Chapter 22 - "Power, Glory and Envy"

Snow fell from the sky, covering everything in a fresh white blanket. But in one place, the snowflakes disappeared without a trace before reaching the surface. These mercilessly extinguished the waves of heat from the generous fire. At a comfortable distance from the flames, on a log that had collapsed a few seasons ago, a lone maiden was basking in the sun. Across the way, on a moss-covered rock, also basking in the warmth, lay a neatly folded pile of clothes.

Suddenly the figure of a woman appeared in the white veil between the trees. Three or four minutes later, a fawn fell by the fire. Judging by the absence of bumps on its forehead, it had not yet reached the end of the first change of season. Nor had the marks on its skin, which had already begun to fall away. There was horror in the animal's glazed eyes. Its throat seemed to have been ripped out, claws digging deep into skin, muscle and veins. A pale scarlet band was left in the snow, running off into the winter forest. Breathing heavily, the perpetrator of the mess stood with her head back, her body exposed to the snowflakes. Her bare flesh was flushed, but she bore no signs of hypothermia, nor the expected scratches on her legs and arms caused by both the abundance of dry branches in the thicket and the snow cutting mercilessly into her numb skin.

Leliana looked around at her companion, who looked beastly wild and more of the forest than the human world, and joked briefly:

— Why?

Morrigan turned her attention to her friend, blinking white fluff from her eyelashes. Silently, the sorceress reached for her clothes, warmed by the crackling fire, and began with her boots and the lower half of her body. A dagger plunged into the ground at Leliana's feet before the words that followed:

— We have a long, arduous journey ahead of us. There's no hope of travelling on horseback. And if I am not travelling alone and my companion is unwell, I must think of food first. In the foothills, the outcome of the hunt is no longer easy to predict. I suppose there are more dangerous predators out there than me. Probably.

With a firm grip on the hilt, Leliana pulled the cold weapon from the ground. She glanced at the blade for a moment and then repeated, clearly meaning something else:

— Why?

Pulling her shirt over her head and covering her nipples, Morrigan sighed as she continued to dress and replied:

— Briefly. All concerns in a single word. Letting the spell, the ice chaining the victim in winter, is rather useless, but there are other options. Folly, like hunting with a single dagger. And let's forget about the missing bow and arrow. You could use a death spell, for example. The problem is that when it kills, it doesn't care about the safety of the body. Ah, but if I let my imagination run wild, I should have realised that I should open my own veins. And steal my victim's life, drop by drop. It's not hard to guess when she's going to die, so that I don't bleed to death in the middle of the forest. I'm sure of it.

When she had finished dressing, Morrigan arched an eyebrow at her companion's silent question and continued before she could even open her mouth:

— There's no point in guessing what's in the air. You're right. There was no serious need for dangerous magic. Looking back, I remember our conversations and how careful I was to avoid using such things before. But now. Circumstances are different now. Yes, it looks and tastes like an excuse, but listen, the former me had dangers, threats and enemies as shadows. Either worthless or unknown. Now it's a hodgepodge of achievements. The list is snowballing. And what are they? Not just meat. It's easy to talk about self-preservation in isolation from reality. But even then, remember, I didn't think it was necessary to talk about self-control. Practicality demands that you take every advantage and leave fear behind. You're free to see it as another step back into madness or obsession. But don't contradict your own mind, and recognise that your own faith has also lost its monolithic solidity. We are both changing. I accept the inevitable and try to ride it. And if you were afraid of the unpredictable changes I'm dragging you inexorably into, you should have stayed in Redcliffe.

Skilfully twirling the short blade in her right hand, Leliana licked her lips, dry from the fire, and jerked her head as if to let her own thoughts out.

— You're right, our journey together is constantly putting seemingly well-established principles to the test. And it's not just about — how to behave, what goals to set. It's about what lies beneath. That island of deceptive stillness within, which I have struggled to find, no longer looks like a safe haven amidst the crushing waves of confusion and deception. Remember, then as now, that you lean, directly or indirectly, on control. And I fear, now as then, that you are cunningly averting your eyes to avoid the brutal truth.

Irritated, Morrigan rubbed the corner of her eye. She nodded, pointing her chin at the carcass in front of her.

— It's time to move from words to deeds.

As the two girls wrestled with the freezing carcass to skin and then carve it, there was silence, heavy breathing and the occasional curse at minor setbacks in the makeshift camp. It was only an hour later that Morrigan inquired, with a deep exhale, for no apparent reason:

— By the way, who stole my stuff from the Kinloch stronghold? The Templars?

Without hiding her surprised expression, her friend replied briefly:

— I suppose... Irving. He knew where they were probably kept. But... Judge for yourself, they haven't fallen into the hands of the Seeker. Otherwise, I'd hazard a guess, the whole lot would have come back to you. Is Gregor hiding something or throwing it away? I find that hard to imagine. That leaves a person in a position of power to take it for personal use.

— Ha. Let him choke on it.

Returning to her work, Leliana clarified:

— Why the question?

— To make conversation.

The girl shook her head in disbelief and changed the subject.

— Let's talk about...

— Leliana.

— No, let me finish. No matter how repetitive I get. Yes, we can discuss the probabilities... But let's not even consider the possibility that we are talking about the remains of a woman who stood at the foundation stone of the mighty building of the Church, at the origin of the Song of Light, who gave birth to the ideas of compassion and hope instead of loneliness and fear. Let it be. Even if it were the remains of a stranger... No. The remains of an ordinary man who once lived. Just like that, in the abstract. The act of defiling them with the blood of a demon-sending, even without considering the moral side of it, seems to be unreasonably risky. You have no understanding of the situation. You have no control. It's like shooting an arrow at random, that's all. In this uncertain situation, wouldn't it be wise for both of us to ignore the guides leading us into the unknown?

Morrigan said quietly, crunching her neck and sighing:

— And it must be that magic serves man, but not man serves magic.

— What?

— It came to mind. The 'foundation stone' of your Church, straight from Andraste's mouth. Oh, don't frown. The sayings of the Bride of the Creator I wouldn't know, of course. At least those attributed to her. How could I know such things? But it's stupid to try to sacrifice something so important to you, so demonstratively, to try to get the idea of «sharing» accepted. As if we're going to give up everything together. Let's draw the line once and for all. Let me distinguish between the monstrous and the meaningless, between the necessary and the weighty... With difficulty, perhaps. But I don't associate these words with «morality». I don't care about the principles that have grown out of abstractions about «right» and «wrong» that have no practical value. Take it or leave it. I always take an indulgence because the Church deliberately blurs the line between «myth» and «fact». Miracles and shrines do not tolerate scrupulous study. What happened in grey antiquity? Who knows? But if you ask my opinion, the prophets serve as a torch that the other holds in his hand. And future «martyrs» quickly burn like firewood, either by themselves or with «help». Let's go the other way round. There's Andraste. And? Even at his worst, the mysterious Creator preferred a low whisper. And not many in his ear, but just one. It would be a funny coincidence if it didn't sound so sad. And why should the almighty creature and the beloved dead man care about the wretched remnants of flesh?

Leliana turned her head away, glancing around the snow-covered trees as if searching for an answer. The Morrigan did not wait for her friend to find the right words, but continued:

— Let it go. Maybe it's just obvious to me that you don't have much in your life, things you consider yours from start to finish. Things you've suffered through. Not imposed from outside, not taken for granted. And faith seems to stand apart, or should stand apart, from me and what's going on. Like a... a pillar on the outskirts that you know the way to. Don't you call that an island of stillness? I suppose so. These things in your past have been interpreted as weakness. A place without flexibility. Vulnerability. Why am I saying this... If you let your guard down, it will seem as if I'm destroying this silence. I'm pitting my own logic against your principles. But who was the first to enter the 'silence' and fill it with the sound of 'voices'? This isn't a metaphor. Nor is it a call to abandon faith. The Creator and the ancient gods, dragons and ancestral spirits, nature spirits and constellations... Oh, I don't care. Believe what you want, as long as it doesn't make you stupid or an enemy. And what do you care about the Creator? I dare say you were concerned with the principles of Andrastianism, not the Pantheon. So either you are again a blind instrument who never deserved better and whose new master is probably the Creator Himself. Or a victim. I know it's a terrible choice, but it's the only one.

The interlocutor parried with a bitter hum:

— You hit with words without mercy... Like a match. But you're twisting it. From your «blind risk» to my problems. Strange, isn't it?

Morrigan opened her mouth to object, but nodded slowly instead. Now it was the sorceress' turn to shake her head sadly, lips pressed together. She stood there for a moment, then said:

— Maybe that makes sense. But you see. Power is really important. It's the instrument of control, the guarantor of security. A source of power. Even if it's not the only one... There's still knowledge. And we always pay the bill. Time, health, sanity, sometimes even freedom. Is there any other way? And now, on top of that, it's like pieces of a mosaic on the table. A careless scattering, but here and there the eye finds dependence, and as if the essence were about to catch the tail. The chance that the «demon» knows something is very high. And there's a price to be paid for answers, just as there's a price to be paid for power.

Sad green eyes stumbled over the gold, burning with confidence, and Leliana nodded.

— So it's back to Andraste's greatest gift. Hope.

Rolling her eyes demonstratively, Morrigan didn't hold back:

— An alternative, not just loss and denial, offer it!

— Alas, there is none.

