The world outside seemed gray in the muted, diffused light barely spilling from the clouds. Somewhere, one could probably enjoy the rich palette of a pre-dawn sky. But here, the sun was not destined to appear even at midday. There were no shadows in the world around them, and objects felt flat. The silence was broken only by the rustle of falling snow. Breath turned to fleeting mist, and the frost nipped at the skin, making one squint. Because of the bay's humidity, the light chill felt mean—like a vengeful thief stealing what little warmth lay beneath thick clothing. The flakes, fluffy and heavy, slowly shrouded the earth.
Leaning her shoulder against the wall of a building by the barricade that blocked the main street, Morrigan addressed Tristan, who was warming his hands with his breath.
— So, what about "blood magic"?
The man smiled, hiding his face behind his palms, and replied softly:
— A curiosity worthy of a Seeker. Insatiable, tenacious, forever hungry. All who seek truth are doomed to this affliction. And many perish, unable to reconcile this beast with caution and prudence.
— But isn't that why you exist?
— Yes… Fireflies, dispelling the darkness of the unknown by the will of the Divine, even at the cost of their own lives. The Pact means… In certain circles, there's an interesting saying: "Blood magic stirs the blood." When the mind isn't burdened by immediate cares and anxieties, wordplay with many layers of meaning can provide considerable pleasure. Do you think it wise to hope for an answer?
— Now that you ask… Yes, in my position it is foolish and presumptuous to hope for one. And yet.
— Interesting. And your reasoning?
— You are shrouded in mysteries from head to toe, and you are clearly keeping me nearby for several purposes at once. Let's postpone the talk about the puppeteer standing behind my back. In the as yet undetermined future, you will need answers. And it's not even about willingness or how susceptible I am to threats. My intuition whispers that the answers you need will require you to articulate them clearly. The more you know, the more you understand. Returning to the puppeteer, he is not initiated into the subtleties of… "pacts," do you think? If you're not lying.
Tristan exhaled slowly and shook his head uncertainly.
— I expected bargaining and offers of exchange. But your reasoning isn't bad. This knowledge likely won't help you in any way. Although… Sometimes, explaining one thing requires talking about another—something that precedes the concept sought and is necessary as a foundation. So, a "pact"… Of course, it is not a regular phenomenon, like, say, magic. A "pact" implies a deal with a being from beyond the Veil. But there are many "buts" here. It is not a folkloric notion, like a bargain where you sacrifice a firstborn in exchange for some power or a wish granted. A "pact," as we now know, is not merely a deal. It is a state that can be imposed from without, like a door flung open into your soul without permission. And you cannot close it again. Beyond the threshold, there will be no one and nothing wishing to rush in, threaten, or tempt you to take the first step. It is only a possibility, which will henceforth always be in the "room." Sometimes circumstances force one to take such a step. As for the price… You learn that only beyond the threshold. And if opening such "doors" doesn't cost too much, however that cost is measured, then it is both wise and practical. Rather than coaxing one victim at a time, isn't it better to open a hundred "doors" and wait for dozens to step across of their own accord? What matters is that this also requires a subtle understanding of elven or human nature. The itch of curiosity is inherent in everyone. Sooner or later…
Tristan snapped his fingers, but in the cold it wasn't very impressive. He grimaced and continued.
— A "pact" is a gift of only a few beings. In all of history, we know of fewer than you can count on one hand. And each such being offers a "pact" with unique contents under its own terms. Ghaskang is the first among the known. No Seeker has found a path to this being's "pact." What is known of Ghaskang comes only from a handful of forbidden books and… let's call them "interrogations." Ghaskang's "gifts" are somehow connected to the dead. There is a working hypothesis, well aligned with the facts. Not yet proven. As if the Mortalitasi, the dominant mage Order in Nevarra, grew from a "pact" with Ghaskang. Next: Imshel and the Formless One—we know nothing about them beyond the names. And also Zibenkek. According to the conjectures of the Seekers' Order and external sources, this being is inextricably linked to blood magic and… Kirkwall. For a century now, our Order has been systematically trying to connect scattered evidence into a coherent body of knowledge. To unearth the truth about the nature and mechanisms of blood magic, likely guilty of the great sin of defiling the Maker's throne. By fate and sheer chance, this being opened the "door" of a "pact" in me while I was wandering the depths of Kirkwall on other research. It so happened that I had to use the offered tool, and later I became quite skilled in wielding it. The rules are simple. You sacrifice blood, and with it, a small portion of health, which is far harder to restore than blood alone. And the desired work is performed. To the extent you can precisely envision the desired result. Obviously, it is extremely easy on this path to make a mistake that will result in the loss of both blood and health, to the last drop. Fortunately, a disciplined mind and will helped me, through trial and error, to limit myself to workable abilities, stripped down to concepts resembling mage spells. And, incidentally, to avoid being turned for months into a barely living invalid.
Morrigan slowly raised an eyebrow and asked again:
— So, in the end, you use something—by your own admission—indistinguishable from blood magic. Something that turns an ordinary mage into a maleficar in a snap. You perform "miracles" through a being of the Fade?
Exhaling another pale cloud into his palms, Tristan only nodded in reply.
— The role of glorious knights in white and spotless robes fell to the Templars. Our charter contains dozens of warnings and restrictions. But not on how to reach the truth… The end often justifies the means, rather than the opposite. My case and the subsequent report confirmed various conjectures and allowed the Order to strengthen its resolve to wrest the hidden truth from Kirkwall.
— Splendid… What you've told me is extremely curious. But… So, you don't have one, but two open doors?
Tristan jerked his head around, his gaze sliding over the witch's silhouette.
— What?
— I'm talking about what entered Wynne.
The Seeker frowned, narrowed his eyes, and formulated his reply carefully.
— A dangerous topic. First, such knowledge should not exist. Certainly not in your head. Second, keep your "interpretations" to yourself. Third, this has already been discussed, and…
— I see.
A pause followed, during which the man studied the profile of the pensive girl, deciding whether to press or not. But a moment later, the Seeker silently turned away, staring into the distance. And Morrigan froze, her teeth sinking into her lower lip until it hurt. Her thoughts raced like trapped animals. With mild skepticism, she weighed her personal prospects in the distant future. With such knowledge at her back, for the Seekers' Order, the witch was both a hindrance and a threat. Yet she sensed that even this "poisoned fruit" was but a tiny fragment of a giant mosaic. Only after two minutes did the woman's voice pose another question.
— So, you just… envision the result?
She traced a finger through the air as if drawing an invisible pattern.
— Approximately so.
— Doesn't it disturb you that some entity, just to fulfill your wishes, breaches the Veil into reality? Anywhere. Anytime. Leaving no traces. And, to hear you tell it, this could happen with a dozen, or a hundred, simultaneously. From Korkari to the Free Marches or even the Anderfels. And let the "simpler" folk send themselves to an early grave with foolish desires. But there will also be those who want to fix some small thing.
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to shake snow grit from his lashes, and slowly raised his gaze to the sky.
— Perhaps that is the best question to ever leave your lips. But I will say this… There are questions whose answers will not help in solving any of the tasks before me. And moreover, attempts to find answers to them will surely lead me irrevocably astray from my goal. Not everyone, while walking through a swamp in search of a path, can plumb the depth of every pool and tell of it. Such a question pushes one… to think about things harmful to reason. And not only that. I won't dissuade you. Benedict did not fear such things. But note, here I stand firmly on my feet. And where is my partner… Hmm. Speaking of which, the Anderfels? And where is that?
His voice sounded too innocent. Too much. Catching the hint behind the ironic question, Morrigan twisted her lips slightly. She didn't know why that word had slipped out along with the other two names. But logic suggested it was some remote region or realm. Perhaps another empire. In the end, ignoring the jab, she continued.
— Cynical. But logical.
Her voice was like a blade drawn over stone.
— A knife cuts, and that is enough. But sometimes, someone like you should consider. Let's say someone forged this blade. Let's even set aside the "how" and the "from what." But who was it that placed it in your hand? And why?
