Chapter 5 - "Knots in Lothering"

The darkened wooden floors and ceilings, the scratched, greasy tables and the old, gnarled candles on the wooden trays. The place had long since ceased to look fresh, or at least presentable. Still, there was a sense of comfort in the room. Perhaps it was a mixture of warmth, kitchen smells and aromatic smoke. Or perhaps the feeling did not leave the Dane's Shelter simply because, compared to the dirt and weather outside, the traveller did not need much to be happy and relaxed.

At that moment, three guests were sitting at long tables, separated from each other. A red-haired man in a simple linen shirt, barely thirty winters old. He was both a warrior and a woodcutter. He was picking at his porridge with a spoon, but did not hesitate to turn at the sound of the front door. A wary eye assessed, weighed and drew conclusions. To his surprise, a distinguished looking representative of the knighthood was also present. A middle-aged man with broad shoulders and a firm posture. The gentleman wore expensive robes of thick burgundy flannel and smoked a pipe in a relaxed manner. The picture was completed by short dark hair, a square jaw and a look of slight laziness that masked professional suspicion. The last visitor sat in the far corner, suffering from slight obesity, baldness and shabby clothes. The man leaned over a mug of ale, paying little attention to his surroundings.

At the sound of the new visitors' footsteps, a servant or the owner emerged from the kitchen. A dark-haired man who had seen fifty winters in his life, he wore a greasy apron and a well-groomed moustache and sideburns. He smiled, as if tired of putting on his dressing gown, and readily introduced himself.

— Danal. How may I be of service?

The elf hurried forward before his companion could take the initiative. With relief in his voice, he introduced himself.

— Amica Famila. Pleased to be here at...

As the mage paused, waiting for an answer, Morrigan turned sideways and covered her mouth with her hand. As if to stifle a cough. Danal, on the other hand, answered proudly.

— In Dane's shelter, dear guests.

— That's great. We're tired from the road. Do you have any spare rooms?

— Of course there are. A few rooms for sure. Twenty silver a night, half in advance.

Alim cleared his throat and looked the owner carefully in the eye. But the man didn't even blink, just waiting for an answer. The man's gaze was one of barely concealed indifference towards the elf's reaction to the price. So the mage cautiously entered from the other side.

— It's good to know you're in a high-class establishment. Judging by the prices, it's worthy of capital.

There was a muffled snort from the red-haired lodger. But there was no further reaction to the words spoken.

— Worthy or not, dear guest, I do not know. But these days there are plenty of tents in the countryside and on damp ground. And it's free. And there's the smell of freshness from the river in the morning. So...

— The thinking is clear. We want to eat and bathe.

— Good to hear, dear guests. Sixteen silver now and ten more tomorrow.

The elf frowned, but said nothing as he poured the trophy money into Danal's hand. The man grinned grimly, tucked the coins neatly under his apron and nodded.

— You're always welcome. Have a seat — the food will be here soon. And I'll put the water on the fire right away.

Seated at a table in a corner away from the other visitors, the sorceress leaned over to Alim and asked in a low voice.

— «Family friend»?

With an embarrassed bow of his head, the man could barely hold back a smile.

— There's hardly anyone here who knows Tevene except you. I thought it was... Yes, I suppose it was stupid.

— I see. I noticed your reaction. Was the price so surprising?

— Hardly. It was more of a shock. The landlord had raised the prices at least five times.

— Hm... Everyone here knows each other from childhood. They spend their lives side by side. Any grudge or betrayal is remembered for life. Simple rules bind a community together. Like a tree growing from a single root. But Maura's threat is like a fierce wind. Some branches snap, others just bend. But... The Southerners have masters for every inch of land. Is it so bad that no one should look back on the power of this man?

— The Earl of these lands is Leonas Brueland. I have not seen the Earl in person. He followed the King to Ostagar with the rest of the local guards, according to the talk in the military camp. Whether he died on the battlefield or in Logain's hands is unknown.

— But the dogs sense — the owner is not at home.

Alim nodded in agreement. At that moment, Danal reappeared in the hall, deftly balancing two trays of food. The delicacies were neither too varied nor too fancy, but there was plenty of everything. The two travellers would have been pleased with the porridge and the steam rising over it. The girl glanced in the elf's direction, encouraging conversation. Alim, showing only a fraction of the annoyance of having to pretend, shifted his gaze from the earthenware to the empty trays and carefully formulated a question.

— All the talk was of the King's army, which had recently passed through Lothering. Had the Earl of the Southern Frontier left with them without stopping in Lothering?

Danal grimaced for a moment, but then picked herself up and smiled indifferently.

— That's right, my dear guest. When His Majesty announced the gathering of a united army, Lord Brueland summoned guards from every major settlement to form an army to represent the border. The lord arrived in Lothering a few days before the main force and left for Ostagar under the hand of His Grace Mac Tir. On the army's return, the Lord met once with Elder Miriam. And then he left with his own troops to follow the army.

The man stooped a little and lowered his voice half a tone before continuing. There was a hint of genuine irritation in his tone, suggesting a personal reaction to the Earl's actions.

— Rumour has it that Lord Brueland has ordered the Elder to begin organising the evacuation of the inhabitants. But first, the grain and dried fish stored in the temple vaults must be prepared to send north for the cold season. His Grace's hastily retreating army and this... Although no one is saying anything concrete, there is no ambiguity about the outcome of the battle in the south. If the nobles flee, what's left for the commoners? Fortunately, the Mother and the Templar Commander have assumed the role of temporary authority, maintaining order and assisting the Elder. Otherwise, order would have collapsed overnight.

The mage nodded with a stern expression and immediately asked again.

— Then why are you still here? Aren't you going north, like us?

Danal shrugged and sighed.

— Dane's Shelter has been in Lothering for three or four generations. Even before the occupation. But it was given to my father to pay off a debt and became a good reason to finally settle down and start a family. In fact, it is the family's main legacy and the reason I was born. Within these walls, your humble servant grew up from an early age. To leave it at the first sign of danger... would be treason. Yet your truth, when word of the Sea first spread, each man weighed the pros and cons for himself. In these lands, people are used to hoping and preparing for the worst. So when they saw silent aristocrats and soldiers marching with their heads bowed, the people began to pack up and say goodbye to the walls of their homes.

— So the power in the settlement is now represented by the Mother and the Templars. But from what I hear, the corps is small...

— That's unfortunate. The Templars do what they can. But they can't reach everywhere.

The elf called out, deliberately muffled.

— So it's not safe here?

— Sir Bruant, the commander, is trying to concentrate on the safety of the inhabitants within the settlement and preparing a caravan to send people north. While Sir Evu, the lieutenant and his right-hand man, insists on carrying out the tasks that are the sole responsibility of the Templars. A week or two ago, an incident occurred. It turned out to be a renegade hiding under his nose. Not far from here, on a farm. He'd been living there for three or four months. He charmed the family and quietly went about his dark business. But people notice everything. Sir Ewu led the scoundrel out into the open, and when he was about to flee, he caught the renegade on the tract. And stabbed him. He did the right thing.

Morrigan grimaced slightly at these words, hiding her personal attitude behind her spoonful of chowder.

— And another incident from a week ago. There was a farmer, Vlas, who lived in a lonely part of the country. He wasn't bad, but he wasn't much of a talker. He found a Hasidic woman. They thought he was a strange man, wondering what he was up to. She turned out to be a witch...

The man was about to spit, hesitated for a moment, then changed his mind and continued.

— She had, in a word, bewitched Vlas's head. Sir Evu had taken care of that too. The only bad thing is that he seems to have disagreed with Sir Bruant's decisions and ... rumour has it that there was a scandal. It's only because of the fuss that the enemies of the Church and the peaceable people have been found out. But neither Sir Ewu nor Sir Bryant have enough hands to deal with the bandits. Ordinary people and families have been busy since the news broke, so it's clear what they're doing. But the dashing loners have other things on their minds. Rumour has it that there's already more than a dozen of them, armed with guns and bows. They sit in the woods near the Tract, collecting bribes from the refugees with impunity.

Leaning back in his chair with a grim expression on his face, the elf said.

— The troubled times have come.