With a satisfied nod, Morrigan frowned and added cautiously:

— Maybe... it's like a 'win' look. Well, maybe. But I think it's worth clarifying. I can try to convince, to reason, to justify my point of view. But other than that, I don't give a damn. I don't care if you are left with a personal opinion or if you are defeated. You make your choice, I make mine. That's why I don't need victory as such, and I don't feel anything from it.

Leliana, now much freer and without any caution or shadow of suppressed emotion running across her face, grinned:

— Your delicate attempts to apologise, avoiding sharp edges and with the utmost honesty, remind me of the deadly thrusts of the rapier in duels, intended to kill the victim at the first blow out of mercy. But there is a certain charm and freshness that makes you who you are.

— Carve the carcass, preacher.

* * *

The valley began modestly, as a spacious lowland between two gentle hills with a river running along the stony base, in the middle, a dozen paces wide, but soon the valley began to acquire the promised harsh features. Where the flow of water turned, bumping into the unyielding bones of the mountains, grey rock walls began to appear, sometimes rising for dozens of steps. The swift shallow river, whose bed was made up entirely of smooth stones the size of a fist, in those places became darkly deep and swirled with fleeting whirlpools. The water froths around every boulder that protruded above the surface, and so it had not yet frozen. But a crust of ice was already visible along the shores, in every calm pool and on the larger rocks. For all the toil of the journey, the eye could not but rejoice in this calm, not for a moment undying beauty. In this the companions agreed, as well as in the fact that the way would have been marvellous if it had not been necessary to search twice a day for a crossing in the icy water to a more gentle bank, often tramping for an hour on the way back.

The sky cleared, giving a respite, and the couple of days from sunrise to sunset flashed by, and the travellers were glad of the barely but warming sunshine. On the fresh snow there were rare traces of local animals, without a single sign of human presence. Feeling a certain security near the indifferently and invariably evenly murmuring water, one day Leliana, with a tinge of light sadness in her voice, lamented:

Beyond the snowy field, another snowy field

Endless white meadows spread;

Silence is all around, unyielding,

Snow, snow, snow and more snow ahead!

Villages are scattered here and there,

Like spots in an abyss of whiteness:

Houses are buried under drifts of snow,

Fences are invisible under the snow.

Forests in the distance are bare, black,

A tangled web of branches.

Only the wind dares to sing a sad song there,

Blowing frost and singing.

The path winds through the snow, lost:

Two furrows in the whiteness...

The horse trots with uncertain trot,

Making barely visible tracks.

But the sledge has disappeared — as if, white,

They were swallowed up by emptiness;

And again the empty plain is

Silent, soundless and pure.

And only the crows, a watchful flock,

Sometimes circle over the void,

And in the evening, in the oppressive silence,

An orange sunset burns.

Lights of lemon-orange hue

In the pale blue sky tremble...

But quickly long shadows

Envelop everything around.

["SNOW RUSSIA» 1917 — Valery Bryusov (1873 — 1924)]

Towards the end of the second day, the surrounding terrain finally lost its softness. The river no longer flowed through the stunning landscape, but fought its way through the seemingly eternal cliffs. The uneven and often dangerously fragile rock walls rose so high that you had to raise your head to see the edge. Sometimes the sheer walls would break off without warning and be replaced by an uneven, steep slope dotted with snow-covered boulders, sparse bushes, fallen or crooked pines. It was more difficult to move forward among the large stones and debris, but the fords were less frequent. The stream had less freedom in the strong grip of the mountains, and the river itself had smoothed out the sharpest bends over the past ages. Occasionally, in the middle of the flow, there would be a fresh trace of this work: a collapsed boulder, comparable to a hut at Redcliffe or Lothering, that had not had time to sink into the living riverbed, and lay where it had fallen, untouched by the violent spring mudflow.

As the journey progressed, food for the fire became harder to come by, but on the morning of the second day Morrigan took the trouble to gather a heavy bundle of twigs, interwoven with thin hazel branches, and toss it to the mare. Later, it protected the girls from the cold that had taken root in the shady glen and was trying to drain the warmth from their bones. There was no hunting here. Only occasionally did the sorceress's sharp eyes catch a glimpse of a lone cat of prey in the sky, interested in the strange phenomenon below.

Despite the early hour, the gorge was full of shadow and gloom, but the promise of open space lay deceptively ahead. And soon the gloomy walls reluctantly parted to reveal the vast basin of an ancient mountain lake, with gentle slopes covered in spruce forest and snow. Leliana was too tired after the arduous crossing to admire the outward simplicity and the diversity that lay beneath. More often than she should have, only willpower kept the bard on her feet. By evening, the girl was so exhausted that she could hardly wait for a chance to fall and forget. Morrigan searched carefully for the landmark she had named, rightly believing that there could be no other such place, for it would take half a day just to cross the valley, and that only impassable rapids and waterfalls awaited the traveller upstream. The landmark was soon found where it was supposed to be: on the left. The rocks on the slopes of the valley were fragile, and over time they yielded to the water. And then to the winds, the sun and the changing seasons. But the pillar that was left standing alone among the fir trees was made of hard shale, able to withstand the elements for eons. Grey and composed of lumpy, smooth shapes, it did not look impressive against the terrain. The pillar reached a height of twenty paces, and compared to the surrounding trees, it must have been overwhelming up close.

She picked up her friend, who was squinting at the sun hanging over the ridges, and set off to find the stream that flowed into the river. She needed to find a suitable place to camp near the water before dark, and then she had a lot of work to do to make herself comfortable. The way ahead was south-south-west, towards a lost village in that direction, and for safety's sake the use of fire was not allowed. For it was known that there was only one deadly predator in nature that would run towards smoke and fire rather than away from it.

* * *

When she had finished in the dark, Morrigan was pleased with herself. An impressive fire that would provide plenty of coals and warm the pebbly shore where the sun had dried the snow over the past few days. A supply of kindling for the night and the morning. Leftover meat patiently roasted over the fire. And perhaps the most important of all — a hollow in the pebbles, a few paces from the water, filled to the brim in the last few hours. The girl's muscles and joints ached, foreshadowing the pain of the next day.

Leliana was by the fire, so she had to push the heated stones into the makeshift pool herself. Each spit filled the area with a lively hiss and new curls of steam, and the stones that rolled to the bottom were covered in goosebumped bubbles. After moving two dozen stones in this way, Morrigan was sure she could move the resulting pile of coals later, and then she shook her companion awake:

— Let's go warm up.

Leliana stared sleepily at her friend and nodded, unable to understand the sentence. But with some help from her side, she managed to get undressed. Leaving their clothes in the warmth of the fire, but at a safe distance because of the sparks, and escaping the cold that shamelessly pinched their bodies in tender places, the girls plunged into the water. Headfirst was out of the question, but by squeezing in, they could almost fit.

Blissfully parting her lips, Leliana exhaled barely audibly:

— Watch me. I'm sure I'll fall asleep if I'm distracted.

Morrigan shook her head in disbelief, massaging her tired palms and fingers under the water. But with a glance at her companion, she smiled briefly and said leisurely:

— Over the past few days, have you given any thought to the causes and consequences of the discovery of the 'sacred' ashes? Why do you think you were sent to find it?

On the verge of oblivion, she opened her eyes sharply and tried to blink away the sting of drowsiness:

— It was worth relaxing...

Morrigan interrupted the sentence with a caustic exclamation:

— Didn't you ask me to keep you from falling asleep?

— Oh... My mistake. Well... It's certainly possible to add something to the bard, but there's no way to get the bard out of you.

— This, yes?

— Hm... Speaking of reflection... The basics are on the surface. The question is one of nuance. A sister of Light might say: the Creator desires that the resting place of the beloved Bride be returned to His beloved children in the dark hour. You would surely argue: something desires that this place be ravaged by greed, fear and envy. And the bard. He would point out that it's not that simple. For example. Let no one but the two of us know where we are going or why. Even then, it would be extremely difficult for me to keep a secret for long about a place that should be shared with anyone who has hope in their heart and the words of the Song of Light in their head. It is a common shrine. Which means Andraste's remains will be known beyond the mountains. Mm-hmm. Let's leave motives aside. What are the consequences? Well... In times like these, when many people can't find answers to troubling questions, pilgrims and hermits will immediately flock here. The arduous journey will be a challenge that will underline the importance of the end. Such a thing will revive the religiosity of the common people, which has been on the decline for decades. It will probably be a serious help in spreading and strengthening the power of the Church, from the bottom to the top.

— In fact, you have given yourself free rein by thinking about it in an open-minded way. There is another interpretation. A darker one. Pilgrims will flock not only to the shrine. They will also flock to the Blight, like moths to a bright light, deliberately invisible because of the faith. This is a fuel for the Church: a motive, a goal and a reason to protect the faithful and the Shrine. And then? The invasion of Ferelden and the Crusade. Blight notwithstanding, this fits beautifully with the steps taken by the Seeker. Kinloch, Redcliffe... Ferelden's Frost Ridge will be lost forever. And with it, access to Orzammar. Let's do the math: major mines, a vital trade route, a supplier of weapons, and a natural border with a dangerous neighbour. The beginning of a long road to the death of an independent state. And most importantly. There are at least three major players behind the Veil. And their agendas aren't exactly the same...

There was a ringing silence. Looking back at her friend, she saw a face that had lost the traces of sleep. There was a look of surprise in her eyes. Leliana licked her lips and gently clarified:

— It's... Abyss, it makes so much sense to want to find a flaw. It also means that... The Church and I are just different sized toys?