— This is not the time for such talk. Especially when the sky is shedding snow, and at our backs are only cold walls.
Glancing toward the nearest house, where the surviving part of the original group had taken what rest they could by the hearth, snatching a few dark hours for sleep, the man straightened, pushing off from the wall.
— Here come the others. We move out.
* * *
The mill stood as a tower on the hillock by the bay, like some ancient sentinel. The structure appeared to date from the same bygone era as Redcliffe Fort, and was built of the same material. At one time, it had even served as a separate fortification. But now, on the truncated cone of the building, huge mill sails stood proud, and a circular wooden platform had been built at roughly head-height for operating the wheel, the turning shaft, and fixing the tail. The embodiment of fear of war, repurposed for useful work and for catching the ever-blowing free winds off the lake.
According to Arl Teagan's instructions, they were to descend into a small, round undercroft in the building's massive foundation and, among the old, worn floor tiles, find a triangular one. Beneath it lay a narrow crawlspace, leading vertically down into darkness. Hand- and footholds had been carved directly into the shaft walls, so a climber could press their back and rest, whether climbing up or down. Morrigan immediately imagined what it must have been like here for some lady from the castle, in her proper gown. Tristan, however, simply lit the dim flame of a small oil lamp and moved downward first.
Near the end of the descent, the air grew damp and musty. At the same time, the last steps required concentration, lest one slip carelessly down the shaft and hit the bottom. The passageway at the base maintained a triangular shape, widening at the bottom and forcing sideways movement, sometimes even a slight crouch. Descending on a gentle slope, it resembled a dark maw with rough but smooth edges.
The tunnel oppressed not with fear, but with a suffocating fatigue. Quite soon, breathing grew difficult, and the walls seemed to decide, of their own accord, to begin closing in on the travelers lost in this stone sack. But a blink of the eye, and the illusion faded. Morrigan caught Bethany's face in the half-light—a pale smudge haloed by the lamp's dull glow. But Bethany offered only concentration and a fleeting half-smile in return. That expression struck the witch as strange, even incomprehensible.
At the end of the path, the downward slope gave way to an upward one, eventually leading to a similar vertical shaft. However, after a dozen steps of ascent, a difference appeared. Much sooner than Morrigan had expected, the vertical shaft ended in a stone sack about three paces across, barely allowing one to stand, with roughly hewn walls. A step and a half away, and a circular shaft without any steps was revealed in the floor, while against the opposite wall, the continuation of the triangular tunnel led upward. Tristan paused, listening to the sound of drops falling somewhere in the dark, and whispered:
— Clever. If it floods, the water won't reach the fort right away. But we—will.
At the end of the wearying journey, almost gently sliding aside a massive floor slab, the group of four found themselves in a cold crypt with a low ceiling formed by a series of intersecting, cross-vaulted arches. One after another along the right wall, stone sarcophagi stood in a row, their sides carved with texts and the figures of sleeping people meticulously chiseled onto the stone lids. In the absence of any other light, the eye could only take in the small circle of light wrested back from the darkness by the Seeker's lamp. For a moment, Morrigan felt herself once more in the dead grip of the Tower's darkness. But the fancy ebbed, leaving only a vague sense of danger. The lamp's pool of light, and the darkness around it, behaved naturally. Yet it was not "empty" here…
As if in unison with the witch's feelings, Tristan slowly drew his own blade from its sheath, lowering the lamp to the floor half a step away from him.
This time, Morrigan was not wearing the winter robes of a Circle mage, but practical garb scarcely distinguishable from Tristan's. A simple padded gambeson, thick woolen trousers, a flat leather pouch on a wide belt at the back. Good, high boots of rough leather with double soles, lined with fur, and her hair, let down from its braid and gathered into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. With a low scabbard on her right thigh, at a glance and in the gloom the get-up made the girl indistinguishable from a warrior. A naked blade about an elbow's length completed the picture. Peering into the gloom, the witch quietly remarked:
— What moved you to trust me with a sharp object?
Displaying no less wariness, the man slowly replied:
— Thoughts about the number of lives at stake. And… a simple calculation. You being unarmed would lower, not increase, my own chances of survival.
Without looking, she traced a small circle in the air with the tip of her blade and shook her head thoughtfully.
— A compliment? From one who wields a sword so masterfully—unexpected.
— Hardly. Your skill with a kitchen knife and a sharp stick is sufficient. Just swing your weapon somewhere else.
Morrigan glanced over to where Tralin, his blade angled toward the floor, was peering into the darkness of the crypt's opposite end. But the witch's gaze continued its sweep and settled on Bethany, standing in the center of the group. She had not changed her clothes, remaining in the warm robes of the Circle, and thus stood out. Morrigan was troubled by her apprentice's safety and by her own decision, for personal gain, to place the girl in such an obviously vulnerable position for an attack by an opponent who was not lacking in cunning. For some reason, this very worry felt disturbingly wrong, curdling into anger at herself. Like watching a stupid dog that, instead of obeying commands, endlessly chases its own tail. Logic coolly laid out the facts in their proper places, albeit one at a time. But the quiet stream of ungovernable emotions playfully shattered that order, easily making her feel two opposing states at once. Turning away, the witch tightened her grip on the hilt.
The silence was split by a screech—as if a claw had scraped over stone. Everyone froze. An illusion? But weapons were immediately trained in that direction. The next instant, the darkness spewed forth six rather poorly preserved corpses, whose flesh, from prolonged residence in this mausoleum, had dried and tightened over their skeletal frames. Tristan's blade flashed in the dark. A corpse's head flew off; its body collapsed at Bethany's feet, splattering her boots with black sludge. Another creature slipped past the Seeker, but half a step from Bethany, the Templar cleaved the monster to the spine and kicked it away. Morrigan lunged to intercept a third abomination, knocking it onto the flagstones with a blow from her shoulder. She drove her blade into the creature's eye socket. Bone crunched; the blade went through. In that time, the Seeker's swift sword lopped off two more heads, and Tralin flipped a creature that had leapt onto his back over his shoulder. Morrigan and the Templar brought the short skirmish to an end, simultaneously striking down the last foe.
Tristan threw a sidelong glance at the blade in the witch's hands and raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. And Bethany drew in a raspy breath. The girl's fingers trembled in the aftermath of the sudden violence amid the silence of the tombs. Quickly scanning the area, the Seeker clicked his tongue, summing it up:
— Canaries.
Unconsciously wiping her blade on her gambeson, Morrigan clarified:
— What?
Clearly making an effort to pull herself together, Bethany answered the question in a voice only slightly trembling:
— Pretty northern birds. From Antiva, from the Rialto Bay coast. My… mother told me.
The Seeker shook his head, clarifying:
— I'm talking about something else. For ordinary people, and in the dark, even such abominations are a mortal threat. But to expect anyone coming from the crypt side? That's a dead end, where there can be no one but the dead. Yet Lady Isabella passed through here earlier without difficulty, which means the current master of the Fort also knows about the passage. Or knew in advance. Such a vulnerability should be properly guarded. Or destroyed outright. The third option is…
Morrigan caught on, finishing for the man:
— Now our presence is known.
— Yes… Let's go.
Picking up the lamp, the party moved deeper into the crypt in search of an ascent. Soon, within the circle of light, sarcophagi appeared with their slabs cast aside, their number making it clear that slightly more abominations had left this place than had fallen in the recent skirmish. Morrigan noted that on one of the discarded slabs, the stone-carved sleeping figure held not a sword, but a mage's staff. After the third opened grave, Tralin muttered quietly:
— Only the knights who earned their eternal rest in the Guerrin family mausoleum have been desecrated.
The Seeker paused for a moment, remarking:
— A curious detail.
It didn't take long to find the old and, by all appearances, only door here in the left wall. It was situated precisely in the center of the rectangular hall. Good oak, to judge by the colour, treated for preservation and reinforced with thick bands of metal. Though rust had covered them, a stroke of the hand revealed it was only a thin surface layer. With no sign of a lock on the inside, the situation forced them to resort to magic.
