Chapter 25 - Chapter 25 - "Return"

As inexorable as time itself, Morrigan's party pressed on toward the Highway. With each hour, the column of Templars and the lady riding with them made its way lower, winding through the firs ever closer to a stream Morrigan knew well. The witch gave no reason to doubt her ability to keep pace, despite the deep snow that, in places, already reached her knees. All the while, she studied the people who, by some twist of fate, had been placed under her command. A sidelong glance at Leliana now and then suggested a similar interest.

Soon a lone "stone finger," pointing toward the heavens, loomed ahead. Rising not far from the lake, it served as an excellent landmark to any knowledgeable traveler.

At one point, as though she'd settled something privately, Leliana openly addressed Morrigan, striding beside her horse's flank. There were remnants of doubt in her voice—caution, and a hint of anticipation she tried to hide, even from herself:

— If, despite all the dangers, we're going to immerse ourselves in one of the darkest of pursuits, we should discuss the price.

A shadow flitted across Morrigan's face, twisting into a sinister smirk.

— I can't help noticing that, these past few days, the "price" of my every step has been troubling you. As though you'll have to pay it, not me.

Leliana briefly glanced at the spearmen, but Morrigan, ignoring the warning, continued:

— There's no point hiding behind euphemisms. Your skill is going to waste. These warriors are part of what's happening, as much as we are. And starting with petty secrets… a dubious move. They'd sooner hear about politics from you than from me. But to hint at the price…

The witch shot Leliana a sharp upward look and spelled it out:

— It's not so hard to guess what this is about.

Leliana, holding the reins in her good hand, shook her head, faintly puzzled:

— Admit it—it's strange to expect understanding…

— From one who is, essentially, a girl from the backwoods of the world?

— Precisely.

— Doubt is warranted. Let's test my discernment. The goal of politics is power. It's less a science than the art of ruling. Either there are no rules—or there are countless. And one must remember: the choice of tools changes both the result and the "politician" themselves. So "love" is better than spears, yet a love of spears is prized above all else. Oh, yes… and every weakness is an opportunity for an enemy. Strip away the clever words, and it's simply the survival of a lone hunter in a dark, unfamiliar forest.

Noticing the flicker of smiles on the faces of some of the younger spearmen, the bard nodded to her interlocutor and clarified:

— I'm probably already used to your oddities. Which, logically, should have put me on my guard. A wildling from the Korkari, on par with a bard from the capital of Orlais, holding forth on almost-philosophical subtleties of "politics." In any other situation, nothing could have convinced me otherwise: you'd be a wretched actress who can't hold her tongue. Fine. But have you considered that weakness isn't found only in you, but in your companions as well?

Chuckling, the witch patted the horse on the flank:

— Yes. Lately, such thoughts have often distracted me from other matters. Doubt is the shadow of those who can think. Speaking of which… earlier, the Seeker kept me on a short leash—tight, and in quite a hurry. Now Tristan is as weak as ever and full of fear. Yet he still craves answers. On top of that, he believes he needs a firm hand for an honest conversation. It's no wonder Tristan now tries to claim something important from me. So I wonder… is that why I let Naire go so easily? Or left the wounded Bethany behind? As I see it, those excuses are very much in the spirit of a bard. They smooth over the conscience just right. Appreciated? But here's the thing… you came with me alone. No one else. When you speak of your companions' weakness, worry about your own. What will Tristan treat as the weak point now?

— Did I mention that talking to you is sometimes like a conversation with a mirror?

Darkening for a moment, Morrigan replied thoughtfully:

— Perhaps it is. Especially if you believe the whisper in your own head. I told you how my… unusual experience ended. Now, when our ordeal is over, what will yours be?

Leliana nervously wet her lips, then immediately wiped the motion away with her knuckle, as if erasing the weakness. Staring straight ahead, no longer hiding her irritation, she asked again:

— Here and now?

— Of course.

— You reproach me—and you're the one who started the game?

— Oh?

Resisting the urge to meet her walking companion's gaze, the bard paused briefly and continued:

— Since we set out on the road—nothing. But… after you returned to the Refuge with the news, the silence turned from uneasy to comfortable.

— At that very moment?

— Yes.

— Curious.

— Oh… you have a theory.

Morrigan glanced at the boundless grey of the sky and protested, feigning offence:

— Why would I?

— Such a petty word game wouldn't suit you.

The witch slowly nodded and continued:

— Judging by what you repeated from those speeches, your one-sided interlocutor resembled a spirit of faith. Keep in mind there are far fewer of those than fear, hunger, or rage—rarer than most passions. Now we know of two of them. But the first stepped into our world when you were still heeding someone's voice. The other was clearly not interested in me. So we can speculate. The strange interlocutor didn't know the outcome until the moment came. Kept blind by another force, so as not to interfere? Not all-knowing?.. Or perhaps…

Leliana hastened to add:

— Or perhaps we cannot know everything all at once. As always, when we are guided by the Maker's will.

Morrigan merely clicked her tongue, cynical, and left the remark unanswered.

Yet in her own mind, the witch perceived what was happening as a spell assembled from runes laid layer upon layer atop one another. Only instead of runes, there were the plans of others. From the least to the greatest, each strained toward an end; each sought to gain something—or to flee from something. And those above left those below only the choices that served their own designs. And in place of "true light," that spell was fed, and set in motion, by time itself.

From the beginning, Leliana had been a piece in another's hand, and the choice left to the bard had been reduced to black and white: live or die. Until some event had moved her to see another path, to step out of that "simpler game." With her new knowledge of the world around her, Morrigan believed in providence far less than she once had. And though the witch was visited by moments of weakness, full of doubt, her opinion now was unequivocal: an alien will, building its own designs, had brought the bard together with Morrigan.

* * *

Over the past few days, the mountain lake's mirror-like surface had been sealed under an icy shroud, and then blanketed with fresh, white snow. It seemed to vanish—transformed into the valley floor itself, mesmerising in its undisturbed perfection. Morrigan, perhaps, had never seen anything that so clearly felt untouched—almost innocent.

Keeping to the shore, away from the fragile ice, the party made camp a hundred paces from where the lake's waters broke free of winter's grip in a stream still running, pushing on toward Calenhad.

Fluffy snowflakes settled lazily on the travellers' shoulders and on the tree branches, as if to warn of what lay ahead. Morrigan, ignoring the men's unspoken displeasure, went with them to gather firewood and pine boughs for bedding. Though she was outmatched in brute strength, within a quarter of an hour they were all gathered around a bright, crackling fire. The warmth quickly melted the snow falling from the gloomy sky, warming the travellers, their waterskins, and their meagre provisions. A couple of pointed remarks from Morrigan reminded the warriors there was no point trying to conceal their camp, and soon bright tongues of flame leapt skyward in a wild dance.

Once she'd eaten, Morrigan immediately turned to the matters she meant to address—early, and without softening them:

— Ahead lies the wider world. Each of you, in your own way, believes you understand what that means and how to deal with it. Simple truths serve you well. Honesty, duty, and faith protect. A sharp eye, a steady hand, and a comrade's solid back behind you—what more could one need? It won't be.

Meeting their tense, watchful gazes without flinching, the witch continued:

— Let us forget pretence. Some of you believe. Others doubt. Someone watches my every step, to reassure himself—ah yes—how cleverly the foreign woman has wrapped everyone around her little finger. I understand. If you doubt, go to my companion. Leliana believes in the Maker's will, and she has spent much time in one of the Chantry's Temples, which holds sway over much of the known world. From that well you can draw both a new light on familiar things and familiar verses from the Chant of Light. And if that is too much for you, take your questions to those among your brothers whose faith is strong. The rest of you—stay vigilant. And remember: though you must think with your own head, if nothing answers inside you, you are in the minority. Nothing will keep your life from being cut short. And there will be no excuse for betrayal.

Some of the warriors—mostly those who had ended up at the Refuge during what happened at the mountain Temple—exchanged thoughtful glances. But not one showed fear or tension. A quick look at Leliana, seated so she could see part of the circle across the fire, told the witch Leliana, too, had noticed nothing worth remarking on.

— Now, as to what awaits us. What does a wise hunter do, setting foot for the first time in an unfamiliar forest?

For a moment, no one spoke, as though all were waiting for her to continue. The first to realise she truly expected an answer was a younger spearman, who said, plain and steady:

— He lies low and watches everything around him. How the forest breathes, what lives in it. Who hunts there—and whether someone is already on his trail.

Morrigan snapped her fingers, confirming that this was what she had been waiting for:

— Precisely. So we shall do. Upon reaching the Highway, we will go from big fish in a river to small fish in a lake— in look and in truth. This new forest is unfamiliar to us. For most of those we will meet, the world has been painted differently since childhood. It's no fault of theirs.

The witch exhaled a small cloud of breath and went on:

— You won't convince anyone overnight. Especially those who doubt… or those who only seek confirmation of their distrust. To others you'll look like familiar birds—at least at first glance. Let them call you hens, let them call you roosters—do not argue. Keep your eyes open, but speak only among yourselves. If you have questions—

The witch indicated her companion with a nod:

— Turn to Leliana. Everyone you meet, whether predator or prey, is dangerous—poisoned, or carrying ideas that will devour you alive from within. Most important: not a word about the Temple in the mountains, about the last abode of Andraste, or the Bride reborn in mortal flesh. There is no Chosen woman here. Only two weak but noble ladies, placed in your care. To be escorted safely to Redcliffe Fort. One is gentler; she injured her hand while hunting. And the bitch you can barely stand.

