In the hold, steeped in the smell of tar and dampness, with the monotonous creak of wooden frames and the splash of waves against the hull, the women of the Seeker's party had settled. The corner by the galley was the warmest: heat from the stove mingled with the acrid smoke of the sailors' pipes, but at least there were no icy drafts here. In the farthest corner sat Naire and Bethany, less accustomed to such conditions. Leliana and Morrigan, indifferent to the sailors' presence, had placed themselves between the girls and the rest of the crew as a living shield. Under unspoken pressure, Alim had been forced to take a place at some distance from the others, as much as the cramped quarters allowed. Yet the elf stubbornly remained on deck, despite the biting wind and the rain lashing his face. Every gust of wind reminded him they were sailing south, where winter had already taken hold. Wynne had found a corner of her own. And the Seeker himself, of course, had been given one of the ship's two private cabins, right next to the captain's.
From snatches of the sailors' conversations it became clear that, with the maneuvering around the Kinloch Islands, the weak crosswind and the rain on top of it, the schooner was crawling along at a pitiful five knots, barely half her potential speed. Given the distance, and assuming the weather sprang no new caprices, that promised a full twenty-four-hour journey. But the crew were quietly anxious about the journey's end—and not at all because of the rumors about what was happening near Redcliffe Fort. The sailors were afraid of running into new ice near the southern shores of the lake. Still, in Morrigan's opinion, these men held themselves far better than the sailors of the merchant vessel the witch had commandeered in the past. More disciplined? The ship itself looked much more like a warship and, perhaps, even belonged to Bann Calenhad of the port city on the north shore of the lake that bore his name. That would explain why the sailors, gritting their teeth, followed the Seeker's orders, while a silent reproach remained in their eyes.
Naire and Bethany, huddled together, sat on the rough planks of the floor, warming themselves by the heated bulkhead. The smell of rancid oil and salt water hung in the air, and every roll of the ship made the wood creak, as if warning of the unreliability of their refuge. The girls were quietly discussing the puzzle the dark-haired mage had tossed their way. Morrigan, back straight and legs crossed, swayed rhythmically in a hammock in time with the ship, trying to decipher something in a volume bound in black leather. Leliana, meanwhile, appeared to be dozing nearby.
Naire looked up from what she was doing, narrowed her eyes, and asked Morrigan:
— What's so interesting in there?
The mage gave a noncommittal shake of her head and, without looking up from the text, replied:
— Nothing of consequence. Merely trying to find a way not to die in the coming days. The Seeker mentioned the reason for our journey in passing, though the questions outnumber the answers. I shall have to discuss it with him in more detail, if he deigns to speak. But even so... it is not a cheerful prospect. And I find the right books to be the best allies. They selflessly grant knowledge and wisdom to a sharp mind.
Bethany frowned and, watching her mentor's elegant fingers carefully, asked:
— What is the threat?
Morrigan raised her gaze to the girl, and her lips twisted in a grimace of displeasure.
— Ah... it seems Tristan is not overly fond of elaborating on important matters. Though that speaks volumes about his intentions. The threat is... complex. Once again, it concerns creatures from beyond the Veil. But there is a twist. The problem lies less with the "familiar" possessed, and more with the "walking dead". Something directs shadow creatures straight into the bodies of the deceased. And they, maddened and tormented, rise up against the living.
With a shudder of sharp disgust, Bethany drew back, and Naire, turning pale, asked:
— Well... that can't be as bad as possessed mages, can it?
The dark-haired mage tossed back a strand of hair that had fallen over her eyes and nodded. Returning her attention to the book, she remarked:
— Correct. But to underestimate them is to make the last mistake of your life.
Without opening her eyes, Leliana said:
— Numbers?
— Yes. And most of us will be practically useless.
Bethany raised her eyebrows in surprise, attempting to object:
— But the dead are quite fragile. A sword or a spell can easily take any one of them down. And they can't do much on their own.
— So it seems... and yet, no. The dead of this sort sometimes have particular abilities. But the main point is, there seem to be many of them. A great many. And what is our little party capable of? In open terrain, when the enemy attacks from all sides, Naire and her talents are of little use. You? Certainly, you could set the forest on fire in the enemy's path. But snow has likely already fallen around Redcliffe Fort. Dozens of dead cannot be stopped by a couple of burning corpses. Our archer here is quite out of her element. Amusing to admit, but Alim will likely prove the most useful of all.
Naire, with a thoughtful expression, smoothed the fabric of her warm robe over her legs and tried to find a counter-argument:
— But the Seeker knows the scale of the problem. Surely he knows what to do.
Morrigan snorted, and a shadow passed over her face. Barely audibly, she murmured:
— Perhaps.
Though her eyes read: "We are all going to die." Listening to the soothing creak of the planks, she continued:
— Either Tristan has already devised a plan, in which case we shall gratefully play our assigned roles. Or things are far worse and far more banal. Judging by my conversation with the Seeker, he needs me for personal reasons. For now. But you two? You are not necessary. Though I try to see things through Bethany's eyes, it is far safer here to consider the situation through the lens of Leliana's "experience". Tristan may treat you as expendable. Throw you into battle, and afterwards—erase you from his memory. And it will not end well in the days to come. I am not one to surrender without a fight. And so we come back to the point: I am seeking a solution to keep you safe.
Leliana snorted:
— How touching. So you are our "shield"?
The bard cracked open one eye, and a venomous playfulness entered her voice:
— Or are you simply afraid it will be harder to wriggle out of trouble without us?
The mage grimaced again and retorted disdainfully:
— Word games are pointless. You of all people should understand that.
Opening her eyes, the redheaded bard cast a searching look at the witch trying to wrest some use from the book.
— Oh, I understand you only too well... But the girls believe you've suddenly developed maternal feelings for them. Sweet, isn't it?
The two girls exchanged glances, looked questioningly at Leliana, then turned their gaze to Morrigan. Before answering, Morrigan sighed, letting only a fraction of her irritation show.
— Sometimes the motive matters less than the result. What is calculation for one is care for another. Especially for those of simpler minds. I have learned that these are two sides of the same coin. But if you insist... of course, my intentions are not dictated by altruism. Bethany's perspective on things and events is necessary, and seeking a replacement for her is a risky and impractical endeavor. And one should value one's own labour. My acquaintance with Naire has only just begun. It would be foolish to discard her before properly beginning.
— And me?
— You have your uses as well.
— Oh, such compliments warm the soul.
— That is the intention.
Naire smiled uncertainly, watching the exchange of barbs, and as soon as there was a pause, she ventured into the conversation:
— I think Morrigan is right. Even if she is inventing justifications for her attempts to protect those she, for some reason, cares about, it doesn't change the outcome in the end. It might not sound very convincing, but if we can help with your preparations... We haven't been together long enough to call ourselves friends just yet. But there is no discord between us, and together we definitely have a better chance of overcoming the danger.
The dark-haired mage looked up from her book again, fixing the elf with a piercing gaze from her dark-gold eyes.
— No discord...
Before Naire could answer, Bethany nodded eagerly in response. The girl's smile held a barely perceptible hint of sadness, but it was sincere.
— Of course. No dark secrets, no arguments or disagreements...
Morrigan's lips slowly stretched into a smile that came out as a wicked double of the expression on her apprentice's face.
— Ignorance is truly a gift.
Leliana tensed, throwing a warning look at the older mage, but Morrigan had no intention of stopping.
— Since that is the case, let us talk. Better now than having it turn into a sudden knife in the back later. Leliana once mentioned gossip. Like sharp spices, they burn the tongue, making life feel more vivid—until they are rubbed into a wound. Naire, so that there are no more secrets between us: I have shared a bed with Valinsi.
