarchists, either, but we dealt with him, too."

"And the ones working with the Venatori?" Ciri asked.

"Commander Duhaime and General Maliphant," Rylen said. "Ashes now. Same with their followers. We retook Argon's Lodge and Villa Maurel as well as a veridium mine. Fairbanks and his people moved out of that canyon they were in and decamped to the lodge."

"I'll look for him there." Ciri rifled through the correspondence. "Did you find anything on the red lyrium shipments?"

Chandler reached out and fished out a letter from the bottom of the pile to hand to Ciri. "They're being shipped through here from a quarry near a village called Sahrnia in the Emprise du Lion region. We don't have much more information than that, but you bet we're on top of it."

Rylen nodded. "We've disrupted the bastards' operations here, but we'll need to maintain a presence in the area if we want to keep them from trying their luck again."

"I'll write to Emperor Cyril and ask permission to set up an outpost at Argon's Lodge or Villa Maurel," Ciri said. "And beyond our operations here? What's the state of the area?"

Chandler jabbed a finger at several smaller Xes. "Rifts here. Giants here," she added, gesturing to a larger section. "And a damned dragon sleeping in a ruin all the way out here. Isn't bothering anyone, though, so—"

"We left the beast alone," Rylen finished. "Not worth the effort, not by half."

"Agreed," Ciri said firmly.

"There's an abandoned chateau all the way out here," Rylen said with a violent stab of his finger at the map. "We went in and investigated."

His face was hard.

"It wasn't good, I take it?" Ciri asked.

He shook his head. "We wrote up a report for the Nightingale and Grand Enchanter Fiona. Noble parents with magic in their bloodline were afraid to have a mage child. They tried a handful of peasant superstitions to get rid of the girl's magic—leeches on her limbs, near-drowning—the usual dogshite. Girl came into her magic and summoned a demon that terrorized the household and killed everyone. She ended up an abomination. We had to put her down."

Ciri reached out to touch his arm. It was stiff as a rock beneath her hand, the muscles tense with anger. "I'm sorry, Rylen."

"So am I." He let out a long, frustrated breath and rubbed the bridge of his tattooed nose. "Know what gets me about that whole mess? I don't know if they were doing it for their own reputation or out of some twisted attempt to protect the girl from the Circles and the Templars."

"Either way," Ciri said, "she's at rest now. And you do good work, Rylen. No one doubts your commitment to the mages or the Inquisition."

He gave her a short nod.

"There's one more thing you'll probably want to investigate," Chandler said. She tapped the far edge of the map. "Elven ruins here. That clan from Dirthavaren, Rasyluvun? Their First, Taven, is there, along with a couple of other elves. We killed some red Templars looking to make trouble for them. I don't know if they've gone in yet, but they said there was something in there that might be interesting."

"We'll look into it. Thank you both."

Ciri turned from the table and looked around the camp again, searching for her companions. She spotted Olgierd ducking out of a tent and raised her hand, and he smiled and headed in her direction. Varric and Solas fell in behind him.

"Where to?" Olgierd asked when he reached her side.

"Argon's Lodge first," Ciri decided. "I want to speak with Fairbanks about his people's needs. And we should take care of the rifts in the area while we're here. If we have time, we'll head to the elven ruins. Otherwise, that can wait until tomorrow. But before any of that, let's try and settle the matter of holding the area."

Ciri bent back over the table and took the parchment and inked quill that Rylen and Chandler promptly offered her. Emperor Cyril's newly exalted position gave her momentary pause, but she reassured herself he was the same man she'd been corresponding with for months, and the words came to her easily. Chandler handed her a small bag of fine sand, and she dusted it across the drying ink and tapped it off, then folded it closed. She fished out her seal from her belt pouch and gave it and the letter to Rylen.

"Send it out under my seal," she told him. "I'll be back for that."

"Your Worship," he said with a small bow.

Ciri set off with the others, leaving the busy encampment for the lush expanse of greenery surrounding it. The crowns of the trees stretched nearly seventy feet above her head, the leaves softly rustling in the breeze as it blew by, and the sturdy trunks had a soft, velvety coating of moss on the northern side. Nestled in the roots of some of the trees were bushes covered in silvery-white blossoms with pink stamens.

In the distance, she spotted a cracked and fallen archway, its elegant, pointed arches still mostly intact all these many centuries later. Just beyond it, emerald light shone, and she headed in that direction, clenching her marked hand nervously.

"All will be well, lethallin," Solas reassured her. "It is a simple matter of connecting with the Fade rather than attempting to pull your way through it as you do with the Fade step. And I am here should anything go wrong."

