The Lady's brief hysteria lasted less than two minutes. Character, breeding—or perhaps reason—won out, and she rose from the floor and let the newcomers into the bedchamber. Though no fire had been lit for many days, the room was warm compared to the corridor, and the air lay heavy with scent. Frankincense dominated. A keen eye picked out a thin thread of bluish smoke drifting from a plain clay bowl on the mantel above the hearth. The other notes demanded a subtler nose. They hinted at something foreign—spiced, sharp, like a wind off the southern seas. The aroma tugged at the imagination, conjuring hazy silhouettes of sun-struck port cities and the murmur of crowded markets.
Tristan drew a deep breath and muttered, almost to himself:
— Cardamom and lemon rind. For breathing. An unexpected reminder of Kirkwall…
Then the Seeker's attention—followed by Morrigan's—settled on the massive bed with dark, weathered oak posts at its corners. Beneath a worn but sturdy blanket, stark against the chamber's luxury, lay a man. His face was sunken, skin pulled taut over his cheekbones like parchment; the sickness was consuming him. Once powerful—shoulders broad enough to bear armor and features sharp as if carved from stone—the Arl now resembled a desiccated shadow: skin over bone, breath reduced to the faintest flutter.
A delicate bedside table, its legs as thin as a spider's, stood by the bed. On it sat a massive silver tray stamped with a coat of arms, but Morrigan's gaze slid past it to what lay on top… a finger-thick rectangle of fine malachite, its greens startlingly pure. Across its mirrored surface a rune of "Toth"—a cross with forked ends like serpent fangs, ringed by tongues of flame—had been traced in veins of lyrium. A masterpiece that had cost its maker his health… perhaps his sanity. It was the source of the room's gentle warmth, and, with the shutters closed, it gave off a dim light—like a candle-flame stripped of its living flicker. As her eyes traced the elegant lines, Morrigan recalled how her mother had spoken of Tevinter's dragon gods of ancient times and the runes tied to them—unrelated to spells. Flemeth would sketch symbols with a dry twig in trampled earth by the doorstep, speaking of them as if discussing roots or yesterday's rain, without a trace of awe. Quite the opposite: she often scoffed at notions of ancient beings. The dragon "Toth," "Master of the Forges of Fire." And much later—the Archdemon.
When Morrigan was young, one question had tormented her: how could a symbol denoting a huge dead lizard affect the "Waking"? But the moment Flemeth sensed her pupil linking the effect directly to the meaning people assigned to the image, the stubborn girl found herself scrubbing a sooty pot. The rune's power came from a particular form of magic, worked into the slab with lyrium over years—if not decades. The symbol… the symbol was decoration, something people could pour meaning into. Most were trained to respect and value only form, not substance. Morrigan found it ironic that such an object lay beside a sick man's bed, and not a symbol of the Chantry—or, say, the Chant of Light.
Only then did she shift her attention. The witch stepped onto the worn bearskin rug by the bed and stopped before the youth's body, over which the Seeker was already leaning. The Arl's heir was perhaps seven or eight—ten at the most. Judging by the reddening bruise on his forehead from being thrown against the wall, the boy wasn't pretending. And there was nothing in the room to suggest a supernatural presence as the source of the arling's misfortunes. A room like any other. Once a cozy refuge from harsh routines…
Tristan sighed, weariness and irritation leaking through, and said sharply:
— Possession… but not a demon. A spirit, perhaps.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
— The boy is still here—not devoured. Though… who knows what goes on in his head.
Isolde clenched her dress until her knuckles whitened. Her breath—relief first, then ragged—betrayed more than words: hope, immediately crushed by fear. Morrigan turned at the sound, studying the emotions flitting across the woman's face. The Lady of the Keep tried to look at her husband's gaunt features as if clinging to him, as though he were a bastion of constancy in a sea of raging emotion. Relief, anxiety, fear… regret and guilt? Tralin, standing guard by the door, tensed as if to step toward his Lady, but in the end he did not move.
Crouching beside the Seeker, Morrigan asked cautiously:
— Like Wynne?
She narrowed her eyes.
— Or worse?
Startled, Tristan flicked a careful glance at Isolde and shook his head, uncertain.
— Perhaps… Or perhaps not. The demon showed a frightening talent—and some grasp of strategy—striking at an entire region's weak points, a region cut off from support by what's unfolding everywhere. That's far from 'mediocre.' Its power can seem overwhelming. But its grasp of nuance is still crude. To retreat beyond the Veil, taking the boy's essence and mind with it… Let's assume the creature's behavior is no less complex than a mortal's. What does that remind you of?
— A beast that knows its ground,— Morrigan said. — With a hostage. And now you haven't got a single true-blood Guerrin.
— You think it's from that crowd that understands perfectly well why I'm here?
— The creature of the Fade definitely has 'ears.' In unexpected places.—
— Yes…
Rocking back on his heels, Tristan let himself sink to the floor, his back against the wall. He looked terrible, his unfocused gaze wandering over the ceiling and the decorative cornice. Unable to bear the weight of uncertainty, Lady Isolde asked softly, as if afraid to startle them:
— Will you… will you end this nightmare? Expel the monster?
Before answering, Morrigan scanned the room again, as if searching for a trick, and only then asked:
— Nightmare?
Isolde swallowed, groping for words, then exhaled slowly, letting some of the agitation drain away.
— It… yes. It was like a nightmare. Every day—like a knife in the ribs: you see him fading, and you can't even scream. You only watch as the blackness closes over him… and over you with it. At first… I tried to hold myself together. Keep my dignity. I clung to the ideals that once stirred me. But soon the truth crystallized: my husband's duty meant far less than his life. I was ready for anything… even to destroy the fruits of his labor and achievements. Everything he was proud of. Let him despise me when he returned—if only he would return…
— My son… day and night he worried for his father, for me… often alone… an abandoned child. I admit—though it makes it worse—that the moment that abominable creature took my son's place passed unnoticed. I simply woke one day surrounded by familiar faces with empty eyes. It turned each of them into a doll. The same faces, the same voices… but behind the emptiness—alien thoughts, alien decisions. And then… when it compels you, you don't feel pressure. Or coercion. You're simply, painfully aware you would never act that way, never speak those words. But you do—and you say them. Again, and again, and again… Always wondering if anything of your son remains in the body you know so well. Yes… A hopeless, endless nightmare.
Not hiding her surprise, Morrigan nodded.
As if drowning… in a quagmire.
She turned to Tristan, and her voice went cold as steel:
— Well, Seeker? We're here. Did you get what you wanted—or what you were permitted? A curious tale, I won't deny. But it isn't worth my dying. For you, it's the opposite. So decide.
Tristan blinked, focused on the girl, and rubbed his cheeks as if to scrape away fatigue.
— You're right. Well then… if we need a male-line heir—
Lady Isolde cut in, carefully restraining her emotions.
— I've heard this twice now. Why do you need the Guerrin bloodline? Did you not come here by order of the Chantry or the capital because of the dead rising from their graves?
Morrigan shifted, leaning her back against the bed so that Tristan remained in front of her and she could watch the Lady of the Keep from the corner of her eye. Before he found an answer to the delicate question, Morrigan said plainly, without concealment:
— The Guerrins are in the Ser's sights for a reason. I've heard that 'pure blood' among Ferelden's aristocracy has been worth its weight in gold since ancient times. And the Chantry's interest lies in seeing bloodlines don't die out unused—but serve. The benefit is theirs, of course. It's easy to forget up here. But from the south the Blight presses in, and in the north the madness of civil war grows stronger around an empty throne. While blood isn't flowing so freely that it's as cheap as water, everyone is scrambling to secure their 'treasure.'
Tristan grimaced and spat, not without venom:
— Why…?
