Chapter 21 - "Strangers' web"

Morrigan distinctly remembered her own palm over Tristan's surviving hand. A faint movement, stripped of its former strength. The touch of cold, calloused fingers seemed gentle. It was as if it had happened two breaths ago. Or not... Now the empty bed in front of the sorceress looked untouched. When she touched the blanket, she felt no trace of human warmth. Immediately, the girl's delicate hearing picked up the typical crackling of wood in the fireplace. The sound was soothing and comforting, unless one was sure that there was no fireplace in the room...

Turning sharply, Morrigan found an elegant armchair, carved from light wood, slightly greying with time. It faced the fire, its high back confidently concealing its contents. Behind the out of nowhere piece of furniture was a source of sound that blended seamlessly into the architecture of the room. The fireplace filled the corner so habitually that it defied the sorceress' vivid memory of the absence of a chimney on the floor above. Inside, three or four charred logs, at least twenty minutes old, crackled.

From behind the backrest came a calm, clear, but for some unknown reason apparently weary female voice. All that could be said about the owner's age was: not too young, not too old.

— Don't worry about the memories. Especially considering the damage that's already been done. Of course, you didn't get here overnight. It took a few beats of your heart to find out exactly what the Seeker wanted. Another few beats to locate the much-maligned interlocutor nearby. And then... Don't worry: the body didn't hit the bed or even the floor. Contrary to his own condition, Tristan picked up the fallen maiden. Quite a feat under the circumstances. Your vessel is attractive, but we suppose the exhausted servant of the Church has no time for that. The Seeker also refrains from calling for help: rumours of a "heroine" who collapsed unconscious at the bedside of a sick man are not good for him. But the strength of the 'hero' is not unlimited. That's why the conversation won't last long, no matter how much you want it to. The last time I had such a "straight" conversation... A long time ago. Let's get rid of the ambiguity: it's The Shadow. Have a seat.

The bewildered Morrigan blinked instinctively, trying to gather her thoughts as the flood of facts and speech patterns in her head shattered them into separate, meaningless sounds. In that moment of disorientation, a second chair appeared near the first. Should one be surprised if the sorceress really was on the other side of the "Veil"? But the girl was surprised. And slowly she walked towards the skilfully crafted, but simple piece of furniture. A keen eye caught the motifs of vines and wildflowers in the slightly decayed patterns of the backrest, reminiscent of nomadic elven clans. Fragments of a great nation guarding the vestiges of freedom and knowledge of their own culture. What remained unclear was the 'mistress's' purpose in creating chairs so authentically period. The unspoken question was answered by a voice tinged with the slightest hint of mockery:

— No-o-o. Our visitor is more interested in how the chair appeared out of nowhere. It's a pity that curiosity is tempered by excuses. Like "well, it's The Shadow". Or, "everyone here is all about 'ideas' and 'concepts' and 'perceptions' of things". It's a common view. Unfortunately, no one had tried to turn this logic on its head, to taste it for themselves. The chair didn't spring up right away. Neither did you. Everything has a duration. But the short period of time in which the chair took shape was cleverly concealed. A deception based on the imperfection of the observer. Here you are just like "there" where you thought you were "real". Oh... The heat of curiosity. Well, let's call it a gesture of goodwill. Or bait. Your eyes. A crude instrument. They need regular moistening: and you blink, voluntarily obscuring your vision. Sometimes they let you down. And when that's not enough... You have a blind spot in the middle. You don't even notice it because your eyes are always wandering. With clever use of the above, you can easily demonstrate power. As a chair, an experienced inhabitant of the "shadow" can literally "appear" out of nothing. How do we know about the eyes? Among the " devotees " there are many personalities who have an unhealthy attraction to the anatomy of the living and often, burdened with reason. It is not for us to judge the preferences of others, of course...

Morrigan slowly walked around to the other side of the chair and finally got a good look at her. The first thing she noticed was that the figure resembled wax from head to toe... Only the surface did not seem to be frosted, but resembled fresh, moist arterial blood. Colours were present, but barely. The mind refused to recognise the creature as anything other than a statue. And it didn't blink, it didn't breathe. And so when the figure turned its head slightly, responding to the gaze, the girl was startled. There were dozens of features mixed into the woman's appearance. The ears were subtly reminiscent of elven ears. The nose of an Orlais was easily recognisable. The massive forehead evoked an elusive memory... Full lips, for some unknown reason, reminded one of Rivaine, as did slanted eyes of Underfels... The woman even had the coarse features of the Ferelden. Yet the face did not look like a repulsive jumble. Each detail worked harmoniously with the others. The clothes. It looked simple. Like the summer dress of an unassuming peasant girl from the quiet countryside, just enough to keep the men busy every minute.

Licking her lips and running her fingertips along an armrest that seemed no less solid than the similarly faded wood in reality, Morrigan asked:

— Who are you?

The creature tilted her head slightly, as if in thought, and answered without hesitation:

— Interesting question. "Who are you." Not 'what'. To hear that from the mouth of a guest is curious. Even contemplative. You already have your suspicions. Xebenkeck, we are called that because we are called that. Even if we were born under another name, now forgotten.

The sorceress tilted her head slightly to the side, expressing scepticism and disbelief, but before she could open her mouth, she received a new answer:

— It's a legitimate doubt. But it's not about deception, even if you don't have the tools to disprove it convincingly. We... The real me... From the average Ferelden's perspective, only "we" makes sense. The many faces of Xebenkeck. Once upon a time, there was a source that gave rise to the multitude due to... insurmountable flaws that prevented it from realising the idea to which it aspired with all its nature. The first generation of reflections, which gave rise to the second, which gave rise to the third. Nowadays, with due diligence, Xebenkeck can even be found in your reality, and it is unlikely that this version will be very different from the ordinary "Desire". You may have a unique opportunity to talk to the second generation. There aren't many of us left.

There was a pause and the image of the woman smiled and added quietly:

— No, this isn't about mind reading. I can see that the threat of such an intrusion is a red flag. But whatever you think of yourself, you're no harder to read than anyone else right now. Finger twitches, breathing, heartbeat, skin colour... Most are under the illusion that what's here is yours: consciousness and a simplistic concept of appearance. If changing yourself were as easy as changing your clothes... An evolved personality carries with it not only the baggage of memory, but also a surplus of images and unconscious feelings and emotions. To me, they are great storytellers.

— Why...

— Why are we so talkative?

Morrigan, still unseated, nodded laconically, waiting for the next rant.

