Chapter 11 - "Encounters in the dark"

  Three metres away, slightly crouched, stood a tense figure. The darkness obscured details, but the witch's eyes, already accustomed to the darkness, could make out quite a bit. Judging by the tattered, vaguely coloured robe, it was a mage. The man's eyes darted back and forth between the sorceress and the object above her head. But the mage's hands did not falter for a moment. There was little remaining of the left sleeve of the mage's robes, except for a rough, ragged edge at the top of his forearm. And the arm itself was covered in cuts along its entire length, differing in their freshness, cleanliness and number of bloody scabs. At the moment, the mage's right hand was making a fresh wound with a short, triangular incisor in a jagged motion.

  As the blood seeped out, seemingly black in the darkness, Morrigan lunged to the side. Desperately trying not to plunge her own blade into her side, the maiden rolled onto her back and assumed a half-sitting position away from the stranger who had appeared out of nowhere. Besides, the mage and whatever the man's gaze was focused on were now in sight. Five metres above the stairs, on the wall that defied normal logic, a creature froze at full height. There was no other way to describe the distorted human form. The wretched remains of a robe, the surviving belt of ceramic vessels attached to leather straps, pointed to the second representative of the Circle. The creature's torso, arms, forearms and neck were disproportionately swollen with muscle knots, the skin painfully tight, as if shimmering white in the darkness. The head had lost almost all of its hair. The face was either distended or swollen, rendering familiar features grotesque. Only the eyes protruded from the mass of flesh. Still alive, they seemed to shine even in the darkness, catching the light of a non-existent candle. And they lingered on nothing more than a fraction of an instant. In contrast, the lower half of the body, which remained unchanged, looked thin. The creature did not care that the manhood dangled openly between the scraps of clothing, denying its own weight as surely as the rest of the body. The girl's knowledge of the forms of demonic possession of the basic passions remained limited. Which proved to be a source of its own problems. But the monster's appearance, given its surroundings, led the sorceress to the only likely conclusion. Possession.

  As Morrigan looked at the pile of flesh, the blood gushing from the mage's fresh wound bubbled up, coagulating into a black crust at an unnatural rate. A sweep of the man's right hand pointed a blood-stained chisel at the possessed man, who was about to take the first wide step down the vertical wall. In response to the movement, the creature made a long hissing and whistling sound on the edge of human possibility. It was impossible to tell if the possessed man was in pain or just annoyed. But then uneven dark patches began to appear in random places beneath the pale skin. They spread rapidly, ranging from light grey to black. Like severe subcutaneous haemorrhages or bruises that lasted several days, their rich colour hid the darkness.

  Quickly weighing the pros and cons, the sorceress bit her lip. She hadn't even spent two hours in the tower before her mana reserves had been cut in half. Active participation in the current battle would put her at a dangerous disadvantage. Looking up at the figure of the fiend, she made her final decision and gritted her teeth in anger.

  — Frius. Tenachi .

  The effect was only audible, along with a soft, dry snap. He turned his head towards the sorceress with a distinct crunch, and in one jerky movement the possessed man crouched down and jumped. At first, the movement looked like a familiar upward leap, except that the wall was the floor. But a few heartbeats later, the monster shifted and began an accelerating fall in the usual direction.

  Reacting to the threat like a cat, Morrigan used all four limbs to roll. But this time the movements were more instinctive and chaotic. As a result, the only weapon remained halfway between here and there with a metallic sound. It was only thanks to this reaction that the girl managed to get out from under the collapsed carcass. This, in addition to her own weight, brought down both a knee and a fist. Both slammed into the ancient floorboards with a wet sound that made it clear that flesh was no match for stone.

  Immediately afterwards, magic arrows began to pierce the back of the carcass, one after the other. They looked like bright lines in the darkness, leaving a trail that slowly cooled on his retinas. A quick glance to the side confirmed that the mage's blade had already made another cut, and fresh blood was boiling again. Dense clumps of mana that had penetrated the body expanded rapidly, heating the surrounding air unevenly. They left wide, torn craters in the flesh with scalded or even burned edges. After the fifth blast, which turned the monster's back to mush, the spine and the backs of two or three ribs emerged from the torn flesh. The possessed man exhaled one last time. Streams of dark blood mixed with saliva dripped from his swollen mouth. Finally, at the same time as his eyes went blank, the monster collapsed face-first without further effect.

  With the mournful groan of a mentally and physically exhausted man, the mage took a few unsteady steps to the railing and, leaning on it with his right hand, lowered himself gently to the ground. It was only then that the girl noticed that the short, triangular blade was firmly taped to the man's index and middle fingers with a dark cloth. Rising to her full height, Morrigan did not allow herself to take her eyes off the stooped figure for a moment. Not even as she picked up the lost dagger. The man's body language spoke of severe physical exhaustion. The hair on his head had an indeterminate colour in the darkness. The unshaven face was drained and the circles under his eyes looked black. His right arm twitched in a nervous tic, and his left, with its scars and fresh cuts, looked like a lifeless, blackened stump on the verge of infection. Barely lifting his eyes from the floor and not looking at the girl, the mage nodded. His voice was hoarse, as if it had long suffered from a lack of moisture, and he announced softly.

  — Thank you. For the distraction. It... kept me alive.

  Morrigan nodded as she sheathed her blade. Still staring at the opposite railing, a good five metres away, she asked.

  — Is that you?

  The man grinned uncertainly, showing emotion either through strength or overcoming pain. Or perhaps both at once.

  — Senior Wizard. But do titles carry weight now?

  Instead of answering the rhetorical question, the girl continued with a new one.

  — Blood magic. How do you know that? Here.

  — It's amazing how the practice of blood magic and the vehement denial of its presence in one's own ranks can coexist. Isn't it? Oh. But I see your strength is not in negotiation.

  The mage sighed slowly, as if the long tirade had sapped what little strength he had left. The man continued a little more slowly, pausing to catch his breath.

  — It was his duty to prepare the phylacteries. Of course, there's no mention of using blood magic for that. So. "Performed miracles." Which in no way compromises anything. But in order for the much-needed "miracles" to happen, it required a mastery of the "impure" arts. Who knew how useful that would be in such a dark hour. Apart from the fact that demons don't respond to spells cast without mana. That's an obscure fact not mentioned in the books. Also, there's a lot more blood than mana... At least there was.

  Morrigan frowned. She had the feeling that with a few hasty phrases she had given her opponent both the advantage and control of the conversation. In one fell swoop, he had taken her out of both the narrow circle of likely survivors and the ephemeral circle of legitimate mages sent here from outside. Instead of dwelling on what had already happened, she asked the next question.

  — Where are the others?

  — Most, I think, are dead. A small fraction. Probably want to die. The three companions are still down there. Hopefully still alive.

  — Why go up?

  — Lyrium. Stockpiles of lyrium potions, processed and raw lyrium... all stored here. On the Templar floor. It's a tool. Yes, a tool. A tool.