Morrigan smiled like a cat noticing the tremble of wings on a trapped bird. Lady Isolde's eyelids twitched—steel nerves finally faltering, old political reflexes stirring against her will at the bluntly stated facts.
— Vindictiveness, Seeker. You've earned that bite twice over. First, because you toss my name around like trash. Second, because the wind has turned. This isn't about who's stronger—it's about who needs whom. Your motives are plain as day. If it were only personal interest, you'd have satisfied it without dragging an unpredictable fighter into a pointless struggle. But the Ser doesn't put personal matters before duty. Nor does he discard a sharp blade before battle because there's a blasphemous engraving on the hilt. I solved a similar problem in the Circle—and it seems I condemned myself to torment.
Again Morrigan caught the twitch of Isolde's fingers at the mention of the Circle and everything tied to it. Tristan rubbed the bridge of his nose, but the tremor in his hand betrayed him: pain, fatigue, anger… or fear? He nodded slowly, accepting facts sharp as daggers.
— Fine. Do you even have an idea what to do next?
— Do it 'your way'?
— Even so.
Morrigan grimaced, replying more quietly:
— Hard to imagine.
Tristan shook his head, incredulous.
— It's simple here. We know the answer to 'why.' Without Wynne, there's no chance to improve the Arl's condition. Obvious—and regrettable. And time is always against us. Waiting is like taking another knife in the back, and we're unlikely to survive the next one the way we survived this one. Since the creature fled beyond the Veil, our options are few. And if we're to wrench the boy from its claws… we're left with one solution.
The darkening gold of Morrigan's pupils, the slight dip of her head, spoke for her better than any frozen expression.
— Is that so… Yes. Bethany isn't suited for that. This isn't a heroic feat—it's an elaborate murder.
— Yes and no.
— Nicely put. Enough empty talk. Where's the lyrium you need?
— We'll make do with what we have.
Morrigan raised an eyebrow, interest flickering at the speed of the exchange.
— The Pact allows this too?
Tristan faltered. A pause hung in the air, thick as tar, underlining his involuntary lie.
— In part. But it will be enough for us.
— The answer is no," Morrigan said softly. "And you know it.
Tristan swallowed an impulsive reaction and asked his question without words, lifting his brows. Morrigan studied him, then let her head fall back onto the blanket and closed her eyes. When she spoke again, irritation and anger edged every word:
— It's hard to judge what matters amid a riot of bright colors—your plans, the Chantry's plans, a mother's desperation, politics. Expectations, expectations… I don't give a damn. I'm not here of my own free will. There was no personal interest. And if there's only one outcome, why take the difficult path?
— Nothing answers to—
Morrigan's eyes snapped open, meeting his sharp, cold gaze.
— The words that nearly left your mouth—the very attempt to spit them out—are offensively primitive. Either your powers of observation are strangely selective, or I misjudged the sharpness of your mind. Altruism? Not my element. Not yours. You and I are two of a kind. Lie to yourself less. While you flee the truth and wrap yourself in faith and duty…
Without warning, Lady Isolde cut into the rising argument. The words, shot through with smoldering anger, seemed aimed at no one—yet their target was plain:
— Mages of the Circle…
Her voice trembled.
— Always the same. You rebel when it's convenient, and when your power is needed—you hide behind dogma. Less risk, a full belly, and closer to the inkwell.
Tristan's cheekbones tightened like a drawn bow. He forced the words through his teeth:
— Your arrow missed, my Lady. Morrigan does not belong to the Circle. That's the catch.
Isolde's stunned gaze jumped from the man to the girl as she tried to reshuffle everything she'd already learned. Her picture of events no longer fit together as neatly. Tristan, meeting her blazing look without flinching, said:
— It was foolish to hope for a different outcome. What's the price?
— Well, well… shouldn't you have started with threats to Bethany and Leliana?
— A waste of time. That's what you truly threaten. Whatever it looks like from the outside, you're not the sort to die for ideas, convictions, or stubborn pride. I wouldn't bet on that—not even for… partners. Even if you called them friends. You calculate risk. Or close to it. So spare me the arguments and answer the question.
— Your Pact,— Morrigan said. — Everything I want to know. Everything you can do to share it.
— Simplicity is not your forte. In the Circle you rummaged through books; here you dig through other people's secrets. I can scarcely imagine what use you could make of it—especially now. And the very idea of helping… brings me no joy.
— And?
— The answer is obvious.
— You'll have to squeeze it out of yourself.
Tristan let out a short sigh and gave what was required:
— Yes.
— Splendid. How will this be done—sending a mage's consciousness beyond the Veil? My mother never taught such a thing. Perhaps for good reason. What I managed to glean from the Circle says one thing: the Harrowing is complex, and it requires lengthy preparation.
With a barely audible groan, Tristan drew his legs in, bent his knees, and pushed himself up, back to the wall. Looking down at Morrigan, he answered succinctly:
— The Harrowing is a tribute to tradition. Much of it is symbolic. Safety against possession outweighs practicality and speed—and lyrium demands extra precautions. We don't need any of that. Still, we should move to another room before we begin.
Morrigan rose and gave a short nod. Then she addressed Tralin:
— Since it's come to this… it's warm and safe here. Bethany should be moved.
The templar looked to the squad's leader. With a nod, the man gave consent and flicked his eyes meaningfully toward Connor's body. Tralin returned a slight bow and strode off, leaving Lady Isolde in renewed bewilderment. Wincing at the pain in his side, Tristan muttered:
— Is that… concern? After your words…
— Pragmatism. Answer me this instead: why does it seem the Chantry's plan, through you, hinges on me? A needle's eye.
— Fate.
Morrigan smirked—briefly, caustically, as if spitting in his face without a sound.
— Fate? A convenient excuse for those afraid to admit you're just a pawn in someone else's game.
Frowning, Tristan went on:
— As you ask it, so I'll answer it. The 'plan,' as you crudely put it, never hinged on specific individuals. When there are options, some are simply more attractive and lead to fewer senseless deaths. Priorities imply flexibility, but no one could have predicted what happened at Kinloch Hold or at Redcliffe Fort. Chance played its part. And amid the tragedies, a Seeker happened to be at the Chantry's disposal on other business—one who happened to have in hand… a 'wild card.'
Listening intently, Lady Isolde opened the room opposite—evidently a storeroom for the Arl's hunting trophies. Judging by the number and variety of stuffed beasts and antlers, the collection spanned more than one generation of Guerrins. Tristan pointed to a carpet from northern Rivain—vibrant as tropical butterfly wings, its patterns as if woven from the northern lights. He stopped Isolde, who had followed, with a shake of his head. Kneeling, Morrigan ran her palm over the dense pile.
— Yes. A needle's eye. The path to exclusivity…
— What?
— Just… a strange thought. So?
— Lie down. Breathe. As you said—'exclusivity.' That will be the price I'll pay.
— Just don't 'forget' your promise. I wonder… do deeds like this cling to the memory?
Overcoming the pain, Tristan knelt beside her and took her hand. Not fully understanding, he gave a restrained shrug.
— Depends on who. Mages who survive crossing into the Fade usually try to forget it for the rest of their days—often unsuccessfully. That's why research moves slowly, and why it's done in terrible secrecy. If you mean me… I'd like to forget a great deal too. I hope this won't be added to that list. For the inconsolable mother behind the door—absolutely, whatever the outcome. For the others, it's harder to vouch. Pick one point. Concentrate. And be silent.
