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It had started raining miles from Crestwood, great sheets of rain coming down so heavily you could barely see your hand in front of your face. Scout Harding had come back to meet the Inquisitor's party and guide them to the camp. Blackwall had been to Crestwood before, but Bridget and Varric and Dorian would have been entirely lost on a sunny day. Even he was hard put to judge landmarks in this weather, so he joined in the general relief at Harding's presence.

She was in front with Bridget, explaining to her what lay ahead of them in the village of Crestwood itself. New Crestwood, it was properly called, Blackwall remembered—they'd been overrun by a flood during the Blight and had been forced to rebuild on higher ground.

Bridget smiled gamely, ignoring the mud and the rain. "If you're worried, Harding, perhaps we should have brought the whole Inquisition."

"You flatter me, Inquisitor. I'm hardly that brave. Or maybe I should say I am that brave and you should increase my hazard pay." Harding chuckled.

"You'll have to take that one up with Josephine, I'm afraid. They don't let me hold the purse strings—and probably for the best. I'd be likely to give away the whole treasury. What have we got ahead of us?" she asked.

"In the middle of the lake, there's a massive rift that no one can get to. There are others, but that seems to be the biggest one—and when it appeared, corpses started walking out of the lake."

Bridget stared at her. "I'm sorry—did you say corpses?"

Harding nodded. "I'm afraid so. And you'll have to fight your way through them if you want to get to the cave where Hawke's Grey Warden friend is hiding."

"It can't ever just be a normal day, can it?" Bridget asked plaintively. Blackwall squashed an urge to reach out and put his hand on her shoulder reassuringly—or he tried to squelch it, but his hand reached out for her anyway. Bridget turned her head and smiled at him through the rain, and Blackwall felt warmth bloom inside him at her innocent trust … followed immediately by the familiar corrosive black gloom that came with remembering that he didn't deserve that trust. He dropped his hand, turning back to Harding, who was talking about the townspeople barricading themselves in their houses against the corpses.

"Maybe someone in Crestwood can tell you how to get to the rift in the lake," she said. "Maker knows they'll need the help."

"We'll do what we can," Bridget said.

"You always do, Inquisitor."

At length, Harding led them to the outskirts of the village, stopping at the crossroads about a mile away. "The camp is this way, Inquisitor—I'm going to go check on our people there."

"Stay warm!" Bridget called after her. She turned to Blackwall, muttering, "What a foolish thing to say. Who can be warm in this downpour? Tell me again why they made me Inquisitor?"

"You were the only one willing to take on the task?"

"Oh, right, that's it." She led the way in the opposite direction from the way Harding had gone, toward the village. Blackwall thought he could see some faint lights, maybe from windows, up ahead, but it was hard to say in the rain and the darkness.

The sounds of battle, screams and strange gurgling noises and the twang of arrows and clash of steel, rose above the rain as they approached the town, finding a number of townspeople in combat with putrid decaying things. It was the corpses who were making the gurgling sound, as though they were trying to speak through lungs filled with water. Blackwall found it highly disturbing.

Bridget's lighting split the sky, coming down on the head of one of the shambling corpses. He had to admire her grit—most women would have run from these things, especially as sheltered as she had been, but she was there leading her team. She had definitely come a long way from the woman he had first met.

Several of the people around him seemed to be armed with pitchforks and shovels and kitchen knives, but there were a few trained warriors in the fray. At one point, Blackwall saw the gleam of metal off a helmet and a chill went through him as he recognized the griffon insignia. Grey Wardens! He held himself in the battle through strength of will, and as soon as the corpses were down and Bridget approached the Wardens, he busied himself with the wounded townspeople. Blackwall—the real one—had told him long ago that Wardens could sense each other. These would know he wasn't a member of their Order, and he didn't want Bridget to find out … at least, not now, and not this way.

He listened, though, as best he could over the rain and the cries of the wounded. The Wardens were only passing through, not staying, and they regretted not being able to help the villagers more. They were here looking for Hawke's friend Stroud, to bring him back to the Warden Commander. There was no hostility in their tones, more a sense of weariness and a wish they didn't have to treat their former comrade as a fugitive. Blackwall wondered why the man was fleeing his fellow Wardens. Of course, he also wondered why the Wardens had disappeared in the first place, but was unlikely to get that answer anytime soon.

