The ride to Haven was long, and afforded him a great deal of time to consider the developments from their brief stay in Orlais, whether the Order's dereliction in Val Royeaux or the introductions made in Ghislain. Varric and Morning each tried several times to ply him for details of the salon, but Ilya found himself quite reticent on the subject of his conversation with one of the mages he'd met there, and thus offered few direct answers to questions about either of them.
It wasn't as if First Enchanter Vivienne bored him — on the contrary, Ilya had greatly admired her poise and cunning, and her carefully-orchestrated public execution of an enemy had been masterful, even if, at his own behest, no real blood had been shed. Still, when his attention began to slip from idle horseback conversations or more serious matters, it was not her to whom his thoughts turned.
The journey itself was uneventful, and their arrival to Haven much the same. He was in the process of untacking his Forder, who was happily drinking from the trough after the long day's climb up the mountain, when a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You should head to the Chantry at once." Cullen stood somewhere behind him, presumably having spotted him from the training yard. His dark tone made Ilya look over his shoulder as he unfastened the saddle, only to find the man's expression just as sullen. "Your guest has arrived."
“My guest?” asked Ilya, eyebrows raised.
“Don't play coy,” Cullen grumbled, albeit without any real bite to his voice.
Before he could continue, a servant skidded to a stop by the fence, breathless. “Your Worship, you're back…!”
“I am,” Ilya replied with a touch of wariness, without stopping his work.
“Mistress — I mean, Lady Montilyet requested your presence at the Chantry as soon as you returned.”
He frowned, almost overlooking the twinge of embarrassment he felt at hearing that honorific again. He let out a soft huff as he lifted the saddle free from the mare's back. "It can't wait ten minutes?"
“The moment you returned, she said,” the servant reiterated, before remembering herself and offering a stiff bow. “Your Worship.”
“She means Josephine will have your hide if you don't hurry,” Cullen said, with such bitter humor Ilya wondered whether he was entirely joking.
Ilya sighed, slinging the saddle across the fence to be dealt with later. “Very well. Would you be so kind as to fetch the stable hand and ask her to take care of my horse, then? She needs to be cooled off.”
“Of — of course, your Worship,” the servant stammered, before scurrying off again. Did she even know the stable hand…? For a moment, Ilya considered simply ignoring the apparent crisis — whatever the situation, it wasn't as if the Chantry would burn down in his absence — but it was so uncharacteristic of Josephine to make such a demand that it overcame his reluctance. Still, he took another moment to slip off the rest of his mare's tack before he hopped back over the fence. Meanwhile, Kallos was by the gate, lapping from a bucket of cold snow-melt to slake his own thirst after the day's exertion. The dog looked up as Ilya approached, long tail brushing the ground as it wagged. Ilya murmured a few words in Nevarran as he gave its large ears an affectionate rub, before begrudgingly starting up the hill.
The frown knotting his brow had not loosened by the time he made it to the Chantry doors. Who could 'his guest' possibly be? They had brought Sera along with them — who had made her presence quite unforgettable, with colorful complaints of soreness he was too polite to repeat — and Vivienne and Morrigan should both be days behind them, if not longer. The merchant from Val Royeaux who had asked to join the Inquisition could have beaten them, perhaps, but what about her could possibly inspire such controversy?
Josephine was pacing the hallway inside the old Chantry, although she might as well have been lurking in ambush with how quickly she whirled upon him as he stepped inside. "Thank the Maker, you're finally here," she huffed, although she did not look particularly pleased to see him.
“Lady Montilyet, what—”
She scarcely seemed to hear him. “Not even a letter!” Her voice was a sharp stage whisper, as if her desire not to be overheard was straining against the force of her pent-up lecture. “Not a word of warning until she was on our doorstep! We should have had a reception prepared, an honor guard at the very least, and instead we greet her with — with chickens and crates! One of the Chantry sisters had to tell me she was even here, and by then Leliana had already found her—”
Ilya rested a hand on her shoulder, drawing her eyes back to him from the door to the war room where her gaze had fretfully wandered. “Who, Josephine?”
She gave an exasperated huff, as if he were being deliberately difficult. “Empress Celene's advisor, of course.”
He paused for a beat. “Oh.”
“What do you mean, 'oh'?” Her voice momentarily broke from its whisper, but she quickly stifled it once more. “Was it not you who invited her here?”
“Yes, but—”
"Without so much as a letter?" she repeated tersely.
“I did—” As she gestured at him to lower his voice, he dropped to a loud whisper of his own in conciliation. “I did send a letter. The bird must have gotten lost. She shouldn't have even arrived yet, anyway.” How could she have made it here before him? The thought only lasted an instant before it was overtaken by a conclusion that felt almost as obvious as it did childish: with magic. That, or she also counted being one of the best riders in Thedas among her storied accomplishments, and he supposed he could not assume anything was out of the question anymore. Perhaps she'd failed to mention that the mount she intended to requisition from the Imperial Stable was enchanted.