Tristan closed his eyes. Morrigan stared at the ceiling, her face suggesting a single question: what will it feel like? Minutes passed, and nothing unusual happened. In fact, nothing happened at all—only breathing: her own steady rhythm and the tense one of the man beside her. Until a dull thud reached her ears, the sound of a body hitting the floor. She turned her head—and found no trace of her companion…
What had Morrigan expected? Her notions came only from her mother's tales, which never explained how Flemeth knew this or that fact. Still, she'd carried instinctive expectations—something that could be summed up in one phrase: "fragments of reality floating in an ocean of eternal chaos." Reality proved far more prosaic… and far more terrifying. Instead, mundanity closed around her—save for two or three details.
First, the silence. Not the hush of early morning, when everything stills before sunrise—the air, the forest, even the clouds and birds. This silence pressed against her eardrums until a single instinct pulsed in her temples: "Scream!" Second, the moment she fixed on the ceiling, dizziness washed through her. Instead of what she'd expected, she met a "reflection" of the room above—at least, it seemed so. The obvious difference was that she herself was absent from it. And the reflection was not a mirror at all: it obeyed its own laws. Soon another impossibility surfaced—the upward-pointing antlers tangled with their own reflection, weaving a pattern that could not exist.
If not for those anomalies, she might have believed she was still in Redcliffe Fort—like a vague dream snapped into crystalline clarity.
Morrigan stood, shook her head, and gathered her scattered thoughts, forcing them toward the goal: find Connor, and the demon that held him in a grip not omnipotent, but firm.
Suddenly, from behind—right by her ear, and yet from very far away—a deep bass voice sounded, almost musical:
— Got you, vermin.
Morrigan whipped around and looked up. In the "reflection" loomed a massive, asymmetrical figure, as if carved from violet iolite. It gazed down at her with three pairs of eyes, an unnaturally vivid blue, and a dozen horns that curled in random arcs. Then an oddly large palm swept her aside, hurling the witch against the nearest wall…
* * *
At first, Morrigan felt as if she were floating down a quiet river, losing all sense of direction. But soon her senses began to recover their unwelcome sharpness, jerking her out of her reverie. As if that weren't enough, a sharp, knife-like pain lanced through her right shoulder, forcing her to remember every detail that had led to her present, crippled state. And she could hardly decide what was worse: all of that, or the way every vivid gradation of pain reached her more keenly than it had in the past month.
Above her, in the "reflection," the warped figure of the demon—recognizable as Pride—still loomed over Morrigan. The same deep voice, seemingly indifferent to distance, continued its monologue:
— Nothing is forgotten. It is repulsive that such a cowardly trifle interferes with the plan. Not once—twice over.
Tensing and fighting nausea, Morrigan sat up, shifting toward the wall so she could lean against it and exhale in ragged pulls. A question worried at her mind: why was the pain so sharp here, in this place? So vivid… And then it clicked. The important thing was "where," not "how" or "why." After all, Morrigan was not physically present in the Fade. Which meant her perception of what was happening mattered no less than the events themselves. One did not follow neatly from the other; they were knotted together. Strangely, it was almost pleasant to feel a shred of her old "normalcy" returning. With that thought, the pain in her shoulder eased—not gone, not healed, but dulled. Morrigan managed to flex her stubborn fingers. She ran her tongue over intact teeth, tasted blood, spat, and smiled as she replied:
— So much self-criticism in so few words. Everything a mighty demon devised, shattered into a thousand pieces by a single "cowardly trifle." And how often great pride blinds itself to great folly is hardly rare.
She expected a reaction—something faintly human. But the demon only seared her with its unnaturally blue eyes. Looking closer, Morrigan began to make out a pale ring—like the outer edge of a pupil—and a blank white rim, featureless beyond that. Still without any visible mouth or maw, the next words came:
— The poison in your words is a sign of defeat.
Morrigan couldn't hold her expression. She twisted her mouth; the phrase scraped painfully at her pride.
— Why hesitate, then?
— Hesitate? A strange question. What needed to happen has happened. Ah… You expect open aggression as the final beat of your revenge, the plunge into chaos while a chance remains. No. Crushing what embodies your existence is tempting, but such an end is too fleeting. Worse, you might return to the dream you crawled out of. And tormenting your mind would take time you're not worth spending. So you will remain here, among reflections—indefinitely—languishing in powerlessness.
The demon's massive figure shifted. Morrigan leaned forward.
— I came from a dream? I am not like you: echoes of mortals' urges and emotions, feeding on fragments and after-sounds.
Giving her less attention now, the demon fixed only three of its six pupils on her.
— There is something strange in you: a glimmer of the real wrapped so tightly in shreds of illusion that no detail can be made out. But your delusions are typical. The dull yet arrogant faith in your own uniqueness—like a fleeting moment believing itself eternity without beginning or end. You are all echoes of the dream of minds that wove what you call the "Waking." Shadows dancing on walls at the whim of fire. And like shadows, you know only a sliver of existence. Nothing will force the truth on you more surely than your inability to escape these reflections, you little forgery. For even the "magic" your hopes cherish is unreachable here—like everything that never truly belonged to you.
Struck by the demon's tirade, Morrigan blinked, struggling to find even a few words for a worthy retort. But the demon stood before her—and then, without sound or motion, vanished, just as it had appeared. Her hand, meanwhile, had almost returned to normal, leaving only a dull ache in the shoulder with sharp movement. Getting to her feet, she massaged her wrist and spoke quietly into the emptiness:
— If we are reflections, isn't it foolish to chase them so ferociously?
With a sigh, her first act was to try to shape a familiar spell: "Winter's Grasp." The runes obediently arranged themselves into the necessary pattern; mana gathered—then nothing followed. The demon had not lied. A moment later the unstable pattern fell apart, lingering only in memory. Frowning, Morrigan stared at her hands, clenched into fists. Magic had always been an extension of her body. Yes, herbs could cloud the mind and make spellwork stumble. Poisons could warp perception, break the ability to feed a runic chain with mana. But for a spell—runes aligned, mana present—to simply… disintegrate for no reason? Like taking a warrior's blade before battle.
Morrigan closed her eyes and slowly smoothed the turmoil of her emotions. There was no sense wasting mana on repeated attempts. Nor did she see any prospect now in a fight with the captor of the Arl's son. With magic, she'd retained some chance. With bare hands? She had no burning desire to test that.
Setting doubts aside, Morrigan headed for the door—the only exit from this kaleidoscope. Pinching her cheek wasn't enough to return. Flemeth had sometimes mentioned that certain poets compared such journeys to vivid dreams. But immediately afterward the witch would sternly reprimand her daughter: in practice there were many degrees of a traveler's "presence" in the Fade, each with its own limits, threats, and advantages. And then, catching herself—realizing her young pupil had drawn her into talking again—the mother would fall silent for a long time, refusing to answer new questions.
Whatever power lay behind Tristan's pact remained a mystery, but in rough terms this breach of the Veil resembled the Harrowing. And that meant it required more than "shaking oneself awake." In the Circle's trial one was meant to seek help from the "locals," which Morrigan flatly dismissed. An alternative might be a "rift" in the surrounding mirage—something she could slip through. She was confident of that. The confidence, of course, was founded on nothing at all, but there was no time for doubt…
The door swung open without the faint creak she remembered from when Isolde had opened it—as if to remind her this place was only a semblance. But beyond it waited something impossible: the same trophy room, as though in a maze of mirrors. In two quick glances Morrigan confirmed the likeness was not superficial. The number and arrangement of trophies matched. Yet the details differed: a slightly altered pattern on the carpet, a shift of carving here, an antler's curve there. The hair at the back of her neck tried to rise. An icy shiver followed: the demon had spoken the truth. These rooms were reflections—almost identical, but made monstrous by their minute differences. And instead of a ceiling, the new room again had an inverted copy above.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the door swung shut in silence—too soft to be natural. Instinctively turning, Morrigan confirmed it wasn't her imagination. Her thoughts threatened to bolt, throwing up frantic theories about how this could be. Instead, she walked to the nearest set of deer antlers hanging at eye level and, throwing her weight into it, tore them free of their plaque. She opened the door again and wedged it with the trophy so it could not close. Stepping over her improvised obstacle, Morrigan found herself in another copy of the same room. And yet… casting a glance at the spot on the floor where she had recently spat, she found only clean boards.
