Chapter 14 - "Visitors and questions"

Morrigan stood beside a rough wall in a room of modest dimensions. Two clear steps from one wall to the other in width, three in length, two or three palms above her head to the ceiling, and a roughly carved bench running the length of the wall. There were also two old oak buckets in the corner, one full of what looked like clean, cool water and one empty. This was of little interest to the girl. She looked up at the only light source, which was placed near the ceiling. The sorceress absorbed the dim light pouring down, reaching her concentrated face past the grating above. But more than that, the girl savoured the sound of the rain. It was steady, soothingly monotonous, filled with a richness of depth. It was intertwined with the tinkling of raindrops hitting puddles and stones near the grate, the jet of water falling from a height in the distance, the echoes of buildings and forest taking on barely discernible outlines in the noise. The faint thunder coming from afar, as if delicate fingers were plucking the delicate strings of primitive animal emotions, framing an unmade palette of sounds.

The short journey to this place didn't take long, and with cold judgement it was spared. With such accusations... Morrigan was not only allowed to wash off the skin-staining blood before her imprisonment. Gregor's explicit orders left no room for interpretation by the executors, and served as a shield against displays of «personal attitude».

One thing led to another, and the girl found herself in a clean room, fed, but without a fair share of the blood that had gone into making the phylactery. The fragment left the sorceress with many questions, but no one to answer them. The stone sack around it was under the basement floor of the Firmament. It couldn't even be called a proper dungeon. From what he could see, the basement seemed to lead down on each of the four sides of the ancient building into narrow galleries that ended in dead ends. Along the length of these galleries and outwards, away from the foundation of the building, were small rooms adapted for the confinement of prisoners. Notably, the doors to these rooms worked on the same principle as the lyrium vault on the fourth floor of the Templar building. Hence the feeling of a «stone sack», along with the thought of an eternally walled tomb. The prisoner was even deprived of entertainment such as banging on the bars or one-way communication with the jailers. They were not needed here. No magic known to the sorceress could help the prisoner get out quickly and safely, let alone unnoticed.

Morrigan's thoughts involuntarily returned to the moments surrounding the moment of judgement. Firstly, because a catastrophe always left a deeper and clearer mark than a quiet prosperity. Secondly, because an open wound wants to be rubbed, even if it should not be. After all, there was nothing to do in the cell...

It was the faces and the phrases that stayed with the girl more than anything else. When she was taken away, none of the «voluntary liberators of the Circle» had left the building except Valinsi. The leader of the group himself showed conflicting emotions. Relief, doubt, fear... It was hard to tell which of these prevailed. But at least the man had made an attempt to talk to Gregor, to sort out the details. The last thing the sorceress caught of the conversation was the Commander's stern face, nodding wearily at Alim in response to Valinci's questions. The elf himself seemed lost in conversation, Neria leaning against him, her back to the accused. Another face flashed past, the woman who had acted as leader of the mages taking refuge on the ground floor. There was a perfectly readable bewilderment mixed with suspicion on her face. But at the same time, it was as if something else was hiding behind those understandable facades.... Morrigan had been unable to grasp the feeling in her tail, to determine where it came from and what it meant. It was slipping away now. But for some unknown reason, the sorceress did not want to be alone with the seemingly pleasant lady. Just in case.

The night in the cell didn't go well... Like other nights under this roof. But in isolation, the madness took on a particularly vivid scent that lingered in the cell even after waking. It never seemed to fade, but rather to embed itself in his skin. The nightmare was also different for the first time, and not just in detail...

In fact, Morrigan didn't even realise she was asleep at first. She found herself in the same room. In the form she had taken during her strange transformation. Only after she had controlled her emotions. That she realised she didn't remember how she'd cast the spell. And when she found the ash falling through the light pipe, the girl realised what was happening. At first, there was only an oppressive silence around her. Then, without any premonition, the stone of the wall behind her was replaced by a mirrored surface. Like the calm surface of a lake, it allowed the sorceress to see herself in full. And to see the flesh begin to boil in the reflection of that which had been changed by the spell, and to see through the horrible bubbling mess of her own face, naked arms, torso... Finally, on the other side of the mirror, the reflection broke free from the captivity of the alien body and looked coldly, if not hostilely, at the original. Immediately, the sorceress groped herself, convinced that the change was only in the mirror. It seemed that the monster was seeing its hidden self in the reflection. Or there was a more complex allegory that Morrigan refused to contemplate, either then or later, when she awoke.

With a long exhale, the sorceress sat down on the bench and stared blankly at the walls of the ancient dungeon. There was nothing to see. Either the prisoners hadn't been here long enough to leave a trace, or they had never been here at all. Pushing the thoughts of what had already happened to the back of her mind, she thought about what was to come. More specifically, what was left of it. Emotions urged her to return to the intoxicating frustration of questions: «how did it happen», «who is to blame» and «why». But the grip of reason did not loosen. According to the magician, the following questions remained to be pondered: «how to accept the fact of imminent death», «how not to go mad in the surrounding walls in anticipation of the end», «how not to let the foolish hope eat itself alive». And, of course, «whether it's worth continuing to fight for one's own sanity». Surprisingly, even for Morrigan herself, the answer to the last question was a simple and unequivocal «yes». Why was that? The girl assumed that there was a special role involved here: perseverance and determination. Therefore, if she were to sink in uncharted waters, she would definitely not accept a quick outcome. The rest of the questions did not lend themselves to such a short and succinct answer. Weighing her options, the sorceress decided to occupy her body and mind with work, even if it seemed pointless due to the lack of a long-term perspective.

Carefully folding the removed robe of a Circle member on the bench, and wearing only loose trousers as neither the sorceress nor the Templars accompanying her had any intention of choosing suitable underwear, Morrigan stretched. Standing in a straight line, she placed her hands on the stone floor and her feet on the bench. Taking five deep breaths and closing her eyes, the sorceress began a series of slow push-ups, observing long pauses for breath. Not so much meditation as careful attention to her body, still throbbing with pain in the juicy bruises on her side, in the joints of her arms and legs that had suffered more than one shock.

