Alistair finally makes his hands undo the fastenings of the saddlebag.

Its contents have jumbled together from the ride. The feather charm -- probably a fake griffon feather, anyway -- ended up bent at a sharp angle. There's a medallion further in; a few amulets, one etched with the masked heraldry of some Orlesian family or another; a rough-hewn mabari figurine --

(Warden Lucas always ended up carving things out of sticks when he got bored at camp. He remembers.)

-- and a locket that, when he pries it open, looses a fluttering scrap of paper onto Cullen's desk. Alistair spreads it flat. It doesn't take much; it's been folded and unfolded countless times.

He presses his knuckles to his mouth as he reads.