He found himself resisting a smile, if only for the sake of poor Josephine's nerves. His protest seemed to have eased some of her vexation, although she still looked mortified. “I'll speak with them now.—”
“Oh, but you are a mess,” she replied, her annoyance seamlessly replaced with dismay as she cast a despairing glance over him. It was not an unfair assessment: his boots and cotton twill trousers were still spattered with mud from the rough and snow-laden road up the mountains, his travel clothes utterly inappropriate for a diplomatic engagement, his hair windswept, his cheeks flushed, his stubble halfway to a beard…
The mud must have been worse than he thought, as Josephine was suddenly smudging something from his cheek with a handkerchief. Although it was entirely due to her agitation and concern for appearances, he had to admit to being somewhat endeared by the display. Their relationship to date had been cordial but painstakingly civil; she had never touched him before, and certainly not with such familiarity.
“Where is she now? The war room?” asked Ilya.
“Yes, she and Leliana are… having tea.” She pronounced the words with dread, as if they were a euphemism for malefic rituals or blood sacrifices rather than the ordinary meaning. The two of them had history, Ilya recalled suddenly; Leliana had likewise accompanied the Heroes of Ferelden during the Fifth Blight, along with its future king. Perhaps that accounted for Josephine's horror, although one would think that the familiarity of even an old acquaintanceship would ease the awkwardness and impropriety of the situation.
“Don't worry, she knows this isn't the Winter Palace,” he reassured her. He didn't resist as Josephine gently turned his head from side to side as she satisfied herself that there were no other flakes of mud marring his skin, before begrudgingly putting her handkerchief away. “Perhaps you can speak with the servants about preparing her quarters.”
She swallowed and nodded, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. “Very well.”
Ilya began to step away, then turned back as an afterthought. “Ah — the First Enchanter of Montsimmard, Madame Vivienne, is also en route. It should be a few days yet before she arrives, however.” Unless she, too, had grown wings.
“Well,” Josephine retorted, managing a strained smile, “it certainly cannot be any worse than this.”
He took a moment to brush the loose strands of hair behind his ears as he crossed the hall to the war room, and knocked lightly before opening the door.
“Lady Morrigan,” Ilya greeted her, his smooth tone belying the chaos only moments behind him and his slightly-worse-for-wear appearance alike. He closed the door behind him and offered a bow, along with a hint of a smile. “What an unexpected pleasure to see you again so soon.”
Judging by the placid reception he received, his arrival was no surprise to either of the women seated in the war room — although perhaps that should be expected, considering how much he himself had overheard through that particular door in the past weeks. His eyes flicked between them briefly. Leliana's control of her expression was as iron-clad as ever; perhaps she was a touch more alert than usual, but positively serene in comparison to their poor ambassador.
Their guest appeared… damnably composed, frankly, and far less travel-worn than she had any right to be after managing to beat him here. Morrigan held herself with the same self-possessed poise he had seen at the salon, and seemed almost as pleased with herself as when he had seen her last, as well. Deservedly so, Ilya would readily admit; this was now her second victory, after all.
He had idly wondered — well, perhaps more than idly, but in his defense he had been quite bored for much of the trip — what sort of attire Morrigan would choose outside the nest of Orlesian nobility, and was relieved to find that she had mercifully eschewed another elaborate gown in favor of more practical garments. Had she arrived with the accoutrements that might befit a representative of the Imperial Court, he suspected Josephine would be having nightmares for weeks.
Instead, beneath a loose dark cloak she wore a thick-necked sweater — soft Rialto sheep’s wool, judging by the fine knit — dyed a lush deep plum-red, tucked into a pair of well-fitted, high-waisted twill riding trousers that would well tolerate both weather and cold. Her crossed legs revealed, in a pleasant surprise, a sensible pair of calf-height leather boots, heeled suitably for both walking and riding. On the seat behind her hung a black loden wool longcoat with a billowing flared skirt, along with a deep green sash embroidered with gold thread.
If her present attire suited her better than ruby and black lace, Ilya reminded himself, it was none of his concern.
“Messere Snow,” Morrigan greeted him, cool and cordial. “The pleasure is mine.” Of that, Ilya had no doubt, and smiled a bit wider. “I fear your bird must have lost its way.”
“So it seems,” he replied. “You have my apologies for the humble reception.” The amused edge to his tone betrayed he was somewhat less than sorry; it was her own fault, after all, and quite deliberately so, whether or not she had done away with the poor raven bearing his letter. “I hope I did not keep you long. It has been some years since your last visit to Haven, has it not? I hope our hospitality compares favorably to its former inhabitants, at the very least." He found himself reluctant to use the word 'cultists'; the Inquisition was skirting worryingly close to that label already, regardless of his opinion on the matter of the so-called Herald.