— You don't say, dear guest. It's been five days since the living Kunari appeared. Here! You know... In person. Who would have thought that fairy tales could come true? I mean, he came here a few weeks ago. Only nobody knew about it. Until the giant slaughtered the host family in a fit of rage. It's a terrible story. The landlady and the owner and the daughter of about ten years old, nobody was left alive. The only reason they caught him was because he was sitting outside the house, bleeding and staring blankly into the distance. It is indeed a strange time. Not in a good way.

Alim nodded approvingly.

— Thanks for the messages and the food. If you don't mind...

— Yes, yes, of course. You're welcome to eat. If you need anything, i`m in the kitchen.

Danal withdrew willingly, and the elf turned to Morrigan, raised his right eyebrow and asked silently, «How was it?» The sorceress, concentrating on her food, just shook her head in disagreement and pointed her eyes at her companion`s simmering stew.

* * *

Alim and Morrigan spent just over an hour at a table in the hall, eating their first proper meal in days. No one was in a hurry, enjoying the warmth of the dry room. The intriguing information Danal had given them was postponed by mutual agreement until nightfall. When it would be safe without unnecessary witnesses.

In the meantime, a dozen people stopped by the Dane's shelter. The first was a local man of means, judging by his clothes. He had stopped by to see how the host was doing, to say a few words and to tell him that he would be leaving tomorrow. The settler's destination was said to be near Crestwood. The others turned out to be a motley crew. Artisans, farmers, hunters. They all had one thing in common, each a strong man under thirty. They came in one by one, immediately found the red-haired guest, sat down and talked quietly with him. Something was clarified, explained. Both sides came to some sort of agreement, and after shaking hands, the next visitor left. Sitting facing the hall, Morrigan noticed — there was something else remarkable about this movement of strangers. The expression on the face of the knight sitting off to the side. He moved little, except to muffle his pipe, but the eyes on his stone face showed more than any other grimace. Every visitor to the redhead's home, Sir Knight met every visitor with a wary gaze, ready for the unexpected. Disappointment replaced it. Finally, the man looked at the backs of those who left with mild contempt. But immediately after that, the smoking lodger's sharp gaze rose to the rafters and clouded over. He seemed to turn inward, to his own fears, doubts and losses.

At a certain point, the sorceress was lost in the clouds of smoke that slowly rose into the darkness beneath the roof. The girl seemed to encompass the entire room at once, and everyone present became nothing more than a flat part in the scene. A cartoonish set of masks, endowed with only a few trivial features. And it was only a matter of time before they would inevitably notice the one person who was fundamentally different. Somehow, the thought of that made Morrigan afraid. As a dark emotion with no concrete outline began to engulf a careless traveller like a cold southern swamp, the door slammed. The sound snapped the girl out of her trance and made her blink in surprise.

Two unshaven men entered the hall. The first visitors with scabbards dangling from their belts, a pair of knives, clubs and dirty, fully buttoned gambesons. Both exuded an undisguised menace, but not like the redhead or the knight. The newcomers scattered them about, deliberately wanting to be seen. After requesting a mug of mead from their host and paying for it with a handful of copper, the men glanced furtively around the room, inevitably meeting the sorceress's gaze.

Morrigan waved to the elf, who took one look to realise the extent of the problem. The unfriendly guests exchanged greasy jokes about winning uneven battles in bed and hurriedly drained their sweet drink. And then they began shamelessly discussing the only woman present. Alim raised an eyebrow, but the sorceress turned away coolly. The woman's stubborn gaze judged whether she was closer to the front door, the corridor door to the guest rooms or the kitchen. The foul language was followed by a direct insult to the mage.

— Hey, the pointy-eared one's on the run.

— You don't seem to mind if we have a chat with the lady. Maybe the lady would like to trade your pod for a more serious instrument.

— And even if he did, he might be taking his anger out around the corner somewhere. Really?

As the last sentence continued, a strong, calloused hand came down on Alim's shoulder and the heavy smell of alcohol and sweat filled the air above the table. The sorceress frowned. Her gaze flickered to the taut figure of the knight, who had put down his pipe, and to the redhead, who was watching the scene from halfway across the table. Then the yellow eyes met those of the rising elf and narrowed slightly. Something seemed to click in the girl's head. Taking its rightful place in the chaos of her thoughts.

Abruptly, Morrigan rose, assumed a proud posture, and slapped the leaning stranger in the face. She hissed with a curt lip.

— La pute ta merh. Pig. Go away.

There was a pause in which the slap sounded. Alim looked at the sorceress as if he did not recognise her. Her wilfulness and caustic rudeness had been replaced by grace and dignity; her curiosity and caution by contempt and arrogance. The redhead's eyes widened, just as the faces of the two armed men widened in surprise. And then, with an exhalation, a fist fell on the girl's face. Mere splashes of ruby red blood stained the table. And Morrigan's head hit the wooden wall behind her with a thud. The sorceress collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings torn.

Alim jerked towards the girl, immediately drawing the attention of both opponents. But at the same moment, the bench on which the red-haired lodger had sat calmly a few breaths earlier flew into the head of the one who had struck the girl. The second was followed by the knight's collapse. A wet blow from his heavy fist crushed his lips and knocked out at least two of his teeth. The events spun around and merged into a fierce but one-sided brawl. The knight and the redhead, if they missed a punch, were far more confident than their opponents, not giving them a single chance to draw their blade, knife or staff.

As the elf finally reached Morrigan, who was lying on the floor, gently checking the back of her head, the front doors slammed shut. The arrival of the Templars had not gone unnoticed. By a clear margin in favour of the two massive, shell-clad figures — the incident had, of course, run its course. Sir Donall, as the knight introduced himself, told the newcomers his own version of what had happened, succinctly and unflinchingly. Two armed men had insulted a lady and then raised their hands at her for no reason. It turned out, however, that the Templars had not stopped at Dane's Haven for a drink, but had followed the trail of two armed men who had been spotted entering the settlement from the north. The Templar patrol's attention was drawn by the young, fleet-footed messengers who were giving the men directions. The redheaded lodger, who never identified himself, merely noted that the girl was breathing evenly. Nodding to Alim, he returned to his own table.

The Templars thanked the knight, gave the injured men a suspicious look and kicked the wrinkled strangers out of their way. The future looked bleak for both, judging by the frown on the faces of Lothering's only lawmen.

Donall turned to the elf, looked over his shoulder and asked politely.

— Are you all right?

Morrigan had already settled into a sitting position, leaning against the wall and carefully feeling for a split lip. She lifted her eyes to the knight and nodded approvingly.

— Seems like. Ahem... Thank you.

The man frowned, not letting his emotions affect his expression too much, and made a cautious suggestion.

— I have a supply of healing ointments with me. For inflammation of wounds on the road and for healing. Not that it's a substitute for a healer. But...

Before the sorceress could say no, Alim nodded eagerly.

— Thank you. We will respectfully accept your sincere help. But my companion would be better off in her room. Would you mind if I returned later for some ointments?

The knight slowly bowed his head in agreement. The elf helped the girl to her feet and walked with her to the rented room.

* * *

The room looked mediocre and dreary. It was a square room with only room for a table in the middle and a couple of bunks on either side. But there was no table. The window was not so much for light as to not make it look like a barn. On the other hand, it was more important to keep warm in the southern winter than to enjoy the view out of the window. No dirt. The beds looked decent too, although a glance at them showed that they had been through a lot.

Alim finished applying the ointment to Morrigan's lower lip and took a wistful step back to examine the result. He had to raise the oil lamp higher, for the night had fallen silent and there was no other source of light in the room.

— It could have been worse. Can you tell me what it was?

The girl grimaced, but spoke.

— You brag about logic and reason, you manoeuvre in conversations... And the source of stupid questions never ceases to flow.

The elf rubbed her nose in annoyance and shook her head in surprise.

— Well... You deliberately provoked aggression. In retrospect, it's understandable. Violence against a woman touches those around you who aren't devoid of traditional values far more than beating up an elf. And with both of them targeting you from the start, avoiding violence without a demonstration of magic has become problematic. Don't worry about my pride...

— Don`t you dare!

The man exhaled almost inaudibly, trying not to react to the lunge.

— Thank you. Um... Of course, the way these two reacted is a bit surprising...

The sorceress snorted and immediately regretted it, writhing in pain.

