Morrigan distinctly remembered her own palm covered by Tristan's remaining hand. A weak movement, stripped of its former strength. The touch of his cold, calloused fingers felt gentler for it. That moment seemed to have happened two breaths ago. Or not… Now the neatly made bed before the witch looked undisturbed. She touched the blanket and found no trace of human warmth.
At once her keen hearing caught the crackle of logs in a fireplace. A soothing, homely sound— if not for one thing: there was no fireplace in the room…
She turned sharply.
An elegant armchair stood there, carved from pale wood greyed slightly by time. Facing the fire, its high back hid whoever sat within. And behind it— behind this piece of furniture that hadn't been there before— she saw the source of the sound, as though it belonged to the room's very bones. A fireplace occupied the corner so naturally that it mocked her clear memory: there was no chimney on the floor above. Inside, three or four charred logs crackled, tossed in, by her rough estimate, at least half an hour ago.
From behind the chair came a woman's voice— calm and clear, with elusive notes of weariness. Of her age, Morrigan could only say this: not too young, not terribly old.
— Do not trouble yourself with memories. Especially given the harm already done. Of course, I did not arrive here instantly. Two heartbeats went to understanding precisely what the Seeker desired. Two more, to locating such an elusive interlocutor nearby. And then… Do not worry: you did not strike the bedframe, nor even reach the floor. Despite his condition, Tristan caught the falling girl. Given the circumstances, a feat. Your vessel is… attractive, but we assume the weary servant of the Chantry has no mind for such things. The Seeker, too, refrains from calling for help: rumors of a 'heroine' fainting at a sick man's bedside do not suit his purposes. But the 'hero's' strength is not boundless, and thus our conversation shall not be prolonged— however much one might wish otherwise. The last time I spoke so… 'directly' was… long ago. Let us end any ambiguity: this is the Fade. Have a seat.
Bewildered, Morrigan blinked, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. Facts and cadences broke apart in her mind into disjointed fragments. In that moment of disorientation, a second chair appeared beside the first.
Should she have been surprised, if she truly was on the other side of the Veil? And yet she was. Slowly she stepped toward the new piece of furniture, skillfully made, without excess. Her sharp eye caught motifs in the slightly dried patterns along the chair backs— woodland vines and forest flowers, reminiscent of the wandering elven clans. Scattered remnants of a great people: guardians of the last vestiges of freedom, and of their own culture's knowledge. It remained a mystery why the "hostess" needed chairs that looked as though they had stood here for decades. And, as if in answer to the unspoken question, came a voice tinged with the lightest shade of mockery:
— No-o-o. Our guest is more concerned with how the chair appeared from nothing, all at once. A pity your curiosity hides behind excuses. Such as: 'Well, it's the Fade.' Or: 'Everything here is just "ideas," "concepts," and "representations" of things.' A common viewpoint. Sadly, no one tries to turn that logic back upon themselves— to taste it firsthand. The chair did not appear here instantly. Neither did you. Everything takes time. But the brief span in which the chair took form was cleverly concealed: a deception relying on the observer's imperfections. Here, you are exactly as you are 'there,' where you are accustomed to perceiving yourself as 'real.' Oh… the heat of curiosity. Very well— let this be a gesture of goodwill… Or bait. Your eyes. Crude instruments. They need to stay wet, and so you blink— voluntarily cutting off your view. Sometimes they fail you. And if that weren't enough… You have a blind spot at the center. You do not even notice, because your gaze is forever wandering. With skillful use of the aforementioned, one can easily demonstrate power. As the chair 'appeared' from nothing, so can an experienced inhabitant of the Fade. How do we know about eyes? Among our 'admirers' have been many individuals with an unhealthy attraction to the anatomy of the living— and often, the sentient. Not for us, of course, to judge the proclivities of others…
Morrigan slowly circled the offered chair from the side farther from her interlocutor, and at last she could see her. The first thing that struck her: from head to toe, the figure resembled wax… Only its surface was not dull, but slick, like fresh arterial blood. Hues existed, but barely. Her mind refused to perceive the being as anything but a statue. And it did not blink. Did not breathe… When the statue turned its head and met her gaze, a chill ran down Morrigan's spine.
The feminine appearance combined dozens of features. The ears subtly recalled elven ones. An Orlesian nose was unmistakable. A massive brow stirred a fleeting memory… Full lips, for some unclear reason, carried something Rivaini; the eyes, a hint of the Anderfels. Even the coarse features of Fereldans coexisted in her visage without turning the face into a repulsive hodgepodge. Each detail flowed into the next like shadows in a dance. The attire… looked simple. Like a summer dress on an unassuming farm girl from a quiet rural place— plain enough that the menfolk wouldn't be distracted from their work every minute.
Morrigan wet her lips and ran her fingers along the armrest— surprisingly tangible, like weathered wood in the Waking. Then she asked:
— Who are you?
The creature tilted its head slightly, as if in thought, and answered plainly:
— O-oh, 'who.' Not 'what.' A curious choice of words. Even considering… you already have your suspicions, after all. Zibenkek. That is the name we bear, for that is the name we were given. We were born under another, now long forgotten.
Morrigan tilted her head slightly to one side, skepticism written in the angle of her neck— and before she could open her mouth, the next answer came:
— A fair doubt. But the underlying reason is not deception, though you lack the means to convincingly rule that possibility out. We… The true I… From the perspective of an ordinary Ferelden, only 'we' makes sense. The many-faced multitude of Zibenkek. Once there was a source that gave rise to the multitude because of… insurmountable flaws— flaws that prevented the embodiment of the idea to which it aspired with its entire being. The first generation of reflections, which gave rise to the second, which gave rise to… Now, with sufficient diligence, a Zibenkek may even be found in the Waking, though that version will differ little from an ordinary Desire. Perhaps you have been granted the unique chance to speak with a second-generation one. Not many of us remain.
There was a pause, and the woman's image smiled softly, adding:
— No, it is not mind-reading. I see that the threat of such an invasion is a red rag to you. But whatever you may think of yourself, reading you now is no harder than reading the others. A twitch of fingers, the breath, the heartbeat, the color in the skin… Most people mistakenly believe that in the Fade only their consciousness remains, and a pale shadow of their form. If remaking yourself were as simple as wishing it… A developed personality carries not only the baggage of memory, but also a burden of images and unconscious sensations— emotions. To me, they are excellent storytellers.
— Why—
— Why so talkative?
Morrigan, still standing, nodded once, awaiting the next tirade.
