Chapter 4 - "Walking & Talking"

An unfamiliar voice called out. I tried to shout. Someone shook my shoulder...

Suddenly, Morrigan's eyes widened from their slumber, staring like an owl at Alim's worried face. The man was leaning over her, holding her by the shoulder. From the open mouth, it seemed the awakening had caught the elf mid-sentence. Barely able to wipe the worry from his eyes, the mage asked.

— Are you all right? I couldn't wake up, no matter how hard I shook. Sounds like a nightmare... and not an easy one. Shrieks, like a beating. Then the shaking started... You know, convulsions don't bring back the best memories for me now.

The sorceress still had her eyes wide open and was breathing heavily. Slowly she touched her cheek and found an abundance of sweat. Droplets, rapidly cooling in the evening air, covered her skin in fine beads.

— I...

With a start, Morrigan tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Whatever words the girl wanted to say in response had evaporated faster than she could get her tongue around them. To object — as if there was nothing wrong? The lie was too obvious. Acknowledge the problem? But what was the problem? She touched her forehead and concentrated, conjuring up images from the bad dream.

The forest. Events unfolded in the forest. A distorted version of what Morrigan was used to. It might have looked as if there had been a fire there recently. But there was no sign of fire on the trees. A grey haze obscured their view, a bright, diffuse, colourless light piercing through from above. There was no fog in the air, no smell. Odours were completely absent. The vegetation looked blackened and withered. Occasionally, large flakes of ash fell from the sky in a silent dance, covering the ground around them as far as the eye could see. In some places it still seemed to be smoldering, adding a single bright hue to the dull palette. A dark crimson glow from the embers. The image evoked an association with a recent battlefield. But there, in the haze, lurked something important. A detail that slipped from memory as the trail of sleep faded into the distance. A certainty pressed upon the mind — this was the missing element to formulate a clue...

Exhaling, Morrigan opened her eyes again.

— The dream was unusually vivid. I have to admit, it's the first time this has happened to me. And... thank you. No one wants to be trapped in a nightmare for an extra minute.

— Please. The sun will be setting soon.

Night had indeed arrived. For a change, it appeared in the guise of a clear, star-studded sky. The flickering lights took the place of the setting sun, transforming the dome above my head into a marvellous treasure of diamonds of the most subtle shades, scattered on black velvet. After the dream images, it was a soothing sight. However, the contemplation of heavenly beauty in a field where more than a thousand souls had perished the day before caused an inner discord.

The silence stretched on for minutes. Only Alim looked uncomfortable. Finally, having made up his mind, the man asked the unanswerable question.

— Dreams. Is that a first?

After a moment's silence, Morrigan reluctantly replied.

— Yes.

— OK.

Again there was a pause, and again the elf was the first to break it.

— Why lottery?

— Why not? Like she said, the road...

— Come on. For you, there's probably a good road all around. Just choose a route.

— I don't know what you want. The road is shorter. There are fewer dangers. Except for the tract on the side, the village sits on a river that bisects the land to the north and south. A crossroads. Still not enough? Good enough! Where are you going, elf? Lottering has a quay. Upstream is a chain of lakes, then the smooth Calenhad all the way to the island with the beckoning tower. Any other road would delay such a wretched traveller until the first snow.

Alim grimaced at both such a harsh reference to his own race and such a merciless assessment of him as a traveller.

— Yes. My goals are transparent and unchanging. Or rather, one specific one. What are yours?

— Is it worry? Or fear — where will the scary witch go?

— A bit of everything. Well, more fear, of course.

Morrigan laughed. But the laugh seemed cold, not amused.

— First Duncan. Now you. What's so interesting... It's as if there are no mages outside the circle. You know... I think I'll go to Kinloch too. Tell me your plan. There you are, at the tower. In the lists of the timeless lost guardians. How will you get back without being hanged by the Templars? Are you not afraid to return only to perish?

The mage shrugged and answered without much fire in his voice, suggesting that he had little faith in success so far.

— Not a cunning plan... But not an impossible task. Getting into the Kinloch Fortress is easier than getting out. Alive. Many rumours have passed through my hands over the years. Stripping away the fairy tales and fantasies, it turns out that the tower has been breached by robbers on more than one occasion. That's the first possibility. In addition, some wizards mysteriously manage to maintain contact with the outside world, bypassing the Templar obstacles. Sometimes there were whispers around the corner about an organisation of mages living outside the Circle. This was the second option.

— So it's not hopeless. You have a lot to think about on the way.

— What do you need a round for?

The girl turned serious, softening the mockery in her voice.

— My mother spoke respectfully of the Kinloch Library. But conversations about it often ended strangely. A joke. As if the best volumes were delivered there by hand.

Morrigan snorted, demonstrating an attitude towards such statements, and continued.

— I want to look at these books. The purpose of yours is as good as it gets.

— Why is that?

— For every question I ask, you answer two. Who's the sly fox and who's the innocent sheep? As I said, there are strange things going on with magic. I hope the books can provide the answer.

Alim nodded without further question. The sorceress was beginning to boil over, and intuition or some other gut feeling stopped the man before the pressure became unnecessary. Turning away, the elf looked back to the northwest. The man's gaze reflected shades of pink and blood-red, slowly swelling to a dark purple before merging with the blackness that swallowed the last of the azure. Standing and shaking herself, Morrigan caught the mage's expression.

