Chapter Text
The Exalted Plains
9:41 Dragon
Her leg was cramping again.
Nyssa shifted her weight slowly, delicately, digging her toes into the rough bark to avoid rustling the leaves of the tree that hid her. Only half-remembered lessons and sheer discipline kept her carefully balanced as she extended her leg and rotated her ankle, grimacing as tendon and bone popped and cracked in protest. She flexed her calves, inhaling deeply through her nose, and roughly massaged her knee. Pointless, of course, but it was better than simply enduring the ache. After you hung in trees or squatted in bushes for three days, inevitably your joints would begin to hate you.
The Exalted Plains were a dangerous region, and in the months Nyssa had spent here, she had seen many come and go: demons, wraiths and spirits; a Dalish clan south of the river who let her trade information for supplies. She had even seen deserters from the Orlesian army looking to make a life for themselves free of war... but she had never seen the Inquisition here until now.
News travelled fast, even in such a widespread place as the Plains. The Inquisition had reformed following the absolute disaster of the mage-templar conclave a month beforehand, and rumours said their leader was an elf with the ability to close the Fade rifts that had suddenly appeared all over southern Thedas. That would have been enough to intrigue her, if she hadn’t also heard of the refugees flooding the most remote Orlesian villages, notwithstanding the massive Fade rift that had opened in the sky itself. Although it had closed now—no doubt the work of the elf they called the ‘Herald of Andraste’—the scar in the sky remained.
Nyssa knew the Inquisition would likely pop up at some point, but she hadn’t expected them to arrive in the Dales so soon. Nor had she expected the camp to be so diverse. Most were humans, of course, but she had seen at least a half dozen elves in uniforms, as well as a dwarf woman who appeared to be the one in charge. Still no sign of the Inquisitor themselves, but surely they would be arriving at some point, judging by the frantic bustling she had observed in the last day or so.
There was no avoiding it. She would have to approach the camp, and hope the Inquisitor would arrive soon to hear her petition.
Anxiety erupted in her stomach at the thought; a burning nausea that had her breathing deeply to calm herself. If the Inquisitor truly was an elf then perhaps they would be more sympathetic to a request from their own kind. Elven solidarity was a weak leg to stand on, though, and it didn’t make her feel any better. Nyssa straddled the branch and carefully began to pull herself around the trunk, rubbing her foot. She wouldn’t get anything done hiding in trees, at any rate.
It took her some time to make her way through the trees surrounding the camp perimeter until she could position herself above the narrow road west of the camp. A moss-covered, crumbling statue of Fen’Harel stood underneath her tree; just beyond it, two soldiers guarded the camp entrance.
It was now or never.
Nyssa swung down from the tree branch and dropped lightly onto the statue’s head, her half-wrapped feet splayed on the pitted stone. Both soldiers caught sight of her at the same time, but neither raised a hue and cry like she’d expected. Clearly, Inquisition scouts knew of the Dalish presence in the region. They only watched her warily, hands on their swords as she shimmied down the front of the statue.
“ Andaran atish’an ,” she said.
The soldiers stared. They were both human; one a woman with a scarred face, dark skin and full lips that she licked nervously when Nyssa approached. The other was a man, broad in the shoulders with a crooked, bulbous nose and a sour look.
“State your business, elf,” Scar Face said finally. Nyssa took another step forward, and both soldiers drew their swords, showing several inches of steel. She stopped and held up her hands in a placating gesture.
“I need to speak to the Inquisitor,” she said. “I have information.”
Broken Nose squinted suspiciously. “What kind o’ information?”
The kind you are not privy to , Nyssa wanted to say, but she held back the sharp words. “It concerns the tears in the Veil.”
She unbuckled her dagger and tossed the weapon to the ground. There was another pause as Scar Face and Broken Nose looked at each other. Then the man retrieved the dagger and gestured for Nyssa to follow.
She hadn’t surrendered her staff, shrunk to the size of a twig and stuffed in her sash, but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
The camp seemed larger and much louder from the ground. There were uniformed people everywhere – setting up new tents, hoisting pots of water on the campfire, doling out weapons to a few young men and women in ill-fitting armour.
In the middle of camp was a solid wooden table covered in papers. Nyssa caught a glimpse of a heavily creased map and what looked like a scouting report before her gaze fell on a dwarven woman scribbling furiously on a scrap of paper. She recognised her as the woman who had been coordinating the camp.
Broken Nose grasped Nyssa by the shoulder; she flinched, her spine stiffening in alarm.
“Scout Harding,” he said, and the woman glanced up. “This rab—uh, elf turned up outside camp. She says she got information for you.”
