Chapter 17 - "The First Cold"

To the soft creaking of the schooner's hull as it glided over the waves, the female portion of the Seeker's party settled into a cosy corner of the hold near the galley wall where the stove stood. Neria and Bethany, less accustomed to such conditions, were in the far corner. Leliana and Morrigan, indifferent to the presence of sailors, acted as a shield from the rest of the crew. Under unspoken pressure, Alim had to position himself as far away from the others as possible in the cramped conditions. But the elf preferred to stay on deck, even though the weather was getting worse by the hour, showing everyone that the ship was heading south towards winter. Winn had found a corner of her own. The Seeker, of course, was given one of the ship's two separate cabins, right next to the captain.

From the snippets of conversation among the sailors, it was clear that with the manoeuvres around the Kinloch Islands, and with a light side wind, and even in the rain, the schooner was moving at a miserable five knots, barely half the possible speed. Considering the distance, and the absence of any new vagaries of the weather, this boded well for a voyage of a full twenty-four hours. But amongst themselves, the crew were cautiously anticipating the end of the voyage. And not because of rumours of what was happening near Redcliffe. The sailors were afraid of encountering fresh ice on the southern shores of the lake. And yet, in Morrigan's eyes, the men here were much better behaved than the sailors on the merchant ship the witch had captured in the past. More restrained? The ship looked more like a military vessel, perhaps even belonging to the Bann of Calenhad, a port city north of the lake of the same name. That would explain why the Seeker's orders were obeyed, fiddled with, but without argument.

Neria and Bethany sat on the floorboards, leaning against the warm bulkhead, quietly discussing a riddle the dark-haired sorceress had thrown up. The Morrigan herself sat back straight and cross-legged, swaying with the ship in her hammock, trying to make sense of something in a black leather-bound tome. And Leliana seemed to be dozing nearby.

The elven woman broke from her thoughts, blinked her eyes and asked Morrigan a question:

— What are you studying?

The sorceress shook her head uncertainly and, without taking her eyes from the text, replied:

— There's no secret. I'm looking for a solution to avoid the worst possible outcome. The Seeker mentioned the reason for our journey in passing. But more questions than answers. I'll have to discuss it further with him when he's ready to speak. Even so. I'm not too happy about it. I find the right books the best help. They give knowledge and wisdom unselfishly to the sharp mind.

Bethany frowned and, examining her mentor's graceful fingers, clarified:

— What's the threat?

Morrigan looked up at the girl and curled her lips in sincere displeasure.

— Yes... Tristan doesn't seem to like to talk about important things. But that tells you a lot about his intentions. The threat is not simple. Once again, we're talking about creatures from beyond the veil. But there's a subtlety to it. It's not so much the possessed we're used to, it's the walking dead. Something is channeling shadow creatures directly into the bodies of the dead. And they, maddened and tormented, rebel against the living.

Bethany shrugged in disgust, and Neriah, turning pale, clarified:

— Well... It can't be as bad as possessed magicians.

The black-haired sorceress fixed a lock of loose hair falling over her eyes and nodded in agreement. She turned her attention back to the book and dropped it:

— That's true. But the threat cannot be ignored.

Without opening her eyes, Leliana spoke:

— Crowd?

— Yes. And most of us will be virtually useless.

Bethany raised her eyebrows in surprise and tried to object:

— The dead are fragile. Sword or magic can easily crush anyone. And they can't do much.

— That's true. And no. These dead have some abilities. But most importantly, there must be a lot of them. Lots of them. What can our little unit do? In the open, with the enemy attacking in circles, Neria and her talents are of little use. And you? Sure, you could set fire to a forest in the enemy's path. But it's probably snowed in Redcliffe by now. And if there are dozens of enemies, what difference will a few burning bodies make? Our archer is out of the picture here. It's funny to admit it, but I think Alim is probably the most useful.

Neria smoothed the material of her warm cloak over her legs with a thoughtful look, trying to find a counter-argument:

— The Seeker, on the other hand, knows the extent of the problem. He probably knows what to do.

Morrigan hummed grimly and shook her head as if to say «maybe».

— Or maybe Tristan has already come up with a plan. And then we will gratefully play our part. Or it's much worse and much more trivial than that. Judging by my conversation with the Seeker, he needs me for personal reasons. For now. But you don't. I may look at people with Bethany's eyes, but it's much safer to look at the situation here with Leliana's experience. Tristan can use you as stones. Swing harder, throw further, then forget. And it won't end well in the days to come. It's not in my nature to give up easily. And so we're back to the point where I'm looking for a solution to keep you safe.

Leliana hummed:

— That's very thoughtful. So you'll be our shield?

The sorceress grimaced again and tossed back dismissively:

— Word games are inappropriate. You of all people should understand that.

Opening her eyes, the redhead cast a curious glance at the girl who was trying to make use of the book.

— I can only assume that I understand you completely. But Bethany and Neria definitely take your concern at face value.

Both girls looked at Leliana questioningly, then at Morrigan. She sighed before answering, allowing only a small amount of irritation to escape.

— Sometimes the motive isn't as important as the result. What's one man's calculation is another man's concern. Especially the simpler ones. I've learned these two sides of the coin. But if it pleases you. Of course, my intentions are not altruistic. Bethany's perspective on things and events is necessary, and it's risky and impractical to replace her. And one's work should be valued. Our acquaintance with Neriah has only just begun. It would be foolish to give up before we've even started.

— What about me?

— And you're useful.

— Oh, compliments like that warm the cockles of my heart.

— It's meant to be.

Neria smiled uncertainly as she watched the exchange of jokes, and when there was a pause, she dared to join in:

— I think the Morrigan is right. Even if she makes excuses about wanting to protect those she cares about for some reason, it doesn't make any difference in the long run. It may not sound very convincing, but if we can help you prepare... We haven't been together long enough to call ourselves friends. But there's no dissension between us, and together we have a better chance of overcoming danger.

The dark-haired sorceress looked up from her book again and gave the elf a piercing look with her dark golden eyes.

— No discord...

Instead of Neria, Bethany nodded willingly. The girl's smile contained a faint hint of sadness, but it was sincere.

— Of course. No dark secrets, no arguments or disagreements...

Morrigan's lips slowly parted in a smile, an evil twin of the expression on her pupil's face.

— Ignorance is truly a gift.

Leliana tensed, shooting a warning glance at the older warlock, but she wasn't about to stop.

— If that's the case, we'll talk. Better now than later with a sudden stab in the back. Leliana once spoke of gossip. They're like spices, burning the tongue, making life more vivid. Until it is rubbed into the wound. Neriah, lest there be any uncertainty between us, I have shared a bed with Valinci.

Bethany lowered her eyes and bit her lower lip. The news threw her back into her own unkind thoughts, making her miss what the words meant to her friend. And that fleeting shadow of fear and disgust did not escape the dark-haired sorceress' eyes. Leliana, too, curled her lips for a moment, openly demonstrating her attitude towards the chosen rules of the 'game'. Neria, on the other hand... Neria just fluttered her eyelashes in surprise, slowly digesting the fact that had been thrown in her face.

— Unexpected... But...