These words earned a few restrained smirks from the younger warriors, which they immediately tried to hide. Even the grim veterans couldn't quite help themselves—a spark of amusement flickered in their eyes. Morrigan's gaze, her golden pupils catching the firelight, moved slowly around the circle and lingered for a moment on Schtille. With a nod to the man, she ended the exchange, leaving no doubt as to who led—and who followed.

* * *

Slowly, inexorably, winter was subduing the waters of the small river, locking the banks in the cold's embrace. Ice crystals, as if woven of needle-fine strands, gathered around the stones and in the shallows, hour by hour, shifting their intricate forms. In the quiet backwaters, the ice broke and overlapped like fish scales, and at the river's sharp bends, mysterious rings of ice, as if made by some unknown mage, turned slowly on the surface above the eddies.

Despite the snowfalls that swept in again and again, the party made steady progress, helping one another skilfully at the same places where, only recently, Morrigan and Leliana had pushed through brief moments of uncertainty together. The steady descent made them feel lighter, as though the old weariness had been nothing more than a bad dream.

The descent took the same two days the young women had needed for the ascent. And after long days of foul weather, the clouds finally tore apart, letting through pale rays of sunlight. In that light, the ancient bridge of the Imperial Highway caught the sun—its dark silhouette looming over the river, whose waters, though bound by ice, continued to murmur beneath it. The metallic tang of the frosty air had finally mingled with the heavy scent of pine. Shielding her eyes from the winter sun as it slipped behind cloud and reappeared, Morrigan frowned. Her muttering was barely audible:

— A blizzard would have been better. A clear sky is completely out of place…

Less than fifteen minutes later, Schtille, walking second, clapped the lead man on the shoulder. The man had scarcely said a dozen words over the entire trek. Now, too, he only pointed in silence to the right of the bridge: a thin wisp of smoke, and patches of white canvas among the snow-capped pines. An unfamiliar camp lay higher up the slope, under the Highway's shelter, where the wind lost its fury. Though Lake Calenhad was large enough to raise winds of its own, an easterly that had come from far away had not let up in recent days. It seemed not content merely to drive heavy clouds westward and lash the travellers with hard grains of snow—it also crept along the ground itself, howling in the crevices of the rocks.

Morrigan and Leliana felt the weight of glances—the warriors, in silence, acknowledged that the witch's warning had come true. But Morrigan only squeezed the leader's shoulder in gratitude and, with a slight nod, motioned for him to take the lead, as they had agreed. Over the two days, she had forced herself to ignore Schtille's gaze and sombre expression, focusing only on the experienced hunter's hands and actions.

A dozen paces later, one of the older men said so softly it was almost lost:

— Fresh meat on the coals—newcomers.

Schtille nodded and added hoarsely:

— So they've been waiting.

Leliana, leading the pack animal, swept the treeline with a glance before voicing her thought:

— We are being watched.

Morrigan grinned, restrained, and agreed:

— To hunt well here, they'd need archers riding with the patrol. But you can't sit among the branches for long in this cold. That's why the birds have fallen silent.

The moment the party started up the slope, several figures emerged from among the trees. Identical thick jackets; fur cloaks with hoods—everything sewn to keep the cold from reaching the body even after long hours in the saddle. Scabbards at their hips. And when one of them turned to signal someone back in camp, Morrigan's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of simple embroidery on the heavy, dark fabric: an upturned white sword. The word slipped out before she meant it, cold and keen as a blade:

— Templars…

* * *

Against Morrigan's expectations, the party camped by the Highway proved unexpectedly varied.

There were six Templars—solidly built warriors with cold, direct eyes that seemed to look past flesh and bone into some unreachable distance. Though they wore light armour, Morrigan recognised them at once as keepers of the Circle, the kind she had seen before. They looked more like guards than zealots. They did not carry that dangerous resolve—tainted by guilt, ambition, or the promise of redemption from on high. Not a single one of them had the air of a man accustomed to killing for a "higher purpose."

The other eight—archers, by the look of them—emerged from among the trees to meet them. Grey Wardens, surprisingly. And each of them carried a story of their own: a brigand, a rogue, a minor aristocrat, a mercenary… Morrigan did not waste time weighing them one by one; she noted the main point. Despite the variety of backgrounds—mixed ages, men and women alike—there was no undercurrent of tension between them. On the contrary, the Wardens moved with surprising unity. It was the Templars who looked out of place in that mosaic.

At a glance, one thing was clear: though most wore the typical Orlesian profile, with its prominent nose, it was among the Wardens that there were a couple of unmistakably Fereldan faces.

Raising an eyebrow, Morrigan flicked a glance at Leliana. Comparing her own party with the larger group, the witch judged the situation to her advantage. The bard, however, was in no hurry to draw conclusions, shaking her head almost imperceptibly in doubt.

The leaders found each other without difficulty among the faces. Schtille nodded curtly and waited, like a mountain crag—unyielding and cold. The Grey Warden—silver at his temples, several days' stubble, clearly the one in charge—worked his jaw as if weighing his words, and said dryly, without an Orlesian accent:

— Riordan.

The man leading the Templars shot him a gloomy look and replied just as briefly:

— Schtille.

Riordan was Fereldan not just in looks; he spoke the language of that land fluently:

— To business. Clearly, our meeting is no coincidence.

Genuine, tightly reined irritation broke through his voice:

— The letter that reached us on the road contained simple instructions. To wait about a week for the arrival of two ladies at this very spot, to escort them to Redcliffe Fort.

Schtille nodded and commented dryly:

— Hard luck.

Riordan frowned:

— Pardon?

Schtille returned, impassive:

— For what?

After the briefest pause, the elder of the party continued:

— I merely observed that luck isn't with you. You see? We are already escorting the ladies to… Redcliffe Fort. You can wait for others, but you'll wait in vain.

The highlander shrugged. Nothing in him betrayed that his words had contained open mockery. Riordan winced and swept his comrades with a quick glance, as if reining them in before any ill-timed display of emotion:

— Yes. Well… fate is a curious thing. It's unlikely any other noble ladies will appear in these parts soon. Am I correct in understanding that you will not hand over your charge to us?

Schtille inclined his head slightly, and held Riordan's gaze—steady, and edged with a readiness to draw blood. Riordan heaved a heavy sigh, nodded as well, and went on:

— So be it. We'll reach Redcliffe Fort together. The only obstacle is that you're on foot.

At these words, the Grey Warden glanced at Leliana, as if assuming the lady with the pack animal must outrank the rest—and might prefer speed. But, of course, Leliana answered him only with silence and a flicker of confusion. The Templars stood like stone idols, while the Grey Wardens shifted from foot to foot, trading quiet jokes.

Just then, from behind a tent at Riordan's back, another archer glided out—at first not much different from the others. But Morrigan's sharp eye caught it at once: unlike the rest, this woman wore no griffin emblem at all—neither embroidered on her clothing nor hanging at her throat. And her movements were less utilitarian, more graceful.

She came to Riordan's right, a half-step behind, whispered something beyond earshot, then pushed back her hood. An Orlesian—flawless, as if she'd stepped out of a court portrait. The thick winter clothing made it hard to judge her age; she might have been thirty, forty—or older still. To the witch, she stood out too much, too conspicuously singled out in such a gathering. More: she was a brunette with dark eyes that gave away neither emotion nor intent. Morrigan swore inwardly at the sight. Leliana had frozen, pale as snow, her lips pressed together so tightly they seemed ready to split from the strain. All of her attention was fixed on the newcomer. And the woman, having spotted Leliana in turn, merely lifted one eyebrow; her lips twitched in an elusive smirk—more a flash of teeth than amusement.

Receiving no answer to the feeler he'd tossed out, Riordan gave Morrigan a thoughtful look. It seemed to her he was running through the scant details in the note. Morrigan wondered how many compromising particulars Tristan had dared to commit to paper. She would have bet he'd kept to the bare minimum. To get what he wanted, Tristan did not hesitate to use his position—and he knew exactly how to set other people's fears and prejudices alight.

Schooling her expression, Morrigan—very much in the manner of a well-bred lady—could not sustain the Grey Warden's direct stare. She lowered her eyes to her boots. Riordan, finished with his silent calculations, spoke again:

— It's settled. Make camp—we'll share provisions. In a couple of hours, we'll be ready to set out.

* * *

The Templars had positioned themselves a short distance from the main camp—just far enough to keep a gap of fifteen metres that, try as one might, no one could ignore. Though the men had grown accustomed to the witch taking part in camp chores alongside everyone else, this time she did otherwise.

Completely ignoring the organised bustle, Morrigan stood by the pine closest to the kindled fire and rolled a lump of resin between her fingers as it slowly softened. Its faint scent, like a memory of summer, hung in the cold air while Morrigan watched Leliana without looking away. Her companion's nervousness raised an unpleasant sense of an approaching threat—one Morrigan couldn't yet name, let alone head off.

Her cheek twitching with irritation, the witch walked decisively over to the bard and announced in a deliberately calm voice:

— Talk.

Leliana, who had been staring toward the other camp, winced and, closing her eyes, rubbed the bridge of her nose.

— The past. Sometimes you think you've managed to slip free of the shadows behind you. But that's only self-deception, isn't it?

— I'd like to believe otherwise. But get to the point.

She clicked her tongue and gave a short nod.

