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Cullen walked the paths of Halamshiral, nodding to those he passed in what he hoped was a distant and forbidding manner. He had been told he naturally possessed those traits many a time, but he felt far from forbidding now, and the effort of seeming so was … exhausting.

He lost it entirely when he saw a sight he had never expected to see in the middle of Orlais—a man walking a mabari. Or, rather, being walked by one. Mabari went where they chose. Cullen couldn't help smiling. He'd always wondered what it would be like to have a dog, but Templars weren't allowed such ties.

"Fine animal you have there," he said, approaching the man holding the dog's leash.

"He is a nuisance." The expression on the man's face was a cross between a sneer and abject terror. "What the Fereldans see in these … creatures, I do not know."

Cullen raised his eyebrows. "Then why do you have him?"

"My master took him in trade. His owners thought he was a status symbol. They soon learned their error."

"How much?" The question surprised Cullen even as it came from his mouth. He was so rarely impulsive, always planning as far ahead as he could reasonably see. But … this felt right, here in this moment. The dog, abandoned here in Halamshiral, Cullen himself feeling increasingly lonely and isolated even within the Inquisition … He saw the dog's ears perk up at the question as if he understood it—and perhaps he did, who was Cullen to deny him intelligence—and the dog-walker's eyes brighten at the prospect of soaking a member of the Inquisition for coin. "Never mind. Just send your bill to Lady Montilyet, tell her it's to come from Commander Cullen's account." He had the satisfaction of seeing the avaricious gleam fade from the man's eyes. Bilking a Fereldan turnip was one thing, but putting one over on the Ambassador of the Inquisition, well known for her sharp trading skills, was quite another.

Still, the man was clearly glad to be free of the animal, and judging from the happy wagging of the stumpy tail, the feeling was mutual. The leash was transferred to Cullen's hand and the dog-walker took off as quickly as his dignity allowed.

Cullen looked down at the animal. "Will you follow?"

There was a happy bark, and Cullen loosed the leash. There, now. He would be quite forbidding enough with a trained mabari at his heels.

"We must find a name for you, ser, and set a training regimen. I don't know what your previous masters have taught you, but don't expect to slack off under my tutelage."

Another happy bark. Good. Cullen liked anyone who was willing to work.

They found a quiet corner of the gardens to begin the training … interrupted by many happy belly rubs, which the dog seemed to enjoy. He deserved it, Cullen reasoned. Time enough for a tough training regimen later.

A small voice, unexpected but familiar, interrupted their work. "I thought you two would find each other."

Cullen looked up and was struck speechless. Dagna. Here, at the Winter Palace. And his dog was basely abandoning him to push his muzzle under her hand for petting. "I … Another Fereldan trapped at the Winter Palace. It seemed fated."

"I think it was. Yes, ser," she said to the dog. "Fated. Wasn't it? Didn't I tell you the two of you would get along famously?"

The dog yipped.

"You …"

"I did nothing except make the leap that was obvious—that you need someone, and this gentleman might be the only being you would let in." There was a sharpness in her tone, an unhappiness and a bitterness that were completely foreign to the Dagna Cullen knew and—had been friends with for such a long time.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, knowing he had caused the change in her. "Well. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps …" He wanted to tell her that perhaps she had been right about other things, as well, but nothing had changed. He was still a damaged and darkened man who had no right to ask for the light she carried within her.

Something leaped to life in her eyes as he said the last word. "Perhaps, indeed." She patted the dog's head. "Take good care of him, salroka."

Before she could go, Cullen got to his feet. "What does that word mean?"

"Friend. You could use one. Or a few."

She disappeared down the paths. Cullen considered following her, but now was not the time. On the other hand, she was right. He could use a few more friends. "Come, Salroka. Let's see who else here could possibly use a friend."

The dog barked an agreement and fell into step beside him.

"Ah, dear boy. You've arrived." Teagan looked something less than relieved to see Alistair here, but he hadn't bothered to argue against his coming.