— I suppose...

— You know, nothing to argue about. Not yet. It's something to think about, you don't want to take something like that on faith. And yet. Have you come up with a similar 'reason' yourself?

Instead of answering, Morrigan nodded leisurely and, lifting her hand out of the unpleasantly rapidly cooling water and into the cold air, said:

— My «patron» seems understandable to me. But maybe it's just a glamour? Obviously, in the task at hand, it's a help, one way or another, to strengthen or protect the network that has been woven. Mortals are a source of sustenance for this creature. The more of them, the better. And the coming war will only be glorified by death. Perhaps every time a pilgrim prays to the ashes, he unwittingly becomes involved in a blood ritual? Who knows? What worries me is that these 'plans' have something to do with me. I hope it's just a play on words.

— I'm surprised to hear you say that. It was deep, but it was about politics, military plans, consequences for the region and the country...

— By me. You mean «The Wild Woman of Corkari»?

— Yes.

Her eyebrows raised at first, Morrigan soon returned to a level expression and answered:

— Well... It's not individual words or knowledge whose strangeness can be traced, though with increasing difficulty. They are thoughts of power. And I'm certainly interested in that.

— Power?

— Of course. The purest expression of strength, intelligence and knowledge. And it serves you as long as you feed this beast, unlike many others. Seeker, who moves Templars like pawns. King Kylan, though a fool, shaped history with a single word. Loghain, who moves the army and now the whole country. Empress Orlea, an equal in this game where we are but dust on the board. I confess without guile, I envy them. They may be led like cattle, but they are not as helpless to face their fate alone as you and I.

— And the price of power is not embarrassing?

— There will be a price to pay for every step. Here and now — no, not at all.

Leliana sighed, nodded and turned the conversation to another topic:

— Freedom... You know. I found peace in Lothering. If only for a while. A personal sanctuary. But at the same time, these difficult days of camping, despite the cold and the fatigue... It's been a long time, if ever, since I've felt both in motion and in balance at the same time. It's like a pond and a river. No matter what happens, I am grateful for this time.

Morrigan chuckled without malice or venom parried:

— So this is what you think about when you're on your feet all day.

— Well, no, of course not. What about you?

— What do I think about on the way?

Leliana nodded, and the sorceress, running her fingertips over the surface of the water, replied:

— It's almost always about magic. I don't let anything else distract me. I concentrate on runic riddles and mundane tasks. I only let my thoughts wander around the fire. We've had a good talk, but it's time to dry off and go to sleep.

* * *

Another morning of worries. Of the wood in the neighbourhood, the women had to choose between spruce and pine. The former was reluctant to work, smoked, gave little heat and the branches were more of a nuisance than a help. The pine, on the other hand, not only gave all the heat they needed and was efficient, but it was not difficult to find a fallen trunk with a good crown. The only drawback was that pine burned quickly, leaving only small, fleeting embers. So they had to be careful not to let the flames die out, leaving the travellers sleeping nearby alone in the cold. Fortunately, the weather was calm both day and night. The new dawn was also calm, but overnight the sky had become cloudy and threatened to turn to snow.

Leliana awoke when Morrigan had finished tossing the wood, gave the mare the rest of her oats and began her typical morning routine. The bard couldn't help but compare herself to the sorceress as she watched her fluid movements, which required coordination, flexibility and strength. The difference from the usual representative of the Circle was striking. Washing herself with ice water and warming her hands by the fire, Leliana waited until the 'performance' was over to speak:

— It took me a long time to recognise what you were doing that felt familiar. And this morning, a memory seemed to come out of nowhere. Antiva. Something in the dragging plasticity, especially in these exercises this morning, reminds me of the Antivan style of fighting with daggers or rapiers. Constant movement, a continuous transition from one stance to another like quicksilver, not a single static pose. Instead of deadly lunges that the eyes can barely keep up with, there is an excess of parrying, dodging and then striking from directions that are difficult to predict. An art that involves survival and a poisoned blade.

Brushing the excess moisture from her forehead after washing, and taking her own seat by the fire, Morrigan replied with a smile:

— I don't know... What weight or meaning do these words carry? But coming from a bard, it's flattering. Thank you.

Nodding, Leliana glanced south:

— Do we part today?

— Yes, around noon. You and the mare will go to the settlement, and I'll... Into the mountains. It's a day and a half's ride.

There were no comments or explanations from the girl, and soon the modest party was on its way again.

If the riverbed the travellers had followed earlier had led them into a gorge, the tributary, more like a stream three or four paces wide, flowed in a tidy valley with relatively gentle slopes. Perhaps this area was older. The slopes had had time to scatter, covered with grasses and then sheltered by thin but tenacious spruces. On the other hand, the forest on either side didn't look old. This encouraged the idea that mudslides and avalanches had occurred here from time to time. And it gave a clue as to why no one had ever reached the lost settlement in the foothills. Morrigan didn't like her own thoughts, though: a few hunters or prospectors must have come here in the decades since. But they were lost for reasons other than nature or predators...

Trying to take regular breaks to climb up the slope and survey the horizon, three hours into the journey Morrigan found boulders of all shapes and sizes scattered ahead, as if after a game of mythical giants. Here and there they stood out in white caps of powdery snow. There was no desire to loop between them in the fresh snow and without a guide. Using the gnarled roots of the fir trees as stepping stones, the girls and the mare climbed slowly up the left ridge of the valley and found themselves on a comfortable plateau. But the expanse of yellow grass and sparse, bare bushes, with white patches scattered here and there, did not seem comfortable for long. No sooner had the girls settled into a wide stride than a piercing, icy wind came from their left, sometimes accompanied by a dusting of snow. It was the very thing that had kept the snow off the smooth curves of the terrain until now. In comparison, the valley suddenly seemed much more pleasant. After a moment's thought, and positioning Leliana to leeward of the mare, Morrigan decided not to go back down.

After hours of relatively easy walking, thin, pale trails of smoke appeared behind a gentle hill on the opposite side of the narrow valley. No further eloquent indication of Sanctuary's viability was needed. The sorceress narrowed her eyes, searching for any other tracks or movement, and said quietly:

— If you're not in a hurry, you can go down here. Then there, to the left, on the other slope, you can climb up again safely. Two hours at the most, and you'll see the settlement in all its glory. There's no point in telling anyone but yourself to be careful. Yet even your faith can cloud your judgement, for it is easy to be deceived by what you wish. Be on your guard.

Leliana nodded, answering without the shadow of a smile:

— Yes... Since we're giving advice. Don't let your curiosity lead you blindly into a trap. All right?

— All sensible remarks. Let's see what we both come up with. Anyway. When I'm finished, I'll come and get you myself. Still, it'll be hard to come back without a mare. Even so. My gut tells me they'll be waiting for us at the Tract.

— Seeker?

— Well... Not personally. But whose will is it? With the speed of the messenger birds, the advance party of mounted Templars from Orlais is quite expected. We shall see.

Leliana let out a short sigh that turned into a ghostly cloud of steam. The girl glanced at the frowning horizon and then scattered her words in confusion:

— Then. Good luck. And don't freeze.

Avoiding a possible answer, the bard moved to a place where the mare could dismount without the risk of breaking her legs. She could not see the wry grin that followed her, nor the piercing gaze of eyes that were a dark, reddish gold.

* * *

Finally moving alone, Morrigan was lost in her own thoughts. She did not let her beastly vigilance slacken, not even fixing her hair, which was at the mercy of the raging wind. Over the past few days, the sorceress hadn't really allowed herself the freedom to think about anything other than runic puzzles, born of recent observations, hunches and inspiration. But now her thoughts turned to the personal. About recognition — power wasn't the only thing that interested her. And why this seemingly simple fact had never left the girl's lips in the conversations of the past few days. Scrupulously gathering the facts, Morrigan was able to come up with questions with a characteristic subtext: no-no, but they had already slipped into the conversations. Fame. In other words, a way to leave one's mark on another's memory. To rise above others, not only in the literal sense, but also as someone who was being talked about, who stood out from the grey masses.

Honestly considering her own thirst for fame and power, the Sorceress highlighted the simmering emotion that fuelled both aspirations. Envy. Of the man-made, defying the elements, proudly carrying the legacy of its creators through time, influencing the minds of the living. As the girl had mentioned in the previous conversation, envy of the powerful, endowed with the potential to effect widespread change. And the same feeling for those behind the scenes of the universe, even if they are known to only a few and no one fully understands such beings. As Morrigan thought about this, she also considered Leliana's «collection» of interesting people around her. Envy of other people's knowledge, talent, or simply... envy of the extraordinary, like feelings of rare purity and permanence. In the end, then, three peaks determined every decision the sorceress made. From one point of view, the discovery was seen by the girl as a new place of confinement within three walls. But from another point of view, the knowledge was liberating, allowing her to understand from that moment on: why this or that choice was made. What remained unclear was how the passions mentioned above were mixed in this one. How they had acquired an unprecedented acuity. What was personal, what came from outside. Was the dream of something more always lived in the neighbourhood, modestly pushed into the depths: momentary thirst for knowledge, careless study of the world and of oneself, and then the desire for freedom without understanding the price, and finally? Resentment? Morrigan had systematically tried to keep as much of herself from memory as possible. But now only stubbornness remained on guard, as even logic quietly whispered to the girl, «let go». Morrigan had already accepted the changes that had taken place. No matter what new things came from the inexplicable void, the sorceress had no known way to defend herself. So she had to learn to live with it. Join in when victory was elusive. Saddle up when you have to tame it. And the last thing you want to do is mindlessly deny the obvious. The insidious thing was that Morrigan herself saw such moves as a cowardly attempt to escape. And it was hard to find balance when the pale echoes of emotion coexisted rather than fought each other.