The girl made a face, but no matter how hard she tried, it was clear to everyone that the sentence had hit the mark, and she was not indifferent to the news.

— Okay. I don't even know what to ask...

Leliana sighed and asked quietly:

— In the case of the Morrigan, ask whatever comes to mind. It's more practical. She suggested rules that made things brutally simple.

— Then... What was so attractive about that?

Running her index finger over her lips, the Morrigan smiled softer and answered the question with a question:

— You won't deny that Valinci is very attractive as a man?

— No. I mean, yes, character aside, perhaps. But that's not what I asked.

— Of course not. An interesting question, by the way...

Leliana suddenly snapped her fingers and interrupted:

— You did it on purpose.

Morrigan shrugged without denying it and continued:

— The point is, as before, there are two sides to this. Of course, Valinci was sympathetic. It's a mystery what it was about me that attracted him. Perhaps it was only the momentary attraction of a dangerous novelty. I am honest with myself. With this body and this face, it is not difficult to lure a man into bed who is not prejudiced. Then there is tenderness, care, kindness. All this response is found, as in any other, and similar to myself is not so much experienced. But there was something else. There are emotions and desires hidden within the magician that are dangerous if not controlled. On the one hand, many things in the past few days had sharpened Valinsi's will. On the other hand, what had happened in those days had also fuelled anger and desire. One had become... unstable. It fuelled curiosity, what could I get out of it? To peel away the facade of rigid control. I wouldn't say the mage himself was uninteresting. But that instability. Exciting. I'd told Leliana before that this connection would have a bad effect on me. It was unlikely that Bethany, for example, would find the flirtation with addiction or power over emotions, with violence and control, enchanting. But I'll admit I was wrong.

While Bethany listened in rapt attention, Neria looked rather gloomy, as if the sun had been obscured by clouds that announced rain. The elven girl looked away, but eventually gave in to her curiosity:

— Wrong?

The sorceress nodded, gazing into space as if the next bulkhead didn't exist.

— Yes... I overestimated his affection for me. I mistook a fragile shoot for a tree.

Leliana leaned back in the hammock, gazed up at the ceiling and coolly cut her off:

— If we're going to be frank, tell it like it is. «Wrong.» Only that Valinci is not with you. Otherwise, your little game was a success. As a gift, you left him with a strong sense of loss and guilt. His position in the tower was as bad as it could be. He should be transferred to another circle, but he can't. And slapped Irving in the face, leaving him unsupported. The old man was literally left alone in the ruins. You're a biter.

— I can't admit that I weave intrigues. But otherwise you're probably right.

Morrigan's gaze suddenly returned to Bethany, snapping her out of her reverie.

— This conversation is not just for fun, of course. Nor to tease Leliana. You and Neria must realise that there are no cloudless skies in relationships. I don't want to spoil you too soon. But it's good to get rid of illusions. We all have secrets. Even between us. Many things can be confusing. More to hurt. It's foolish to ignore shadows. It's dangerous not to be aware of them at all. Whether it's worth being afraid is yet to be decided...

Suddenly slamming the book shut, the sorceress added:

— It's nothing.

Leliana squirmed uncomfortably in the hammock. It was as if the cold air that blew freely through the sails outside had touched her. The girl added, a little more quietly than before:

— You've changed. Again. It's like deeper and... There's something hypnotic and terrifying about it.

Morrigan nodded, lowering her eyes to the faceless cover of the book and letting her curls fall to cover her face.

— I know. It frightens me as much as it does you. If you listen to the Seeker, nothing about this ritual is over. And nothing will ever be. At least it's comforting to know that the creature isn't under my skin, even if it is figuratively hiding within breathing distance. I haven't had any nightmares since. Although perhaps it's too early to draw any conclusions. And while we're on the subject of the Seeker...

The girl turned back to the stairs to the deck. Morrigan seemed to be considering how to put what was on her tongue into words. Only a few of the sailors' hammocks were still occupied. The sorceress didn't care about the sailors. Bethany followed her mentor's gaze and asked:

— You wanted to talk to him.

Morrigan returned her distracted attention to her pupil and shook her head negatively.

— No. I mean, yes, but this is different. Neria, I need your help.

The pixie, lost in her unhappy thoughts, nodded cautiously, giving her dark-haired companion an excuse to continue.

— The only thing I could think of to fight the dead, as much as it pained me to admit it, would require Alim's knowledge of magic. It had to be acknowledged that when it came to survival, personal squabbles were worth putting aside.

— О... That's... It's going to be hard to get him to talk about it. But what exactly would it take? What am I asking for?

— The crown spell. I need a part of the rune design that is responsible for the external mana knot, which controls the direction and area of influence. This is a neat trick and an ingenious solution. Despite the higher mana cost, the sheer number of runes in the original spell makes it unnecessary. And it's perfect for my problem.

Eyes gleaming with curiosity, Bethany mimed a silent «Oh» with her mouth, and Neria rushed to clarify:

— But. How does this sequence help? Can you make a new spell out of it?

The Morrigan grinned openly, and for a moment even gasped in mild disbelief at such a bold assumption.

— Of course not. We have a few days at best. And even if I don't sleep at all, you will take me to unreachable heights. Mother knew how to create new magic. I did not. But it took her years, decades of trial and error. What I can do is try to combine two parts of what is known. And even that's a bold idea. If... If I can do it in time, it's a chance for us. The funny thing is, I'm still building on Flemeth's foundation. It's like she put it in a basket, knowing something in advance.

— I'll see if I can talk to Alim.

— That's all I ask. But be more convincing. As for the Seeker. Get dressed, whoever wants to participate. It's time to ask some questions. Before it gets dark.

* * *

The atmosphere on deck was sickening. The wind may not have been strong and the rain more like a drizzle, but the drop in temperature and humidity made the conditions unbearable. Everyone wanted to return immediately to the warmth and shelter of the flimsiest of walls. Even the team, accustomed to so much, moved sluggishly, showing the first signs of fatigue.

Morrigan lifted her face to the sky, closed her eyes, and for a moment was disconnected from everything but the cold drops that settled on her cheeks, eyelashes and lips.

— Soon the rain will be replaced by snow.....

The sentence was not meant for anyone in particular. The girl simply opened her eyes to find the figure of Tristan. The man was standing at the bow of the ship, as he should be, pulling everyone around him. He was standing at the stern, wrapped in a warm captain's cloak, the top layer soaked to withstand the rain and spray from overboard. Amusingly, Tristan preferred the impenetrable hood to the thick knitted wool cap, leaving only a hint of his master's straw-coloured hair. Closer to the foremast, the figures of Alim and Winn could be seen. It was strange for the Morrigan to see them so close together. Logically, to Alim, Winn was no different from Morrigan herself. Unless, of course, he hypocritically drew a line between one possessed person and another based on their personal backgrounds or other qualities. It was just as strange that a woman of her age would forget to be on deck in such bad weather. Shaking her head and wrapping herself tightly in her own cloak, the fur trim of which was quickly becoming damp, Morrigan made her way to the Seeker.

— I have questions.

Tristan, standing in profile, barely turned his head, squinting his eyes and raising an eyebrow in question. The man did not open his mouth, waiting for him to continue.