  Slowly and silently, the sorceress drew her blade from its sheath and asked her final question.

  — Why am I the only one asking questions?

  The mage smiled and turned his head towards the girl for the first time, meeting her gaze with dark eyes.

  — An intact listener is a rarity these days. It's amazing how you begin to appreciate the little things. Every little thing. It's a realisation that comes suddenly, without warning. It doesn't matter who or what. It's an opportunity to talk. All the more important. What's the point of asking a demon anything? You'll hear what you want to hear. And not an ounce of truth in it, right?

  Two actions happened at the same time. The mage's slash in his right hand flew towards the sorceress. She grabbed the railing with her left hand and pushed herself down, over the saving stones of the stairs. The energy discharge that had just successfully ended the possessed man's tale passed a few fingers above the girl's head. Sprawled in the relative safety of out of sight, Morrigan spoke.

  — It is our mutual lack of trust that brings us together. We could start with something as small as this. We exchange names, then wait until after the murder to find the lyrium. Does that sound like a plan to you?

  A dry, mocking laugh sounded from the mage's side, immediately replaced by a cough.

  — That's funny. I wouldn't trust a false name. A day ago, such a weakness would have been fatal to a friend who had been a model of caution and prudence. Familiarity in the mouth of a stranger reduces vigilance. And why should I? I can't believe I'll get anything worthwhile in return.

  — Let's drop that. What about the rest? You don't look well. Barely enough mana blood in you to keep you alive.

  There was a moment's pause, during which Morrigan managed to look around. The fiend's body was still where it had fallen. That was at least a small consolation for the girl. More importantly, the vials strapped to her belt looked intact. Then the silence was broken by the mage's dry voice.

  — Come to think of it. Serves you well as bait for dumber monsters. And the idea of continuing to talk to you is tempting. More tempting than a one-sided discussion of deep-seated desires, fears or resentments. That, I admit... shows skill.

  From the sound of it, the man tried to spit, but it didn't work. The man tried to spit, but it didn't work, causing another short burst of unhealthy laughter.

  — OK. But you go in front. "Flower."

  Morrigan knitted her eyebrows, trying to gauge the limits of her interlocutor's sanity. It didn't look very encouraging.

  — Why 'flower'?

  — That's your mistake. You look too fresh and clean for this cursed and forgotten place.

  She slowly lifted the blade of her sword over the railing, then her arm, and only then the upper half of her body, and found the mage slowly rising to his feet. Even the seemingly simple movements were not easy for him. In that moment of weakness, a single spell would have ended the man's life. But Morrigan reasoned that a living mage would be far more useful than a dead one. Firstly, fresh information about what was happening inside the tower. Second, knowing the location of the lyrium was worth the extra risk. Keeping an eye on the man, the sorceress approached the body of the possessed man. Kneeling, she began to search his belt, untying one leather cord after another. Quickly and expertly, she inspected the outside and checked the contents for odours, taking two of the five ceramic vials. Only these did not have an unfamiliar odour. So there was still a chance — a Lyrium potion inside. This one was traditionally lacking in both smell and taste, and the additives that were supposed to remedy the situation begged for the composition's effectiveness. Morrigan tucked both vessels behind her belt and asked.

  — Where to?

  The mage replied with a wave of her right hand. There was darkness in that direction. Even ignoring the strong feeling of disorientation that came over the girl, she realised that this meant returning to the place where she had entered the tower. Sighing, the Morrigan nodded. She moved slowly forward, listening carefully to the sounds behind her and mentally counting her own footsteps. The man followed close behind, but his movements formed a jagged pattern of shuffling. It was as if the mage was simultaneously crouching on his right foot and periodically pulling his left foot up behind him.

  As she replayed the events in her mind, the sorceress admitted that she had been wrong in her assessment of the chances for a favourable resolution of the situation. The heroic battle against one enemy after another had not only proved fatal. Shaking her head slightly, the girl forced herself to accept the fact that no matter how hard she tried, she could only drown in the surrounding darkness. Only the right amount of force could make the difference. Among the peaks of the Frost Mountains, an irresistible avalanche required the first rock to be pushed from the ledge in the right place. After five or ten minutes of silence, time slipping away in the monotonous darkness, the mage raised his voice.

  — I was wondering why people like you had come my way. A pleasant surprise at a time when the 'fun' was about to come to an unfortunate end. And the real gem is a certain uncertainty.

  A dry chuckle sounded behind the sorceress, replaced by heavy breathing before the man continued.

  — It would seem that under such circumstances, uncertainty should have become boring long ago. But... I suppose the constant walking on the edge breaks something in the mind. But not everything. It twists the rest in unpredictable ways. A week ago I was looking forward to a roast and some dry wine. A few days ago, to survive. Just yesterday, to escape the pain and fear of exhaustion. And the price, believe me, does not matter. Suddenly I can't wait to solve this riddle. I'm sorry. Now it's hard not to express the incoherent flow of my own thoughts.

  By now, they had both passed the large room with the signs of flying creatures on the ceiling and were back in the corridor where Morrigan had begun her journey. Here she dared to ask her own question.

  — Who is the magician who made the breakthrough?

  — I suppose... my mentor, then. Master Uldred. The Master returned from Ostagar with new ideas... More certain than ever that the old ways must and could be changed. On the one hand, these ideas seemed so radical that the Council would be sharply divided if they demanded their implementation. On the other hand, it was none other than Uldred who had led the mages in the realisation of the 'impure' art. Therefore, he had enough 'keys' in his hands to start what followed.

  The mage grinned expressively. Morrigan could not see the emotion on his face, but there was an emphatic disregard for the events that had already taken place. After a brief pause, the man returned to the subject at hand.

  — Dilemma. Yes... What if there's another creature in front of me? Between you and me, that's the most likely scenario. The chosen image is the hallmark. The creatures on the other side are desperate for both flesh and access to our magic. But they can be arrogant in their dealings with those on the other side. I believe this paradox can be summed up as "no use in a fragile shell". With the need to conceal change, they juggle our perceptions and shrouds of illusion skilfully. But you, something else. Curious about who the victim really is. You or me. But what lies beneath the surface.

  Without speaking, the man coughed. It happened just outside the door to a room full of dead Templars. Morrigan ignored it as a foregone conclusion, slowing her pace only to keep up with the mage. The same one had obviously glanced around the room, taking in the dark outlines of the bodies. A low comment followed.

  — Pitiful fools...

  The mage immediately forgot about it and turned his attention back to the girl, continuing to unilaterally state the results of his thoughts.

  — What were we talking about? Oh yes... Another entertaining question — your clothes. So it seems. It's wrong to think that demons want nothing more than to reflect the passions of the living... and the dead. These days... I've seen so many different burning thirsts. And though each desire is one-sided. But unquenchable. I wonder what you desire.

