Morrigan stood by the rough-hewn wall of a modestly sized chamber. With every breath, the scent of damp stone filled her lungs. Two paces from wall to wall in width, three in length, and when standing upright, a mere hand's breadth remained between her head and the ceiling. Along the wall ran a crudely crafted bench. In the corner stood two old oak buckets—one seemingly full of cool, clean water, the other empty. None of this held much interest for the girl. Tilting her head back, she gazed up at the solitary light shaft set near the ceiling. The enchantress drank in the faint light filtering down from above, piercing through the grate to reach her face. But beyond that, she savored the sound of the rain—steady, soothingly monotonous, filled with depth. Into that noise wove bright droplets shattering against puddles and stones near the grate, the distant cascade of water falling from some height, and echoes from buildings and forests that took on barely perceptible contours within the sound. Distant, soft thunder, like invisible fingers, plucked the strings of primal animal instincts, framing this untouched palette of sounds.
The short journey to this place had not taken long and, under cold reasoning, had been merciful. Given the accusations... Before confinement, Morrigan had been permitted not only to wash away the dried blood. Knight-Commander Gregor's precise orders left no room for interpretation by the executors, serving as a shield against any 'personal sentiments'.
One after another, she found herself in a clean room, fed, but deprived of a significant portion of her blood, taken for the creation of a 'phylactery'. She had heard the word before. But that moment had left the enchantress with many questions, and no one intended to answer them. When the cold metal pierced the crook of her elbow, and a dark crimson stream filled the glass vessel, one of the Templars uttered the word matter-of-factly, like hunters discussing traps.
The stone crypt she now occupied lay beneath the Hold's cellar. It could hardly even be called a proper dungeon. From what she had seen, it seemed that from each of the four sides of the ancient building, descents led from the cellars into narrow galleries ending in dead ends. Along these, outward from the foundation, small chambers had been adapted for holding prisoners. Notably, the doors operated on the same principle as those in the lyrium storage on the fourth floor. Hence the sensation of a 'stone sack', alongside thoughts of a tomb sealed forever. A prisoner was denied even such diversions as pounding on the grate or one-sided conversations with jailers. None were needed here. No magic known to the enchantress could quickly, safely for the prisoner, or discreetly break through to the outside.
Morrigan's thoughts drifted back involuntarily to the moment of sentencing. Firstly, because catastrophe always leaves a deeper and sharper imprint on memory than quiet prosperity. Secondly, because an open wound begs to be picked at, even though it shouldn't be. And finally, because there was nothing else to do in the cell...
What etched itself most sharply into the girl's memory were the faces and the scattered phrases. When she was led away, none of the 'voluntary liberators of the Circle' besides Valinsi had shown themselves from the building. The leader himself had displayed conflicting emotions. Relief, doubt, fear… It was hard to say which dominated. But at the very least, the man had attempted to speak with Gregor to clarify the details. The last thing the enchantress caught from that conversation was the Knight-Commander's stern face, nodding wearily in Alim's direction in response to Valinsi's questions. The elf himself seemed engrossed in a conversation with Naire, who leaned against him, her back turned to the accused. Another face flashed by—the woman who had led the mages sheltering on the first floor. Hers was a mix of bewilderment and suspicion in equal measure. But behind that understandable facade, something else seemed to hide… Morrigan couldn't grasp that sensation well enough to understand its source or meaning. It eluded her even now. For some inexplicable reason, the enchantress had no desire to be left alone with that outwardly pleasant lady. Just in case.
The night in the cell had passed poorly… Like all other nights under this roof. But in isolation, the madness pressed down with particular force. It seemed to never truly dissipate, seeping into the very skin. Moreover, the nightmare had, for the first time, differed not just in its details…
In fact, Morrigan hadn't even realized she was asleep at first. She remembered her eyes growing heavy with fatigue, but the moment she closed them, the cell's cold seeped deeper, as if trying to penetrate her bones. Morrigan felt her pulse slow and her breathing even out against her will. The last thing she was aware of before sinking into oblivion was the smell of ash, which couldn't possibly be here… She awoke—or so it seemed—in the same cell, but the light shaft now admitted not the light of an overcast day or the gleam of night torches, but a crimson glow, as if a fire raged somewhere outside. Ash fell from the ceiling, settling on her arms in black flakes, but it didn't burn—rather, it clung to her skin like something alive. Morrigan tried to shake it off, and then she noticed: her fingers had elongated, her skin cracked, revealing something… alien beneath. In horror, she recoiled against the wall—and the stone suddenly turned mirror-like. The reflection did not lie: her body seethed like molten wax, and beneath the distorted features stared another face. Cold. Familiar. 'This isn't me', whispered her disappearing lips. The mirrored reflection smiled, baring sharp teeth—and only then did the enchantress realize: the changes had touched only her reflection.
A sharp inhale. Morrigan jerked awake, her back hitting the wall. The cell was as before—damp, dim, devoid of any trace of fire. But her fingers trembled, and on her palms… No, those were just shadows. She clenched her fists until her joints ached.
—Just a dream…
The girl tried to convince herself, but the taste of ash lingered in her mouth… Letting out a long exhale, the enchantress sat on the bench, her gaze sliding unseeingly along the walls of the ancient prison. There was nothing to look at. Either prisoners didn't stay here long enough to leave a mark, or there had been none at all. Pushing thoughts of what had already happened to the background, the girl pondered the future. Or rather, the crumbs that remained of it. Emotions urged her to return to the intoxicating frustration of questions like: 'how did this happen', 'who's to blame', and 'why'. But reason forbade it. In the enchantress's opinion, only the following questions remained worth contemplating: 'how to accept imminent death', 'how not to go mad within these walls while awaiting the end', 'how not to let foolish hope eat one alive'. And, of course: 'is it worth continuing the struggle for one's own mind'. Surprisingly, even to Morrigan herself, the answer to the last question was simple and unequivocal—yes. Why? Her guess was that her inherent stubbornness and determination played an exceptional role here. So if she were to drown in unknown waters, it would not be by meekly accepting her fate. The other questions did not permit such a brief and concise answer. Weighing her options, the enchantress decided to occupy her body and mind with work, even if it seemed pointless without a long-term perspective.
Carefully folding the robe of a junior Circle member on the bench and remaining only in her loose trousers—as neither she nor the Templars escorting her had considered providing suitable undergarments—Morrigan stretched. Extending herself taut, she planted her hands on the stone floor, leaving her feet on the bench. Five deep breaths, and, closing her eyes, the enchantress began a series of slow push-ups, maintaining long pauses for breathing. Not so much a meditation as a careful tending to her body, still throbbing with pain from the vivid bruises on her side, her joints having endured more than one shock.
Her mind, meanwhile, set to another task. In the absence of new tools or knowledge, the obsession—which she refused to doubt—had no solution. So Morrigan turned to another idea, one devoid of fatalism. The nature of magic and the methods of its application. The trigger was a careful look at the behavior of a spell formula in its current, 'unruly' state. However, without the girl's inquisitive mind, nurtured by Flemeth outside traditional frameworks and limitations, such conjectures would never have arisen. Flemeth had once said that magic is a language where runes serve as letters and spells as words.