But now Morrigan could say more about the purpose of the journey. Talking of power with her companion did not exclude the selfish desire that lurked in the shadows of rational intentions. The news of the 'discovery' and 'desecration' of seemingly sacred remains would certainly not leave anyone indifferent, passing from mouth to mouth like a rumour. Isn't that fame? The way ahead became clear to the sorceress. Step by step. The Morrigan realised that it would be foolish to want to climb where the likes of Xebenkeck lived. Certainly not now... But even here, among the flesh-clothed, there were peaks the sorceress would have loved to climb.

So the day came to a quiet end. The girl had to find shelter for the night quickly, for it was now impossible to build a fire in the open. Morrigan could easily imagine the watchful eyes of others. Not enough to spot a lone figure on foot in the distance by day, but to miss a flame in the darkness of night? Leliana would have been the only traveller to reach the Sanctuary openly and unnoticed for as long as possible.

* * *

The next day found the sorceress frowning, kneading her stiffened body and struggling to shake off the sticky remnants of a shaky sleep. It was as if Leliana had taken the bright side of the journey with her, leaving her companion with only the dark side. Still, the inexorable passage of time presented the girl with several challenges. Firstly, time should be cherished and full speed ahead. It was foolish to expect that the terrain ahead would still be comfortable to walk on and that the previous pace could be maintained. Second, provisions. By midday at the latest, Morrigan should have had something to sustain her strength at the rest stop. She didn't want to be on wobbly legs on the glacier. And hunting in unfamiliar terrain, where sudden changes in altitude were becoming more and more unusual for the sorceress, seemed risky and unpromising. That day, the girl noticed nothing bigger than squirrels and hares jumping frantically from a distance and disappearing behind the trees. It was enough to hint at the recent and constant presence of other two-legged predators.

An hour later, as she climbed up the slope of another hill, as if silently mocking the sorceress, not yet ready to give up and return to the valley of the glacial stream, which had become quite shallow, she suddenly remembered something funny... Her own sarcastic joke about hunting in a recent conversation with Leliana. Now the Morrigan realised, with undisguised self-satisfaction, that it was a good idea. It was just bad timing. On the next descent into another spruce grove, the girl did not hesitate to slash the cold iron on her left palm and, clenching her fist, began to mark the path she had travelled with rare scarlet drops on white. She struck the trunks of the fir trees with the outer edge of her palm, marking them like a wounded beast. And with each step, the 'net' widened and the smell of blood spread. Whether out of spite or good fortune, the wind had died down by this hour, and the scent in the cold air did not fade for long, wafting into every low spot. The light frost and snow kept the air damp, and it was calculated that the cats of prey would smell the scent two or three hundred paces from where the sorceress had been.

Three hours later, as the sheer rock face ahead grew larger and Morrigan began to fear for her numb hand, the situation finally changed. If anyone had asked, the hunter would not have been able to explain exactly what the tickling sensation at the back of her neck was that had alerted her to the visitor. But a childhood spent in the wild forests had taught the Sorceress to trust her instincts, which whispered of a lurking predator, and more often than not, proved correct. She paused a few paces from the first fir, which, like the others, was impossible to approach without being scratched by its protruding branches, and waited. Frowning, she stood motionless, breathing heavily. A lone predator would be hard to spot, even in a bare deciduous forest, and she knew how to remain a ghost to the end, so she didn't try. She frowned at the vivid reminder of the absent fear that had served her so well as a child and was now useless. The claws and fangs of a big cat were worth fearing, if you thought about it.

A low growl reached the girl's ears just before the blow knocked the wind out of her. She could prepare as much as she wanted, but the snow flying in her face, her attempts to catch her breath, and the alien mass of muscle pressing down on her left her confused and disoriented. Morrigan immediately pulled herself up, covering her eyes with her hands and protecting her throat as best she could, then gathered her thoughts into a fist. All — in a few beats of a beating heart... The lynx's claws might not have been impressive from a distance, but they could rip off clothes and then tender human flesh. The fanged jaws could easily break thin bones or tear tendons and blood vessels. Fortunately, magic had not made a tragic exception this time and had worked as it always had. A barely perceptible bond had formed between the lynx and the girl. Now Morrigan had to fear a deadly rip in her throat or serious damage to her warm clothing.

She jabbed her left fist into the cat's mouth, which immediately crunched disgustingly and tore at her wrist with its fangs, and drew her dagger with her right hand. Without a moment's hesitation, the dagger swung methodically into the belly of the predator, where the bones did not prevent the metal from reaching the internal organs along the length of the blade. After seven minutes of fading resistance, the girl tossed the barely-breathing cat aside with a sigh of exasperation and looked down at her soiled shoes, trousers and outer garments. The fresh blood quickly solidified in the cold, robbing the sorceress of her precious warmth. The spell finished the job indifferently, squeezing the last crumbs of life from the bleeding lynx and even repairing Morrigan's minor abrasions. The plan, which had seemed risky at first, had turned out to be madness from a normal person's point of view: true, but the sorceress realised that the meat had arrived, and a torn sleeve was an acceptable price to pay. The magic had restored the girl's health, but it was not enough to fill her stomach.

Unfortunately, there was dirty work to be done, and there was no way to do it without fire. If the few lake fish Morrigan would risk eating raw, the flesh of a forest predator in the same form would only tempt her on her deathbed. The risk of picking up the infection that the carcass picked up from its victims, season after season, was too great. As she shook off the snow and tried to wipe away the traces of blood, the girl thought of the spell that would ensure victory now, as it had in the past. Perhaps it was the first time the sorceress' thoughts had gone in this direction. A reliable, dependable tool was more than anything else the almost fearless and pain-tolerant southern witch needed. Of course, Morrigan's mind went over facts, arguments, questions in its characteristic way, but it wasn't the strangeness of the «lucky coincidence» that piqued her interest. It was the principles of the spell...

The more the sorceress 'looked' at her own magic from this angle, the more surprised she became. Yes, the girl found it strange to argue with herself about the trick that indicated the purpose of the magic. Or the trick that made the magic reach out to the victim with a ribbon, as if it were alive. Such an inner monologue would make an excellent demonstration of the ever-expanding understanding of the meanings and implications of combining the various runes. With the proper care and time, the girl could even put together a spell from scratch to detect a nearby living target, if it was larger than a cat, in some modest amount. It would be more difficult to add runes that would allow her not to lose a moving victim. And the real difficulties began when it came to determining how to drain the life force from the target, and how much of it was needed to heal the caster. With all reason, the girl had not fully considered how complex these tasks were. And now she couldn't even begin to imagine how many runes would be needed to achieve such a solution. Exactly many times more than the part of the spell the sorceress had barely understood. And so Morrigan's ironic question arose: how did this magic actually work? Though it was exactly as Flemeth had taught her: three layers, and without a trace of the «demonic» puzzle connections that increased the depth of the spells beyond reasonable limits. As Leliana would say, «no place to hide anything».

The last one to slowly emerge from the depths was an uncomplicated question: why had the enchantress' curiosity latched on just now? Was the moment special? Morrigan grumbled irritably, realising that the reason was neither her own cleverness nor her knowledge... It was the casual remarks of others that had sown the seeds of doubt and suspicion. First the familiar Pride, and then Xebenkeck, both of whom had made strange comments about the girl's magic.

Exhaling a cloud of steam into the silence of the forest, Morrigan shook off the irrelevant thoughts that tried to distance her from the essential. It was time to get down to business, before the solitude was shattered by a new guest...

* * *

Another cold night alone and without fire had stolen every bit of what Morrigan had taken from the lynx. Vigour, strength, attentiveness and warmth. Grinning tiredly, the girl lifted her eyes to the heavy clouds that had swallowed the tracks of the mountains to the west overnight. In the long hours of darkness that remained, the grey mountains spat snow from their cold bellies, safely hiding the lone sorceress' tracks and the bloody marks of yesterday's swift battle.

It was not an hour into the journey before the forest thinned out, and then Morrigan found herself at the very edge of the forest. Ahead of her was nothing but gnarled, scrawny fingers of shrubbery, barely reaching her waist, scattered sparsely along the slopes. The terrain was strikingly white. Fresh snow had covered the irregularities, roughness and imperfections, leaving only smooth lines that rose steadily into the misty gloom of the sky. Pausing for two minutes for a series of deep breaths, Morrigan suddenly imagined that she was once again behind the veil, looking into the swirling abyss. But the deceptive darkness was easily dispelled, for the clouds seemed to reach her fingertips to the edge if she tried hard enough. Overcoming the heavy weight in her body and forcing herself into action, the girl resumed her ascent.

