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The ride to the Exalted Plains was a long one, although the worst part was coming down the mountains from Skyhold. The road wasn't completed—on the Orlesian side, it had barely been started—and the horses had to pick their way carefully along the narrow paths. Blackwall thought it had quite likely been a mistake to bring the Iron Bull along with them; the big Qunari required a massive horse, and his animal was far less agile than the other three. But the Iron Bull was also well aware of the limitations, and he got down and walked, slogging through the snow in his battered boots, fairly frequently, leading the horse through some of the worst parts … and only occasionally snagging his horns on low-hanging branches and inconveniently placed rock formations.

It was a relief to be on the roads of Orlais … or it would have been if Blackwall hadn't felt the need to keep tugging on his beard, reassuring himself that Blackwall covered Thom Rainier thoroughly enough that even his own men were unlikely to recognize him. He knew, though, and nothing would take that uneasy awareness of what he had done away.

Fortunately, the Exalted Plains were broad and windy and largely unpopulated, and those who did live there occupied small villages and had likely never been away from them.

The biggest town of the lot had nearly been destroyed by demons and Venatori, and while the population remained hidden, from their corners and crevices curious eyes stared at the Inquisition's people—beautiful but delicate Bridget with her flashing green hand; the Iron Bull, huge and exotic and scary; Blackwall himself, with his bushy beard, looking as though he had spent a lifetime in the woods; and Sera, bouncing around in her tattered clothes, giggling at everything. Together, they made a grouping the citizens of the Plains wouldn't soon forget.

Especially when they found a rift in the center of town, spewing demons. Immediately, they got to work, Sera with her arrows, the Iron Bull and Blackwall with their swords, and Bridget using the Anchor to close the rift. It took some work, but eventually they got it closed, and the demons killed, and the townspeople began to come out of hiding, slowly, a few at a time.

They were hesitant to approach Bridget, but she went toward them, smiling, speaking softly in Common. It was a halting conversation, because only some of the villagers spoke Common; most of them spoke only Orlesian. Blackwall understood them, of course, but he wasn't certain how he would explain his fluency in the language. "I wasn't always a Grey Warden" would take him only so far.

"You might as well go help out," the Iron Bull said. "I can see you want to."

"Why don't you? You've worked in Orlais."

"Is there anything more suspicious than a Qunari who speaks your language?" He gestured with his chin at a young woman with a baby on her hip, and she fled in terror just because he looked at her. "She would never believe I knew Orlesian for any purpose that wasn't harmful. But you … you could be anyone. You probably are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you talk about Grey Wardens and honor and sacrifice and griffons, but you're still not convinced."

Blackwall took a breath, not wanting that damnably sharp single eye to see how close to the heart the words had come. "I'm not?" he said lightly.

"You know what I mean."

"And you can tell because?" He really wanted to know. It was an open secret that the Iron Bull was a Qunari spy; Blackwall was curious as to what it was about him that tipped a seasoned spy off to there being more—or, rather, less—to him than met the eye.

The Qunari grinned widely. "I'm a people person."

Blackwall rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."

"That, too. Now go help the Inquisitor speak to these people so we can all get out of here."

He did so, making his Orlesian a bit more halting than it really was. It helped that he wasn't familiar with the particular dialect they used here, so he did have to stop and think about inflections and specific wording. Eventually, they managed to get the locations of some other rifts from the villagers. They were also warned about a clan of Dalish camped along the river, told to keep their distance.

As they left the village, the people already coming out and getting started cleaning up and rebuilding, Bridget said, "What is it they don't like about the Dalish?"

Sera laughed. "You're serious?"

"Yes."

"They're elves, for one. They're elves who don't live the way people think elves should live, for two. And they hate everyone who isn't a fancy nature-loving stream-pissing can't-get-over-themselves elf, for three." Sera spat on the ground. "Don't blame the villagers. Or the Dalish. None of 'em can see over their noses."

Bridget frowned, trying to make her way through the tangle of Sera's comments. "So, we should go see the Dalish? Or … we shouldn't?"