"Yes. I hope things are going well?" Alistair looked from Teagan to Divine Victoria and back. It was hard to picture the serenity of Her Perfection on a battlefield, as he had seen her so many times during the Blight. Spattered with blood, dripping with sweat, panting with exhaustion. He wondered if she missed it, or if she was happy with her achievements.

"Perfectly well." Leliana grasped his shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks, Orlesian-style. "He's not your choice for King, is he?" she whispered softly while doing so.

Alistair let her see his widened eyes in denial, pretending he was shocked at such intimacy from the Divine. "Such behavior, Your Perfection."

"One sees old friends so rarely. And even the Divine is also allowed to be human."

That hadn't been the position of most of the Chantry mothers of Alistair's experience, but he hoped Leliana's more relaxed standard would catch on.

"I have not seen the Inquisitor. Do we believe he's going to grace us with his presence?" Teagan demanded, looking around him with some irritation.

"I believe he arrived last night. Perhaps he has duties that are keeping him occupied?"

"Perhaps we can discuss Ferelden's position on the Council, Uncle."

"I thought you had intended to step back and allow more experienced heads to lead, nephew."

The two men looked at one another, Alistair with a sense of defeat. How was he to step down from the throne with men such as this in leadership roles? He didn't lead the country well, but at least he led for the country's sake and not his own. Teagan was as worn down by petty jealousies and intrigues as Eamon had been and, in Alistair's view, for less reason.

"The Inquisition has done good work," Leliana pointed out.

Forgetting who he was speaking with—or remembering her from the Blight—Teagan snapped, "The Inquisition has a standing army on Ferelden's borders."

"An army you have benefited from quite a few times." Hawke's cool voice came from behind Teagan. "Or have you forgotten that you abandoned Redcliffe to the mages and the bandits and sat waiting in Denerim until the Inquisition cleaned up your holdings for you?"

She, too, greeted Leliana, and then she took a position next to Alistair. They had enjoyed an enthusiastic reunion last night with as little talking as they could manage, but he could tell she was as disappointed as he was with the state of Ferelden politics.

"Today's ally is tomorrow's foe."

"A pessimistic and old-fashioned viewpoint, Uncle."

"Neither of which negates its truth. A power without allegiance to either country, poised at the border between them? Even you, Alistair, must see that neither Orlais nor Ferelden can let it rest."

"But demanding its dissolution? That's extreme, even for you."

"The Arl hopes to profit from the Inquisition being dismantled, Alistair," Lilias pointed out. "The men, the material—much of it must cross his lands when it comes down from Skyhold, and he intends to be enriched in the process."

Teagan narrowed his eyes at her. "You must keep better company, nephew. Or complete the process you have begun. But the current state of affairs is untenable." He spun on his heel and stalked off.

"Alistair, he is not wrong," Leliana observed, watching him go. "This unrest in Ferelden is bad for all of us."

"I know. But not one of them is fit to govern a country. I know, neither am I, but at least I care." Neither woman responded, and Alistair sighed, frustrated. "I'll work on it."

Leliana looked up, her eyes following the contours of the rooftops of the palace. "The first time I came here, I was eighteen. I was dazzled by the richness of the hangings, the splendor of the marble, the golden lions, more numerous than I could count." She shook her head. "It is all still here, as bright as ever … but I no longer see that same palace. Now all I can see are the knives in the shadows, the poison in the jeweled goblets. You are fortunate, Alistair, that you can still see things as they should be … but Ferelden needs a leader who sees things as they are."

"They're afraid," Lilias said softly. "Of the Inquisition, of the Inquisitor … Both are young, and new, and challenge the established ways of doing things. They fear the loss of their power."

"Will he give them what they want?" Alistair asked.

"He does not believe so … but he may have no choice. At least, not openly." With which cryptic comment, Leliana nodded at them and moved off.

"I was angry with you," Lilias observed.

"I know."

"But I see the problem now. I'm a Fereldan, too, and I don't want men like that running my country."

