Times of Contempt
Vedymins, a. called Witchers by Nordlings (ob.) – a mysterious elite
cast of warrior-priests, probably an offshoot of Druids (ob.). According to
folk beliefs they possessed magic powers and superhuman abilities with which
they fought against dark spirits, monsters and evil creatures. In reality,
being the masters of swordsmanship, they were used by Northern Chieftains in
their tribal battles. During the battle they fell into a trance, most probably
caused by autohypnosis or drugs, during which they fought with blind fury while
completely immune to pain and even the most severe wounds – the fact which
strengthened the superstitions about their supernatural powers. The theory
about their supposed origins as products of mutation or genetic engineering had
not been proved. V. are heroes of many folktales of Nordlings (por. F. Delanhoy
“Myths and legends of Northern Peoples”)
Effenberg & Talbot,
Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, Book XV
Chapter One
In order to make a living as a courier, Aplegatt used to say to the
youngsters applying in the ranks, two things are needed - a head of gold and an
ass of steel.
A head of gold is indispensable, taught Aplegatt, since inside of the
leather sack under his clothes the courier keeps only messages of low
importance, the kind that can be fearlessly entrusted to the treacherous paper.
The truly important, secret messages, the kind that matter a lot, the courier
must memorize and tell the one whom they are intended for. Word by word, and
sometimes these are not simple words. Hard to pronounce, much less memorize. In
order to remember and make no mistake in repeating one needs truly a head of
gold.
As for an ass of steel, well, that every courier will find out by
himself. After having spent three days and nights in the saddle and having run
for a hundred or even two hundred miles on rocky roads. Ha, sure, one does not
sit in the saddle all day long, one dismounts sometimes to rest. The human can
withstand much, but the horse cannot. But when time comes to go back in the
saddle, the rear sometimes yells ‘God, no!’
But who needs couriers nowadays Master Aplegatt, asked the youngsters.
From Vengerberg to Vizima, for example, one cannot pass the distance in less
than four or five days, even on the fastest mount. And how much does a wizard
in Vengerberg need to pass the message to wizard in Vizima? Half an hour at
most. Courier’s horse might go limp. Robbers or Squirrels might shoot him,
wolves or gryphons might rip him apart. One minute there’s a courier, the next
he’s gone. While a magic message will reach destination point for sure, won’t
lose the way, be late or become lost. Who needs couriers with wizards
everywhere, close to every castle?
Couriers are not needed anymore, Master Aplegatt.
For some time Aplegatt also thought that he was not needed by anybody
anymore. He was thirty-six, short but strong and sinewy, hard work didn’t scare
him and he had, naturally, a head of gold. He could find another job to feed
himself and his wife, save some money for his two unwed as of yet daughters’
dowry and keep helping the one who was wed already, but whose dim-witted
husband had no luck in business. But Aplegatt didn’t want to and couldn’t
imagine himself doing anything else. He was the Royal Messenger.
And suddenly, after a long and painful period of obscurity and
inactivity, Aplegatt became needed once more. The hooves thundered on the roads
once again. The couriers, like during good old days, again started crossing the
country carrying messages from one settlement to another.
Aplegatt knew why it was so. He saw a lot, and heard even more. He was
expected to wipe the passed message from his mind immediately, so as not to be
reminded of it even during torture. But Aplegatt did remember. And understood
why kings suddenly stopped communicating with each other by the use of magic
and help from wizards. The messages carried by couriers were supposed to be
kept secret from the magicians. The kings lost trust in the wizards, stopped
sharing with them their secrets.
What was the cause of this sudden cooling in relations between kings and
wizards, Aplegatt didn’t know and didn’t care. Both were, in his opinion,
inconceivable creatures whose moves were incomprehensible – particularly now,
in such difficult times. And the fact that difficult times were approaching was
hard to miss while traveling the land from one city to another, one castle to
another, one kingdom to another.
There were loads of soldiers on the roads. Each new step brought new
rows of infantry or riders and each new commander was angry, alarmed, harsh and
so sure of his own importance as if fate of the entire world depended on him
alone. Also, settlements and castles were full of armed crowds, hustle and
bustle day and night. The usually unseen counts and castellans were marching
restlessly on the walls and courtyards, angry like wasps before the storm, they
yelled, swore, gave orders and kicks.
In other words, the threat of war hung over them in the air.
Aplegatt rose and looked around. Downhill was a river and behind it were
forests. The courier rushed his horse. Time was pressing on.
He was on his way for the past two days. King’s orders and letters found
him in Hagge, where he was resting after his return from Tretogor. He left the
castle at night, galloping along the left bank of the Pontar, he crossed the
border of Temeria before dawn and now, at
He crossed the river with no trouble – there was no rain from June and
water level had fallen a lot. He reached the road leading from Vizima to
south-east in the direction of dwarfish smithies and settlements inside the
mountain Mahakam. There were many wagons on this road and Aplegatt sighed with
relief. Scoia’tael kept away from crowds. Campaigns against human-killing elves
continued in Temeria for a year, the pursued Squirrel commandos split into
smaller groups and smaller groups kept away from busy roads and didn’t organize
ambushes on them.
Before the evening came he was already on the western border of Ellander
principality, near Zavada village, from where he had a straight and safe way to
He took the saddle off the horse all by himself, ordering the stable boy
to go away. The royal messenger never lets anyone touch his horse. He ate a
solid meal. Drank some beer. Listened to the news. There was lots of it. All
sorts of travellers stayed in the tavern, from all parts of the world.
In Dol Angra, heard Aplegatt, new incidents took place. Again, the
Lyrian cavalry troops clashed on the border with Nilfgaardian ones. Again Meve,
the Queen of Lyria, loudly accused Nilfgaard of a provocation and called the king
of Aedirn,
In Temeria, said the merchants from the south, there’s a sadness and
despair among Cintrian emigrants, gathered under the banner of Marshal
Vissegerd. It seemed that the terrible news of the death of Lion Cub,
Calanthe’s granddaughter princess Cirilla, had been confirmed.
