Chapter 15 - "A Step into the Unknown"

Morrgian spent much of the night on guard. And her tired mind only fell into oblivion at dawn, for a few miserable hours, but without dreams. The girl took no rest during her waking hours, going over the facts from the books she had already studied, adjusting them this way and that.

When she had just enough light to read, she warmed herself and picked up the black leather-bound book she had set aside. Running the palm of her hand over the surface, Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut tightly before opening the massive book in one motion and beginning to read. Unlike her previous books, the author's mind did not wander from one rare fact to another, skilfully hiding behind a dense thicket of empty words and often euphemisms. The essence seemed to be presented concisely, even sparingly, more like a reference book than a work of research. Page after page of facts piled up faster than they could be considered. But barely a few lines were devoted to the author's journey to reach such a result. So the quality of the material varied dramatically, but the result was similar to other books. On the one hand, empty talk, on the other, unsubstantiated statements. Nevertheless, Morrgian was absorbed in the text and did not allow herself the weakness of considering the option of surrendering to the «enemy». By the middle of the book, the sorceress had a subtle sense of recognising the occasional interjections of the author's personal thoughts. It was as if there was something familiar in these brief, sarcastic remarks, disparaging either the outcome just described or the reader's ability to internalise it.

Frowning, Morrigan paused, quickly flipping back twenty pages, then another, then forward again. One wrinkle between her eyebrows was replaced by three, and the girl slowly licked her lips as she continued to read. Up to that point, the text had offered her nothing new, except an unpleasant residue of the author's dismissive attitude towards the reader's abilities. After all, most of the facts belonged to parts of the magical arts that the sorceress had known since... Morrigan froze, staring at the slightly blurred letters that covered the page. Concentrating on the fleeting sensation, the girl went back a few moments. She knew most of the magic in the part of the book, she had already read. Morrgian turned back a dozen pages and found a passage that mentioned, in passing, some of the problems of controlling the area of effect of a spell, solved, among other things, by placing a number of runes in separate layers relative to each other. Alim and Bethany's words immediately came to mind, as well as their surprise when they first encountered the concept of representing the runic formula of a spell in three-dimensional form. The conclusion was obvious — this book should not be in the Circle. Either this was not available to many, or a single clue was not enough for a talented interpretation. Returning to the cover, Morrigan glanced inside, but instead of the name of the author of the work, she found only a tiny imprint in the shape of a stylised dragon's head.

Biting her lip, the girl went back to reading, and after an hour or so, she found herself looking at the last page. Now, she was sure, the style of certain sentences subtly reminded the sorceress of her mother. Not entirely, but in those rare hours when instead of a half-crazed old woman, a collected and overly dangerous woman rose to the surface. By the end of the volume, Morrigan felt both foolish and betrayed. There was no denying it, the book devoted hundreds and hundreds of lines to succinctly describing some form of interaction between shadow creatures and animate and inanimate objects. Including a catalogue of forms of possession, of which, it turned out, there were more than the sorceress had imagined. Manipulation, like controlling a doll without having to leave The Shadow. A habitual possession. Coexistence, where the Shadow's spawn claimed no power over the host's body or mind. Fusion, where the invader and the invaded merged into something new. And replacement... Morrigan wrinkled her nose at the slight sting of pain in her head. For obvious reasons, the sorceress disliked the latter form, as it involved stealing not only the body, but the memory as well. And it resonated strangely with the girl's nightmares of confronting herself. There might have been some practicality to it, had Morrigan's goals been different. But in the girl's position... Opening the book again, the sorceress found a single section in the middle devoted to the concept of mana. Unnecessary though it was, it indirectly confirmed what the sorceress had learned from her recent interactions with demons. Mana is considered to be an inherent quality of the living, and the only non-living form that contains it is recognised as lyrium. Simply put, those who come from the Shadow are eager to obtain mana without possessing it to begin with. It was a concept that had given Morrigan a prototype of an idea that had yet to take shape.

She put the black book aside and picked up the remaining volumes, determined to fill in the gaps with the necessary pieces of the puzzle. And just then, the cosy solitude was shattered again by the opening of the passage to the gallery. The girl shivered inwardly, thinking for some strange reason that it might be Valinci. She didn't know if she was dreading another encounter with the man or if she was fascinated by the possibility. But Bethany appeared in the passageway, followed by Neria, carrying food. Both girls were dressed in typical Circle clothes. But if the elf felt comfortable in her robes, Bethany showed signs of discomfort. It was not lost on the prisoner that both girls' black and brown curls were similarly braided into long and short plaits.

The girls stared in silent amazement at the floor where Morrigan sat cross-legged. The image was completed by the books spread out on four sides. Bethany smiled sheepishly and began the conversation:

— I am... We thought you were bored here, cut off from the world and your precious freedom. But... Was it a mistake?

Morrigan shrugged, putting the closed book aside and smoothing a few curls from her hair.

— I can't say there's nothing to be done. But, let me tell you, the fact that you and I are here together is just as fascinating as the books. Like, um.

The sorceress was silent for half a word, her mouth agape, which was immediately replaced by a predatory smile.

— Leliana?

Neria replied, placing the food on the bench and not without a hint of shyness in her voice:

— You're right. Leliana found me. She wanted to meet me personally. As she said, for several reasons. From the fact that she was curious about who you'd saved, to an interest fueled by Alim's stories. I can't imagine what he said. I don't want to imagine. After a light and pleasant conversation, the offer came to introduce me to a student of the «Saviour of the Circle». And... Why not? I admit, I was curious too.

Bethany nodded willingly, confirming the elf's words. Morrigan shook her head in mild disbelief and commented:

— Fox... That's clever. Leliana's motives are pure and sincere, don't you think? Bethany?

But the first to raise her voice again was Neria:

— I suppose... That's far from the truth.

The mistress of the room raised an eyebrow in surprise, waiting for her to continue. The elven woman frowned, but her answer was firm:

— If you take it one step at a time. You stand up for me. Then she showed a cautious interest, as if to emphasise that this wasn't a random act of mercy. Well, after talking to Bethany, I don't think random acts are in your nature at all... ....

— Come on. «You», «your»? I don't need that. But apologise and move on.

Coughing, clearing her throat, Neria nodded.

— Then Alim, as persistent as ever, persuades you of the futility of communicating with you. He also says a lot about the dangers of any contact with the «Saviour of the Circle». Because of the accusations made, there is a logic to this, but... It also feels like a lot of absurd exaggeration. I've never seen anyone so stubborn about... Ahem. You see, Alim rarely shows such deafness to alternatives. But he behaved similarly when he decided to leave with the Grey Warden. And so Leliana finds me immediately afterwards. Clap, and Bethany and I, no less surprised by the speed of events, are already chatting. I'll admit it. Before the nightmare, I wouldn't have noticed anything strange about this sequence. But the paranoia had clouded my perception to such an extent that the disparate events began to seem connected.

As Bethany stared at Neriah's face in surprise, Morrigan smiled broadly and clapped her hands three times.

— It's amazing. I wouldn't say your perception has gone bad. It's deeper. The truth is, there are many ways to compensate for Alim's discomfort. But perhaps the simplest and most interesting is to make friends with you.

Shifting her gaze to Morrigan, Bethany interjected in surprise:

— Do you want a relationship with Neriah just for Alim?

Giving her pupil a hard look, the sorceress asked a counter question:

— You're accusing me?

Bethany immediately threw up her hands in defence.

— No...

— Of course I am. A poor choice of words to make a poor point.

Pointing to the bench so that the guests would stop inappropriately towering over the 'hostess' as she stomped through the entrance, Morrigan continued:

— Let's get the basics straight. I don't think Alim has done anything malicious. And not because I think he's better than the elf actually is. It is about stupidity and stupid thinking.

A sad smile flashed across Neria's face and then vanished, a fact not lost on the sorceress sitting on the floor, but unnoticed by Bethany, who was listening intently.

— Alim is a slave to his own principles. In a sense, his prison is much smaller than mine. The conflict between what he believes to be right and my actions has been smoothed over by hopelessness. The obligation to save the elf's skin also helped. Not as good as Leliana at reading those around me. But here's an opinion. Alim assessed the state of the Circle and the position of the Order with his usual gloom. I think the elf saw no chance for the Circle. Nor for Neria. But the chance that I could get what I needed in the chaos and get out, our mutual acquaintance considered significant. Without Neria and the Circle, the only thing left to guide our lives is a naked, stupid sense of justice. Or is that what Alim calls it? In a word. Habitually ignoring his own feelings and doubts, he told the Templar commander everything. You already know from Bethany that the mage has seen a lot personally?