— Why are we rushing to Redcliffe?

The Seeker nodded and turned his gaze back to the missing horizon. After a brief pause, the man replied:

— О... There are more reasons than one might think. There are both official and real reasons.

— No. In that case, I'll do something else first. Why are you answering me at all?

Tristan smiled, lowering his eyes to the dark, cold water, the low, foamy waves crashing against the side of the ship. But soon the smile faded and the man's face took on a cold expression.

— Certainly not because you're an interesting person to talk to. The audience is somewhat to blame. And I'm not talking about the people on the deck. When I talk to you, I'm not just talking to you, I'm talking to the puppeteer. I'm sure of this thing's ability to sense and recognise its surroundings. But why would I want you to know my motives? Let's just say that your puppeteer is a wild card that I have to put up with for personal reasons. To use your metaphor of the sharp stick, when there's darkness all around and every step could end in an abyss or the jaws of an unknown beast, throwing pebbles around and listening for the sound of the fall is not such a foolish strategy. Or to put it another way... Stimulus and response. There's nothing better for getting to know an alien mind.

— I wouldn't behave like that in a bear's cave....

— That's a biting remark. But we don't know where we are. Maybe a dusty, forgotten cupboard, maybe a dragon's lair. There aren't many ways to interact with what's behind the veil. Of course, we could test your worth to the Puppeteer directly. But I don't think you're unique enough for the creature to sacrifice anonymity and safety. Abstractions and metaphors aside. Some time ago, there was an incident in Ferelden that directly affected the interests of our Order. Until recently, it was I who dealt with it. Experience and a timely arrival in Ferelden on personal business played a role. I was searching for traces of a long-lost friend. And so it was that seemingly unrelated events, far apart in time and distance, turned out to be, in my personal opinion, indirectly connected. At the very least. In the absence of hard facts, we have to rely on intuition. And as long as the power remains in my hands, I will try to find proof.

Morrigan rubbed the bridge of her nose, unsure how to take the dismissive reference to her as a «puppet». It was easier to ignore it.

— That's a lot of 'why'. So I'm a piece of the puzzle and... A «joker». So be it... So?

— Yes. Radcliffe. Official reason first?

The Enchantress nodded silently and the Seeker, who had caught the movement with the edge of his vision, continued:

— There's been an incident of demonic manifestation. As I said, there are many reports from Church spies and even some Mothers from the settlements around Redcliffe. The dead are rising from their graves and ravaging the graveyards in anger. «Walking Dead».

— And no rumours of mass possession?

— None at all. Not yet. I have no news since we sailed from Kalenhad to the stronghold of Kinloch. Much can change in those days.

— A certain will pushes the lesser ones through the veil, binding them to the dead...

— That's right. From the reports, it seems to be happening around the Earl's castle. Which is worrying. The Warlord has received the same information. And I must say, My Lord Mac Tir was moderately pleased to know that this problem would be someone else's headache and would not require any action on his part. In short, we must get to the root of the problem. Eliminate it. And make sure the Earl, the family and the heir are well.

Leliana raised her voice for the first time when she was within earshot. Politely, the woman clarified:

— Are you suggesting that the Warlord was only 'officially' informed of what was going on by representatives of the Church?

— Yes.

Morrigan shook her head, not the least bit enthusiastic about such 'games' of the powerful, with some pretending to know and others pretending not to know.

— But why is the Church so concerned about Earl's safety? Especially with events like this happening in the Circle.

— The country is not at its best. The threat of Blight. Two cases of overt demonic influence on current events. And both struck in vital places. Almost simultaneously. But you're right, the Circle is the direct responsibility of the Church. Redcliffe is not. Let's leave aside the question of the flock relying on the Templars for protection against supernatural threats. There are more compelling reasons for intervention. Redcliffe is of strategic importance. More so for the Church than for My Lord Loghain Mac Tir, who concentrates his own military power in Denerim and Amaranthine. If the Gerrin clan and their stronghold fall together, the southwest of the country will be exposed, giving the enemy direct access to the main fertile valley of Ferelden. And besides...

The sorceress snorted, fixing her wet curls, black streaks sticking to her face.

— I already know of the importance of this region to the economy and its dense population. Leliana will tell you more. Blight can take advantage of the breach, and so can the Avarrian tribes. And if you know of the Chasinds tribes that have travelled to the Frost Mountains... But the point is, this should be Loghain's problem. Not the Church. Why...

Morrigan broke off at the half-word and turned to her red-haired friend, who responded with a similarly fiery stare. It was as if something had passed between the girls, and literally continuing her unfinished thought, Leliana said in a low voice:

— The Imperial Road that circles the Great Lake. More specifically, the part that runs in a ribbon between the cold waters and the foothills of the Frost Mountains. It is the only road in the region that remains passable throughout the winter months. A direct route from Orzammar to Redcliffe and then... to Lothering. And the only trade route that, even after all these winters, is still only formally under Ferelden's jurisdiction.

The sorceress turned a little more, caught Bethany's worried gaze and snapped her fingers, turning her attention back to the profile of the frowning Seeker.

— If Redcliffe were to fall for any reason, it would take the surrounding lands with it, and Ferelden would be safely cut off from the passes and one of the two good roads connecting it to Orleans. The ports of the Silent Sea are already under the warlord's control, and the only road along the coast in the far north is not difficult to secure. Does Loghain fear an invasion by Empress Selina more than Blight?

— The warlord is gifted with a keen mind and incredible intuition. But he is also deeply prejudiced against Orleans. So much so that neither logic nor facts can change his mind. It makes the Milord see things from a single point of view. And to judge others by themselves. Intervention and revenge. Especially now that the country is weakened. And that would make sense if it weren't for Blight or the personality of the current Empress. For the warlord, this series of events on the western borders is like a sudden stroke of luck, justifying the sacrifice of a wounded rook for the safety of the king and queen. I believe that this correspondence between the royals has added fuel to the fire of suspicion.

— Was it just luck?

— Who knows? Did the warlord pull the key card that turned the whole house of cards upside down? Did someone else nudge his hand in the right direction? Or did something else just seize the moment?

With this last question, the Seeker turned towards Winn, but without finishing the movement, he returned his gaze to the lapping waves and finished the sentence:

— One can only guess where exactly the chain of events began.

Leliana sighed eloquently behind him:

— I would love to read those letters...

Without turning back to 'Sister', but with a grim smile on his face, Tristan cut her off:

— Some things are life-threatening, bard.

Morrigan turned, but only to see the sour look on Leliana's face. The sorceress also noticed the look in Winn's eyes as she turned from the redhead to meet the girl's golden eyes. For the first time, there was a look of interest on the woman's face, instead of one of dull resignation. Turning slowly, Morrigan returned to the conversation:

— Are the Warlord's fears so unfounded?

The Seeker pursed his lips and sighed softly.

— That's the policy... Of course not. There are always plots. Long-range plans. The Church has had plans before.

You didn't need to see Leliana to guess the emotion when she spat:

— They were trying to discredit the aristocrats of the South and Southwest among the people, so that they would treat the Church more favourably in the future than the rightful rulers of the lands. All this mudslinging was to make it easier for the king to negotiate an alliance. Even without his knowledge. A path lined with roses and drenched in blood.