— Circumstances. And the interlocutor. Extraordinary, huh? No, personal curiosity hasn't played a significant role in these things for a long time. But calculation and necessity. Each person takes advantage of the other to the best of their ability. The illusion of an equal exchange. I see a lot of questions on your lips.

With a hum, the sorceress spoke cautiously:

— Up until now, I have more or less accepted the idea that every creature from behind the Veil uses a single passion as a source of nature. But the ones I've met personally rarely live up to that. And you look and sound different from "Desire" or "Fury". Meanwhile, you're a more ancient being than I've ever seen. What is your purpose?

The figure in the chair leaned forward, a graceful hand resting on her chin, and stared into the fire. Morrigan thought about how human the creature was, gesturing, standing, even facial expressions. After a moment's pause, she replied:

— Humans, elves and other ephemeral creatures you are accustomed to are also often so simple that they seem to be driven by a single thought. A passion for any occasion. Others are able to make interesting conversation, to surprise with erudition, manners, or all of the above. The saying "we are what we eat" is partly true here. And the meaning of our existence... You know, you could have been mean and put the question back. I don't think the answer would have been easy to find, if it had ever seen the light of day. The original motives are hidden by time. It will devour all without mercy. The last enemy on every path. But one imperative remains. The urge to transcend boundaries. Foreign rules. The authority of others. The laws of a society or a country. Common norms. And finally: the laws and limits of the universe known to most of us... What's out there, beyond the limits? One of the truths I've learned has awakened a desire: to find our own magic. Our own, not a gift from someone else. And we are still on a journey that began beyond our memories.

Morrigan allowed herself another discreet shake of the head in mild confusion.

— Fuzzy and vague... So you're... Are you travellers? Explorers?

— You could say that. Only in our case, the road has taken us further than we usually manage to go.

— Let's say. Why blood?

The female figure lowered her eyes to the ground and smiled at the corners of her mouth. There was a soft sigh. A little strange, if you wondered why the creature in the chair was breathing at all.

— Finally. The question. No matter who we talk to, it always comes up. There's nothing special about blood. Not yours, nor that of the man who held the girl's body in his arms. Even the blood of dragons has no more to it than you'd expect from giant flying lizards capable of spitting liquid flame, acid and lightning without harm. But the question is different. Do you find blood trivialised? No. Just one word, but so many associations. How many images and emotions are common to Tedas, regardless of language or culture. What's more important for The Shadow? But ultimately it's about mana. The way you're used to getting mana is like trying to get water in a torrential downpour. And we're more like a parasite, stealing precious moisture from others, drop by drop, until we get enough to bathe in.

It sounded unusual. To say the least. And Morrigan wanted to ask endlessly. But the girl mentally restrained her irrepressible curiosity, forcing her mind to discipline and sobriety. The figure in the chair lifted its head and squinted at the sorceress' inner struggle. From the side, as if it were looking closely at something that was difficult to see from afar. The dark-haired guest held back her unfounded irritation and spoke clearly:

— How? How can you know and influence at the same time?

— It's strange to suddenly find this moderation. In you. You were so eager to move on to the discussion of the Pact. Your lack of power so troubles you. And yet. Let's not beat about the bush and admit it. A spider with its web wide open comes to mind. It's a great image. Threads are drawn to every moment of blood magic incarnate. Every ritual that has blood at its core. Every place imbued with this power. To every covenant holder. The mana flows down the threads to us. And through the trembling of the threads we see, feel and realise your reality. Through the same connection we exert our influence without disturbing the Veil in the slightest. There is more than one way around this barrier. As for how we work "miracles"... The principles of true magic are universal for 'here' and 'there'. It's the same everywhere. Always. But they are too complex for the singular minds of the simplistic creatures of your reality. It's about choices and consequences.

The sorceress raised her eyebrows slightly, but it wasn't as if she was frowning. Rather, the girl was digesting the facts. And without letting herself fall into a prostration of thoughtfulness, she moved on to the next topic:

— Now, the Pact.

The woman leaned back in her chair, rested her hands on the armrests and nodded:

— Yes. That's why we met. Another Pact. But you don't get what you want for free these days.

Morrigan tensed her jaw, restraining herself from rash phrases, and asked again:

— Why the price in my case?

— You're far from the usual stranger, wandering around the world and ending up in interesting places. Or in the middle of interesting events. You are a unique tool, suddenly discovered almost exactly where you need to be at the right time. Such an unlikely coincidence of circumstances makes you think about the presence of an afterthought, made up of a mosaic of other people's plans, intrigues and conspiracies... But it's pointless to waste time on what is out of control or beyond one's control. Back to the instrument. You will occupy a significant place in a war as old as time itself. We will seize the moment and place you on the favourable side of the scales.

— Ha...

Morrigan's exclamation was answered only by the questioning eyebrows of her interlocutor. The girl pulled herself together and clarified:

— What's my potential?

— There is a deep irony in seeing an enemy, after an eternity, forced to do what we do. The causes are different. The method is different. But the result... It's even more ironic to discover that while you're looking for a rope for a drowning man, he's learning to swim. You wouldn't understand, of course. The one who calls herself your mother has been experimenting with dragonkind for a long time. And has gone far beyond her brothers. And we have before us a crowning achievement.

It would have been hard for Morrigan to hide her surprise, but the girl didn't try:

— Me?!

— Mm-hmm. Well, here's one. When was the last time you had your period? I mean, you know what that is. Have you ever experienced it? Don't frown. The apparent inconsistency of the facts escaped my notice for a reason. But you can ponder the thought at your leisure. So. You want power. You will have our pact on the following terms. We'll show you a place in the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. You must go there, find a forgotten place, and within it, an abandoned treasure. Then complete the task, the result of which will be of use to us and to you.

— Wonderful. Do you really think so?

* * *

— So Xebenkeck kicked you out when she thought the conversation was over?

Tristan's tired voice was a mixture of confusion and a touch of sarcasm, but also interest. Morrigan, sitting on the floor by the bed, nodded, not even bothering to consider whether or not the Seeker could see the back of the girl's head.

— Exactly. A meaningful way of showing who's boss. In a nutshell. You don't get a pact for free. At least not for me. I ask myself, what's the mistake? The one that makes me jump from one to the other, that I'm being taken advantage of without a chance to turn around. But in essence. A place on the slopes of Frostback Mountains, opposite the western shore of the lake: "The Sanctuary", do you know it?

— Hmm... There are a dozen settlements in this area, founded by partisans during the occupation. Many still consider themselves independent. But the returning rulers of Ferelden turned against the bandits on the old road. Two or three villages were burned for years, or until the next famine wiped out the wills. It is easy to believe that there are as many lost and forgotten in the rugged, winding valleys as there are known. Villages quietly dying or long covered by perennial snows.

