Chapter 23 - "Blood and Ashes"

The head, larger than Morrigan's, swayed lazily and dipped lower. Whether out of curiosity or indulgence, the mighty predator decided to take a closer look at its prey. Contrary to the sorceress' expectations, the dragon's head did not remain still in the distance. In the end, the rough scales on its lower jaw, which looked like something between smooth tree bark and chipped rock, came with surprising delicacy and precision to the forehead of the girl, who was frozen to the tips of her fingers.

The moment of silence was broken by a deep, low voice that echoed without a trace of echo, as if inside the sorceress's own head. The sounds and words, echoing in her bones and teeth, formed a coherent speech, but it had a strange, lingering accent that the girl had never heard before.

— Child... Have you come to us?

Blinking in surprise, Morrigan stammered for a moment, searching for an appropriate response to the situation:

— I'm... No. You're not my target, not to that extent... My path is to the remains that have been hidden from the world since time immemorial.

The dragon did not move in response to the girl's unsteady mental reaction, resembling a statue rather than a living creature. This ability to freeze made the sorceress, who was used to analysing every detail, wonder how such solid creatures could hide and launch unexpected attacks. Nevertheless, unable to wait for an answer, Morrigan sprang to her feet.... She repeated the phrase out loud.

The dragon blinked, finally signalling a response, and filled the enchantress' mind with its own voice once more:

— Because of a dead man...

This time, the strange intonation did not escape Morrigan. It was as if the lizard had expected something different, and did not even try to hide the surprise, mixed with disappointment, that burst from beneath the veil of indifference. And in the monster's form, only the eyes remained expressive.

— Why this treatment? Although I've lived less than a winter, I'm not a child.

There was a pause, during which the girl scolded herself for both her outburst and a touch of unnecessary curiosity.

— That's a strange question.

After a short pause the voice continued:

— For the wingless, there's a lot going on with every sunrise. Dying, being born, going and coming. It would be wasteful to look at each one. But your scent. It's familiar. Make no mistake, this is the child of the one who held out her hand in our defence.

The Morrigan opened her mouth to ask a question, but, tempered by emotion, she spoke more calmly:

— Flemeth?

— That name is unknown. The one who championed moderation and curbed the rampant hunger of her own kind, and was passed on to them. The one who now helps each of us, the few survivors — Mital.....

As if it were not her own voice, Morrigan whispered in the tone of the dragon's voice in her mind:

— Mother of the people...

The snippets of memory of the unfortunate day that had begun the witch's misadventures had never coalesced into anything meaningful, leaving fruitless attempts to fill the gap between before and after. But now, at the mention of an unfamiliar name that sounded so elvish, the random scraps came together into something meaningful. The memory dazzled the girl like a glint of sunlight on the surface of a lake, literally tearing her out of the here and now. Sharp as the facets of broken glass, the emotion took the Morrigan's mind by surprise.

Early morning. Heavy clouds, nowhere hurrying, promising greyness and dampness morning, afternoon, evening. Twilight enveloped the wide clearing in front of the small log cabin, overgrown with moss in places. And in the windows, which were characteristically small for these places in order not to lose precious warmth on winter nights, there was darkness. It seemed to fill the dwelling lost in obscurity, hiding there with the retreat of the night, threatening to flood the neighbourhood again if only it were disturbed. The woods around were silent, like prey, waiting to see where death would come from and where salvation would come... Suddenly the door of the house creaked softly. A dishevelled, grey-haired woman in a worn woollen dress of primitive cut appeared softly on the threshold. The landlady's face told of the many seasons she had lived through. But what stood out most in the pale face were the eyes, which seemed to cut through the darkness with a clear blue glow, and for an elusive moment, like a mirage, seemed to be a rich amber. In the distance, a nocturnal bird descended, leaving the branch to sway softly, its leaves rustle with the sound of its flapping wings...

The silhouette of her mother stood clearly in the doorway. A black figure against the night, a threat lurking in her shadow. The barely perceptible movement of her head indicated that she was watching for something at the edge of the forest. With a slight gesture, the woman made it clear that she should be careful behind the house. For a moment, the mother looked along the wall, and it was possible to catch the profile and expression on her face... Surprise. Concern. There was a suffocating sense of danger over everything, spreading generously across the native, well-travelled landscape.

The woman's eyes flashed blue again and the two gazes finally met. Neither flinched. And the dead silence announced the inevitability of the coming storm.

My mother's back suddenly tightened and her relaxed fingers clenched into fists. Her own heart was ready to take on a frantic rhythm as well. The forest suddenly seemed blurred... Often loud and sarcastic, often haughty and cold, sometimes relentlessly demanding or foolishly overflowing with merriment, but now: the quiet, native, tense and inexpressibly sad voice of his mother said in a short voice:

— Back door. Run. Now. Don't look back.

A movement in the darkness behind the landlady's shoulder and the slamming of the back door of the house broke the uneasy silence. The unassuming woman seemed ready for battle. And no language, living or dead, could find the exact words to describe the elusive movement as the captured light of creation flowed away, promising a swift and crushing realisation of magic. It was foolish to wait for the prepared denouement.

The house had been abandoned, and only the hairs on its walls suggested what was going on inside. Mother was preparing something deadly, not flirting with the unknown. A painful wait between her shoulder blades was followed by a painfully deafening clap and a flash that not only illuminated the surroundings for a moment, but reduced the colours to a faded monotone. The thunder rolled on, far away, like an evil creature with a mind of its own, announcing its presence again and again with a low, murmuring roar. It was impossible not to turn around. At the edge of the forest a flame was rising... Not yet. But in contrast to the recent rains, the crackling was growing, showing more and more orange reflections on the tree trunks... Immediately, an invisible wave of power, similar to that used by the Templars, consumed the only dwelling, engulfing it from the pilings to the ridge of the roof. Not even the lyrium-fuelled warriors of the Church could show such a thing. But as I turned away, my eyes caught sight of hundreds of thin ribbons of blue smoke a dozen paces ahead. They came from the ground. From the runes burning with a steady blue glow near the surface. The size and the amount of mana used was shocking. The runes didn't just close off some area in front of her. The chain stretched from right to left as far as the eye could see. It formed a smooth curve, closing into what must have been a circle of colossal size with her home in the centre. It was not hard to guess: the path was there so that the only possible fugitive would try to cross it... Behind them, the thunder rumbled again, so loud that it rang in her ears. A glance there revealed a flurry of smoking needles and wood shavings, and the sky, throwing off its restraint and blinding vengefully, spat out a new twisted and branching cord of light.

