Chapter 19 - "The Stranger's Home"

Outside, the surroundings seemed grey in the dim, diffuse light barely filtering through the clouds. Somewhere, perhaps, one could enjoy the rich palette of colours of the pre-dawn sky. But here, even at the height of the day, the sun was not destined to appear. There were no shadows in the surrounding world, and objects felt flat. In the silence all around, the indifferent snow lay down again. Breaths turned into fleeting, ghostly clouds, and the white flakes grew larger and fluffier as the frost nipped at her cheeks and the tip of her nose. The dampness in the bay made the light frost seem wicked, like a vengeful thief stealing the modest warmth from under thick clothing.

Leaning her shoulder against the wall of a building near the barricade blocking the main road, Morrigan turned to Tristan and warmed her hands with her breath:

— So, what was that about a «pact»?

The man smiled, hiding his face behind his palms, and gave a muffled reply:

— Curiosity to match the Seeker. Indomitable, tenacious and ever hungry. Every «Seeker of Truth» suffers from this affliction. And many perish because they fail to tame this beast with caution and prudence.

— But in the end, that's why you exist. Isn't it?

— Yes... Fireflies, dispersing the darkness of the unknown at the will of the High Priestess, even at the cost of their own lives. The Pact, then. There's a strange saying in some Circles: «Blood magic stirs the blood» When the mind is not burdened with immediate concerns and worries, charades of words with many layers of meaning can bring considerable pleasure. Is it wise to hope for an answer?

— Now that you ask... Yes, in my position it is foolish and presumptuous to hope for an answer. And yet.

— Interesting. And what are the arguments?

— You are shrouded in mystery from head to toe, and you obviously keep me close for more than one purpose. Let's not talk about the puppet master behind my back. In the future, as yet undetermined, you're going to need answers. And it's not even a matter of compliance or how pliable I am to threats. Intuition whispers that the answers you need will require the ability to articulate them clearly. And the more you know, the more you understand. Getting back to the puppet master, he's uninformed about the subtleties of… «pacts», don't you think? Unless I'm being deceptive.

Exhaling slowly, Tristan shook his head uncertainly:

— I was waiting for bids and offers to trade. But the arguments aren't bad. I don't think this knowledge will help you in any way. Even so. Sometimes, when you're explaining something, you have to talk about something else that precedes the concept you're looking for and is necessary as a foundation. So «pact».. Of course, this is an irregular phenomenon, like, say, magic. «Pact» implies a deal with creation on the other side of the «Veil» But there are a lot of «buts» here. It's a non-folkloric concept, like a bargain where the firstborn is sacrificed in exchange for some kind of power or wish fulfilment. «Covenant», as we now know, does not have to fit into the narrow concept of «transaction» at all. Such a condition can be irrevocably imposed from the outside. A much better analogy is that of a door. Imagine that there are doors leading into the room where you spend your days and nights. But most of these doors are locked, and there's no key to any of them. Sometimes someone on the outside opens one, and you can't close it. There will be no one and nothing behind the threshold to break in, to threaten you, or to tempt you to make the first move. It is just an opportunity that will always be in the «room» from now on. Sometimes circumstances will force such a step. But what the price will be... You'll only find out once you've crossed the threshold. And if opening such «doors» is not too expensive, however the cost is measured, then it is both wise and practical. Isn't it better to open a hundred «doors» and wait for dozens to enter of their own free will, than to groom one victim at a time? Importantly, this also requires a subtle understanding of elven and human nature. The itch of curiosity is inherent in everyone. Sooner or later...

Tristan snapped his fingers, but it wasn't very effective in the cold. He grimaced and continued:

— A «pact» is something that can only be provided by a unique entity on the other side. The word «unique» here means: we know of no more such examples than the fingers on one of our hands. And each such entity provides a «pact» with exclusive content on its own terms. Gakskang is the first of the known ones. None of the Seekers have found their way into this creature's «pact» The Gakskang is known only from a dozen forbidden books and... let's call them: «interrogations». The Gakskang's «gifts» are somehow connected to the dead. There is a working hypothesis that fits the facts quite well. Not proven yet. As if the Mortalitasi, the dominant order of mages in Nevarra, grew out of a «pact» with the Gakskang. Then there's Imshel and the Shapeless — we know nothing about them except their names. And Siebenkeck. According to the Order of Seekers and outside sources, this creature is inextricably linked to blood magic and... Kirkwall. For a century, our Order has systematically sought to piece together the disparate pieces of evidence into a single body of knowledge. To discover the truth about the nature and mechanics of blood magic, which is believed to be responsible for the great sin of desecrating the throne of the Creator. Willingly, and quite by accident, this creature opened the «door» of the «Covenant» within me while I was wandering the depths of Kirkwall in search of another topic of research. It so happened that I had to use the tool offered to me, and I became quite adept at using it. The rules are simple. You sacrifice blood, and with it a small amount of health, which is much harder to replenish than blood alone. And the job is done. To the extent that you have been able to visualise the desired result. Of course, on this path it is very easy to make a mistake that will result in the loss of both blood and health, down to the last drop. Fortunately, through trial and error, a disciplined mind and will help to limit the working abilities to concepts that resemble mage spells. And at the same time not turn a barely alive person into a cripple for months.

Morrigan slowly raised an eyebrow and asked again:

— You're not just using something that you claim is indistinguishable from blood magic. Something that can turn any mage into a Maleficus at the snap of a finger. You perform «miracles» with a creature from «The Shadow»?

Exhaling another pale cloud into his palm, Tristan merely nodded in reply.

— The role of glorious knights in white and spotless robes has fallen to the Templars. Our charter, however, contains dozens of warnings and restrictions. But not how to achieve truth... The end often justifies the means. My case and subsequent report confirmed several suspicions and strengthened the Order's resolve to uncover the hidden truth of Kirkwall.

— Nice... It's a very interesting story. Except. So you opened two doors?

Tristan looked at the sorceress in surprise.

— What?

— The one that infiltrated Wynn.

The Seeker frowned, narrowed his eyes and formulated his answer carefully:

— A dangerous subject. First of all, such knowledge should not exist. Certainly not in your head. Second, keep your «interpretations» to yourself. Thirdly, it's been said before, and...

— Clear.

There was a pause, during which the man studied the profile of the thoughtful girl, deciding whether or not to press. But soon the Seeker's gaze returned silently to the horizon. Morrigan herself considered what she had heard, biting her lip. The girl weighed her personal prospects for the distant future with slight scepticism. With such knowledge, the sorceress was both a hindrance and a threat to the Order of Seekers. At the same time, it felt as if even this «poisoned fruit» was a small piece of a much larger puzzle. Just two minutes later, a woman's voice asked a new question:

— So you're just imagining the desired result? And...

The girl made a gesture with her hand, representing a vague action leading to a specific result.

— You could say that.

— Doesn't it bother you that a being comes through the Veil into reality just to fulfil your wishes? Everywhere. At any moment. Leaving no trace. And to hear you tell it, it could happen to a dozen or a hundred at once. From Corkari to the Free Mark or even Underfels. And let the «simple» people send themselves to their graves with foolish wishes. But there will be those who want to correct some small thing.

Tristan furrowed his brow and lifted his eyes to the grey sky, which spat out a stream of slowly drifting snowflakes.