— Circumstances. And the interlocutor… is exceptional, is he not? Curiosity? No. Only calculation… Everyone uses others as best they can. The illusion of an equal exchange. And your questions…
The figure ran its tongue over its lips.
— They are so eager to get out.
Snorting, the witch said cautiously:
— Until now, I more or less accepted the idea that every creature from beyond the Veil draws its nature from a single passion. But those I have personally met rarely conform to this. And you look and sound different from Desire or Rage. And yet you are an ancient entity, rarer still. What is your goal?
The figure in the chair leaned forward, propped its chin on its fingers, and froze, staring into the flame. Morrigan couldn't shake the thought: this creature copied humanity too convincingly. Every gesture, every pose— as if learned from the living. After a pause that stretched to a full minute, the interlocutor answered:
— People, elves… all mortals can be laughably simple. Driven by a single passion. A single thought… But there are also those who can surprise— with erudition, manners, depth… Here? Here we are what we 'eat.' And the meaning of our existence… You know, we could have acted basely and simply thrown the question back at you. I do not think an answer would come easily, if it came at all. Original motives are hidden by time. It will mercilessly devour everything. The final enemy on every path. But one imperative has remained unchanged: the striving to break beyond limitations. Others' rules. Others' authority. The laws of society or state. Accepted norms. Finally— the laws and limits of the universe known to most… What lies beyond the boundaries? One of the truths we acquired birthed a desire: to find our own magic. Only ours— not placed in our hands by others. And we are still on the journey, begun beyond the bounds of our memory.
Morrigan gave a small, restrained shake of her head in mild bewilderment.
— Vague and indefinite… So you are… wanderers? Explorers?
— One could call us that. Only we have gone much farther than the rules usually allow.
— Suppose so. Why blood?
The figure slowly lowered its gaze. The corners of its lips— the color of dried blood— quivered in a semblance of a smile. For a moment it seemed the waxen skin might crack. A soft sigh escaped. Slightly strange, when one considered it: why did the being in the chair need to breathe at all?
— Finally. That very question. No matter whom we speak with, it arises again and again. There is nothing special about blood— neither yours, nor the man who caught a girl in his arms. There is nothing beyond the expected even in dragon's blood: enormous flying lizards capable of harmlessly spewing liquid flame, acid, and lightning. However, the question is different. Do you perceive blood as trivial? No. A single word, and so many associations. So many images and emotions— remarkably uniform across Thedas, regardless of language or culture. What could matter more than that to the Fade? But ultimately, this is about mana. Your accustomed method of obtaining mana is akin to trying to cup water in your hands during a torrential downpour. We are more akin to a parasite, stealing the precious moisture from others drop by drop— until, in the end, we acquire enough to bathe in.
It sounded… at the very least, unusual. And Morrigan wanted to keep asking endlessly. But she reined in her unbridled curiosity, forcing herself to think soberly, to keep discipline. The figure raised its head and squinted at the witch's internal struggle, as if peering at something difficult to discern in the distance. Suppressing irritation without any solid cause, the dark-haired guest articulated clearly:
— How? How do you manage to both know and influence simultaneously?
— How strange… Moderation? From you?
The figure leaned forward, its lips the color of old blood stretching:
— After all, you yearn for a pact. So thirsty for power… And yet…
— So how?
— Imagine a spider. Its threads are every use of blood magic, every ritual… All lead to us.
The waxen fingers, reddish at the tips, closed smoothly.
— Mana flows down the threads to us. And through the trembling of the threads, we sense and perceive the Waking. Thus we exert influence without disturbing the Veil in the slightest. There is more than one way to bypass this barrier. As for how we perform 'miracles'… The principles of true magic are universal 'here' and 'there.' The same everywhere. Always. But they are too complex for the singular mind of the simplified creatures of the Waking. It is about choice and consequence.
Morrigan's eyebrows twitched, but it could not be called displeasure. Rather, she was digesting the facts. And, not allowing herself to slip into abstraction, she moved to the next topic:
— Now, about the pact.
— Ah yes, the 'pact.'
The figure leaned back with unnatural smoothness.
— You will not receive what you desire for free.
Morrigan's lips pressed into a thin line. Her nails dug into her palms, leaving half-moons on her skin, but her voice stayed steady:
— Why?
— You are far from an ordinary stranger, wandering the world and stumbling into interesting places. Or interesting events. You are a rare instrument that has ended up in the right place at the right hour. Such a coincidence cannot be accidental. Someone brought you to us— deliberately… But what we cannot control or bend to our will is not worth time. Returning to… the instrument. You will occupy a significant place in the war unfolding around us, ancient as time itself. Seizing the moment, we will tip the scales in our favor.
— Ha.
In response, her interlocutor only raised its brows in question. Morrigan collected herself and clarified:
— And what, in your opinion, is my 'potential'?
— There is a deep irony in how the enemy, after centuries, repeats our steps. The root causes are different. The method is different. But the result… It is even more ironic to discover that while searching for a rope for a drowning man, he has learned to swim. You, of course, would not understand… Your… 'mother' experimented with the draconic line. And progressed much farther than her peers. And here is the result— before us.
Morrigan couldn't suppress a sharp intake of breath— her eyes widened, her fingers gripping the armrests:
— Me?!
— M-m-m… Well, for instance. When was the last time you had your courses?
Zibenkek smiled, revealing teeth that were too even.
— Don't scowl. An obvious discrepancy in the facts escaped your notice, not without reason. You can turn that thought over later. So. You need power. You will receive our pact on the following conditions. We will show you a place in the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. You must go there, find a forgotten site, and within it: an abandoned treasure. Then perform a task whose result will aid us— and you.
— Marvelous… Do you truly think…
* * *
— So, Zibenkek just… tossed you out?
Tristan's voice was hoarse, but curiosity threaded through it. His fingers fidgeted at the edge of the blanket, betraying the weakness he tried to hide. Morrigan, seated on the floor beside the sick man's bed, nodded, not even considering whether the Seeker could see the back of her head.
— Exactly. A pointed way to show who's in charge. To put it briefly— pacts aren't handed out as gifts. Especially not to someone like me. The thought plagues me: what was the mistake? The one that gets me passed from hand to hand, used without a chance to wriggle free. But, essentially… I need to find a 'Refuge' in the Frostback Mountains. Know anything about it?
Tristan slowly exhaled, and in the room's silence the sound seemed loud.