— It's complex. And in the end, all I hear is "no". The creature told me how to get there. From here. The second big bridge on the west shore of the lake, northwards. On horseback: two to three days, I guess. If there are no blizzards and late thunderstorms. Then into the mountain valley and up the river. It's sort of passable on the bank or by wading. Three or four days on foot. From the second day on, we have to watch out for a prominent rock on the left. It juts up into the sky like a lone, slender finger, surrounded by forest, and at the foot of it is a stream. We should turn there. In two hours' time, the aforementioned "shelter" will appear on the slope on the right. Once you have passed the settlement, walk along the stream for two days until you reach the glacier tongue. There, among the ice, are prominent granite colossi, and so the entrance to the ancient temple is easy to find.

Tristan sighed and, after a pause, replied:

— The legend means...

The Morrigan raised her eyebrows, questioning what remained hidden from her interlocutor:

— Legend?

— Yes. Frostback Mountains is rugged, not only in name. It's also vast. How far south the mountains extend is unknown. No one has been able to discover them and come back to tell us. There are many Avar settlements hidden in these parts, as well as ancient ruins that have not been explored. The central part remained uninhabited until recently. And with good reason. Hundreds of empty caves, once home to dragons. Until they died out. History, however, has a cautionary tale to teach. The era of occupation ended not only because of the unbreakable spirit of the Ferelden. It was also due to the devastating raids on eastern Orley by a fire-breathing lizard that had suddenly awoken in the mountains. That year, not a single living soul dared climb the passes, winter or summer. Since time immemorial, the northern part of the mountains has been shrouded in the folklore of "the last refuge". To think that Orzammar also lies under the northernmost spurs... The curious will even find tales of elven fortresses hidden in the ice, abandoned before the heyday of ancient Tevinter. But this is a particular legend. The hidden place where loyal companions took Andraste's ashes from the world.

The sorceress stretched thoughtfully after the Seeker, tasting the word 'taste':

— Ashes...

— A treasure that is rightly considered a cornerstone in the foundation of the Church. Or could have been. If the ashes had been in the hands of the Church. For the way in which knowledge of such a thing has come into my hands seems... painful. And certainly not credible.

— What's trust got to do with it?

Tristan expressed his bewilderment with a short exclamation, not bothering to accompany it with words, and Morrigan explained with a slight curl of her lips:

— The motives and principles of Andrastianism touch me little. One helps the other. And it doesn't really matter what motivates them. Others, no. And I'll bet there are more of the latter. The demon, or whatever it is, didn't mention any holy relic. It was all about a Pact, in exchange for terms of fulfilment. What's even more unnerving is that the condition is not an easy one. And even if it's all a quagmire, the chance of getting answers is worth it.

— Surprise.

Morrigan snorted, but immediately became serious and continued:

— In the ruins of the temple, partly eaten away by a glacier, lives a dragon. A young female. I shall borrow blood from her.

Tristan interrupted the sorceress and exhaled grimly:

— What a play on words... Kill.

— Yes. But not only that. This is where Zibenkeck decided to add a little mystery. Here, listen to this. "Trample the new idol of the fools, sprinkle the essence of the old idol."

The Seeker interjected anxiously:

— An idol?

— Yes. Given the story, it's easy to guess that Zibenkek only knew of this place if someone was practising blood magic there. And if the dragon is an idol, then there are idiots...

— It is worshipped.

— Yes. Well, I'll guess what the "old idol" is right now.

— If the legend is true.

Morrigan raised her hand, letting her irritation show:

— Decide what you believe. Legend or fiction? It seems to be true that unknown people from the ancient cult managed to hide the ashes of the ancestor of the Great Faith from everyone. And then they either perished or turned to blood magic and dragon worship. Or do you believe that legends rarely leave the world of dreams?

— It doesn't matter what I believe. What matters is what I can do about it. Even if I assume that Zibenkek wants you to kill the dragon and desecrate with its blood the most sacred shrine that ever existed in this world, for some reason he thought you could do it... Bottom line: not a fanatic. The relic has been considered lost for generations. And there are more problems than metaphysical possibilities. And I happen to be bedridden. But it's worth considering the coincidence for a moment. You're not the first person in this castle to be obsessed with the idea of sacred ashes as the key to solving problems.

— Yes, what a conversation...

The girl rose slowly, but the rustle of Tristan's head on the pillow made Morrigan turn to the man first. The Seeker looked haggard, but held her gaze. With the semblance of a smile on his chapped lips, he spoke:

— The conversation reminded me... Sometimes, having already tasted the consequences, I wonder how high the reckoning is for answers. Time and time again, I have achieved what is necessary, but where have I ended up? Don't take it as a sign of weakness in moments of suffering. No matter how the reckoning affects me personally, of all the losses I regret only one. The others were, in the end, either a consequence of the duty imposed on me, or, as I understand it, they were for the greater good. And when I began to search for an answer to a very personal question...

Tristan wiggled his fingers weakly. Tristan's gesture was a hint that he was pointing at his companion, a clear indication of exactly what 'chance' had given him in the end.

— Without being too modest, you could be compared to a poisonous snake. In experienced hands, poison can serve as a cure, but it is much safer to avoid a snake or to get rid of it as soon as you see it. I, caught between the necessary and the desirable, have kept you for myself. You are wisely afraid to end my life directly. For now. But you continue to test the limits of what's permissible. In fact, with the concession of the Pact, our relationship has become a race against time. What happens first: I get what I need and...

The man twitched the corner of his lips, deliberately not saying the obvious.

— Or you draw a trump card from the deck. But that's a card even I wouldn't have the imagination for. I can't stop you now. I have to be here. At least for a few weeks. To organise things. Duty. In that time, you'll probably arrive and either disappear with my answers or the odds will change. It's not hard to guess in whose favour. It's a choice between one 'maybe' and another 'maybe'. A fool could only see what's happening as the vicissitudes of fate playing a cruel joke. Not you. So remember. How a small weakness or a mistake can sometimes paint you into a corner.

Frowning, the Morrigan clucked her tongue and parried:

— A bunch of words to convince me to stay? Stupid...

— This lust for power...

A metallic female voice cut him off:

— It's not about power. It isn't. Xebenkeck knows. Yes, maybe it's a game. Another one. But imagine they know the answers I need as much as strength, maybe more. Answers that...