Bethany heated the thick hinges to a dull scarlet, until smoke began to curl from the adjoining wood, and then Morrigan abruptly cooled them, making the metal brittle. A few resonant blows from the Templar's sword pommel—painful in the hands, no doubt—and the metal cracked. Groaning, the door collapsed onto the flagstones like a last sentinel surrendering to the onslaught of the living.
After one flight of narrow stairs and one grate of twisted square bars, adorned with wrought-iron flowers and locked only with a massive hook, they all found themselves in a wide passage where two people could walk abreast. The passage ran forward, dissolving completely into the surrounding reign of darkness. In the walls, empty brackets gaped blackly—the torches had long rotted or been taken. Twice, locked oak doors reinforced with metal were encountered on either side. And then to the right, a spacious alcove was revealed, containing a pair of overturned stools and a barrel full of foul-smelling water. In the center yawned an opening with a not-quite-closed grate and a single key still protruding from the lock. Surveying the strange disorder thoughtfully, Tristan remarked in a low voice:
— The dungeons.
Four steps down, and a corridor with a low ceiling and arches on either side indeed opened before them. Each arch was sealed by a row of thick metal bars. It looked tolerable. The hay on the floor had long since turned to dust, but the cells retained traces of order: benches, buckets, even hooks for clothes. And yet, the air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and excrement—as if someone had diligently maintained a veneer of civility, while the dungeon itself had long lived by different laws. The Seeker raised the lamp higher and strode forward firmly, soon to discover the source of the smell.
In another corner, behind bars, a man huddled in a ball, squinting listlessly at the subdued light. The original color of his filthy clothes had long been difficult to determine, and his cell stood out among the others for its filth. As his eyes adjusted, it revealed a face more like a skull stretched with skin. His eyes, too large for the hollows they hid in, watered from the light. His beard was matted into clumps, as if doused with sweet syrup—perhaps blood from broken lips. In such a state, correctly assessing the prisoner's age was difficult. But an experienced gaze immediately noted the scars—his lips had been split more than once. And a couple of phalanges on his left hand were missing—severed too cleanly for injuries sustained in battle. Morrigan coldly reasoned: it was inconsistent to maim a prisoner and, likely, starve him, yet leave him clothed, not even taking his shoes. Immediately, her attention was caught by small bones, arranged in a strange order near the prisoner. The small bones, neatly laid out by the wall, explained the absence of rats. The prisoner didn't just catch them—he systematized his catch, like a starving accountant.
Tristan frowned and issued a clear command:
— Name yourself.
At the unfamiliar voice, the man flinched. But then, dropping his head wearily, he objected, with a slight lisp as if missing a few teeth:
— Why? You already know…
— Then why speak?
Tristan leaned in, letting his voice slide over the prisoner's skin like a blade:
— Let's see. You don't want to die. Otherwise, you would have smashed your head against the wall long ago. But no… you eat rats. Catching rodents and devouring them raw requires cunning, patience, and a tremendous will to live. You have hope. But only rotting hay remains here. Your prospect is to die slowly and painfully in the dark, in your own filth, and alone. I don't know who "conversed" with you before us, but I want to know. So. Hope—a chance to get out in exchange for sincerity. And let's clarify. Having drunk your fill of misery, you might have thought you'd hit bottom. No. There is no bottom. One can die slowly here, alone, and without hands, feet, eyes…
Tristan's words fell like axe blows. Each one precise, measured, devoid of even a hint of pity. As if not a man spoke, but a mechanism created to extract truth at any cost. But this revelation only badly affected Bethany, who looked at the party leader with a frightened and stunned gaze. Morrigan's fingers dug into Bethany's shoulder—not support, but a tap on the nose for a puppy mesmerized by a snake. The girl jerked, but met her mentor's gaze. There was no comfort in it. Only an order: "Don't you dare fall apart." Blinking away the spell and pressing her lips together, the apprentice nodded gratefully at her mentor. The prisoner trembled. Three breaths—like a diver preparing for one last attempt to surface. And finally, he forced out a voice that sounded like the creak of rusty hinges:
— My name is Jovan.
— Jovan… Jovan… Not a runaway from the Circle, by chance?
— That's right…
Touching his right eyebrow, remembering, Tristan clarified:
— Ah, yes…
The Seeker clicked his tongue as if recalling an anecdote:
— A year ago, a mage fled Kinloch Hold. Right before his Harrowing. He won over a junior-ranked Sister of Light. Lily Mole. And in addition to her, another mage, who had earned her rank a month prior. Solona Amell. Using and betraying both, Jovan disappeared. An "extraordinary" feat, given the distance to the nearest shore and the number of watchful eyes. Mole was exiled to Aeonar. And Amell was made Tranquil.
At the word "Aeonar," Morrigan's fingers involuntarily clenched into fists. For a moment, fragments of others' memories flashed before her eyes—stone walls, screams… And Bethany reacted at the mention of Amell, which immediately caught her mentor's eye. But before the witch's apprentice could utter a word, Jovan intervened. The prisoner's voice was weak but trembled with smoldering rage:
— How can that be… I used no one. Betrayed no one. You know… nothing.
— Then we're both lucky. You, to explain yourself. Me, to hear answers.
— What do you care about my past?
— Stupid questions waste time and patience.
— You… Fine. Lily and I… we were close.
— Lovers?
— We… we broke every rule. Every one.
His voice shook:
— I still don't understand what she saw in someone like…
Swallowing a lump in his throat, now more quietly, he continued:
— Never dared to ask, for fear of scaring off my luck. Lily… Kind, graceful, and… But what of it. Words are like entries in an accountant's ledger; they say nothing of a person's essence. For most of my life in the Circle, I never thought about the coming Harrowing. But after Solona barely overcame her own… We were friends for many years. And so, by age, I was next. And… I calculated something, thought it over. Since childhood, I had a talent for numbers and an excellent memory. It turned out the chance to successfully complete the rite barely exceeded three in five. A grim prospect… Moreover, the depth of one's "well," it seems, significantly affects the outcome. And my reserves were modest. But I didn't despair then. They didn't give me… workarounds. Training. Tried various things… Tedious and of little use… This way, that way… The main thing was, into what. In the end, I had a talk with Senior Enchanter Uldred. He offered help… Told me about blood magic. I agreed to everything. And then, on an ordinary morning, Lily tells me: there's a paper on the First Enchanter's desk, accusing Jovan of using blood magic against… Well, that's not important now. Whatever the Templars scribbled in those papers, what I feared wasn't the Harrowing. But retribution. And the girls helped… not blindly at all. I… didn't know it would turn out so badly… for them.
Tristan screwed his eyes shut so hard it looked like he was trying to crush his eyelids—not grinding thoughts, but facts, as if with his teeth. Meanwhile, Morrigan felt a familiar, aching sensation stir in her chest—a sharp, insatiable curiosity. For the girl, the relationship between Uldred and Irving had taken on a new light. While the First Enchanter had delayed, Uldred had acted, masking his true activities by exposing false apostates.
— Of course, you ran. Where? Likely to Denerim—like all fugitives, hoping to lose yourself in the crowd. Foolish as that is. They caught you on the road. But not with the immediate aim of claiming a reward for a maleficar. People, or elves, I don't know, offered you a deal as simple as day and night. Return to the Circle to be made Tranquil on the spot. Or…
Jovan's eyes, which had been fixed on the floor, suddenly jerked upward, like puppets on strings.
— Yes… But… How?
— Even if a few pieces are missing to establish the causal chain, I see the broader picture better than you.
Flicking his eyes toward Morrigan, the Seeker added almost inaudibly:
— Astonishing, where new puzzle pieces keep turning up…
Returning his attention to the prisoner, the man continued:
— Well? Strangers.
