Chapter 20 - "The Puzzle"

The Earl's wife's brief tantrum did not last two minutes. Personality, or education, or perhaps reason, prevailed and the woman rose from the floor to let the newcomers into the bedroom. Unlike the cold fireplace, where no wood had been lit for many days, there was warmth here, in contrast to the corridor, and so the heavy air was thick with aromas. The keen eye could easily detect a thin trickle of blue smoke wafting slowly from a modest earthenware bowl resting above the fireplace. The rest of the bouquet required more knowledge. The volume spoke of something overseas. The scents stirred the imagination, immediately conjuring up hazy images of sun-bleached harbours and bustling marketplaces.

Taking a deep breath, Tristan said:

— Cardamom and lemon seeds. To help you breathe. An unexpected reminder, of Kirkwall...

Then the Seeker's attention, and that of the Morrigan, was drawn to the massive bed with its dark stained oak posts at the corners. Beneath the warm covers, no less plain than the rest of the furniture, lay a man. Though peaceful, the mark of illness was evident even without a healer. Once a stout man, broad-shouldered and sharp-witted, Earl was now a gaunt, haggard old man.

At the bedside, on an elegant wooden bedside table with thin, crooked legs, his gaze fell on a massive silver tray engraved with a coat of arms. It was an expensive object, but worthless in comparison to its contents: a finger-thick rectangular slab of precious malachite, the hues of which were of marvellous purity. On its mirror-polished surface, the full rune of «Thoth» had been carefully etched with a generous amount of treated lyrium. An austere cross, ending in split serpentine tongues and embraced by stylised flames at the four corners. It was the object that served here as a source of gentle warmth. And when the shutters were closed, it also emitted a dim light, reminiscent of a candle, without the lively flicker of the flame. A masterpiece in which the craftsman had invested more than a full season's work and many personal winters, due to the constant contact with the lirium. Even if the work had been done by a dwarf. Looking at the graceful lines, Morrigan involuntarily remembered her mother talking about the Tevinter dragon gods of grey antiquity and the runes associated with them, but not related to spells. The witch had been sketching symbols with a dry twig on the ground outside the porch. And she spoke as if of roots and yesterday's rain, without a hint of reverence. In fact, the witch often laughed at the notion of ancient creatures. The dragon Thoth, master of the forges of fire. And much later: the Archidemon. At first, the young Korkari wondered how the symbol of a giant dead lizard could affect «reality». But when Flemeth realised that the student was directly linking the effect to the meaning that people put into the image, the stubborn girl found herself washing a burnt cauldron. The power of the rune came from a particular form of magic, sealed into the plate for years, if not decades, by the lyrium. And the symbol... The symbol served as decoration, necessary to give meaning. After all, most were accustomed to respecting and appreciating only form, not content. Morrigan found it ironic that such an object lay at the patient's bedside, rather than a symbol of the Church or, say, the Song of Light.

Belatedly shifting her attention, the sorceress stepped onto the worn bearskin beside the bed and paused before the young man's body, the Seeker already bent over him. The earl's heir had managed to survive seven, eight, and in the most surprising case, ten winters. Judging by the reddened mark on his forehead from his encounter with the wall, the boy was not faking it. And there was nothing around to indicate the supernatural presence of the source of Erling's distress. A room like any other. Once a cosy refuge from the harshness of everyday life, it was now a room overflowing with fear.

Tristan sighed tiredly and dropped it without lurking:

— Possesion. But... More like a ghost than a demon. I can't be certain about such a delicate matter, but it hasn't devoured the child. It's still here.

A ragged exhalation of relief, ending in a muffled sob, came from the door where Mistress Isolde stood, fingers clutching the hem of her dress to the whiteness of her skin. The Morrigan turned at the sound, studying the emotions that crossed the woman's face. The Lady of the Fortress tried to look at her husband's haggard face, as if to hold on to it as a bulwark of stability in a raging sea of emotion. Relief, fear, anxiety... regret and guilt? Tralin, the guard at the door, tensed, about to take a step towards Milady, but in the end the man never moved.

Crouching beside the Seeker, the sorceress spoke carefully:

— Like Winn?

Tristan glanced at Isolde and shook his head:

— Maybe. Maybe not. The demon has shown memorable talents and some understanding of strategy, skilfully exploiting the vulnerability of an entire region deprived of the support of the capital by events everywhere. This is far from «mediocre». The power of a demon can be crushing at times. But the perception of complex nuances remains primitive. To retreat behind the «veil» and take the boy's essence and spirit with him... Let's say this thing's behaviour is as complex as a mortal's. What does it remind you of?

— The Beast, in known territory. With a hostage. And now you don't have a single purebred Gerrin.

— You think you're the kind of person who can find out exactly why I'm here?

— The Shadow's creation definitely has ears. And in unexpected places.

— Yes...

Tristan rolled back on his heels wearily and sat on his buttocks, his back to the wall. The man looked ill, pacing aimlessly, his eyes absentmindedly wandering either to the ceiling or to the embossed skirting board that bordered it. Unable to bear the weight of uncertainty, Milady Isolde asked softly, as if afraid to frighten him away:

— Will you end this nightmare? Will you exorcise the monster?

Before turning her head to the woman, Morrigan glanced around the room once more and asked a counter question:

— A nightmare?

The woman swallowed, choosing the right words, and exhaled slowly, letting go of the excessive excitement.

— What had happened to my husband was like a nightmare. The soul-destroying helplessness, the powerlessness and the slowly approaching blackness of inevitability. At first. I tried to fit in. To keep my dignity. To revive the ideas that had stirred in my youth. But soon the truth became clear: my husband's duty meant immeasurably less than his life. I was ready to do anything. Even destroy the fruits of his labour, his achievements. Everything he was proud of. Let him despise me when he came back. I wish he'd come back. My son. He worried day and night, about his father, about me. Often alone. An abandoned child. I confess, even though it hurts more, but the moment when a disgusting creature took the place of my son passed unnoticed. One day I woke up surrounded by familiar faces with empty eyes. Each of them had been turned into a puppet. On the outside, the same people as before, but the actions... The words. Different. And then... When it forces you to do something, there's no pressure. Or compulsion. Just a crystal clear realisation: you would never do that, never say those words. But you do it, and you say it. Again and again and again... Always wondering if there's anything left of your son in that painfully familiar body. Yes... It's a nightmare.

The sorceress nodded, not hiding her surprise, and summed it up quietly:

— It's like drowning. In the mire.

Turning back to Tristan, the girl spoke clearly:

— So. We are where we wanted to be. And we have what we were allowed. It's a strange story, no doubt. But it's not worth your own death. You, on the other hand, have it exactly backwards. So you decide.

Seeker blinked, concentrating on the girl, and rubbed his cheeks, trying to shake off the tiredness:

— You're right. Well. If one of the male heirs is needed.

My Lady Isolde interrupted the man, carefully holding back her emotions:

— I've heard that thought twice now in your conversation. Why do you want the Gerrin family? Did you not come here at the behest of the Church or the capital to see the dead rise from their graves?

Morrigan shifted sideways, leaning back on the bed so that Tristan could remain in front of her and see the Lady of the Fortress out of the corner of her eye. Before the man could find an answer to the delicate question, the sorceress dropped it:

— The Gerrinas were at the centre of the lord's attention for a reason. I've heard that the «pure blood» of the Ferelden nobility has been worth its weight in gold since time immemorial. And it's in the Church's interest to use the blood of men. For the good of the Church, of course. It's easy to overlook in these parts. But from the south, the Blight is sweeping across the land, and in the north, the madness of civil war is gathering strength on the empty throne. Until the blood is so plentiful that it is worth as much as water, everyone is in a hurry to stock up on «treasure».

Tristan wrinkled his nose in annoyance and spat it out, not without anger:

— Why?

Morrigan smiled predatorily as she caught the twitch of Milady's eyelids. It was as if the rusty reflexes of the wife of the greatest political power in the kingdom after the king and the warlord had been triggered by the facts, even against her will.

