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Two Suledin Keep codex entries quoted here: the Red Templar journal entry, and Imshael's notes on the red lyrium giants.

"Shit," Rainier said with quiet vehemence.

Ciri looked over to see him hastily untying the sack from his belt. The bottom was soaked through, and little drops of wheat colored liquid dripped from the burlap cloth to fall on the slush at their feet.

"A few of the flasks must have broken when that pride demon knocked me back." He undid the knots and set it on the ground to sort through the contents carefully. "Aye. Four of them. Two are just cracked, but one has a hole in it, and the last one's shattered."

"I'll check the tents for more," Malika said. She rushed off.

Ciri dropped her hand to her belt pouch. "Will you need ours?"

He shook his head. "Keep it. More important that you purge the stuff from your bodies before it gets its claws in."

He fished out the wet shards of the broken flask and set them on the ground beside the sack, then gently placed the cracked and damaged flasks down alongside them.

Mihris finished applying the dressing to Olgierd's side, and she stepped back with a nod. "Take that potion and sit for a few minutes. Your rib should feel fine soon."

"My thanks."

Olgierd downed the proffered elfroot potion and dressed again, shivering in the freezing wind. Ciri stood from the lone seat at the table, and she gestured him toward it. He sat slowly and let out a low sigh as he leaned against the table for support.

"They left one behind," Malika reported as she returned. She brandished the potion in question. "And there was an empty flask, too."

She knelt by the cracked potions and wound two long strips of brown canvas around the glass. Ciri looked over to the tent she'd come from and saw that one of the flaps was just a little thinner than it should be, and a huff of laughter escaped her.

Rainier gingerly poured the potion from the bottle with the hole in it into the new flask, then stoppered it and handed it to Malika. "You'd better carry the sack, love. They'll just get knocked around more with the fighting that's ahead. I'll take the stakes."

"Good thought."

Ciri leaned against the table beside Olgierd to settle in for the hour wait that Warden-Constable Estienne had requested. Her arm still felt stiff and slightly numb, though the sensation was fading, and with each passing minute Olgierd's posture improved. Rainier had only needed a swallow of elfroot potion.

But the jutting fingers of lyrium in the center of the camp, violently purple and humming low and ominous, wore on her nerves and put a painful twinge behind her eyebrow again. She could see its effect in everyone's faces; the lines in Olgierd's forehead were deep from the tense frown that knit his brow, and Mahanon and Mihris looked washed out and wan, with bruises beneath their eyes. Solas did his best to seem unaffected, but a muscle in his jaw stood out and jumped as he clenched it.

Mihris came over to the table, Mahanon hovering behind her protectively. She stood in silence for several seconds, looking oddly uncertain. "You didn't ask about what Ser Michel said," she said at last. "About Imshael—possessing me."

"I suspected," Ciri said gently. "You said you knew his thoughts, his memories. You called him insidious. When you told the story of chasing Ser Michel, Briala, Felassan, and the empress through the eluvian, you left it vague as to how Imshael followed."

Mihris dropped her gaze to the table, shamefaced. "He killed them all," she whispered. "And then I let him in me." She blinked hard. "Some of his thoughts—I think I could live to be a century old, and they'll still turn my stomach. That's in my head now. My clan's killer was inside me."

"Angry, grieving teenagers are not known for their wise decisions," Solas said, with a hint of sympathy that surprised Ciri. "And Imshael is cunning and manipulative. You survived him, and you are free. Take heart in that, da'len."

Mihris took an unsteady breath and nodded. "Thank you, hahren. I will."

Ciri tested the strength of the table and hoisted herself onto it, nudging Olgierd lightly. "Are you going to be alright?" she asked him. She directed the question toward Mihris as well. "Imshael is…"

Olgierd patted her knee and leaned back in his chair. "Someday you'll stop fussing over me."

"I'll fuss if I like."

"Hm." His smile was fond, though she couldn't help but notice the worried tension around his eyes. "So long as the whoreson isn't waiting for us on a mosaic of the moon. I've no interest in reliving that experience."

"I don't blame you." Geralt's account of his timed race through O'Dimm's gauntlet had been harrowing. She nudged him again and raised her eyebrows. "You got your heart back that night, though."

"That I did," he agreed quietly.

Mihris looked between them, curiosity lighting her tired eyes. "Is Imshael the demon you dealt with? The one who cursed you?"

"I couldn't rightly say," Olgierd told her, "though Solas believes he is. The one I dealt with called himself a different name. I'll tell you this, though. We'd best hope Imshael and Master Mirror have only pacts and an unassuming appearance in common, and nothing more."

"Imshael is one of the oldest, most powerful demons in existence," Mihris said cautiously.

Olgierd nodded. He didn't elaborate.

She gave him a long look, then shook her head and turned to Ciri. "He can't possess me again. I won't give permission. I already know the worst things he's done, and he can't taunt me with the possibility. They're seared into my memory. I'm ready for him."

She didn't look ready. She looked as tired and worn as Ciri felt. But her determination was palpable.

Ciri lay back on the table, the length of her sword digging uncomfortably into her spine, and set her hand over her eyes. The better part of an hour still had yet to pass, and the best thing she could do was be as well rested as possible.