— That region has a dozen or so settlements, founded by resistance fighters during the occupation. Many… still fancy themselves independent. But Ferelden's restored rulers cracked down on banditry along the old Imperial Highway. Two or three villages burned to the ground put an end to talk of independence for years… or until the next famine. It's easy to believe that in those harsh, winding valleys, as much remains lost and forgotten as is known. Villages quietly dying out under the snow.
— Long-winded. But it amounts to a refusal. That… creature told me how to reach the goal. If one sets out from here, then… Take the old Imperial Highway: the second major bridge along the western shore of the lake, heading north. On horseback, roughly two to three days— if there are no blizzards or late storms. Then into a mountain valley, and upstream along a river. It's said to be passable along the bank, or at fords. Three or four days on foot. From the second day, watch for a distinctive cliff on the left. Jutting into the sky like a giant's chewed finger, surrounded by a sickly forest, with a stream at its foot. That's where to turn off. The 'Refuge' is two hours up the slope on the right. Past a hamlet— then about two days along the stream to the glacier's tongue. There, amid the ice, stand distinctive granite monoliths, and then the entrance to an ancient temple is easy to find.
Tristan sighed and, after a pause, replied:
— So, it's that same legend…
Raising her eyebrows questioningly— a gesture hidden from her interlocutor— Morrigan clarified:
— Legend?
— Yes…
A brief pause hung in the air, but the man continued nonetheless:
— The Frostback Mountains are harsh, and not just in name. They are vast, and just how far south they reach is unknown— no one has managed to find out and make it back. There are many Avvar settlements and ancient ruins in those parts that have never been properly studied. Until recently, the central range remained uninhabited, and for good reason: hundreds of empty caves, once home to dragons— until they vanished. Still, history offers instructive lessons. The era of the occupation ended not only because of the unbroken spirit of the Fereldans. It was also due to the devastating raids on eastern Orlais by a dragon, newly awakened in the mountains. That year, not a single living soul dared to cross the passes— not in winter or summer. And the northern part of the range has been shrouded since ancient times in folklore: a 'last refuge.' Come to think of it, Orzammar lies under the northern spurs… A curious seeker can even find Dalish songs about elven fortresses hidden in the ice, abandoned before ancient Tevinter rose. But I'm talking about a specific legend… About a hidden place where loyal comrades carried the ashes of Andraste away from the world's bustle.
Morrigan licked her lips, trying the word for taste:
— Ashes…
— A treasure rightfully considered a cornerstone of the Chantry.
Tristan turned toward her, and a feverish gleam lit his weary eyes.
— Well— or it would have been, had the ashes been in the Chantry's hands. That's why the way knowledge of such a thing came to you is… troubling. And certainly not trustworthy.
— Trust?
Tristan looked at her in silent bewilderment. After a pause, Morrigan, her lips twisting slightly, explained:
— The motives and principles of Andrastianism don't move me. Some help others, and it's not so important what drives them. Others do not… and I'd wager there are more of the latter. The demon— or whatever it is— made no mention of any sacred relic. It only spoke of a pact, in exchange for fulfilling conditions. Even if all this is an illusion, the chance for answers is worth it.
— Well then, surprise me.
Morrigan's lips trembled in a semblance of a smile, but her gaze hardened as she continued:
— In the temple ruins, partially consumed by a glacier, a dragon dwells. A young female. One must borrow… some of its blood.
Interrupting the witch, Tristan exhaled grimly:
— What a play on words… To kill.
— Yes… But not only that. Zibenkek decided to add a touch of 'mystery.' So, listen: 'Trampling the new idol of fools, anoint the essence of the old idol with it.'
Growing slightly pale, the Seeker asked with apprehension:
— Idol?
— Yes. Given what you've said, it's easy to guess: Zibenkek learned of this place through blood magic. And if the dragon's their idol, then the valley's full of idiots…
— Who worship it.
— Yes… Well, and what the 'old idol' is, I'll figure out on the spot.
— If the legend is true…
Throwing up a hand, Morrigan let her irritation spill out:
— Then decide— what do you actually believe? Is the legend true? Then it's also true that unknown figures from some ancient cult managed to hide the ashes of the great faith's progenitor from everyone. And then either they perished, or they turned to blood magic and dragon worship. Or do you believe that legends rarely leave the realm of dreams?
— What difference does it make what I believe…
Tristan's voice sounded weak and dull, but there was not a trace of doubt in it:
— Only what I can do about it matters. Even if Zibenkek sent you to kill a dragon and desecrate the greatest shrine… you'd still go. The relic is considered lost, and we have a host of tangible problems on our hands. And besides… I'm bedridden. But it's worth thinking, for a moment, about coincidences. You're not the first in this castle obsessed with the Sacred Ashes as a key to solving problems.
— Oh yes, we've 'talked'…
Morrigan slowly rose, but the rustle as Tristan shifted on the pillow made her turn to him first. The Seeker was trying to sit up, his face contorted in a grimace of pain, but his eyes… Those icy eyes looked at her with inhuman certainty:
— This conversation reminded me… Sometimes, after paying the price for answers, I'm surprised all over again at what those answers cost. Again and again, I get what I need— and in the end, where has it brought me? Don't mistake this for weakness brought on by sickness. However much the cost has touched me personally, of all the losses I regret only one. The others ultimately became either the consequence of duty, or served some good— as I understand it. But the moment I began seeking an answer to an extremely personal question, and…
Tristan's fingers twitched on the blanket, weakly but unmistakably pointing at Morrigan.
— With no false modesty, you could be compared to a venomous snake. Even if, in skilled hands, the venom can serve as medicine, it's wiser to avoid the snake— or kill it on sight. I, however, caught between the necessary and the desired, kept you close. You wisely fear ending my life directly. For now. But you continue to test the limits of what's permitted. In truth, with you giving ground on the pact, our 'relationship' has begun to resemble a race against time. Which will happen first: will I achieve what's necessary and…
The man twitched the corner of his lip, deliberately not voicing the obvious.
— Or will you draw the trump card from the deck. However… even I wouldn't have had the imagination for such a 'card.' I cannot stop you now. I need to be here— at least a couple of weeks— to organize everything… Duty. In that time, you'll reach the place and either perish, or… Not hard to guess. And the choice will remain between one 'maybe' and another 'perhaps.' A fool might see in all this only a twist of fate playing a cruel joke. Not your case. Remember how a minor weakness— or a mistake— can sometimes corner one.