Thunderstorms lay in every corner of the forest's edge, rumbling incessantly, making my ears bleed. My lips cracked in waves of unbearable heat. My vision was obscured by reflections and phantom traces of fleeting columns of light. And the air was filled with deadly splinters from bursting trees, bouncing off armour and helmet with a series of deafening clicks, while smoke from the flames rising here and there stung his nose and eyes. Directing the spells, the ruler of the neighbourhood resembled a statue that had not moved from the veranda, but was stalking the target with its unbearably clear eyes of celestial hue. Luckily this was not enough... A massive flask filled to the brim with crushed, purified Lyrium was deftly unfurled from a leather strap and shot into the air in an elegant arc. Ten metres above the woman, the projectile rivalled thunder with lightning, wrapping itself in a swelling fireball. The roof of the hut burst into flames like dry brushwood, and the panes of the miniature windows were shattered inside. Even the witch reacted, covering herself with her hands and ducking to the ground. The force that burned away the living legend's mana and corroded her defences struck again, preventing her from taking the initiative. Dark scarlet blood splattered the grass and curling leaves at the edge of the forest, echoing eerily with the woman's first muffled cry of pain as she struggled to her feet.

The chaos and destruction made it hard to believe what was happening. In a matter of seconds, the house was engulfed in flames, and the lightning still rained down on the edge of the forest with an unprecedented cacophony, as if the heavens were about to unleash their wrath on this piece of land. Not only that, but the scattered tongues of flame that licked at the trunks of the trees grew into a whirlwind, spinning wildly and emitting an unearthly whistling shriek. The nearby spruces, pines, aspens and oaks burst into flames like dry wood shavings, literally crackling with heat. With a mournful creak, an oak trunk was torn from the wall of the house. The log flew to the edge of the forest, as if thrown by a giant invisible to the eye, and noisily blew away the burning undergrowth. And yet, straight from the centre of this madness, the waves of the Templar's incomparable power continued to roll in, even at such a distance, causing goose bumps from head to toe. Suddenly, to the right, from behind the trees untouched by the fire, an elongated object flew out. In a graceful arc, it was probably heading for her mother. A moment before impact, an unseen force tossed it aside. Already spinning in the air without grace, it began to approach... Even a quick run at the limit of her strength could not save her from the deafening rumble. An unseen force slammed into his back, pinning her to the ground, and a sizzling wave consumed the surrounding bushes, robbing her of air and washing her back with unbearable heat. It felt like hair was about to go up in flames.

The spells were layered, revealing the witch's mana beyond the reach of any mortal. It was a rampage that promised death to all who were clothed in flesh. But quick feet, sharp wit, stamina and the terrain gave him a head start, allowing him to escape death's grasp time and again, paying with 'little blood'. A wall of rain came crashing down from the heavens, as if torn by the tormenting spells, hiding both the burning house and the witch standing proudly beside it. The natural curtain and the constant white noise played into his hands. And the scarlet bubbles in the muddy water at his feet made it unmistakable which part of the rune trap the inconspicuous fugitive was hiding in.

The raindrops that beat mercilessly against her forehead and cheeks made her feel and then hear again, even though her ears were clogged with thick felt. Even without moving, her back ached with searing pain. And behind the wall of rain, it was impossible to see what was going on. But the blue runes, still burning and responding to each falling drop with an angry hiss, gave a hint that nothing was over.

Though the lightning no longer struck between the trees that framed the large clearing in front of the lonely house, it was replaced by a fan of fleeting whips that snaked across the land, unmistakably indicating the location of the spell's source. Claps and hisses accompanied the magic like a mad accompaniment of drums and ratchets. So much power, all for one purpose: to blind the enemy. The rain around the witch turned into a fine mist, completely obscuring the view of both opponents. It was as if a huge figure was slowly rising in the clearing beneath the rain…

Shaking the drops from her eyelashes, it wasn't easy to get her bearings. But through the blur of scraps of thought, the cry of animal intuition was desperate. Danger was coming! But even when she regained her balance, her eyes could find nothing behind the veil of rain. But behind the white noise, the echoes of the magical battle seemed to grow closer.

Run over. A new cut in the slowly decaying flesh. Slippery warmth running down his arm and numb fingers. Not far away, the barely discernible, painful wheezing of an opponent from the blood boiling in his vessels. A mana-burning blow to that side. And again... Once, in a repetitive monotony like a stiletto hidden beneath her robes, a typical attack was replaced by a spell that invisibly placed another runic trap around the witch. The real target was not far away.

In the dying rain, the outline of a huge figure moved through the shreds of mist. Something that could not have been there at all... And yet, trampling heavily on the damp earth, which spread out and immediately turned to mud, the shining figure of a proud dragon emerged from the milky fragments. It was black, with a deep green tint to its scales that appeared as it moved, and it was searching for something among the trees. Literally three dozen paces from the shelter…

The proximity of the target made his mind twitch with impatience. Just as the distant pain threatened to twist his already unruly body. The long familiar enemy had unravelled the original plan, discarding his disguise and assuming the most formidable form available. But with one move, the witch had lost. Only seven or eight steps away when a branch crunched noisily beneath his unruly feet...

Not far away, between some trees and bushes, something crunched, making her jerk nervously and almost howl in pain. Along with a short, noisy breath that turned the drizzle into steam, a stream of red-hot fire from the dragon rained down on the same vegetation. The heat wave that struck the sides of the dying grove nearly knocked the grass and foliage to the ground, causing it to tremble. The flames between the trees roared and crackled like a hungry beast writhing on the rocks. At the same time, through the overwhelming force, a man's broken cry pierced the flames with a strange depth:

— Mital! Saleh Elfi! Be damned, like everyone you once knew.... Desterados! Be gone!

Dozens of runic glyphs hissed out from beneath the dragon, closing into rings that formed a larger circle. Each resembled a rare banishing rune, once created specifically against shadow creatures that had managed to penetrate the Veil without the aid of living flesh or inanimate objects. There seemed to be a flicker of surprise in the proud beast's eyes, and then the glyphs flashed with the soft white light that a full moon occasionally casts when the sky is clear, and the dragon's body began to dissolve in an otherworldly scream of anger, pain and longing that tore at the soul. It was as if the morning darkness was melting into the first rays of the sun... It was over in a minute with a bang that filled the void.

The crunching of branches near the shelter suggested that the mother's breath was failing...

The crunching of branches near the shelter suggested that the mother's breath was failing...

There was a ringing silence in Morrigan's mind, and it was another minute before she could focus her gaze on the dragon's snout looming above her. Hundreds of questions came at once, jostling and jostling, preventing the girl from concentrating on any one thing. Because," the sorceress said next:

— Could the mother have turned into a dragon?

— A dragon? Not so, child. The truth is that Mithal's wisdom and art have long allowed her to assume forms of flesh and bone rather than illusion and deception. At the same time, our species became your mother's in the old days, before I was even alive. And in her generosity, she has unfortunately helped others equal to her patroness to achieve the same...

— Is that why I smell so different? Is it my mother?

— In part. Just as your mother had no true kinship with dragons, you have no bloodline with her. But our blood is present. Mital has never done anything for nothing. Before or since. Even when her own goals involved help, the patroness still demanded a fee. In order to protect them from the ultimate extinction, the relatives gave Mital a new offspring every five dozen seasons. The youngest of the last litter. As far as I know, only once in as many winters as I've lived has such a child returned to my kind. Twice with you. Though trapped in a different form by the patron's art...

