Chapter 2 - "The stronghold and Ritual"

The rest of the night passed in motion and sombre silence. Morrigan's companions were beset by fatigue, fresh bruises, wounds and bad weather. Twice before dawn the group was overwhelmed by short, cold showers. The still-emotionless elf, who had become the prize of Jorie and Alistair's crossing, was an added burden. And then there was the nagging sense of danger, which even at first light was not entirely dispelled. There seemed to be one lurking behind every bush. Of course, the death of their companion, left without funeral or honour, also haunted the men. The sorceress accepted many things as faits accomplis, but rejected them as reasons to torment herself with gloomy thoughts.

And yet. The monotony of the path took over as the sun flickered between the clouds. The clarity of dark thoughts and intentions blurred. The guilt dulled. The warmth of the new day and the vibrant, colourful landscape helped him. Alim, who had come to himself just in time, added the lighter emotions. Having been given a brief summary of the events during a minute's rest, the mage picked up the tone of the prevailing atmosphere and followed him in silence, leaving questions and comments for later.

Two hours later, as they moved along the crest of another hill, they saw before them the slender form of the top of the fortress of Ostagar, a tower that commanded respect even after hundreds of years. The tower shot up into the sky like an arrow. So, beyond the last ridge, the travellers could find fire, warmth and food.

Crouching wearily on the nearest log, Alistair rested his forehead on his knees and motioned for the others to catch their breath. Jory felt painfully for his mouth and immediately lay down on the grass where he stood. After a moment's silence, the commander straightened and fixed his gaze on the girl's slender form. She was leaning casually on her staff, gazing thoughtfully at the horizon between the sparse pine trees. It was in the same direction that the mage had encountered the group. And no sign of fatigue. Deliberately adding irritation to his tone, the blond man dropped a question.

— How do you manage to look so fresh after such a transition?

Without changing her gaze, Morrigan grinned and answered.

— It's hard to decide. The travelling companion is so much better prepared for the journey. Or the men around her are so weak. I'll think about it.

Alistair frowned. The girl, seeing the reaction out of the corner of her eye, sighed and continued.

— There were times when I did not return to my home for days. Hunting. Looking around, studying the animals, the habits, searching for herbs. Just the forest and... a girl. Hardening body and mind, determining where the blurred line between self-confidence and true strength lies.

Sitting on the knotted roots of a towering pine in the distance, the elf asked cautiously.

— Alone? And no one cared for you? No one came looking for you, lost in the forest? No one called you home?

Closing her eyes, Morrigan shook her head.

— Tough questions. Slippery words. Loneliness, what is it? How do you describe fear? Our ways of looking at things can be fundamentally different, elf. You of all people, raised in the tower, should understand such subtleties. Especially when it comes to the world outside. No, the chains of control you experienced did not weigh on me. And what feelings were in my mind are not for the ears of outsiders.

Jory, rubbing his bandaged leg under his trousers, grinned and made a sarcastic comment.

— Fitch is Fitch. Like these lands — wild, dangerous, and deceptive. What is said of the mother is also said of the daughter.

The girl shrugged and threw herself back indifferently.

— A warrior. Like a sword behind her back — massive, blunt, clumsy. What is said of one is true of the others.

The swordsman jumped, but slowed under Alistair's sharp gaze. The man snorted angrily and leaned back into the grass, muttering under his breath.

— The sword is nicely sharpened. I offered before I left the camp.

Seeing that the conversation had fizzled out at the outset, the blond man clapped his knees and summed it up.

— Nice talking to you. Sweet. Let's get out of here. Three hours at the most and we'll be in camp.

Trying not to grunt in vain, the group stood up and began the penultimate descent. The terrain became rocky before their eyes. Here and there boulders and rocky ground were exposed. Then the descents and ascents became steeper. It was as if a titanic force had crushed the hills of Korkari, making the valleys naturally deeper. And the peaks steeper towards the sky. Such an impression was not unfounded, for even at Ostagar the cliffs had fallen sharply. The vegetation was also changing — spruce trees were giving way to pine trees. These, in turn, were occasionally interspersed with deciduous species, easily recognisable by their crowns, burning with autumnal fire and gold.

Climbing between the rocks and omnipresent roots to the final summit, Morrigan approached the exhausted, panting elf and casually asked.

— The magic that saved the party in the night. Amazing to see such skill in a native of the Circle. A wizard?

Alim inhaled twice, caught his breath, glanced behind the blond man and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Then he glanced at the face of the waiting sorceress and replied as he walked on.

— Strangely enough, that's what interested me. But... No, I'd never intended to join the martial cohort, the conscripted church and the king. Life there is, of course, thicker and simpler. But there's an unseen downside. Magic, however, was insistent from childhood and opened up many avenues. The Tower Guardian was the closest of the available options. The one who, along with the Templar, stands at the back of the passing torture, keeping order in the inner chambers and accompanying the Formari. The Protector... As you can see, the plans were so well thought out.

Morrigan squinted, her legs and arms working in unison. The first to reach the next ledge, she turned and held out her free hand, offering the elf help. The man gave the girl a puzzled look, as if conducting an internal monologue, and accepted the offer without hesitation.

Pulling Alim up, the girl spoke the thoughts on the tip of her prickly tongue.

— It sounds like you have something to defend in the tower. That's surprising. I don't deny that a southern witch's knowledge of the Circles, and of Kinloch Keep in particular, can hardly be considered exhaustive. But the prisoners didn't seem eager to defend an imposed way of life. Much less devote themselves to it.

Climbing up, the elf shook himself off and shook his head negatively.

— Another man's soul is in darkness.

The sorceress nodded slowly and waited.

— That's right.

* * *

After crossing the last ridge, the group entered a forest that was very different from the previous one. Even the scent had changed. Gone were the evergreen pines, which had given way to a lush variety of broad-leaved trees typical of the central regions of Ferelden. Repeating the rugged terrain, the trees ran in waves all the way up to the castle walls. Where the cliffs dropped precipitously. This time they had to descend the slippery stones, carefully avoiding the lake in the valley that was overflowing with rainwater.