— Ugh… Yes. You're right… The choice… There was no choice. And the goal… I was to slip narcotics to Arl Eamon before his departure for Denerim. So that he would miss something… important. I didn't have to invent anything. No improvisation. None at all. It turned out Lady Isolde had been secretly looking for a tutor for her son. His talent had manifested. And so… they brought me. Secretly arranged a meeting with Her Ladyship. Supplied letters of recommendation. In truth, I know absolutely nothing about how the negotiations went. What was in the letters? Who arranged it? But I got the position in the end. Then I only had to wait quietly for the moment and teach the Arl's son.
— And you, so clever, suspected nothing?
Tristan leaned in closer again:
— Or did you hope they'd throw you out like a puppy, not slit your throat?
— I… You're right… Looking back, I just… went with the flow. Didn't try to find alternatives. Didn't think… It was terrifying to think too much. And I even started to enjoy the routine in the castle. Although… occasionally they reminded me of my "role," so I wouldn't change my mind overnight. Or grow too… brave. Believe me, when the Arl fell a step from death… It was… like a bolt from the blue. Of course, I immediately found myself in the dungeons. Her Ladyship had no doubts about who was guilty. And no lack of… resolve to interrogate me personally.
— When did Her Ladyship stop coming down here?
— Time here…
— Approximately.
— Ugh… A week? I don't know… Maybe… Definitely more than five days. It's as if everything died out. The guards disappeared. But sometimes I heard footsteps in the outer corridor… Or maybe I just imagined it.
— So, the Arl's son is a mage?
— Yes. And… remarkable. His mana reserves are astonishing. Unlike mine…
— Right, I see.
Tristan turned to Morrigan and the Templar, concluding in a low voice:
— This is a mess.
Morrigan snorted.
— Only if you can't set the political side of the problem aside.
— It's not the primary…
Tristan ran a hand over his chin.
— But it can't be ignored either.
The girl shook her head, baffled at how people and elves alike sometimes complicated their own lives, but then nodded.
— With some reflection, I can see your position. The Fort itself is important to the Chantry. But stones and walls alone are like a blade without a skilled hand. Capable of much, but only as a tool, not a dangerous weapon. Combined with the bloodline of its owners, the story takes a completely different turn. And Isolde alone won't be enough for you.
Tralin reflexively corrected:
— Lady Isolde.
— Whatever.
The Seeker irritably drew in a breath, directing his gaze toward the dungeon exit. Jovan's voice broke into a whisper:
— You… you will let me go, won't you?
The words sounded like childish babbling—a mix of hope and dread of the answer.
Tristan's gaze slid over Jovan, cold and appraising, like a blade measuring a throat. Turning away, he tossed carelessly over his shoulder toward Morrigan:
— You decide.
In these words lay not a challenge, but the indifference of an executioner passing the axe. The witch raised an eyebrow in surprise and shot Bethany a questioning look, openly displaying her emotions at the man's hasty decision. Her apprentice shrugged, but immediately stepped closer and, leaning slightly toward her mentor, spoke in a hushed tone:
— He mentioned Amell. That's… unexpected.
— Why?
— Family names aren't so common that you stumble over them everywhere. Finding two identical ones is hard too—that's rather the point. And Amell… That was my mother's maiden name, before she married Father. It's a noble family from Kirkwall. Mother didn't like to talk about her past. But…
Bethany's eyes glazed over for a moment—as if she were seeing her mother again, sitting by the hearth with a book in hand. That image would never repeat, and the girl clenched her fists as if trying to hold onto the slipping memories. But she continued, not letting herself stray into tangential thoughts and emotions:
— Of course, my brother and I asked questions. And though reluctantly, Mother shared details of her childhood. The Amells were supposedly a powerful family in Kirkwall. But it was power and wealth shackled by the duty and honor of generations past. That's what Mother fled, to live with the one she loved. So, this Solona Amell is my blood. And I don't even know… if she's alive after that horror at the Hold.
Bethany's voice wavered:
— Why was she even in Ferelden?
Morrigan bit her lip, pondering the strange weaving of individual fates:
— She's more likely alive than not. Circle mages would sooner die themselves than let the Tranquil come to harm—it's the one thing they're united on. And as for coincidences… Could you have imagined a month ago that you'd be here? Don't waste time on empty worries.
Turning to the Seeker, the witch clearly pronounced the verdict:
— We let him go. But we take no responsibility whatsoever for his fate. Let him save himself.
Tristan held Morrigan's gaze—cold as steel, but without objection. A slight nod, and Tralin stepped to the door; the key in his hand jangled like the final nail in a coffin lid…
* * *
The castle stood frozen in icy silence. Every step echoed. Not a soul—only shadows stretching in the pre-dawn gloom. Yet nothing around hinted at any supernatural cause for what was happening. The place seemed abandoned. Simple and mundane. Just like Jovan, who, after being freed, had immediately hobbled along the walls in the direction from which his "liberators" had come. Morrigan had remained silent at the time, though she'd decided that, in his current state, the mage was unlikely to make it safely down, let alone out of the underground passage.
The service quarters, servants' bedrooms, corridors, and storerooms showed signs of neglect. Yet there were no signs of a struggle, disorder, or the usual rodent infestation that forever, and without invitation, lives alongside humans in large structures. Tristan had pointed out this last fact, noticing twice as many details as Morrigan did. Still, among the stone walls and succession of rooms, the girl did not feel lost or out of place. Though not long ago, on the way to Kinloch Hold, an entire fortress had seemed a marvel to the witch, something her imagination could scarcely contain. In reality, the chantry in Lothering remained the largest intact stone building she'd ever seen in her life.
Most of the servants were found in the fortress's main kitchen. Girls and women of various ages, youths and men who had seen much. Two dozen bodies, scattered like rag dolls. Some with fingers interlaced—perhaps in a final attempt to brace themselves. Others frozen in unnatural poses, as if caught mid-fall. Waxen faces, sunken eyes—not sleep, but not yet death. All in the middle of the spacious, and almost certainly the warmest, room on the first floor of the service wing. The stubs of candles, struck from a flint, confirmed that the bodies bore no marks of injury or trauma. The cool flesh did not react to pricks, slaps, or dripping candle wax.
Tralin ran a palm over the stubble on his cheek, his eyes narrowing:
— A strange… kindness. For a demon of this scale. If only we knew why…
Tristan nodded and finished for the Templar:
— …or what for.
Crouching by the nearest body, Morrigan examined the sleeping face, touched the forehead and neck with her fingertips, then concluded:
— They are exhausted. Skin is dry. A heartbeat is barely perceptible. They tried to stave off death by this corpse-sleep, through loss of fluids and strength. But even so, the next day, or the one after, will be the last for some. A handful might last a week. But that is not what concerns me.
The only response was a silence full of questioning attention.
— Until now, one rule has been followed without exception. Only the dead are subjected to possession. And here we see… as if there were some compromise. The end for the sleepers is inevitable. But the thread of life will snap quietly. And in that same instant, a new "vessel" will appear. However, what will stop the rules from being discarded if we succeed?
The Seeker nodded and, turning, strode away with a firm step.
— Tralin, barricade this room with something.
Soon the party reached a door leading directly into the inner courtyard, under snow that was slowly settling on the stones and their shoulders, indifferent to the living and the dead. A single set of tracks immediately caught their eye, having broken the delicate blanket an hour or two before. Someone had moved from the massive doors of the main building to the nearest tower of the outer wall, and then back. The prints were small—too small for an adult, yet… strangely deep, as if a child had walked under an unbearable burden. And too even—no swaying, no stops, as if walking to some invisible command. And, of course, Bethany was the first to voice the thought that flashed through everyone's mind:
— The son of Arl Eamon?
Tristan winced and muttered, carefully choosing his words:
— Not impossible.
But Morrigan did not beat around the bush, getting straight to the point:
— A mage with a staggering volume of mana at such a tender age. Though according to a person whose measure of "staggering" likely does not extend beyond the mundane.
— As if you've seen much. You barely crawled out of the wilderness. Or am I wrong?