Bethany lowered her eyes, biting her lower lip. The news threw her back into her own dark thoughts, making her miss what the spoken words meant for her friend. And this fleeting shadow of fear and disgust did not escape the dark-haired mage's notice. Leliana, too, twisted her lips for a moment, openly showing her opinion of the rules of this "game". But Naire... only blinked in surprise, slowly digesting the fact thrown in her face.
— That's... unexpected... But...
The girl's face scrunched up, but however she tried, it became clear to everyone—the phrase had hit its mark, and the news mattered to her far more than she wished to show.
— All right. I don't even know what I should ask...
Leliana sighed and gently prompted:
— With Morrigan, just ask whatever comes to mind. It's more practical. She herself proposed the rules, under which everything is brutally simple.
— Then... what even attracted you to him?
Running her index finger over her lips, Morrigan smiled more softly and answered the question with a question:
— You won't deny that Valinsi is quite attractive as a man?
— No... I mean yes, if you set his character aside, perhaps. But that's not what I asked.
— Of course. An interesting question, by the way...
Leliana suddenly snapped her fingers, cutting in:
— You're doing it on purpose.
Morrigan shrugged, not denying it, and continued:
— Valinsi showed me a certain sympathy. Why? Perhaps his danger attracted me. Or the illusion of control. But the essence is different—I overestimated his attachment. I am honest with myself. With this body and face, luring a man who isn't prejudiced into bed isn't difficult. Besides: tenderness, care, kindness. All that strikes a chord, as it would in any woman, and I haven't experienced much of that myself. However, there was something else. Inside a mage, emotions and desires are hidden which, without control, are dangerous. On one hand, much in recent days had eroded Valinsi's will. On the other, what happened had also stoked his rage and desire. He became... unstable. That stoked my curiosity—what could I extract from that? Pull it out from under the façade of rigid control. I won't say the mage himself was uninteresting. But this instability... it was exciting. I already told Leliana this before: this connection would do me no good. For Bethany, for instance, flirting with dependency or power over emotions, with violence and control, would hardly seem enchanting. However, I admit, I was mistaken.
While Bethany listened as if enchanted, Naire looked more sullen, as if clouds foretelling rain had covered the sun. The elf averted her eyes, but ultimately yielded to curiosity:
— Mistaken?
Morrigan slowly ran her tongue over her lips, as if tasting her own lie.
— Yes. I thought he was... stronger.
The witch nodded to her own thought, adding:
— I overestimated the attachment. And I was deceived.
Leliana leaned back in her hammock, directing her gaze at the ceiling, and coolly stated:
— Say it as it is. Une erreur?... You wanted him to stay. Otherwise, your little "game" was quite successful. You left the mage worse off than he was before you. Gave him the gift of acute loss and guilt. His position in the Tower is now as bad as it could be. It would be time for him to transfer to another Circle, but even that is denied. And you dealt Irving a slap in the face, robbing him of his support all at once. The old man is left literally alone with the ruins. You are quite adept at biting.
— I will not admit to weaving intrigues. But otherwise, you are probably right.
Morrigan suddenly returned her gaze to Bethany, snapping her out of her thoughts.
— This conversation, of course, isn't merely for pleasure. Nor just to tease Leliana. You and Naire must understand, there are no perfectly clear skies in relationships. I don't aim to corrupt you prematurely. But it is useful to be rid of illusions. Everyone has secrets. Even between us. Much can cause confusion. Even more can cause pain. It is foolish to leave shadows unattended. It is dangerous to be entirely unaware of them. Whether it's worth being afraid... well, I haven't decided yet...
Suddenly snapping the book shut, the witch added:
— Though, this is idle talk.
Leliana shifted uncomfortably in her hammock, as if touched by the icy air freely roaming outside in the sails. The girl added, quieter than before:
— You've changed. Again.
As if shaking off the cold, the bard ran a hand over her shoulder. Echoing the movement, the wind outside suddenly howled like a hungry beast.
— As if deeper and... there's something captivating and frightening in it.
Morrigan nodded, lowering her gaze to the featureless book cover and letting her locks fall, hiding her face.
— I know. It frightens me, as it does you. If we are to believe the Seeker, nothing ended with that ritual. And it won't end just like that. It's a good thing the creature isn't under my skin. Although... close enough to remind me of its presence. By the way, no nightmares so far since then. But it's probably too early to draw conclusions. And since we're speaking of the Seeker...
The girl turned thoughtfully towards the ladder to the deck. Morrigan seemed to ponder how to phrase what was on the tip of her tongue. Among the sailors' hammocks, only a few were occupied now. And the sailors didn't concern the witch.
Bethany followed her mentor's gaze and asked:
— You did want to talk to him...
Morrigan brought her wandering attention back to her apprentice and shook her head.
— No. I mean yes, but this is different.
The witch sharply shook her head, as if driving away superfluous thoughts.
— Naire, I will need your help.
The elf, immersed in gloomy thoughts, started and cautiously nodded, prompting the dark-haired mage to continue.
— The only thing that comes to mind for fighting the dead, loath as I am to admit it, requires Alim's knowledge of magic. One must admit, when the question is survival above all, personal squabbles should be set aside.
— Oh... that... Getting him to talk on that subject will be difficult. But what exactly is needed? What should I ask for?
— His signature spell. I need part of the runic pattern, the one responsible for the external mana node, which controls the direction and area of effect. It's a clever trick and a brilliant solution. Despite the higher mana cost, it renders a huge number of runes in the original spell unnecessary. And it's perfect for my problem.
With eyes shining with curiosity, Bethany formed a silent "Oh" with her mouth, and Naire hastened to clarify:
— But... how will this sequence help? Can you devise a new spell based on it?
Morrigan laughed openly, even squeezing her eyes shut for a moment in mild disbelief at such a bold assumption.
— Of course not. At best, we have a couple of days. And even if I don't sleep at all, you credit me with almost impossible abilities. Mother knew how to create new magic. Not I. And even that took her years, decades of trial and error. What I can do is try to combine two known parts. And even that is a bold idea. If... if I manage to realize my plan, then it's a chance for us. The ironic thing is, I'm still relying on the foundation Flemeth laid. As if she had placed the necessary pieces in the basket beforehand, knowing something in advance.
— I'll try to talk to Alim.
— That's all I ask. But be persuasive. As for the Seeker... those who wish to take part, get dressed. It truly is time to ask some questions. Before it gets dark.
* * *
The atmosphere on the deck was foul—a clinging damp had soaked into everything, from the planks underfoot to the very air. Though the wind was not particularly strong and the rain was more of a drizzle, the drop in temperature made the conditions hard to bear. Anyone would have wanted to return immediately to the warmth and the protection of the shelter of even flimsy walls. And even the crew, accustomed to far worse, moved sluggishly, showing the first signs of fatigue.
The dull drumming of drops on the canvas merged with the squelch of footsteps, as if the ship were sighing under the weight of the bad weather. Morrigan lifted her face to the sky, closed her eyes, and for a moment shut out everything but the frigid moisture settling on her cheeks, eyelashes, and lips.
— Soon enough, the rain will give way to snow...
The phrase wasn't meant for anyone in particular. Then the girl opened her eyes and found Tristan with her gaze. The man, as befits the one dragging everyone in his wake, stood at the ship's bow. He stood stern, bundled in a warm captain's cloak. Steeped in something sharp—perhaps fish oil or tar—it repelled water but gave off a pungent smell that stung the nostrils. Amusingly, Tristan preferred a tight-knit woollen cap to the waterproof hood, leaving only a hint of his straw-coloured hair visible. By the foremast, pressed against the wet wood, stood Alim and Wynne—a strange pair, united, it seemed, only by shared discomfort. To Morrigan, it was a most peculiar sight. By rights, for Alim, Wynne was no different from Morrigan herself. Unless he hypocritically drew some line between one possessed and the other based on personal history or other qualities of each. No less strange was the fact that a woman of her years was even out on deck in such weather. She needed to shake off such superfluous thoughts. Morrigan pulled her cloak tighter—the fur trim was already heavy with moisture. Her steps were firm as she headed towards the Seeker.