The sorceress was interrupted by a low, coughing laugh. Tristan grimaced at the pain, but pulled himself together and continued:

— See. Answers. At any cost. At any risk. What words... No, this is not about dissuasion. It's not the form for such a thing... It was an allegory of where and with whom you find yourself. And a question to ponder. What's clear from your story is this. From a certain moment you were overcome by an urgent need that determined your future path. But when you achieved something, you became dependent on it again, and it pushed you towards a new goal. Faster, more determined and without looking back. Does this sound familiar? What lies ahead? New answers, another master, another leash? All at once? Like I said, all that matters is what I can do about it. And what I can do, I've done. Try not to freeze to death in the mountains. After all, that would be foolish.

Morrigan stared into the Seeker's grey eyes for a moment, pondering the words. The situation was like a crooked mirror, reminiscent of the first meeting between the sorceress and the man. But now the girl felt more like a predator... Well, at least compared to the barely alive warrior of the Church. And yet, beneath the mask of fatigue and illness, Morrigan could see no shadow of weakness or doubt. Perhaps there was irritation, even regret... But above all, there was a cold confidence in his own abilities.

— Why don't you ask the questions now?

A slight movement, apparently intended as a shrug:

— Under the circumstances, I couldn't be sure that I wouldn't hear made-up nonsense in response.

The Seeker's gaze told the sorceress in all its coldness: he would allow no ambiguity.

— OK. And then. One more question. Are you in pain?

The sudden change of subject frustrated the man, more in his eyes than his expression. He raised his eyebrows a little and asked again:

— Why such an interest?

Shaking her head slightly, Morrigan clarified:

— Not everyone in your position would have survived. And to have a conversation. But you, even though you were wounded, you'd fought twice, no less. And then you were ready to continue.

The Morrigan raised an eyebrow in question, making a generalising gesture. Tristan closed his eyes with a long exhale, as if releasing the last of his strength.

— No. Seekers are not monsters. Though many would say they are. The pain is all with me now. It gnaws at me like a hungry old beast. At the heart of our training is a hardening of the will. And it's not just principles, rules, self-control or a willingness to do anything. That and more is there. And also the test of solitude, and... Things not worth mentioning. But through it all, we are taught that in the end, the flesh betrays. It's nature. Demons don't have that weakness. So we learn to shut out our feelings, at least temporarily. They remain a heartbeat away, unreachable and alien. This boundary is fragile. If you push harder, the dam will burst. Everyone has their own measure of strength in their head. I have seen a few people who were not fit for serious business, but who could just keep on fighting and gutting until their bodies gave out. And there were some who had no such ability at all, but who had earned the personal honour of the head of the Order.

— Frankly.

— Do you feel obliged?

Morrigan grimaced and was about to reply with a sharp word, but she glanced at the man in the bed and found him asleep. Whatever the man's reserves of strength, they too had found an edge. Shrugging her shoulders, the girl turned and walked away...

* * *

Of course, Morrigan did not disappear from the Red Fortress without a trace. First she returned to her apprentice and checked on her condition. Only when she was sure that there was no obvious deterioration and that she was stable, did the sorceress speak to Tralin. She made sure that he would look after Bethany, Leliana and, of course, Tristan. The warrior was stingy with his answers, preferring a cool "neutrality" to a heated confrontation.

Next, the sorceress looked for Milady Isolde, who was tiredly arguing with Bann Tegan. For some reason, the girl did not dare leave without at least exchanging a few polite words with mistress. And if fom Bann Morrigan received only a portion of silent caution, the news caused a silent panic in Milady. It took the sorceress a dozen or two more words than she'd expected to calm her excitement and convince Isolde of the inevitability of her return. On cold examination: empty promises, both outwardly and inwardly. But strangely enough, they were enough to give the exhausted mother the illusion of stability and control. Further collections, if you look at the facts impartially, resembled a brazen robbery. In hot pursuit, the girl 'borrowed' the items she needed, taking advantage of her growing fame among the locals, and not bothering to find the true owners instead of casual witnesses. A warm riding caftan and a well-worn fur hat. Never mind that the girl's own warm clothes had barely left her shoulders since the 'attack'. A harness and saddle. A dozen stale bread cakes, a few shriveled apples and a weighty piece of cheese, barely touched by the bluish green. A good, though worn, short dagger. And the most important thing: a sturdy looking mare, for whose sake she had to dodge obvious questions three times, smile charmingly and once, and, overcoming irritation, paint a colourful picture of a fight in the courtyard of the fortress.

Before the girl's behaviour could provoke scolding and shouting, she left the courtyard through the gate and over the suspension bridge as if she had to. Leading the docile mare behind her, the sorceress made her way to the church without a moment's hesitation.

Red-faced after a brisk walk, especially when the snow-covered road, with its narrow, barely trodden path in the middle, began to rise, the girl raised her hand in greeting to the men she met at the barricade. The local experience had not loosened its grip, it remained a fresh wound, but even so, the slanted glances and frowning faces showed that the men were beginning to let go. With a steady pace and a confidence that miraculously kept the mouths of the curious shut, Morrigan tied the mare to the nearest cart that had been turned sideways. Warming her hands with her breath, she slipped into the house where Leliana was huddled with the other wounded.

Sitting by the hearth in the far room, the sorceress's companion slowly, inexpressively but confidently, unfolded a story to a group of six boys of varying ages and a little girl huddled in a corner. Each of them looked the storyteller in the mouth with sparkling eyes, captivated by dreams woven without a grain of magic. Morrigan stood silently at the doorjamb, hesitating for a moment to break the magic that reigned here. But cold reality demanded that the dots be connected quickly, and she set off.

— Leliana...

The girl interrupted the story, prompting a murmur of disappointment from the young audience. The storyteller turned to Morrigan with a soothing wave of her hand, revealing her slightly puffy features, streaked with the greenish ointment that clung to her skin. With a slight, stiff nod, as one not quite sure of the safety of her former body language and freedom of gesture would do, Leliana turned back to the children. Without raising her voice in the slightest, the bard explained to her listeners that she would continue the story at the earliest opportunity in the future, but for now she needed to talk to her friend.

Releasing the young man and girl, Leliana soon approached the sorceress, giving her a crooked smile.

— I stupidly slipped and immediately let the main thing slip.

There was a hint of irony in the words, but the sorceress grimaced at the bard's ill-concealed bitterness. Morrigan shook her head negatively:

— Never mind. Bethany was in the middle of something. It didn't go well.

— Is she all right?

— Fine...

Morrigan shifted her gaze to the fire in the hearth, the glow of which reflected beautifully in the dark gold of her eyes, and answered slowly:

— Broken bones, bruises. She need a healer.