Neriah pursed her lips and nodded.

— Yes, and I, um.

— Wait till we get to that. So, here it is. When the gates of the Tower opened and you emerged triumphant, who was the bigger fool? Alim is incapable of overriding personal principles. An elf as a-— Hmm. That's interesting. Interpreting Leliana from that angle is quite appropriate and accurate. But I digress again. Having assessed the consequences of his own choices, the elf has reasonably decided that he and I are now enemies. Which means that meetings are not only undesirable, but dangerous. After all, who am I if not a «vengeful bitch with no principles»? That's a very one-sided way of looking at things. It's a shame. For some reason, I have no intention of physically hurting him in return.

Morrigan snorted scornfully and continued:

— But a slap in the face... Nothing would make Alim's position more foolish than for us to bond naturally, against the elf's wishes. Yes, «naturally» sounds strange in this sentence, I know. After all, this isn't a river where the water only flows in one direction. But let's not lie to each other, shall we? You're already interested in me. Which brings us to the question of Bethany. I happen to be guided by this girl's naive opinion, lest I become what Alim so clearly saw in me. Bethany fears that my interest is only in Alim. That's part of the truth. What else could be the source of her curiosity? First, the relationship. It's about a warmth unique to the Circle, free of selfishness and carnal attraction, that you've managed to maintain despite the circumstances. Secondly, your talent. Thirdly, there is an appealing firmness behind those aquamarine eyes. Oh, when you've thought about this situation alone, there's no need to take offence at Leliana. However it turns out, Bethany could be a great friend for you.

The aforementioned girl blushed, looked away in embarrassment and lowered her voice:

— Thank you.

Neria nodded and immediately asked another question:

— But why should I hold it against Leliana? What's wrong with...

— ...pimping?

— Yes.

— That's not the point. Leliana is a much better manipulator than I am. Bethe Rusei. I mean...

Under Bethany's tense gaze and Neria's surprised one, rubbing the bridge of her nose irritably, the Morrigan recovered:

— Cunning beast. Yes. That in itself is a sign of good or bad. But someone with Alim's principles, if the facts are rubbed in his face, or like you, cunning, might end up feeling annoyed or resentful.

Giving Bethany a heavy, pensive look, much to her confusion, the Morrigan continued:

— Leliana, like many, struggles with the worst in herself while striving to be the best. But, like everyone, not necessarily successfully.... Recently we had a conversation about the limits of reason. That is, what Leliana can afford to do to achieve her goal. To avoid turning to something she despises. But among other things, there were words about self-determination. Free will. So. Who knows what form it will take in the end. Now. You wanted to ask about the murders, didn't you?

Neria nodded cautiously. The girl's gaze was tense, her hands clenched into fists...

— That's right. Bethany was telling me about a personal situation. No, more of a catastrophe that... I don't know how to put it. Anyway, about how you killed three Templars. But there are also Alim's stories, as he says in your own words, about the Templar murders in Korkari. And... Without beating about the bush, why?

— The question is probably not «why»... You want to hear that in each case there was no alternative to violence and death. It is easier to «justify» one's own bargain with one's conscience. But the problem is not the presence or absence of an alternative. The problem is perception. You're more flexible than Alim, so let's play a game. Two sentences. Think about them and compare them. Okay?

Neria nodded cautiously and leaned forward slightly, concentrating. The girl obviously still didn't know what to expect from Morrigan in the next minute. Too much information was piling up in her head, contradicting each other and not forming a coherent picture. Bethany, on the other hand, leaned back against the wall, preparing to watch the scene in a relaxed manner.

— A squad of warriors loyal to the Creator discovered where three renegades were hiding. Suspecting Maleficus, the three were killed. The Creator's warriors lost a loyal colleague in battle. Apart from the natural sympathy of a good man, do these events evoke sharp disapproval? Outrage? Which side is more compassionate?

The elf bit her lip, lowered her blue eyes to the ground and listened to the tangle of thoughts and emotions. After a moment, she gave a clear answer:

— Described as sad it is, it sounds....normal? No. Familiar. There's no glaring indignation or rejection. I can't say I empathise with anyone more. But if you insist on answering, a little more sympathy for the Templars who lost one of their own in battle...

Neria didn't finish her sentence and raised her eyebrows. Bethany's eyes dropped to the floor and she said it loudly but clearly:

— With a Maleficus. Is that what you were going to say? But the Morrigan said: «suspecting». That's not the same as an unequivocal judgement.

The older of the wizards grinned and continued the «game»:

— A gang of rabid Hasind attacked the home of a family of three settlers. On suspicion that they might have valuables, each was killed. One of the Hasind fell in the fight. The same questions.

Neria raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth to answer, but said nothing. She said slowly after a long pause, wrinkling her forehead:

— It's... It's not the same.

— Do you believe in Andrastianism?

— More yes than no.

— Very well. Let's take the principles of this faith. Forget what the Church added later to «clarify» them. From a fundamental point of view, what is the result of these two examples?

Neria narrowed her eyes and squeezed them shut:

— Four lives ruined. There and there.

— Death, the most accurate measure of grief. Though not the only one. Not to say that context isn't important. It's how we perceive the context that matters. Apostate, settler, Hasind, temple girl. Four looks. Different. We must remember that. The truth is vague. In fact, it doesn't exist. Yes, I killed Templars because they were looking for me to kill. Yes, I had a choice. Hide or run. The same goes for Bethany's disaster. There are no excuses. There's a choice and…

Bethany met the gaze of the dark golden eyes and picked up the fly:

— And the consequences.

Neriah lowered her eyes uneasily.

— There's a lot to consider. But... I really didn't think you had it in you. Magic, logic, philosophy. It's amazing. No offence, but you wouldn't expect that from a backwoods Korcari.

Morrigan suddenly laughed bitterly, but the strange laughter quickly faded, leaving the sorceress frowning and massaging her right temple painfully. Without looking at her companions, she spoke more quietly than usual:

— If you only knew. My mother taught me a lot of things. Even the need to accept other points of view. For example, that the rabbit is not only roast, but, like everyone else, afraid. Other things the northerners don't know. And at the same time... Alien things seep into thoughts, intentions, even speech like water. A phrase in Orlesian, the very realisation that it is Orlesian, «thinking», «manipulation», «self-determination», the principles of Andrastianism.... Surely a lot of other things are slipping away. It comes out of nowhere. Like memories of things that never happened. This is where we get close to why I can be dangerous. Or become.

Bethany shook her head, showing disagreement, but eventually mumbled:

— possession.

— Yeah...

Neria circled her eyes around the books spread out on the floor and clarified:

— Is it to solve the problem?

Morrigan brightened and smiled openly, sliding her eyes over the books as well, then finding a glance at the eyes as serious and clear as the sky.

— That's why it's easy to get along with Bethany. You don't doubt that this is a problem, not a judgement. Even after what happened. And you're sure there's a solution. That's good to hear. For a change.

Bethany leaned forward to ask:

— How...

Interrupting that one, the prisoner smirked, giving the young sorceress a look full of sarcasm.

— What's the rest of your life? What about your lessons? How did the books get here? How close are you to a solution? You can see in my eyes that one «how» is followed by a whole host of questions.

The young sorceress blushed. The remark had obviously hit the mark. Neria reached out a hand and squeezed Bethany's shoulder for support. As she watched the girls, Morrigan shook her head, either in surprise or bewilderment.

— In order. Your fate is uncertain, as is mine. But not so bleak. It's a shame to be caught up in this trap. But there's nothing to put on your own scales yet. That's why I can't get my hopes up. However, if I can bargain for visits, I can continue my studies, however much time I have left. But not today. Better raid the Circle's libraries while there's no one to guard them. As for the books around here, they're a gift from the First Wizard. Quid pro quo. Or better yet. A move in the long game, we'll call it. Leliana can tell you more. Solving a personal problem. I find myself picking locks instead of finding the key. Possible possession has no bearing on the severity of the other charges. What's the joke, twice the death penalty? But before the executioner arrives at the circle, I want to get it over with.

The elf turned back to the prisoner and inquired:

— Can we help you?

Noticing how easily Neria included both herself and Bethany in the same question, and the fact that the student hadn't even given it a second thought, Morrigan replied cautiously:

— I'm sure. There aren't many books here. If they don't share the revelation with me today, you'll know tomorrow.