— Yes. You've… guessed, I imagine: people don't become bards on a whim. Each of us has someone who made us. A mentor—or a mistress. I'm no exception… Once, in a half-forgotten time, I was a young girl who had seen little, known little, experienced little. A blank slate. On that unremarkable day, a naïve girl was taken in by another's charm—the stranger's sharp mind, impeccable manners, and caustic wit captivated her. An inevitable outcome, like a stone sliding down a steep slope. And really, how much skill does it take to fog a fool's mind? Two or three years later, the diligent pupil already imitated the woman she idolised in everything, giving herself entirely to her new craft. Those times…

Leliana squeezed her eyes shut again, and her whisper turned into a moan:

— Those days still burn in my memory… It's nearly impossible to forget the past, no matter how hard I try.

She went on louder, slipping back into memory:

— Balls where whispers behind your back meant more than shouts… Dresses concealing daggers. Intrigues leaving ruined fates in their wake… And always—those looks: admiring, greedy, hungry. Nights that intoxicated you with the scent of roses, candles, sweat, and desperate coupling… Lives taken. Death at an arrow's tip, a blade's edge, or in a drop of poison. The girl who became me walked that path with passion, without doubt. The sharpness and novelty were intoxicating. But above it all, always, was my mistress's approval. Remember—back on that captured ship—you hit the mark at once with one offhand remark about my fate. Yes, it was all for her… I suppose I was good. And too unrestrained. In the end… I don't think it happened overnight. I simply couldn't see how, behind the confidence, pride, and care in my mistress's gaze, wariness began to seep in. Then fear. And finally: resolve. My commissions grew uglier—merciless. Until… they ended with a cruel… joke. I "stumbled." And she struck. A miracle, providence, blind luck… something like that, and the unexpected kindness of a stranger, saved me. Literally and figuratively.

Without taking her eyes off Leliana, Morrigan asked quietly:

— She's here. In this camp…?

— Marjolaine. The mistress who shaped the me you know. And then tried to kill me—nearly succeeding. Except for that one misstep, she always saw things through to the end. And she never left alive anyone who knew what she was. I never managed to surpass her skill.

— I see. Fear… How curious. Was she afraid of you? Or that you would eclipse her deeds?

Leliana shrugged.

— I've had ample time to think about what happened. Your guesses are fair. Though in the end, it's usually more complicated. But the starting point could be called a fatal flaw—the poison that taints any bard who dances too long to the grim music of Orlesian aristocracy: paranoia, an inability to trust, a deep conviction in the inevitable victory of cruelty, greed, and betrayal.

Pursing her lips in disapproval, the witch spoke bluntly:

— In one thing you've truly achieved mastery—tormenting yourself. No doubt, over time, you've wondered whether the fear you could see on the surface wasn't the whole of it. What if Marjolaine was afraid of watching you stride toward a bleak end, steeped in that same poison? Death—that was the only way a mind corrupted by such a life could imagine saving your purity. And what a contrast with the one who gave you hope. It cuts deep… An interesting story. One thought won't let me rest… No. You've examined the role played by your villain from every angle. You've analysed every step, weighed every detail of the scene, and remembered forever where you stumbled.

Leliana froze, then slowly turned to Morrigan, as if afraid to scare off her own dawning realisations:

— Your hint… I don't quite understand.

— Don't be modest. You don't want to understand. And it's no wonder you lose perspective in the middle of a storm instead of watching it from afar. First: Marjolaine couldn't have known your whereabouts in Ferelden for certain.

— Mmm… If she was deliberately searching for me…

— Of course. Her people would have tracked you down in Lothering, too—eventually. With a few assumptions. Second: the Seeker, who lived in Kirkwall for many years, couldn't possibly have known what role one Orlesian bard played in another's life. But he could have figured out how to counter your tricks. Find one bard to pit against another. That's why, I suspect, Marjolaine wasn't originally part of this party at all. And Riordan's story about an order that caught up with them on the road is, at best, a half-truth. The whole party was cobbled together hastily.

— I agree.

Leliana closed her eyes, exhaling a cloud of breath:

— It all fits…

— Third: why would Marjolaine come to Ferelden in person? You portrayed her not as a performer, but as the one who pulled the strings. But say an army is on the march, and part of the aristocracy trails along—out of necessity or for glory. For her, the desirable and the necessary coincided. Fourth… what does she even want with you?

Leliana frowned, about to object, but stopped mid-word. Shaking her head and raising an eyebrow, she stared at Morrigan, silently waiting for the argument.

— Be more cynical—and more self-critical. You were utterly defeated. And you escaped. But where? To an eternally wet, cold, dog-reeking land of barbarians, with no politics, no culture, no decent food.

— You sound—exactly like her. Though many have spoken of Ferelden that way. Out of foolishness, in anger, or from hatred.

— Is it worth the effort to track you down in this backwater?

— Perhaps I want to believe I'm important enough to Marjolaine for her to keep pursuing me?

— Everyone wants to see their own reflection in another's eyes. Even if that reflection sometimes frightens us. And it happens… one look is enough to make you want to tear your own eyes out… One more effort. Alright? Marjolaine shaped you. From start to finish—your words. For all your successes, you never became her equal. And you describe this bard as calculating, cold, flawless. How, then, did you become her sole failure?

Leliana shook her head uncertainly, agreeing as if against her will:

— There's logic in your words. Relentlessly consistent. Looking at the bigger picture, I really have been extraordinarily lucky again and again. Nothing but that—and unexpected intervention from outside—can explain my salvation. So you're saying not just part of what happened, but everything, from beginning to end, could have gone exactly as she planned. Why?..

— Am I supposed to answer that? Either Marjolaine is a virtuoso—merciless, paranoid, a bitch—and since we're both here, you've surpassed her in every way. Or… Marjolaine's mask remained impenetrable. What, then, did she want?..

A suffocating silence hung heavy between them, broken only by the crackle of the low fire nearby and the bustle of the two camps. The witch waited, while Leliana frowned, her gaze wandering among the trees toward the neighbouring camp. After three agonising minutes, the silence was shattered by a hoarse, ragged whisper:

— Then… she wanted me to believe in the virtuoso, merciless, paranoid bitch. To rid myself of admiration, gratitude—of… of my "weaknesses." Of my only attachments. So that the bard's mask would become my face. A perfect, complete creation.

Morrigan nervously dragged her fingers across her temple, leaving reddish streaks on her pale skin, and lifted her gaze from her companion to the treetops above:

— A flawless conclusion. But… again, it's the mask that's emerged, not the face hidden behind it. Personal feelings confuse you, cloud your sight.

Another long minute passed before Leliana's eyes darkened and returned to the witch, and she spoke with effort:

— You're nudging me toward the thought that, having slipped from the deadly grip of a superior opponent, I failed in an entirely different game—one I didn't even notice?

Morrigan held her companion's expectant gaze, and Leliana continued:

— Marjolaine didn't just want to teach me one last cruel lesson by turning into a hated enemy. She wanted to seal the fresh wound with her own death and my victory—immediately. And instead of the crescendo—the killing blow—having wounded her, I ran. I was blinded by cruelty, shaken by betrayal, burned with a thirst for revenge, fear, resentment; I clung, cautiously, to the thought my mistress had gone mad… And only your twisted imagination could lead me to consider Marjolaine's reversed motives, her readiness to sacrifice herself. Is that what you're trying to explain—by her eagerness to find me in these parts, in person, to push me to finish what was once begun?

— Yes. And that means, if that's true, there's no need to worry too much.

— Your sense of humour is terrible, Morrigan.

— No jokes.

* * *

Since the start of their shared journey, the capricious winter sky had cleared only once, letting the sun sink behind the mountains and leaving the heavens to the stars. A young moon had been born the previous night, and its slender crescent barely drew the eye, slipping in and out among the dark shreds of cloud. Even that perilous winter night drew to a close, and the sky flushed with colours that fooled the eye.

The riders who had met the Templars split into three groups. A pair of Grey Wardens trailed far behind, bringing up the rear of this unusual "caravan." Most rode ahead—about a hundred paces off. Only the Templars, by contrast, moved just ahead of those on foot, as if they needed to display both protection and superiority. Morrigan judged that her people—whether surprised by what was happening or stung by sidelong looks—kept their feelings strictly to themselves. Both the seasoned hunters and the younger ones marched steadily, as if they had never left the highlands.

With less than fifteen minutes to sunset, Leliana, swaying rhythmically in the saddle, tapped Morrigan's shoulder. The wind drove lead-heavy clouds, threatening fresh snow. Along the eastern horizon, the incredible peaks of those giants were tinted a tender pink by the sinking sun. That same wind, as if on cue, snatched up any stray word and carried it off—straight into the forest on the right, already sinking into twilight. If anyone could have overheard an incautious conversation there, it would have been wolves. And even so, the bard spoke barely above a whisper:

— Our "legend," and that simple little "performance," are quite good enough for the Wardens or the Templars. But with Marjolaine on our heels… expect trouble.

Drawing a deep breath of frosty air, the dark-haired girl walking beside the horse scanned the Templars' backs ahead. The riders were huddling in their saddles, trying to shield themselves from the icy gusts. For now, they needn't worry.

— Perhaps… we've drawn an unknown.

Leliana nodded, developing the thought:

— I suspect none of them know anything substantial about us. As if we're nothing but what we look like. The Grey Wardens can hardly pass for seasoned actors. Riordan… well, maybe. But no—he's a pragmatist. Too much grey, and little else. The Templars…

Morrigan smirked.