Morrigan tried to organise the facts that were pouring into her head. It was difficult to order the facts, many of them contradicted not only what she knew, but also what she wanted to believe. That's why she didn't want to touch on them here, despite the urge of dry logic to fill in new gaps in her own past.

— Do you expect me to do something?

The dragon paused, either pondering the answer or the meaning and significance of the question itself:

— No... None of us knows the plans and motives behind Mital's actions. My behaviour is motivated by curiosity and respect for the one whose goodwill has given the offspring here a chance. But also... It is fear. Fear of impending change.

— I mean, um... It's... It's all Mum's doing?

— Again, no. This place has been dedicated to a single dead man since its inception. Twolegs, from birth to death, always changing, keep something here. The reasons are unknown and unfathomable. But one day. It was after Mithal had demanded that the eldest of my kits ravage the lands to the west at the cost of his own life, in lieu of a final payment. That's when the patroness suggested that the timely arrival of my pair and I in this place, if all conditions were met, would provide shelter, peace and security for many seasons to come. And so it was.

— A mirage over a bare rocky hill on a hot day, chased by weak minds... And when you know that what I have planned will destroy peace?

— You may almost smell like our tribe, but your character is true to your mother. If change comes, so be it. If prosperity is certain, so be it. In other lands, your mother's designs have saved dozens of couples like ours from ruin. It would be foolish to blame only yourself. You are a living symbol of the bargain between our kin and Mithal. In the absence of direct aggression, neither I nor my descendants will attack.

— Do you... do you know what my mother did to me and others like me?

 After a brief silence, a hoarse draconic voice filled the sorceress' head:

— No. The Patroness has made no secret of the fact that she considers our kind to be of the utmost importance to the great world... Are we to argue with that?

— What a hermit, hiding in the middle of nowhere at the end of the world... And as if others knew better than me.

Morrigan's skull filled with a long, drawn out exhalation, strange to hear, but in keeping with the size of the dragon itself:

— Yet here you are. You look healthy and active. And a parent's duty is to release only healthy offspring.

— From that point of view... Yes. And yet... But, nothing. How do we communicate?

— My pair, fulfilling some of Mital's conditions, had been watching the wingless very closely for the first two seasons. As a hunter, she is much weaker than I am and therefore relies more on cunning than strength. This has allowed her to see the limitations of bipedal hearing. Some of the sounds we use to communicate are inaudible to them, except in pain. Others stun the wingless, rendering them unconscious for a time. Moreover, their language, though simple, is limited to a few sounds that we cannot use with the necessary frequency and subtlety. But it turns out that the wingless are capable of subtle vibrations. Strange, because they don't create them themselves. Our kind use vibration to express affection in couples. We touch each other and what is said stays between us. After some practice, it turned out to be possible to make the bipeds 'hear' our 'voice' saying words in a language they understood.

It was an exhaustive answer, but it reached her in passing. Without removing her head from the dragon's jaws, the girl closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, trying to suppress the conflicting emotions and thoughts that were flickering around in vain. The strange interlocutor knew a great deal, and at the same time, the knowledge of the one in front of her only touched her innermost, skilfully raising new doubts and questions in the sorceress. Unexpectedly, her mother was at the centre of the web. Her thoughts and intentions, as it turned out, had the length of the awe-inspiring in distance and time. Were it not for this eerie reminder of Xebenkeck's impression, Morrigan would have laughed bitterly. In the seasons they had lived together, Flemeth had presented herself to the enchantress in many different ways. The image of a mother. The image of a mentor. The image of an unattainable peak, a dangerous enemy, a jailer and... Everything now seemed insignificant against the backdrop of the battle of that fateful day, which was etched in her memory like a fresh splinter, and the truth that had been revealed. But underneath it all, as if beneath the thickness of murky waters, the truth that inexorably grabbed the girl by the gut was a jumble of early childhood memories... In an attempt to snatch the "beginning" from the depths, the sorceress fished out strange scraps of childhood: half-forgotten, faded images or, on the contrary, bright but vague emotions without context. And it seemed to Morrigan: mother was there... not enough. The ringing in her ears and the wave of fear, doubt and frustration rising from within threatened to crumble the sorceress. But in the end, cold, lifeless will and logic prevailed.

The facts echoed what she had heard during the first conversation between the Seeker and the Sorceress. Only a fool or a blind man would have dismissed such a coincidence as silly fiction or speculation. In the worst-case scenario, which had to be considered, the girl's harsh judgement would reveal that she was both a foster child, stolen from Flemeth or given to her for 'help', and?.. A baby dragon? Morrigan clenched her fists and drew in a full breath to hold back the gag. The sorceress steadfastly refused to elaborate on that thought here. The confusion was more of a threat than a benefit, and the girl separated the shadows that surrounded her mother's figure from her own memories. The new knowledge provided food for thought, but it could not change what had happened. Flemeth had done as much or more for the little Morrigan. The secrets and motives behind the girl's childhood could only affect her future. And as she looked into the future, Morrigan's fears, disgust or regrets were replaced by envy at the scope of her mother's designs, abilities and achievements. Power, talent and the ability to transform herself into a powerful being like the one before her. But apparently, to have any hope of such an achievement, she first had to fully understand her mother's spell.

Opening her eyes, Morrigan looked up at the patient dragon. Glowing gold without fire against molten amber. Of the options to continue the dialogue, the girl chose the absurd one to test the limits of "friendly conversation":

— It turns out that I need the blood of a dragon for the purpose assigned to me, or perhaps it would be more correct to say "imposed on me".

 For the first time in the dialogue, the giant lizard moistened his eyes with a translucent third eyelid, instead of his usual blink, and the wizard's mind reverberated:

— What's become of it? Whatever flows through your veins will do.

The simple answer disheartened the Morrigan. The conclusion was obvious and logical. Paradoxically, the sorceress found that Zibenkek's words: "...the result of which will serve as an aid to... and you..." took on new meaning in a rather unusual way. These beings beyond the Veil knew more about the sorceress than she did.

— Thanks for the... the tip. I'll do that. And I'll see how it goes. But I still have to get past the defenders who are jealously waiting for the conversation to end.

— It's not in our couple's interests to harm them.

— Of course it is. That's why I'm trying to avoid bloodshed myself. I think it would be enough for the dragon to open these doors himself. An eloquent gesture. And enough to restrain hotheads from inappropriate impulses.

After a long pause, the incredible interlocutor replied:

— It's hard to say. Bipeds are incomprehensibly fleeting and fickle. But it sounds like it would only take the little time I have. Why not?

The dragon raised his head without haste and turned towards the group of humans, moving his paws in the same measured motion. Uncertainty and fear roamed freely among them, and the only unshakable island in the crowd was the same warrior. The man kept his gaze on Morrigan alone, almost completely ignoring the presence of the huge predator. The lizard, on the other hand, moved smoothly towards the doors. From the outside, the dragon's movements appeared slow and even a little heavy, but in reality, the sorceress could barely keep up, not wanting to run, and she could see that the beast could have moved faster, but it held back the explosive power of its mighty muscles, rolling in clumps under its armour of coarse scales.