She looked up at him and gave him a distracted smile. Without entirely meaning to, her gaze drifted across his face, and the things she'd noticed back in the temple of Dirthamen took on a much more pressing meaning.

Smaller ears. A long, strong jaw. High, prominent cheekbones. Height comparable to a human man's, that dwarfed most modern elves.

He was the one who'd awoken in the current age, not some recent ancestor. It was no wonder he spoke so eloquently, and so longingly, of Elvhenan and Arlathan, and why he held himself aloof. It explained why he considered neither the Dalish nor the city elves his kin.

How could he ever be happy claiming a mortal human as his sole connection to his past, no matter what she felt like to him? Ciri would have to try harder to give him more ties to the present—and dig deeper into his motives for following the Dread Wolf and "fixing" the god's "greatest mistake."

Ciri unsheathed Gynvael as they rounded the trunk of a large and knotty tree, and the emerald gleam of the rift cracked and came to life with the familiar sound of grinding glass, spitting out five bright tendrils of light. Solas cast a barrier over them, and Ciri moved toward the closest puddle of light, her blade at the ready.

Then, inexplicably, something within the rift gave a heave, and her heart leaped as the tendril went flying back in.

"Can't be," Olgierd said. Shock covered his face, swiftly giving way to a painful, fragile hope. "Cole said he forgot."

The glowing puddles pulsed, and demons sprang forth. Ciri tore her attention from the mystery and leaped at the nearest despair demon. Solas shifted in the corner of her eye, and her sword caught flame. The demon screeched and swooped down at her, shedding sharp crystals of ice in its wake. Ciri twisted to the side and struck out. It shrieked in anger and spun to breathe on her.

She dodged the hail of ice and slashed into its ragged middle again. Her blade cut through the moldering black robes and struck the stringy body below. Its screech of pain made her ears ring. One more strike, and it dissolved into green ichor, the color almost vanishing against the grass at her feet.

The sounds of fighting died down around her. The rift above pulsed. Another five tendrils shot out, and after a breathless moment, something tugged at the one nearest Varric.

Olgierd laughed, a suspicious sheen to his eyes. "He would come back for a fight first."

The tendril flew in, and something, or someone, within the rift gave a hearty laugh. Olgierd saluted the rift with his dripping saber and turned to the remaining puddles.

The molten, misshapen head and arms of a rage demon heaved themselves from the nearest puddle. Ciri gestured to Solas, and the enchantment on Gynvael abruptly flickered out. She lashed out at its formless middle, and steam rose where her sword met the burning body. It roared and swung at her furiously. She slipped away to strike at it again, this time from the side. Her blade flickered out again and again, each time raising a hiss of steam and a roar of rage.

At last, it fell, leaving only a scorch mark and ichor to mark that it had ever been there.

Ciri looked around and saw that the others had finished their battles. The rift above was quiescent at last. She raised her marked hand with a faint pang of trepidation and pushed her magic up and through it, forging a connection yet again.

It was just as easy as all the times before, easier, even, and the magic rushed through in a rushing, sparkling emerald current. She grabbed hold and pulled, and the connection broke almost reluctantly as the rift sealed.

Solas approached with his hand outstretched, and she laid hers in his. He turned her palm up to peer at the broken-glass lines that covered it.

"Any change in sensation?" he asked.

"Still pins and needles," she said. "No change."

"Good." He gave her a small, encouraging smile and let go.

Olgierd looked up at the space where the rift had been. "Solas," he said, "might Cole have been mistaken?"

"When it comes to the mental and emotional state of those around him, and those they care about by extension?" Solas replied. "It is unlikely in the extreme. But it's quite possible that Adventure has recovered a part of his memories of Vlodimir that involve following us into battle. He may yet return to you."

"So long as he lives," Olgierd said after another long moment. He turned away and began to clean his saber. "That's what matters."

Ciri stepped over to his side and set her hand on his shoulder. "I hope it's Vlodimir," she told him.

"As do I," he said simply.

"You have to think positive, Red," Varric said as he wandered over. "That he's back at all is a miracle. I wouldn't have written it that way. Too unbelievable."

"Varric, in 'Hard in Hightown,' everyone but Donnen was a double agent, a triple agent, or in disguise," Ciri said. "I'm not sure you've cornered the market on believability in fiction."

Olgierd laughed. "Nay, it strains credulity. But you're right. This is a good sign."

He and Ciri finished wiping the ichor from their blades, and they walked deeper into the Emerald Graves again.