  The next passage on the left, ten paces after the previous one, was covered in dull black from top to bottom. In contrast to the light material of the doorjamb that outlined it, it looked like a solid surface, even in the dark. Examining the phenomenon more closely, Morrigan shrugged. There was an elusive and inexplicable feeling of disgust, of squeamishness. Such emotions accompany the thought of parasites invading the body. Behind her, the mage drew a breath and said.

  — Good thing we don't need the armoury. Let's not get distracted by discussing desires...

  Something in that last sentence made the mage react. Danger. But before she could even think, the steel grip of a hand closed around the back of her head, forcing her head into the wall with irresistible force. A thin layer of tapestry was thrown against the wall, doing nothing to cushion the impact of her forehead against the masonry. The sorceress, lost in the darkness swirling around her, tried to slide sideways. But she was immediately flattened against the wall by a blow to her lower back, a blow that did not fit the image of a sorceress who could barely move her legs. One hand gripped Morrigan's neck with astonishing force, pressing her cheek painfully into the fibre of the dusty tapestry. The other, trembling slightly, ran its calloused fingertips along her thigh, down to the bottom of her shirt and up to the taut muscles of her buttocks.

  — Everyone is given... a talent. Sometimes useful, sometimes not. Mine has always been to sense the ripples of change that whisper danger. And while the proud man at the top sits stubbornly, the silence around me is a cry. The hunting season is over. Except to leave such a sweet mystery behind..... Wasteful.

  The girl's hand snatched up the dagger in a flash and aimed it at the body behind her. But with equal speed, the free male hand swept towards it, catching it halfway. With a sharp twist and a flash of pain through the limb to the shoulder, the mage forced the sorceress to drop her weapon. A sharp boot kick to her left foot forced her to spread her legs wider. A voice close to her ear spoke softly.

  — The lack of underlying desire is fascinating. Even if the picture suggests otherwise. To turn the uncertain into the unambiguous through one's own actions, to find the desired answer. Mm-hmm. Sweet dessert.

  The hand around her neck jerked the girl's head away from the wall, and she was instantly sealed back into the blocks of stone. The scarlet flash wiped the traces of the spell that had just begun to form from the sorceress' mind. A sickening mixture of numbness and throbbing pain spread from the left side of her forehead to her temple. And something warm moved down her cheek to her chin.

  — Hmm. Dumber than you look. Only the cacophony of the Lyrium Vein can drown out your body's mana song. Trying to hide it isn't even funny.

  A warm, rough tongue, longer than you'd expect from a human, licked the back of the girl's head. And a hand, already tracing a path along the soft skin, entered between her spread legs. Tracing a short path along the inside of her thigh, the fingers deftly opened the girl's burning belly to the cool air.

  — Even if the desired answers are not found... They will soon reveal their contents. And even if they don't. You'll end up as an appetiser.

  With a hoarse laugh, the fingers entered Morrigan's body roughly, stretching the silky soft flesh that showed no reaction to the intrusion. The girl managed to regain her slender thoughts in spite of the shaking world, and immediately made the only decision left to her. It could not be said that the man's actions did not evoke a reaction in her. Disgust and fear tried to flood the sorceress' mind. But in the hidden depths of her mind, something new blossomed. Like a faint echo of something long forgotten. Lingering and burning. A shuddering image of a room filled with the struggle between the uneven light of dozens of candles and the shadows stretching from the far corners. The struggle of the heavy smells of sweat, excitement and blood with the smoking smoke of incense. But it only framed a clear train of thought, purged of excess by the cold flames of rage.

  As the flesh floated in the man's hands, the man said with a huff.

  — Finally...

  But the further the change went, the more uncertain the predator's grip on the victim's neck became. Whatever was in front of the mage did not meet his expectations. The pause of bewilderment and confusion ended abruptly. With the sound of ripping veins and the appearance of four arms, Morrigan pushed herself away from the wall in a single motion and collapsed into her opponent's arms. Immediately, she twisted within the embracing arms and, with a jerky swing, drove her claws between her opponent's ribs. Facing each other, the two were finally able to look at each other. Again. And if Morrigan looked exactly like the creature she had killed on the stairs, down to the last detail. The possessed man was less enthusiastic about the girl's new appearance. The creature seemed to be frowning, as much as the expression on the swollen face indicated. Whether it was because of the claws piercing his body or for some other reason remained to be seen. A ghost of recognition flashed in the eyes, glittering in the lack of light. A moment later, a wide open jaw closed on the monster's collarbone. Sharp, needle-like teeth sliced easily through skin, tendons, swollen muscles and blood vessels. The jaws didn't so much tear out chunks as turn the flesh into rags as Morrigan instinctively gulped down the warm blood that filled her mouth.

  With gurgling noises, the carcass tried to tear the smaller opponent away from him. First with a pair of heavy blows to the torso. Then a series of weakening blows. But the sorceress kept them both close, her hands tightly gripping his ribs. Her teeth and gnashing fangs left terrible gashes as she tried to reach his neck. And when she did... Thick black fluid from the ruptured artery immediately covered the possessed man's chest and ran down it to the ground. Groaning, the monster slowly sank to its knees. Not a trace of the dying man's strong will was lost in the dragging movements. The creature smiled with blackened lips, blood bubbling on them, and exhaled a barely audible breath.

  — An answer, too. You...

  With the last sound, the monster's eyes faded, leaving only a pile of dead flesh in the corridor with the sorceress, who slowly slumped to the side. Morrigan took a few steps back, keeping her balance, and collapsed against the wall. The amount of mana she had left was crushing. On her body and mind. As if there weren't enough of the dark thoughts and tangled emotions that plagued her.

  Gathering her will into a fist, Morrigan reversed the transformation once more. Naked again, in the middle of the corridor, in the dark. Little was left of her clothes, a belt with an empty scabbard and socks hanging loosely from her round hips. Her lips, her chin, her graceful neck and the sensual contours of her heavily heaving breasts were covered in dark shades of blood. It ran down between her breasts, almost to her lower abdomen. The left side of her forehead was marked by a swollen bruise, the marks of which she had sloppily wiped from her cheek with the back of her hand. On her stomach and lower back, the marks of blows could be seen with the proper care. Without care, they would surely turn into serious bruises. Now the sorceress' appearance began to match the atmosphere around her.

  Picking up the dagger and the only vial that had survived the fight, Morrigan examined the dead man. The only thing that distinguished him from the dead man was the absence of a belt. Which made the girl wonder — who had actually been defeated in the darkness of this hall? Another possessed man? A sorcerer with whom the demon had disguised himself for the eyes of an onlooker? The episode tore at the girl's mind with endless questions, and faithful logic failed. Opening the vial, Morrigan checked it again for scent and carefully tasted the contents on her tongue. After waiting five minutes and seeing no change, she poured the potion in without a drop. As a lyrium potion should be, it was a tasteless, viscous mess of sand that gritted her teeth. After three full breaths to fight off the urge to vomit, the girl was relieved to feel a lethargic reaction. It was as if the looming and threatening wall was reluctantly receding, bringing back the clarity of thought and strength that had been taken away. Not much. But much better than nothing.