Despite Bridget's entreaties for them to stay, the Wardens pulled out, heading farther down the road away from the village. Bridget found Blackwall, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry, I should have gotten them to speak with you."

He was relieved that she hadn't seen through his attempt to hide. "More important things now than catching up with fellow Wardens. Maybe we'll all share an ale when this is all over."

"So I thought." She looked after them, swiping the back of a hand across her worried face to clear the rain from it. "They didn't mention a new leader, so hopefully they're not part of Corypheus's plot."

"I hope you're right. This Warden Clarel—why do you think she wants Stroud so badly?"

"Hard to say until we've met him." Bridget glanced around, making sure Varric was out of earshot, leaning against a stone wall and attempting to keep Bianca dry with his coat. "I'd like to take Hawke's word that Stroud is trustworthy, but it's hard to be certain until we hear what he has to tell us."

"You're wise to be cautious." Blackwall dug an only slightly damp handkerchief out of the inside of his jacket and handed it to her. "Here."

She took it, smiling, and wiped her face with it. "Doesn't help for long."

"Then let's get on into the village and find someplace dry." He worried about her taking cold, as slender and seemingly frail as she was.

The villagers were not interested in letting strangers into their homes. At least they were willing to point the way to the Mayor's house, and there Bridget managed to talk her way in.

The Mayor seemed nervous. Blackwall supposed if the walking dead were attacking his home, he'd be nervous, too. "The Inquisition, you say?" the Mayor asked.

"Yes. You knew we were coming to help, didn't you?"

"What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry, where are my manners? Mayor Dedrick of Crestwood Village at your service … despite everything."

"Bridget Trevelyan. Sorry we have to be meeting under these circumstances."

"As am I."

"Do you have any thoughts on where these undead are coming from? It might be easier to start there."

"I … the lake. They're coming from the lake, but …"

"We have to stop this," Varric said from his position near the door. "These poor people are terrified, and who can blame them?"

"Yes!" Mayor Dedrick said. "Who indeed?"

"There's a rift in the Fade somewhere in the middle of the lake, and that, I imagine, is what is causing the dead to rise. Can you tell me any way I might be able to get to it?" Bridget asked.

If anything, this question seemed to make the Mayor more nervous. "Uh. Well. Um, there are the caves beneath Old Crestwood. Darkspawn flooded the town years ago during the Blight. It wiped out the village, killing the refugees we took in."

"No wonder their spirits are restless," Varric muttered.

"There is a dam," Blackwall pointed out. "Could we use that to drain the lake and then from there get to the caves and try to reach the rift?"

"Drain the lake!" The Mayor's face paled. "I mean … it's impossible. There must be some other way."

Dorian said, "Look, your people are frightened, and they are tired. Do let us help."

"Well, um … you'd have to evict the bandits in the old fort to get to the dam. I … I can't ask you to risk your life."

"You'd rather your own people continue to have to fight the undead?" Varric asked. "We love to risk our lives! It's what we do."

Bridget smiled at the dwarf's vehemence, and then laid a reassuring hand on the Mayor's arm. "Trust me. I've fought worse than bandits and the undead. I'm here to help, but I need you to be strong."

Mayor Dedrick looked as though he was going to protest further, then he sighed, seeming to lose two inches of stature. "Yes. You're right. Strong." He went to a table and took out a key on a long cord, handing it to Bridget. "This key unlocks the gate to the dam controls past the fort. Once you've drained the lakes, you can get to the rift through the caves, as the gentleman said."

It had been a long time since anyone had called Blackwall a gentleman. He found it amusing, especially given how bedraggled he must look. His beard was still dripping.

"But you can't go there tonight," Mayor Dedrick said. "I don't have much space, but what I have is yours to use. A warm fire, some food, a dry place to sleep?"

Bridget accepted with alacrity. As they were preparing their bedrolls, which were damp despite all the efforts to keep them dry, and smelled a bit musty as they were unrolled, she asked the mayor to tell her about Crestwood.

"Ah, well, we're a small village. We farm what we can, trade with the merchants who travel the King's Road. We love peace, Your Worship. It's all we've ever wanted."

