It appeared that while Amell had been sick and unconscious, the caravan had finally left the forest. They were traveling over wide open plains now, flat and marked only by the occasional shrub.

Amell's only regret was that there was no visible water source, because she smelled like lyrium, ash and illness; it was an odor that seemed to upset the oxen. Oh, she could try to produce water herself, but she hadn't cast any magic since her little blow-up against the fae and she was afraid of what would happen when she did. In the end, Sorrel managed somehow to scrounge up a bucket of water for her and Amell washed herself as best she could, using a rag. It was not as good as a bath, but she no longer smelled like a failed magic experiment.

Still weak, she spent the day with Sorrel in her seat. The woman was strangely quiet and Amell did not mind this at first, as she was too tired to have to talk to anyone, but at some point, the issue would have to be addressed.

"So, Dyson has magic," Amell broached the topic.

Sorrel didn't reply at first. She instead looked grimly ahead.

"So do you," the woman said eventually, squaring her jaw. "I know you do. I recognize lyrium overdose when I see it."

"You-- what?"

"I know you're a mage," Sorrel continued. "A powerful one, I'd guess. Apostate, maybe. But that doesn't matter. You know what would happen to Dyson if the Chantry discovered him. You know the kind of life Circle mages lead, always watched, always controlled, always suspected..."

"Yes, I know," Amell said amazed. "But why do you?"

Sorrel was silent.

"Sorrel, Dyson isn't the only one with magic, is he?"

"...Maybe."

"You lived in a Circle Tower, didn't you?"

"Not for very long."

"Is Dyson even really your brother?"

"He's... family."

Amell sighed. She had no idea what Sorrel even meant by that, and this whole mess was complicated enough. Apostate. Sorrel, of all people!

"How long have you been on the run?" she asked low, after glancing around and making sure nobody was listening. It was an unnecessary precaution. There was no one close enough to hear and even less people curious about the conversation between two women.

"Since before Dyson was born."

"Fourteen years?"

"Thirteen and a bit."

"And the Templars haven't found you yet?"

"I destroyed my phylactery."

"Oh? And how old were you?"

"Twelve."

Amell frowned.

"I had help, of course," Sorrel shrugged.

"You could have waited until you were older. You would have had more of a chance of survival."

"No. No, I couldn't have. You don't know."

Obviously I don't, Amell thought. But what, in particular, don't I know?

"Things would have only gotten worse," Sorrel whispered despondently. "I made the right choice."

"What made you leave?" Amell asked softly.

"I had to go before the baby was born."

Amell was about to ask what baby, before she had a sudden and ugly insight into Sorrel's situation. She felt bile rise in her throat, and it had nothing to do with her recent illness.

She'd been twelve at the time.

"You could have told someone about..." Amell started, too horrified to even finish the sentence.

"No. He was a Templar." Sorrel laughed humorlessly. "If I'd have told anyone about him, who do you think they would have believed? An unimportant little mage apprentice, or a Templar, claiming I was a demon and that I seduced him?"

Amell felt physically sick at the thought. She remembered a fellow apprentice named Myrah. She remembered when Myrah became pregnant and the whispers that ensued afterward. The dorms were buzzing with speculation about the identity of the father, but Myrah was tight-lipped about the entire thing and reacted to any questions with borderline hostility. Amell remembered how even she was curious about it, and she'd asked Jowan if anyone in the male apprentice dorms was taking credit for the deed, as it were. Jowan had shrugged, indicating that the ordeal was just as much a mystery there as in the girls' dorm. Then, Myrah had her baby and it was taken by the Chantry and soon enough, interest waned in the small scandal.

And then there was Wynne. Wynne said she had a son, hadn't she? Amell couldn't help but wonder at the circumstances surrounding that pregnancy and now, her entire life at the Circle was put into an entirely new, much more sinister light. She'd never been actively afraid of Templars-- she certainly made sure she was on her best behavior around them and she knew enough to avoid drawing their attention, but they were more a part of everyday life at the Tower. Part of the scenery. She never felt threatened by them, possibly because the worst she'd received during her apprenticeship was a cuff over the head when she'd stuck her tongue out at Gregoir's back once and a Templar saw her. And now, to consider the fact that Templars had such power over the mages they watched, and to have proof that they could very well abuse that power and get away with it--

Amell was silent for a long time, mulling over this.

"Who helped you destroy your phylactery?" she asked after a while, recalling the difficulties she, Jowan and Lily had faced.

"Reverend Mother Allina," Sorrel replied with a fond smile. "She was a kind soul. She... found me crying one day. I think she knew right away I wasn't crying for childish reasons. Once she knew about... once she knew, she arranged for my escape. And destroyed my phylactery. I never knew what became of her after that. I assumed she must have been punished, but..."

Sorrel reached into a satchel and pulled out a crumpled envelope.

"She wrote to me recently," Sorrel said, frowning down at the paper. "She is asking for my help. I don't know how she found me in Cumberland, but... I have to go."

"It might be a trick to catch you. It might not have even been the Reverend Mother who wrote you," Amell pointed out.

"No, I think it's her. But even if this is a trick, I still have to go. I owe her too much," Sorrel shook her head.

Amell tried not to sigh. If Sorrel and Dyson were discovered... Well, Dyson was still a boy and the Chantry would probably avoid killing him, but Sorrel was Apostate. Her fate would involve far less mercy.

* * *

It was mid-day when the caravan stopped again for the night, because they'd come across a village. Drust always stopped in this village and he was unwilling to continue past even if they still had plenty of daylight, claiming they were doing good time.

When Amell saw the enthusiastic greeting the local tavern wenches gave him, she suspected Drust might have had some ulterior motives behind the decision.

She climbed down from the wagon, swaying on her feet as she touched the ground. She hoped there was an inn in this village, because what she needed now was a hot bath and a proper bed. While the wagons found their way towards an open field to the edge of the village where they could set up for the night, she remained in the village square, watching them pass.

It wasn't a terribly large village. Just a bit bigger than Lothering. There also seemed to be no adequate reason for it to be here. It was in the middle of nowhere, as far as Amell could tell. No waterways, no crossroads. Perhaps there was some other significance to this spot, but she could not discern it right away.

A hand fell to her shoulder and interrupted her musings. She glanced sideways at Sten, but he was not looking at her. The conversation with Sorrel had been distracting, but now she became painfully aware of the fact that she was facing a shift in her relationship with Sten. It remained to be seen what direction that shift would take. She stood very still and silent, waiting to see what would happen with mounting apprehension.

"I have secured you a room at the village inn," he said.

"Thank you," Amell replied.

He looked as if he wanted to say something more (and how amusing was it that he could jump into a cluster of darkspawn and chop them apart without so much as blinking, but he needed to build up his courage for any emotional display?), so Amell waited. Eventually, he stretched his other hand out, showing her the object he was holding.

It was a painted skyball.

"Oh," she breathed and reached for the orb. She stopped short, however, giving him a hesitant look.

"You wanted to know what had happened to it. I found it in your pack," he said by way of explanation, still avoiding eye contact.

Amell remembered, though up until then she thought that conversation had been a dream. She took the polished stone and smiled at him.

"Thank you."

"It was no trouble at all," he said, finally looking at her.

She felt a blush creeping over her face, but refused to squirm. There was something soft in Sten's expression and it warmed her to know that it was something reserved only for her. She wanted to kiss him again, properly this time, but they were in the middle of the village, with people all around and she had no idea if he'd be open to the idea. That, and he was a head taller than her and reaching would be difficult.

"Will you be coming to the inn as well?" she asked, tilting her head.

"I... Yes, I suppose I will."