  Morrigan had no desire to go back, either to check on another dead man or to look for more clothes. She turned towards the unknown.

* * *

  After twenty-five cautious steps, filled with the anticipation of a new threat, the girl left the corridor and found herself in a hall of the same size as the one she had already visited. Remaining in the passage, Morrigan listened. There was only an oppressive silence, no sign of presence. Slowly exhaling and wincing at the pain spreading from her head, the sorceress thought. Lyrium would be an ace up her sleeve, no matter what lay ahead. But the mere need for it, or the fierce desire to find it, was not enough. Frowning, the girl remembered the words of the possessed man. The song of mana. Morrigan's own sense of mana did not even come close to resembling a certain song. With the sorceress' own source, it didn't feel like a song at all. Were it not for the concept her mother had instilled in her since childhood, Morrigan would have easily chalked up the sensation of mana overload to non-trivial fatigue. It was only through Flemeth's training and explanations that the girl could begin to distinguish between what was the result of an overworked body or mind and what was mana depletion. The mana exhaled by others seemed to be... .... The fleeting warmth of the bright summer sun licked at her skin for a moment. Only without the real heat and light. A subtle sensation, as difficult to explain to someone without talent as it would be to describe to a blind man how piercing the blue of a clear sky was at the dawn of a new day.

  Morrigan closed her eyes and concentrated. The girl searched herself for the slightest hint of a familiar sensation. Or an echo of something unfamiliar. Minute after minute passed as the sorceress tried to catch the elusive thing by the tail. And the moment it seemed... She opened her eyes and shook her head, dejected. It wasn't the failure that disappointed the girl. Rather, it was the presence of a ghost of faith in the outcome of such futile endeavours. Such a clear sign of weakness could not be deliberately invented.

  Turning back to the dark yawn of the corridor behind her, Morrigan returned to her usual train of thought. More facts, less hope for miracles. There was something that caught the girl's attention, a thorn in the side of other concerns. There were ten paces, give or take a step or two, between the entrance to the Templar dormitories and the entrance to the armoury. From the hall in front of it to the dormitory was the same number. And from the armoury to this place there were considerably more. Of course, the sceptic in the sorceress whispered, the source of the information about the armoury was hardly trustworthy. Oh, and there's no telling how big the rooms here might be. But the answer of logic remained inexorable — it was unlikely that the circular floor had been divided into unequal segments. Nor was it likely that the armoury for half a dozen Templars would take up twice as many bedrooms and an anteroom as the Templars themselves. Looking around in the darkness, Morrigan inwardly agreed — in the current situation, a reasonable hunch was certainly more productive than unbridled scepticism. Approaching the wall, she placed the palm of her hand on the stones and moved slowly, keeping her fingers in contact with the masonry.

  There were no tapestries, no ornaments. Just a smooth, rough surface until a corner and another wall emerged from the darkness and disappeared into the darkness to the right. Trying to visualise the layout gave the sorceress a clue. If distance didn't lie, it was the outer wall of the tower. Leaning her hands against it, Morrigan bit her lip. Persistence and doubt battled over the idea of the hidden room. The victory of persistence was marked by the decision to spend another ten minutes testing the hypothesis. The girl slowly dropped to her knees. Carefully feeling the floor in front of her, she moved along the wall in the opposite direction. Five or six metres later, the pads of her fingers felt a faint line on the floor, polished by thousands of feet, among the chaotic irregularities. Approaching it, the sorceress began to run her fingers methodically, not wanting to lose the find. It soon became clear that it described a semicircle, sometimes interrupted, with both ends of the arc resting in the wall in front of her nose. The sign of success was reflected on the woman's face by the barely raised corners of her lips. Without lifting her eyes from the floor, the girl sighed cautiously, as if afraid to frighten away the good fortune that had caught her tail. With common sense, secret rooms were not a foolproof option. Morrigan took into account that discipline was enforced on this floor, in keeping with the paramilitary nature of the Order. That meant no casual visitors in the corridors, especially no crawling on the floor. And a strict routine for the young Templars. Still, dozens of members of the Circle must have heard of the existence of the Lyrium Vault, but information as to its exact location remained the prerogative of the Command Staff. And the facility itself was hardly an invention of recent decades. It was more of a legacy from the dusty past when the interior of the tower was first rebuilt by its new owners.

  As Morrigan rose to look at the wall again, she caught a glimpse of movement. She immediately drew her blade and tensed, trying not to make a sound. It was not something in the darkness, nor was it the darkness itself. At the far end of the hall, hidden in the darkness at first, a passage led into a corridor. An arch in the wall stood out as a dark outline from the glow emanating from within. It seemed to sway slightly. But the light itself illuminated nothing, remained ghostly. It was only bright against the backdrop of darkness that obscured details at five paces. Soon the culprit emerged from the passage. It was a dense, pearly ball with a bluish tint, about the size of a typical five-year-old's head. It floated silently in the air, bobbing up and down, the source of an even glow. Recognition slipped into the wizard's mind — a wisp. One of a number of shadowspawn. The least aggressive of the predators, Celebrium aside. Essentially an entity without any sign of complex thought. Its only ambition is to absorb mana. The orb crossed the hall without changing its path. Then it disappeared into the passage the sorceress had come from.

  Exhaling slowly, the girl turned back to the wall. Finding the middle between the ends of the arc, she began to feel the brickwork along this line from bottom to top. Block by block. Until one, at eye level, seemed smoother to the sorceress. When she was sure it wasn't self-deception and the difference was clear, she tried to press down on the polished stone. Slowly, with resistance, it sank into the wall to the depth of half a palm, then a dry click sounded in the silence. The segment of the wall corresponding to the line on the floor turned half a turn on its axis with a dry rustle and a barely perceptible creak, opening two narrow passageways on either side.

  Clutching the hilt of her dagger tightly to her knuckles, Morrigan carefully slipped inside. But before she could inspect it, she bent down and rammed the blade into the gap between the twisted segment of wall and the floor. Only when she was sure that the weapon was firmly seated in its stone sheath did she allow herself to begin the search. The lack of windows meant that she had to move around the perimeter of the new room by feel. And with each new step, the room revealed some of its own secrets. But not in the way the "explorer" wanted. At first, after two steps, the first signs of nausea came over the sorceress. Stopping immediately, Morrigan slowly returned to the entrance, surprised to see the gradual improvement. The only substance the girl knew would have a similar effect on a person with a talent for magic. Raw lyrium of sufficient mass. This assumption matched the original idea of the purpose of the vault she had found. It would be foolish to assume that such a dangerous mineral would be stored here in an open form... .... But Morrigan couldn't put the irrational fears out of her mind all at once. After all, the mage's skin touching the unprocessed lirium, concentrated in a modest amount, threatened to cause mental confusion and internal bleeding.