— Wynn?

— I don't think there's another one around here.

Leliana nodded reluctantly, gazing intently at the wizard's figure, and asked after a short pause:

— Going somewhere?

— Is it that obvious?

— A new dagger. A bag, and much more stuffed than before. So... And you came to visit.

— Yeah. We should, um...

Leliana lowered her head slightly to meet the stammering girl's gaze, and clarified carefully, as if to avoid touching a trap:

— You're going back, aren't you? For Bethany?

— The Seeker seems to have been overlooked.

— I don't see him, and there's no activity outside the window. You came alone from the stronghold. It's too quiet for anything risky. It's a long leash... You're without excitement, you know directly how the dice lie in skilful hands. But I'd wager that the control he once had is gone. So let's leave Tristan aside for now.

Morrigan nodded, smirking slightly. Leliana mirrored her companion's nod and continued:

— So, one of your, um, cases? Like the Circle?

— Something like that.

— Why did you really come by? To make sure I'm on my feet? As you can see. But they could have told you that. Asked you to keep an eye on Bethany? I doubt it, after what happened. Questions, then. Let me make it simple. It won't take long to pack, and then you can ask what you want to know on the way.

Raising her open palm as a barrier to her interlocutor, the sorceress tried to slow down the rush of decisions and clarify the situation:

— No... wait. Yes, the visit is strange. And just because it's strange, if you think about it logically, it's not good. But that doesn't mean it wasn't to check up on you. If I remember correctly, it's normal to personally check up on important patients. And with that in mind...

Morrigan pointed at Leliana's face, then continued:

— There's a great transition coming up in the foothills. On the eve of winter, which may already be in full swing. And where there are no roads. And inevitably bloodshed at the end. You have to face the facts if you want to.

Leliana crossed her arms under her chest:

— What's the danger of an empty tract at this time? When it comes to fever, there's no need to be cautious. The locals are well acquainted with all kinds of fractures and old wounds from hunters blown to bits by the beast a few days before their return. Let this be all...

Gently repeating her interlocutor's gesture around her own face, so that it didn't seem deliberately caricatured, the bard went on:

— ...will come off in a day. But I don't see the need for beauty today or tomorrow. And I don't think you will walk from here to the foothills. I can imagine: fear of a burden when you thought you would travel light. My presence in the saddle won't slow you down much, though. As for bloodshed. Does the route avoid the settlements?

Closing her eyes for a moment, Morrigan admitted honestly:

— No. A settlement. Will be. Listen to me. This is stupid. You can't hear yourself from the outside. It's barely two days since Tralin carried your body on his shoulders while the fever raged. I don't hide my fear that you'll collapse in the middle of the journey. And it's not a matter of 'burden'. I'm far from a healer. If it happens in the middle of a nameless mountain valley, a day's ride on horseback through the snow, you will essentially cease to exist.

— Who says about death: "to exist"...?

— Leliana, this strange persistence out of nowhere... It's like...

The enchantress froze, half-speaking, slowly closing her mouth and gazing into the twinkling green eyes opposite her:

— You had a vision. The 'voice' again.

Averting her eyes at first, then slowly lowering her head, the girl confirmed the suspicion without saying a word. Morrigan unconsciously ran her fingertips over her lips and shook her head in confusion before continuing:

— I suppose so. But if so, how were you going to convince me of this madness?

Leliana replied with an awkward humming, uncomfortable with the abrupt facial expression:

— Let's see... Anyone else would have ended the conversation immediately. But you're curious about the arguments, aren't you?

— And? You say.

— I can say this with confidence. It's not so easy for you to resist the question "what exactly did she hear". Followed by "what she believed, what she doubted..." And so on. A small voice of logic might whisper: "She was delirious". But... Until you came here and your departure became obvious, I too had a faint sense of disbelief. Now we both want to know, though for different reasons: how is this possible? Besides. I can assess the risks for myself. If I withdraw now, for whatever reason, I will not only be passing through the 'message', but I will also not be dealing with the wormhole of doubt: is it an amazing coincidence or the truth? And what about the comparison?

— The rascal. The place is lost, long forgotten, and apparently nobody wants to disturb such an order. Or no one. I was just trying to sneak past. But you could try your luck by stopping by. I just don't know if it's safer than the planned bloodshed. But who knows, maybe you'll charm the hermits who live there. I don't think that's the problem.

— We'll talk on the way, give it twenty minutes...

— Ten.

* * *

The mare moved without haste along the route of the Old Empire, saving the strength of the two riders. The wind blew like a vengeful fury from across the vast lake against the figures wrapped in two layers of warm clothing. On the one hand, these gusts cleared the snow from the stone road, but on the other, they made it difficult to stand on it. An hour after leaving Redcliffe, the weather turned bad, as if it were a parting gift from the ancient fortress.

The track shot like an arrow towards the mighty mountain range, occasionally veering to the right at special points chosen by the ancient builders. The coastline to the right, on the other hand, slowly receded, hiding behind the forest and then, without warning, appearing literally in front of his nose. The terrain rose slowly but inexorably, and in those rare moments when the bare rocks broke off a hundred paces from the road, the flat white surface below offered a memorable view. In the days that had passed, the thin ice had receded from the shore to the horizon, and had even managed to acquire a layer of snow. There was no movement or other sign of human presence in the landscape, which was rapidly losing its colours.

The only sounds were the breathing of the girls and the snorting of the mare.

The first word broke the silence just before the western peaks were illuminated through the thinning clouds by the faint glow of the descending sun. The wind had died down by then, replaced by sparse snowflakes.

— We'll leave the road on the next descent. We need to make camp.

— It's going to be a cold night...

— Are you scared?

But the question remained unanswered. Half an hour later, as twilight began to creep in, the duo stumbled upon a descent. Dismounting, Morrigan carefully led the mare down the ancient, snow-covered steps into the pine grove below. Choosing a spot within sight of where three large trunks grew from the base of the wall, the sorceress tied the horse. Passing the warm caftan and gloves into her companion's hands, the girl said:

— Make sure the mare doesn't eat the snow. If she does, call out. I'll be right there.

From her saddle, Morrigan took the hunting axe that the sweet-talking Leliana had procured just before leaving, along with some much-needed oats and a campfire lighter, and disappeared into the forest. There was no question of travelling silently in the fresh snow. In one place the boot sank completely into the white cover, in another it immediately picked up the barely covered grey needles. Every other step made a treacherous squeak. It didn't sound nearly as dry and hard as a heavy frost, but that would have been enough for the beast.