— You would be surprised…
— Nevertheless. Are you suggesting the boy is the key to all this?
— I am suggesting. Is that a problem?
— A problem? It's a catastrophe.
— Well… It's not all so grim. Notice the strangeness?
Bethany cut into the conversation with a question:
— Strangeness?
The Seeker sighed and clarified:
— Either the demon that has seized this place has reasons to act in an uncharacteristic and, let's be honest, unpredictable manner. Or the victim's will is not fully suppressed. Unfortunately, Morrigan is right. According to our information, there are no mages in the fortress. Jovan was the exception and, nonetheless, is clean… We must concede—the son of Eamon is exceptional.
Tralin cautiously added:
— And dangerous.
And the older of the mages concluded:
— The main thing here is not to succumb to an attractive illusion. The Seeker, of all people, should understand. Some predators on the other side are too cunning and ancient to ever be caught by any of us.
Tristan shot an irritated look at the witch, about to retort sharply or perhaps reluctantly agree, but was interrupted by Bethany's question:
— Morrigan, you said the guards, though they looked like mindless puppets, returned to their posts? Where is everyone?
The Seeker, like the others, slowly turned, sweeping his gaze over the high walls. And as if in answer, from the dark openings leading inside the fortifications, corpse-like things resembling vile spiders began to emerge. A dozen fresh corpses in the tattered remains of clothes, not long ago worn by the castle servants. Bethany stifled a cry, crushing it in her throat with lips pressed white. The men unhurriedly drew their blades. And Morrigan remarked indifferently:
— So, it seems the creature didn't immediately learn how to induce lethargy correctly.
Meanwhile, the possessed did not rush headlong, as those encountered earlier had, but instead used their advantage in numbers and height. Blindly swaying their pale, eyeless muzzles from side to side, the creatures seemed to be scenting the air. And in the next instant, the corpses, clearly reined by an alien will, surged downward as one. Drawing her weapon a moment too late, Morrigan spun on her heel. Four of the dozen, splitting into two pairs, lunged for the Seeker and the Templar. The remainder, not pausing for a second, began to flank to the right and left. What was happening too closely resembled coordinated tactics and a desire to reach the mages ahead of the warriors.
Pointing her blade forward and resting it on the curve of her left arm, Morrigan muttered:
— Wait. Meet them with fire a moment before impact.
Bethany said nothing, steeling herself and barely remembering to blink. Behind them, in a silence taut with similar tension, the scrape of soles on the worn stones of the fortress courtyard mingled with heavy breathing and the whistle of air moaning under swift steel. And ahead, six bodies were already rushing forward, and now and then there still flickered in them glimpses of the people who had once performed mundane work here. No one rushed ahead, no one lagged behind. This instilled fear more surely than a horde of disordered individuals.
Wasting no time on doubt, Morrigan flipped her free hand palm-up and exhaled a barely audible whisper:
— Edhe te…
Seven paces from the mages, the creature on the left flank collapsed, causing its two neighbors to stumble and the line to break. The formation dissolved into a mob. Dropping to one knee, the older of the two girls cleared space for Bethany's Flaming Flash. The fiery flower halted the corpses, but they did not ignite like dry sawdust. The two nearest caught fire only because of their hanging tatters of clothing. Still, the flames forced the dead bodies to writhe on the stones, forgetting everything else. The weaker spell barely touched the rest. Too much moisture remained in the fresh corpses. Seizing the enemy's hesitation, Morrigan surged to her feet and, with a wide stride, brought her sword crashing down on the rightmost creature's collarbone. She lacked the strength to finish it with one blow. But the precious moments left the remaining pair cut off from their desired prey by thrashing torches and the scuffle. Dodging a grab for her leading arm, the girl easily slid her blade into the monster's chest as if into a sheath. Shoving the creature away with her boot, Morrigan leaped back and down, giving Bethany room to repeat the spell.
The flames stoked the chaos. And in that same instant, Tristan and Tralin flashed past, ending their fight with the cold efficiency of professionals in a dozen strokes. The girls exhaled, not hiding their relief; the men's expressions didn't change, but neither man sheathed his weapon. Everyone warily peered into the depths of the shifting shadows. The low clouds, diffused light, and quiet snowfall gave the inner courtyard a tranquil appearance, behind which, like a screen, lurked a lethally dangerous uncertainty. Wincing, the Seeker spat:
— We should lower the bridge, but it feels like…
He was interrupted by the screech of the double doors of the main building. Everyone turned to fully take in the hall, filled to the brim with gloom. Part of that darkness, having "come alive," shifted unnaturally, flowing softly out under the grey sky to reveal a skeleton without a shred of flesh, swathed like a mirage in shimmering gloom. Behind it, other naked skeletons, looking far simpler and armed with locally made bows and quivers, strode firmly from the doorway.
Tristan barked sharply:
— Tralin! Morrigan! Its mana!
But the shout came too late. The thoroughly out-of-the-ordinary demon had already swept its bony arms wide, splaying its fingers, and was surrounded by a barely noticeable greenish sphere that closed over its head and just under its feet, which hovered above the ground. The archers raised their weapons in unison, preparing to fire. Demonstrating Templar skill, Tralin immediately summoned that force so irritating to the elder witch, an invisible wave rolling toward the casting corpse. Morrigan tried to keep up, sending a faint ribbon—also meant to burn mana—toward the same target two heartbeats later. Passing through the void, both forces converged and wiped out three of the five archers at once. Almost simultaneously, a wave of sickness emanating from an indeterminate depth pressed down on the party. It was like a breach in a sinking ship, through which weakness and fatigue flooded the body. Tristan spun on his heel as if stung, the first to spot the "undead" that had appeared behind the four of them. The demon, by its mere proximity, was draining the life from each of them. A lightning-fast swipe of his usually deadly blade didn't even reach it, again tearing only empty air.
The hum of released bowstrings from the surviving archers heralded a different threat. One arrow whistled past Morrigan's ear, clattering sharply on the stones. Bethany cried out—an arrow had grazed her forearm, tearing fabric and skin. Warm blood immediately welled up through the material, staining her sleeve a dark crimson. The girl swallowed convulsively, feeling the pain spread in hot waves. Unable, without the lyrium boiling in his blood, to repeat the same trick so soon, Tralin was already charging headlong toward the archers, aiming to finish the "puppets" before another volley.
Whether by pure luck or inner instinct, the Seeker guessed the demon's next point of appearance. His blade cut the air like silver lightning—only to rebound from an invisible barrier with a pathetic ring. In response, a magical bolt shot from the void, searing the skin beneath his clothes with the acrid smell of burnt flesh. Simultaneous with the crack of the magical discharge, Morrigan, near the fortress wall, struck furtively with a swift Death Hex that slipped easily beneath the unusual defense. She had deliberately exposed herself, focusing all her attention on one goal: reaching the creature. And it dissolved again, leaving no trace, like morning mist at midday, but when it reappeared, it looked hunched.
While Bethany, trying not to be a hindrance, crouched, clutching her wound, the Templar dealt with the archers. The mindless puppets were no match for a seasoned blade in close combat. Realizing the futility of his own weapon against the demon, the Seeker nonetheless made a sharp slash, as if venting impotent rage into the void. But Morrigan felt the hairs on the back of her neck stir. And then the sphere surrounding the corpse dissolved no less effectively than the demon who had created it. Like a mirage. Unfortunately, another flash of a simple but effective spell glittered. This time, the bolt, with a muffled crack, truly caught the man's side. Under his ribs gaped a terrible wound—the flesh seemed to have vaporized, revealing weeping layers of muscle. The edges of the wound were charred, emitting a sweetish, putrid smell. Without uttering a sound, the grimacing Seeker closed the distance in a couple of strides and drove his blade straight into the empty eye socket of the creature, already slowed by the hex. Punching clean through the skull, Tristan twisted the blade with a vengeful expression and an audible crunch. However strange the Seeker's strength might be, it was enough. The corpse's remains clattered onto the stones and immediately began to crumble into black, dissolving, traceless dust.