Morrigan sharply turned to him, clicking her tongue:
— So, a heap of words just to convince me to stay? Foolish…
— This thirst for power…
A female voice edged with metal cut in:
— It's not about power. Not only. Zibenkek may know… Yes, this might be a game. Another one. But imagine they know answers I need no less than power— perhaps even more. Answers that…
The witch was interrupted by a quiet, coughing laugh. Tristan immediately winced in pain, but, collecting himself, continued:
— You see. Answers. At any cost. At any risk. What words… No, the point isn't to dissuade you. I'm in no shape for that…
He paused for a labored breath, then went on:
— It's an allegory for where I've ended up— and with whom. And a question worth pondering. From your tales, this much is clear. At some point, you were seized by a sharp need that set your path. You achieve something, and then you fall into another dependency, pushing you toward a new goal— faster, without looking back. Familiar? What lies ahead? Answers, a different master, a leash? All at once? As I said, only what I can do about it matters… Try not to freeze to death in the mountains. After everything else, that would be foolish.
Morrigan froze, her gaze boring into his gray eyes. Each of his words fell into her consciousness like a stone into water, rippling outward in circles of doubt. The situation mirrored their first meeting— crookedly, as if seen in a warped glass— only now the roles were reversed. Morrigan felt more like the predator… Well, at least compared to the barely living warrior of the Chantry. And yet, beneath the mask of weariness and illness, she could discern no shadow of weakness or doubt. Perhaps irritation or even regret lurked there… But the main thing— in the man's eyes she read the same icy certainty as before.
— Why not ask your questions directly right now?
A weak movement, apparently meant as a shrug:
— Given the circumstances… how would I know if you're lying?
His breathing became ragged…
— Fine. Then another question. Do you feel pain?
The unexpected change of topic disconcerted the Seeker, reflected in both his gaze and his expression. Frowning slightly, he asked:
— What… prompts this interest?
Shaking her head with mild uncertainty, Morrigan clarified:
— Not everyone in your position would have survived. Let alone hold a conversation… But you— even wounded— ended two fights decisively. And you were ready to continue afterward.
She gestured as if to sum up, one eyebrow lifting in question. Letting out a long exhale, as if releasing the last of his strength, Tristan closed his eyes:
— Seekers… are not monsters. Though… depends whom you ask. The pain is with me even now… gnawing. But beneath it is willpower, forged. Not only… principles… rules… self-restraint. That too… but… also the trial of solitude… We are taught: the flesh betrays. It's its nature. Demons… have no such weakness. So we learn… to wall off our feelings, at least for a time. They remain… at a distance… of one heartbeat… as if belonging to another. The boundary is fragile… Press it… and it breaks. I've seen few fit for ordinary life— yet able to keep fighting even gutted. And there are the untalented ones… yet they've earned the respect of the head… of the Order.
— Unusually candid.
— What— do you feel… obliged?
His voice was already more like a whisper. She opened her mouth for a caustic reply, but realized— he was asleep. Or pretending. It didn't matter. Shrugging, Morrigan left without looking back…
* * *
Morrigan didn't simply vanish from Redcliffe Fort without a trace. First she went back to her apprentice. Only after she'd made sure Bethany's condition hadn't worsened did the witch have a word with Tralin. She told the templar she would be leaving, and made sure he would keep an eye on Bethany, Leliana, and, of course, Tristan. The warrior was sparing with his answers, preferring cool neutrality to a heated confrontation.
Next, the witch sought out Lady Isolde, who was wearily arguing with Bann Teagan. For some reason, Morrigan couldn't bring herself to leave without exchanging at least a few polite words with the lady of the house. And if the bann gave her only a measure of silent wariness, the news sent Isolde into quiet panic. Morrigan spent more time than she'd planned to settle the agitation and convince Isolde she would return. On sober reflection, they were empty promises— both for show and to herself. Yet, strangely enough, they were enough to give the exhausted mother the illusion of stability and control.
The preparations that followed were, in truth, outright theft. Moving quickly, shamelessly exploiting her growing notoriety, Morrigan "borrowed" what she needed, caring little about seeking the real owners rather than whoever happened to be watching. A warm riding coat and a well-worn fur hat— as if it mattered that her own warm clothes had barely left her shoulders since the "assault." Tack and a saddle. A dozen stale flatbreads, a couple of shriveled apples, and a hefty chunk of cheese just beginning to bloom with bluish-green mold. A sturdy short dagger, its handle worn smooth. And the real prize: a solid mare, for which she had to dodge questions again and again, smile charmingly, and once— overcoming irritation— describe the battle in the fortress courtyard in vivid detail.
Before her little performance raised an uproar, she walked out through the gates as if she belonged there, across the drawbridge. Leading the docile mare, Morrigan headed for the chantry without slowing.
Flushed from the brisk climb up the winding, snow-covered path, she raised a hand in greeting to the men stationed at the barricades. Their recent ordeal hadn't loosened its grip; it was still a fresh wound. Even so, she could tell by the sidelong glances and grim faces that the men were slowly letting go. Her confident stride and casualness worked like a silence spell. Morrigan tied the mare to a nearby overturned cart. Warming her hands with her breath, she slipped into the house where Leliana was huddled with the other wounded.
By the hearth at the back of the room, Leliana— still pale, but with her voice returned— was telling a story to six children. The youngest, huddled in a corner, looked like a frightened fledgling. Morrigan froze in the doorway, hesitant to break the spell. Firelight painted dancing shadows on the walls, and the children, holding their breath, hung on every word. But reality intruded: she had to be quick, and then be gone.
— Leliana…
Leliana broke off, drawing a soft murmur of protest from her young audience. Raising her hands in a placating gesture, the storyteller turned to Morrigan, revealing features still slightly swollen and streaked with dried greenish ointment that pulled at the skin. She nodded— small, a little stiff, as if she no longer quite trusted her old gestures— then addressed the children again. Without raising her voice a jot, she calmly explained that she would continue the story as soon as she could, but for now she had to speak with her friend.
After prying herself free of the youngsters, Leliana approached the witch, offering a lopsided half-smile.
— One awkward move— and here I am, while you're off dealing with all the troubles.
There was irony in her words, but Morrigan still winced at the bitterness she didn't quite manage to hide. Shaking her head, she objected:
— Don't blame yourself. Bethany plunged headfirst into the thick of it… and how did that end?
— She?..
— She's fine…
Morrigan shifted her gaze to the hearth fire, its reflections dancing in the dark gold of her eyes, and answered measuredly:
— Broken bones, bruises… She needs a healing mage.