— There is nothing to be surprised about. Both the noble and the simple are attentive to their surroundings and to themselves. Strict rules are imposed on the slaves from outside. The behaviour of the cattle is repugnant to them, but they need a reason to interfere.

— You describe it as if it's a bad thing.

— Bad? Stupid expression... There are choices and consequences. Donall and the others made choices within the constraints they were given, that's all.

— Hmm... Okay, I think I could have predicted their reactions. But the question is really about something else. This phrase, this behaviour — where did it come from? Let's just say it's hard to believe that a witch from the backwoods of Korkari is a polyglot.

Morrigan raised her eyebrows, genuinely not understanding the subject.

— Phrase?

— When she stood up, she called one of them a pig, and... something else in Orleigh's language, I think.

— She just returned the man's own words by calling the cow's mother a whore. That's all. I only speak two languages — Trade and Tevene.

The mage and the sorceress looked at each other in silence. The girl's face seemed tense, while the man was weighing something in his mind and — unnoticed — moving his jaw.

— All right. Let's say I misunderstood you.

Morrigan nodded, subtly relaxing. The sentence that had accidentally slipped out didn't escape the girl's attention at all. On her way back to her room, she added the incident to her list of oddities, not without incipient dread. The most eerie thing was that she could not speak Orleans, but she could repeat the sentence perfectly, knowing the meaning of each word as well as its exact meaning.

With a weary sigh, Alim put the lamp on the floor, flopped down on his own wretchedly creaking bunk and slowly smoothed out the blanket.

— Rumour has it we shouldn't stay here.

— Comment on Sir Evu, engaging into a lot of activity?

— Yes... We don't know the details of what happened, of course. But the description is that the Templar is determined to sweep every crumb from under the floorboards. And his own superiors aren't too fond of him.

The sorceress shook her hand and asked in bewilderment.

— What is so surprising about a wolf looking for prey? Every season, a band of punishers came from the south. They searched the wilderness for witches. Until Corkari devoured their souls. Or my mother... Or me.

The elf frowned at the girl, trying to find the right words to explain the existing balance.

— Ha-ha... Raiding in the south, as far as I know, is not a quest for glory. It's not even hunting as such. As far as I'm concerned, the Church and the Templars don't give a damn about Corcari and what goes on there. There's no place for hatred or curiosity. Only indifference and contempt. Those sent to these lands are exiles. Last chance for salvation — to come back with a witch's head. Perhaps it's the South's own fault that this has become a tradition.

The sorceress asked again with a raised eyebrow.

— You mean the fact that barely one in a dozen made it out alive caused the return?

— Yes... Wait, the Formari have a great saying... Here it is! Guaranteed high recycling rate.

Letting out a throaty sound more akin to a growl, Morrigan drove her fist into the bed with force.

— It's sickening to find out in the end that I've unwittingly served as a tool for those I despise.

— Welcome aboard. Back to the matter at hand. Traditionally, the Templars don't touch the small stuff. The background is simple and mercantile. Firstly, the candle isn't worth the fuss. Secondly, there is the risk of antagonising both the triviality and the population associated with it. So there is a witch living in the village. She's barely educated enough to do simple tricks. But out of respect for the village, she's got about a hundred heads. If the Templars come, there'll be bloodshed. The villagers will take the chieftain by the chest and go to Bann to seek justice. He can blame the Order for the mess and headaches they have caused. No, there's nothing he can do, of course. But precisely because the situation will rub Bann's nose in its own helplessness, and because of such a trifle — the next time the Templars will not open the gates at night, will not be served fresh horses, will be forced to wait in the waiting room for half a day. There are many ways to put sticks in the wheels while maintaining an air of subservience and humility.

Morrigan squinted, capturing the essence.

— And here was the owner running away with his tail between his legs. No one to complain and no one to worry about. And Sir Eve, at the least cost to himself and bypassing the others, decided to seek glory at last. But is his leash only in Sir Bryant's hands?

Alim scratched his chin and shook his head.

— You mean the mother? The head of the local temple?

— The leader leads the pack on the hunt. But when to let them out is up to the head of the kennel, isn't it?

— Right... Exactly. Well, from that point of view the picture is... grim. Mother is pure politics and strategy. If she stays silent and leaves it to the Commander, or worse... Then the goal is to stir people up and form a concrete opinion.

— Outraged people around the merchant?

— Possibly. Prizes, chasind by the temple, which inflames the already frightened. If you handle things carefully, no one will think twice about Mother. They'll blame the owner of the land.

— The Earl.

— Yes, they will. But why? I don't know what Lord Breuland has against the Church. The only rumour we know about him is that he's half Orlesian. That's ancient history. Politics. It's the kind of thing you should stay as far away from as possible and hope to the last minute that you don't get noticed...

Just then there was a polite knock on the door. The two looked at each other for a moment. The man came quietly to the door and asked who it was and what he wanted. It turned out to be just Donall and a couple of boys with a barrel and buckets of hot water.

* * *

Once the barrel had been placed in the centre of the room and filled with hot water, Morrigan and Alim were left alone with it. Without a moment's thought, the girl untangled the wavy black hair that had fallen to her shoulders, threw off her woollen cloak and began to unbutton her shirt. The elf's face stretched slowly, turning pink with the effort. The man turned a little more sharply than he would have liked, turned to the dark square of the window and asked, with the rustle of clothes being thrown onto the bed.

— The question is, ahem, silly. But... Have you no shyness, tact or sense of propriety?

Instead of an answer, there was the sound of bare feet on the wooden floor. At the same time as the splash of water from a submerged body, the sorceress spoke.

— Embarrassment is a strange feeling. Fear of being seen? Trying to be better than you are? The urge to deceive and be deceived? It was familiar to me, until my mother left me undressed by a young brat who made a wicked joke. Words are like thorns or nettles. At first you're afraid to touch them. Then it hurts like hell. But afterwards... The scars are faded and neither frightens you anymore. Tact? Folly, which your lips bring forth again and again. Nurture and girlhood, reared in the wilderness like a wolf cub. Ha! Decency? What good are they? I told you — there are only choices and consequences. Or do you think the witch is stupid and her actions, like herself, have no second floor?

Alim clenched his fist and breathed out slowly. The man tried to consolidate a state of clear mind and control over his emotions. Then he turned to see a wet, black-haired girl with wild amber eyes gleaming in the half-light. Leaning on her elbows against the side of the barrel, and showing off a neat and seductive bust of perfect proportions, Morrigan looked like an eager fox.

— Is the prize coveted?

Refusing the provocation, the elf met the enchantress's curious gaze firmly. But it took him a moment or two longer to raise his eyes to the girl's face than dignity demanded. At the sound of the woman's laughter, the man made a tactical retreat, slumped glumly on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

For a while the silence was broken only by the faint splashing of water and the creaking of the floorboards. Without changing his posture, Alim asked.

— Your mother is an exceptional woman. By any standard.

— You can praise her all you want. Wherever she is, she won't hear it.

— I'm not... Just thinking out loud.

Morrigan sighed, emphasising the point with a faint note of sadness.

— Just — nothing happens. Yes, the mother is exceptional. Well-chosen word. Apt. And empty, in retrospect. It doesn't make any sense.

— Why not? Isn't there pride in...

— Stupidity. Again and again. When I spoke of the dream, you didn't listen. As I knew it... What use is it now to look back and suddenly see the truth? The child is not interested in complicated ideas. Try to explain many things to yourself at the age of five, ten, even fifteen. Would you listen to yourself? Would you understand? Or would you think of yourself as a boring, unfair, wise, cruel deceiver, spitting out empty words? Not another word about my mother.

Alim nodded grimly.

— It's agreed.

There was a splash and a wet splash over the edge. At the edge of the mage's field of vision, the naked form of the sorceress flashed into view, and she immediately wrapped herself in a blanket. Carefully wiping her body, the girl tilted her head to the side, allowing the water to drip safely from her hair and away from the bed.

— Your turn. Before the water gets cold.