— Vengeance, Seeker. You've earned this bite twice. First, for throwing my name around like garbage. And second, because the wind has changed. This isn't about who's stronger. It's about who needs who. All your motives towards me are obvious. If it were just personal interest, I'd have satisfied it without being dragged into unpredictable battles on a leash. But a lord is not one who puts the personal before the appointed. Nor is he one to shun a sharp blade before battle because of a blasphemous drawing on its hilt. Having solved a similar problem in the Circle, it seems I'm condemned to torment myself.

Once again Isolde's fingers twitched as she took in the mention of the Circle and the circumstances surrounding it. Tristan rubbed the bridge of his nose, not hiding the trembling in his hand, and nodded slowly, accepting the dagger-sharp facts.

— Leave him. You know what you should do?

— «Do you think it should?»

— At least that's the way it is.

The sorceress grimaced, answering more quietly than before:

— It's hard to imagine.

The Seeker shook his head in disbelief:

— It's simple. For the answers to the «why» question are known. Without Winn, there's no chance to change Earl's fate. For the better. Obvious and unfortunate. Still, time is always against us. Waiting is tantamount to another sneak attack. And we're unlikely to survive the next one like we did the last one. Once the creature has escaped beyond the veil, there are few ways to get to it. And since we have to get the boy out of the demon's clutches, there's only one solution.

The gold of her pupils darkened with the tilt of her head, expressing the sorcerer's mood better than her frozen expression.

— That's it. Yes... Bethany is no match for this kind of performance. It's a sophisticated form of murder.

— Yes. And no.

— Empty words. But rhetoric aside. Where will the lyrium come from?

— We'll make do with what we have.

Morrigan raised an eyebrow, showing some interest in the rapid exchange of phrases:

— The pact allows that too?

Tristan hesitated to answer. The pause made it clear, filling the room with a lingering silence.

— Somehow. But we've had enough.

— The answer is no.

The Seeker restrained himself from reacting impulsively to the terse reply and asked the question silently, raising his eyebrows. After a brief glance at the man, the sorceress rolled her head back, resting it on the blanket behind her, and closed her eyes. There was a note of irritation and anger in the explanation that followed:

— It's not easy to judge what's important and what's not in the midst of all the bright colours. Your plans. The Church's plans. A mother's despair. The politics. Expectations, expectations. I don't care. Not here of my own free will. There was no personal interest. And if there's only one outcome, why take the hard way?

— Nothing responds to ....

The sorceress twitched and returned the man's sharp, cold gaze:

— The words that almost left your mouth... The very attempt to utter such a thing. Is insultingly primitive. Or should I take it for granted that your powers of observation are strangely selective? Or to admit that I have been fooled by your acumen. Altruism is as alien to me as it is to you. There is no gulf of difference between us. I lie less to myself. And you, fleeing from the truth, wrapped in faith and duty...

Without warning, Milady Isolde interjected herself into the heated conversation. The smoldering anger in her words seemed directed at no one in particular, but the intent was there:

— Mages of the Circle... Nothing changes. You rebel for the sake of appearances. You complain about the restrictions «imposed» on you from the outside. But every time your power is needed, you hide behind every possible rule for personal gain. Less risk, fuller stomach and closer to the inkwell.

Playing with his cheeks, Tristan forced himself out:

— Your arrow, My Lady, has missed. The Morrigan is not of the Circle. That's the rub.

Dazed, Milady Isolde shifted her gaze from the man to the girl, trying to reassemble the information she had already received in the light of the collapsing fact. Judging by the woman's expression, the overall picture of the situation was no longer as smooth as it had been before. Meanwhile, the Seeker met his interlocutor's fiery gaze and said:

— It was foolish to hope for any other outcome. What's the price?

— It's like this... Shouldn't you start by threatening Bethany and Leliana?

— Waste of time. That's what you're really threatening. Whatever it may seem from the outside, you're not the type to accept death for ideas, beliefs or stubbornness. I wouldn't bet on it. Not even for the sake of — partners? Even if you call them friends. Any risk you take, you've thought it through. Or close to it. So save the bickering and answer the question.

— Your pact. Anything I want to know. Whatever you can share.

— Simplicity, it's not about you. The Circle is books, this is answers. I don't see how you can benefit from this. Especially in your situation. But even the idea of contributing something like that doesn't make me happy.

— So?

— The answer is obvious.

— I'll have to squeeze it out of you.

Tristan made the request with a short sigh:

— Yes.

— Fine. What's it going to be? Moving a mage's consciousness beyond the veil. My mother never taught me that. Maybe for a reason. But from what I've learnt in the Circle, she says one thing: «Torture» is a complex ritual that takes a long time to prepare.

With a barely audible groan, the Seeker slowly pulled himself up and leaned his back against the wall. Looking down at the remaining seated sorceress, the man gave a brief answer:

— «Torture»: a tribute to tradition. Much is only symbolic. Besides, safety in possession outweighs practicality and speed. And lyrium requires special precautions. We don't. Still, it's worth stepping into another room before we begin.

Rising to her feet, Morrigan nodded briefly. But then the girl turned to Tralin:

— Now that things have turned out this way. It's warm and safe. Bethany should be moved.

The Templar shifted his gaze to the squad leader. Shaking his head, he gave the go-ahead and pointed meaningfully at Connor's body. With an apparent bow of his head in response, Tralin turned and walked away, leaving Milady Isolde in yet another state of bewilderment. Blinking at the pain in his side, the Seeker dropped the word:

— Is that a problem? Having said that...

— Practicality. Tell me something else. Why is the Church's plan being forced on me through you? The eye of a needle.

— Destiny.

The Morrigan just snorted contemptuously. Frowning, Tristan continued:

— What is the question is the answer. «The Plan», as it's loosely called, has never settled on certain people. It's just that, given the options, some are more attractive and result in fewer senseless deaths. A set of priorities and objectives suggests flexible behaviour on the part of the participants, but no one could have predicted what happened at Kinloch Tower or Redcliffe. The role of chance is that along with the tragedies at the hands of the Church on another matter, the Seeker was on hand. And the one on hand is... «The Joker».

Milady Isolde listened attentively and opened the room opposite, which was obviously a storage room for the Earl's hunting trophies. However, judging by the number and variety of stuffed animals and horns, it seemed to be the collection of more than one generation of Gerrins. Pointing to a brightly coloured northern rug from Rivaine, in the tradition of abstract designs, Tristan stopped the Earl's wife in her tracks and shook his head negatively. The sorceress knelt down and ran her palm over the dense pile:

— Yes. The eye of the needle. The path to the extraordinary...

— What?

— It's just... a strange thought. Well?

— Lie down. Breathe. What did you say? «Exclusivity.» That's the price I have to pay.

— Don't forget the promise. I wonder, do such deeds stick in the memory?

Overcoming the pain, the man sat down beside her and took the woman's graceful palm in his own hands. Not quite understanding the question, he shrugged discreetly and said:

— That depends. Surviving mages usually try to forget their fall into the Shadow for the rest of their lives. Mostly unsuccessfully. That's why research into the subject is slow and often shrouded in terrible secrecy. When it comes to me. Well. I'd like to forget a lot too. I hope this incident won't be on that list. If it's about the inconsolable mother at the door. Absolutely. Whatever the outcome. The others are a bit harder to vouch for. Concentrate on one point and don't say anything.

The Seeker closed his eyes and the sorceress stared at the ceiling, wondering, from the expression on her face, what it was like. Minutes passed and nothing out of the ordinary happened. In fact, nothing happened at all. Just the sound of breathing: the regularity of his own and the tension of the man beside her. Until the muffled sound of a body falling. But when the girl turned her head, she found no sign of her companion...

What did Morrigan expect? Morrigan's ideas were based only on the stories of her mother, who did not tell how she knew this or that fact. But there were also some instinctive expectations... Taken together, everything was reduced to the phrase: «shards of permanence in the bottomless abyss of frozen chaos». Instead... The girl was surrounded by ordinariness. Except for two or three details.

