«Yesterday» had sunk into silence. After a clear morning—as if to mock human plans—a quiet snowfall had blanketed the valley. A dead stillness, a white shroud that hid even the neighboring houses from sight. The world had shrunk to a single warm corner. No Bethany, no other guests. And Marjolaine, predictably, had stayed the night at the Fortress and had not returned during the day. The witch chose not to disturb the bard, keeping her distance and sinking into her own thoughts. And the bard watched the witch and the snow beyond the window in silence.
And now, on the following day, Morrigan juggled ideas in her mind as though tossing sharp knives into the air. What truly mattered in the ceaseless sameness of days? The answer to the question who are you? Clear memories—of who you were and where you came from? An understanding of who you would become? Did memory prevail, or the choice of the moment? Form or substance? Other people's opinions or your own experience?
A suffocating uncertainty, like some corrosive blight without shape or substance, devoured logic, will, and feeling. Because everything—absolutely everything—had been cast into doubt. Everything seemed to have acquired a hidden underside. But just as the girl pictured her own face in her palm, and the darkness inside her head, where two red pupils glinted out into the world like a predator's, questions rose from that void. What did she want? What did she crave? Without conventions or caveats. To the abyss with rules. With no one and nothing taken into account. Power? Yes. And no. But still... As if meeting her own reflection in a black mirror, emptiness facing emptiness, Morrigan fell into the wound in her memory that meant both beginning and end to her. This was more than a flight of fancy. A slow, crawling chill crept up the back of her neck toward her scalp, as if ice and flame had been poured into her there. A tender touch reaching straight into her skull...
Slowly opening her eyes, Morrigan met Leliana's gaze across the table.
Leaning on the table, the redhead bit her lip as she studied the tangle of black hair framing the witch's enigmatic face, as though it were a painting. A slight tilt of the head, a quiver of crimson lips—half cruel smirk, half genuine smile. A rigid, straight-backed posture. Her shirt unlaced. And those pupils burned a deep, saturated red beneath her brows. There was no longer any doubt that they glowed in the dark...
Morrigan saw fear. How many times had she seen fear already?... Revulsion. Admiration. Lust. Curiosity. Desire... Caught out, Leliana clearly wanted to look away, to avert her gaze, but could not, as if bewitched.
This—this was what Morrigan craved. This was what silenced every question about herself, every doubt, paranoia, and fear. What turned the icy flame beneath her skin into ecstasy. To be seen... For them to understand what they were seeing... And not to be able to look away. Not to want to avert their gaze. Not to be able to forget... For whatever reason, she did not care... No more hiding...
— You like it.
Yesterday, Morrigan had hurled those words at her companion as a challenge. Intuition and risk. Today there was no room for a question; it was a grim statement. As if blinking away a haze and waking up, Leliana shook her head, unsure what to say—or whether she should say anything at all. Pointing a finger at Morrigan, the bard said with utter seriousness:
— We need to talk.
Grunting—more out of habit than in response to the words—the witch nodded. Bracing her elbows on the table and interlacing her fingers, Morrigan said curtly:
— Well?
— I should have done it at once. At the first doubt. But... I need to be honest with you. And with myself. I was lost. And of course Marjolaine could not help scenting fresh blood. Her attempts to get inside my head are like toothache—hard to bear. Though... I am grateful for that conversation with her. She skillfully reminded me of the past. She pressed on every sore spot without missing one, and so tore me out of the grip of obsessive ideas. But to the Void with her games. Right now it is just you and me here. Isn't it?
As if under an invisible weight, Morrigan's gaze dropped and wandered aimlessly over the surface of the old table:
— That's the problem, Leliana. That's the problem...
A pair of furrows appeared between the redhead's brows as she tried to put the painful question into words:
— But do you yourself understand...
She faltered and fell silent. The red pupils immediately snared her pale green eyes. Her voice suddenly very low, the sorceress said:
— Say it.
Leliana's lips compressed into a thin line of irritation. And she let the words fall one by one, like heavy coins onto a tabletop:
— Do you understand who you are? What you are?
The witch's gaze slid aside again. Licking her lips, she began to speak slowly, like a predator stalking its prey:
— That question... is a very good one. Ask anyone, truly. And that little qualification at the end is the best part.
Drawing a full breath, Morrigan continued:
— What an interesting journey we have had, you and I, haven't we? I think the only thing that, despite everything, sometimes kept you near me... was that vision. Ah, forgive me—and your stubbornness, of course. And here we are, at a point where even those two can no longer master your doubt. Although...
The sorceress laughed darkly but did not lose the thread, pressing on:
— I know, it sounds strange coming from my mouth. But your vision is coming true. This conversation is proof. You know... when you are nothing—or everything—only clear boundaries, only the fact of being something definite, let you endure. And I appreciate not having to explain that. Who would have thought... Of all people, you. You know how to do one thing better than anyone, so naturally you tried to become my reflection... an echo of emptiness. No principles, no limits, no rules... That remark about the 'monster'...
Morrigan chuckled:
— Ironic. How close we came to the truth. And where it has brought us... I am a bad influence on you.
There was a pause, and not by accident. The witch waited, and the bard tried to grasp the catch. Why the change of subject? At last, lifting her brows in defeat, Leliana said:
— You are waiting for a question like a beggar waits for a coin. Fine. What are you driving at?
— Marjolaine wants to forge a blade out of you, — Morrigan said, — even if it means using your own blood. A solid, unchanging foundation. A sharp, deadly edge. Easy to hide beneath any clothes. Easy to use at a ball, in a fight, or in bed games. And I... I soften your edges. I blur the clean lines of the drawing—and not in any good sense. Watching you so closely, you see so much... so much in me that I do not understand myself. And I think you are drowning in it. That is why we are talking now, and not two days ago. None of this is about me. It is about where you should be. What you should risk.
— Well, it is reassuring that at least a few things in you never change. Your way of speaking... The fact that you are a nastier piece of work than most.
Morrigan laughed softly:
— There is truth in that. I used to think that, to understand where other people's thoughts and memories seep in, you had to concentrate hard. In truth... I have to concentrate on remaining myself. The moment you relax, you drown. Everything you are loses definition, melts at the edges, mixes with... the other. And once you go deeper...
The features of the familiar black-haired girl across from Leliana took on an unfamiliar softness. The stranger smiled tenderly and, blushing slightly, caught her lower lip between her teeth. Lowering her eyes, she sighed—but in a way that suggested she was trying to hide that sigh and failed out of inexperience. Then, without raising her gaze, she spoke in pure Orlesian, with a richly nuanced, flawless accent of the capital:
— My lady, if your usual kindness would deign to grant me a moment of your precious time...
— Maker...
Morrigan slowly raised her gaze, unhurriedly studying her companion's pale face, her dilated pupils, her trembling lashes. Shock, surprise, or horror? Then she broke the silence before it could become a burden to them both:
— A pity, but this is not a harmless game. Every time I take something from 'there'... I leave something behind in return. And that, believe me, is not the libraries and archives of the White Spire. In that black vortex of fragments, you can only lose things. And when what you are... what is left of you... is only memory...
The sorceress grimaced and shuddered, making it clear without words how repulsive she found the thought. Then she added:
— You have a habit of digging beneath the façade. Even now. Expressions, timbre, intonation. You try everything on for yourself.
— I need to feel it, to understand...
— Don't, Leliana. I...
Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut before continuing:
— I am a role, and the actor inside it has vanished without a trace. Your question—who or what am I? And what do I seem to you? A monster? A human being? If I were stupider, I suppose it would be easier to ignore the facts. But as it is...
The sorceress extended her hand, spreading her fingers as if examining them, though in truth she was watching Leliana intently through them:
— This flesh before you once belonged to Morrigan. But Flemeth's will shaped this form. And what it was shaped from was barely human. Memory... a jumble of shards and 'I'... 'Morrigan.' And yet at the same time... it is as if the original had been taken apart so that it could be meticulously reproduced. But not perfectly. No... all the strangeness that has accompanied me, all the changes from day to day—those are errors. I am aware of all of it. And every moment the question is the same: dissolve, or fight for a false face? Digging into me as if I were human... you will break yourself.
Morrigan's hand fell to the table, and Leliana exhaled. She had listened to the tirade without breathing at all. Nodding—but to her own thoughts, not to what had been said—the redhead asked:
— Don't speak of yourself in the third person around me anymore. So... a demon?
— Yes. But that is a conclusion, not a memory... You can ask the Templars or your mage acquaintances to drive me out.
— Ha... I'll keep that in mind.
Another pause followed, but Morrigan no longer wished to speak, so Leliana took matters into her own hands:
— You ask what you seem to me? Before, the answer was simpler. Now? The image of a shattered mask, skillfully reassembled, is not a bad one. You described it better than I could. And all of this is 'wonderful'... the poetry of tragedy. But you are lying. Not about everything. Not about the main thing. These worries—'what you think of me,' 'what you see me as'...
Her red curls swayed as the girl tilted her head, studying her interlocutor at an angle:
— Faaake. You don't care.
A predatory but satisfied smile spread across the sorceress's calm face. And Leliana, merely propping her head on her hand in bewilderment, continued:
— How easy it is to mistake anxiety over my mind for concern. And those who have not looked as deeply into you are deceived. All that matters to you is that I stay close. As a witness. Void take it! Look at yourself... You're reveling in the fact that I caught you...
Morrigan stood up sharply and leaned across the table, genuinely startling the bard. Freezing so close to her companion's trembling lips that her breath burned her skin, the witch gently brushed a red lock from the face before her:
— Truly so. And how good you are at this... Mmm... But why are you surprised? Beneath this mask is a demon. With all the narrowing that comes with it, the fixation on a single facet of personality, the obsession. I do not yet understand my nature. But my desires... I admit them openly. Yes, I do not care what is going on in your mind, so long as I leave an indelible impression on you. All this talk about myself, hurled at you, is not for nothing. I know—you will endure it, and you will not leave. When you look at me, knowing... my blood boils. It is not fear, not love, not lust. It has no name—that is why it is overwhelming.
Slowly settling back into her chair, Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut hard, inhaling sharply. Watching her companion with almost painful attention, Leliana could not help saying:
— In others, you easily evoke fear, elation, and lust.
— Wonderful. But not love?
— That would become... the most tangled, distorted, and perverse bond I have ever known. Because you will not keep your secrets in check...
— That is why I need you and Bethany.
— For this?
— Within whatever limits you consider permissible.
— This is madness. You need people around you who know nothing, to keep things in check. But what you crave is to reveal yourself.
— An accurate definition.
— Bethany... oh, Maker...
— Don't worry. I will make do with you. For now.
Morrigan snapped her fingers to draw her companion's attention:
— Leliana. We both understand: this 'passion' is a vulnerability. It will be your duty to make sure I do not finally drown in it.
Now it was the redhead's turn to snort sarcastically, but then, growing serious at once, she slowly nodded:
— Bloody curse...
— Disappointed in what you've gotten yourself into? You're free to leave.
— Yes, there are a thousand roads. But not one is like this one. And in truth there are only two directions: forward and back.
The green-eyed girl laughed sadly, briefly, then continued:
— What a labyrinth of 'knowing' you've led me into as well... My head will surely burst from thoughts. If not now, then later... It seems you were right when you said our role in the game was that of insignificant pieces, and that we do not even suspect the true rules.
Morrigan snorted and smiled. This time more calmly than before:
— Get dressed. The tension needs an outlet. You'll like my idea... though perhaps not at once.
* * *
Leaning against the back wall of the house, Morrigan contemplated the winter garden. The owners, who had vanished weeks ago, had been hardworking people, like most folk here. Not a single strip of ground beside the house lay fallow. And the garden slept beneath its white shroud, unaware that it would wake in spring abandoned and alone.
But the witch's attention was occupied more by the guests. Five Wardens of the Sanctum, including Krynitsa and Zhur. Leliana, Bethany, and Marjolaine. None of them had come without a reason, of course—though for the moment the men were merely shoveling snow.
Looking back, Morrigan had first had to get out of the house. No simple task, as it turned out. Then, leaving Leliana behind, she had needed to make her way to the Fortress. Without the old warped snowshoes—five or six pairs of them hung behind every front door here—crossing fresh snow would have been difficult. Leliana had lent a pair to the witch; in winter, in settlements like this, the central streets were usually packed down by sleds scurrying back and forth, while the drifts around the houses were cleared by the residents themselves. One spell of bad weather had laid bare the truth with absurd ease... The place was dead. A hundred paces from the Fortress, which stood as a bastion of stability and defiance against the elements, the witch had met the hunters. Now she had only to use them wisely.
Morrigan did not need to study them one by one to grasp them all at once.
The men carried themselves sternly, working their wooden shovels with indifferent efficiency. In their eyes, she caught glimmers of pride and satisfaction. The witch saw the thoughts behind them... People from close-knit communities rarely became self-sufficient loners. Raised by the village, surrounded from childhood by the same faces. Each one part of a whole. In a place shaped by harsh religious upbringing, this was multiplied many times over. Service gave these taciturn men the sense of camaraderie they craved. Morrigan's restrained approval, as she stepped into the center of their shared concerns, stoked their pride and satisfaction in a job well done.
One of the highlanders, the younger one, kept glancing at Bethany. He thought it went unnoticed. Surprisingly, the witch's apprentice seemed blind to it, preoccupied with something else entirely. Though her task required far more concentration. Having arrived with the men, Bethany had immediately received an assignment from her mentor—one difficult enough to make even a seasoned Circle mage grind his teeth in frustration. The girl needed to assemble her favorite spell in her mind, taking into account a dozen spoken critiques.
With Leliana, it was simpler. And more difficult. The red-haired woman did not take her eyes off Morrigan for a moment, watching as the witch watched everyone else. Morrigan gave no sign and almost savored the fact that the bard understood perfectly. But the witch also knew that, despite every warning, her confidante kept trying to delve deeper into her.
And Marjolaine... Frowning, watching Leliana. As if feeling over the edges of a disassembled puzzle in the dark with her fingertips, Morrigan saw that the woman judged what was happening differently. In the larger picture, the witch was a mysterious source of strength and power, while her former student had been blinded and bewitched by it, just as she had once been by Marjolaine. The elder bard understood that black envy had poisoned her mind and was taking root. She resisted it—and lost...
Deciding to end her calm contemplation, Morrigan pushed herself off the log wall and announced:
— Time to warm up.