— Wynne?
— Do you think another will be found?
Leliana nodded, still a little stiff. She studied Morrigan with a thoughtful look and, after a short pause, asked:
— Heading somewhere?
— Is it… that obvious?
— A new dagger. Your pack is fuller than before. And… you came to visit.
— Yes. I need…
Leliana tilted her head, seeking the witch's faltering gaze, and carefully— like someone stepping around snares— clarified:
— And yet, do you plan to return? For Bethany?
— The Seeker is no longer in my sights.
— I don't see that. And there's no commotion outside. You came from the fort alone. It's too calm for risky measures right now. That suggests a long leash… I'm not easily surprised— I know how loaded dice fall in skilled hands. But I'd wager the old control is gone. So— let's set Tristan aside for now.
Morrigan nodded, a faint smirk on her lips. Leliana nodded back.
— So, one of your… tasks? Like with the Hold?
— Something like that.
— Then why did you really come? To see that I'm on my feet? As you can see. But someone could have told you that. To ask me to watch over Bethany? I doubt it, given what happened… So— questions. Come on. Let me simplify. Packing won't take long, and then on the road you can ask whatever you want to know.
Holding up an open palm like a barrier, Morrigan tried to slow her friend's haste and explain the situation:
— No… Wait. Yes, the visit might look strange. And the fact that it looks strange, if you think about it, isn't good. But that doesn't mean I came without a purpose. If memory serves, people visit those they care about in person. And considering…
Morrigan pointed unambiguously at Leliana's face, then continued:
— We face a difficult trek through the foothills. Winter there may have already set in. No roads worth the name. And at the end— bloodshed. However much I wish… we must look at the facts soberly.
Folding her arms, Leliana asked:
— What's so scary about an empty Imperial Highway?
Her eyes flashed with challenge.
— If you mean the fever, there's nothing to fear anymore. The locals are well acquainted with fractures of all kinds— and old hunting wounds from beasts that took a man down days before he limped home. Though all that… — She repeated the gesture, gentler now so it wouldn't look like mockery. — …won't heal in a day. But beauty isn't my priority now. And I don't think you're heading to the foothills… on foot. I imagine you fear I'll become dead weight when you meant to travel light. However, in the saddle, my presence won't much affect our speed. As for the bloodshed… Does the route bypass settlements?
Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, Morrigan admitted honestly:
— No. There'll be one settlement. Listen. This is foolish. You can't hear yourself. Barely two days have passed since Tralin had you slung over his shoulder while the fever shook you. I won't pretend I'm not afraid you'll collapse mid-journey. And it's not about "dead weight." I am no healer. If it happens in the middle of some nameless mountain valley, days from help through snowfall, you will simply… cease to exist.
— Who talks of death like that: "cease to exist"…?
— Leliana, this sudden stubbornness… It's as if—
The witch fell silent mid-sentence, slowly closing her mouth as she peered into the glinting green eyes opposite her.
— You had a vision. Another "voice."
Leliana averted her gaze, then slowly lowered her head— wordless confirmation. Morrigan's fingers brushed her lips before she shook her head in bewilderment and went on:
— Let's assume. But how do you intend to justify this madness?
With an awkward snort— made awkward by the tightness of her healing face— Leliana answered:
— We'll see… Someone else would have ended this conversation. But you're curious about my arguments, aren't you?
— And?.. You want to say…
— I'll say this with confidence. It won't be easy for you to resist the question: "what exactly did she hear?" And then: "what did she believe, what did she doubt?"… And so on. A faint whisper of logic might murmur: "but she was delirious." However… Until the very moment you appeared here and your departure became obvious, I too struggled with disbelief. Now we both, albeit for different reasons, want to know: how is this possible? Besides… If I step back now, I wouldn't just be going against the "message"— I'd never settle that gnawing doubt. What about the settlement?
— The Fox… It's a lost place, long forgotten, and apparently no one wishes to disturb that order. Or there's no one left to. I meant to slip past. But you might try your luck and pay a visit. Only, I don't know if that's any safer than the planned bloodshed… Though who knows— perhaps you'll charm the recluses living there. Still…
— We'll talk on the road. Give me twenty minutes…
Morrigan cut in:
— Ten.
* * *
The mare advanced along the old Imperial Highway unhurried, but steady, saving the strength of her two riders. A crosswind worried at them through their double layers, sweeping in fierce gusts from the endless expanse of the lake. It scoured the stone road clear of snow— and made the ride, for the unaccustomed, nearly unbearable. The weather had turned foul an hour after their departure, a parting gift from Redcliffe Fort.
The highway arrowed straight toward the mighty mountain range, veering right only where the ancient builders had chosen. The shoreline to their right, by contrast, slowly receded, vanishing behind copses of trees, only to reappear without warning almost at their feet. The terrain climbed slowly, inexorably, and in those rare moments when bare cliffs dropped away a hundred paces from the road, a vista opened that seared itself into memory: the flat, white expanse below. Over several days, the icy surface ran to the horizon under a veil of snow. In a landscape rapidly losing its color, there was not a single sign of movement, nor any other trace of human presence.
The silence was broken only by the women's breathing and the mare's loud snorts.
The first words cut into the quiet not long before a faint smear of sinking sun, breaking through thinning clouds, lit the western peaks. By then, the wind had died down, replaced by a few stray flakes.
— At the next descent from the road, we turn off. We need to make camp.
— The night will be cold…
— Afraid?
But the question hung unanswered. Half an hour later, as twilight deepened into night, they found the descent. Dismounting, Morrigan carefully led the mare down ancient steps, choked with snow, into a pine grove. She chose a spot within sight: three large trunks grew from the foot of the embankment. The mage tied up the horse.
— Don't let her fill up on snow.
She handed her coat and gloves to Leliana and added, — If anything happens, shout. I'll be back soon.
Taking the hunting hatchet from the saddle— procured, along with the much-needed oats and tinderbox, by the silver-tongued Leliana just before their departure— Morrigan vanished into the forest. Moving silently through fresh snow was out of the question. In one place her boot sank completely into the white drift; in another it scraped at barely covered gray needles. Every other step produced a treacherous crunch. The sound was nothing like the dry, sharp crackle of a deep frost, but it would have been enough to spook any beast.
Soon, she returned to her chilled companion with an armful of branches, pinecones spilling loose. Dropping her load, Morrigan strode back to the Imperial Highway. She stopped above their campsite and cleared snow from the edge, then methodically began to chop branches from a nearby pine. The boughs that had grown right over the road had, over the years, reached the thickness of a wrist. After a good ten minutes, the steady blows gave way to Leliana's muttered curses as she tried to light a fire with fingers stiff and clumsy from the cold.