Alistair reached out and tucked her hand under his arm, holding her against him. "So what do we do?"

"I don't know."

Varric crumpled the piece of parchment in his hand, not sure whether to sigh or frown or throw a tantrum or get aroused. Bianca did that to a person.

Not understanding his gesture, Bran glared at him. "You cannot continue to ignore the Prince of Starkhaven."

"Oh, yes, I can. He was a stuffy pain in the rear when he was a Chantry brother, and he still is. Put that letter in the pile with the ones from the Merchants Guild."

His annoyance at Sebastian helped. Bianca had done much worse than be boring—he ought to be angry with her. Despite the way his heart had leaped when he saw that familiar writing, he couldn't forgive her this easily.

And he would tell her so, as soon as he saw her … which apparently was going to be at this Exalted Council, if he remembered the code properly.

This time he did sigh. Things worked themselves out so well on paper—you could encourage and nudge characters to do all sorts of things. But in real life, people were stubborn, and so were old hearts that had beat so long in the same tune they couldn't carry any other.

Thule was not looking forward to any part of these negotiations. Well, except the part where he enjoyed knowing the man these two major nations were trying to win over to their side used to be a common pickpocket. That part always amused him.

He was holding on to that feeling with both hands as he approached the Orlesian envoy, and was helped in retaining his good humor by recognizing the fabulously dressed Tevinter the envoy was speaking with. Thule hadn't seen Dorian in entirely too long.

"Orlais is on your side, Lord Pavus," the Orlesian was protesting as Thule joined them.

"I would hope so. The Inquisition's support is not a thing to be lost lightly. And yet the Orlesian court is circling it with a net and a collar," Dorian added sharply. He caught sight of Thule then, his face lighting. "Inquisitor! How long has it been? Don't tell me—I despise feeling old."

"I don't believe that word could ever apply to you, Dorian."

"You would be surprised, my friend. Have you met Duke Cyril Montfort?"

Thule bowed. "My lord."

"Inquisitor. I have long followed your work. It is extraordinary."

A handy word, in Thule's experience. It could mean so many things. "Thank you."

"Orlais would be pleased to offer the Inquisition its guidance."

"A generous offer, my lord, but the Inquisition prefers to set its own course."

Under his shiny mask, Duke Cyril's mouth turned down unhappily at that uncompromising answer. "Have care, Inquisitor. Statements so bold may give rise to equally bold replies, such as this: You do not wish Orlais to unite with Ferelden against you. Be aware of that possibility before you exercise your charmingly honest tongue again."

He bowed stiffly and stalked off.

Watching him go, Dorian shook his head. "Orlais wants the Inquisition tamed, Ferelden wants it gone, the Chantry wants to meddle."

"And Tevinter?"

Dorian laughed. "Tevinter wants me out of its hair. Hence, my newfound position as ambassador. A 'reward for my interest in the south'."

"How fortunate for you."

"Yes." The smile faded from Dorian's face. "There is … something I should make you aware of."

"Problems?"

"In a word. I … will need to return to Tevinter once the Exalted Council has ended. For good, this time."

"They need someone like you."

"Perhaps. At any rate, what they need is of little consequence." He looked down at Thule. "My father is dead. Assassinated, I believe."

"I'm sorry."

"As am I. I … didn't even see him when I was home, and now—now I never can. So, in the best tradition of prodigal sons, I intend to find my father's killers and kill them back."

"That's a worthy goal," Thule agreed. "Could you use some help?"

"Not this time, I'm afraid. I must work within Tevinter's restrictions, and you are much too charmingly blunt an instrument."

"Now you sound like Duke Cyril," Thule grumbled.

"Yes, but I say it with affection." Dorian rested a hand on his shoulder. "I do appreciate the offer."

"It stands, should you change your mind."

"Thank you."

Dorian gave his shoulder a squeeze and moved off, always uncomfortable with sentiment. Thule began to make his way back toward the tavern but stopped when he saw a familiar tall, graceful figure standing at the end of the path. Cassandra. At last.