Olgierd made a quiet noise of disapproval and lifted her upper back and shoulders with a firm hand to unsheathe her sword and rearrange the scabbard. He let her down gently, and Ciri laughed under her breath when she found the new position leagues more comfortable.

"Now who's fussing?"

"Hush and get some rest, dear. I'll rouse you when it's time to leave."

She let her mind drift off to the sharp, high sound of a whetstone running over the edge of a blade, the low hum of the violet lyrium still thrumming away in the background.

"So this is Suledin Keep."

Ciri stood before the shadowed entrance, her stomach in knots. The lyrium several yards back whined at a pitch she could almost hear, the color still an ugly red that hadn't faded to violet yet.

They'd passed the hour of wait in silence, doing their best to recuperate before moving out. Ciri's nagging headache had slowly twinged and pulsed its way back into existence by the time they did a final check of their weapons and armor and crossed the bridge again, heading back toward the passage where they'd battled the pride demon beneath the rift.

The four Wardens made quick work of their hour's head start. Most of the blighted lyrium clusters on their journey to the keep had been treated, and the only sign they left of their passing at the ominous tower on the way was a stack of red Templar corpses by a prison cart holding a body riddled with red lyrium.

Malika had looked bitter at that. "No cure for the Blight," she explained. "There's going to be a lot of collateral damage in the quarry. I doubt many villagers are coming home."

The implications were dark. But Ciri had asked the Grey Wardens to come. She'd known they didn't resort to half-measures in a Blight.

More red Templar corpses had awaited them up the hill, tucked like cordwood against the broken wall of an abandoned home. Five small houses in extreme disrepair all stood empty, surrounded by humming growths of lyrium. Inside the smashed walls and caved-in roofs, furniture and belongings were left abandoned to the elements.

Had their occupants fled to the village below when Mistress Poulin sold the quarry to the red Templars? Or were they among the first to be taken?

Had one of them been the body in the prison cart?

Ciri shuddered in remembrance.

And at the top of the hill, they'd found the keep they stood before now, tall and grim and oppressive. If Ciri craned her head back to look, she could spot glowing red pillars up above. Hardly a good sign.

"On the bright side, we're as rested as we can be," Olgierd said. He inclined his head at the darkened entrance. "Shall we?"

"We shall."

Ciri unsheathed Gynvael and stepped into the passage. Gravel and loose stones crunched and shifted beneath her boots, and she suppressed a wince. There'd be no stealth in their approach.

Empty prison carts lined the dim passageway. Whether they'd just arrived with victims for Imshael or were waiting to leave to collect more, she couldn't begin to guess. But either left a sour feeling in her stomach, and she adjusted her grip on her sword hilt as her head gave a violent throb.

The passage bent, carrying them past more empty carts, and finally opened out into a snowy courtyard with a pair of staircases at the far end. A barrier fell over her at once as the red Templars within spotted them.

"Kill them!" one of the Templars cried.

A pair of arrows flew past Ciri to impale the archer at the top of the stairs. Lightning sizzled and cracked in the clear sky, arcing down to strike a red Templar with a tower shield. Rainier drew his sword with a rasp of steel on leather and strode out to meet him.

Ciri brought her blade up and took a quick step to the side as a sword streaked toward her. She parried and twisted away, flicking Gynvael out to slash at the Templar's sword arm. He caught the strike on his crossguard and knocked it back, returning the strike heavily.

She dodged, just a hair slower than usual. Still fast enough. Gynvael sliced through leather and into mail with a screech of metal against metal as she darted back in for another strike. The Templar staggered and cursed, swinging his sword at her wildly. She ducked its arc and struck again, the blade sinking deep.

The Templar clutched his side and stumbled, his sword falling from his hand, and Ciri thrust her sword into his chest with a grunt of effort. He toppled back onto the snow, his acrid, strange-smelling blood staining the ground around him scarlet.

She looked up from the body to see Rainier deliver a hard blow to the armored neck of his opponent, the tower shield long since discarded. The other two red Templars were nothing more than crumpled masses of black and crimson marring the snow. Rainier's opponent fell with a choked gurgle, clutching his neck. The sound cut off abruptly as an arrow flew through the helmet's eye slit.

Ciri took deep, even breaths and rubbed at her forehead. "Everyone alright?"

"We're as well as can be expected," Solas said. "Warden Rainier, should we take our potions now or later?"

"Take it now," Rainier advised. He cast a worried look over them and nodded firmly. "The lyrium muddles it, but I can sense worse up ahead, and the effect is cumulative. Purge it from your systems before we go deeper in."

Ciri dug into her belt pouch for the little vial of potion Warden Rees had given her and uncorked it, tipping it to her lips. She gagged again as she swallowed. The harsh taste puckered her mouth and scoured her tastebuds raw. All around her, quiet sounds of choking and sputtering filled the courtyard.

Olgierd just grimaced. "I'm sure I've had worse. Doesn't readily come to mind, though."

The pounding in Ciri's head began to ease slightly as the potion settled in her stomach. She rubbed her forehead again, feeling the pulsing pain behind her eyebrow slowly fade further. She took another deep breath and looked around.