— Answer me.
Tristan, standing in profile, barely turned his head, glancing sideways and raising a questioning eyebrow. The man had no intention of opening his mouth, waiting for her to continue. Morrigan's voice cut through the damp air:
— Why are we really rushing to Redcliffe Fort?
The Seeker nodded, returning his gaze to the absent horizon. After a short pause, the man replied:
— Ah... There are more reasons for that than it seems. There's the official one, and then there's the real one.
— No. If that's the case, another thing first. Why are you even answering me?
Tristan smirked, casting a glance at the black water swelling against the side. But soon the smile faded, and the man's face took on a cold expression.
— Certainly not because you're an interesting conversationalist. To some extent, the audience is to blame. And I don't mean those gathered on deck. But what hides behind your eyes. It can hear. I am quite confident in this creature's ability to sense and perceive its surroundings. But as for why I should let it in on my motives... Let's just say, your puppeteer is a wild card I am forced to tolerate due to certain personal considerations. Using your own metaphor about the sharp stick: when it's dark all around, and every step could end in an abyss or the maw of an unknown beast, starting to toss pebbles to either side, listening for the sound of their fall, isn't such a stupid strategy. Or put another way... Stimulus and response. No better method has been devised for understanding an alien mind.
— I wouldn't behave like this in a bear's den...
— A caustic remark. But we don't know where we are. Perhaps in a dusty, forgotten closet, or perhaps in a dragon's cave. There aren't many ways to interact with what hides beyond the Veil. Of course, I could test your value to the puppeteer directly. But I don't think you are unique enough for the creature to sacrifice its anonymity and safety. Let's set aside abstractions and metaphors. Some time ago, an incident occurred in Ferelden that directly concerned the interests of our Order. Until recently, I was the one handling it. My experience and timely arrival in Ferelden on personal matters played a role. I was searching for traces of a long-lost friend. And it so happened that events which, on the surface, are entirely unrelated, widely separated by time and distance, are, in my personal view, indirectly connected. At a minimum. Lacking solid facts, I must rely on intuition. And as long as authority remains in my hands, I will try to find proof.
Morrigan's lips twitched—whether from cold or from fury. To be called a "puppet"... She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself not to react.
— So... I am your... experiment?
The witch curled her lips nonetheless.
— Fine. And what next?
— Yes. Redcliffe Fort. The official reason first?
The mage nodded silently, and the Seeker, catching the movement in his peripheral vision, continued:
— An incident occurred, involving a manifestation of demons. As I mentioned, there is no shortage of reports from Chantry spies and even some Mothers from the settlements around Redcliffe Fort. The dead are rising from their graves and rampaging through cemeteries in anger. "Walking dead."
— And besides that, no rumors of mass possession?
— None. So far. I have no fresh news since we sailed from Calenhad to Kinloch Hold. Much could have changed in these days.
— Some will is pushing lesser ones through the Veil, binding them to the dead...
— Precisely. If you put the reports together, it appears this is happening in the vicinity of the Arl's castle. Which is troubling. The Teyrn received the same information. And, I must say, Milord Mac Tir expressed moderate satisfaction upon learning that this problem would become someone else's headache and would not require him to take any action. In summary, we need to get to the root of the problem. Eliminate it. And ensure that the Arl, his family, and the heir are safe.
Tristan paused, and his eyes darted towards Wynne for a moment—long enough for Morrigan to feel a stab of curiosity mixed with anxiety. The Senior Enchanter still stood near Alim. And it was Leliana who spoke for the first time, politely clarifying:
— You imply that the Teyrn learned of the events "officially" only from representatives of the Chantry?
— Yes.
Morrigan shook her head, feeling not a shred of enthusiasm for such "games" played by the powers that be, where some pretend to know and others pretend not to know.
— But why is the Chantry so concerned with the Arl's safety? Especially now.
— The country is not in the best state. The threat of the Blight. Two instances of open demonic influence on current events. And both strikes were delivered to vital places. Almost simultaneously. But you are right, the Circle is the Chantry's direct responsibility. Redcliffe Fort, however, is not. Let's set aside the matter of the flock, which hopes for Templar protection in the face of supernatural threats. There are more substantial reasons for intervention. Redcliffe Fort is strategically important. And more so for the Chantry than for Milord Loghain Mac Tir, who is concentrating his own military power in Denerim and Amaranthine. If the Guerrin family and their stronghold fall together, the southwest of the country will be exposed, giving an enemy direct access to Ferelden's main fertile valley. And, furthermore...
Morrigan sharply tossed the wet hair from her face. The rivulets of water on her cheeks could have passed for tears—if anyone dared suppose Morrigan capable of such a thing. The mage snorted:
— I already know about this region's economic significance and population density. And Leliana could tell you even more. The Blight could exploit the breach, and even the Avvar tribes could take advantage. And if one considers the Hasind tribes, who retreated to the Frostback Mountains... But that's just the point, this should be Loghain's problem. Not the Chantry's. Why...
Morrigan cut herself off mid-sentence and turned to her redheaded friend, who returned an equally fiery gaze. Something seemed to pass between the girls and, literally continuing the unfinished thought, Leliana murmured under her breath:
— Et oui... The Imperial Highway, encircling the great lake. More precisely, the part that runs like a ribbon between the frigid waters and the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. The only road in the region that reliably remains passable in the winter months. A direct route from Orzammar to Redcliffe Fort and onwards... to Lothering. And the only trade thread that, even after so many winters, is only formally under Ferelden's jurisdiction.
The witch turned back, catching Bethany's frightened look—the girl was staring at her like a rabbit at a python. Snapping her fingers, the mage returned attention to the frowning Seeker's profile.
— If Redcliffe Fort falls for some reason, it will drag the surrounding lands down with it, cleanly cutting off Ferelden from the passes and one of the two serviceable roads connecting the country to Orlais. I'll wager the ports on the Waking Sea are already under the Teyrn's control, and the one coastal road in the far north is easy to secure. Is Loghain more afraid of Empress Celene's invasion than the Blight?
— The Teyrn is endowed with a sharp mind and incredible instinct. Yet, at the same time, he is deeply prejudiced against Orlais. So much so that neither logic nor facts can persuade him otherwise. This causes Milord to view certain events from a single angle. And to measure others by his own standard. Intervention and revenge. Precisely now, when the country is weakened. And it would be logical, were it not for the Blight and for the personality of the current Empress. Therefore, for the Teyrn, this series of incidents on the western borders is like a sudden boon, for which sacrificing a wounded pawn is justified to preserve the King and Queen. I believe that correspondence between their royal persons has added fuel to his suspicions.
— Is a mere boon the only thing to blame for this?
— Who knows. Did the Teyrn play the key card that brought the whole house of cards down? Did another guide his hand in the right direction? Or did something else entirely simply take advantage of a convenient moment?
With the last question, the Seeker turned towards Wynne, but without completing the movement, returned his gaze to the oncoming waves and finished his sentence:
— One can only guess where exactly the chain of events began.
Leliana sighed eloquently behind him, murmuring:
— Eh bien... I would love to read those letters...
Without turning to the "sister", but smiling grimly, Tristan snapped:
— Poking your nose into certain affairs is dangerous to your health, bard.