Bethany didn't look too convinced that the plan would work, but she forced a smile. Standing up, the girl said:

— So we'll come back tomorrow. By the way. I think Leliana has a knack for spreading rumours and gossip about you. I mean. It's not definite. I don't even have a shred of proof. It's just... Even I understand that the Templars, by imprisoning you here, wanted the «Saviour of the Circle» to be seen in the flesh by a minimum of witnesses. And that most people would soon forget you ever existed. Gently, without undue pressure. And if, at the same time, children start spreading stories about the heroine with the «golden eyes» who defeated the evil demon... Well, when you know, who's capable of such a thing, you understand immediately...

Morrigan nodded, returning the smile, and added, following the blue-eyed, pointy-eared girl:

— Neria. Do not burden yourself with the responsibility of my fate. It is a dilemma beyond your control. Put aside your debt to me. Put Alim's words out of your mind. The Templars, the Circle, the possession. That's for others to deal with. The only question that should concern you is whether talking to me will endanger you and others. Or not.

Before turning and walking away, Neria chewed her lower lip and said:

— It's, um. It's complicated. It's a lot to think about and... and it's good to be encouraged to question it. Yes, I owe you my life. It's not easy to get that out of your head. And then there's the other thing. No. Not like that. I like talking to you. Most circle conversations have a known outcome. You know exactly why you're talking to someone. You know exactly what you want to achieve by talking. Often you can predict in advance where the next conversation will lead. The outcome is deterministic and selectable from a modest number of options. Well. Except for rare exceptions. And this conversation. It seemed unpredictable to me. It's very close to, um, freedom. Enough to go on. And... Well, you don't become friends overnight. I just hope there's enough time for that. And many more conversations.

Neria smiled shyly and walked out, hurrying to catch up with Bethany who was waiting in the gallery.

* * *

Over the course of the rest of the day, interspersed with reflective reading, Morrigan came to the firm conviction that there was no «good» solution to the problem of possession. The sorceress suspected there was. There was no point in breaking an egg and trying to get the yolk and white back into the shell. It was easier to take the next egg. Since neither the mages of the Circle nor the Templars had anything that could even detect possession... The plan revolved around the hope that the girl would be able to combine disparate ideas from the materials Irving had provided in an original way, and end up with something that worked. Unfortunately, ingenious solutions don't just appear out of nowhere. They require a solid foundation of quality ideas, research, preliminary results and consistent hypotheses. In each of the papers examined, the problem of possession was assessed by the authors only from an endpoint that required no further thought or study. Except for the black-covered book. But even that, lacking the necessary answers, only asked the reader the right questions. The Morrigan allowed for the presence of the First Warlock's censorship. Any restriction of access to knowledge was impossible to verify and in no way threatened the First Warlock. It was just as likely that the source of the censorship lay above the First Warlock of the Ferelden Circle. The Seeker's «magical tool» could have come from such «secrets». Like the shamefully hidden blood magic within the Circle, but on a larger scale. And yet... In the end, it made no difference to Morrigan's situation.

In the end, the sorceress was left with a hastily devised and traditional magic. Morrigan emphasised the word «traditional». Aside from the fact that it was fun to roll the word over the tongue, feeling both foreign and familiar notes at the same time, the word conveyed the meaning accurately. The sorceress suspected that blood magic was the missing piece in the mosaic to create a complete solution. But «suspicion is not enough».

At the end of the day, Morrigan stacked her books in a neat pile at the edge of the bench, stretched her body with a few exercises, and concentrated on the essentials. Self-critical disdain oozed from the girl, expressed in an assessment of her own idea as «axe-headed», «superficial», «lazy». It all came down to mana. Shadow creatures try to take possession of every object in Reality. From what she had read and what she knew, the sorceress surmised the following: under the pressure of rules different from those in Shadow, creatures from there could not appear here in their true form. The conflict between the «true form» and the Reality was unknown. Morrigan suspected that, as with the Shadow's intrusion into Reality, the latter would inevitably envelop whatever appeared in a cocoon of blackness... Morrigan was distracted by the thought that perhaps the only known substance with the right depth of black was soot. Shaking it off, the girl returned to the core of the idea. «Shrinking» into a form that met Reality's conditions required the creatures of the Shadow to exert themselves constantly. Being in a material object — allows one to «relax». Morrigan didn't know if such a term could be used here. Of course, between inanimate and animate, the latter was preferred. The difference in plasticity. And among the living, the choice falls to the gifted. The shadow creatures find it easier to reach those who possess magic, and the coveted mana is an additional incentive.

The sorceress began to move slowly in a modest circle within her assigned heel. She let her mind wander, ignoring the strange things that were happening. The girl's thoughts revolved around mana. She was based on the idea that between the source of mana, whatever it was, and the mind of the victim, Shadow creatures usually chose the seductive mana first. Something like instinct. How hard it is not to yank your hand away after accidentally touching a red-hot one. But a typical possession comes so quickly that it's impossible to break it down into stages. Mind, mana, body. Mind. That was the order that Morrigan intuitively felt was closest to the truth. One could make logical-looking arguments for such a sequence. But with the right imagination, it is not difficult to find a seemingly consistent proof for any nonsense. That's why the sorceress didn't hide the fact that she was using suppositions as a basis for a step forward. Assumptions. And if so, there was a tool to intervene in the course of the possession. And the girl's case was just the right time to do it. «Adolebitkui konjesta ut terra.» Or «Mana Burnout». A spell Morrigan had gleaned from a few references in books she had read. It was originally meant to fight the possessed. By directly draining their mana, the spell bought the power and threat of their opponents. By this time, the sorceress had an idea of how to hold the correct amplitude of the two runes in her head. This would be enough to complete the spell without radically changing the formula. The girl's own mana will burn up instantly and without a trace, no matter how much remains in her body. This would weaken the parasite eating the sorceress, or even throw it back into the shadow.

Burying her forehead against the cool wall, Morrigan considered what she might need to improve her chances of success. In addition to practice with the fluctuating runes, a cold calculation pointed to lyrium. If some of the sorceress' own mana was no longer hers, then using what was left in her power might not be enough. Lyrium would cover that risk. Besides, helpers would be needed. As a result, Morrigan saw nothing but unconsciousness from mana depletion. But more than care would be needed... Indifferent logic demanded that the possibility of total defeat be acknowledged. The word «control» swirled on the girl's tongue. And her thoughts went back to Valinci.

— This sounds like a very bad plan. But it's a plan, not a blind search in the dark.

* * *

Morrigan had no energy left to keep watch that night. Sleep seized her suddenly, as if from around the corner. And though the girl had dreamed of black oblivion, immediately replaced by morning light, another nightmare came instead.

Or what seemed to be «next» at first. The sorceress awoke in the middle of «there», her head empty as she watched the ashes fall silently upwards. Her chest heaved with slow breaths. Five or six such breaths had passed before the girl felt strong, stubborn fingers on her right shoulder, squeezing it at the first sign of pain. They also jerked the girl backwards. Her own copy, riddled with strange black cavities, wasted no time with empty accusations or threats this night. Pulling her free hand back, she straightened two fingers, silently moving her lips in a long, unreadable phrase, and, simultaneously with the black runes that appeared on her nails, plunged them into Morrigan's left breastbone. Just above the heart. There was a sharp hissing sound of flesh being cauterised. Fortunately, there was no smell in the area. Collapsing in agony, the sorceress tried to push the copy away, glaring with a single, unblinking eye filled with cold hatred. It didn't work too well, but her fingers slipped from the wound, forcing girl to scream.

Pain narrowed her field of vision. Focusing the girl's nature on herself, that turned out to be the only thing that mattered to Morrigan. Only after a merciless pause of moments did the desired blackness descend upon her, cutting off all sensation like a sharp knife. But even that was merciless in denying her oblivion. Images continued to flicker in the void, filling her mind with flashes of unfamiliar memories.

Barely lit corridors and the dance of death with the next, behind the flailing blade a fan of bloody splatters, irritation... Crunching stones underfoot on a narrow path, tired after a long journey and concentrating... The soft, hot flesh under fingers and the anticipation... The nasal smell of dust, fresh ink, ancient parchment and determination....

For a moment, Morrigan pulled herself out of the abyss of dreams like a drowning man trying to catch his breath. The first sensation to hit her was a chill. The girl was sweating, and the stone sack around her was unusually cold. It took five tedious minutes for her mind to come up with the right answer. No supernatural connection to the nightmare, just the approaching chill of the autumn night. In Korkari, the first tentative snow might already have fallen, cowardly disappearing with the first rays of the sun. And here... Here, even for Morrigan, there was the prospect of hypothermia and death before the great judgement of the mysterious Seeker.