He also heard other, even more terrifying rumors. In villages near Aldersberg
cows had suddenly started leaking blood from their udders and the Deathly
Maiden, an omen of horrible disasters, was seen at dawn in the fog. In Brugge,
near Brokilon Forest, the forbidden kingdom of the Dryads, the Wild Hunt
appeared and as everyone knows it is a sure omen of war. As for the cape of
Bremervoord, a phantom ship was spotted there and on it’s deck stood a wraith –
black knight with the wings of a bird of prey on his helmet.
The courier didn’t listen very carefully, he was too tired for that. He
laid down heavily on the bed and immediately fell asleep.
He woke up at dawn. When he went outside he was surprised – he wasn’t
the first one to be getting ready for departure and that was a rare event. A
black stallion stood next to the well and beside it a woman dressed in male
clothing washed her hands in the trough. Hearing Aplegatt’s footsteps she
turned around and brushed away her long, black hair. The courier bowed. The
woman nodded.
Entering the stables he almost crashed with the second early bird, a
young lady in velvet beret who was leading an apple mare. The girl rubbed her
face and yawned, supporting herself with the help of the horse.
‘Oh my’ she murmured, passing the courier ‘I will fall asleep on the
horse… I will fall asleep for sure… Uaauaaua...’
‘When the mare starts trotting, the chill will awake you’ said Aplegatt
taking the saddle off the bench ‘Have a safe ride Miss.’
The girl turned around and looked at him like she had just noticed him.
Her eyes were big and green like a pair of emeralds. Aplegatt settled the
saddle on the horse.
‘I wished you a safe ride’ he repeated. Usually he wasn’t very talkative
but now he felt the need to talk with another person, even if that person was
just a plain, sleepy brat. Perhaps it was due to the long days on the trail, or
maybe it was because the girl reminded him of his middle daughter.
‘May the Gods watch over you’ he added ‘May they keep you from accidents
and poor weather. There’s only two of you and female at that… and times aren’t
good. Danger lurks everywhere.’
The girl opened her eyes widely. The courier felt a cold shiver sliding
down his spine.
‘Danger…‘ the girl said suddenly in a strange, changed voice ‘The danger
is quiet. You won’t hear it getting closer on its grey feathers. I had a dream.
The sand… The sand was warm from the sun…’
‘What?’ Aplegatt froze ‘What are talking about Miss? What sand?’
The girl shuddered and wiped her face. The apple mare shook it’s head.
‘Ciri!’ yelled the dark-haired woman outside ‘Hurry up!’
The girl yawned, looked at Aplegatt and blinked as if surprised by his
presence. The courier was silent.
‘Ciri’ spoke the woman again ‘Have you fallen asleep over there?’
‘I’m coming, Lady Yennefer!’
When Aplegatt finished saddling the horse and took it outside there was
no sign of the woman or the girl. The courier jumped onto the stallion and
remembered the green eyes of the sleepy girl, her strange words. Quiet danger?
Grey feathers? Warm sand? She must have been feeble-minded, he decided. Many of
such unfortunates could be seen around these days, insane lasses harmed by
renegade soldiers or other thugs… Yes, she was crazy for sure. Or maybe just
not quite awake yet? It’s a wonder what people sometimes blabber about when
still half-asleep.
He shivered again and felt a tinge of pain between shoulder blades. He
rubbed his back with a fist.
The moment he was on the road to Maribor he forced his horse into a
gallop. Time was pressing on.
***
He didn’t rest for long in Maribor – the day was not yet gone and the
wind was already blowing in his ears. The new mount, straight from Mariborian
stables, swept the road with it’s tail. Aplegatt’s chest was pressed by the
sack with diplomatic post. His rear hurt like hell.
‘Pfeh, may yer break yor neck, yer damn yob!’ yelled some cart driver
behind him while calming the horse scared by the galloping stallion ‘He runs
like death itself were lickin' his toes! Yer won't escape the Reaper!’
Aplegatt wiped the dust from his eyes.
The previous day he handed the post to king Foltest and then recited the
secret message from king Demavend.
Demavend to Foltest. All is ready in Dol Angra. The masqueraders are
waiting for orders. Planned time of action: second night of November, after the
new moon. The boats must land on the other side of the river two days later.
A flock of crows flew over the path. They were flying to the east, in
the direction of Mahakam, Dol Angra and Vengerberg. The courier kept repeating
to himself contents of the secret message from the king of Temeria to the ruler
of Aedirn.
Foltest to Demavend. First: Postpone the action. Smartasses are
preparing a conference in Thanedd. This conference might change a lot. Second:
the search for the Lion Cub can be called off. It’s confirmed. The Cub is dead.
Aplegatt rushed his horse. Time was pressing on.
***
The narrow path was blocked by carts. Aplegatt slowly approached the
long column of vehicles. He realized right away that he won’t be able to make
his way past the jam. Turning away now would take too much time and the thought
of going around the obstacle through the forest at dusk didn’t make him happy
at all.
‘What happened here?’ he asked the drivers of the last cart in the
column, two elderly men of which one looked asleep and the other looked dead
‘Robbery? Squirrels? Speak! I’m in a hurry…’
Before any of them had a chance to answer, shouts could be heard from
the faraway head of the column. The drivers quickly jumped onto the wagons and
whipped their horses and oxen. The column started moving ahead. The sleeping
old man woke up while the dead-looking one opened his eyes and stared at
Aplegatt.
‘How impatient.’ he said ‘Oi, sonny, yer sure are lucky. Had yer arrived
here at noon, yer’d be standin' here with us waitin' for a free pass. We’re all
in an hurry, right, but we had ter wait. How ter get through the closed road?’
‘The road was closed? How come?’
‘Some terrible man-eater appeared here, sonny. Attacked a knight ridin'
with his squire. It’s said that the monster ripped knight’s head off and
horse’s guts out. The squire managed ter flee and came back with dreadful tales
of the path bein' painted all over with blood…’
‘What kind of monster?’ asked Aplegatt ‘a Dragon?’
‘No, not a dragon’ said the other man ‘They say ‘mandygore’ or sumfin’
like that. The squire said that it’s some sort of flyin' beast, right, terribly
huge. And vicious! We thought: it’ll eat the chuffin' knight and leave, but no!