Morrigan stopped for a moment. Finding herself on this path for the first time, the girl studied the open view carefully. The tiny crease in her forehead emphasised the care with which she absorbed every detail. She searched for every possible hiding place. Alim interpreted the enchantress' thoughts in his own way, sharing his personal view of the astonishing landscape.

— It's a bit discouraging, isn't it?

The girl raised an eyebrow and turned to the elf, waiting for him to continue. The mage was a little embarrassed, realising that he might have been wrong. But he immediately tried to explain the reason for the question.

— It is widely known that the fortress is a legacy of the Empire's heyday. But few people know that the forest around the fortress is different from the typical nature of Corcari for the same reason. It was once laid out by the Magisters. Perhaps the Tevinter magicians found this type of vegetation to satisfy their usual sense of aesthetics. Who knows? Or perhaps the original nature around the fortress was razed to the ground during construction. It is disturbing, in my opinion, how much work it took to do both at once. It was also a frontier outpost on the very edge of the country.

Alistair, who had already begun his descent, turned his head slightly to follow the elf's monologue.

— For me, both beauty and impassability to large units, cavalry or convoys are important. You can stare all you want, but from the fortress. Let's go.

The march led the group along a narrow path between man-sized boulders and the grove at the foot of the fortress walls, which soon became recognisable. The walls, shabby with traces of vegetation barely rooted in the joints of the blocks, still gave the impression of impregnability and indestructibility. A path snaking through the thick old trees led the four of them to a wide expanse of fallen stumps. And then to a trampled clearing in front of the gate. Hanging goats, shavings, piles of twigs and bark were all reminders of recent activity. The hastily made gates, smelling of fresh wood, reinforced the impression that hardly a day had passed since the fortress had been rebuilt.

Two soldiers with spears stood bored at the gate. They did not look as if they were expecting any dangerous surprises. The men, who had seen a dozen winters, watched the approaching figures without the slightest flicker of curiosity. So as not to add too much exciting novelty to the guards' routine, Morrigan nestled herself between the companions, leaving much more to the blond man's conscience. He waved a greeting and quickened his pace. Turning his attention back to himself, Alistair asked if he was in camp or in audience with the king. The men flattened their hands and apologised that they'd been manning the post for a couple of hours and hadn't spoken to anyone. So, at the cost of a few flat jokes, the squad found themselves with Morrigan on the other side of Ostagar's fortress wall.

The interior of the fortress, unlike the towers and walls, is much worse preserved. It is as if they were built at different times. In fact, not a single outbuilding or dwelling has survived the passage of time. Even the once majestic central building has been reduced to a skeleton of supporting structures and columns. The remains hint at the once spacious halls and Tevinter's love of communal spaces. Paradoxically, as the ages passed, the people of Ferelden preferred to shut themselves away in small private rooms with small windows. Inside, the military camp expanded. The vegetation slowly took over the ruins. The result was a mosaic of crowded tents and sprawling pavilions in dozens of faded hues with a variety of heraldic embroidery. The result was strangely in harmony with the autumnal colours and the surrounding architecture. Columns and surviving statues whose features had been irrevocably erased by wind and weather.

The gate was at the top of the fort. It was next to haystacks, a dozen hastily organised horse feeders and a newly built kennel at the side. It was the dogs that gave the newcomers their first unpleasant surprise. As soon as one of them raised its voice, they all did. The four reacted differently. Jory immediately stared at the sorceress. His split lips did not make him any less talkative, and the only accusation he made was a hard look. Outwardly, Morrigan looked surprised, but inwardly she braced herself. She had expected a trick from the blonde, and this moment suited her better than others. Besides, Mabari's reaction seemed strange to the sorceress as well. Alim showed no sign of emotion, keeping a wary eye on his companion's expression rather than the dogs. Alistair frowned, clenched his jaw and quickly shifted his attention from the barking dogs to his masters. Those following the animals were distracted to look up — what the commotion was about. The kennel master, leaning against the fence post, grinned fiercely at the blonde.

— Alistair. Who would have thought... No-one but the Grays could have stirred up the boys like that. Sometimes the beasts can't tell your brother from the spawn. You're stained with cursed blood, not only on the inside, but on the outside as well. Not the same colour as in the veins of a deer or a Hasinda.

Seriously, the man added.

— No luck meeting, or were you looking for a meeting?

With a sigh and the slightest bit of relaxation, judging by the line of his shoulders, the blond shook his head indefinitely.

— Bad luck, of course. You can see that. Deliberately seeking out a meeting with the spawn is... unwise.

The chief psalter cast a disapproving glance at the modest group. Glancing over the figures rather than concentrating on the details, the man chuckled and continued.

— Careful, Grey. The army is only here to meet you. You know very well whose idea this mess is. Some will find such remarks... too bold.

— It won't change my mind. Sorry, there's work to be done. At least to wash off the sweat and the damned blood.

— Of course... And, Alistair? Don't walk around. People get a bit nervous.

A dozen paces away, the Morrigan quietly questioned the blonde.

— Tracking?

After muttering something unintelligible, Alistair answered.

— Blood. Most had learnt during the trek that the blood of the spawn carried the disease. It's enough for one to get in. An open wound, for example. And that's one sentence. Most have gotten used to the idea, too — the same cursed blood that created the Grey Guardians. But the belief that our blood is harmless is... far-fetched. Hence the phrase. Let's just say they don't raise their hands to greet us.

— I wonder...