And the mind took on another task. In the absence of new tools and knowledge, the obsession she had never allowed herself to doubt had no solution. So Morrigan turned to another idea, one free from the shadows of fatalism. The nature of magic and the ways in which it could be activated. The impetus was a close look at the behaviour of the formula of the reversal spell in its current, «unruly» form. However, without the girl's inquisitive mind, nurtured by Flemeth outside of traditional frameworks and limitations, such conjectures would not have arisen in the first place. Earlier, at first glance, Morrigan made an assumption — the task of rearranging the runes while filling the formula with mana is impossible for the human mind. Only demons, with their innate ability to think, are capable of such a thing, and more often than one would like, they do not succumb to the norms of conventional logic. But giving up was too easy for the sorceress. Yes, there was a wall in front of her, but who knew, there might be cracks, loopholes or even a door. Getting all the runes to jump back and forth at once, even in a spell as primitive as Lightbringer, was a puzzle. But no one beats a bear with a stick. Taking a long pause between exercises, the girl concentrated, putting aside her past successes and pride. In one graceful motion, she slid to the ground, straightened up and decided how to proceed with the tests.

Splashing the precious water against the wall, the girl raised her eyebrows as she watched the drops drip down. There would be enough mana for a limited amount of Ice Grip. Ten uses before exhaustion and unconsciousness. And the amount of freedom to move the runes, even by a modest estimate, seemed enormous, if calculable at all, in terms of Alim's scribbles. The girl grumbled at the onslaught of annoying memories and returned her attention to the task at hand. Dipping her finger into the water, she began to carefully trace the symbols that corresponded to the numbers, making a calculation. Based on her own assumptions, Morrigan received — a rune in the formula, organised in several layers, could be in one of the... In the only one of the eighteen positions. The girl bit her lip, shook her head negatively, and realised that she had forgotten which layer the rune had originally been in. With the correction, there were twenty-six positions. But that was a perfect case. And useless. With two runes, the combination of both made sense, but mana could only flow back and forth through them. With three, the picture didn't change much. For such a case, the Morrigan knew of two configurations, closed chain and not closed chain. For now, it remained more of an abstraction or a childhood mind trick. True magic began with perhaps a dozen runes. But a case suitable for the Morrigan began with four. Here, one rune was combined with three others at once. Or with only two, and then, as you moved, one link would change to another. Smudging the resulting wet scribbles and dots with her wet hand, the sorceress decided to start with the area of the spell's effect. Leaving palm prints on the wall at regular intervals and without a word, the girl magically transformed them into a thin crust of ice, simultaneously stealing a drop of heat from the surrounding stone bag.

When two Templars arrived that evening, bringing a generous bowl of water porridge and a piece of bread left over from the communal table, they found a meat cellar in the room. The unheated walls glistened with frost and condensed moisture. And the sorceress, with an easily readable sign of fatigue on her face, stood in the middle of the room, staring into space with no obvious sign of discomfort.

The older of the two handed the rations to the other, unsheathed his blade and commanded in a dry, gruff voice.

— Outside.

She shifted her gaze from the puzzle in front of her to the two ragged men. She immediately recognised the blade-wielding warrior as a veteran of Commander Gregor's personal escort. With a slight tilt of her head to the side, the girl shrugged and complied.

The Templar narrowed his eyes slightly and with a deft movement activated the locking mechanism. Quickly enough that the exiting sorceress could only remember where the hidden lever was, and only that. There was nothing superfluous or fussy about the warrior's movements. Meanwhile, the man walked along the gallery in two wide strides, standing near the open passage to the next room. An inviting gesture and a calloused hand pushed Morrigan into the 'fresh' stone bag without undue malice. Then, with a thud of clay against wood, the meal was set down on the bench and the Templar summed up:

— It is forbidden to die before trial. Spare me such tricks. Or the morning will begin with volunteering to help the recruits practice mana depletion.

Her lips pressed together, the warrior radiated a disapproval that would have warmed her heart. But Morrigan read between the lines more than a combination of reproach and displeasure at the «mess» she had just discovered. Exhaling heavily, as if he'd cleared a high hurdle in full armour, the man added one last thing:

— The First Wizard will be down here tomorrow. Do your best... Anyway. Never mind.

A section of the wall closed under the watchful gaze of the two warriors, and the veteran never drew his blade back into its sheath until the final click.

Morrigan remarked to herself that the meeting could be an amusing diversion ..... on the short journey ahead. But at the same time, she couldn't stop her pulse from racing. Logic told her that there was nothing to be gained from the conversation. At best, the two unlikely people would satisfy their own curiosity. But the desire to live was a worthy opponent for logic...

* * *

The new night brought no relief, offering the same foul dish as the last. Morrigan realised that she had failed in her attempts to distance herself from the visions. But so far she had managed to keep her foolish fantasies at bay, ready to generate interpretations of what she had seen. It was like a trap for a sophisticated mind, with obvious bait placed inside. Instead, the girl would spend the day just like the previous one, with a slight adjustment for the unusual visitor.

The mage, who held the highest office in the Kinloch Circle of the Firmament, deigned to appear at midday. Morrigan could not estimate the exact time, for there was no way to keep track of it except by daylight, minor needs and meals. First to appear was the figure of yesterday's scowling veteran. The wrinkled, unshaven face expressed a rich palette of weary suspicion. But a keen eye could find nothing more dangerous in the room than a prisoner. Just as the Templar was about to make a second attempt, a steady, clear, perhaps slightly hoarse male voice came from behind him, betraying both the age of the speaker and his accumulated fatigue:

— 'Stop it, honourable one. Gregor would not blame you if the First Wizard hit a low ceiling or stumbled over a threshold. I think we can handle other threats.

The old Templar pursed his lips in displeasure, glanced under his feet at the missing threshold and disappeared into the passage, making way for another representative of the Order. This one had a short, slightly reddish haircut and was the opposite of his predecessor: clean-shaven, with an erect posture, correct facial features and a nose that had never been broken. He was more boy than man, and he was attractive, even if he was shorter than Morrigan. The greyish eyes with a slight green tinge were a combination of grim determination, contempt and shrewd intelligence. Silently, the Templar took up his position in the corner opposite the entrance, away from the 'mistress' standing at the bench, and without removing his hand from the hilt of his blade, he glared at the girl.