Son of a bitch sat on the bloody path and stays there, right, hissin', right,
barin' it’s fangs…. So, whoever got close and took a peek at the bleedin'
monster left the bleedin' cart behind and run like hell. The bloody jam got a
mile long and swamps are everywhere 'round, right, no way back or through. So
we waited…’
‘So many hardy men!’ snickered the courier ‘And stood there like a stunned
mullet. Should have grabbed axes and slayed the beast.’
‘Well, some tried’ said the old man ‘Three dwarves from the merchant’s
guard, and with them four conscripts on their way ter Carreras castle, right,
to the army. The dwarves got terribly mauled and the conscripts…’
‘Chickened out’ finished the other man and spat ‘Run away the moment
they saw that mandygore. Rumor has it that one crapped his pants. Oi, have a
look, right, have a look, sonny, right there!’
‘I don’t wish to’ growled Aplegatt ‘Crapped pants are of no interest to
me.’
‘Not that! The monster! The dead monster! Warriors are puttin’ it on a
cart! See?’
Aplegatt raised his head. Despite the gloom and curious mob he could see
a huge carcass. Warriors lifted it up and threw it onto the cart. Horses,
nervous from the stench, neighed.
‘No stopping!’ yelled the soldier in command ‘Drive ahead! No blocking
the pass!’
The elderly rushed the mules. Aplegatt rode along.
‘So it seems that the warriors did slay the monster after all?’
‘If only’ snickered the elder ‘Warriors, once they arrived, did nuffin’
but yell at people. Stand still, move away, do this, do that. They didn’t rush
to the beast at all. They called for a witcher.’
‘For a witcher?’
‘Exactly’ assured him the other man ‘Someone recalled spottin’ a witcher
in a village nearby, so they called for him. He rode past us later on. White
hair, ugly gob and a big sword. Less than an hour later someone yelled that
road is clear, because the witcher killed the beast. So we started movin’. And
that’s when yer arrived.’
‘Ha!’ murmured Aplegatt deep in thought ‘I’ve been riding all over the
world for so many years and yet I’ve never once seen a witcher. Did anyone
watch him killing this monster?’
‘I saw!’ yelled a boy with unruly hair approaching the cart from the
other side ‘I’ve seen everything! Struth! Coz’ I stood next to the soldiers,
right on the front.’
‘Do tell, kid.’
‘Twas
like this’ started the boy ‘The witcher came to the commander. Said his name’s
Gernant. Commander said that one name or another, he better get the job done.
And he showed where the monster were. The witcher came up, stared for a while
and said that it’s an unusually big manticore and he’ll slay it for two hundred
crowns.‘
‘Two hundred?’ gasped the elderly ‘Was he mad?’
‘Commander said same thing, ‘cept a bit more naughtily. And the witcher
answers that this is the final price and he doesn’t give a damn, right, the
creature can stay here ‘till the bleedin' end of the chuffin' world for all he
cares. Commander says he won’t pay this much, right, he’d rather wait for it
ter fly away. The witcher replies that it won’t fly away, ‘coz it’s hungry and
pissed. And even if it leaves, it’ll come back soon ‘coz it’s his hunting
trierri… teri… terotor…’
‘Stop blabbing, you little snot’ growled the old man ‘Say what happened
next.’
‘I’m trying! So the witcher says this: the monster won’t leave but it’ll
spend the whole night eatin’ the knight’s corpse - slowly, ‘coz it’s inside the
armor, hard ter pick out. So then the merchants gathered and proposed
collectin’ together hundred crowns. But the witcher said that the beast is
called a manticore and its horribly dangerous, so they can shove those hundred
crowns up their arses, ‘coz he won’t risk his own for this amount. It pissed
the commander off and he yelled that such is the ploughing witcher’s lot to
risk their arses. But the merchants must have feared that the witcher will get
pissed too and so they agreed on hundred and fifty. And then the witcher took
out his sword and went after the manticore. And the commander made a sign
against evil after him, spat over his shoulder and said that such devilish
freaks ought not ter walk on this earth. To which one merchant said that if the
army slew the monsters, instead of messing around with elves in the woods, then
there would be no need for witchers at all and that…’
‘Stop wasting time’ interrupted the old man ‘Tell us what you’ve seen.’
‘I’ said the boy ‘was busy looking after the witcher’s mount, a chestnut
mare with a white arrow.’
‘To hell with the mare! Did you see the witcher kill the monster?’
‘Errr… I didn’t. I was pushed behind. Everybody was shoutin’ and the
horses were nervous, so…’
‘As I thought’ sneered the elderly ‘He didn’t see shit, the little
snot.’
‘But I’ve seen the witcher come back!’ protested the boy ‘And the
commander, who had watched the whole thing, was pale like a ghost and said to
his soldiers that it must be some magic or elvish tricks, ‘coz a normal man
can’t possibly be so bloody fast with his sword. The witcher then collected
money from the merchants, jumped on his mare and rode away.’
‘Hmm…’ murmured Aplegatt ‘Which way did he go? To Carreras? If so, then
maybe I could catch up and have a look at him.’
‘No’ said the boy ‘He went to Dorian. He seemed to be in a hurry.’
***
The witcher rarely dreamed of anything and even those infrequent dreams
were quickly forgotten the following morning. Even the nightmares – and usually
it was those that he had.
This time it was also a nightmare, but the witcher could recall at least
a fragment. From the whirlwind of unknown but unsettling figures, strange but
alarming scenes and incomprehensible but disturbing words and sounds suddenly
emerged a clear image. Ciri. Different from the one he remembered from Kaer
Morhen. Her gray hair were longer – the same she had the first time he’d met
her, in Brokilon. When she rode past him, he wanted to call her but couldn’t
find his voice. He wanted to run after her but felt like he was sinking in tar.
And Ciri didn’t seem to notice him, she kept galloping further in the night,
between the old, twisted willows and alders which waved their limbs as if
trying to catch her. And he could see that she was being chased. Pursued by a
black horse with a rider in black armor, wearing a helmet adorned by the wings
of a bird of prey.
He couldn’t move, he couldn’t shout. He could only watch as the winged
knight rides up to Ciri, catches her by the hair, pulls her off the horse and
drags her behind him. He could only watch how her face turns blue from the pain
and her mouth opens in a silent scream. Wake up, he told himself, unable
to withstand the terrifying vision. Wake up! Wake up right now!