As expected, as the deadly wall of flesh towering over the men approached, a mixture of animal instinct and fresh religious concepts overcame duty and reason. The identically dressed "guards" of the temple, forgotten by the world, scattered like drops of oil on the surface of water. The last to retreat was the warrior, who said hoarsely to the girl:

— You, uh... I see you weren't planning on settling down.

Morrigan shot back without giving her opponent a chance to finish the sentence:

— And you, I suppose, let me live. You wait. Either way, you will probably be satisfied.

Without taking his eyes off the bipedal warriors around him, the dragon tilted his head and 'lightly' pushed open the massive gate with his nose. It opened with a sharp creaking of hinges and the scraping of metal against stone, creating a strange, depressing echo in the rocky bowl. With a last look at Morrigan, the dragon began to turn away, and the sorceress, wasting no time, rushed into the darkness...

* * *

After a hundred steps that led straight down into the abyss, which Morrigan had to walk down in a darkness that had never once been disturbed by light, the corridor ended in a small bend with doors. They felt like oak. The cool, dry wood under her fingers felt smooth, dense, old, but without a trace of decay. The doors opened without a creak, a frightening contrast to the metal doors above.

Inside, the pale blue light of the magic lamps cut into her tired eyes. On each of the four columns of the square room were two copper pieces in the shape of blossoming buds, with no visible signs of time, between which were two glass vials, one inside the other, and in the middle a lead-coloured rod on which dozens of identical, uncomplicated runes could be seen, emitting light. The decoration was ascetic, just smooth rock. Morrigan had seen such things in other creations of the Old Empire, the room and the monolithic columns carved into the rock by magic. Otherwise, such geometric perfection could not be achieved with the tools and imperfect hands of mortals. Dozens of arrows protruded from narrow, man-made slits in the floor beneath a medium coin, each with the delicate plumage of feathers beautifully preserved. They probably formed some kind of pattern, but to Morrigan the arrows seemed randomly distributed.

As he took two steps towards the other doors leading further away, a man stepped silently from behind the far column on the right. Surprisingly, he wore a full suit of unmarked armour, seemingly made of silver, and thus of rare sylverite, with floral decorations. The missing visor revealed the swarthy face of a dark-haired man with a short beard, probably a native of the far north, perhaps Tevinter himself. In his hands was a thick, dilapidated volume, which he had apparently closed a moment before his guest appeared, and there was no sign of weapons on his belt or behind his back. There was genuine interest in the dark brown eyes. A deep, pleasant-sounding male voice announced:

— Finally. A new guest. A new arrow on target. After a long pause, they began to fly out one by one, my part being to greet each one humbly and not to grumble. But before the distant doors open hospitably, I must ask a question.

— Should you?!

Morrigan listened as the phrase echoed off the walls of the hollow stone sack. The contrast with her interlocutor was striking. Blinking, the sorceress returned to her conversation with the stranger:

— If that's your duty. But I have no intention of answering to creation from behind the Veil, no matter what it pretends to be.

— I'm...

— I suspect the culprit is a lack of proper practice. Limited zealots and "chosen ones" of modest intelligence are not known for their attention to detail. The sound of footsteps, the clang of metal, the echo. Small things, but...

Ignoring the frowning creature pretending to be human, the girl confidently pushed open the next doors. The image of the knight fell in the girl's wake:

— Daughter of Flemeth. Well, you'd expect nothing less from such a root...

The Morrigan half-turned, gave the creature a hard look, and said thoughtfully, seemingly not addressing it at all:

— If omniscience is the intention of boasting, and the smallest mistake exposes stupidity. 'Faith' means. Being imprisoned here by someone or by one's own will for countless ascents. Power without wisdom.

Having made her point, the sorceress entered the next hall.

This time the room was oval in shape, large enough to accommodate four human-sized marble statues on either side. Of the eight statues, three represented women, the rest men. Different clothes, different status, different emotions on the stone faces. And again the same lamps, this time hanging lightly on chains from the ceiling above each of the sculptures. Behind them, from the door, came the voice of the ghost again:

— Here the understanding of the events that have prepared the way for the bride will be weighed and judged. Either they will be abundant, and you will be able to overcome all who stand in your way, or you will disappear without a trace, turning to dust.

Not even turning, the girl threw back:

— They'll turn me to dust, but not you?

— The Guardian protects, the trials of the seekers guide the Temple.

She took a cautious step forward, then another, then a third, and another. After five steps, Morrigan reached the first row of statues, and as if waiting for her, a barely perceptible, translucent figure separated from each one. It was as if the image of the unaccustomed souls of the once living had been emasculated within the statues of themselves. The sorceress could not help but notice the power of such a move. At the same time, she knew from her mother that the true path of the dead lay deep within the Shadow, and that the familiar Morrigan sorcery could not hold them there. So the sorceress rightly assumed that she was dealing with another forgery, created to continue the performance for some unknown, abstract purpose.

To the right stood the figure of a woman who had reached the age of sunset. A mop of wheat hair with a hint of grey, and a simple dress with unfamiliar motifs of pale blue stripes on the linen fabric. The lips parted with a piercing longing, but again without the slightest sign of echo, and then she spoke:

— An echo from the realm of shadows and whispers of things to come. A companion of intentions, free behind the shroud of night, but afraid to flee with the first light.

Morrigan snorted scornfully, but at the same time she willed the unseemly display of weakness from her face. She exhaled without haste and spoke clearly:

— Dream.

The spirit, or some more primitive creature of the Shadow, bowed its head and vanished as if it had not been there. At the same time, the woman on the left, middle-aged and similarly dressed, sang:

— Every little lark has no difficulty in becoming the creator of such a thing, while not every man can do it.

This time the sorceress did not show a single emotion. Involuntarily, she touched her full lips with her fingertips for a moment, then narrowed her eyes and murmured cautiously:

— Singing... Melody?

The creature bowed its head and disappeared, just like the first one. Shaking her head with an expression of mild disbelief at what was happening, the female searcher added next:

— The main mystery, I suppose, is how to connect what's happening with Andraste... Let those people on the path of the 'Saint' once have meant something, and though it's all the same to me, how can children's riddles characterise the path of those or the woman herself? But what is the point of asking questions in the void?

The next pair consisted of a bald elf with a clean-shaven face mottled with wrinkles, wearing thick, sun-dried leather armour of an old-fashioned cut, and a dark-skinned woman who had seen about thirty winters, with her hair knotted tightly at the back of her head, wearing the rich robes of a noble lady of the old Empire. The first of the current pair spoke in a cold, calm voice:

— I will be neither a guest nor a disturber of the peace in the place to which I belong, for it belongs to me.

This time the answer came easily and without question:

— Home.

The elf disintegrated as he was, with just a blink. And the woman spoke immediately, in a voice that was melodious but full of arrogant superiority:

— An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Blood will always be paid in full.

— Revenge or... Vengeance?

The woman lifted her chin in contempt, looked away, and drifted into oblivion.