Grinning, the man sat up on the bed. A sneaky glance confirmed to the elf that Morrigan was watching his actions with narrowed eyes. Shaking his head, Alim slowly stripped off his clothes, folded them neatly on the edge of the bed and, keeping an expression of detachment, quickly submerged his body in the water. At that moment, only a tightly clenched jaw revealed the wizard's emotions. The girl did not miss the opportunity to examine her companion in detail. Of course, the elf's slender physique was incapable of displaying any excess muscle mass, unlike a human. And in Alim's case, he had obviously never intended to put on any more muscle in his life. But there were no glaring flaws either. A life in the tower, combined with rigorous discipline and extensive training, had kept the mage trim, albeit slouchy. Fortunately, the journey to Ostagar had left its mark, banishing the reclusive pallor from his face. Though it remained unchanged under his clothes.

The opportunity to tease a man was not an end in itself for the sorceress. Though it brought many pleasurable moments. She was aware that she did so only because of the wizard's underlying vulnerability in this matter. As far as Morrigan knew from the words of her mother, who spoke of it with unfailing pity, all intimate relationships were strictly forbidden in mage circles, either before a certain age or during life. Of course, when everyone lived together, and not as monks, it was impossible to avoid passions altogether. But such experiences remained the prerogative of the brave and the desperate. And also of the foolish but lucky. There were moments, the girl thought, when Alim by inertia existed in the grip of the rules. Only his own pride and keen intellect forced him to adapt and keep up. Provided, of course, that the elf was not pretending...

Dive in headfirst, the man asked.

— The question of payment remains.

Wiping her hair carefully, Morrigan paused for a moment before continuing.

— Oh, that...We must leave this hospitable home at sunrise without saying goodbye.

— Stealing...

— After plundering the battlefield, is that the next most serious crime? Confusion... If you had anticipated the agony of conscience, you should have spent the night in the field.

— Your truth.

* * *

In the dim morning light, when everything seemed grey, faded and colourless, Morrigan awoke first. Quietly, she dressed and walked to the small window. A sliver of shimmering azure peeked through the glass, heralding the imminent arrival of the sun.

But the sorceress' thoughts wandered towards the slowly fading night. It seemed as if clear, coherent reflections and their conclusions were rising like a rock in the vast, dark waters of doubt. And these were grinding the mind with an indomitable and unrelenting tenacity. Glancing at the slowly swaying branch of a tree beside the building, the girl thought back to the day's journey from Ostagar to Lothering. Every time she managed to be alone, the sorceress would test the spells she had painstakingly learned over the years. It turned out as follows. Not only had Lightning been erased from her memory, but so had a much weaker and more flexible version of it, Shock. Whatever Morrigan did, her memory could only produce images of the individual runes that made up the spells. But the proper order and form of the whole was missing, as surely as if the sorceress had never encountered it. Of all the other things, only Terror showed signs of abnormality. It consistently produced a massive effect that was in no way inherent in the structure of the spell. After her experience, she was wary of touching the magic of Conversion. At the same time, a methodical search for knowledge revealed something... Something more terrifying than anything else. In a way, the feeling of being a victim of theft was commonplace. Even if the object of the theft is unusual. But how does it feel to wake up in the morning and find a strange object next to your bed? An object that is unfamiliar and cannot really be in the same place. That indescribable feeling of vulnerability, when your tongue asks a thousand questions and has no answers. Among the learned spells, as if in mockery, the knowledge of a spell Morrigan had not studied was revealed. Its form and runes were simply there. Understandable, from beginning to end. "A death curse." The sorceress remained certain that she had not come across anything remotely similar.

Can one rely on one's memory when stumbling over unfamiliar nooks and crannies? It wasn't hard to think of trivial reasons for the selective disappearance of memories. The sorceress had no plausible explanation for why memories seemed to appear out of nowhere. In her darkest hour, Morrigan pondered whether it was false, new, or old. It was only by sheer force of will that the girl stopped herself from going down that road. Still, it was becoming foolish to put off one of the mage's most likely explanations for what was happening.

Obsession.

The girl sighed, trying to keep her breathing steady. But she was shaking so visibly that the sound was intermittent in the silence. Wrapping her arms around herself, the sorceress tried to calm herself. It was dawn. And with the first rays, the fears should have lost some of their power.

The bed creaked softly.

— It's morning.

— Yes...

— Have you been awake for long?

— No...

Alim scratched behind his ear and yawned. Glancing attentively at the girl frozen in front of the window, the man began to dress hastily to leave the Dane`s shelter at sunrise. As planned.

When both were ready, there was an approaching noise in the corridor. The old floorboards creaked pitifully under the weight of footsteps. Both companions froze, watching the door carefully. Cutting off thoughts of other possibilities, the footsteps stopped just outside the door. The mage glanced at the sorceress, but she twitched her cheek in annoyance and shook her head negatively.

The door swung open quickly, tearing the simple latch out with the force it exerted. The room was suddenly filled with three armour-clad Templar figures pointing their bare blades at the two guests. When required, the broad-shouldered warriors of the Order in heavy armour showed wonders of speed and agility, accustomed to instinctively maintaining coherence in the narrow corridors, cells and doorways of the Circles.

The cold, deep voice of the squad leader announced the fait accompli.

— Shut up and follow us. Any form of resistance will be considered an attack.

Alim glanced worriedly at Morrigan again, but the girl remained calm, even submissive.

In the corridor, the group of five men stretched out in a line and met Donall, who had come out to the noise. The knight frowned at the procession and paused at the leading Templar. The warrior bowed respectfully and replied ingratiatingly.

— We are acting on Sir Evu's orders, Sir Donnal.

— What is the fault of these two?

— Those arrested at the establishment yesterday turned out to be members of a gang rampaging through the countryside near Lothering.

At these words, the knight's face hardened uncontrollably, showing a shadow of belated regret. It was as if the man had a grudge of his own against those mentioned. The Templar continued.

— Both of them testified during the interrogation that they knew the two men. They had seen both men in the gang's camp. But they hadn't met them personally. Sir Ewu had a few questions. Surely the commander would be interested in the answers.

He looked at the two strangers he had helped yesterday from a new angle — the knight played with his cheeks and nodded slowly. Then he turned and disappeared slowly into his own room, closing the door behind him.

The city was only partially awake. There were five carts at the northern edge of the settlement, preparing for an early departure. They were probably preparing to leave as far away from Lothering as possible during the daylight hours. The people were busy around the small caravan, but they did not seem to be bothered by the procession of Templars heading in the opposite direction. Only the occasional passerby could be seen on their way to the temple. All met the group with suspicious glances. And hurried away. The only encounter that left an impression was a sister in traditional dress leaving the temple. With a bright red mop missing from her shoulders. Slender and pale. Unlike the others, the girl gave the two prisoners an attentive, even thoughtful look in her pale green eyes.

The five of them descended a narrow winding staircase to the catacombs below, using an inconspicuous annex to the right. A barred, dark corridor and a series of small niches that served as cells made up the entire dungeon. It was barely a third of the size of the massive temple by local standards. Without asking any questions or sharing any information, the Templars pushed Alim and Morrigan through the same door. A creaky turn of the key in the massive lock, then another at the entrance, and the warriors, taking the light with them, disappeared around the corner of the stairs. Soon the heavy footsteps died away. The stone floor of the chamber was lined with fresh straw, giving off the bitter scent of sun-dried meadow grass. Fortunately, there were no other smells common to such places. In one corner, against the wall, stood a pair of old wooden buckets, obviously in use.

Morrigan immediately sat down by the wall, stretched her legs out loosely and said in a whisper.

— Have you noticed our neighbours?

— Yesterday's troublemakers? They must have been very tired, because even our arrival didn't wake them.

— Or maybe they feel at home here. Unlike us.

— Quite possible, from what you've heard.

— However, there are no other guests — apart from the four who fell on their heads.

— Are you hinting at something?

— No, I'm telling you straight. With the influx of refugees, people have to stay here all the time. Either the Templars are tougher than ever. Or they just don't care about the petty crime in the settlement.

— Well... At least you didn't have to pay.

— The good side of the coin?

The elf's face was barely visible in the dim light pouring down the stairs. But he seemed to be frowning and shaking his head.

— Is there any plan other than keeping your spirits up?

The answer was silence.

— If I had to, I could do it all at once...

— On closer inspection, the conclusion is simple. An elf only works with his head when it is not necessary for survival. If it's a stupid thing to say, don't say it.