The blood drained from Morrigan's face, leaving her skin deathly white. She sharply threw her head back. With ragged, deep breaths, she groped her way back to a sliver of composure and, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, stepped toward Bethany, focusing entirely on the injury. To the right, using a hunting knife, Tralin was carefully cutting away the remains of Tristan's shirt beneath its owner's hoarse, rapid breathing. The gambeson already lay nearby. Throwing a pain-clouded glance at the mages, absorbed in their own concerns, the Seeker forced out with a note of surprise:
— Bloody bitch…
It sounded ambiguous, but Morrigan took it personally. Turning Bethany's twitching head away from the men by the chin and, without stopping her work, the witch said:
— You weren't counting on sympathy and concern, were you? As the saying goes… "Fear the Maker." Besides, if you deign to give up the ghost here, we will gain our freedom. And slip away behind—
— Is this… a stupid joke? Hnn! Tralin! The Void—
— Forgive me. But I need to lift your arm.
The witch placed dark green leaves of "Bitter Canavarice"—found on the way to the mill in someone else's garden—under a dry strip of cloth previously boiled by the locals. With that, she finished bandaging the shallow but unpleasant cut. In response to her student's questioning open mouth, the mentor placed a piece of the same plant's yellowish root inside and quietly commanded:
— Chew.
Then Morrigan returned her attention to the sweat-sheened man whom the Templar was skillfully, but without a drop of pity, bandaging with whatever was at hand.
— A joke… A joke is something else. That was sarcasm. Albeit mixed with wishful thinking. Don't scowl. Ah… that's from the pain… Whatever's on the tip of your tongue, save your strength. And about them finding us. And about the Blight. And about… everything, along with your personal plans. I've no doubt, given time and strength, you'd convince me of it all.
The witch gestured around the fortress courtyard.
— We've been left alone. Curious… And that wasn't even the master of this mess who paid us a visit. Has the true culprit exhausted itself? Or did the guess about a delicate balance between demon and victim hit the mark?
Wincing painfully, Tristan struggled to pull his torn gambeson over the bandage, hiding the spreading red stain on his side. It took him a minute to gather the strength to reply:
— Hard to say… A spell-wrought nightmare is an unpleasant surprise. As is the fact they tried to control it as if it were no different from lesser demons. That's why the creature closed with us like that, presenting itself to be struck. These beings, despite their immense hunger and irritation at the limitations of their own vessels, show remarkable patience and cunning, hiding in shadows, cover, or at unreachable heights until the last moment. They send minions ahead and suppress with long-range spells. And… Yes, yes, your magic helped, of course, making the creature vulnerable, I don't dispute that. Be that as it may…
The Seeker furrowed his brow, heaved a sigh, and addressed the Templar:
— Tralin, open the gates. Even if reinforcements aren't needed here, an easier line of retreat won't hurt. Take Bethany with you.
The girl looked questioningly at her mentor. Only after receiving an affirmative nod did the young mage follow the Templar toward the heavy towers that seemed to clamp the gates and raised drawbridge between them. Watching them both go, Morrigan stretched out a palm, catching the snowflakes quietly drifting down.
— Can you continue?
Suppressing a groan with effort, the man nevertheless got to his feet on the first try. He immediately fastened his gambeson to hide the bandage and the wound.
— Been worse.
The girl arched an eyebrow sarcastically, and the Seeker, popping the contents of a modest pouch on his belt into his mouth, clarified:
— Just once… Did you stage that performance on purpose? Or do you truly consider the girl more valuable than me?
Her smile was as precise as a dagger thrust—a beautiful gesture in a lethal dance. And the gleam in her dark gold eyes, as if they had caught for a moment a glimmer of the sun hidden behind the clouds.
— Jealousy? To feel such emotions… How trivial for a Seeker. Especially when it's about "servants."
Growing serious and directing her gaze toward the pair of towers where the others had disappeared, the girl continued:
— Returning to the question… Perhaps, yes. In the long run, Bethany is more useful than you. I expect neither a stab in the back from her nor any other threat. That's not the extent of her value, but details are out of place. However… The question is about something else, isn't it? You know, "friendship": it's apparently a difficult dance. Beat, rhythm, proportion, and the aptness of every movement. But, like magic, it can be learned, by executing the necessary steps with virtuoso perfection. Even if the details still confuse the mind with uncertainty or seeming meaninglessness. But the "dance" between you and me is much simpler. You need me, and you will be of use. Nothing superfluous. Agreed?
— I look at you and occasionally wonder… Perhaps the puppeteer isn't behind your back? Maybe I'm just too stupid to see the obvious?
Morrigan blinked in surprise, but Tristan had already fallen silent. The Seeker closed his eyes and concentrated on chewing the unknown medicine…
* * *
Beyond the open gates and lowered drawbridge, there was no sign of reinforcements eager to join the liberation of the fort. Only a quietened settlement, blanketed in fresh snow. The landscape breathed an unnatural calm—as if the snow had swaddled the abandoned houses to conceal their silent reproach. Perhaps the survivors had enough troubles of their own, leaving heroic deeds to the conscience of the Seeker. Or perhaps it was simpler: no one had truly believed in the success of the venture, writing off the "guests" from the start. One could speculate. Or one could get to work… before the worst happened.
Reunited, the group strode firmly into the open hall of the main building, which seemed like a stout dwarf ringed by the tall warrior-forms of the watchtowers. Light entered the spacious room only through the doorway, continuously igniting hundreds of fleeting sparks among the cloud of dust motes that had replaced the falling snow. A searching gaze confirmed—no human foot had trodden here for at least a week. And thanks to that, three meandering trails of footprints stood out.
Besides the exit to the courtyard, the hall had three more doors: two, one on either side, thrown wide open. A worn path led to each. Tristan explained succinctly: beyond those traditionally lay service quarters. Servants' rooms, storerooms. Less often: training halls. There was no reason to think Redcliffe Fort was fundamentally different. But the Seeker was only interested in the Arl's family's private quarters. Some of those lay ahead, behind the single closed door opposite the exit. That was where the tracks converged.
Slowly, they opened the heavy oak panel, lovingly carved with a scene of a fir forest in summer, and beheld a corridor devoid of its own light sources. Here, for the first time, a touch of variety had invaded the practical minimalism of the décor. Paintings hung on the walls depicting the local bay and the Frostback Mountains. There were also other landscapes, unknown to Morrigan, yet vaguely familiar all the same. At the far end of the corridor, the steps of a broad staircase were just discernible. Four doors stood on either side, and the space between was filled with candelabras as tall as a man and stands bearing decorative armor. Four suits of full knight's plate stood there: three, by their appearance, from different Fereldan eras, and one of clear Orlesian make.
Tristan leaned heavily on the doorjamb and spoke with unease in his voice:
— This doesn't look safe…
Morrigan swept her gaze down the corridor and asked:
— And?
Nodding, as if in agreement, the Seeker answered:
— You're right. But let's be on our guard.
As if a prophecy made flesh, with the man's last words, the decorative armor creaked. The air seemed to freeze. Bethany involuntarily stepped back, bumping into Morrigan. Tralin froze with his blade half-drawn, his fingers white on the hilt. Even Tristan—he held his breath as the steel giants began to move. Overcoming the resistance of old, unyielding metal and fused joints, gauntleted arms twisted behind their backs—something no living man could achieve, be he thrice the acrobat of a famous troupe. Gauntlets screeched as they gripped the stands. With the sound of tearing metal, the suits of armor wrenched free from their places, crashing onto the floor slabs. Dust billowed up as the four steel skeletons straightened to their full height—unnaturally smoothly for such massive constructs. Helmet visors creaked, lifting of their own accord, revealing black emptiness within. All four figures turned in unison—awkwardly, mechanically, but with inexorable precision. The nearest pair were about five paces away, the farthest twice that.
