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Chapter Text

They needed to find another way to Haven. The Imperial Highway was becoming more and more crowded as the sun bent its way across the sky, and their once quick pace had slowed to an aching crawl. The stragglers they had picked up over the last few days were now sat huddled in the back of the wagon, covered in the bedrolls and tent cloth that they had brought with them for camping.

Gayle sat up front, rein in hands, her shoulders hunched in against the cold. Berron sat on a stack of crates closest to her, his eyes sharp and his hand never loosening its grip on the monstrous axe balanced over his knees. They’d been arguing in hushed voices now for the last half hour, neither side relenting to the other.

“The damn wheels wouldn’t be able to take it,” Berron shot at her, “an' if you think I’ll freeze my arse off in the back end of nowhere, whittling a new wheel out of a fucking tree like some Dalish twat, all because you want off the damn road, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Oh please! We both know you couldn’t tell the pointy end of a chisel from its handle. You can barely construct a fucking argument, let alone a wheel spoke,” Gayle spat back.

It was pretty unusual for Gayle to stoop down to Berron’s level of arguing. It’s not that she disliked hurling the odd, obscenity-riddled insult now and again, it’s just that with tiny people running underfoot over the last few years, she’d needed to rein her mouth in considerably. So, while they were no closer to agreeing a solution, she did relish the ability to parry a few of her own choice, and underused, insults back to the foul-mouthed Dwarf.

“Oh aye, very clever,” Berron responded with a glare, though the corner of his mouth twitched up in a smirk even as he turned to look out over the road before them. The highway was so wide that four more wagons such as theirs could have passed, side by side, and there would still be plenty of room to spare. Now it was crammed with people, horses, carriages, carts and every other imaginable form of transport in Thedas. There was a constant rumble of noise around them. The creaking of wheels and the clatter of hooves. The low drone of voices was pierced, every so often, by a shout or cry. It was unsettling and monotonous all at the same time. A strange form of open-sky claustrophobia. Gayle wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

“Okay, we need to be serious about this for a second. We’re coming up to the path soon. If we don’t take it, we’ll be stuck on this road for the rest of the journey, like it or not. Which at our current pace, we’ll be lucky if we reach Haven at all, never mind before the Conclave starts.” Gayle paused to let her words sink in.

“I’d rather that than get caught in a fucking landslide - or end up in the belly of a pissing bear. Or skinned and worn as a hat by some cross-eyed, spirit humping Avvar,” Berron groused, glaring at a chevalier on horseback, who had sidled too close to their wagon. The man sneered until he noted the two-handed axe, then he turned and slowly pushed back the opposite way.

“Come on now, let’s be realistic. Fine Dwarven skin such as yours would be far better suited for the making of a codpiece,” Gayle laughed.

“Mountain Men don’t stray this far down. Nor would they wear Dwarf skin. Not as a hat, nor in the shape of a fish,” Carrick interjected quietly from behind them.

Gayle glanced back to note where the old hunter was sat, braced none too comfortably in the back corner of the wagon, while his son Derren dozed quietly at his side. She had known the two for some years now, trading furs and meat on the occasions when they passed through the farm on their hunting trips. They’d picked them up early on in the journey, offering the quiet pair a seat as the crowds along the road began to swell. The war had disrupted even their solitary lives. Game in the forest had been replaced with fire throwing apostates and steel-clad Templars. The outcome of the Conclave would have an impact on more than just the towns and cities, for better or worse.

Berron rolled his eyes at Carrick’s words. The father and son were good men, and excellent trackers, but their isolation came at the cost of basic social interaction. Puns, quips and metaphors slid over their heads.

“We’d move faster if we got rid of these waifs and strays you’ve been picking up,” Berron mumbled to her.

“I know this side path,” Gayle replied, ignoring his comment. “Nana showed it to me years ago. It cuts straight through the trees and follows the curve of the mountains. If all goes well, we’ll get to Haven in a day and a half, two days at a push. Then we just deliver the produce, take our coin and go. No hanging about.”

“What about them others? You think that old wife and her little waif will last a night of mountain cold?”

Gayle didn’t need to follow Berron’s look to know who he was talking about. Bedded down opposite Carrick and his boy was an elderly woman and child who they’d picked up earlier that morning. The odd pair had been pushed to the highway’s edge and had almost been trampled to death under a horse and buggy before Gayle had to nearly kick the Dwarf out of the cart to pick them up. They had both been dragged into the back, wide eyes glassy and shivering from the cold. Their thin clothes, and the make-shift cloaks tied around their heads and shoulders, wouldn’t have kept them warm enough on a summer’s day - never mind now, when winter’s hard frosts were already cutting through the air. The old woman had gasped her thanks and the child had just clung to her silently, huge eyes peering from a dirty face. They were bundled up now in the bedrolls Gayle and Berron had packed.

“It’s going to be freezing no matter where we camp,” Gayle sighed. “We stay on this road and we’ll get there after the Conclave has ended, with a wagon full of rotten produce and an angry buyer to boot. And that’s if we’re lucky. My way means we get to Haven on time, we get paid for our trouble and we both get a few less days sniping at each other on a fucking road.”

“Fine then!” Berron bellowed back, louder than expected. “Though if I get mauled by wolves ‘cause of you, then by the Stone, I’ll wring your impatient bloody neck. Got it?”

“Got it,” Gayle smirked back.

“Wolves?” a tiny voice squeaked from behind her. Bloody Dwarf and his loud mouth, Gayle thought. She couldn’t turn back to look at the child; her full focus was needed as she tried to steer them through the throng of shuffling bodies to reach the road’s edge. She settled instead on just raising her voice.

“Don’t listen to him little one. Wolves won’t bother with us if we don’t bother with them. The most you need to worry about is Berron’s snoring bringing the mountain down on us.”

“Funny,” he grumbled beside her. A grin cracked over Gayle’s face as she spied the break in the treeline she was looking for. Haven then home; it was so close she could almost taste it. With another flick of her wrists, they were off the highway and into the forest.

It was all going to plan.

Chapter Text

Solas pulled himself from the Fade into the waking world, drawing his eyelids open to an evening sky still streaked in dusky purples and pinks. The cold air had taken on a sharper bite, his breath fogging above him. His plans were coming together; the pieces moving into place, although far quicker than he had anticipated. The Blighted Creature was drawing near at a speed Solas had not reckoned on. He would need to be in exactly the right position for when the resulting explosion occurred. Too far out, and he risked his Foci being found by someone else. Too close and he risked raising possible suspicion. All Mages may now be regarded as apostates, but a lone Elvhen Mage, with no affiliation to either the Circle or the Chantry, would be treated as suspect at best. He needed to measure his next steps carefully. Too much was at stake to risk an error of judgement now.