* * *

Hour after hour passed. At an uncertain moment, a couple of men, who for some unknown reason had been slandering the mage and the sorceress, awoke to find their new neighbours. Not to say that their discovery was reassuring. But neither was there much excitement, as if what was happening required only patience. But no one came. Neither the guards with news, food or threats, nor Sir Evu himself. As the long minutes passed, the two bandits, as the Temple Master referred to the leaders of the group, began to show signs of nervousness and impatience.

But it could not be said that Alim and Morrigan's souls were untroubled. Uncertainty was not conducive to inner balance and provided the best fertiliser for the dark fruits of the imagination.

Towards midday, in the sorceress' inner estimation, the footsteps of the first guest could finally be heard. The persona, however, was unexpected. From around the bend in the stairs emerged the figure of chasind, who had stood outside the temple the previous afternoon proclaiming the approach of Mora and the imminent painful death of anyone who dared to linger in the south. He stopped in front of the bars leading into the dungeon corridor, leaned back against them and smiled. The man's face was a mixture of grim satisfaction, superiority and pure joy.

— Hey. The witch. How's it behind bars? You're finally in the cage. Den arrogante tohta heerer yemme eet mörkt yørne.

Leaning to the right to get a better view of his guest, Alim asked his cellmate.

— Was he Hasidic?

— Yes. The coward had a thought. That I should be in a dark corner.

Jacind spat defiantly on the ground.

— Talk is good. But not for long. Whenever the chieftain comes to Flemeta with gifts for the witch, the one to chase away. Shame and neglect is all the tribe gets from your blood. And you... Twice hunters have encountered you in the forest. This one among them. And earned only a vile laugh. Now laugh this time. Let the tribe be dead, but this one breathes. And see your end.

The mage rose, stretched his legs and turned to the girl.

— Really?

— Would your mother waste her time with petty thieves? My story yesterday was a point. The coward is full of bravado. But only as long as there are iron bars to help. So you're the one responsible for our imprisonment, not those two brutes?

— Who? This one doesn't know them.

Hassind grinned proudly and confessed.

— This one told the temple warriors about you. That you are a powerful witch. The descendant of a great one.

With a sound of annoyance, the sorceress smacked herself on the thigh.

— Oh, man! I am ready to be humiliated and laughed at. But he speaks of his mother with respect, even in her absence and despite all the hatred she has nurtured.

— Let it be. The question is, if this one has betrayed the Templars. Why were we arrested for denouncing those over there? And as robbers, and not on suspicion of apostasy?

Both bandits sat quietly, listening intently to the argument, wondering exactly what they had gotten themselves into. Morrigan turned her head lazily towards the men and shrugged.

— The question is pertinent. But it is too soon to draw conclusions. If the Templars had proof — no one would seek the truth. There are other circumstances. Rather, from the moment this coward appeared, the question should have been how he got into the temple dungeon. Where are the guards?

— Ha! For this one is the most cunning and resilient of the tribe! This one doesn't care about the rules of the Blessed! Go wherever you want! Do whatever you want! The rules aren't for...

A wooden stick came crashing down on the back of the Hasinda's head, causing him to press his forehead into the bars of the cell and fall to the floor with a mournful groan. Behind him were two "sisters" who served in the temple. Neither were more than twenty winters old, and neither looked imposing enough to withstand a single kick from the Hasinda. Especially in their woollen robes that fell to the floor. But soft leather shoes, sturdy staffs and a good swing levelled the playing field. And what a difference it made that the batons in the hands of the guards trembled with inner tension and the fear reflected in their faces.

A third girl emerged from behind the two, with bright red hair, a slim build and pale green eyes. One of the bandits whistled, but the inappropriate signals went unheeded. The red-haired girl silently lit a candle, covered it with a flask, took out the keys and unlocked the door to the dungeon. And then one of the cells opposite the one already occupied. With some difficulty, the three women dragged the Chasind inside and dropped him carelessly on the floor. Bowing respectfully, the redhead let the 'sisters' go about their business. And then waited long enough for the assistants to be out of earshot. Only then did she turn back to Alim and Morrigan, glancing warily at the two eavesdropping outlaws.

A pleasant, husky voice echoed softly beneath the low vault.

— My name is Leliana. With Mother's permission, I live in the temple convent as a 'Sister of Light', but I am not initiated. It so happened that the conversation between this southerner and Sir Evu had reached my ears. Sir Evu did not act immediately, but sent a messenger from the settlement. And then your arrest. Sir Evu has been behaving suspiciously of late, taking too many liberties outside Sir Bruant's sight. He is also manipulating information to persuade Mother to adopt a risky strategy against Lothering. Sir Ewu's recent successes in identifying renegades are at least questionable on closer inspection. Each has been achieved either by circumventing the Commander's orders or by exploiting the loopholes that exist. I'm afraid there are plans for you as well.

While the elf digested what had been said, the sorceress was the first to react, without getting up.

— You are eagerly stuffing facts into my head. You seem to want the other side to choke on them. And while suspicions and conclusions suffocate, that's where you come in, isn't it?

— Huh?

— A beautiful landscape you have painted. But there are details lurking in the shadows, like wolves. Why should a maiden care about the affairs of a noble Templar? Especially when he's on his mother's bad side, unlike his own commander.

The redhead frowned, turning her hard gaze to the wall where the girl sat, huddled in the darkness.

— Because I care. I care about the people who live here. They're better than they look. I care about my mother, who took me in and tried to help people. She found herself in a difficult political situation with unsuitable helpers. I care about my own conscience if I leave things as they are and just watch.

— A touch of selfishness, and the noblest urges go from harmless puppies to fangy dogs. So Sir Evu is your enemy. And since this plan is his creation, he's somehow connected to the nearby gang. The word of the fake "sister" against his? It's clear who will win.

— I am guided by faith. But also a pretty clear view of the thinking of people like Sir Evu. The Corps has left Lottering. Including the commander and the lieutenants. Sir Evu reported in the morning — as if the spies had discovered the outlaws' camp. Sir Bruant immediately ordered the entire corps to set out to wipe them out. It is unlikely that the troops will return before nightfall.

At these words, the two prisoners in the next cell twitched and turned pale, but held their tongues. The redhead continued.

— If the Templars return victorious, Sir Evu will have an unshakable reputation and credibility in the eyes of the Mother. Nothing can tarnish that reputation, and Sir Bruant will remain commander only formally. Until now, Sir Evu and his loyal Templemen have always been close at hand. It took opportunity and time. Your arrival has provided both. And the present fate of the Hasinda, recklessly disrespecting the Temple, is a perfect demonstration of the measure of my abilities.

Alim scratched his head and asked cautiously.

— There is only one thing that is unclear in this conversation. Why so much effort? Are you sure you haven't made a mistake in choosing your interlocutors for such important issues? I don't think we're on the right side of the bars to be persuaded. Or are you going to open the door?

Leliana suddenly flushed and looked down, but she pulled herself up and replied in a firm voice.

— It's about... visions.

Alim grinned sarcastically, about to comment on the unexpected statement, but his intentions were interrupted by Morrigan's strangely serious question.

— A vision? What does that word mean?

Lowering her voice to a whisper, the girl began to slowly explain.

— A vision... It's hard to explain. There is a garden behind the temple. And every now and then I catch a glimpse of something that isn't really there. The other day, when the bad news came one after the other, it happened again. A root of Canavaris sprouted unusually large and encircled an old but still sturdy pillar. It was as if the plant supported the column, not allowing cracks to grow in the masonry, but also leaning against the sun. And both were covered by the shadow of the old bush, giving it no chance. All they had to do was reach out and adjust the branches to clear the way for the warm light.

The wizard blinked and clarified.

— Canavaris — colloquially known as 'Elf Root'?

— Exactly.

The sorceress sighed and wondered.

— Are the visions just sent to you?

— Yes.

— That's not the best fate. If that were to happen to me, scepticism would be my choice. In the battle between wishful thinking and the boring, hard truth, the former often wins. And self-deception is second nature. Especially when there is considerable talent in the art of deception.

Morrigan stepped forward, two eyes gleaming yellow in the darkness.

— And you're good at it. Sometimes flawlessness is more noticeable than bad acting. Why do you need us? Briefly.

The redhead tensed, but immediately relaxed, as if releasing some unknown doubt.