Morrigan, in contrast, turned around, but only to see the unexpectedly sour expression on Leliana's face. Furthermore, the mage noticed Wynne's gaze, darting from the redheaded girl to meet her own golden eyes. For the first time, a certain interest was readable on the woman's face, instead of dreary detachment. Slowly turning back, Morrigan returned to the conversation:
— Are the Teyrn's fears truly so groundless?
The Seeker twisted his lips, sighing quietly.
— Such is politics... Of course not. There are always schemes. Long-term stratagems. The Chantry had similar plans.
One didn't need to see Leliana to guess her emotions when she spat out:
— Et ça alors... You tried to discredit the southern and southwestern aristocracy among the people, so that in the future they would look more favourably upon the Chantry than their lawful rulers. All that filth, to ease... the King's alliance negotiations. Even without his knowledge. A path strewn with roses and drenched in blood.
Tristan shrugged.
— I don't know, Mistress Bard. Perhaps. It concerns me little, so there is no "we" in it for me. What matters is that a Blight is brewing in Ferelden and there are no Grey Wardens to fight it. Milord Loghain Mac Tir will accept neither military aid, nor volunteers, nor least of all Grey Wardens from Orlais. Therefore, simultaneously with Kinloch Hold, we also need Redcliffe Fort, which the Teyrn has already written off. Primarily, to transport warriors there quietly who have specialised in fighting the Blight since ancient times.
Morrigan opened her mouth, but was pre-empted by Wynne's question, her low, firm voice breaking into the conversation unexpectedly:
— There seem to be no contradictions here. But why did you emphasise wanting to ensure the safety of the Arl and the heir? Why do you need the Guerrin family?
— Because in the eyes of many, Milord Mac Tir is little more than a usurper. And in the absence of an heir of the royal bloodline, unrest is inevitable. Only the old families, whose roots go back to the founding of Ferelden, can unite the conservative royalists around themselves. Blood... is highly valued in this southern country. By a "stroke of circumstance", the Cousland line has already been removed from the board. So the choice is small. Yes... The existence of an opposition will predictably lead to a full-scale civil war. But without it, Ferelden in the Teyrn's hands will lose political flexibility, and moreover will lose too many aristocrats, frightened off by the new power and left alone against the enemy.
The mage standing near the Seeker murmured under her breath:
— Another reason for the Teyrn to push the southwest towards its fall...
Leliana supplemented Tristan's thought:
— Hein, non? I think it also plays no small part that Milord Eamon's wife is of Orlesian origin. Which means the heir of the Guerrin line is of mixed blood. A bridge between two worlds.
The man neither denied nor confirmed the bard's words. Meanwhile, Naire suddenly spoke up:
— So what's the plan? How do you intend to deal with the hordes of dead? You do have a plan, don't you?
— First, we will deal with the source of the problem. I don't think we'll be lucky enough for it to be outside the fortress walls. But we still need to reach Redcliffe Fort.
In Wynne's voice that followed, there was frank agitation:
— I understand... It's important for you to ensure the safety of at least someone from the Guerrin family. But that doesn't change the fact that there are dozens of settlements and small villages around Redcliffe Fort. If everyone is suffering from the invasion of "walking dead", then Milord Eamon's knights are far from sufficient to restore order. It follows that the smaller settlements have perhaps already been ravaged, and the people either killed or joined the stream of refugees. The larger hamlets are effectively under siege and isolated. The cold and hundreds of wounded who need help. This very minute. Even if you resolve the problem at Redcliffe Fort with lightning speed, it won't affect the plight of the local people. We are obliged to help.
Alim spoke up next, taking the same side:
— I cannot disagree. Mass death in the villages, however you look at it, will not serve you well. What use is a fortress if the lands around it become depopulated long before the Blight even arrives. Or is this your... stratagem?
Tristan furrowed his brow—a thin line of irritation appeared on his forehead—and quietly commented on the remarks:
— So many advisers... So many sages...
Turning to Wynne, he smiled politely.
— Very well. You, Lady Wynne, Alim, and Naire—will head to those settlements near Redcliffe Fort that, in your judgment, need assistance. Help the inhabitants to the best of your abilities. And the rest will head straight for the fortress. This is the best division of forces I can propose.
Wynne inclined her head in agreement, but Alim turned sharply to Naire—his eyes widened as if he already saw her dead. Morrigan stepped closer to Tristan, her wet cloak slapping against the deck like a raven's wing.
— Am I correct in assuming...? You know exactly what to do with the dead, and how to deal with the higher power that caused this chaos?
The man gave the mage a brief glance and quietly let fall:
— Who knows. Only fools and the dead are certain in such matters.
To Morrigan, the answer reeked of falsehood, like rotten fish. In an icy voice, she added:
— You'd already planned to divide the party exactly this way, hadn't you?
The corner of Tristan's mouth twitched—as if he were tasting his own lie and finding it bitter. Though it could also have been a smile.
— Believe me, I did not waste my time in the Circle, studying Irving's notes on every surviving mage. The reactions of both Lady Wynne and Alim were predictable. And so is the foolishness of trying to separate the elf from his childhood friend.
Shaking her head, Morrigan turned around, steadying herself with a hand on the ship's rail. Throwing a meaningful look at Naire, who immediately nodded in response, the girl headed back towards the hold...
* * *
Night replaced day, and with the wind dying down, the cold drops falling from the grey skies gave way to wet snow. Settling quietly on the deck and rigging, the snowflakes, in the swaying light of the lanterns, created an illusion of magic and called to mind death's gentle touch. The ropes, caked in white, grew too heavy, and the boards polished by countless feet too slippery, robbing the sailors of their due sleep and threatening death at every moment.
Unlike the other girls, Morrigan still sat in her hammock, eyes wide open, staring into space and mentally reviewing the sequences of runes in the spells she knew. Shadows of irritation flitted across her face, each leaving a deeper trace of weariness. The witch was haunted by the knowledge that she was utterly unprepared for a confrontation with numerous foes. The daughter of Flemeth was strong in duels—even when her opponent outmatched her. Less often it was a skirmish with a pack of wolves, where there was always an alpha to end the bloodshed with a single blow. But dozens upon dozens of enemies left her helpless, jaw clenched. All her weapons boiled down to frightening and fleeing. And the slim hope for a brave soul who would stand against the enemy's pursuit. In the case of the "walking dead", all of the above was useless—much like how futile her attempts to wriggle out of tight spots had been before. The most reliable answer to such a threat was to learn a new spell. But all Morrigan had at hand was the "black grimoire", and nine out of ten of its few spells were written in the flat manner traditional to the Circles, meaning complex incantations consisted of a hundred runes or more. Her memory had always been sharper than a blade—until foreign memories began to overflow it. So she knew it would take weeks to cram something so cumbersome into her own head. And then just as long again to hone her understanding and application of the new spells for real combat. By her estimate, it would take just as long to rework the spells for the multilayered execution Flemeth had trained her daughter in from her very first magic lessons.
This did not mean Morrigan was without ideas. She had more than enough of them. Traditionally, fire was considered the most reliable means against "walking dead". But even if she had ample flame at her disposal, the weather outside left no chance for success. And so the most reliable means against the possessed remained a strike at their most vulnerable point. Corpses were filled with lesser demons. Like their elder "brethren", they craved mana above all else. And if one could tear out those scant grains the demons had scraped together in their graves, languishing with blunted senses and a thirst for more, then the shadow-creatures would scarcely hold themselves together on this side of the Veil, even inside their hosts. At least, that was Morrigan's best-case calculation. The girl did not expect this to actually banish the creatures. But to make them laughably vulnerable for a short time—that was quite possible. The new spell the witch had recently practised: "Adolebitcui congesta ut terra", "Mana Burn", was simple enough in concept and execution. So, it was suitable in that regard. But it only affected one target at a time, consuming a revolting amount of mana for a protracted fight... For the past day, the witch had deliberately gone over its structure again and again, from beginning to end, until she was sure enough of the sequence's flexibility to add something else to it without greatly altering its mana cost. That "something else" was precisely what Morrigan lacked...