Judging by Alistair's intention to descend to the tents, this was the final destination of the journey. Walking down the half-erased steps, Morrigan was surprised to find the organisation of the camp disappointing. The idea of a centrally located command post with neat rows of soldiers' tents came easily to mind. And around the edges were the essentials for supplies. The rubbish pits in the distance. Instead, there was a group of tents in the centre, merging into one. The composition was fenced in by poles driven into the ground with ropes stretched across them. The way in was guarded by four conspicuous warriors. They wore armour with an engraving on it: a sword, either raised in a glowing light or surrounded by petals. It was an unmistakable sign that they belonged to the Order of the Templars, the militant wing of the omnipresent Church of the Creator. This was a clue to the true purpose of the tents. A hypostasis of the Circle, keeping magicians at bay, only in the miniature of military expediency. The soldiers' tents, on the other hand, seemed to be scattered across the open space, chaotically and in numbers that did not pretend to be an army. In the opposite corner of the courtyard, supply wagons were clustered around a spontaneously organised workshop. The sound of hammers, the hiss of metal, the buzz of a planer, blended harmoniously with the buzz of the camp. On the broad outer wall to the right, a hundred soldiers, divided into two groups, were simultaneously practising synchronised lance attacks and archery.

The leader moved swiftly, ignoring the soldiers who cast frowning glances at the four of them, and soon led his charges to a group of old pillars. A huge fire blazed between them, even in the daytime. Pleasant waves of heat wafted far away, instantly turning strained muscles to jelly. Nearby, a man sat on a piece of rubble that resembled the fallen head of a statue. The man's appearance was strikingly different from those around him. He was darker. His beard was streaked with silvery grey. He was stately, both in figure and in armour, reminiscent of Templar robes.

When he saw Alistair, the man stood up, put his hands behind his back and showed no emotion. But to the Morrigan, the little-noticed expression was a disturbingly open book. As stern as the stranger looked, the dark eyes smiled. And the reason for the lion's share of joy was the blond man. A moment later, however, a wary eye swept over the others — noting the blood on his armour, the broken face of Jory. But in the end, he stumbled over the sorceress...

Showing no reaction to what he saw, the man addressed the newcomers in a pleasant, low voice.

— Alistair, it seems... the short journey has gone against the plan that was recently voiced in such a confident tone. Ignoring the dangers of Corkari is paying off handsomely. Of course, something more valuable is gained in return — personal experience. I want to hear about what happened. The losses and the gains. No objections?

The blond man was embarrassed and bowed his head in agreement, as a student often does when he acknowledges the validity of his teacher's words. Jory watched the two warriors with bated breath. The elf, on the other hand, was indifferent, bored.

— Yes, Commander. You were right again.

With a sigh, the blond man pulled himself together and continued the story.

— On my way to the abandoned sentry post of the Order, I encountered no significant obstacles. As instructed, I continued to search for signs of the spawn's presence. Nothing that day. Only the weather... Suddenly, but briefly, rain was the order of the day. But as soon as you got away from Ostagar for a few hours, a storm gathered on the horizon out of a few clouds. Lightning, thunder. The only time I'd ever seen a storm like this was off the coast of the Sea of Undying Lightning. But never in the interior of the continent. Fortunately, the madness stayed close to the skyline and we only got heavy rain afterwards...

The commander nodded in agreement, confirming the squad leader's words.

— It had also rained over the fortress last night. One heavy downpour followed the other, each one lashing furiously against the old stones. There was not a single fire in the camp. So Logain Mac Tir, with the help of the mages, ordered huge bonfires to be built to keep the soldiers dry and warm.

With a discreet gesture, the man pointed to the huge flaming wall of logs.

— And everyone heard the thunderstorm last day. Go on.

— Yes. When we reached the ruins... we encountered the first obstacle worth mentioning.

Glancing over his shoulder at the girl, Alistair frowned and continued.

— A meeting was held with... the current holder of the treaties. As a result of... negotiations, an agreement has been reached for an exchange. I beg your pardon, but it included some obligations regarding...

The sorceress made a deep throaty sound, publicly displaying her own irritation and drawing attention to herself. And then she turned directly to Alistair's interlocutor.

— You're Duncan, aren't you? You have been mentioned repeatedly by these Dubolos as the one who gives the orders and makes the decisions.

— That's right. And what is your name?

— Phelandaris.

The elf smiled openly when she heard what was said. Perhaps for the first time. The others only showed varying degrees of surprise. Duncan, however, also showed a faint smile.

— So be it. A speaking name.

— That's the point.

— How did you come to possess the treaties, Felandaris?

— A confluence of circumstances. Like the ones that brought everyone to this fortress. Let's not beat about the bush. Alistair and I, as representatives of the Grey Guardian, made a deal. He has the treaties the Order needs in its hour of need. Unharmed. In return, I am promised passage to the military camp and safety. And until the drama is resolved, my identity will remain a secret. The only thing that matters now is the weight of my word for you. The blonde is disgustingly honest. And you?

Duncan narrowed his eyes and murmured with a slightly metallic tone in his voice.

— You put yourself in an uncomfortable position.

— That's the point.

— Well... So be it. What do you think of the guest, Alistair?

The squad leader wrinkled his nose and spoke his mind.

— After last night and part of the day, it's hard to judge. He's prickly. Tough. Stronger in endurance than any of us... Except you, Commander. Fought as well in battle. Not a coward. But otherwise she looks after her own skin first. An enchantress.

The last word came out of the man's mouth with obvious irritation, for which he received a sharp look from his tutor and a reprimand.

— Alistair, listen. Either you shed the Templar past, or it will drag you to your grave, forcing you to make a mistake at the most crucial moment.

At the mention of the Order, Morrigan's eyes slid over the blonde's form and narrowed. But there was nothing else the girl could do to show her own reaction. Alistair himself responded by bowing his head, giving his long-held answer faster than he should have.

— I am sorry.

— What do you want my forgiveness for? Yes... Straight and true. To the point, Felandaris. And that observation says more about you than Alistair ever did. A dangerous bargain. But the Greys are used to paying the price. I wouldn't go so far as to call our path straight. And even the King doubts its righteousness today... Back to the battle.

After scratching the back of his head, the blonde nodded and continued with the facts.

— Spawn. A full troop. But no equipment. Including the leader. But... He acted strangely. Didn't join the fight at all, ran away in the end. And... Davenus had bad luck. This...