First, the silence. Not like in the early morning, when the air, the forest, even the clouds and the birds were silent before sunrise. It was more like an ear-splitting sensation that made you want to scream, just to break through the mire and the fear of your own deafness. Secondly, it was only necessary to concentrate on the ceiling... Dizziness appeared. There, instead of the expected, Morrigan found a mirror image of the surrounding room. Or so it seemed. The first obvious difference: there was no copy of the Sorceress upstairs. And soon it became clear: the two rooms did not reflect each other at ceiling level at all. In some places, you could see the antlers of the trophy deer pointing upwards intertwined with their own «reflection», while at the same time not matching it in small details.

Otherwise, it was almost impossible for a newly arrived guest to distinguish the surroundings from the Red Fortress. It was like a vague dream brought to crystal clarity.

She picked herself up from the floor, gathered her scattered thoughts into a fist and concentrated on the main goal — to find Connor as quickly as possible and the demon that held him in a not omnipotent but strong grip.

Suddenly, a deep, low voice, not without a certain musicality, sounded behind her, as if close to her ear but at the same time far away:

— Got you, bitey.

Morrigan turned sharply and lifted her head, and in the reflection she saw a massive, asymmetrical figure, as if carved out of violet iolite, staring at the girl with three pairs of eyes of a sickly rich blue colour on a head adorned with dozens of randomly curling horns. And then a strangely large palm swept the sorceress away, sending her into a brief flight to the nearest wall...

* * *

At first, it seemed to Morrigan that she was floating with the still river, unable to distinguish between up and down. But soon her senses began to regain their unwanted sharpness, bringing her out of her reverie to the ground. As if that were not enough, a sharp knife sliced into her right shoulder, forcing her to remember every detail on the way to her current faulty position. And it was hard for the sorceress to decide which was worse: the above or feeling every bright shade of pain like never before in the last month.

Up in the «reflection», the distorted figure of the demon, in which «Pride» was recognisable, still loomed over Morrigan. The same deep voice, seemingly no match for the distance from the source, continued the monologue:

— Nothing is forgotten. It's disgusting how such a cowardly little thing can interfere with the plan. Not once, but twice.

Tensing and shaking off the nausea, Morrigan settled into a sitting position, leaning against the wall to lean back and exhale intermittently. The question swirling in the girl's mind was how it was that here, wherever «it» was, the pain had become so «personal» again. Vivid. Suddenly, a hunch blossomed in the sorceress» mind. It was the «where» that mattered, not the «how» or «why». After all, the Morrigan was not present in the flesh in the Shadow. Therefore, the perception of what was happening was no less important than the events themselves. The former was not a consequence of the latter, but intertwined with it on an equal footing. In a way, the girl was even glad to feel that some of her former «normality» was returning. These thoughts eased the pain in her shoulder. It was far from healed, but Morrigan was already moving her naughty fingertips. After running her tongue over her teeth and tasting her own blood, the sorceress spat and replied with a smile:

— So much self-criticism in so few words. All that such a powerful demon had thought up in passing, a single «cowardly little thing», shattered into a thousand pieces. But how often great pride diverts attention from the stupidity of the great.

The girl was expecting a reaction. Something like human behaviour. But the demon only continued to burn the one with eyes of unnatural blue, in which Morrigan began to make out a bright ring, like the outer edge of the pupil, and sclera, without any other details. Still unconnected to the demon, whose mouth and maw could not be found, came the following words:

— Poison oozing from words is a sign of defeat.

Not holding back her emotions, Morrigan's lips curled. The sentence scratched the girl's ego painfully.

— Why are you hesitating?

— Slow? That's a strange question. The right thing has already happened. Ahhhh... As the end point of a revenge story, one expects overt aggression, leading to chaos where chance remains. No. Let the prospect of crushing that which embodies your existence be tantalising. But such an end is too fleeting. There is still the possibility of returning to the dream from which you came. And torturing your mind will take time you're not worth. So you remain here, amidst the reflections. Forever, languishing in helplessness.

The demon's massive form moved as Morrigan, lunging forward, interjected:

— Come from a dream? I am not like you: faint reflections of the true motives and emotions of mortals who have gained strength from scraps and flashes.

The demon paid less attention to the girl, focusing only three of the six pupils on her.

— There's something strange about you, like a glimpse of the real wrapped so tightly in shreds of illusion that you can't see the details. But the delusions are typical. A blunt yet arrogant belief in exclusivity, as if the elusive moment believes it is eternity without beginning or end. All of you are but echoes of the dreams of the minds that have woven by will what you call: « Reality». Shadows that dance on the walls at the whim of the fire. And like shadows, you know only a small part of existence. Nothing pokes you closer to the truth than your inability to free yourself from your false reflections. For even the «magic» so ennobled by your desires and dreams is out of reach here, like all that is not yours in the first place.

The demon's verbose tirade stunned her, and she blinked, trying to find at least a few words for a decent reply. But only he stood in front of the girl and then, without a sound or a movement, he disappeared. Just as he had appeared. Her arm, meanwhile, was almost back to normal, with only a slight dull ache in her shoulder when she made sudden movements. Rising to her feet, the sorceress massaged the hand and whispered a question into the void:

— If we are a reflection, isn't it foolish to chase it so fiercely?

Sighing, she tried to cast her usual spell, «Ice Grip. The runes obediently lined up in the required pattern and then filled with mana, but it did nothing. The demon wasn't lying... Soon the unstable pattern disintegrated, leaving only memories. Frowning, Morrigan looked at her own hands, clenched into fists. The sorceress saw magic as an extension of her body. Of course, there were herbs that could wreak havoc with mental clarity. As a result, the ability to construct spells suffered. There were poisons that affected perception and the ability to fill a runic chain with mana. But if the right ingredients were present, the spell would simply... disintegrate for no apparent reason? Taking away a warrior's blade before a battle, would that be comparable? Morrigan closed her eyes and slowly calmed her emotions. She saw no point in wasting mana on a second attempt. Nor did she see any prospect of fighting the captor of the Earl's son's mind. With magic, the sorceress still had a chance. With her bare hands? The girl did not want to find out the answer to such a question personally.

Instead of misplaced worry, Morrigan moved towards the only door. A pinch of the cheek was not enough to bring her back. Flemeth sometimes mentioned how some people poetically compared such journeys to colourful dreams. But immediately afterwards, the witch reprimanded her daughter with all the severity she could muster: in practice, there were many degrees of «presence» for the traveller in the Shadow, with restrictions, threats and benefits. And then, realising that the young apprentice had once again managed to get her mentor talking, the mother shut herself up for a long time, refusing to answer any more questions. Though the nature of the power derived from Tristan's pact remained a mystery, the Morrigan's current method of piercing the veil was akin to torture. Which meant that more than just a «shake» was required. The Circle's test was to seek the help of «locals», which the sorceress boldly ruled out. The alternative would be a «gap» in the surrounding mirage. There was confidence in the girl: she would be able to slip away that way. Of course, this confidence was not supported by any facts, but there was no time for doubts...

The door swung open without the slight creak the girl remembered when Isolde had opened the room. It was like a reminder: this place was only an illusion. On the other side, instead of a corridor, the same hunting trophies of the Gerrion family came into view. With a few glances, Morrigan could see that the similarities were not false. The number and placement of the trophies were the same. But there were differences in the little things. For example: a slightly different pattern on the carpet. The girl felt the hairs on the back of her neck trying to «stand on end». It was hard to decide: because of the demon's demonic demonstration of «reflections», because of the differences between the rooms that made them not quite predictable. Or because instead of a ceiling, the new room once again had an inverted copy.

As she stepped inside, Morrigan was startled by the soft thud of the door closing behind her. Instinctively, she turned to make sure she hadn't imagined it. Her mind raced with wild ideas of how such a thing could be possible. But the girl simply went to the nearest stag's antlers, which were hanging at eye level, and used her weight to rip them off the wooden base. When she reopened the door, the sorceress propped the sash against the exhibit, preventing it from closing freely. Stepping over the improvised obstacle, Morrigan found herself back in a replica of the same room. And at the same time... Looking down at the floor where she had recently spat, the girl found only a clean one.