The muscle wasn't jumping quite so badly in Solas' clenched jaw, and Mihris and Mahanon's pallor was ever so slightly improved, though the deep shadows beneath their eyes remained. Olgierd's brow was still furrowed and tense—Ciri suspected it had as much to do with what awaited them as it did the blighted lyrium.

"Come on," she said at last, the words dragging themselves from her reluctantly. "It won't get any easier if we wait."

They made their way past the corpses and up the stone stairs. A handful of empty Templar-red tents greeted them, their roofs dusted with snow. Ciri led the way past them down the overgrown, tree-lined path. Another prison cart stood abandoned by the farthest tent. Behind the snow-laden trees, high, sturdy walls loomed. She could see why the red Templars had taken the keep as a base—only one way in, and with such defenses? It was practically unassailable.

So why weren't there more red Templars?

Solas and Olgierd ducked their heads into the tents as they passed. At the sixth tent, Solas held up his hand for Ciri to stop walking and went inside. After several seconds, he came back out with a crumpled parchment and a dark frown.

"You should read this," he told her.

Rainier intercepted it as he handed it over. "You shouldn't touch their things. It's all blighted." He cleared his throat and began to read aloud. "'Writing has become difficult. There is a sharp pain in my hands when I move them, like shards of glass in my knuckles. When I look in the mirror, I don't recognize myself. I remember when Lieutenant Erasmus got this way. He looked like a living corpse, his complexion a facsimile of the blush of life. Instead of blood, it was pulsing red lyrium. It killed him and kept him alive at the same time.'"

"These poor bastards," Malika muttered. "Warden Velanna said that ghouls know that they're declining. It's an ugly way to go. But these idiots—they did it to themselves."

"Owain said that some of them probably only stayed with the Order because of their addiction, or because they were given to them so young, they didn't know anything else. It's their superior officers I blame in those cases," Ciri said.

Solas inclined his head at the parchment in Rainier's hand. "That's not the pertinent part. Keep reading."

"'I don't want this anymore,'" Rainier read. "'It gave me power, but it goes against everything I was taught. Sometimes I am swept along with the fervor, but in quiet, I remember what I was, and what I believed.

"'Some say Imshael can cure us. He can pull the red lyrium from our bodies, if we ask him. But there's a price. No price would be too high. I just want to be myself again.'"

"So Imshael is playing with his allies as well," Mihris said. "Templars are trained to guard against the dangers of demons, aren't they? I think you Wardens are correct. The blighted lyrium is causing a cognitive decline if they would think to ally with a Forbidden One."

Something hard and hollow lodged behind Ciri's sternum. "This man…he could have come to us. Left the red Templars and sought amnesty. We have the lyrium cure."

"Triss and Evelyn were constantly healing Commander Cullen and Captain Rylen for days when they took it," Solas said gently, "and those two had stopped taking lyrium months earlier. The lyrium cure would likely kill a red Templar. And on the off chance that it didn't, they would still be left tainted by the Blight."

"He's right," Olgierd said. "You can't save everyone, Ciri."

He'd said that before, on more than one occasion. The truth of it stung just as much now as it had then.

"I hope whatever price Imshael demanded wasn't too high," she murmured, and she turned away to head up the short flight of stairs beyond the last tent.

Sturdy cages made of wrought iron and solid stone blocks met her eyes as she cleared the last step. A large mound of something lay within the nearest cage. It gave off the faint whine and hazy red glow of blighted lyrium.

Malika strode closer and picked up a discarded letter off a crate set to the side. "'…Last one entered a savage frenzy from the lyrium…. Once the red lyrium takes hold, their strength increases, but it makes them even more difficult to leash…. I may have to recommend setting aside the entire experiment…. Surely the behemoth serves our purposes?'" She crumpled the letter and let it fall to the ground. "Pricks. Behemoths were them once."

"Love," Rainier said gravely. "Look behind you."

She craned her head around to stare at the lyrium-riddled mound for a long moment. Then she swore, loud and long and furious.

Ciri ventured as close as she dared, and when she saw the tusks and the oversized limbs, she understood the urge to curse. "Oh, brilliant."

"Blighted fucking giants." Rainier shook his head. "Is this all of them?"

"Two cages, two giants," Malika said, pointing to the second cage holding an identical carcass. "Let's hope so."

Mahanon fingered his bow and narrowed his eyes. "And prepare for otherwise."

Malika dropped her hand to the sack at her waist. "Should we?"

"Better not waste it on a body," Rainier told her. "Can you sense it deeper in?"

She nodded and clenched her fist. "Right."

Ciri gritted her teeth as they walked past the cages, the nearly inaudible hum sending a fresh twinge through her head. She tried and failed not to wonder what the previous occupants of Suledin Keep had needed such a sturdy open-air jail for.

They passed beneath a thick stone archway that led to another tree-lined passage. The snowy path between the trees lining the high walls curved sharply to the left, and with only one way forward, they followed, the snow and loose stones crunching quietly beneath their feet. A tall, elegant statue of an elven archer, his granite clothes falling in smooth folds from his eternally outstretched arm, pointed the way.

Ciri looked down the path. It was lined with identical elven statues. Suledin Keep must have belonged to an elven noble before the fall of the Dales, then. Surprising that they'd kept the statues—unless they considered them war prizes.