“Indeed,” replied Morrigan, “the lack of ambushes and drake’s-nests is certainly an improvement, in spite of the abundance of templars, and I have encountered nary a bloodstain or sacrificial altar since my arrival.”
“I believe they keep those down in the Chantry dungeon,” Ilya said with a wry smile, and found himself grateful that Josephine had not accompanied him in from the hall. Under the circumstances, her tolerance for such jests would doubtless be lower than Leliana’s. (Not that he was entirely joking; the stains down there were ghastly, even by his own rather blasé standards.) “The altars, that is, not the templars.”
“Perhaps they ought to reconsider the latter.”
“Well, we are always in need of additional accommodations,” Ilya replied lightly. He paused a moment, assessing the threshold between appropriate and needless small talk, at least insofar as Morrigan was concerned, but with a sweeping glance of appraisal she spared him the decision.
“Have you the wherewithal to make the journey to the Breach?” Her naked skepticism very nearly made him laugh. Josephine must have been putting it kindly when she said he looked a mess. “If you yet possess the fortitude to undertake the journey today, I would have you accompany me to what remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but I shall not begrudge you rest from your travels if you require it.”
Ilya’s smile was equal parts weary and amused. What, was he to retire to convalesce in his chambers, when she had supposedly ridden just as far and twice as fast? He was tired and a bit saddle-sore, he would at least to himself admit, but it was nothing he could not bear. “I believe I’ll manage,” he replied gamely, “but your concern is appreciated. I would hate for your inquiries to be delayed on my account.”
"In that case," Leliana said, rising from her seat with a faint hint of a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth, "this has been a pleasure, Morrigan, but I leave you in the capable hands of the Herald." She paused a moment by the door to glance towards Ilya. If she had chosen that epithet to tease him, her expression gave no sign of it, but he had his suspicions. "Shall I send word to the stables for you?"
"That would be much appreciated, thank you. We shall be along shortly." Ilya replied, inclining his head towards her as she departed. He might have added that she should have her messenger ask for two of their more sure-footed horses, but if the stable hand had any common sense, then that should be obvious from their destination. (‘If’ being a load-bearing element of that proposition; some of their stable hands did make him wonder.)
He turned back to Morrigan with another small smile. "If you're ready to be off, then, I am at your disposal."
The walk to the stables was brisk and mercifully uninterrupted by any of the usual suspects accosting him for help with an errand or a sympathetic ear, although Ilya could not be certain whether that should be attributed to pure luck or something foreboding about his companion's aura. The latter, most likely; his luck had grown quite threadbare of late.
“Tell me, Morrigan,” he asked, as they made their way toward the outer gate, “are you a fair rider?”
“I am.”
He had hoped she might elaborate. “Your journey with the Heroes of Ferelden must have been largely on horseback, I suppose.”
“Indeed,” Morrigan replied, “else we would have tarried so long that the Blight would have consumed Ferelden ere we ever reached Haven.”
Well, that told him little about her skill, particularly given the intervening decade, but she supposed she ought to be competent enough to manage a mount of her own. That was a great relief, as the thought of having to share a saddle with her was… troubling.
The moment they emerged from Haven's outer gate, the dog leapt to its feet with a happy bark and lolling tongue, having waited as instructed. A light dusting of snow clung to its thick, shaggy coat from where it had been curled up to rest in his absence, but was quickly shaken free by the force of its wagging tail.
“Hiii~!” Ilya called, dropping to a knee and holding out a hand to beckon it over. The dog was permitted to roam freely outside of Haven, but the townsfolk were still leery enough of what looked like a wolf the size of a pony that he did not allow it to wander the town itself unaccompanied, although he was by now entirely confident the dog posed no danger to anyone who was not herself a threat. Still, he could hardly blame anyone for their hesitancy: if the dog were to rest its paws on his shoulders, Ilya expected it would stand nearly as tall as him, and outweighed him by a measure besides.
Kallos joyfully bounded over, closing the distance between them in about one and a half enormous strides with such enthusiasm one would never have known he had just trotted miles up a mountain alongside the horses.
“This,” Ilya said, turning his head in Morrigan's general direction and grinning as he ruffled the dog's large ears and allowed it to lick his hand, “is Kallos. He'll be accompanying us to the Breach. At a distance, although most of the horses are used to his scent by now—”
“Snow!” Dennet's uncharacteristically cheerful voice called out from the stable, interrupting him. “Was wondering where you ran off to. Come have a look at this palfrey, would you?”
Ilya stood once more and turned his attention to the horse master. “Orlesian?” he called back, glancing back at Morrigan before making his way towards the paddock where Dennet stood with a long, unhurried stride. Kallos did not follow, although Ilya had given him no command; the dog knew well enough by now to avoid the stable.