The smell of wood smoke caught in his nose from where he lay. A camp must be nearby. Solas brushed a hand over the ground that surrounded him. His wards hummed slightly under his questioning touch. They were intact. He had kept the wards within a few arms’ length of where he had camped. It was a drain on his body to try and extend himself any farther than that. Closing his eyes, Solas drew a map in his mind of where his agents were located. Most were to the north-west, trailing the Darkspawn and his thralls. The rest were based in Haven proper, or shadowing the Imperial Highway. Whoever it was then, they are not his agents, nor likely to be part of the Darkspawn’s minions. Hunters maybe - or travellers. Solas took a moment to weigh his options.

He needed two things; more news, and a safe way into Haven. Whoever lit the fire could possibly provide a solution to either one - or both - of those needs, depending on who they were. Solas decided that he could, at least, spare a few moments of time to diverge from his plotted course and evaluate their potential. With his mind set, it only took a few moments to pack up and deactivate his wards, clearing away the signs of his small camp. He turned a little more to the south than his previously planned route, and following his nose, made his way toward the camp.

It was turning dark by the time his ears could pick up on the voices, and see the glow from the fire where it painted the snow in a golden light. There was movement, and from where Solas stood, nestled far back in the treeline, he counted four people as they shuffled around a campfire. No, five, he amended, as a smaller man silently emerged from the trees, placing an armful of sticks on the ground.

“Thank you, Derren,” a woman said. The voice came from a figure hunched over some boxes next to a large cart. Beside the wagon, a Druffalo snorted and pawed at the forest floor.

“Right, let’s see what we’ve got here,” the woman continued, prying the lid from one of the crates. “Hmmm, we should have used more packing straw; some of these apples are bruised. We could roast a couple of the potatoes. The supplies we brought won’t be enough on their own.”

“Well that’s because we didn’t pack to feed every fucking idiot on the Kings Highway,” a voice gruffly replied. The short, stocky figure of a Dwarf appeared suddenly amongst the crates in the cart, noisily hauling himself up over the boxes to land heavily on the ground beside the woman.

“We have provisions,” another voice said, a man rising from beside the fire. He started to make his way towards the cart but then stilled; and so quickly that Solas could hardly react, the man pulled a bow from his back, an arrow notched and pointed directly at where Solas stood in the trees shadow.

Solas pulled a barrier around himself, the glow lighting the ground at his feet. A shout, the whimpering cry of a little voice, and then all six of the figures were on their feet. The smaller man had drawn his bow also, standing to the side of the first archer. The Dwarf had an axe in hand; a ridiculous weapon, almost the length of the Dwarfs own body, though the grip on it was not one of a novice. The woman stepped forward, pushing herself between the other two figures, one apparently a child, with her palms raised out in front of her.

Solas cursed himself for being careless enough as to approach so close. He did not wish to be caught up in a fight that could have been easily avoided, especially as these people appeared to be nothing more than travellers or traders. He considered the risk of simply backing away, hoping that they would allow him to leave without attacking. The woman’s voice broke the silent stalemate.

“If you’re hoping to take coin from us, I’m afraid you won’t get much for your trouble, friend.”

“I am simply a fellow traveller. I was drawn to the light of your campfire as I passed. I mean no ill-will, and I am happy to leave in peace, if I may.”

“What? So you can run off and get your friends, Mage?” the Dwarf growled, pushing forward to stand in front of the woman. “No doubt to come back and burn us all where we sleep, and sift through the ashes for what’s left. Think I was just dragged up out of the Stone yesterday, do you?”

“As I stated, it was not my intent to alarm you,” Solas replied, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. “Nor do I mean any harm. I will leave and trouble you no further, you have my word.”

“If you’re telling the truth and only want to take some warmth by the fire, you’re welcome to join us,” the woman said, placing a hand on the Dwarf’s shoulder and signalling with her other for the archers to lower their bows. “As my Grandmother would say, ‘Uncertain times are when the hand of friendship is most needed’. I’d shame her if I didn’t extend my own.”

“That is a kind sentiment,” Solas replied, though he didn’t move. He was still weighing the decision in his mind. The bows were reluctantly lowered. Seemingly, as a sign of trust, the woman turned her back and continued her preparations around the campfire. The others slowly returned to their seats by the light of the flames, though they kept their eyes glued in his direction. Only the Dwarf still hovered warily, his axe tightly gripped in his hands.

“Seeing as this has become a bit of a party, I say we crack out some of the sausages, what do you think Berron?” the woman called to the Dwarf, shifting over to another crate and rummaging around inside. Berron didn’t take his eyes off of Solas, though he huffed out an angry snort.

“I think at this rate, we’ll not have anything to ruddy trade with by the time you’ve invited every chuffing straggler in Thedas to supper.”

“Oh, hush with your complaining,” the woman laughed. “Hmmm, maybe we’ll throw in some of the smoked ham as well - and an onion or two.”

Solas watched as the woman carved a large slab of marbled meat from a side of pork before slicing it into chunks and tossing it on to a large skillet over the fire. The scent of the sizzling bacon was tantalizing. The fact that he was unlikely now to be attacked by the group, and the prospect of the first hot meal he would have had in some time, helped Solas come to a decision. He carefully moved towards the campfire, letting his hood drop back from his face as he approached. The others shuffled to allow him space to sit down and the woman threw him a smile as she roughly cut up some potatoes.

“What’s your name, friend?” the older man sitting to his right asked.

“I am Solas,” he introduced himself to the group. The man gave a brisk nod.

“I’m Carrick. This here is my boy Derren,” he said, indicating to the young man next to him. The boy looked to be about fourteen; not quite a child, though not fully come into manhood. Their clothes, while worn, were well made and suited for travel. By the bows at their side and the knifes tucked into their boots, Solas would guess them to be hunters. The two others by the fire were an older woman and a small child. They were Elvhen, though neither were marked by a Vallaslin as was the custom of the Dalish now. Both were painfully thin, the child especially, whose wide brown eyes watched him fearfully from under a large blanket.

“I’m Gayle,” the woman preparing their meal said. “And that’s Bertha and her granddaughter Misha. The pleasant chap over there, with the axe, is Berron. I’d advise avoiding him though. At least, I know I would if I had the chance.”