The man who had caused the spectacle appeared next. Barely as tall as Valinsi, the man had a good deal of winter under his belt, as evidenced by the abundance of grey hair and the thick, dishevelled beard. When they had last met, the girl had been more interested in the incarnation of the spell surrounding this man. But now, a pair of yellow eyes met the inquisitive attention of a faded grey gaze, reminiscent of thin ice on dark water. The first wizard stomped his bound staff noisily into the ground, but when he received no response, he let out a long breath:

— Hmmm...

A representative of the Church slipped into the room. She was dressed in much the same way as Leliana had been when they first met. She was small, the same age as the mage, and took the seat opposite the Templar as if she had no seat at all. Even the woman's eyes were fixed on the floor. Perhaps out of a contrived humility, or perhaps because she didn't want to see a renegade woman burdened with accusations of murder. Everything about her screamed austerity and order: her grey hair tied back in a bun, her complete lack of jewellery, her hands folded in front of her....

Turning her gaze to the warlock, Morrigan arched an eyebrow in question and was the first to raise her voice:

— I suppose. I should be flattered. The attention of so many gentlemen. I'm at a loss for words. Why? And why didn't the Commander himself escort you into the arms of a dangerous criminal?

The man made another thoughtful noise in his beard:

— Hmmm...

Leaning his staff against the wall at the entrance and lowering himself onto the bench with a slight grunt, the First Warlock spoke his first words:

— Why do you say that? If you ask Gregor, I don't have to. I've got work to do.

Morrigan, barely aware of her own expression, wrinkled her nose. The girl's face was a colder mask than she would have liked.

— Northern practicality, eh?

The First Warlock smoothed his beard and shook his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with what had been said.

— Gregor is cynical. He has to be. And now more than ever. But it's hard for such a free soul to empathise with our shackles, born of convention, responsibility, made-up rules and other nonsense. Well... I can see by the look on humble Iberia's face that I've strayed from the subject.

Morrigan glanced at the churchwoman and noted with some surprise that she still hadn't raised her face. She turned her attention back to the seated mage and found smiling eyes full of sparks of fleeting triumph.

— In order to minimise misunderstandings, I'll give a brief overview of the reasons for my presence. Oh! First things first. Irving. The first wizard in this circle since Remia's imposition.

Iberia's fingers twitched at the mention, not unnoticed by the Morrigan. Catching the elusive pattern of the conversation as it began, she realised that much would lurk between the lines rather than in plain sight. Irving, however, continued:

— In the face of Gregor's practical approach, and under the weight of a collapsing disaster, there seems to be no reason for us to get to know each other. In person. Except curiosity. But the years of indulgence are long gone. Just so you understand, I'm personally grateful for the rescue and the fact that the Circle still exists. But the totality of the accusations against you, and the deaths of the Elder Wizards, almost entirely... Judge me, Creator, Inez is as brilliant a researcher as Winn is a healer. But only just. It happens. Yes. Oh, the accusations! They are fatal to the enterprise. In our imperfect world, politics takes precedence over justice, so a mage with such a track record can't possibly be involved in saving the Stronghold. Still, life teaches you to look, and you'll find a few 'buts'.

The First Enchanter sighed tiredly and continued his story, his tone unchanged:

— I admire your attentive listening. I confess I expected more from the free-spirited, cynical witch Korkari. Rebellious and wild. Perhaps a touch of rudeness. And contempt, lots of it. Now I feel more like a rabbit being watched from the bushes by a lone wolf.

At these words, the young Templar in the corner clenched his fist around the hilt of his sword until the leather of his gloves cracked. He gave no other indication of his readiness. The sorceress narrowed her eyes, ostentatiously scrutinising the warrior from head to toe, before slowly answering the First Warlock, as if sneaking up on him:

— You've got some stories about me, I suppose. And they don't add up very well. That's why you're trying to find out the truth. I have no desire to help.

Chuckling into his beard, Irving nodded.

— It's like this... Alim paints the Southern Witch as free-spirited, cynical, intelligent and dangerous. Not so short, but took the liberty of skimming the details. Valinci saw resourcefulness, determination and willpower worthy of «chivalry». Pardon the old man's high-mindedness. Neriah was impressed by a glimmer of warmth and caring. Your companions... I've spoken too much. These fragments of the whole are entertaining. Especially in circumstances like this. The important thing is this. Soon the Templars will send reinforcements to put an end to this misunderstanding called life.

The Templar gave Irving a tense look, but Morrigan read more warning and concern in it than displeasure and reproach. And in an instant, a hunch clicked in the girl's mind. Out of habit she saw the Templar as Gregor's watchdog, keeping an eye on the First Warlock. And Morrigan had thought of the woman as the eyes and ears of the Church. But now...

— You're in this together. Every single one of you.

The sorceress pointed at Irving, who raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise.

— But you're at the centre of it.

The man slowly bowed his head in reply:

— That's great. Excellent. Cullen Stanton and your companion are not bound by duty, place or time. Unlike Gregor and I, the young man and I share cleaner and fresher wounds, destined only to heal or fester. Knowing his views and his keen mind, I often show weakness in relying on the judgement of youth. Iberia has been with me much longer. Compared to many, she understands the plight of my situation as well as anyone, empathising with the common mages of the Stronghold as well as the poor of Denerim. And since we understand each other so well, to the point. Though in an old man's way, with a swing. The Commander of the Templars has the privilege of exercising the declared «Right of Destruction». The responsibility for such a decision will be his after the fact. When the «dust» has settled. However, as time went on, the Church and the Commanders preferred that such momentous decisions with serious political consequences be made higher up the hierarchy. At the same time, Church officials have long realised that concentrating such power in their own hands would lead to unnecessary internal conflicts. It would also reduce the usefulness of this brutal instrument to an imaginary one. That's why the reinforcements that will soon be arriving include a person whose will and authority exceeds that of the Commander of the Templars and, I won't lie, mine. Gregor, of course, has been keeping his own 'superiors' informed since the reinforcements left Denerim. An old friend has sent birds on a pre-emptive strike against the towns along the troop route, sparing no feathered supply. And your fate has been placed in the same «high» hands. Forgive the commander's selfish desire to ease his headache. So... a bird that arrived yesterday carried unexpected words on its wings. You are to be guarded with special care, kept alive until the Seeker arrives. Unexpected, eh? That's where the old man's personal interest comes in.