Towards midday, Morrigan crested another ridge, slowly but steadily taking one step at a time, only to drop to one knee. It was easy to sink into the thin snow that, due to the strong gusts of wind, barely covered the scattered rocks and debris. But the sorceress doubted she would be able to get up with the same ease. An extraordinary view of the astonishing vastness ahead presented itself. Even in this weather, it was possible to stare at it for hours, noticing new details every now and then. The edge of the tongue of the immense glacier, descending into the valley between the mountain spurs to the south-west. The river of ice was the embodiment of a movement that seemed frozen for a single moment, to which nothing under this sky would offer worthy resistance. And the further the eye travelled along the bed of ice carved into the eternal rock, the harder it was to grasp the true scale of the image. The cloud cover that hid the surrounding peaks only served to confuse. Ahead and below was a valley of snow-covered debris the size of a medium-sized fist, crossed in a thin ribbon by a stream barely alive in the grip of fresh ice. Not far away, to the left, by the ice hummocks frozen by the collapse of the ice, was a miniature lake of meltwater of an unforgettable milky azure colour. Fresh ice had recently bounded the calm surface, but two or three hours ago a fragment the size of a medium mare had broken it and in one fell swoop had fed the stream that had started here.

On the other side, to the west, began the opposite slope, which soon led to a sheer rock face. There, in a narrow strip of snow and fog, was the monolithic entrance to the... The Morrigan refused to call it a temple. However, the characteristic bas-relief of the ornamental columns, the deliberately massive decoration in an outdated style, all suggested... The sorceress herself did not know why this architectural composition, lost in the midst of ice and stone, seemed vaguely familiar. Not in its entirety, but in its individual features. The girl's eyes glided unerringly over the curves, smoothed by the mercilessness of time, which inevitably caused a strange, indefinable echo within. Soon her keen eye caught the barely discernible curve of a human body in the black yawn of the only entrance. But at this distance, it was easier to be deceived than to see the truth. Squinting, Morrigan strained her tired eyes to separate imagination from reality. Suddenly, the snow and pebbles behind her creaked and rushed towards the girl's face, in an instant, the surroundings disappeared without a trace in a dark tide of unconsciousness...

* * *

The headache annoyed Morrigan. The girl was crystal clear in her awareness of the splitting ache. But at the same time, the pain remained in waves, coming again and again, only to stop at her feet each time without soaking her boots. The pain, however, was no fiction or figment of the imagination, and in fact it clouded Morrigan's thoughts and prevented her from concentrating.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself in a room of modest size, from the look of the walls: carved directly into the rock. Her arms were spread apart by ropes running to rings on anchors hammered into wooden pegs protruding from the crevices of the monolithic wall. Muscles, joints and hands ached from the tight knots that prevented blood flow and from the weight of the girl's body, which until recently had hung there like a sagging sack. The smooth stone of the wall was unpleasantly cold against her bare skin near her waist, but below that her clothes had been left untouched. Her tangled, loose hair was scattered about her face, making it difficult to look around. But it was nothing compared to the sickness that came with the slightest turn of the head or even movement of the eyes. The girl's right breast ached, bearing the five marks of someone else's fingers on the tender flesh, as if someone had rubbed it unceremoniously with no regard for the force used.

Opposite Morrigan, three people stood motionless. To the left, in the far corner, crouched a bald, middle-aged man with weathered skin that showed a light mountain tan, a thick, dark beard, and thick, warm clothing of hides and furs. Nearby, a quiver and a sighted bow rested against the wall. A woman in a thick, warm cloak with a fur-trimmed hood leaned against the wall to the right, keeping her distance from everyone in the room. From the look of her face, she had lived little more than thirty seasons. And she had not lived in the local lands, for her skin was as golden and dark as that of those born in the far north. And the massive carved staff that the woman's fingers grasped tightly was an unmistakable sign of Talent. In the centre, near a portable brazier with a great flame licking greedily at the coals, giving light and warmth, stood the most interesting figure. A broad-shouldered, solidly built warrior with close-cropped dark hair on his head and face. A hard, grey gaze that expressed nothing but restrained curiosity. And full chainmail armour over a quilted jacket, as if the man were about to go into battle. The heavy battle-axe at his hip matched this.

Morrigan couldn't help but smile, a wry grin emerging from behind slightly trembling lips. These people hardly belonged to a village that had been lost in the mountains for decades and, according to the Seeker's words, had fallen into a stasis of brutal isolationism. An abundance of metal objects without a trace of rust, clothing made not only of skins and furs but also of fresh cloth... Even a full-fledged mage?

The gruff voice of a man accustomed to giving orders that are quickly carried out came from the side of the armoured warrior:

— The Highlands protect this place from fools better than any hindrance from wretched mortals like us. And only those who have prayed enough under Andraste's hand and in her light will be spared the fetters that descend upon body and mind. So... Who are you? Why did you try to sneak into the temple? He who seeks the Faith would come openly, and only the enemy acts covertly, for fear of retribution weighs upon his shoulders.

— High-minded. A believer, then? In the company of a magician? Also... Oh well, never mind.

The man in the corner came close, clenching his jaw, but a single flick of the ringed glove was enough to suppress any impulse.

— A sharp eye. A sharp tongue. But you need an incentive to speak.

Another gesture and the 'hunter' jumped to his feet, giving Morrigan a wicked grin that showed the gap between his teeth. Unseen by the girl, he grabbed a short poker from the brazier and was standing in front of the prisoner within a few steps. In the sorceress' opinion, the squinted eyes, the dilated pupils and the frequent breaths of anticipation indicated that the man could hardly «walk in the light of the Creator». At least not the «light» Morrigan knew.

The heated poker rose slowly to her goose-pimpled breasts, pausing at her pink nipple to feel the heat of the metal. There were only two pairs of eyes in the room, watching the wobbling tip of the instrument. One glittered unkindly. The other, reflecting the golden glow of the flames, stared intently at the flaws in the casting along the length of the poker and the imperceptible, almost soot-covered dwarf mark on the hilt. A moment later, there was a hissing sound in the room, accompanied by the smell of burnt flesh that hit her nose. It was a mixture of metallic tang, nauseating stench and the pleasant aroma of charcoal roasting.

With a slow, ragged exhalation, Morrigan lifted her head slightly and looked into her tormentor's eyes. He froze like a statue, his brow furrowed in indecision. The girl tried to spit at the bastard's feet. But it came out awkwardly — trembling lips made the sorceress shake openly, and much of the saliva ran down her chin. Eventually, the dark gold found the attentive, ice-grey eyes of the warrior still standing behind her, his arms crossed over his chest. The man in armour gave himself a brief nod and spoke:

— That's the way. It's a sign of respect. On the other hand, it is also a sign of stupidity or hubris. Every will, like every body, breaks. Although, in your case, the latter will overtake the former. One way or another, Andraste's light will reach every soul as an echo of her newfound flame has just touched this mortal flesh. You know, the sincerity of silence, unlike words, is true. Suppose you have something to hide, and it is more precious than torment. Hmm. Speech and language might indicate the tribe and country you come from. But I don't remember such a strange accent. Once you start talking, it's sometimes hard to stop, isn't it? You came alone, didn't you?

Ignoring the questions, Morrigan shifted her gaze to the woman, wondering what magic she knew. It occurred to her that the Church had so thoroughly imprinted the image of a mage in typical robes, often carrying a staff, that even renegades and maleficars were unknowingly dressed in a similar manner. While others in the service of the Church, who were also gifted, could easily go unnoticed and unrecognised. As, by sheer luck, was Morrigan herself at that moment. But the bald bastard with the poker was the first to lose his patience. The metal had cooled a little, but it easily left an oblique line of burn across the pale, sweaty skin from his ribs to his navel.

The unknown sorceress at the wall turned away under the captive's blurred gaze. The woman was definitely not enjoying herself, but she remained silent, waiting for the end. Licking her sharply parched lips, Morrigan hoarsely forced out the next words:

— What have I got? A bastard. A commander. And a sissy. While the first enjoys himself, the second is ready to do anything because he's tough. And the third just bears it. Luckily... Dog, wolfhound and puppy.

Looking back at the one in whose hands the power was, the girl coughed wetly and continued in a ringing silence:

— Did Andraste himself create this flame for torture? I didn't expect such practicality and care from a 'saint'.

The armoured figure's reply came out like a whip:

— It is not in your mind to comprehend the power and majesty of a saint who has conquered death and returned to her true followers in newfound splendour. We have kept our final resting place. Now she keeps us. But this is obviously idle talk and a waste of time. Hundo, tell them to send a few men to the sanctuary to announce the guest and find out the news. Just keep it quiet, we shouldn't have... In short, let them think with their heads.

The bald-bearded man nodded, returning the poker to the brazier, and Morrigan cursed inwardly. The sorceress would have preferred to keep a closer eye on her opponents. If the 'dog' seemed clear to the girl, the woman in the hoodie and the warrior in the sleeves could hide any kind of malice.

Closing her eyes to concentrate and taking in a lungful of air, Morrigan uttered a silent shorthand:

— Tua vita mea este!

The hasty thud of the base of the wizard's staff against the stone floor came a word or two too late. Though the familiar connection between victim and source immediately eased the sharp pain, Morrigan's muscles stiffened at the same time, barely allowing her to breathe. Even her heart seemed to beat against the resistance. Paralysis. And as the warrior rushed to the gagging woman, who had already removed the staff from her faltering hands, the 'dog' leapt in front of the captive. Ignoring the warrior's harsh cry, the bearded hunter pulled a long, narrow knife from beneath his robes in one fluid motion. The sound of the staff falling to the ground was matched by a lightning-fast lunge that sliced the Morrigan's throat. Feeling something scalding between her breasts, the girl involuntarily met the 'killer's' gaze. In a strange way, the situation forced a mad smile out of the southerner, but her numb face failed her miserably. The man across from her grasped the knife more comfortably, but a deafening «Hundo!» made the «dog» finally turn to the warrior who was gently laying the woman on the ground. The witch, crucified to the wall, had just enough time to regain her voice and gasped like a wounded animal, her lips barely parted:

— Nigrum putredo quad devorat anima!