It was the turn of the third pair of spirits. A man appeared on the left, who had lived many winters, judging by his grey beard. The warrior's face was partially hidden by the visor of a richly carved helmet. The armour, strange to the tastes of the Northmen and even the Ferelden, reminded Morrigan of the armour worn by the chieftains of the Avvar tribes. The seat on the right was taken by a man of no lesser winter, completely free of facial and head hair. The second stranger was dressed in modest, baggy clothes of coarse cloth that suggested a wandering pauper.

The aged warrior opened his mouth first and spoke without a single emotion:

— A poison that eats away at the mind. A cruel reflection of passion. Often born of love, but growing alongside it, choking it, replacing the beauty of feelings with ugliness.

Morrigan frowned, surprised at the contrast between the meaning of the words and the way they were spoken. The short monologue stood out from what she had already heard, as if the figure of the warrior had not even tried to resemble the image of the character who had once lived. The "riddle" itself, however, made the girl furrow her brow, for from her point of view it could be interpreted in different ways. The enchantress replied:

— Jealousy?

The warrior disappeared without answering. And the one on the right, another man, said with a certain solemnity in his voice:

— The bones of the earth itself reach for the heavens like a bride in white to her husband.

With an involuntary snort, Morrigan replied, not hiding the mockery in her intonation:

— Mountains.

Bowing his head respectfully, the poor man took a step backwards towards his own statue and turned to stone.

The last pair was as strikingly different as the one before. On the right was a tall, dark, black-haired northerner in the prime of life, dressed in rich robes that suggested an ancient, high-ranking Tevinter Mage. To his left was a broad-shouldered southerner with a face reminiscent of Ferelden, dressed in the garb of a commoner but with a sheathed blade at his belt.

The Tevinter man spoke first, in a deep voice that was more of a proclamation than an utterance:

— Though her blade is broken, she stands without need on the side of true kings and shuns tyrants.

The Morrigan opened her mouth for another quick reply, but soon closed it without a sound. A deep crease split her forehead in two and her lips curled into a pale scarlet line. The sorceress ran through the various possibilities in her mind, but she couldn't decide what was meant here. Neither the image of this figure nor the manner of its speech gave any clue as to the expected answer. Unlike the previous simple riddles, this one seemed to depend on both what was said and the context. What, according to the Tevinter Lord, would distinguish a true ruler from a tyrant? Morrigan was prepared to say intelligence or wisdom, but this was clearly not an ordinary representative of the old Empire's elite. Nor, for that matter, a typical representative of modern Tevinter. According to the sorceress, the character's connection to Andraste had to be there. And not just as a murderer or torturer, for that would have no place here, but as a follower. Morrigan knew that contemporary Tevinter had its own Church, and that Andrasteanism as a religious movement had long since replaced the old gods, dragon worship and other cults. Bemoaning the fact that Leliana knew exactly what the answer would be, the girl forced herself to guess: "Magister" expected words typical of a believer in the Song of Light.

— Mercy.

Touching the middle of his forehead with the forefinger of his right hand and barely bowing his head, the next figure in the performance disappeared. The last one remained and said without delay in a stern tone:

— No one has seen it, but everyone has experienced it. It returns again and again, making no distinction and never disappearing forever. It can bring the strongest armies and nations to their knees and emerge from the void.

— It... Armies and nations. But everyone is affected. Famine?

The figure of the man bowed his head respectfully and disappeared. Morrigan asked coldly, turning back to the knight-like figure still standing in the doorway she had passed earlier:

— Is this the end of it? Or is this the 'optional' part again?

The guardian replied with feigned indifference:

— Yes and no. But I don't think you'd appreciate the chance to talk to your mother.

— Is it my mother? Or some other phantom from some murky well of half-truths?

The creature silently pointed to the next pair of doors, not reacting to the venomous outburst. As it opened them, the Morrigan stared at the massive square column just outside the doorway. It was as if someone had deliberately blocked the view of the next room from entrance to exit. Slowly rounding it to the right, the sorceress soon made out the rest of the empty square room, barely lit by the lamps hanging from the walls. In the middle of it stood a lone figure, a perfect replica of the girl herself, watching her with an attentive gaze of golden eyes. For a moment, Morrigan froze, scrutinising the familiar features as if she could not see them. Without warning, the cold touch of nightmares spread from her spine to the back of her neck, and she broke free of its grip. The thought stabbed her head like a hot blade: "Is this a dream?" And the next impulse was a quick incarnation of the spell, wrapped in a scream:

 -Ede te!

The doppelganger's face contorted in surprise, pain and rage, but before the copy could react in any way, not even taking a breath, Morrigan repeated barely audibly:

 -Ede te...

A cold sweat broke out on the girl's forehead, her body felt weak and pain throbbed in her temples. Too little mana, and so much used up in such a short time. But the doppelganger collapsed to her knees, barely keeping her trembling body horizontal. It was obvious that the doppelganger was going to vomit, the fake had lost so much more mana in one go. Wiping the annoying drops of sweat from her forehead with her hand, Morrigan moved forward with determination. The girl's gait seemed unsteady, but she made up for it with a brisk stride. Pausing above her own kneeling form, the sorceress came upon a pair of eyes burning gold, behind a veil of pain. Without pity or hesitation, Morrigan wrapped her doppelganger's neck in a grip and, squeezing as hard as she could, began to choke... A wheezing sound as if from her own throat, bursting bubbles of saliva, desperate convulsions and nails digging into flesh until it bled. But the sorceress found enough rage within herself to overcome the other's efforts to break free, and with a strange, withering triumph, she threw the already emotionless body to the stone floor. The cold, clammy horror she had felt a moment ago felt alive.

Spitting beside her and resting her hands on her knees, Morrigan let out a weary exhale:

— Now it is clear where most of the experts on Andraste's history have ended up... In whose sick mind was such a test born?

The sorceress continued under her breath as she turned her gaze to the guard standing behind the massive column at the entrance to the hall:

— Or was the leader of the armies that overthrew the old Empire not a merciful, gentle woman, as the Church has been trying to convince us ever since? Strange, if so. As are the limits of the Temple's power.

Straightening her back, the girl moved to the next oak doorway, beyond which she could see a circular hall, mostly without a floor. There was one, but it lay in the depths of a pit half a dozen steps below. In the dim light of the lamps placed around the hall at eye level, it was difficult to make out anything other than the stone surface below. A narrow strip of floor made of large solid blocks encircled the hall from left and right along the wall only as far as the centre, leaving no hope of jumping to the opposite edge. In the middle, however, a narrow bridge crossed the void. It looked strangely made of the same monolithic blocks, as if it hung in the void without any support. When she sat down at the beginning of the bridge and looked closely, Morrigan found that the bridge was like a delicate illusion, but she could see through the wall of holes and even the floor below.

— Tired, if not barely alive, the daredevils will step forward without complaint, only to end their journey here in a few heartbeats. Skilful. And ruthless.

The girl turned to the guard standing behind her in the doorway:

— Indeed, it is difficult to understand what ideal this chain of obstacles is striving for? A cunning and skilful warrior, foreseeing a trick in every detail? Or a wise and powerful sorcerer, able to unravel spells and then forge his own path by force? Only such are worthy to touch the ashes of the Creator's bride? I'll tell Liliana, she'll remember that joke for a long time. Just a guess, but there's a natural lyrium vein underneath this place, isn't there? Is that why you chose this area?