—But words can be rearranged.
Morrigan smirked at her own words.
—Try changing the letters in a word on the fly…
That was precisely what was needed: to make the runes change order while mana flowed through them. Madness? Yes. But Flemeth had fed her far more insane ideas. It was worth remembering that demons could do this. Their thinking resembled delirium, where cause and effect swapped places. Perhaps she shouldn't think like a human? Yes, a wall stood before her, but who knew—it might have cracks, loopholes, or even a door. No one defeats a bear by merely grabbing a stick.
Taking a long pause between exercises, the girl concentrated and set aside past successes along with her pride. Slipping gracefully to the floor and straightening up, the enchantress determined how to conduct the trials.
Splashing precious water on the wall, she furrowed her brows, watching the droplets trickle down. 'Winter's Grasp' was a primitive spell, but perfect: its formula could be distorted almost with impunity. Her mana would suffice for only a few castings. Ten, until exhaustion and loss of consciousness. And the number of possible rune rearrangements, even by modest estimates, seemed enormous, if not calculable, in terms of Alim's 'scribbles'. The girl winced as irritating memories surfaced abruptly and immediately refocused. Dipping her finger in water, she began meticulously drawing symbols corresponding to numbers, making calculations. Based on her own assumptions, Morrigan concluded that one rune in a formula organized in several layers could occupy one of… eighteen positions. She bit her lip, shaking her head negatively, noting she'd forgotten the layer where the rune originally resided. With that correction, it came to twenty-six positions. But that was the ideal case. And useless. With two runes, meaning emerged from their combination, but mana could only flow through them forward and backward. With three, the picture changed little. For such a case, Morrigan knew of two configuration variants: closed chain and unclosed. For now, this remained an abstraction or a childhood mental exercise. True wonders began, perhaps, with a dozen runes. But the case relevant to Morrigan started with four. She mentally pictured the runes not as frozen symbols but as live embers that could be nudged with a staff. In childhood, Flemeth had made her arrange them into 'rings' and 'chains'—not for practice, but to teach her to see connections. Now that skill proved useful: the runes of 'Winter's Grasp' could reconfigure like tree branches in the wind. The key was to catch the moment when mana had already touched one rune but not yet flowed to the next… Wiping away the wet symbols and dots with her damp hand, the enchantress decided to start with the spell's area of effect. Leaving palm prints on the wall at even intervals, she took a step back… The first cast—ice spread in a smooth circle on the wall. The second—the edges of the pattern became jagged, like frost on glass.
Changes in the spell. Application of magic. Inspection of results. Evaluation of differences. Contemplation… The Witch had nowhere to hurry. And time invisibly quickened its pace…
By the fifth spell, much closer to evening, she no longer looked at the wall, merely noting the shifting sensations. Only when her breath began to plume white did the enchantress pause—and immediately realized: the cell had become an icebox. The stone, saturated with rainy dampness, greedily absorbed the cold. Condensation turned to frost, then to a brittle crust.
—Interesting…
Morrigan ran her palm over the rough surface.
—Had I continued, would I have frozen before exhausting my mana?
But the experiment had to be postponed—somewhere, a door creaked. A barely audible sound, but enough to sever the thread of her thoughts. Morrigan froze, her finger, which had been tracing wet symbols on the wall for the umpteenth time, halting mid-motion. Footsteps. Not hurried, not cautious—just ordinary. Two pairs—one heavier, with a slight scrape of sole on stone, the other slightly softer. Brushing the frost from the wall, the enchantress slowly straightened, feeling the dull ache in her back muscles. And just in time—a segment of the wall grated aside with a muffled scrape. The elder of the two Templars appeared on the threshold first—and immediately winced as if he'd struck an invisible wall. Air from the cell rushed out in an icy stream, forcing his companion to recoil. Exhaling vapor that hung in the air like white mist, the man muttered:
—Damn, it's like a glacier in here.
Morrigan merely raised a brow. For her, the cold was an abstraction—but from how the Templars clenched their teeth, it was clear: for them, it was torture. Especially in metal armor… The girl's gaze slid to the men's hands. The Templars were carrying a generous bowl of watery porridge and a piece of bread for the prisoner. Probably leftovers from the common table. And upon arrival, they'd found not a cell—but a 'meat storage locker'.
The elder of the pair handed the meal to the second, drew his blade, and commanded dryly in a hoarse voice:
—Out.
Switching from contemplating the mental puzzle unfolding before her, Morrigan looked at the two life-worn men. In the warrior who'd drawn his blade, the enchantress immediately recognized a veteran from Knight-Commander Gregor's personal retinue. Tilting her head slightly, the girl shrugged and complied with the demand.
The Templar only narrowed his eyes the slightest bit and, with a deft movement, activated the closing mechanism. Just quickly enough that the exiting enchantress could only note the general area where the hidden lever might be located, and nothing more. The warrior's movements were efficient, without excess or fuss. Meanwhile, the man took two broad steps along the gallery, stopping near an open passage to the next chamber. A beckoning gesture, and a calloused hand shoved Morrigan into the 'fresh' stone crypt without undue malice. Then the supper landed on the bench with a dull thud of clay on wood, and the Templar concluded:
—Dying before the inquiry is forbidden. Had we not checked the cells by evening, you'd have frozen stiff like a fish in an ice hole by morning. Spare us such tricks. Or your mornings will start with 'voluntary' assistance to the recruits in mana exhaustion drills.
Pursing his lips, the warrior radiated disapproval like a palpable heat. But Morrigan read between the lines something more than just the combination of the charges hanging over her and the displeasure at the newly discovered 'disorder'. Heaving a heavy sigh, as if overcoming a high obstacle in full armor, the man added finally:
—Tomorrow, the First Enchanter will come down here. Try to… Actually… Ah. Never mind.
The Templar fell silent, as if catching himself saying too much. The wall segment closed under the watchful gaze of the two warriors, and the veteran didn't sheathe his blade until the very last click.
Morrigan noted to herself that the meeting might prove an amusing diversion… while there was still time. But at the same time, she couldn't suppress her quickening pulse. Running her tongue over her upper lip, she involuntarily sank back into calculations and doubts. Logic told the enchantress to expect nothing from the conversation. At best, two dissimilar people would satisfy their own curiosity. But the desire to live proved stronger than logic…
* * *
The new night brought no relief, offering the same foul dish as before. Morrigan admitted she couldn't abstract herself from the visions, but so far, she had managed not to indulge her own fantasies, which ceaselessly generated interpretations of what she'd seen. It resembled a trap for a sophisticated mind, baited with an obvious lure. Instead, the girl planned to spend the day exactly like the previous one, with a slight adjustment for an extraordinary visitor.