Loud, heavy stomping came from up ahead, and they drew to a wary halt.

"Oh, fuck me running," Malika said under her breath. "Stone take the duster who got my clan exiled from Orzammar. They don't have giants there."

"Hurlocks, genlocks, ogres, shrieks," Rainier rattled off. "And I hear the food's shit if you aren't noble. Lichen and deep mushroom. Nug if you're lucky."

She laughed nervously and slipped her hand into his, giving it a brief, hard squeeze. "Don't get killed by that thing, okay, handsome? The Randy Dowager just released her latest quarterly, and I'm not done with you yet."

He chuckled. "With that sort of incentive, I don't think anything could keep me down for long."

"Good."

"Let us wear it down before you engage it," Solas said. He gestured to himself and Mihris, then to Malika and Mahanon. "The giant in the Western Approach was deadly even without being driven mad by red lyrium. This warrants extreme caution."

The ground shook slightly at another stomp. "We'll take care," Ciri told him. "Stay safe, everyone."

They went farther down the path cautiously, weapons drawn. As they crested the slight rise and began to head downhill, the source of the stomping and shaking ground caught sight of them at the same time they spotted it.

Twenty feet tall. Yellowed tusks and long, batlike ears. A gangly, furry body with a paunchy stomach. A single, beady blue eye. And a haze of red around its head that Ciri could see even from a distance.

It roared and pounded toward them. Twin arrows flew and impacted its thick hide right in its bulbous stomach, and it swatted at them irritably. Solas' heavy green spell smashed through the air and collided with the giant with a crash, knocking it back a half-step. Shards of ice from Mihris and flames from Olgierd followed.

Ciri unclasped her agate pendant and passed it to Olgierd hurriedly. "Quickly."

It howled with rage and pain, flailing its massive hands at the arrows stinging it like bees. Olgierd nodded and wrapped his hand around the bright agate.

A single thick bolt of lightning, blindingly white and scorching hot, shot down to strike the giant cleanly between its batlike ears. It swayed and moaned, nearly falling to its knees before staggering toward them, arms outstretched.

Solas cast a barrier and stepped back, drawing Mihris with him.

The ground trembled beneath Ciri's feet as she tensed and brought her sword up. Then, with another large, unsteady step, the giant was in their midst.

She lunged for its nearest leg, lashing out hard with Gynvael at the tendons at its heels. Spellfire and arrows flew all around her as it roared and kicked out, blood spraying across the snow. She rolled clear and came up with her blade ready to strike again. By its other leg, Rainier cursed and hacked gracelessly at its other thick calf, ducking a heavy swipe of an oversized hand.

"Mind its reach!" Olgierd called out.

"I noticed, thanks," Rainier called back, each word bitingly sarcastic.

Olgierd's saber cleaved into the giant's calf muscle as Ciri's strike severed its tendon, and it swayed and toppled with an agonized howl. They scrambled clear as it plummeted to the ground, then rushed back in to slash and thrust at its more vulnerable places, darting and dodging away from its flailing hands.

Another volley of arrows and elemental spells flew past them to hit the downed giant, and it howled as an arrow sank into its solitary eye. Ciri twisted around its grasping left hand, ducked under its wildly thrashing right, and swung Gynvael across its bared neck. She scampered back from the blood-soaked death throes to catch her breath.

"Neatly done," Olgierd said as he came up beside her. He dropped her pendant back in her hand. "I believe we've found the limits of that spell, as well. Can kill a man stone dead at two hundred paces, can kill any number of beasts or monsters. But it can't kill a giant."

Ciri wiped the foul-smelling blood off her blade in the snow at their feet and sheathed Gynvael before fastening her pendant around her neck again. "It didn't kill Corypheus, either. Maybe there's something about the Blight making them resistant? Or their size?"

"I'm not the man to ask. Triss might have a thought on the subject, if you're curious."

"I might do that." She looked over the others and nodded to herself at seeing them all uninjured. "Everyone's well? Good. Let's keep moving."

The path past the corpse of the giant sloped downhill further. The trees grew denser, the undergrowth tangled. The bare branches met above their heads in a way that likely offered beautiful shade in spring and summer, but in late winter only looked like dead, withered arms reaching for each other.

It curved around, then curved around again. The nagging twinge in Ciri's head grew stronger, and Malika and Rainier drew ahead in silent agreement. Around the next corner, the answer to the renewed pain made itself clear with the corpse of yet another blighted lyrium tainted giant, rotting away inside a Templar-red tent. Ciri breathed a faint sigh of relief that they were spared another grueling fight, though she couldn't help but fear what was in store for them ahead.

They hurried on, faint stomping and the sounds of jangling armor drifting their way on the freezing wind. Ciri drew her sword again and resisted rubbing her forehead.

They'd survive this. They had to.

Ciri leaned against the freezing cold stone wall and held her hand to her pounding head. "Is everyone alright?"

"I'm fine," Olgierd said. "Rainier?"

"Got pummeled by that blasted behemoth," Rainier muttered. "Solas, if you wouldn't mind—"

"I'll heal Mahanon," Mihris said. "That red Templar with lyrium growths for limbs slashed his arm open."