— No great wit among them—nor in their spears.

— So, besides what she's seen, Marjolaine has no other facts. At the same time, I imagine my mistress has already noticed my… weakness. And if your idea is close to the truth, she's begun looking for a way to finish our story properly. If that's true, a simple fight won't do. She'd have to lose too plainly… I think… I shouldn't have ridden on horseback. Of us, Marjolaine knows only me. And I'd wager she's assumed I'm in charge. You and the rest—mercenaries, or something of the sort. Which leaves only one thing.

— True enough.

Leliana nodded, urging Morrigan to continue:

— Confusion, chaos, and doubt. So that, contrary to orders, weapons might be turned on you… The Grey Wardens are cynical and composed; you won't rattle them quickly. The vulnerable point is the Templars. I'd wager my mistress knows every weakness of the faithful. In a day or two she'll play them like instruments. Ironic…

Leliana suppressed a smile and asked with feigned gloom:

— You mean that, with you at my side, I might be the first condemned for forbidden sorcery?

— My fault lies only in this: without a proper demonstration, in these clothes I hardly look like a witch. However… time is against us. Were you my enemy, you'd lose sleep. You know too many ways to kill, and magic is by no means omnipotent. The Highway, winter, Riordan's orders, and the fact that these are Wardens—not common Orlesian thugs—all work in our favour. Good thing Marjolaine needs a concrete result, not a couple of corpses by dawn. Ideas?

The bard leaned down from the saddle, and with her injured hand unexpectedly gently adjusted a stray black lock of her companion's hair. Then, in a harsher voice, she warned:

— You speak prettily. But you don't fool me. You crave a swift resolution—victory, taken by force. Oh… and that look in your eyes? Will you deny it? Channel your indignation into something useful. Your warped sense of risk, your lack of self-preservation—we've discussed them more than once. What isn't to Marjolaine's advantage now, she'll soon turn into an advantage. And a direct clash—she couldn't have failed to consider it. It would be a bloodbath. In that, you would undoubtedly shine, drawing the attention of those ardent men with the sword emblem. And whatever victory might be born of it, it would do you no good at all. Right now, I have no idea how to outplay my mistress.

Morrigan's gaze shifted from Leliana to the last glimmers of sun among the icy caps of the mountain range, then fell upon a Templar walking three paces to her right. Under her sharp gaze, the hunter turned to the Chosen woman with a silent question.

— That archer—the one we call Marjolaine. When we make camp tonight, does she go hunting?

The man pondered, then rasped:

— The Snake?

Without turning her head, Leliana gave an approving hum—the nickname truly hit the mark. Morrigan nodded, and the Templar continued:

— Yes. She, and a couple of other archers. They hunt in pairs. The Snake—always alone.

Morrigan heard the note of professional respect in his voice and returned a restrained nod, acknowledging this rare sincerity. Turning back to Leliana, Morrigan returned to their earlier thread:

— About what we said. You judge fairly. But you know, I try to understand and explain all my impulses. Other people's attention. The need to leave an indelible impression. At times… the faint smoke above a dying candle can be mesmerising. I'll manage without excessive bloodshed…

Leliana cast a look of suspicion at her friend and, carefully choosing her words, asked:

— You're contemplating a duel?

Her voice still came out sharper than she had intended, and the fingers of her good hand tightened on the reins. Morrigan only shook her head ambiguously, leaving room for interpretation. Leliana pressed her lips together, understanding there would be no direct answer.

— You think Marjolaine hasn't considered such a thing?

— Hardly. I have no illusions about who's smarter, more experienced, or more cunning. So be it. A clever opponent is often blind to simplicity—and a lack of knowledge only worsens it. Tell me: what would be an irresistible temptation for such a woman?

Morrigan's voice grew quieter, more dangerous:

— Only a meeting with you. Eye to eye. Alone… That's our whole plan.

* * *

That evening and night, the women did not let their guard down, searching from time to time for a particular silhouette in the other camp's firelight. Marjolaine moved through the Grey Wardens' camp with ease, gliding among the weary warriors as if a long day in the saddle had left no trace of fatigue in her. Now and then she paused beside one Templar or another. But in the end, she never once looked toward the highlanders—nor toward Leliana and Morrigan.

The two parties, as before, did not mingle—like oil and water thrown together by a foolish whim. The Grey Wardens broached provisions only once, hoping to establish some contact. Met with grim silence, they let it drop, and did not trouble themselves further with attempts at common ground.

On provisions, the Wardens' saddlebags clearly held a supply of dried meat and hardtack, while Morrigan's party had relied from the start on hunting each night. Yet, judging by the scents drifting from the two fires, they seemed to prefer fresh meat to hardtack. But you couldn't simply leave the Highway wherever you pleased. The Templars managed it with ease, slipping silently down the steep slope and vanishing into the darkness of the western forest like shadows—then returning the same way, quietly, with game and firewood. The Wardens, by comparison, had to manage both descent and ascent far more carefully, tying down several strong ropes…

That night, Morrigan set her hunters the task: to bring back three times as much game. At any cost.

The next morning, to Morrigan's undisguised relief, the icy blue sky and the sharp glare of the sun were blotted out by dense grey cloud. And the surplus from the night's hunt was lashed to Leliana's saddle.

When they formed up, both parties set out. However, the women walking at the centre of the brisk Templar formation didn't exchange a word, their gazes fixed on the horizon or the tips of their boots, each lost in her own thoughts. Only golden eyes beneath the rider's hood occasionally drilled into the Templars' backs.

* * *

Without lowering her hood, Morrigan stood motionless by an old pine, turning blackened beads of resin between her fingers. On the other side the mare waited, meek and still, eyes dull—tethered by the reins to the last dead stub of a branch, thick as an arm.

Apart from the breath of two living creatures, the silence held. Only the faintest rustle, the slow creak of treetops swaying— as if the forest itself slept. It was easy to believe the whole world had frozen, save for the clouds forever hurrying into the distance.

Until an arrow cut the silence with a soft whistle and struck the pine three or four finger-widths from the edge of her hood. The fletching quivered.

A calm, utterly cynical voice said from the trees:

— Always satisfying to be right. Though you'd hardly have lived long enough to learn you'd been wrong.

Morrigan didn't flinch. She didn't even look at the arrow.

— Who are you? she called.

— Curiosity is a vice.

Before the last word left the woman's mouth, Morrigan spun and charged straight toward the sound. Snow burst under her boots. Behind her remained only a churned patch of white—and two drops of blood.

A second arrow met her mid-stride.

It punched through wool and leather and drove into the meat below her left collarbone. The impact stole her breath and buckled her for half a step. She snarled, clenched her teeth, and ripped the shaft free. Blood sprayed—dark and hot against the snow—as the arrow fell from her fingers. Morrigan was already moving again, faster, angrier.

A third shot hissed past her face. She snapped her head aside; the head skimmed her cheekbone, tore past her temple, and vanished into the trees behind.

Two breaths. No more.

Morrigan flashed past a trunk and came upon Marjolaine rising from one knee. No quiver—arrows stood stuck upright in the snow at her side like stakes. In her hands were two downward-curved blades, already poised. Dark brown eyes, calm and set.

Morrigan's left arm whipped forward. A short knife—hidden in her fist until that instant—spun end over end toward Marjolaine's throat.

At the same time she kicked up a fan of powdery snow straight into the woman's face.

Marjolaine knocked the spinning blade aside and blinked against the sting—only an instant. Then she came in, exploding into a lightning-fast series of thrusts. Each one meant to end it.

Morrigan met steel with steel. She gave ground in half-steps, bending and slipping so the blades caught only cloth, turning slashes aside with short, ugly counters that forced Marjolaine to keep moving. Twice she avoided sweeps hidden in the drifting snow. Then she lunged, reaching for Marjolaine's left wrist.

Marjolaine moved like a snake. Her blade flicked, changed line, slipped around Morrigan's guard—and sank into her forearm.

A flare of triumph lit Morrigan's crimson-gold eyes. Before Marjolaine could draw and strike again, Morrigan clamped her right hand around the hilt and twisted hard, stepping in. At the same time her right leg whipped toward Marjolaine's knee.

Marjolaine dodged the kick—but the twist tore the weapon from her fingers.

The blade spun wildly and vanished among the trees.

For two long heartbeats the rhythm broke. The witch's defence—barely keeping pace a moment ago—turned into a furious onslaught. Elbows, knuckles, the heel of a palm; short cuts aimed at wrists and throat. Not elegant. Effective. Enough to throw the bard off.

Then Marjolaine's remaining blade flashed up at Morrigan's throat.

Morrigan recoiled too late. The steel kissed skin. She staggered, and the suddenness of it spoke more plainly than words: she hadn't seen that line coming.

A sweep cut her legs out.

She hit the snow hard. Marjolaine drove the toe of her boot into Morrigan's stomach and dropped in to finish her—blade angling down for a clean, gutting end.

At the last instant, instinct made Marjolaine pull back.

Hands flung up would not have stopped the strike. And yet—

Morrigan was already on her feet again, moving through the gap Marjolaine had given her. A strange, involuntary sound escaped the bard:

— Crow?..

Baring her teeth, Morrigan spat back:

— Dewan!

Confusion was a crack. Morrigan drove into it.

She lunged—yet didn't strike.