A soft smile bloomed on the witch's face, but her gaze—like a blade hidden in a silken sheath—said otherwise. And it was fixed squarely on those green eyes. Sighing with feigned weariness, Leliana gently pushed herself away from the crooked apple tree. Her posture, her face, everything signaled a concession for her friend's sake. But beneath that mask, Morrigan caught curiosity, wariness, and... surprise. Surprise at how ordinary these silent exchanges, full of subtext that only the two of them understood, had become.
The silky voice of the red-haired woman answered the unspoken challenge:
— I'm not fond of—
Cut off mid-sentence without a moment's hesitation, Marjolaine interjected:
— What will proving your superiority in hand-to-hand combat... out here in the cold... gain you?
There was not a trace of a real question in it. Leliana's mentor, by intonation alone, managed to point everyone toward the answer she implied. Clicking her tongue, the witch countered:
— A rematch? Get in line.
Shooting a sharp look at Marjolaine, Leliana asked again:
— Rematch?
The woman found no quick reply, so one of the highlanders spoke up. The younger one:
— What's this about?
Genuine confusion prompted an exchange of glances among the men, surprised that their comrade could be so dense. But Bethany answered:
— Morrigan wants to spar with Leliana... I presume. Isn't that right? Or...
The young hunter's eyebrows shot up. But before he could open his mouth, the witch cut him off with a sharp clap of her hands and snapped at her apprentice:
— Bethany! You should take part.
The chestnut-haired woman opened her mouth to object, but, feeling Leliana's hand on her shoulder, silently returned her focus to the task she had been given. The broad-shouldered highlander, however, missed the hints from the other men, whose stern expressions urged him to shut up.
— It's not proper—
— You're next.
The two young women stood facing one another. No more than two steps apart. Mittens tossed into the snow. The warm hood thrown back from hair tightly gathered into a bun. Leliana, almost imperceptibly, set her right foot back, turned her torso slightly, and tensed. Morrigan, by contrast, seemed relaxed, rocking on her heels.
Without warning, the bard lunged forward—at once sending a straight right toward the torso. Only an experienced eye might have noticed that it was a provocation. The punch would have fallen just short of the witch. But Morrigan dropped her feigned lightness at once. No games. Snow creaked under her boots, and a sharp kick landed on Leliana's shin.
Without losing the advantage, Morrigan caught hold of her partner's clothes. The bard tried to break both rhythm and intention with an elbow to the shoulder, but a rapid series of short, sharp drives into her exposed side threatened to finish the exchange. Forced to exhale through clenched teeth after the first blow, Leliana escaped the rest only by gaining distance. She shoved Morrigan hard in the torso with her palm and sprang aside. Grimacing in pain, Leliana won the precious couple of steps she needed.
Giving her no respite, the witch dipped low and swept at the bard's supporting leg. Slipping awkwardly on the snow with her heels, Leliana was forced down onto one knee, only grazing the witch's shoulder with a shove. Springing up again, the bard snapped her hand upward, aiming a knife-edge strike at the chest or throat left momentarily open. Morrigan dodged deftly, seized Leliana by the collar again, and dragged her down into the snow.
Unfazed even in the spray of it, the bard turned the fall into a roll and, using the full momentum of the movement, hooked Morrigan behind the knee with her leg. Now both were in the snow—but Leliana was on top. Pinning the witch's torso with one knee and trapping her other leg between her own, the bard seemed at last to have gained the control she needed. Two flushed faces opposite one another. Catching her opponent's wrist and arching her back, Morrigan twisted sharply over the pinned side and abruptly reversed their positions. Driving her forearm down across Leliana's chest and arm while keeping her knee on the bard's thighs, the witch took control. In the same instant, Morrigan gave the girl a distinct headbutt to the collarbone, making it clear where the fight might have gone next. Breathing heavily, Leliana slapped the snow, signaling defeat.
As the girls got to their feet and brushed themselves off, the contrast between them only sharpened. Morrigan's breathing was steady, Leliana's ragged; the witch's posture was relaxed, the bard still tense. Even so, both their gazes remained clear and open. Without preamble, Morrigan let drop:
— You liked that.
— You want an opinion?
— No. I didn't ask.
Leliana shook her head, adjusting the escaped red strands and pulling her hood back on, yet a slight smile slid across her face. Meanwhile, Morrigan turned to the aforementioned man, making it perfectly clear with her whole manner that she had not forgotten him. Beckoning with her palm, the witch offered him the very position Leliana had occupied a few minutes earlier. From the highlanders' looks, it was clear: refusal was impossible.
The man stepped onto the snow—already trampled by the first bout—with obvious reluctance. Larger and heavier than Morrigan, he did not look as if he were taking any of this seriously. Legs set wide apart, a slight forward lean. Doubt on his face. The witch, for her part, seemed equally unconcerned, arching her back a little and throwing a sly glance at Bethany.
It was at that moment that the man lunged, trying to seize the witch by the shoulder. As if dodging by accident, she let his hand slide along her body. Scraping away a thin layer of snow down to the frozen earth, but checking himself in time, the young Warden of the Sanctum tried to shove her off her feet. Diving beneath his arms again, the witch pulled him along with his own momentum. Then, seeing the futility of it, Morrigan drove her knee into the hunter's thigh. With a low grunt, the man locked his arms around her slender waist.
With a short laugh, Morrigan tucked up her legs, braced against his belt, and straightened, vaulting over him. Under his astonished gaze, and falling into the snow with no grace at all, the witch rolled up onto one knee and stilled two steps away. And the theatrically elaborate pose she struck was deliberately conspicuous. Pressing his lips together, the highlander charged headlong.
A whirlwind of white spray, arms flung wide, impact. But Morrigan was no longer there to be caught. Adding her own force to the hunter's momentum, the witch finally made him stumble and fall. The result was much the same as with Leliana—only this time the opponent was face-down in the snow. The man jerked, and before his superior strength could let him break free, the witch sprang up herself, brushing herself off with a flourish.
Winking at Bethany, Morrigan became the very picture of innocence. And then she put the man back into the snow, taking advantage of his guileless readiness to accept her help. A predatory grin flashed. Paying her opponent no further attention, Morrigan stepped back, her gaze fixed intently on her astonished apprentice alone. The witch's heaving chest and the steam from her mouth showed that this bout had cost her real effort. But her eyes were smiling again. Slapping Bethany on the shoulder, Morrigan said:
— Big, strong—but not invincible. Not so frightening, is he? Go. Test it. You need this.
Showing no sign of enthusiasm, Bethany nonetheless took her place across from the men, removed her gloves, and, following the others' example, gathered her hair into a tight tail. The young highlander's gaze darted between Morrigan and the brunette, but in the end he decided to do exactly what was expected of him.
Bethany tried to project readiness for battle: torso tilted slightly forward, hands raised in front of her chest. The Warden of the Sanctum froze in a similar pose, except that his hands hung lower. This time he radiated seriousness and focus. It was the Warden who took the first short step forward—cautious, half-crouched. The girl mirrored him, stepping back and beginning to shift left, trying to move out of the direct line of attack.
Without waiting any longer, the young highlander lunged after her, trying to catch Bethany by the forearm. Bethany sharply knocked his hand down and took another wide step to the side. But the man was on her in an instant, this time reaching for her waist or hips. Bethany had time only to turn sideways, brace her forearm against his chest, and kick him in the shin. Grimacing, the man quickly reset his footing and yanked the girl sideways, forcing her down onto one knee. Without releasing his disoriented opponent, the Warden of the Sanctum pulled her back again and at last slammed her onto her back.