“Hilarious,” Berron groused.

“So, Solas, are you making your way to Haven as well?” Gayle asked over the pan as it sizzled and sputtered fat into the fire.

“I am, yes. I presume your party is also making your way to the Conclave? Although I am surprised that you would take such a route through the forest. I would imagine the Imperial Highway to be the safer option to travel upon.”

“See? What did I tell you!” Berron huffed at his companion. “Even a wild elf apostate knows it’s stupid to be trawling around the woods. We should have stuck to the road like I said.”

“The Highway would normally be the quickest route, it’s true,” Gayle replied to Solas, pointedly ignoring the Dwarfs comments. “But that was before everyone and their granny decided to take a day trip to Haven. This way may be slightly more dangerous, but it’s now the quicker option by far. We can’t afford to arrive late with crates full of spoiled goods.”

The conversation lulled as the food cooked. Carrick and his son moved out to retrieve more firewood and the child dozed next to her grandmother. Berron still stood, axe close to hand, and Gayle would occasionally direct an annoyed look at hi, as she darted between cooking and repacking the crates.

“If you’re not going to help me, at least make yourself useful and start setting up the tents,” she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation as she stomped over to Berron, shoving him in the direction of a pile of ropes and tarp that lay nearby. The Dwarf grumbled some rather colourful words under his breath, but quickly started on the task when he was threatened with not getting a share of the food.

“May I help with something?” Solas asked, watching as Gayle broke chunks of bread into the skillet, setting them to fry with the meat, potatoes and onions. She gave him a speculative look.

“You’re a Mage, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I am,” Solas confirm, a little wary about her line of questioning. “Though I will refrain from magic so long as I am in your company, if you would prefer.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” she replied with a laugh. “I was just wondering if you could fill that pot with water? There’s no stream nearby, and we could all do with a wash up before dinner.” That wasn’t the response Solas had expected, and Gayle just smirked when she saw the surprise on his face. “If you could make it warm as well, I’m sure we’d all appreciate it.”

“As you wish,” he said, with a dip of his head, which seemed to amuse the woman even further. Solas called his magic to him, careful to keep the spell simple so as to minimize any alarm. It frustrated him how much effort it took for this one easy task, how weak his power felt and how implacable the Fade was to his will. There was a time when such a simple spell could be done with little more than an echo of a thought; when he could have flooded the whole valley with boiling water, and not felt the slightest drain on his magic.

Everyone around the camp watched, expressions ranging from curious to terrified, as clear water slowly filled the metal pot. A swirl of red light rippled over the surface, and steam curled into the cold mountain air, before Solas ended his spell.

“Well, that must be handy when you’re travelling,” Gayle commented dryly, breaking the silence once again.

“Magic does have it’s uses,” Solas conceded with a smile.

“Right, well supper is nearly ready. Wash your hands and faces everyone, while I divvy it out,” Gayle announced to the group.

Reluctantly, they quickly took turns to washed themselves; though most approached the pot as though it was a wild dog, ready to snap at their hands at any moment. The little child, Misha, ran her fingers just over the surface, and Solas felt a slight pull of the Fade. The child had magic then, he realised, and watched as the grandmother quickly pulled the girl back with a whispered admonishment in her ear. He couldn’t guess as to why they would be making their way to Haven, though by the looks the older Elf was glaring at him, he didn’t think she would welcome his questions.

Gayle had separated portions of the meal out on to some make-shift plates. They’d obviously only brought mess tins for two, so she had piled food on to a couple of pot lids to compensate. The larger lid was generously filled and passed to the older woman and child to share, while the rest were offered to Solas and the hunters. “We’ll just eat from the skillet,” Gayle said to Berron, indicating the rather meagre offerings left there compared to what she’d served out to the others. The Dwarf gave her a murderous glare when he had evaluated his portion.

The meal was delicious though. Smoky bacon and rich sausage, crispy edged potatoes and chunks of tart green apple mixed through caramelised onions and fried bread. They ate with their hands, full attention given to the meal, with conversation only starting up when the plates were cleared and the last of the juices licked from their fingers. Berron sat back with a contented sigh, his mood seemingly improved with a full belly. He looked at Solas with more curiosity now than outright hostility.

“So, what are ya headin’ to Haven for, Elf?” he asked, glancing over the staff at Solas’s side. “I thought your kind would be keeping far away, given that they’ll be a good number of Templars hanging around for this Conclave. Seems a bit risky to go there if you aren’t part of those Mages they’re sending to negotiate.”

“Templars are everywhere now since the collapse of the Circles. ‘My kind,’ as you say, will be in no more danger at Haven, as they are anywhere else in Thedas.”

“You’re going in the hopes of hearing the outcome then?” Gayle asked.

“I am going in the hope that the world will be restored to as it was,” Solas replied carefully. He tamped down on the surge of regret he felt as he looked over the faces of the group. They had been kind to offer him a meal and their company. He would endeavour to make the transition back to his time as brief as he could. They deserved to suffer as little as possible - considering they never should have existed in this way at all.

“If you want, you can sleep here tonight and travel with us in the wagon tomorrow? If we rise with the dawn, we should reach Haven proper by midday,” Gayle offered. Berron rolled his eyes and huffed but didn’t voice a protest.

“I had hoped to reach Haven sooner,” Solas responded, picturing the layout of his agents and the route the Magister was taking in his mind. If the estimates his agents gave were correct, the creature would reach Haven by tomorrow evening at the earliest. Still, it would not leave him much time to be in place. Though approaching as one of the traders would likely allow him access to Haven without drawing suspicion.

“It would be foolish to wander these lands at night,” the man Carrick spoke beside him. “I know the forests and mountains. Darkspawn still linger in caves to the north; the last from when we were Blighted. You would do well to journey by daylight, alongside others.

“Hmpfh, stay or this one here will be up worrying about you all night,” Berron stood up, pointing at Gayle with a scowl, “and I’ll never hear the fucking end of it. Come on, give me a hand with the other tent, Mage. And if you can clear some snow from the ground so I don’t freeze my balls off, I’ll count your meal as repaid.”

“Well, it would seem the decision has been made for me,” Solas said, and standing, he dipped his head to Gayle in thanks. She just grinned and started to clear away the plates and cooking pans, others from the group joining in to finish the last tasks before they bedded down. Far in the distance, a lone wolf howled mournfully into the night.