"I'll drink to that," Dorian muttered, and did so, taking a long sip from the flask he carried.

"And the bandits in the fort?" Blackwall asked. He held up a blanket so that Bridget could duck behind it and change into dry clothes, carefully keeping his face turned away as he did. Much as he would love to see her naked, wet and cold and shivering wasn't the way he hoped she would be if he ever did.

The Mayor turned delicately away also. "Thugs and thieves," he answered. "They make a living raiding caravans. When the dead began rising from the lake, the bandits killed the old gamekeeper in the fort and took it for themselves. Pressed on both sides, there was nothing we could do to stop them." He sighed, looking downcast. "If we'd been able to hide there, we could have saved more people, but the bandits wouldn't help us."

"I'm surprised a burg this small made it through the Blight," Varric remarked, sitting down on his bedroll and beginning to polish Bianca.

"We almost didn't." The Mayor's voice quavered and he was starting to look twitchy again. Blackwall couldn't blame him; he had seen enough of the Blight to know how devastating it was to small villages like this one. "The darkspawn followed a band of refugees and they somehow managed to break the dam controls and flood the town. The darkspawn perished … but so did the refugees. And now they return to us." He cleared his throat. "I'll go find you something to eat and then … I think I'll turn in. These days are—very long."

"Squirrelly," Varric said when the Mayor was gone. "Very squirrelly."

"Wouldn't you be?" Dorian asked.

"Maybe. Still … I'm glad we're only staying here one night."

They passed the night in fitful sleep, nothing entirely dry, the floor cold and hard and the Mayor tossing and turning audibly in his room. Before the dawn could break through the sheets of rain, they were up and on the move again, the storm as bad as ever when they left the Mayor's house.

A woman with a goat and some straggly vegetables at the one forlorn market stall offered them some warm milk and soggy bread for breakfast, which they ate gratefully. It hadn't been that long since Blackwall had made do with food exactly like this more often than not, but none of the others were used to these conditions at all.

They were all grimly determined by the time they made it to the fort, mud sticking to their boots with every step, and Bridget and Dorian and Varric stood back and hit the bandits with everything they had.

By the time they smashed through the front gate, the remaining bandits were fairly demoralized. It took very little courage to terrorize a small village of dejected and weary people, but a great deal more to stand against two angry mages and a dwarf with a crossbow fully half his size—not to mention a seasoned warrior of Blackwall's own skill, which was tremendous when compared with that of the bandits.

They left the surviving bandits tied up inside the fort and descended through the basement to a locked gate that led outside, finding a derelict inn at the end of a long pier.

"Is that where the dam controls are?" Bridget speculated.

"Seems the most likely place. Let's go see."

They had expected to find the inn unoccupied, but as they came in, two young people in a stage of undress that had Blackwall thinking things he shouldn't about how nice it would be to have Bridget here alone sprang apart from one another, the girl hastily yanking a shirt on.

Dorian grinned at them. "Don't mind us. Just passing by."

The girl nudged the boy. "Look at her hand."

The boy's eyes widened. "The Inquisitor! We—we didn't know you were here, ser. Please, don't tell anyone you saw us together."

"Ah, the age-old story. So romantic." Varric sighed happily.

Bridget frowned at the pair. "How did you get in here? I thought the only way was through the fort."

The two young people both stared at her blankly. At last the girl said, "No, it's not hard … just a little slippery, in all this wet, and no one likes to come out here because of what happened in the Blight, the flood and all."

"Clever man, that Mayor," Dorian said. "Got his bandit problem fixed for free."

"Yes. By playing on my gullibility." Bridget's tone made it clear what she thought of that.

The boy said again, anxiously, "You won't tell anyone you saw us together, will you?"

Bridget shook her head, her good humor restored by the boy's plight. "Who could resist the thrill of a decrepit pub in which to defy the orders of your elders? Never fear, your secret is safe with me." She looked sad for a moment. "I've defied a few orders in my time; I know what it's like."

The girl said, "There isn't anywhere else, ser. Everyone else is all crammed into the village. Too many people!"

"Lonnie's parents would have a fit if they saw us," the boy added. He was a young man of a single idea, clearly.