A moment later, the man was on top and Bethany was signaling defeat. The highlander exhaled audibly and, remarkably gently, without any abrupt movements, released the girl from his hold, helped her to her feet, and brushed her off. Most striking of all was the look the flushed Bethany threw at Morrigan: determination. Nodding back, her mentor said with approval:
— It is important to face fear again and again. And to know clearly your own weaknesses and strengths. And you, without a doubt, did well. The spell?
Bethany exhaled slowly, clearly trying to calm her nerves and steady her heartbeat, then aimed her open palm at a snowdrift. From the outside, it looked like posturing, a plainly misplaced gesture. Especially since nothing obvious seemed to be happening. But within a minute, the snowdrift began to melt, as though held in the hot embrace of a blazing midday sun in the heart of spring. Yet long before the result became significant, at the sound of snow creaking somewhere behind her, Bethany hissed out a breath, swayed, and let her hand fall limply:
— That's it... My limit.
New guests entered the yard from around the corner of the house. Turning, Bethany met the gaze of Naire, flushed from the cold, grinning from ear to ear, and clapping her mittened hands. Then she found herself face to face with grim Alim at the elf's side, his stare already boring into Morrigan. And the elf, of course, asked his question first:
— Is it done?
— Oh-ho-ho... Your thoughts are a mystery. But your paranoia serves you well. The segment of the formula you shared with me on the ship has been reworked. Then Bethany passed it on, with explanations. And behold—success. Of course, the result is... costly. A new puzzle for me.
Morrigan returned her gaze to Bethany and added, clearly for her alone:
— We'll think of a solution. It needs time.
Bethany nodded, already looking around for somewhere to sit. In response, Alim let out a weary sigh, one that left no room for irritation. The man shook his head uncertainly, whether unwilling to believe or lamenting the way another's insight devalued his own achievements. And Naire burst out:
— I was ready to leave him behind when I heard from the Templar that several men were coming here to help with the snow. He's all gloom and prejudice, isn't he?..
And with that, hastily finishing her excuse for their arrival, the girl hurried over to the brunette, who was pulling on her gloves with the look of someone bracing for a flood of questions. Into this unsteady moment, Marjolaine interjected, addressing the witch:
— Despite the Antivan trickery, the performance as a whole is... pointless. Yes... Everyone amuses themselves according to their own depravity. It would be interesting to know how such things are explained in your story. At least by the part of it you tell others.
Shaking her head as if in bemusement, the witch replied:
— You're right.
Marjolaine laughed softly, noting:
— Oh, you're good. That partly—
Glancing attentively at Leliana, the woman continued:
— —partly explains something.
The red-haired bard merely twisted her lips in response. Alim, watching the exchange intently, did not miss it, shifting his attention to Morrigan with a new shade of suspicion. Only Naire, Bethany, and the highlanders seemed excluded from this scene. Wearing a pensive smile, Marjolaine went on:
— Every gesture of yours means something—and here is the question. Your recent burst of political activity, and then suddenly seclusion.
A statement, not a question. Then a pause. The bard seemed to step back, as though veiling a blow:
— Of course, the weather is a convenient excuse. But that only makes a new burst of action more expected. And we can all see that, before anything else, this is what occupies you.
Leliana, who had been silent until now, parried the jab with restraint:
— Get to the point. Stop explaining to everyone listening how they ought to think.
Then Alim could not hold back:
— What are you talking about?
Turning her attention to the elf, Marjolaine observed:
— 'Innocent' interest. You did not come all the way from the fortress for nothing...
The bard's glance flicked toward the elf girl:
— ...after her. I can see another obvious reason, but it was not enough to move you.
Leliana shot a brief look at the elf, tracking the mixed emotions the man could not hide beneath his indifferent mask. Naire seemed not to notice the exchange, but in Bethany's gaze—as she kindly answered the elf girl's stream of questions—curiosity had begun to show through. Marjolaine, meanwhile, continued her attack on the mage:
— In truth... You are simply trying to find your own place in this shifting puzzle of politics and personal interests. You need to know—and that brings us back to Morrigan's silence.
Massaging her temple, the witch snorted, blurting out in neither Fereldan nor Orlesian:
— Asi ke todo, todo kyeres saber?...
Leliana's three steps merged into one, and in a flash the bard was at the witch's side—the witch whose gaze, emotions, and posture had suddenly taken on a dangerous edge of challenge, sharpness, and arrogance.
— Don't.
A hand gripping her shoulder, and two short words in which it was hard to tell what prevailed: concern, command, or plea. The touch, like a spell, relaxed the witch at once. Whatever had seized her let go. Turning a surprised look toward Leliana, Morrigan nodded, asking soundlessly with her lips alone:
— Antivan?...
The bard nodded, and the scarlet pupils swept once around the yard, measuring the force of the effect on everyone present. Marjolaine... The woman looked tense. Having thrown her cards down at random, she had not expected such an answer at all. It was as though the pieces of a mosaic were changing shape before her eyes, calling into question the very possibility of solving it. In Alim's eyes there reigned an expectation of grim resolution. The mage had clearly already made up his mind about everything; it was only unclear what that meant for the witch and the others. The highlanders... Remarkable people. Understanding little, they had swept it all into the common basket of "the Chosen." Bethany was surprised, but watched Leliana more than anyone else, clearly expecting to learn the details later. But in Naire's sky-blue gaze, uncertainty was written plainly... That very emotion brought Morrigan back to solid ground, allowing her to gather her thoughts. Something in those blue eyes reminded the witch of Tristan. The Seeker was skilled at working on the witch's surroundings. On everyone he could reach with words.
At that moment, the creak of approaching footsteps in the snow came from the street, and everyone's attention shifted to the newcomer. The new guest turned out to be a weary Schtille.
Glancing sideways at Leliana, who was still standing close, Morrigan said quietly, for her friend's ears alone:
— Everyone wants to come to the queen of crows' court.
Leliana raised an eyebrow ironically, merely saying:
— Ambitions?
And the witch at once turned to the highlander, clasped his forearm in genuine greeting, and asked:
— Well?
With something closer to a nod than a real answer, Schtille closed his eyes for a moment and said:
— We found it.
— Then... It's time to prepare a countermove for the Seeker.
* * *
Schtille moved across the snow on his snowshoes with the measured pace of a man crossing a summer meadow. He led the Chosen no farther than the old fence line that had once marked the settlement's boundary. Neither hollow duty nor pride nor empty principle clouded the keen mind of the leader of the Wardens of the Sanctum. The mage saw that clearly: the man knew exactly where his limits lay. After handing the Chosen over to a pair of less weary hunters, the highlander gave her a silent nod and trudged wearily downhill toward Redcliffe Fort.
Many had tried to follow the witch into the hills. Bethany among them. But Morrigan had insisted that the girl go somewhere warm and spend the time on her studies. Even after offering unexpected resistance, however, her apprentice agreed only to a compromise: she would stay until evening in the house shared by the two bards and their mentor. Leliana. There was nothing odd in that; it had seemed understood from the start that the red-haired girl would do what was necessary. Marjolaine made a show of insisting she was staying put, which drew genuine laughter from Morrigan—laughter that wounded the woman more deeply than any insult in her native tongue could have done. As a result, the elder of the two bards had to scramble to invent reasons why she ought to remain near her former apprentice. The mage dismissed the highlanders clearing the yard, including her two personal guards, back to the Fortress without a word. And then there were the elves. Naire burned with bright enthusiasm... which was only natural. Morrigan, by contrast, sank into a dull uncertainty. Only a fleeting desire to rub salt into Alim's wounds tipped the scales at the last moment. So brother and sister came along as well.