— Maybe that's the best question you've ever asked. But I'll tell you this. There are some questions whose answers will not help me solve any of my problems. And what's more, trying to answer them will certainly lead me away from my goal. It is not for everyone who walks through the swamp in search of a path to know the depth of each pool he encounters and then be able to tell about it. It's a question like this that encourages you to think of things that are bad for the mind. Not only that. I will not discourage it. Benedick was not afraid of such things. But notice, here I am, firmly on my feet. Where's my partner? Yes. Speaking of which, Underfels? Where to find it?

Catching the hint behind the ironic question, Morrigan curled her lips slightly. She didn't know why the word had slipped out with the other two names. But logic dictated that it was some sort of remote region or kingdom. Perhaps another empire. Finally, ignoring the teasing, the girl continued:

— Practical, cynical. And there's a logic to it. A knife cuts, and that's enough. But sometimes it's someone like you who has to think about it. Not about who made the blade. Let's forget the how and the what. But who put it in your hand? And why?

— Such topics are not for the pre-dawn snowfall...

Glancing towards the nearest house, where the survivors of the original group shared a night's lodging by the hearth, snatching a few dark hours for sleep, the man straightened and pulled himself away from the wall.

— Here come the others. Let's move out.

* * *

The mill was a tower built at a certain height in relation to the shore of the bay. It seemed to be of the same age as the Red Fort and was made of the same material. It had once been a separate fort. But now the truncated cone of the structure was flanked by huge millwrights and a circular wooden platform as tall as a man for steering, turning and fixing the shaft. The embodiment of the fear of war, transformed for useful work and to catch the free winds that blew from the lake.

According to Bann Tegan's instructions, they should have gone down into a small circular cellar at the base of the building's massive foundation and found a triangular opening under the old, worn floor tiles. Beneath it was a narrow crawlway leading vertically down into the darkness. Steps for hands and feet had been carved into the walls of the well, making it easy to climb up and down on one's back. Morrigan immediately imagined what it would be like for a lady of the castle to be here in her proper attire. Tristan simply lit the dim light of a small oil lamp and went down first.

Towards the end of the descent, the air became damp and mouldy. At the same time, the last few steps required concentration to avoid slipping carelessly down the shaft. The passage below was triangular in shape, widening towards the base and suggesting a sideways movement, sometimes even a slight crouch. As it sloped downwards, it resembled a dark yawn with irregular but smooth edges.

The movement through the tunnel was exhausting rather than frightening. Soon it was hard to breathe, and the walls seemed to close in on the travellers, who were lost in the stone sack, at their own whim. But as soon as you blinked, the illusion faded. Morrigan turned several times to look at Bethany's barely lit face, but she showed only concentration and an elusive half-smile. The expression struck the sorceress as strange, even unfathomable.

At the end of the path, the downward slope gave way to an upward slope, leading to a similar vertical well shaft. After a dozen steps up, however, there was a difference. Much sooner than Morrigan had expected, the vertical shaft broke off into a stone sack three paces across, barely able to straighten out and with roughly hewn walls. A step and a half to the side and the floor revealed the mouth of a circular well with no sign of steps, and the opposite wall revealed the continuation of a triangular tunnel upwards. Before he could continue, Tristan dropped the word:

— That's clever. Even if the passage is flooded, the water from the lake won't immediately flow into the dungeon.

At the end of the arduous journey, the group of four pushed aside a massive slab of floor and found themselves in a cold crypt with a low ceiling shaped like a series of crossed arches. One by one, stone sarcophagi were lined up against the right wall, their lids meticulously carved with texts and figures of sleeping people. With no other illumination, the eye could only catch a glimpse of the heel that the Seeker's lamp had reclaimed from the darkness. For a moment, the Morrigan felt herself once more in the dead grip of the Tower's darkness. But the possession faded, leaving only a vague sense of danger. The spot of light from the lamp, and the darkness around it, behaved naturally. But it wasn't «empty» here...

In unison with the sorceress» feelings, Tristan slowly drew his own blade from its sheath and lowered the lamp to the ground, half a step away.

This time Morrigan was not wearing the winter robes of a Circle mage, but a practical outfit not unlike the one Tristan had chosen. A simple cloak, thick woollen trousers, a flat leather purse on a wide belt at the back. Good, high boots of coarse leather with double soles, lined with fur, and hair loosened from its braid and gathered into a tight bundle at the nape of his neck. With the low scabbard on her right hip, this outfit made the girl indistinguishable from a warrior at a quick glance and in the darkness. A bare, elbow-length blade completed the picture. As she gazed into the darkness, the sorceress said softly:

— Trusting sharp object, what moved you?

Showing no less caution, the man answered slowly:

— The thought of the number of lives at stake. And... A simple calculation. Your lack of a weapon will reduce my own chances of survival, not increase them.

Without looking, the girl shook her head thoughtfully and drew a small circle with the tip of her blade.

— A compliment? Coming from someone who wields a sword so masterfully — unexpected.

— Not at all. Your mastery of a kitchen knife and a sharp stick will suffice. Just wave the weapon away.

The Morrigan looked around and found Tralin. The man was staring into the darkness on the other side of the crypt, his blade lowered to the ground. But the enchantress» gaze moved on, stopping at Bethany, standing in the centre of the group. She had not changed, remaining in the warm robes of the Circle, and so she stood out. Morrigan was concerned for the safety of her apprentice and her own decision, for personal gain, to place her in such an obvious target for attack by a skilled opponent. Somehow, that concern itself seemed disturbingly false, turning into anger at herself. Like watching a foolish dog that, instead of obeying commands, endlessly chases its own tail. Logic coldly put the facts in their proper place, albeit one at a time. But the quiet stream of uncontrollable emotions playfully disrupted the order, effortlessly making her feel two borderline states at once. She turned away, gripping the hilt of her blade tighter.

Something in the darkness shuffled across the polished floorboards, or so it seemed, but the weapon was immediately pointed in that direction. In the next instant, the darkness spat out six rather nasty-looking corpses, their flesh shriveled and wrapped tightly around their bones from their long sojourn in this mausoleum. Tristan's lightning-fast swing sent the first, already decapitated, body under Bethany's feet without a moment's hesitation. Another creature leapt past the Seeker, but half a step away from Bethany, the monster was slashed through the spine and kicked away by the Templar. The Morrigan lunged at the third possessed man, knocking him to the ground with a shoulder blow. Intercepting the blade with both hands, the sorceress cracked the skull and crushed the rest with her boot. Meanwhile, the Seeker's swift blade brought down two more heads, and Thralin threw the creature that had slipped onto his back. The Morrigan and the Templar finished the brief battle, striking the last enemy at the same time.

Tristan glanced at the blade in the sorceress» hand and raised an eyebrow. Bethany drew in a breath, reliving the quick transition to violence and back to the silence of the tombs. Glancing around quickly, the Seeker clucked his tongue and summed up the situation:

— Canaries.

Unconsciously wiping her blade on her blanket, Morrigan clarified:

— What?

Obviously trying hard to control herself, Bethany answered the question in a slightly shaky voice:

— Beautiful northern birds. From Antiva, on the coast of Rialto Bay. For me... My mother told me.

Seeker shook his head:

— That's not what I mean. To random people in the dark, even possessed people like this are a deadly threat. But to random people from outside the crypt? It's a dead end, where there can be no one but the dead. But Milady Isabella had passed through here before without a problem, which means that the current master of the fortress had checked the passage. Or knew of it beforehand. Such vulnerability must be guarded with dignity. Or destroyed. The third option is...

Morrigan chuckled and finished for the man:

— Now our appearance is known.