  Gathering her wits, the sorceress returned to the task at hand. As she moved along the wall, fighting the nausea and dizziness, she soon came across sturdy, solid chests. Wooden ones were not suitable for storing lyrium and had no locks. So Morrigan opened each one without fear. One by one, she found numerous identical metal vessels with engraved markings in the shape of an inverted sword and a wax-sealed neck. This was most likely a compound based on the processed lyrium used by the Templars. The metal chests, on the other hand, had a solid, locked feel to them. Especially in front of them, the sorceress became so thin that she wanted to turn herself inside out. No further clues were needed and she hurried on. Finally, another wooden chest revealed long rows of vials. Touching them with her fingers, the girl recognised a familiar shape. Similar to the one she had recently used. Taking only four to begin with, Morrigan was relieved to make her way out of the room, remembering to pick up her only weapon along the way. After catching her breath and glancing at the vials, she fastened them to her belt with leather straps.

  Sitting here against the wall, rubbing the bridge of her nose, Morrigan thought. She needed to get her thoughts in order. Even though this was an inappropriate place and time, she decided it didn't matter. With a painful twitch of her left cheekbone, she tried to calculate the time. It seemed to be dawn. But the girl was leaning towards the dark side, when the light that had risen outside would not affect the inside of the tower. As soon as she lowered her self-control and let her thoughts go, they immediately jumped to what had happened in the corridor. Unable to resist the current, Morrigan tried to abstract herself and consider what was troubling her. In a strange way — the sum of violence, mortal danger, being on the edge and miraculous rescue evoked a faint reaction in the girl. In retrospect — the memory of a normal emotional response to the actions of a possessed person was present. However, less than an hour later, the reaction to the events had flattened into indifference. Looking down at the naked body and running her fingertips barely touching the skin from the solar plexus to the thigh, Morrigan acknowledged in a sombre mood.... After fear and some aspects of self-preservation instinct, a natural feeling disappeared in the girl... A sense of reluctance to satisfy the lust of another. Narrowing her eyes, the sorceress drew back. Such an answer seemed flat. It wasn't the action or the result that was the problem. It was the indifference to the fact of using one's own body for certain purposes. The realisation of the duality of seeing herself as both a familiar and a suitable tool caused a piercing chill to spread from the centre of her stomach to her insides. Shaking her head, Morrigan focused on the rest of the disturbing moments. She dismissed the inadequate perception of life threats as something to be tolerated and controlled. After spending a few minutes on the memories of the possessed, the sorceress decided that what she had heard was worth keeping in mind, but that more knowledge was needed to draw clear conclusions.

  Wandering her eyes in the darkness and biting her lower lip, the girl soon made a new and unpleasant discovery. Though the sorceress tried to keep an open mind and let her thoughts run wild, she deliberately avoided the moment with a glimpse of foreign memories. Gathering her will, the sorceress faced the truth. It didn't look like a figment of her imagination. It was more like an associative image of a similarly acute or essentially similar experience. Dozens of suppositions had been built up. But earlier in the girl's memory there had been only subject knowledge and skills, in no way connected with experience or expertise. It was as if they had been implanted in her from outside. Reflecting on the disappearance of the one and the appearance of the other, it was possible, with the appropriate complacency, to come up with good explanations. For example, that it was the result of a confusion of memories, when separate fragments had lost their connection with each other and only seemed alien because of it. But the appearance out of nowhere of the very experience of life, full of emotions, visual images, tastes, looked like a confident movement into the arms of madness. And indomitable logic thwarted the self-deception. No matter how Morrigan looked at the facts, the girl had never been in rooms like this before in her life. It was hard for the sorceress to imagine where such decorations had been found. In a respectable mansion? In a castle? Unlike the new abilities or behavioural changes, the girl had not heard of cases where possession was accompanied by the appearance of complete fragments of other people's memories. The answers might be in the memory itself. Or they might not. Making up her mind and focusing on one, Morrigan immediately felt her pulse quicken. The context was elusive, but the associated emotions hinted at the sensuality of the experience. The sorceress tried to cut away the excess, methodically unravelling the tangle into individual strands. It was not something clear and unambiguous like fear, anger, pain or lust. The complex mixture of colours demanded delicacy, and these slowly began to emerge from the uniform background. The dark anticipation, the pounding sense of power, the euphoria of a painful mixture of pain and pleasure, the excitement of the nearness of success and the risk of failure. As she opened her eyes sharply and exhaled, Morrigan felt a chill. Then she realised it was the sweat covering her exposed skin. Licking her lips, she was surprised to notice the hardened nipples, the nervously twitching fingers, the dulled pain. The memory now resembled not a random fragment of someone else's mosaic that had accidentally reached the sorceress, but a crack in a dark room, from which the unbearably bright light of the hot summer sun shone. And so the shadows that overwhelmed the mistress of the room grew denser, and the coolness turned to ice.

  The nausea in her throat made Morrigan realise that what had happened up to that moment was nothing compared to the new problem. Little by little, the girl's emotions lost their sharpness and then their connection to her memories, turning them into a pile of abstract facts about her own life. Sometimes it was found that individual fragments that linked one event to another were missing. It was nothing more than a disease spreading from a single scar. The Sorceress fought the growing changes with logic, introspection, control and some outside help. It was as if she was meticulously recreating herself, with constant hindsight. But that one shard brought back to life what had been lost a hundredfold, sharply outlining the contours of the hunger that lurked in the depths. The touch of memory reverberated through every part of his body. Clearly aware of the ultimate failure of logic in the face of emotion, Morrigan was horrified at the prospect of becoming addicted to images that had nothing to do with her. And losing touch with her own past. The very core of her identity.

  Banishing every thought, every inner voice except the rumbling of her breath, the girl closed her eyes and allowed her frantic heartbeat to slowly calm. Her taut features relaxed, her hands gently clenched into fists and a sardonic grin flashed across her lips. A biting confession sounded softly.

  — I wanted to clear my head.

  With a jerk, the sorceress rose to her feet, trying to ward off the downward spiral of reflection. It was necessary to move, to determine the next steps. Now that she had a supply of lyrium, the rational direction for the lone tower explorer seemed to be down a level or two. Morrigan was still inclined to seek the necessary knowledge on the Templar floor. But the girl had to reassess the risks. The next possessed person she encountered might not be a charades player, but a down-to-earth predator who didn't want to talk. And that led to the first reason for choosing a target. Allies. Those, the sorceress thought, would pass as bait, if not as full partners. And coincidentally, the girl held a strong argument for negotiation in her hand. Second, Morrigan was uncomfortable with the force holding back the breakthrough. Pride, seemingly unmolested, remained at the top of the tower. From her own belief that the breakthrough could not be affected by remaining behind the veil, the sorceress drew a number of conclusions. For example, the opponent of the current owner of the stronghold must also be present in the building. And since there was no direct confrontation between them, they would both prefer to stay apart. So the lower the level, the higher the probability of a meeting... Morrigan made a valid assumption here. If the opponent was holding back the breakthrough, then he was also indirectly holding back those who were entering reality after the Pride. So the lower down, the less chance of encountering demons capable of complex thought. As she headed for the corridor, the sorceress smiled at the amusing thought that an opponent who attacked head-on would be a welcome relief. The descent seemed tempting for other reasons as well. The survivors were an additional source of information. And what if Alima's sister was among them? ..... The chance of finding her alive gave Morrigan an echo of warm emotion, and she was eager to grasp at that ghost of 'normalcy'. And finally, downstairs was the First Wizard's office....