Solas looked over at Varric curiously. "You've been hard at work in the main hall. Writing a new novel?"

"Yeah…unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?"

"Comtesse Solange Montbelliard is a fan of my worst series," Varric said with a grimace. "'Swords and Shields.' The last book barely sold enough copies to pay for the ink. Or so I thought. It's apparently selling like hotcakes in the imperial court. And I left it on a cliffhanger."

"So, she did a little delicate arm-twisting?" Ciri asked.

"I didn't know my arm twisted quite that far," he griped. "One moment she's plying some gentle flattery, and the next I'm agreeing to finish out the series."

"'Swords and Shields,'" Ciri mused. "That's your romance series, isn't it?"

Varric grinned. "A little racier than that, Songbird, but yeah. It's the romance series. The ongoing travails of Captain Aline and Guardsman Dannik, and all their lusty encounters on their bumpy road to love."

"Do your friends mind that you make a living writing pornography about fictional versions of them?" Solas asked.

"Chuckles, I can expect an angry letter from any of them if they don't show up as at least a side character in any given story," Varric said. "And my stuff is tame compared to what Isabela's written."

Ciri could only imagine the uproar if Dandelion took to writing smutty fiction about Geralt and Yennefer instead of just songs. Her father might break his friend's lute over his head. Then she laughed as she remembered her first time out in the Hinterlands with the three men currently with her as well as Cassandra, and the way Cassandra's cheeks had flushed at Varric's jab that she didn't have a romantic bone in her body.

"When you finish your book, Cassandra might want to read it," she said.

Varric missed a step in surprise. "Cassandra?" he echoed, disbelief clear in his voice. "We're talking about the same woman, right? Tall, angry lady who punches first and asks questions later?"

"Believe we're talking about the woman with delicate little heart cut-outs in her pauldrons," Olgierd said dryly.

Varric let out a snort of laughter at that. "Ha, yeah, okay. I'll save her the first copy. But I want someone to hide behind in case she decides to beat me to death with it."

They traveled on beneath the shade of the trees, laughing and chatting lightly. To her pleasure, everyone seemed to be in a good mood, Solas included. She prodded him into telling a story about a spirit, which he did with all apparent pleasure. Varric happily took his turn telling the story of how Hawke helped Aveline get together with Donnic, and how poorly it went. Olgierd, with a glint of amusement lighting his eyes, told of the first time he and his brother made alcohol from vodka and rowan berries, and how sick they'd been the day after from overindulging.

Ciri had just finished telling the others of the time she'd shocked Geralt and her 'uncles' by coming down from her room in a gown and claiming to be 'indisposed' when they reached the short bridge to Argon's Lodge. A peasant in rough, studded leather armor stood at the entrance, and his eyes widened at their approach.

"You must be from the Inquisition!" he said as he looked them over, his gaze catching on Ciri's red and black armor and Olgierd's jeweled livery collar.

"We are," Ciri replied. "May we pass?"

"Of course!" He stepped aside with a quick bow. "You'll be looking for Fairbanks, no? He's in his office, straight to the back."

Ciri thanked him and walked across the sturdy bridge leading to the lodge. A deep, broad ditch surrounded the building, and high, thick wooden walls kept whatever buildings were within safe from attack. She made a mental note to commend Rylen and the soldiers for a job well done taking this place from the Freemen.

Within, the refugees from the war all bustled about with purpose, and an air of cheer seemed to permeate the fort. It was a rustic sort of place, with an open-air layout: a large yard for training and sparring in the center, and rooms surrounding it in a ring. Ciri headed straight across, as directed.

"Lady Hand?" a voice called out as she stepped into the yard.

Ciri winced and turned to see a thin, pink-cheeked woman with white-blonde hair pulled up in a bun. "Lady Hand, this is bold of me, but if I might have a moment," the woman continued.

"That's fine, just please," Ciri said, "stop calling me that."

The woman flushed. "At once, Inquisitor. Forgive me. Please, come with me."

Ciri exchanged a glance with her companions and changed directions to follow the woman into another of the rustic wooden rooms. Once inside, the woman closed the door and turned to her with clear trepidation.

"Forgive my forwardness, Inquisitor—my name is Clara. Your people have done so much to help us already. It seems churlish of me to ask for more."

"And yet, here we are," Varric said. "So go ahead."

Clara blushed faintly and nodded. "This is—this is about Fairbanks. Rumor has it he is of noble birth."

"And?" Ciri asked.