— Yes. Let's go.

Picking up the lamp, the party moved deeper into the crypt, searching for an elevation. Soon the sarcophagi appeared in the circle of light, with slabs thrown aside, the number of them indicating that the place had been abandoned by slightly more possessed dead than had fallen in the battle. Morrigan noticed that on one of the slabs was a sleeping figure carved in stone, holding not a sword but a mage's staff. After the third open grave, Tralin muttered softly:

— Only those knights who deserve to find eternal rest in the Gerrin family mausoleum will be desecrated.

The Seeker paused for a moment with a scrap:

— Curious detail.

It didn't take long to find an old door in the left wall, and apparently the only one here. It was in the middle of the rectangular room. The oak was good, judging by its colour, and had been soaked in preservative and reinforced with thick strips of metal. They were covered in rust, but when you ran your hand over them it was only a thin layer on the surface. With no sign of a lock on the inside, the situation forced the use of magic.

Bethany heated the thick hinges to a dull scarlet until smoke rose from the touching wood, and then Morrigan cooled them sharply, making the metal brittle. A few resounding blows from the hilt of the Templar's sword, sure to reverberate with pain in his hands, and the metal cracked. Soon the door, barely held from falling, was on the floor, relinquishing its position as defender of the long disturbed peace of the dead.

After a flight of narrow stairs and a grate of twisted square bars decorated with wrought-iron flowers, locked only by a massive hook, everyone found themselves in a wide passage where up to two people in a row could move freely. Running forward, the passage dissolved into the surrounding darkness without a trace. Torch holders could be seen in their places, but without their contents. Twice on either side were locked oak doors, also encased in metal. And then a spacious alcove with a pair of overturned stools and a barrel of foul-smelling water appeared on the right. In the centre was an opening with a grate not fully covered and a single key still protruding from the lock. Tristan looked around at the mess with a thoughtful eye and then said in a low voice:

— The dungeon.

Four steps down and a low-ceilinged corridor with arches on either side opened up in front of everyone. Each was separated by a row of thick metal bars. It looked tolerable. The hay had been on the floor for a long time, but there were no draughts, no damp, and the benches and buckets looked clean. Yet, unlike the empty chambers, the air was amber with long unwashed bodies, stale urine and faeces. The Seeker raised the lamp higher and moved forward with a firm step, soon discovering the source of the stench.

Sluggishly closing his eyes against the dim light, a man huddled behind the bars in another corner. The dirty clothes had long since made it difficult to determine their original colour, and the cell stood out from the rest. As his eyes adjusted, he showed the strangers a pale face with sunken cheeks and sunken eyes, a sticky beard and long, unwashed locks of dark hair. In such a condition, it was difficult to estimate the prisoner's age. But an experienced eye could make out the scars on his lips, which had been repeatedly punched, and a pair of missing phalanges on his left hand, cut too cleanly to have been sustained in battle. Morrigan coldly reasoned that it was inconsistent to mutilate a prisoner and probably starve him to death, yet leave the man dressed without even taking off his shoes. The girl's attention was immediately drawn to the small bones stacked in an odd order near the prisoner. This detail explained why there were no mice or rats to be heard here.

Tristan frowned and gave the order clearly:

— Identify yourself.

The unfamiliar voice made the man jump. But then, dropping his head tiredly, he spoke back, whispering a little, as if a few teeth were missing:

— Why? You already know the name...

— «Why» do you say? Let's see. Even if the prisoners don't get much food, you're not ready to die. Not yet. It takes cunning, patience and a great will to survive to outwit the rodents and eat them whole. But all that's left here is rotting hay. Your prospect is to die slowly and painfully in the dark, in your own shit and alone. I don't know who's been «talking» to you before us, but I want to find out. So. A simple offer — a chance to get out in exchange for volunteering the contents of your head. And let's be clear. You may think you've hit rock bottom. No. There is no bottom. You can die here slowly, alone, without arms, legs, eyes...

The cold tirade exposed the charred and ugly side of the Seeker. But the revelation only affected Bethany, who gave the squad leader a frightened and dazed look. Weighing her options, Morrigan reached out and gave the girl a light squeeze on the shoulder, pulling her out of her dark thoughts and shock. Blinking away the obsession and tightening her lips, the apprentice nodded gratefully to her mentor. The prisoner, meanwhile, took three deep breaths and spoke softly:

— My name is Jovan.

— Jovan... Jovan. Isn't he a fugitive from the Circle?

— He is...

Tristan touched his right eyebrow, remembering, and clarified:

— According to the reports of the Templars of the Kinloch Circle, a little less than a year ago, a certain Jovan was able to make a daring escape just before the Ritual of the Torment. In order to do so, the man lured a young Sister of Light to his side, persuading her to become his informant and accomplice. Lily Mole. And a mage who had been given that title a month earlier. Solona Amell. After using and framing both, Jovan fled. An «unremarkable» feat, considering the distance to the nearest shore and the number of watchful eyes. Records show that Mole was banished to Aeonar. And Amell was subdued.

Bethany's eyes widened in surprise at the mention of Amell, which Morrigan picked up on, but before the sorceress» apprentice could say a word, Jovan intervened. The prisoner's voice was weak, but twitching with smoldering rage:

— How come... I didn't use anyone. I didn't set anyone up. You don't know anything. You don't know.

— Then we're both in luck. For you to explain yourself. So I can hear the answers.

— Why do you want to know about my past?

— Stupid questions waste time and patience.

— You... Yes. Lily and I were very close.

— Lovers?

— Yes. Against the rules and... Against all odds. I don't know what attracted Lily to me. I never asked, for fear of spoiling my luck. Lily. Kind and graceful and... Well, never mind. Words are like a book entry, they don't tell you anything about a person. For most of my life in the Circle, I never thought about the coming «Torture». But after Solona struggled to overcome her own. We've been friends for years. And now I'm the eldest. And... I've done some calculating, some thinking. Ever since I was a child I've had a talent for counting and an excellent memory. It turns out that the chances of successfully completing the ritual are barely more than three in five. A grim prospect... Moreover, the depth of the «well», as it turned out, had a significant effect on the outcome. And my reserve is modest. But I didn't despair. I was not given... Workarounds. Training. I tried everything. It's tedious and unhelpful. This way, that way. It's all about what. Finally, I had a talk with Master Uldred. He offered to help. He told me about blood magic. I agreed to everything. So one typical morning, Lily tells me that there's a paper on the First Wizard's desk accusing Jovan of using blood magic against... Well, it doesn't matter now. Whatever the Templars wrote on the paper, it wasn't «torture» I was afraid of. I feared the massacre. And the girls helped, not blindly. I... I didn't know things had gone so badly for them. So badly.

Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, as if chewing stale facts with muscle rather than intellect. Morrigan, on the other hand, was curious. The girl saw Uldred and Irving's relationship in a new light. While the First Wizard had hesitated, Uldred had acted, masking his true motives with the detection of false renegades.

— Let me guess what happened next. You tried to get as far away from the Kinloch Islands as you could. And of course you headed for Denerim. No matter how stupid it was. You were caught on the road. But not for the immediate reward of eliminating the Maleficent. The humans, or elves, I don't know, offered you a deal as simple as night and day. Return to the Circle and be subdued immediately. Or...

Jovan even lifted his perpetually downcast eyes from the ground.

— Yes... But how?

— There may be a few things missing to establish a cause-and-effect relationship, but I can see the bigger picture better.