— Short isn't enough. In this game you are not very important to win. On the other hand, if I don't succeed, you'll go from pawn to queen. That's why Sir Ewu thought it appropriate to risk leaving the house unguarded today. Capturing the intruders and eliminating the gang will raise his reputation to unattainable heights. Use that as leverage — he can make the most of your story. Lies or not, two of the infiltrators will become four. And two of them will turn out to be renegades. No one will question your story. But apart from your sacrifice to the foundation of Sir Ewu's personal glory, you are also the bait. Word of the capture of the alleged renegades has already spread. Bad news wings. And the reputation you've already built forms a mindset towards them. If someone takes the bait, it will be a nice bonus to the meal.

— The northerners seem to have a special wisdom about letting snakes guard the henhouse. The companion's question remains unanswered. The door?

Leliana looked at the castle doubtfully and shook her head in the negative.

— Not now. Tonight. Your appearance might cause an unnecessary commotion. And trust...

The sorceress leaned back against the wall and, interrupting the redhead, finished the sentence for the other.

— ...the blade is double-edged.

Leliana raised her eyebrows in surprise and opened her mouth, but pressed her lips together in a silent question.

— It is a saying of the bards of Orlei. How could a supposed witch from the backwoods of Korkari know such a thing?

The mage narrowed his eyes, gazing thoughtfully into the dark corner where his partner lurked. But Morrigan only laughed softly, her expression taking on a tone of grim doom.

— How does the supposed 'sister' know about Eagle? It's time for you to go, I think. Never delay the inevitable.

Leliana paled more than ever, nodded convulsively and hurried out of the dungeon, her palm pressed nervously to her head. She remembered to lock the door on her way out with the same number of turns as it had been locked. After a moment, Alim chewed his lip and turned to the sorceress.

— You know...

— Does it look strange?

— Yes, it does.

— Quite. Dextrous. Clever. But the visions... Like a bloody smudge on an innocent blue sky. Or a pretence...

* * *

The light coming down the stairs into the dungeon dimmed. And the bellies emptied. All the signs of evening were there. A few hours after Leliana's visit, the Hassind awoke. Predictably, shock was replaced by cursing, accusations, threats, and then the man fled grimly into the darkness of the far corner of the cell. Morrigan just laughed grimly, well aware of the former victor's dark thoughts. He had already exhausted his own value to Ser Eva and was becoming more of a nuisance than a useful figure in the dungeon. The bandits had lost what little confidence they could muster after their conversation, sometimes whispering anxiously out of earshot. Inwardly, the sorceress agreed with the redhead's conclusions. Barring some unknown factor, the men's fate did not bode well for the story. Even in the unlikely event that the gang overpowered the Templars, they would still be accused of treason. Alim pondered with the others, shyly hidden by the prevailing darkness.

After a long silence, the girl turned to her neighbours and asked.

— What do you think about what the coward on the other side of the street said? I'm curious, did you mean what you said? Or did you?

A long pause followed, interrupted for the first time by the one of the two who had hit Morrigan in Dane's Shelter.

— Bullshit about being a witch? We are more concerned with the tales of a girl who dreams of being a prophetess.

— That's weird. Come to think of it... You must have a strong sense of self-preservation. What if what you're saying is true? Then you'll be alone with a creature rumoured to have a greater disregard for customary law than you do. And in a cage. To a wizard, the bars are the same whether they are there or not. For example. You can drink your life away, they say. And not escape, which means... Only agony remains. Until the last drop of life force leaves the body.

This time the man's voice vibrated with concern, though he tried to keep his voice firm and his words more persuasive to himself than to his companion.

— It's just talk. Nothing about nothing about nothing.

The girl chuckled and replied with feigned anger.

— Who knows.

The elf leaned forward and asked in a low voice.

— Does that make sense?

— Oh... It's time you knew, not everyone has one. Not everyone needs one. Boring, head full of dark ideas. So it's entertainment. And after what's done, their feelings don't need to be cherished.

— If you look at it that way...

Hurried, light footsteps came up the stairs and a female figure appeared in the dim light. Not Leliana. She was wearing plain linen trousers and a similarly plain shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the attractive curves of her upper chest, clearly supported by a corset or undershirt on the inside. She wore high boots and a leather cloak with a hood in case it rained. A few small bags on a wide belt. And no conspicuous jewellery.

The stranger clapped her hands twice, which were a thick, rich shade of burgundy, then crouched down and grabbed the lower hinge of the door. At first, nothing happened except for the girl's even, heavy breathing. Then a sharp crackling sound came from the side of the door. The area where the stranger's hands were pressed took on a faint dark brown colour, which soon changed to a reddish brown. A moment later it changed to a cherry colour, getting lighter and lighter until it turned into a distinctive pale red glow, casting subtle crimson shadows all around.

Apparently finished, the girl took a step back. She waved her arms as if to cool herself down, and hit the bottom of the door, near the glowing hinge, hard with her heel. And another. At the fifth blow, something in the door creaked and the jamb sagged, the hinge giving way and bending. She pulled what looked like a modest crowbar from behind her back and jammed it through the gap, putting her full weight on it. Another jerk and the hinge snapped, leaving the door on its two hinges. With a little gasp, the gap began to creak open until it was enough. Once inside, the girl gasped and peered into the darkness until she found a chamber with two vaguely distinguishable figures of different genders.

— You!

Alim didn't hold back and answered.

— We are. But let me ask you, who are you?

The girl looked around, noticed the presence of other ears, and replied.

— Not here. Just a moment. I'll just catch my breath and open this door.

Morrigan rose to her feet in one fluid motion and stepped closer to the bars. The sorceress' eyes showed a genuine interest in the stranger who had broken into the Templar dungeon. Closer inspection revealed a pair of piercing brown eyes flashing with determination in a pretty face, her soft features framed by sweat-stained brown curls. The pretty exterior, more suited to libraries or long, serious conversations by the fire, was distorted by an undisguised inner struggle with fear and uncertainty. With a chuckle, the one called witch spoke softly and confidently.

— I'll help you. We'll bring our powers to the lock together. First you, then me, and then we'll do it again.

The stranger nodded, obviously relieved that someone was willing to share both the burden of decision and the burden of mana. Moments later, the clapping was repeated and the castle began to glow. As it glowed cherry red, Morrigan waved her hand, cast a meaningful glance at the absorbed elf and, without a sound, cast a cooling spell on the lock. There was a sharp metallic crackle and squeak mixed with a hiss as the frost on one side overwhelmed the heat on the other. A step back and on the other side the still glowing heat palms touched the iron again. On the second cooling, the metal gave way. A light blow with the crowbar and the lock cracked and crumbled.

— Thank you. I... Overestimated my own strength and couldn't have done it alone.

— Fire spell control is excellent. Rare, even. There is no room for regret. As my educated companion believes — knowledge of the spells is the mark of the brave, the desperate or the curious.

Alim sighed and muttered to himself.

— I wonder which category you put me in?

The sorceress shrugged and looked over her shoulder.

— You are unique, I suppose.

Despite her obvious fatigue, the stranger pumped her fist. Waving her hand in the direction of the exit, she said.

— Hurry up. I'll tell you on the way. The day is running out. I don't know when the Templars will be back, but I don't want to meet them.

The elf shook his head in doubt, but nodded uncertainly at his companion's questioning look.

— I don't see the point of cheating when we're already here. Especially after so much effort.

As she passed her prison mates, Morrigan looked at them both with a look of disdain and slight mockery. They both looked grim. Even the Hassind didn't make a fuss in the end. Everyone was aware of the threat the two wizards posed. Especially after the previous words of the "witch". There was no point in shouting, for the girl who had freed them had gone down with impunity.

As they rose and hurried through the long shadows of the sunset along the flat sandstone path to the corner of the temple, the three encountered Leliana, who jumped out of the way. The redhead lunged forward, tossing her massive set of keys. Under her arm was a conspicuous leather pouch containing a stack of documents.

The hostess Alima and Morrigan opened their mouths in surprise and blurted out.

— Sister Leliana?

— Baby Bethany?

"Baby" blushed immediately and replied sharply, albeit summarily.

— Not a baby anywhere for a few years now!

Leliana glanced around at the others, eyes wide, and quickly pulled herself together.

— She was on her way to you with proof of Sir Ewu's dark deeds. But apparently there was another rescuer interested in your fate.

The gaze of the pale green eyes returned to Bethany, this time studying her coldly and dispassionately.