The outcome of the brother and sister's conversation was, to general surprise, that Alim did not reject the idea of helping the southern witch. He even promised to discuss the details with the sorceress... Before turning in, only a tired-looking Leliana pointed out that he'd never said when one might expect this promise to be fulfilled. This led Morrigan to the gloomy thought of the immutable gap between her own social skills and the bard's. But in the end, it turned out that for this conversation, the elf had patiently waited until the darkest hour. The idea of confidentiality didn't hold up, as three-quarters of the crew was awake, fighting to keep the ship safe.
Quietly approaching Morrigan's hammock from behind, the mage froze, obviously searching for the right words, so the witch spoke first:
— Are we speaking again?
A prolonged male sigh reached her, after which Alim tried to steer the conversation onto purely practical matters:
— What needs discussing?
— Much.
— If this is only for the chance to—
— Alim. This is clumsy even for you. To think that on a night like this, I'd approach you through your sister just to trade petty barbs.
His answer was a tense silence, which at least seemed wiser than a new attempt to seize the initiative or parry the jab. After a minute's pause, the elf said quietly:
— Well... I suppose I should at least thank you, despite everything, for not revealing the blood tie to anyone.
Morrigan's lips twisted in a soundless laugh—venomous as a snake's bite. She replied softly, keeping her voice and emotions in check:
— Suppose? Hm... A cheap secret, then. Naire meant no harm. Why would I treat her so foully? But even from the perspective of a cold-hearted bitch, what's the gain? Alim, to reciprocate your "gratitude", I didn't need to meet anyone's expectations. Now you are outside the Circle again, stripped of half the meaning that constituted your very essence. And you may never return. Stuck in the hold of a ship racing to meet winter, expecting to meet fresh ice any minute. And no matter what you do, in the worst case, you are fated to drown in cold waters, helplessly watching your sister perish beside you. And even if not, a Seeker is dragging you towards new enemies. And not because I am some spider queen, as if I seduced Naire with dark promises. Your sister has long wanted to escape the Circle's prison, even if those were foolish dreams. I was merely the pretext. And a way to get back at you, for making a decision on her behalf without asking, just as you once did. What should you be grateful for, you son of a bitch? For the fact that your sister's calm breathing is still there. It wasn't Alim who pulled her from the nightmare, but Morrigan. But don't think I'm angry. I'm satisfied with your current predicament. So we're even. Now, let's assume we've exchanged all the poison that accumulated between us. Ahead lies a foe against which you, the Seeker, and perhaps this Wynne might be of some use. If we account for your... "peculiarities". But we both know your well isn't deep. And the battle will be protracted. And as Naire said, I need help to improve our chances of survival. That is all.
Alim stood motionless—only his fingers clenched on the edge of the hammock betrayed his tension. He did not once try to interject, made no sound, like a statue. This fact spoke, if not of silent agreement, then at least of a certain acceptance of what had been said. Letting out another sigh, the elf slowly began to reply:
— I never underestimated the sharpness of your wit. Or your tongue. It's useless to complain now, of course. I simply accept the circumstances as they are. And I try to move forward. But my opinion of you...
The witch threw up her hands, hissing quietly:
— Spare me the hypocrisy. One possessed woman is bad, the other slightly better. I don't even want to know how you rationalise that in your head. Your bloodline has had no evil from me, so try to rationalise that in your spare time. Especially now, when all you have left to defend is your sister.
— Let it be so. Let's set aside the "maybes" and "most likely"s. Let's focus on what's inevitable. From Naire's words, I gathered you need the runic part of the "Repulsion Field" that is responsible for creating a mana knot. It's the impact on that which ultimately generates the impulse. That is, without exaggeration, three-quarters of the spell.
— Repulsio. Yes. Almost.
— Is that... a Tevene name?
— I suppose... Don't dwell on it. I need the part that specifically dictates the area of effect.
— May I ask why you need it?
— Is that a threat or the beginning of our cooperation? Fine... I believe I can augment a spell I already know. And thus force it to affect an area. Anticipating your question, I do have an area-effect spell in my repertoire. But its components are too intertwined. Whereas you have an example in your head where a spell creates a surrogate, inside which the author has built a simpler, more intuitive definition of area and direction. The idea is that this part of the runes in the spell isn't difficult to isolate.
Alim rubbed his forehead, trying to process what had been said, and shook his head incredulously.
— In that, you are probably right... Listen, it's not that it sounds unrealistic. But when do you plan to finish this?
— If we start immediately, then much sooner than if we continue discussing it.
— No, that's not what I mean...
— That is exactly what I mean. We could simply not start. That guarantees no result.
Licking her lips and subduing her emotions, Morrigan added:
— If things go well, we'll have something by tomorrow. If not... what difference does it make?
— It's hard to believe. Naire told me about the ritual, though I only half-listened, but still...
The elf rubbed his temples.
— Alright...
Alim sank onto the slippery planks beneath the witch's hammock; his knees cracked—he had spent too many hours on deck. Crossing his legs, the mage summed up:
— There's no place here, nor anything to write down the rune sequence with. I can't give you just the needed part and nothing extra off the top of my head. But I'll try. I'll list the runes in order, one after another. Memorise them. Allowing for mistakes, it will take about two hours.
The girl nodded, closed her eyes, and concentrated on her interlocutor's voice.
* * *
As was dawn's duty, it brought hope. With the first morning hours, the snow ceased, giving the sailors a welcome respite. Even the clouds no longer seemed so ominous, no longer seeming to scrape against the mainmast. Three hours after sunrise, a warning cry was heard, and soon the weary crew was bustling again, lowering sails and reducing speed. A shoreline appeared about seven kilometres to the south, signaling the imminent end of the journey, though the bay of Redcliffe Fort lay a little farther west. But two kilometres from the ship, the surface of the lake was transforming. In the weak wind, the waves were mere ripples on the water's surface, and in the distance lay an invisible boundary beyond which no waves showed at all. Had it not been for the intense snowfall, even a sharp eye would have struggled to discern the thin, transparent ice growing from the shore to meet the ship. Here and there, the mirror-like surface was marred by a white coating. The shore seemed so close, yet as distant as if it were on the other side of the world. The first ice is fragile and weak, but it can be treacherous. However, the far greater threat was getting stuck in an icy grip in the bay for weeks or months. And at the same time, the cold-bound surface was still too tender to attempt a landing. For no reason short of death would the captain risk sailing forward. And the threat of death would be answered by the threat of mutiny from the sailors.
After brief negotiations, Tristan managed to convince the captain to set a course east. Firstly, the schooner could still make headway even with a crosswind, and fortunately, the wind had shifted overnight from easterly to northerly. Secondly, to the east, the shoreline curved to meet the ship, jutting sharply northward for a good ten kilometres. With some luck, this would allow them to find a place to disembark the passengers in waters not yet touched by the first ice.
Morrigan's companions were whispering amongst themselves—their voices a mix of curiosity and anxiety. For Naire, everything was still novel, so restrained curiosity and a lifted mood prevailed over apprehension. It was clear that Bethany was trying to maintain cheerfulness, but the sudden series of journeys that had come upon the girl and the surrounding cold were wearing down her limited strength. Leliana seemed more pensive, once more slipping into the familiar routine of observing the common sailors and other members of the "Seeker's party." Wynne... In a strange way, the woman had endeared herself to the tired and embittered crew, freely sharing advice of obvious practical use, like a mother waiting even for the toughest sailor in a distant port. And Alim—was asleep. The witch herself paid little attention to the news. In the end, the Seeker made the decisions, and only his will determined whether they would soon be jumping into the frigid water to swim to Redcliffe Fort or waiting for other options. As long as survival wasn't at stake, her mind remained immersed in her own tasks, and the sleepless night further dulled her emotions, rendering her surroundings colourless and grim.