Glancing at Morrigan, the Seeker added barely audibly:

 — It's amazing where more and more pieces of the puzzle are discovered...

Turning his attention back to the prisoner, the man continued:

— So? Stranger.

— Oh. Yes. You're right. The choice. There was no choice. And the purpose. My Lord Aemon was to be drugged before he left for Denerim. So he would miss something important. There was no need to invent anything. No improvisation. None at all. It turned out that Milady Isolde had been secretly searching for a tutor for her son. His talent had awakened. And so. I was brought in. I secretly arranged a meeting with Milady. I received letters of recommendation. The truth is, I don't know anything about the negotiations. What was in the letters? Who organised it? But in the end I got the job. All I had to do was wait quietly and teach Earl's son.

— And you didn't suspect a thing? How were you going to get out?

— I... You're right. Looking back, I just went with the flow. I didn't try to look for alternatives. I didn't think. It was scary to think too much. And I started to like the routine in the castle. Although. I was occasionally reminded of my «role» so that I wouldn't change my mind overnight. Or gain too much courage. Believe me, when my master came within a stone's throw of death. It was like a bolt out of the blue. I found myself in the dungeon, of course. Milady had no doubt as to who was responsible. And no lack of... determination to interrogate me personally.

— When did Milady stop coming down here?

— The time is here...

— Approximately.

— Oh. A week? I don't know. I guess. Definitely more than five days. It's like the whole place had died. The guards were gone. But sometimes you'd hear footsteps in the outer corridor. Or maybe I was just imagining it.

— So the Milord's son is a wizard?

— Yes. And, um. Remarkable. His mana reserves are amazing. Not unlike mine.

— Oh, I see.

Tristan turned to the Morrigan and the Templar and concluded half-heartedly:

— This case sucks.

Morrigan hummed.

— Only if you can't ignore the political side of it.

— It's not paramount. But...

 The girl shook her head, puzzled at how both humans and elves sometimes made life difficult for themselves, but then nodded.

— With a little thought, I can put you in your position. The fortress itself is important to the Church. But the stones and walls themselves are like a blade without a skilled hand. Capable of much, but only as a tool, not a dangerous weapon. With a bloodline of owners, history takes a very different course. And Isolde alone won't be enough.

Tralin corrected reflexively:

— Milady Isolde.

— Whatever you wish.

The Seeker drew in an irritated breath and turned his gaze towards the exit of the dungeon, but in the meantime Jovan spoke:

— Will you, um. let me go?

Tristan cast an oblique glance at the prisoner, and as he stepped aside, he cast a casual glance in Morrigan's direction:

— It's up to you.

The sorceress raised an eyebrow in surprise and gave Bethany a questioning look, showing without echo the emotion of the man's hasty decision. The apprentice shrugged, but immediately took a step towards her, leaning slightly towards her mentor and speaking softly:

— He mentioned Amell. That's... unexpected.

— Why?

— Generic names aren't so common that you come across them here and there. It's hard to find two that are the same, that's the point. And Amell. It was my mother's surname before she married my father. It's a noble family from Kirkwall. Mother didn't like to talk about her personal past. But...

The girl's eyes flashed with pain and longing for the moments that were doomed to be but a fading memory. But she went on, not allowing herself to be distracted by extraneous thoughts and emotions:

— Of course, my brother and I asked questions. And reluctantly, Mama shared details of her childhood. The Amells were something of a powerful family in Kirkwall. But that was power and wealth, bound by the duty and honour of generations past. It's what my mother ran away from to live with the man she loved. So this subdued girl from the Circle is a relative of mine. And I don't even know if she survived what happened recently. And how did she get into the Circle of Ferelden in the first place?

Morrigan bit her lip, pondering the strange intertwining of individual fates.

— More likely to survive than not. That's why so many mages have lost their heads, for trying to save the pacified. As for the other coincidences. Could I have predicted where I'd end up a month ago? And you? Don't waste time worrying.

Turning to the Seeker, the sorceress made her judgement clear:

— Let's set him free. But we will in no way be concerned with his fate. Let him save himself.

Tristan gave the enchantress a stern look, but nodded, signalling Tralin to use the key in the lock at the entrance to the dungeon...

* * *

The castle was quiet. Cool. It was deserted. There was nothing around to suggest a supernatural cause. It was as if life had left it. Uncomplicated and ordinary. Just like Jovan, who, after his release, immediately waddled along the walls in the direction the «liberators» had come from. Morrigan was silent, even though it seemed unlikely that the wizard would be able to safely descend the stairs in his current state, much less make his way out of the underground passageway.

The utility rooms, servants» quarters, corridors and storerooms all showed signs of lack of regular maintenance. But at the same time there was no sign of the fighting, disorder or rampage of the rodents that always live uninvited with humans in large buildings. Tristan pointed out the latter, noting twice as much detail as Morrigan had seen. Yet she did not feel lost or alien among the stone walls and rooms. Not so long ago, on her way to Kinloch Fortress, the whole «fortress» had seemed to Morrigan like a wonderland beyond her imagination. In fact, the Temple of Lothering remained the largest surviving stone structure in the girl's life.

Most of the servants were found in the main kitchen of the fortress. Girls and women of various ages, young men and men who had seen a lot. In the middle of the spacious and almost warmest room on the ground floor of the household wing, two dozen bodies were laid out haphazardly. The torch-lit candles made sure that the bodies showed no signs of injury or trauma, just sleep, not too different from death except for the breathing. The cool bodies did not react to the splinters, the slaps or the dripping wax from the candle.

Tralin scratched his cheek and spoke a few words:

— Oddly thoughtful. For a demon of his size. I wish I knew why.

Tristan nodded and finished for the Templar:

— ...or why.

Crouching by the nearest body, the Morrigan examined the sleeping face, touched her fingertips to the forehead and neck, then concluded:

— Emaciated. Skin is dry. Heartbeat barely perceptible. Dead sleep had tried to keep her from losing moisture and strength. Still, the next day or two will be the last for some. A week or so for some. But that was not the issue.

The answer was only a silence full of questioning attention.

— Until now, one rule has been strictly enforced. Only the dead are subject to possession. And here we see — a kind of compromise. The end is inevitable for those who sleep. But the thread of life is silently broken. And at the same moment a new «vessel» will appear. But what's to stop it from throwing out the rules if we succeed?

The Seeker nodded, turned and walked away with a firm stride.

— Tralin, lock this place up with something.

Soon the group came to a door leading straight out into the courtyard, beneath the snow that lay slowly on the stones and shoulders, indifferent to the living and the dead. A single set of footprints, which had disturbed the gentle cover an hour or two ago, immediately caught the eye. Someone was moving from the massive doors of the main building to the nearest tower of the outer wall and back again. From the width of the stride and the size of the shoes, the footprints looked childish. And, of course, Bethany was the first to speak:

— Lord Éamon's son?

Tristan muttered, choosing his words carefully:

— It's not out of the question.

But the Morrigan didn't beat around the bush, she got straight to the point:

— A mage with an astonishing amount of mana at such a young age. Coming from someone whose definition of «astonishing» is hardly out of the ordinary.

— Like you've seen a lot. Barely made it out of the middle of nowhere. Or is that wrong?

— You'd be surprised...

— Still. Are you suggesting that the boy is the one who's got it all figured out?

— A hint. That's a problem, isn't it?

— As if there weren't enough others. It's huge.

— Well. It's not all doom and gloom. Have you noticed anything strange?