The mage who held the highest post in the Circle of Kinloch Hold deigned to appear around noon. Morrigan couldn't pinpoint the time more precisely—there was no way to track it… except by daylight, bodily needs, and meal times. First, the figure of yesterday's grim veteran appeared in the open passage. His wrinkled, unshaven face expressed a whole spectrum of weary suspicion. But his sharp gaze found nothing in the chamber more dangerous than the prisoner. Just as the Templar was about to make a second attempt, a calm, clear, perhaps slightly hoarse male voice came from behind him, betraying both the speaker's age and accumulated fatigue:
—Enough, ser. Gregor will have nothing to reproach you for if the First Enchanter bumps his head on the low ceiling or trips over the threshold. As for other threats, I believe we can manage.
The older Templar pursed his lips disapprovingly, glanced down at the absent threshold, and disappeared into the passage, making way for another member of the order. This one had short, reddish hair and embodied the opposite of his predecessor: clean-shaven, with straight posture, regular features, and a nose that had never been broken. More a youth than a man, and one might even call him attractive, though he was shorter than Morrigan. Grayish eyes with a hint of green drilled into her with such hatred that Morrigan felt a physical prick between her shoulder blades. This wasn't just a Templar's hatred for a mage—his gaze held something personal, as if she had taken something priceless from him. His fingers gripped the sword hilt so tightly the glove leather stretched over his knuckles. Grim resolve, contempt, and cold calculation. The Templar silently took a position in the corner opposite the entrance, away from the 'hostess' standing by the bench.
Next appeared the cause of this spectacle. Nearly matching Valinsi in height, the man boasted a solid number of winters behind him, indicated by abundant gray in his hair and thick, disheveled beard. During their previous encounter, the girl had been more interested in the spellform surrounding this person. But now, a pair of yellow eyes firmly met the inquiring attention of a faded gray gaze, reminiscent of thin ice over dark water. The First Enchanter thumped his iron-shod staff on the floor, but receiving no reaction, he uttered a drawn-out:
—Hmm…
Then a representative of the Chantry slipped into the chamber. Her attire largely mirrored Leliana's from their first meeting. Petite, of similar age to the mage, the guest took a place opposite the Templar, as if occupying no space at all. Even her gaze remained fixed on the floor. Perhaps due to feigned humility, or unwillingness to see the apostate firsthand, burdened with accusations of murder. Everything about her screamed strictness and order: tightly pulled-back gray hair, complete lack of jewelry, hands firmly clasped before her…
Shifting her gaze to the enchanter, Morrigan arched a brow questioningly and was the first to speak:
—I suppose… I should be flattered. The attention of so many lords. Only, I'm at a loss. Why? And why didn't the Knight-Commander escort you personally into the arms of a dangerous criminal?
The man responded with another thoughtful mutter into his beard:
—Hmm…
Leaning his staff against the wall by the entrance and lowering himself onto the bench with a slight grunt, the First Enchanter spoke his first words:
—Why, you say. Well, if you asked Gregor, there's no reason. He has plenty to do.
Morrigan, unaware of her own expression, winced. Her face froze into a much colder mask than she had intended.
—Northern practicality, is it?
Smoothing his beard, the First Enchanter shook his head, neither agreeing nor entirely dismissing.
—Gregor is cynical. By necessity. And now more than ever. Though, I suppose a free spirit like yours finds it hard to empathize with our fetters, bred from conventions, responsibilities, contrived rules, and other nonsense. Well then… I see by modest Iberta's face that I've strayed from the topic.
Shooting a glance at the Chantry sister, Morrigan noted with some surprise that she still hadn't raised her face. Returning her attention to the seated mage, the girl encountered smiling eyes full of sparks of fleeting triumph.
—To minimize misunderstanding, I'll provide a brief overview of the reasons for my presence. Oh! First and foremost, introductions. Irving. First Enchanter of this Circle since Remille's 'imposition'.
At that mention, Iberta's fingers twitched, which didn't escape Morrigan's notice. Catching the elusive pattern of this just-begun conversation, she realized much would be hidden between the lines, not in plain sight. The enchantress slowly raised one brow, the corner of her mouth twitching in a hint of a smile that would never reach her eyes, and Irving continued:
—From Gregor's practical standpoint, and under the weight of the catastrophe that has befallen us, there seems no reason for us to meet. Personally. Except curiosity. But the years when I indulged such sweetness are long gone. To be clear, I am personally grateful for the rescue, and that the Circle still stands. But the combination of accusations against you and the death of nearly all the Senior Enchanters… The Maker be my judge, Ines is as brilliant a researcher as Wynne is a healer. But that's all. It happens. Hmm… Oh, the accusations! They fatally overshadow achievements. In our imperfect world, politics prevails over justice, so a mage with such a record cannot possibly be credited with saving the Hold. Nevertheless, life teaches that if you look, you'll find a couple of 'Buts'.
Shifting his gaze from Morrigan to the opposite wall, the First Enchanter sighed wearily and, without changing his tone, continued his account:
—I'm impressed by how attentively you listen. I admit, from a free-spirited and cynical witch of the Korkari Wilds, I expected more… rebellion and wildness. Perhaps a touch of rudeness. And contempt, even plenty of it. Now I feel more like a hare being carefully watched from the bushes by a lone wolf.
At these words, the young Templar in the corner clenched his fist around the sword hilt until the glove leather creaked. He betrayed no other sign of readiness for action. The enchantress narrowed her eyes, deliberately scrutinizing the warrior from head to toe before slowly, almost prowlingly, replying to the First Enchanter:
—You have a couple of stories about me, I gather. And they don't quite match. That's why you're trying to feel out the truth now. I'm not burning with desire to help.
Snorting into his beard, Irving nodded.
—Is that so… Alim paints the southern witch as free-spirited, cynical, clever, and dangerous. Not so briefly, but I took the liberty of skipping details. Valinsi saw resourcefulness, determination, and willpower worthy of 'knighthood'. Forgive an old man for pompousness. Naire was impressed by a glimmer of warmth and care. Your companions… But I'm digressing. These fragments of the whole are fascinating. Especially under such circumstances. What matters is different. Soon, reinforcements will arrive for the Templars, sent to put an end to the misunderstanding called our lives.
The Templar shot Irving a tense look, but Morrigan read more warning and concern in it than displeasure or reproach. And in an instant, a guess clicked in the girl's mind. Out of habit, she had perceived the Templar as Gregor's watchdog, keeping an eye on the First Enchanter. And the woman, she had imagined as the eyes and ears of the Chantry. But now…
—You're in this together. Each of you.
The enchantress pointed at Irving, who raised his brows in genuine surprise.
—But you're at the center.