Morrigan waited in silence for a few minutes, wondering what was behind the wizard's words, what motives drove him. But after three minutes, having admitted defeat, she asked:

— I suppose. The mention of my role, if such a thing is openly announced with pigeons, went unheeded. But later. Something had changed.

Irving laughed good-naturedly and indicated the escort with an open palm.

— You see? A sharp mind. No empty words! It's a pity. It's a pity.

Morrigan open her eyes in surprise, perhaps for the first time in a long while, caught off guard by her interlocutor on the spot.

— Why?

The first warlock became serious and gave the girl a hard look before continuing.

— Because if one of them is true, the other one gains weight. And they say less than flattering things about you. But back to the first question. You're right. The dry statement of facts, in coded form of course, led to a formal request for clarification of a number of details. It was only when your origins were mentioned that a lively reaction ensued. Something hidden in Mistress Morrigan, a renegade from the forgotten lands of Korkari, had such an effect on the Seeker that he changed from a cold tone to sharp commands with the emotion of a bloodhound on the trail. This is an unwarranted interest, do not consider yourself a treat for my weakening mind. Rather, you are something that can affect the fragile remains of the Circle in the old man's weakened hands. And don't let the irony of the situation distract you or me.

The sorceress hummed, feeling neither amused nor confident.

— Looks like you have a long stick, but you're too shy to poke the beehive. Just ask the right question. But I still don't get it. Why do you think so highly of my role?

Irving looked thoughtfully at his companions, smoothing his beard again. The man did not answer; the sorceress did not want to rush him. Finally, the mage spoke:

— Probably changed from slow to hasty. That's all. The situation so kindly handled. This blood.

Iberia jumped to her feet and tried to interrupt the first mage, but he shook his head negatively and the woman gave in immediately, staring blankly at the floor again.

— The disaster was my fault too. Uldred didn't appear out of nowhere. Uldred was... We've been twins since our novitiate. A friend with whom I had travelled through hard times. A friend who had risen to high office and found no other candidate for the grim role he had to fill. Reliable, firm, strong-willed, unyielding. We both seem modest against the background of the past. The «soft» first charmer and the fierce «right hand man». But between the two of us, we have achieved so many small victories that our predecessors never dreamed of. But... But... But... Positions that store dark sins do not tolerate humans or elves with an iron backbone. They do not break when they should, but go on silently, teeth clenched, blackened from within. Seeing the signs, I did not rush to judgement and continued to believe. Until the events that we both knew served as an impetus to collapse the house built on principles and ideals, but rotten. My support turned into vulnerability. So, alive in spite of my own foresight.... Alas... And so, instead of waiting until it's too late, let's talk.

Morrigan opened her mouth with a slight irritation on her face, but the older man stopped the jokes from coming out by raising a hand and continuing:

— The Seeker has the ability to detect possession. The nature of this unusual gift is unknown to me. Neither does Gregor. But he believes in the existence of such a miracle, and I trust the old warrior. Even if the test goes well, the Circle has suffered more than ever, even allowing for the 'occupation'. Fortunately for Ferelden, the Church has given it two Circles. Based on historical precedent, it would be reasonable to expect a merger. In the current political atmosphere, however, this is unlikely. Gendric is a strong supporter of royalty, as are many under the Old Stump's hand. There's no reason for Loghain to increase his resistance. And I, with more children than adults now, would prefer not to get involved in the power struggles at all. We're all dreamers. I don't know what the Seeker thinks of the new balance of power. Or how the Church sees the situation. The Circle is like a boat without sails in a stormy sea, and perhaps sinking is preferable to the alternatives. But! The Seeker has shown weakness by clearly signalling a personal interest. From my youth, I'am was not good at intrigues and fencing with words. When reached old age, concentrated my talents on management and paperwork. And time has not been kind. The Templar forces are already in Calenhad's largest port, loading ships. So. There's a saying: It's foolish to hunt game with a rabid Mobari. What was it you sought in the Hardhold, Morrigan? What made you choose profit over your own life, to interfere in another's tragedy with no chance of success? What is it in my power to give you so that when the Seeker arrives you will be fully on my side, acting predictably and in favour of the Circle's survival?

The witch slowly tilted her head to the side, her eyes gliding along the rough, monolithic-looking wall. It was hard for her to digest what she had heard. The 'soft' grandfather had managed to deceive the girl's expectations and in the end had not shown the intentions she had prepared for. The questions and the proposal contained no fundamental mistakes. Then the sorceress' fate was inevitably cut short by execution or pacification. Even vague promises, backed by the will to live, pierced the armour of cynicism and cold calculation.

— Assuming, just assuming, that the words didn't fall on barren ground. Will you negotiate with the Seeker in question?

Irving exhaled with a sigh of relief, as if victory had already been won, and leaned against the wall, his eyes raised to the ceiling. The elderly man's answer seemed to recall the texts of ancient books.

— Seekers are considered incorruptible in the usual sense. And bargaining is only possible with an equal. But bribery does not always involve direct exchange. Sometimes it is enough to help sincerely, or to be deaf and blind to other people's needs until they are loudly announced. It is important not to start with empty hands.

Biting her lower lip, the girl nodded leisurely.

— So. If I can openly state my own demands, your side of the bargain is unclear.

The first warlock shrugged.

— We didn't start out on equal footing.

— If I put self-interest before other interest, do I not make us equal? Your need against...

The Morrigan cut herself off at the half-word with a cluck of her tongue. The girl continued, no longer hiding her venomous intonation:

— Only useful as long as there's no sign of our deal in plain sight. And you won't cross that line.

Irving nodded, shaking his beard in anticipation. She stared silently at the toes of her boots, her thoughts far away. Of course, she had to keep track of what was happening, even if it didn't look reliable. Morrigan had somehow imagined the situation to be like a vast hunting ground. Fish in the river, herds moving to new pastures, predators vying for leadership of the pack and waiting for prey. A storm is approaching from the south, noticed only by the keenest of eyes, and even fewer know what the leaden clouds mean. The girl herself is lost in the middle of the wilderness, like a fox trapped by her own folly. But the one with fangs and claws remains, and the hunter too carelessly approaches the predator.... Can the Sorceress make decisions and exert influence as before? Influence... Influence... Morrigan didn't even feel herself biting her lip as she realised she would never have used such a phrase. She hadn't even known that combination of words until recently. Now the girl not only understood the meaning behind it, but how it related to her own position. And there was no time for countless doubts and thoughts about where such a thing came from. Only the choice. Hunter or prey. As Morrigan looked up at the mage, her eyes glittering with dark gold, she knew exactly what she was hunting with and what she would need in the future.