Chapter Text

Gayle watched the sky lighten past the dark boughs of the fir trees that sheltered their camp. The fire was down to embers now, and she eyed the last of the firewood. There was enough left to start breakfast. Maybe use some of the sweetened oatcakes in one of the crates? If boiled long enough in water, a handful would make something close to a porridge. She could add a few of the apples to bulk it out.

As she contemplated the time they had to prepare, Gayle felt the prickle of eyes on the back of her neck. She turned and saw that the Mage who had joined them from the night before was calmly sitting on his bedroll as he observed her.

“Morning,” she greeted him with a smile.

“Good morning,” he replied mildly. “Please accept my apologies. I fear I was not woken to take my watch.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Gayle said, dismissing his apology with a wave of her hand. “Between Berron, Carrick and myself, we had it covered. No need to wake more than is needed. Anyway, you managed to sleep through Berron’s snoring, which is a pretty impressive feat.”

They both glanced over to where the Dwarf lay. The loud rumble of his breathing sounded remarkably like the first tremble of an oncoming avalanche. The others slept huddled under a tent at the far side of the fire; the distance hardly enough to muffle the sound.

“I must confess, your travelling companion is…”

“Rude? Grumpy? Obnoxious?” Gayle interjected. Solas laughed.

“Those are certainly all adjectives that could apply. I was going to say - however - that you seem to have markedly different temperaments. I had wondered how you came to travel together.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment, by the way,” Gayle stated, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. She lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Berron’s lived at the farm with us for almost as long as we’ve been there. He and Jahvern - that’s his partner - left Orzammar years ago to come to the surface. It’s hard to remember a time when they weren’t, you know, part of the family.”

“So, he is originally from Orzammar? He was not born on the surface?” Solas asked, clearly intrigued.

“He was in the Warrior caste before he left. That big axe he carries about was handed down through his family. Jahvern was from the Smithing one. He really helped us to build the farm up to what it is now. He makes all of our tools, helped build the outbuildings and the barn. We’d really struggle without him. Without both of them,” Gayle admitted. “I mean, he may be a giant asshole, but Berron’s not the absolute worst underneath it all.”

Solas raised his eyebrows at her choice of words, but then a voice grumbled, “He can also hear you.”

“I figured that when the ground stopped rumbling from your snoring,” Gayle chuckled. She picked a small stick up from the ground and threw it at the large lump in the bedroll where the Dwarf was ensconced. “Come on, we need to get up. No time for anything more than a quick bite for breakfast. I want to get to Haven as early as we can.”

Berron groaned in reply but rolled out from his coverings. They woke the others and Gayle gave out a few small, hard biscuits to break their fast while Solas lifted the wards he had placed around the camp. The child, Misha, shadowed his footsteps from a distance. Gayle watched as he slowed his movements so she could see what he was doing. After each spell was lifted, she would go and place her little hands on the ground where the protective runes had once been.

“If I may ask a question?” Solas approached Gayle as the others climbed into the wagon. She was trying to tease Roamer, their aptly named Druffalo, back to the camp with a few crumbs of her morning meal. He snorted at her hand but his huge, lumbering frame was rooted to the spot. Gayle leaned all her weight on him, pushing at his shoulder. He flicked his tail in indifferent defiance.

“The child,” Solas continued in a low voice as Gayle started to tug on Roamer’s horns. “You may not have realised, but I can sense magical potential in her. Taking her to Haven may not be the best course of action.”

“We know she’s a Mage,” Gayle said, moving to the rear of the Druffalo to try and nudge him forward. “That’s exactly why her grandmother’s taking her to Haven in the first place. She hopes that the Chantry will take her in. There’s talk that some Mages are still loyal and didn’t leave with the rebels. Now that the Circles have fallen, there’s nowhere for children to go when their magic comes through.”

Gayle caught the look of disapproval on Solas’s face and stopped to lean against Roamers flank, batting his tail away when it lashed at her. “You may not like it. I may not like it either,” she amended, and the uneasy thought of her niece mumbling strange words in her sleep squeezed her chest in fear. “But what else can people like us do? Everyone’s frightened. Some of the Templar defectors are terrorizing the countryside…they’re little more than bandits, cutting down anyone on the flimsiest pretense of magic. Could you imagine what they’d actually do if they found her?”

“There are other ways for a child to learn to control their power,” Solas countered.

“Really? Excellent,” Gayle replied, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “And you’ll be taking them all in to show them these wonderful alternative ways, I suppose?”

Solas just glared back at her in answer. Suddenly his expression smoothed over and he dipped his head. “My apologies again - you are correct of course. With luck, all will be returned to the way it should be, and such concerns will no longer exist.”

The abrupt change had Gayle on the back foot. She considered the now implacably calm expression Solas wore. “You have a lot more hope for the Conclave than I do then,” she replied with a sceptical look. “And my brother called me a starry-eyed dreamer when I even mentioned the chance that they might come to some sort of an agreement.”

“Perhaps,” was Solas’s response. “We will not know the outcome, either way, until we reach Haven and hear of it ourselves. Shall we?” he asked, and turned to walk back to the cart before she could respond.

It took two apples and a lot of pushing before Gayle had managed to coax Roamer into his harness. Everyone else helpfully stayed in the cart and volunteered their sage wisdom without lifting a hand to actually help. Berron was full-blown grinning, perched on his crate at the back, by the time Gayle had hauled herself into the front seat. Solas had decided to sit beside her at the front, his staff tucked carefully in the hollow under their seat.

“If anyone needs to relieve themselves, speak up now or not at all. We’ll not be stopping again until we reach Haven,” Gayle called back in warning. No-one answered. With a sharp snap of the reins, they set off at a steady pace, dawn lightening the sky above to pale blue.

The morning passed slowly and Gayle had to admit that without the help of Solas, they wouldn’t be making the time they currently were. Fallen trees and loose rocks cut through the path in places; and when they couldn’t drive around, Solas would use his magic to move them to the side. It was impressive to watch if she was honest. Gayle had never seen magic used that way. Plus, she was grateful to not have to haul everything off the road manually.

“How did you know about this path?” Solas asked, breaking a quiet lull. “It doesn’t look to have been used in many years. Do you often do trade with the town of Haven?”

“No, not for an age,” Gayle admitted. “My Nana showed me this road. She used to do all of our trading, years before the Blight. When I was older, she would take me with her. My brother isn’t the best with people,” she laughed, “especially when it comes to bartering. He’ll pay double the asking price if it cuts the conversation short.”

“Anyway,” Gayle continued, “Nana went this way to avoid the tolls on the Highway. Plus, the folks that use to live in Haven, before the Blight, well…you’ll likely have heard the stories already.”