Tristan shrugged.

— I don't know, Mistress Bard. Perhaps it is. It matters little to me, so there is no 'You'. All that matters is that there is a blight brewing in Ferelden and no Greyguard to fight it. My lord Loghain Mac Tir will accept no military aid, no volunteers, and certainly no Greyguards from Orleans. So we need Redcliffe, which the Warlord has already written off, as well as Kinloch Stronghold. First and foremost, to quietly smuggle in warriors who have long specialised in fighting the Blight.

Morrigan opened her mouth, but was beaten to it by Winn's question, whose deep, firm voice unexpectedly broke into the conversation:

— There seems to be no contradiction here. But why did you stress that you wanted to make sure that Earl and the heir were safe? Why do you want the Gerrin family?

— Because in the eyes of many, My Lord Mac Tyr is nothing more than a usurper. And in the absence of a royal heir, unrest is inevitable. Only ancient families, rooted in the founding of Ferelden, can unite the conservative royalists. Blood is highly prized in this southern land. Coincidentally, the Cusland family have already been removed from the board. So there's not much choice. Yes... Opposition would predictably lead to a full-blown civil war. But without it, Ferelden will lose political flexibility in the hands of the Milord, and will lose too many aristocrats who will be frightened off by the new government and left alone with the enemy.

The sorceress standing beside the Seeker lowered her voice:

— One more reason for the Warlord to push the Southwest to fall...

Leliana added to Tristan's thoughts:

— Not least, I think, is the fact that Lord Éamon's consort is of Orlean descent. Which means that the heir of the Gerrin family is of mixed blood. A bridge between two worlds.

The man neither denied nor confirmed the bard's words. Meanwhile, Neria suddenly spoke:

— So what's the plan? How are you going to deal with a bunch of dead people? You do have a plan, don't you?

— Let's deal with the source of the problem first. I don't think we'll have much luck, and it's outside the walls of the fortress. But we still have to get to Redcliffe Keep.

Winn's voice trailed off, and there was a hint of excitement in it:

— I see... It may be important for you to make sure that at least some of the Gerrins are safe. But that doesn't change the fact that there are dozens of settlements and small villages around Redcliffe. If everyone is suffering because of the Walking Dead, then my lord Eamon's knights are nowhere near enough to restore order. And it turns out that the smaller settlements may already have been devastated, with people either killed or joining the refugee stream. The larger settlements are effectively besieged and isolated. The cold and hundreds of wounded who need help. In these very minutes. Even if you solve the problem in Redcliffe itself with lightning speed, it will have no effect on the locals. We have a duty to help.

Alim raised his voice next, taking the same side:

— I couldn't agree more. Mass deaths in the countryside will not serve you well, no matter how you look at it. What good is a fortress if the land around it is deserted long before the Blight arrives? Or is that your stratagem?

Tristan knitted his eyebrows in mild irritation and quietly commented on the remarks that had been made:

— How many advisors... How many wise men...

Turning to Winn, the man smiled politely.

— Very well. You, Mrs Winn, Alim and Neriah will go to the villages near Redcliffe that you feel are in need of help. Help the villagers as best you can. The rest of you will head straight for the stronghold. It's the best division of forces I can offer.

Winn nodded politely, while the elf shot a worried glance at Neriah, but remained silent. Morrigan took a step closer to the Seeker and asked quietly:

— Am I right? Do you know exactly what to do with the dead and how to deal with the superior who made a mess of things?

The man gave the sorceress a quick glance and dropped her, too:

— Who knows? Only fools and the dead are sure.

The sorceress grumbled at such an evasive answer, which didn't inspire her with confidence, and added:

— Wasn't that how the party was divided up before?

Tristan's lips twitched, but it was hard to tell if he was holding back a smile or a grimace of annoyance.

— Believe me, I wasted no time in the Circle studying Irving's notes on each of the surviving mages. The reactions of both Mistress Winn and Alim are predictable. The stupidity of trying to separate an elf from his childhood friend is understandable.

Shaking her head, Morrigan turns and holds herself against the side of the ship with one hand. Giving a meaningful look to Neria, who nodded in response, the girl headed back into the hold...

* * *

Day turned to night, and as the wind died, the cold drops from the grey sky were replaced by wet snow. The snowflakes fell softly on deck and gear, in the wavering light of the few lanterns, creating a fairytale atmosphere and resembling the gentle touch of death. The white ropes became too heavy and the foot-polished planks too slippery, robbing the sailors of a good night's sleep and threatening death every second.

Unlike the other girls, Morrigan still sat in the hammock, staring into space and pondering the order of the runes in the spells she knew. From time to time, a shadow of irritation crossed her attractive face, leaving a deeper and deeper mark of tiredness. The sorceress was uncomfortable with the fact that she was completely unprepared to face her many enemies. The southern witch was used to duels, sometimes with superior opponents, less often with a pack of wolves, among whom there was always an Alpha to end the bloodshed with a single blow. But dozens of enemies left her helpless. All the girl had was a way to scare the crowd into running and hiding. And for one brave man, the faint hope of standing on the other side of the enemy's pursuit. In the case of Walking Dead, the above is useless. It's about as fruitless as attempts to escape from confinement have ever been. The surest response to such a threat is to learn a new spell. But Morrigan had only the Black Grimoire at her disposal, and nine of the ten or so spells in it were cast in the traditional flat manner of the Circles. This meant that the complex spells consisted of a hundred or more runes. From childhood until recently, the sorceress had prided herself on her memory. So she realised that it would take weeks to cram something so unwieldy into her own head. And then the same amount of time to hone her understanding and use of the new spells for real combat. It would take just as long to rework the spells for the multi-layered performance that Flemeth had taught her daughter from her earliest magic lessons.

That was not to say that the Morrigan had no ideas. She had more than she needed. Traditionally, fire had been the surest way to deal with the Walking Dead. But even with plenty of flame at hand, the weather outside didn't leave much of a chance of success. So the surest way to deal with the possessed remained a blow to the weakest spot. The corpses were filled with lesser demons. Like their older «brothers», they craved mana above all else. And it was worth tearing out the bits the demons had scraped up in their graves, yearning from dulled senses and thirsting for more, for the creatures of the Shadow could barely hold themselves this side of the veil, even within the objects. At least that was Morrigan's perfect calculation. The girl hadn't expected that it would actually work to banish the creatures. But making them ridiculously vulnerable for a short time was quite possible. The new spell the sorceress had managed to practise recently: «Adolebitkui konjesta ut terra», «Burning Mana», was simple enough in concept and execution. So it was suitable for this page. But it only affected one target at a time, and consumed an outrageous amount of mana for a long battle... She had spent the last twenty-four hours deliberately going through the structure from start to finish until she was sure that the sequence was flexible enough to add something else without changing the mana requirement too much. The 'something else' Morrigan was missing...