— Access to books on dealing with possession. Every method from fern blossom potions to forbidden rituals. Access to anyone in the circle who wanted. Access to my companions.

The first wizard raised his bushy eyebrows in apparent confusion and turned his attention to his companion.

— Underestimated. Hmm.

Smoothing his beard in another vain attempt to make it look neat, a purely reflexive action in the girl's eyes, reflecting only a modicum of thoughtfulness, Irving concluded:

— The above is possible. But it sounds like you're going to be more than an «obedient prisoner». It'll be interesting to see how you use the opportunities.

— So.

— Yes. Yes, we have a deal. Though it saddens the old man's ears to hear such wishes.

Morrigan raised her eyebrows and asked cautiously:

— Sad?

The mage hummed harmlessly, clapped his right hand on his knee and said:

— Perhaps one word describes you better than any other. «Why.» The question that drives you, I suppose. And one you want to ask yourself all the time. Much better than «for what». Let me put it this way. Experience tells us that, with few exceptions, the act of malevolence leaves an indelible mark on the person responsible. It manifests itself in character, in thoughts, sometimes even in the way they move. Whether the perpetrator feels the weight of the act, whether he refuses to acknowledge it, whether he is proud, whether he has taken a dangerous step, unable to find another way. Like a wormhole in a ripe apple. So it turns out you're outside the norm in every way. Unless you grow horns. A good, old-fashioned, sluggish conversation is a great way to expose a weakness in the other person. Impatience. Arrogance. Anger. But there is more of stamina, self-control, curiosity and quiet confidence in you. You might breathe a sigh of relief. I was going to. But the choice of books. You came here for them. And the amount of risk you deemed acceptable is a clear indication of the seriousness of the matter. If it weren't for the details. A perfectly honest wizard has accused you of a serious crime. And yet your exploits, no small feat, were superfluous. Apart from a few difficulties, which I believe to be surmountable, there was nothing to prevent you from taking what you wanted in the midst of the chaos and escaping. Much less risky, eh? I'm talking about returning to the arms of the Templars. To me, the answer is that there's a good man hiding in the puzzle, with principles very different from what most people are used to. Add to that such a disturbing symptom as obsession, albeit a strangely unconventional one. Sad, isn't it?

Morrigan nodded without indicating what she agreed with. The girl returned the tense eye contact and spoke her thoughts:

— Pretty words. I won't confirm a hunch. I won't believe in sincerity. You're a wise old hunter. You're good at weaving words, even if you try to appear clumsy. So what's the fee? We've obviously overlooked the details.

The first warlock covered his eyes for a moment and said quietly.

— Too smart to trust. Yes. It takes action, not just a quick chat. But what we don't have, we don't have. When the Seeker arrives, I need to know and understand this man. You will tell me everything you notice. Every detail. If there's anything that needs to be communicated that isn't direct, you'll be useful here again. And remember, any conversation or transaction must be based on the preservation goals of the Circle. This is the hardest thing we've ever done. Do you understand? My level of trust is high. Now, if you'll excuse me.

Without needing permission, Irving stood up, shook off his robe, picked up his staff and headed for the exit, letting Iberia slip through in a hurry. The man was already in the corridor when the prisoner asked him a question:

— Let's talk about trust. Something you don't want to say voluntarily, can I hear it?

The mage froze, turned half around and dropped his hand:

— What will it change? For the better.

— I'll become more serious. As soon as I've studied the books, I'll share my findings with you. Against the Seeker, any advantage will do, right?

— Let's say so. So, in exchange for some stupid...

— No, no, no. Not 'some'.

Morrigan's index finger rested on the young Templar.

— The secret is between the two of you.

Irving shifted his vacant gaze to Cullen, and for a moment there was something cold and exhausted through the mask of the 'kind' grandfather, far more than was acceptable for a 'tired man'. Stanton nodded uncertainly, his whole posture a struggle against his instinctive reluctance to share his secrets. The first warlock thawed and turned his attention back to Morrigan.

— Good. A mundane breach of the rules, were it not for the emotions involved. On the other hand, a life-or-death situation can hardly be called «mundane». Stanton, contrary to the usual taboos, had an intimate relationship with a novice just before the girl's «torture». Definitely a blot on both their reputations. But, if the Order will forgive me, far less of a problem for a Templar than for a novice. Many would consider such an act an 'achievement', even if such deeds are severely censured by Gregor.

Cullen winced at these words, but the First Enchanter raised his hand conciliatorily, anticipating the young man's reaction, and continued.

— Of course, our case was different. The feelings were real and mutual. Even though it was a huge mistake from start to finish, if you give yourself time to think about it a little. The years go by and young people make the same mistakes. But the story didn't end «normally». It was worse. There was an incident. The girl had a friend of the same age. A strange mixture of talent, insecurity and youthful radicalism that left a bitter taste of Uldred's. Before the «torture», something clicked in the young man's mind. Fear of failure, fear of execution. The one that had incited his new mage friend to a series of acts punishable not by exile, but by execution. I still don't understand how friendship, the instinct for self-preservation and logic could have clashed and won. Hmm. Yes. They both broke into the Phylactery to steal the child's specimens, and planned to ensure the child's escape.

— Phylacteries?

Irving tensed for a moment, but answered with a shrug.

— That's two secrets already, but let it go. Blood magic. That's what Uldred was responsible for. It allows you to find a mage belonging to the Circle at almost any distance and tells you in which direction they are. The first sample is taken from a novice and stored in the Circle, which is his home. The next is taken from the mage and sent to the five closest Circles. In fact, those who wish to learn this secret can easily get into the details. I suspect that after learning what he needed, the unfortunate «friend» began to hurry.

— Interesting. The friend's only chance to escape the leash slipped away. While Cullen's girlfriend was already firmly tethered to the Circle.