“The stories?” Solas prompted.

“You know, about the Hero of Ferelden and the mad Dragon worshippers. How she killed a High Dragon and threw down the cultists, and with the divine blessing of the Maker, she healed the Earl of Redcliffe with the ashes of Andraste herself,” Gayle explained with a chuckle. “Of course, I’m not even sure if half of it’s true. Brother Genetivi wrote about it – I have all his books – so some of it must be. The townspeople were strange though, I have to admit that. I never liked going to Haven to trade with Nana. It was always at the dead of night, far from the town gate. When Nana died, we agreed that we’d stick to just trading with the likes of Orzammar, Edgehall and Redcliffe.”

“You stayed in Ferelden when the Blight came?” Solas asked. “I had heard that many left, fleeing to Orlais or across the sea to the Free Marches. You did not think to do the same?”

“No, we…we stayed,” Gayle replied. Solas must have picked up on her reluctance to speak about the matter as he didn’t question her any further.

They travelled on in silence, the cart jarring every so often as it hit bumps and dips concealed under the snow. On their left, emerging from the trees, jut a large slab of carved grey rock. Everyone turned their eyes to it as they passed. The stone marker had, at one point, been one of the old Mabari statues that littered every corner of Ferelden. This one was defaced. Someone had carved the face and muzzle into a crude image of a dragon. Some of the stone was tainted red, making the jagged mouth look like it was filled with blood.

“We’re nearly at Haven now,” Gayle said as they passed under its glare. “We’ll be reaching the gate into the valley soon enough.”

It wasn’t long after this that the first sounds of civilisation could be heard. There was the murmur of voices, metal striking stone and the groan of creaking wheels. The trees thinned as they crested a small hill and there, laid out before them, was a slow-moving line of traders, pilgrims and other assorted folk, as they filtered through a tall stone gate wedged between two huge, sheer pillars of rock.

“Well,” Gayle said, in an aside to Solas, “if there was a dragon up here, I hope the story of the Warden defeating it is true. I don’t know about you, but my dragon-slaying skills are a little rusty.”

“Yes, it has been a few years since I last killed one,” Solas agreed. “I try not to make a habit of it.”

“I hear it does get pretty tedious after the fourteenth time or so,” Gayle deadpanned.

“Could we just get a sodding move on?” Berron broke in from behind them. “I’m finding the nearest tavern, buying my weight in ale, and then I’m going to sit next to the biggest fire I can find until my toes thaw.”

“All right then,” Gayle said, urging Roamer forward to join the line. “Here goes nothing.”

Chapter Text

The wagon crawled forward at a glacial pace, and not for the first time, Solas thought about saying his farewells to the company and slipping off to find his own way into Haven. They’d joined a long queue of traders who were being questioned and searched before they were allowed into Haven. The line curled around the high, wooden walls that surrounded the village. People passed them by, on foot or on horseback, though few were allowed in through the main gate to the actual town itself. A mass of people spilled beyond the walls, far out to the edge of the frozen lake. Rows of tents had been erected and campfires blazed; bright red lights against the snow-covered ground. Solas’s agents had under-estimated the number of people the Conclave had attracted.

“We could have planted a few fields right here and grown the crops for them in less time than this is taking,” Gayle sighed. She wasn’t even bothering to hold the reins now and had her hands tucked under her arms to keep them warm.

“Fuck this!” Berron growled. “I’ve got a few words that’ll get these bastards moving.” The Dwarf hauled himself up off his crate and made to jump out of the wagon, but Gayle shot over the back seat and grabbed him firmly by the arm.

“Don’t you dare!” she warned, tugging insistently until he sat back down. She was half sprawled across the cart. “I didn’t come all this way for you to pick a fight and get us arrested. That’s the last thing we need.”

Up ahead, more guards emerged from the gate. After a brief discussion with their fellows, the new guards broke off and started to make their way down the line, stopping at every cart. Gradually, one by one, the traders broke from the queue and were directed to other areas outside of Haven’s walls.

“There seems to be a new development,” Solas remarked, and looking back over her shoulder, Gayle slid into her seat, watching as wagons started to separate and pull out from the line.

“Well this is different,” Gayle commented. “I wonder if it’s the good kind of different or the bad?”

“We will soon find out,” Solas replied, and nodded to the guard approaching the wagon directly in front of them. This close, Solas could see that the figure was an Elvhen woman, bright red hair pulled back from a sharp face. Her voice could be made out clearly from where they waited.

“Chantry approved or free-trader?” the woman barked, her voice matching her demeanour.

“Wha?” was the eloquent response from the man driving the cart.

“Are you here to trade by request of the Chantry, or did you come here unprompted?” the guard clarified, voice edged with exasperation.

“I’ve got the most sought-after relics in all of Thedas with me. Enchanted silver rings from the very armour of King Calenhad. A fragment of the Blade of Mercy, still red with the blood of our blessed Lady. Emerald jewels from…”

“So a load of tat then?” the guard cut him off. “Fine. You’ll need to find a spot to set up on outside of the gates. Don’t go near the smithy, that’s reserved for arms and armour traders.”

“Listen here knife-ears, I’ll go where…” The guard cut him off with a glare that could melt stone.

“If you don’t move out of this queue right now, I’ll have you thrown out of the valley and your cart confiscated and burnt,” she snapped. The trader recoiled back like he’d been punched. The guard moved on before the merchant could think of another slur to throw at her. Reluctantly, the cart rolled out of the line and down into the crowded valley.

“Were you requested by the chantry?” Solas asked Gayle, but before she could reply, the Elvhen woman interrupted them.

“Chantry approved or free-trader?” she asked, voice even harder than before.

“Chantry approved,” Gayle replied.

“You have the papers?”

“Yes, I have them right here.” Gayle reached inside her jacket, and after a brief struggle, she pulled out a folded piece of thick parchment. A broken seal of red wax was stamped on it. The elf plucked it from her hand, eyes scanning over the spidery writing.

“Who contacted you?” the guard asked as she read the parchment.

“We were approached by a Chantry messenger on behalf of a Chancellor Rodrick, and asked to pledge to provide what fresh goods we could spare for fair compensation and the eternal thanks of her Most Holy, Divine Justinia,” Gayle responded, her voice taking on the tone of someone repeating words that were memorized by rote. The guard gave her a brief nod as she handed back the letter, then cast an eye over everyone huddled in the cart.