Lonnie crossed her arms, frowning. "They want me to marry the baker's boy in the next village. I've never even met him!"

The boy looked fearfully at Bridget. "We can't leave now, ser. Lonnie's father won't have left for the fields yet."

"Listen to the rain. He won't be leaving all day," Lonnie pointed out.

"We could try the caves."

"You hate spiders," she reminded him.

"Just stay here," Bridget told them impatiently. "And tell me where the dam controls are."

The young people pointed to a door at the back of the room. It was blocked up pretty thoroughly, but Blackwall was able to clear it quickly. Dorian and Varric helped as well, although they weren't quite as strong as he was. And none of them were willing to let Bridget help. She had many skills, but physical strength wasn't one of them, and no one wanted her wearing out before they got to the rift.

At last they got the door open and went, finding the wheel that controlled the dam. It was dusty and spider-webbed and clearly no one had been here in a good long time, but it appeared fully operational.

Bridget walked around it, frowning. "Is there something I'm missing here? I could have sworn the Mayor said these controls were destroyed by the darkspawn ten years ago. Did someone repair them?"

Blackwall was inspecting the equipment, finding nothing out of the ordinary. They appeared abandoned, but otherwise structurally sound. "It doesn't look like these were ever damaged," he said. "And there's certainly no evidence that darkspawn were ever here." He added that because he thought a Warden would, not because he could actually tell if a darkspawn had been in a room ten years ago. He rather doubted a Warden could, either.

"So, he lies to us about how to get here, puts us in the path of what he thinks are scary and competent bandits, and then lies to us again about the condition of the controls? In a story, I'd be suspecting the ever-helpful Mayor is trying to hide something," Varric remarked.

Blackwall shoved at one of the arms of the mechanism. It didn't budge. So he pushed harder, and felt it give a little. "Dorian, get in here," he barked, knowing that the mage was surprisingly muscular. Dorian came and stood next to him and, gritting their teeth, they pushed together. Slowly the mechanism began to turn until it had gone as far around as it would go.

They left the room, passing Lonnie and her boyfriend sitting side-by-side in the main room looking glum, and went outside, to see that the dam had opened and the lake was drained. The smell coming up was terrible, and the rain still fell thick and fast. They made their way through the ruins of Old Crestwood, skeletons strewn everywhere. Lake creatures scuttled quickly off in the direction the water had gone, fish flopping on the ground gasping their last.

The entrance to the caves was hidden behind a set of rotted wooden doors, but the infrastructure inside seemed fairly stable as they slowly picked their way amongst the debris that littered the paths. At the back of a passage they found a whole pile of bones, as though a sizeable number of people had fled into the cave and been backed up against the wall before the water caught up to them. Bridget stood looking down at them, wondering how terror-filled their last moments must have been.

"No wonder the dead couldn't rest properly," Dorian said softly next to her. "Do you think anyone even tried to see them to the Maker … somehow?"

"That Mayor? I wouldn't bet on it," Varric said.

"Cold water rising, no way out … Maker's breath." Blackwall shook his head. "What a rotten way to die."

"Are there any good ways?" Dorian asked him sharply.

"Dying in bed would have to be better than this."

"Perhaps."

Bridget stepped abruptly back from the pile of bones. "Well, we're not helping them any by standing here, and as long as that rift stays open, we're putting other people in danger. Let's go."

The rest of them followed her down through the caves and into some ruins that had to be dwarven. Dorian kept pointing out bits and pieces of dwarven architecture to Varric, who kept reminding him that he was a surface dwarf and didn't care.

"But … your heritage!"

"Yeah, Sparkler? What about your heritage? You want me to point out that Corypheus's robes were the height of fashion in the Tevinter of his day?"

"They were! … But I see your point."

"Thank you."

"Care to play another game of cards when we get back to Skyhold?"

Varric laughed. "Not with your crazy Tevinter rules."

"Have you noticed that everything you don't like about me you label 'crazy' and 'Tevinter'?"

"Picked up the habit from Tiny."

"No, you didn't, or you would call them 'crazy fucking Vint rules'."

"Good point," Varric conceded.

"And no one ever died from my crazy Tevinter rules anyway … at least, not lately." Dorian flashed his dazzling smile.