Silence. Minutes stretched as Morrigan, teeth clenched, analyzed the situation. A labyrinth of reflections… how to find the way out? Finally, sweeping her gaze over the trophies lining the walls, she chose a conspicuous mount and, without hesitation, twisted its neck with a crunch. On her way back, she kicked the antlers aside and closed the door. Exhaling slowly, she pulled the handle again. The next "old" room appeared—intact mount, no trace on the floor. She repeated the act in a new way, methodically reproducing the sequence. This time, at last, a room opened on cool, worn flagstones marked by a smear of blood.
For nearly an hour Morrigan moved from room to room, ceaselessly opening and closing the door. The work came with a sullen expression and wanton vandalism, without a flicker of remorse. A map steadily formed in her mind; with each step it began to resemble the layered structure of a complex spell, with connections not only across a single plane but also to neighbors above and below. And the moment she thought to watch the "ceiling" as well, she caught a ripple that ran across the apparently flat image of the "reflection" with each slam of the door. Then the room above shifted—changed—into its next state. The discovery gave her trained mind the missing clue to grasp the trap's overall design. And it justified Pride's words at Kinloch Hold.
There were eight copies of the Guerrins' trophy room. And just as memory fails in trivial details, each copy was subtly different from the next. Each room offered three possible outcomes beyond the door, cycling in a fixed order. The "reflection" above was no exception; it obeyed the same rule.
Exhausted, Morrigan sank onto the carpet—the only thing in this cursed room that did not whisper of death—and mechanically ran her palm over the pile. The coarse fabric scratched her skin, as if to remind her: even the illusion of comfort here was not real. And the new knowledge offered her nothing useful. The structure was closed in on itself. It didn't even allow for an "exit."
Sprawling on the carpet and clasping her hands behind her head, Morrigan closed her eyes, forcing herself to imagine the puzzle as a layered spell. Nine runes. She stripped away the superfluous. Seven positions remained. But there were eight rooms… so an extra place had to sit aside. In the end, to make the scheme match the facts, she had to allow connections that felt—inside her mind—literally impossible between positions.
Frowning, she let a smirk tug at the corners of her mouth. Not long ago she'd been astonished to see truths familiar to her arrive as revelations to other mages. What protected her from a reversal of roles? Only the blindness of pride. In the end it came down to imagination—and a foundation of logic. Sword and shield. Letting her thoughts range, she returned to the problem. Those "impossible connections" could be understood the same way she'd tried to translate what she'd observed in demons into her own spellwork. Something clicked, like pieces of a complex mechanism sliding into place.
Suddenly, in the midst of silence, a question surfaced—so obvious it was absurd it had taken so long. What was easier? To shift runes into new positions in the instant a spell filled with mana… or, against habit and common sense, to accept that runes could be linked as if adjacent even when, by known rules, they were not. Shaking her head, Morrigan let herself assume the first method might be nothing more than an untrained mind's attempt to interpret the counter-intuitive nature of the second. Recalling the principles of spell construction, she cautiously agreed. A hunch bolstered her: by moving runes, one could mimic layering even within the traditional "flat" embodiment used by Circle mages.
Grimacing, she tried to invent precise names for the new links between runes. No everyday analogy fit. In the end it became something like "inside" and "outside"—a peculiar addition to "above," "below," "left," "right," "in front," and "behind." But it was far too early to celebrate. Her guesses could be wrong. And even if she was right, a long road of training and methodical work lay ahead before any timid attempt could be made in practice…
She opened her eyes and stared at the carpet pattern above, in the "reflection."
— Ugh… If you get stuck here too long, you might never get out…
Morrigan winced. She understood: if she lingered here, the demons would finish off the Seeker and the last inhabitants, showing new tricks she could not yet anticipate. Whatever the Chantry's plans, this region would become largely useless to them in the sense Tristan had described. Worse, she doubted his ability to put up much resistance. Coldly assessing the blood and life he spent on his own "spells," she could roughly estimate how much it had cost to send her mind into the Fade. Too much…
She stepped back inside herself and returned to the original problem. If the trap was flawless, of course there was no escape. But what if it wasn't? Morrigan murmured:
— If there's more pride in "Pride" than skill…
Effort was for what could be reached. So she accepted the idea of a flaw as her starting point. Slowly scanning the seam where the two reflections met, she asked herself what mistake a demon might make. Squinting, she plucked one thought from the swarm: how would she build such a trap? And how would she hide… the imperfection? Snapping her fingers, she spoke aloud, slowly:
— I understand how to move rooms. So rooms don't appear from nothing. They connect again and again—quickly… but "quickly" isn't "instantly."
She rose and returned to the door. The only apparent weakness in the puzzle was the simultaneous existence of two exits: the door below and the "door" above. If there were two doors… were paired connections even necessary when there was only room for one? She stroked her thumb over the cool bronze of the handle, polished as if by a thousand touches. The detail felt more real than floor or wall—as if someone had memorized the sensation of a palm against it down to the smallest grain.
— So. That instant when the room above shifts—perhaps that's the only crack to the outside. Assuming it isn't fantasy. And how would I…
Morrigan looked up, judging whether she could climb. With antlers and mounts, nothing could be simpler. Without delay she scrambled up the wall, breaking only two or three exhibits. At the boundary she felt a strange tension: her upper body already pulled toward the floor of the new room, telling her head—without argument—which way was up and which was down, while her lower half still tugged the other way.
In the end the problem was simple and brutal: how to use the crack at all. For the first time, Morrigan felt pinned by limitation. The Fade's great obstacle for any traveler was this: unlike its inhabitants, you could not freely change your form, your perception, or the things themselves. Experience, which should have been a tool, turned into fetters.
Two facts irritated her most. First, the lack of options—real ideas—forcing her forward blind, trying at random. Second, the kind of ideas she was driven to. She knew that for the past week—perhaps two—she had lived inside another's will and desire. By contrast, the moments when she'd raged against circumstance now seemed childish and selfish. And here she was, seriously considering the power that had always repelled her most: the spell of transformation.
She did not expect it to "turn the game on its head." But Flemeth's formula seemed to draw not only on mana, but on the caster's blood and flesh. Would that difference be enough to make the spell take hold here, where magic itself seemed not to work? And another question followed immediately: how would magic bound so tightly to flesh function where there was no flesh—no body—at all?
Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Morrigan let out a long sigh. Knowledge of the Fade was like religion or philosophy: many words, few facts, fewer still that could be proved. She didn't even know where this idea had come from. Flemeth had never gone into fine detail. And young Morrigan, learning magic, had cared more about how to strike, flee, and survive.
She discarded weak objections and anxieties until only one remained: why not? And nothing worthy rose to oppose it…
As before, mana slid easily into the spell's pattern—and then, against her skepticism, the transformation began. A wave of conflicting feelings swept her: the sweetness of success, the gnawing dread of using this strange magic again, and the familiar, pulling numbness. Like a steep snow slope that steals direction and replaces one movement with the next, the emotions swapped places without mercy. Only the usual sounds—skin tearing, joints and bones cracking—were absent. The change happened in an ominous, unnatural silence. Fortunately, it did not drag on; it reached its end swiftly.
A quick inspection revealed two differences. The minor one was clothing. Morrigan had imagined it as an "idea," which made sense if only her mind was present here. She had even been curious what the spell would do to her appearance. The answer was dull: her garments melted into her flesh as if, here, both were the same. In the end, as last time, only altered flesh remained—interesting, for several reasons.