He woke up.
He lay motionlessly for a long time, recalling the dream. Then he got
up. He took a sack from under his pillow and recounted the money. Hundred and
fifty for the manticore. Fifty for the fogger he killed in Carreras. And fifty
for Burdorff’s werewolf.
Fifty for a werewolf. It was a lot for such an easy job. The werewolf
didn’t try to protect himself. Cornered inside a cave he kneeled and waited for
the blow. The witcher felt sorry for him.
But he needed this money.
Less than an hour later he was traveling through the streets of Dorian,
searching for the familiar alley and the familiar sign.
The sign read ‘Codringher and Fenn,
consultation and legal service’. Geralt however knew far too well that the
service provided by Codringher and Fenn had little to do with law and the
partners themselves had many reasons too stay away from it’s representatives.
He also doubted that any of their clients knew the meaning of the word
‘consultation’.
In the lower tier of the building there were no doors; just a solid,
heavily locked gate, probably leading to the stables. In order to get to the
doors one needed to go to the back of the house, upstairs and then walk through
a dark corridor.
Geralt knocked and backed away. He knew that a mechanism installed in
doors could shoot twenty inch long spikes from the concealed holes. In theory,
the spikes were shot only when someone tried to pick the locks or when
Codringher or Fenn pressed the triggering device but Geralt often had the
chance of finding out that there are no perfectly reliable mechanisms and every
each one of them sometimes activates even when it ought not to.
There was likely some device inside of the doors, probably magical in
nature, which identified the guests. Nobody from the inside ever asked for a
name. The door opened and Codringher stood at it. Always Codringher, never
Fenn.
‘Welcome, Geralt’ said Codringher ‘Come inside. And there’s no need to
be so nervous, I disassembled the device. Something broke inside it few days
ago. It activated out of the sudden and finished off a salesman. Come! What
sort of help do you require from me?’
‘No’ the witcher entered the gloomy anteroom like always smelling of
cats ‘Not from you. From Fenn.‘
Codringher laughed loudly, confirming the witcher’s suspicion that Fenn
was an imaginary person, existing only to confuse the provosts, bailiffs, tax
collectors and other unwelcome guests.
They entered a room, a bit brighter than others. Geralt sat on the guest
chair. On the armchair across from him settled Codringher, the man who demanded
to be titled an ‘advocate’ and a man for whom there were no impossible things.
Whenever someone had any troubles, problems, hardships – they went straight to
Codringher. And then that troubled person suddenly acquired an indisputable
proof of the treachery and dishonesty of their business partners. Got a
bank loan with no unnecessary impediments. Collected money from a bankrupt
debtor. Got inheritance, despite the rich uncle’s threats of not leaving him a
penny. His son left prison due to the lack of evidence, and the witnesses withdrew
their claims. His daughter’s untrustworthy admirer suddenly lost interest. His
wife’s lover had an unfortunate accident. And the hated enemy or any other
bothersome individual stopped bothering – as a rule they disappeared without
trace.
Yes, whenever someone had troubles, they rode to Dorian, run to the firm
‘Codringher and Fenn’ and knocked on the mahogany doors. Then they saw
‘advocate’ Codringher, short, thin, with greyish hair and unhealthy skin of a
person who doesn’t get enough fresh air. Codringher led them to the room, sat
in the armchair, put a big, black-white cat on his lap and stroked it’s fur.
Both of them – Codringher and the cat – gazed at the guest with their creepy
yellowish-green eyes.
‘I got your letter’ Codringher and his cat gazed at the witcher with
their yellowish-green eyes ‘I was also visited by Dandelion. He was riding past
Dorian a few weeks back. He told me a bit about your problems. But he said
little. Very little.’
‘Is that so? What a surprise. That would have been the first time
Dandelion didn’t say too much.’
‘Dandelion’ Codringher didn’t smile ‘Said little, because he knew even
less. And he didn’t say all that he knew simply because you forbade him to do
so. Where does this lack of trust comes from? Even towards a colleague in
profession?’
Geralt snorted. Codringher would have pretended not to notice but he
couldn’t because the cat noticed. It opened it’s eyes widely, bared it’s fangs
and hissed quietly.
‘Don’t tease my cat’ said the advocate petting the animal ‘Are you
insulted by being called my colleague? But it’s true. I am also a witcher. I
also save people from monsters and from monstrous troubles. And I’m also doing
this for money.’
‘There are differences’ uttered Geralt, still under cat’s unfriendly
gaze.
‘There are’ agreed Codringher ‘You are an anachronistic witcher whereas
I am a modern one. Which is why you will soon be left jobless while I shall
prosper. Soon there will be no strigas, wyverns, endriags and werewolves left
on this world. And bastards will always exist.’
‘But you save from trouble mainly those bastards, Codringher. The
troubled poor men can’t afford your service.’
‘The troubled poor men can’t afford your service either. Poor men can
never afford anything, which is why they get called poor in the first place.’
‘What an unbelievably logical conclusion. And such a breathtaking
discovery at that.’
‘One of the aspects of truth is that it’s so breathtaking. And it is
true that the backbone and foundation of both our professions is wickedness.
Except yours is a diminishing relic of the past while mine is a reality and
still growing.’
‘Fine, fine. Let’s get to business.’
‘Finally’ Codringher nodded, petting the cat which purred loudly ‘But
let us start with the matters that are the highest in the hierarchy of
importance. First thing: my fee, dear colleague, is two hundred and fifty
Novigrad crowns. Do you possess that amount? Or could this be that you rank
yourself among the troubled poor men?’
‘Before, I’d like to check whether you deserve such a fee.’
‘Checking’ said the advocate coldly ‘is something that you should be
doing to your own pockets and doing it very quickly. And once your done, put
the money on the table. Then we shall go on to other, less important matters.’
Geralt untied the pouch at his belt and threw it onto the table. The cat
abruptly jumped down from it’s master’s knees and run from the room. The
advocate put the pouch inside a drawer, without checking it’s contents.
‘You shooed off my cat’ he said with authentic displeasure.
‘Sorry. I was under the impression that the clink of coins is the last
thing which could scare your cat. Tell me what you found out.’