Bethany interrupted the conversation:

— Strange?

The Seeker sighed in clarification:

— Either the demon that has taken possession of this place has had reason to act in an uncharacteristic and indeed unpredictable manner. Or the victim's will is not completely suppressed. Sadly, the Morrigan is right. According to our information, there are no mages in the fortress. Jovan was the exception, but he's clean. I must admit, Eamon's son is exceptional.

Tralin dropped carefully:

— And dangerous.

And the oldest of the wizards added:

— The main thing is not to succumb to an attractive illusion. A Seeker like no other should understand that. Some predators on the other side are too cunning and too old to ever be caught by any of us.

Tristan glanced irritably at the sorceress, about to make a scathing objection, or perhaps reluctantly agree, but was interrupted by Bethany's question:

— Morrigan, you said the guards, though they looked like cowardly puppets, were back at their posts, didn't you? Where is everyone?

The Seeker, like the others, turned slowly and looked around the high walls. And as if in response, spider-like corpses began to emerge from the dark openings leading into the fortress. A dozen fresh corpses, dressed in what remained of the clothes of the castle's servants not so long ago. Bethany held back a cry, her tightly pressed lips stifling it. The men drew their blades without haste. And Morrigan dropped hers indifferently:

— So the creature didn't learn lethargy right away.

Meanwhile, the possessed did not charge headlong as they had before, taking advantage of their superior numbers and height. Blindly waving their pale, eyeless muzzles from side to side, the creatures sniffed. In the next instant, the dead men, clearly harnessed to the will of another, rushed down in a single bound. Belatedly drawing her weapon, Morrigan whirled round. Four of the dozen, split into two pairs, rushed towards the Seeker and the Templar. The rest, without a moment's pause, moved right and left. What was happening was too much like teamwork and a desire to get the warlocks ahead of the warriors.

Pointing forward and placing the blade on the curve of her left hand, Morrigan dropped:

— Wait. In the moment before impact, meet it with fire.

Bethany said nothing, pulling herself together and almost forgetting to blink. Behind them, in a similarly tense silence, the crunching of soles on the worn stones of the fortress courtyard was punctuated by heavy breathing and the whistling of air that groaned with the sound of steel. The six bodies were already rushing towards them, a glimpse into the past of the men who had done their daily work here. No one rushed forward, no one lagged behind. This was more frightening than a group of disorderly loners.

Wasting no time in doubt, Morrigan turned her free hand palm up and exhaled barely audibly:

— Ede te…

Seven paces in front of the spellcasters, the creature in the centre left collapsed, causing two neighbours to stumble and the line to collapse. The formation became a crowd. The eldest of the girls dropped to her knees, clearing a space for Bethany's flaming bolt. The fire flower stopped the dead, but they didn't burst into flames like dry sawdust. The two closest only caught fire because of the shreds of clothing hanging down. Even so, the flames forced the corpses to wriggle on the stones and forget the rest. The others were not affected at all by the weak spell. Too much moisture remained in the fresh corpses. Taking advantage of the enemy's hesitation, Morrigan sprang to her feet and, with a wide stride, brought her sword down on the creature's collarbone from the right edge. There was not enough power to end the matter with a single strike. But the remaining pair found themselves cut off for precious moments by the twitching torches and the scuffling. Dodging an attempt to claw at the leading arm, the girl drove her blade effortlessly into the monster's chest like a sheath. Pushing the creature away with her boot, Morrigan leapt back and down, allowing Bethany to repeat the spell again.

The flames added to the chaos. And at the same moment, Tristan and Tralin rushed past, ending the fight with the cold efficiency of professionals in a dozen swings. The girls exhaled without hiding their emotion, the men did not change their faces, but no one put down their weapons. And everyone looked warily into the depths of the indistinct shadows. Low clouds, diffused light and soft snowfall gave the courtyard a peaceful appearance, behind which, like a screen, hid a deadly uncertainty. The Seeker spat with a wince:

— I should lower the bridge, but it feels like...

Interrupting the man, the metal of the double doors of the main building creaked open. Everyone turned to get a full view of the dimly lit corridor. Some of the darkness «came to life» and shifted unnaturally, floating gently into the grey sky, revealing a bone without a single piece of flesh, shrouded in a wavering gloom. Other naked skeletons, much simpler in appearance and armed with bows and quivers made by local craftsmen, stepped out of the doorway.

Tristan threw back curtly:

— Tralin! Morrigan! His mana!

But the cry was too late. The inconspicuous demon had already swung his bony arms, fingers spread, and a faint greenish orb surrounded him, closing over his head and just beneath his feet, hovering above the ground. The archers simultaneously raised their weapons and prepared to fire. Demonstrating his Templar skills, Tralin instantly summoned the power that had so annoyed the older sorceress and rolled invisibly towards the sorcerous dead man. Morrigan did her best to keep up, and two heartbeats later sent a barely perceptible ribbon, also designed to burn out mana. As the two forces passed through the void, they converged, sweeping away three of the five archers in one fell swoop. Almost simultaneously, the party was crushed by a numbness that came from an unspecified depth. It was like a hole in a sinking ship, through which weakness and fatigue filled the body. Tristan spun on his heels, the first to spot the undead behind the four of them. The demon was sucking the life out of each of them by his very presence. The swift sweep of the normally deadly blade didn't even reach him as it tore through the empty air again.

The hum of the bowstrings being lowered by the surviving archers heralded another threat. One arrow whistled past Morrigan's ear as it struck the rocks. The sound of the other was lost in Bethany's scream. The broad point left a scarlet line and diverging tissue on the outside of her forearm. Unable to repeat the trick so soon without the blood boiling in the lyrium, Tralin was already charging headlong at the archers, eager to finish off the dolls before another volley.

Whether by sheer luck or inner instinct, the Seeker guessed the demon's next location. The man met it with a sharp, stinging lunge that slid silently and powerlessly into the sphere surrounding the dead man, like a snowball thrown on smooth lake ice. The answering flash of the Magic Arrow, with an almost indistinguishable whistle, nearly tore off the man's leading arm and scorched the top layer of clothing under his right armpit. At the same time, as a magical discharge crackled somewhere near the fortress wall, Morrigan stealthily struck the deceased with a swift «Death curse», which easily slipped under the unusual defences. The girl deliberately took the risk, concentrating only on reaching the monster and giving it no warning of the spell. The creature melted away, leaving no trace, like a morning mist in the middle of the day, but when it reappeared, it could not boast a straight and proud posture.

As Bethany crouched and covered her wound, the Templars dealt with the archers. The mindless puppets were no match for the former blade in hand-to-hand combat. Realising the uselessness of the weapon, the Seeker swung sharply anyway, as if to spew impotent rage into the void. But Morrigan felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. And then the orb surrounding the dead man melted away, along with the demon that had created it. Like a mirage. Unfortunately, a simple but effective spell flashed again. This time the discharge hit the man's side with a muffled crack. On the left side, below the ribs, it left a hideous mark, like skin ripped away, surrounded by rapidly reddening shreds of cloth. Without a sound, the grimacing Seeker caught up with the creature within a few paces and drove the blade straight into the demon's empty eye socket, already slowed by the spell. With a vengeful look on his face and an audible crunch, Tristan twisted the blade through the skull. Strange as the Seeker's strength was, it was enough. The remains of the corpse crumbled to the stones with a thud and began to disintegrate into black, vanishing dust before his eyes. Morrigan turned pale and raised her head sharply to the sky. The girl took a deep breath to regain a modicum of composure and, closing her eyes tightly for a moment, stepped towards Bethany, concentrating on the wound. To her right, Tralin was carefully ripping open the remains of Tristan's shirt with a hunting knife, beneath his master's hoarse, rapid breathing. The quilt was already nearby. The Seeker glanced at the wizards, who were engrossed in their own concerns, with a twinge of pain in his eyes:

— What a bitch...