The man slowly inclined his head in response:
—Excellent. Excellent. Cullen Stanton and your interlocutor are bound not only by duty, place, and time. Unlike Gregor and me, the youth shares fresher, purer wounds with me—ones yet to scar or fester. Knowing his views and sharp mind, I often show weakness by relying on the judgments of youth. Iberta has been with me much longer. Compared to many others, she understands the weight of my position like no one else, sincerely empathizing with the rank-and-file mages of the Hold no less than with the poor of Denerim. And since we understand each other so well, to the point. Even if we've approached it in an old man's roundabout way. The Knight-Commander of the Templars is endowed with the privilege of enacting the declared 'Right of Annihilation'. He would bear responsibility for such a decision only after the fact. When the 'dust' settles. However, given time, the Chantry and Knight-Commanders prefer such fateful decisions with serious political consequences to be made higher up the hierarchy. At the same time, the Chantry representatives long ago realized that concentrating such power in their own hands would lead to unnecessary internal conflicts. Moreover, it would render this cruel tool nearly useless. Hence, among the reinforcements arriving soon, there is a person whose will and authority surpass the position of the Knight-Commander of the Templars and, I won't lie, my own. Gregor, of course, kept his own 'superiors' informed of events since the reinforcements left Denerim. The old friend sent birds ahead to cities along the troops' route, sparing no feathered reserves. And your fate has been handed to those same 'high' hands. Forgive the Knight-Commander's selfish desire to rid himself of a headache. So… Yesterday's bird brought unexpected words on its wings. You are to be guarded with particular care, kept alive until the Seeker arrives. Unexpected, hm? That's where the old man's personal interest begins.
Morrigan waited several minutes in silence for the story to develop, pondering what lay behind the mage's words, what motives drove him. But after three minutes, admitting defeat, she asked:
—I assume. Mention of my role, if you're sending such news openly by dove, went unnoticed. But later… Something changed.
Irving laughed good-naturedly, pointing at the girl with an open palm for his escort's benefit.
—See? A sharp mind. Not empty words! A pity… A pity…
Morrigan blinked in surprise, perhaps for the first time in a long time caught off guard by her interlocutor for no apparent reason.
—Why?
The First Enchanter grew serious, giving the girl a heavy look before continuing.
—Because if one thing is true, the other gains weight. And they say not only flattering things about you. But let's return to the first question. You're right. A dry account of the facts, encrypted of course, led to a formal request for clarification of details. And only when your origin was mentioned did a vivid reaction follow. Something hidden in Lady Morrigan, apostate from the forgotten lands of Korkari, so influenced the Seeker that he switched from a cold tone to sharp orders, behind which one sensed the fervor of a hound on the scent. This is no idle interest; don't consider yourself a treat for my fading mind. Rather, you are something capable of influencing the fragile remnants of the Circle in an old man's weakened hands. And let the irony of the situation not distract us.
The enchantress snorted, inwardly feeling neither amusement nor confidence.
—Seems you have a long stick but hesitate to poke the hive. Just need to ask the right question. But I still don't understand… Why do you rate my role so highly?
Smoothing his beard again, Irving cast a thoughtful glance at his companions. The man didn't answer; the enchantress didn't want to rush him. Finally, the mage said:
—Perhaps I exchanged deliberation for haste. That's all. The situation you so kindly helped with… That blood…
Iberta started, about to interrupt the First Enchanter mid-sentence, but he shook his head negatively, and the woman immediately yielded, staring dejectedly at the floor again. Cullen sharply drew breath, and Morrigan noticed his gaze dart momentarily to the elderly woman—as if seeking confirmation or prohibition. The old woman barely raised her index and ring fingers in a gesture known only to the two of them, and the Templar stilled again, but now his shoulders were tense, like a beast about to leap.
— I, too, bear great guilt for the catastrophe. Uldred did not appear from thin air. Uldred was... We were brothers since our apprenticeship. A friend who stood by me through harsh times. And upon rising to a high office, I could find no other candidate for the grim role that needed filling. Reliable, steadfast, strong-willed, unyielding. We both seem unassuming compared to our former selves. The 'Soft' First Enchanter and the grim 'right hand'. But together, we achieved so many small victories our predecessors, dreaming of grandeur, could not have imagined. But... But... But... Positions that accumulate dark sins do not tolerate men or elves with spines of iron. They do not break when they should, instead continuing silently, teeth clenched, to blacken from within. Seeing the signs, I was slow to judge and continued to believe. Until the events known to us both served as the catalyst, instantly collapsing the house built on principles and ideals, yet rotten to the core. My support became my vulnerability. So, I live despite my own foresight... Alas... And so, instead of waiting until it was too late, we are talking.
Morrigan's face flickered with mild irritation and she opened her mouth to speak, but the elderly man halted the sharp retort poised on her lips by raising his hand and continuing:
— The Seeker possesses an ability to detect possession. The nature of this... unusual gift is unknown to me. As it is to Gregor. But he believes in the existence of such a miracle, and I believe the old warrior. Even if the inspection goes splendidly, the Circle has suffered as never before, even considering the 'occupation'. 'Fortunately' for Ferelden, the Chantry blessed it with two Circles. Based on historical precedent, a merger would be just. But, in the current political climate, it is unlikely. Jendrik is a staunch supporter of royal blood, as are many under the old stump's command. Loghain has no reason to strengthen the opposition. And I, now having more children than adults, would prefer to stay out of the power squabbles altogether. We are all dreamers... I do not know the Seeker's views on the new balance of power. Or how the Chantry sees the situation. The Circle is now like a boat without sails in a stormy sea, and it may be that sinking it will be deemed preferable to the alternatives. But here... The Seeker showed weakness, openly stating a personal interest. I was never skilled in intrigue and verbal duels, even in my youth. Having lived to these grey years, I've focused my talents on administration and paperwork. And time is not on our side. The Templar forces are already at Lake Calenhad's largest port, boarding ships. So... There's a saying: it is foolish to hunt game with a rabid mabari. What were you seeking in the Hold, Morrigan? What made you value gain above your own life, embroiling yourself in another's tragedy with no chance of success? What is within my power to give you, so that upon the Seeker's arrival you will be wholly on my side, acting predictably and for the benefit of the Circle's survival?
Morrigan's lips twisted into a semblance of a smile, but her eyes remained motionless, like an owl's before the strike. She struck the floor three times, unhurriedly, with her boot heel. Each blow measured a segment of her thoughts: the first—risk assessment, the second—searching for hidden motives, the third—the cold realization that no better options existed. The witch slowly tilted her head to the side, her gaze sliding over the rough wall that seemed a monolith. It was struggling to digest what it had heard. The 'Soft' grandfather had managed to deceive the girl's expectations, demonstrating in the end intentions she had not prepared for. The questions and the offer contained no obvious flaws. Whereas the witch's fate was soon to be inevitably cut short by execution or Tranquility. In such a scenario, even vague promises, bolstered by the desire to live, pierced her armour of cynicism and cold calculation.
— Suppose, just suppose, these words did not fall on barren soil. Will you bargain with this mentioned Seeker?
Exhaling with relief, as if victory were already his, Irving leaned against the wall and cast his eyes upward. The old man's answer sounded as if he were recalling texts from ancient books.
— Seekers are considered incorruptible, in the conventional sense. And one can only bargain with an equal. But bribery is not always a direct exchange. Sometimes it is enough to sincerely help, or to feign deafness and blindness to another's needs until they are loudly declared. It is important that one's hands are not empty at the start of the game.
Biting her lower lip slightly, the girl nodded slowly.
— So. If I can state my own demands openly, your part of the deal is vague.
The First Enchanter shrugged.