It took an hour and a half for the shoreline to become directly visible from the deck, not just the mast. A narrow strip of sand, no more than ten paces wide, sometimes interspersed with large grey stones with smooth contours. Beyond that began a steep, rocky slope, sharply rising upwards and bristling with sparse, crooked pines from which the wet snow that had fallen overnight was visibly shedding. Fortunately, the icy shell covered only a narrow strip by the shore, a mere couple of dozen paces. So, urged on by the Seeker's stern gaze, the humans and elves bundled up in warm clothes, grabbing leather satchels with a modest supply of dry provisions and the bare essentials. Three hundred oar-strokes in a light longboat, dragged with a dull crunch through the ice crust onto the shore by a pair of Templars who had jumped into the water. And the greyish sand crunched under the party's boots.
Tristan didn't even wait for the longboat to return to the ship, pointing at the slope and giving the order:
— We don't have much daylight left. The Imperial Highway is five, at worst eight kilometres away. According to Erik's description.
The Seeker gestured towards the grim, dark-haired Templar who looked like he'd seen no more than forty winters and had, moments ago, been hauling the longboat onto the beach.
— He lived in this area. Further south, past Redcliffe Fort, to be precise, but he travelled with traders to Lothering as a child. Just beyond this slope are gentle hills and open woodland. In fresh snow, it's a matter of hours. And to Redcliffe Fort itself via the Highway will be... thirty, thirty-five kilometres. With regular stops, another two or three days' travel. The provisions on our backs, however, are not plentiful. And even if that seems insignificant, keep this in mind as we walk—ordinary people are dying there. Move out.
The party swallowed these icy truths without objection—each had enough ghosts at their back already to fear new threats. The Templars obeyed the Seeker unquestioningly, giving him leverage over the mages, who had their own considerations but equally suspected Tristan of possessing the phylacteries of each person present. Except Morrigan. Firstly, she knew for certain. Secondly, the girl couldn't care less about the Seeker's motives or the value of abstract residents, unlike the ones here and now.
When the dangerous ascent was behind them and the stones stopped trying to throw them back down, the party found themselves at the top. Breathing heavily and leaning against a pine tree with roots bulging under her boots, Naire grinned widely at Morrigan standing nearby.
— What... icy beauty.
Turning back, the golden-eyed witch cast a careful gaze over the horizon. Leaden clouds hung over the lake, merging on the horizon with the black water into a single lifeless desert. On the surface of the lake, ripples shifted continuously as if alive, the tangible embodiment of ephemeral winds holding revels in the open expanse. To the east stretched a monotonous shore, though the view of the sand strip was soon blocked by a rocky headland jutting into the lake. To the west, the shore curved southward, so it seemed that the lake filled all the space there.
The witch agreed with the elf, briefly remarking:
— Yes... But let us hurry. It is a severe beauty. It tolerates neither weakness nor foolishness. Nor slowness.
Naire nodded readily and, following her friend, asked:
— Alim... did he help?
Morrigan bit her tongue.
— Surprisingly, yes. Of course, he tried to have his say. But that's trivial.
Adjusting her hood, the short girl nodded with satisfaction, focusing entirely on walking through the pine grove. The trees stood ten or even fifteen paces apart, interspersed occasionally with waist-high shrubs now leafless and boulders of various sizes. The snow lay in patches, and on the slopes it immediately turned into treacherous sheets ready to trip them up. To the right and left came wet slapping sounds as flexible branches shed winter's first gift. Occasionally something clicked somewhere, but otherwise, apart from the travellers' own footsteps, silence reigned. The fresh air smelled of dampness with a slight hint of pine.
The land here breathed with smooth, almost gentle curves, as if someone had smoothed out the irregularities, forgetting only to clear away the "crumbs" of boulders, which grew larger the further the travellers got from the shore. After an hour of almost comfortable walking, when clouds of breath already plumed from every mouth, the scattered, disorderly stones began to rival the young pines in height, lending the landscape, sparse in variety, its own unique character. These "silent inhabitants of the forest" shared similar features despite differences in shape and size. Like the landscape, the form of the monoliths seemed smoothed to an almost complete absence of chips and sharp angles. Their surfaces were covered with parallel grooves, running down to the ground at different angles, as if some mythical creatures had all sharpened their claws here together. The wet sides of the stones darkened, as if sweating, while the dry areas remained pale as old bone. And on the smoothest parts, an unusual needle-like pattern was clearly visible.
Stopping beside a random silent "guardian," Morrigan thoughtfully ran her hand over the cool, rough surface. Erik, bringing up the rear of the group, caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, drawing the golden-eyed witch's gaze. Exhaling into his calloused palms, the man said distantly:
— The old folk call them "abandoned wayfarers." Or sometimes giants who sat down to rest and turned to stone. They really do seem out of place. The stones in the ground here are completely different in colour and hardness. But there are countless such statues in these parts. They say Redcliffe Fort itself is built from them, which is why boulders are much rarer around the fort, and even then, only the largest ones. And they also say the bones of the Frostback Mountains far to the west are made of the same rock.
Morrigan nodded in thanks, her fingers lingering on the stone for another second. Feeling the cold seep into her hand, the girl whispered:
— Older than the first kings...
An hour later, the stone ribbon of the Highway appeared among the trees ahead. Morrigan noted to herself that here it was lower than near Ostagar, thus hiding better among the pine crowns. And of course, no one in the past had anticipated that random travellers might climb onto the imperial road at an arbitrary point. On this stretch, the ancient structure was assembled from the same rock as the "abandoned wayfarers," further demonstrating the practicality and determination of the imperial builders. Though, it wasn't evident that the surrounding boulders had been used for this purpose; they stood untouched literally thirty paces from the Highway. The result—the construction was superbly preserved, steadfastly resisting winters, dampness, and scorching sun and wind. Only the moss at the base was plentiful. They had to use ropes tied together, branches broken off nearby, and a measure of skill. But the first to go up were not the strongest, but those whose weight wouldn't snap the rope. Naire and Leliana. This did not please Alim, who was nervously chewing his lower lip, but he had no grounds to object to Tristan's reasoned arguments.
Wrapping her hands in cloth and, as the Seeker showed, looping the rope twice around her waist, Naire slowly climbed up. Towards the end, the girl puffed strenuously, sometimes exerting unnecessary effort due to lack of experience and practice, but, most importantly, she stood at the top. Leliana moved more confidently, until the toe of her boot "found" a patch of moss perched on a slightly protruding block in the wall. Her foot slipped out from under her—and Leliana fell with a dull thud of her cheekbone against the masonry, her fingers digging into the stone until her knuckles whitened. The archer had the strength to find a foothold and complete the ascent. Leliana wiped the blood from her face with one motion and threw Naire an encouraging look. Then she showed her how to secure the rope for the others. Soon the men climbed up and began helping the remaining ladies below.
The Imperial Highway seemed unnaturally perfect—too straight, too level, as if drawn with the ruler of the gods. Out of the corner of her eye, Morrigan noticed Leliana scooping up wet snow and pressing it to her reddened cheekbone and nose. Tristan sharply gestured westward—a gesture that brooked no argument. And the familiar toil for their legs resumed, where each person was focused only on the next step, themselves, and the surrounding landscape.