— Perhaps it was you, of the two, who wanted a change of direction? More than once I have seen you at the edge of the forest in that direction.

With a shrug, Alim replied easily and evenly.

— There have been such thoughts. More than once. But the time for such feelings had passed with my childhood. By weighing the chances, as they teach in the circle, I got rid of the foolish illusions. So don't worry. If you don't leave us in the forest, we'll be companions to the outskirts of Lothering.

— Does the Circle teach special thinking?

— Special thinking? No… I don't know. In the circle, the ability to look at the facts soberly, to look away — to look at the situation from the outside — has been hammered into the circle since childhood. The ability to keep emotion out of decision-making. Without it, you won't make it to adulthood, let alone torture. Life in a closed team, in a confined space, within a rigid set of rules... When nightmares are not just nightmares... And emotions can hurt more than just yourself...

Squinting, the mage turned to the sorceress, studying the man's expression and intonation with intense care. With a grim glee in his voice, he asked.

— Do you know why most of the Great Circles around the world are placed in towers?

— Where I come from. Are they ladder lovers, or do they need a flawed, delicate character to hide?

The elf hummed and shook her head, accepting his version.

— Yes. There are many interpretations. Some say it's easier to protect. Others say it brings us closer to the Creator. Others say it makes it easier to burn mages in case of trouble. Some say the view from the windows gives us perspective. Others say it is a symbol of the Church's power for all to see. But the favourite is a more interesting one. There is in fact a window in every cell. Now, it's not there for sunlight or to look at the stars. But so that in the darkest hour everyone has a free choice — to open it and jump out, or to stay and face the new day. Not much is said about it, but the trick weeds out the weak better than the Templars, the harsh rules and threats inherent in the study of art.

Morrigan tilted her head slightly to the side and said, remembering.

— Just like Duncan said. But those words were about you.

Alim raised his eyebrows in surprise, allowed himself a grim grin and nodded.

— That's a good point. But then remember my objections. I was condemned by the Commander. In my example, magicians judge themselves.

— Those who have judged themselves think they are weak. Do you?

— I think so.

Morrigan frowned and clarified.

— You didn't say which one? Who jumped or who stayed?

— Right again. Didn't say. Shall we move out? It's cold.

She looked at the elf walking towards the edge and shook her head in slight confusion. She followed.

* * *

The route through the night forest was without adventure. The night trail looked peaceful at all. The stars were twinkling and the young pearl moon was rising, the treetops swaying in the cool breeze to the left and right with the soft rustling of leaves. The canopy of silence was broken only by the occasional cries of night birds and the distant echo of a wolf's howl.

Each of the travellers measured the time until sunrise with their steps, silently pondering what had been said and what had not, what had happened and what had never happened. Morrigan showed little interest in her companion's thoughts. Especially since he was always two steps ahead of her. The girl's own mind, after a few circles, slipped back into the memories of the recent nightmare. It was as if her thoughts were being pulled like stones to the dark ground. Again and again, the sorceress pondered the possible meaning of what had happened, only to stumble upon the cold trail and lack of information for rational conclusions. Eventually, Morrigan decided to be more cautious and pay more attention to her own behaviour, mood swings, and any other symptoms she might be experiencing. Either the already accumulated oddities had a clear correlation, converging on a single cause. Or the Sorceress was confronted with a cluster of disparate problems all at once and for the first time. And in the current state of affairs, it was hard to decide which was worse.

The monotony of the walk and the landscape made the mind lethargic. It seemed as if the dark outline of a hill in the distance was still a long way off when it suddenly appeared to the right or left and crept past. Slow thoughts belatedly triggered an epiphany. The plain was behind us. The track, like an ancient spear, began to pierce the folds of the lazy rolling hills, stretching from the high hills of Southron in the east to the Deeplands in the west, stretching far between Redcliffe, the Western Hills and the ridge of the Frosty Mountains. The road seemed to stride over the peaks, leaving the hollows hidden in the darkness below.

As the sky to the right, to the east, began to take on a hue other than deep black, Alim conceded defeat without a word, surrendering to the Morrigan. With a single weary sigh, the man slowed his pace and let the lady lead. She gave a slight nod of agreement, no cheering or other emotion, and the ribbon of road moved on.

With the first golden rays of the sun, the forest came alive. The distant echo of the cuckoo. The throaty cawing of crows mingled with the whistling of buntings and the song of warblers. And, of course, the trilling of dozens of species of nightingale. Morrigan paused, surveying from the edge of the tract the nearest archway, its massive base resting at the top of a hill with a pair of hundred-year-old pines. The upper branches were just overhanging the roadbed, as if reaching out to help those who wished to descend.

— Here we leave the track. Then into the hollow behind the hill. This will take you a little further east, but it's a couple of hours' walk. Can you see it? Then you can see a gap in the peaks. Then the gully also turns north. That's where we want to go.

The forest on the hills was all pine needles, and mostly pine. As a result, the gently sloping peaks were tinted beige in the sunlight by a thick layer of faded needles. But as they descended into the valleys, often accompanied by the quiet murmur of an inconspicuous stream, the vegetation changed to deciduous trees, lush shrubs in the clearings, and ferns and mosses in the shady areas. After the descent, the fatigue that had accumulated overnight made the new path difficult to follow. So Alim and Morrigan, who tacitly agreed, took a break on the sunny edge. It smelled fresh and pine here, and ripe bramble berries were scattered like drops of blood on the low greenery at the edge of the forest.

