The ground became rockier as the morning started to mature. Everyone was on edge, and the tension coiled like fog around them. Twice Alistair suddenly redirected them, and though he said nothing, it was plain he was herding them around clusters of darkspawn.
Once, he did not herd fast enough. One of the smaller darkspawn appeared among the stumpy, thorny trees that still tried to cling to the mossy rocks. It spotted them and turned to warn its fellows. Before Alistair could draw breath enough to call out an order Nike had a fletch sprouting in the back of the beast's neck. Its call emerged as nothing more than a bubbling gasp.
Fortunately, its ungraceful collapse and tumble down among the rocks went unnoticed by its herd, and the four were able to evade further notice.
It was nearing midday when Nike realized that among the naturally craggy landscape there were rocks that had clearly been purposefully laid. The tumbled remnants of stone walls and the occasional uneven paving stone underfoot had been mostly claimed by brown ferns, moss, and sickly weeds. Just as she noticed this, Alistair signaled them that they were close.
A few minutes later she could see the ragged bones of what looked to have been a rather grand tower, rising above a particularly thick nest of scrubby trees and thorny vines.
Whether it had been torn down through war or nothing more onerous than time was not readily apparent- whatever had happened to it had happened so long ago it was impossible to tell any more. Following Alistair, they soon approached the remnants of a broken stair leading into a tattered maw of stone and molded timber. A small tree had taken root just inside, sprouting up through what had at one time been a decorative polished floor. Cobwebs as thick as curtains clung to fingers of old and new ivy, and the sensation passing into this maw was almost like that of submerging in water.
The room had once been ringed by columns. The bases were still mostly intact, but the columns were little more than chunks of rubble scattered all over the place. As Alistair picked his way amongst this rubble, Nike looked upward. The broken top of the tower had become host to generations of birds- thick mats and tufts of their accumulated nests ringed the edges of the stonework like beaten wigs of false hair. At the peak, she could make out a pair of glittery eyes watching them out of a suggestion of dark feathers.
"These treaties are here?" Daveth asked, looking around the ruin with tightly knotted brows. "Not to sound pessimistic or anything but- wouldn't parchment have rotted away ages ago?"
"They were sealed in a box protected by magic," Alistair said. "The box was hidden in the base of one of these columns, which was also enchanted with various protections."
Nike looked over at him. "Won't we need to counter the enchantments keeping them safe? I mean, if we are to retrieve them?"
"No worries- they will allow a Warden to-"
He had poked thoroughly around one of the broken bases while he'd been talking, and moved to another. As he was feeling around it, he suddenly broke off. Looking over his shoulder, Nike saw a thin slab of stone had been removed from the base and discarded. There was an open space behind where the slab had been. It was empty, save for a clog of leaves and litter dragged into it by any number of rats.
"It-…it should be here!" Alistair said. They had been talking in somewhat hushed tones since entering, but in his surprise he raised his voice. Whatever bird had been roosting above them startled away at the sound of it with a dry rustle of wings. "It should be right here!"
"Judging by the look of that hole, it's been empty for years," Ser Jory said.
"If a Warden had retrieved them Duncan would have known about it," Alistair said, still fumbling around in the hole as if he'd find this box hidden in the leaves, dirt, and tiny bones. "No one but a Warden could have-"
"Well, what have we here, I wonder?"
They all whirled around, Alistair straightening so abruptly he barked the back of his hand hard on the edge of the column and let out an involuntary yelp. Ser Jory had his sword in his hand in a breath.
A woman was standing, leaning with arms folded against one of the stumps of the pillars just at the top of the steps. A staff of gnarled wood, dripping with dark feathers knotted by a leather cord, leaned at the same cant right beside her.
Feathers seemed to be a theme; she had several along with polished stones, bones, and bits of wood hanging around her neck. Her hair, so black it almost seemed blue, was knotted up behind her head with yet more corded feathers and stones. The eyes that measured them were the color of gold pieces.
Ser Jory had drawn his weapon fastest but he was not the only one who did so. Daveth and then Alistair soon had their blades in hand as well.
"Who are you?" Jory demanded. "How have you come here?"