"We should go, boss, but we should be prepared for them to spit in our faces," the Iron Bull explained.

"Oh. Well, that'll be a new experience, I suppose." Bridget squared her shoulders and moved on ahead. The Iron Bull went with her, his horned head bobbing along so far above hers it was almost comical. Blackwall could hear him talking, giving her pointers on how to not piss off the Dalish.

"You really don't like them much, do you?" he asked Sera.

"Who, the prissy elves with their … elfyness? Not hardly. Better than nobles, though."

"Anything's better than nobles," Blackwall agreed. "Sitting in palaces, sipping fine wine while people starve outside their gates. Letting good soldiers die in senseless wars over who gets the fancy chair."

Sera stared at him, her big eyes wide. "You tell 'em, beardy."

Blackwall realized he had probably said too much, and he tried to reel himself back in. "Still … better to have them on your side than not. Dogs, all of them … and even the primped and powdered ones have teeth."

"Yeah, but they have leashes, too. They just don't know they do. But you give a copper to the right laundress, and won't they jump." Sera giggled.

"Good point."

A group of elven hunters were ahead of them now, fighting off a pack of demons. Bridget hurried ahead to help, the others with them, and after a brief scuffle the demons were down. The elves thanked them gravely, and sent a message along to the Dalish clan's Keeper, should Bridget and the others run into the clan. Blackwall was reminded of his occasional meetings with the Dalish when he lived in the forests. They were polite enough, as long as you kept yourself to yourself, but not forgiving of trespassers. He wondered how the clan would react.

They had reached the river now, making their way upstream. Bridget stooped every now and again to pluck some spindleweed and elfroot and embrium and tuck them away in her pack. For potions, Blackwall presumed. He bent to pick up a rock, turning it over in his hands, and then he caught up to her and gave it to her. "Here."

"A rock?" She raised an eyebrow at him.

"It's obsidian. Good solid material. Harritt'll like it."

Bridget smiled. "I'm sure he will … but won't it get awfully heavy, toting bags of rocks around everywhere we go?"

"Maybe not bags. Maybe just a few really nice ones."

She nodded. "I suppose it can't hurt." Her eyes lifted, meeting his, and he could see a shadow in her blue eyes. He had hurt her, there on the battlements, and he cursed himself for a clod and an idiot.

But before she could speak, the Iron Bull bellowed back to them, and Bridget hurried to catch up with him.

They had found the Dalish camp, and the elves stared at them as they walked in. Many of the stares were reserved for Sera, Blackwall noticed. There was little love lost between Dalish and alienage elves, and since Sera claimed allegiance to neither, she failed to fit in anywhere. Except the Inquisition, Blackwall thought with an inward smile. The Inquisition seemed to have room for everyone.

A young lad had come up to Bridget, his eyes pinned to the flashing green mark on her hand. "You're the Inquisitor! I mean …" He raised his eyes to look her in the face, blushing.

"I am, indeed. Bridget Trevelyan. And what's your name?"

"Loranil. I've … I've heard so much about you and your Inquisition."

"Have you?" Bridget looked surprised, and then flushed a little. "I mean, I'm sure you have."

He smiled at her, forgiving her for the lapse. "There's talk even among the Dalish." He looked around, lowering his voice a little. "The clans worry about what it might mean for us. The Dalish, that is."

"I hope we welcome everyone, Loranil. Look, see, I even travel with a Qunari."

Loranil glanced at the Iron Bull. "Right. The way I see it, your Inquisition is the only thing trying to help the world."

"I'm doing my best." There was more of weariness in Bridget's sigh than Blackwall would have liked to hear.

"I wish I could be a part of it," Loranil blurted out.

"Good lad," Blackwall commented, nodding approvingly. "The world doesn't change without people to change it."

"Yes, that's it exactly! But it won't happen." He glanced over at a man in long, flowing robes who was making his way through the camp toward them. "Keeper Hawen won't allow it. He doesn't trust—"

"Anyone," Sera said with a loud, impatient sigh. "We know."