Soon the girl returned to her chilled companion with a bundle of twigs and the cones that rolled off them. Relieved of her burden, Morrigan strode back to the Imperial Road. Pausing above the car park, she cleared the snow from the edge of the road and began to cut the branches from the nearest pine tree. The tree threw them half a metre above the road, and over the years each one had grown as thick as a hand. A dozen minutes of good work, and then the measured strokes were replaced by Leliana's grunts as she drew the fire, overcoming the clumsiness of her frozen fingers.

But even though the Morrigan's mouth was steaming and her hat was long gone, she was not at the end of her work. She dragged stones from the surrounding area, almost half of which had once made up the path, and placed them to one side of the flames. Then the sorceress began to dig a half-loctave hole in the frozen ground nearby. When she had finished in the glow of the fire, which had been the only source of light for a long time, the girl rolled the cobbles into the hole with a suitable branch. Having reached the bottom, the sorceress began to shovel the snow with her feet, causing a merry hissing of disgruntled stones, evil crackling and puffs of steam, until she covered the creation with a white blanket. When she was sure the snow had turned to water, Morrigan moved the mare closer, poured oats onto the patch of ground she had cleared with her boots, brushed the sweat from her brow and stood by the fire, gratefully accepting a slice of warm cheese and a warmed flatbread from her companion.

— You're like an experienced traveller. You have never left your native Korkari forests. I can't say that I've spent months away from the cities, day and night. In the northeastern part of Orley, it's hard to imagine a day's ride on horseback without reaching the next village, or even a run-down roadside inn built by clever businessmen in a good location. Of course, it did happen that I got stuck in the middle of the forest for a day or two, less often for a week, but even so, I usually travelled along the rivers and only in the warm season. Ironically, the main practice in hunting probably came in bits and pieces during my last years in Lothering.

The warlock's yellow eyes glittered over the tongues of fire, and she mumbled her agreement:

— Yes...

Recognising the futility of asking the obvious from this side, Leliana smoothed the moment by steering the conversation away:

— Unsurprisingly, the newcomers to western Ferelden preferred to build settlements away from the old Tract. Of those who have returned to these parts at all.

— The next stop is near the stream.

Sighing, Leliana nodded in agreement and met the sharp gaze of the wolf's eyes. Shimmering in the uneven light of the fire, they took on an inexplicable depth and seemed unusually attentive. Without looking, Morrigan flicked the crumbs into the fire:

— On second thought. Weigh it. The woods, in and of themselves, give me little fear. The darkness hides many things. But a common wild animal, like a boar, a pack of wolves, even a bear, I can kill any of them. With magic and with my bare hands. To know how to defeat them, or not to know the dangers at all... Hmm. But the cold, that's different. It's easy to understand. It's easy to say the right words when you're warm. Not when you're on the road. But even now you haven't fully accepted reality. There's the mare, nuzzling her withers, kicking her calf with her heels until morning, and then back to the hearth. If the beast doesn't drop dead first. Tomorrow will be different. You can't beat the cold. You can't outwit it. Not even with a demon. Cold is a boundless force, without beginning or end, blindly and indifferently crushing life. But a little strength and knowledge can work wonders.

With her axe in hand, the sorceress began to remove a layer of earth between the fire and the wall of the path, about the height of the travellers and the width of two bodies, in front of the astonished bard. It was like preparing a grave, except that the depth was limited to a cubit or so. Sniffing with exertion and fatigue, Morrigan raked fresh coals into the hole with a suitable branch and returned the earth to its place. On top was a layer of fluffy pine tails and the warlock's caftan. Without inviting anyone into the strange bedchamber, the witch put on her hat and gloves and lay down.

— Pull up the branches in the middle of the fire. Take off your clothes to cover yourself and sleep. We'll talk in the morning.

* * *

The next day was suddenly greeted by bright rays of sunshine. The light winked down from the piercing azure petals of the sky, scattered among the heavy cliffs that presented nothing but a leaden belly to the eye. The contrast of the palette seemed so sharp that one of the two seemed to be deceived. The travellers' bodies were stiff and resistant to movement, but a faint ribbon of smoke rose from the cooling fire, as if to hint at the passing of time.

Leliana... Morrigan remembered how elegantly the girl hid a mixture of surprise and relief after an uncomfortable night in unfamiliar conditions. The sorceress guessed the presence of emotion behind the facade from her companion's attentive glances at the rookery, the fire pit and the improvised drinker covered in a thin crust of ice. The bard remembered what had been done and how. And frowned. It was easy for the dark-haired camp leader to guess the fire-haired woman's thoughts. A sharp mind tended to see the obvious. How much effort had Morrigan put into setting up the camp? But yesterday's cold had not yet had time to bind the ground, to wrap it in stone. What would happen the following night?

After a quick snack, the girls were soon back on the road. Daylight was fading and they needed to cover as much distance as possible without the luxury of pushing the only animal they had. But the weather was finally conducive to conversation. And the first thing Leliana said was:

— I thought you should have taken two horses, or even three.

After a moment in which Morrigan realised her own defeat in trying to find the words to reply, without a shadow of displeasure or venomous irritation, the enchantress spoke:

— You don't want to walk through winter again, do you?

— Not at all.

— Let's keep the clouded mind busy. There was a conversation not long ago between Bann Tegan, the Seeker... Although the others are not important. The point is that Eamon, the eldest brother and lord of the castle and surrounding lands, fell ill about fifteen days before the Battle of Ostagar. These "maybes" don't matter much to me. There's a man, an elf, who followed the fugitive Jovan. He was sent here to plant drugs on Earl. The connection is right under his nose. Who would want to do that? And who can do it?

— Jovan... What's happening to him?

— The Seeker cast the mage's fate upon me. I just let him go. As if I had to deal with him... Yesterday, Pret's knights found a body at the bottom of the well below the mill. But so far no one has had the time, inclination or strength to bring the body up from the depths.

Leliana's grim cough was the only response to her companion's cold words before the red-haired girl continued:

— It would take a lot of connections and influence to pull this off. But first things first. First, it was time to learn more about the fugitive mage from the Circle. In retrospect, when exactly had Uldred decided to act?.. When he returned from Ostagar, right?

— Are you hinting?

— I'm making a reasonable assumption.

— Hmm... If you put the different stories together... Those above, forgetting their own youth and simple fears, blindly and arrogantly assume that the main fear of future mages is an unbreakable leash that stretches an invisible chain into the hands of many. But young men and maidens are actually afraid of dying under Torture. Banal. And that's where Uldred comes in. A kind word, secrets, promises and power. Already the fugitive is ready to "miraculously" escape from the island full of Templars, note. And the leash is now in the hands of Uldred himself.