— We are not in equal positions from the start.
— By putting my own interests first, does that not level us? Your need against...
Morrigan cut herself off mid-sentence, clicking her tongue. She continued, no longer hiding the venom in her tone.
— I am useful only while no trace of our deal is visible. And you will not cross that line.
Irving nodded, his beard shaking as he awaited continuation. The witch, however, fell silent, staring at the toes of her own boots, her thoughts far away. Of course, she had to seize this chance, even if the picture seemed unreliable. For some reason, Morrigan imagined the situation like vast hunting grounds. Fish in the river, herds migrating to new pastures, predators fighting for pack dominance and lying in wait for prey. A storm gathers in the south, noticed only by the sharp-eyed so far, and fewer still understand the threat of the leaden clouds. The girl herself is lost in the expanse like a fox, caught in a trap by its own foolishness. But it still has its fangs and claws, and the hunter approaches the predator far too carelessly... Could the witch still make decisions and exert influence? Exert... Influence... Morrigan didn't notice she'd bitten her lip until blood welled—that turn of phrase felt alien to her. She hadn't even known that combination of words until recently. Now she not only understood what it meant but also realized how it related to her own position. And there was no time for endless doubt and wondering where it came from. Only a choice. Predator or prey. Raising her eyes, gleaming like dark gold, to the mage, Morrigan knew precisely what she was hunting for and what would be required henceforth.
— Access to books on combating possession. Any methods, from potions of flowering fern to forbidden rituals. Access here for any in the Circle who wish it. Access here for my companions.
The First Enchanter raised his bushy eyebrows in obvious bewilderment, focusing his attention on his interlocutor. Muttering more to himself, he mumbled:
— Underestimated. Hmm...
Smoothing his beard in another futile attempt to give it a neat appearance—a purely reflexive action, in the girl's eyes, reflecting only the depth of his thought—Irving concluded:
— What you listed is feasible. But it seems you intend to become more than an 'obedient prisoner'. I shall be interested to see how you use the opportunities.
— So...
— Yes. Yes, we have an agreement. Though it is saddening for an old man's ears to hear such desires.
Morrigan furrowed her brows and cautiously inquired:
— Saddening?
The mage gave a harmless chuckle, slapped his right hand on his knee, and said:
— Perhaps one word characterizes you better than others. 'Why'. The question that drives you, I believe. And the one you constantly wish to ask yourself. Far better than 'how' or 'for what'. Let me put it this way. Experience says that an act of maleficarum, barring a few exceptions, leaves an indelible mark on the perpetrator. It manifests in character, thoughts, sometimes even in mannerisms. Whether the guilty feels the weight of the deed while refusing to acknowledge it, takes pride in it, or took a dangerous step having found no other path. Like a wormhole in a ripe apple. It so happens that you defy the norm in every aspect. If only horns weren't growing. Simple, unhurried conversations best reveal a person's weaknesses. Impatience. Arrogance. Bitterness. But in you, I see rather composure, self-control, curiosity, and a calm confidence in your actions. One could breathe a sigh of relief. I intended to do so. But the choice of books... You didn't risk your life for nothing.
Irving narrowed his eyes, pausing, then continued:
— Those books mean something to you, don't they? Without that detail... An exceptionally honest mage accused you of a serious crime. And yet, your near-heroic feat was excessive. If we disregard some complexities which I deem surmountable, nothing prevented you from taking what you needed and vanishing amidst the chaos. Far less risky, hm? I'm referring to your return into the Templars' embrace, given the circumstances. For me, the answer is this: inside this puzzle hides a good person with principles starkly different from those familiar to the majority. Add to that such a troubling symptom as possession, albeit strangely non-standard. Is that not saddening?
Morrigan froze, her chin slightly raised—a pose she usually adopted when assessing her chances in a hunt. A nearly imperceptible muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth, betraying an internal struggle between pride and the instinct for survival. When she finally nodded, the movement was so sparse it could have meant anything—from complete capitulation to the start of a new game. Returning the intense eye contact, the girl voiced her thoughts:
— A touching speech. Pity I don't believe in selflessness. You are a wise old hunter. Skilled with words, though you try to seem unskilled. So, what's the price? We clearly missed some details.
The First Enchanter closed his eyes for a moment and said quietly.
— Too clever to simply trust. Hmm... Deeds are needed, not just one fleeting conversation. But what isn't there, isn't there. When the Seeker arrives, I will need to know this person and understand. You will tell me everything you notice. Every detail. If something needs to be conveyed indirectly, you can be of use here again. And also remember, in any conversation or deal, we must proceed from the goal of preserving the Circle. We cannot play a more complex game than that. See? My measure of trust is great. Now, if you'll permit me, I must take my leave.
Not needing permission at all, Irving stood up, brushed off his robe, took his staff, and headed for the exit, allowing the hastily slipped-in Iberta to go first. Already in the passageway, a question from the prisoner stopped him:
— Since we speak of trust. Is there something you wouldn't willingly say, that I might hear?
The mage froze and, turning halfway, muttered:
— What would that change? For the better.
— The attitude would become more serious. After studying the books, I will share my conclusions. Against a Seeker, any advantage will serve, will it not?
— Suppose so. So, in exchange for some foolish...
— No-no. Not 'some'.
Morrigan's index finger pointed at the young Templar.
— A secret between you.
Irving transferred his empty gaze to Cullen, and through the mask of the 'kindly' grandfather, something cold and exhausted, far beyond what is permissible for a 'tired man', flickered for an instant. Stanton nodded uncertainly, his whole posture demonstrating a struggle with an instinctive reluctance to share secrets. The First Enchanter softened and again fixed his gaze on Morrigan.
— Very well. A mundane breach of rules, were it not for the feelings involved. On the other hand, a situation where life and death are at stake can hardly be called 'mundane'. Stanton, contrary to general prohibitions, had a close relationship with an apprentice just before her Harrowing. Definitely a stain on both their reputations. But, may the Order forgive me, a far lesser problem for a Templar than for an apprentice. Many even consider such a thing an 'achievement', though exploits of that kind are harshly condemned by Gregor.
Cullen bristled at these words, but the First Enchanter raised a conciliatory hand, anticipating the young man's reaction and continuing.
— Of course, our case is different. The feelings were sincere and mutual. Even if it was a colossal foolishness from start to finish, given a moment to think. Years pass, yet youth makes the same mistakes. But the end of the story turned out to be far from ordinary. Much worse. An incident occurred. The girl had a friend, her age. A strange mix of talent, insecurity, and youthful radicalism, with a bitter aftertaste of Uldred's thoughts. Before the Harrowing, something snapped in the young man's head. Fear of failure, fear of execution. He persuaded his newly-made mage friend into a series of acts punishable not by exile, but by death. I still don't understand how, in the clash between friendship, self-preservation instinct, and logic, friendship won outright. Hmm... Yes. Both broke into the phylactery vault to steal the boy's sample, planning thus to secure his escape.
Remembering the cold touch of the blade, Morrigan repeated the familiar word:
— Phylacteries? So, that portion of my blood...