* * *
Even before nightfall, most of the party had come to hate the cold, though Morrigan considered it foolish to use such a strong word on merely dank weather. During the day, the temperature hovered around freezing, and only at night did a weak frost set in. Though there was no one here from across the sea, Naire and Alim had preferred to spend the better part of the winter months inside the Hold's chambers, bundled in warm clothes and close to an open fire. To Morrigan, this was to be expected from inhabitants of distant, warm lands where there was no winter. The Templars, however, ignored the wet snow flying into their faces with enviable stoicism. Wynne shivered at times, but that, at least, was explained by her age. Bethany and Leliana were simply tired. The short, ten-minute breaks every two hours of travel were not enough for the girls to recover.
For setting up camp, Tristan made everyone repeat the arduous descent down the Highway's vertical wall to settle in one of the elongated alcoves that recurred again and again along the route, forming decorative archways from the road's front, like a bridge stretching endlessly. Here, their backs received protection from the wind and, with some luck, shelter from the leaky skies. While Tristan, on equal footing with the Templars, chopped down nearby bushes to gather firewood, Morrigan asked Bethany to help with the kindling and strode into the forest. The girl felt numerous gazes on her back, full of bewilderment and suspicion. But the one leading the party didn't even acknowledge the witch's departure, absorbed in his task.
As the snow fell, the girl's figure slipped silently among the shrubs, pines, and firs that had begun appearing in the area about an hour back. Plump white flakes swirled, clinging to her shoulders only to melt immediately. In the thickening dusk, the snowflakes reminded her eerily of nightmares. But a deep breath of the scent of pine needles and frozen earth—and the phantasm retreated. When at least three hundred paces lay between the camp and the witch, she tossed her fur-trimmed cloak onto the nearest shaggy branch. The Circle mage's robe followed, leaving the girl bare from the waist up. After clumsily gathering her black locks into a bun and tying it with a cloth, Morrigan closed her eyes, becoming pure hearing. The frost embraced her bare body with the cruelty of a spurned lover, as if branding her. But the goosebumps, the ghostly plume of her breath, and her hardened nipples revealed the truth. The witch's mind was wholly occupied by the image of the runic sequence. Without a single doubt, mana filled the spell with power. Her elegant hands rose and, through the snowy lace, grasped at something invisible to the eye. When she opened her eyes, their golden gleam in the half-light immediately picked out a nearby pine, and at the command of her trembling fingers, a step to the right and two paces farther on, the snowflakes obediently altered their steady descent.
Exhaling and realizing she had held her breath from start to finish, Morrigan winced and threw up her hands, releasing the tension.
Three attempts later, having lost feeling in her reddened skin along with a significant portion of her mana reserve, the witch shook her head dejectedly. For having no prior practice, the complex sequence worked passably, even moderately accurately. But that was all. The girl was dissatisfied with the imperfection of her own understanding of the runes needed to precisely describe the spell's area of effect. Some detail was eluding her, leaving the spell's author helpless, with no idea what it was.
Once dressed again, Morrigan found it was fully dark, and the snow still swirled, slowly settling on the ground and branches. Rubbing her forearms, the witch sniffed and headed back towards the campsite in search of warmth.
The entire party was squeezed between a decent campfire, built from sods of earth cut with blades, and the wall of the Highway. The fire's warmth had immobilized their tired bodies—almost everyone was already asleep on beds of spruce boughs. Tristan, standing apart, merely gave a short nod in her direction, his gaze never leaving the darkness. The only one still awake by the fire was Wynne. The woman was staring with her blind gaze into the dancing tongues of the crackling flames, lost in her own anxieties and thoughts.
Sitting down nearby, Morrigan raised her eyes, their dancing reflections fixed on the woman, and asked quietly:
— Tell me... When did you realize it was inside you?
Wynne's face turned to stone—only her eyebrows twitched upwards. In response, without turning her head, came a question:
— Is courtesy truly so unknown to you? Or did you deem it useless?
— What has that long life brought you, besides a false sense of respect or safety?
Bowing her head, Wynne conceded the truth in her interlocutor's words, and yet continued:
— Of course, many rituals and flourishes are empty or meant only to conceal poison and hatred. But etiquette was not invented without reason. Not just for elegant verbal dances in high society. Your friend, the bard, could tell you much about the role of that art in various spheres of life. But to simplify, common courtesy allows one to easily avoid situations that could end in bloodshed.
Biting her lower lip in irritation, Morrigan focused and let the rising anger subside. Drawing a barely audible, full breath, she said:
— My apologies. There is wisdom in your words. If something allows a goal to be reached, cutting dangerous corners, one should use it.
This time Wynne turned, meeting the piercing gleam of gold opposite her. Raising the corners of her lips slightly in a hint of a smile, she replied:
— It is surprising to see this in you. Flexibility. The ability to curb your temper.
Morrigan twisted her lips, her fingers involuntarily digging into her own knees.
— That was not always the case. It is easier to call me wilful than compliant. The changes... I often miss how and when they befall me.
Her interlocutor shrugged and continued, studying the girl's face.
— Or perhaps you are simply growing up, child? There is no precise age when we become adults. Sometimes a pivotal moment pushes us, but more often it simply overtakes us, and only later, looking back, do we realize the fullness of the changes. Some are more conscious than their peers, others, even with grey hairs, are like small children.
— I doubt it... But back to my question. What was it like, there, in the clearing?
Wynne frowned, gathering her thoughts, and just by the woman's look, one could tell the memories were not pleasant.
— What was it like... In short? Terrifying. Probably the second event in my life that frightened me so deeply. As if you are being pushed aside. Not literally, no. But words fail to convey it otherwise. Something alien rises within you—something you don't expect to find in yourself. Not even that... You realize with surprise that you had forgotten "it" was inside you. Yes, that's more accurate. And then... The worst part isn't the "presence." It was that single moment when I lost the sensation of my body, the ability to breathe, sight, hearing. Everything, completely and without trace. One moment of absolute, indescribable isolation, before I opened my eyes again, finding myself after the fact. There is nothing to compare it to. It is no less terrifying to continue living with the thought: for it will surely happen again at some unknown moment. And why did I forget about its presence the first time? And can "it" make me forget again?
— I see...
The woman shook her head, murmuring softly:
— Hm... I don't know which is worse. The chance that you do understand. Or that you only said that for appearances.
— Does it communicate with you?
— No. Not once. I suppose when "it"... awakens? There is no place left for me. Or it spares me from losing my mind.
— And dreams?
— Dreams... Nothing of the sort. As before. Though I cannot be entirely sure that "as before" is truly how it was for me earlier. I've seen how such thoughts eat away at the mind like worms in wood. So I don't let myself think about such things. And are your dreams troubled?
Morrigan blinked sharply, as if trying to erase unbidden images, and answered honestly:
— I don't know.
— Please, let us end it here. This is too much truth for one conversation, especially as we openly avoid each other. And I ask nothing of you because... I have enough problems of my own. I want to know nothing of yours. This is unusual for me, believe me, but...
— You feel an aversion towards me, which subtly influences your judgment, but you cannot logically justify it?
Wynne's lips froze in silent surprise, before she said, not hiding it:
— You... have noted that with astonishing accuracy. And, forgive me, but... I do not yet know what to do with that. Nor with the thought that you, too, are possessed. All of this...
Wynne winced and finished the phrase much more quietly:
— It is too much at once.
— So your proposal to split the party wasn't entirely... altruistic? But it is not for me to judge you.
The woman exhaled heavily but offered no comment on that remark. After a pause, Morrigan concluded:
— Well, this sentiment is somewhat mutual. But, to understand something, one must first start talking. Thank you, for it would have been easier to fob me off with superficial answers.
Considering the conversation over, the girl moved closer to the fire. Curling up, she pressed her knees to her chest and closed her eyes, to...