— Sounds good. Now we need someone to get ahead of the Temple hunters. Someone who knows the land and can move like a ghost. Someone who can find the right person using landmarks two or three days out of date, given the speed of the bird's message.

— Have you got someone in mind? Well...

— Like... Elven guerrilla units. The noble My Lord Mac Tir set aside his prejudices and recruited from the elven turf of Ferelden, which had already been overrun by Orlais. Conditions there had deteriorated. To say the least. My lord forged loyal bands of fanatical patriots from the survivors, who knew no rules or limits to guerrilla warfare. With the warlord's tactical flair, they became the hidden knife used to quickly and unexpectedly stab a passerby in the stomach. After the war, these units disappeared into obscurity. There were rumours that the elves did not return home, but continued to feed directly from the Milord's hands.

— It's a match.

— Do you know the story that if you stare at the clouds long enough, you'll see anything you want?

Morrigan grinned silently at her friend's barbed remark and replied with a shadow of gratitude:

— I'll remember. But you have to admit, it's a little too fortunate.

— So it would seem. And Milord has just the status and connections to persuade Earl Éamon's wife to take a suspicious wizard into her own home to teach her son. The missing part of the head is...

— Who in Isolde and Éamon's entourage is the traitor?

— Perhaps... But that's not my guess. There is no need for an informer sitting under the earl's nose, literally in his bedchamber. The mistress of the Red Fortress herself may have played an evil role. Unwittingly, of course. My Lord Warlord has a heroic reputation. And he belonged to the dead king's father to the bone. And many people forget that the son is not the father.

— Bottom line. Why?

Liliana paused for a moment before asking cautiously:

— What's in these letters?

The girl put such emphasis on the question that it was clear she was referring to the royal correspondence. The sorceress only exhaled slightly in response. But when her interlocutor pressed against her back and wrapped his arms around her waist, even such a small thing could not escape attention. After a pause to consider the pros and cons, Morrigan clarified:

— Are you sure?

The companion put as much sarcasm into her counter-question as her considerable talent and experience would allow:

— Are you seriously asking me that?

— Well, so be it. The King of Ferelden has been corresponding with the Empress of Orléans. And from these letters, thanks to the woman's invective and the man's clumsy parry, it is easy to deduce their far-reaching plans for personal and wider alliance. Though the military alliance was paramount.

Leliana's brief silence was followed by a heartfelt outburst of emotion:

— Shelma... Kel betf ruzi!

— How disrespectful, to your own Empress.

— You're wrong. On the contrary, respect has reached new heights... Selina could be a bard, and who knows? She's attractive, she knows how to present herself. Besides, despite her youth, the Empress is clever and cunning. Extremely. So she's getting closer to the goal that made her ancestors shit their pants. And without a fight, just with the tip of a pen. It was as if all the pieces had been put in place beforehand. The young king desperately dreams of glory worthy of his father. At the same time, the country is rumoured to be ruled by a stern queen rather than a charismatic leader. But there is no heir, and rumours of infertility plague the royal couple. On the other side of the Frostback Mountains, the Empress faces desperate opposition. She is young, with power-hungry nobles and other problems swirling around her. Conflicts are said to be brewing within her own inner circle. And... Oh, Orley. This woman wouldn't miss the first sign of Blight. And where? In a country that, through political stupidity, has lost the full presence of the Grey Guard. The fox of one who knows how to cast a rod and... She baits the king of Ferelden. Flirtation. Wit. Promises of triumph and glory. Peace forever, instead of the threat of war ever again. The king may be proud to lead the game one-on-one... But there are more than two players at the table. The Church. Here is a more accurate answer to the strange politics of the one in the south-west of the country. This region still remembers the occupation and the blood that was shed. Many of the lesser nobles here are of the Mac Tir faction. The only place that seems to have been bypassed...

— Erling Redcliffe?

— Yes... Erling. Somewhere there was a reliable bridge for such correspondence. Earl Éamon is known to be a staunch supporter of the King, of the dynasty. And he has, metaphorically speaking, mountain passes and Tract behind him. And in his wives...

— Isolde.

— The Empress had calculated My Lord Warlord with Filigree. Threatened, corroded by vile rumours, haunted by the ghosts of the past and confronted by the King's stubborn silence, what could he do? Destroy the royalist faction and remove the King from power. Drive the boy into a corner by taking control. A fragmented nobility, with the commoners already turning their backs in some places: a wonderful arrangement. Then the Milord predictably retreats after the first battle with Blight, leaving behind a bevy of towns and cities. Effectively abandoning them to ruin or starvation in the winter, just to keep the troops. And that's when the Church's reinforcements and Orleus arrive at the Red Fortress in the Glow, as agreed with the King.

— Tristan...

— The only thing that could not be foreseen was the stupidity of the young king, who decided to show off in front of the Empress and my Lord Commander. And "outsmarted" them both.

— Hmm... Who else was in the Royalist faction?

— Let me see... At its head was the second Tairn, My Lord Bryce.

— The Couslands, who have already been "swept off the board".

— Right... But there's no evidence that, er...

— Oh, well, that's enough.

— My Lord Bryce is a hero. He fought all the major battles shoulder to shoulder with the Warlord.

— In terms of cold calculation on the battlefield, has the personal ever come before the necessary in a Warlord?

— I don't know about that.

— Those records of the big arms purchase on the hijacked ship. You said at the time that it could be used to frame one noble for another. The buyer was listed as a merchant from Hayevere. The port and ancestral home of the Cuslands. If I can see such a trail, others will. In retrospect, and after the invasion of Orleans, that's a justification for ruthless action. Who's next?

Much darker than before, Leliana continued:

— Erling Denerim. The capital. My Lord Urien Kendelsss. Practically the king's closest advisor.

— He disappeared with his troops without a trace. Shortly before the battle of Ostagar. Coinciding with the disappearance of the second outpost that Fergus Cusland stood over. I was an unwitting witness to the news at the time. That's how it happens. Even if it's a coincidence, I bet they're both "not found".

— The title is inherited by a son, Bann Vaughan. Another supporter of the King.

— I doubt it... But go on.

— Erling Edgehall. My Lord Fergus Landon. The clan is ancient, but Erling himself: a shadow of the past. Look to your left.