The important change was vision. Two images came to her at once: evening twilight in a forest and an Orlesian veil of fine gossamer. Both obscured detail without blocking the whole. Now it seemed the obstruction had fallen away. Morrigan could scarcely believe how limited her perception had been minutes ago. So much had been hidden in plain sight. Now she could trace how the walls, converging toward the imagined dividing line of the "reflections," curved outward instead—never meeting, never joining, but intersecting. And it became clear that once you began to climb, you could continue ascending the chosen wall without ever touching the other.
Gathering herself, Morrigan acted. With claws that found purchase as if they belonged, she scrabbled upward, concentrating on motion and the small patch of wall beneath her. Only after a minute of rhythmic ascent did she dare to look around.
There was plenty to see. She was on the outside of an enormous—something. Morrigan struggled for a definition; she had never perceived anything like it in life. From the side she could see eight rooms at once, intersecting yet separate, parts of something larger. And she herself, like a fly, clung to the bare, stretching wall of one room. When she focused on the creaky, dry sensations beneath her fingers, the surface gained solidity, losing the transparency it had possessed a moment before.
The essential thing was that she was "outside." Up and down here were determined only by eye; other senses offered nothing. The "sky" was grey haze, in which details were hard to pick out, yet slow, chaotic movement without beginning or end seemed to pervade it. Morrigan could not bring herself to call it cloud or mist. Any detail dissolved into distance—and the longer she looked, the more the movement felt colossal, overwhelming in scale.
The only anchor for the gaze was a deep blue-black rock floating at an indeterminate distance, with a building rooted there. A majestic palace—architecture unfamiliar to Morrigan—rose as if carved from black obsidian and adorned with dark gold, almost blood-colored. Even from afar the masterpiece looked lifeless, long abandoned, frozen in time…
"Below," by the logic of sight, lay Redcliffe Fort. Like the distant palace, the fortress stood on its own slab of rock surrounded by emptiness. Once she forced herself to track small details, Morrigan became convinced: the recreation was crude, distorted in places. And the "trap" hung above the buildings like ripe fruit on a branch.
She did not waste time on contemplation. Morrigan moved deftly toward the roof of the fortress's main building. A jump that contained disorientation, flight, and fall ended successfully. Only after anchoring herself to the massive roof tiles did she let herself look around again.
No sound. No smell. Not even the slightest movement of air. The uniform light had no source and cast no shadow. After a minute of working at a window, Morrigan was inside a familiar corridor, sliding silently along the ceiling toward the Arl's bedchamber.
She paused at the door and listened. She hardly expected to overhear anything in the Fade. By all accounts, any boundary divided "here" and "there" by more than a wall. But for a mage, caution was not excessive—even if it reeked of paranoia. And since there was, in truth, no other choice, she gathered her courage, dropped to the floor, and flung the door open…
A voice, breaking with adolescence and full of fear braided with puffed-up irritation, greeted her:
— Why did you pull me out of…
The Arl's bedroom, in Eamon's absence, looked authentic. Morrigan had no time for decor. Two figures stood by the bed. The first—tall and gaunt, a head taller than any tall man—belonged to a demon. It resembled a desiccated mummy that had retained enough flesh for the contours to suggest unmistakably a female form. And the eyes: two piercing gemstones, burning an intense blue against ashen, wrinkled skin. The second figure was easy to recognize as Connor, the Arl's son.
Cut off mid-sentence, both turned to the newcomer at once—but their reactions differed. Connor flinched, taking half a step back and placing himself precisely between two monsters. He interpreted what he saw at face value. The demon, however, merely lifted a weary hand and spoke in a surprisingly melodic, soothing voice, neither male nor female:
— The Pride of Elevation has always suffered from overconfidence. And you, as I told him, are a fidgety, slippery little worm. I wish I knew for certain: are your thoughts empty, or do some of them reach higher than ours? Pride is convinced you are a shard doomed to vanish in the seething maelstrom of change—and therefore an adversary, though an insignificant one. Yet Pride himself managed to stumble over a minor obstacle. And this is the result. But reaching the end is not enough; one must know what to do with it. Do you know?
Morrigan slowly shook her head, hiding neither surprise nor wariness. Her gaze slid over the demon, weighing each detail, before she spoke, drawing the word out slightly:
— Desire…
— A good guess.
Morrigan bared a long row of needle-like teeth.
— I've had… luck. What could break a young mage's will at his father's deathbed? I'll go further: you feed on a certain kind of desire. The desire for a loved one's return, for the dead to rise. That's the source of your fondness for corpses…
The demoness shrugged, almost human, smiling peacefully.
— A predictable display of wit, memory, and logic. I confess, I like those who yearn to reclaim what is lost—especially when it concerns loved ones.
An elegant yet grotesque gesture—given the demoness's appearance—settled on Connor's shoulder. He flinched but did not move from the line between the two women. The demoness continued:
— As part of Ghaskang's retinue, I know how to handle the remains of these primitive, flat-born creatures of dream. But there is a detail. Your… current state is pure weakness and vulnerability. Cunning alone is not enough. Here, for example: a desire lies buried in a dark corner of the mind, like a filthy stain. One might expect it to be a clever feint, but here it is different. The desire has taken root—become real. Oh… unexpected. A fear that your mother exists only in memory and is, perhaps, already lost. Against all logic, that fear feeds the desire to return to bygone days… Yes… Such foolishness is inexplicable.
Morrigan sensed the threat and yet could neither respond nor understand its shape. With a sharp flick of her wrist, the demoness—without moving—seemed to reach into the very core of the mage and seize her by the spine. Numbness flooded outward from that point, pinning Morrigan's body so completely she could not move a finger.
— A trick requiring some knowledge, certain conditions… and a great deal of true light. Oh—you call it "mana." You see, dear Connor? We will deal with this monster who delayed our plans, and then return to our task. An important task. And when all is finished, you will receive what was promised. So there is no room for idle argument.
Connor opened his mouth to object, but he caught himself, casting a wary glance at Morrigan. He fell silent and, without noticing, stepped closer to the already familiar evil. Yet curiosity pushed through fear:
— You address that thing as if it were one of us, not one of your kind.
The demoness lifted a brow, shifting her gaze from the boy to the captive whose back arched under the pressure of an alien force.
— Indeed… it is.
Meanwhile, Morrigan's mind—trapped—boiled with futile attempts to find a loophole. Thoughts whipped in a wild vortex, offering one barren idea after another. And from the black nothingness of despair, something dark and ugly finally crawled out.
Again she found herself at the lip of that black chasm in memory. She never forgot it, despite its strange habit of slipping into oblivion, and she tried not to summon it without need. The solution born there was desperation made flesh. Morrigan guessed the Fade-creature slipped into the mind through the open wound of a fresh loss—oozing longing and grief. A thin trickle was enough. For the demon these were not abstractions but something tangible, as if it could see them laid out before it. And the power it wielded over Morrigan reached her only because of the contradictory image of Flemeth living inside her.
So if Morrigan tore the memory of her mother from her own mind, she could free herself—become invulnerable to the creature's touch, and cast off the shackles of the past forever.
Yet something in her recoiled, finding the idea vile. In that instant, Morrigan understood with brutal clarity: in many ways she had been shaped by the very memory she would have to sacrifice. Shared days, conversations—those recollections still formed her, made her who she believed herself to be. Not a noose. A source. To lose it would be to renounce herself.
The thought rang through her like a struck bell, and with effort her attention dragged itself from the demon's mocking blue eyes to the youth playing the victim. From the gloom in her mind, curiosity flared—ugly, bright, and shaking—shot through with arrogance, and envy. What, exactly, had the demon done? How?