The creature frowned, but nodded anyway. The movement made the girl smile. The sorceress had caught the creature in a petty attempt to give a vague answer, taking advantage of the questioner's mistake and not telling a single lie. A trait of a principled Faith. Having read his own mistake in the open emotions of the interlocutor, the spirit grumbled and said:

— Yes. Beneath us is an ancient and rich vein of lyrium, which came from the depths and miraculously escaped the attention of a stone tribe in the distant past. The frozen glow from it is the basis of all the spells here. Light, heat and more... You should concentrate on the obstacle, not talk.

Morrigan nodded and pulled the last Lyrium potion from her belt. After pouring the potion into her mouth and holding back her gag, the girl allowed herself to breathe and, under the surprised gaze of the guards, began to remove her robes, carefully tying them into a bundle. Standing naked in front of the illusory crossroads, the girl, hissing softly through her teeth, infused the transformation magic with mana.

It didn't take long for the transformation to take place, as familiar to her as a warrior peeling the scab off an old, badly healed wound. Towards the end, the realisation of what was happening once again sent a shiver down her spine. But Morrigan put aside her worries, picked up the bundle of clothes with one hand and, with the help of the others, began to climb the circular wall to the opposite exit of the hall. All the while, as the claws on her hands crunched hideously against the stone, clinging to the smallest of cracks, the guard's gaze flickered down the girl's back. Without turning, the sorceress could hardly tell whether it was hostility or surprise that dominated the gaze...

After a quarter of an hour on the other side, Morrigan swung the doors open without turning back to face the spirit. Instead of another stone-carved hall, she found a long, dark corridor with no lights. Deciding to conserve her mana, the sorceress moved into the darkness without changing her form. She stretched her upper arms out to her sides, barely touching the walls with her claws to make sure it was only darkness and a corridor without tricks.

Faster than the girl had feared, she came to more oak doors, which Morrigan pushed open, entering a new oval hall. Unlike the previous rooms, it was filled not with the pale light of the unusual magic lamps, but with the dancing glow of a crackling flame. A wide band of flame split the room in two, dancing tongues reaching to the height of the girl. A careful look at the floor revealed that the flames were fuelled by nothing, rising from the air three fingers above the stone floor. On the other side of the wall of fire was the beginning of a staircase, wide at the base, leading to a modest platform at the opposite end of the hall, seen through the haze of heat above the fire. There was a single, massive urn, plain and unadorned, as if cast in gold. The top of the stairs was guarded by two statues, not visible from this side, but Morrigan was willing to bet that they were big cats or similar beasts of prey.

Without apparent harm or warning, the Guardian of this place, as the spirit obliquely called himself, emerged from the flames on the right side of the wall. Looking at Morrigan's current form with a strangely detached gaze, the false knight muttered:

— I didn't know that the very principles of this place would be violated before my very eyes. And not a single rule I swore to uphold is being broken. What I see is disgusting. It is in my power to despise you, but not to stop you, mad fruit of the fusion of mortal flesh and the endless embodiment of base lust. Let the Temple decide your fate. The flame is the final test that separates the humble and the pure from the rest.

Morrigan smiled grimly, revealing countless narrow teeth that resembled sharp needles:

— So much pathos. And the allegory of flames is good. Isn't that where the Magisters of the Old Empire burned Andraste to ashes? And with it, the Old Empire... For me, the greatest irony of all is that the creations of this "dark" Tevinter serve everyone faithfully for hundreds of winters, or stand out in the open, reminding everyone of their creators. And look, so much effort and time, so much imagination and inspiration has gone into this place. And so few remember, and those who do find death here again and again. It is a matter of forgetting, not remembering. And so the Empire defeated you. The creations of this empire are firmly associated in the minds of the little people with lost greatness and eternity, not with oppression, slavery, violence and death... Probably all for the sake of the moment when, one day, according to your dignity, this place will return to the world and, as an enlightened leader, will rekindle the flame of foolish faith as if it were a hidden spark. But the architects of this idea, a war that does not care about faith, could not foresee. They couldn't foresee how the principles and ideas of the guardians would be distorted beyond recognition. They could not imagine that they would be able to survive the trials without counting.

Leaving the clothes pouch at the entrance to the hall, Morrigan confidently turned to the nearest wall and began a cautious climb to the other side of the fiery barrier, bypassing it from above. After a moment's silence, the Guard spoke with open suspicion:

— You don't have an ounce of faith. Why are you here? Why so much effort? The true essence of the Temple means so little to you and holds so little meaning...

Not too distracted by the spirit's ranting, and carefully choosing where to move a foot or one of her hands, the girl answered him a little absentmindedly:

— Faith often requires blind obedience, unprecedented risks, but everything has its price. That's you too, spirit of "faith". That's why you see no other options. The treasure may also seem interesting to those who do not believe in anything.

The spirit uttered no further words, but watched glumly as the strange creature, a parody of a human, a spider-like creature, crawled up the wall, almost to the ceiling, and landed quite deftly on the other side of the flaming barrier. Suspiciously dodging two huge cats of prey that emerged all too vividly from beneath the skilful sculptor's carving, Morrigan climbed a dozen steps and found herself standing before an urn half a man's size, truly made of pure gold from top to bottom. The polished surface, without a trace of time or dust, reflected the sorceress' already nightmarish face in a horribly distorted way. What she saw was, in the girl's opinion, quite at odds with the widespread notions of modesty and moderation of Andrastianism. Perhaps the original foundation of the faith out of charity and hope did not suggest such self-restraint and asceticism... Or perhaps someone who had placed the ashes of the 'bride' here saw no less a vessel for her final resting place. Though Morrigan had another guess: gold was the only known material that could stand the test of time without changing, no matter how fickle the conditions.

A Guardian's tense voice sounded behind her:

— Whoever is tested by the Temple may take a pinch of ash, in addition to the knowledge gained, to carry with them forever a piece directly related to the beginning of our faith. But...

Unsure at the end of the sentence, the spirit fell silent, leaving Morrigan alone, disturbed only by the measured crackle of flames behind her. The enchantress grinned, caught in a dilemma. She didn't like the way the Guardian hesitated, moving closer and closer to the line where open hostility began. At the same time, reverting back to human form would mean using up her remaining crumbs of mana and risking facing the mighty spirit naked. But even as it was, the girl had no spells of her own, only claws and teeth.

She lifted the lid of the urn with her claw and slowly lowered it to the ground beside her. The volume of this vessel would have held the remains of ten people, no less, so the girl was met with darkness and emptiness. The ashes of the only woman lay at the bottom, forcing the newcomer to lower his hand no less than his elbow into the unknown. Nothing, however, would lead Morrigan to believe that anyone's posthumous remains served as a conduit for gratuitous miracles. And so she saw no need for it. Deciding not to test her fate, the sorceress moved on to the true purpose of her visit: with a sharp flick of her claw, she opened the skin of one of her hands and allowed a thick, viscous liquid resembling blood to trickle from the open wound into a golden vessel.