It sounded ambiguous, but Morrigan took it personally. She turned Bethany's twitching head away from the men by the chin, and without stopping what she was doing, the sorceress said:

— You didn't expect sympathy and concern, did you? What's that saying... «Fear the Creator» I mean, if you pass out here, we'll be free. And we'll be out of here in...

— Is... this a stupid joke? H-n-n-n-n! Tralin! The abyss...

— I'm sorry. But your hand must be raised.

The sorceress placed dark green leaves of «Bitter Canavaris', found in someone else's garden on the way to the mill, under a piece of dry cloth that had been boiled by the locals. With that, the girl finished bandaging the shallow but unpleasant cut. In response to her pupil's questioning mouth, the mentor placed a piece of yellowish root from the same plant in it and quietly commanded:

— Chew.

Morrigan then turned her attention back to the sweaty man who was being bandaged by the Templar with what he had, skilfully but without a drop of pity.

— A joke... A joke is something else. It's sarcasm. Even if it's half wishful thinking. Don't squirm. Ah... it's for pain... Whatever's on the tip of your tongue, save your strength. And what they'll find. And about Blight. And the... everything, along with your personal plans. I'm sure if you have the time and energy, you'll convince me of everything.

The sorceress circled the courtyard of the fortress with her hand.

— Alone? Curious. And it's not even the master of this mess who's come to see us. Has the real culprit run out of breath? Or has the suggestion of a delicate balance between demon and victim hit the nail on the head?

Groaning in pain, Tristan struggled to pull the torn quilt on one side over the bandage. It took a moment for the man to gather the strength to answer:

— It's hard to say... A «witch's nightmare» is an unpleasant surprise. Like the fact that they tried to control it as if it were indistinguishable from the lesser demons. That's why it got so close to us when it got in our way. These creatures, despite their enormous hunger and irritation at the limitations of their own shells, show a rare amount of patience and cunning, hiding to the last in shadows, caves or unreachable heights. They let their subordinates lead the way, overwhelming the enemy with long-range spells. And... Yes, yes, your magic certainly helped by making the creature vulnerable, no argument there. Anyway.

The Seeker furrowed his brow, sighed heavily and turned to the Templar:

— Tralin, open the gate. We may not need reinforcements here, but we could use an easier escape route. Take Bethany with you.

The girl looked at her mentor questioningly. Only when she got the confirmation did she follow the Templar towards the heavy towers that seemed to hold the gates and the raised suspension bridge between them. Morrigan held out her palm to catch the snowflakes as they drifted silently down.

— Can you continue?

Barely suppressing a groan, the man got to his feet at the first attempt. And immediately pulled up his quilt to hide the bandage and the red stain spreading down his side.

— I've had worse.

The girl arched an eyebrow in sarcasm, and the Seeker, tossing the contents of the modest pouch at his belt into his mouth, clarified:

— One time. Were you deliberately putting on a show? Or do you really think this girl is more valuable than me?

The sorceress smiled broadly, the dark gold of her eyes glittering as if they caught a glimpse of the sun behind the clouds.

— Jealousy? Such an emotion to experience... How trivial for a Seeker. Especially when it came to «servants'.

The girl became serious and turned her gaze to those hidden in one of the two towers:

— Back to the question. I think so. Bethany is more useful in the long run than you are. I don't expect her to stab me in the back or threaten me in any way. That's not the end of the value, but I don't need the details. However. That's not the question. You know, «friendship": it's a difficult dance, I suppose. The tact, the rhythm, the proportionality and appropriateness of each movement. But, like magic, it can be learnt through the virtuoso and flawless execution of the right pas. Even if the details of reason are still confused by vagueness or meaninglessness. But the «dance» between you and me is much simpler. You need, and you will be useful. Nothing extra. Agreed?

— I look at you and sometimes wonder... Maybe the Puppeteer isn't behind your back. And I'm just stupidly ignoring the obvious?

Morrigan blinked in surprise, but Tristan was already silent. The Seeker had closed his eyes and was concentrating on chewing some unknown medicine...

* * *

Beyond the open gate and the lowered bridge, there were no reinforcements eager to join in the liberation of the fortress. Just a quiet settlement, covered in fresh snow. A peaceful picture, even if you forgot about the abandoned houses. Perhaps the survivors had enough of their own worries and left the heroics to the Seeker's conscience. Or perhaps it was simpler, and no one really believed in the success of the event, having written off the «guests» in advance. You can guess, or you can get down to business... Before the worst happens.

Reunited, the group stepped stiffly into the invitingly open hallway of the main building, which looked like a stout dwarf in the midst of a ring of tall warriors shaped like watchtowers. Light streamed into the spacious room only through the doorway, igniting hundreds of fleeting sparks in the swirling dust that had replaced the falling snow. Careful inspection once again revealed desolation. The care of the servants had not touched a corner for at least a week. And through it all, three chains of footprints looped around the room.

Besides the exit to the courtyard, there were three other doors in the hall. Two on either side, wide open. Each had its own treaded path. Tristan explained succinctly that behind these were the traditional service rooms. Servants» quarters, storerooms. Less common: training rooms. There was no reason to believe that the Red Fortress would be any different. But the Seeker was only interested in the personal quarters of the Earl's family. Part of it lay ahead, behind the only closed door opposite the exit. That was where the paths converged.

Slowly, the heavy oak door, with its lovingly carved landscape of a spruce forest at the height of summer, opened to reveal the corridor without its own light source. Here, for the first time, some variety had entered the practical minimalism of decoration and furnishings. On the walls were paintings of the local bay and the mountains of the Frost Range. There were other landscapes, unfamiliar to the Morrigan, that seemed vaguely familiar. At the far end of the corridor, the steps of a wide staircase were barely visible. There were four doors on either side, and the space between them was filled with candlesticks the height of an average man and stands of decorative armour. Four types of full knight's armour, three of which seemed to be from different eras of Ferelden, and one from Orlais.

Tristan leaned heavily on the doorjamb and said with a worried voice:

— It doesn't look safe...

Morrigan circled the corridor with a glance and reassessed:

— And?

Shaking his head as if in agreement, the Seeker replied:

— You're right. But we'll be on our guard.

Like a prophecy incarnate, the ornate armour creaked at the man's last words. The troop froze, staring intently at the massive figures. Overcoming the resistance of the old, unyielding metal and cramped joints, the lacquered arms swung behind their backs, something a living man could never achieve, even if he were a thrice astounding acrobat in a famous troupe. Grabbing at the racks, the armour jerked itself off and hit the stone floor with a muffled clatter. Empty helmets, visors raised, turned slowly and once towards the troupe. The nearest pair was five paces away, the farther pair twice that.

Morrigan paused, half-smiling:

— Abyss...

Tralin bared his blade willingly but glared at one, asking the Seeker uncertainly:

— I'm not sure what...