Instead she seized the knife Marjolaine thrust out reflexively to guard herself, gripping the blade barehanded. Blood sheeted over Morrigan's palm. In the span of a single, gasping breath she twisted the weapon at a brutal angle, locking it in place as if in a sheath of flesh and bone. At the same time her left hand snapped up and hammered into the bend of Marjolaine's elbow.

Marjolaine grunted in pain and let the knife go. She slipped free of Morrigan's turning body—fast, disciplined—just in time. A fraction slower and the joint would have torn.

The dropped knife sank soundlessly into the snow between scuffling feet.

Marjolaine's knee drove into Morrigan's ribs. Then another blow, and another—workmanlike brutality, the shape of a tavern brawl made deadly: to maim, to hurt, to end.

Morrigan backed, blocked, slipped—then, abruptly, deliberately broke her rhythm.

She let Marjolaine's rising palm crack into her nose.

Wet crunch. White flare. Blood.

Morrigan's head snapped back—and she staggered with it, selling the damage.

Marjolaine froze for the smallest, stupidest instant.

Morrigan's hand closed on Marjolaine's extended arm like iron.

A quiet pop sounded from the joint.

Marjolaine screamed—a raw note that split the winter forest into before and after.

Morrigan dropped her without ceremony. She set her nose back into place with a sharp, ugly shove, and blood ran freely over her lips and chin, spattering the trampled snow. Then she stepped in and kicked—once, twice, again—merciless, controlled, until Marjolaine's body went slack and her eyes rolled back.

Not dead.

Not for good.

Morrigan dragged a laboured breath of icy air, lifted her gaze, and let the spellwork fall away. Then she swore, without restraint:

— Bloody fucking bitch.

In the distance, where Morrigan had left the mare tethered, a limp silhouette stood stark-black against the snow, its head hanging at an unnatural angle from the reins.

Morrigan had expected as much. Even so, the sheer amount of damage Marjolaine had managed to do—half-blind, outnumbered, and not even knowing who she was dealing with—hit like sour bile. Cold logic smothered it. Morrigan had set herself an ambitious, reckless goal: to deal with Marjolaine without killing her. Otherwise, the first spell would have ended it.

Now she would have to explain herself to Leliana.

And she still had to drag her unconscious opponent along…

* * *

Just over two hours after the fight, Morrigan staggered into the camp by the Highway—hunched, bloodstained, with an unconscious woman dragged along in her wake. Two Grey Wardens followed at a cautious distance. They had been sent to search for the women, who had vanished into the forest without warning. By the time Morrigan met them, her legs were half-numb from the weight, and she was cursing her own foolish idea—meaning she was one ill-timed question away from immediate retaliation. Whether through experience, instinct, or tainted blood, the warriors caught a glimpse of their own fate in her heavy gaze, flecked with crimson-gold. Neither spoke. They simply kept their distance and matched her pace, careful not to provoke the fierce woman.

Morrigan dropped the body at her companion's feet as if it were unwanted cargo, then sank to her knees by the dying fire. She let out a long, relieved breath, extended trembling fingers toward the heat, and glanced sidelong at Schtille. Arms folded across his chest, he watched in silence. After a brief exchange of looks, the warrior gave a short, respectful nod. Without haste, he turned to the waiting Grey Wardens and went to trade a few low, pointed words with them.

Meanwhile, Leliana, after a quick glance to make sure her former mentor was still breathing, turned to Morrigan. She rummaged in a saddlebag left in camp and found a scrap of cloth—likely picked up back at Redcliffe Fort, and still clean. She carefully scooped snow into it and held it over the embers, watching the edges so they wouldn't smoke. Morrigan watched, puzzled, as Leliana began wiping the witch's face clean of dried blood that had turned her attractive features into a vengeful forest-demon mask. As if answering the unspoken question, the bard said quietly:

— Neglecting your appearance is a serious mistake. Our "Grey" companions may keep their thoughts to themselves, but the Templars are taught to think—and act—plainly. And trust me: they won't like what's happened. No need to give people a reason to act rashly.

When she was done, Leliana shook her head, as if she didn't know how to fit her thoughts into words. At last she blurted:

— Unnecessary risk isn't courage any longer—it's recklessness. Even in small things—you… Don't become a greater danger to yourself than your enemies. You know—

A groan cut her off.

Marjolaine was waking.

All eyes snapped to her. The moment her lids lifted, the weakness seemed to vanish. She pressed her lips together and let no sound escape—only heavy, ragged breathing and a grey pallor betrayed the pain. Her gaze, sharp as a blade, slid over the faces around her and stopped when it found Leliana. Leliana rose from Morrigan, crossed to her former mentor, and crouched beside her. As if she had been expecting this, Marjolaine spoke first. She tried to sound steady; her cracked voice betrayed her:

— Why?..

Leliana lifted a hand—sharp, commanding silence—and answered at once:

— Not my idea. Dragging you back alive, no less, is stupid. But if you expected smugness, you won't find it. The real reason wasn't mercy—no. Cynical calculation, I suppose. And… call it a touch of kleptomania. Explanations take time we don't have. Later. For now—our paths have crossed again, as you wished. You've been beaten, even if not by my hand. Recently, someone suggested an interesting idea to me: that this was your plan all along. Asking you whether it's true is pointless, isn't it?

Marjolaine's eyes widened a fraction—surprise, at least—but she gave no answer. Leliana continued the one-sided conversation:

— Of course. Then remember this: I accept that conclusion. Which means you won't get what you wanted. Not oblivion. Not my bitterness. Nothing you believed was right. Because I have a choice—to think differently. And right now, your life belongs to me. Or to my companion. We hope to find a healer in Redcliffe Fort—for my injuries as well. So you, like me, will endure until this short shared journey ends.

As soon as Leliana fell silent, ending the conversation, some of the tension seemed to drain from Marjolaine; the lines of her face softened. She closed her eyes briefly and said very quietly:

— Something in you has changed. I'd like to throw it in your face that you've gone soft. But neither my position nor the expression in your eyes allow me to say that. Still… Before, you were like a reflection of me in my youth—a player drunk on the game. Now only shadows of that remain, and what has taken its place is alien.

Leliana gave a weak smirk.

— Ironic. When I clung to your skirts, I was your reflection. When I slipped away and took refuge in a distant chantry, I became the reflection of a typical Sister of Light. And now… I'm a reflection of something else. To hear that twice in so short a time… Never mind. We need to deal with your arms.

A warning cough sounded behind her. Leliana turned and saw Riordan approaching. He walked with long strides and a grim expression, pointedly alone—no guard, no escort. She nodded to the witch, rose, and together with Schtille went to meet the Grey Warden commander.

— Ser Riordan.

Her small bow seemed to catch him for a heartbeat, then he gathered himself, remembering why he was here.

— My lady. Just Riordan. I'm no Ser. Save courteous bows for ballrooms, if fate ever takes us to one. This will be a hard conversation. Let's be blunt: it's plain enough your companion attacked one of mine. I need to know why. To what end. And what you intend to do.

Leliana flicked a glance at Schtille, who remained silent, and began in the calmest voice she could muster:

— Since we're being blunt, let's be blunt. Your men are right behind you, Grey Warden. And this bard was foisted on you along with our "escort" to Redcliffe Fort. Am I right?

The corner of Riordan's mouth twitched as his gaze shifted briefly to Marjolaine. She had been forced to clamp a leather strap between her teeth while her arms were bound tight to her body; the dull, muffled moans carried even this far.

— Yes.

— Splendid. Then the fact that this woman had her own motives—and likely other, hidden instructions from third parties—doesn't reflect on you. Better to worry about those who are personally loyal to you.

— Suppose so. That's why I avoid such complications.

Leliana let herself a tired, sad smile before the edge returned to her voice:

— And yet it was your Order that chose its colour—grey. The embodiment of uncertainty.

— I think you know perfectly well what was meant. Fine. Let them sort it out at Redcliffe Fort—whoever's making decisions there now. But about the Templars… In your place, I'd be careful. They pretend to obey me, and I pretend to believe it. A thin thread. And your… bard. She'd been working on them since she joined us. However this ends, the last thing I need is senseless bloodshed. There are too many secret schemes in this accursed place, too many contradictory orders, and too many armed men thirsty for blood.

Leliana dragged her knuckles across the bridge of her nose and murmured:

— You have no idea…

Then, louder:

— Thank you for the warning. Good thing our thoughts align—first and foremost, in wanting to prevent senseless slaughter. And also, Riordan… we'll need the bard's horse.

— Someone will bring her horse.

* * *

Over the following week, the road brought no further trouble. The weather wasn't kind, but it never turned truly hostile. The frost wasn't severe. Snow fell from skies shrouded in grey gloom with steady regularity, yet the relentless winds kept it from settling in the centre of the Imperial Highway, leaving a clear path for those on foot.

All the same, tension thickened with each passing day. The Templars kept the Wardens of the Sanctum under close guard, as if on a leash—hemming them in with a cordon of sentries from one night's camp to the next. Morrigan's people gave nothing away, but the hunters' hands stayed close to their weapons, and the night watch was doubled. The Templar riders with the inverted sword cast stern looks toward Marjolaine, as if waiting only for a signal. The bard, for her part, held to a detached calm, careful not to make the one misstep that would send the whole thing spiralling. Mentor and protégée, forced to share one mare, kept to a strained silence, broken only by the bare minimum. Leliana seemed, at times, to search for an opening for a serious conversation; Marjolaine wouldn't engage. Meanwhile, Morrigan and her companion could see perfectly well that the older bard watched them both, drawing her own conclusions about what she was seeing. Leliana feared the consequences; in Morrigan, it sparked curiosity. As for the Grey Wardens—keeping their distance as before—each morning they greeted the day in a grim mood, as if bracing for a day that would end badly.