Solas went to Rainier as Mihris tended to Mahanon, both of them dispensing potions and salves and wrapping cuts in bandages. Mahanon hissed under his breath, then flexed his arm experimentally.

"Better?" Mihris asked.

"Hm. It'll have to be." Mahanon grimaced. "Thank you, lethallin."

Solas nodded to him and looked around. "Anyone else?"

"I'm fine as well," Ciri said. "It's just that damned headache again."

"We'll take care of that," Malika assured her. "Come on, handsome. Time to get to work."

The two Wardens went methodically from cluster to cluster with the rune-inscribed stakes and potion flasks. Rainier set the sharp tip of the hollow stake against a pulsing red lyrium cluster and shoved with a grunt of effort, thrusting it in and sending fragments of red lyrium falling to the ground at their feet. Malika followed with the wheat-colored potion, tipping it into the shaft and stepping back.

"There," Rainier said in satisfaction. "It ought to clear up in an hour or so."

Malika hefted her diminished sack of potions and looked at the towering wood and iron door at the end of the courtyard. "No prizes for guessing what—or who—is on the other side of that. We'd better stash these someplace safe, just in case."

"Aye," Rainier agreed. "I saw that note in the larder. Bastard calls himself a 'gardener'." He tightened his grip on his sword hilt. "He'll have his 'garden' in full bloom around him. Take care, all of you. We need to end this fight quickly."

"End the fight against a legendary Forbidden One quickly," Mahanon said. "Right. No trouble at all."

"You get sarcastic when you're in pain," Malika said, and Mahanon glared and flexed his arm gingerly again.

Olgierd drew himself up and nodded to Ciri gravely. "Onward?"

"Onward."

She led the way up the snow-dusted stone steps to the heavy door and pushed it open. Immediately she recoiled at the whine of blighted lyrium that pierced her skull like a nail. All around the area ahead, massive red lyrium growths shot up in towering vertical crystals like strange, oppressive decorations, marching evenly around the courtyard. And in the center, by another red lyrium cluster, an unassuming man stood waiting.

He had a pale, blandly handsome face, the sort one would forget in a crowd, topped with shaggy brunet hair. He wore mage robes in dull colors, a deliberate palette of brown and gray. The only thing unusual about him were the exaggerated dark circles beneath his pale blue eyes.

"Ah, the hero arrives," he said mockingly. His voice was harsh and grating. He cast his gaze across her companions and his eyes lit with delight. "And she brings old friends! My, what a delight. And I thought the chevalier down the hill was the only entertainment I'd have."

"You will answer for what you've done, Imshael," Mihris spat, her knuckles white around her staff.

"Will I really, little healer?" He cocked his head at her with a sharp smile. "Or will I ride your body to your new clan and see what I make of them? We were so cozy together, after all."

Mihris shuddered. "Never. Never again."

Mahanon nocked an arrow to his bowstring and drew it back with an arm that trembled only slightly. "Leave her alone, demon, or this goes through your eye."

"Choice. Spirit," Imshael said irritably. He paused and added offhandedly, "Do you know what happened to your friend Felassan?"

Mihris went rigid. "You'd better not have touched him!"

"I? Touch the elf who so kindly let me go on my way?" Imshael pressed a hand to his chest in offense. "You slander me."

Mihris stayed silent, though anger and curiosity warred in her eyes.

"Ask," he coaxed her. "I won't even bargain for it."

"You cannot trust the words of a demon, da'len," Solas interrupted.

"A choice spirit," Imshael said again. "I wouldn't lie to dear little Mihris. Would I?"

"I wouldn't know," Solas said sternly, a note in his voice that was almost a warning.

Mihris forced the words out through gritted teeth. "What happened?"

"Oh, he's quite dead," Imshael said cheerfully. "A wolf got him."

Mihris let out a low cry of dismay, and Solas stiffened. Through her pounding headache, Ciri took note of Solas' reaction. A wolf… Fen'Harel? Or was it Solas acting in his stead? Why would he kill a Dalish elf?

Imshael turned from the elves in dismissal and looked Olgierd up and down, his smile growing. "And what have we here?"

"You're not him," Olgierd said. His voice was tense, and he rested his hand on his saber, ready to draw it at a moment's notice.

"Hmm." Imshael peered at him with narrowed eyes. "Is this better?"

Between one heartbeat and the next, the blandly handsome apostate disappeared, and an utterly average commoner took his place—shaved head, tan, blunt features, and irises so dark they were nearly a void.

"I think the other suits me better," he said in a completely different voice, this one lighter and almost drawling. "What do you think, von Everec?"

Olgierd's face drained of blood.

"My, my," Imshael continued. "I could take lessons from the one you tangled with. Decades of suffering, so much death, all because one man couldn't let go of his love. Truly spectacular work."

He started to whistle, a simple melody in a minor key, and Olgierd's hand flexed around the hilt of his saber.

"You're not him," he said again with an edge of desperation.

"Who, me? No. I am but a humble choice spirit, not a merchant of mirrors," Imshael said. "But you do like a bargain, don't you, von Everec—can I call you Olgierd? I feel very close to you, wearing this face."

"Then bloody take it off!" Olgierd snapped.

