With no further leads arising as to Knight-Captain Carroll's whereabouts, and several reports from Josephine asking for the Inquisitor's presence to discuss further matters, in which each subsequent letter expressed more and more urgency, Ellethir decided it was worth taking a few days to return to Skyhold. On her return, Josephine gave her just enough time to bathe, change and eat before ushering Ellethir into the war room, catching Fae along the way.

"How have you fared in the Emerald Graves?" Leliana asked immediately. Straight to business.

"Well, I think," Ellethir replied. "We've managed to remove the few key players from the Freemen, and they've already begun to disperse, but it's the Red Templars who were working with them that we need to worry about. Did you get my letter, Leliana?"

"I did. I believe Knight-Captain Carroll is the author of that note your men found, Commander."

Cullen looked up suddenly from his own reports. "Carroll?"

Ellethir winced sympathetically. "Do you know him, Cullen?"

"Not especially well, but I met him a few times in the past. He was stationed at Kinloch Hold," he glanced over to Fae, who's expression remained impassive. "A good man. At least, I thought so. I'm sorry to hear that this is what's become of him."

"Fae, do you…?"

Fae shrugged. "No. A lot of templars kind of look the same to me with all that armour."

"And Samson's armour, any luck?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid," Cullen sighed. "We're working on it, I assure you."

"The note from Knight-Captain Carroll, Commander?" Josephine reminded him.

"Ah, yes," Cullen cleared his throat and read. "When Samson made this deal, we promised you the Dales, if you could hold them and keep the roads open for our supplies. Too difficult a concept to grasp, I see? Enough of your fumbling. The Red Templars will deal with the Inquisition." He folded it back up again. "The rest is torn off, but in any case, it looks like Fairbanks was good on his word. He's sent us everything he's found," Cullen patted a small stack of letters. "Combined with everything you found yourself, Inquisitor, the evidence is undeniable. The Freemen had been helping the red templars smuggle red lyrium through the Dales. In exchange, they received gold and supplies which was to go towards the furtherance of their cause. Their hopes were fuelled, then exploited. If we take Carroll out of the equation as well, I expect the Red Templars in the area would be ordered to withdraw, at least temporarily."

"Any ideas on how to draw him out?"

"The Red Templars have already sent reinforcements to the Emerald Graves to protect their operation there, we can capture a few," Cullen suggested. "Deny them lyrium long enough, and they'll talk."

Fae whistled lowly. "Wow, Cullen. That's harsh, even for you."

"It would work."

"It would," Ellethir conceded, "But I'd prefer to avoid torturing prisoners, if we can. Even Red Templars. That's not who we are. Any other suggestions?"

Lelianna hummed. "The Red Templars know we've taken out the leaders, but the Freemen were all over the Dales. We might pose as a surviving Freemen cell and reestablish connection with the red templars, asking for a meeting to receive further instruction."

"Alright, good. Try that first. We'll leave for the Emerald Graves and let you know when we've arrived. If it works, send us a messenger to tell us when and where to meet them."

"Yes, Inquisitor."

"While you are there, Inquisitor, we have news on the elven glyphs Cillian has been translating," Josephine added.

"Good. What did they say?"

"Well, it required some gifts to several Dalish clans along the Waking Sea coastline, but Cillian was able to get the texts he needed to translate the glyphs. He is waiting outside in my office, if you are ready to meet him?"

"Oh! Yes, of course, bring him in."

Josephine left, her heels clacking on the stone and then muffled by her carpeted office. The door opened again, and a middle-aged Dalish man with lines of vallaslin curving down towards his mouth walked in behind her.

"Cillian, may I introduce Inquisitor Lavellan?" Josephine said. "Inquisitor, this is Cillian."

"Inquisitor," he bowed, "It's an honour."

"The honour's mine, Cillian," Ellethir bowed in return. "Welcome. Josephine tells us you've been able the translate the glyphs we found in the Dales?"

"Yes!" Cillian grinned back, vallaslin curving with his smile. "It's not so much a written text as it is a kind of map. It's the path to an ancient temple, either of Dirthamen or Falon'din, it's a little tricky to tell."

"That's incredible," Ellethir's eyes practically sparkled. "Anything of theirs is few and far between, at least in the Free Marches. Keeper Hawen told me the glyphs were relevant to Dirthamen."

"One can only hope," Cillian gestured to his face. "We shouldn't have favourites, but we do. The temple should be in the forest on the outskirts of Val Chevin, it's a city north-east of Val Royeaux." He leaned over the map, and pointed to an empty spot near Val Chevin. "There."

Fae handed him a small wooden place marker in the shape of a blazing sun for him to place on the spot.

"This is good work," he remarked, inspecting the piece. "Did you make this?"

Fae shook her head. "No, Warden Blackwall makes them. Good, isn't he?"

Ellethir was preoccupied by the map itself. "It would take us weeks to get there, would we have time?"