The path across the untouched snow to the ridge above the valley was far from easy, even in snowshoes. At the summit, beneath the ironic gazes of the highlanders, half the party demanded a pause to catch its breath. Morrigan, using the time as she pleased, looked around. At a glance, behind them lay a cozy, lived-in valley. Ahead stretched open space, with the Imperial Highway visible in the distance, and beyond it lay the next lowland. The sparse, bare trunks could hide little from a searching eye. In the unusually clear air, every detail stood out, and the witch's scarlet gaze followed the ancient stone road westward... to where Tristan, according to Leliana's calculations, expected the allied army to arrive by tomorrow. Though the peaceful winter landscape contained no hint of what was to come, Morrigan still studied its harsh contours, trying to see what lay hidden beneath them.
Behind her, snow creaked, and a familiar hand settled on her shoulder, accompanied by a quiet voice:
— The beauty of the calm before the storm.
Morrigan nodded. Leliana read her perfectly. A little farther back, another of Marjolaine's barbed remarks rang out:
— Pretty words. Their meaning: embrace and conquer. This is a potential battlefield... The luxury of peaceful contemplation is for the strong—and for fools.
From the same direction behind them came Naire's reply, still not fully recovered:
— So... only strong fools... can fully enjoy... this?
Marjolaine—whether in annoyance or because she had taken the provocation hidden in the words—snorted. Morrigan, after a moment's thought, said coldly, from a distance, neither arguing with anyone nor echoing anyone:
— Nature is eternal, indifferent, majestic. It shapes. Only rarely is it the other way around.
One of the hunters, waiting patiently a little ahead, added, as though continuing the Chosen's thought in his own way:
— The Maker's creation...
Drawing a deep breath of the frigid air, the mage concluded the exchange:
— Marjolaine is right. Unfortunately, there are only so many hours of daylight.
With a gesture, she sent the Wardens of the Sanctum on ahead. Morrigan followed without lagging, drawing the others after her by some unseen force.
This stretch of the Imperial Highway was lined with numerous arches, perhaps because of the winds off the lake, or perhaps for some other reason. But convenient stairs up to the road surface were almost nonexistent. In fact, there were two: the eastern one, which the group of elves and Wynne had used earlier to move deeper into the region, and the western one. As it happened, the ancient architects' decision now worked in their favor—they left the Highway behind without losing a single minute.
Then down again. Descending in snowshoes required patience and attention. Both proved to be in short supply: Leliana and Alim fell. Whatever the reason... each slipped and reached the bottom far faster than intended. Morrigan, as always attentive to herself and those around her, tried to extract something even from this mundane incident. Naire's reaction, for instance, was both curious and instructive: she met the beginning of her brother's "descent" with laughter, but its end with genuine alarm. The mage also noticed a similar concern for Leliana's well-being. None of this was exactly new, but the cause—which the girl either could not or did not want to pin down—sent her thoughts on a detour. Fortunately, everyone's neck, arms, and legs remained intact. Still, as she brushed the snow off her friend's back, the witch could not resist:
— Falling isn't going to become a habit, is it? Or... could this be... old age?
After a short pause, just long enough to fix her hair and hood, Leliana raised a hand in an obscene gesture and concentrated on the difficult going.
Morrigan didn't ask the men how long the road would take or where it led. With a faint smirk, she told herself she was picking up the taciturn highlanders' habits. But the truth was also that the witch did not want to share with those who had "tagged along" what this "walk" was for. In part, the longer it lasted, the better. This sudden dash into the unknown, without supplies, without clarity, was meant to reveal the sharpest edges of those following behind. Or, conversely, through patient silence, to reveal something else...
An hour later, during the exhausting climb up yet another slope—a hundred steps at an angle that drained the strength from the legs—Leliana, who had turned to look back, gasped out:
— How... much longer...?
Morrigan frowned and turned as well. Marjolaine held steady, radiating open hostility, boring holes through both of them with her stare. Ten paces behind, Alim, breathing heavily, was trying to help his sister. But the elf girl, flushed red, hissed something sharp and kept walking stubbornly on her own. It was easy to guess: she would not have the strength for the way back. A sudden quiet answer from the "talkative" highlander, who had stopped higher up the slope, interrupted the mage's grim train of thought:
— Beyond this hill. Almost there.
The strip of sparse firs, soft with white along their boughs, and the bare deciduous trunks along the hill's crest turned out to be the edge of a forest that blanketed the entire next lowland—hardly worthy of the name valley. One of the hunters leading the group made a broad gesture toward somewhere among the trees. Even for Morrigan's sharp eyes, it was little more than a gap between trunks. Leliana, beside her and bent over with her hands on her knees, said:
— A large... clearing. That's where we're going, yes?
The mage nodded thoughtfully, then lifted her chin in surprise. She would have bet anything there was nothing there but snow and, perhaps, a few fallen trunks dusted with it. Somewhere in the distance, an animal cry rang out. Nothing familiar to local ears, but the witch understood at once what creature had made it. The others, except for the Wardens of the Sanctum, predictably tensed up but stayed silent.
Another quarter of an hour later, crunching through the snow in the light woodland and breathing out clouds of steam, the party drew close to that very clearing. From here, the place was already beginning to show itself in full, though several large trunks still offered an illusion of safety. Morrigan's gaze could already make out the shapes of what she sought, hidden beneath the snow, but her reason told her that without the right skills and a practiced eye, one could walk right past and understand nothing. Raising her hand to signal everyone to wait, the witch moved forward alone. A difficult conversation lay ahead…
* * *
When, in answer to Morrigan's approach, the unremarkable mass of snow began to rise—higher and higher... behind her, a scatter of sounds broke out. Mostly exclamations of surprise and fear. But when the snow began to spread, splitting into shapeless chunks that cascaded downward like a waterfall, revealing the snout, neck, and part of a dragon's torso, the uproar rose to a new pitch.
A woman's cry—cut off so abruptly it was as if its owner had clapped both hands over her own mouth. Naire?..
Several colorful and unflattering expressions in Orlesian. Definitely Marjolaine.
An anxious call, cut off mid-word, as if its owner feared doing more harm than good. Yes... Leliana.
A loud, convulsive intake of air... By elimination... certainly not the highlanders, which meant the elf.
But all of this was no more than background. Taking one last deliberate step, Morrigan pressed her forehead to the skin of the immense creature—cold as the stones of the valley—and, ordering her thoughts with care, spoke:
— I am glad to see you again... distant kin.
A powerful yet delicate vibration pierced the girl's entire body. Her mind offered the image of the dragon drawing a deep, long breath, though that seemed unlikely... And then, directly into her mind, came his unusually deep voice, resonating in the bones of her face and at the back of her skull:
— And I you, child. We are here, as agreed. Why have you come to our refuge?
— Naturally, to ask for more. Bargaining does not come naturally to me, yet it is in my blood. First you, then the whole breed of two-legs that served you—soon all will gather here. But only the one who stands above all others, the strongest, most dangerous, and most cunning predator in the entire pack, can guarantee safety. Soon, among these wingless ones—insignificant though they are, and dangerous all the same—it will be decided... whose claws close on another's throat, whose fangs prove longer.