Lifting her hands to rub her face, she jumped at the pain in her left shoulder. She immediately slipped her hand under her clothes and felt the skin over her chest. There wasn't the slightest sign of damage. But where fingers had pierced the flesh felt like an old, healing bruise. Morrigan closed her eyes and made a guttural sound of deep irritation. For the first time, the girl's fear spoke louder than her reason. Her thoughts were jumbled. The sorceress was running through questions without even trying to look for answers. Had this cursed place taken too much of her time? Had it given the demon strength? Or had Morrigan been deceived for a long time, while the inconsolable end remained at arm's length?

Angrily, the sorceress slammed her fist into her knee and concentrated on her breathing and only. Five minutes. Ten. Enough to regain the composure of a calm person, not a cornered predator. Pulling herself together, Morrigan forced herself to start the day exactly the same as the day before. A routine that kept her focused. Unfortunately, it was impossible to completely shut out the growing noise outside. The clatter of axes ploughing into fresh wood, the lingering sound of a sliding planer, saws picking up speed... shouts, the creaking of wheelbarrows, the sound of ropes rubbing together as they glided violently over the saddle. The latter was a vivid reminder of the short days on the ship and the fresh, cold wind in the face. The hustle and bustle outside made her wonder if everyone had woken from their sleep and despondency at the same time.

Her mind drifted back to her conversation with Neria and Bethany yesterday. A grim grin crept across the girl's face. Morrigan found her own display of superiority and pride ironic. While it was obvious that without the girls' help she would not be able to even begin to realise the incomplete solution to her own problem. From start to finish, a quantity of processed lyrium equivalent to twice the Morrigan's mana would be required to be reliable. In addition to an unequal amount of unequal oversight... Her jaw clenched as she thought of Valinci and the need to talk to him. If she could get Irving's direct support at the same time... Without that, the show would be over before it began, at the snap of Gregor's fingers. Morrigan had something to offer the First Wizard in addition to the bargain already struck, a bargain in which the wily old man could consider his own obligations fulfilled. But the cards had to be played carefully. Provided, of course, that no one had untied Bethany's tongue by shaking out the necessary clues. The sorceress was not afraid of the Templars. If they were able to do anything, the signs of it could be seen on Bethany's body. She could only hope that the members of the circle involved in politics had either died in the last crisis or had not yet managed to reach the pigeons and ravens.

The temptation to give in to the gloomy mood seemed to Morrigan more than ever. And forcing her mind to work had become difficult. But little by little, the girl returned to methodically pondering the variations in the movement of the runes in the imaginary formula. Without practical experiments it remained only speculative assumptions, but today Morrigan did not want to waste her own mana, nor to feel the characteristic fatigue in her body...

When the girls arrived about an hour later, they found the prisoner against the wall opposite the entrance, her head bowed and her eyes closed. The image was so still and motionless that it looked as if the sorceress was asleep. As Bethany and Neria hesitated on the threshold, the dark golden eyes opened and gave them both a smile that quickly flashed and disappeared.

— This isn't a noblewoman's boudoir to ask permission to enter.

With a puzzled look, the guests entered and sat down on a bench. Before they could speak, Morrigan continued:

— Bethany. You haven't told anyone about my training, have you?

The girl glanced suspiciously at the elf sitting next to her and shook her head negatively as she turned her attention back to her mentor. There was no uncertainty or doubt on the student's face.

— Thank you. Neria. Alim told many things. However, he was reluctant to discuss the background of the Grey Warden's confusing situation. If I understand the details correctly, you were the original choice?

The girl sighed, obviously reluctant to broach the subject. But pulling herself together, she replied calmly:

— That's right. I don't know if it matters, but it didn't bother me. I didn't ask Alim to take my place. Let alone go away.

— Yes, the elf spoke. In so many words that it was all his fault. I suppose that's what caused the rift between you two?

— Well...

Neria gestured with her hand: «a little of this, a little of that,» and then added:

— It wasn't long enough to forget. But enough to cool down. The problem is, it's not that he took away my right to choose. It's a familiar feeling in the Circle, even if it hurts more to be treated like this by someone close to you. What matters is that Alim is gone, leaving me here alone. I know with my mind that it was exactly the same in the mirror situation, but... I don't know, it hurt more than anything else.

— Alim told me that the adventure was anything but exciting?

The elf smiled slightly and agreed:

— Oh yes... Alim displayed an unprecedented eloquence in describing the journey «correctly». And despite his best efforts to exaggerate the dark side, his dislike of lying did not prevent him from mentioning the merits of a certain witch.

— Merit... Huh. What did Alim tell you about the ritual to become a Grey Warden?

— Nothing. He said it was someone else's secret. That's why he's not allowed to reveal the details.

— Damn it. These stupid outbursts - the urgent need for the simplest solutions to avoid... All right. Dead men's oaths are of little concern to me. When Alim saw how deadly the Grey Warden initiation ritual was for its participants, he refused to take part. The stubborn donkey was thinking of you. I'm surprised. Of course, in retrospect, this doesn't exonerate Alim in any way. And it won't fix anything. But hopefully it'll smooth things over between you two.

Neria opened her eyes in surprise, realising that the «adventure» had ended not only with serious complications in the form of the Battle of Ostagar, but also with the risk of inevitable, even senseless death. She ran her fingertips thoughtfully over her lower lip, flicked them and spoke her next thought:

— Alim was ashamed to speak of it. He probably considered the decision «unworthy».

— You should know better. These questions are not for you to rub or lick your wounds. The Grey Warden chose you for a reason. Talent?

The elf raised her eyes to the ceiling and waved away, but Bethany listened with interest.

— Oh, that. Yes... Hmm. That's how I explain it to myself. Unlike others in the circle, who prefer either books or nothing at all, I liked spending time with a slate or a pen. Not that I didn't like books, not at all. But the special magic of flowing lines, folding into images... It attracted me more than the intricacies of runes and the interaction of mana. Alim persistently provided me with what I needed, even if it was at the poor man's expense. And in return, I scribbled myself to death. This went on for several years, until one of the old Templars noticed a young elf in the oak grove, weeping at the realisation of her own mediocrity after a dozen disappointing attempts to transfer an oak leaf onto parchment. It turned out that the former warrior had made hundreds, if not tens of hundreds, of sketches of terrain and detailed maps while hunting renegades during his troubled life. The young woman's tears inexplicably moved the scarred warrior. He took my hand and explained the basics. Soon there were birds, trees, symbols and... other things. And then girl turned out that magic and drawing could coexist as a single art. Drawing a series of runes on a surface at the same time as casting special spells creates a unique effect. It also shifts the burden of maintaining magic from the mage to the drawing. The more precise the drawing, the better the result. Although speed is also valued. So much for talent. With the proper diligence, anyone can do this.

Morrigan nodded seriously.

— Of course. Anyone can be a talented artist, I suppose.

Bethany giggled and gave her friend an apologetic look. And Morrigan went on as if nothing had happened:

— With my mother, you might find something in common. Not the drawing part. Flemeth's own research into magic has led her to unique solutions. Even now can't make sense of them. For example, the arrangement of runes, where the meaning comes not only from the order, but from the construction of the runes as a whole.

Neria opened her mouth, trying to think of something similar. And Bethany gave her a slightly mocking look, fully aware of what was coming next. Squinting and staring into space, the elf asked cautiously:

— But because... It's not really a question of beauty. It's more of a...

— Yes. And no. Symmetry. Proportion. Coherence. Smoothness. These are the qualities that make magic. But I see confusion in your eyes. The answer is no. I don't know of any other principles to determine what works and what doesn't. Mother has had decades of trial and error. It's quite possible that with a little poking and prodding. But the result... Ask Alim a direct question. What he saw when he saved his skin on Ishala. Exactly and in detail. However...

Morrigan paused, as if listening for sounds outside the chamber. Something caught the sorceress' attention and she allowed herself a faint shadow of a smile before turning her attention back to Bethany.

— Student. Tell Neria.

— Are you sure?

— I've never played with you. And I'm not going to start now. Expect more of that from Leliana.

Bethany nodded in agreement, smiled broadly and turned to her intrigued friend.

— It's fascinating. Trust me. Mm-hmm. You may find it more difficult because, unlike the others, you are not used to just certain rules of spellcasting. Your version of art interacts with the surface without ever leaving it. But try to think of a flat drawing as having volume. Not a sketch of a flower. But a figure of a flower made of glass. Forget the runes on the canvas. Imagine a jigsaw puzzle that has width, height and length.