"You two want to hold it down?" Bridget snapped at them. "At this rate, the demons are going to be more than ready for us when we finally reach the rift."

"Sorry, Sunflower," Varric said contritely.

"What he said," Dorian echoed.

Blackwall glanced at both of them, a smile twitching under his mustache. They sounded like a pair of pesky lads annoying their mother. Not that Bridget seemed old enough to be anyone's mother, he thought, watching her walk ahead, her slender back straight and rigid. He could see the tension in her, the carefully controlled fear he knew filled her anytime she went into battle—particularly where a rift was concerned, since she was the only one who could close them.

At last they reached the rift. It was a difficult one; Blackwall could see the strain in Bridget as she tried to close it, and he redoubled his efforts to keep the demons off her while she worked.

When the rift sealed itself off, while Dorian and Varric took on the last of the Despair demons, Bridget collapsed to the ground on her hands and knees, breathing heavily. Blackwall hurried to her side, kneeling next to her and putting a gentle hand on her back.

"Are you all right?"

"I will be. Give me a moment."

He stayed with her there while she got her energy back.

"Is it always that bad?" he asked as she got to her feet.

"No, not usually. This was a big rift, and we've had so little sleep or food in the last few days that my reserves are low." She looked at him and smiled. "I'll be fine. I can handle it, really."

"All right." But it wasn't all right. He felt—and was—helpless in the face of the Anchor's effects on her, and his pride in how well she stood up to the demands of her job didn't overcome his feeling of frustration that this was one battle he couldn't take the brunt of for her.

Bridget's smiled widened and softened as if she could read his thoughts, and she put a hand on his shoulder, leaving it there for a moment. "I can handle it," she said again.

"I know."

She gave his shoulder a squeeze and moved off through the cave. Dorian claimed to have found a breeze, which should mean an entrance nearby, and he and Varric had gone ahead, while Dorian twitted Varric about his lack of dwarven stone sense.

They came out on the far side of Old Crestwood to find the rain had stopped and the sun was shining. While that was pleasant enough, steam was rising now from the decaying bits of the old village, and the smell was anything but pleasant.

"Uh-oh," Varric said ahead of them. "Dragon alert."

"What?" Bridget said, alarmed. "Where?"

There was no way she was in any kind of shape to be fighting a dragon. Blackwall put himself protectively in front of her.

"Not that kind, Sunflower," Varric assured her. He pointed. "The fiery little kind."

Blackwall followed the pointing finger and saw Scout Harding waiting there for them, next to a fire over which a kettle was suspended on a tripod.

Harding smiled when she saw them and came toward them with a cup in her hands. "Inquisitor! I thought you might like a hot cup of tea when you emerged."

"You were absolutely right. Do we pay you enough? We couldn't possibly." Bridget accepted the cup gratefully, breathing in the fragrant steam. "This is just what I needed."

"I have more for the rest of you," Harding said. She cut her eyes at Varric. "If you even drink tea."

"I read a dilly of a fortune in the leaves," he told her.

"I'll bet."

As they returned to her little fire, Harding explained that the storm had ended as soon as the rift was closed, and that the rumors that Bridget had cleared the fort had reached her in time to send her team into it to get it ready for the Inquisition's occupation. "I claimed it as a base in the name of the Inquisition. I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind, but did you report back to Josephine? I'm sure there are political implications that I'm too tired to consider thoroughly at the moment."

Harding nodded. "I'm waiting for a return raven. Also …" She handed Bridget an envelope. "The Mayor is gone. He left this for you."

"For me?" Bridget opened it, scanning the page quickly. "Oh. Oh, dear."

"What is it?" Dorian asked.

"A confession. He was the one who flooded the town all those years ago, and drowned those poor people. They were refugees, sick with the taint, so they were holding them in the caves in order to keep it from spreading. When the darkspawn attacked, he saw a chance to … er … resolve both his problems, and blamed the closing of the dam on the darkspawn."

"And he's been living with that ever since? Poor man," Blackwall said. He knew what it was to have done something unforgivable and to have to bear that burden alone.

"Poor man?" Harding asked. "Sorry bastard, if you ask me. And a coward, too, running before he could get caught."