Morrigan felt hot blood running from the corners of her mouth, forced tight by an alien grip, down to her chin. Felt pain lance through joints wrenched toward cracking. Felt muscles drawing into cords. Felt seconds stretch with the slowing, resonant rhythm of her heart. In utter silence, life was being squeezed from her body, drop by drop. And one thought worried at her, stubborn as a burr: why had the demon mentioned mana?
Images of known spells that bound caster and victim rose in her mind. Bare distortions in the air—like heat shimmer in cold—coiled in a dense ribbon between source and target. Following that thread, Morrigan began to see similar streams between her and the demoness's fist, appearing only to dissolve and reappear. Whatever the creature was doing did not resemble a binding chain so much as the sheets of a lashing downpour—complex, demanding a virtuoso control Morrigan could only envy. Like a host of trivial spells whose dance gave birth to something greater than their sum.
Traces of magic crawled across her body. And at the edge of her vision she saw the traces spiral, chaotically, around the wrists—then vanish at the fingers, absorbed into the skin without a mark.
Morrigan snapped her attention back to her opponent. Malice coiled inside her, and by sheer will she reversed the transformation. As if ignoring the external grip, her flesh began to change again, returning to normal—and the demon's paralyzing hold began to weaken. Sensing its prey slipping away, Desire frowned. And Connor's eyes flew wide as he watched the dark-haired girl emerge from the monster-shape.
Morrigan did not waste a heartbeat. The instant she had freedom, she lunged for the youth, fixing him with a gaze that shimmered crimson-gold. Connor still stood between two fires. So she ducked under the demoness's arm as it reached past him, caught him easily despite his futile recoil, and—baring her teeth in a savage grin—sank them into the Arl's son's throat.
Teeth pierced skin, muscle, tendon, vessel. With steely discipline she held in her mind the remembered shape of her transformed maw, the moments when, monstrous, she had torn flesh from the possessed. Overriding every preconception about her own body, Morrigan tore out Connor's throat.
A silent rasp choked in him; horror filled his eyes as he began to collapse, dragged sideways by the predator's weight. Over his shoulder the demoness's face appeared. In genuine confusion she reached for the body of her precious puppet, having no idea what to do next.
And the world around them—rebuilt from the young mage's memories—had already begun to crumble, turning to grey ash that, defying all sense, streamed upward.
Hot blood—sweet and metallic—filled Morrigan's mouth. She did not see but felt Connor's consciousness gutter out, and her own body tipping through the Veil back into the Waking. Reflexively she swallowed, then spat toward the fading image of the demoness as she exhaled:
— I'll remember your hints…
Then her body fell—never reaching the surface. And the mage, breathing convulsively, clutching her chest where her heart ached, blinking hard to drag the world into focus, woke on the carpet in a room filled to the rafters with the hunting trophies of the Guerrins.
* * *
Morrigan stood over Tristan where he lay, frowning, unconsciously worrying her lower lip. His left arm was gone entirely. Bandages soaked in a healing compound bound the ragged stump below the elbow. Something had severed the limb—through muscle, tendon, and bone—with surgical precision. Tristan himself, though he looked corpse-pale, was breathing: slow, heavy pulls. Blood loss could explain the state he was in, but Morrigan suspected another influence as well, with no illusions that the Seeker would wake soon.
Many hours had passed since the moment the girl had "fallen asleep" and her first conscious breath. Long enough for night to yield to a new dawn. Morrigan knew nothing of an uneven flow of time beyond the Veil. Logic suggested that if it were possible, mages would have built whole schools of theory around it. Or else demons would have become the dominant force in both worlds an eternity ago.
Either way, she'd lost time—either in the passage into the Fade, or in the return with Connor. Perhaps in both. As for the Arl's son: once Morrigan had more or less pulled herself together and found no sign of the Seeker—except for the frightening pool of clotted blood beside the carpet—she had gone to the opposite bedchamber. Nothing there had changed in the meantime. Only Isolde looked spent; the dried blood on her elegant hands and the stains on her dress made it plain that, "highborn" or not, the woman could tend wounds—and do it bravely. Set against the abundance of hunting trophies, Morrigan drew a likely conclusion: more than once, the mistress of the castle had had to patch up her husband after an ill-starred encounter with some beast, while also directing the treatment of the other participants in the noble pastime. Connor lay there too, to the left of his father, and he was little better.
At that moment Isolde roused, lifted a weary gaze to the mage in the doorway, and managed a few words:
— You… have returned…
Then, emptied of her last strength, she gave in to fatigue and sank into an anxious, fitful sleep.
Morrigan returned to the corridor and followed the trail of blood drops. Before long she found her "partner." Apparently—with Tralin's help—he had been laid on a bed in a room that, by its furnishings, had belonged to Connor. And here, now, still tasting the irony, Morrigan stood and watched.
Minutes dragged. Then footsteps approached—Tralin's, unmistakable. Instinctively, Morrigan shifted so she could keep both the Seeker and the doorway in view. Tralin halted on the threshold and lowered his gaze to the revolting-looking leader of their party. As if sensing the tension in the room, he did not step inside. He spoke quietly:
— The people of the Fort are coming to their senses. The lethargy has lifted. Many are ill. Gravely so. I found the guards earlier, but they'll be of little use for the time being. We need aid from the village. This whole place… needs aid.
— Isolde is asleep.
Tralin nodded.
— Milady helped greatly with the Seeker. She knew where the medicines were. She showed admirable composure. But Milady wasn't meant for this—especially with her husband and son teetering on the brink in the next room. Still, that does not change the fact that it was Milady who bled Redcliffe Fort dry by sending most of the knights away. It was Milady who hid her son's talent from the Chantry, choosing to teach him in secret. Untrained mages…
He cut himself off, realizing where—and with whom—and under what circumstances he was speaking. Morrigan's lips twitched into a barely perceptible smirk. Tristan had chosen his "tools" well. In the weak dawn light, the shadow of her lashes slid over her cheekbones as she shifted her gaze to Tralin. Aloud, however, she said something else:
— Predictable. Isolde was the weak link their enemies exploited. A chink in the armour. But sometimes… to rid yourself of weakness is akin to killing yourself. The Arl is no less to blame—preferring blind comfort within the family to constant vigilance. Perhaps this whole affair began with his weakness, not his wife's.
Tralin's gaze stayed on her. He gave nothing away—acceptance or disagreement—only silence. After a pause, he said:
— The decisions are for the Seeker to make. Are we safe?
Morrigan shook her head, more bemused than affirmative.
— Strange words to hear from a Templar. Safer than before, I suppose. A powerful Fade-spawn can do much, if it doesn't care what it costs. You'd know better than I would. Strangely enough, what happened to the tower at Grintorn comes to mind… No cause, no catalyst—yet the building vanished into the Fade. Entirely.
Morrigan's brows lifted—genuine surprise. She had never heard of the incident near Orzammar, of a stronghold said to have played no small role in Ferelden's resistance during the Orlesian occupation. Wrinkling her nose, she went on:
— But otherwise, the demon has no foothold left here.
— Connor?
An unpleasant question. Morrigan shot him a look; wariness flared in her gold eyes before she answered:
— If his mind isn't destroyed, a talented healer could bring the young mage back to the living. Or a miracle. The main thing—as Tristan wanted—is that the Arl's son's blood still runs true.
— Understood. Then I will go to the chantry. To report what's happened… and request reinforcements.
Morrigan inclined her head, not letting Tralin out of her sight, and added:
— I'll be here.
* * *
With the arrival of Bann Teagan, Ser Pert, several Sisters of Light, and volunteers who had come to help with the wounded and the work of the household, Redcliffe Fort bustled. Snow crunched under boots and shovels; axes thudded; woodsmoke rose from stoves; doors slammed; voices carried—shouts and curses.