Leaving the frowning mage to ponder in solitude, the sorceress disappeared into the forest with a wide stride and without a word. The man wondered if what he had said earlier would come true or remain a cruel joke. Only an hour and a half later, the familiar silhouette reappeared. As she approached, the girl shook by the long ears a trio of large white hares with curled necks.

Dropping her prey on the grass, Morrigan asked.

— Is the meat raw or cooked over the fire?

With a slightly perplexed tilt of his head, Alim grinned.

— Is that a suggestion to go and gather wood for the fire? Aren't you afraid of the smoke in this weather?

The girl answered with an indifferent shrug in the same tone.

— She simply asked. If you're afraid of smoke, pick up dry branches that haven't fallen from the trees. Better the birch. Birch is good too. Look in the lowlands. The lower branches of pines are good for firewood.

The elf doubted that there was any dry firewood in the forest. And even if there were, the smoke would be hard to avoid. Meanwhile, the man got to his feet, shook himself off and headed for the thicket. Morrigan, not even turning her head, snorted irritably. She chose a shady spot on a nearby hillside where the sun only peeked in during the afternoon, laid her things down beside her and sat down on the grass. A cool smell came from the ground. She took the queen's hunting knife from her bag and tossed it into her hand. She studied the scabbard, finely engraved with rose motifs and gold thread, and grinned. And, controversially, proceeded to cut the sod and dig.

By the time Alim returned, there was a small hole in the slope with a pear-shaped pit elbow deep. And another, half a metre away, extending horizontally to the side to join the first. The wizard brought a thick pile of peeled birch bark and a pile of quite dry twigs, half a metre to two metres high. The man looked at the wizard's handiwork in amazement and watched the preparations in silence. A torn piece of birch bark, twigs that looked like luxuriant flowers after being cut, a miniature horseshoe-shaped incense stick taken out of the bag. Fifteen minutes later, the almost smokeless flame crackled peacefully in the hollow.

The woman's deft hands quickly skinned the two rabbits on another square of stripped earth, then covered the blood, entrails and pelts with it. Grabbing the paws with her chopsticks, Morrigan sent the carcasses into the fire. A sceptical glance underlined without a word who had what role in the group. Before the deliberately charred concoction was finished, the sorceress ducked down to the stream to wash her face.

After the meal, the wizard summed up in a serious tone.

— I confess — I feel stupid.

The sorceress shrugged and noted caustically.

— So you're in tune with your appearance.

The elf just shook his head and smiled. Meanwhile, the girl skilfully bound the paws of the third hare with a fresh twig, stretched out the carcass and, placing her palm on it, said

— Frius. Tenachi.

Alim asked with a pensive look on his face.

— It's not the first time I've heard you say a ritual phrase to accompany a spell. I'm curious every time. Why is that? Because the phrases on the... old Theven? They have nothing to do with spells.

Morrigan frowned as she finished tying the frosted carcass to her belt, but answered.

— There was no surprise in the least. This is how a mother drums the runes of magic into her daughter.

— From what has been said, your mother is an excellent wizard. It's hard to imagine that she was forced to do nonsense during her training in the magical arts.

With a shrug, the sorceress kicked up the coals and signalled for the journey.

— Strange or not, it depends on your point of view. Habits are our companions. And far more loyal than other allies or enemies. Mother made us learn phrases as perfectly as the spells themselves. Often, after a wicked laugh, she would be admonished to say that when she met a Master of the Empire, there would be something in common.

— Hmmm... I'm afraid the phrase in ancient Teven is more a warning to the Master of his intentions than a topic of conversation. Sounds like a joke. Not very funny.

Halfway through, the girl shook her head uncertainly, either in agreement or disagreement.

— The thought had crossed my mind. My mother's sense of humour was unusual, but I suspect that was not what was behind the casual banner of mockery. I think my mother was playing on my taste for the mystery of magic. And by averting my eyes, she taught me the ancient language along with the art. Otherwise, the young southern girl would never have had the patience for the forgotten phrases.

— I have to admit... If that's what happened... At least it's clever and cunning and... wise? I wish my teachers had such ingenuity.

— My mother turned everything into a puzzle to be solved. Sometimes it seemed that I was just another puzzle for her to solve.

— I apologise in advance...

Interrupting the elf, Morrigan taunted him, beginning the sentence with a sharp, throaty sound of annoyance.

— If forgiveness is required in advance, it is simply not worth insulting afterwards.

— No... Yes. Yes... The thing is, you keep talking about your mother in the past tense. Is she dead?

— Я...

The sorceress raised her eyebrows in thought. Feelings were a poor guide, facts were lacking, but instinct said yes, they were. However, the girl's mind refused to translate this version of the outcome of the meeting with the mysterious visitor from the realm of cautious hypotheses into definite conclusions. And so, although at a loss, the girl formulated her answer in a streamlined manner.

— I haven't seen my mother for a long time. I don't know what I haven't seen. But the last time I saw her, she looked healthy and alive.

Alim noticed the apparent contradiction but withdrew, satisfied with what he had heard. The rest of the journey, during the remaining hours of daylight, along the bottom of the canyon as it wound slowly northwards, was without adventure. And the only companion the two lonely figures had was the lively noise of the inhabitants of the peaceful forest.