A drop, followed by another...

A cry rang out behind her, trembling with suppressed rage:

— What are you doing?

Morrigan turned, but did not remove her hand, to see a Guard standing at the wall of flame, but on this side of it. The old volume in his right hand had been replaced by a long blade, its polished edge dancing with the reflection of the tongues of fire that seemed to fill it from within, reflecting the spirit of the Faith. The man's face was twisted with a mixture of rage and horror, as if he had been struck by something repulsive.

Seeing no need to enter into a dialogue from which the sorceress saw no way of winning. She waited patiently for the outcome, as if she had jumped from a cliff and was now waiting in flight to see what would happen when she hit the ground. Picking up on this silent determination, or having filled his own cup of patience to the brim, the spirit moved towards the girl and climbed the stairs. Thoth, too, found it unnecessary to utter any new words. Morrigan saw in the guard's gaze the promise of violent retribution for desecrating the shrine he had once agreed to guard, surely impressed by the purity and boundlessness of the faith of Andraste's followers.

And yet the seemingly unstoppable stride was halted halfway. The Guardian stopped, radiating a genuine and pure bewilderment that temporarily washed away all other emotions. The cold mind of the sorceress could not fail to notice this trait in many of The Shadow's creatures. Even the mightiest of them, always striving for the One, are incapable of combining many human emotions, often shifting from vivid manifestations of one to the other without pause, always returning to the embodiment of personal purpose and nature. The unspoken question was answered by a third voice from behind Morrigan's shoulder, genderless but full of restrained satisfaction:

— To the extent that this place belonged to you, it now belongs to us.

Turning, the sorceress found the figure of Zibenkek behind the golden vessel, as in her half-sleep, woven of blood like shining wax. She was standing with her hands on the urn. Only a keen eye could see how the thin paths of blood stretched from the urn outwards, to the creature's hands, like roots. Morrigan's blood. And above the urn, already part of this place, hung an immovable, matte-black sphere. It was solid, though no one wanted to check it, and it evoked that familiar and elusive feeling of disgust...

— You are free to remain in the outer part of the temple, but we understand it was the urn that kept you here. And, of course, the lyrium beneath. You could deceive yourself masterfully as to the contents of this vessel, as could those who brought it here. After all, you are "Faith", not "Truth". But the truth is that the Magisters never got their hands on just one leader of the South. It's just that the others seemed insignificant and irrelevant in comparison, and from the height of time. As if their own demise would lessen the agony of 'the one'. When the magistrates carried out the autodafa in the small square, there were dozens of prisoners writhing in the fire, burning alive. And afterwards, when the weeping sky mixed the common ashes with the dirt, there was no way for those who came there to find the ashes of the "bride". Inside the jar is dirt, embers and ashes, but is there really a single piece that belonged to Andraste? Only blind faith made the urn more than just a thing.

The Temple Guardian took a slow step backwards, sliding down a step at the same time. His face was distorted with disgust:

— You... You brought this filth here?! Here? Into the abode.

Ziebenkeck interrupted the incipient tirade with a short sentence:

— Go or stay. But you're the only one who needs this punishment. The seeds of anger will fall on barren ground.

Turning his gaze to the urn, the Guardian exhaled intermittently, his expression suddenly replaced by sadness and misery:

— You don't understand, mortals need faith, an ideal to emulate, a worthy goal...

Morrigan didn't hold back and interrupted the conversation:

— Maybe so, maybe not. More often you need an excuse than something to show you the way. More often you need a way to control others. And you are a hypocrite, for you value faith as a condition, without regard to meaning or context. I once met someone like you, but he was occupied, albeit for an unknown purpose, with something more dignified than guarding a golden bowl. To me, saving children from obsession is much closer to the Andrastian ideal. But the lyrium vein wasn't there.

The spirit stared at the sorceress expressionlessly for a while, not saying a word, perhaps even pausing to breathe for the sake of appearances. And then, with a blink, it disappeared. Ziebenkeck, on the other hand, drew the line indifferently:

— It's hard to deny you the ability to make enemies...

* * *

Morrigan had to wait at least an hour to return to the other side of the fiery barrier and to her familiar human form and clothing. Only then did the Ziebenkecks, who had disappeared without warning, reappear:

— Some people have 'luck' attached to them. Or do you say "luck is on your side"?

— Why would I do that?

— Think about it. You don't expect us to be able to manipulate every step that has brought you to this moment, do you? Who would have thought that this pale, scaly likeness of the great ancestors would suddenly be grateful to the named mother of a lonely witch, and would answer question after question without complaint? And, as a result, give a clue as to how to take a shortcut... Or that the spirit will be so discouraged by your appearance that it will not stop you from travelling to the end? But we can see in your eyes that this list of wonders is incomplete.

The Sorceress rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, not knowing whether she was annoyed or tired. She had dozens of questions on the tip of her tongue, even though she already knew the answers. After swallowing the unnecessary words, the girl quickly clarified:

— Is the deal still on?

— Of course.

— Is the condition fulfilled?

— Not quite. There was little hope that you would do exactly as we said. But since we're here and now, it's worth explaining. It is more important for us to turn a cadaur, created by the founders of the Church and then used with your mother's cunning, into a valuable figure. And from that point on, the goal remains attainable.

The girl, sitting on the stone floor near the monolithic wall, looked at the strange sculpture of the otherworldly interlocutor from head to toe. Shaking her head in disbelief, the sorceress muttered:

— A cult that will become a force for... what? And who that... No. That's silly.

— Initial rejection is normal. But we don't need any convincing. It won't take you an hour to put everything into perspective and assess the value of the offer. And then, even if you resist your own impulses, you will not be able to resist the temptation to become the leader of a crowd of fanatics who are ready to give their lives at the drop of a hat. Power. Your own reflection in the eyes of others. Opportunity.

Morrigan's lips tightened, but she wasn't even sure she could catch the gaze of the wax statue-like creature staring off into the distance. The sorceress was seething with rage, but inwardly she agreed — Ziebenkeck knew exactly which of the girl's weaknesses to focus her arguments on. Meanwhile, the 'statue' continued:

— As for the goal... It's obvious.

— Do you wish to add a new force to the one already assembled against Blight?

Ziebenkeck snapped his fingers in time with the question:

— That's good. Yes. Flemeth probably wanted to do things differently. With cunning plans, she relied on the leaders of the nations around the Waking Sea. By subtle means, the femme fatale wanted to ensure that it was the humans who stood firm. Not other species. And to look as far as possible beyond the horizon of their own limited and short lives. The exception were the dragons, whom she had nurtured and protected for centuries. But even they became a bargaining chip when it came to the original goal. We do things differently. Routine. No rush, like a hard-working farmer. Just sow and reap. When you deal a hundred cards, you always get the top trump. At the moment, both approaches are inappropriate. Instead of decent leadership, there's disunity and paranoia everywhere, and no time for a blind search.