“Who are the rest?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, they’re with me. They’re helpers,” Gayle replied. Solas noted that she was a terrible liar. So did the woman.

“Helpers?” the guard repeated, voice flat.

“Well, there’s a lot of crates to move,” Gayle reasoned, “and I’m not really one for physical labour.”

“Which is why you brought an old woman and a child?” the guard responded, eyebrows raised in scepticism.

“Well, to be fair, the girl can lift more than any of us. She’s deceptively strong.”

“Alright fine,” the guard huffed, and motioned her hand towards the entrance. “Move down to the main gate for your crates to be checked. Have your papers to hand.”

The Elf didn’t say anything further before she walked past them, moving down the line. They heard her repeat her inquiry to the wagon behind them.

“She was friendly,” Gayle commented dryly, picking up the reins and coaxing the Druffalo to move.

“If it gets me somewhere warm sooner, I’ll bloody kiss her,” Berron said from behind them.

“I don’t think she’s the type who’d appreciate that,” Gayle laughed.

“Aye well, some folk have no taste,” the Dwarf responded. His mood seemed to have improved now that they were moving. Solas could admit that his had too. With a clear line in front, they should be inside Haven’s walls soon. He wondered if there was a room he might be able to purchase - he wanted to check in on the progress of his agents, and of the Magister.

They pulled up to the tall stone gate, flanked with huge pillars carved in the likeness of twin Mabari. Solas idly wondered if there were no other animals that the Ferelden’s knew how to sculpt. Dog faces stared out from every joist, beam and awning from here to the Amaranthine Ocean.

“Papers?” a man asked, approaching them from the entryway. Gayle handed over the letter and the guard glanced at it briefly before passing it back. “What kind of goods do you carry?”

“Food and drink; some fresh, some preserved,” Gayle replied.

“You’ll all need to come out of the cart so we can inspect the crates,” he said, nodding to a young man nearby. Everyone shuffled out, stiff from the long morning. Solas watched as Gayle shook out her legs and then made her way to the side of the cart as the younger man jumped into the back. The guard hauled a lid off the first crate, calling out the contents.

“Looks to be apples and some other fruit,” he said to the older man, who made a note of it.

“Quince,” Gayle clarified.

“Right.” He moved on to the next crate. “Potatoes in here,” he said, rummaging around in the straw.

The next handful of crates went much the same way. Onions. Carrots. Plums. Turnips. The young man called each one out, shifting the crates to the side to access more.

“Oh Maker, is that smoked pork?” he asked Gayle, his voice filled with longing. She laughed and nodded her head. “We’ve been living off hardtack, oats and dried goat for weeks now.”

“Dornham,” the older guard warned.

“Perhaps we should wait inside Haven until the inventory is taken?” Solas suggested. He was standing with the others at the side of the road. Impatience was prickling the skin on his neck. He didn’t have time to stand around listening to a list of foodstuffs; he had been delayed more than he had accounted for.

“You’ll not be entering Haven,” the older guard said, not looking up from his parchment. Solas rocked back on his heels.

“What do you mean?” Gayle asked before Solas could respond. “We’re here to deliver goods to Haven. How can we do that if you won’t let us in?”

“You were commissioned by Chancellor Roderick on behalf of her Most Holy. All your goods are to be taken straight to the Temple as instructed. Your food is for the Divine and the members of the Conclave, not for the rabble down here.”

Solas could barely hold back an outburst of irritation. All of the waiting and delays were for naught; he’d now have to try and find an alternative way to slip into Haven. It could take precious hours that he didn’t have to waste. Solas must have not completely covered his reaction as Gayle seemed to catch his look.

“Well, how far is it to the Temple then?” Berron growled. Any good mood the Dwarf had gained was now a distant memory.

“Well, if you’re heading out now and going at a Druffalo’s pace, I expect you’ll reach the Temple just before nightfall,” the guard replied.

“I’m not spending another fucking hour out here in this Ancestor-forsaken ice pit. Listen to me you little…”

“Can at least a few of us stay in Haven while the rest deliver the food?” Gayle asked, stepping in front of Berron before he made for the guard. “Not everyone will be needed and we have young children with us. It’s been a long, cold journey. I wouldn’t want them to suffer hours in the mountains, would you?”

“Sorry, orders are orders,” the guard replied, casting a wary eye at the axe in the Dwarfs hand. “You’ll be wanting to leave that blade too. No weapons allowed past the Penitents' Crossing.”

“Like to see you try to take it from me, you little nug-humping…” Gayle kicked her foot back at Berron, stopping him mid-grumble, though the guard either couldn’t hear him or simply chose to ignore him.

“Right Dornham, I’m off to check these other wagons. Shout me if there’s anything amiss,” the man said before he walked past them, approaching the next wagon, list in hand.

“Sorry,” Gayle said, turning back to the group. “I had no idea we would have to drag this stuff all the way up to the Temple. I’m not sure what we can-”

“What’s this?” Dornham interrupted, holding up a jar of something thick and dark.

“Blackberry preserve,” Gayle called back. “There’s strawberry in there too, before you ask.”

“Oh Maker, I love blackberry jam,” Dornham said wistfully, looking at the jar with a slightly pained expression.

“Thank you for your help, it was kind of you both to take me so far,” Solas began, his mind already thinking of alternate ways to get past the guards. Perhaps there was a gap or low point in the village walls where he could find entrance.

“No, wait!” Gayle exclaimed, her voice pitched low and her eyes gleaming. “Give me a moment, I have an idea.” She quickly turned from the group and approached the rear of the wagon, where Dornham was still sorting through straw-packed boxes.

“You know, if you like blackberries, we included a few bottles of our homemade gin,” Gayle said, climbing into the back where the young guard was standing. “They’re in one of the crates around here. It’s delicious stuff. We let the blackberries soak in it for a whole year. It packs a real punch.”

“I think it’s in this crate here,” she continued, pointing to one of the boxes at the back, “you should take a look.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a half-decent drink! Most of the beer around here is barely much more than sour barley soup,” Dornham grumbled.

“It’s a shame really, especially as some of this food will end up getting dumped,” Gayle sighed, sitting down on one of the crates.

“How do you mean?” Dornham questioned.