— Kindness, loyalty, stupidity, short-sightedness. The story had a natural ending. The culprit got away. But the girl? Of course not.

Irving furrowed his brow, apparently remembering the events of days gone by, the imprint of which still troubled him.

— The old man before you saved that boy from suicidal thoughts. Sometimes it seems that only darkness lies ahead, and here and now there are too many reasons to die and none to live. But only by putting the long years behind us can we at least come closer to understanding the value of life, both our own and that of others. Our journey is made up of countless deeds, not one single achievement. And after a seemingly endless journey, those little things often outweigh a lot, even if most of us will only remember one moment of triumph. Mm-hmm. I apologise for being so grumpy. I happen to have persuaded Gregor to change the girl's execution to sedation. Saving the life of someone important to Cullen, but killing her soul and emotions instead. Including affection, whatever that may be. So the young man is consumed with fading gratitude, and with it, a bitterness that is perfect for hatred. Satisfied?

— Gregor wasn't privy to the details?

Irving hummed sadly.

— Of course not. But it wasn't necessary. The Commander sees and knows far more than he lets on.

The mage narrowed his eyes and looked into Morrigan's, waiting for the only answer that mattered. With a sigh, the sorceress spoke:

— Books. And then, in a day or two, come back.

Irving turned and disappeared into the gallery, tapping his staff on the floor. Stanton turned back to the girl, glared at her and left the dungeon, closing the passage behind him.

* * *

The sounds that reminded them of visitors had long since faded. Even the smells had faded. The faintest hint of burnt incense. A thin trace of male sweat, masked by the cold tang of metal and northern oil, unfamiliar to the Morrigan. And the smell of ink. The girl had never smelled it directly, but she recognised it unmistakably. The 'guests' left the sorceress in a strange state of mind. Morrigan felt... Appropriate. Appropriate. The girl was careful to recognise this as a heightened mood. For the first time in a long while, her mind was free from the problems that had been plaguing her, and it was as if the birds had flown free. Morrigan scrupulously searched her mind for facts, secrets and names that might be useful tools in this or that situation. The sorceress had to restrain herself, as if marking in the margins that this or that idea would be over the top in the real world. It wasn't even close to normal, and it shouldn't excite the sorceress as if she were back in her native forest in the middle of her first hunt for a wounded deer.

Of course, good things don't last forever. And in response to the anticipation of an idea that would spoil the moment, one immediately sprang to mind in the head that rested on the hard bench. Raising her hand to eye level and slowly flexing her graceful fingers, Morrigan raised her eyebrows. Admitting to herself without self-delusion, the idea hadn't appeared in the girl out of nowhere. It had grown like a parasite, creeping into the darkest recesses of her mind. The hand felt strange to the sorceress.... Not even that. Morrigan blinked and concentrated, clenching her hand into a fist until her knuckles were white. The hand felt like a glove worn over the real thing, a fake. Licking her lips, the girl brought the thumb of her left hand close to the veins in her right, clenching it into a fist and pressing the already noticeably overgrown fingernail into her own flesh with force. Until the pain, which felt muted, began to take on a nasty hue, spreading up her forearm along the tendons. Pulling her finger away, Morrigan stared at the bright red mark with a mixture of relief and irritation.

She closed her eyes and pushed herself to her feet with a long exhale. Without a second thought, she threw off her robe and began to do the one thing that would ensure that only the essentials were on her mind.

* * *

Morrigan was surprised when a section of the wall that served as a passageway creaked and rushed aside. The girl had in no way expected new visitors a few hours after the First Warlock's visit. Without changing the horizontal position of her tense arms, the sorceress waited out the remaining seconds of ignorance. And then, crouching, the great figure of Valinci entered the stone attic. In each hand the mage held the volumes that had lately been gathering dust on unknown shelves, neatly bound with hemp cord. Each book had a unique character, indicating the value of the knowledge it contained and the age of talmud.

The mage looked much better than the last time she'd seen him: clean-shaven, clean-cut, almost asleep. As he placed the precious cargo on the floor, Morrigan rose to her feet and straightened. When Valinci looked up at the girl, his pale brown eyes immediately grew heavy as he saw her in all her glory, stumbling over the blooming bruises. As she studied the man's face, the sorceress noticed a new element — a ring — woven into the braid at his right temple. Morrigan could have sworn she'd seen it on Tomara's arm.

The silence grew strange, as did the mage's gaze, which began a slow journey over the girl's partially naked body. So the sorceress started the conversation.

— You look good. Really?

— Yes. The first wizard thought I was the perfect person to deliver the books. An odd choice. It is.

— I think it's a good one.

— No. I mean books.

— Well... I won't insult your intelligence with references.

— You don't have to. You?

— Irving didn't ask about you. Didn't elaborate. Not even a hint. You're probably too boring a subject to talk to a renegade accused of murder.

— Yes... What if I had asked?

— For freedom?

— Coley did.

Morrigan smiled, glancing at the edge of the bound boots of the Templars standing in the gallery just outside the passage. She was willing to bet her left hand that they would make their presence known, lest the prisoner have the illusion of a private conversation.

— You'll never know the answer to that. Let me prioritise. You're more useful as a friend. Aren't you?

Valinci curled his lips and slowly, pausing between words, answered:

— As a friend. Sounds about right.

It was as if the man had tasted every word. The strange gaze, as if unable to bear its own weight, slid back from the girl's face to her bare shoulders, along the line of strong arms to the proud breasts pointing towards him. The mage frowned and raised his eyebrows before continuing the conversation.

— How did you enchant the First Wizard? I admire your talents. Under all circumstances.

— With your mind? No, don't answer that. In truth, I'm as surprised as you are. But it is what it is. It's not appropriate for the one below to be picky and complain. What are your plans?

— I have an offer.

Morrigan raised her eyebrows, trying to guess the meaning of Valinci's words. Her eyes widened and she snapped her fingers.

— Are you the new Uldred?

The mage twitched a cheekbone, looked away and sighed. Nodding, the sorceress continued:

— You've been made aware of your duties.

— Yes...

— And there was no enthusiasm for it.