A pause followed. Red eyes facing molten amber, as if the immense difference in size did not exist at all. Then, after a barely perceptible rumble, the answer came:
— Where are you leading this conversation, child?
— Tomorrow, in that direction... — Morrigan pointed sharply toward the hill, behind whose ridge the ribbon of the Imperial Highway lay hidden; by Leliana's reckoning, an army under the banners of the Chantry and the Templar Order, speaking entirely in the tongue of Orlais, would march into the valley of Redcliffe Fort by then. — ...a horde of wingless ones will appear, with strips of cloth raised on long poles. We will meet them. Man and dragon. The first step toward your freedom. Toward my glory and power. Or toward our destruction.
— You speak plainly—not as Mital did. But the meaning is the same.
— I am much younger. There is still much I could learn. Or... perhaps the present game is not worth any detour from the straight path. Leave a pair here, in safety. The young need a mother, and a teacher, and watchful care.
The immense predator stared at the small woman with extraordinary intensity, as if trying to separate flesh from whatever lay within it, and the meanings hidden there.
— And what do we get in return?
Smiling softly, while hiding thoughts as sharp as knives within, the witch began to enumerate:
— Let us begin with this: you are unique. The Mother, I think, meant to achieve much. From flesh, blood, knowledge, and illusions, the deceiver forged... leaders, tribes... nations. But you... you are her masterpiece. And the beauty of that achievement lies not in your power, nor in the magnitude of the changes you bring. By placing you at the edge, she forced you to master the tongue of the wingless ones. Such a small thing, yet it changes everything, forever. A word is beyond price. It will help you understand these fleeting humans. What frightens them in you. What restrains them. What they need. And that will allow you to coexist. But everything needs a... beginning.
A brief vibration followed, like a chuckle, only deeper and rougher, and then words in her mind:
— Now I hear her echo. The elusive presence of the familiar in a new body. So then, if your hunt succeeds and I take part on your terms, you will return to me and my offspring the sky and the free wind beneath our wings? Without ending, inevitably, on the steel fang of some two-leg who has fortune by the tail?
Morrigan laughed softly and shook her head:
— What promises can be made in the midst of a hunt? My certainty. Yours. A chance is all we have. Choice and consequence, as always, from birth until the worms take our bones.
— Life by your mother's rules has allowed us to survive.
— Of course... But you felt how near the abyss was. Your offspring are your responsibility, your choice. They are growing. And soon...
Morrigan did not need to continue. The silence between those unlike beings held every answer that mattered. And time dragged on, testing the witch's far-from-infinite patience. At last, the immense lizard gave its reply:
— How do you see this unfolding?..
* * *
As Morrigan's instincts had warned her, the return proved difficult, both physically and in the atmosphere within the small band of «volunteers.» In the common view of such creatures, the appearance of a dragon meant only death: by claw, fang, or flame. More rarely, by less familiar means. They were a force of nature, bearing nothing but destruction and grief. To see such a predator from twenty or thirty paces away was a severe shock. But as if that were not enough, the witch had also spoken with it plainly enough... A second blow, and for some, harsher than the first.
This time, the mage's thoughts began working back through the group from the rear. Alim had walked the entire way in profound rumination, dragging an unseeing gaze along the horizon as if the landscape fascinated him beyond measure. Morrigan suspected that the beauty of nature lay in the eye of the beholder; what was dreary and monotonous to one breathed with meaning and freedom for another. His thoughts weighed on him so heavily that the mage barely reacted to his sister's fatigue. Yet the witch also saw here the faint trace of a hurt that had been building over the past few days... A slight gesture from the «Chosen One,» and one of the highlanders readily hoisted the small young mage by the waist. A brief burst of exclamations drowned in embarrassment, and there she was on the man's back, scarcely adding any weight, flushed from the tips of her ears to her neck, yet soberly accepting her limits. If the older brother was an open book to the witch, weighing pros and cons, the elf girl's thoughts had drifted into an uncertain distance. Marjolaine, too, had become a shadow of her former self: silent, sullen. Everything in her «world» had been shaken and yet, at the same time, had acquired the meaning she had been seeking. Only the «rules of the game» had proved unfamiliar. However she approached it, it was simply impossible for her to insert herself between the mage and the dragon. Leliana... the only one who, having weathered the first shock, had paid the matter little further attention and, walking abreast of Morrigan, cast thoughtful, troubled glances at her friend's profile rather than into the distance.
Touching the red-haired bard's shoulder, Morrigan nodded reassuringly. A calculated gesture, but Leliana accepted it without question, the tension visibly easing from her gaze, her shoulders, her back.
The band dispersed at the house where it had all begun. The elves, accompanied by the highlanders, set off silently toward the Fortress. Of the pair, only Naire gave the witch a timid smile at the last moment and lowered her gaze, as if unable to overcome her confusion or embarrassment in the witch's presence—though Morrigan suspected that the true causes were inner turmoil and a lack of fitting words. Marjolaine nodded to Leliana and immediately disappeared into the relative warmth of the unheated house. At last, the remaining pair lingered a little longer.
— So. All of this is serious? — The bard's voice was dry, steeped in caution.
The witch's cheekbone twitched; her eyelids lowered for a moment. A nervous tic? Fatigue? No—more like suppressed irritation.
— Was that not clear from what I said earlier? Do you think I am merely... 'playing'?..
Leliana slowly, as if not entirely certain of herself, shook her head.
— Rather, I underestimated the scale of your ambitions. Mistook the great for the small. A dragon... That is no longer a maneuver, a bargain, a mere intrigue. Setting aside the details, if there is any rationality at all in your relationship, this is a gesture of enormous magnitude. A serious design. News of such things is carried by birds, not by rumor or petty barter.
— I know. I appreciate your trust.
Leliana openly showed surprise and narrowed her eyes, searching her friend's words for a hidden trap.
— Trust?.. What are you...
The witch interrupted her.
— You never doubted for a single moment — in the brief pause, the mage's lips curved into a smile — my ability to survive an encounter with a dragon.
— Oh-oh-oh...
— Do not trouble yourself over it. As for your 'hints.' Elegant, I must say. Yes, I understand. People like you are hired precisely to kill people like me, before they can raise their heads... Or to compromise them, if all that is needed for a fall is to bleed their reputation dry. That is why there are two of you here. Bards. You watch my back. And Marjolaine, involuntarily, watches yours.
Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, clearly not ready to agree with everything that had just been said, Leliana said:
— And yet... these ambitions. This is something... foreign. There was never anything in you that needed to so...
— What? Spread my influence? Touché.
— Sorry, I didn't...
Leliana cut herself off mid-sentence. They both understood each other perfectly well without words. The bard realized how pointless it was, in this conversation, to hide intention behind phrasing. And the mage appreciated how difficult it could sometimes be for her friend to find a new approach to her, when whatever could be understood was only a thin layer on the surface, while the depth beneath was dark, unknown, and alien.
The green-eyed girl exhaled into her hands.
— The main thing is not to drown in your need for control and renown. When all of this comes too quickly, people are often unprepared, and they can drown in sheer excess just as surely as a novice in white water. Let us go inside. Bethany is surely wondering what nonsense we are discussing out here...
* * *
Morning, after a troubled night—cold as a dead man's embrace, and dirty grey as a fresh winter grave. Perhaps the low clouds and pale light were to blame. Perhaps...