Loranil nodded, scuffing the ground with the toe of his boot, refusing to meet Sera's eye.

"If you like, I could talk to your Keeper," Bridget suggested.

Blackwall wished they'd brought Solas along. Although Solas didn't seem any more one thing or the other than Sera was. But Bridget could manage, he was sure of it.

Loranil was less so, but eventually he agreed that she should at least ask the Keeper.

The prospects didn't look good, Blackwall thought, surveying the Keeper's frowning face. "My patience is thin, with all that has befallen," he said. "Perhaps you should be on your way."

"I wanted to introduce myself," Bridget said. "I'm Bridget Trevelyan, with the Inquisition."

Blackwall wondered when she would be comfortable introducing herself as the Inquisitor, although here the more humble assertion probably made her look better to the Keeper.

Keeper Hawen crossed his arms over his chest, not exactly inviting Bridget to continue … but not asking her to leave, either.

"What has befallen your clan?" she asked.

"The Orlesian war," he spat, "and the demons. They hinder our progress. The armies cause rockslides; they dig ditches that trip the halla and destroy the aravels, making passage impossible. The demons frighten the halla and menace the people. And now the grounds of Var Bellanaris are infested by angry spirits from the Beyond."

"I have some experience with spirits. If you'll point me in the direction of Var Bellanaris, I can take a look." She pronounced the unfamiliar words carefully, doing a good job of echoing the Keeper's pronunciation.

He nodded briefly. "My clan and I would be most grateful. But be mindful of the resting places of our dead. Var Bellanaris is sacred ground."

"I met a group of your hunters; they asked me to tell you that they are continuing to search for a safe route."

The Keeper's eyebrows rose in surprise. "They entrusted you with a message? That speaks well of you."

"We gave them some assistance with some demons," Bridget told him.

"I see. Then we owe you our thanks."

"I also … I was speaking with young Loranil, and he expressed an interest in joining the Inquisition."

Keeper Hawen sighed deeply. "Yes, I know he dreams of such a thing. But it cannot be. To send one of our young men out into the world, away from the ways of the People … No. I am sorry. Not while I am still uncertain of your intentions."

To Blackwall, it said a great deal that the Keeper had gone to the trouble to frame the refusal so politely. He would encourage Bridget to come back once they had cleared the spirits from the burial ground and ask again.

"I see. Thank you for your time, Keeper."

He nodded at her, and turned his back. The rest of the camp was busy, preparing to continue moving. Bridget spoke to several of them, giving freely from her store of elfroot and promising to have the Inquisition provide them with iron and leather once a camp had been set up in the Plains. Scout Harding was due out here with some of her people any day, Blackwall knew; the Dalish would have as much as they needed. He was pleased with that aspect of the Inquisition—whatever they had, they shared. And he had to think, however much he told himself that he was romanticizing her, that it came from the open mind and heart of the woman at the head of it. He was so proud of her. He only wished he could show her how much.

By the time they had reached Var Bellanaris and dealt with the demons there, it was dark. They made camp, the four of them, just outside the walls of the sacred space, roasting a rabbit Sera had shot with some onions Bridget had found growing wild and some of her herbs.

Blackwall looked up to find the Iron Bull looking at him questioningly. "Something on your mind?"

"What's the most limbs you've cut off something in one swing?"

Sera spat out a mouthful of rabbit, chortling aloud, and Bridget frowned. "What?"

"Just asking."

"For the Wardens," Blackwall said, "battle is a sacred duty, a vigil kept to guard the world against destruction. It's not a game." He gave the Iron Bull his best serious Warden face, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Iron Bull look uncomfortable for once.

"Right. Same here," he said quickly.

Blackwall grinned. "Do heads count?"

He saw Bridget's eyes widen, and Sera choked on another bite of food.

The Iron Bull grinned, reaching over to pound Sera on the back until she could breathe again. "Heads absolutely count."

"Then … three."

"Nice! Down on the collarbone and through, right? That's how I get the good ones."