The red in Clara's cheeks deepened. "Well, once the war is over, we refugees will have to return to our lords' lands. To work their fields or raise their brats. Most of the aristocracy care little for us—you can see it plainly! Why else would we be here? But Fairbanks is a great man. If he had the power of a noble title behind him, there is much he could do. If the rumor is true…if we had proof…do you understand?"

Ciri frowned. "I sympathize, I do. But if it is true, then he rejected his family and his title for a reason, and you have no right to thrust them back on his shoulders."

Clara stared in stunned dismay, and her hand flew to her lips. "Oh, Maker—I had forgotten! No wonder you would see it that way, with Prince Reynaud abandoning your mother to her fate so cruelly."

Behind Ciri, a strangled cough escaped Varric.

"I'm not a Valmont!" Ciri protested.

"Of course you aren't," Clara agreed firmly. She sighed. "No, I see your point, Your Worship. It would be thoughtless of me to pursue it, especially if his story is anything like yours."

Ciri doubted Fairbanks was running from a birth father bent on forcing him to carry his heirs, but so long as she'd made her point, she was happy. "If the Inquisition can do anything to help the refugees further, or to aid Fairbanks, we will. We'll try to give you options beyond simply returning to uncaring lords and ladies."

"Thank you, Your Worship," Clara said. "And I apologize for asking."

"There was no harm done," Ciri told her. She turned and opened the door again, and she and her companions headed across the yard once more.

They found Fairbanks in a cramped, dimly lit office, seated behind a desk covered with papers. He was a strikingly handsome man, with straight dark hair that brushed his shoulders, and bright blue eyes set in a pale face. Ciri could see why the rumors of nobility might be so persistent with those looks.

"Inquisitor," he greeted her as he got to his feet to bow. "You have my thanks for sending us aid so swiftly. Those blasted Freemen had us cowering in that canyon before your people arrived. Now the Greatwood is ours again."

Ciri paused at that. She said, with more tact than she felt, "I have heard it goes by another name."

"No offense was intended, Your Worship," he said. "The Emerald Graves is the elven name for the forest, though you understand it's not so popular to call it such here in Orlais."

His eyes darted to Solas, then back to her face, as if searching for some sign of her storied Elvhen heritage.

"The area is known as the Emerald Graves in all official Inquisition correspondence and paperwork," Ciri told him with a polite smile. "You can likewise understand our position, I hope."

Fairbanks nodded slowly. "I can."

"Good." Ciri let her smile turn more genuine. "I've written to Emperor Cyril about maintaining command of Argon's Lodge and Villa Maurel to prevent a return of the Freemen and the red Templars. I expect the response will be favorable, and you and your people will be able to stay here at least until we defeat Corypheus and seal the rifts."

"Thank you, Your Worship. That is a weight off my mind." Fairbanks' shoulders dropped in relief.

"Is there anything else you and your people need?" she asked.

"Now that you've made the Gre—ah, the Emerald Graves somewhat safer, it would be helpful if we could be added to the merchants' trade routes," he said. "We're getting on well enough with dried and preserved food for now, but we'll run out eventually, and fresh fruits and vegetables would make a difference."

"I'll speak to Rylen and Chandler," Ciri said. "I'm sure there will be a merchant or two willing to make the trip out this way."

"You have my thanks yet again," Fairbanks said with another shallow bow. "When you didn't come with your people, I thought you'd scorned our needs. I see I was mistaken."

"We were glad to help where we could," she said. She hesitated, then added, "I suppose you've heard those rumors going around about you."

"Ah, yes. Clara spoke to you, I suppose?" Fairbanks shook his head. "Think nothing of them, Inquisitor. I am just a man like any other."

"I don't think she'll bother you about it anymore," Ciri said, "but if there's any proof out there one way or the other, you ought to get your hands on it before someone else does. Whether that's just to destroy it, or to have it at hand so that no one else tries to control your future."

"I…yes," Fairbanks said, surprise flitting across his face. "If there was such information out there, it would be best to secure it. Alleged information."

"Alleged," Ciri agreed. Just as she was allegedly dead.

He cleared his throat. "I am sure you have more to do, Inquisitor. I wouldn't want to keep you."

"Thank you for your time," she said politely, and he bowed again, this time deeper than the last.

"So," Varric said as they entered the yard again, "off to the elven ruins?"

Ciri looked up at the afternoon sun. "We won't make it before sunset. Let's head to the next camp and call it a day."

She snuck a glance at Solas' carefully neutral expression and held in a sigh. Hopefully, this elven ruin would be less stressful for him than the last one.