Morrigan stood on the Imperial Highway, at the western end of the Redcliffe Fort valley, gazing toward the Frostback Mountains. Beside her, wrapped from head to toe in warm clothes and clutching a bundle with a spare fur coat, Leliana shivered. The witch's attentive gaze slid along the empty horizon, catching only on the bustle at the fortress gates and on two dark figures slowly climbing toward her by a narrow, barely trodden path that zigzagged up the steep slope. Below, at the stone foot of the old Imperial road, several of the local hard men had taken shelter from the cruel gusts of wind—men whom ill fortune had driven up here out of the grey multitude of survivors. Nearby, shivering without a fire, a handful of guards rubbed their hands and danced in place. They were among those fortunate enough to have survived the darkest hours without serious harm, overtaken by the lethargic sleep the demon had inflicted. And, of course, there were the Chosen One's perennial companions, the highlanders. And Riordan, detached from all worldly concerns, in proud solitude. The man had seen no need to drag anyone else from his band up here, leaving them below in the warmth. It was hard to imagine a more impressive gathering of those awaiting the foreign army.
Movement flickered on the horizon, then another. A dozen riders, wrapped up to the eyes, were advancing at a fast pace. Morrigan did not bother warning the men below, merely exhaling softly near Leliana's ear:
— Scouts ahead of the column...
The girl nodded, not pursuing the matter.
The minutes dragged far too long, but soon the riders were upon them, stirring at least some life in the dead stillness around them. None of them knew the locals. Curt nods—and three at once turned back, while the others dismounted and pressed themselves against the stone foundation, sheltering from the wind. The first pennants and flags were already rising above the horizon.
Exhaling warmth as if shedding a burden, Morrigan said:
— There they are. Who do you suppose the Empress has set at the head of this spectacle?
Shrugging, Leliana began to reason in her accustomed manner:
— Ze enterprise is grand. The candidates for such a thing are not so many. And it is not about ze Throne's desires—it is about the limits of power. If I were a betting woman, I would stake all my savings on one candidate: Gaspar de Chalons, Grand Duke, chevalier, hero.
Morrigan drew out the name in a way unfamiliar to her companion's ear:
— Gaspar...
As though that name held more than the facts Leliana had just voiced. A history. And the bard tensed, darting a suspicious look at her friend. But the witch only shook her head and continued:
— An excellent choice. Is he alone?
— No... Of course not.
Shrugging again, and glancing to confirm that the two ascending figures would soon reach them, Leliana went on:
— As I understood from Tristan's words, all of zis has been dressed up as a Crusade. According to the Chantry's statutes, they cannot be turned to immediate political ends. That would be heresy. So zey come to 'liberate,' to 'save'—in a word, to fight ze Blight. Which means cooperation with the Chantry. A duke is a strong presence. Opposite the duke will stand someone no lower than the Knight-Commander of ze White Spire—Eron. And a papal legate. Of all possible choices... most likely Marcellina de Gislen. I would be surprised if I missed two out of three.
— A triumvirate.
— Not quite. More complicated.
— The duke on top?
— Not so plainly. The duke is for war and order, she handles ze treasury, logistics, and persuasion. And Eron breathes down zheir necks...
— Eron?
— Ser Eron... A fanatic. He rose by hunting the likes of you. No one will give him free rein where battles for hearts and minds must be won. But he stands immediately behind both of their shoulders.
— You are well informed.
— Zese are major figures. Nearly at the level of queens.
— I see...
— Not entirely.
Morrigan arched an eyebrow, inviting explanation. And the bard, grimacing, continued:
— Seekers. Several. Zey do not command, but they watch. And all three will feel their gaze from beginning to end. And know that, here, far from Orlais, ze Seekers have full power to rid zhemselves of anyone who strays too far from the set course.
— Oh-oh-oh... That is even better.
— Really?
Leliana's surprise was not feigned. But only silence answered her.
The undulating mass on the horizon could now be clearly divided into a slow-moving formation and a group of three or four dozen people breaking away from it and advancing sedately ahead. In both, the formation was clear: four abreast, so that the Highway would not be overcrowded and no one would have to march at the edge. Among the vanguard were common soldiers, bent under heavy loads; clerics escorted by richly dressed chevaliers; a standard-bearer with a high-born officer beside him, straight as a rod; two templars, one rigid as if on parade; and... three very unremarkable people, without burdens, glitter, or pomp, as though they had no business being there at all. Until one noticed the eye-shaped patches...
At last, the pair of guests climbed up to the wall. Eamon and Isolde. He—breathing heavily, wrapped in a heavy fur coat, a shadow of a man rather than a leader. She—with minimal glitter, yet stern, upright, filled to the brim with care for her husband, while fear and resolve lay hidden deep from the world. Morrigan could not help a stab of regret and sadness as she realized what millstone the elder Guerrin had around his neck. In his condition, he could scarcely represent Ferelden, his Arling, and his people with dignity here; and yet to remain in the Fortress today would have been worse still. Tristan, however, had stayed behind.
The Arl's wife met the witch's eyes and, to Morrigan's surprise, nodded silently. As an equal. After the slightest delay, Morrigan inclined her head in return, and her own inclination was the deeper of the two. A dry female voice broke the silence:
— Will it be much longer?
Leliana snorted and said:
— Oh, yes. The time of endless talk will soon be upon us.
Turning to her, the witch put on a look of eloquent astonishment:
— Talk? You truly think so?... Well, well.
Letting the pause lengthen, drawing a deep breath of frosty air, and bracing herself against the stone parapet at the edge of the Imperial Highway, Morrigan gave voice to her thoughts:
— One story comes to mind. Out of place, perhaps. You, Leliana, mentioned the Order of the Flame Oath. Forged in the crucible of Andrastian cults—but only after the 'true' Chantry had blossomed, and the Seekers as part of the whole. Demons devour us, spirits aid us. Truth? Elves see all this differently. One spirit decided that too many cults diluted the faith. Unity was needed. And for unity—a tool. Resilient. And so, as a solution, there came a puzzle of unprecedented complexity: the foundation of the Seekers' power. And there was another... To him, everything was stale, everything cyclical, again and again...
All this while Morrigan's gaze had wandered the sky, her thoughts ranging far afield. But now her eyes snapped to Leliana, two pupils burning scarlet:
— He solved the puzzle. And the Flame Oath arose. Then again... Time after time, it penetrated to the very core of the Seekers. And died there. Like a curse. Irrelevant rambling... But no. Seekers only a rank or two above Tristan will soon remember the Flame Oath. And no talk, bard...
Leliana stared at Morrigan as at a stranger—frightened, confused, while realization, in all its possible meanings, spread unevenly across her face. The girl opened her mouth, but the mage's finger on her lips silenced every sound before it could escape:
— Watch.
The witch pointed her companion toward a rider galloping from the Fortress. Snow burst around him in dusty halos under the horse's hooves. Vaulting from the saddle, he led the animal up the steps onto the Highway itself. Tralin. Deigning neither nod nor word to those present, he sped onward like the wind. A hundred paces remained to the vanguard, then twenty... Bent low over his snorting, steam-shrouded horse, the templar delivered a letter to the trio itself. The seal was broken without the slightest hesitation, and no one objected to the cause of the delay.
— Tristan's move. A stiletto hidden beneath his clothes. Everything he knows, every suspicion... Everything.