Five or even ten minutes passed in silence as the sorceress quietly digested the discovery and considered what it meant. Finally, after a quick glance at the trophies that filled the walls, the girl found a remarkable scarecrow and, without shame, snapped its neck with a crunch. Returning, she kicked the horns away and closed the door. Slowly exhaling, the sorceress pulled the handle again. The next «old» room appeared before her eyes, with an intact scarecrow and no footprints on the floor. Repeating the act of vandalism in a new way, Morrigan methodically reproduced the sequence of events. This time, the room with the scarlet spit on the cool, worn slabs finally revealed itself.

1:P6V8 2:P6V8 3:P8V6 4:P8V6 5:P6V8 6:P5V7 7:P8V6 8:P3V1

1:P7V5 2:P7V5 3:P5V7 4:P5V7 5:P3V1 6:P1V3 7:P1V3 8:P4V2

1:P4V2=2:P3V1=3:P2V4=4:P1V3 5:P4V2 6:P2V4 7:P2V4 8:P7V5

1 — spit

2 — stripped horns

8 — broken scarecrow

The sorceress methodically moved from room to room for almost an hour, opening and closing the door incessantly. The action was accompanied by a scowl and damage to property without a trace of remorse. The map was forming in the girl's mind, each step more reminiscent of the multi-layered structure of the spells, with connections not only on one level, but also with the neighbours below and above. When the girl remembered to keep a close eye on the ceiling, she immediately caught the ripples that ran for a moment across the seemingly flat image of the «reflection» with each beat of the sash. The room above was changing. Or rather, it was changing. Here, Morrigan found it difficult to find the right definition. The new discovery had given her trained mind the clue it needed to see how the trap was set. And it was one that fully justified the words «Pride» of the Kinloch Stronghold.

There were eight copies of the Gerrion Hunting Trophy Room. And as imperfect as memory is for trifles, each copy was subtly different from the other. Each room had three versions of what was behind the door. One followed the other in a circular pattern in unchanging order. As it turned out, the «reflection» above was no exception, following exactly the same rule.

In the end, Morrigan sat down tiredly on the carpet, delighted by the horns and stuffed animals, and began to stroke the pile with her palm, trying to bring the emotion down. It did little good, for her hands could feel how much rougher the carpet was than her own original from «Reality». And the new knowledge was of no use to the girl. The structure of the trap was closed in on itself, with no way out. It did not even imply the existence of such a concept as «exit».

The sorceress stretched out and put her hands behind her head, covering her eyes and imagining the puzzle as a kind of three-layered nine-rune spell. Then the girl removed the excess. It turned out to be seven positions. But the rooms are eight... He had to add an extra room on the side. In the end, to make the scheme fit the facts, literally impossible connections had to be made between the positions, to Morrigan's mind. She smiled at the corners of her lips as she drew her eyebrows together. Not so long ago, she had been amazed when things that were familiar to the sorceress were seen as revelations by other mages. What prevented the Morrigan herself from changing roles? Only the blindness of pride. In the end, it all came down to imagination and a reliance on logic. Sword and shield. Letting her mind wander, the girl focused on the problem once more. «Impossible connections» could be interpreted by the same method Morrigan had used in her attempts to apply the demon's spells to her own. Something clicked in the sorceress» mind, like the pieces of a complex puzzle falling into place. An obvious and therefore unexpected question arose in the silence. Which was easier? To move one or more runes to a new place or many places in the formula at the same time as the spell fills with mana? Or to understand, contrary to common sense, that runes are connected, as if they were next to each other, even though, according to the known rules, they are not. Shaking her head, the girl took the liberty of making an assumption: the first method could only be an attempt by an untrained mind to interpret the counterintuitiveness of the second. Remembering the principles of spell construction, the Morrigan cautiously agreed with her conclusion. She was reassured by a hunch that the movement of the runes could be used to attempt to reproduce the layers even in the traditional «flat» method of spellcasting used by the mages of the Circle. Curling her lips, the sorceress tried to think of precise names for the new connections between the runes. There was no suitable analogy in everyday life. The result was something like: «inside» and «outside». A kind of complement to: «above», «below», «left», «right», «in front» and «behind». But it was too soon to rejoice. Morrigan realised the fragility of jumping to conclusions. She realised that the first tentative attempts to put the idea into practice would be a long road of training and methodical work....

Opening her eyes, the sorceress stared at the pattern of the carpet above her in the «reflection».

— Oh. I wish I hadn't been stuck here for months...

Morrigan grimaced. The girl understood: in due time, the demons would deal with both the Seeker and the remnants of the locals» resistance, demonstrating new, unexpected tricks. Whatever the Church's plans, this region would be of little use to those from the perspectives Tristan had described. Besides, the sorceress doubted their ability to offer any significant resistance. Coldly estimating the amount of blood and health he spent on his own «spells», it was possible to speculate how much it took to send Morrigan's mind into the «Shadow». It was a lot.

Mentally stepping back, the girl returned to the original problem. If the trap was flawless, there was no way out, of course. But if it wasn't? Morrigan said quietly:

— If there's more hubris than skill in Pride...

You should only spend your power on what is achievable. So the sorceress accepted the idea of flaws in the trap as a starting point. Slowly, she moved her eyes around the border between the two reflections, thinking: what mistake could the demon make? Squinting, the girl picked out a specific thought from the somnambulist. How would such a trap be created by the one himself? And how would she hide an imperfection? The sorceress snapped her fingers and slowly spoke the thought:

— At least I know how to move spaces. So the rooms don't come out of nowhere. And then they join up again and again. That's fast. But fast isn't instantaneous.

Rising to her feet, Morrigan walked leisurely back to the door. The only flaw in the puzzle was the two simultaneous exits. If there were two doors instead... The girl wondered if the pairing was necessary when logically there was only room for one. The sorceress ran her thumb over the bronze of the door handle, cool and polished by a thousand touches. The trivial detail seemed more real than the floor or the walls. It was as if someone had memorised the feel of her palm on that object.

— So. That moment when the space above changes — perhaps the only crack to the outside. Assuming, of course, that this isn't a figment of my imagination. And how would I, um.

Morrigan lifted her head to see if she could climb. Given the stuffed animals and horns, it was easy. Without putting her in a drawer, the girl skilfully flew up the wall, breaking only two or three exhibits in the process. At the ephemeral boundary, the sorceress took pains to experience a surprising amount of tension. The upper half of her body was already pulled to the floor of the new room, clearly indicating to her head: where is up, where is down. And the lower half of her body was still pulling in the opposite direction.

In the end, the main problem was how to use the gap. For the first time, the mage was pressed by her limitations. The main obstacle for any traveller to the «Shadow» — the inability, compared to the local inhabitants, to freely change one's own form, perception of things and things themselves. The accumulated experience, from a tool turned into fetters and shackles.

Two things irritated Morrigan more than anything else. First, the lack of options and meaningful ideas, forcing her to move forward blindly, trying things at random. Second, the ideas that came to her mind. The girl was aware of the fact that for the last week or two she had been living within the confines of someone else's will and desires. And so, in comparison, those moments when the sorceress had once mentally blasphemed the circumstances, now seemed like foolishness and useless selfishness. Back to the ideas... Worst outcome: to seriously consider using the power that caused the most concern. The spell of transformation.

On the one hand, the girl did not expect it, of course, as if he would take and «turn the rules of the game». On the other hand... Morrigan openly admitted that Flemeth's formula seemed to use not only mana, but also the blood and flesh of the caster. Would that distinction be enough to bring the spell to life here, where it was as if magic didn't work at all? There was another side to the coin. How would magic so closely tied to flesh work where there was no flesh as such? Rubbing the bridge of her nose, the sorceress sighed longingly. Knowing the nature of the Shadow was like religion or philosophy. Many words and few facts, and even fewer verified ones. In fact, Morrigan didn't even know where the idea had come from. Her mother had never gone into detail when explaining the subject. The young witch, just learning magic, was more interested in how: «hit», «run» and «survive».