Her lips twisted into a semblance of a smile:
— How practical. Is that my leash?
Irving tensed for a moment, but, shrugging, answered:
— That's two secrets now, but so be it. Blood Magic. What Uldred was in charge of. Exactly so. The ritual allows finding a mage belonging to a Circle at practically any distance, indicating the direction they are in. The first sample is taken from an apprentice and stored in the Circle that became their home. Subsequent ones—from the mage—are sent to the five nearest Circles. In truth, anyone striving to learn this secret easily uncovers the details. I suppose, upon learning what was necessary, the ill-fated 'friend' began to hurry.
— Interesting. The 'friend's' only chance to get rid of the leash was slipping away. While Cullen's girl was already firmly tied to the Circle.
— Kindness, loyalty, foolishness, shortsightedness. The story ended predictably. The culprit managed to escape. But the girl... Of course, she did not.
Irving frowned, evidently recalling events of days past, the imprint of which still troubled him.
— The old man before you held this young man back from suicidal ideas. Sometimes it seems there is only darkness ahead, and here and now there are too many reasons to die, and not a single one to live. But only after leaving long years behind can one even begin to approach an understanding of the value of life, both one's own and that of others. Our path is made of countless deeds, not a single heroic feat. And after a seemingly endless road, those small things often outweigh much, even if most people's memories get stuck on only one moment of triumph. Hmm. I apologize for the grumbling. It just so happened that I persuaded Gregor to commute the girl's sentence from execution to Tranquility. Saving the life of someone important to Cullen, I instead killed her soul and emotions. Including the attachment that existed between them. That is why the young man is filled with a withering gratitude, and along with it—a bitterness that is perfectly suited for hatred. Satisfied?
— Gregor wasn't privy to the details?
Irving chuckled sadly.
— Of course not. But it wasn't required. The Knight-Commander sees and knows far more than he lets on.
The mage narrowed his eyes, looking into Morrigan's eyes and awaiting the only answer that mattered. Sighing, the witch said:
— The books. And then, in a day or two, return.
Striking the floor with his staff, Irving turned and disappeared into the gallery. Stanton turned to the girl, giving the witch a measured look, and also left the dungeon, sealing the passage behind him.
* * *
The sounds reminiscent of visitors had long since faded. Even the smells had almost dissipated. A barely perceptible hint of burnt incense. A faint trace of male sweat, masked by the cold tang of metal and an unfamiliar northern oil. And the smell of ink. The girl had never smelled it directly before, but recognized it unmistakably. The 'guests' had left the witch in a strange state of mind. Morrigan felt... in her element. Precisely so. The girl cautiously acknowledged this state as elevated spirits. For the first time in a long while, her thoughts had strayed from obsessive problems and were like birds escaped from a cage. Morrigan meticulously sifted through facts, secrets, and names in her mind, things that could become useful tools in one situation or another. Even if the witch had to rein herself in, as if annotating in the margins that this or that idea would be excessive in the real world. This state was not normal, nor should it have excited the witch so, as if she were back in her native forest on her first hunt for a wounded deer.
Of course, good things don't last. And in response to the expectation of an idea that would cloud the moment, it promptly sprouted in the head lying on the hard bench. Raising her hand to eye level and slowly flexing her elegant fingers, Morrigan furrowed her brows. Admitting it to herself without self-deception, this idea hadn't appeared within her from nowhere. It had grown like mold, filling the dark corners of her consciousness. Her hand felt alien to the witch... No, not quite. Morrigan blinked and concentrated, clenching her fist until her knuckles turned white. The hand seemed like a foreign object—like a glove pulled over something else. Licking her lips, the girl brought the thumb of her left hand close to the veins on her right, clenched in a fist, and forcefully pressed her noticeably grown nail into her own flesh. She waited for the familiar signal—sharp pain, clear confirmation: this was still her flesh and bones. But the sensation came as if through a thickness of water. A distant echo, as if someone else should have cried out. Blood slowly welled from under the nail. Only now did the 'echo' of sensations gain its familiar strength and a sickly tinge, spreading inside her forearm along the tendons. Jerking her finger away, Morrigan stared with a mixture of relief and irritation at the clear crimson mark.
Closing her eyes, Morrigan exhaled long and cast these feelings aside.
— Pointless.
A drop of blood rolled down the pale skin of her wrist, but the girl was already on her feet with a jerk. If her mind was beginning to betray her—she had to trust her body. Shedding the robe, the witch devoted herself to the only thing that guaranteed control: movement, breath, which at least belonged to her.
* * *
When the wall segment serving as a passage groaned and scraped aside, Morrigan felt surprise. The girl hadn't expected new visitors just a couple of hours after the First Enchanter's call. Not changing her horizontal stance on tensed arms, the witch waited out the agonizing seconds of uncertainty. And then, stooping, the large figure of Valinsi slipped into the stone crypt. In each hand, the mage held neatly bound tomes, tied with hemp cord, that had recently gathered dust on unknown shelves. Each book had a unique character, hinting at the value of the knowledge contained within and the age of the folios.
The mage looked far better than during their last meeting: shaven, clean, almost well-rested. As he set the valuable load on the floor, Morrigan rose to her feet and straightened up. So when Valinsi raised his eyes to the girl, his pale-brown gaze immediately grew heavy, seeing her in all her glory and stumbling over the blossoming bruises. Studying the man's face, the witch noted a new adornment woven into the braid by his right temple. Morrigan was almost certain she had seen that ring on Tomara's hand.
The silence was becoming oppressive, as was the mage's gaze slowly sliding over the girl's partially exposed body. So the witch started the conversation first.
— You look well. So, Irving decided book delivery is your calling?
— Yes. A strange choice. Quite.
— I think it's a good one. Who better than you to deliver them carefully?
— No. Not about me. I meant the books. Their content...
The man threw a glance at the tomes, then at Morrigan.
— Oh, so you peeked inside? Curious, why would an apostate need treatises on possession?
— I didn't...
Valinsi pressed his lips together and abruptly changed the subject:
— Irving didn't say anything about me?
Morrigan slowly tilted her head, studying his face. The mage stood unnaturally straight, his fingers trembling slightly—as if he was holding back a question he shouldn't ask.
— Not a word. Apparently, your personage held no interest for him whatsoever.
The man's voice grew quieter but firmer:
— And if it had?
The girl laughed—shortly, without joy:
— Oh, Valinsi... What are you hoping for? That I'd start bargaining for my freedom?
— Why not...
Morrigan smirked, noting with the edge of her eye the rim of the mailed boots of the Templars standing outside in the gallery, right by the passage. The witch would have bet her left hand they'd deliberately made their presence known, lest the prisoner, Maker forbid, get any sense of privacy.
— You won't get to hear the answer. Let me outline the priorities. You're more useful as a friend. Isn't that right?
Valinsi twisted his lips and slowly, pausing between words, replied:
— As a friend. Sounds close to the truth.
The man seemed to be literally tasting each word. His strange gaze, as if unable to bear its own 'weight', slid again from the girl's face to her bare shoulders, along the line of her strong arms to her chest, proudly thrust towards him. The mage frowned, knitting his brows, before continuing the conversation.