So, scarcely daring to breathe wrong, the party on foot and horseback finally saw the bay below Redcliffe ahead. Blanketed in fresh snow, it might have passed for a peaceful haven. But to a sharp eye, nothing was missed: how few columns of smoke rose into the sky; how sparse the dark figures moving below; how much pristine whiteness lay unbroken between the buildings; and the roofless shells where snow, instead of resting on shingles, fell straight into empty rooms. Not only the burned houses—also those that had been razed to their foundations in the fire's wake.

Standing on the crest of the last hill before the descent into the valley, Morrigan spoke aloud, as if to no one—and yet only a step from Marjolaine and Leliana:

— First of Harvest… A whole month has passed. As if it had never been—and already another turn waits.

Leliana didn't answer. She only tugged the reins lightly and guided the horse down the slope.

* * *

The travellers were greeted at the fortress with no warmth to speak of. Even without Leliana's quiet prompting, Morrigan understood: in lean times—when the immediate threat of death at enemy hands had, for the moment, slipped into the background—few welcomed extra mouths. It would take time before anyone felt the benefit of new hands for work, new swords, spears, and bows.

Within the walls, in the courtyard, Tralin and Alim were already waiting. The human stood calmly, grim-faced; the elf, bundled in warm clothes, looked gaunt. Morrigan felt no surge of emotion at the mage's presence, and still a flicker of curiosity rose… Had Wynne helped Bethany? What would a possessed healer do to the Arl's health—and to the Seeker's standing? Moving with deliberate slowness as she helped Leliana dismount, the witch flashed Riordan a sardonic grin—he was quietly unhitching the animals with his people—and waved Schtille over.

With a jerk of her chin toward the waiting Templar, Morrigan said:

— That one over there—the human—is Tralin. He'll get you settled. Get yourselves a warm corner and food from him. If anything's amiss—mention me. Just the name. No lofty titles. Tell him each of you can hunt. Let some of you help the locals with wolves and with finding food. Just… beware the dead things out there. The ones that should've been worm-food long before your arrow or spear could reach them.

She turned to Leliana, raised a meaningful eyebrow, and added:

— And when the women, children, and old folk arrive, it'll be best if you're already in the locals' good graces.

Leliana nodded. Marjolaine, still in the saddle, furrowed her brow, as if she were surveying the Wardens of the Sanctum with fresh eyes.

— And… Schtille. Have the hunters search the hills for the Bride.

For perhaps the first time, the man's face changed. His mouth opened in bafflement, but no sound came. Morrigan, picturing the confusion behind those eyes, explained:

— The road won't split for a long while. If the Wardens move, the lady moves with them. It wouldn't be right to leave her alone among the ridges. And the Bride's young shoots, by the way, won't turn up their noses at fresh game either.

Morrigan began to turn toward the waiting men, but Leliana called after her, cautious:

— You and I know a few things. But to any stranger you're just… a woman. Open your mouth, and there'll be no trace of polish left. Bring two attendants. It sounds pointless. But people see it at once: your standing matters. And an extra pair of loyal eyes never hurts.

After a beat, Morrigan nodded and shifted her attention back to Schtille. He wasted no time: he was already summoning two middle-aged hunters, marked out by their curly beards and piercing ice-blue eyes. A couple of terse phrases, a heavy look, and the men—understanding—nodded. Returning to the Chosen, the highlander said dryly:

— Krynitsa and Zhur.

Morrigan grinned and, not entirely sure why, blurted:

— Sounds like you're offering me a drink.

All three men froze. Morrigan frowned. Then the surprise in their eyes gave way to understanding—as if some stubborn puzzle had clicked into place and yielded a simple answer. Morrigan, by contrast, felt a sudden, senseless irritation, certain a thought—now lost—had slipped right from under her nose…

Shoving the surge of emotion aside under her habitual icy calm, Morrigan headed straight for the Circle mage and the Templar. But Marjolaine, in a neutral tone, stopped her short:

— Your history is unknown to me. And yet you take obedience as easily as other men take bread from their own table. Out of habit.

The words carried across the courtyard—loud enough for all to hear, but without open challenge. Leliana's sharp look said she understood the intent behind her mentor's little "game." Morrigan answered the provocation with nothing but a condescending smile and kept walking.

The witch gave the Templar a curt nod and focused on Alim. She waited a beat, offering him the chance to speak first, then asked:

— So. How was your journey?

Frowning, the mage tried to read some hidden purpose in those golden eyes. Whatever he found there, he answered:

— Wynne called it instructive. That woman may be tougher than both of us. As for me… our circumstances became a hard burden and a rather specific experience. You'd do better to discuss details and impressions with the sister.

Morrigan's gaze slid from his face to his boots, then lingered on his right hand, held stiff at his side.

— How many times, for the sake of this "instructive" experience and noble goals, did Wynne have to patch you up?

— Oh, yes. Your unique style of conversation… More than I'd hoped—less than it could've been. What answer are you expecting? Neria had nothing worse than scratches…

Alim faltered, brow furrowing as he recalled one such "scratch," then went on:

— As for me… a fracture. To my immense good fortune, Wynne is a healer of astonishing talent, with incredible experience and an equally impressive reserve of mana—and she was always nearby. So it left no lasting mark.

Morrigan smiled bitterly and said, icily:

— Of course. Mmm… Not everyone was so lucky with a healer. But never mind. Now both she and we are here. She is here, isn't she?

— Naturally. We arrived two days ahead of you. Imagine our surprise when we found only the Seeker here.

The unspoken question—Tristan's condition, the man's strange injury—hung in the air. Morrigan simply waited. With a quiet sigh, Alim continued:

— Since we arrived, Wynne has spent her time either at the Arl's bedside or with his son. She's there now. She's barely spared a moment for food or sleep…

Clicking her tongue, Morrigan asked coldly:

— So she's spent all your time here with them?

Catching the implication, Alim nodded, and Morrigan pressed on:

— And the possessed? Did you encounter any? And did many manage to help?

Alim's gaze drifted from Morrigan to the Grey Wardens as he answered:

— The possessed… We saw nothing whose behaviour or appearance raised suspicion. Still, we kept away from settlements that looked—at a distance—dead or sacked. We passed more than a few like that. The final word on where we went always rested with Wynne. And yet… after the Circle, I won't pretend I can swear I didn't meet a possessed person at all.

Morrigan raised an eyebrow, trying to read it as allusion, slip, or mere phrasing. Despite the urge to let a barb loose, she stayed silent and let him go on:

— As for the people… the Arling is in a grim state. Too much land will lie fallow come spring. Too many hunters never came home these past days—lost in the hills and forests. The locals are strong in body and spirit; they cling to one another and to their way of life. Order held—barely—under uncertainty and fear. But even there, people are afraid to step beyond the fence-line, even for firewood from the nearest thicket. Without a visible reminder of the Arl's authority… of the protection he grants… you couldn't find his living knights with a torch at noon. Erik is dead. And not slain fighting monsters, as a Templar should be, but by brigands who'd tasted the sweetness of impunity and lawlessness. The Seeker was right, warning us back at that crossroads about the dark power of rumour. Broken bones and dislocations, fevers, rashes, childbirth… Wynne helped everyone she met, making no distinctions, sparing herself not at all. Before long, there were people who demanded her help—or tried to press the healer into their service. The Blight will lay waste to these lands, meeting no resistance.

Morrigan tilted her head—whether in agreement or simply acknowledging the report. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, thought for a moment, then chose her words with care:

— Interesting. I could point out a few coincidences… but it matters little. I won't ask why you chose to tell me all this. I'm grateful. And yet… I'll say one thing. You and I are both capable of learning from our own mistakes—and other people's. So remember my words, spoken under sail. In the days ahead, stay close to the Seeker, and don't trip over foolish principles. Besides a roof over your head and food, another mercy awaits you—of a sort. The next enemy will be clear and simple. Either way, it will be simple… if anyone's still alive by then.

She gave the bewildered mage a light slap on the shoulder, allowed herself a fleeting smile, gestured toward Leliana—and then slipped away with unhurried steps toward longed-for warmth and fresher conversations.

* * *

As she walked unhurriedly along the ground-floor corridor, Morrigan heard Isolde's tired but firm voice from within the library:

— You've returned. Again.

Turning, the witch saw the mistress of the fortress at a small table, a weighty book open before her. Since their last meeting, the woman looked better. The library, tidied and restored to its old cleanliness and order, seemed more dignified than before. Morrigan nodded—formal instead of warm—and asked:

— Does that surprise you?

— Perhaps. But wouldn't it have been wiser to flee from here? Toward the sun and warmth? However… forgive my foolish words. I should have considered your circumstances with the Seeker.

— No one should rush to conclusions. Ever. Even without what you mentioned, there are other reasons to come back. I hear one of the Circle's best healers is tending to your son and husband?

Isolde nodded slowly and, with a sigh, changed the subject:

— I assume you were seeking an audience with Tristan?

Morrigan frowned, anticipating the inevitable but, and Isolde continued:

— Please, sit. He's upstairs. Arguing with the healer you mentioned. Again. Your arrival won't have escaped the Seeker; he'll be down shortly.