After dismissing the weak arguments and worries, the sorceress was finally left alone with the only one: «why not?». And there were no worthy objections...

As before, the mana easily filled the spell formula, and then, despite the scepticism of the sorceress, the transformation began. The girl was overwhelmed by a mixture of the sweetness of success, the agonising fear of using strange magic again, and the familiar feeling of tugging numbness. Just as on a steep snowy slope the direction changes quickly and often out of control, so now one feeling uncontrollably replaced the other. Only the faint sounds of tearing skin and cracking joints and bones were missing. The transformation took place in an eerie silence. Fortunately for the Morrigan, the action did not last long and quickly came to an end. A short inspection of the result revealed two differences. The clothes. The Morrigan represented... «idea». It made sense, given that only the girl's mind was present in The Shadow. And the Witch, no-no, but wondered: what effect would the spell have on her appearance? The intrigue was laboriously resolved. The clothes melted indistinguishably from the flesh in «Reality» during the transformation, as if both were one. In the end, as always, only the transformed flesh remained. The result is interesting for several reasons. The most important change, however, was the vision. Two images came to Morrigan's mind simultaneously: the twilight gloom of the forest and the Orlesian veil of fine spiderwebs. Both obscured the details without preventing her from seeing the whole. And now, it seemed, the obstacle preventing her from seeing the smallest details was gone. The sorceress couldn't believe how limited her own perception had been two or three minutes ago. So many things had actually remained hidden. Now the girl traced how the walls, coming closer and closer to the imaginary dividing line of the «reflections», curved outwards, never reaching each other and not interlocking, but intersecting. And it became clear: how, having started climbing, to continue climbing along the chosen wall without touching another.

Getting her scattered thoughts under control, the sorceress sprang into action. Using her claws, she leapt lightly upwards, focusing her attention on the movement and heel of the wall beneath her. After only a minute of rhythmic climbing, the girl decided to look around carefully. There was much to see. The sorceress found herself on the outside of a huge... Morrigan found it difficult to define, as she had never perceived anything like it in her life. From the outside, the girl saw eight copies of the room at once, overlapping each other, but coexisting separately, as part of a larger one. And Morrigan herself, like a fly, froze on the bare wall of the room that extended to the sides. She concentrated on the creaking, dry sensations beneath her fingers, and the wall took on the expected solidity, losing the transparency of a moment ago. The main thing, though, was that the sorceress was «out». Up and down were defined here only «by eye», for other sensations were silent. The «sky» was a grey mist in which it was difficult to make out details, but at a glance there was a slow, chaotic movement everywhere, without beginning or end. The girl could not call this phenomenon a cloud cover or a veil of mist. Every detail seemed to be hidden by the distance, and it was worth thinking about — the movement began to seem colossal, overwhelming in scope. The only anchor for the gaze was a hovering blue-black cliff in an indeterminate distance, with a building firmly rooted to it. A majestic palace of architecture unknown to the sorceress, built from top to bottom of black volcanic glass and gold of a rich, dark hue. The beautiful masterpiece seemed empty, abandoned and dead even from this distance... «Down below», according to the view, the Red Fortress spread out. Like the structure in the distance, the fortress structures were perched on a piece of rock, surrounded by emptiness. Noticing the small details, Morrigan soon realised that the replica was crude and distorted in many places. And the trap hung over the buildings like a ripe fruit on a branch.

Without wasting time in contemplation, Morrigan deftly approached the roof of the fortress» main building. The leap, which included disorientation, ascent and fall, was successful. Only when she had a firm grip on the massive shards did the sorceress allow herself to look around again. There were no sounds, no smells. The girl could not feel the slightest movement of air. The even light had no source and cast no shadows. After a moment of difficulty with the stained glass, she found herself in a familiar corridor, gliding silently along the ceiling to Earl's bedroom.

At the door, Morrigan stopped and listened. The girl had hardly expected to hear anything in The Shadow. Any boundaries seemed to separate «here» and «there» by more than a partition. But for a sorceress, caution didn't seem unnecessary, even if it made her paranoid. And since there was really no other choice, Morrigan jumped to the ground and swung the door open...

The girl was greeted by a cracking youthful voice, full of a mixture of fear and defiance:

— Why did you pull me out of...

The Earl's bedroom, in the absence of Eamon himself, looked authentic. But the sorceress didn't care about the furnishings. Two figures appeared beside the bed. The first, tall and thin, probably a head taller than any man considered tall, belonged to the demon. It had the appearance of a desiccated mummy, with enough flesh to make the contours easily recognisable as female. And the eyes. Two piercing blue gems, burning with rich colour in contrast to the ashy, wrinkled skin. Connor, the Earl's son, was easily recognisable in the second figure.

Pausing in the middle of the dialogue, they both turned towards the guest at the same time. But the reactions were different. Connor wrinkled his nose and unconsciously took half a step back, inadvertently caught between the two monsters. Obviously, the young man had interpreted what he'd seen in a straightforward manner. But the demon just waved his hand wearily, revealing a surprisingly melodious, soothing, genderless voice:

— The Pride of Exaltation has always suffered from self-confidence. And you, as I told you, are a slippery, slimy worm. I wish I knew for certain: are your thoughts empty, or are there goals greater than ours? Proudly, I am convinced that you are a fragment, destined to perish in the raging abyss of change. And therefore an opponent: insignificant. Meanwhile, Proudhon himself stumbled over a small obstacle. And this is what happened. But it's not enough to reach the end, you have to know what to do about it. Do you?

Morrigan shook her head, not hiding her surprise at the encounter.

— Desire?

— Good guess.

Revealing a long row of needle-like teeth, the newly arrived girl replied:

— Fortune has tested me. What could break the will of a young sorcerer on his father's deathbed? I'd guess more than that, certain wishes. Wishes for the return of loved ones, the resurrection of the dead. That's where the preference for corpses comes from.

The demoness shrugged humanely, smiling peacefully:

— An expected demonstration of mental acuity, memory and logic. Truly, a preference for those who long for the return of their loved ones.

A graceful and grotesque touch on his shoulder, given his appearance, made Connor jerk, but not out of line. The demoness continued:

— As part of the Gaxkang retinue, the remains of these primitive, flat creatures of sleep are expertly handled. But there is one detail. Their, uh, condition now is one of weakness and vulnerability. It's not enough to be cunning. Like this. In a dark corner of your mind, a desire is lost. Like a dirty trail. You might expect it to be part of a clever deception. But this is different. The desire has taken root, has become real. O... Unexpected. The fear that her mother was only in your memory and perhaps already lost. Unlike other confused emotions and even logic, fear fuels the desire to bring back the old days when you were where you belonged. Yes... Such stupidity is inexplicable.

Morrgina sensed the threat, but was unable to react or realise the nature of the danger. The demoness raised her hand sharply and reached out as if to touch the mage's core, grabbing her by the spine. From there, numbness raced through her body, preventing her from moving a single finger.

— A trick that required some knowledge and conditions. And a lot of true light. Oh, you call that «mana». See, sweet Connor? We'll deal with this monster that's causing a hiccup in our plans, and then we'll get back to business. Important business. And when it's done, you'll get what you promised. So there's no room for idle arguments.

The young man opened his mouth to protest. But with a wary glance at Morrigan, he fell silent, unconsciously stepping closer to the evil he already knew. Still, curiosity pierced through the dense fear:

— You speak of «it» as if it were one of us, not a member of your tribe.

The demoness raised an eyebrow in surprise and shifted her gaze from the young man to the captive, whose back arched under the pressure of the alien force.

— And really... It's true.