— How did you charm the First Enchanter? I marvel at your talents. Under all circumstances.
— With my mind? No, don't answer. Truthfully, I'm just as surprised. But, what's done is done. It doesn't suit the one down here to be picky or complain. Your plans?
— I received an offer.
Morrigan raised her eyebrows, trying to guess the meaning behind Valinsi's words. Her eyes widening, she snapped her fingers.
— You — the new Uldred?!
Valinsi flinched as if struck. His fingers clenched involuntarily, and for a moment Morrigan saw in his eyes what he carefully hid: self-loathing. The witch deduced—the old fox was testing not only the prisoner but also his new 'right hand'. Nodding, the witch continued:
— You've been briefed on his duties.
— Yes...
— And it brought you no joy.
— No. It is so far from the principles I tried to preserve, like a fool trying to save water in a shattered pitcher. And yet, it is so saturated with the concept of duty to the Circle that it cannot but find an echo in me... And, in the end, I am not sure.
— Will you accept?
Valinsi twitched the corner of his lip in a barely perceptible smile. Returning his eyes to the girl's focused face, he answered:
— You think this offer includes a choice? Now that they've demonstrated, however briefly, the 'necessary dirt'.
— Perhaps. From my point of view—Irving trusts you. Or believes in you.
— He sees the facade...
Morrigan only snorted contemptuously in response, showing how 'highly' she rated Valinsi's belief in the First Enchanter's ignorance or blindness. He winced again but immediately surrendered, nodding in agreement.
— It's naive to think so, yes. But I fear the First Enchanter is merely using what's at hand. The choice isn't rich.
— I wouldn't dwell on it. The criteria for selecting a suitable mage for this post would definitely not please you.
The man raised a questioning eyebrow, but the girl only shook her head vaguely. Instead of answering, she asked her own question:
— And your spot?
— Alim.
Silence hung again as Morrigan, casting her eyes to the ceiling, fought a vicious smile crawling onto her face like a predatory snake. Through clenched teeth, she forced out:
— The shining knight.
— The elf isn't shining so brightly these days.
Fixing Valinsi with a look full of cynical doubt, the girl pushed him for details.
— Hmm... Naire was always a close friend to the lad. In a more, hm, chaste interpretation of the word. But now things are... not smooth for either. Quite the opposite, even. I don't know the details. Either she hasn't forgiven her friend for leaving with the Grey Warden, which, of course, seemed like a betrayal, or...
The mage fell silent, leaving the unspoken options hanging in the air.
— How is she?
Valinsi rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger, giving himself time to find the right words.
— Fine. Wynne personally examined her and got her back on her feet afterwards. She avoids me. Avoids Alim. Helps with the children or buries herself in books on battle magic.
— Your doing?
— No! Wynne...
The denial was too sharp, and the man himself realized it immediately under the skeptical gaze of the dark-gold eyes. Nodding crookedly in agreement, he turned and, stooping, moved to leave. A caustic remark shot after him:
— We should not be talking about others. You didn't foolishly and blindly believe what Alim said, did you?
Without turning or stopping, Valinsi nodded. With a hint of stubbornness in his voice, more to convince himself than his companion, he said quietly:
— I've seen something else.
— And what did you see… Next time you come—if you still find me here—make up your mind. Do you want to beat me? Take me by force right here? Or all at once.
The man froze at the exit for a long minute, during which the tension in his hands and back was clearly visible. Finally, he jerked his right shoulder and left without a word.
Morrigan exhaled hoarsely, shaking off something clinging to her arms with one sharp motion. Now alone again, the girl's attention and thoughts focused on the books. A couple in time-faded blue bindings smelled of mold and lavender—a strange combination, as if someone had tried to preserve them from decay. Several were framed in wood, each a unique size with its own network of cracks in the dried-out timber. Two more in typical, though aged, leather with embossed symbols. And a black tome… It lay atop the others like a raven on snow. Morrigan ran her finger along the spine, feeling a faint tingling under her skin—was it self-deception, or premonition?
* * *
Daylight faded relentlessly, and evening fell too swiftly. Morrigan might not have noticed the passage of time if not for that. Even her meal had passed as if in a fog. At first, the enchantress stumbled over convoluted phrases, at times as incomprehensible as a foreign tongue. She hadn't expected the language to have changed so much over the years. But with each new line, the fog of unclear expressions receded, as if she were naturally regaining "half-forgotten skills" in working with ancient texts in the young tongue of Ferelden, mixed with Avvar dialect. Heavy first steps gave way to a run, then to free flight. The ideas underlying the different books, and the conclusions presented as facts, contradicted each other—and often themselves. But here and there, a pair of facts aligned, appearing consistent and coherent. And together, they formed the outlines of a solution to the task before Morrigan. Nothing ready-made, nothing lying on the surface. There wasn't even a hint that beyond those outlines lay only the void of deceived hopes.
Slamming the current volume shut and feeling the weight of what she'd just read settling in her mind, the enchantress decided to start with the mysterious black-leather tome in the morning, for variety. Rubbing her eyes, the girl stared into the thickening dusk, soon to become darkness. Morrigan didn't want to admit it to herself, but the truth was simple: another night meant another nightmare… And it wasn't about fear. Not only… Or not entirely… She felt a nausea from the inevitable repetition of what she'd endured. Almost imperceptibly, like water seeping through cracks, something like fatigue was accumulating.
Her gloomy mood and slight headache were interrupted by the distinct sound of a passage opening. Immediately, warm, orange-yellow reflections of fire darted across the walls, along with sharply outlined shadows. Stepping quietly and steadily, holding a candle under a glass dome with both hands, Leliana entered, her eyes immediately finding the inhabitant of the stone crypt. Turning her head slightly, she cast an eloquent glance back, raising her eyebrows a little, and smiled. The enchantress saw perfectly well that the smile was more of an elegant curtsy, while the rest of the visitor's face remained serious. Her posture was straight, but tension showed in the corners of her eyes: she was clearly taking a risk by coming here.
Snorting, Morrigan was about to say something, but the red-haired maiden began first:
— I persuaded Bethany not to rush. Don't think she has forgotten. Though perhaps she should have. It's hard enough for her as it is, and seeing you here… it might break the girl. My person, I suppose, will be more useful now.
Closing her eyes and shaking her head skeptically, the enchantress replied:
— Who knows what's more needed. Conscience or wit.
— A compliment and an insult in one phrase—you learn, even when I'm not around. And that fact, another sting.
— So, is Bethany all right?
— Of course not. The next time you decide on a swift and extremely risky step with far-reaching consequences, stop for at least a few minutes. We should have coordinated what to tell the Templars. Unfortunately, from the moment you left, we weren't left alone together for even a moment without supervision, and I couldn't discuss anything with Bethany. Not five minutes had passed since you strode across the inner yard to the Hold before we were separated for 'conversation.' That time, it was only talk. But what is routine for me is not for Bethany. And then…
Morrigan pressed her lips together and spat out:
— Alim.