Scout Harding had a freckled, friendly-looking face and striking green eyes under thick eyebrows. Those eyebrows raised as she took in the human soldier’s sour expression and Nyssa’s barely restrained annoyance.
“Thank you, Barbet,” she said. “You can go back to your duties.”
Nyssa wrenched her shoulder from the man’s grip and threw him a scowl, which he returned. He saluted and left.
“Sorry about that,” Scout Harding said. “He’s new. You from the Dalish clan near the river?”
Nyssa shook her head, plucking nervously at her scarf. “I came to tell you that your scouts missed a rift in one of the elven ruins west of here.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I must speak with the Inquisitor.”
Harding sighed. “The Inquisitor isn’t here.”
“But they will be soon,” Nyssa pointed out. “Your people are running around like crazed nugs trying to prepare for them.”
The dwarf almost cracked a smile at that. “True. Look, Inquisitor Lavellan is a busy person, and I can’t say for sure he’ll take your word for it, but—”
“Then tell him unless he wants to let even more demons run amok in this place, he should lend an ear.” Nyssa crossed her arms. “Or two. I’m not particular.”
The Inquisitor arrived within the hour.
Nyssa had seated herself on a tree stump near the cluster of new tents, guarded by Broken Nose. He hovered just on the edge of her peripheral vision, chatting with two men huddled around a small fire. Nyssa didn’t care about his inattention. She was busy observing the camp bustle around her and rehearsing what she was going to say to the Inquisitor. That kept her distracted enough to ignore the stares her presence attracted.
Then the distinct sound of horse hooves reached her ears, and a shout came from the camp entrance.
“The Inquisitor is here!”
Two horses came into view surrounded by a small guard patrol. All new soldiers, Nyssa observed, likely part of the Inquisitor’s entourage.
The creature that followed the soldiers was striking enough to draw her attention immediately; not just for its sheer size, but for the great, branching horns crowning its head.
A hart, Nyssa thought, with a spark of curiosity. They were uncommon creatures this far east, and it had been years since she had seen one. The hart’s rider was no doubt the Inquisitor, and it was interesting to see for once the rumours weren’t exaggerated. He was an elven man, with auburn hair drawn away from his face and a face tattooed in markings she recognised as honouring June the Craftsman. Nyssa noted well-muscled arms and fair, freckled skin before she glanced at the two others dismounting their horses. There was a human man, wearing robes from an expensive-looking fabric and carrying a staff: a mage, obviously, perhaps from one of the Circles. He had a curled moustache and an arrogant look about him. The other was a Qunari; a giant of a man with broad shoulders and a set of horns that were almost as wide. He looked oddly familiar, though she couldn’t place where she might have seen him.
Inquisitor Lavellan dismounted as Scout Harding came to greet them at the gate. Nyssa watched as they exchanged words, then Harding gestured in her direction. Lavellan seemed to notice Nyssa for the first time, nodded at Harding and began to walk towards her. Evidently, Broken Nose had also spotted the Inquisitor coming, for he straightened. Nyssa twisted just in time to slap away the man’s hand as he reached for her.
“Do not touch me,” she said. “I will not warn you again.”
The Inquisitor coughed politely. Broken Nose saluted and shuffled away hastily, followed by the amused glances of the Inquisitor’s companions.
“That was quite the display,” Lavellan said.
Nyssa flushed, suddenly feeling like a child caught with its hand in a cookie jar, but the other elf seemed more amused than offended. She steeled herself and crushed down the anxiety in her stomach.
“ Andaran atish’an ,” she said. “I am Nyssa.”
The man smiled, his amber eyes warm. “ Andaran atish’an . My name is Ghil. Scout Harding didn’t tell me you were one of the Elvhen.”
Lavellan was tall for an elf, and the angular features and vallaslin marked him as distinctly Dalish. He could have passed for any of the young hunters in her own clan, but for the obviously human-style armour. Still, it looked well-fitted and good quality, with the symbol of the Inquisition engraved on his breastplate. A bow and a quiver rested on his back.
Nyssa returned the smile. “I could say the same of you, lethallen . I wasn’t expecting... well, not someone with the clans, anyway.”
“Are you with the local clan?”
She shook her head. “I come from clan Ralaferin in the Free Marches. I’m passing through.” The name sounded odd on her tongue, and she suddenly realised she had not uttered the name of her clan in a long time.
“And I take it you’re not here just to welcome me to the Dales.”
Nyssa shook her head. “It wasn’t my first priority. No offense.”
In later years, she would cite the Inquisitor’s gift for insight as one of the reasons she enjoyed working with him. There must have been some outward sign of her nervousness that she was unable to hide; a shuffle of her feet, or fiddling with her scarf. Lavellan cast Nyssa a shrewd look, glanced at his companions and said, “Would you two mind giving us a minute?”