The Morrigan's mind, caught in a trap, was boiling with futile attempts to find a way out of the situation. Her thoughts whirled wildly, presenting one fruitless idea after another. Finally, something dark and unseemly slipped out of the black void of despair. The sorceress found herself once again on the edge of a black hole in her memory. Never forgetting it, despite its strange ability to slip into oblivion, the girl tried not to let the dark image enter her thoughts. The solution that had begun here was the epitome of despair. Morrigan guessed: the creature of the shadow was entering the mind through the open wound of fresh loss, bleeding with longing and grief. A faint trickle was enough. It was as if for the demon these things were not abstract concepts, but something measurable, something to be seen directly. And the demonstrated power reached the Morrigan only because of the conflicting image of Flemeth that lived within her. So if the girl had torn the things associated with her mother from her memory, she could have freed herself. To become invulnerable to the arrogant creature's powers, to throw off the shackles of her own past forever. But something in the sorceress rebelled against such an idea, found it repugnant from beginning to end. In that moment, Morrigan realised with crystal clarity that the memory to be sacrificed was in many ways a memory of her own. Memories of days and conversations together still shaped Morrigan, made her who she thought she was. Not a stranglehold. But a source. To lose that was to give up on herself. That conclusion echoed shrilly in the sorceress» mind, and the girl's attention shifted uneasily from the mocking blue of the demon's eyes to the young man playing victim. With a deep, vibrating shudder, a bright flame of curiosity burst from the darkness that enveloped her mind. Arrogance. And envy! What had the demon done? How?

Morrigan felt the hot blood rush from the corners of her jaw, clenched with extreme force, to her chin. She could feel the pain in her joints as they were twisted to the point of grinding. How instinctively her muscles tensed. And how the seconds stretched along with the slowing, humming rhythm of her heart. In complete silence, the girl's body was being squeezed out of life, drop by drop. And this one thing bothered her: why had the demon mentioned mana?

She thought of the spells she knew that somehow connected the girl and the victim. Barely perceptible distortions of air, like hot water in the middle of cold water, wrapped in a tight ribbon from beginning to end. And following that thought, similar jets fluttered in the air between Morrigan and the demon's fist, appearing and disappearing again. Whatever the creature was doing, it didn't look like a restrained chain, more like the jets of a whipping rain. Complex and requiring a mastery of control that the sorceress had never dreamed of. It was like a series of trivial spells, the dance of which produced more than the sum of its parts. Traces of magic spread over the girl's body. And at the edge of her field of vision, she saw how chaotically, in spirals, the traces of magic curled around her hands. And then, at the fingers, they were absorbed into the skin without a trace.

Turning her attention back to her opponent, Morrigan gathered herself inwardly in a fury and with a willful effort reversed the transformation. As if unaware of the other's influence, her flesh began to change again, returning to normal. And the demon's paralysing grip began to weaken as well. Confirming the sorceress» intent, Desire frowned as she felt her victim slip away. But Connor's eyes also widened as he saw the dark-haired girl emerge from the monster's body.

Without wasting a single heartbeat since her freedom, the Morrigan sprinted towards the young man, her eyes fixed on him with scarlet gold. Connor was still standing between two fires. And that's why the girl easily caught up with the demon's hand reaching out from behind the young man, despite Connor's empty attempt to retreat. And then, unashamedly, grinning wildly, she sank into the throat of the Earl's son. Her teeth bit through skin, muscle, tendons and blood vessels. With a steely will, the sorceress held in her mind the sensation of her own jaws after the transformation, reviving in her mind the moments when she had tormented the flesh of the possessed in monster form. Easily dissecting other people's perceptions of her own body, the witch literally tore Connor's throat out. With a silent gasp of pain and eyes filled with horror, the young man began to collapse, pulled sideways by the weight of the tormenting predator. With each passing second, the demon's face was revealed behind his shoulder. In genuine confusion, she tried to grasp the body of such a precious doll, without the slightest idea of what to do with it next. The world around him, re-created from the young mage's memories, had already begun to crumble, turning to grey ash as opposed to the usual rush upwards.

With her jaw filled to the brim with hot blood and the sickening stench of sweet-smelling metal, Morrigan couldn't see, but she could feel the path from Connor's fading consciousness back to « Reality». Reflexively, she swallowed and spat at the pale image of the demoness as she exhaled:

— I'll remember the clues...

Then the body finally collapsed before reaching the surface. And the sorceress, breathing convulsively, clutching her hands to her chest and trying to blink, awoke on the carpet, in a room filled to the brim with the Gerrins» hunting trophies.

* * *

Morrigan stood over Tristan's body, frowning and unconsciously chewing her bottom lip. The man's left arm was completely missing. Bandages impregnated with a healing substance bound the strange stump tightly to the forearm. Something had severed the limb, cutting through muscle, tendon and bone with equal purity. The man himself, though looking like a blue corpse, was breathing slowly and heavily. Blood loss seemed an acceptable explanation for his current condition, but the sorceress suspected other effects and had no illusions about the Seeker's imminent awakening.

Many hours passed between the moment the girl «fell asleep» and the moment she drew her first conscious breath. Enough for the night that had fallen to be replaced by the newborn morning of the next day. Morrigan knew nothing of the uneven passage of time beyond the «veil». Logic told her that if this were the case, hundreds of amazing discoveries in magic would have been based on this phenomenon long ago. Or, on the contrary, demons would have become the dominant force in both worlds an eternity ago. So time had been lost either on the way «there» or on the «way back» with Connor. And the two reasons were not mutually exclusive. Speaking of Earl's son. Having more or less regained consciousness and found no trace of the Seeker in the vicinity, except for a puddle of solid blood on the carpet, the girl went to the bedroom across the hall. Nothing had changed in the meantime. Only Isolde looked exhausted, and the scabs of blood on her graceful hands and the stains on her dress told their own story: although she was a «highborn» woman, she handled her wounds with skill and courage. Comparing this to the abundance of hunting trophies, the sorceress made an assumption: the Lady of the Castle had more than once had to patch up her husband after an unfortunate encounter with a beast, while at the same time overseeing the treatment of other participants in the noble entertainment. Connor lay to his father's left, his condition not much different.

Isolde looked up wearily at the entering sorceress and spoke briefly:

— You're back...

Immediately, the woman's remaining strength was drained from her, and she gave in to fatigue and fell into a nervous, restless sleep.

Back in the corridor and following the trail of blood droplets, Morrigan soon found her «partner». Apparently not without Tralin's help, he had been placed on a bed in a room that looked like Connor's. And here, barely aware of the irony, stood the now enchantress.

The minutes ticked by in her mind until she heard approaching footsteps that she recognised as the Templar's. Instinctively moving to see both the Seeker and the doorway, Morrigan waited for the man to appear. Tralin froze on the threshold, slowly lowering his gaze to the disgusted looking squad leader. As if sensing the girl's tension, he took no further steps and spoke softly:

— The inhabitants of the fortress are coming to their senses. The lethargic sleep has left them. Many are unwell. Quite. I found some guards earlier, but they won't be much help soon. We need help from the settlement. The whole place needs help.

— Isolde fell asleep.

Tralin nodded.

— Milady was a great help with the Seeker. She knew where the medicine was. She showed remarkable composure. But Milady is not made for such things. Especially with her husband and son teetering on the brink in the next room. But that doesn't change the fact that it was Milady who bled Redcliffe dry and sent most of the knights packing. It was Milady who hid her son's talent from the Church, choosing to train him in secret. Untrained magicians...

The man paused, aware of where, to whom and under what conditions he was speaking. The Morrigan allowed herself a barely perceptible smile in the predawn darkness, noting Tristan's astute choice of «tools». Another reminder that the man had many talents worthy of adoption. Out loud, however, the girl said something else:

— The obvious conclusion. Isolde is a weakness that every enemy has skilfully exploited. A chink in the armour. But sometimes. Eliminating a weakness is like killing yourself. Earl is as guilty of family shortsightedness as he is of perpetual paranoia. Perhaps it was the Lord's weakness, not the Lady's, that started it all.