The most deadly magic has no conspicuous manifestations, and the «stab in the back» was not accompanied by thunder, lightning or crackling. The man who had tried to end Morrigan's life was far from the Templars, so the magic ate him from the inside out before the armoured warrior who had risen to his feet turned. The body of «Hundo» collapsed on the stone floor, face forward, like one who has lost his senses or his mind.

The warrior did not curse at the sight of what had happened, nor did he show any sign of fear or nervousness. Only a strained gaze clashed with the dark gold glittering between the black strands of hair that clung to his face. The barely perceptible twitching of the man's eyelid suggested to Morrigan that he, too, was weighing his chances. Which meant there was more than one way out of this bloody impasse. But intelligible conversation was beyond the witch's powers at the moment, and she barely contained herself from drooling at the corners of her mouth. So it was her opponent's voice that first broke the silence:

— A witch, then. Maleficar. You're outnumbered.

Morrigan shifted her gaze to the only exit into the impenetrable darkness and turned her attention back to the man, trying to raise a sarcastic eyebrow. The absence of doors, the faintest glimmer of light in the passageway, and the reaction to sound all indicated the remoteness of the warrior's allies. It looked as if the halls and corridors carved into the rock face were not so inhabited.

The man caught the silent hint and raised his eyebrows:

— Let it be. But there's no way out of here alive.

As she felt the other's magic lose its power, the sorceress moved her shoulders subtly, hoping not to hide them from the warrior's gaze. The paralysis spell, in Morrigan's opinion, was a nasty one. A huge advantage and tactical flexibility when coordinated. Often just to have someone else finish off an already helpless victim. But Morrigan had spent most of her life relying on herself. Besides, in the wild lands, magic that had more than one use was more useful. Or the kind that killed cleanly, at once and without wasting too much mana.

After moving her jaw and making sure her tongue was already capable of producing intelligible speech, Morrigan said:

— When there are only foxes left in the forest, they often try to pass themselves off as wolves. Too bad the fur gives it away. If you ask me, it looks like you're hiding. So no one will notice the blood on your hands? That's why the interrogation is far away from prying eyes, as is the retaliation. First the neglect, the cruelty. Then all of a sudden it's death or death. Hilarious. You should have started the conversation a little softer to make it sound like that. For contrast. But as you said, what are you practising on?

The man winced:

— What's that about?

— You're probably right... Risk it? My life. There are no witnesses. So no glory, no pressure. Unless you have faith and conviction. Or whatever else you can think of. Interesting. Just a hunch, don't be sorry. That hunter on the ground got me? Oh... I can see it in your eyes. And the dog's life didn't mean much to you. But the sorceress did. When you had the chance to attack, you chose to make sure the woman didn't crack her skull on the rocks. I guess the Northwoman's loss weighs more heavily. Strange, isn't it? Especially for a fanatical religious outcast, which is what you wanted me to think you were.

— No. You're no ordinary spy.

— Have you noticed? Hmm. You're the only ones who knew about my capture, aren't you? You, him and her. Two dead, one alive.

The man moved his jaw, arched an eyebrow in question, and Morrigan continued:

— Good. Is a mage still needed? Or is there a substitute? You can't miss a trained warlock from the north.

At first the man met the girl's not too veiled suggestion with a stony face. But then, with a deliberately slow sigh, as if making a difficult decision, he replied:

— It's too easy to say that you can compete with a trained magician. But in reality...

— Wait... I should 'compete' with a dead person?

— Hmmm...

Glancing at the entanglements, Morrigan shook her head and added sarcasm to her voice:

— This conversation is getting a bit lazy. Let's finish it.

— Hang on.

Smirking and causing a fleeting shadow of irritation in the man's face, the girl nodded:

— That's something. So it's not your life you value now, it's your mage. Why? Who's the bargain? A sorceress from the north. And from the far north. Skin more like bronze than obsidian. Tevinter! Snake lovers got wind of this place before the Church of Orleans? My head is spinning... Tevinter. Mother used to say that the road to becoming a Magister was thorny, long and dangerous. That's why they boast of their status, and only for the sake of a great reward will they agree to hide it. But even then, the entourage is not left behind. And even if she were a Magister, the dead and the living would switch places. So she's just an ordinary sorceress. A tool. Free mages from this far north would hardly be interested in anything in the wild south. Power, but you'd be foolish to seek it here... That's what Denerim is for. Knowledge? I think that's a mistake too. Power. Dragons are an awe inspiring subject for a Tevinter, and there's at least one here. Or a pair. What a coincidence.

The slightly raised eyebrows showed that the warrior couldn't handle the surprise. Immediately he stiffened, and then he spoke:

— You know too much...

Morriga tilted her head slightly to the right and interjected:

— Is that possible? I'm becoming increasingly convinced that I know nothing. Although, from your point of view, perhaps you're wise. Everyone says that this is the last resting place of the Andraste. That's the second reason for the Tevinter's interest. Their motives remain to be guessed. What passion or unbearably burning desire drives them to such an unnatural union?

The subject the warrior had broached was troubling, and proved to be a sensitive one at that. Uneven breathing, fists clenched to a squeak, in gloves covered on the outside with rings of chain mail. Morrigan tried to pick up on every sign, applying Leliana's lessons to the matter, as if she remembered something. In the end, however, the man remained silent, stoically waiting to see what cards his companion would play next, or when she would open herself up for the killing blow. So the girl continued the dance of words with dry lips:

— The phrase «returned saint» is confusing, but it is easy to guess: it is about a dragon. If such a statement is taken as dogma, then the fate of the humble guards can no longer be discussed, can it? Which means that one thing may be missing for completeness. The ashes. Someone in the depths of time feared that even the most faithful, cursed by the changeable nature of man, would find the sacred object unattainable. Is this true?

— Your words are like a poisoned stiletto. First of all, I think... you, like others, want to touch the shrine. It's like a children's story where the urn grants the wishes of fools. Secondly, nothing you say will solve the problem of trust.

— Like others... Interesting. Interesting. Trust problem? Doubtful. When you took the northern sorceress into your inner circle, was that how you talked about trust? Or did he silently swallow the bitterness for the chance?

Ostentatiously kneading her numb shoulders as much as the restraints allowed, Morrigan continued her monologue:

— Okay. You had a shelter that the world has forgotten much about. But this northern girl is like an arrow. And an archer won't forget you. I'm more like a long spearhead. In a few weeks, the army of the Church will march down the Tract. And believe me, they won't ignore a place like this, no matter how much you complain about the infidels' twisted principles. But you may have been lucky. What the Northerner was good at, I don't know. But it so happened that I had my own experience of getting into impregnable places and getting out of impossible traps.

The warrior unclenched his fists and gave his captive an arrogant look, as if she were a piece of meat. The pause made him seem hesitant. The man's next words were:

— What a bitch. I've never wanted to shut someone up so badly. When you let your tongue run free, words seem to make sense. But when you talk, you don't lose focus. Like an experienced hunter. Trust...

The Morrigan interrupted the man and suddenly burst into laughter, unable to contain the urge that was tearing at her from within. She laughed sincerely, and then she spoke:

— Wait... You mean 'double-edged blade'?

Clenching his jaw, the warrior didn't answer.

— I see. Why don't I stab you in the back first and wait for you to strike? Especially since I know that the number of enemies is about to multiply. Same thing. All we can do in case of betrayal is to make sure that our own losses are barely noticeable when the other's are countless.

Licking her lips, Morrigan went on:

— Come on, find a way to get out of here safely. What story to tell. How to get back. I'll stay here.

The man curled his lips, probably hiding his displeasure behind the grimace. But the warrior took a cautious, calculated step back, then another. The figure in armour moved away, ready to move forward, or perhaps back. At that moment, the sorceress could have taken a chance, but she preferred to let the enemy go, to wreak havoc on his own. As the darkness obscured details and the faint creaking of metal, Morrigan exhaled and found herself holding her breath. She glanced down at the bodies and her own bonds, and then muttered:

— Well...

With a regretful glance at the last of her trousers, the girl turned to the magic of transformation.

The flesh boiling at the behest of a spell she had not yet learned did little to distract the sorceress from her personal thoughts. Whether it was habit or wilful blindness that had slipped from her control, Morrigan did not know. In keeping with her habits, Morrigan honestly asked herself questions such as: why had she so impulsively moved from waiting to conflict?

Leliana. It didn't take long to find the answer. The enchantress readily admitted that she was unwilling to remain in any of the ranks where she was deprived of her companion, or where the companion served as a tool in the hands of the enemy. And yet, by the end of the conversation, the girl had let the warrior go, considering the risk to herself greater than the safety of her friend. The logical chain of conclusions that spoke of the transition from emotion to healthy selfishness disturbed the girl. And it is not clear what caused the fear. Was it the fear that personal attachments might one day drive the sorceress to a dangerous edge, or vice versa, that merciless, cold logic might one day turn her into a monster? Shaking her hairless head, the girl noted that even if the unfortunate messenger had left an hour ago, he would not reach the Sanctuary for at least another day. A simple calculation gave a time limit to the business of this mountain 'temple'.

Having removed the bonds with the newfound claws of the second pair of hands, Morrigan tossed them aside, along with the bursting and dishevelled remains of her clothing. She wasted no time in reversing the transformation. She preferred the access to familiar magic and her own body to her distorted form.