"I have come here the same as you," she said. Her accent was Ferelden, but she had an odd way of speaking that Nike could not pin down- and she had spoken to folk from Orlais to the Marches to Antiva. It was strangely archaic and formal. "Under my own power and for my own purposes. I saw you sneaking about the wood. Where do they go, I wondered? What do they seek?"
"That's none of your never mind, what we're doing or what we seek," Daveth said.
"Be careful," Alistair said to him. "She looks Chasind."
The woman appeared mildly amused at this. "You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?"
"Yes," Alistair said slowly. "Swooping is…bad."
Nike looked at her companions. "Look at the three of you. Swords in hand and her without so much as a dagger- your bravery has me in awe."
None of the men put their weapons away, though Daveth at least looked slightly chagrined.
"Don't need a sword to kill a man," Jory said warily. "Magic could tie us ten ways to Sunday."
"Your sword won't be much use then either, would it?" Nike asked. "For a once-Knight you have poor manners."
She looked at the stranger. "My name is Nike Cousland. Might I ask for yours?"
"You may," the woman said, and appeared a little pleased. "My name is Morrigan."
"It is my honor to meet you," Nike said. "We are here looking for something."
"The only ones with right, who would come to this ruin seeking something, would be Wardens," Morrigan said. "May I assume…?"
"You may," Nike said.
"Then I further surmise that what you are looking for are some treaties that were secreted in that very pillar behind where you stand. As you have discovered, they are there no longer."
"Did you take them?" Alistair asked. "You know entirely too much about this- you did, didn't you?"
"I did not," Morrigan said, looking indignant.
"Do you know who did?" Nike asked. Morrigan's gold eyes shifted back to her.
"By happenstance I do. Tis not far from here, if you would like me to guide you."
"Thank you, we would appreciate it," Nike said, ignoring the scowls sent her way from her companions. From the corner of her eye, Nike saw Jory lean over and begin whispering to Alistair.
Morrigan laughed a bit, lightly.
"You, I like," she said to Nike. She straightened, plucking up the staff from its lean. "Come, I shall guide you to what you seek."
She turned and stepped out of the rend in the wall, heading down the steps without a backward glance. Nike began to follow, but Alistair caught her arm.
"Be cautious," he said in a low voice. "She could be leading us into an ambush."
"I'm not a fool," Nike said, tugging her arm away from him. "You want to find your treaties? She says she knows where they are. Without her we have no choice but to return empty-handed, and I see no reason to antagonize her. Nothing can be gained from that, except her hostility."
"That staff," Daveth said quietly. "I think she's a mage…maybe an apostate. Isn't there a legend about a Witch in the Wilds-?"
"Oh Maker save me," Nike said angrily. "You three stand here with your thumbs plugging up your works and tell each other children's fancy tales about witches, while darkspawn slowly swarm this ruin and make their way to Ostagar. In the meanwhile I will go and at least try and find these treaties were sent out here to get."
Without bothering to wait for them, she headed out of the ruin as well and after the woman who called herself Morrigan. She was walking steadily, measuring each pace with her staff and without apparent concern. She seemed completely indifferent as to whether or not they actually followed her, not bothering to look back toward them. When Nike caught up and fell in at her shoulder, however, she glanced at her.
"You are polite for a Warden," she said, and Nike got the impression she was both measuring and teasing. Then her eyes moved to Nike's shoulder. "That is a fine bow. Are you a hunter?"
"When I have cause," she replied. "Are you a mage?"
"When I have cause," Morrigan replied, and her odd gold eyes seemed to flash ever so slightly, before she looked back toward their path.
Nike glanced back and saw that the three men had decided to follow but seemed disinterested in catching up close enough to be able to hear their conversation. Hoping she wasn't about to overstep bounds she looked at her new companion.
"What is it like, having to live on the run?"
Morrigan seemed vaguely surprised at the question, but it was hard to tell. She was obviously used to keeping her cards close to her chest and letting nothing, not even expression, give her away too much.
"Are you asking me what life is like as an apostate?" she asked.
"Sort of," Nike said. "Please, stop me if it is too personal. I'm not so much interested in the magical aspect of things at the moment as just…the hiding aspect."