The result of the conversation between brother and sister was, to everyone's surprise, that Alim did not reject the idea of helping the southern witch. He even promised to discuss the details with the sorceress... Before retiring to bed, a tired looking Leliana was the only one to point out that there was no mention of a timeframe for this promise to be fulfilled. It had led Morrigan to unhappy thoughts about the unalterable gap in communication skills between herself and the bard. But in the end, the elf had patiently waited until the darkest hour to speak. The notion of privacy did not hold water, for three-quarters of the crew were awake and fighting for the safety of the ship.

Quietly approaching Morrigan's hammock from behind, the mage froze, obviously searching for the right words, and so it was the sorceress who spoke first:

— Are we talking again?

There was a long, masculine sigh, and Alim tried to steer the dialogue towards the matter at hand:

— What do we have to talk about?

— Many things.

— If it's just for the opportunity...

— Alim. That's clumsy even for you. To think of reaching out to you through your sister on a night like this, only to end up stabbing you with petty jibes.

The answer was a tense silence, and that seemed wiser than another attempt to regain the initiative or parry the lunge. After a moment's pause, the elf spoke quietly:

— Well... I guess the least I can do is thank you for not telling anyone about the bloodline, no matter what.

Morrigan hummed and replied softly, keeping her voice and emotions in check:

— I suppose? Hmm... Neria didn't mean anything by it. Why would I do such a horrible thing to her? But even from the point of view of a cold-blooded bitch, what's the point? Alim, I didn't have to live up to other people's expectations to repay your 'gratitude'. Now you're out of the Circle again, robbed of half the meaning of your essence. And you may never return. Stuck in the hold of a ship hurtling towards winter, waiting every minute for fresh ice. And no matter what you do, the worst you can hope for is to drown in the cold water, helplessly watching your sister perish. And even if that doesn't happen: The Seeker is dragging you to new enemies. And it's not because I'm some kind of spider. It's as if Neria has been seduced by dark promises. Your sister has wanted to break out of the Circle for a long time, even if it's just a foolish dream. I am only an excuse. And a way to avenge herself by making a decision without asking, as you once did. What you should be grateful for, you son of a bitch, is that you still have your sister's calm breath. It wasn't Alim who pulled her out of her nightmare, it was the Morrigan. But don't think I'm angry. I'm satisfied with your current situation. So we're even. Let's say we've exchanged all the poison we've accumulated between us. There's an enemy up ahead that only you, the Seeker, and maybe this Winn can do something about. If 'special' is taken into account. But we both know your well is shallow. And it's going to be a long fight. And as Neria said, I need help to improve my chances of survival. That's all.

The man listened to the end of the tirade, not even trying to interject between the words, not making a sound, like a statue. This spoke, if not of tacit agreement, then at least of some kind of acceptance. With another sigh, the elf slowly began to answer:

— I have never belittled the sharpness of your mind. Or your tongue. There's no point in complaining now, of course. I just accept the circumstances as they are. And try to move on. But my opinion of you...

The sorceress splashed her hands and hissed softly:

— Spare me the hypocrisy. One possessed is bad, the other is a little better. I don't even want to know how you explain it in your head. Your blood has seen no evil from me, so take your time rationalising. Especially now, when all you have left to protect is your sister.

— So be it. Let's put aside 'maybes' and 'probabilities'. Let's focus on the inevitable. From what Neria said, you need the rune part of the field of repulsion, which is responsible for creating a knot of mana. Influencing that is what creates the impulse at the end. That's almost three quarters of the spell.

— Repulsio. Yes. Almost.

— Is that, er... a Tevinter name?

— I suppose... Don't dwell on it. The part you need is the part that's responsible for the area of instruction.

— If I ask you why?

— Is that an intention or a question? OK. I suppose I can add to the spell I already know. I can make it work on an area. In anticipation of your question, I have a spell in my repertoire that works on an area. But there's a lot of overlap between the two. And you have an example in your head where the spell creates a surrogate in which a more primitive and intuitive definition of area and direction is provided by the author. The idea is that this part of the runes in the spell is not difficult to isolate.

Alim rubbed his forehead, trying to comprehend what had just been said, and shook his head in disbelief.

— I guess I'm right. Look, it's not that it sounds unrealistic. But when are you going to finish?

— If we start now, a lot sooner than if we keep talking about it.

— No, that's not the point...

— Exactly. It's OK not to start at all. It's the lack of results that guarantees it.

Licking her lips and suppressing her emotions, Morrigan added:

— If it goes well, we'll have the results tomorrow. If not, then... what difference does it make?

— I can hardly believe it. Neria told me about the ritual while I was half-listening, and yet... OK, I won't think about it. Okay.

The elf sank to the ground beneath the sorceress's hammock, crossed her legs and summed up:

— There's no place to write down the order of the runes. I can't give you what you need, and nothing more. But I'll try. I'll list the runes in order, one by one. Memorise it. It'll take two hours, not counting any mistakes.

The girl nodded, closing her eyes and concentrating on the voice of her interlocutor.

* * *

As dawn should be, it brought hope. The snow stopped falling in the early hours of the morning, giving the sailors a welcome respite. Even the clouds seemed less threatening, leaning against the mainmast. Three hours after sunrise, a warning shout was heard and soon the weary crew were busy again, lowering the sails and slowing down. About seven kilometres to the south the coast appeared, which meant that the voyage would soon be over, although Redcliffe Bay lay a little to the west. But two kilometres from the ship, the surface of the lake changed. With a light breeze, the waves were nothing more than ripples on the surface, and in the distance there was an invisible line beyond which there were no waves at all. And were it not for the heavy snowfall, a keen eye would not have been able to distinguish the thin, transparent ice growing from the shore towards the ship. Here and there, the mirror-like surface was marred by a white patina. The shore seemed so close, but remained as far away as if it were on the other side of the world. The first ice is fragile and delicate, but it can be an unpleasant surprise. Far more serious, however, was the threat of being stuck in the ice's grip on the bay for weeks or months. At the same time, the cold-bound surface was still too fragile to attempt a landing. Under no pretext other than death would the captain risk sending the ship forward. And the threat of death would in turn threaten the sailors with revolt.

After some negotiation, Tristan persuaded the captain to head east. Firstly, the schooner could still sail with a side wind, which had fortunately shifted from east to north during the night. Secondly, the coastline to the east of the ship curved sharply northwards for tens of miles. With any luck, they might be able to find a place to disembark the passengers in waters still untouched by the first ice.

Morrigan's companions discussed the events with some interest and excitement. For Neria, it was all new, and her curiosity and excitement outweighed her apprehension. Bethany could see that she was trying to keep her spirits up, but the sudden succession of journeys and the cold around them had sapped her strength. Leliana looked rather pensive, involuntarily falling into the routine of watching the sailors and other members of the Seeker's party. Winn... In a strange way, the woman made the tired and angry crew feel at ease, freely sharing advice that had obvious worldly benefits. Like a mother waiting for even the most hardened sailor in a distant port. Alim, however, was asleep. The sorceress herself paid little attention to the news. In the end, it was the Seeker who made the decisions, and it was up to him to jump into the cold water to sail to Redcliffe, or to wait for other options. As long as the question of survival was not acute, the girl's mind remained absorbed in her own tasks, and the sleepless night had further dulled her emotions, rendering her surroundings colourless and gloomy.