Neria cautiously interjected with easily readable disbelief:

— Is this some kind of imagination training? It couldn't be. It can't be. Can it? Doesn't it?

Bethany nodded willingly.

— Yes. When you're used to one way of thinking about formulas from childhood, it's harder to learn a different approach. It's like being able to walk perfectly. You do it every day, not a bit tired, happy with the speed of your own step. And suddenly you're asked to run. You can do it. But you quickly get out of breath, feel bad and don't understand why? Until you see a trained runner pass you and keep up the pace for hours. Believe me, if you form the runes properly in several layers, presenting the connected ones in volume, the mana passing through the formula will do exactly the same as in the orthodox approach. But more effectively.

— And the Morrigan teaches you...

— Yes.

— And you...

An unspoken question hung in the air, causing two pairs of eyes to turn to the witch in charge of the cell. She turned her gaze to the passage to the outer gallery and said, as if not quite to Neria and Bethany:

— Apart from the charges and the sentence, there's nothing two people can't teach.

Outside, just beside the entrance, a soft shuffling step was heard, and then the figure of the First Wizard appeared from around the corner, piercing the predatory smiling woman with a cold stare of faded eyes from the gallery. Tapping the floor with the tip of his staff, the man nodded to the Templars on either side of the chamber, ordering them with his eyes to leave. After a pause long enough for the mage not to believe that the warriors were obeying him without question, the two armoured figures slowly moved out of the chamber.

Both girls turned at the same time at the sound, but reacted differently. Bethany's eyes widened and her head snapped back. She realised instantly who had heard the words that had so confidently left the girl's mouth. Neria, keeping her mask of calm on her face, nodded respectfully to the First Warlock. The man nodded back, but his eyes never left the prisoner for a moment.

Morrigan tilted her head slightly and turned to her two interlocutors:

— Our time, sadly, is over before it has begun. Neriah. I have a request. I apologise if it seems inappropriate. But there's no one I can trust with this. Ask Valinci to see me today. Can I count on you?

Irving blinked at the mention of the wizard, allowing himself a fleeting shadow of uncertainty. Neria wrinkled her nose slowly, as if chewing a sour fruit, but she nodded. The elf took her friend's hand and pulled her along. Without another word, the girls disappeared into the gallery.

The First warlock shook his head slowly, showing slight disbelief at what was happening.

— So you have some tricks up your sleeve.

— Perhaps.

— Of course there are. Well, it's good bait. If you think you've got the knowledge — Profunditas eDyscryptionis. But to believe that the technique of the Tevinter masters, which allows them to look down upon the other mages of Thedas, is in the hands of a witch from the wild lands of Korkari... is not easy.

Irving stepped into the room and hovered over the sorceress sitting on the floor, narrowing his eyes and asking a question unrelated to the previous topic:

— You implied that after such a short time you would have a solution to the «possession problem» on your hands. Oh, well. I'm listening.

— There is a solution. A crude one. But to hope for an elegant one would be presumptuous and foolish. Assuming, of course, that you've shared all your knowledge with me...

— What I have, you already have. Possession is not something... something that's curious and safe to explore. Get to the facts.

Morrigan was silent for a moment before returning to the exchange, pondering such a direct demonstration of the mage's interest.

— A dozen cups of processed lyrium. Two helpers. Not as difficult as it is dangerous.

— The point?

— Mana burnout.

— Just like that?

— I repeat. It's a crude solution. And I don't think it will help anyone but me. It requires a lot of conditions. It's not a way of working, it's an assumption. It's an attempt to save yourself. That's all it is.

Irving looked down at his feet, not noticing that he was rubbing his slightly chapped lips with his fingers in deep thought. The first wizard was weighing what he had heard against what he already knew. Or so it seemed, and Irving had something else in mind.

— Does it make a difference if the spell is cast by someone else?

— I don't know. It never occurred to me. I suppose you have to trap your own mana within yourself. I mean, you have to...

— «Bleed the invader dry». Yeah, I thought of that. But the suicide option never entered the old mind. So you managed to modify the spell correctly in such a short time? I find that hard to believe. Even if I knew the Masters' method, I would have to add a dozen more runes to the formula. That would guarantee an unbalanced flow of mana. And a fatal misfire. It takes time to refine, to experiment. A lot of time.

— I understand. But I know how to avoid it.

— Tricks up the sleeve... Hmm.

Irving wrinkled his nose, as if the need to come up with such vague explanations gave him a toothache.

— Transfer the formula and the details of the ritual to the parchment. Now.

The enchantress's eyebrows rose. She asked with obvious surprise:

— You don't seem to care much about the results of the confirmation...

The mage made no response to the remarks, waiting in silence for her to continue, Morrigan's face turning icy.

— Oh, yeah. I forgot. My problems don't really interfere with yours business, do they? Possessed or not, that's the Seeker's business. As long as doesn't die.

— What's the point of discussing it? Except to spare your feelings? I'll say it again. For the Circle to survive, all suspicion must be removed. Yes, there has been a problem with the behaviour of some of the mages. It's hard to see from the outside, but the deviations are obvious to me. I've seen it, the Seeker will notice it. And on the basis of a precedent, he will sweep the remnants of the Circle into the cold waters of Kalenhad. Drop the feigned surprise. I'll make the best of your situation. And remember, we are not equals. As for me, the promise has already been fulfilled.

Morrigan slowly pulled her legs up and stood to her full height in front of the mage.

— Exactly.

Irving gave the sorceress a suspicious look from top to bottom and nodded slowly. There was no sign of sympathy in the answer that followed.

— So we're testing the limits. Oh well. Let sincerity be reciprocated. Firstly. Your ritual, whatever it was, was not part of our agreement. Which means no lyrium. Any suspicion of serious magic will get you rounded up by the Templars. Second. Bethany and Leliana are still in my power, and your apprentice's situation is not as benign as it might appear. Yes, that's a direct threat. Now, the ritual, please.

The sorceress turned pale and raised her eyebrows. This was not what the girl had planned. Or not at all.

— I'm...

— You don't have to. There's nothing to explain. Nothing new for me.

— No. It's different. The fact is, you can't transmit a formula like that. It's more complicated than...

— Is that true? Or is it easier to say that you don't want to give it back? Or maybe there isn't one. It's all a bluff.

— To transfer some parts of a formula to parchment, you first have to figure out how to describe and write those parts clearly.

Irving sighed tiredly, not taking his eyes off the sorceress' face.

— Is this supposed to be convincing? Irrational non-cooperation after we've made all the points clear is annoying.

The girl tilted her head forward slightly, looking spitefully into the old man's tired face.

— If only...

— No. No subjunctive mood. The use of it all over the Stronghold is making me sick. Everyone is trying to feed me this crap. Obviously the decision has been made here. That's fine. I bet on a wild horse in a losing game and of course I got nothing. But I didn't lose. However, once you have decided to «play», remember the agreement you have made. Have no illusions about what comes first for me: the Circle, my own clear conscience or you.

Irving turned and left the room at a brisk pace, stamping his staff angrily into the stone floor. The Morrigan was left to wonder who else in the Tower was possessed with the shadow creature.

* * *

Valinci honoured the sorceress with his presence much later in the evening than she had hoped. But much earlier than the girl had feared. The man didn't look as tense as he had on his last visit. But he didn't look any happier either. Hunched over, the mage quietly entered the room, sat down on a bench and stared at the wall opposite. Not a single word. The girl standing at the wall opposite the entrance touched the fresh layer of frost, nodded gratefully and sat down next to him.

— Neria?

— You could have sent someone else. Bethany, I think. Or someone else. It was cruel to Neria.

— You should have...

Valinci shook his head negatively, his gaze drifting slowly to the intricate pattern of frost on the wall.

— Maybe I'm just imagining things. A lot of things «seem» these days. But your mind, trapped in this place, is exhausted, beginning to bite its own paws. I see what you hoped to achieve. That when saw the messenger, I'll would realise the importance and urgency of the message. That Neria would overcome her own fears on the basis of «helping a friend». That... No. I don't want to think about the rest.

— You're too selective. It's like trying to blind yourself with one eye.

The mage hummed.

— You accuse me of not wanting to think about the shit that's happened? The shit around us? The shit that will irreversibly drown us in the next few days? You know, I don't give a shit. There's no one to protect, no one to save, no one to discipline. I'm a mediocre teacher, healer of maimed souls or builder. The truth is, I'm forced into the role of jailer. And that goal doesn't motivate me to stand up and walk against the wind. So, yes, consider me selfishly refusing to face some facts in order to maintain my sanity and ability to move on.