‘That Rience’ started Codringher ‘whom you’re so interested in, is a
rather mysterious person. I only know that he studied for two years in the Ban
Ard school of wizardry. He was expelled after being caught committing petty
thefts. As usual, in front of the school waited Kaedwenian intelligence agents
looking for potential recruits. Rience let himself be recruited. I didn’t
manage to find out what he had been doing for the Keadwenian Intelligence. But
the wizarding school rejects are usually schooled to be murderers. Satisfied?’
‘Very much so. Tell me more.’
‘Second piece of information comes from Cintra. Master Rience spent some
time in the dungeons there. During Calanthe’s reign.’
‘What for?’
‘For unpaid debts. He hadn’t been there for long because someone paid them
off along with the interest. The transaction took place through a bank, with
the sponsor’s full anonymity. I tried to track him down but I gave up after the
fourth different bank. Whoever bought Rience out was a true professional. And
really needed that anonymity.’
Codringher coughed heavily, raising a handkerchief to his mouth.
‘And then, suddenly, right after the end of the war Master Rience showed
himself in Sodden, Angren and Brugge’ he continued ‘Changed beyond recognition,
at least in his behavior and the amount of cash he threw around. The cheeky son
of a bitch didn’t bother making up a new name – he still called himself Rience.
And under this name he started an intense search for a certain person, or
rather a certain child. He visited the Druids from Angren Enclave who were
taking care of war orphans. The body of one of them was later found in nearby
woods, massacred, showing signs of torture. Then Rience appeared in
Transriver...’
‘I know’ Geralt interfered ‘I know what he did to the peasant family in
Transriver. For two hundred and fifty crowns I expected more. For now, the only
new information to me was the one about wizarding school and Kaedwenian
Intelligence. I know of the rest. I know that Rience is a heartless murderer. I
know that he’s an arrogant thug who doesn’t bother using an alias. I know that
he’s working on somebody’s orders. But whose, Codringher?’
‘Some wizard, no doubt. It had to be a wizard that bought him out of the
dungeon. You told me yourself, and Dandelion confirmed, that Rience is using
magic. Real magic, not tricks known to expelled students. In that case someone
has to be helping him, equipping him with amulets, probably also teaching him
in secret. Some of the officially practicing magicians keep such secret
students and factotums who are used for dirty and illegal jobs. In the wizard
jargon it’s called working on somebody’s leash.’
‘If he were working on a magic leash, Rience would use camouflaging
spells. Yet he changed neither his name nor appearance. He didn’t even get rid
of the burn on his face, given to him by Yennefer.’
‘This only confirms that he’s working on a leash‘ Codringher coughed
‘Magic camouflage is no camouflage, only amateurs use something like that. Had
Rience been hiding under an illusion he would’ve been immediately noticed by
every magical alarm in town. Wizards can spot illusions perfectly. Even in the
biggest crowd Rience would catch attention of a wizard as if he had flames
coming out of his ears and smoke out of his rear end. I’ll repeat: Rience is working
for a magician and he’s working in such a way so as not to bring on himself
attention from other magicians.’
‘Some believe him to be a spy for Nilfgaard.’
‘I am aware of that. Such is the opinion of Dijkstra, the head of
Redanian Intelligence. Dijkstra is rarely wrong, so we can assume that he’s
right about this particular case as well… But one does not exclude the other.
Factotum of a wizard can be at the same time a spy for Nilfgaard.’
‘In other words some officially practicing wizard is spying for
Nilfgaard through his secret factotum.’
‘Rubbish’ Codringher coughed and looked carefully at the handkerchief ‘A
wizard would be spying for Nilfgaard? What for? For money? Ridiculous. Hoping
for some great power under the rule of emperor Emhyr? Even more ridiculous.
It’s not a secret that Emhyr var Emreis keeps his magicians on a short leash.
The wizards in Nilfgaard are treated with the same respect as, let’s say,
stable boys. And they have just as much influence as stable boys. Would any of
our arrogant magicians decide to work for an emperor to whom he’s nothing but a
stable boy? Philippa Eilhart who dictates the content of royal proclamations
and edicts to Vizimir of Redania? Sabrina Glevissig who interrupts speeches by
Henselt of Keadwen with a smash of a fist on the table and a demand that he
shuts up and listens? Vilgefortz of Roggeveen who had recently told king Demavend
of Aedirn that he had no time for him at the moment?’
‘What about Rience then?’
‘Nothing special. Nilfgaardian Intelligence wants to get close to the
wizard by recruiting his factotum. Rience wouldn’t mind betraying his master
for a handful of Nilfgaardian florens.’
‘Now you’re the one talking rubbish. Even our arrogant magicians would
realize immediately that they were betrayed and Rience would go to the gallows.
If he were lucky.’
‘You’re such a child, Geralt. Uncovered spies are not hanged but used.
Fed lies and turned into double agents.’
‘Don’t tease the child, Codringher. I’m not interested in politics or
the work of Intelligences. Rience is bothering me and I want to know why and on
whose orders. The orders seem to be coming from a wizard. Which one?’
‘I don’t know it yet. But soon I will.’
‘Soon,’ uttered the witcher ‘Will not be soon enough for me.’
‘I suspected as much’ said Codringher ‘You sure got yourself in some
serious trouble, Geralt. It’s a stroke of luck that you turned to me, I know
how to pull people out of trouble. In fact, I pulled you out of it already.’
‘Is this so?’
‘Indeed, it is so’ the advocate brought the handkerchief to his mouth
and coughed ‘You see, colleague, other than Nilfgaard and the wizard, there is
also a third party in the game. Not long ago I was visited by king Foltest’s
secret agents. They had a problem. The king ordered them to search for a
certain lost princess. The job turned out to be more difficult than previously
thought so the agents decided to seek help from a specialist for difficult
jobs… While describing the problem, they suggested to the specialist that a
certain witcher might know a lot about the missing princess. He may even know
where she currently resides.’
‘What did the specialist do?’