Though her breath plumed and her hat was long removed, Morrigan showed no sign that her work was done. She gathered stones from the vicinity— many of them once part of the highway— and arranged them on one side of the flames. Then the mage began digging a hole nearby in the frozen ground, half an ell deep and a pace across. Working by firelight, their only illumination now, she rolled the stones into the hole with a branch, efficient as a housekeeper. With this as a base, she began kicking snow into it, drawing a sharp hiss from the hot stones, angry crackling, and billows of steam, until she covered her work with snow. Satisfied that it was melting steadily, Morrigan led the mare closer, poured oats onto a patch of ground cleared by her boot, wiped sweat from her brow, and stood by the fire, gratefully accepting a hunk of warm cheese and a heated flatbread from her companion.
— You move like an experienced traveler. One who never left the Korcari Wilds. I cannot say I've spent months on end far from cities. In the northeastern part of Orlais, it's hard to imagine going a day's ride without reaching the next hamlet or at least some ramshackle roadside inn, shrewdly built by enterprising merchants in a good spot. Of course, I've been stranded in the middle of a forest for a day or two— less often for a week— but even then I usually traveled along streams, and only in the warm season. Ironically, most of my practical hunting likely came in snatches during my final years in Lothering.
The mage's yellow eyes glinted above the tongues of flame, and she murmured her agreement.
— M-hm…
Morrigan's lips barely twitched in a semblance of a smile. Seeing it was useless to ask about the obvious from this quarter, Leliana smoothed over the moment:
— It's no wonder those resettling in western Ferelden now prefer to build their villages away from the old highway. Those who've returned to these lands at all, that is.
— Our next stop is near a stream.
Sighing, Leliana only nodded in reply and met her companion's wolfish gaze. In the trembling firelight, it gleamed with an unnatural shine, as if it saw more than it should. Without looking, Morrigan shook some crumbs into the fire and said:
— You know… The forest doesn't frighten me. Darkness hides much. But ordinary wild beasts— a boar, a wolf pack, even a bear— I can kill any of them. With magic or bare hands. Hm. But the cold, that's another matter. I can understand you there. Brave words are easy to say by the hearth. It's different when you're already on the road. But even now, you haven't accepted what this means. You could leap onto the mare, hunch low against her withers, beat her flanks with your heels till dawn, and be back by a fireside. Provided the beast doesn't drop dead first. Tomorrow will be different. You cannot overcome the cold. You cannot outwit it. It's not like a demon. Cold is a boundless force without beginning or end, crushing life blindly and indifferently. Yet a little strength and knowledge can work wonders.
Shifting her grip on the hatchet, to the bard's astonishment the mage began to strip away a layer of soil between the fire and the highway embankment— roughly as long as the travelers were tall and two bodies across. As if digging graves, except the depth was again just under an ell. Grunting with effort and fatigue, Morrigan scraped fresh coals into the pit with a branch and replaced the soil. On top went a layer of fluffy pine boughs and the mage's own coat. Without inviting anyone into this strange bedchamber, the witch pulled on her hat and gloves and lay down as she was.
— Pull the thick ends of the branches toward the middle of the fire once they've burned through. Take off your outer layers to use as blankets, and sleep. We'll talk in the morning.
* * *
The next day surprised them with bright sun. It winked out of an azure sky, torn open and shut again by heavy cloudbanks that showed only their leaden undersides. The palette was so stark that one of the two seemed counterfeit. Their bodies were stiff with cold; each movement was an effort. Yet a thin wisp of smoke still rose from the dying fire— a reminder that time was slipping away.
Morrigan noticed how skillfully Leliana hid the mix of surprise and relief after the uncomfortable night. She read it in the careful looks her companion kept flicking toward the "bed," the fire pit, and the improvised water pit now sealed beneath a thin crust of ice. Leliana was committing it all to memory— what had been done, and how. And she was frowning. The dark-haired witch didn't have to strain to follow the train of thought that ran behind that bright hair: how much work had Morrigan spent making camp? Yesterday's cold hadn't had time to freeze the ground to stone. What would happen the next night?
After a quick meal, they were on the road again. Each day brought less daylight— they needed to cover as much ground as possible, and they couldn't afford to drive their only mount hard. At least the weather finally made conversation easy. And the first thing Leliana said was:
— You know what I thought? You should have taken two mares. Or even three.
Morrigan was silent for a full minute, choosing her words. At last she said,
— Suddenly you don't fancy walking home through winter?
— Not at all.
— Then let's give that busy mind something useful. Not long ago I overheard a conversation— Bann Teagan, a Seeker… the others don't matter. The point is this: Eamon, the elder brother— the arl, the master of the castle and the surrounding lands— took to his bed with a "sickness" about fifteen days before Ostagar. The uncertainties don't interest me. What does is the link. An elf was tracking the fugitive Jowan. And he was sent here to dose the arl. A link right under our noses. Who would need that— and have the means?
— Jowan… What of him?
— The Seeker left the mage's fate in my lap. I simply let him go. Yesterday the knights of Prete found a body at the bottom of a well under a mill. — Morrigan shrugged. — So far no one has found the time, the desire, or the strength to haul it up.
A grim cough from Leliana was the only response to the coldness of those words. Then the red-haired woman went on:
— To pull off what you described would take connections. Influence. Start at the beginning: you'd have to learn in time about a fugitive mage from the Circle. Looking back… when exactly did Uldred decide to act? After the return from Ostagar, correct?
— Hinting?
— Speculating.
— Hm… If you stitch together the scraps people tell… Those who rise high forget what it is to be young and afraid. They assume a young mage's greatest fear is the unbreakable leash— the invisible chain that runs into many hands. But boys and girls, in truth, fear dying in the Harrowing. Plainly. And that is where Uldred comes in. A kind word. Secrets. Promises. Power. Now you have a fugitive ready-made— one who "miraculously" escapes an island full of templars, mind you. And his leash ends up in only one set of hands: Uldred's.
— It sounds plausible. Now you need those who can outpace the templar hunters. Someone who knows these lands perfectly and can move like ghosts. The sort who could find the right person using landmarks two or three days out of date, accounting for the speed of a message sent by bird.
— Have someone in mind? And?..