After a moment's thought, the witch stepped into the library. Seating herself across from the mistress of the fortress, she asked:

— "Again"?

— Oh, yes. As if he were demanding treatment for himself. But no. The man keeps trying to reason with that lady, urging her to divide her time and effort among all those in need here at the fortress. According to the Seeker, many could be set on their feet in an hour or two, easing the shortage of working hands and lessening suffering. It's hopeless. It's as if that woman—the only one here—has the gift of ignoring all Tristan's arguments and threats, concerning herself solely with my husband and son.

— And that doesn't please you? It's all to your advantage.

Isolde smiled sadly, her gaze drifting to the upper shelves of the surrounding bookcases. The pause let Morrigan lower her eyes to the pages of the massive tome before Isolde. Her glance slid across columns packed tight with small figures. Recognition tugged her back to the time she had studied similar records in the captured ship captain's books. So Isolde was not idly reading—she was trying to anchor her mind in practical matters. Without lowering her gaze, Isolde said:

— Of course it does. But my heart has starved for good news. I could indulge myself—and you, and others—with comfortable lies about selfless altruism. But the truth is, it would be easier to wait and hope if I could see the results of miraculous healing with my own eyes.

— I doubt it…

Genuinely surprised, Isolde looked back at the witch:

— Doubt what?

— That wish—and its fulfilment. To our mutual regret, believe me. Every one of my companions also needs the healer's attention. And more often than not, things refuse to turn out as we hope. Allow me to ask you something else. Where are Bann Teagan and Ser Pert?

Lowering her eyes to the book again, Isolde replied with a slight edge of irritation:

— Both are away… Not by my will, I assure you. A week after your departure—after several discussions in which I did not take part… perhaps foolishly—the Seeker persuaded them to set out with a small armed escort, following in the footsteps of your mages and the healer. The servants repeated his words to me almost verbatim: "…we need to follow the fresh tracks." Before leaving, Teagan explained they needed to see the situation with their own eyes, show themselves to the people, demonstrate that the nobility does care, and restore order where necessary. Imagine my surprise.

Morrigan nodded, commenting with open cynicism:

— Neatly done.

Isolde's raised eyebrows prompted the witch to continue:

— The Seeker is playing a larger game, and he's only one piece on the board. Though, of course, he plays his role magnificently. Bann Teagan and Ser Pert are unlikely to return for weeks. And in the meantime, I suspect that in a week or two you'll no longer need to worry about this place. Which is precisely why the Seeker is upstairs right now, trying to distract another player.

If Isolde had looked merely confused before, her face now plainly showed bewilderment. With a flicker of vexation, Morrigan forced herself to spell it out:

— Anticipating Orlesian forces, the Seeker is making sure that when authority changes hands, there'll be no friction. When your men return, they'll find it already done. Meanwhile, they'll have had time to make themselves useful—imposing a semblance of order in outlying settlements—to the delight of the new masters. However… as it happens, the woman upstairs, much to the Seeker's displeasure, is not one of the pieces but the one who moves them. Not on her own, but… never mind. I don't know her plan—but I can guess. She needs your husband or son conscious by the time the troops arrive. Able to speak for the legitimate rulers. And that will shape what comes next. Pity she doesn't yet know I've returned. Not empty-handed. And not alone.

Stunned, Isolde could only breathe out:

— Not alone?..

— Oh, yes. I'm far from being a true "player." But moving pieces on this board—that I can do.

From the corridor, as if in answer, came a quiet, utterly self-assured male voice:

— I wish I had such confidence. In your place, I wouldn't dare make such claims, returning with only a handful of highlanders. Even if we grant that you found everything you sought, your self-assurance has grown out of proportion to your achievements. Though your sharpness of mind remains the same— as dangerous as it is incomprehensible.

Morrigan bared her teeth in a feral grin, still not taking her eyes off Isolde, and shot back:

— Now it's you wandering in the mists, Seeker, not me. Since when do you eavesdrop on ladies' conversations?

— My lady, permit me to steal your interlocutor. We… have personal matters to discuss. Without witnesses.

Isolde froze, met Morrigan's gold eyes—lit crimson from within—shuddered, and nodded in silence.

* * *

Close behind the Seeker, Morrigan was finally able to study him properly. The man held himself rigidly, but the tension in his back was becoming easier to read. His gait was steady, yet the old ease of a warrior confident in his own body was gone. The sleeve of his shirt swung as he walked, tied off to his belt—a simple trick that could fool a casual glance. The conclusion came readily: before devoting herself entirely to the Arl's family, Wynne had spared the Seeker the bare minimum. Enough to keep him moving, nothing more.

All at once, Morrigan caught herself thinking something strange. The Zibenkek had not merely exacted a terrible price in blood and flesh. They had stolen part of the man's future, narrowing the choices left to him. And it was not hard to guess that Tristan had lost something else as well: the particular freedom Seekers—bound head to toe in rules and duty—still possessed, the right to choose which summons to answer, which road to take.

Soon they reached a room on the second floor. Gallantly, the man let the witch enter first, then turned the key in the lock behind them. With a faint smirk, Morrigan asked:

— So it's that talk, is it? Though it doesn't seem that your "hand" has gained any new strength since our last meeting. Quite the opposite, in fact.

With a calm nod Tristan indicated two chairs among many set around a long oval table that could serve as a dining table. He parried the jab with his usual brevity:

— Sometimes the moment chooses us.

Once they were seated, he added:

— The risk of losing the chance to speak at all grows with each passing day. I'm unlikely to get any better. Between silence and the risk of being lied to, I choose the latter.

Running her fingers over the polished oak, Morrigan nodded:

— Straight to business, then. Where do we begin?

— At the beginning. Believe me, I'd rather leap straight to my questions. But considering the kind of person I'm speaking to, I realised it would be a mistake. One of your many questions will touch on why I ended up in Ferelden. Likely not the most important matter for you, but it's a suitable place to start.

The witch nodded, waiting, and Tristan obliged:

— You need one fact first: some time ago my partner and I were given a task—not the most vital for our Order, but a concrete one. Kirkwall. That accursed city…

He exhaled slowly, frowning as if to master emotion or memory. Morrigan seized the pause to needle him:

— Accursed to you—or to everyone?

For a moment he did not understand. Then a brief smirk, and he continued:

— To everyone. From what I've told you already, and what you've had occasion to "see," it isn't hard to infer that my partner and I became frequent visitors to the places beneath the city where light cannot reach: catacombs and sewers. Days, weeks, months. I confess I stopped believing in results fairly quickly. But, to our misfortune, there were two of us. And even the fact that the Zibenkek found me there—at that crossroads of time and place—is not directly relevant. Yes, that is what I think. Listen further.

Between long, exhausting forays that ground the spirit down, we took breaks from each other, bleeding off tension however we could. Sleep, music, drink… books. In time, I learned my partner had begun relieving tension by paying for female company. As he put it: in such arrangements there is no room for deception; everything is plain, transparent. One could argue with much of it, but then I was never in the mood. I don't recall a single day in Kirkwall when I was "in the mood"…

It was after one such "meeting" that something happened—the starting point of everything. At the time, nothing caught my attention. I admit much of what I "noticed" later, in hindsight, may be no more than imagination working over memory. But one thing is undeniable. Within a few days of that last respite apart, without warning or hint, my partner vanished. Not literally "evaporated," but—so I now know—simply left the city on a merchant vessel sailing that day for Highever.

— I take it your partner didn't have the right to leave Kirkwall?

Tapping the table with the knuckles of his only hand, Tristan nodded:

— I see where you're heading. That was the first thought that occurred to me. Back then. An urgent assignment they hadn't even deigned to inform me about. I was younger; my achievements were far more modest. It was easy to imagine. But a week passed, and I remained in the dark—figuratively. Eventually I sent a report on the situation and demanded clarification: should I continue the work—which alone would be exceptionally dangerous—or withdraw and await orders? Another week passed, and instead of answers I received counter-questions and bewilderment. That is when I understood. Upon arriving in Highever I was granted permission to act freely, and then the disheartening news…

For the first time in the conversation, Morrigan looked him directly in the eye and asked, as if it were irrelevant:

— Remind me of your partner's name?

— Benedict.

— I want to understand. Why did Benedict's disappearance seem suspicious to you immediately? The suspicion came long before the reply did, didn't it?

Tristan raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly, with a trace of uncertainty:

— It did. Because of the mission, and because of Benedict. We were searching for the infamous "Black Emporium." For me it was a myth. For Benedict it was fact. He knew every scrap of information that circulated—wild rumour, witness account, even stories that, at first, made me doubt. And not only me, since the task was entrusted to us. Benedict lived for that search. No matter how low his spirits sank after failure upon failure, it is hard to imagine him fleeing without cause.

Not to mention I'd known Benedict before Kirkwall. More than five winters. Nearly six. He followed the Order's precepts and did his duty with enviable dedication. It even crossed my mind he had rushed off after learning something new about the "Black Emporium." Up to—

— Until that very news.

— You could put it that way.

— Even so. I wonder what that "something" was. Here's a guess. Not long ago, I heard a name. I'd love to be wrong, but my intuition whispers: no such luck. Aeonar?

The Seeker tensed; the fingers of his only hand slowly curled into a fist. Instead of snapping back, he let a viscous silence pool in the room, and only after a minute did he ask cautiously:

— In what context did that name come up?