"Is this the kind of thing men, warriors, sit around and talk about all the time?" Bridget shuddered. "Maybe the Circle was the right idea after all." But she was smiling at them, and Blackwall knew she didn't mean it. She had come a very long way since her time in the Circle.

They hadn't bothered to put up tents overnight, so as the fire crackled down to embers, Sera rolled herself up in blankets and was soon snoring happily away. The Iron Bull rose and stretched—a bit ostentatiously, Blackwall thought, not sure if the Qunari was being nice or a smartass or a bit of both—and turned in as well, requesting to be called for last watch.

"I guess that gives me first watch," Blackwall told Bridget.

"And what watch do I get?"

"You get a good night's sleep, Inquisitor."

She shifted a bit closer to him on the ground. Their legs were nearly touching, and Blackwall left his where it was, although he knew he shouldn't have. "What if I don't want a good night's sleep?" she asked him throatily.

He looked down at his hands. "I …" But the words wouldn't come, the ones that would send her away for good. Maker help him, he didn't want to.

"I know what you said, Blackwall," she told him in a more normal tone. "I know it. But … I care for you, and … I don't know if I can stop just because you tell me I have to. And … I think you feel the same."

"I do," he admitted softly, watching the flames dance ahead of him. They were mocking him, the fire so beautiful but so dangerous to reach for. "I shouldn't—but I do."

"And yet you push me away."

"I have to. I hope you can forgive me."

"I'm sure you have your reasons … I just wish you would tell me." She was leaning against him now, one of her hands stealing over his. He closed his fingers around hers, looking at their two hands twined together, hers so slender and pale and his so big and browned.

"I know. I can't just ask you to trust my reasons blindly."

"You could; you've deserved as much. But I wish you wouldn't."

"I do owe you an explanation," he said. "Who I am; what I am. But—not here. Not … not yet."

Bridget removed her hand from his—slowly, so it didn't feel like a rejection. More like a strategic withdrawal. "I understand. I—there are things I need to tell you as well, about my past. And … like you, I'm not sure I'm ready just yet."

"Then—we wait?"

She nodded. "We wait." A smile spread across her face and she chuckled suddenly. "It isn't as though we don't have plenty to occupy our thoughts."

"No. And because we do, you need a good night's sleep," he told her, his tone brooking no opposition.

"Yes, serah." Bridget got to her feet, leaving Blackwall there looking off into the distance and wishing to the Maker he'd lived a different life.

The morning found Blackwall feeling stiff from sleeping on the ground, to which he was no longer as accustomed as he used to be, but also cheerful and ready to face the day. Something about rising from a cold bed around the embers of a campfire felt right to him. As it should, after all that time.

It was a long day's work. They had been asked to come here partially to give assistance to the Empress's troops—their outposts around the Plains had been overrun by both demons and Venatori, and as they waded their way into the mess of the first set of ramparts it became clear that the dead were rising from their graves, to boot.

The Iron Bull was in his element, swinging his blade with relish. Sera was quite obviously on the edge of panic when surrounded by the walking dead, but she got an arrow into the eye of one and it fell and that made her feel better. She could handle anything she could shoot, apparently. Blackwall respected that.

They worked their way through the ramparts, farther and farther into the Plains, clearing out each of the ramparts as they went, and then picked their way carefully across a partially destroyed bridge in the direction of a garrison that hadn't been heard from in some time.

More undead met them, so many that Blackwall felt serious concerns about the possibility of finding anyone alive inside the garrison. Bridget was tiring, clearly—her magic took more out of her than Sera's bow, and she lacked the long-term strength and endurance conditioning that Blackwall and the Iron Bull had. They altered their fighting style to protect her better, forming a wall of their bodies to make sure nothing got past and reached the Inquisitor.

At last, they made it to the inner portion of the garrison, and to their great relief, found the men, barricaded inside. They were terrified, and exhausted, and starving, because they'd been hiding in there for days—but they were alive.

Walking back toward the village, the sounds of hammering already ringing through the air as the rebuilding was well under way, Bridget asked, "Can someone tell me why the Orlesians are fighting a civil war right now?"