“Well, you always have to pack more than was asked for when you’re going to trade food. The roads can be dangerous or you can get delayed. You have to bring extra in case some is damaged or starts to spoil,” Gayle explained. “We got here just fine though - in record time too. There’s barely a bruised apple or cracked jar in here. And it’s likely the Chancellor won’t pay for the extra food. Coin counters - you know - they rarely do. So, we’ll end up just taking it back with us, and by the time we get home, it won’t be fit for anything more than the pigs.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d be happy to…donate it to a worthy cause, let’s say,” Gayle continued, and Dornham’s eyes narrowed. “I hate good food like this going to waste. But, seeing as we’re not allowed into Haven, there’s nowhere around here we could leave it, where it won’t disappear into ungrateful hands.”

“And who exactly would be taking this food into the village?” Dornham asked, his words slow and wary.

“Just the kids-” Gayle replied, jabbing a thumb in the direction of Derren and the girl Misha, “-and their family of course. Can’t be having the little ones wandering around by themselves. It’s been a hard road. They’re in need of a warm fire and a good meal. Just like yourself, I suspect?”

“Well,” Dornham said, scrubbing a hand over the pale shadow of stubble on his face, “I suppose, when you put it like that, there would be no harm in letting a few people in. Like you said, it’d be a waste of food otherwise and it’s not kind to have kids out travelling the mountains at night.”

Solas couldn’t help but smile. Gayle stood up and patted Dornham on the arm. “You’re a real gent, you know that? Here, help me sort out the food to be donated. I think there’s a couple of jars of blackberry jam where the seal has come loose. Oh, and maybe a bottle of that gin too.”

They watched as Gayle and Dornham quickly filled a small crate with some of the produce. A few jars of jam, along with a half side of pork and some sausages were packed in alongside an assortment of fruit and vegetables. Solas slipped to the front of the wagon and retrieved his staff, quickly attaching it to his back while everyone was distracted. When Dornham moved away to speak to the guards at the gate, Gayle motioned the group over to where she was by the wagon.

“Alright,” she said, once they were huddled round. “That was much easier than I had thought.”

“It was a shrewd plan, well executed,” Solas praised with a smile. “I’m impressed.”

“Well, I’m bound to do something impressive every once in a while. We don’t have long though, Dornham is going to get someone to escort you. Bertha-” Gayle addressed the older woman directly “-when you get inside, you’ll want to head straight to the Chantry. It’s the big building right at the top of the village, you can’t miss it. If anyone can help you, you’ll find them there. Carrick, can you and Derren go with them and make sure someone speaks to them?”

“Of course,” Carrick replied. “I’ll make sure they’re seen to.”

“Good,” Gayle said, and seeing Dornham return with another guard, her voice sped up. “Right, Carrick take the crate. Bertha, I’ve put some food in here, just in case.” Gayle pushed a small bundle into Bertha’s arms. “If I don’t see you all when we get back from the Temple, then best of luck to you. Carrick, I expect to see you two at the farm when winter comes.”

Gayle ran a hand fondly through Misha’s hair, sadness colouring her features. The expression was gone an instant later and she was suddenly hustling the group towards the oncoming guards. As they walked, Gayle fell in beside Solas. “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget about you,” she said with a grin, pressing a small cloth bag into his hands. He pulled at the string tie and spied a few apples and plums, as well as some oatcakes at the bottom. Solas swallowed down a surge of guilt as he looked at the little offering of kindness.

“Do you plan on staying until the end of the Conclave?” he asked, stopping just inside the gate. The others walked on ahead.

“Hmmm, maybe, if we can get into Haven. I guess we just have to hope that Dornham is on duty when we get back,” Gayle laughed.

“Perhaps it would be best to return home instead,” Solas found himself saying, not realising the words until they left his mouth.

“Worried I’ll harass you if we meet again?” Gayle asked, but her smile was unsure now. Solas scolded his own errant tongue.

“It is simply as you said yourself,” Solas quickly explained. He knew immediately why he had spoken. Foolish impulse - and the mistake of thinking he could see more in one of these people than could actually be present.

“The outcome of the Conclave is not a certainty,” he continued. “News will travel quickly of any decision reached. You would likely hear just as soon from your own home than if you waited here. Additionally, you would have little traffic to contend with on your way out of Haven, upon your return.”

“I suppose that does make sense. You should catch up with the others,” Gayle added, nodding to the small group currently disappearing up the stairs towards the Chantry. “It was nice meeting you Solas. Should you ever find your way out to the north of Rainesfere, just along the shores of Lake Calenhad, you should pay us a visit; there’s always heavy stuff that needs moving. We can pay you well in food and gin.”

“I shall bear that in mind,” Solas said, inclining his head. “Farewell.”

Gayle gave him a firm pat on the shoulder and a warm smile. Then she turned and made her way back to the cart where Berron was already sat at the front. The Dwarf gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment as Gayle swung herself up into the driver’s seat. Solas returned it. With a final wave, Gayle tugged the reins and the Druffalo started to slowly plod forward.

Solas stood a few moments longer, watching as the cart disappeared from view, his hands and heart heavy with their parting gift. It was most likely neither would survive the coming days. That they lived at all like this was a mistake - one that he had to fix - no matter what. Solas hardened his heart. He would remember them. He would remember their kindness - and he would undo the damage he had caused to this world. Their lives would end, his people would return, and he would find no forgiveness, nor expect any, for what he had done.

It was simply what had to be.

Chapter Text

“No!”

“Berron, come on, be reasonable. We have to!”

“No fucking way. Not if all the Ancestors rose up out of the ruddy Stone and demanded it.”

“Berron, I swear to the Maker that if you don’t get out of that cart and take off your clothes right now, I’m going to haul you out and do it for you!”

Gayle shivered, her bare arms mottled red with the cutting wind. Berron scowled down from where he was still sat on the cart. Gayle had no idea where his axe was but his hands were clutching uselessly at the space it would have occupied.

“Perhaps if I explained the rite,” the Sister beside her clarified, “that we shed the layers of our clothes, and expose our sinful flesh to the Maker so that the winds of his breath may cleanse from our…”

“Your Maker may want you naked so he can breathe all over you,” Berron growled, “but there’s only one man who gets to blow me, and he sure as fuck wouldn’t demand me to strip on the arse end of a mountain before doing it.”

The Sister flushed a rather startling red, mouth opening and closing in shock. Gayle let out an exasperated sigh. Of course he would go and say something like that, she thought. Of course he would. She swore there was a sadistic gleam in his eye, behind all the irritation.

“Get down off that wagon, take off your coat and walk across this bloody bridge without another word, or I swear I’ll convince Jahvern not to touch you till Spring.”