— Losses are inevitable, Alistair. A commander's job is to keep such mishaps to a minimum. No one can get rid of them. Remember, but don't make the memory an obstacle to moving forward. It's cynical, it's heartless, but it's the burden of leadership.

Duncan was distracted for a moment and lifted his eyes to the sky. The blond man remembered a few more details and hurried to add them to the list.

— More tracks. Before the battle, we came across a clear trail of spawns heading northwest. They moved in an orderly fashion.

— Yes, it does. It fits into the overall picture. As bizarre as it seems. There have been three skirmishes between patrols and smaller spawn units in the last twenty-four hours. All in the hills of Corkari. A few hours from the Fortress. And each was like the others. A victory, not without casualties, over a weakly organised enemy without a trace of equipment. Isolated cases of infection, all fatal. You may respect my briefing of patrols and dispatches, but self-deception is the same folly. Soldiers sleep more often than they listen. That's why this result is incredible luck. Too much luck. We take what we have just told you, and we have already had four skirmishes. There were also suspicious casualties...

For the first time, Jory joined the conversation, asking for details with some excitement.

— Mr Duncan, and... who, if it's not a secret?

The dark-haired Guardian nodded and frowned, choosing the right words.

— I should make it clear from the outset that there are differing opinions as to whether this is a loss or not. Be careful not to say too much. Technically, we didn't receive a messenger from the two deputies in the lowlands at the agreed time. And this position is shared by the king. Couriers are sent in threes, but that is no guarantee. It could happen that none of them makes it. As for the troops themselves... Fergus Cousland stands above the first. Heir to the family and four dozen selected riders from the coast. Over the second is Urien Kendalls. Earl of Denerim and the two dozen elite mercenaries he's brought from the capital.

Morrigan listened, taking the information in stride. There seemed to be something going on around Ostagar that was hidden from view. On the one hand, the patrols were shown an attractive picture, but on the other, a dark blur. Without sharing her suspicions, the girl did share a low opinion of the Northmen's abilities.

— So many beautiful words extolling virtues. I think the northerners are lost in the woods. That's all. I'm sure they didn't have any good wizards with them who could at least give a sign.

To the surprise of the modest audience, Duncan nodded in agreement.

— There are not enough wizards. There are.

With a quick glance at Alim, the Grey Guardian continued.

— My requests included at least two dozen mages ready to fight. Logain asked for even more. But according to Church orders, more Templars had been sent to Ostagar than mages. And they were mostly healers. Well... Most of the troops have returned, and the goal has been achieved. It's a good result, and one to be welcomed. Now we must concentrate on the initiation ritual. Intuition tells me there's little time left for sleep. Alistair — go to the baths, wash yourself and your armour. Then wash away the traces without a trace. I'll be waiting in the ruins of the central building shortly after sundown.

Duncan held out his hand, clearly indicating the ingredients, and the blond man hurriedly handed him the hidden vials of blood, stained with the unholy and withered bundles of some herbs. The Morrigan's experienced eye immediately classified the herbs as useless weeds with no known properties, positive or negative. Furthermore, the ingredients were harvested roughly — simply plucked from the roots.

Already on his way to the mage tents, the Grey Guardian slowed and, after a brief pause, spoke to the enchantress over his shoulder.

— You are not forgotten. I assume you prefer certainty to vague expectations, Felandaris. So we'll postpone any thoughts of you until after the ritual. Until then, take Alistair's hasty word as my own.

Nodding, Morrigan followed the springy gait of the most experienced warrior in the group to the Templars. They let the commander in without further ado. And from behind them came the weary voice of the blond man.

— So. Washing up... Or porridge first?

Jory stroked his stomach sadly, about to make a suggestion, but was interrupted by Alim. The elf put an end to the discussion.

— Wash.

* * *

The bath was built from freshly cut logs on the opposite side of the ravine, protected on both sides by the keep like an ancient guardian. He said the site had been found at the foot of the Tower of Ishal. As if to defy the rest of the world, the structure remained intact. It proudly bore the name of the Archon of the Empire who had overseen the construction of Ostagar through the centuries. The mundane next to the eternal.

From the bridge over the gorge, the view down and into the distance was incredible. It began with the southern descent into the gorge, three quarters of it blocked with stones. Then the gorge itself, a hundred steps down, was covered with tents, like mushrooms after the rain. These tents had a much more orderly appearance than their counterparts scattered around the fortress. Here and there, the eager red tongues of the fires Duncan had spoken of shot up into the sky. His gaze wandered down the streets that had only been formed a few days ago and were already taking on a unique character, like a distorted reflection of the creators' nature. And then his gaze broke out into the open, beyond the sparse palisades. First to an empty stony field, cleared of bushes and low growth. Then on to a strip of freshly cleared land with a hundred stumps pointing skywards. The eye was drawn to the edge of an old pine forest. Climbing up to the treetops, it ran swiftly, without encountering a single obstacle, towards the horizon, where the outline of the beginning of a new ridge of gentle hills was barely visible.

Outside the footprints left by the current visitors to Ostagar, a single object, so huge that it blended naturally into the landscape, reminded of one of the civilisations of these lands. The Imperial Path. It once approached the gorge directly. In fact, it met the fortress that served as the final point of the journey. But over hundreds of years, with no oversight or protection, dozens of the nearby arches were torn down or destroyed, and the remains were greedily consumed by the forest. So from the green sea of needles in the distance, the Tract reappeared within an hour or two's walk. Where you could see the hastily gathered downs for horses and infantry of the army that had recently passed, as well as five or six trunks of felled trees. The tract stretched in a perfect straight line to the horizon. It looked as if it had been drawn with a firm hand over the natural landscape.

Turning away, Morrigan tried to keep up with the group, walking wearily forward with little interest in the sights. Only Alim cast a single glance to the side. And the sorceress could see that the man was pointing to the horizon to the northwest. Where, in days gone by, the great lake of Kalenhad stretched far away, with Keenloch Keep towering proudly above it. The main circle of magicians in Ferelden.