The Templar shifted his gaze to the sorceress, but remained silent in response, keeping it hidden: whether he accepted or denied such a point of view. After a pause, the man summarised:

— Decisions are for the Seeker to make. Are we safe?

Morrigan shook her head, more perplexed than agreeing or disagreeing.

— That's a strange thing for a Templar to say about himself. More yes than no. A powerful creature of the shadows is capable of much, if the price is nothing. Your experience should give you a better answer than mine. It may sound strange... But even I can think of the case of the fortress tower in Greenthorn Village. Without help or magical cause, the building disappeared into the Shadow. Everything.

The sorceress raised her eyebrows in surprise. In fact, she was surprised because she had never heard of this incident near Orzammar, a fortress that had played no small part in Ferelden's resistance to the Orleian occupation. Wrinkling her nose, the Morrigan continued:

— But other than that, the demon has no leads here.

— Connor?

The question was not pleasant, and the enchantress glanced at the Templar with the gold of wary eyes before giving her answer:

— If his mind is not destroyed, a gifted healer will return the young mage to the world of light. Or a miracle. Tristan wished, the blood of the earl's son coursing through his veins.

— I see. In that case, I'll go to the church. To report the victory. And ask for help.

Morrigan bowed her head in agreement, never taking her eyes off the Templar, and added:

— I'll be here.

* * *

With the arrival of Bann Tegan, Sir Preet, some of the Sisters of Light and the men who had agreed to help with the wounded and the household, the Red Fort was abuzz. The creaking of snow and shovels, the clatter of axes, the aroma of wood-burning stoves, slamming doors, shouting and swearing. Morrigan sat with Bethany in the living room on the ground floor of the main building. There was a fireplace, its tongues of flame dancing moderately, a couch on which the bandaged apprentice lay, and an upholstered chair brought from the first floor, in which the sorceress was drowning herself. The young companion mumbled incoherent words now and then, and the consciousness of this one touched reality, only to fall asleep again without strength. The victim needed a mage capable of healing. According to the local healers, not every warrior would be able to overcome such injuries on his own. Give time and a helper, but only if you accept the ultimate loss of an arm, like Tristan. Wynn and the rest of his companions were not expected to arrive in Redcliffe for at least two or three weeks. The Mentor was left to watch and hope, and then vice versa.

The Sorceress herself was also lost in thought. There were too many impressions and questions. The thoughts seemed to scatter like a pack of rats from a torch, all here and there, but not one of them by the slippery tail. What troubled Morrigan more than anything else was helplessness. For the umpteenth time. And the whisper of logic seemed to comfort her: the enemy was far beyond the bounds of the «ordinary» and even the «extraordinary», and it was to be expected that the sorceress would be no match for him. But her pride sang a different song in her heart...

As always, though, Morrigan managed to pull herself away from the frustration and focus on what was useful. Then she began to sort through what had happened methodically, not darting from the frightening to the important, from the interesting to the promising. She decided to start with Tristan's pact. She had to weigh the facts carefully, and the «little things» easily outweighed the recent «adventure» behind the veil. The catch was that it wasn't the Seeker who had used spells and mana to bring about the desired result. The work was done by a mysterious, hidden force, presumably residing unseen behind the virtually unbreakable, eternal «veil». As the flames cast an unsettling glare on the golden irises of the sorceress» eyes, she moved from fact to fact as if on a long library shelf. The ability to detect possession. But with caveats, a list of which only Tristan himself knew. How to imagine such a spell? In the abstract... Licking her lips, the Morrigan dared to guess that it would require nothing less than taking complete control of the victim's mind and forcibly extracting the truth: who was in charge. A trick far from harmless or painless. But more than that, if the victim didn't open up willingly, their will would act as a solid wall. However indirectly, the Morrigan knew the limits of mind magic: it was good at breaking, but bad at the rest. Meanwhile, all the Seeker had to do was mark the target with his own blood for a definitive answer. And even the mighty force that had been the source of the original powers of the Order of Seekers was in the palm of his hand. But this essence, in the girl's opinion, had no reason to play hide and seek.

Licking her lips, the sorceress remembered her recent experience with the Shadow. Perhaps that was the key. The right angle. Something immeasurably difficult for a mage: much easier for someone who saw things differently. To the demoness who held Connor's mind in her fist, Morrigan's weakness looked like a real breach. To the power that granted the Pact to Tristan, possession stood out, perhaps as clearly as a lone hill on a plain. To the girl, however, it was something else that stood out most. The ability to see through the «veil» of necessity without hurting it in any way. As if it wasn't there. A small mental step and the sorceress moved on. The ability to detect the possessed, hidden within sight. Or perhaps even at a distance. Sounds similar. But... Morrigan frowned and thought: what if finding possessed people didn't require tagging someone, but just «asking» if there were any in the area? It sounded as if the unknown creature's abilities were much broader, and the Seeker only had a tiny fraction of them at his disposal. Thought. Someone on the other side, keeping constant vigil over countless places in «Reality», and for a price charged not by calculation but by whim, providing answers to those willing to pay.

A wild but slender sequence. But the sorceress» lips were already curling with inner unease. One fact spoiled everything. The time when the Seeker had shattered the possessed armour came to life before the girl's eyes. It wasn't like a question and answer exchange. Leaning back in her chair, Morrigan let out a whispered sigh:

— Direct impact...

So this is evidence that the creature could also kill. Or, to put it simply, it could influence directly through the «veil», on a par with the most powerful creatures of the «shadow». Slowly raising her eyes to the indifferent ceiling, the girl noted the crucial difference between one thing and another: the lack of being limited to the here and now. Closing her eyes, the sorceress mentally flicked herself on the nose. The connection between Tristan's unknown «patron» and blood magic should not be forgotten. Simplified, it could do the same as traditional magic and more. How was the essence involved in the cycle again? A moneylender exchanging blood for mana? Tapping her fingernails on the armrests of her chair, the girl reviewed the latest events. The sending of the mage's consciousness to The Shadow. Morrigan agreed with the similarities between this and the manifestation of blood magic. But that was as far as it went: there was not a drop of mana, not a grain of talent in the Seeker.

What did the girl think of it in the end? The hint came from a cold, lingering smile that the owner of the scarlet lips might not have fully realised herself. Morrigan needed the strength, but more than that, she was burning with genuine curiosity. And envy.

Later, the girl was distracted from her thoughts by mundane tasks like tidying up, eating and trying to feed Bethany. And in the course of this succession of things, flowing from one to the other, Isolde caught up with her, who had already managed to rest a little, but not at all relaxed. Fear and pain lurked deep within the woman, even as she tried desperately to maintain the cracked image of an overbearing mistress. Somehow it resonated with Morrigan, something like respect and an unwillingness to shy away from the truth as sharp as a sharpened blade. And Milady was not anxious to bring the conversation out into the open, closing the door firmly behind her.

— The Sorceress...

— The Morrigan.

— The name has an interesting origin. It's not Hasidic, is it?

The girl grinned grimly at the drop:

— Tralin is spoken for... The Templar is weak before the noble....

The enchantress paused and looked back at Milady, nodding:

— You know best. My mother never told me how she came up with the name.

Isolde continued nodding:

— I'm not uninterested in the roots of my husband's people. On the contrary. When I was young, I was fascinated by the history of these countries. An extraordinary interweaving of the remnants of the Avvar culture, blended by the invaders from the north into something new, but still distinctive. Your name, in the ancient Avvar dialects that formed the basis of the Ferelden language, means: «Queen of the Ravens». A powerful name. Mine comes from the Old Orleans dialect and simply means «to rule». Which is what I'm trying to do. Perhaps not in the best way. Tell me, Queen, what of my son? What hope is there? And is it even possible to speak of hope here?

She had no idea what her own name meant, but she knew that Flemeth the mad never did anything for fun. Many things could seem that way until the time came.

— The enemy was out of my league. Connor was killed in his own dream, on the other side of the veil. That's a mouthful for an outsider. The bottom line is that the young man's mind is damaged. More irreparably than usual. This is the price of liberation. His and ours. Hope cannot be forbidden. The heart will not stop beating. And perhaps the healer of vast knowledge will reach us. You must be tired of patience. But I have nothing else to offer you.