Morrigan straightened up, muttering under her breath:
— The Void…
Tralin eagerly drew his blade, but, glancing at it, asked the Seeker uncertainly:
— Not sure if…
Tristan, carefully extracting his own weapon to avoid sudden movements, clarified:
— To possess a corpse is difficult. To possess iron…
The Seeker clenched his teeth:
— A hundred times harder. Every moment it will try to twist free and end this hated existence. Such a thing happens… rarely. And only when the Veil is thinned incredibly by bright emotions and memories soaked into the object. The demon behind this… it's like casting rubies before swine. And the swine—are us. Morrigan… Blades mean nothing to these creatures. Slow, but unstoppable. And more than anything else, mana is their weak point.
Immediately, an invisible force surged from the Seeker's direction. The others seemed to notice only the brief tightening of his lips, but Morrigan sensed it clearly. By chance or by design, the force struck the Orlesian armor. Having barely lifted a foot to step, it stopped. But that was all. Its knee joint creaking, the metal figure repeated the attempt and, with a slight delay, took a heavy step forward. The elder of the mages grimaced, feeling acutely just how little mana had been drained. And yet the master of these pawns remained out of reach. A thought flashed through the girl's mind: if one discarded the mental categories so "captivating" to the Seeker's mind, this "casting of rubies" was productive. Exhausting morale, strength, mana… Moreover, Morrigan's instincts were "winding their own sinews around a fist," demanding she conserve mana for the possibility of transformation.
Tristan shook his head and commanded tersely:
— Fall back. The hall offers room to maneuver. Here they'll just trample us.
The party quickly retreated, spreading out across the spacious room and awaiting the enemy's appearance. The first figure, grating foully with every movement, entered the hall, heading straight for the elder witch. The second, bumping its shoulder against the doorjamb, marched toward Bethany. The girl addressed the Seeker:
— Are they blind?
— Do you see eyes? They're armor, girl. I imagine the monster inside can somehow tell up from down, whether it's moving or not, if it's hit an obstacle… And it can definitely sense a concentration of mana. But that's all.
Tralin suddenly cursed quietly under his breath, perhaps for the first time on this journey. Raising his free hand, the man tensed, forcing out a wave of power that struck the armor to the right of the Orlesian one. The suit of plate likely dated to the late Blessed Age. The glorious era of Vaelan the First, son of Calenhad, founder of the Kingdom of Ferelden. Unfortunately, the massive figure didn't even sway, continuing its advance.
Suddenly, the full Orlesian plate armor bumped into a low, massive table that stood in its path. A pair of such tables, with soft, low-backed benches drawn up to them, were the only furniture filling the room. The figure froze for a couple of moments, as if processing what had happened, then bent over, clumsily seized the piece of furniture, and with little apparent effort hurled it at Bethany. From the outside, it looked surreal. Even so, the young mage didn't panic, trying to leap aside. But she was too late. An instant was all it took from throw to impact—Bethany didn't even have time to draw breath before the table slammed into her. The girl seemed to vanish, tumbling like a sack of tangled clothes to the nearest wall and lying there motionless.
Blood pounded in her temples. The world narrowed to Bethany's still form. A ringing filled her ears—Morrigan suddenly realized she had bitten her lip until it bled. Then cold composure returned.
— Edhe te!
The Orlesian armor, right in the middle of a step, pitched forward, collapsing onto the floor in a heap of separate pieces with a deafening metallic crash.
The witch shot a glance at Tralin—in response, he merely scowled and shook his head emphatically. In this fight, the warrior was constrained, and the Templar's strength, without lyrium to fuel it, had already been stretched to its limit. Glancing back, the man decided to sheath his weapon and rushed to the motionless girl's body.
Tristan ignored his subordinate's retreat, only gritting his teeth—the wound on his side immediately reminded him of its presence with a hot wave of pain. Just as Morrigan, fighting her instincts, was about to spend the last of her mana on a final spell, the second pair of armored suits emerged from the corridor into the hall. That's when the Seeker broke into motion. Showing enviable agility despite his serious injury, the man lunged toward the nearest enemy. Morrigan felt the familiar wave of power surge ahead of Tristan, reaching the walking plate armor first. Then, between the Seeker and the possessed suits, something flashed, striking with a barely audible chime straight into the opening of the helmet. The first attack halted the animated armor, followed by a deafening crack accompanied by the distant ringing of shattering glass and pain in the ears. The unexpected sound made the girl reflexively squeeze her eyes shut, shielding her face with her hand.
When she opened them, she was surprised to discover the armor's transformation. It had been completely stripped of its helmet. Moreover, a section of the plate on its chest—both front and back—was torn open. The dense metal, though lacking the flexibility and temper of modern alloys, was ripped apart like paper, with flaps of it twisted outward at strange angles. Like an iron flower blooming, brought straight from a nightmare. With a final screech, the armor began to disintegrate on the spot, collapsing to the floor in a metallic rain.
Tristan looked neither fresh nor healthy: pale, sweat-sheened, sucking in air convulsively, his lower lip trembling. Vessels had burst in his right eye, and his stance was skewed by his wound. It made the Seeker look like a typical possessed at the start of transformation. Yet he remained focused and intent on the remaining enemies.
Not waiting for the metal figures to close in, Tristan, moving quickly though with a slight limp, advanced to meet them. Briefly glancing back to where Tralin was fussing over Bethany, the witch reasoned: the Templar wouldn't be wasting so much time on a corpse. So her attention centered on the fight unfolding before her. When the two slow, seemingly inexorable figures were just five paces away, the Seeker gripped his blade with his bare left hand and carefully, so as not to sever the tendons, drew it from its improvised "sheath." The blade was stained along its length with a barely noticeable crimson trace of fresh blood.
As if continuing an unbroken chain of demonstrations of hidden power, a movement appeared at the edge of Morrigan's vision, making her jerk her head nervously, searching for the source of the illusion. She couldn't pinpoint exactly what had moved or where. But each time, she managed to make out individual fragments of the sensation more clearly. Now, it seemed something had slid in from outside, converging on Tristan from different sides. Like a grey carpet of rats, surging toward his feet from a multitude of cracks in a cave the moment a torch sputters out. A rustling, vague movement, and fear, merging with the darkness in unison.
No devastating attack or miraculous magic followed the man's action. The possessed suits of armor continued forward and, closing in, delivered a simple blow. A gauntleted fist whistled past Tristan's head—he'd managed to duck, and droplets of sweat from his face splattered onto the steel fingers… The following kick from the second figure, descending from above, resonated in the ears like the strike of a bell, its long, fading hum vibrating in the empty core of the plate. But it also missed, as Tristan skillfully slipped aside, still not even attempting to counterattack. Morrigan didn't understand the man's plan or tactics as he again and again evaded blows, each of which promised him certain death. From the witch's perspective, this dance with luck couldn't last forever, and the potential payoff remained beyond her comprehension.
Yet something was changing. The blows of the initially indifferent figures grew sharper, more hurried. Their precise, almost mechanical movements blurred ever so slightly. As if the demons inhabiting the metal were rushing to achieve some goal. It seemed unlikely to Morrigan that they'd been suddenly overcome by rage simply because Tristan kept slipping from the jaws of death. He was now openly gasping for air and… Then the witch remembered the Seeker's words about every demon in such an inanimate shell craving to twist free and escape, even back beyond the Veil. But that meant the man, frantically dodging the hail of blows, was somehow damaging his foes simply by being near them…
Choking back anger at her own blindness, Morrigan almost missed the moment when one suit of armor froze mid-motion, then the other. Beginning to tilt under the not-inconsiderable weight of the metal, the figures clanged heavily together and, with a sickly crash, collapsed onto the floor in pieces. Among the wreckage, only Tristan remained standing, but he didn't look victorious for long. After two breaths, the man swayed to the side and crashed to the floor, matching his vanquished foes.