It was an hour and a half before the coast came into sight, not from the mast but from the deck. A narrow strip of sand, no more than ten paces wide, interspersed with large grey stones with smooth contours. And further on, a steep, rocky slope, with sparse, crooked pine trees, from which the wet snow that had fallen during the night had crumbled before everyone's eyes. Fortunately, the ice here was only visible near the shore, a miserable few dozen paces away. So, driven by the Seeker's stern gaze, men and elves wrapped themselves in warm clothing and took leather pouches with a modest supply of dry provisions and essentials. Three hundred paces at the oars of a light dinghy, pulled with a deafening crunch through the ice on the shore by a pair of leaping Templars. And the grey sand crunched under the boots of the troop.

Tristan didn't even wait for the dinghy to return to the ship before he pointed to the slope and gave the order:

— There's not much daylight left. The Imperial Tract is five, at worst eight kilometres away. According to Eric's description.

The Seeker gestured to a scowling, dark-haired Templar who looked to have survived no more than forty winters and who was pulling a dinghy onto the beach.

— He lived in the area. South, beyond Redcliffe, to be precise, but he used to go to Lothering with the traders as a child. Just beyond this slope are rolling hills and sparse woodland. In fresh snow, it's hours away. And all the way to Redcliffe along the Tract would be... thirty, thirty-five kilometres. With regular stops, it's another two or three days' journey. We don't have much in the way of provisions. And even if it seems unimportant, keep in mind as we march that ordinary people are dying out there. Let's move.

The party accepted the handful of cold facts thrown in their faces stoically. The Templars obeyed the Seeker unquestioningly, giving leverage to the mages who had personal considerations, but were equally suspicious of Tristan's possession of the phylacteries of everyone present. Except Morrigan. For one thing, she knew exactly what they were. Second, she didn't care about the Seeker's motives or the value of the abstract inhabitants as opposed to the here and now.

A short time later, when the slippery rocks of the slope had stopped slipping treacherously from under their boots, either to hit the one following on the head or to drag down to the beach, the group was at the top of the slope. Breathing heavily and leaning against a pine tree with roots beneath her boots, Neria smiled broadly at the Morrigan standing nearby.

— The view here is amazing...

The golden-eyed sorceress gazed out over the horizon. A smooth layer of grey clouds seemed to stretch into an unfathomable distance, merging with the cold, dark water. The ripples on the surface of the lake were alive, constantly moving, a material embodiment of the fleeting winds that played on the open space. To the east stretched a monotonous shore, though the view of a strip of sand was soon blocked by a rocky promontory jutting into the lake. To the west, the shore curved south, and the lake seemed to fill the space there.

The sorceress agreed with the elf and let the word drop:

— Yes. But let's hurry. It's a stark beauty. Weakness and stupidity will not be tolerated. Nor slowness.

Neria nodded willingly and followed her friend:

— Did Alim help?

— Strangely enough, yes. Of course, he was trying to make a point. But that's nothing.

The stunted girl nodded contentedly and concentrated on walking through the pine forest. The trees were sometimes ten or fifteen paces apart, interspersed with occasional waist-high, leafless shrubs and pebbles of various sizes. The snow was uneven, and in places with a slight slope it slipped easily under the shoes on the loose pine needle substrate. There were wet thumps from left and right as the pliable branches shed winter's first gift. Occasionally something snapped somewhere, but otherwise, apart from the footsteps of the travellers themselves, there was silence. The fresh air smelled damp, with the faint scent of pine needles.

The terrain was indeed smooth, even gently curved, as if someone had smoothed out the bumps, only forgetting to remove the crumbs from the boulders, which became larger the further the travellers got from the shore. After an hour's almost comfortable walk, when everyone's mouths were watering, the randomly scattered stones began to rival the height of young pine trees, giving nature its own unique character. The «silent inhabitants of the forest» had similar characteristics despite their different shapes and sizes. Like the landscape, the shape of the monoliths seemed to be smoothed down to an almost complete absence of chipping and sharp angles. The surface seemed mottled with parallel furrows running down to the ground at random angles. It was as if some mythical creature had ground its claws together. The dry and wet parts of the boulders contrasted, from the predominance of light grey to the prominent role of dark green. And on the smoothest parts, an unusual needle pattern was clearly visible.

Pausing next to a random, silent 'guardian', Morrigan ran her hand thoughtfully over the cool, rough surface. Eric, following the group, caught the movement with a glance that caught the attention of her golden eyes. Exhaling into his calloused palms, the man said absently:

— Old people call them 'lost travellers'. Or sometimes they are giants who sit down to rest and become petrified. They look like they're from another world. In the ground, the stones vary in colour and strength. But there's no shortage of such statues in the area. They say that Redcliffe itself is made of them, and that's why the boulders around the fortress are rarer, and only the largest ones. And they say that the bones of the Frost Mountains, far to the west, are made of the same rock.

The sorceress nodded gratefully and added enchantingly:

— Yes. As old as time itself...

An hour later, the stone band of the Tract appeared between the trees ahead. Morrigan noted that it was lower here than below Ostagar, and therefore better hidden among the pine treetops. Surely no one in the past had ever intended for casual travellers to climb the Imperial Road at random. In this section, the ancient structure had been assembled from the same rock as the 'lost travellers', once again demonstrating the practicality and purposefulness of the Imperial builders. The surrounding boulders had not been used for this purpose; they stood untouched just thirty paces from the tract. As a result, the structure had survived the winters, the humidity, the hot sun and the winds. Except that there was a lot of moss at the base. Ropes had to be tied together, sticks broken off, and a bit of skill was needed. But it was not the strongest who went up first, but the lightest and most agile. Neria and Leliana. This did not please Alim, who chewed nervously on his lower lip, but he could not argue with Tristan's balanced arguments.

Wrapping a cloth around her hands and wrapping the rope twice around her waist, as the Seeker had shown her, Neria slowly climbed up. By the end, the girl was panting and huffing, making unnecessary efforts in places due to lack of experience and practice, but most importantly, she was at the top. Leliana moved more confidently until the toe of her boot 'found' a patch of moss nestled on a block protruding slightly from the wall. Her foot slipped and she tumbled down, hanging on to her arms and banging her cheekbone painfully against the wall. The strength in the archer's fingers was enough to regain her footing and complete the climb. With the same gesture she used to wipe the blood from her nose and calm the first signs of Neria's nervousness, Leliana showed the others how to secure the rope. The men soon followed and began to help the women who remained below.

The Imperial Tract looked equally unrealistic everywhere. Too straight, too monotonous and going to both horizons.... Out of the corner of her eye, Morrigan saw Leliana pick up some wet snow and apply it to her reddened cheekbone and nose. Tristan soon pointed in the right direction and the familiar work of the feet resumed, each concentrating only on the next step, on themselves and the surrounding species.