"It does not bother you that I am an illegal mage, apart from the control of the Circle?"
Nike shook her head, her brows knit.
"But I may attack you at any time! Transform you into a frog or bewitch you into thinking you are a rooting pig searching for sweet truffles! Does this not frighten you?"
"I may attack you at any time too," Nike said loftily. "Aren't you afraid I will?"
"You have given me no cause to fear such a thing."
"Same answer to your question," Nike said.
Morrigan seemed pleased at this. At least, Nike thought she might have noticed the faintest whisper of a smile, before the other woman was studying her seriously again.
"Now I wonder- is your question posed because you imagine you might as well have to live a life in hiding? For what reason would a Warden need to run?"
"I'm not a Warden," Nike said, and it came out far more bitterly than even she anticipated. "My family was betrayed and murdered and the Wardens have conscripted me to become one of them. I have no desire whatsoever to do so but apparently, if I refuse I can be executed."
"Would living a life in hiding be preferable?" Morrigan asked.
"If it meant I could track down the bloody traitor that killed my family and return the favor- yes."
"You cannot do this as a Warden?"
"It doesn't matter if I could or not!" Nike said, feeling her temper rise. It wasn't aimed at Morrigan, but the feelings of grief and fury and helplessness she'd felt since the events at Highever were near to the surface. "It wasn't my choice, don't you see that? I didn't choose this, I don't want it, yet it's being forced on me. Meanwhile that murdering bastard is walking around the halls of my home, eating off my family's plates, doing whatever he wishes without consequence!"
"Were it I, his suffering would be approached only by those who sought to get in my way before I reached him," Morrigan said evenly.
"So you think I should go on the run, go after Howe and make him pay for what he did, Wardens be damned?"
"I am puzzled as to why it is my advice on such you seek? It sounds to me as if you have already decided your course."
Nike stared at her a moment, thinking that over. "I suppose we simply come back around to the fact you know what it's like. Running from the Circle, hunted everywhere you go, with conscription or death if you're caught…as I would be if I ran from the Wardens."
"I cannot advise you on what to expect as a mage insisting on living a life free from the Circle, as that is not the fate that is before you," Morrigan said. "However, were I no mage and instead an undesiring conscript to the Wardens seeking vengeance for the injustices done to me…I would remain with the Wardens."
For some reason this shocked Nike. She could not have said why- her acquaintance with this stranger had been less than half an hour, but it did not strike her as something she would have suggested. So taken aback was she that only one word came out in response.
"Why?"
"Practicality," Morrigan said. "This villain has slaughtered your family and taken all you hold dear. As you are, you lack the ability to exact the vengeance that is richly deserved. However, tis my understanding the Wardens have secrets and powers of their own. I find it far more enticing to make said secrets and powers mine and use them against my enemy, than to abandon such valuable tools and thus have more to fight against to accomplish my goal."
For several minutes, Nike considered this. She walked in silence, unconsciously chewing on her lower lip as her thoughts chewed over Morrigan's proposal. It was not an entirely new idea- she had briefly considered it before, but somehow coming from Morrigan it made more sense.
If she abandoned the Wardens and ran, she might reach Howe…but she'd be hunted every step of the way and have to fight the Wardens and the arm of the King as well as ultimately Howe and his men. The chances of success were slim.
If, however, she became a Warden herself- she gained access to not only their support but their secrets, weapons, and resources. The King would have no reason to stand against her- had in fact expressed a desire to already stand with her and bring Howe to justice. She had no doubt that desire was- stated or not- contingent on her being a Warden and not a deserter.
There was wisdom in this idea, and it was suddenly tempting. The only thing it left was the noose of being a Warden for the rest of her life- tied completely to them, as one of them, forever.
She would no longer be Lady Cousland, not ever. The title did not concern her as much as did feeling as if she were abandoning her entire family lineage- abandoning everything her parents had given her.
That was the price to pay if she stayed, but it gave her a far greater chance to see Howe brought to justice.
I suppose it comes down to what everything comes down to- is it worth the cost?
She turned that over and over in her head in silence as they continued on. Morrigan did not seem affronted about the sudden lack of conversation, nor did she demand to know Nike's decision. She just kept on, her every motion indicating that she was not only intimately familiar with each inch of these Wilds but that she was part of them, born of them, suited to them down to her deepest bones.