"Taking one of our ships from Halamshiral to Val Chevin would get you there in a fraction of the time, I can make the arrangements," Leliana assured her. "The Red Templar rendezvous will take some time to organise, being that Carroll could be anywhere in the Dales right now. If he's in the Dales at all."

"Hold on, Leliana, did you just say one of our ships?" Fae asked. "Since when do we have ships?"

"We have a deal with a merchant who trades in goods from Orlais to the Free Marches, part of the bargain includes use of his ships for Inquisition business."

"Huh."

"Ah. I should also mention…" Cillian began apprehensively.

"Yes?"

"We're not the first to investigate these glyphs. I heard mention of an expeditition to this temple out of Val Royeaux several years ago, but they apparently never returned."

"Well, that's promising."

The ship was small compared to the other vessels docked in the cove, with just enough room to accommodate the Inquisitor's party and a rudimentary crew. Dorian was less than pleased to be reunited with the sea, spending his most of his time below deck while everyone else took in the sights of Orlais by sea. Fae watched the sea intently from her safer perch in the ratlines. It was beautiful, sparkling blue, but she'd prefer to keep her distance, while Cole wanted to see as much as possible, hiding high above in the crow's nest.

Val Chevin was a blur of grey and blue, a nod to its historical relationship with the Orlesian branch of the Grey Wardens, with the occasional flash of silverite on the grander houses. The party rode straight through to the road leading out into the woods, and kept riding. After a night's camping, the coastline of the Waking Sea disappeared, as Cillian led the party off the established road and deeper into the woods. The trees grew taller and taller as they rode, and more of the sun was blocked by the canopy. Fae was just beginning to wonder if Cillian really knew where he was going when he stopped just ahead. A tall, completely smooth stone temple towered before them, hidden perfectly by the trees, curving into a point at the top. Two stone ravens perched on either side of the doors, which were ajar, and a flock of small stone ravens bordered the roof of the temple, staring down at the visitors.

"Mythal'enaste." Cillian stared, transfixed. "There it is."

Everyone dismounted, and Cillian lit his torch, passing it down to light the others' torches. Ellethir entered first. Slowly, quietly. A series of round stone archways marked the next set of stairs downwards, three in all. "There should have been a ritual of some kind, to enter with permission," Ellethir observed. "But there's no arcane barrier. The last expedition must have been able to deactivate it."

They found the remnants of a camp set up at the bottom of the third set of stairs, and looked for any clues as to the campers' whereabouts. There was a logbook kept by a man called Gretian Faulx, with each entry signed and dated. It was three years' worth of entries in all, from 9:36 to 9:38 Dragon.

"Lord Gretian Faulx?" Vivienne repeated. "He must have been funding this venture. He was a regular at court, but an archivist by hobby. His nephew inherited quite a fortune."

"How could he have proved his uncle was dead if he never came back?" Varric asked incredulously.

"In the event of an extended disappearance, the missing lord or lady failing to appear at court when summoned by the Empress means that they are dead, either in life or in the eyes of Orlais," Vivienne explained. "It smooths out inheritance disputes, and ensures that members of the court of Orlais never stray too far from home."

"Brutal, but efficient. I guess."

"What does the logbook say?" Cassandra asked.

"The elven god of secrets disappeared along with all his kin, or so their legends claim," Vivienne read. "Yet his priesthood remained behind, and the priests were said to possess the ability to see and know all. I believe this to be the result of magic and not a divine gift- magic locked in treasures that remain to this day. With the aid of my companions, the Lords of Fortune, as they call themselves, I hope to prove it."

"Treasure hunters," Varric murmured.

"'I believe I have found a temple of Dirthamen, the resting place of secrets, or, at least, the location of the last high priest who was said to possess them.' I wonder how he found this temple."

"Perhaps a spirit of wisdom whispered it to him?" Solas suggested. "They are rare, but it's the most likely answer."

"That would make Lord Gretian an apostate," Vivienne tsked. "He hid it well, to his credit."

Cillian returned, his boots squelching in ankle-deep water. "The corridors are flooded, but it's consistently shallow. Years of water leaking through the roof, probably. There's a statue of Falon'din at the end of this one."

Ellethir joined him. "Lead the way, Cillian."

The statue was guarding a glyph, faint against the wall. The group searched around and located a veilfire bracket. "If this one is like the ones we found in the Dales, it should become legible with the veilfire," Ellethir explained. She held her veilfire torch close to the glyph, and words appeared, but it was not in the Trade tongue. They hovered slightly in front of the glyph, wherever the torchlight caught them, like an inexplicable reflection.

"What does it say?" Blackwall squinted.

"We few whisper here, where shadow dwells," Ellethir translated. "Some words remain unuttered. Truths are pushed down, down, where they shall never rise again. Dirthamen is gone, he said. Our Highest One brings to us this gravest news.' Is this how they learned the Creators were banished? Their high priests couldn't speak with the gods anymore?"

"Sounds like the magisters of old," Dorian said. "The Dreamers stopped having dreams and started only having descendants."

"Does it say anything else?" Fae pressed.