“Purebred Arlesans Trotter. The boy told me some noblewoman from Orlais rode 'im in in a few hours ago.”
“Is that so?” replied Ilya.
“You'd hardly know it to look at him, though. You ever seen one up close? He's right majestic.”
“No, not up close.” Ilya stepped onto the bottom rail of the wooden fence to get a better view. The palfrey was a sleek, lightly-built bay who was grazing on one of the hay bales with a dignity and grace that, Ilya did have to admit, put most of their other mounts to shame. Not that he would say as much in front of Dennet, even if the better part of his herd had yet to be transported from the Hinterlands. Despite what must have been a long — albeit suspiciously brisk — journey, the palfrey's coat still had a beautiful luster, like sunlight on molasses. Although he was fond of horses of all types and coats, Ilya had always been partial to bays. The Forder mare Dennet had given him in the Hinterlands was one such — and where was she, anyway? That girl had better have finished cooling her off.
Well, that could wait another moment. Ilya gave a soft whistle of admiration. “He is gorgeous. One of her Radiance's?” he asked mildly, turning back to Morrigan.
Regrettably, this meant he missed whatever expression matched Dennet's suddenly sharp tone. “One of whose now?”
“May I introduce Dennet, Horse Master for the Inquisition,” Ilya offered while Dennet was still recovering his footing, with a teasing, mock-formal tone unbefitting of someone now leaning casually against a paddock fence. “Master Dennet, this is Lady Morrigan, Arcane Advisor to the Empress.”
There was a long pause before Dennet finally replied, “Good to meet you,” a touch curt and perhaps feeling somewhat contrary after Ilya's joke. “He's a fine animal. We'll take good care of him, milady.”
Dennet turned back towards the stable, grumbling something under his breath that Ilya could not quite make out, save for the word ‘scoundrel’, although there was the faint suggestion of a smile across his mouth. Ilya offered him a lopsided grin in apology.
“Is Clove inside?” he asked, leaning over the fence to peer inside the stable from across the pen. “Ellen wasn't here when I left—”
“Haven't seen the girl,” Dennet interjected, with a tone that suggested the young stable hand would be receiving a few choice words upon her reappearance, at the bare minimum. “I took care of your mare for you. Not like you to leave her untended like that.” That was more question than reprimand.
“I was told there was a diplomatic emergency,” Ilya replied dryly. He didn't voice his annoyance at the stable hand's truancy; he doubted whatever he said would make a difference to the lecture she would receive later, anyway.
Dennet scoffed a laugh. “I’ll bet.”
Before he could go on, a young elf Ilya didn't recognize stepped out of the stable gates leading two tacked and saddled horses. The lad looked little more than a teenager, and somewhat pale at, Ilya presumed, the prospect of meeting the Herald. “The horses you requested, my lord…”
He was relieved to see that someone with common sense had intervened, whether it was the boy or Dennet personally, and selected two Dalish All-Breds for their trip to the temple ruins. One was a bright chestnut and the other a bay, both splashed with distinctive white markings across most of their bodies.
“Thank you,” Ilya said, pushing off the fence with his elbows to take the reins of the bay mare and lead her over to Morrigan. He'd tested this particular mare before, and found her even-tempered and sure-footed; an excellent choice for a rider of uncertain skill. Even a good rider would find the way to the temple somewhat treacherous, with the road itself rendered largely impassable and the terrain littered with debris. An All-Bred wouldn’t be half as comfortable as her Radiance’s fine palfrey with its smooth, ambling gait, but if Morrigan would have him back in the saddle after an already-long day’s ride, then she could hardly complain about a bit of soreness if she didn’t know how to sit a proper trot. And, more importantly, an All-Bred wouldn’t have her tumbling down the mountainside even if she was a worse rider than Ilya had supposed.
He crossed back to take the chestnut's reins. It was a gelding unfamiliar to him, but this didn’t trouble him greatly. Still, he gave the animal a quick look-over, running his hands along its legs and hocks and lifting its hooves to check the shoes. Well-shod and secure, as he’d expect. He glanced back up. “What’s your name?”
The lad looked alarmed at the question. “Errol, my lord.”
“Well met, Errol,” Ilya replied warmly. He thought about adding that they would speak later, which they doubtless would, but on second thought it might frighten the boy. He looked back to Dennet. “We should be back before nightfall.”
“Better be sure of it,” Dennet replied, casting a glance towards the Breach. “Wouldn't want to be out there after dark.”
On that, Ilya agreed. Still, they had a few hours of daylight left, long enough for… whatever Morrigan intended to do with him, presumably.
After another glance towards his guest to ensure she was settled, Ilya swung himself into the saddle, whistled for Kallos to follow — mostly on principle, as the dog had proved most reluctant to leave his side for any meaningful length of time — and set off at a trot on the road leading toward the valley.