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‘There’s lyrium,’ said Surana. Her voice was momentarily muffled by the sound of her undershirt getting caught around her face. ‘In the walls. Have you seen it?’
She emerged, hair all fluffed, eyes gleaming. She was giddy. Had been giddy since she’d learned they’d have to come here. It was Alistair who’d suggested they remain on the eastern side of the country, and Morrigan’s unwilling agreement with the man that had kept them from the dwarven city so long.
‘Doesn’t it make you just… tingle?’
She bent as she asked that, the shift in gravity making the sweat on her ribs slide towards her neck. Unconsciously Morrigan swiped her tongue over her upper lip, as if to taste Surana’s.
‘It certainly makes me something,’ Morrigan said, more focused on the elf’s body than her words.
Morrigan had scarcely noticed the lyrium in the walls in favour of cursing the molten river.
Meanwhile, Surana didn’t seem to mind they hadn’t seen the sun in over a week. There were breezes here. Some physics Morrigan didn’t comprehend at the heat of the lava against the cool of the rocks and the largeness of the space. She didn’t know, didn’t care.
The walls were dripping. Morrigan had cast an ice spell; it did not hold for near long enough.
Used to the stone of the Tower Surana focused on everything else: the architecture, the society, the culture. The wall carvings. The lack of sun did not bother her, distracted from the heat by the wonder of this underground world.
The light came upwards, as though the sun were beneath their feet, but far dimmer and far too warm. The night before last Morrigan had dreamed it had turned into a fire-worm which had leaped up to devour her. Her waking had woken Surana, but Morrigan had been loathe to share the reason for her nightmare. Childish, foolish, an Alistair-like fear of imaginations. She had scorned herself, and forced herself to lie still so as to pretend sleep until it became true.
‘I want to take some. Do you think they would notice?’
‘Take some?’ asked Morrigan. Suarana’s feet were bare, little toes curling on the stone floor. Morrigan had forgotten what they were discussing. She lay back on the pillows. Shifted her arms to find some space of cool cloth. There was none to be found.
‘The lyrium,’ said Surana. ‘In the walls. I want to lick it.’
The mattress bounced with her weight settling down beside Morrigan. Her hair was warm, the back of her neck wet, and still Morrigan allowed her to rest her head against her stomach. Such a wonder, this thing, this whatever it was.
She had heard Wynne offering concerned advice.
‘We are low,’ Morrigan hummed. There had been too many tiresome fights with dwarves upset at their picking a different side. As though it mattered. Politics. She sneered at the roof. The fights were simple, and Surana had been trying new spells. Practice meant swallowing more lyrium than, perhaps, was safe. But Wynne had stayed topside, and was not there to rein them in with caution.
‘I just want to try it.’ Surana rocked her head, finding a comfortable place between Morrigan’s hips and ribs. ‘Raw lyrium. I reckon it’s gotta zing.’
‘You’ve never had it?’
‘Never.’
‘Curious.’
‘How would I?’
‘Before the Circle,’ suggested Morrigan. ‘After all, you are an elf.’
‘But I was not a mage back then.’
Morrigan felt that Surana wanted some proper discussion, but she was too tired from the day, too addled from the heat. ‘If only the bath were bigger,’ she sighed. ‘Surely they have had outsiders before. They must have some rooms with everything at our proportions. If the bath were bigger I would have a bath, with ice. Do you know, there are seas where ice floats in the water?’
‘Really?’ gasped Surana. ‘Where? I want to see that. Giant blocks of ice?’
‘I don’t know,’ Morrigan admitted. She had only read about it, in one of Flemeth’s books.
‘I’ve never seen the sea.’ Neither had Morrigan, for that matter. Such a tiny world she had lived in, and only realising it now she had left it behind. ‘Maybe Shale can do something about the bath,’ Surana offered.
‘Smash it?’ asked Morrigan. Surana giggled, and, at the tickling hair against her stomach Morrigan could only laugh along.
‘That might ruin my chances with the King.’
Morrigan smiled up at the roof. ‘I don’t think they care much about indoor decor.’
‘I need to do something,’ said Surana.
‘About the decor?’
‘About the bath.’ She ran a hand down Morrigan’s thigh and held it up, all wet.
‘Don’t do that. That’s foul.’
‘It’s yours,’ Surana pointed out. Her hand dropped back to Morrigan’s thigh. ‘I need to cool you down.’
‘Leaving your hand there will not achieve that purpose,’ Morrigan said.
‘No,’ said Surana, moving it. ‘I suppose not.’
Morrigan patted her head. ‘Get up. I’m going to ice the floor and lie on that.’
‘Ah, my poor wild mage, reduced to such things.’ Surana peeled herself off the bed.
‘I would much prefer if it rained. I like rain,’ Morrigan said, with some feeling.
Surana, half naked and glistening, shook her head. ‘It makes everything damp.’
‘I like damp,’ said Morrigan. The stone was all slithery, with the ice melting immediately under the weight of her body. ‘This is wonderful.’
‘I pity you,’ Surana said, looking down at her. ‘I cannot stand idle while you suffer.’ She turned heel towards the en suite. ‘I am going to do something about the bath.’