"Well," rumbled the Iron Bull, "don't know about the timing so much, boss, but the reason is that Grand Duke Gaspard thinks he ought to have the throne, and Celene actually does have it and wants to keep it."

"Why does he think he should have it?" Bridget flushed slightly. "Orlesian politics and history weren't part of my education."

"The Grand Duke is the eldest grandchild of the former Emperor," Blackwall explained. "But Celene has the name; her line is through her father, Gaspard's through his mother. He feels that if she can inherit as a woman, so could his mother have, and therefore it ought to be his throne." He shrugged. "The Emperor didn't care, from what I'm told. He liked Celene better, so … here we are." Only when he stopped talking did he think that he probably shouldn't have said anything. He braced himself for another round of questions, but apparently his companions had given up wondering. He wasn't certain if he should be relieved or concerned by that.

Bridget seemed to accept that explanation. She explained, "Apparently we're going to be attending a ball at the Winter Palace later in the year, and we have quite a few more requests for assistance in Orlais. It seems that I should know what the situation is."

"You're better off talking to Josephine, then, or Leliana," Blackwall told her. "They're the experts."

"Cassandra knows a few things, too," the Iron Bull put in. "And the Chargers and I have spent a fair amount of time in Orlais." He grinned. "I'm exotic."

Bridget frowned at him, then chuckled when she caught his meaning. "Lucky you."

"Sometimes." He gave an exaggerated shudder. "Sometimes, not so much."

By midday, they were back in the Dalish camp, met by the Keeper with significantly more warmth than he'd displayed yesterday. "We appreciate the job you did in Var Bellanaris, Inquisitor," he said, "and that you kept your campfire outside the bounds. Your respect and your willingness to help make me believe that young Loranil could learn a thing or two from being part of your organization. For a time," he added severely. "The Dalish way of life depends on our young people."

"I understand," Bridget assured him. "We will respect his beliefs, and do our best to send him back to you when the work of the Inquisition is done."

"And when will that be?"

"When we have defeated Corypheus, the being who created the Breach in the sky."

Keeper Hawen nodded. "He meddled with magics that are beyond his comprehension; he threatens us all. That is a goal I approve of." He beckoned to Loranil, who came running. "I have decided to allow you to work with the Inquisition, if that is your wish."

"Keeper! I—Thank you." Loranil beamed.

"Excellent! I'm glad to have you with us, Loranil. The Inquisition is setting up a camp here in the Plains—report to Scout Harding and let her know your capabilities, and she'll find you a suitable task. You can also pass on the request that the Inquisition supply your people with iron and leather to repair the aravels."

"Yes, of course. I'll be happy to!" Loranil crossed an arm over his chest and bowed to her, and Bridget returned the gesture.

Back in the village, they retrieved their horses. In Blackwall's opinion, the amount they were charged for a few days' care and keep was highway robbery, but Bridget paid it cheerfully. He asked her about it afterward—carefully, as he wasn't certain if her years in the Circle had left her with an altered attitude toward the value of coin—and she said that she was happy to pay a little extra if it helped them get back on their feet again. He admired her altruism, but wondered what it meant for the coffers of the Inquisition in the long run.

Still, he suspected Josephine had a fairly tight hand on the purse-strings, and if Bridget went out of bounds, she would hear about it from the Ambassador. He was grateful that the Inquisitor had so many people looking out for her. He was only one of the many … something he felt the need to keep reminding himself of.

He looked down at his hand, remembering the way hers had felt in it, the easy and natural way she had leaned against his shoulder, how much he had wanted to put his arm around her and rest his cheek against her hair and … recite her some Orlesian love poetry.

Much as he had wanted to push whatever was between them away, it was clear it wasn't going anywhere. He was in this so deep he hadn't even batted an eye when she mentioned having to go to the Winter Palace, although Thom Rainier had no business whatsoever showing his face at Halamshiral.

He had to face it: He was going to have to tell her something eventually. But how much, and when?