* * *
Bethany had narrowly escaped the worst—the table could have crushed her skull or shattered her spine. Instead, the girl got away with a broken left arm, instinctively thrown up to shield herself. And since the young mage had no experience in taking a blow on a shield, she'd positioned her hand in the worst possible way. Under the impact, some of the wrist bones had cracked, perhaps worse. The radius in her forearm had probably given way as well, though no severe displacement was apparent. Finally, the shoulder had been knocked out of joint by the blow, and resetting it wasn't yet an option. Later, as the girl tumbled across the floor, the elbow joint of her injured arm bent at an unnatural angle on top of everything else. The minor bruises were too many to count, and among them, a proud bruise on her forehead from meeting the wall stood out.
Thus, her only real luck was being alive.
Under Morrigan's gloomy gaze, which followed every movement, measuring it against her own hard-won experience, Tralin deftly fashioned a splint from furniture debris and leather straps. Switching his attention to the focused mage, he laconically concluded:
— It's bad.
Nodding, the girl replied:
— But well executed.
Shrugging, the Templar reluctantly muttered:
— Not the first time…
— Does it not bother you that she's gifted and unregistered?
Tralin closed his eyes, massaged his forehead, and said dryly:
— Few things bother me. That's why I'm with a Seeker, and not guarding mages, hunting apostates, or roaming in search of the gifted.
Mirroring the nod exactly, Morrigan shifted her gaze to Tristan, who had been unconscious for well over a dozen minutes. Finally, he opened his eyes—and his gaze, hazy with pain, met the witch's.
— Welcome back.
The man glanced sideways at Bethany, licked his dry lips, and returned his attention to the mage.
— Thank you.
— How…
Tristan raised his less battered hand, gesturing to cut off the first in a series of questions from the girl, and, wincing, said:
— If I've revealed too much, don't think I'll spoon-feed you explanations.
Morrigan grimaced, not even bothering to hide her agony of curiosity. But in the end, the girl shook her head, demonstrating acceptance and bewilderment. Inwardly, however, the mage smirked. Tristan's tricks had already provided fertile ground for future contemplation. All that remained was a trifling detail: finding the time to piece the facts together and make considered guesses.
Inspecting the doorway leading straight from the hall into the corridor with paintings and empty armor stands, Morrigan quietly uttered:
— In this situation, almost anyone in your place would have withdrawn already.
With difficulty sitting up and clutching his side in the process, the man drew a couple of noisy breaths before answering:
— Stubbornness? No. — He clenched his teeth and exhaled. — The stakes are simply too high to give up. A situation like this won't come together a second time. And time has long been against me.
— Let's hope we don't regret those words before evening. But my mana is nearly…
— Tralin. Retrieve what you left in the kitchen when you barred the doors behind us. And return.
The Templar nodded, drew his blade, and moved off, following the trail of the squad. The mage raised her eyebrows in surprise, but that expression was immediately replaced by a mask of suspicion.
— What is he talking about?
— Lyrium concoction, of course. You'll be able to replenish your mana before the next push.
— But… Why? No. Wait. Why wasn't the lyrium used earlier?
— A trump card up our sleeve. Already played. There's no point in keeping lyrium in reserve at a safe distance anymore.
— At a distance?
Tristan gave a bitter snort.
— Enough questions. Help me up.
Tralin returned shortly, confirming that the fortress was still quiet and, as far as a cursory glance could tell, the servants' condition hadn't changed. The Templar brought two oblong ceramic vials, polished on the outside. Both were promptly handed to Morrigan. Weighing the unexpected treasure on her palm, the girl asked:
— Why don't they finish us off?
Tralin shrugged artlessly, and the Seeker answered:
— Don't rack your brains. Because it can't. Otherwise, they would have killed us back when they dealt with the local army of the dead. Unlike the incident at Kinloch Hold, the emphasis is different here. Power and authority aren't concentrated in a single place, making it impregnable and lethal. On the contrary, the influence is spread thinly across the entire Arling. Trusting the rumors even halfway—no, even a quarter—suggests this creature has reached a dozen places, several days' journey from here. Like the snowfall outside the walls. How much snow falls on the southern shore of the lake in a day? Countless. And how significant is a single snowflake? But we're only wasting time on doubts. Let's go.
The mage cast a final glance at her carefully arranged apprentice, still unconscious, and moved off after the men.
Re-entering the corridor, the girl knocked back one lyrium concoction after another. The vile, tasteless liquid and the residual grit on her teeth unexpectedly triggered a pang of nostalgia.
Checking four rooms on either side of the corridor, the diminished party discovered a library crammed with books. From the open tomes left here and there and candle stubs—some in candlesticks, others scattered in disarray on silver trays—it was clear this room had been in continuous use over the past few days. But the time had been spent here by someone who placed little value on order or the worth of things. Casting a darting glance from corner to corner, Morrigan came to a strange conclusion: the mysterious reader had been meticulously studying the geography around Redcliffe Fort. She also noted that, judging by the spines, the predominant portion of the library's books related in one way or another to collections of travelogues, sketches, and diaries. Probably copies. Moreover, this body of works wasn't limited to the homeland of the fortress's owners. But besides that, it was easy to stumble upon works on the history, cartography, culture, and mineral wealth of Ferelden. The other three rooms housed a formal parlor, a cozy room for rest and tea, and an ascetic study. These rooms hadn't been disturbed for at least a week.
With the unpleasant creak of the old stair steps, the party steadily climbed to the second floor. A straight corridor, a couple of paces wide, began where the stairs ended and ran through the building in a straight line to its opposite edge. The walls were filled with portraits of the current Arl's ancestors from the Guerrin line. Stern men, chaste ladies full of dignity, and reservedly smiling youths. The number hinted at how far back into the centuries the roots of Lord Eamon stretched, and their modesty at the restraint preserved through generations. Their colors had faded, but the eyes were still alive, as if watching the uninvited guests. Light filtered through simple yet not inelegant stained-glass windows, placed beneath the ceiling at the opposite ends of the corridor. A compromise between security, beauty, and economy on candles and torches. Unobtrusive vases stood on decorative tables. For some reason, the red pattern with black outlines and rare flecks of dark yellow on a white background immediately told Morrigan it was the work of local artisans. In each, carefully dried summer flowers. A keen glance caught a child's wooden sword tossed under the nearest table. Just the right size for the Arl's heir, Connor. This place was not a mausoleum of sanitized memory or an embodiment of power and wealth. It was a dwelling, a home, where every detail told stories of its owners, following the example of ancient Fereldan families not detached from their own land and people.
And as soon as the party stepped off the stairs… a door creaked, as if sighing under the weight of centuries. A figure appeared in the doorway—too straight, too still to be fully human. As it stepped forward, the light fell on a face where arrogance wrestled with despair like two demons in one vessel. But the illusion dissipated, and it turned out to be merely a woman. Stately, tall by local standards, blessed by nature with generous curves. Her blonde hair was gathered in a practical bun, save for fine curls framing a pleasant, round face with a pair of pale green eyes and the distinctive nose of an eastern Orlesian native. Moderately adorned, an unpretentious burgundy satin dress emphasized what it should without flaunting anything extra. Through all this, traces of exhaustion and emotional strain peered through, each step threatened to crush what remained of the Lady. Yet in her gaze was an inappropriate arrogance, as if something alien watched from behind the cracks of a mask.
Before the woman could open her mouth, an invisible torrent of force silently erupted from the Seeker. As unexpected as it was, given how battered Tristan appeared, it caught even the tense mage off guard. Especially since she sincerely believed the man had reached his limit downstairs in the hall. Cursing inwardly, the girl took stock of the surprise, strengthening her opinion: "Seekers" were not an "improved form of Templars," but a phenomenon fundamentally different from them. And yet, thoughts of Tristan's "pact" would not leave her alone.
Washing over the Lady with no visible effect, the force seemed to rip away the foreign presence. Tears welled in the woman's eyes, her hands trembled, and Lady Isolde sank to her knees, caring little for the pain or her dress. Her parched lips parted, whispering almost inaudibly:
— My son… Save my son! Please…
Then, from the open room, came the sound of a small body falling, and on the tormented mother's face it became utter, hopeless horror…