* * *

Good things don't last long. During the night, the stars silently obscured the clouds that had come in from the east. A few hours before sunrise, the cool rain poured down quietly and without warning. Luckily for the travellers, they found shelter under a huge fallen tree covered in thick moss. The broad trunk provided shelter from the rain and some warmth. But by sunrise, when the frowning sky stopped dropping drops, they were soaked to the skin.

Eventually we woke up and set off as we were, through the milky mist that enveloped the forest from the rain and the cool air that flowed down from the hills to the lowlands. Unlike the previous day, the sounds of the forest were muted. There was almost no bird song. The wind had died down.

Morrigan, instead of a word of encouragement or greeting, inquired briefly about her own behaviour during the night. Alim, who had awoken with the onset of rain and dozed intermittently until dawn, noted that the girl had twitched and looked tense in her sleep. But that was all, no screams or convulsions.

After about ten minutes, the sorceress stopped, grimaced and leaned her staff against the nearest tree. Without saying a word, she threw off her sleeveless woollen jacket. She removed her shirt, revealing to the elf behind her a perfectly straight back, flawless from collarbone to waist. Sleeveless again, Morrigan hung the shirt carefully over the staff and moved on. A snide question came over her shoulder.

— Jealous?

The man tried to push his emotions aside and answered as evenly and uninterestedly as possible.

— A staff? Yes... I suppose so. I wish I'd brought a proper stick with me from the camp.

The girl laughed, filling the unsightly surroundings with ringing amusement.

— This is the first time I've met a man complaining about not having a stick. Do you want to go on?

— Someone might have been willing to trade the double humiliation for the coveted prize. Maybe he wouldn't even notice the prize until the first sloppy step and snide remark. But let me humbly decline.

— That's the way it is. Desired, as it seems...

The elf let out a long, lingering sigh and pressed on, silently hoping to be dry at least above the waist in two or three hours.

By midday they had at least partially succeeded. But the sorceress had achieved more with her skilful method. The fog made it less difficult to prepare the fire this time. But it was also harder to find a suitable kindling. After demonstrating the dry core of the dead branches he had collected from the trees, the elf admitted that he would never have been able to accomplish this task alone. The mage even began to lament the arrogant disregard for fire magic. With a few handfuls of berries picked along the way and a few unripe but edible hazel berries added to the meat, both were able to satisfy their hunger.

The following hours passed without conversation, in a silent forest from which wisps of mist never quite dissipated. Towards evening, the deceptive calm was abruptly replaced by a suffocating menace. Morrigan stopped abruptly and turned to face the flock of birds that had taken flight. It was a ten minute walk from the travellers, from the nearest woods to the right. Turning back to the elf, she hissed softly.

— Let's run.

And to the left. Away from the threat — to the top of the next hill. The panic seemed false. But behind them, faintly, then clearly, came the familiar sounds of their pursuers. A snarl, a growl, the squeak of tanned leather and a heavy step that sent waves of adrenaline rushing through their blood.

Turning for a moment, Alim exhaled.

— Genlocks. A dozen of them. Armoured. With darts.

— Abyss!

Braking, the Morrigan turned, rammed her staff into the ground in anger, and, drawing in air, spoke in a distinctly chanted voice.

— Somnia dirae tenebrae, animum furanthe.

Just like last time, darkness pulsed down the girl's side. It passed through Alim unharmed, reached the Genloks and disappeared behind the trees. Within three dozen paces, the small lurking birds shrieked away. Some of the dark creatures froze in stunned silence. Others exhibited bizarre behaviour — falling down, looking around wildly, twitching, and simply running away without a care in the world.

The sorceress wasted no time observing the symptoms, turned and ran as fast as she could. The elf did his best not to fall behind. Only a quarter of an hour later, after crossing a hill, literally sliding down a grassy slope through the bushes that whipped at his face into the thicket, sprinting across a stream to run another half a hundred metres, they both came to a halt. Alim was breathing heavily, gasping for air and deliberately suppressing a wheezing hiss mixed with the urge to part with a meagre meal. Morrigan looked little better, but at least she could look around meaningfully. Minutes ticked by, one after the other. And nothing happened. The man cast a questioning glance at the girl and received a shrug and a nod in reply.

When their breathing had returned to normal, they headed north again. They did not want to talk about what had happened. The mage was the first to break the silence. The mage was the first to break the silence, turning to a more or less familiar and therefore comforting subject.

— If my mother taught me such spells — I have to admit, she's on the same level as the wizards of the First Circle.

The girl replied with a snort, not hiding her contempt.

— The comparison is so-so. No honour, no importance.

— It's about mastering the art. That's all. It's a magic... I haven't seen a similar combination of runes in the circle.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Morrigan agreed. The decision to note every anomaly, no matter how much she wanted to chalk it up to luck or carelessness, required mental discipline and honesty. So the sorceress had already noted the effectiveness of the spell, which did not match her memories, as an anomaly. The only question was which of the two was wrong.

— The spell itself is not so... useful. It should be used wisely. But I'm not going to argue, it saved us twice. And I don't think something that relies on mind-numbing darkness and nightmares would end up in the circle magic books.

— You'd be surprised... The result is debatable. But it's not about him. It's about the spell itself.

Morrigan raised her eyebrows, but did not turn, waving her hand for an explanation. Alim habitually nodded, immediately smiling at the meaninglessness of the gesture to the woman's bottom.