Blackwall looked at Bridget, to see if she agreed with the scout. He admired Harding for her bright courage and forcefulness, but she saw the world in shades of very definite colors, rather than as the muddy canvas it truly was.

"It's a sad mess, however you look at it," Bridget said.

"Do you intend to try to catch him?" Dorian asked her.

"No. Now that we've dealt with the undead, we're going to get some sleep, and then we're going to find Hawke and Stroud, and then we're going home. Leliana's people can hunt the Mayor, if they want."

No one argued with that, and they finished their tea and let Harding escort them up to the fort. She and Varric traded insults all the way—friendly on Varric's side, somewhat less so on Harding's, or so it seemed to Blackwall.

The fort was in the process of being cleaned. A room had been set up for the Inquisitor, and between them they prevailed on Bridget to stop worrying about the rest of them and get some much-needed sleep. Eventually, space was found for Blackwall and the others, too, and all of them turned in, glad to be warm and dry for the first time in days.

The next morning they woke refreshed and headed out across country toward the cave where Hawke intended to meet them. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, and the fields and meadows of Crestwood were at their best, if still a bit damp from all the rain.

Blackwall walked with Varric, noting the way the sun glinted off Bianca, buffed to a high shine, as always. "You're quite the artist with that bow," he remarked.

"Crossbow."

"Crossbow," Blackwall amended. "Sorry."

"She gets a little touchy about the proper nomenclature. And since she does most of the work, I like to keep her happy."

Blackwall raised an eyebrow. He found Varric's insistence on treating the crossbow as though it had human emotions disturbing, largely because he thought there was a very real possibility that the dwarf was serious. "You have to aim her. Precisely," he pointed out. "I'm not sure I'd be capable of that."

"Too attached to hitting things with your fists?"

"Well, I prefer a long sharp piece of metal. Less wear and tear on the body that way."

"Good point."

"But I do love being in the thick of things."

Varric nodded. "And I prefer to stand back and watch, whenever possible. Which is why Bianca and I make such a good team." He grinned up at Blackwall. "Just like you and Sunflower."

Blackwall raised his eyebrows.

"What? Like no one's noticed? Please." As Blackwall continued to glower at him, Varric held up a hand. "Never mind, forget I said anything. You know, you're starting to remind me of Fenris—and that's not necessarily a good thing."

Given that he wasn't sure what remark to make to that, Blackwall didn't make one. There was a rock formation ahead, anyway, that he thought must be the cave they were looking for.

As they approached the entrance to the cave, Hawke poked his head gingerly out. "Good, you made it," he said when they were within earshot. "Nasty storm, that."

"Miserable," Fenris echoed from inside the cave.

"Yes, wasn't it?" Bridget agreed. "Is … is he here?"

Hawke nodded. "At the back of the cave."

"I hope he's well-hidden. There were other Wardens here two nights ago looking for him. Does he know that?"

"He does. Apparently they've all been told he's a traitor and ordered to capture or kill him."

Varric gave a whistle. "He must have pissed someone off pretty thoroughly."

"Too much blood is shed by good men following bad orders," Fenris remarked.

Dorian nodded. "Entirely too true."

"We probably shouldn't keep him waiting," Blackwall said, regretting the words the moment they were out of his mouth. The last thing he wanted to do around a Grey Warden was draw any attention to himself.

But Hawke was nodding and leading the way toward the back of the cave. It was easy for Blackwall to step aside and let everyone go on ahead, joining Hawke's elven lover at the back of the group. They walked together without speaking. Blackwall had no idea what he would say to an escaped Tevinter slave whose skin was inlaid with lyrium, so he supposed not talking was the best choice.

The cave was fairly well appointed; Stroud must have been here a while. Maps were strewn on tables, and there was a makeshift bed in a corner, with candles affixed in the walls.

Stroud himself was a mustached man probably ten years older than Blackwall, dark hair just beginning to go grey. He spoke in a pronounced Orlesian accent as he introduced himself to Bridget.

"I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances," she said. "I'm aware of some of the Wardens' troubles, although I don't pretend to understand them all. Is it possible Corypheus might be behind this?"