— But decisions can't be made...

— You call me up, literally ask me for a favour or even help between the lines, and now you're trying to convince me that you're «not worth paying attention to»? Look. I'm not going to guess what that means or what kind of mind games you're trying to play. Why am I here?

Morrigan smiled faintly at the corners of her lips and nodded.

— I need help. There's no doubt about that.

Valinci leaned against the wall behind him with obvious relief. An excess of tension left the man before his eyes. It wasn't like complacency or triumph, more like a shift from uncertainty to clarity.

— I'm listening.

— Surely... I have found the solution to my possession. Through ritual.

The sorceress cast an eloquent glance at the neat pile at the entrance to the chamber, and then at the passage with the Templars on duty around the corner. Following the girl's gaze, Valinci took the top book from the pile. The one with the black leather binding that proved to be the most useful of all. Opening the massive volume at random, the man silently repeated after the girl:

— Possession... Wonderful. And the infamous Black Grimoire. I've heard of it. But this is the first time I've held it in my hands. It must be a hundred years old. And instead of a clear story of how it came to be, only a dark legend. As if the author was a Hasindic witch who once visited this circle. Funny, isn't it?

The mage glanced at the sorceress, about to make a comment. But when he met the piercing gaze of dark golden eyes, he slowly closed his mouth and returned the book to its place.

— Very well. Get on with it.

— We need processed lyrium. At least ten pots. Bethany, Neriah. And you.

— Me, to get the lyrium. Or just me.

— Or both. We need someone who's in control. Someone who understands what's going on. Someone who will make the right decision, regardless of the consequences. My trust is in you.

The man's face broke into a crooked smile, accompanied by a low scolding:

— You're such a bitch.

— I'm glad you noticed that now. Not when it's too late.

— That's what you think.

There was a moment of silence, which Valinci was the first to break.

— Getting to know you is like reading such a book from the forbidden part of the library. From the first chapter, you sure it won't end well. But for some unknown reason, and against all logic, you keep turning page after page, torn more and more between doubts, dangerous thoughts, duty and blind hope. It's a strange experience. I suppose the «romance» with Irving didn't go so well?

Fixing her hair and rubbing her face as she gathered her thoughts after the mage's tirade, Morrigan spoke up:

— Yeah. I thought the old man handed over the books because there was an agreement for my help. I mean, it's just an instalment. Naive mistake. Actually, the wizard is no less interested in the outcome than I am. I suppose. Irving suspects others of partial or total possession. But... What I have hastily pieced together here I cannot pass on to another. It's not motive or desire or greed. It's stupidity and narrow-mindedness. No. I know. I know.

Valinci studied the face of the sorceress, who did not hide her irritation at her own clumsiness and incompetence. After a brief pause, the man exhaled:

— Abyss. After scoring so many points for wit and skill, and then trying to convince the First Wizard of your own lack of intelligence... It's even harder to convince him that you're smart enough to come up with something in a few days that hasn't even been written down yet. Of course he did, you decided to play for some reason. Irving, I bet he wasn't too happy about that. One thing I don't understand. What's the rush? I mean, if you believe what you say and there's still a chance of salvation, what's the difference between a day and a week?

The girl raised her eyes to the ceiling and frowned.

— Time. I should have known better.

— I don't want to guess. I want to hear it.

Wrinkling her nose, the sorceress forced herself to speak:

— There is... Change. I tend to think that time is running out. And we're talking about the last drops. I'm trying to make it to tonight.

— I'll be honest, that sounds pretty...

The girl turned to Valinci and hissed softly through clenched teeth:

— I'm scared. Terrified. Happy?

The man clenched his jaw and examined his companion from head to toe, then ran his hand through his hair, involuntarily touching the ring woven into the braid at the end of the movement.

— All right. All right. Into the abyss.

Rising to his feet, the mage straightened. No trace of slouching remained. The Morrigan tensed, as if expecting an attack or some other surprise. But Valinci ignored her and disappeared a few paces down the outer gallery.

* * *

Time passed slowly, like tar... Morrigan's mind wandered, uninhibited. She couldn't bring them together enough to turn to productive pursuits. It wasn't a pronounced fear. Rather, it was something creeping beneath the surface of a fragile calm, held in suspense by an unformed expectation of the unknown. Too much was about to happen, too few opportunities to influence the outcome...

If anyone were to ask now, with some uncertainty, the Sorceress would call it the worst moment of her own life. There had been enough «low» moments in the winters she had lived through. The girl had lost her way in the middle of an unfamiliar part of the winter night forest and had come close to thoughts of inevitable doom. She'd come face to face with a predator much larger than a squeaker that had just passed the milestone of a dozen and a half seasons. Met the dawn with bloody fingers, splayed on a rocky slope, of course, out of curiosity and foolish bravado. Lying with broken legs in the middle of a forest full of dangerous noises, swimming in a churning ocean of pain and shock. Fought off the prey of a pack of wolves, ready to pounce from behind at any moment. Finally, one day, Morrigan awoke on a hillside, staring up at the columns of smoke above her own home. Disoriented, with a gap in her memory... And perhaps making the biggest mistake of all, giving in to her instincts and running away instead of returning to see for herself what had happened. But in each moment, the girl still had a chance to do something. Adrenaline and a strong desire to continue to exist drove her forward, made her move, made her think. How is «now» different from «then»? Morrigan had no trouble answering this question. In the complete lack of control over the things that mattered. No matter how much adrenaline boiled in her blood, no matter how much thirst spurred her on... The truth was that she could not defeat even a dozen experienced Templars, and there were many more here. There's nothing to break through the surrounding walls. There's no avoiding the Seeker. And the most disgusting thing, according to the sorceress, was to wait for the inevitable night to come, with the nightmare hiding inside.

The dish was spiced with the bitterness of realising how close the girl had come to what she wanted. She felt a constant itch to spit and take the final step alone, using only the mana she had at her disposal. To try once more to prove to everyone what she was capable of. But along with the temptation, the knowledge of her mistakes slowly crept into her mind. The girl could not help but wonder what had caused the unfortunate outcome. What could have been done differently. Had Morrigan been in a more collected state, she would not have allowed such thoughts about what had and had not happened.

The key error was so clear in the girl's face that she wanted to grit her teeth. Alim. Devastating emotions demanded to blindly blame an elf. But was what had happened inevitable? Not without a fight against her own haughty nature, Morrigan admitted, no. The sorceress could have treated the elf as more than an «interesting travel companion». She could have taken Leliana's words more seriously. She could have given the mage more personal time to get to know and understand the «enigmatic southerner» better. Moments to minimise the expected risk of a worse outcome were enough. After all... Other things aside, the Morrigan remembered the look in the man's eyes that night at the inn. And then the similar looks cast at the red-haired 'sister'. Soberly assessing her own appearance, Morrigan knew that she would have had no trouble binding this mage to her with anything more than a trivial 'friendship'. Was the price too high? Raising her right hand and clenching it into a fist, the sorceress sternly reasoned that the answer to such a question had changed in recent days from evasive agreement to cautious denial. The girl could and should have used everything she possessed. Humans, elves or kunari are not only bound together by thick chains: duty, rank, status, lineage, religious beliefs and ideology with kinship. But also threads that disguise themselves as something fragile and insignificant: sympathy, empathy, compassion, friendship, lust and love.... For Neria, Alim would be willing to leave the Circle. Perhaps he would do the same for Morrigan. Leliana had expressed her own suspicions in a frank conversation not long ago: the southern witch «collects» companions like a set of interesting and useful tools. So be it. The girl accepted the unpleasant fact that she should have learned from the former bard. As well as the fact that very few people cared about the true underlying motives as long as they saw what they wanted to see. Morrigan had no illusions that she'd be able to get rid of some of her personality traits or newfound inclinations at the snap of a finger. But she believed in the success of her attempt to «hide the poisonous thorns».

Nevertheless... One had to return to the hard truth of the moment. Valinci's reaction did not give the girl much hope. Alim... Morrigan could only grimace. Neriah and Bethany didn't have enough influence to be of any real help. Leliana... Yes, the sorceress did not doubt her 'sister's' ability to 'influence'. But it would take time and the right circumstances. After all, from her current position, Morrigan had no hope of reaching people like Irving. A direct result of personal weakness. To turn her conclusions into something tangible, the girl needed a chance... Something that no amount of money could buy.