— Her spell is a closed type with retained control. Each one is a masterpiece in its own way.

There was silence between the man and the woman. The mage waited for a reaction. The sorceress wondered about the gaps in her own training. She wondered if she should tell the elf about them.

— Closed, you say... Is the term for a circle typical?

— Yes, it is.

— And what does it mean?

— Oh... Ahem. It means that a pre-determined amount of mana is used once to achieve a result. In the case of your spell, it means that you're consciously or instinctively able to select objects that the magic won't affect. Closed spells don't usually have selective control. And when they do, they are usually open.

— Flattering to know. But again, I don't think the spell is exceptional. My mother used to call it a coward's tool. And then scoffed that the main privilege of cowards was to bury the brave.

The man coughed, swallowing colourful epithets about Morrigan's mother, of whom he had a most contradictory impression. The sorceress turned the conversation back to the mage.

— If anything, your spell is a real rarity. My mother never told me anything about it.

— Well... It's not popular. Maybe that's the point.

— Let me guess. Because... open?

— Yes. That's right... It's not the runic chain itself that creates the pulse. It forms a knot of mana, the effect of which creates the pulse. Through that comes the control — what to push back. There's also the problem of the field of vision...

Suddenly a grouse fluttered up from behind the trees. They both froze in mid-sentence, staring into the darkness of the forest and the movement of the wild raspberry bushes. Nothing happened for a minute. Two. Then something growled, pushing the bushes apart, and a brown bear appeared three dozen paces from the tense couple. The adult specimen of the king of the local forests had a deceptive sense of awkwardness. The bear swallowed the berry treat, looked lazily at the motionless two-legged creatures, sighed and stalked away.

They waited until the beast was completely out of sight, and then, just to be sure, waited another five minutes, both moving on as if nothing had happened. They only increased their speed. The elf continued the interrupted sentence, visibly trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

— So there you go. Ahem. Successful exposure to the pulse puts a strain on the knot. Which is compensated by mana. Mages don't like open-ended spells, because the effort of learning them is rewarded with unpredictability and the risk of unconsciousness. You've seen the result a few times.

The girl nodded.

— Nothing is given without a price. But the flaws could not stop you.

— The spell can do things that other magic cannot. For me, it made up for the risks. Besides, my path in the circle was to be one of safety. Plans, plans...

Alim cleared his throat and recited in a deliberately deep and raspy voice.

— To protect brothers and sisters from external and internal threats. To the last drop of mana. To the last drop of blood. To the last breath. Well... It's an old proclamation. Admittedly, the mention of blood sounds... slippery these days. But otherwise, I follow every clause to the letter. If I faint, I do my best. And then I place my hopes in a trusted ally.

Morrigan didn't miss the last sentence and immediately returned the sneer. But calmly, without anger or amusement.

— Trust is a two-edged sword.

— A hackneyed phrase, brushed aside by cynics and those with nothing else to say. Trust is inevitable when you die if I die and vice versa. But I don't want to rely on a sturdy, sylverite-clad colleague forever. Before... all this, the plan was to refine the Repulsive Field over the years, to get rid of the most unpleasant flaws. Or at least smooth them out.

— There's a lot of ambition in you, a mage full of it. Since the days of the Empire, no one has been able to glory in the creation or improvement of runic chains. All successes are guarded more closely than life itself. Or they're gone before they can open their mouths.

— I agree. My vision of my own future suffered from optimism. And look where that got me. And you...

The sorceress hissed suddenly and cut me off with an anger that came out of nowhere.

— More manoeuvres, more clever conversation and when the waves had subsided — are we back where we started?

The annoyed and slightly offended mage clucked his tongue and scratched his cheek. Slowly, as if approaching a predator, the man formulated an answer.

— It was not my intention to ask again about current plans or goals. Believe me. The question was about a dream. Your dream. Like my own. And it slipped off my tongue involuntarily. Don't answer if you don't want to.

Morrigan grimaced and remained silent. Anger at the feeling of being manipulated by the elf's words pounded in her head and hindered her concentration. For a moment, the girl focused on the cause and forced herself to admit that it wasn't manipulation per se. The thought was difficult to form, as if the ugliness hidden within it would not allow it to take its final form. She feared that her companion's keen eyes might see the strange things she had observed. That he had drawn some conclusions but remained silent. That his own fear, throbbing in the shackles, would grow in another's mind. That it would eat away at the reason behind Alim's polite mask, turning him into an unpredictable enemy. That it had already happened... Morrigan noticed this oddity in a series of others. Never before had her senses and instincts presented her with such surprises.

She stopped and closed her eyes tightly, the girl said.

— That was unnecessary. Well... The dream. Hmm...

Resuming her movement and raising her eyes to the darkening sky, covered by a single blanket of clouds, the sorceress continued her original thought.

— I have always dreamed of freedom. To escape my mother's clinging control. To run away and never come back, never to be found. An abstract without continuation. On reflection, the very concept indicated immaturity. Not to prove. Not to surpass. Just to run away. For how long... It's been almost a week since she found what she wanted. Probably. And running for now. I'll just have to replace running with hunting, hmm?

— Matrinalis is not the worst month to start.