She walked as silently as any skilled hunter, leaving no track or disturbance behind. Nike felt heavy-footed and almost clumsy in comparison.
Finally, they worked down a rocky hillside to a little hollow where a stream cut through. The hollow was snarled with trees but near the stream there was a little dirt yard and a tired looking thatched hut almost as snarled and tangled as the underbrush. A few thin chickens scratched in the yard. A dusty and empty box for wood was by the front door, near a beaten looking axe. Sitting almost despondently on a three legged stool was a gray tatter of a woman, face so lined with wrinkles and toasted by the sun it looked like broken leather. She was almost lethargically tossing handfuls of grain to the chickens, each handful scooped from the small coarse-weave sack on her bony lap.
Morrigan stopped as the hut and the woman came into view and looked at Nike. It was as if she'd completely forgotten the three men were there, even as they caught up and stopped beside them.
"Here we are," she said cheerfully. "The irascible thief who made away with your treaties sits just there. Keep your weapons in hand, she is a bloodthirsty creature. I trust you shall dispense the fullest measure of justice upon her."
"Her?" Jory asked, aghast. "She looks like a stiff wind could snap her in two."
"She was joking," Nike said to him with a bitter glance.
Morrigan gave a tiny laugh and then an almost wistful sigh. "Oh, if only t'were true. Mother! Mother, I have brought guests."
The tatter of a woman didn't bother looking up. Her fingers dipped, came out with a few grains of feed, and she cast them to the chickens again.
"Wardens?" the old woman said, as the chickens rustled about in the dust for the grains. "Here for their treaties, no doubt?"
Her voice did not seem to fit her. It sounded aged enough but at the same time it was rich and vibrant. It seemed impossible such a voice could come from such a weak and tiny frame.
"Yes, Mother," Morrigan said in a long-suffering tone. "Just as you foresaw."
"Foresaw?" Jory asked and looked at Alistair. "She knew who we were without even looking up and now there's talk of foresight? They're witches, the both of them. Apostates! They stole the treaties-"
At that the old woman looked up, head lifting and eyes snapping toward Jory as fast as a viper strike. However old, weak, and bent she may have appeared, her eyes matched her voice- far too vibrant and intense for such a body. Her gaze fixed on the knight was like glimmers of broken glass.
"Stole?" she said indignantly. "A fine accusation! Can one steal a calf from a river? Can a child be stolen from a fire?"
"And…she's mad," Daveth said. He sounded like he didn't know whether to laugh or spit. "This should be entertaining."
Nike knit her brows. "You can't steal those things," she said slowly. The woman did seem crazy but Nike thought she saw the sense in her words. "You…can only rescue them."
"Oho!" the old woman said, and got to her feet. She seemed to have forgotten about the seed on her lap and the bag spilled into the dirt and was ignored, except by the chickens. "And finally we have sense! Supper! Oh, where is supper?"
She looked down at the milling chickens then bent and grabbed one by the neck. In a single wrenching movement she nearly twisted its head off. Alistair made a faint sound that was half surprise, half disgust.
"You boy," the woman gestured at Daveth with the now twitching body of the otherwise limp chicken. "The pot is over there and there's water in the stream. Fetch fetch."
She used the chicken to gesture at an old iron pot standing upside down just outside the dooryard. The chicken then swung toward Jory.
"The woodpile is low. Chicken soup tastes horrid raw. Axe is obvious."
The dead fowl now literally sailed toward Alistair- because the old lady had thrown it at him. The chicken slapped into his chest plate and he fumbled madly to catch it, horror on his face. He got a grip on it and shifted his look of horror to the old woman. She made shooing motions at him.
"Well? Get going! Feathers taste nasty too, so do beaks and claws. Supper! Supper and sense, that is what we need. Come here, Sense."
She reached out and took hold of Nike's elbow. The grip was firm but not tight, however her fingers felt like old, oddly hot twigs. With a tug she began to pull Nike toward the entrance to the hut.
"They shall supper," she said in her rich, out-of-place voice. "We must talk."