Leliana simply nodded and continued:
— Yes. About four hours after you left, the elf headed to Gregor, filled with anxiety, inner conflict, and focus on an unknown goal. Catching him, I asked—what did he hope to achieve? One doesn't go for a casual chat with such emotions on their face. Alim hissed through his teeth that he would fulfill his duty. There was much more inside than out, but… It seems two sharp needs were warring within the elf. Previously, they remained in a fragile balance. But that night, so close to 'home,' Alim convinced himself that one could be discarded.
Morrigan sighed, leaning against the wall.
— I can guess. This… I didn't even think of it. Out there in the dark, gazing up at the black bulk of the tower, a mage inwardly… His world rested on two pillars, you know. Duty. And Naire.
Leliana straightened her back sharply and whispered almost inaudibly:
— Alim convinced himself that there was no chance of saving Naire. And that her being inside while he was outside was his fault, remembering the choice he made.
The enchantress nodded, massaging the bridge of her nose.
— And without Naire, only bare duty to protect the Circle remained. Did the fool confess everything to Gregor?
— After that conversation with the Knight-Commander, the interrogation was with prejudice. Any illusion of hospitality vanished. No cruelty or violence, but the pressure was serious. Especially on Bethany. Formally, Gregor could have called the girl an apostate or a maleficar, following your example. From what happened, I dare to conclude that Alim told almost everything.
Morrigan narrowed her eyes, focusing her dark-golden gaze on the pair of green ones.
— Almost?
— It seems he completely omitted the difference between your methods of spellcasting. Bethany wasn't probed for it, even with hints.
— A drop of pride?
— I wouldn't presume to judge.
— Well… That's good news. What is your situation?
Leliana licked her lips and shrugged.
— I was given to understand that after speaking with the Seeker, should he have no further questions for me, I am free to go wherever I please. Of course, that's a thinly veiled mockery, given we're on an island. But it's better than nothing. Bethany… There are no hints there. She will become a mage or be made Tranquil. Given her age and your shared history—the latter is more likely. I'm watching over the girl as best I can. For now, the Templars' grip has loosened slightly. As if… They don't want to damage the 'merchandise.'
— Irving…
— There! Now it's your turn.
— Yes… You know? Secrecy here is only an illusion…
— List the facts.
— First, tell me what you know about the Seekers.
Leliana fell silent for a moment, looking away. Nodding, she began to speak.
— It's a complex question. But also a simple one. The Seekers of Truth, that's the full name, are a separate order within the Chantry's structure. Only the Divine and the Maker are above them. And below—everyone else. That was the complex part. The simple part… By rumor… The tasks of this small order include secret investigations and oversight of the Templars. They say each Seeker is worth a dozen Templars in battle, and their order is shrouded in mysticism and rumors of supernatural abilities. There are no facts, so draw your own conclusions. I can tell you a bit about the history of this organization, which has fought demons, the possessed, and its own twisted reflection—the Order of the Flame Oath—since ancient times.
The last two words stuck in Morrigan's mind, stirring a shadow of recognition. As if she had heard something like it before or even knew… Which, of course, was impossible. But these fragments of memory emerging from nowhere, like that ash falling from the sky or into the sky in her nightmares, no longer caused dread or goosebumps.
— Let's leave the past for later. I've been offered a deal of sorts.
— What are the terms?
— A bit of this, a touch of that. Here, for example, our meetings. So I don't go mad. But the sentence still stands.
— And the price?
— Hm…
Leliana nodded understandingly.
— So, we wait for this Seeker.
Morrigan shifted her gaze to the stack of books on the floor.
— Not only…
Following the girl's gaze, Leliana frowned and shot her a questioning look with a raised eyebrow. The enchantress nodded uncertainly in response.
— Perhaps a solution.
— Splendid… Well, what are we going to do, anyway?
— We?
— We.
— Ha… You're hard to understand. In your place, such a foolish attachment…
Leliana touched Morrigan's shoulder, stopping the flow of caustic remarks at its outset.
— Focus.
Freezing with her mouth half-open, the enchantress collected herself, nodded, and said:
— Yes, an unacceptable weakness now. The thing is, blind loyalty… Though no, forgive me. I understand what you mean. Your actions are a direct consequence of the past, character, and personal circumstances, not unfounded foolishness, as I might wish to see them. Cold calculation, which says it's too risky to remain on my side, isn't the only possible path. I won't hide it—your choice is pleasing. If only I had time to figure out why.
— Well, it's not so difficult. Such are emotions. Let's not delve into why those you disdainfully consider part of your 'collection' prefer to remain there, while you remain a diligent and attentive 'owner.' Let's return to the bigger picture.
— The plan… Besides waiting and personal goals, there are other cards to play. First, revenge.
Leliana leaned back slightly, her face showing surprise and disbelief.
— How? And why?
— Naire.
— But…
— Find the girl. Get to know her. Hint that she can come to me. This isn't a way to hurt two people. That's not why I saved her inside the nightmare. But communicating with Naire is the best way to flick Alim's sense of duty.
— Oh… Forgive me.
— No. Your concerns are justified. That's why, using Bethany as an example, I need those around me whose principles and views aren't hardened. So that they reflect, unlike you, something other than a monster. I need not only an example of what to avoid but also something to strive for. And besides, Naire is now the face of the Circle that preserved itself and survived.
— That's rather subtle and deep. Very well.
— Second, to make things freer in the Circle, there is a solution. Valinsi. The mage owes me. Carefully unravel that thread, and you'll understand everything.
— Curious. Just now, that glance to the side… There! Is it what I think?
Morrigan made a throaty sound symbolizing mild irritation before answering:
— Sometimes I forget how skillfully you read faces. Yes, he… is interesting. Only I fear it's an example of bad influence on me. Moreover, it's deeper than it might seem. This connection, if I let it grow, will turn out quite twisted. I don't know what to do yet. And don't continue. Since Alim omitted certain things, we'll keep that in mind. It's foolish to refuse trump cards.
— Anything else?
— M… Avoid an enchantress named Wynne.
— Why?
— I don't know. She gives me the creeps.
Leliana frowned puzzledly but slowly nodded, committing the remark and the name to memory.
— If that's all…
— No. One last personal question. The vision. You understand how foolish it sounds now?
Leliana smiled understandingly and nodded before objecting:
— Not at all. The vision showed that Alim would become a support for Morrigan's growth. You, in turn, can be imagined as the force that won't let him fall apart. This implies neither your friendship nor even mutual aid. You saved Naire? What would have become of the elf if she had died? Does the betrayal you yourself anticipated spur you on?
Morrigan grimaced and shrugged before speaking.
— Hmph… It was foolish to ask. The most unpleasant thing is that there's logic within your questions. And these stupid thoughts that everything is predetermined… It's terrifying.
Standing and turning toward the exit, Leliana quietly murmured:
— For me too…
When the footsteps faded, Morrigan pressed her palms to her temples. The information about the Seekers swirled in her head like shards of a broken mirror—each with its own reflection, but none whole.