Morrigan had settled in the guest room on the first floor of the main building, where Bethany lay. A fireplace there kept steadily dancing tongues of flame; a sofa held the bandaged apprentice; and a soft chair had been brought down from the second floor, and Morrigan sank into it. Her young companion occasionally muttered indistinct words; she only rarely surfaced before slipping back into sleep. The injured girl needed a mage capable of healing. Local healers hoped such injuries might mend with time—and help—if one accepted that her arm was gone for good, like Tristan's. Few, even among fighters, learned to live with that unaided. Wynne and the others—if they had not perished on the road—were not expected at Redcliffe Fort for another two or three weeks. Her mentor could only watch over her, hope… and then do it all over again.
Morrigan herself, too, was giving in to dark ruminations. Too many impressions and questions had piled up. Her thoughts darted like frightened rats—close at hand, yet she couldn't seize a single one by the tail. More than anything, Morrigan was troubled by her helplessness. Once again. And though the whisper of logic tried to reassure her—the enemy had proven far beyond the "ordinary" and even the "extraordinary," and it was only to be expected she was no match for it—somewhere deep inside, pride whispered otherwise…
Yet, as always, Morrigan forced herself past frustration and onto what was useful. She began to pick apart what had happened, methodically, not skipping from fear to fascination to strategy. She decided to start with Tristan's pact. As soon as she weighed the facts, what Pride had called a "trifle" dwarfed her recent "adventure" beyond the Veil.
The catch was that it was not the Seeker who turned intent into fact by shaping a spell and feeding it mana. The work was done by a hidden force, presumably dwelling beyond the near-unbreakable Veil. Firelight played in Morrigan's golden eyes as she moved from one fact to the next, as if along a long shelf in a library. The ability to detect possession—with caveats known only to Tristan himself. How could such a thing be conceived? Abstractly… Morrigan wet her lips and dared to imagine it would require nothing less than taking full hold of a victim's mind and wrenching out the truth: who was in charge. Not a harmless trick. Not a painless one. And if the victim did not yield willingly, their will would rise like a wall. Morrigan knew the limits of mind magic, even at a distance: it was better at breaking than shaping.
And yet, for a definitive answer, the Seeker had needed only to mark the target with his own blood. Even the power that served as the source of the Seekers' original gifts seemed close at hand. In Morrigan's opinion, that entity had no reason to play hide-and-seek.
She remembered the Fade—her recent, bitter lesson in perspective. What was immeasurably complex for a mage might be simple for one who saw differently. For the demoness who had clenched Connor's mind in her fist, Morrigan's weakness had looked like a genuine flaw. For the force behind Tristan's pact, possession might stand out against the general background as clearly as a lone hill on a plain.
But Morrigan seized on something else as the main point: the ability to see through the Veil what was necessary, without disturbing it in the slightest. As if it… wasn't there. One short mental step, and she pushed the thought further. The ability to find the possessed hidden in plain sight—or even at some distance. Similar enough. But… Morrigan frowned, considering. If finding the possessed required no marking at all—only the right "question," are there any nearby?—then the unknown creature's reach must be far broader, and the Seeker received only a pitiful fraction. A reflection. Someone on the other side, ceaselessly watching countless places in the Waking, and—at a price set not by calculation but by whim—handing answers to those willing to pay.
A logical guess. A chilling one. Morrigan's mouth tightened; the thought burned like red-hot metal. One fact spoiled everything. The moment the Seeker had shattered the possessed armor rose vividly before her. That had not looked like an exchange: question, answer. Leaning back in her chair, Morrigan whispered, as if confessing to herself:
— Direct influence…
So this was proof the creature could do more than "answer." It could kill—or, more simply, affect things through the Veil on par with the mightiest Fade-spawn. Slowly raising her eyes to the indifferent ceiling, Morrigan noted the key difference between this and everything she knew: no tether to a single "here and now." She rapped herself on the knuckles, mentally. She shouldn't forget the connection between Tristan's unknown "patron" and blood magic. Simplified, it could do what traditional magic did—and far more besides. How was the entity drawn into the cycle? A moneylender, trading blood for mana? Tapping her nails on the chair's arm, Morrigan added the last event to her chain of facts: sending a mage's consciousness into the Fade. The resemblance to blood magic held—until one accounted for the Seeker himself, with neither a drop of mana nor a grain of talent.
And what did Morrigan make of all this, in the end? Her mouth curved into a cold, viscous smile she did not fully understand herself. She needed power—but beyond that, she was scalded by genuine curiosity. And envy.
Later, Morrigan's thoughts were interrupted by mundane concerns: to wash, to eat, and to try to feed Bethany. And in the course of these tasks, one after another, Isolde caught her—rested a little, perhaps, but not relaxed in the slightest. Fear and pain showed through the thin veneer of the noblewoman like cracks in old porcelain. For reasons Morrigan could not quite name, it stirred something like respect in her, and left her with no desire to dodge a hard truth. Besides, Milady had no wish to make their conversation public; she closed the door firmly behind her.
— Mage…
— Morrigan.
— That name has an interesting origin. It's not Hasind, is it?
Morrigan's smirk was grim.
— Got Tralin talking… The Templar's weak before nobility…
Then, after giving Milady a quick once-over, she added:
— You would know better than I. Mother never told me how she chose my name.
Isolde nodded and went on:
— My husband's people are of real interest to me. Quite the opposite of indifference. In my youth, the history of these lands fascinated me—the extraordinary interweaving of remnants of Avvar culture, reforged by northern invaders into something new, yet still distinct. Your name, in the ancient Avvar tongues that served as the basis for the Fereldan language, means: "Queen of Ravens." A strong name. Mine stems from an old Orlesian dialect and means merely: "to rule." Which I am trying to do… perhaps not in the best way. Tell me, "Queen," what of my son? What is there to hope for? And can one even speak of hope here?
At those words, it was as if a mask slipped from Morrigan; pretense vanished without a trace. She had never known the meaning of her own name, but she knew this much: the "mad" Flemeth never did anything simply for amusement. Much could look like amusement… until the appointed time arrived.
— The enemy proved too formidable. I killed Connor in his own dream, on the other side of the Veil. Meaningless words to an outsider. In plain terms: the boy's mind is damaged—likely beyond repair. That is the price of liberation. His and ours. I cannot forbid you to hope. The heart won't stop beating. And perhaps a healer of great knowledge will reach us in time. You are likely sick of patience by now. But I cannot offer anything else.
The inconsolable mother bit her lip until it bled, staring at the floor. After a minute of silence, she said, almost inaudibly:
— To wait again…
— Yes.
Morrigan's answer made Isolde flinch, and the girl continued:
— It resembles a spider's web. You're caught. And no matter how much you struggle, the end is already clear—only death is in no hurry to grant release. Each of you faces a choice: to keep choosing, or to stop. To open your eyes, or to press on blindly. To go on for something—or for someone—or…
She exhaled, her voice flattening.
— To you this is only air—shreds of meaningless phrases. You know… you'd do better speaking to any "Sister of Light." Or there—across the bay at the chantry—a companion is coming to her senses. Leliana. In some measure, she is a specialist in wounded and bleeding hearts. Tell her you come from Morrigan, who is all right. And that she's rested enough.
Watching Morrigan's face carefully, the Lady of the Fort nodded slowly.
— Thank you for the honest answer. And the advice.
Already at the door, Isolde added:
— By the way. The Seeker woke up an hour ago.
— A tenacious bastard.
— Yes. You are right…
* * *
Was it even right to say Tristan had received her? Morrigan entered without knocking, closed the door behind her, and stopped at the head of the bed. With effort, he lifted his sunken eyes to the witch and managed a pale half-smile.
— Glad.
Morrigan clicked her tongue, swept her gaze across the room, and pulled a chair closer to the bed.