Stroud nodded. "I fear it is so. When Weisshaupt heard that Corypheus was dead, they were more than happy to put the matter to rest. No investigation was made into what had occurred at Adamant; merely sighs of relief that our thousand-year-old nightmare was over. Little did we know a worse one was just beginning."

"Tell me how that tainted monster isn't dead," Varric demanded.

"An Archdemon can survive wounds that seem fatal—I think it is entirely possible that Corypheus possesses the same power."

"Well, shit."

"My sentiments exactly," Stroud agreed. "Given that every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling at the same time, around the time of the Conclave, I fear it is all too likely that Corypheus has powers none of us imagined."

"The Calling? Is that a Grey Warden ritual?"

Blackwall felt rather than saw Bridget glance his way as she asked the question, but he stayed where he was, in the shadows near the entrance to the large room in the back of the cave; he hoped it would appear that he was watching for anyone coming up behind them.

"The Calling tells a Warden that the Blight will soon claim him. It starts with dreams—then come the whispers in his head. The Warden says his farewells and goes to the Deep Roads to meet his death in combat."

Bridget's glance back at him was filled with alarm this time, and Blackwall felt a new wave of guilt wash over him that not only was he lying to her, he was making her fear for his life in the process. How to convince her that he was in no danger of the Calling without making her question him as a Warden?

"Every Grey Warden in Orlais is hearing that right now? They think they're dying?" Hawke asked.

Stroud nodded. "Our greatest fear is who will be left to stand against the Blight if we all fall. This Calling brought that fear to life."

"So they did something desperate, which is naturally what Corypheus wants. How obliging we all are to act as his puppets," Dorian said, rolling his eyes.

"That assumes Corypheus is mimicking the Calling, which is what I believe, although I do not know how," Stroud answered. "But the rest of the Wardens believe it is all too real, which is what has led to my exile here in this cave, hiding from those who were once my brothers and sisters."

"You hear it, too?" Bridget asked.

"Yes. It lurks like a wolf in the shadows around a campfire." Stroud's voice was far away, his eyes fixed somewhere over their heads as though he was listening. He shook his head violently, as if to clear it.

"Blackwall?" She was looking at him again, and he hastened to reassure her.

"I do not fear the Calling," he said, "and worrying about it only gives it power. Anything Corypheus does will only strengthen my resolve."

Stroud nodded, as if he accepted that answer, and Blackwall tried to hold in the relief he felt. Fenris's eyes were on him, but only wary, not suspicious—and Blackwall was fairly certain Fenris was wary of everyone.

Bridget shook her head. "If the Wardens truly fear they are dying, they cannot be thinking clearly in other matters. That can't be good."

"It is not," Stroud agreed. "Warden-Commander Clarel spoke of a blood magic ritual to prevent future Blights before we all perished and none were left to stand against the next Archdemon. When I protested the plan as madness, my own comrades, my family, turned on me."

"Has it already taken place?"

"Not that I know of. They are gathering in Orlais, in the Western Approach, at an ancient Tevinter ritual tower. I have only been waiting here to meet you, and now I will travel there in hopes of catching them before they begin. There was a great deal of preparation that needed to be made for the ritual; I hope that has slowed them down."

"I fear what we'll find there." Hawke shook his head. "I've seen too much blood magic to ever trust where it leads." Over the heads of the others, his eyes sought Fenris's, a weight of memory in that glance. Hawke looked away, nodding decisively. "Fenris and I will accompany you to the Western Approach."

"It is safer if I go alone," Stroud argued.

"Not if the other Wardens can track you. Then you need someone with you who can help you in case of attack."

Stroud hesitated, then sighed. "Very well."

"We will return to Skyhold, then join you in the Approach," Bridget said. "Scout Harding and her people will also be traveling to the Approach, and you can always communicate with me through her. Harding has my trust," she added, when Stroud looked as if he were about to argue.

"As you say, Inquisitor."

The Inquisition team left the cave. Outside, Bridget turned her face up to the sun. "It isn't that late in the day," she said. "What do you say we go back to the fort, pack up some provisions, and head out? We can get a good start back toward Skyhold today."

There was general agreement to that—none of them were anxious to spend any more time in Crestwood—and they followed Bridget back to the fort.