"I found the most unique spirit wandering Emprise du Lion," Imshael continued, undaunted. "A being of adventure who used to be one of my cohort. For some reason, he seems rather attached to you. Could it perhaps be the memories he's forgotten?"

"Vlod," Olgierd whispered. He drew his saber and leveled it at Imshael. "Leave him go."

"Ah-ah-ah, not so fast!" Imshael gently pushed the tip of the saber away from his chest. "I'm curious just how deep that brotherly love toward a spirit runs. You've had to choose between loved ones before—"

The saber swung back to rest against Imshael's neck. "Never threaten Josephine."

Imshael's borrowed face pulled into an expression of offended indignance. "I'd never threaten your lady! I never threaten. No, I'm more curious about your familial feelings. Who do you care for more, Olgierd? The spirit who replaced your beloved younger brother? The brother you already betrayed once? Or the young woman you've come to have such brotherly affection for?"

Olgierd breathed in heavily through his nose, his saber steady as a stone.

"Choose the Inquisitor, and Adventure will never recover those precious memories," Imshael said. "Choose Adventure, and I'll return him to you, hale and hearty, ready to ride alongside you on another splendid jaunt." His face split into a grin. "And, of course, Thedas will become a very interesting place without the Inquisitor in it. But what matters is you'll have dear old Vlodimir back. What do you say?"

"Enough jabber," Olgierd growled. "Time to die."

He swung his saber through empty space.

"That was rude." Imshael's voice echoed above their heads. "No bargains, then? Very well. You'll make excellent fertilizer for my garden."

A barrier dropped over Ciri as a screech broke the air. A terror demon appeared from out of nowhere and crouched low, bending its spindly legs to leap. Ciri braced herself for impact.

It flung itself into the air and came crashing down among them, scattering them in all directions. Ciri tucked into a somersault and rolled neatly away, coming up with Gynvael at the ready.

"If you won't be smart, then be scared!" Imshael called out. His voice seemed to come from all around them.

It screeched again, and Ciri's heart sped up against her will, her palms growing slick and clammy. Her head pounded like a drum at the hideous sound. She bit back a hiss of pain and lunged at it, her sword outstretched.

It batted her sword back with a gangly arm and lashed at her with long, yellowed claws. She spun away and darted back in to strike again. An arrow whipped past her to impale it in its narrow chest, and it screeched again.

Ciri ducked another swing of its claws and slashed at its concave stomach. Fire bloomed above her head, drawing pained shrieks from the demon. Another strike, and it dissolved into ichor.

"You will learn not to meddle!"

Heat seared her face as a rage demon took its place. All around the courtyard, the sound of creaking leather and clanking metal filled the air, and she hastily got clear to look around. Her stomach churned at the sight of a half-dozen dead red Templars, their bodies and faces missing clear chunks where red lyrium used to be, staggering forward with swords in hand and the light of possession in their empty eye sockets.

"They all came to me willingly!" Imshael called out. "They found the price worth paying! You should have taken my offer and left me in peace!"

Ciri and Olgierd left the fray to hold back the possessed corpses. The dead Templars swung their swords with unnatural strength, but the motions were jerky and stiff. Even exhausted and sore as she was, Ciri whirled around them with ease, her blade slicing deep into dead flesh.

Behind her, Mahanon yelled in pain. Ciri whipped Gynvael through the half-rotted neck of a Templar and spun around to see what had happened.

Rainier battered away at the rage demon, turtled up behind his shield. Solas jerked his staff forward and flung an icy spell at its shapeless head. Malika loosed arrows from a safe distance away.

Mahanon clutched his injured arm, his bow dangling from his fist. The skin beneath his hand looked burned and blistered. Mihris rushed to his side and set her hand on his forearm, soft light emanating from her palm.

Ciri turned away to find another dead Templar. There was nothing she could do.

"Don't think I've forgotten you, Olgierd," Imshael taunted. "Adventure so wanted to help you. Here. Let's see if you can remind him of the good old days."

Olgierd cut down the last red Templar corpse with a brutal slash and jerked around. "Whoreson!"

Between heartbeats he appeared, his eyes blank and black. He looked just as Ciri had seen him last, in his valiant charge toward the towering white spider demon in the Fade. Close to seven feet tall, lilac-skinned, with curling, jeweled horns on either side of his half-shaven lock of dark brown hair. His Redanian robe shimmered and flashed with a dozen glorious, unnamable colors.

And he headed straight for Olgierd, his saber unsheathed and his face devoid of recognition.

"No one harm him!" Olgierd shouted as he brought his saber up to parry Adventure's blow. "Vlod, for fuck's sake!"

Ciri hesitated, desperate to help him, terrified it would make things worse.

"Go help the others!" he called to her as he knocked aside another heavy swipe of Adventure's blade. "Adventure, Vlodimir, brother—look at me. You know me."

Ciri rushed back to the rage demon with a pit in her stomach, Olgierd's pleas in her ears. Fear put strength behind her strike, and Gynvael cut deep into the rage demon's molten middle, sizzling and steaming where ice met fire. It roared and turned on her in fury and pain, spitting embers at her armor.

She flinched at the heat and struck again.