* * *

Before darkness fell, most of the party hated the cold, though Morrigan thought it silly to use such a loud word for the chilly weather that hovered near freezing water during the day and showed only a faint frost at night. Even though there was no one here from across the sea, Neriah and Alim preferred to spend much of the winter inside the Stronghold, wrapped in warm clothes and closer to the open fire. In the Morrigan's mind, this was in keeping with what might be expected of the inhabitants of distant, warm lands without winter. And those same Templars were stoic enough to ignore the wet snow flying in their faces. Wynn was a little shaky at times, but that was due to her age. Bethany and Leliana were just tired. Short breaks of ten minutes every two hours were not enough time for the girls to recover.

To make their sleeping arrangements, Tristan made each of them repeat the arduous descent down the vertical wall of the tract, so that they could be accommodated in one of the long alcoves that repeated themselves along the way, forming the ornamental arches of a bridge that stretched endlessly from the road fronts. Here the back was sheltered from the wind and, if they were lucky, the sky. While Tristan and the Templars cleared the surrounding bushes and gathered firewood, Morrigan whispered to Bethany to help with the kindling and walked firmly into the forest. Her back was full of stares of confusion and suspicion. But the one whose will led the group did not even notice her departure, absorbed in her work.

As the snow fell from the sky, the figure of the maiden glided silently through the bushes, pines and firs that had begun to appear an hour before. Large white flakes fell, tending to settle on her shoulders, only to dissipate again. In the coming twilight, they reminded the girl of nightmares. But as she closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of late autumn, the darkness lifted. When at least three hundred paces had passed between the camp and the sorceress, she threw her fur-trimmed cloak on the nearest shaggy branch. The Circle Mage's robe followed, leaving the girl stripped to the waist. Gathering her black curls into a bundle and tightening it with a cloth, Morrigan closed her eyes and turned to listen. In the windless weather, the cold clung to unprotected skin like a lover whose touch burned. But the goosebumps, the ghostly steam from her mouth and her hardened nipples revealed the truth. The sorceress's mind was consumed by the image of the runic sequence. Without a doubt, the mana filled the spell with power. Graceful hands rose and grasped something inaccessible to the eyes through the snowy lace. The eyes, glittering dull gold in the twilight, immediately found the nearest tree as their target, so that at the command of the trembling fingers, one step to the right and two further, the snowflakes obediently changed the direction of their measured fall.

Exhaling, realising she had held her breath from start to finish, Morrigan wrinkled her nose and spread her arms, releasing the tension.

Three attempts later, having already lost the sensitivity of her reddened skin and much of her mana reserves, the sorceress shook her head dejectedly. Without any prior practice, the complicated sequence worked quite well. Even moderately well. But only just. The girl was dissatisfied with the imperfection of her own understanding of the runes to accurately describe the area of effect of the spell. Some detail slipped away, leaving the author of the spell helpless and without a clue.

Dressing again, Morrigan found that it was already dark and the snow continued to swirl, slowly settling on the ground and branches. Rubbing her forearms, she sniffed her nose and headed back to the car park in search of warmth.

The entire party was wedged between a large fire pit made of blade-carved earth and the wall of the tract. Most of them had already fallen asleep on the thick bed of spruce branches, the warmth caressing their tired bodies. Tristan, standing nearby, gave only a brief nod as he continued to stare into the darkness. And the only one awake by the fire was Winn. The woman stared blindly into the dancing flames of the crackling embers, far away in her own worries and thoughts.

Taking a seat nearby, Morrigan raised her eyes to the woman with the dancing glow in them and asked softly:

— How have you accepted the knowledge of your own possession?

The healer raised her eyebrows and asked back without turning her head:

— Do you know so little of courtesy? Or have you found it useless?

— In a long life, what has it given you but a false sense of respect or security?

Winn bowed her head, acknowledging the validity of her companion's words, but continued:

— Of course, many rituals and pomp are empty, or designed to hide venom and hatred. But etiquette was invented for a reason. Not just for the sake of a graceful verbal dance in high places. Your friend the Bard would have much to say about the role of this art in various walks of life. But to put it simply, simple politeness can be a cheap way to avoid situations that could turn into a bloody reckoning.

Biting her lower lip in annoyance, Morrigan concentrated and let go of her anger. Barely audible, she took a full breath and said:

— I apologise. There is wisdom in your words. If something allows you to reach your goal by cutting dangerous corners, use it.

This time Winn turned and met her eyes with the piercing glint of gold across the room. She lifted the corners of her lips in a hint of a smile and replied:

— It's amazing to see that in you. Flexibility, the ability to tame your temper.

Morrigan muttered, lowering her eyes to the fire.

— It wasn't always like this. It's easier to call me stubborn than submissive. Change. When they come to me, I often miss them.

The interlocutor shrugged and continued, studying the girl's face.

— Could it be growing up, that's all? There is no precise age at which we become adults. Sometimes it is pushed by a turning point, but more often it just catches up with us and then, when we look back, we realise the full extent of the changes. Some people are more aware than their peers, others are like little children, even with grey hair.

— I doubt it... But to my question. What was it like out there in the clearing?

Winn frowned, gathering her thoughts, and you could tell from the woman's expression that the memories were not pleasant.

— What it was like... Short? Scary. It's probably the second time in my life I've ever been so scared. It's like being pushed aside. Not literally, no. But there aren't enough words to describe it. Something strange rises up inside you, something you don't expect to find in yourself. Not even that. You're surprised to find that you'd forgotten you had it in you. Yes, that's more like it. And then... The worst thing isn't the 'presence'. That one moment when you lost your body, your breath, your sight, your hearing. Completely. A moment of inexpressible, indescribable isolation before I opened my eyes again and found myself afterwards. There's nothing like it. It is no less terrifying to go on living with the thought: because it is bound to happen again at some unspecified moment. And why did you forget the presence of «it» the first time? And can «it» make you forget again?

— I see.

The woman shook her head and let it drop quietly:

— Hmmm... I don't know what's worse. The possibility that you understand. Or the fact that you just said it for show.

— Does it communicate with you?

— No. Not even once. I suppose when «it» wakes up? There's no room for me. Or it keeps me from losing my mind.

— And dreams?

— Dreams. Nothing at all. The same as before. Though I can't be sure that 'like before' is really like before for me. I've seen how such ideas can eat away at a mage's mind beyond repair. So I don't let myself think about it. Do you have trouble dreaming?

Morrigan blinked, paused for a moment and answered honestly:

— I don't know.

— Please, let's leave it at that. That's a lot of honesty, even though we're openly avoiding each other. And I won't ask you anything about yourself in return, because I've got enough problems of my own. I deliberately don't want to know about yours. It's unusual for me, believe me.

— Do you feel a dislike for me that subtly influences your judgement, but you can't justify it in any logical way?

Vin froze, his mouth half open, trying to say something without hiding his surprise:

— Very... precise definition. And, ask me, but, um... I don't know what to do about it yet. Just like I don't know what to do with the idea of you being possessed. All of it.

Vin grumbled and finished the sentence much more quietly:

— It's too much at once.

— So you didn't just plant the idea of splitting up the group on Tristan for noble reasons. But I'm not the one to judge you.

The woman exhaled heavily but made no comment. After a pause, Morrigan summed it up:

— Well, it's partly mutual. But in order to understand something, you have to start talking first. Thank you, because it was easier to get away with superficial answers.

The girl moved closer to the fire, thinking the conversation was over. She curled up, hugged her knees to her chest and closed her eyes to...