— There were rumours of Malcolm and his offspring... But never once did I think... Well, a lesson for me. So you're a wizard?

The brown-eyed girl tensed and quickly spat out the question with a hint of resentment.

— Does it make a difference?

— What...? No. How could that change a girl who was one of the few people to listen to my stories with her mouth open? The one who afterwards flooded me with countless questions that made me dizzy. But such things are important information that affects other things. Should...

— No.

Bethany clenched her fists and shook her head abruptly, sending her curls flying in a brown swirl.

— Today I had already put myself and my family at risk. In memory of my father, I could not allow any more mages to be torn apart by the Templars in defiance of existing laws. And that's exactly why it's necessary to leave Lothering. Today. And since fate has brought us together, Sister Leliana will come with us. Neither Mother nor the Templars must know until we are at least a day's journey away. Then you can return and do as you wish.

— Then it will be too late! You can't be serious...

The young warlock frowned, looking quite confident and unyielding on the outside. Leliana shifted her eyes to Morrigan.

— Look...

But she was interrupted by Alim's calm voice.

— Actually — we can just leave. Right now. Away from what's happening here. But... The only way to avoid the horse-drawn lines in this area, and to stay anywhere but to the south, is by the river. Oddly enough, there aren't any boats lying around here in the middle of nowhere. Besides, Mistress Bethany has promised an explanation of her own actions. This account promises to be more interesting than Sir Ewu's dark affairs, as it will probably include an escape plan.

Morrigan nodded and added for herself.

— I think we will follow the one who risked her own skin. Not the one whose plans are hidden in the shadows. Relax and follow us.

The elf looked around at the three girls, then said "I'm sorry" to Leliana with bare lips and shrugged. The redhead pursed her lips in annoyance but remained silent, desperately considering her own options. The young sorceress hurried forward to make sure she wouldn't run away.

— About the boat — you are right, Master Elf. Everyone with at least one leaky trough set sail for the southern border a day and a half ago. My father had three boats, but the oldest was no good. Two was good enough. She'd hidden her own in the thicket behind Dane's Shelter, across the river.

As they climbed the bridge, the four noted with varying degrees of concern the almost total absence of people. It was as if they had deliberately hidden for Bethany's arrival. A quick glance, however, revealed signs of a gathering on the other side of the settlement, beyond its borders. Not far from where Morrigan and Alim had spotted the caravan of wagons gathering for their departure that morning. Whatever was going on there was playing into the hands of the group of 'refugees', drawing unnecessary attention away from them. But the witch couldn't help noticing Leliana's tense gaze. It was as if the girl expected nothing good from the crowd, or was aware of the true background of what was happening. Which she was not happy about at all.

As they hurriedly approached the Shelter building, everyone could clearly hear a man's angry shouting and a woman's screaming coming from the back of the building. There was the sound of an axe hammering into dry wood and the shattering of glass. Bethany's cheeks flushed and she went pale and wide-eyed.

— Carver... Idiot! My brother secretly followed me with a suicidal robbery plan!

Leliana looked at the girl in disbelief, then said quickly, "Among other things, Sir Donnal, the knight who's seen a lot, is there now, and the Blackstone Volunteer Recruiter is with him. Young Carver doesn't stand a chance.

The young warlock bit her lip and turned quickly to Alim and Morrigan. Her eyes wet with tears flitted between the two strangers, but taking a deep breath, the girl turned to plead.

— Please help me save my brother! All it takes is time, and I... This brat will listen to me. The boats must be in one place, no more than twenty paces beyond the backyard. I... I just don't have enough mana and...

Alim looked at the witch questioningly, as if lost in his own thoughts. He gave the witch a light nudge with his shoulder.

— I think it's time to pay.

Morrigan frowned and muttered.

— Stupid... Do what you want. Without me.

Leliana looked around with her eyes wide open and was not embarrassed to utter a unifying word.

— You're out of your mind!

The man replied with a flying stride towards the entrance, not hiding the tension in his voice.

— Take your time to make up your mind, 'sister'. It might do you some good. Trust is a two-edged sword. Isn't it, Morrigan?

Her face contorted in a mixture of anger and surprise, the sorceress hurried after her, spitting out words in a tone that could otherwise kill.

— Son of a bitch! Selarath!

* * *

In 3 years and a certain number of sunrises before that.

In the twilight of the passing day, Benedict walked slowly towards the night ahead. The paths had changed many times since his last visit, so the man had to rely on instinct, skill, common sense and agility. Fortunately, the Ferelden horse trailing behind him, drawn by the reins clenched in his fist, was calm and brave enough. Had the horse panicked or faltered on those slippery ledges, it would have meant the loss of his means of transport. Ahead, in the deep shadow of a narrow gorge, lay Aeonar, a secret prison for magicians. Not a pleasant place. But the man was secretly glad that at least he had been lucky with the weather. The first days of summer had been dry and clear.

After a good twenty minutes, the traveller found himself in front of a modest looking gate that could only admit one rider at a time, and only after he had dismounted. The gate was open and a wry grin spread across the man's face. Of course, the man had been spotted long ago. And they must have had two or three crossbows in their sights. Benedick would have been disappointed if he had received less attention.

Once inside, the man found himself in a modestly sized courtyard. In the centre, the only building that inevitably caught the eye was made of massive basalt blocks. It seemed partially sunken into the sheer rock that rose a good hundred paces behind it. On the stone slabs of the courtyard, the entire garrison of several dozen Templars in full armour lined up in tight, slender rows. In front of the former warriors and warriors' wives, the overseer of the prison walked with precise movements. Impeccable looking uniform, broad shouldered, medium height, shaved skull, heavy square jaw. The Orlesian ancestry was barely perceptible. Benedict did not know this man. It seemed that over the years, the head of the order to which he belonged had appointed a new overseer. But he knew for certain that the show that was unfolding had nothing to do with him personally. The Traveller waited patiently at the gate.

The examination did not take long and was conducted in complete silence. When the guard was finished, he dismissed the Templar with a clear nod and went straight to Benedict. The man's posture, walk and gaze were alert and ready for battle. It was a good thing for the traveller, for he had expected to see such behaviour in Aeonar.

The overseer stopped exactly two sword lengths away and spoke first:

— Brunette, careless or negligent of appearance, as judged by hairstyle. Characteristic Orlesian nose with a hump, but in clothing there is a noticeable tendency towards practicality at the expense of beauty and fashion. Judging by your posture, the lack of visible scars, and the scratches on the scabbard and hilt of your short sword, you use weapons often and quite successfully. And you are well aware that your life depends on my decision in the next few moments. Identify yourself, the reason for your arrival, how you know of this place, who you told. This is not a suggestion, but a non-negotiable command.

As the cold voice faded, Benedict smiled conciliatorily, though he knew it would have no effect on his companion. Just a habit. Slowly he spread his hands, keeping them away from his body, and began to answer:

— You're right about a lot of things, mate. I have to admit, I've had very little opportunity to do my hair in the sewers of Kirkwall in the past year. There's a big difference between you and me. A practical approach, however, is one thing we have in common. Nicolina encourages a similar approach in all members of the Order. I swing my sword often, as you so aptly put it. Maybe a hundred times every morning and, if it's a good day, just as many before bed. We're not temple hunters, so we can get into trouble every other day. We're a more delicate instrument. And I'm sure you'll give me a head start in the use of edged weapons. By the way, the obsession check tonight was excellent. Between you and me, your predecessor did not command such respect from his subordinates. My name is Benedick. A seeker of truth, like yourself. This is not a surprise inspection. It doesn't happen here. My journey is to my homeland to report my failure. I went to Aeonar only because it was almost on the way, and in the faint hope of salvaging some scrap of useful information. I knew about the prison, as did all the Seekers who had been appointed overseers or who had come to inspect it.

The man in front of Benedict frowned and said slowly, clearly:

— Therinfal speech.

The guest sighed, nodded and began to coin words with expression:

— I've heard many people complain. They don't understand why we study in a castle in the middle of nowhere when our job is to search for impiety in the masses. You...

A dry voice interrupted with the next question:

— Who sat on the throne in the heart of Terinfal?

— No-one. The throne is meant for the Creator. But it is empty, for He has left us.

