#bardcraft

At one point, as though she’d settled something privately, Leliana openly addressed Morrigan, striding beside her horse’s flank. There were remnants of doubt in her voice—caution, and a hint of anticipation she tried to hide, even from herself:

— If, despite all the dangers, we're going to immerse ourselves in one of the darkest of pursuits, we should discuss the price.

A shadow flitted across Morrigan's face, twisting into a sinister smirk.

— I can't help noticing that, these past few days, the “price” of my every step has been troubling you. As though you'll have to pay it, not me.

Leliana briefly glanced at the spearmen, but Morrigan, ignoring the warning, continued:

— There's no point hiding behind euphemisms. Your skill is going to waste. These warriors are part of what's happening, as much as we are. And starting with petty secrets… a dubious move. They'd sooner hear about politics from you than from me. But to hint at the price…

The witch shot Leliana a sharp upward look and spelled it out:

— It's not so hard to guess what this is about.

Leliana, holding the reins in her good hand, shook her head, faintly puzzled:

— Admit it—it's strange to expect understanding…

— From one who is, essentially, a girl from the backwoods of the world?

— Precisely.

— Doubt is warranted. Let's test my discernment. The goal of politics is power. It's less a science than the art of ruling. Either there are no rules—or there are countless. And one must remember: the choice of tools changes both the result and the “politician” themselves. So “love” is better than spears, yet a love of spears is prized above all else. Oh, yes… and every weakness is an opportunity for an enemy. Strip away the clever words, and it's simply the survival of a lone hunter in a dark, unfamiliar forest.

Noticing the flicker of smiles on the faces of some of the younger spearmen, the bard nodded to her interlocutor and clarified:

— I'm probably already used to your oddities. Which, logically, should have put me on my guard. A wildling from the Korkari, on par with a bard from the capital of Orlais, holding forth on almost-philosophical subtleties of “politics.” In any other situation, nothing could have convinced me otherwise: you'd be a wretched actress who can't hold her tongue. Fine. But have you considered that weakness isn't found only in you, but in your companions as well?

Chuckling, the witch patted the horse on the flank:

— Yes. Lately, such thoughts have often distracted me from other matters. Doubt is the shadow of those who can think. Speaking of which… earlier, the Seeker kept me on a short leash—tight, and in quite a hurry. Now Tristan is as weak as ever and full of fear. Yet he still craves answers. On top of that, he believes he needs a firm hand for an honest conversation. It's no wonder Tristan now tries to claim something important from me.

[...]

The descent took the same two days the young women had needed for the ascent. And after long days of foul weather, the clouds finally tore apart, letting through pale rays of sunlight. In that light, the ancient bridge of the Imperial Highway caught the sun—its dark silhouette looming over the river, whose waters, though bound by ice, continued to murmur beneath it. The metallic tang of the frosty air had finally mingled with the heavy scent of pine. Shielding her eyes from the winter sun as it slipped behind cloud and reappeared, Morrigan frowned. Her muttering was barely audible:

— A blizzard would have been better. A clear sky is completely out of place…

Less than fifteen minutes later, Schtille, walking second, clapped the lead man on the shoulder. The man had scarcely said a dozen words over the entire trek. Now, too, he only pointed in silence to the right of the bridge: a thin wisp of smoke, and patches of white canvas among the snow-capped pines. An unfamiliar camp lay higher up the slope, under the Highway's shelter, where the wind lost its fury.

[...]

Morrigan and Leliana felt the weight of glances—the warriors, in silence, acknowledged that the witch's warning had come true. But Morrigan only squeezed the leader's shoulder in gratitude and, with a slight nod, motioned for him to take the lead, as they had agreed.

A dozen paces later, one of the older men said so softly it was almost lost:

— Fresh meat on the coals—newcomers.

Schtille nodded and added hoarsely:

— So they've been waiting.

Leliana, leading the pack animal, swept the treeline with a glance before voicing her thought:

— We are being watched.

Morrigan grinned, restrained, and agreed:

— To hunt well here, they'd need archers riding with the patrol. But you can't sit among the branches for long in this cold. That's why the birds have fallen silent.

The moment the party started up the slope, several figures emerged from among the trees. Identical thick jackets; fur cloaks with hoods—everything sewn to keep the cold from reaching the body even after long hours in the saddle. Scabbards at their hips. And when one of them turned to signal someone back in camp, Morrigan's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of simple embroidery on the heavy, dark fabric: an upturned white sword. The word slipped out before she meant it, cold and keen as a blade:

— Templars…