— Why, of course. Elven partisan units. Ser Mac Tir— setting prejudice aside— recruited them from the alienages of Fereldan cities already taken by Orlais. Conditions there had become… worse. Without exaggeration. The Ser forged the survivors into loyal units of patriots— fanatical, disciplined— knowing no rules and no limits in guerrilla war. With the Warlord's tactical genius, they became a hidden blade, striking fast and deep at anyone who passed within reach. After the war those units vanished into obscurity. Rumor said the elves didn't go home at all, but were fed straight from the Ser's hand.
— It fits.
— Do you know the saying? If you stare at clouds long enough, you'll see whatever you wish.
Morrigan gave a soundless chuckle at the pointed remark and answered, with a hint of gratitude,
— I'll remember that. But you must admit— it's all a little too convenient.
— It does seem so. And the Ser just happens to have the status and the reach to use other hands— to convince Arl Eamon's wife to take a suspicious mage into her home as tutor to her son. The missing piece is—
— Who in Eamon and Isolde's inner circle is the traitor?
— Perhaps… But I have a different guess. No informants are needed, sitting right under the arl's nose— literally in his bedchamber. The lady of Redcliffe Fort herself could have played the villain's part. Unwittingly, of course. One mustn't forget: Warlord Mac Tir has a heroic reputation. And he belonged, heart and soul, to the father of the slain king. And many people forget, very easily: the son is not the father.
— In the end… why?
Leliana held the pause a moment, then asked cautiously:
— What is in those letters?
She put such weight on the question that it was clear what she meant: the royal correspondence. Morrigan answered with an almost imperceptible sigh. But when Leliana pressed close against her back and wrapped her arms around her waist, even such a trifle could not go unnoticed. After a moment— weighing the pros and cons— Morrigan asked:
— Are you sure?
Leliana loaded her counter-question with as much sarcasm as talent and long practice could manage:
— Are you seriously asking?
So be it. The King of Ferelden was corresponding with the Empress of Orlais. And in those letters— between the woman's barbs and the man's clumsy attempts at parrying— it is painfully easy to glimpse far-reaching plans: a union of persons, and a union in the broader sense. Though a military alliance was placed front and center.
After a brief pause, Leliana burst out, all at once:
— Ah, you vixen… Quelle bête rusée!
Morrigan's tone stayed dry:
— How disrespectful, toward your own Empress.
— You are wrong. On the contrary— my respect has reached new heights. Celene could have been a bard, and who knows… She is attractive. She knows how to present herself. And despite her youth, she is clever. Cunning. Extremely so. She came very close to the goal her ancestors bled themselves dry for— and without battles. Only with the tip of a pen. All the pieces were placed in advance. A young king desperate for glory worthy of his father. A country rumored to be ruled more by a stern queen than by a charismatic leader. No heir— and whispers of infertility clinging to the royal bed. On the other side of the Frostbacks, an empress facing desperate resistance: young, surrounded by nobility hungry for power, with other problems besides. They say conflicts were brewing even among her confidants. And… oh, Orlais. That woman would not have missed the first signs of the Blight. And where? In a country that— through political folly— had lost a full Grey Warden presence. The vixen, using her well-known methods, casts a line and… hooks the King of Ferelden. Flirtation. Wit. Promises of victories and glory. Peace forever, instead of renewed war. The king could pride himself as if he were playing one-on-one— yet there are more players at this table. The Chantry, for one. And that is a more precise answer to her strange politics in the southwest. This region remembers the occupation and spilled blood most sharply. Many lesser arls and banns here are from Mac Tir's faction. The only place that, it seems, was left untouched—
— The Arling of Redcliffe?
— Yes. The Arling. There had to be a reliable bridge for such correspondence somewhere. Arl Eamon is known as a principled supporter of the king— a loyalist to the dynasty. And behind him, figuratively speaking, lies a mountain pass and the highway. And in his wife…
Morrigan snapped her fingers.
— Isolde.
— The Empress calculated the Warlord with filigree precision. Feeling threatened, corroded by vile rumors, haunted by ghosts of the past, confronted by the king's stubborn silence— what was left for him? Destroy the royalist faction. Strip the king of support. Corner the boy. Gain control. A nobility divided, with the common folk already turning away in places: a wonderful arrangement. Then the Warlord predictably retreats after the first battle with the Blight, leaving countless villages and towns behind— effectively dooming them to ruin and a hungry winter— just to preserve his troops. And then, according to the agreement with the king, reinforcements from the Chantry and Orlais arrive at Redcliffe Fort in shining glory.
Morrigan drawled, thoughtful:
— Tristan…
But Leliana refused to be pulled off the line of thought, and finished in an icy voice:
— No one expected the king to be so foolish— to decide to show off before both Empress and Warlord. And so he "outwitted" them both.
— Hm… Who else was in the royalist faction?
— Let me think… At its head stood the other teyrn— Ser Bryce.
— The Couslands, who were "already swept from the board."
— Exactly… But there's no proof that—
— Oh, enough already.
— Ser Bryce is a living legend. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the Warlord in every decisive battle.
— On the battlefield, did the Warlord ever once put the personal before the necessary?
Leliana remained eloquently silent, and Morrigan added:
— Those records of the large weapons purchase, on the captured ship. You said then: they could be used to frame someone. The buyer was listed as a merchant from Highever— the port and ancestral seat of the Couslands. If the trail happened to cross my eyes, it would cross others' as well. After the fact, during an Orlesian "invasion"— what better justification for ruthless measures? Who's next?
Far gloomier than before, Leliana continued:
— The Arling of Denerim. The capital. Ser Urien Kendells— the king's closest advisor.
— He vanished without a trace, along with his patrol— just before Ostagar. As did Fergus Cousland. I was an unwilling witness to that news then. That's how it goes… A coincidence? — Morrigan gave a quiet chuckle. — They won't be found.
— The title will be inherited by his son, Bann Vaughan. He's for the king.
— I doubt that… But go on.
— The Arling of Edgehall. Ser Fergus Landon. An ancient house, but the arling itself… — Leliana waved a hand. — …is a shadow of its former self. Look to the left.
Morrigan let her gaze travel over the ancient coniferous forest rising up the slopes, dusted with the first snow. In the distance the firs were split apart, as if a rough river had cut through them, by crags scattered without pattern. The rocks, too, were furred with trees, and the far edge of the woods could no longer be seen from the highway. Majestic, severe lands: valleys cut deep, peaks thrust up into cloud, the world walled off behind stone.