— That's...
Leliana could not shape her emotions into words sharp enough to name the catastrophe unfolding before her eyes.
— No need for surprise. It is a logical step. Predictable. We will fix this.
— What?... How?
— By overwhelming force.
From somewhere behind them, from the sky, there came a strange sound: perhaps a sail flapping far off in the wind, or... When it came again, far closer than before, everyone stirred. Isolde furrowed her brow in confusion; Eamon did not take his eyes off Morrigan. Leliana, too, watched her, her pupils widening by degrees... Below, the highlanders slapped one another on the shoulders and grinned, their heads thrown back toward the sky. Seeing their behavior, Riordan too began peering into the low grey clouds. The others exchanged bewildered glances...
Granting her red-haired companion a modest smile, the mage turned and walked toward the vanguard. Leliana followed her friend's long, confident stride without taking her eyes off her, afraid even to blink, unable to tell which concern weighed more heavily. It seemed the black-haired witch's gait was changing as she moved, like water shifting over rapids. Now a confident, unbound stride; now a gliding walk; now a smooth sway through the hips; now a rigid posture and a straightened toe. The bard did not miss the dull gleam of metal in her friend's hand.
A wingbeat, now unmistakable, sounded almost directly overhead, freezing each person where he stood. Wherever one looked, only a single figure moved. Silence. The leaden belly of the clouds bulged for a moment... and burst, releasing into the world the enormous gliding bulk of a full-grown dragon. Wind snapped in its membranes. Contrary to its usual behavior, the winged predator was focused, purposeful. A whistle knifed through the air. An inhumanly deep inhalation. And then, as the final chord of the drama, a torrent of amber flame crashed down upon the vanguard. The roar of superheated air at once drowned the cacophony of pain-stricken, terror-stricken cries torn from men on their last breath. Ten meters... Twenty... Fifty! The fire poured like an endless river, nearing the front ranks of the infantry. One hundred!.. The jaws snapped shut with a distinct click. The swath of flame had taken only the head of the column—demonstrating power and crushing spirit, but not turning the road into a mass grave. With soul-rending smoothness, the bulk tilted, banking left. A talon at the tip of one wing grazed the cotton of the clouds. One mighty beat, then another—and the dragon vanished into the grey gloom as if it had never been. Among the chevaliers one thought spun wildly: the winged abomination's kind did not retreat...
Scarcely anyone noticed how a female figure stepped swiftly and boldly straight into the dying fire. No one at all could see how, behind a veil of heat-shimmered air, she opened the veins in her own flesh. Ruby droplets vanished at once, feeding the mighty spell—the one the mage had woven from carefully fitted pieces—as it spread and sought out every corpse or living creature within fifteen paces. And when, with the fire wholly gone and the haze fading, a figure appeared walking steadily forward, seared by the heat until dark blisters rose, clad in smoking garments, hairless, with eyes like two embers in the dark... no one in the front ranks of the infantry thought anything at all. They only felt.
Somewhere far behind, perhaps a kilometer away, farther down the line of men, a triumphant roar went up. The words were indistinguishable at such a distance, nor had anyone there tried to shout the same thing in unison, but the mood was unmistakable. Gritting her teeth against the pain throughout her body—driving through every barrier into her bones, then into her skull, into the back of her head, and along her temples to the very crown—Morrigan noted that, hidden back there behind rank upon rank, Kolgrim's highlanders were glad for her. Or at least made a show of being so... The spell, meanwhile, worked tirelessly, restoring everything as it had been: skin, eyes, nails, hair. The whole spectacle before common eyes. From monster to woman—and not without charm.
Exhaling heavily, her breath cracking, and grinning, the mage fixed in her memory the way the rear ranks wavered. The templars surging forward shoved the infantry aside without looking—whoever stood in their way: mercenary, peasant, sergeant. Like a pack that had scented blood, they tried to reach her as quickly as possible. Morrigan understood: the easy part was behind her. No one would hesitate now or rely on half-measures. And yet no one knew that the mage had barely enough mana left for two or three simple spells.
Without trumpet, shout, or drum, she calmly awaited the wave of clanging metal rushing toward her. A tingling began beneath her scalp; something passed through her, again and again. No mana remained. But that was no obstacle to the spell. The beauty of mastery... A wedge of runes, prepared in advance, drew power from whoever crossed the line—all she had had to do was awaken it with mana and blood, then remain on her feet. Like pushing a boulder down a hill. That was what kept Morrigan on the edge, while mana-exhaustion tried to pitch the girl face-first onto the stones.
The final chord of the performance was magnificent. Crescendo. One blade drove into her chest, another came straight through her back. No pity, no moral restraint—only fanaticism and hatred in grey, blue, steel-colored eyes. That was exactly what she was used to seeing through helmet visors from those who proudly bore the symbol of the sword into her forests. And of course, all for nothing. The witch smiled at them widely, so they could see her bloodied teeth, and softly, as the game required of her. No threat at all. A victim. Blades rose and broke her body, and the body rose again. Fereldans would long since have cut off her head and hands, but the Orlesian style drilled into them from youth kept them in check. Whether ahead or behind, it was impossible to tell, a cry rang out. Then another. The sound of a horn. Fighting. Emotions radiated outward in dense circles, and it seemed to Morrigan that somewhere within it all she heard the quiet chuckle of Zibenkek's many-voiced murmur, keeping its distance from the spectacle, yet watching it all through eyes.
Was it difficult, in the midst of all this, for a warrior to feel a touch gentler than a breeze? One, then another. The spell needed food to work. And Morrigan showed it the cracks in the gleaming, lightless defenses of the Maker's warriors, so that it might greedily slip inside. The clatter of a suit of armor falling onto the stones, and a helmet rolling toward the edge, became a funeral knell. Then another fell. A third. The remaining templars, their fervor spent, retreated, lowering their blades.
Gazing upon them with a benevolent, all-forgiving look, Morrigan took a step forward. Her whole body posed a question: may I? The grim hunters of maleficars and apostates did not know what to do with that. Flexibility of mind and wisdom were not among their gifts; more often, they only hindered. Someone higher up was meant to deal with this... And so, spattered with crimson blood, the ranks parted.
Ahead, much had changed. The army was in disarray. Everything seemed to remain in place, yet discipline—like glass stretched to its limit—had cracked straight through the middle. Someone on horseback was forcing his way through the disorderly, boiling ranks toward the front, angrily barking crisp orders to sergeants on either side. The stranger cut through chaos with short commands—and chaos retreated. The magic of a commander, his character and his authority, were restoring men to their places, turning a mob back into a weapon.
Halting two ranks of infantry short of the edge, the man fixed all his attention on the figure standing before him. She—in torn and charred clothing, partly exposed, yet stately, with a black sweep of tangled hair the wind tore toward her shoulder, showing no suffering from the cold, and stinging him with the gaze of two bright-red points. He—stocky, past fifty winters, poorly shaven, tired, straight and proud, in plain armor with a single gold star on the breastplate over his heart, and a gaze as steel-grey in substance as in hue. She broke the silence first, almost gently:
— Gaspar... When was it last?... We have matters to discuss. Things to remember. But do you wish to have this conversation here?..
A wide smile, that gaze, her hair, the tilt of her head. Gaspar blinked, unbelieving, yet a quiet curse still slipped from his tongue:
— Melsendre?..