The Baths were a pair of fresh, squat log houses, not even sawn, with a few narrow, cut-through skylights. The roofs had been hastily covered with a layer of spruce and pine branches dragged in from the clearing. Steam rose from hundreds of cracks in this masterpiece, thinning and melting rapidly as it rose into the sky. Nearby, on stones and a few surplus logs, soldiers were semi-organised. Soldiers were not allowed to let their subordinates idle, so they shouted at them to direct the most skilled to the nearby stumps to chop firewood.

The blond man looked stern and walked towards the nearest tenth. The tenth man reacted to the arrival of the small group and launched into a foul-mouthed curse. Alistair was not deterred by the salute. He came close, perhaps a little too close, and whispered in a low voice to the thickly built man who looked twice his age and a head shorter.

In response to the Morrigan's surprise, Alim quietly commented on the unfolding spectacle.

— The baths are visited in an order determined by the centurions. The only rule is that a dismount or foot patrol, once back in camp, may move the queue. For those who are already here, it's an extra wait. Well, and less time to make a to-do list for the rest of the day. Those present are lucky there are only four of us. When the forty-headed dispersal returns...

— Hang on. Hang on... Are you seriously suggesting, without any basis in fact, that we go there together?

Alim opened his mouth for an obvious answer, but it took him a moment to catch it — it had lost its obviousness long before the dialogue began. Coughing into his fist, the man hummed and apologised.

— It's true. I've gotten used to carrying three men these days and... Never mind. I'm too tired and I just know I'm making things worse with every word I say. Still. Are you...?

— I'll manage. Unlike you, bathed in blood and mud, the only thing stained is Daveth's clothes. And that has been washed away by the night's rain. I'll wait... around.

Alim nodded and walked off after Alistair, who had safely concluded the negotiations and, in response to the wind-blown epithet, warmly offered the tenth man coitus with his own mother's pet.

Hurrying towards the outer ribs of the tower's rigidity, its overwhelming mass and height, the sorceress deftly grasped the joints of the unstable blocks. At a reasonable pace, she climbed a dozen steps to the nearest ledge where she could crouch. She had made sure to hide the staff on the ledge where she was to meet the Grey Guardian commander, so as not to attract too much attention. This left her hands free for the stunt she was about to perform. The only unaccounted for factor was the bored men below, who greeted the demonstration of skill and grace with friendly applause. But when they realised the show was over, they immediately returned to their usual chatter. And a game of dice, while the tenth man turned away to the other side.

Inspecting the figures of the men from above, Morrigan was not surprised to find that they were not frightened at all. There was nervous laughter, vivid emotion, outright bravado and sudden aggression for silly reasons. There was a lingering, or rather prolonged, anticipation mixed with confidence. Even in the faces of the dozens. As if no one here took the darkness seriously. As if no one took the Dark Ones seriously. Only personal experience could instil fear and caution in the rank and file. Or a commander who possessed that virtue. According to Duncan, the army seemed to lack both. Many victories and a minimum of painful consequences. And the Greys were not listened to.

Closing her eyes, the girl shook off the commotion and concentrated on herself. Now that the moment had passed, Morrigan turned to the problem that was never a beat away from the wizard's mind. The gaping hole in her memory kept evading her attention, trying to get lost in a series of unimportant images. As if it were unimportant and unremarkable. Thoughts seemed to reject this strangeness as soon as they stumbled over the jagged edges of the void. But the girl did not grow up under the gentle conditions of the northerners. With an iron will, she protected the anomaly from oblivion. Every attempt to steal the secrets that lurk within the Void has come to naught. And this time, Morrigan changed tactics, concentrating on the rough edges of the hole. On the blurred images that immediately preceded the darkness of oblivion.

This day was no different from any other. Even from the Hasidim's point of view, it was not an ordinary day. But the girl, accustomed to different things, saw things from a different angle. Thinking about the expedition to the villages ten days to the north, Morrigan was returning as usual from her morning hunt. Behind her dragged the bloodless carcass of a musk deer, its throat ripped open in haste. Even bleeding, it weighed a third of the girl's weight. The mother greeted her without words or warmth. Just an attentive look, and Flemet immediately returned to her own, often seemingly pointless activities.

And then... The girl frowned, trying to put together the disjointed pieces that would not follow each other. Amid the swirl, there was an oddity. Someone was definitely present in the clearing. Someone other than the two inhabitants of the hut lost in Korkari. A guest. Uninvited and unwelcome. A figure emerging from the forest. No details, just a silhouette. That of a man. And the surprised face of the mother...

Just a few clues, but something — immeasurably more than nothing. Tilting her head slightly, Morrigan went over the facts again. Considering each one individually, there were questions and, somehow, answers. First, the look on her mother's face. Contrary to rumours, Flemet was by no means a crazy old woman fixated on a few flashy emotions. Unpredictable? Yes. Unexpectedly changing moods like mittens in winter? Yes. But surprise was not part of the characteristic repertoire of emotions. It was an expression Morrigan had managed to observe on the senile face two or three times in her conscious life. Besides, the combination of surprise and guest was frightening. An uninvited guest. In magic, her mother had given Morrigan a ridiculously unfair lead and then won with no apparent effort. But more importantly, there had never been a time when Flemet had not been aware of strangers approaching the hut the day before they were likely to appear on the doorstep. More often than not, this meant that the Morrigan had to pack up and go, to confuse the tracks and minds of the next fools to wander into Corkari. Sometimes it was to frighten the young Hassinds. They often tested their own courage in foolish ways. Or to kill overzealous Maleficar hunters determined to make a name for themselves with the legend of Flameth. One of two things. Either it's a sick new prank, a mother teaching her daughter some kind of lesson. But, as the sorceress herself freely admits, the scale is... excessive, even for Flameth. Or someone had managed to sneak up on the legendary witch unnoticed. And that conclusion sent a shiver down the girl's spine. Fortunately, logic overcame her first impulse to run and hide. The idea of slipping away from such an enemy, only to pay with the memory of a part of the day, did not stand up to sound criticism. If the Morrigan was still intact, there was no threat. Either her mother had taken care of her visitor, or she had no use for the sorceress, or the stranger's motives were unpredictable. The sorceress suddenly froze, catching a quick thought. A hint of Mother's defeat. Gathering her wits and considering such a possibility, Morrigan admitted to herself that she felt no vivid emotion about it. Only a subtle pang of sadness at the possible irretrievable loss of a part of her own life forever in the past, and a quiet anger that someone had irrevocably taken the wizard's choice away from her.