‘Initially, he showed his greatest surprise. He was surprised that the
aforementioned witcher had not been taken to the dungeons where traditional
methods of questioning could be used in order to convince him to say everything
he knows and even some things which he doesn’t know but will gladly make up in
order to satisfy the interrogators. The agents answered that their king had
forbidden them from doing so. Witchers, they explained, have such delicate
nervous systems that under torture a vein bursts inside their brain causing
instant death. Instead, they were ordered to follow the witcher, but this, too,
turned out to be difficult. The specialist praised their common sense and asked
them to return in two weeks time.’
‘Did they?’
‘Of course they did. And then, the specialist who already considered you
his client showed them indisputable proof that witcher Geralt doesn’t have,
never had, and couldn’t have had anything to do with the missing princess. For
the specialist had found eyewitnesses for the death of princess Cirilla,
daughter of Pavetta and granddaughter of Queen Calanthe. Apparently, Cirilla
died of diphtheria three years ago in the refugee camp in Angren. The child
suffered terribly before her death. Believe it or not, Temerian agents had
tears in their eyes when they heard the testimonies of my eyewitnesses.‘
‘I have tears in my eyes as well. I gather, Temerian agents couldn’t or
didn’t want to offer you more than two hundred and fifty crowns?’
‘Your sarcasm breaks my heart, witcher. I have pulled you out of trouble
and instead of thanking me, you’re breaking my heart.’
‘Thank you and forgive me. Why did king Foltest order his men to look
for Ciri, Codringher? What were they supposed to do after they’d found her?’
‘How naïve. Kill her, of course. She has claims to the throne of
Cintra and there are other plans towards this throne.’
‘Codringher, this makes no sense. The throne of Cintra was burned down
along with the royal castle, the city and the whole country. Nilfgaard is in
power over there now. Foltest knows it well, so do other kings. What claims
could Ciri have towards a throne which no longer exists?’
‘Come’ Codringher stood up ‘Let us find the answer to this question
together. I will give you a proof of my trust… What is so interesting about
this painting?’
‘That it has more holes than a fishing net’ said Geralt looking at a
portrait in golden frames hanging on the wall opposite of advocate’s desk ‘And
that it shows some unbelievable moron.’
‘My late father’ Codringher grimaced ‘An unbelievable moron, indeed. I hung
him in here as a sort of warning to myself. Let’s go, witcher’
They entered the anteroom. At the sight of the witcher, the cat, which
was laying in the middle of the carpet and licking its paw, escaped through the
dark corridor.
‘Why do cats hate you so, Geralt? Is it because…’
‘Yes. It is.’
Behind one of the mahogany panels was a secret entrance. Codringher
walked in first. The panel, no doubt magically activated, closed behind them.
There was a light on the other side of the secret corridor. The room there was
cold and the dry air was heavy from the smell of candles and dust.
‘Meet my partner, Geralt.’
‘Fenn?’ smiled the witcher. ‘Impossible.’
‘Possible. Admit it, you thought Fenn wasn’t real?’
‘Not at all.’
A screeching sound could be heard from between the bookshelves and soon
after that a curious vehicle emerged. It was an armchair with wheels. On it sat
a dwarf with a big head placed on disproportionately thin shoulders. The dwarf
had no legs.
‘Let me introduce you,’ said Codringher. ‘Jacob Fenn, a talented legist,
my partner and invaluable co-worker. And this is our guest and client…’
‘Witcher Geralt of Rivia,’ finished the cripple with a smile. ‘I figured
it out. After all, I’ve been working on our contract for quite some time now.
Follow me, gentlemen.’
They walked behind the screeching armchair into a labyrinth of
bookshelves, the size of which could put the Oxenfurt University Library to
shame. The incunabula, guessed Geralt, must have been collected by whole
generations of Codringhers and Fenns. He was glad for the trust he was given
and for the possibility of meeting Fenn. He knew, however, that despite being a
real living person Fenn was also mythical, if only in part. The mythical Fenn,
Codringher’s infallible alter-ego was often reported to have been spotted in
town, whereas the talented legist had probably never left either the building
or the armchair.
The middle of the room was especially well-lit. There was a low, easy to
access desktop, which was piled up with books, scrolls of parchment and vellum,
paper, ink bottles, bundles of feathers, and thousands of mysterious utensils.
Not all were so mysterious though. Geralt recognized forms for counterfeit
stamps and a diamond grater used to remove the records from official documents.
In the middle of the desktop lay a small arbalest repetier ball and next to it,
from under a velvet fabric, sat a large magnifying glass made of polished
crystal. Such glass was a rarity and cost a fortune.
‘Found anything new, Fenn?’
‘Not much,’ the cripple smiled. The smile was warm and pleasant. ‘I have
narrowed the list of Rience’s potential employers to twenty eight wizards…’
’Let’s leave that for a second,’ interrupted Codringher. ‘We’re
interested in something else at the moment. Please explain to Geralt all of the
reasons why the missing Princess Ciri is an object of wide search by the agents
of the Four Kingdoms.’
‘In the girl’s veins runs the blood of Queen Calanthe,’ said Fenn in a
voice expressing surprise at having needed to explain such simple facts. ‘She
is the last descendant of the royal line. Cintra has a significan’t strategic
and political value. Lost, somewhere far from the sphere of influence, a
successor to the throne is a bother, it not a danger when in a sphere of the
wrong influence. Like a Nilfgaardian sphere of influence, for
example.’
‘As I recall,’ said Geralt. ‘The Cintran law of succession excludes
women.’
‘True,’ confirmed Fenn and smiled again. ‘But a woman can always become
somebody’s wife and the mother of a male descendant. The Intelligence agencies
of the Four Kingdoms found out about the frantic search for the princess
started by Rience and assumed that this was the reason. It was then decided to
prevent the princess from becoming somebody’s wife and mother. In the simplest
and most reliable way.
‘But the princess is dead,’ added Codringher quickly, seeing the change
in Geralt’s face caused by dwarf’s words. ‘The agents learned it and called off
the search.’
‘They have for now,’ the witcher made an effort to sound cool and
collected. ‘One of the aspects of a lie is that it never works for long.
Besides, the royal agents are only one of the players in this game. The agents,
as you yourselves said, were hunting for Ciri in order to thwart the plans of
other hunters. Those other ones might be much less susceptible to
disinformation. I have hired you so that you would find a way of ensuring the child’s
safety. What are your propositions?’