Tristan, carefully retrieving his own weapon so as not to make any unnecessary sudden movements, clarified:

— Channeling essence from behind the Veil into a dead person is no easy task. Into an inanimate object? A hundred times harder. For every moment it will try to wriggle out of this hateful existence. It happens. Rarely. And only with an incredible thinning of the «Veil» due to the vivid emotions and memories that such an object holds. The demon behind the scenes... It's as if he were throwing pearls of ebony gold in front of pigs. And the pigs are us, of course. The Morrigan. Our weapons can't hurt these things. Slow, but unstoppable. And more than anything else, mana is a weakness.

Immediately, an unseen force surged from the Seeker's side. From the faces of those around him, it seemed — only Morrigan's lips twitched as she felt it. Whether by accident or design, the force struck the Orlesian's armour. Barely lifting a foot for a step, he stopped. But only just. With a creak of its knee, the metallic figure tried again and, slightly behind, took a heavy step forward. The eldest of the wizards grimaced, clearly sensing how little mana he had. And yet the Puppet Master was still out of reach, and a thought crossed her mind: if we set aside the usual categories that so «captivated» the Seeker's mind, the «bead throwing» was productive. The depletion of morale, strength, mana... In addition, the Morrigan's instincts were literally «wrapping her own veins around her fist», demanding that she save her mana for the possibility of transformation.

Tristan shook his head and briefly commanded:

— Stand back. There's room in the lobby. This place will be trampled.

The group retreated quickly, spreading out across the large room and waiting for the enemy to appear. The first figure, creaking with every movement, stepped out into the corridor, moving strictly in the direction of the older sorceress. The second, bumping its shoulder against the doorjamb, staggered towards Bethany. The girl turned to the Seeker:

— Are they blind?

— See the eyes? That's armour, girl. I guess the monster inside can tell in some way: where up and down is, whether you are moving or not, whether you have hit an obstacle or not... And it can definitely sense the accumulation of mana. But that's about it.

Tralin suddenly cursed under his breath, perhaps for the first time on this journey. Raising his free arm, the man tensed and squeezed out a wave of power that struck the armour to the Orlesian's right. The full set of lats probably belonged to the end of the Holy Age. The glorious age of Waylan the First, son of Ferelden's founder, Calenhad. Unfortunately, the massive figure didn't even sway as it continued on its way.

Suddenly, Orleus» full armour crashed into a low, massive table that stood in his way. A pair of them, with low, upholstered benches, were the only furniture in the room. The figure stood still for a few moments, as if realising what had happened, then bent over, clumsily grabbed a piece of furniture and threw it at Bethany without much difficulty. It looked surreal from the outside. Still, the young sorceress was not confused and tried to jump aside. But she was too late. In fact, between the throw and the deafening crash of the table against her body, the man would not have been able to blink. The girl seemed to disappear, rolling a tangled sack of clothes to the nearest wall and standing there motionless.

Morrigan stared at the girl's body, spending endless moments taking in the accomplished fact and cursing her own lethargy.

 — Ede te!

Orlais's armour took a step and collapsed forward, crumbling into its component parts with a deafening metallic rumble.

The sorceress glanced at Tralin. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head in obvious disapproval. The warrior was limited in this fight, and the Templar's strength had already reached its limit without a lirium boost. Glancing around, the man decided to put down his weapon and rushed towards the girl's body.

Tristan did not react to his subordinate's retreat, only clenching his fist tighter with his free hand. Just as Morrigan was about to use her instincts to spend the rest of her mana on one last spell, a second pair of armour appeared from the corridor into the hall. That's when the Seeker jumped out of his seat. The man was so quick, despite his serious injury, that he lunged at his opponent, who was closer than the others. The enchantress felt a familiar wave of power surge ahead of the Seeker, reaching the walking armour first. Something glittered between Tristan and the possessed lats, and with a barely audible clink, it went straight into the opening of the open helmet. The first strike stopped the armour from coming to life, followed by a deafening thud, accompanied by the distant sound of breaking glass and a deafening pain. The unexpected sound made the girl reflexively close her eyes and cover her face with her hand. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see that the armour had unexpectedly changed. The helmet was completely gone. In addition, part of the lats in the chest area, both front and back, had been torn away. The dense metal, which lacked the ductility and hardening of modern alloys, had been torn like paper, the shreds spinning outwards at odd angles. It was as if an iron flower had burst open, an incarnation straight out of a nightmare. With a final squeak, the armour began to fall apart, spraying metal onto the ground.

Tristan looked neither fresh nor healthy: pale, sweating, sucking in air spasmodically and with a quivering lower lip. The vessels in the man's right eye had burst, and his frame was distorted by the wound. It made the Seeker look like a typical possessed man at the beginning of his transformation. Still, the man remained composed and focused on his remaining enemies.

Without waiting for the metallic figures to approach, Tristan took a quick step, albeit a limp one, towards them. Tristan glanced briefly at where Tralin was fiddling with Bethany, but the sorceress reasoned that the Templar would not waste so much time on a corpse. So the girl's attention was focused on the battle unfolding before her. When the two slow, seemingly unstoppable figures were five paces away, the Seeker grabbed the blade with his bare left hand and carefully, not wanting to cut any tendons, removed it from its improvised «sheath'. The blade was stained along its length with a barely visible scarlet trail of fresh blood. As if in continuation of an ongoing series of demonstrations of hidden powers, there was a movement at the edge of Morrigan's field of vision that caused her to jerk her head nervously in search of the source of the illusion. It was impossible to pinpoint what was moving or where. But the girl was able to describe the individual fragments of the «sensation» better each time. At that moment, something seemed to be creeping towards Tristan from outside and from several directions. It was like a pack of rats rushing from the many crevices of the cave in a grey carpet at his feet. Rustling, indistinct movement and fear mingled in unison with the darkness.

The man's action was not followed by a crushing attack or miraculous magic. The possessed armour continued to move, striking artlessly as it approached. The first man's fist sliced through the air with a mighty swing, slicing the air above the painfully ducked Seeker. The deafening thud of the other's foot downward was like a bell, vibrating with a long, low rumble in the empty core of his armour, but he missed as well, as Tristan skilfully slid aside, still making no attempt to attack. The Morrigan did not understand the man's intentions or tactics as he dodged again and again, each blow bringing him closer to death. From her point of view, the game of chance could not go on indefinitely and the possible gains were beyond the girl's comprehension.

And yet something changed. The blows of the figures, indifferent at first, became sharper, more hurried. The clear, mechanical movements became slightly blurred. It was as if the metal-filled demons were in a hurry to reach some destination. It seemed unlikely to the Morrigan that those in the midst of this rage were only angry because Tristan kept slipping away. He was already panting and... She remembered the Seeker's words about the desire of every demon in such a lifeless shell to twist and escape, even if it was back behind the Veil. But that meant that the man who twitched to dodge the blows was damaging his opponents while he was nearby...

Unable to contain her anger at her own blindness and incomprehension, Morrgina almost missed the moment when one armour, followed by the other, froze in mid-movement. The figures collided and crashed to the ground with a sweet rumble as they began to stagger under the weight of the metal. Tristan was the only one left standing in the rubble, but he didn't look victorious for long. Two breaths later, the man slumped and collapsed to the ground, just as they had fallen.

* * *

Bethany was lucky. The table didn't hit her in the head or under the legs. So the girl escaped with a broken left arm, instinctively thrown out in defence. As the young sorceress had no experience of defending herself with a shield, she had placed her hand in a most unfortunate manner. Some of the bones in her wrist broke under the impact, or worse. The radius of her forearm was probably broken as well, though there was no major dislocation. Finally, the shoulder was dislocated by the blow, and it was not yet possible to put it right. Later, when the girl was rolling on the floor, the elbow joint of the injured arm was bent at the wrong angle. There were a number of minor bruises, among which the bruise on her forehead caused by the wall stood out.