— No. It is as far from the principles I tried to save as a fool tries to save water in a broken jug. And yet it is so imbued with the notion of duty to the Circle that it cannot but resonate with me. ..... And in the end, I'm not sure.

— Will you do it?

Valinci twitched the corner of his lips in a barely perceptible smile. He returned his eyes to the girl's focused face and replied:

— Do you think there is a choice in that sentence? Now that the 'necessary filth' has been demonstrated, however superficially.

— Perhaps. The way I see it, Irving believes you. Or in you.

— He sees the facade...

Morrigan just snorted contemptuously, showing how «high» she thought Valinci's faith in the First Wizard's ignorance or blindness was. The First Wizard grimaced again, but gave up immediately, nodding in agreement.

— Naive to think so, yes. But I'm afraid the First Wizard only uses what's at hand. There's not much choice.

— I wouldn't think twice about it. You wouldn't like the criteria for choosing a suitable wizard for this position.

The man raised an eyebrow in question, but the girl just shook her head. Finally, instead of answering, she asked a question of her own:

— And your place?

— Alim.

There was silence again as Morrigan looked up at the ceiling, fighting the wicked smile that crawled across her face like a predatory snake. Through clenched teeth she forced it out:

— Shining Knight.

— That's not how an elf shines these days.

Giving Valinci a look full of cynical doubt, the girl pressed the man for details.

— М... Neria has always been a close friend of the man. In a, um, cleaner sense of the word. But now things aren't going so well for either of them. It's more the other way round. I don't know the details. Either she hadn't forgiven her friend for leaving with the Grey Guardian, which seemed like a betrayal, or...

The mage fell silent, leaving the unspoken options hanging in the air.

— How's she doing?

Valinci rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger, giving himself time to find the right words.

— Fine. Winn examined girl herself and then helped her to her feet. Avoids me. Avoids Alim. Helps with the children or sticks to books on combat magic.

— Your efforts?

— None! Winn's.

The denial was too harsh, and the man himself, under the sceptical gaze of the dark golden eyes, realised it at once. He nodded curtly in agreement, then turned, ducked and walked away. A snide remark followed:

— We shouldn't talk about other people. You didn't stupidly and blindly believe what Alim said, did you?

Without turning or stopping, Valinci nodded. With a certain persistence in his voice, more to convince himself than his companion, he said quietly:

— Differently seen.

— What did you see? The next time you see me here, make up your mind. Do you want to beat me up? Do you want to take me right here? Or all of them.

The man froze at the exit for a long minute, his tense arms and back clearly visible. Finally, with a flick of his right shoulder, he walked away in silence.

Morrigan exhaled hoarsely and with a sharp movement of her hands, as if shaking off something stuck to them. Now alone again, the girl's attention and thoughts turned to the books. A few in faded blue covers. Several in wooden frames, each unique in size and with a unique network of cracks in the rotting wood. Two more in typical leather, though old, with characters stamped out. And one volume in smooth, matte black leather, even without decoration, which looks more solid than the others.

* * *

Daylight faded inexorably, and evening came all too quickly. Morrigan would not have noticed the passage of time had it not been for that. Even the meal was a blur to her. At first she stumbled over the elaborate turns of phrase, in places as obscure as the unknown language. The girl had not expected that the past years could have such an effect on the basis of the basics — the language. But with each new line, the fog of obscure phrases receded, as if she was naturally regaining her «forgotten skills» of working with ancient texts in the young language of Ferelden with a touch of Avarian dialect. The heavy first steps were replaced by running and then free flight. The ideas underlying the various books and the conclusions drawn from them in the form of facts contradicted each other and often themselves. But here and there a few facts stood side by side, looking coordinated and consistent. And in the sum, the outlines of the solution to Morrigan's problem began to form. Nothing finished, nothing lying on the surface. There was not even a hint that behind the outlines there was not a void of betrayed hopes.

Closing the current volume and feeling the weight of what she had just read settle in her head, the sorceress decided to begin the mysterious work in black leather in the morning for a change. Rubbing her eyes, she stared into the gathering twilight that was about to turn to darkness. Morrigan didn't want to admit it, but the truth was simple, another night meant another nightmare.... And it wasn't just fear. It wasn't just... Or not so much... The girl felt sick to her stomach from the inevitable repetition of the experience. Almost imperceptibly, like water seeping through cracks, something resembling fatigue was building up.

My gloomy mood and mild headache were distracted by the unmistakable sound of the passage opening. Immediately, the warm, orange-yellow glow of the fire flickered against the walls, along with the appearance of well-defined shadows. Leliana stepped in quietly, holding the glass-covered candle in both hands, and immediately spotted the woman who lived there. Turning her head slightly, she cast an eloquent glance back, raised her eyebrows slightly and smiled. The sorceress could see that the smile was more of a graceful curtsy, while the rest of the guest's face remained serious.

Snorting, Morrigan started to speak, but the red-haired girl spoke first:

— I asked Bethany to wait for her visit. Don't think she forgot. Although perhaps she should have. I think my persona might be more useful right now.

The sorceress replied, covering her eyes and shaking her head doubtfully:

— Who knows what is more necessary. Conscience or intelligence.

— Compliment and insult in the same sentence, learning even when I'm not around. And that fact, another jab.

— So Bethany's all right?

— Of course not. If you are about to take another impetuous and extremely risky step with far-reaching consequences, pause for at least a few minutes. We should discuss what to say to the Templars. Unfortunately, we have not been alone for a moment since you left, and I have not been able to discuss anything with Bethany. It wasn't five minutes after you walked across the courtyard to the tombstone that we were separated for 'conversation'. This time it turned out to be just a conversation. But what was familiar to me was not familiar to Bethany. And then...

Morrigan pressed her lips together and spat:

— Alim.

Leliana nodded nonchalantly as she continued:

— Yes. Four hours after you left, the elf walked towards Gregor, anxious, struggling and focused on some unknown goal. I caught the man's eye and asked him what he was trying to achieve. With such a range of emotions on his face, there was no time for idle conversation. Alim clenched his teeth and said he would do his duty. There was much more inside than outside, but .... Two pressing needs seemed to be fighting inside the elf. Previously, both had remained in a precarious balance. But this night, so close to 'home', Alim had convinced himself that one could be set aside.

Morrigan sighed and leaned back against the wall.