  Shaking off the thought, the sorceress froze at the remains of the possessed man. Pitiful shreds of clothing lay where the massive carcass had fallen. Barely a quarter of the dead man was left. Mummified, the corpse had lost both bulk and mass, looking more like a skinned skeleton. The sorceress grimaced at the hint of danger lurking around her and pulled the cloth from the corpse. With a flying step she returned to the vault. Not forgetting to use the dagger as a stop, the girl skilfully pulled out two dozen potions and tied them in a knot inside the cloth, the ends of which she let through the belt. Now she felt ready.

* * *

  Every dozen paces, the width of the descent narrowed and turned to the right. To distract her mind from what she saw in the hall where the stairs began, Morrigan counted the steps and turns. There were no enemies or new surprises. Only the mutilated body of the mangler on the floor. The dead man served as a silent rebuke, confirming the sorceress' fears that she had been tricked. To fall prey to illusions that turned perception inside out. It was hard to call such a thing a pleasant discovery. And this time, as if to further mock her, the beginning of the stairs was exactly where it should be.

  Four turns later, the darkness began to lift. First, a pale and uneven light appeared, replaced by the glow of burning torches dancing on the walls. A staircase emerged from the ceiling of the third level, descending through the outer circle to the inner ring of columns. In the centre of the floor was what appeared to be a large circular room. The colonnade extending to the left and right of the final steps gave a sense of their own insignificance. Polished stone monoliths of three girths, layer upon layer of gigantic blocks, seemed to form a second hall within the first. Eight torches were mounted on each pillar, providing light while creating countless wavering shadows. Ghostly within the ring of columns, the pillars thickened towards the outer wall of the hall. In the centre, the eyes were drawn to two objects. First, a black marble table on a thick central leg. Over the course of its existence, it had probably fulfilled a variety of roles, depending on the whims of the Firmament's owners. It was now being used as a saucer. Second, an object that could not be overlooked, a mountain of flesh sitting cross-legged on the table. The difference between the new possessed man and the one he had met a floor above was striking. Human features were nowhere to be seen. The head had fused with the shoulders, swollen and puffy to the point where both eyes and mouth were hidden behind the folds. The arms were fused to the swollen torso. Only the legs were remotely reminiscent of familiar limbs.

  Stopping at the beginning of the descent, Morrigan crouched on a step and watched. Soon, closer inspection revealed new details, except for the motionless object in the centre. There was ghostly movement in the pale shadows amidst the circle of light. And as the eyes adjusted, the chaotic tossing and turning of elusive figures around the marble pedestal became apparent. In each of them were the outlines of the two creatures that had attacked the sorceress at the beginning of her exploration of the tower. She counted a dozen of them, but found it difficult to tell whether she had seen two or three. There was no movement outside the circle of columns, no matter how hard she looked. Then Morrigan's gaze fell on an obvious detail close to her. On her right, a good-sized rope had been wrapped around the railing. The kind you'd expect to see on a ship, not in the middle of a tower full of mages. Bending down, the sorceress made sure it went all the way down to the base of the stairs, allowing her to get outside the ring of columns and avoid the obvious threat. That answered the question of how the dead mage had managed to get to the fourth floor, avoiding the deadly cluster of enemies on the third. One could only wonder what trick the mage had used to throw the rope in the first place. And how many fruitless attempts it had taken.

  She slid down deftly, without rushing, and made her way as quietly as possible to the nearest exit. It was nearby and looked the most obvious. Beyond it was a familiar corridor. A copy of the twin one floor above. The only difference was that the light pouring in from the hall dispelled the impenetrable gloom. And on the walls here, instead of the old heroic tapestries, there were paintings. Dozens and dozens of portraits, painted in a variety of colours and styles. The sorceress suspected that the differences indicated the long period of time over which the works here had been created. Judging by the similar style of clothing worn by the men and women of all ages and species, each face here belonged to a wizard or sorceress of the Circle. Having unwittingly witnessed such a literal measurement of the accumulated heritage and history of individual lives, the girl shook her head in despair. A burning envy crept from the back of her mind. That these representatives of the Circle had been able to leave enough of a mark to become part of the firmament forever. Envy of recognition...

  Then Morrigan's eyes slid down the corridor, noting the many bodies on the floor. Most were familiarly mummified, bearing the marks of mortal injury. An empty throat, a torn stomach, a hole in the chest, or some other unmistakable indication of the cause of death. A dried pool of blood was observed beneath each, indicating that the bodies had shriveled after their own time of death, and that at least a full day or two had passed since the battle. Yet there were no splashes, smears or drips of blood around. It was as if everyone in the corridor had died with a single clean blow, not to the fleeing man's back, but to his face. The walls and floor bore no scars of battle. The girl couldn't imagine such a thing when it came to familiar magic. Nor was there any sign of the assassins or the murderer. It was as if he hovered among the defeated bodies. Sniffing around, the sorceress was surprised to find that she had never once smelled decomposition or putrefaction during her time in Hardhold. Three or four full-grown mages, perhaps as many acolytes, could be made out among the corpses by their clothing. In the distance, the charred bodies of two of the church's ministers lay crumpled against the wall. The flesh bore the marks of the heat that had turned their skin to blackened embers, singeing their eyes and hair. But their clothes looked untouched, as if they had just been washed. Footprints on the floor suggested there were more dead than the eye could see. The sorceress estimated that three or four bodies were missing, as some of the pools of blood had no owners. But Morrigan didn't see the expected signs of bodies being dragged. The only uneven trail of dried blood down the corridor belonged to a stranger who had passed this way later in the battle. It stretched from around the bend to the left, disappearing into the hall from which the girl had come. It was not difficult to guess the identity of the brave man.

  The only sounds in the silence were the faint crackling of torches in the distance, the occasional sound of boiling tar dripping onto the floor, and finally the sorceress's own breathing.

  Imagining the layout of the stairs, Morrigan decided that turning left and following the trail left behind would take her a shorter distance to the descent. Without delay, she began carefully stepping over the bodies, leaving the warm light behind and approaching the inhospitable darkness.