Luck, then, was reduced to the fact that the girl was alive.

With the Morrigan watching his every move and comparing his own experience with theirs, Tralin deftly mended the extremity with the tools he had. Turning his attention back to the focused sorceress, he concluded succinctly:

— This case sucks.

Nodding, the girl replied:

— But well done.

Shrugging, the Templar reluctantly let his shoulders drop:

— It wouldn't be the first time...

— Isn't it embarrassing that she's talented and unregistered?

Tralin closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead and said dryly:

— I'm not confused about much. That's why I'm with the Seeker, not guarding mages, hunting down renegades or wandering around looking for gifted ones.

Morrigan nodded and looked back at Tristan, who had been unconscious for more than a dozen minutes. But this time he was looking back.

— Welcome back.

The man glanced at Bethany, licked his parched lips and turned his attention back to the approaching sorceress.

— Thank you.

— How...

Tristan raised a less shabby hand, gesturing to interrupt the first of the girl's series of questions, and said with a grunt:

— If I've demonstrated too much, don't think I'm going to chew on anything.

Morrigan grimaced, not even hiding the pain of curiosity. But eventually the girl shook her head, showing acceptance and confusion. Inwardly, though, the sorceress smiled. Tristan's tricks had already provided much to think about and reflect upon. All that remained was to find the time to gather the facts and make educated guesses.

Examining the doorway leading from the hallway into a corridor of paintings and empty armour racks, Morrigan murmured softly:

— At this rate, almost anyone in your position would have retreated by now.

The man struggled to sit up, grabbing his side in the process, and sucked in air noisily a few times before answering:

— Yes, there are a lot of them. But it's not about perseverance. A lot of trumps have been played and a lot of luck has been used up. But sooner than I had hoped. It won't happen again. And time has been against me for a long time.

— I hope we won't regret these words before tonight. But there's still mana left.

— Tralin. Take what you left in the kitchen when you locked the doors behind us. And come back.

The Templar nodded, unsheathed his blade and walked away, following in the footsteps of the group. The sorceress raised her eyebrows in surprise, but that expression was immediately replaced by a mask of suspicion.

— What are we talking about?

— Lyrium composition, of course. You'll be able to replenish your mana before your next dash.

— But... But why? No. Wait. Why didn't you use the lyrium before?

— An ace up my sleeve. Already played. There was no point in keeping the lyrium in reserve and at a safe distance.

— At a distance?

Tristan hummed bitterly.

— No more questions. Help me up.

Tralin returned shortly afterwards, confirming that the fortress was still quiet and that the condition of the servants had not changed in the slightest. The Templar brought with him two oblong ceramic vials, polished on the outside. Both immediately fell into Morrigan's hands. Weighing the unexpected treasure in the palm of her hand, the girl asked:

— Why don't they kill us?

Tralin shrugged ingenuously, and the Seeker replied:

— There's nothing to puzzle over. Because he can't. Otherwise they'd have finished us off by the time we'd dealt with the local army of the dead. Unlike the incident at Kinloch Stronghold, this one has a different emphasis. Strength and power are not concentrated in one place, making it impregnable and deadly. On the contrary, the influence is spread thinly over the whole of Erling. If we are to trust the word of mouth by half, no, not even by a quarter, this thing seems to have reached a dozen places days away from here. Like a snowfall outside the walls. How much snow falls on the southern shore of the lake in a day? It's uncountable. And how big is a snowflake? But doubt is a waste of time. Let's go.

The sorceress took one last look at the neatly tucked student, who had not yet regained consciousness, and moved to follow the men. 

As she stepped into the corridor, the girl tipped one lyrium compound after another into her body. The sickening taste and the residual creak on her teeth unexpectedly triggered an attack of blind nostalgia.

Checking the four rooms on either side of the corridor, the shrinking party found the library crammed with books. It was clear from the open volumes lying here and there, and the candles burning both in candlesticks and disorderly on silver trays, that the room had been in constant use for days. But time had been spent here by someone who cared little for the order and value of things. As Morrigan's eyes darted from corner to corner, she came to the strange conclusion that the mystery reader had been studying the geography of Redcliffe and the coastline of the Red Keep. It did not escape her notice that the vast majority of the books in the library, judging by the spines, were in one way or another collections of travellers» notes, sketches and diaries. Probably copies. And this collection of works was not limited to the home country of the owners of the fortress. It was also easy to find works on the history, cartography, culture and wealth of Ferelden. The other three rooms were a strict drawing room, a cosy room for rest and tea parties, and an ascetic study. These rooms had not been disturbed for at least a week.

With the unpleasant creaking of the old stairs, the party climbed to the first floor. At the end of the stairs was a straight corridor, a few steps wide, that ran in a straight line through the building to the far end. The walls were filled with portraits of the Earl's ancestors from the Gerrin family. Rugged men, chaste ladies brimming with dignity, and modestly smiling young men. The numbers indicated how far back in time Milord Eamon's roots went. And the lack of scale in the canvases suggested the restraint that had been preserved through the generations. Light streamed in through the rustic yet elegant stained-glass windows, placed under the ceiling at opposite ends of the corridor. A compromise between safety, beauty and the economy of candles and torches. Discreet vases stood on decorative tables. For some reason, the red pattern with black outlines and sparse flecks of dark yellow on a white background immediately alerted Morrigan to the brushwork of local artisans. Each held carefully dried summer flowers. A cautious glance picked up a child's wooden sword tossed under a nearby table. Just the thing for the Earl's heir, Connor. This place wasn't a mausoleum of emasculated memory or the embodiment of power and wealth. It was a home, a house where every detail told the story of its owners, like the ancient clans of Ferelden who never strayed from their own land or people.

And no sooner had the party descended the stairs than a door opened softly in the distance, revealing the light to the retracted blades. A woman stepped cautiously out of the room. Stately, tall by local standards, gifted by nature with voluptuous forms. Her blonde hair was gathered into a practical bun, except for the fine curls that framed a pleasantly round face with a pair of pale green eyes and the distinctive nose of a native of eastern Orlais. The unpretentious burgundy dress of expensive satin accentuated the right things without showing off the unnecessary. Through it all, there were signs of fatigue and emotional decay, each step ready to crush what was left of Milady. Meanwhile, there was a misplaced arrogance in her gaze, as if something alien was staring out of the slits of her mask.

Before the woman could open her mouth, a surge of unseen power silently tore from the Seeker's side. How unexpectedly shattered Tristan looked. And it took even the tense sorceress by surprise. All the more so as she sincerely believed that the man down in the hall had reached his limit. Inwardly cursing, the girl evaluated the surprise, which only strengthened her opinion: «The Seekers were not an «improved form of the Templars», but a fundamentally different phenomenon. At the same time, she couldn't stop thinking about Tristan's «pact»

After Milady had been washed with no apparent effect, the force seemed to pull the foreign thing away. Tears welled up in the woman's eyes, her hands trembled, and Milady Isolde collapsed to her knees, not caring in the least for the pain or the dress. The parched lips, parted, barely audible, whispered:

— Son... Save my son! Please.

Then from the open room came the sound of a small body falling, echoing in the exhausted mother's face with unspeakable horror...