* * *
The awakening came early and dreamless. Rising was difficult, weighed down by a paralyzing fatigue. And once again, the road—endless and monotonous. This time, the surrounding landscape was hidden by a white veil of slowly falling snow, limiting visibility to seven or eight hundred paces. Everything beyond that merged into a monochrome backdrop. White flakes, like down, clung to cloaks and bags, turning them into ghostly outlines, but as soon as the snow touched skin, it immediately melted, leaving icy droplets.
After five hours of walking, during another short break, everyone silently gnawed on hard ship's biscuits, as if trying to distract themselves from the cold. According to Tristan, they were edible even without soaking, unlike the hardtack common on ships. Suddenly, the snow began to thin, and within minutes the sky cleared as if with the wave of a hand, revealing a hilly horizon. And with it, a descent from the Highway, and from it began the familiar dirt road leading southwest. The descent itself, in its quality, materials used, and signs of repair, differed from the Highway, being a much later construction.
The Seeker pointed to the fork and said:
— The Highway runs to Redcliffe Fort, passing south of the port village and the bay. I suspect the view of the Fort will open up beyond that ridge of hills. And this is the very road Erik once traveled with the merchants to Lothering. It leads into the heart of the Redcliffe Arling, to the numerous villages scattered among the hills all the way to Lake Luthias and the village of Honnleath on the border.
The man turned and added:
— If your intentions still hold, we must part ways here. You, together with Erik, will make a wide arc around Redcliffe Fort, bypassing the villages, until you meet the Highway again much closer to the foothills of the Frostback Mountains in the west. Then return to the Fort. By that time, we will either be rid of the source of the problem, or we will be gone.
Tristan met Wynne's gaze, as if addressing her exclusively, and added:
— Be cautious. The suffering of others is not your burden to bear, no matter what your conscience whispers. I know the Circle's healers rarely visit this area. Soon enough, they will call you emissaries of the Maker or Andraste herself. And then they will not ask for help, but demand it. The capabilities of any mage are not limitless, and miracles in the mind of a commoner are only vaguely divided into simple, great, and impossible. In the end, it is you who will be blamed for the deaths of their loved ones. And do not get lost in the procession of days behind you. Winter is upon us, and I fear the Blight is too.
Wynne pressed her lips together, her voice like a blade wrapped in silk:
— Ser Tristan. I kept my distance out of respect, not fear.
The Seeker cut the woman off, without much ceremony:
— Lady Wynne. I will not presume to judge whether respect played a part. But it was not respect that made you cower in a corner and behave like a mouse, but a feeling of fear and uncertainty. And it's not just about selfishness. You are the sort of person who might fear more for others than for yourself. That is a compliment. Our situation is unusual, perhaps... even unique. And so, the choice to mutually avoid each other's company was wise. Do not ruin it now with suddenly awakened bravado mixed with pride. Of course, you are older. Certainly, you do not bear your title for a laugh. And I presume you have a couple of hundred patients to your name. But it is unlikely you have often or for long left the Circle, and even less likely that you have traveled much through the provinces. Your perspective differs from mine, which is considerably marred by blood, death, hypocrisy, cynicism, and lies. So, heed the advice, accept it with the dignity that befits you, and go in peace to do what your tender conscience obliges you to do.
Clenching her jaw until the muscles bulged, the mage nodded and, maintaining a stern posture, moved towards the descent. Alim nodded to Tristan—the man returned the gesture, but his gaze was strained and polite, as if he were already saying goodbye in his mind. And Naire rushed first to Morrigan, then to Bethany and Leliana. Finishing with strong hugs, she forced a smile and murmured:
— Until we meet. I promise.
Morrigan merely snorted in response, giving a nod, but the others—Bethany, Leliana—hugged the fragile elf again, each whispering something encouraging in her ear. And then the modest party of two humans and two elves began to move away, causing a tight ache in the golden-eyed witch's chest—as if something important was slipping away, though she did not wish to admit it.
* * *
The view of Redcliffe Fort from the hills was impressive. A picturesque bay, covered in ice and blanketed with white snow, against which a rocky island, rich in jasper, stood out vividly. A castle rose on the island. In Morrigan's opinion, it was not a patch on Ostagar or Kinloch Hold. But even she admitted that its location and skillfully organized fortifications made the place nearly impregnable. Nearly... And yet, the fortress had fallen three times: to the ancient Empire, during the founding of Ferelden, and under the onslaught of Orlais. This piqued the witch's interest. Though the buildings had surely been rebuilt many times, the stronghold had stood here long before the Highway appeared.
Inside the bay, the village itself, bearing the same name as the fortress, stretched along the shore. Flags fluttered above the fortifications, and smoke curled from the chimneys, showing that life still flickered within the fortress and the village.
However, Morrigan only registered this briefly. Already while climbing the hills, Leliana had begun showing clear signs of exhaustion, uncharacteristic of her, even accounting for the fatigue accumulated over the past days. When, during the final rest before leaving the Highway and descending down to the bay, the witch touched the forehead of her friend, who was hunched over by the roadside, it felt blazing hot. Sharply pulling back the hood from the fiery locks, Morrigan saw a glazed look and a bruise on her cheekbone, already yellowing at the edges.
— You are burning like a coal in a furnace.
— I am? It's fine... I can manage...
Leliana's voice trembled, as if she were fighting not only the illness but also shame for her weakness. The witch turned sharply to Tristan, who was already staring intently at the bard. A muffled, frightened gasp came from Bethany nearby, and an equally quiet curse from the younger Templar, immediately hushed by his older partner. For a moment, the Seeker worked his jaw, weighing options. Approaching closer, the man asked:
— Feel any numbness where the bruise is?
— Yes... A little.
— Does it hurt to move your jaw?
— A li... A little. A break?
— I think not. I would not call myself a healer. But I have seen much. Let us hope it is only a crack. But your strength is failing you. Perhaps an infection has set in. Why did you not speak? Two hours ago, Wynne, the best healer of the Kinloch Circle, could have helped you. But now...
Breathing heavily, Leliana squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them to look at Morrigan. Then, gathering her strength, the girl replied:
— I thought... it was a fever from the cold. Got soaked on the first day. And the cheek... just hurts. It's been... a long time since I traveled like this. And... I do not trust the possessed.
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Tristan muttered quietly:
— Typical. An intelligent woman, yet she acts like a stubborn child...
While the confused Morrigan glowered down at her friend, who was also trying to maintain eye contact, the Seeker turned back to the Templars:
— Tralin, since you cannot hold your tongue, you will carry the girl down. Sling her over your back and tie her hands for safety. Let us hope there is some healer alive down below.
Bethany immediately rushed closer:
— I will help...
With Leliana, her eyes closed in exhaustion, on the Templar's shoulders, the party began a brisk descent down the sodden road, which someone had once attempted to pave, probably not later than the current Arl's grandfather. The mud squelched under their boots, and from the sky, instead of snow, a cold drizzle began to fall.
After an hour's walk, much slower than on the impeccable, if wet-snow-dusted, Highway, the travelers crossed into the silent village. It seemed to have grown without any order, and the possibility of having to defend it had never even been considered. Why would it, with the best fortress in this part of the world right next door? The outer houses stood empty, with windows boarded up—not hastily, but firmly, as if preparing for a siege. The doors were reinforced too, and not just anyhow or in haste. Further down the street, sharpened stakes, bundled together, were visible. Not a soul—no men, no children, not even stray dogs. Only the wind wandered the empty streets, and somewhere in the distance a sign creaked—the only sound in this dead place. But the smoke visible further on, rising from the chimneys, hinted that life persisted.
Suddenly, from the direction of the chantry, rising above the roofs on the far side of the village, came the resonant toll of a bell...