The second key point. Why do only violent ideas come to mind? Sighing, the girl tried to abstract herself from the emotional background. From every emotion that surged up, even at the fleeting recollection of the puffs of smoke above the hut she shared with her mother. Some of these emotions seemed... forced, deliberately pushing the girl away. Like an animal instinctively running from a fire. But in the absence of a pursuer — what gave rise to such an impulse? With a furrowed brow, the sorceress concentrated on the image imprinted in her mind. The sight itself suggested widespread damage to the forest. It was hard not to connect it with the appearance of a stranger. But when, how and by whom the damage had been done was a mystery. If there had been a battle, it had been fought at a level Morrigan couldn't match. At that rate, the girl would have ended up dead as a collateral casualty. But her breathing and pulse belies that conclusion. Of the possible scenarios, one had to settle for the unlikely one in which something had saved Morrigan. Protected her enough so that there was no trace of damage, and she could get away from the scene. The next question is, how did the girl get out? And dozens of clues lurking between individual conclusions.

With a painful groan, she rubbed her temples, chasing away the dull headache that was barely visible in the throbbing ring of her skull. Opening her eyes, Morrigan decided to return to the present. It was clearly threatening to bury the young person soon, not at the hands of a mysterious stranger, but beneath a mishmash of northern bodies and creatures of darkness.

After half an hour, the men had still not left the baths, and the humility of the freedom loving Korkari had worn thin. She began to look around, searching among the soldiers for signs of women of a gender other than male. The role of soldier was not a popular one among the inhabitants of Thedas' southernmost state. But the occupation of Orleans changed traditional perceptions of the professions, accustoming thinking men to look for qualities first and primary sexual characteristics second. Hence, in such a large army, no, no, but ladies were encountered. Soon the wandering eye came upon a suitable pair. Archers, bored on duty, two dozen paces away from Morrigan. Both provided the girl with more than enough. Hair in the same kind of tight braids, typical postures, gestures and a mask of weariness on their faces.

Morrigan let her hair down and put it into a similar braid in three minutes, then jumped down and immediately imitated the gait and facial expressions of the two women. Although the girl herself had some doubts about the quality of the performance, she changed on cue. And began to fit in better with her surroundings. As much as a charming, even femme fatale with a rare northern hair and eye colour could achieve.

The sight of a tired man frustratedly rushing about on an errand that promised only new worries allowed him to cross the bridge in the opposite direction without a care in the world. No one felt the need to call out and ask for anything. With three or four hours before sunset, the only place in this human anthill that held Morrigan's interest was the fenced-off area for mages. Carefully choosing a spot among the scattered tents, almost out of sight of the Templar guards but within earshot, the enchantress plunged impudently onto the tilled ground. Untying a knot of her personal belongings, the girl began to rummage thoughtfully through them. In the hours she'd spent in the camp, Morrigan had noticed that nothing caught her eye more than a soldier who was clearly loitering.

Like the other intelligences Morrigan had encountered, the two Templars could not perform their monotonous service like idols. No, no, but both exchanged bits and pieces of sentences, giving the impression of a sluggish conversation. Each would ponder a phrase for a long time and then fall silent to the passing soldiers. If you had the patience, it seemed that the two warriors were exchanging rumours. Someone saw a fragment of a letter, heard something from someone higher up in the hierarchy, overheard someone else's conversation. Naturally, topics of interest to Church warriors tended to concern their own service or related areas. For example, in a sequence of information that made no sense to the warlock, the conversation had touched on the situation in the circle at Kinloch's stronghold. The girl's ears perked up, aware of the elf's strange attachment to the place. According to the men, the situation within the closed community of mages had been tense. Since then, at the king's behest and with the church's permission, a quarter of the Templar corps encamped there had moved on to Ostagar. Warriors were escorting a dozen healers. There were not enough guards to watch every corner, and relations with certain groups of mages were conspicuously short. Both Templars recognised that this was not directly the fault of the First Wizard, who always upheld the Church's position and preferred open dialogue to other methods of demonstrating resistance. At the same time, however, they both saw a conspiracy at work. Each hoped to return to the Circle before something irreparable happened and acquaintances, both fellow Order members and mages, were harmed.

After a tedious discussion of the outward qualities of the young members of the circle, reminiscent of Morrigan's conversation between two villagers comparing the characteristics of the cows in the herd, the men jumped back to something curious. Word of the Seeker's arrival in the capital. From the description, he seemed to be a representative of the Church, like the Templars themselves, but infinitely higher in the hierarchy. The mysterious figure was mentioned by one of the men with an undercurrent of awe, if not fear. The event itself had taken place about half a month ago, and news of it had only reached these far-flung corners thanks to a mention in a letter from a friend of the squad leader. It seemed that the Templar commander had openly discussed the news of the message with his comrades. The result was that the Seeker had arrived somewhere only on the Church's exclusive mission. But the nature of the matter remained secret, giving rise to conjecture and speculation. One worse than the other. There was mention of the Mohr connection, and the hunt for the head of an equally mysterious apostate. But it was the Temple Master, standing closer to the girl, who offered a version that contained a nugget of valuable information. The man mentioned a rumour that had surfaced in recent correspondence, as if for the first time in decades Eonar had been silenced. A prison for mages. Even if the Seeker had arrived in Ferelden before, what else could have attracted the attention of such a figure? Morrigan mentally agreed that the hypothesis was interesting. But just then Duncan emerged from the mage tents.