The Qunari and human man looked at each other, shrugged, then left. Lavellan gestured for Nyssa to follow him back to the map table.
“Don’t leave on our account,” Lavellan said as Harding went to step away. “You probably should hear this too.”
“I already have,” Harding said. “Barbet mentioned something about a tear in the Veil?”
Nyssa pointed to the spot on the map; a junction of two small streams east of the camp.
“Here,” she said. “A rift opened in a temple I was exploring. I managed to seal the ruin, but I can’t mend the tear in the Veil itself. I’m told that power lies solely with you.”
“Who told you—“ Harding began, but Lavellan cut her off.
“How did you seal the temple?”
“I’m a mage.” Nyssa had the grace to look guilty as she pulled the shrunken staff from her sash. Lavellan and Harding exchanged glances.
“I should have had Barbet search her when they brought her in,” the dwarven woman said with a sigh.
“It’s not your fault,” Lavellan said. His amber eyes fixed on Nyssa with a hint of faint displeasure.
“No, it’s not,” Nyssa replied, “Please—I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m no danger to you, as long as your men keep their hands to themselves.”
Lavellan crossed his arms, cast her a swift, searching glance... then nodded.
“What were you doing in an ancient ruin?” he said after a moment.
Nyssa let out her breath slowly, her fingers unclenching. “It was an elven ruin, and I was studying it. I fled the place when the rift opened, but I managed to seal the entrance. I’ve been watching your camp for the last three days, trying to figure out how to approach you.”
“Three days,” Lavellan repeated, and Harding’s face fell.
“Please, don’t blame your scouts,” Nyssa said quickly. “This is Dalish land; you should know that most of all. I know this area very well, and I’m... used to hiding. I did no more than observe your people. And I promise you I will not be the only one who wants to keep an eye on you.”
(She didn’t tell them that she had already spotted a Dalish scout in a tree opposite the camp two days ago. No need to give away clan secrets, after all.)
Harding folded her arms. “You got anything else to say?”
“Actually, yes,” Nyssa replied, turning to her. “You should double your patrols around the eastern perimeter. And if you capture any Dalish, do not harm them, unless you wish to bring down the wrath of the local clan.”
There was a pause—then Lavellan grinned.
“She’s right,” he said, and gave Harding a light pat on the shoulder. “Don’t be mad, Harding. Better you be tipped off now than risk more trouble in this place. Now... where the hell did Dorian and Iron Bull go?”
“Here, boss!”
The Qunari man and the mage appeared from behind the makeshift food tent, weapons in hand. They glanced Nyssa up and down as they approached. Sizing her up, probably, Nyssa thought, and watched them approach.
“Dorian, Iron Bull,” Lavellan said. “This is Nyssa. They—she?” he added, glancing at Nyssa, who shrugged. “We’re helping her take care of a rift in one of the ruins nearby. Any objections?”
“Traipsing into a demon-infested ruin?” Dorian said dryly. “Sounds like fun.”
Iron Bull’s scarred mouth twisted into a grin. “Sure, why not. It’s not like we’ve got anything else to kill. Except time, I guess.”
“Right.” Lavellan glanced around. “Where’s Cole?”
A tingle of magic brushed against the back of her neck, and she jumped.
“Lungs bursting, blistering, breath burning, blood on my lips—”
Nyssa took two steps back, hand flying to a dagger that was not there. A human man — no, a boy — had appeared before her without warning. Blue eyes stared at her from a tangle of limp, blonde hair crammed underneath an enormous hat.
“You were there,” he said. “When the air tore apart and the demons fell out. Monstrous and twisted like the stories your Keeper told.”
“Ah,” the Inquisitor said, with a laugh, “there’s Cole.”
“Don’t scare the poor woman, Cole,” Dorian said. “Let her get used to you.”
“Sorry,” Cole said.
Nyssa touched her bottom lip tentatively. It was well-healed now, but two weeks ago it had been painful and bloody, and she hadn’t the time or opportunity to heal it for days. But heal it she did, and it had left no scar. There was no way for this Cole to know of the injury.
“You can’t see it,” the boy said. His eyes fixed on her face, bright and curious. “But I feel it.”
“You’re a spirit,” Nyssa said. The sense of familiarity had thrown her for a moment, but there was no other logical explanation: he couldn’t possibly have known those things otherwise.
“ Yes ,” Cole breathed. “You see me. I’m glad.”
Was it even worth asking what a spirit was doing with the Inquisition? Not like it would matter. Nyssa put it out of her mind and turned to the Inquisitor, who had been watching the exchange with a neutral expression.
“I can leave when you are ready,” she said, “and I’ll need my dagger back.”