— I guess. It's... I hadn't even thought of it. There in the dark, staring up at the black tower, the mage inside... This man's world was built on two pillars, you know. Duty. And Neria.

Liliana straightened her back sharply and whispered softly:

— Alim had convinced himself that there was no chance of saving Neria. And the fact that she was inside and the elf was outside was his fault, as he remembered the choice he'd made.

The sorceress nodded and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

— And without Neria, all that's left is the simple duty of defending the Circle. Has the fool told Gregor everything?

— After this conversation with the Commander, the interrogation was intense. Any illusion of hospitality was gone. No brutality or violence, but the pressure... Especially for Bethany. Technically, Gregor had nothing to call the girl a renegade or a maleficent, in your parlance. From what's going on, I'd venture to guess that Alim has told almost everything.

Morrigan blinked, focusing her dark golden gaze on a pair of green eyes.

— Almost?

— He seemed to be completely silent about the difference between your ways of constructing spells. Bethany hadn't even hinted at it.

— A drop of hubris?

— I won't judge.

— Well. That's good news. What's your status?

Leliana licked her lips and shrugged her shoulders.

— I was told that if the Seeker had no further questions for me after the interview, I was free to go. A subtle joke, of course, considering we're on an island. But better than nothing. Bethany. No hints. She'll be a sorcerer, or she'll be subjugated. Given your age and history, the latter is more likely. I'll take care of the girl as best I can. The Templar's grip on her is a little looser now. It's almost as if… they don't want to damage the merchandise.

— Irving...

— There! Now it's your turn.

— Yeah. You see? The secrecy here is only imaginary.

— State the facts.

— First, tell me what you know about the Seekers.

Leliana was silent for a moment, looking away. Nodding, she began to speak.

— It's a complex question. But it's also simple. The Seekers of Truth, that's their full name, are a separate order within the structure of the Church. Above them is only the High Priestess and the Creator. And below them are the others. That was the hard part. The easy part... Rumour has it. This small order is charged with secret investigations and the supervision of the Templars. Each Seeker is said to be worth a dozen Templars in battle, and the order is heavily shrouded in mysticism and rumours of supernatural abilities. There are no facts, so draw your own conclusions. I can tell you a little about the history of this organisation that has battled demons, possessed and its own warped reflection — the Order of the Flaming Vow — since time immemorial.

The last two words stuck in Morrigan's mind, causing a kind of shadow of recognition. As if she'd heard them before, or even known them... Which was impossible, of course. But the shreds of memory that came out of nowhere, like the ashes that fell from the sky every night during nightmares, no longer gave her shivers and goosebumps.

— We'll leave the past for later. I've somehow been offered a deal.

— What are the terms?

— A bit of this, a bit of that. Like our meetings, for example. So you don't freak out. But the deal is done.

— And the fee?

— Hmmm...

Leliana nodded understandingly.

— So we wait for this Seeker.

Morrigan shifted her eyes to the pile of books on the floor.

— Not only that...

Following the sorceress, Leliana frowned and gave her a questioning look with a raised eyebrow. The sorceress nodded uncertainly.

— Perhaps a solution.

— Good. So what are we going to do?

— We?

— We are.

— Ha... It's hard to understand you. If I were you, this kind of foolish affection.

Leliana touched Morrigan's shoulder, stopping the flow of sarcastic remarks in their tracks.

— Concentrate.

Frozen, her mouth half open, the sorceress pulled herself together, nodded and said:

— Yes, an unacceptable weakness at the moment. The thing is, blind loyalty... No, I'm sorry. I understand what you're saying. Your actions are a direct consequence of your past, your character and your personal circumstances, not unreasonable stupidity, as I would like to see it. Cold calculation that says it's too risky to stay on my side, not the only possible path. I won't hide it, your choice is pleasing. I just wish I had the time to find out why.

— Well, it's not that complicated. It's emotion. Let's not go into the details of why those you disdainfully consider part of the «collection» prefer to be there, while you remain a careful and attentive «owner». Let's get back to the big picture.

— Plan... Apart from expectations and personal goals, there are other cards to play. First, revenge.

Leliana leaned back slightly, a look of surprise and disbelief on her face.

— How? And why?

— Neria.

— But...

— Find a girl. Get to know her. Hint that she might come to me. That's no way to hurt two people. That's not why I saved her in that nightmare. But talking to Neria is the best way to awaken Alim's sense of duty.

— О... I'm sorry.

— No. Your concerns are valid. That's why, like Bethany, I need people around me whose principles and attitudes are not hardened. I need them to reflect something other than the monster that you are. Not just an example to be shunned, but something to aspire to. And besides, Neria is the face of the Circle today, the personification of self-preservation and survival.

— It's quite subtle and deep. That's good.

— Secondly, to make the Circle freer, there is a solution. Valinci. The mage owes me one. Unravel this thread carefully and you'll understand.

— Curious. Just now, that sideways glance..... There! Is that what I'm thinking?

Morrigan made a throaty sound to indicate mild irritation before replying:

— Sometimes I forget how good you are at reading faces. Yes, he's... interesting. Only I'm afraid he's an example of a bad influence on me. And it's deeper than it looks. This connection, if I let it grow, will be quite distorted. I don't know what to do yet. Don't go on. Since Alim left something out, we'll keep it in mind. It's a fool's errand.

— Anything else?

— М... Don't let a sorceress called Winn get in your way.

— Why not?

— I don't know. She gives me the creeps.

Leliana frowned in confusion, but nodded slowly, remembering the remark and the name.

— If that's all it is...

— No. Finally, a personal question. A vision. You know how stupid that sounds, don't you?

Leliana smiled understandingly and nodded before objecting:

— Not at all. The vision indicated that Alim would be the pillar that would help the Morrigan grow. You, on the other hand, can be seen as the force that will keep it from falling apart. This does not imply your friendship, or even mutual aid. You saved Neria? What would have become of the elf had she died? Does the betrayal you intended spur you on?

Morrigan grimaced and shrugged before speaking.

— Yes... That was a stupid question. The annoying thing is that there is logic in your questions. And the stupid thoughts that everything is predetermined... It's scary.

As she stood up and turned to leave, Leliana fell silently.

— Yes, scary.