Nodding to the Templar, he left the perimeter of the enclosed clearing and disappeared from Morrigan's sight behind the nearest tents. Over the din of the camp, not even her keen hearing could make out the footsteps of the Grey Guardian who was suddenly at her back.

— Phelandaris? I see you have changed. It's an indication of your true intentions. I think it would be much safer for Alistair and I if you were close by, preferably in line of sight. But since your youth hasn't lost its indiscretion, you'll have to share the old man's company. Come on, tell me what you're up to.

— Do you think there is more than one?

— Oh, I know. Alistair may have many thoughts, but he has only one goal at a time. That doesn't make him "simple-minded". That's the kind of man he is — he takes one step, then another. It's the eyes that give you away. Even when you're talking to a single person, you're not giving them your full attention. You look for clues from the sides, you choose between options, you analyse your surroundings. You have many goals. It is not clear whether you are in control, or they are. But it is impossible to know everything about a person at once.

— Hmmm...

— Don't be embarrassed. I think everyone becomes a philosopher when they manage to outlive most of their friends and acquaintances. Or one who seeks a dignified death.

— Are you looking for a dignified death here?

— I can see why Alistair called you prickly. The boy is getting better at capturing people's essence. That's good. Having witnessed death at close quarters, your interviewer doubts that it can ever be called dignified. So I prefer to philosophise in vain. What about goals?

Morrigan shrugged as she followed Duncan inside the framework of the once massive building that served as the heart of Ostagar. Surprisingly, the floor of the main hall, lined with tightly fitting bricks in various shades of burgundy, had survived without serious damage.

— Alistair's train of thought suited me better than ever. First, through the chaos. Then to the server, free. Then...

The girl froze in surprise, not knowing what to do next. It was as if there had to be a plan, and the sorceress remembered that there was. But at the critical moment, there was no to-do list at hand. Slowly choosing her words, Morrigan finished the sentence that hung in the air.

— Then... Find a safe place. We need to sort out our thoughts and doubts. Nothing complicated.

Approaching the massive flat stone that once served as an extravagant table or eerie altar, the Grey Guardian nodded.

— A plan worthy of respect. I hope that at least the first points can be implemented.

Duncan nodded at his thoughts. Then the man reached into his waistband for a roll of coarse but clean sacking and handed it to his companion.

— It wasn't porridge, but it was nutritious and there was no need to go anywhere.

Slowly, she unfolded the bundle and found two slabs of a strange, greyish rather than brown substance. The uneven mass had nothing to do with food.

— A camping option. Dried beef, a pinch of salt, oatmeal, dried vegetables and chopped nuts.

Seeing no need for further explanation, the man brushed the barely discernible debris from the stone and commented on the sight of the massive object.

— I think this is the right place for a grim ritual with cursed blood. Take a break until sunset. I'll stay over there on the steps until my fellow Order members arrive.

* * *

As the sun touched the horizon and the remains of the once majestic building turned purple, casting long dark shadows, the three men who had accompanied the sorceress emerged. Clean and refreshed. At the stairs, Duncan stopped Alistair for a word or two. He frowned, glancing up at the girl leaning against a pillar, but nodded in agreement without answering. Soon the rest of the ritual was revealed. First came the members of the Order. Morrigan was surprised to see how accurately the occasional lunge into the blonde's face landed. A measly dozen Grey Guardians had gathered from the military camp. Each of them the same age as Duncan, but differently battered by life. And with varying degrees of madness in their eyes. Not a single native of this land. Orleans, Marka, but no Ferelden. It is not known if all the Grey Guardians of the Southern State are gathered here, but even if they were, the picture would be no less depressing.

Then a mage approached, wearing a traditional balaclava. From the Morrigan's point of view, such clothing was deliberately imposed on mages to make them easy targets in a crowd. And also to prevent them from moving freely in rough terrain. The mage nodded at Duncan, keeping his distance, but his keen eye could see the Grey Guard medallion on his chest. The enigmatic figure who belonged to both camps immediately made the necessary preparations. She remembered that the wizard had arrived unaccompanied by a Temple Keeper. The question remained as to whom the token of trust was intended for, the mage or Duncan.

As Alistair, Jory and Alim lit the torches and placed them around the ritual site, the last rays of sunlight licked the top of the Ishal Tower and dusk fell quietly. The sounds of the camp faded. And the smells, along with the cool, damp air, intensified, generously sharing the fullness of the hues of soldierly life, interwoven with the aromas of smoke and fresh wood.

The two surviving candidates lined up before Alistair as Duncan accepted the cup of cursed blood from the mage's hands. All the necessary manipulations had already been completed. Immediately afterwards, the mage retreated hastily, not wanting to witness what was happening. Jory looked frightened, nervous. But there was also a determination to take a step into the unknown. Alim... He was as different as night and day. Sadness gripped the man, and there was a haggard expression on his face. It was as if the elf had just realised that there was no way out. As the silent man watched the bowl move towards them, Alim stared into the nothingness of the darkening sky.

Jory was the first to receive the goblet. A few quiet words, a moment's hesitation, and the swordsman took a good sip of the black liquid. At first, the Grey Guard candidate's condition was only revealed by a grimace of disgust. But soon the man's eyes became glassy. His arms hung limply from his body and his mouth fell open. And then the remarkable began. Suddenly, as if he had lost his bones, Jory slumped to the ground and rolled onto his side. The silent Grey Guardians, their faces alert with anticipation and pent-up fear, indicated that either events had run their course or no one could help the Strongman. The body, meanwhile, began to be plagued by small cramps. It started as a shudder and in a few moments it turned into a pounding, as if every muscle in the man's body had a life of its own. The eerie look on Alim and Alistair's faces ended abruptly. It was like fingers snapping. Jory relaxed and froze one last time.