"What shall we do? Where shall we go? What of the old secrets that burn within our hearts?" Ellethir finished. "That's all. How awful, they must have been so afraid."

"No whispers left to chase away the unknowing," Cole agreed solemnly, wandering into the chamber to the left, where something inside was glowing faintly green. There were burial urns lined up inside half-spherical shelves that were carved into the walls. A corpse bedecked in rusted jewellery was lying face-down on the chamber floor.

"Could that be Lord Gretian?" Cillian asked.

"I should hope not," Vivienne crossed her arms. "What is it wearing?"

"A lotta gold," Varric answered. "The Lords of Fortune are based out of Rivain, and Rivainis love their gold. Treasure hunters most of all." He promptly crouched down and began undoing the clasp on the belt of gold medallions worn by the corpse.

Dorian lifted a soggy tome from a small puddle of water. "These were their notes, I presume."

Fae started picking up the empty potion bottles that were all over the room. "What are all these?" She sniffed one. It was mostly empty, but it still smelled sickly sweet. Cillian picked up another, inspected it, then sniffed it. He grimaced. "Dawn lotus. Rare. It can be medicinal- a few drops can be effective for numbing pain, especially during surgery. Limb removal, and the like. A few bottles, however, would definitely poison you. Quickly."

"I thought I saw something glowing in here," Ellethir looked around, and saw it. A statue in an alcove on the back wall of the chamber- the top half of a skeleton in a hooded cloak, with the bottom half being the statue's base. It was disturbingly realistic. The green glow was coming from the eye sockets, and, on closer inspection, the open bowl it was holding out. A skull was nestled in there, also glowing.

"Take it," Solas said, and several perplexed looks came his way. "I have seen similar rituals in the Fade. We must reunite it with the rest of the body."

"Why?!" Fae balked.

Cole walked up and took the skull without further ceremony, eliciting cries of alarm from the rest of the party. The second the skull was lifted out of the bowl and into his hands, the veilfire from Ellethir's torch flew in a stream into the bowl, and disappeared.

Ellethir's jaw dropped. "Did that bowl just eat magic?"

"It's alive," Cole said in amazement to the skull in his hands.

"It is alive because the creature connected to it is alive. It is but one piece of the whole," Solas explained.

"What kind of creature? A varterral?" Ellethir asked, utterly bewildered. "Dirthamen created the first varterral, did he not?"

"What's a varterral?" Cassandra and Dorian asked in unison.

"Varterrals are immortal constructs, used to guard places of great significance to the ancient elves," Solas answered. "It's possible. It's also possible that some other being remains here that wants its secrets known. I recommend caution, there is no telling where this ancient ritual could lead us."

"Then why are we doing it?" Fae sputtered. "I know it's ancient, and elven, but this isn't like the temple of Sylaise. It's huge. Who knows what else could be here?"

"Are you not curious?" Solas smiled. "Can't you feel how much this place meant to its denizens?"

Fae frowned. "You know what, Solas? I think I can, actually. It feels wrong, that's why I don't like it. And I don't want any of us to end up like him," she pointed to Lord Gretian's remains.

"If we come face to face with a varterral, or worse, we'll go," Ellethir assured her. "But this place has waited for a long time for elves to come back here. We should at least try to find out what happened. And if we could find this place, there's a chance the Venatori could be after it too."

"See, I don't like how you say it waited like the temple has a mind of its own. And we know what happened, Dirthamen vanished and someone—" Fae pointed to the skull in Cole's hands, "was taken apart like a jigsaw puzzle."

"Exactly. I want to know why."

"Fine. But if we go missing, and Leliana finds us next to that guy, she will make jigsaw puzzles out of us too, and that would be a terrible legacy." And with that, Fae began leading the way towards the chamber to the north. Which was a dead end. So she passed by the Falon'din statue once more, to follow the flooded corridor down the right side. This side was significantly more damaged, with broken tiles and vegetation taking over. Creeping vines, even entire trees warped themselves to seek sunlight through the exposed roof. The sun had set, and now they could see the night sky above, glittering with the sea of stars. They passed by another altar, which held a partially shattered urn, exposing the mummified remains inside.

They noticed another green glow in the distance. The statue's bowl held a tongue, and another glyph, which read, 'They will come for us in the night, those who could steal the words from our lips, and our god no longer rises to our defense. We claw at the walls, at the walls. Now we pray for a dawn that will never arrive.'

"Who's 'they?'" Fae asked.

Ellethir flinched at the sight of the tongue in the bowl. "Outsiders, maybe? It sounds like they were afraid of being forced to give away their secrets."

"So, the ancient elves weren't above using torture," Varric shuddered. "Anything else?"

"Our Highest One, he deceives us," Ellethir read. "The honeyed words that drip from his tongue, we know the despair they mask. We disciples of Dirthamen know truth, now as ever.' Their high priest was lying to them about something, and they knew. Our disassembled man might be this high priest."

Dorian copied the latest addition to his notes down, and they continued on.