* * *

As the daylight faded, Morrigan prepared to face the nightmare. There wasn't much of the right emotions or confidence left in the girl to face the coming night in full force. Only the will to survive, to which she added as much tenacity as she could find. Stretched out on the bench, the prisoner waited silently for the misty shroud of sleep to take her to a realm that, according to legend, lay on the border between Reality and Shadow.

So when the stone blocks creaked, she couldn't help but give a small gasp of surprise. Leliana's lithe figure was the first to slip into the room. 'Sister' smiled demurely at the Morrigan and turned immediately to see Valinci following. The enchantress stared at the mage, her eyes wide open, unable to comprehend the tangle of emotions that had descended upon him. The mage grinned grimly and quietly threw in the direction of the redhead:

 — Looks like she's about to return to the arms of the Creator.

Leliana just shook her head, perplexed by the mage's clumsy humour, and turned back to Morrigan.

— We're here to help. Neria wanted to come too. But she's in conflict with Alim. So the girl is temporarily banned from travelling around the tower.

The sorceress raises her eyebrows in surprise:

— She's a full magician. Alim wouldn't be able to restrict her...

Valinci interrupted the girl and concluded dryly:

— Maybe. Technically, I was above the others in the hierarchy due to the near total absence of surviving Tower Guardians. However, the First Enchanter was concerned that his wishes for future appointments would go to the people. So if the elf wants to create something that does not go beyond the rules, he will get what he wants in the empty tower. And he probably wanted to imprison Neria. I had the choice of arguing with the stubborn one or ending up here...

While the sorcerer spread his hands to indicate his preference, Leliana nodded and added her own details:

— I'll say this for myself. Alim is a difficult conversationalist today. Sharp. He reacts nervously to careless phrases. Experience suggests that the young man is not used to conflicting emotions pulling him in opposite directions. Everything in Alim's life has probably always been clearly defined and focused on two or three specific things. One of these things was unstable, and then the last vestige of stability was pulled out from under him. It is easy to understand the difficulties he faces. But the elf should decide what he really wants...

There was an irritation in Leliana's voice at that last sentence. As if it were something personal in addition to the obvious. And at the same time, at the far end of the gallery, there was the sound of stomping feet, as if someone was approaching the detention centre at a run.

— Bethany?

— Here I am, here...

A panting girl flew into the room, grabbing the corner as she went. She brushed a brown curl from her forehead and smiled shyly at Morrigan.

— Answered a few of the novices' questions about life outside the circle. The young men were quite insistent.

'Sister' rolled her eyes meaningfully, more at the older of the two sorceresses than the younger, as if to say «of course». Meanwhile, the Templar standing guard to the right of the entrance to the room, the same veteran who had moved the prisoner from one cell to another a few days ago, looked in. The man's face showed extreme dissatisfaction with what was happening. When Valinsi noticed that the «mistress» of the stone sack had noticed something in the passageway, he too turned and asked the warrior a question:

— Is something bothering you?

The man snickered bitterly and cut him off dryly:

— Yes. The gatherings must not contradict the orders of the First Wizard, as the Commander confirmed. But what's happening here is suspicious. It goes against the idea of isolating the prisoner from the circle and the outside world. Peter, inform the Commander's aide, whoever you find first, of what's going on. One foot in, one foot out.

The second armoured figure saluted and hurried past the other cells to the only staircase upstairs. Valinci, as if tasting the water before jumping in, asked the rest of the Templars:

— After the entire delegation that the First Enchanter brought here, you wouldn't be looking for a fight with the future right-hand man of the Tower over nothing, would you?

The warrior didn't dignify the remark, a veiled threat, with a reaction, but gave a cool reply:

— You have only the word of the First Warlock, which may or may not be true. And even if it does, the will of the Seeker will determine the future of the Circle itself. It's a flimsy foundation. So, if you'll excuse me, I don't care. If one of us notices anything even remotely suspicious, I assure you, the Commander will know.

— I look at you and...

With a fist in Valinci's shoulder, Leliana half-heartedly interrupted him before the dialogue turned into direct threats. The warlock looked back at the girl with a surprised expression, but she was already looking at the Templar.

— Honourable Harman, a man of strict views and a stickler for discipline. Do not take these words as a personal insult. The warrior of the Creator is quite loyal to the mages, unlike some others. In fact, he doesn't really care who breaks the rules and who gets the scathing criticism. At the same time, it should be noted that Harman lost two colleagues with whom he had spent more than one winter during the retreat from the Tower. Amongst the Templars, it is believed that this is why he was assigned to look after Morrigan. Though it is unlikely that many people know the «Saviour of the Circle» by name.

The redheaded 'sister' smiled at the slightly embarrassed man. The Templar grinned defiantly in response and silently returned to his usual pose against the wall around the corner. Turning to Valinci, the girl clarified in a half-voiced voice:

— A quarter of an hour of Peter running around, and then the Commander's aide would explain to him the nature of what was happening.

Focusing her attention on Morrigan, Leliana continued:

— Pull yourself together. It wasn't so long ago that you pushed me in the right direction. It's hard to believe I have to push you so soon. Can we do it in ten minutes?

Morrigan closed her eyes for a moment, watching the wizard's still surprised gaze as he reassessed the redhead. She exhaled and met the pale green eyes again, nodding.

— The onset is fleeting. I cannot predict the duration of the effects.

Leliana nodded. The mage finally made a cautious remark, addressing the red-haired girl more than the sorceress:

— It seems you haven't been wandering aimlessly around the tower all this time?

'Sister' shook her head uncertainly, answering with a slight note of guilt in her voice:

— Perhaps I should have spent more time on something else. But yes. Isolation makes the Circle resemble an anthill, thriving on the vast dung heap of its own gossip and rumours. Now, after the tragic deaths of so many of the older generation, these have become more innocent. But enough facts about those who live under this roof still linger in the collective consciousness. Of course, not everyone will recognise those behind the childish jokes and fears. One should be able to listen and encourage the storyteller with a kind word. But we have digressed.

Bethany and Morrigan nodded willingly, but the man still reserved the final comment for himself:

— Now the Circle is in turmoil, frozen in anticipation of the unknown. That's why you pulled this stunt so easily. Don't take what's happening for granted. We used to be much more closed, conservative and suspicious of outsiders.

— It's easy to believe. But the past is gone and may never return.

The older of the two wizards interrupts the conversation, before it turns into a merciless pique, and quietly chimes in:

— Lyrium?

Valinci nodded and pulled a massive leather pouch from his belt, capable of carrying several valuable volumes at once. Inside were four ceramic vials capable of holding a solution of processed Lyrium. When she touched them with her fingertips, she felt a familiar, unpleasant tingling in her hand.

— Let's get started.

The girl emptied the bucket of drinking water into the latrine and moved it to the centre of the room. Watching the preparations, Bethany inquired in a whisper:

— Am... What shall I do?

Reaching for the ceramic vessels, the prisoner hummed nervously and began to pour the blueish liquid with a faint pearly sheen into the bucket, answering:

— Hold my head. It's a stone floor.

Valinci gave the kneeling Morrigan a pensive look that only the younger sorceress missed. The man remained silent, not interfering in any way with the preparations. Not wasting time with doubts, Morrigan sat down in front of the bucket, crossed her legs and dipped her right hand into the strange liquid. It seemed only slightly more viscous than water. A tingling sensation immediately spread up to her shoulder, down to her bones. It was accompanied by a slight queasiness, but nothing that could not be overcome with an effort of will. After a glance from the older of the wizards, Bethany realised it was time to act. She leapt from her seat and in two steps was behind her mentor's back. Breathing deeply in and out, Morrigan conjured up the formula for the spell she needed in her mind. Making the necessary changes to accommodate the role of the fluctuating runes, the sorceress approached the final step. Closing her eyes and concentrating on the sensations in her right hand, she allowed the mana from the dissolved lyrium to flow freely through her own body, filling the formula with power and setting the spell in motion.

Morrigan had never experienced the burning of mana before. The sorceress had other expectations... But there was nothing to describe, for the moment the spell began to take effect was not accompanied by any sensations. It was more like a rapidly increasing dizziness and fatigue that piled up an insurmountable weight on both body and mind. It was as if a huge wave of cold water had suddenly risen and immediately dragged her to the bottom. And it took no more than three heartbeats. The last thing that reached the witch's consciousness before the embrace of darkness was the sound of the Templar's irritated questions, whose meaning was slipping away, and Bethany's fiery hands on the back of her head... 

* * *

The forest was dying. No. Morrigan grimaced as she realised she could. The girl's thoughts were jumbled, unwilling to move at a steady pace. It seemed difficult to put into words what she was seeing. The forest already bore little resemblance to the familiar living vegetation in more ways than one. These changes had been accumulating, but only now were they so obvious. The environment was now associated with «death».