In this dark time, they managed to spend the night hiding behind a massive boulder of grey granite, embedded in the slope of another hill. In the middle of the night, I hid in the grey granite boulder. And when it was dropped, it was left alone to meet and greet the sun as it streamed across the sky.

* * *

The next two days were a test of will and character. The test was unexpected and much easier for Morrigan than for Alim.

Nothing happened except... a steady drizzle. Every piece of clothing soaked up the moisture. Carelessly disturbed branches retaliated with a downpour of large, cool drops. The glades of tall grass became little different from crossing a ford. Wet shoes became a problem, threatening to cause blisters. As were the trousers and underwear that clung to their bodies. During the short breaks, Morrigan had a trick. She would stuff freshly picked and wrung out moss into her boots, demonstrating by example how it absorbed excess moisture.

Melancholy... While his companion remained frowning but determined, the man discovered the desolate beauty of the mood. He paused for a few minutes under a sprawling tree, his mind numb as he contemplated the inexplicably attractive rainy landscape filled with a measured white noise. Occasionally there was the faint echo of rolling thunder, sending goosebumps down the back of his neck like a gentle touch.

On the first evening, the cold and tired elf just wanted to warm up and sleep. But he was willing to do one or the other. But after pushing the man away, the sorceress managed to build a fire. Smoke was out of the question — tar as well as pine and spruce branches were used to light the fire. For the first time, the flames were a source of so many mixed but positive emotions for the elf. The waves of heat drove away the shivering and gave him a chance to dry off.

There was no time to hunt. So the rations consisted of berries, unripe nuts and mushrooms, some of which could be roasted over the campfire.

Conversation was reduced to gestures. On the other hand, fatigue mixed with monotony was a good way of blunting the sharpness of the mind and perception, allowing the tension of the morning to night silence to dissipate.

And dreams... Nightmares plagued Morrigan. Something vague, but each time her companion confirmed it — she showed signs of discomfort in her sleep.

Until the morning of the third day, when Alim literally had to slap the girl on the cheeks as she shook with the power of dreams. When she opened her eyes and continued to shake for several minutes, Morrigan was silent for an hour. On the way she confessed — the nightmare had been unusually vivid again.

What the girl did not tell her was that the nightmare was exactly the same as the one she had experienced five days ago in Ostagar. The girl admitted with regret — vivid dreams could be natural. But the repetition of such a nightmare in detail was no longer a coincidence, but a clear symptom. Her thoughts involuntarily returned to the mage she had mentioned. "Mages' nightmares are more than just nightmares." Morrigan's memories of her mother offered a similar warning. "Dreams are the weakest point of those gifted with power." The sorceress was not yet ready to consider the consequences...

Towards midday, as the travellers crossed another hill from behind a gully that ran too sharply to the west, they were greeted by a sight as surprising as it was beautiful. In the cleared lowlands was the black spot of a modest farmhouse. Nearby were a few outbuildings and cultivated land. A frontier and a shining example of the tenacity and toughness of the Ferelden people.

During the descent, the attentive eye noticed not a single movement in or around the house. The shutters and doors of the barn were closed, no tools were left behind. The place looked deserted. But not in a hurry, but deliberately, thoughtfully.

Pausing in front of what appeared to be a locked dwelling, Morrigan pointed to a barely visible track of a dirt road leading off to the north-west.

— This road to Lothering should be a two hour walk, three at the most. I don't see much point in wasting time. And it's stopped raining. And frankly, I'm too lazy to break down the door.

Satisfied with Alim's curt nod, the girl turned and strode off down the road with renewed vigour.

After a while, Morrigan's companion inquired.

— Do you think they left because of the situation in the south?

The girl answered with a shrug and a glance at the gaps in the bottomless blue sky that appeared between the clouds.

— More like that than anything else. The Lottering army passed through here no more than twenty-four hours ago. Two or three days at the earliest. Enough for a rumour. The peasants who have survived here are clever and alert to danger.

The elf chewed his lip thoughtfully, looking more at his feet than into the distance. He sighed and spoke again.

— Even if it's not a topic you want to revisit... But there is a question that needs to be answered. It was about the reincarnation on the summit of Ishal. I needed time to reflect calmly, without emotion, on what had happened. This... transformation... I suppose there was nothing better to describe possession. And with a large settlement ahead, I needed more facts to make a decision.

The girl hummed and slowly gave her answer in a voice without any vivid intonation.

— Ridiculous. If you're possessed, you're going to have a long, thoughtful talk with a demon about it? What's the plan? Talk me out of it? If I confess, will you challenge me to a duel? If I say nothing, I'm fine. Let me make this simple. Your question is really about something else, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation. A magician is afraid, and the cold mind makes a decision that goes against emotions, conscience and principles. The imposed ways of thinking are useless. You want the sorceress to help and persuade — no problem. But beyond that, I would suggest that you are driven by curiosity.

The man paled, but nodded slowly, with effort. Satisfied with the response, Morrigan continued.

— Answer the question first. What options do you see for yourself?

— Ahem... Admittedly, I have very little experience in dealing with conscience. A little more experience with sacrifice, but not for abstract individuals. Well... I know there's a squad of Templars stationed in Lothering. Using them seems far preferable to the rest.

— Yes. I've seen the Creator's warriors more than once. I don't know what you're thinking. But just so you know, killing Alim wouldn't give me any pleasure.

— However...

— But if that is the case, it will be done. Sacrifice and I are not friends.