Berron worked his jaw, eyes glinting. Probably trying to weigh up if Gayle really could convince his partner to turn off the tap till then. Gayle just smiled back smugly. Jahvern loved her like a daughter. If she said that Berron needed punished for being an arse, then punished he would be - right where it hurts.

“You’re a dirty, manipulative, conniving…” Berron muttered, ripping off his fur-lined coat and padded tunic before throwing them in the back of the cart. He jumped down, giving Gayle the angriest scowl she’d seen since they’d left the farm, and started marching his way ahead of them towards the furthest gate of the Penitent’s Crossing. The others on the bridge - mainly guards and Chantry folk - all stepped back to let him through. Berron had a strong, solid frame, and the scars that marked their way up along his arms and across his shoulders, chest and back, yelled loudly that he was a warrior; that he was dangerous - even shirtless and weaponless. Gayle gave the Sister her best apologetic smile.

“Sorry about that Sister,” she said, tugging on Roamer’s reins to get him to move. “It’s been a long journey to get here. I’m sure you and the Maker understand.” Gayle followed Berron. By the time she’d led the Druffalo over the bridge and through the gates, he was waiting for her on the other side, glaring murderous daggers at anyone who looked at him. They both shrugged their tops and jackets back on in silence.

“You’re going to be in a mood all the way to the Temple now, aren’t you?” Gayle sighed. Berron didn’t say anything, he just climbed back into the cart and crossed his arms moodily. Gayle sat herself next to him, encouraging Roamer forward. The path to the Temple was a mixture of gravel roads and old stonework bridges that steadily led them up the mountain through the afternoon and into the evening. The air got colder as they climbed, and luckily, they weren’t asked to strip and walk again. There had been a cursory check of their wagon for weapons at one of the bridges, with Berron’s axe – wherever he’s stashed it – having yet to be found. Gayle’s stomach began to complain, loudly, as the sky darkened with the coming of dusk.

Their cart clung to the road as they travelled up the curving sheer rock face at the base of the Temple. They wound round it for what seemed like an age, until suddenly they were met with a high stone gate, split by wide stairs running through its middle. Gayle eased the cart to a halt. At the top, the Temple of Sacred Ashes rose before them as though cut out of the very mountain itself. Its walls were tinged red with the setting sun, glinting fire off the pillars and metal sconces. Gayle couldn’t believe she was actually here, looking at the Temple where Andraste’s remains had once rested with her own two eyes. It didn’t seem possible.

“We just gonna sit here and freeze our asses off or what?” Berron grumbled, hopping down and making for the stairs.

“Of course,” Gayle groaned, sliding out of her seat and trudging after him. “Trust you to go and ruin the moment.”

“What moment? It’s an old ruin. Even the casteless in Orzammar live in places with fancier stonework than this,” Berron said, cresting the stair. He looked around, hand tugging his beard. “You’d think you humans would make an effort if your Andraste’s so ruddy important.”

“Shhhh keep your voice down,” Gayle hissed, coming up to stand beside him. They were in a clearing just in front of the Temple door. There were boxes, sacks and crates piled to either side.

“Wait, where is everyone?” Gayle frowned. “You’d think there would be guards or something out here.”

“Maybe they’re all at their evening meal? I wish I was. Could eat a scabby Bronto right now,” Berron replied, but the set of his jaw and the way his eyes scanned around told her he felt as wary as she did.

“We should check inside. They might be keeping out of the cold,” Gayle said, making for the door.

“Hold up, don’t go anywhere,” Berron warned, then turned to head back down the stairs. Gayle paused, her hand resting on the worn wood of the Temple door. Less than a moment later, Berron returned, heaving his axe alongside him.

“We can’t go into the Temple armed!” Gayle said. “They find you with that, we’ll both be chained up and dragged off. This is a sacred place.”

“Huh, if it’s so sacred, they should have folk stationed at the door, shouldn’t they?” he replied, turning the axe in his hand. “Listen, if I get caught, we’ll deal with it then. I just don’t trust any of this. My gut’s telling me something ain't right, and I always trust my gut.”

“Well, I suppose it’s big enough to not question it,” Gayle agreed, which got her an annoyed grunt in response. Berron was right though, something had put ice in her spine and it wasn’t just the cold mountain air. With a glance and a nod between them, Gayle shoved open the iron-hinged doors. They stepped into a short corridor, lit by sconces. At the end, there was another door, this one with an intricate metal lock in its centre. She pushed at this and it opened freely, revealing behind it the biggest hall Gayle had ever seen.

Its roof was vaulted stone. Carved pillars ran along either side and a huge circular firepit lay in the middle, painting amber across the floor and walls. Long tables and chairs were piled up in every corner; pallets and crates scattered about. It looked like a bustle of activity and preparations had been going on, but there was nobody else in the hall with them. All was silent except the crackle from the firepit. The fine hairs on Gayle’s neck bristled.

“You should check the doors at the side,” Gayle said, running her hand over a mountain of embroidered, velvet curtains that had been dumped on a small table. One curtain had been partially fitted with hooped rings, the rest were scattered on the floor, like whoever had started the task had been interrupted. What in the name of the Maker was going on, Gayle thought?

“We should stick together,” Berron warned, grabbing her by the wrist as she walked towards the door at the very top of the hall.

“I’m just going to look out that door there. I won’t go any further, promise,” Gayle replied, patting his hand until he reluctantly let go.

“Fine, but you had better not go wandering off. If I have to trawl through this place trying to find you, I’ll wring your neck.”

“But then who would you complain to all the way home?” Gayle smiled, and ducked down to plant a quick kiss on his scowling brow, darting away before he could smack her.

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” Berron grumbled after her, as she crossed the wide stone floor.

“I’d say it’s my spectacular wit. That, or the fact that you don’t have a choice,” Gayle called back. When she reached the end of the hall, the cold chill running through her spine was back. Gayle braced herself before opening the door. It creaked, a rush of freezing air and then…

Another corridor. Andraste’s arse, how many corridors did this place have, Gayle wondered, before turning back to call to Berron. Just at that moment, she heard something. Scuffling boots and a sound. It sounded like nothing she’d ever heard, a sucking crackle, like lightning through water. Then a cry. Someone was crying for help!

“Berron!” Gayle shouted back, and then she was running. She could hear Berron curse as he pounded through the hall behind her. She reached the door at the end of the corridor and didn’t pause, didn’t think. That strange sound was louder now, coming from the room beyond. Gayle barged through, her shoulder slamming against the wood, another shout in her throat as a blaze of green light hit her eyes. Then…

Blackness. A searing pain. And nothing.