‘We have a certain idea,’ Fenn shot a look at his partner but didn’t
find an order of silence. ‘We want to spread, discreetly but widely, a notion
that not only Princess Cirilla, but also her potential male descendants, have
no right to the throne of Cintra.’
‘In Cintra the distaff side doesn’t take part in the succession,’
explained Codringher struggling with a new coughing attack. ‘Only the spear
does.’
‘Exactly,’ nodded the legist. ‘Geralt said so himself. It’s an old law,
even that she-devil Calanthe failed to invalidate it, despite the attempts.’
‘She tried to override it using an intrigue,’ said Codringher. ’An
unlawful kind of an intrigue. Tell him, Fenn.’
‘Clanthe was the only daughter of King Dagorad and Queen Adalia. After
their deaths, she had defied the nobility, which saw in her solely a wife for
the new king. She wanted to rule alone. She did agree for a Prince Consort,
just to ensure continuity of the dynasty, but his position and authority would
be comparable to that of a ragdoll. The old aristocratic families opposed
fervently. Calanthe’s alternatives were a civil war, an abdication, or a
marriage with Roegner, the prince of Ebbing. She chose the third option. She
still maintained authority over the country, but together with Roegner.
Naturally, she never let herself be subjugated or relegated to the womanly
sidelines. She was the Lioness of Cintra. But formally Roegner was the ruler,
although nobody would title him a Lion.’
‘And Calanthe,’ added Codringher, ‘struggled fiercely to become pregnant
with a son. In vain. She gave birth to a daughter, Pavetta, then miscarried
twice and it became clear that she wouldn’t have any more children. All her
plans went down the drain. Women’s lot. Great ambitions spoiled by a ruined
uterus.’
Geralt winced.
‘You’re disgustingly trivial, Codringher.’
‘I know. The truth can be trivial too. Because soon Roegner started to
look for a young princess with appropriately wide hips, preferably from a
family with fertility practically figuring on their pedigree chart. And
Calanthe found herself in deep trouble. Every meal, every cup of wine could
have brought her death, every hunting expedition could have ended with an
unfortunate accident. It is therefore no wonder that the Lioness of Cintra
decided to take the initiative. Roegner died. The country was at the time
plagued with a pox, so his death raised no suspicions.’
‘I think I’m beginning to understand,’ said the witcher, seemingly
impassive. ‘The news you are going to spread discreetly but widely around the
world, that is. Ciri will become known as the granddaughter of a schemer and a
murderer?’
‘Don’t be too hasty, Geralt. Go on, Fenn.’
‘Calanthe,’ smiled the dwarf. ‘May have kept her life, but not the
crown, which was slipping further and further away. When, after Roegner’s
death, the Lioness took full power, the nobility again opposed violations of
the law and tradition. The throne of Cintra was reserved for a king, not a
queen. It had therefore been decided: the moment little Pavetta started
resembling a woman in the least bit; she would be married to somebody who would
become the new king. An infertile queen’s remarriage was out of the question.
The Lioness of Cintra understood that her best hopes would be to become a Queen
Mother. What’s worse, Pavetta’s husband could be someone who would completely
remove his mother-in-law from power.’
‘Allow me to be trivial again,’ said Codringher. ‘Calanthe did
everything in her power to postpone Pavetta’s marriage. She cancelled the first
plans when the girl was ten years old and again, when she was thirteen. The
nobility saw through her scheme and demanded Pavetta’s fifteenth birthday to be
her last birthday as a maiden. Calanthe was forced to comply. But before that
happened, she had achieved what she had hoped for. Pavetta stayed a virgin for
too long. She got so horny that she eventually got laid by a random stranger,
who also happened to have been turned into a monster. There were some
additional supernatural circumstances, some prophecies, spells, promises… The
so-called Law of Surprise? Right, Geralt? You probably remember what happened
next. Calanthe summoned a witcher to Cintra, and that witcher caused a big
turmoil. Unaware that he was being used, he removed the curse from the
monstrous Hedgehog, enabling him to marry Pavetta. By doing so, the witcher had
given Calanthe easier access to the throne. Pavetta’s relationship with the
uncharmed monster was, to the nobles, such a huge shock that they accepted the
sudden marriage of the Lioness and Eist Tuirseach. The Earl of Skellige Islands
was, to them, a much better party than some vagabond Hedgehog. In this way,
Calanthe could still rule over the country. Eist, like all Islanders, had too
much respect for the Lioness of Cintra to oppose her in anything, and the
kingship simply bored him anyway. And so he handed her the full power. And
Calanthe, stuffing herself with elixirs and medicaments, dragged her husband to
the bedroom day and night. She wanted to rule till the end of her days. And if
she had to rule as a Queen Mother, then only to her own son. But, like I said,
great ambitions...’
‘Like you said. No need to repeat yourself.’
‘As for Princess Pavetta, the wife of that strange Hedgehog, already
during the marriage ceremony she was wearing a suspiciously loose dress. The
disheartened Calanthe changed her plans. If not her own son, she decided, then
at least Pavetta’s. But Pavetta gave birth to a daughter. A curse or what?
However, the princess could always have more children. Or rather could have
had. Because then a curious accident had taken place. Both her and the Hedgehog
died in an unexplainable catastrophe.’
‘What are you implying, Codringher?’
‘I’m trying to explain the situation, nothing more. After Pavetta’s
death Calanthe fell apart, but not for long. Her granddaughter was her last
hope: Pavetta’s daughter, Cirilla. Wayward little Ciri, running wild around the
castle. Apple of the eye for some, especially elders, since she resembled
Calanthe from her younger days so much. For the others… a freak, the daughter
of a monster, promised to some witcher. And here’s the thing: Calanthe’s golden
girl, evidently being groomed as her successor, was treated almost as if she
was her next incarnation; the Lion Cub of the Lionesses blood, was already back
then considered by some to be excluded from succession. Cirilla was a child of
a low birth. Pavetta had committed a mésalliance. She had mixed the blue
royal blood with the common blood of a vagabond of unknown origin.’
‘Quite cunning, Codringher. But it won’t pass. Ciri’s father was not a
commoner at all. He was a prince.’