Morrigan leaned back and swept her gaze over the table, the furnishings, the walls. After a brief, feigned pause, she said:

— I'd heard of the place before. About a month ago I heard the name again, for the first time in a long while. If memory serves, the talk was of something grim. So tell me, Tristan—are you being disingenuous? Did those mysterious "tidings" truly reach you so soon after Highever? You left Kirkwall only a couple of months ago, didn't you?

The Seeker winced, but answered honestly:

— A slip of the tongue. An omission… deliberate. Three full seasons lie between my arrival in Ferelden—which began with fruitless searches in the north—and that "news." Three seasons wasted. My partner disembarked, I know that for certain, and then vanished into the roads. Yes…

Sensing that the omission hid irritation more than anything profound, Morrigan waved the rest aside and cut straight to the point:

— Then get to it.

Satisfied, the Seeker continued:

— What Aeonar is, precisely, few know. Even among the Templars—not all of them, not even the seasoned ones, know of it. And those who do mostly rely on rumour. A prison. For those highly undesirable to the Chantry—often people with knowledge of the "true art," who have broken Chantry law before, and, perhaps most importantly, people for whom death is an undesirable outcome. Finding it is difficult. Getting inside is nearly impossible.

And the "news" was this: a massacre at Aeonar. Not a riot, not a skirmish. Every prisoner died, without exception—and nine-tenths of the guards as well.

Morrigan nodded, dubiously:

— But…?

Tristan answered before she could finish:

— The connection is not obvious. After it happened, the only Seeker known to the Chantry who could reach the prison in less than a week turned out to be me. Later—after speaking to two people who survived the slaughter by sheer luck, and after studying the documents—I found, among other things, a name. The last name I expected to see in such a place. Benedict.

My partner arrived at Aeonar three seasons ago—exactly when he stepped off the ship in Ferelden. And I could not find a single record of his departure. As if he had simply vanished into that accursed place.

Morrigan dragged her palm across the tabletop, gathering her thoughts. Irritation rose—and spilled out at once:

— Words. Words. Words. I confess, I expected something else. Why the preamble? So we can walk together from uncertainty to "educated guesses"? Fine. It's easy to forge scattered facts into a single chain when you're looking for one shape and blind to the rest.

Let me finish it for you. Benedict disappears in Kirkwall and surfaces in Aeonar—only to vanish again without trace. Later comes the massacre. Those are the first links. But you wouldn't have brought this to me if the only survivors were two guards with nothing to say. There's a link that binds the chain—otherwise what do I have to do with it? You've stopped pretending. You're an informed man: a crumb here, a morsel there. You know the one responsible fled south, almost blindly, like a desperate fugitive. And yet you also know who he is. And he doesn't strike you as a frightened hare.

A barely perceptible, pleased smirk touched Tristan's mouth:

— It gratifies me to know I wasn't mistaken. Questioning you outright would have been a waste of time. But bait—properly chosen, properly presented—works. Yes. That "desperate fugitive," as you called him, was a Seeker. More than that: the chief warden of Aeonar.

The mass murder is as out of character for him—judging by his reports and record of service—as Benedict's sudden departure was out of character for Benedict. The warden fled south across all of Ferelden. You can trace his route by the horses he rode into the ground, and the ones he took—without permission—from farmsteads along the way.

Strangely enough, in Lothering he missed the King's army by a single day. He slipped through toward the Korkari via Ostagar—empty at the time—just barely. As if he knew in advance…

— And that brings you to me. Logical enough. One misfortune leads to the next—not the other way round. You want to know what happened there. What pushed Flemeth's daughter out of the world she'd known since birth and into your mad whirlwind.

Tristan did not merely nod. He confirmed:

— I do.

Morrigan sighed, fixing her gaze on a ceiling beam. At moments when real emotion broke through, her fists clenched and unclenched on their own:

— You did the wise thing, letting me go to the mountains. The risk… I'll say plainly: our roles are not as clear-cut now as they were before. But then I would have told you very little. I knew too little—perhaps nothing at all. Hints, allusions, guesses, fears. Sometimes that's worse than silence.

But in the mountain chantry I was forced to face that ill-fated day again. To your luck… or mine. What happened? A battle the likes of which neither you nor I—I'd wager—have ever seen. Between… a knight who, with one hand, trampled every notion I had of Templar power. And with the other… he worked magic I understand far too poorly. Skipping details, he seemed to hold contradictions inside one body: a Seeker, and not only a mage but… how did you put it? Ah, yes—a maleficar.

Mother also managed to show me, quite vividly, how talentless and insignificant I am. As a mage. As a witch, if you prefer. As an apprentice. The outcome? I don't know. Everything around us destroyed or burning. Part of my memory still in darkness. And he banished Flemeth as if she were a demon. Who would have imagined it?..

After a minute—perhaps two—Tristan said quietly:

— It's hard to believe—

Morrigan straightened sharply, eyes flying open:

— Then believe it.

Tristan raised a calming hand and repeated, deliberately even:

— It is hard to believe. And yet the entire chain of events, from beginning to end, is riddled with strangeness. One after another, the pieces form a mad story. We have two Seekers—supposedly impervious to outside influence unless they willingly surrender to it. And these two hardly belong to that category.

I doubt everything now, but one must cling to facts. And yet both changed drastically. That alone would frighten any thoughtful person. But something else troubles me.

Morrigan arched an eyebrow, waiting. Tristan tapped out a rhythm with his knuckles and continued:

— A chain has links. One—Benedict. Two—the Warden of Aeonar. Three—Flemeth. Who is the last? Morrigan, what problem was tormenting you before you came to the Hold?

* * *

Fifteen years and some number of sunrises earlier.

A swarthy, clean-shaven man in his middle years was reading a book intently, its plain leather binding already worn with age. Refined fingers turned the yellowed pages with unhurried care, as if the paper's whisper pleased him. Nothing happening around him reached his concentrated face or his watchful eyes—though the setting was, to put it mildly, a poor place to read…

Summer on the Antivan coast offered coolness only in dreams. Neither the night nor the treacherous breeze that carried the city's smells out to sea brought any real relief. The locals had long since grown used to it, taking it as part of the natural order. And yet even they would have felt ill at ease in this tavern, where two small windows sat just below the ceiling and looked out onto an alley at the level of worn paving stones. The air stood stagnant, thick with sweat, onions, and over-fried food. The room shook with curses, shouts, and loud talk.

Beside the unusual guest—who had even deigned to prop his booted feet on the table and lose himself in his book—sat three companions, dressed just as modestly but with less care for their appearance. And unlike him, the trio amused themselves with cheap beer and an easy, idle conversation.

One of them suddenly leaned back in his chair, which squeaked pitifully, and, eyeing his strange comrade, tossed him an offhand question:

— What is that you've been reading for a second day? Can't put it down?

The man gave a cold snort and, without lifting his gaze from the page, replied:

— The Charm of Ignorance. An old Antivan architect wrote it—set himself to cataloguing the monuments of Imperial architecture that survived into his day, the ones he and his students managed to find in our lands.

The speaker fell silent, startled; the unasked question—why?—hung plainly in that pause. The reader flicked him an indifferent glance, frowned almost imperceptibly, and went on:

— It interests me. Not so much his own scribbling as the story of stones that outlived their makers. And many others after them. Some of these structures survived remarkably well, serving as more than mere shelter from rain and sun. Can you recall the name of the King of Antiva who ruled three generations ago? I thought not… Yet the names of certain buildings in this book are still remembered today.

— So you want a monument to yourself, eh?

The man with the book wrinkled his nose—mockery in a single gesture.

— Stones aren't the goal. They're an example.

While the other chewed on that, the reader let the book settle on his lap and drifted into thought. Antiva seemed to him a stifling swamp where any deed of consequence sank fast. The passions that never stopped seething turned out, on inspection, to be petty squabbles over crumbs of power—and the chance to stay beyond the reach of his many enemies' blades for one more day. Entertainment for the young.

But was he old? Far from it. And yet he felt ancient, as if he'd lost his taste for the game—seen it all too many times, taken part in stakes of far greater magnitude… He needed a new goal. A real challenge. Not necessarily a wholly new idea, but an unexpected and difficult one. And with surprising ease, the thought slid from his mind to his tongue:

— They say in good old Orlais the nobles are cooking up some kind of madness—and they're looking for the right people, for good coin.

One of the two who'd been laughing at a lewd joke wiped his eyes, caught his breath, and said:

— There were rumours. If the stars favour us—there'll be battles, mountains of corpses, and blood money. Same as always, only it's Orlais. And there we're not the biggest fish.

The man with the book nodded in agreement, then added:

— Invigorating uncertainty. Refreshing danger. I think I'll go find the ones who are looking for men like us.

The first man stared.

— Seriously?

— Quite.

The third—quiet until now—said flatly:

— You've gotten addicted to risk this past year, the way another man gets addicted to tart wine. You'd do better to find a woman than go hunting for a noose.

Raising an eyebrow, the most well-groomed of the four looked from face to face and received nods of varying conviction in return. He sighed.

— Perhaps. But understand this: there's more than one man like me. Besides, there's a fleeting chance to see something new—on someone else's dime. And for you, in return, the opportunity to learn to wipe your own arses and finally prove you're worthy to be called claws.

Silence settled over the table for a moment. But drink doesn't allow men to brood for long. They preferred to postpone hard thoughts until the morning's hangover.

And the strange man returned to his book. A minute later he murmured, barely audible:

— It seems there were many such books in Orlais… Who knows…