Without wasting a single heartbeat since returning to her familiar form, the girl hurried to the dead northerner. Her nimble hands fluttered back and forth, moving the body that had not yet lost its warmth. Clothes lay beside her, useless jewellery flew into the corner, two lyrium potions, a pair of stilettos and a staff — the sorceress placed them before her. After five minutes, the new incarnation of the 'Northerner' stood proudly in the room. The new incarnation was lighter in colour than the previous one, but the hood showed only the lower part of her face, and Morrigan had reproduced her pose with great attention to detail.

A dozen paces from the room, the narrow corridor turned to the right and a pale, natural-looking light glimmered in the distance. Each step through the darkness was marked by a shrinking grip of cold, until even Morrigan was grateful for the Northwoman's tight, warm clothing. Even at night, it didn't feel this cold outside. Probably the proximity of the stone walls, insatiable for heat, and the dampness in the air were to blame. An unpleasant combination. A quick glance back made the girl wonder how many more of these stone sacks, which resembled crypts without light or air movement, the long-dead builders had lined along this passage.

At the exit, a colossal hall, which had once been a natural cave, judging by the shape of the ceiling, awaited the sorceress. To her right, a few dozen metres away and two feet shorter than the girl, she could see the high opening of the only entrance. That was the outer wall of the 'temple'. Through a strict rectangular archway and a quartet of light conductors cleverly hidden in the rock above, the room was filled with daylight. Rising in ledges, the hall stretched forty paces to the left, ending above Morrigan's position with a pair of heavy, time-worn doors, either of pure copper or an alloy with a good deal of the latter. The sashes were left ajar enough to allow only one person to enter at a time. The floor had once been a rich mosaic of marble in five shades, but now it was almost entirely covered by debris and ice from the damp ceiling. A glistening glaze of frozen water covered every surface here, except for the pathways that snaked through the hall. As Morrigan could see from the outside, clouds often descended as far as the entrance to the 'temple', which resembled a vast stone cellar. Humid air poured in, only to be replaced by even cooler air that flowed out and down the glacial stream into the valley. And slowly, season by season, the moisture settled here in the form of ice.

It was easy to guess from the width of the corridors: the most frequently visited rooms were beyond the corridor on the opposite wall from the Sorceress. So instead of admiring the work of the lost architects, the girl should have acted.

Weighing stealth and deception, the Sorceress leaned towards terror and chaos. Already crossing the empty open space, the girl saw in the approaching yawn of darkness the glow of living flames and the sound of metal rattling from the hurried step. Such a combination of risk and fortune was hard to imagine. The sorceress, recalling the formula with ease, held out her hand with her staff, as a dead Norse would have done, struck the ground with it, and cried out in her easily recognisable Tevinter accent:

— Somnia dirae tenebrae, animum furente.

From the Morrigan's side came a shroud of darkness that spread so quickly and was instantly absorbed into the walls that it was easy to doubt what it was. Immediately in response, a rich palette of sounds of panic and the commotion of people in a confined space came from the darkness. One or more torches, judging by the glare on the walls, fell to the floor, adding to the heat of the passion. Taking only a moment to consider the possibilities, such as throwing logic aside and rushing the maddened human herd, Morrigan turned and raced for the metal doors. No sooner had she passed two of the required three ledges than someone behind her burst out of the frightened corridor, shaking the air with curses. Judging by the pause that followed, filled to the brim with quiet surprise, the witch had succeeded in her masquerade.

In response to the sound that echoed off the walls, which still retained echoes of their once excellent acoustics, four people came running from the left corridor of the upper ledge. Their warm clothing, all of the same cut and dyed a dark burgundy, suddenly made the sorceress think of temple servants. Short spears with sharpened steel broadheads made the men deadly.

At the first impulse, the sorceress stomped her staff back into the ground:

— Somnia dirae tenebrae, animum furente.

As the men who had changed their faces ran away with hoarse cries, the girl drew the lyrium compound from her belt. The nausea in her throat and the dizziness that threatened to knock her off her feet demanded that the southern woman treat the manna depletion immediately.

There was a clanking sound behind her and the familiar stomping of feet. Without looking, she tossed the ceramic jar aside and sprinted again. Shouts of surprise, alarm and threat came from the left. Obviously, the escaped spearmen had fled into what they thought was the safest room in the twilight, and immediately roused their companions. Yes, and far behind them, judging by the tangle of shouts, unintelligible noises and stomping, people were pouring out of the corridor into the hall, creating multiple echoes. But the sorceress's pursuer remained unchanged.

Hands and staff pressed against her body, Morrigan slipped gracefully through the gap between the massive metal doors. Immediately she turned and gazed at the hinges, as thick as her own arm, glistening with an oily surface in the light of the hanging lamps. Dark, grimy stains ran down the stone wall from each one. Dropping her staff, the sorceress grasped the massive handle, planted her feet on the clean floor and the opposite wing, and jerked the door shut. Thanks to the care and skill of its makers, the door slid open almost without a creak. Even after more than a human lifetime, the wing slid into its groove to match the doorway. As it closed, the door emitted a deep metallic rumble that must have overwhelmed the rest of the commotion on the other side. But Morrigan was already frantically shoving the Northwoman's staff between the handles, trying to get more of a head start. Behind the girl, in the semi-darkness barely broken by a pair of closed oil lamps above the door, was a massive staircase at least four flights high. Since there was no second door here, it was safe to assume that there was another room with a paired staircase nearby. So there was not the slightest sense of safety.

Trying to catch her breath, Morrigan hurried to the stairs. Here, in the highlands, she felt either back to her childhood or exhausted and ill. The slightest physical exertion quickly turned into fatigue, there was not enough air and she constantly wanted to stop and rest. Her deep breathing was a little disturbed, and so it seemed: her head became heavy, and a lump in her throat made her want to cough. After a short jog down the stairs, the sorceress was driven more by persistence and will.

When she reached the top of the stairs, Morrigan leaned against the wall with a groan, trying to blink away the dark circles around her eyes. Her heart was about to burst, and the pounding in her ears was so loud that she wasn't sure she could hear the footsteps of her pursuer. The staircases converged in a single room that looked much simpler and more practical than the hall below. The floor was lined with worn stone slabs that also covered the walls. Straight lines and no ornamentation. It looked like the side rooms below, carved into the rock. A pair of familiar oil lamps on metal tripods at the end of the stairs kept everything from drowning in the impenetrable blackness, and around them, in addition to the strange, unfamiliar smell of burning oil and damp stone, there were notes reminiscent of a stable: stewing hay and dung...

Pulling herself away from the inviting coolness of the stone surface, Morrigan forced her legs to move. The only way out of the room was not a new corridor, but a natural passage leading into the darkness. The only sign of the architects' work here was the stone floor. The most eloquent sign that time had left underfoot was a depression worn into the slabs by countless feet. The next cave provided the answer to the question of the source of the unpleasant smells. A flock of dirty sheep had been tied to metal rings hammered into the walls. At least half a dozen heads were huddled together in the dim light of a single lamp in an area a dozen paces in each direction. There was also old hay and other signs of livestock. The farm was being looked after, but without care. The animals seemed to be in a stupor, barely reacting to the appearance of the guest. The purpose for which the animals had been driven into the caves eluded Morrigan. But she knew exactly how to use them...

She drew her stiletto and deftly freed some of the flock from their restraints. Positioning herself near the passage that led deep into the mountain, she drove the blade into the back of the nearest sheep, sending it bleating desperately for the ladders. As if by magic, the flock woke from its reverie and stirred. But it took the nudge of another pair of animals for the loose animals, jostling at the narrow exit, to scurry away. Morrigan cynically reasoned that, with any luck, the animals might even knock over the oil lamp tripods, adding to the fire that had already broken out. The remaining four sheep were also sent in the opposite direction.

The sorceress was in no hurry to follow, walking with moderate haste in the darkness of the passage... The girl's eyebrows rose to her forehead in astonishment. After a brief pause, hearing nothing, the Morrigan resumed her advance with the utmost caution.

As soon as the next cave, as sparsely lit as the 'stable', came into view, the girl froze again, struggling to see the clue to the animals' fate. Twenty paces away, a fresh bloodstain of irregular shape lay eloquently on the grey stone floor. It was as if it had spurted from a severed artery... Something had kicked the sheep, killing them with impressive force, precision and speed. And left no bodies. Biting her lower lip, Morrigan held back the urge to curse, reassessing the wisdom of her strategy as she went... At the same moment, distant footsteps with a metallic clatter came from behind her. The pursuer was in no hurry, as if he knew exactly what or who was waiting for the girl ahead.

The sorceress turned for a moment, her eyes narrowing, to face the one who probably considered himself the «master» of this place. Meeting the mysterious armoured warrior in battle seemed preferable to the deadly unknown. But intuition told the girl that he was also an opponent not to be messed around with without a good reason or a serious advantage. Hammer and anvil.

Blinking, the Morrigan looked up. The caves had probably been carved by water that had once forced its way through the weak rocks and into the glacial valley. And as soon as the first stream found its way, the water began to carve away at the rocks, mercilessly and relentlessly. Hence the smooth curves of the narrow passages and the breathtaking height of the ceiling in some places. Unevenly, the ceiling fell to two times the Sorceress' height, then disappeared into the darkness. Gathering her remaining strength and remembering what she had learnt over the past few seasons, the girl braced her hands and feet against the walls of the narrow passage and began to climb up to the ceiling, quietly but quickly.