  As she passed the bodies of the churchmen, she felt a wave of stifling heat hit her back. She jumped forward in reflex, but couldn't completely escape the sudden threat. A searing, almost unbearable pain pierced her left shoulder blade and demanded that her body move away immediately. The pungent stench of burnt hair hit her nostrils. Stumbling over the dead man and barely keeping her balance, Morrigan managed to spin around to face her opponent. It appeared that one of the two charred corpses was in no hurry to get to his feet. Smoke was already billowing from beneath his robes, and before her eyes, the garment was on fire from top to bottom. It began to burst from the corpse's eye sockets, nostrils and ears. A few heartbeats later, the flames had engulfed the corpse without a trace. The girl's shoulder blade burned excruciatingly, and every movement of her left arm from hand to shoulder brought a new wave of pain. It seemed to dull, but at the same time a numbing lightness came over her head.

  Not allowing herself to fall into a stupor, Morrigan shouted out a short command, pointing at the demon with her good hand.

  — Frius. Tenachi .

  As the monster's right limb hissed, snapped and shattered, the sorceress sprinted away. As she turned, she saw the dead man's mouth open eerily. In the moments that followed, the girl seemed threatened by a low roar that sounded like the roar of a forest fire blowing through a dry forest with a tailwind. And the heat. Without relying on hope or luck, Morrigan threw her body sharply to the side. Her healthy shoulder hit the wall and the portrait of another stranger, and she turned sharply to repeat the spell without aiming. The one-armed creature followed close behind. The monster's flesh was burning, ash and embers falling from its black bones. Behind it, the clothes of the other dead smoked as if they were crying, the colours of the paintings flowing with the heat, and purple reflections darted across the walls like madmen. The spell struck the demon in the chest, sending a wave of blue smoke rushing out to the sides. The creature's new scream mingled with the sounds of raging flames, like a torrent of falling water. But the searing heat that washed generously over his body did not allow him to confuse the elements. Sensing that she was nearing the edge, Morrigan tried to pull down the vial of lyrium potion. But the leather knot did not suggest such a method, only tightening around the vessel. Unable to tear her gaze from the bone crumbling under her own heat, she pulled harder. Breaking her fingernails and literally tearing what was needed from the belt that was digging painfully into her thigh, the sorceress slowly backed away along the wall.

  A brief pause, while the material medium finally disintegrated under the demon's merciless wrath, allowed the girl to pour the potion into her mouth. Had the processed lyrium been harmless, the mages would not have relinquished their power over the world. Unfortunately, even in this form, it remained a dangerous poison that was not meant to enter the bodies of living creatures. By abusing this way of fueling his own powers, the mage had to accept the risk of the consequences. Tremors, convulsions, shock, liver necrosis and... death, of course. For there was no mortal flesh without flaws. The only way the sorceress knew to get around this limitation was to use sigils. But, paradoxically, none of these were known to the girl.

  The charred skull was the last to succumb to the crushing force. Suddenly, the demon was forced to reveal its true form, consuming much of its own attention and strength. The heat diminished perceptibly, though not completely. The individual tongues of fire that had been tearing at the ceiling drew inward. In an effort to fill the void at the centre, they formed a pulsating, inverted blob with an expanding base. The figure, with a constantly changing mouth and two thin, writhing limbs, reached a height of two metres. But before the demonic creature could focus its fury on the sorceress again, she pointed at it with her healthy hand and shouted.

  — Nigrum putredo cuad devorat anima!

  "Death curse" stopped the fiery blob and made it pulsate. The shudder increased rapidly, making the demon's form blur around the visible edge in a matter of seconds. And then, with a deafening shriek, the creature's manifestation burst forth, flooding the corridor with a fleeting burst of fire and light. Brow-scorching heat struck Morrigan in the chest, knocking the air out of her and throwing her along the wall like a doll. Disoriented, nearly blinded and gasping for breath, the sorceress immediately tried to get to her feet, leaning her shoulder against the wall.... Only to discover that the wall had been replaced by a doorway draped in dull black...

* * *

  Accompanied by a deafening white noise, a kaleidoscope of wild curves of blinding light passed before Morrigan's eyes, leaving a trail of every colour imaginable. As if reluctantly, they began to merge, losing their speed and variety of hues. The noise faded. At first hazy, as if through wet glass, the surroundings became clearer.

  It was a circular room with gently curved walls. A smooth ceiling hung above. Every surface in sight was an unknown stone, the colour of red clay. It was as if the hall was the result of a long struggle between water and stone. In the centre, the ceiling curved gently, forming a neck that led upwards. From there, pure white light poured in, forming a glowing circle on the floor. The sorceress sat on a chair so high that her feet did not touch the floor. It felt like a piece of furniture made of the same rough stone as the walls. The flat back went up to the ceiling and had an additional accessory, a ring of stone that encircled the girl's neck tightly. There were no armrests, so her arms hung freely along her body. The sorceress' shoulder blade never stopped throbbing with searing pain, seeming to swell and collapse. It reminded Morrigan not only that she was alive. But also that what was happening was not an illusion. Or a very complicated illusion...

  There were other guests in the room. A few feet away, a man in the robes of a Tervelda mage lay on the floor. Though he had no obvious injuries, he looked severely emaciated. As one would after a week of forced starvation on water alone. The mage's eyes wandered slowly around the room, focusing on nothing in particular. At the back of the room were two similar chairs with mummified corpses dressed in the same clothes. Four more bodies lay on the floor. They looked alive, but in the same sorry state as Morrigan's neighbour.

  Silently, and therefore suddenly, a long, thin arm emerged from the hole in the ceiling. Bones with a hint of flesh, tendons and short, curved claws instead of fingernails. The limb was followed by the rest of the creature. Its limbs, unnaturally long compared to its body, fell to the floor of the hall and straightened in a circle of light. The sorceress bit her lip, noting that the newcomer cast no shadow. At its core, the monster's form was of human proportions, but that was where the similarities ended. A naked, apparently sexless, lean body, as if it had been a man who had died of prolonged starvation. A bald skull with empty eye sockets. Disproportionately long arms and legs with an extra joint. A spine protruding through pale, translucent skin. And in place of the shoulder blades were two human faces, serving as terrifying embodiments of frozen agony.

  The monster's toothless mouth opened with a faint smacking sound. But it made no sound; instead, a faint voice came from the walls, like an echo reflected from all sides at once. Changing smoothly from childish squeak to dry senility, from feminine to masculine, it held one constant: anticipation.

  — Uh-oh. The trap had brought something new. Fecund. Fecund. The hunger is insatiable.

  Morrigan noticed movement at her feet. She glanced down to find a bundle of vials of lyrium potion torn from her belt. And next to it, a mage who had previously seemed indifferent to what was going on. Apparently, the man had noticed the knot a little earlier, when he caught a glimpse of the single vial rolling out. This brought back the spark of interest that ignited in an instant into a raging flame of determination. Using what was probably the last of his rapidly dwindling strength, the mage rolled over to the base of Morrigan's chair. Grabbing four vials at once from inside, he shattered the pottery with his teeth like a beast and drank the contents in one gulp. It couldn't be said to have happened in the blink of an eye. But when Morrigan turned her eyes back to the demon, she found him in the same place, motionless. With a toothless grin on his sunken face, the epitome of hunger.