The inconsolable mother bit her lower lip until it was white, stared intently at the floor and, after a moment of silence, murmured barely audibly:

— Waiting again...

— Yes.

The sorceress» reply made the woman's face brighten, and the girl continued:

— Looks like a spider's web. You're trapped. And no matter how hard you try, the end is clear. Only death won't come to your rescue. Everyone has to make a choice. To continue or to refuse? Open your eyes or continue blindly? To continue for the sake of something or someone, or...? For you, I'm sure, it's just the wind, where fragments of meaningless phrases are heard. You know... You should talk to some «Sister of Light». Or... In the church on the other side of the bay, a companion comes to her senses. Leliana. She's something of a connoisseur of wounded and bleeding hearts. Tell her you're from the Morrigan, who's fine. And that he has had enough rest.

Watching the girl's expression carefully, the mistress of the fortress nodded slowly.

— Thank you for your honest answer. And for the advice.

Isolde added as she left the room:

— By the way. The Seeker woke up an hour ago.

— Lively bastard.

— Yes. You're right.

* * *

Was it true: Tristan had taken in the Morrigan? She entered the room freely, closing the door behind her and hovering over the bed. The man struggled to look up from his sunken eyes and gave a faint half-smile.

— I'm glad.

With a cluck of her tongue, the girl looked around for a chair and, pulling it closer, sat down at the head of the bed.

— Too much subtext in one short word. Tell me honestly: the fact that I have not a scratch on me and you have been chopped to pieces makes you sick or shaken. But you're glad it's over.

With a slow, cautious exhale, the Seeker cut dry:

— That's right.

Pointing her chin at her own hand, the girl asked:

— Is this the prize you expected?

Both looked at the Seeker's left stump. The man denied and agreed, shaking his head slowly.

— It came out... excessive.

— Yes. But I did my part.

Returning his gaze to the Sorceress, Tristan frowned and clarified:

— Oh, really?

— Oh, we could play word games. But I don't think you're up for a duel. Yes, the results aren't perfect. But you'll have to live with it.

The Seeker nodded slowly, his lips twitching in a clear sign of irritation that, suppressed by pain and fatigue, resembled barely smoldering embers.

— What you have is what you have.

— When can I expect your, er, allies?

There was a pause behind the question. A tense silence while Tristan stared at Morrigan, who waited without emotion, hiding her personal interest. Finally, the man spoke:

— A month, I suppose.

— Hmm... So, somewhere between Halamshiral and the Gates of Orzammar. They'll cross the border at the first snowstorm in the south. And even if a rogue merchant sees them, the winter will serve as a shield. That's understandable. Winn will be back sooner, I think. Now for the next question. The pact.

The Seeker licked his dry lips and looked down at the clay jug and mug on the bedside table. Morrigan poured the water without a fuss, helping the sick man to drink generously, giving him the time he needed to think.

— Now don't...

— No, no, no. If it's the wrong moment, the right moment won't come. If you're too weak, you don't have to work for the Pact. Let's, um... let's clear up this misunderstanding.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Morrigan went on:

— There is no union between us. And there is no friendship between us. Perhaps some goals. You hold a leash with the promise of my death. A powerful motivation without the rest. But I'll bet the leash comes from the same pact. Now ask yourself, would you trade your own life for mine? You're one step from the grave. How much would your patron demand for the death of a wizard? So many questions. It's not about being free to go while you're weak. But your point is true. I used to be able to hold your time. Now that you in bed, how many of your masters» plans will I spoil? Take your pick.

Closing his eyes and remaining silent, Tristan muttered:

— OK...

* * *

In the 10 years and a certain number of sunrises before that.

Melsendre stood by a lush apple tree, leaning against the smooth trunk, waiting for her patron's orders. The girl's job was to stay close by, unnoticed and unimportant. And this role was quite satisfying to her. For example, the girl wore her luxuriant hair in a strict braid in the Ferelden style. And her clothes tended to hide rather than accentuate her feminine form, neither in colour nor cut.

The patron himself, Gaspard de Chalonne, dressed in the light armour of an Orlais nobleman, but without the traditional ornaments and gold, spoke to the officers. The war council took place in the middle of an apple orchard, surreal to the townspeople because of the hundreds of rows of apple trees. The current state of the military campaign was intricately drawn on a bare patch of ground, sketching the immediate area and the distribution of the forces involved.

The fields of Gislein, teeming with orchards and close to the border of the Kingdom of Nevarr. Where the enemy army had dared to invade Orlei and would advance, taking a number of settlements and then a major city in the Tract of the Old Empire: Larecolte. The patron had no more than fifty thousand light and heavy cavalry and infantry at his disposal. Using the mobility of his own army, his knowledge of the terrain, the help of the local population and every source of information, Gaspar drove the outnumbered enemy behind the walls of Larecolte, cutting off the supply lines to Nevarra and losing no more than ten thousand dead and wounded.

Melsendere himself played a part in this. But the lion's share of the intelligence credit belonged to a few «specialists» from Antiva, hired by the patron before the military campaign began. The grim men would come to Gaspard de Chalon's tent at all hours of the day and night, fill the drawing on the floor between the officers» legs with content, and then disappear without a trace, never lingering for a moment anywhere near. All but one...

— My lady.

The girl shuddered, goose bumps covering her heart in an instant. The damned mercenary from Antiva had crept up behind her unnoticed and could easily have slit her throat.

— My origins are not so honourable. It's an insult to be treated like this.

The answer was a soft, melodious laugh.

— Perhaps.

— There's no accent in your speech. No accent at all.

— Thank you for the compliment.

— You're different from the others.

— Is that good or bad?

— It depends on how you look at it. The important thing is that you're up to the job.

— Don't worry about that. Your patron: an outstanding leader. Gaspard de Chalonne could have done without our modest help. All we did was allow him to... cut corners. And reduce casualties. And a clue to the character of the enemy commander. I dare make a prediction: by the standards of warfare, this will all be over soon enough. And without unnecessary bloodshed.

Melsendre twitched her shoulder, suppressing her reaction to the dangerous stranger's frivolous words about her own master. At the same time, she couldn't suppress her curiosity about the person behind her who seemed to be gathering information from the ground or the enemy camp. If the facts were not consistently useful, the young bard would have suspected the mercenaries of playing a double game.

— Good news. At last.

— Because you're uncomfortable here?

— Here? Uncomfortable?

— Yes, it is. In the middle of the fields, the woods. On the road.

The girl hesitated a little and nodded.

— I prefer cities.

— The intertwining of stone, blood, sincere impulses and lies, just one step from filth to beauty. I see.

— You...

— Do I?

— Why do you waste your time with me?

— Because it's a dance. You do the step, the arm swing, every necessary pass. Some of the movements seem meaningless, but without them the beauty of the dance dies. Other people would just pick a flower. But I'm patient. Patient for now.

— Is the flower an allegory? How vulgar?

Melsendre's back felt the man's smile. Something had obviously changed in the pose: the leather of gloves or boots squeaked faintly.

— You're interesting. That's a virtue. And meaningful.

— Don't stoop to empty flattery. You want something. And it's not my flower. You don't waste time on empty dalliances. Intuition is as silent as a frightened cat in a corner. But whatever they want in the end, I won't serve two gentlemen. And I don't know the current affairs of my patron.

There was no reply. And just as the girl was beginning to think that her interlocutor had disappeared as soon as he had appeared, strong hands in thin gloves came to rest on her shoulders and, contrary to her expectations, warm breath, smelling of peppermint and the acrid odour of unknown herbs, wafted into her ear. It was like the embodiment of thoughts of the seashore stretching to the horizon in the far north.

— You're right. And mostly wrong. Your place at Gaspard de Chalon's side and your patron's future confidence are unique. Together you are a masterpiece. Exceptional. This dance together will allow you so much. You can't imagine.