— The mother's approach seems productive. But it's not for me to judge. And only by the results... Anyway. Can't you 'talk' to everyone in this way? Isn't it reasonable to do it with everyone instead of waiting?

— The first conversation we had was about the Seeker, a remarkable tool, though not exceptional. And thanks to the efforts of others, the Veil in this fortress has already been weakened. Yet you bear witness to the price paid. Here, you've done something that seems to have thinned the Veil. The rest: proof of our interest. Most importantly, the role of "God" has little appeal to us. In the past, there have been those who have flirted with such things, not one of whom did not end up overplaying them. The fate of each of them ended sadly.

Taking a deep breath to control her temper, Morrigan muttered:

— That's very interesting, but far from the original agreement.

— You're deluded. Every word we say...

— No, no, no. I know I'm in the middle of a hurricane of my own free will. As you did when we first spoke, you lure me with bait, leading me further and further away from familiar shores. And it is not in my power to demand. But I may well refuse. My life is still mine. You've already broken through the Veil. That's worth something.

Zibenkek held up a hand, stopping the flow of words from the sorceress. With a slight movement, he pointed to the black sphere above the urn and said:

— It's there so the Temple Guardian won't kill you in response to what you've done. It takes effort to keep anyone else out. For those of us who do not wreak havoc for no reason, it is a burden. However, what we say does not imply proof, only belief. Very well, we'll take it one step at a time. You wanted a pact...

Morrigan cut in hastily, objecting vehemently:

— Not only, and not so much. If I get answers, it will outweigh the power of the pact.

— Yes, just like the first time we spoke, you value knowledge over power. And you have many questions. About the past. And little things, like how that spirit could exist on this side of the Veil. Or how it created your doppelganger. Thanks to the lyrium, of course, and that urn, which became an anchor for the spirit. That's why it escaped so easily. Anyway, the point is, you're not getting the Pact.

Slapping her palm on the ground, the sorceress asked briefly:

— You... But why?

— We don't want to be associated with such a thing. Not every place is worth opening a door to. You can complain about the deception, but you won't. The arrangement was risky from start to finish. But we'll give you some answers. Provided, as the Seeker said, you willingly put yourself on our leash.

— Some of them?

— Anything that doesn't interfere with our plans.

After a brief pause, Morrigan narrowed her eyes and clarified:

— What does it all boil down to, that I'm a valuable tool?

— Of course. As long as the daughter remained in Flemeth's hands, the child's value was negligible because of the need for direct conflict with her. And even free, if tainted, you were little more than an attractive prize. Time and distance always played a key role in this world. As we already know, the hammer was right above the nail. And it doesn't matter where the hammer came from, who forged the nail, what matters is the path that opened up. We don't know exactly what Flemeth's was preparing her daughter for. We understand her plans as well as we could observe them from afar. But here, now, with some help to add to the work already done, you can fill the void in these people's hearts. Their beliefs have since ancient times been built around the image of a mortal maiden chosen by the "Creator", and much later, by clever substitution, linked to the image of a dragon. It couldn't have been done better, but it wasn't perfect. There were silent questions, misunderstandings, internal friction. Now you can prove that you have passed the test of the Temple by appealing to the core beliefs of these people. You can give them the symbol of the urn as support. You have already shown that the dragons know you. You are the thread that will bind the tears in the fabric. Just a little push and the avalanche will come down. And if we don't miss the moment, it will unfold at the right time.

— An army of the Church?

— Yes. We leave the political games and the avenues that will be open to find new powers to you and the Seeker. What matters to us is that others on the same side, busy with their own games behind the Veil, see you not as an annoying nuisance, but as something of substance. Given the situation and the facts, this will encourage many, if not most, to unite against a common enemy. A nail hammered in time...

Morrigan gave a sour grin and nodded:

— ...like the first stone thrown from the mountain. What happened on that fateful day that separated me from my mother?

Ziebenkeck was silent for longer than usual before they opened their mouth:

— Something... Unforeseen. Perhaps. It was another rock pushed from the summit in a place where no one expected it. And we had unwittingly played a key role in it. As a tool. Random events. But linked, as it turned out, in a common chain, like an arrow invisibly gathering momentum, aimed at Flemeth's heart. She had spent eons gaining a proper flesh in this world, and now the old player has been thrown back so far... Finding this person beyond the Veil will require an effort disproportionate to the benefit she could bring us. And without help, the ancient kin will be lost forever.

— A kin?

— Our source is from the same bank. But the riverbeds have drifted so far apart that we are united only by pathetic scraps of memory that have not yet faded into oblivion.

— So someone tried to kill my mother?

— Remove an obstacle. The price was a daughter. More than that, we won't say.

Morrigan wrinkled her nose in irritation and, coolly accepting such an answer, moved on to another topic:

— So be it. But how was I saved?

— We have no answer to that question.

— Wonderful. What was Mother's plan for me?

— Tricky question. We can only speculate... Flemeth saw a great threat to the world if the dragon tribe were wiped out. And so she sought a way not only to preserve them, but to find a way to give humans the winged talent that makes dragons exceptional.

The sorceress even leaned forward and asked in a low voice:

— Which one?

— The talent to strengthen the Veil by her very existence. The daughter was probably Flemeth's next step towards her goal.

— And you found that ironic earlier? Why was that?

— The Templars.

— Do they have the same gift?

— Exactly. And it manifested itself without Flemeth's involvement. The long journey had both fulfilled itself and... led nowhere. It is hard for us to imagine what we would have experienced if we had encountered the same dead end on our own path, forcing us to reevaluate the journey and every sacrifice made.

— What exactly should we do now?

— A good way of saying "yes" without saying the word itself. We give the 'Whisper of the Creator' by sneaking it into the heads of everyone who, in one way or another, is involved in the blood-based rituals that have miraculously blossomed here. That's a huge contribution. We'll also give you a few pointers, enough to play the role of the Chosen One with dignity. All that's left is for you not to be a fool and to lead the newly formed party back to the Seeker. Your task is to create and lead the force so that it does not remain useless or unpredictable. The rest is up to your free will.

— I'll pretend those last words didn't sound like mockery. If Mother had arranged for people to care about dragons in their own delusion, then why the bloody rituals?

—The faith of this splinter of Adrastianism contained the idea of the miraculous properties of the ashes of the 'Bride of the Creator'. An unbreakable bond. Flemet took advantage of the fading faith after so many generations and granted a miracle. Dragons inspire not only terror, but, with proper guidance or age, admiration. And the idea of rebirth has always stirred the minds of mortals, whose life span is so short. And here is the living embodiment of that belief. But if the wonders of the dead were contained in ashes, what will become of this guide? Dragon's blood. Or... any blood. The dragons, on the other hand, took advantage of man's fiction and marked the blood of those who served faithfully to distinguish the "wingless" by their own scent. This opened the way for us and our gifts, wrapping the fiction in true miracles where we saw the benefit.

— Clever...

— Jealousy?

— Maybe. Where can I find new answers about myself?

For the first time during the conversation, Ziebenkeck's impassive face was distorted by a mischievous grin:

— To close the circle without us, you must go to Aeonar.