There was silence for a while. The footsteps shortened the remaining distance to Lothering. The weather was getting better, about to welcome sunshine again at the end of the journey. The treetops swayed softly, the leaves rustled in the warm north-east wind.

Suddenly, the sorceress opened her mouth and spoke.

— The spells you see in the tower are the result. Magic taught by the mother. The transformation is strange, frightening, but these spells are also used by the Jacindas. Witches from dozens of tribes. Each, like me, trained by Flemette. It is based on the usual imperial runic ligature... Everything the Magisters have successfully created, stolen or tried to replicate. A handwriting so recognisable and successful that it is difficult to mistake. However... The spell itself is quite... It is as if the usual words are not arranged in lines, but scattered randomly across the page and transformed into a drawing. And the power is applied internally, with the blood and flesh of the caster.

Alim opened his mouth. But, confused by his thoughts, he frowned. Only after three or four minutes did the mage form the reaction into meaningful words.

— Thank you for your frankness... The description makes it a closed magic with unlimited duration and... the presence of control. Something fantastic. Not a masterpiece, more a transgression of the possible. It's hard to say what I expected to hear. Perhaps it sounds true precisely because it requires a lot to be taken for granted. And besides, according to what was said, there was also blood magic involved in the spell... Your mother is something. Perhaps that last assessment could have been taken as an insult. However...

The elf took a deep breath and shook her head uncertainly before continuing.

— At the same time, it turns out that someone familiar with blood magic would brand Maleficar at the sight of such a thing. Others would call her possessed without a second thought. All the more reason to keep it a secret.

— Thanks for the advice. It's brilliant, no doubt. But what's more worrying is what's been decided.

— That it hasn't got any easier in the end. I'll be honest. In the days since, and after this conversation, the urge to run away has probably diminished. But is that good or bad? It would take time to decide. Weeks...

Morrigan grinned grimly and remained silent. The frank conversation left an unpleasant aftertaste in her mouth. Like an unequal exchange where one gives more than one receives. From the sorceress' point of view, what had happened was not the same as the development of trust. Thoughts of her companion's cunning mask kept returning, filling her mind with anticipation of trouble. Only the sun, peeking mischievously from behind the clouds, lifted her spirits for the moment...

* * *

After a final forking in the thicket, the road suddenly led the travellers to the edge of the forest. Beyond the edge of the forest was a gentle slope with an endless field of spring rye. Gusts of wind blew waves into the distance, swaying the already heavy ears and the shadows of clouds that had turned into white circles. The greens had already begun to leave the field, to be replaced by yellow-gold. But the yaritsa is still a long month away from ripening. Which may not have been the intention of the people who sowed the surrounding hills.

The road stretched out in front of us, turning left and right. Straight down into a wide valley, where a winding ribbon of river glistened in the sunshine. To the left of the slope, the straight, dark line of the tract appeared, toy-like from here. At the intersection of the natural and man-made boundaries was a scattering of Lothering's buildings. To the west was a chain of lakes. To the east, the Blue Ribbon shyly disappeared into the hills, carrying water all the way to Denerim.

As you descended the hill, the view of the village became clearer and clearer. And against the background of the surrounding yellowish green, it appeared as a growing brown blur. The passage of an army during the heavy rains had not gone unnoticed. The soldiers' boots had turned the ground into a muddy mess, which did nothing to improve the already unpleasant appearance of the place.

Alim waved his hand in the direction of the tract and to the right of Lothering, pointing to the swept up area.

— Look. Refugees.

It was true that small groups of people had been drawn into the village. With their wagons and their own feet, they had gathered from the surrounding countryside. As they entered the village, the villagers on the outskirts were caught in the clutches of the wanderers, eager to cross the narrow stone bridge. The only one in the area, it had been built over the waters of the Dragon River since Imperial times.

Morrgina clucked her tongue and narrowed her eyes at the tract.

— The fruit of the labour of a great army. Across the river and beyond — The Tract was destroyed...

The elf hastily interrupted the sorceress with an explanation.

— It didn't happen yesterday. The road was destroyed near Lothering during the occupation of Orleans. It was the site of an important battle in which Ferelden suffered a crushing defeat. And for a few seasons the village became the headquarters of Orleans' troops.

— The descriptions are wonderful. Indeed, it was worth a closer look. The warlord built bridges over the destroyed sections. And when he left, he pulled them down again. Wonderful that the bridge at Lothering is still standing.

The mage frowned and nodded in agreement.

— How soon do you think the spawn will be here?

— How soon...? Do you see me as a seer?

— I respect your judgement.

Morrigan pursed her lips and thought for a moment. With a quick glance around the area, she replied.

— Perseverance. Determination. Prudence. Too few live here. And the spawn burns, destroys without a thought of plunder. An army could stand here and defend. And that would attract the enemy. So the commander, wiser than most, hastily withdraws the army to the north. No, the Horde will not appear here any time soon. First, the Western Hills, Gwarren, and other major southern cities will burn. Then the populated valleys of Redcliffe will burn. But the people see a New Orleans in disgusting disguise, bound by the laws of conventional warfare.

With a slow nod, the man agreed.

— Interesting train of thought...

But he immediately changed the subject, shielding his eyes from the sun that had suddenly emerged from behind a cloud.

— Should we join the other refugees in Lothering? I'd like to try my luck in a pub for a warm room, a bed, maybe a barrel of hot water...