— Let's say. Visits to Aeonar by Seekers with knowledge of the prison are not forbidden. But not welcome. Especially not by me. Vincent, at your service.

The overseer bowed his head politely and pointed to the stables hidden in the only building.

— Let me ask you about your mission. If it's not a secret.

Benedikt hummed, rubbing the stubble on his chin with his free hand.

— Not really. I was ordered to find the 'mythical' Black Shop in the depths of Kirkwall. But the results are more like trashy tales, arbitrarily altered by word of mouth. Tristan and I have spent nearly a year in the cursed city without ever coming up with anything that could be called a real clue. It's hard enough for me to believe that Xenon Antique, who is not even a mage, could hide a shop of this description so securely from the eyes of others. Though the identity of the owner seems no less grotesque in the totality of the abilities attributed to him. My partner isn't as sceptical as I am, which is why he's stayed in Kirkwall, even though the deadline for the task has long since passed.

— Hmmm...

— Thanks for keeping a low profile in the comments.

Benedick deftly led the horse to a loose stall, freed it from its long bow and quiver, saddle, reins and bridle, and meticulously inspected its hooves. He stroked the snorting horse's muzzle and made sure it had water and oats. Only then did the man turn to Vincent, who waited patiently.

— To be honest, I wouldn't feel so bad about this fairy-tale chase if I didn't have, say, Cahail at my side.

The overseer raised an eyebrow and pointed to the main entrance and the living quarters.

— What's wrong with Cahail? I knew him as an experienced Seeker before he came here.

— Crossed paths?

— I was more of an errand boy. We're from different generations. But the other one always had a lot to learn. And that mop of black hair.

— Yes. Yeah. A man of stubbornness and determination. More of a blond though. I last saw his party about a month ago, before they went down into the catacombs beneath Kirkwall. Something to do with large-scale and ancient blood magic. The era of the old empire. A thing of the past, but far more serious than rumours. My complaints, of course, are simply the result of the bitterness of defeat. Huh. So much attention for one city when we have an international political scandal.

Vincent opened a narrow oak door of suitable thickness and size for defence, and showed Benedict into a vacant room that was notable for its ascetic but practical furnishings. The overseer asked with a twitch of his cheeks:

— What happened?

The guest dropped his bag of belongings by the bed and began to remove his sling and scabbard, never once turning his back on his host:

— News arrives with a colossal delay. A coup d'état in the Empire. I had enough worries of my own, but as a high-ranking Templar was involved, I tried to get to the bottom of it. Lambert van Reeves. Mediator between the Imperial Templars and the Templars of the Church of Andraste, official ambassador to the Empire. Somehow a systematic fight against the corrupt Imperial elite turned into a full-scale overthrow of the political and religious high command. It's not for me to judge the finer points of political intrigue. But as far as I'm concerned, this was not expected, not in the Templar Order, not in the Church, not in the White Spire, not in the Palace. Nowhere. Noise, noise. Can I get you something to eat on the way?

The overseer nodded, digesting the news with an absent expression. But he could see that for the man, the upheaval was far away, had little impact on the current tasks in Aeonar, and was therefore of little importance. As he escorted his guest to the kitchen, the man dropped the word:

— When were we inspected?

Benedick smiled with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, knowing exactly what Vincent meant. First rule of Aeonar, trust is an unacceptable luxury.

— Hmm. Let me see. Creator! Four winters. No, no, wait, four and a half winters ago. That's a long time ago. This place gave me the creeps back then. But after the sewers of Kirkwall. There's nothing but dirt. Oh yes, the autumn roads here, that's a vivid experience too. I think I've made a big mistake coming here in late autumn.

  After a good meal of porridge, bread, nuts and dried berries in the half-empty kitchen, the two men sat opposite each other at the oak table. Waiting for his guest to start eating, Vincent asked the next question:

— What do you hope to learn here?

Benedict chewed and shrugged.

— Everything about the Black Shop. Anything but the repetition of stories, all of which I know by heart and can tell you with certainty where they come from. With your permission, of course. There is no official investigation.

— So. Just for the chance of, er, luck?

The overseer's voice showed clear disapproval.

— О... You're a proponent of proven solutions that eliminate failure and chance. I take my hat off to Nicolina. You're in your place. I'm a bloodhound. I go where they tell me to go. I look for what they want. And in the big world there's so much uncertainty. You have to take luck and bad luck into account. Here's an example. Everything seems to be taken into account, everything is thought out. Except for a stray shot to the head from a crossbow during a gang war in the alley across the street, between a bunch of gangsters, unknown to anyone, for control of the poor people crammed in there. The problem was that you didn't write a detailed report at the end of each day. In fact, you didn't even reflect on your own sudden mortality. Many days of investigation were lost. Bad luck, eh?

Benedict took a bite of bread and winked mischievously as he chewed. Vincent raised his eyebrows a little. But finally he nodded. The expression on his face was more one of possibility than agreement.

— Do you have any idea where to start?

His eyes went to the ceiling and he swallowed the food in his mouth with a rumbling sound. The answer did not come immediately, as if Benedict was considering his options.

— I confess, I don't want to spend days in the pit. I think you have a dozen 'visitors' from Kirkwall.

Vincent narrowed his eyes and shook his head negatively.

— You're well informed. But the news doesn't leave Aeonar at all. There are only seven guests left. You haven't considered the incidents. By the way, all seven have to do with blood magic.

For the first time, the guest wrinkled his nose, but due to the slightly delayed reaction, it was unclear which of the two facts he was referring to. Throwing the spoon into the almost clean bowl, the man sighed.

— Seven is seven. If you don't mind, I'd like to go hunting tomorrow afternoon. Then I'll get to work tonight.

— There's not much to hunt here. And I don't like to venture too far out of the valley.

— I remember. But do birds still fly?

— That's right.

— That's great.

The man drank his tincture in one gulp and, with a slight smile, picked up his own and the overseer's dishes and handed them gratefully to the cook. The cook, a full Templar like the rest of the place, frowned at the stranger in return. Vincent decided not to let the guest out of his sight until the end, and waited for him at the exit.

— I'll show you to your room.

Benedict nodded understandingly and motioned for him to lead the way.

— According to your account, you've had nothing but bad luck in Kirkwall. A black streak?

— Well, I'm alive, aren't I?

Vincent turned and gave the Seeker a look of disbelief, but seemed genuinely perplexed.

— That bad?

The man shook his head, as if weighing his words before uttering them:

— Tristan and I weren't in high society. Yes, of course Kirkwall isn't all dirt, stench, blood, prostitutes, junkies, the homeless and crime. But if you focus your search on the slums and sewers, you won't see much else. This isn't Orleigh, where even in a backwater you wouldn't expect to be greeted every morning by a floating corpse. Let alone the body of someone you know. Kirkwall is overpopulated, poor, corrupt and inefficient on many levels. It hasn't recovered from Perrin's attack on the Templars. It hasn't recovered from the Kunari takeover in the Age of Storms. The Creator! I suppose it hasn't recovered from the founding. But you're right. There has been one bright spot. One. This is going to sound a little immoral, but I was swimming more and more in sewage. Melsendre. A beautiful black-haired Orlesian woman. A chance meeting and three wonderful nights. I'm hardly that charming, but I suppose I proved mysterious enough for a bard. Yes, the 'lady's' profession became clear rather quickly. Fortunately, the girl's goals did not overlap with mine. So we were able to spend time together without unnecessary obligations and with a paranoia of not overstepping personal boundaries.

The two men were silent for a moment before pausing outside the room the overseer had prepared for his guest. Vincent had little to add to the story, and Benedict was briefly lost in his own thoughts. Running his hand along the smooth wall of perfectly fitted basalt blocks, Aeonar's guest suddenly spoke:

— You know... What really surprises me about Kirkwall? A darkness of years, a multitude of lords, a sea of violence, but the Casemates, the foundations of the city, the harbour, the countless statues, all stand as a silent monument to the founders. Drenched in the blood of the innocent. But hidden by the gift of timelessness. Like this place. Don't you think?

Vincent glanced thoughtfully over the next bare wall and shrugged indifferently.

— I am more interested in the practicality of these walls. That's all. Sleep well. That's very rare in Aeonar.

After a glance at the overseer, Benedikt rubbed his eyes tiredly and said quietly:

— Yes, I remember…