— A lot of subtext for one short word. Speak plainly: are you nauseous or shaking because I'm not so much as scratched while you've been carved up? And yet you're glad the deed is done.
The Seeker exhaled slowly, carefully. He said it dryly:
— That's true.
The girl jerked her chin at his arm and asked,
— Did you expect this price?
Their eyes went to the Seeker's left stump. He shook his head—half denial, half assent.
— It… was too much.
— Yes… But I have fulfilled my part.
Tristan returned his gaze to her, frowning, and made it plain:
— Truly?
— Oh, we could play word games. But it seems you're not in any state for a duel. Yes, the result isn't ideal. But you will have to accept it.
Tristan's lips twitched; irritation smoldered under the pain. The Seeker nodded slowly.
— It is what it is.
— When can I expect your… allies?
A pause followed. Tense silence hung while Tristan pinned Morrigan with his gaze, and she—masking her interest—waited without expression. At last he forced it out:
— A month, I suppose.
— Hmm…
Her fingers tapped the armrest.
— So they're somewhere between Halamshiral and the gates of Orzammar. They'll cross the southern border with the first blizzards. And even if some passing merchant spots them, winter will serve as a shield. That much is clear. Wynne, I think, will return sooner. Now—next question. The pact.
The Seeker licked his dry lips, glancing sideways at the clay jug and mug on the bedside table. Morrigan poured water without ceremony and helped the sick man drink his fill, buying him the time he needed to think.
— Not now—
— No, no, no.
Morrigan shook her head.
— If not now, the right moment will never come. And if you're too weak, you won't be serving that pact for long anyway. Let's… clear this up.
Rubbing her forehead, the witch went on:
— There is no alliance between us. No friendship either. Unless…
Her mouth twisted.
— A coincidence of interests. You hold my leash—and the promise of my death is the handle. A strong motivation, without the rest. But I wager that leash comes from the same pact. Now ask yourself: would you give your life for mine? You're a step from the grave. What price will your "patron" exact for a mage's death? So many questions… It's not as if I'm free to leave while you're weak. But you are right: before, I held time in my hands. Now, while you lie abed, how many of your patron's plans can I ruin? Choose.
Tristan closed his eyes and was silent a moment. Then he said:
— Very well…
* * *
Ten years and a handful of dawns earlier.
Melsendre stood by an apple tree in full leaf, leaning against its smooth trunk, awaiting her patron's orders. The girl's task was to remain nearby, unnoticed and inconspicuous. The role suited her perfectly. So her thick hair was pulled back into a severe braid in the Fereldan fashion, and her clothes did more to conceal than to accentuate her feminine form, standing out neither in color nor in style.
Her patron, Gaspar de Chalons, clad in the light armor of an Orlesian noble yet without the usual lordly finery and gold, was speaking with his officers. A war council in the middle of an apple orchard would have seemed surreal to a city dweller: hundreds of trunks stood in neat rows, stretching in every direction. On a bare patch of earth, the current state of the campaign had been scratched out in a rough sketch, showing the nearby terrain and the positions of the forces involved.
The Gislaine Fields, dotted with fruit orchards, lay along the border with Nevarra. Some had been planted back in the days of the Old Empire... There the enemy army had dared to invade Orlais, pressing forward to seize a string of settlements and then the major city on the old Imperial Highway: Larecolte. Gaspar had no more than fifty thousand—light and heavy cavalry, with infantry besides. Skillfully using his army's mobility, his knowledge of the terrain, the locals' help, and every source of information he could lay hands on, he had driven a numerically superior enemy behind the walls of Larecolte, cut their supply lines to Nevarra, and done it at a cost of no more than ten thousand killed and wounded.
The heavy scent of ripe apples mixed with the smell of horse tack and sweat. A gentle breeze stirred the spreading branches. Between the trees moved the figures of soldiers, their armor dully glinting through the foliage. Somewhere in the distance, the hammers of smiths rang...
Melsendre had played her part, too... The main credit for reconnaissance belonged to several "specialists" from Antiva, hired by her patron before the campaign began. Shadowy figures appeared at Gaspar de Chalons's tent at any hour of day or night, adding detail to the lines scratched in the dirt between the officers' boots—and then vanished without a trace, never lingering a moment longer than necessary. All except one...
— Milady.
The girl startled, gooseflesh prickling for an instant. That cursed Antivan mercenary had crept up behind her again, unnoticed, and could have slit her throat with ease. Her fingers clenched the folds of her simple dress. She forced herself to slow her breathing, as she'd been taught—in for four counts, out for six.
— My origins are not so noble. Such an address borders on an insult.
A soft, almost musical laugh answered her.
— Perhaps.
— I detect no accent in your speech. None at all.
— Thank you for the compliment.
— You are different from the others.
— Is that good or bad?
— Depends how you look at it. What matters is that you are fulfilling the task.
— Oh... Don't you worry about that. Your patron is an outstanding leader. Gaspar de Chalons would have managed even without our humble aid. We only helped him... skip a few steps. And reduce losses. And with that hint about the enemy commander's character... I'd wager: by the standards of war, this will all end fairly soon. And without needless bloodshed.
Melsendre gave an involuntary shudder—her skin crawled at this dangerous stranger's familiarity with her lord. Yet she could not fully suppress her curiosity about the person standing behind her, who procured information as if he could draw it from the earth itself—or straight from the enemy camp. If the facts he brought had not always proved useful, the young bard would have suspected the mercenaries of playing both sides. Melsendre bit the inside of her cheek and, without turning, ran her palm over the apple tree's bark as if seeking support.
— Good news. Finally.
The mercenary took a step closer, his gloved hand coming to rest on the trunk beside hers. Dry leaves crunched under his boot as he leaned in.
— Is that because you feel awkward here?
— Here? Awkward?
— Yes. Out here—fields, woods. On the road.
The girl hesitated slightly and nodded.
— I prefer cities... And the apples here are bitter...
After a short pause, the next words slipped out, unbidden:
— Like the truth in this war.
— Cities... A tangle of stone, blood, sincere impulses and lies, one step from filth to beauty. I understand...
— You...
— Yes?
Melsendre felt the cold blade of fear slowly slide between her shoulder blades. This man didn't smell of sweat and steel like ordinary soldiers, but of something alien—as if his clothes were steeped in the smoke of distant lands where familiar laws did not apply.
— Why are you wasting time on me?
— Because it is a dance. You take a step, a sweep of the arm—every necessary movement. Some moves seem meaningless, but without them the beauty of the dance dies. Another might casually pluck a flower. But I... am patient. For now.
— Is the flower an allegory? How crude?
Melsendre felt the man's smile against her back. Something must have shifted in his posture: a faint creak of glove-leather or boot-leather.
— You... are unusual. And that is your value.
— Do not stoop to empty flattery. You want something. And it is certainly not my 'flower.' Such men do not waste time on empty dances. My intuition is silent, like a frightened cat in a corner. But whatever you want in the end, I will not serve two masters. Nor am I privy to my patron's current affairs.
No answer came. Just as the girl began to think her interlocutor had dissolved as he'd appeared, strong hands clad in fine black leather settled on her shoulders, and warm breath brushed her ear—breath that, contrary to expectation, carried the scent of mint and the pungent aroma of unknown herbs. Like the embodiment of a far northern coastline—sea to the horizon.
— You are right. And wrong about the main thing. Your place at Gaspar de Chalons's side, and the trust he will one day place in you—those are unique. Together, you are like a masterpiece. Exceptional. This dance you share will open so much to you. You simply cannot imagine...
When his footsteps faded, Melsendre took her first full breath of the evening. She plucked an apple from the nearest branch and discovered, to her surprise, that the fruit was worm-ridden. As if the orchard itself was giving her a sign: beauty merely masks the rot.