Duncan exhaled in frustration and bent over the body, running his fingers over it to check for a pulse. One of his colleagues, an Orlesian by the look of him, asked hoarsely, like someone with a sore throat.

— Alive?

The Commander, carrying the full weight of his rank at this moment, shook his head negatively and locked eyes with the silent strongman. Alistair cursed softly. Duncan rose and took the cup from his comrade's hands, moving on to the next candidate without too much emotion.

Alim could barely tear his gaze from the lying body to the outstretched object. The commander had just opened his mouth to say a parting word when the elf took a sharp step back, turned his gaze to the man and spoke clearly.

— This is...

The mage jabbed his finger at the corpse.

— ...is not what was promised.

Alistair stepped forward, reaching out to the elf, interpreting the flash of emotion as fear.

— Alim...

Duncan jerked his head, cutting off the words on the blonde's lips, and with a glance asked her not to interfere. But the elf reacted anyway, darting sharply in the direction of the squad leader.

— You don't know anything. This is just between us.

Turning back to the commander, Alim began to hurl accusation after accusation at him.

— You gave your word — that it made sense. That I would protect you by doing this duty.

— You came to me before this conversation. And you chose your own path, taking the choice away from those around you.

For the first time, the normally calm elf's face showed pure anger.

— I came to protect them! Because the Sentinels desperately needed a tool that looked just like her. И... That "at any cost" nonsense, "any method" and so on. That's what really drives you. Don't care about talent, don't care about the future. Just take it off the table like a sharper knife. That's why I'm here, not them. Not for high-minded speeches. As the tale of great duty, of serving as a shield for Thedas, of tradition stretched on, I was only interested in one thing. Would there be a real job at the end of the journey that would make the world a little safer for them? Remember, you promised.

— Nothing had changed.

— Everything had changed! Not even a hint that the ritual was deadly. What were the chances of it succeeding? Three in five? One in two? One in four?

At the last sentence Duncan's right eye twitched slightly and Alim, turning pale, said.

— You were joking... And you were going to... But such a thing devalues every word spoken.

— It's the best we've got. Alim, listen...

— No. You listen. Of course I am. I understand. If you had told me about... this beforehand, no one would have gone after the Grey Guardians, no matter how ancient the treaties behind the Guardians' backs. Better to die fighting the Spawn than this way. There may be other reasons for keeping such news a secret. Surely each seems reasonable and convincing to those lucky enough to survive the ritual. But on this side... Believe me, the situation is different. I refuse to give it up.

There was a rare weariness on Duncan's face at these words. An emotion typical of those who are strong in body but lost in spirit. Alistair froze with his mouth open, unable to believe what was happening. The others looked at Alim the same way they had looked at Jory's body when the Commander had confirmed his death. No anger, no frustration, just a willingness to accept the inevitable.

Finally, with a nod, Duncan handed the bowl to his companion and asked one last question.

— You could argue whether the choice was taken away from you in the end or not. But, believe the old man, the prerogative of refusal is far more than anyone else gets for life. And the Order didn't deny anyone that right. Though it could have, Abyss, it could have... I'm sorry, but I must ask you one last question. Do you fully understand the consequences of your decision?

Alim smiled grimly, with an undercurrent of sadness.

— Yes... I think so. That's why no one knows the secret. Denial is death, approval is probable death. A simple dilemma. And not so simple. The judgement is yours, Duncan. In person. I will not voluntarily choose a meaningless end.

With his jaw clenched, the Grey Guard commander stared down at the floor and continued without the assurance that was typical of a man's voice.

— In your case, it's not just about that.

Tense, the elf nodded slowly.

— Well... that is a valid point. But it depends on how we see the outcome of the military campaign. I admit, I'm not on the optimistic side. I'll take my chances with the mongrels.

A third of the Grey Guardians sneered at this impertinence. The rest... It was as if they had curled up deeper in a grim readiness to accept their fate's chosen outcome. Duncan met the elf's gaze again and slowly pronounced his verdict.

— Unfortunately, this pessimism is not shared by many. Well, so be it. Perhaps you have the truth on your side, while the old generation are the remaining shards of the past. Contrary to our laws, the candidate will not be killed immediately.

There was a muffled murmur from the guards. But that was all. The strength of Duncan's personality and his authority in the eyes of the elders trumped all rules and regulations. Nevertheless, the Commander decided to clarify his own thoughts.

— I believe that soon every mage will be needed. But you will swear never to tell anyone what you saw or heard during the ritual. I give you my word as Acting Commander that the Grey Guardian will not set foot in a Ferelden circle until spring. And if even one of us survives the denouement, Alim Surana will die.

— Yes... that's... the best I could think of.

With sudden determination, Alim held out his hand to seal the oath with a handshake and muttered a ritual phrase.

— I swear.

That was the end of the ritual...

Alistair stayed away from Alim after what had happened and, judging by his brooding expression, was solving a puzzle in his mind. So nothing stopped Morrigan from approaching the elf. But not so much that she seemed to be deliberately approaching the wizard.

By this time, most of those present had dispersed, taking with them Jory's body, which had been ordered to be burned. Duncan whispered to the last of his colleagues in the Order. The sorceress admitted with some reluctance that it had been a busy and unconventional day. But at the same time, the vigil should be over by now. There was a limit to any endurance that should not have been crossed unnecessarily.

And while everyone was thinking of personal matters, a stranger approached the Grey Guard commander in a hurry, dressed differently from the soldiers, as wealthy merchants outnumber the villagers working in the fields. Bowing his head respectfully, the man made an announcement.

— My lord. His Majesty summons the commander of the Grey Guard for a council of war. A quarter of an hour ago, sentries arrived from the northeastern outpost. There is a large group of spawn moving towards Ostagar.

— So it's north after all... Thank you. Alistair? Look after the rest of us. Let's go.

Alistair followed his mentor with a surprised look for a moment before the words formed in the man's head and he turned to Morrigan, who met the blonde's gaze with a scornful, curious look.