Suddenly the girl stopped and looked at the staff. Despite Alim's surprised look, she stared silently at the object she had not parted with for years. She pressed her forehead to the smooth, polished surface, then sighed and tossed it aside.

— Let's do this.

Morrigan walked on, looking straight ahead — at the target in front of her eyes.

* * *

The road curved down the hillside and led the travellers, along with a dozen other lucky souls, to the entrance of the village, where the makeshift refugee camp had been set up. Wagons, tents, mud and the first signs of the smell of a lazily dug latrine not far from the cluster of former farmers and hunters. All around was the noise, the bustle and the elusive scent of fear. It permeated the intonations of the speakers, was reflected in the choice of words and the pace of speech, manifested in the postures and nervous movements of the hands.

Outside the gate stood two Templar in full armour. The armour did not reflect the glare of the sun, but even the scratched metal was dull and respectful. Suffering from a slight unkemptness, the men glanced indifferently at the passing pair. But seeing no weapons, no suspicious tattoos or injuries, they immediately turned their gaze to those who followed.

The muddy road ran parallel to the river. And then it led to the Temple of the Creator, which towered proudly over the settlement. Almost immediately, however, Morrigan and Alim had to carefully dodge the crowd of citizens. They piled up across the road, encircling the merchant and his cart. The angry clamour cut through the shouting, and they all seemed to make sense of the situation. The men accused the fat man of overcharging them for the necessities of their long journey, as well as for food. This included dried and preserved fish from local waters. As a result, prices had risen exponentially since the armies left, and with them most of the merchants who no longer wanted to enjoy the hospitality of the surrounding lands. Her sharp gaze caught the figure of a girl, her hair tied back in a neat bun. She was recognisable by the orange-brown wool robe that fell to her ankles, making her look like an officer of the Church. Although the 'sister' was not shouting with dignity, she was certainly on the side of the crowd as she tried to make her point amidst the noise. The man's face was slowly turning red, hardly out of shame. And yet, tellingly, the man spat on the rest of the shouting. If he responded at all, it was only to his 'sister', keeping his temper in check. Watching from the corner of her eye, Morrigan frowned slightly, finding the cumulative details odd. Especially considering that the Templemen were literally ten paces away, completely ignoring the scene.

The pandemonium was not the end of it. Almost as far as the temple, where the road turned left towards the bridge, the travellers encountered a second group of people. This time, a scruffy middle-aged man was in the centre of attention. He was stocky, with a plaited beard, dishevelled hair, a few scars and often a rough, patched skin. A perfect example of the Hasinda, a semi-nomadic people who considered the lands of the far south their home. It was all the more astonishing to see the 'barbarian' in front of the temple, speaking in a hoarse voice and with an accent, and uttering grim prophecies.

— Yes! Mine was in the forest. Mine saw! Creatures as terrible as the darkness. Like the night that peers from the thicket with a fiery eye. Surrounding the tribe without a sound, without a cry. Death and blood! And a curse in their veins... They will come!...

Suddenly Alim's voice came from the side, full of doubt and caution.

— Unusual...

They both stood at the start of the bridge, with a small vantage point to see what was happening in its entirety. The sorceress slowly tore her gaze from the Hassind, arching an eyebrow at the elf, who scratched his chin. He returned a thoughtful look, making a furtive gesture of uncertainty in his conclusion. But he shared it anyway, in a low voice.

— Only the hierarchs of the church and the high aristocracy are allowed to speak to the people outside the temple. Even then, permission is required, albeit formal. Whoever it is, it is nothing like the local earl. And besides... Look over there.

The mage pointed carefully with his chin away from the crowd to where the temple guard was standing at the far corner of the temple, leaning against the wall. There was not much to notice about the man's form. But only to the casual observer. More attentive eyes were immediately drawn to the Templar's skirt, which bore the insignia of the Commander of the local Corps. And the girl's eyes could easily detect signs of hidden displeasure in the indifferent face. Even contempt, either directly directed at the southerner or at what was happening outside the temple in general.

With an indifferent glance at the people, Morrigan shared her own thoughts with her companion.

— I know this Hasinda. But not personally. His tribe is so small in numbers and honour that it does not even have a witch. The hunters are cowards — used to the easy game of driving a wagon in the middle of nowhere, or building a house in the middle of nowhere. When others, smelling the pestilence and saving their children, headed west or south, they stayed in the lowlands. Greed overcame fear. The serpent's patience, and hearing that he could only survive by abandoning his kin in time, was foolishness. Typical of the northerners...

Alim grimaced, nodded and pointed to the other side of the bridge, clapping the sorceress on the shoulder.

— Let's go... And... Let me do the talking in the inn.

— Why?

— Ahem... I remember the way my companion spoke.

The girl grimaced, but made no objection. Only stressed in an lowered voice:

— Like someone's ears...

Leaving the fear-mongering prophet and his devoted crowd behind, the pair turned to cross the bridge. To the right of it, on the opposite bank, lurked an old one-storey tiled inn. It was the only place where travellers could stay and eat. It was also the final destination of the wizard and the sorceress. As the travellers departed, the 'prophet' paused for a moment, drowning himself in yet another flowery description of the troubles to come. Swallowing his saliva, the man glanced after the girl, a look as sharp and cold as a knife blade. But a moment later he was basking in the audience's attention again.