Trees lost the pitiful remnants of their blackening foliage, which vanished into black, ghostly smoke before it even reached the surface. The vegetation, thinner than the trunks of the trees, was gone, and even the ash that had once covered the ground was melting like the first snow in the bright sun. All that remained was a bare grey surface that bore little resemblance to the forest floor, riddled with cavities and potholes as if caused by some unknown disease.

She looked around and for the first time felt free in the midst of the nightmare, not a victim caught in a spider's web. Nothing restricted her movement and the first tentative step to the side came as a surprise to Morrigan. Finally, after three minutes... At least, it seemed to the girl that only three minutes had passed... But finally, the enchantress' curious eyes came upon the only object that was different from the trees and not about to turn into a melting mirage. Cautiously approaching, Morrigan found her own copy on the ground. She was kneeling on the ground, curled into a ball, her face pressed into her knees. Feeling her approach rather than hearing it, the sorceress' alter ego raised her scarred black head, revealing a face contorted with pain. Focusing the single eye on the «guest», the copy demonstrated a rapid change from misery to rage, radiating fury:

— Everything is taken away... Memory in holes... Body... Now you're burning this corner I'm fought so hard to cling to, so that don't fall into oblivion. I hate it!

Morrigan frowned, examining herself from top to bottom for the first time and asking the only question that troubled her at that moment:

— Why?

The copy grinned angrily, though desperation was already peeking through the cracks of hate, and snapped back:

— Do you need a reason to want to live? To want to exist? To reclaim what is yours?

— But that's what I want, too. Exactly! Our desires can't… Why didn't you choose someone else to be your victim, demon?

— Not my choice!

The copy opened its single eye wide, clearly shocked by Morrigan's words. Then it laughed sharply and without warning. The sorceress felt a strange mixture of squeamishness and pity at the scene. Laughing, the copy raised her hands and watched at eye level as the tips of her surviving fingers began to blacken. It looked back at the Morrigan and began to spit out word after word with extraordinary force:

— You are a sick creature... Now — broken, twisted, with insane goals, with meaningless principles. And that's my little victory. A puppet full of desires that make me feel dirty and sick. Without me, you're nothing but a shadow. Every bit of you is stolen! Even your essence is mine! But now... Now…

The copy stopped halfway and stared into the void, as if staring into the abyss before it. Something in those words, filled with intense hatred and piercing longing, pierced Morrigan, forcing her to take a step back. Meanwhile, the blackened fingers of her own alter ego began to melt away, turning like the rest of her into an ephemeral haze. Looking around, the girl noticed that there were no trees left. The disintegration of the nightmare was rapidly approaching its climax. With a painful, sobbing groan, the copy drew the sorceress' gaze back to her. As if by force, she forced out a venomous smile. There was a kind of defiance in it, and a desire to drink the sweetness of small victories at any cost. The girl couldn't stand it any longer and screamed:

— What?! Stop it. Get lost. I have won. You can't have this body.

— Creature... Damn you. Flemeth almost killed you that fateful day. Almost.

Suddenly, the sorceress leapt forward, grabbing the copy by its darkening shoulders to shake it immediately.

— Do you remember that day? What... what happened then? Tell me! What happened to Mother?!

There was a flicker of surprise in the copy's single, pure gold eye, replaced by pure triumph. She laughed again, but this time it was angrier, more twitchy, more painful... It reeked of madness. The sorceress slapped the copy, then another, feeling the taste of blood on her bitten lip. And with the third blow, the face, disfigured by black potholes, shattered like broken glass, scattering tiny shards that didn't even reach the surface. The body collapsed, only to immediately begin to disappear, gnarled. A whisper reached Morrigan's ears one last time in the terrified, frozen silence:

— Curse on you...

The surface beneath her feet quickly changed colour from dirty grey to black and crumbled to dust, marking the final demise of the mysterious place lost in the midst of dreams. Or so the drowning Morrigan hoped...

* * *

In the 5 years and a certain number of sunrises before that.

Melsendre stood over the body of a man who had successfully made it through five decades and a half of winter. He hadn't been beaten too badly in the meantime, despite a full, carefree and not too active life. A reasonable-sized belly, a moderate number of wrinkles, a clean-shaven face framed by grey hair, and legs that had just begun to show signs of senility. A magician. Not unfamiliar to commoners, but true of most of the gifted as well. Raising the left corner of her elegant lips, the woman noted that the wizard, despite his accumulated knowledge and talents, no longer had the stamina of the young. Melsendre wiped the corner of her mouth with the edge of a clean sheet, then wiped the same between her rounded thighs, and walked over to the clothes she had thoughtfully discarded in one place. A miniature silk pouch emerged from the inner pocket of her dress. The girl, who had never touched the jewellery with bare skin, could not help but notice the elegant design of the trinket as she placed the brooch containing three memorable emeralds in the top drawer of the bedside table.

As she dressed, the bard almost felt sorry for the harmless keeper of the White Spire libraries. The man had no influence on anything, but he had the indiscretion to make his political preferences public three times in the last week. And each of those moments could be considered unfortunate, both in time and place. Such short-sightedness, mixed with indiscretion, could easily become weapons in the Great Game, which has rapidly taken on bloody characteristics in recent months. Melsendre's patron, Gaspar de Chalona, had decided to clip the wings of two screaming birds who had flown foolishly or deliberately into dangerous places. The brooch the bard left behind belonged to a lady of the court. A very dignified lady. And attractive, for the winters she'd lived. Despite her clean reputation, she had the misfortune to marry the commander of the Val Ruayo Guard. He had also recently made his personal tastes too public in favour of the current Empress, Selina. Melsendre was well aware of the White Spire librarian's weaknesses, and though the task was not intended for her personally, the woman confidently volunteered to fulfil her patron's wishes first.

Word of the adultery had already begun to spread throughout the capital, quietly finding its way into the right ears. When the evidence comes to light, feathers will fly. But Melsendre had a personal interest in the case. The chance to get into the White Spire, with the Chief Librarian's easy access, was too good to pass up. After deftly fastening the last loop of her luxurious gown, which revealed the only part of her skin that showed her mistress's deep cleavage, the woman picked up a porcelain mask and high-heeled shoes. Once on, the mask was a smiling jester with distinctly feminine features, guarding the anonymity of the person behind it.

Quietly, the woman closed the door to the chambers and walked barefoot, with flying, silent steps, to the library. Melsendre knew the way. Perhaps she shouldn't have, but she did. At this late hour, this floor of the Spire was quiet and deserted. Peaceful.

Soon the right door appeared, and the bard slipped between its flaps and found herself in the realm of knowledge. The rich smell of ink drying on the day's documents filled her nostrils. There was also the ineffable scent of paper dust and aging parchment. Together they enveloped the newcomer, as if whispering in his ear where he was. Many would have been confused by the sight of the huge shelves that ran in straight lines, dividing the huge circular hall into narrow corridors. But not Melsendre. The deadly woman knew exactly what she needed and where to find it. All the groundwork had been done long ago, just waiting for a lucky break.

Slipping between the shelves, the bard searched for the right number, of which there was a dishonourable number. The secret language of the local servants that made them indispensable. And over the years it had hardly become simpler, quite the opposite. Every successful trick that made it difficult for the casual visitor to navigate the volumes, scrolls and tablets was immediately adopted. Finally, Melsendre froze in front of an ancient volume that gave no hint of its value to the woman. By a fortunate coincidence, it was only on the third shelf and, with the help of a ledge, within reach of the woman's long arms. The book had been written many winters ago by a researcher from Orlais who had studied the scattered documents of the old Empire, anything that could be translated or obtained without visiting Tewinter itself. The manuscript was devoted to a census of the architectural achievements of the Old Empire, mentioning the most outlandish of those already forgotten.

With a soft, delicate rustle of her finger, Melsendre finally reached the title she wanted. Aeonar... Earlier, the woman's hands had been occupied with the various pieces of the puzzle she had conjured for herself. The task was to locate the secret prison of the Order of Seekers for the magically gifted. She had never been able to do this before. Until a clue revealed that the mysterious place lay within a relic of the Magisters of the Old Empire. Now, with the method of elimination and the most complete list of such relics outside of Tevinter, Melsendre had the information she needed for a confident answer. A place where there was a chance to make a dream come true, to take an important step from significance to elusive exceptionalism. All that remained was to find a suitable candidate to infiltrate the Dark Aeonar. A place few know about and from which no one returns...