  With a hoarse shriek, the mage spat a burst of mana in the creature's direction, followed by a clot of flame that burned painfully hot. The first left a bloody pothole in the creature's torso with a wet crack. The second, with a crunch and a flash, tore off the subdued shoulder and limb, leaving reddening burns and a blackened stump in the pale flesh.

  The creature's mouth opened again. The same strange voice with the same intonation said.

  — Nice...

  Something stirred at the edge of Morrigan's consciousness, and she was surprised to feel the familiar presence of mana being used carelessly by the creature towering at its centre. Surprise was replaced by a wave of clammy horror as the sorceress realised the purpose of the faces on the demon's back. They were still living mages, used by the demon as the basis for its own manifestation. It was their mana that the monster was using, giving meaning to the words of the possessed man she had encountered. "The creatures on the other side are desperate for access to magic." Above the demon's head, the mana formed a rough knot, constantly flowing and therefore visible to those gifted with the talent. The knot evoked vague associations for Morrigan. It was like a crude sketch of mana flowing through the runic formula of a life-draining spell, forming an inward recursion. The whips that came from the knot, barely visible to the eye, pierced the chests of everyone in the room except the sorceress. With incomprehensible sobs, she watched as the demon's magic drained the life force from more than just those present. The victims' flesh melted before her eyes, while the demon's body regenerated at a staggering rate. The mage at Morrigan's feet trembled weakly and, with a final gasp, fell silent. But even that did not break the bond between him and the demon. The dead man's body continued to shrink, turning to desiccated remains at a rate reminiscent of the mummies in ancient, forgotten tombs and the dead in the corridors of the Fortress.

  When only the sorceress was left alive in the room, the demon finally moved. He took two quick steps and, without stooping, picked up the bundle of potions with his fingernail. As soon as it was in front of the girl's face, the order sounded.

  — Drink. Like the other one.

  Concentrating on what was happening, Morrigan answered confidently and calmly. The girl's voice trembled only once, and inside she was celebrating a small victory.

  — If I drink, I die.

  A toothless jaw chomped and a voice echoed.

  — If you don't drink, you die.

  — So I can only choose to drink or not to drink. The second.

  The creature tilted its head and hesitated for a moment. Having come to a conclusion, it continued.

  — A corpse will do.

  — But less useful than a living magician?

  — Less. So drink. Or I'll make you.

  Morrigan realised that the creature before her, though extremely powerful in some ways, was far inferior to Desire in its ability to converse, draw conclusions and weave a web of half-truths.

  — Why not drink it yourself? What's the point of a middleman? You get your mana directly.

  The demon turned his head and stared at the knot with empty eye sockets. The wizard's taut nerves rang in silence as a decision took shape in the shadow creature's mind. The next thing happened quickly. The creature's lower jaw dropped, far beyond the reach and familiarity of humans and elves. And the bundle of potions fell into the opening, with only a brief crackle of pottery.

  — Now it's your turn.

  A bony hand rose to the sorceress's throat, stopping halfway. There was a pause. The tips of the claws began to twitch, showing the early stages of the tremors that precede convulsions. The demon brought its hand closer to its eyeless snout, showing something vaguely resembling confusion. The symptoms continued to progress rapidly. Morrigan was afraid to blink, lest she miss.... The girl couldn't give a clear answer as to what exactly she was afraid of missing. But she trembled with a seething mixture of impatience and vengeful satisfaction.

  Lyrium remained an enemy, indifferent to the personal characteristics of its victim. The body, formed from the flesh of two mages, was dying. The expected response to its deteriorating condition would have been to use the magic it had already demonstrated. But the demon waited until it was too late. The decay of the tissues prevented the use of mana, even though it was more than necessary thanks to the lyrium.

  Suddenly, the creature arched its back and spat sound from its own mouth for the first time. A hissing sound flooded the hall. The sound had no clear beginning or end, remaining unchanged from second to second. Two rippling growths swelled on the back of the creepy body with astonishing speed. At the same time, the pale skin of the already thin creature tightened around its spine, making the demon resemble its own victims. With a wet, tearing sound, burgundy blood spurted from its back and two naked, half-digested bodies of a man and a woman flopped to the reddish ground. The faces of these two were what Morrigan had seen where the creature's shoulder blades had been. They were no different from the dead now, having obviously experienced their final moments as the monster expelled its dying flesh. The sorceress clenched her teeth to the point of gritting them to keep from screaming. For the shadow spawn still stood before her in the flesh. The girl had to admit that the monster was made up of more bodies than these two.

  The leather-clad skeleton straightened, and with that the voice issued a threat.

  — You will be the replacement.

  Dry hands easily tore off the stone collar that held the sorceress in place. Then they scooped up the woman's body like a piece of fluff. Without pausing, the monster flipped the girl over in mid-air and thrust her head into a huge, widening mouth. At the sight of the reddish darkness of the demon's insides, clearly separate from the skeletal body, Morrigan was paralysed. The mixture of piercing natural terror and unwillingness to accept the inevitability of what was happening acted like a poison that spread through her body. Then the indifferent darkness closed in, enveloping her body in searing moisture.

  One heartbeat. That's how long it took in the demon's belly before the darkness exploded with thousands of twisting white threads, each one a sharp headache of its own tone. Like threads that were threaded through his eyeballs to the back of his head.

  As the storm subsided, the nightmare gave way to the comfortable darkness and contours of the usual room in the Firmament. There were shelves of books and the familiar walls leading up into the darkness. Morrigan allowed herself to exhale. Despite the throbbing pain in her shoulder and the migraine that refused to subside, a rare guest crept onto the girl's face. A smile. The realisation of the trivial fact that death had passed her by overshadowed every other thought for three long minutes. And then the smile and the joy faded like a fleeting spring primrose. For the first time, the Sorceress admitted that the experience had raised painful doubts about the reality around her... The catch was that the only way to overcome the doubt was to discard the question, for the attempt to find an answer immediately became a problem. Secondly, the lack of an acceptable explanation for what had happened was generally unsettling. Worse still, the sorceress did not fully understand what had happened — what needed to be explained, because it was not clear. And the girl knew that the fear would soon grow into an unbearable itch. One last thing... Morrigan couldn't help but notice — in the demon's lair, she felt her own emotions brighter and more natural than they had been in the last ten days. Another unanswered question.

  The sorceress' eyes flickered to the books. A moment of hope was replaced by disappointment. The titles on the shelves clearly indicated the contents of the collected works. Theology... Suddenly feeling tired and broken, the girl let out a soft groan through clenched teeth. It was necessary to get up, and she did. It was necessary to move on, and she moved cautiously towards the exit of the room.