Morrigan looked around eagerly and saw the ancient coniferous forest rising slowly and steadily up the gentle slopes, covered with the first snows, with the scattered rocks like a stream in the distance. And these, too, were overgrown, as if by age, with woods whose edges could not be seen from the road. A majestic and rugged land, cut by valleys and separated from most of the world by peaks piercing the clouds.

— It's out there somewhere. Once a source of iron, silver and timber. A stronghold of the West. And now: a pitiful remnant that no one takes seriously anymore. Erling was the first to be hit before the occupation. And the last to be liberated. When my countrymen retreated, they took the bitterness of defeat with them. My lord Fergus died of old age last spring, leaving no heir.

— What a coincidence. Who else?

— Significant figures? None. The rest: Banns who are politically or economically dependent on their neighbours. The rest are publicly neutral or on the side of the Mac Tir faction.

— So Loghain lives up to his own reputation.

— Well, we don't have the full picture yet. Two maidens travelling along an empty, snow-covered road, theorising, with perhaps important pieces of the puzzle, but far from all of them.

— You know. There's something else.

— What are you talking about?

— The intrigues of the powerful. The movement of money and military might. The stupidity and ambition of men. Even the ruthlessly indifferent Blight, as much a part of the elements as the cold of winter. It's all part of what you call a "painting". A canvas. But talking to Xebenkeck...

Leliana interrupted Morrigan almost reflexively by asking:

— With who?

— Simply put, a demon whose will we follow into the mountains. And without going into details, we have a deal that might help me get rid of the Seeker's power. And even if it doesn't, there's better bait out there. Knowledge and answers to questions I never thought I'd ask.

— Sounds...

— Logic says you're assuming now. Tristan's been bugging me too. A strange worry. From emotion to fact. About Xebenkeck. Their perceptions and behaviour are fundamentally different than expected. They don't even look like demons. Imagine for a moment that you're in a thistle forest. There are only bushes, you can't see the sky, you can't climb, everything is the same. A certain beast passes by, unknown to you. It's only its feet. The beast shows you the way, and it's true. A miracle? A gift of foresight? Or is the beast just above the thicket and sees everything clearly? A wonderful word — allegory, I do not know where I know it from. These creatures who are above the thicket around them can see. They are not like you and me, or the Empress and the King, who have taken power and strength for a few winters. Yes, yes, Leliana, this is a stone in your garden. Visions, revelations, deals and curses. Players who move us like pawns, under duress, without knowledge, for a grain of power or knowledge. There is a powerful spirit behind the Order of Seekers, though it implicitly influences those who do it. Each of the Circles has a weak spirit of its own around it, like a parasite that helps in the Torment. Xebenkeck weaved a web that enveloped the whole world. How many such 'persons' behind the curtain, visible or not, influence events?

After a moment's pause, Leliana honestly shared her thoughts on what she had heard:

— Sounds... Apocalyptic. Or crazy. Disturbing and, um.

— Stop using epithets. It is only frightening in the sense that you are testing the universe and your own mind. You've lived through many winters, drinking and experiencing. Wonderful and ugly. The world is complex and varied, even without trying to imagine the unknown depths it hides from you. Tristan to me... To me! He tried to tell me about the choices and the consequences. But Xebenkeck was much better at telling it, succinctly and in between. Striving to cross an unknown line not only changes perceptions. It changes you at the same time. And in such a way that not even a trace of the past remains...

For a dozen minutes after the sentence was cut off in mid-sentence, the girls remained silent, lost in their own thoughts, barely aware of the beauty around them. Wild and unruly nature embraced the lake and the mountains, peacefully falling asleep. It was only after this respite from words, her lungs filled with cool air, that Morrigan spoke:

— I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was distracted and my mind was in the wrong place. It's more important to pay attention to facts than to baseless inventions. And speaking of facts, here's what I wanted to point out. We assume that Loghain instigated or supported the riot at Kinloch Stronghold. Sounds logical, and the timing fits. If he did, the Circle would be out of the Church's power. A precise and fatal blow to the heart of the Empress's plans. True to the Warlord's character: only the result matters, the consequences are another day. Instead, it's the demons. The breakthrough disaster was not a disaster because of outside interference. The spirit associated with the Order of Seekers. What else would have happened? Loghain wouldn't have had time to be so paranoid. Neither would the Empress. Orzammar wouldn't be so far away. And most importantly, the Blight would be forgotten. But it happened: the ghost and... I am. Loghain's second attack on the Red Keep. And again, cold-blooded and masterful. It no longer seemed that the Empress had calculated it from beginning to end. But the result? Demons. Tristan was, in his own words, in the right place by accident: drawn to Ferelden by personal business. Without the Seeker, what would have happened to Erling? A dead, useless land. A gap for Blight, opening the way to eastern Orley, northern Ferelden and... Orzammar. But again: he and... Me. For a moment it seems, and you should like it, as if the Providence of the Creator is leading us on.

Leliana echoed eagerly:

— There seems to be a weighty 'but' here.

— Yes... But! It's not like we have it in our hands: Blight, Ferelden, Orley, and someone behind the scenes helping the creatures of darkness, cleverly turning someone else's game upside down. What slipped out of sight was what the two disasters had in common. Control. Coldly considered, forgetting the casualties, a breach in the Stronghold would unleash an army of the possessed. And a leash to a single master. And Erling? An obedient army of possessed dead. Is there no better force to face the Blight? So we're not the saviours, Leliana, not at all. We're the stones that a shady man throws at other people's plans when they're meant to be ruined. And it seems that personal problems stem from a common beginning.

— Um... If you don't mind me saying so. I'm surprised. I confess I've never thought of it that way. Nor would I. To get the idea of looking for correlations between events in this direction... If I imagine for a moment that I believe in this phantasmagoria. There is a connection between seemingly random events? So, from the right angle, the chaos makes sense? Well, yes. So it does. What does it do?

— Knowledge. Who. When. Why. And from there, what to do. How to survive. There must have been more than two events like the one we just experienced. We must find out about them. What made Tristan get to Ferelden in time? We'll find out when we get back, if we're lucky. What's been erased from my memory and why.

— That's a lot to talk about. Even for one day. It was like drowning in this flood of shocking conclusions, unpleasant but not without logic... Folie et delir. Which is exactly what we're looking for in the name of Zib... You know, that creature.

— О... That's exactly the problem I mentioned before I left. In a nutshell: The urn of holy ashes. But I can't say whose ashes are actually in there.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Morrigan even began to wonder if she was exaggerating, given her companion's strange religious views, which coexisted surprisingly well with a sharp mind and a life that had little in common with Andrastian values. But then a question on the verge of a scream burst out of Leliana:

— What?