— It's somewhere there. Once a source of iron, silver, and timber— the western bulwark. And today: pitiful remnants no one takes seriously. The arling took the first blow during the occupation. And it was liberated last. Retreating countrymen vented the bitterness of defeat there. Ser Fergus died of old age last spring, leaving no heir.
— What a coincidence. Who else?
— Of significant figures? No one. The rest are banns dependent— politically or economically— on their neighbors. And the others maintain neutrality in public, or side with Mac Tir's faction.
— So Loghain earns his reputation.
— Well, we don't know the whole picture yet. Two women riding an empty, snow-dusted highway are speculating. We may be holding important pieces of the puzzle— but far from all of them.
— You know… There's something more to this.
— What do you mean?
— The intrigues of the powerful. The movement of coin and force. Human folly and ambition. Even the Blight— merciless, indifferent— like an element, like winter cold. That's part of what you call the "picture." The canvas. But talking with Zibenkek…
Leliana cut in almost reflexively:
— With whom?
— It's… a demon, by whose will we're headed into the mountains. And— skipping the details— we have a deal. Perhaps it will help me rid myself of the Seeker's power. Perhaps not. There is bait, though. Knowledge. Answers.
— It sounds…
— Logic suggests what you're thinking now. Tristan also droned on about it. Strange concern… From feelings to facts. Zibenkek. Their perception, their behavior— it's fundamentally different from what one expects. They scarcely resemble demons. Imagine you're in a thicket: shrubs on every side, no sky, no way to climb, everything the same. An unknown beast passes by. You see only its legs. It points the way— and it's the right way. A miracle? Foresight? Or is the beast simply taller than the undergrowth, and it can see what you cannot? A marvelous word— allegory— somehow known to me. These beings can see farther than the thickets around us. They are not like you and I. Not like the Empress and the King, who've snatched power for a mere handful of winters.
The redhead winced, and Morrigan answered at once:
— Yes, yes, Leliana. That was a dig at you. Visions, revelations, bargains, curses. Players moving us like pieces— under duress, without our knowing— for a crumb of power or knowledge. Behind the Seekers' Order stands a powerful spirit, influencing them— subtly. Around each Circle, like a parasite, hovers a weaker spirit, assisting in the Harrowings. Zibenkek has woven an entire web around a whole world. How many such "persons" stand behind the curtain— seen or unseen— leaning on events?
Leliana waited a beat, then admitted honestly:
— It sounds… apocalyptic. Or insane. Troubling and—
— Stop fishing for adjectives. It's only frightening if you mean to push the universe— and your own mind— to the edge. You've lived many winters. You've tasted and endured much: the wondrous and the vile. The world is complex enough without pretending it cannot hide depths you haven't imagined. Tristan tried to drum into me— me!— something about choice and consequence.
Morrigan clicked her tongue, letting irritation show:
— But Zibenkek said it better— briefly, as if it cost them nothing. The stubborn drive to cross an unknown boundary doesn't just change what you see. It changes you with it. And in such a way that not a shred of what you were remains…
For ten minutes after that sentence— cut off as if mid-breath— they rode in silence, lost in their own thoughts, barely noticing the beauty around them. Wild nature, bristling with conifer crowns, cradled lake and mountains as it settled under the first snow. The air was crystalline, searing in the lungs. Only after that respite from words did Morrigan speak again, drawing a deep breath:
— Apologies. I drifted, and my thoughts ran too far ahead. Better to give weight to facts than to empty conjecture. And speaking of facts— here is what I wanted you to notice. We assume Loghain staged or supported the uprising at Kinloch Hold. It sounds logical; the timing fits. Had it succeeded, the Circle would have slipped from the Chantry's control— a precise, lethal blow to the heart of the Empress's plans. Exactly the Warlord's sort of thinking: only the result matters; consequences are tomorrow's problem. But instead— demons. The breach narrowly avoided becoming catastrophe because of outside intervention. The spirit linked to the Seekers' Order. Otherwise, what then? Loghain would have had no time for feuds and paranoia. Neither would the Empress. And Orzammar isn't so far away. Most importantly: everyone would have forgotten the Blight. But what happened instead? The spirit— and… me. Loghain's second strike, at Redcliffe Fort. Again: cold, masterful. It no longer feels as though the Empress calculated everything from start to finish. But the result? Demons. Tristan, by his own account, was where he needed to be by chance— drawn to Ferelden on personal business. If there had been no Seeker at hand, how would things have ended in the arling? Dead, blighted land. A breach for the Blight— opening a path to eastern Orlais, northern Ferelden, and… Orzammar. But again: him— and… me. For a moment it even seems— and this should appeal to you— as if the Maker's providence is pushing us forward.
Leliana answered readily:
— It sounds like a weighty "but."
— Yes… but. It isn't that simple— not a neat little set of pieces: the Blight, Ferelden, Orlais, and someone behind the scenes aiding the spawn of darkness, cleverly turning another's game on its head. What slips from view is what unites the two catastrophes. Control. If you look at it coldly— forgetting the collateral victims— the breach at the Hold would have created an army of the possessed. And the leash would have led to a single master. And the arling? A compliant army of possessed dead. Is there any force better suited to clash with the Blight? So it turns out we are not saviors, Leliana. Not at all. We are stones thrown by some clever manipulator— shattering other plans precisely when intended. And it seems our personal troubles share the same root.
— Um… If I can gather my words… Astounding. I admit, I never looked at events from that angle. Nor would I have. For the thought to even occur— to look for connections in that direction… If I entertain this for a moment. So there is a link between events that look random? Viewed from the right angle, the jumble becomes meaning? Suppose so. What does that give us?
— Knowledge. Who. When. Why. And from that: what to do. How to survive. Surely more events like the ones we lived through have happened before. We need to learn about them. What brought Tristan to Ferelden at just the right time? That— if we're lucky— we'll learn when we return. And what, and why, was erased from my memory.
— That's a lot for one conversation. Even for one day. I feel as if I'm drowning in this flood of conclusions— unpleasant, yet not without logic… Folie à deux… What exactly are we seeking on behalf of Zib… well, that creature?
— Ah. That's precisely the problem I mentioned before we left. In short: an urn of sacred ashes. But I wouldn't dare claim whose ashes they truly are.
A heavy silence fell. Morrigan even began to wonder if she'd pushed too hard, given her companion's peculiar faith— somehow coexisting with a sharp mind and a life scarcely compatible with Andrastian virtues. Then a sharp question, close to a cry, burst from Leliana:
— What?..