"You found my dreams in Ostwick a year and—"

The demon clawed at her mail jacket, and she darted back a step as a spell flew past her head.

"—a half ago. You introduced your—ah, fuck—self to me at the Harrowing! You rescued us in the Fade! Do you remember none of this?"

"His mind is not his own!" Solas shouted to Olgierd. "He cannot help his actions!"

"Figured that out myself, thank you, but I can't break the—shite—the bloody binding while he's attacking me! Vlod!"

The rage demon let out a final roar at Ciri's last strike, and it collapsed into a smoldering puddle of ichor at her and Rainier's feet.

Mihris screamed in shock and horror as Mahanon let out another cry of agony. Ciri spun to face her and cried out as well. Imshael stood before Mahanon, a blandly handsome apostate once more. Blood oozed around his wrist as he dug his hand deeper into Mahanon's stomach.

"Time to make a bargain, little healer," he said. "Your stalwart protector? Or you?"

Mihris clapped her hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. She shook her head furiously.

"I'll sweeten the deal," Imshael coaxed. He gave his hand a cruel twist. Mahanon groaned as his knees buckled. "Whichever you choose, that irritating chevalier down the hill will die as well."

On the other side of the courtyard, Olgierd still swore and pleaded and parried Adventure's strikes, blind to the tragedy in the making.

Mihris' hand dropped, and her mouth worked soundlessly.

"I can't hear you," Imshael said, twisting his hand again.

Mahanon grunted. "She s-said. Nuva F-fen'Harel p-pala masa s-sule'd-din."

And with a jerk of his uninjured arm, he stabbed up at Imshael's throat with an arrow.

Mihris screamed again as Imshael dropped Mahanon limply to the ground to clutch his throat. Magic exploded from her hand in a torrent of white light. Imshael cursed and staggered, then extended his bloody hand toward her with a murderous look.

"You'll regret that."

Ciri dashed toward him. Pounding feet at her side told her Rainier was right beside her. She struck hard, then skidded back as a wave of force buffeted her, the pressure cutting like knives against her skin.

Solas' green spell slammed into Imshael as Ciri pushed forward. Rainier ducked behind his shield and slashed at the demon. Ciri's face stung from the sharp force, her head muddled and pounding from the red lyrium all around. Her sword swung down at Imshael. Another blast of white light flew from Mihris. Malika rained down arrows from her perch on the stairs.

"Xebenkek! Gaxkang! Give me strength!"

The sharp pressure dug into her. Her ears popped, and her face felt warm and wet. Still she fought. Dimly she heard Olgierd continue to plead with Adventure as her tired arms thrust and slashed.

A green-tinted boulder dropped out of nothingness to crash on top of Imshael, narrowly missing Ciri. It crumbled and broke back into nothing, and Imshael, battered and ragged, glared past her at Solas.

"You would kill me? You?"

Solas' answer was another green-tinted spell.

Ciri took advantage of his distraction, striking hard across the demon's spine. Imshael yelled and jerked forward in pain, only to meet another face full of white light from Mihris. A cluster of arrows buried themselves in his chest.

The knifelike pressure abruptly let up, and Ciri staggered. Imshael coughed and sank to his knees.

"A bargain," he said to her weakly, holding up his hands. "You let me live, and I tell you everything you need to know. About all your enemies."

Ciri steadfastly kept her eyes from straying to Solas. "I don't make deals with demons."

"Choice. Spir—"

His last word cut off abruptly as Rainier cut his head off with an unceremonious blow of his sword, and his body dissolved into ichor.

Mihris raced to Mahanon's side and fell to her knees, weeping. "No, no, nonono!"

"Ir abelas, da'len," Solas said softly. "He cared deeply for you."

"Mahanon! Mahanon!"

"Da'len, he is dead. You cannot heal him."

Ciri retreated from the scene of grief, a hard lump in her throat. She wiped at her face and found it wet not with blood, but tears.

Yards away, Olgierd stood facing Adventure, his saber held warily at his side. His quilted surcoat held a dozen bloody rents, and he wore an expression of cautious hope. Adventure, by contrast, looked entirely uninjured, though he seemed bewildered.

"How do I know you again?" he asked as Ciri drew closer. "You don't take me as a man I'd want to kill."

"I should hope not," Olgierd said. He looked up at Adventure for a long moment, clearly searching for the right words. "You found my dreams one night and took on the role of my brother. Stopped being Desire and became Adventure instead."

"Is that why?" Adventure tilted his horned head, wrinkling his brow as he tried to summon the missing memories. "I had wondered. It was much simpler being Desire, you know. Lust and sex and flirtation. Now it's all rush and excitement and following you around for some reason. Are you bad at fighting? Is that why I keep jumping in to help?"

Olgierd looked down at his bloodied chest wryly, then back up at the oversized spirit of adventure. "Possibly. Or you just enjoy a good brawl."

"Ha!" Adventure grinned down at him. His smile slowly faded. "I don't remember you. You—you're important, but I don't know why. I want to know, if I can."

"I suspect your answers are in the Fade," Olgierd said. "Can you find your way back without trouble?"

"It's no trouble at all," Adventure said with a hint of a boast. He hesitated, then dropped a lilac hand on Olgierd's shoulder. "And, ah, sorry about all that." He waved at Olgierd's injuries.