* * *

Early awakening, no dreams. Getting up. Tired. And back on the road. This time the surrounding landscape was hidden by a white shroud of slowly falling snow, limiting direct visibility to seven or eight hundred steps. Everything beyond that blended into a monotonous background. The white flakes clung lightly to surfaces, making them fluffy, but as soon as they settled on anything warmer than the surrounding rocks, they quickly melted.

After five hours of walking, at another short rest, they were all gnawing on the ship's breadcrumbs. Tristan said they seemed edible in their unsoaked state, unlike the galettes used on seagoing ships. Suddenly the snow began to thin, until within minutes it had stopped altogether, magically revealing the horizon and the hills ahead. And at the same time, the descent from the Tract, where the familiar dirt road began, headed southwest. The descent itself differed from the Tract in quality, material and signs of repair, being a much more recent construction.

The Seeker pointed to the fork and announced:

— The track leads to Redcliffe, south of the harbour village and the bay. I suspect the view of the fortress is beyond that ridge. And this is the road Eric and his traders once took to Lothering. It leads deep into Erling Redcliffe, to the many villages scattered among the hills, all the way to Lake Lufias and Honlith on the border.

The man turned and added:

— If your intentions are still good, there is a parting of the ways here. You and Erik will follow the arc around Redcliffe, skirting the villages until you reach the Tract again, much closer to the spurs of the Frost Mountains to the west. Then return to the stronghold. By then we'll either be rid of the source of the problem or lost.

Tristan found Winn's eyes and added, as if speaking directly to the woman:

— Be careful not to let other people's burdens become your burdens. I know that Circle Healers rarely come to this area. Soon you will be called messengers of the Creator, or Andraste himself. And before you know it, they will not be asking for help, they will be demanding it. The possibilities of any mage are not limitless, and miracles are only vaguely divided in the mind of an ordinary man into the simple, the vast and the impossible. In the end, it is you who will be blamed for the deaths of others. And do not get lost in the succession of days left behind. Winter is upon us, and I fear the Blight as well.

Winn narrowed her eyes and held the answer in a stern, collected voice:

— Mr Tristan. I've stayed away all this time out of respect for you and your position. But how to behave with the sick and...

The Seeker interrupted the woman without much ado:

— Mrs Wynn. I can't say that respect had anything to do with it. But it's not what made you cower in the corner and act like a mouse, it's fear and uncertainty. And it's not just selfishness. You're the kind of person who might be more afraid for others than for yourself. That's a compliment. Our situation is unusual, perhaps even unique. And so the decision to avoid each other's company was a wise one. Don't ruin it with a sudden burst of bravado and pride. Of course you're older. Of course you don't wear your title for laughs. And I suppose you've had a hundred other sick people on your books. But it's unlikely that you've been away from the Circle for long, and even less likely that you've travelled much in the provinces. Your perspective is different from mine, which has been tainted by blood, death, hypocrisy, cynicism and lies. Therefore, listen to the advice, accept it with the dignity it deserves, and go in peace to do what your tender conscience compels you to do.

The sorceress nodded, her jaw clenched into a jowl, and walked down the stairs with a stern expression on her face. Alim nodded to Tristan as well, receiving a mirrored response. And Neria hurried to Morrigan, then to Bethany and Leliana. When she was done with the hug, she smiled through her strength and let a smile fall:

— I'll see you later. I promise.

Morrigan just nodded, but the others hugged the stunted elf several more times, each whispering something encouraging in her ear. And then the modest group of two humans and two elves began to move away, leaving the golden-eyed witch with a contradictory, unpleasant sense of loss.

* * *

The view of Redcliffe from the hills was spectacular. It was a picturesque bay covered in ice and white snow, with a rocky island of jasper-rich rock rising out of the sea. There was a castle on the island. In Morrigan's opinion, it was no match for the stronghold of Ostagar or Kinloch. But even she conceded that its location and skilfully organised fortifications made it almost impregnable. Almost... The fortress had bowed to invaders three times in its own history. The Elder Empire, the founding days of Ferelden and Orlais. It fuelled the sorceress's personal interest. The buildings have been rebuilt many times, but the fortress actually stood here long before the Tract.

In the inner part of the bay, the village itself, which bore the same name as the fortress, stretched along the shore. The flags above the fortifications and the smoke from the hearths suggested that there were still survivors here and there.

It took Morrigan a moment to realise this. Leliana had begun to show unmistakable signs of exhaustion even as she climbed the hills. Even considering the fatigue that had built up over the past few days. When she touched the forehead of her friend, who was huddled by the side of the road at their last rest before leaving the Tract and descending to the bay, it seemed to burn. Pulling the hood from her fiery curls, Morrigan found the girl's eyes half-closed and her cheekbone bruised, yellow and purple.

— You're burning.

— Am I? It's OK. I can... I can.

The sorceress turned sharply to Tristan, who was already staring intently at the bard. There was a muffled, startled gasp from Bethany and an equally muffled curse from the younger Templar, which was instantly dismissed by his older partner. For a moment, the Seeker toyed with his jaw, weighing his options. As he approached, the man asked:

— Any numbness on the side of the bruise?

— Yes. A little.

— Does it hurt when you move your jaw?

— A little. A little bit. Broken?

— I don't think so. I'm not what you'd call a healer. But I've seen a lot. Let's hope it's just a crack. But you're not strong enough. It could be an infection. Why didn't you say something? It wasn't a problem two or three hours ago, when we had the best healer in the Kinloch Circle with us. And now...

Breathing heavily, Leliana squeezed her eyes shut to look at Morrigan when she opened them. Then, gathering her strength, the girl replied:

— I thought it was, um... fever from hypothermia. I got soaked the first day. And my cheekbone, it just hurts. I haven't been camping for a while. And... I don't trust possessed people.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Tristan murmured softly:

— The stupidity of wit in all its glory....

As a confused Morrigan frowned at her friend, who was also struggling to maintain eye contact, the Seeker turned back to the Templars:

— Tralin, if you can't keep your mouth shut, carry the girl downstairs. Put her on your back and tie her hands together for good measure. Let's hope there's a healer alive down there.

Bethany jumped closer:

— I'll help...

With Leliana's eyes tiredly closed on the Templar's shoulders, the party began a brisk descent down the soggy road, which had even been tried to be paved at one time, but at the latest by the current Earl's grandfather. The mud crunched under their boots, and instead of snow, a cold drizzle began to fall from the grey sky.

After an hour's walk, much slower than the immaculate Tract, though covered with wet snow, the travellers crossed the ephemeral boundary of the silent village. It seemed to be in disarray, and the possibility of having to defend it was not even considered. Why should they, with the best fortress in this part of the world on their side? The outlying houses looked abandoned, and the windows of those further away had been expertly boarded up. Even the doors had been reinforced, and not in a hurry. Further down the road, pointed stakes could be seen spread out and tied into bundles. No men, no women, no children, no animals.... No barking dogs. But the smoke from the chimneys, visible further on, suggested that life went on.

Suddenly, from the direction of the temple towering over the rooftops on the opposite side of the village, came the resounding clang of a bell...