Breathing hoarsely and grunting with exertion, the sorceress had managed to reach four times her own height when the outline of an armoured figure appeared below, walking slowly with an axe in his right hand. The warrior was followed almost silently by two men dressed like spearmen. But the pair appeared to be armed with bows, arrows already drawn, full quivers dangling from the men's hips.

The archer following behind and to the left spoke in a hoarse, low voice, a question apparently directed at the warrior in front of him:

— That witch from Tevinter made a mess of things? The Reverend Father was not unreasonable in his reproach...

The warrior stopped, forcing those behind him to freeze and cover their mouths as well. Without turning around and continuing to scrutinise the passageway in front of him, the armoured man began to coldly chisel out his sentences:

— It's too early to draw any conclusions. I have my doubts... I didn't have time to look into the cell where I had left the woman without a heartbeat or breath. It may turn out that the witch is in alliance with the prisoner. Or it could be that it was the prisoner, who had the good fortune to fall into our hands. Either way, the enemy is more dangerous than a poisonous snake crawling under your clothes in search of warmth. As for the Reverend, keep such things to yourself. Our Father is wise, but age and lineage set limits. And the world changes. After we were accidentally stumbled upon by dwarves searching for ancient descents to the Deep Paths beneath the roots of the mountains, and then by representatives of the... the Carta... It is foolish to think that life will not change. Pull yourself together and stay focused. Ahead are the caves with the young offspring of Andraste. They're small by dragon standards, but still more dangerous than any of you. I think we're done with the witch, whoever she is, without the scent of our mistress.

The warrior's two companions nodded, and the trio moved on at a measured pace. Soon the figures disappeared around the corner and Morrigan began to slide down. The girl's arms and legs shook, and the urge to hit the ground seemed irresistible. Frowning, the sorceress thought grimly that she had never encountered either young or mature dragons. In conversations with her mother, the wild species of flying lizard had been mentioned in passing. But there's a first time for everything...

Forcing herself to move once more, Morrigan quietly followed the people who had left and soon found herself at the entrance to the unfortunate cave where the sheep had perished. At the «threshold» of the vast space, there was no sign of anyone's presence. Not an occasional shadow, not a strange sound. Shifting the stiletto from her right hand to her left, and intercepting it with a reverse grip, the girl peered out cautiously, her eyes scanning as far as she could in a single moment. Though smaller than the hall below, the cave was easily second in size. The massive volume with its high ceiling was sparsely lit by six tripods spaced at equal intervals. The floor was no longer slabbed, but the rock had been carefully levelled. To the left, at the far end, an elevation with steps had been cut out of it. On the pedestal itself, someone had used sheepskins, bones and pieces of wood to build something resembling a bird's nest of exorbitant size. Inside were six or seven dark grey eggs, each as high as Morrigan's knee. On the steps below the nest were four miniature replicas of dragons. She recognised them from Flemeth's descriptions, which were a rather brief and unflattering description of the Tevinter idols. To be fair, the term «diminutive» was also approximate here, for even the smallest of the «little ones» was the same size as the sorceress. And no sign of ambushes or stalkers. Morrigan guessed that the men had moved on without finding the witch's carnage.

The wedge-shaped, scaly faces of the four were smeared with varying degrees of fresh blood. Of all the ways to get to the only passageway on the other side, Morrigan could only hope that the deadly lizards were lazy after their unexpected snack. At the same time, the sorceress could not help but think of the symbiosis between humans and dragons that had been so cleverly arranged here. Hiding around the corner, she shook her head thoughtfully. The mountain range had been considered dragon-free for at least a hundred years before the lone male Tristan had mentioned had reminded the wretched bipeds who the apex predator was. And they, in turn, had not failed to deliver the head of the proud beast to the capital of Orleus after a number of deaths.

At the same time, this winged lizard was the only bright flash in a long era of total silence. And now, beneath the borders of the two countries, a brood of young is being born, going unnoticed for the time being, while an entire settlement goes to great lengths to feed the young beasts. Obviously for religious reasons. The girl made a mental note to herself: The male and female are showing a supernatural restraint for predators of this size, not only not terrorising their benefactors, but also not showing a proud profile to anyone outside the immediate valleys. Given their ascribed temperament, the behaviour was so atypical that the sorceress had to wonder about the mystical background to what was happening, and also about Xebenkeck's words about the subject of Flemeth's research... Unless it was just another game, consisting of an unknown amount of bluff and deception. All these facts tossed around in Morrigan's mind like dice, the outcome of which was impossible to predict due to the unpredictable collisions in the air. But sooner or later, they would fall and stop. Now, however, the sorceress had to gather herself and make a decision.

Breathing in and out, the girl took the first step, trying not to make a sound and flowing to the other side of the cave. Keeping an eye on the lizards, the sorceress also kept an eye on where to put her foot.

The floor was littered with old fragments of animal bones that had obviously not been cleaned up. It was a wonder that the winged creatures seemed to prefer to shit elsewhere.

As soon as she reached the middle of the path, the girl noticed that the eyes of one of the 'little ones' were open. The black slits of vertical pupils against a rich amber background watched the guest, even though the lizard itself lay on the steps without a sign of movement. It did not stop moving forward, Morrigan marvelled inwardly. Even in the poor local lighting, the glow of the bright eyes seemed to live by its own laws, giving them an unnatural appeal. At the same time, the girl detected no threat or interest in the pair of gems. Just impartial attention. Something in the sorceress found the animal reaction to the gaze repulsive, but she did not break eye contact. Suddenly, an old bone crunched beneath the shoes of the girl who had let her guard down. The sound was deafening in the silence. But the predator did not react, his pupils continuing to follow Morrigan's form all the way out of the cave.

For long minutes, until the darkness of the passage closed in around Morrigan, she tried to shake the question that pulsed through her mind: Was what she was trying to achieve worth the risk? The answer didn't seem as obvious and straightforward as the sorceress might have wished.

The next two caves were smaller, resembling a 'stable'. Light was minimal, but always present, thanks to methodically placed oil lamps.

At this point, Morrigan couldn't help but wonder how a forgotten settlement on the edge of the glaciers could get so much flammable oil that the locals burned it without a care for the cost.

Involuntarily, the southern woman's mind jumped from that question to the mention of the Deep Trails, but it offered no clue. Morrigan lacked the facts, the knowledge and the time to make an educated guess. The unfamiliar smell of burning oil seemed to linger in her nostrils. Fortunately, the smell was otherwise unpleasant. There were no new signs of enterprise along the way, leading to the conclusion that the local 'temple' was merely a place of worship, and bore no resemblance to the far-flung temples or monasteries of the Church. At least not the ones Leliana had described. Small details, such as the crumpled felt bedding on the stone floor, hinted at the recent presence of humans here. Every time she frowned, she realised that the warriors had taken them with them. This meant that the group in front of her was constantly growing.

Finally, after five caves and a fork, where the wizard favoured a bend from which a cold freshness wafted across the ground, the ghost of daylight appeared ahead. Pausing to catch her breath, Morrigan moved slowly towards the light, which at first appeared only as a bright spot at the end of a widening passage. But soon it was clear: it led to a large ledge covered with slowly falling snow. At the exit, the sorceress was finally able to take a full look around. The terrain resembled a stone bowl, the size of which made her think of her own insignificance.

In front of her, there was a flat surface that served as a base, at least a hundred paces wide.

And the sheer cliffs around it formed ledges and walls, high up into the belly of the clouds. The girl guessed: ice had once piled up here, melting and carving a chain of caves through the mountain. On the opposite side of the bowl, she could see a man-made arch carved into the rock monolith, and a gate made of the same metal as the doors in the great hall that remained far behind and below. A dozen men dressed in identical robes huddled in front of the gate. Most with spears. And the same warrior. The man in armour wielded a massive axe and spoke softly to those around him. But Morrigan's gaze did not linger on the obstacle, but slid to the right and up, drawn by the movement between the rocks. And with good reason... There, on narrow ledges barely accessible to wingless creatures, were two dragons. One was graceful, covered from snout to tail tip in smooth, bluish-grey scales that deepened to a deep blue on its belly. The second dragon, one and a half times the size of the first, was snow-white, with a sharp outline, rough growths and a massive jaw. Obviously a female and a male. And of the pair, it was the latter that was watching Morrigan intently, its amber eyes contrasting so starkly with the colouring. Slowly lifting its wedge-shaped head from its paws, the strikingly large lizard sighed loudly. For a moment, the simple sound seemed to fill the bowl to the brim, interrupting the conversation of the people at the far end and drawing the enchantress' attention to the huge predator. As the dragon's body moved in an instant, the girl remained frozen, fascinated by the grace of the mighty creature. The way the muscles rolled under the scales. How, without even opening its wings, the creature swung forward and, as if in no hurry because of its size, fell and glided downward from a dizzying height.

The thud with which the dragon landed on its forelegs echoed at the wizard's feet, causing the stones in every corner of the bowl to bounce and a thin layer of silvery dust to be kicked up into the air. In a few sweeping strides, the dragon broke free of the cloud and stood before Morrigan, staring at her with amber eyes. The sorceress could find no words to describe the extent of her own arrogance, demonstrated to Tristan when the girl had taken it so lightly to kill such a creature. Nor could she describe the depth of her current indignation at Xebenkeck's demand... But that paled in comparison to the simple question: what now?