Olgierd laughed quietly and said, "I'd forgive you anything."

Adventure beamed at him and looked past him to Ciri. With a broad, almost Vlodimir-like wink, he disappeared where he stood. Olgierd stared at the empty space for a long, silent moment, then turned away, finally allowing himself to show pain with a single, subdued wince.

"Forgive me for not being of more help," he said as he caught sight of Ciri. "But you dealt with the whoreson?"

Ciri bit her lip. "We did. But Mahanon…"

"Ah. Damn that bastard."

They made their way back over to the others slowly, Olgierd's hand pressed to the worst of his injuries. Mihris' weeping had fallen silent when they reached them, though she still knelt by Mahanon's head, stroking his dark hair with trembling fingers. Solas came over with a dark frown, his eyes narrowing as he looked Olgierd up and down.

"This was avoidable."

"Not when I was doing my damnedest to keep from harming him," Olgierd countered. "If you would, Solas—please? I promised Josephine I'd return with no new scars."

"Of course." Solas gestured for him to disrobe.

Ciri crouched beside Mihris and laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Mihris."

"He stopped me," she whispered. "I don't… I don't even know what I was going to say. Who I was going to choose. But he was braver than me. He stopped me."

She hit the ground beside Mahanon's head with her clenched fist. "Fenhedis! Why did I come here? Why didn't I leave the past where it lay? Is this all that vengeance brings? The deaths of good people?"

Ciri didn't have an answer. She just squeezed Mihris' shoulder and hoped it offered some paltry comfort.

"Clan Lavellan will need to know," Mihris whispered. "Creators, how do I begin to tell them I got him killed? Will they even still have me after this?" She looked up at Ciri with wet eyes, then back down at Mahanon. "I... I need to go to them. Even if they turn me away."

"I understand." Ciri gave her shoulder another squeeze and stood up. "Good luck, Mihris. I hope life treats you more kindly in the future."

Mihris ignored her, her gaze locked on her fingers as they ran through Mahanon's hair.

Rainier beckoned Ciri toward the stairs where he stood with Malika, and she trudged over, every inch of her sore and tired. He gestured at the courtyard grimly. "Normally I'd say this would make a fine fortress for the Inquisition, but—"

"The only people who should be here are the Grey Wardens," Ciri interrupted. "Have your superiors write to Emperor Cyril asking to occupy it until the blighted lyrium has been cleared from the Emprise. The Inquisition wants nothing to do with this area."

Malika nodded. "We'll do that. And you look like a mile of bad road, Your Handiness. Time to clear out. No fussing with the stakes and the potions. I don't think you can handle being around it long enough for us to do that."

"Agreed," Ciri said firmly. "Let's gather the others and go."

She returned as Olgierd was putting his damaged surcoat on again. Rainier went past her to kneel by Mihris. Ciri couldn't make out his words, but after several seconds, Mihris got to her feet, and Rainier scooped up Mahanon's body in his arms, unheeding of the blood.

They made for a somber, silent procession back toward the entrance of the keep. In the late afternoon, the bare trees cast grasping, clawed shadows that seemed to drag at their heels as they walked by, and Ciri's head spiked with agony as they passed the blighted giant corpses again. The gravel and loose stone in the dark entryway were obscenely loud as they walked over them.

At last, freed from the keep, Ciri could breathe. She turned to Olgierd to speak and was promptly interrupted.

"Andraste's mercy. You actually did it."

Michel de Chevin jogged up, his armor spattered with ichor and an ugly bruise across his handsome face. His eyes widened as he took in Rainier's burden. "My condolences on your loss. Imshael sent a pack of shades to harry Sahrnia, and I was occupied with the fighting down below. But I am a man of my word. You succeeded, and I am here to surrender to your justice."

"No."

The word was soft. But it caught Ciri's attention at once.

"No?" Michel asked Mihris, raising his eyebrows skeptically. "After all that fuss you made?"

"My vengeance got my clanmate killed," Mihris said in exhaustion and misery. "I am done with vengeance. You wronged my clan. My clan wronged you. Ser Michel. You wish to protect innocents? Protect all innocents. The elves are your people, too. Do not forget that."

Michel faltered at that, indecisiveness written across his face. Then a change seemed to come over him, a softness almost, and he drew his sword and knelt. "I will not forget it. You have my word."

Mihris nodded silently as Michel got back to his feet.

"I would like to give Mahanon his funeral rites," she said softly. "Can we go back to camp now?"

"Of course, girl," Rainier said. "Lead the way."

They left Michel de Chevin behind, heading down the hill in a grim line. Ciri's head pounded like a drum, hammering in a nail behind her eyebrow. She stumbled over a rock in the path and nearly fell, only for Olgierd to catch her and keep a steadying arm around her shoulders for a few seconds.

Brotherly affection.

Something to consider when she didn't feel like her head would split in two, and when they weren't about to see to the last rites of someone they cared for.

This might have been necessary. They might have rid Thedas of a great evil. But the price had been far too high.

Nuva fen'harel pala masa sule'din: May the dread wolf fuck your ass until you die. (From Project Elvhen)