‘Really? I wasn’t aware. From which kingdom?’
‘Somewhere from the south… from Maecht… Yes, definitely Maecht.’
‘Interesting,’ murmured Codringher. ‘Maecht has been a Nilfgaardian
march for a long time now. It’s part of the Metinna Province.’
‘But it is a kingdom,’ objected Fenn. ‘The ruler there is a king.’
‘The ruler there is Emhyr var Emreis,’ retorted Codringher. ‘Whoever is
the king there, it’s due to Emhyr’s grace. But since we’re at it, go check who
Emhyr did put on the throne over there. I can’t remember.’
‘Right away.’ The cripple pushed the wheels of the armchair and moved
with a screech in the direction of one of the bookshelves. Once there, he
picked up a thick roll of scrolls and began to view them, throwing the
unimportant ones on the floor. ‘Hmmm… got it. Maecht Kingdom. Coat of Arms:
silver fish and crowns on the blue-red field…’
‘Screw heraldry, Fenn. Who is the king?’
‘Hoet the Righteous. Chosen through an election…’
‘…by Emhyr of Nilfgaard,’ finished Codringher coldly.
‘…nine years ago.’
‘Not this one.’ The advocate countered quickly. ‘This one is of no
interest to us. Who was there before him?’
‘Give me a second. Here. Akerspaark. Died…’
‘Died of acute pneumonia induced by daggers belonging to Emhyr’s
stooges, or to that Righteous Fellow,’ Codringher once again showed his
perspicacity. ‘Geralt, does the name Akerspaark ring a bell? Could this
possibly be the daddy of our Hedgehog?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Geralt. ‘Akerspaark. I remember Duny mentioning that
name.’
‘Duny?’
‘That was his name. He was a prince, son of this Akerspaark…’
‘No,’ interrupted Fenn, gazing into the scrolls. ‘Here’s a list of his
children. Legitimate sons: Orm, Gorm, Torm, Horm and Gonzalez. Legitimate Daughters:
Alia, Valia, Nina, Paulina, Mamna and Argentina…’
‘I take back my vicious accusations towards Nilfgaard and Righteous
Hoet,’ said Codringher with all seriousness. ‘That Akerspaark wasn’t
assassinated. He was simply screwed to death. Because I assume that he also had
bastard children, right Fenn?’
‘He did. Quite a lot. But none with the name Duny.’
‘And I don’t expect to see him there. Geralt, your Hedgehog was no
prince. Even if he was sired somewhere in the dark by this boor Akerspaark,
he’s separated from the title not only by Nilfgaard, but also by the long line
of legitimate Orms, Gorms or some other Gonzalezes with their own, probably
quite numerous, progeny. So formally, Pavetta did commit a mésalliance.’
‘And Ciri, being the product of this mésalliance, has no right to
the throne?’
‘Exactly.’
Fenn screeched his way back to the desktop.
‘It’s a good argument,’ he said, tilting his big head. ‘But only one
argument. Keep in mind, Geralt, that we’re not fighting over the crown. The
rumors are supposed to make it clear that the girl cannot be used as a means of
taking over Cintra. And that such an attempt could easily be challenged. The
girl would stop being a figure in the political game; she would be just an
unimportant pawn. Therefore…’
‘She would be allowed to live,’ finished Codringher dispassionately.
‘From the formal point of view,’ asked Geralt, ‘how solid is that
argument of yours?’
Fenn looked at Coringher and then at the witcher.
‘Not very solid,’ he admitted. ‘Cirilla is still of Calanthe’s blood,
even if a bit diluted. In normal circumstances she would have probably ended up
tossed aside from the throne but the current circumstances can’t be described
as normal. Lionesses blood has a political meaning…’
‘Blood…’ Geralt rubbed his forehead. ‘Codringher, what is the meaning of
the phrase ‘Child of the Elder Blood’?
‘Why do you ask? Did someone use it when speaking about Ciri?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who had?’
‘Never mind. What does it mean?’
‘Luned aep Hen Ichaer,’ mumbled Fenn suddenly, moving away from the
desktop. ‘Literally not a ‘Child’ but a ‘Daughter’ of the Elder Blood. Hmm…
Elder Blood… I’ve encountered this phrase before. I can’t recall where… I think
it has something to do with elven prophecies. In some of the older versions of
Ithlinne’s prophecy texts there are, I believe, mentions of the Elder Blood of
Elves, or Aen Hen Ichaer. But we don’t have the full text here; we would have
to ask the elves…’
‘Let’s just leave it,’ cut Codringher coldly. ‘Too many matters solved at
the same time, too many magpies caught by their tails, too many prophecies and
secrets. That’s enough for now. Thank you and goodbye. Let’s go, Geralt. We
shall return to the guestroom.’
‘Not enough, eh?’ inquired the witcher the moment they settled themselves
in the armchairs. ‘The fee is too low?’
Codringher picked up a metal star-shaped object from the top of the desk
and spun it around his fingers.
‘Too low, Geralt. Digging in elven prophecies is a huge burden, loss of
time and resources. The need of searching for a contact with the elves because
nobody else can comprehend their language in all its entirety. Elven
manuscripts are usually filled with twisted symbolism, acrostics, sometimes
even codes. The Elder Speech always has at least a double meaning and when
written it can have dozens of meanings. Elves have never been happy to help
anyone trying to crack their prophecies. And in these times, when there’s a
bloody war with the Squirrels in the forests and pogroms in the cities, it’s
not safe to approach them. It’s a double risk. Elves can take you for a
provocateur, humans can accuse you of treason…’
‘How much, Codringher?’
The advocate was silent for a while, constantly playing with the metal
star.
‘Ten percent,’ he said finally.
‘Ten percent of what?’
‘Don’t insult me, witcher. It’s a serious matter. I’m less and less sure
of what is going on and whenever something isn’t certain then everything is
certainly about money. Therefore I’m more content on percentages than fees. You
will give me ten percent of whatever you are going to get yourself, discounting
the sum already paid. Do we have a deal?’
‘No. I don’t want you to end with losses. Ten percent of nothing equals
nothing, Codringher. I, dear colleague, will get nothing out of this.’
‘Don’t insult me, I said. I don’t believe that you are not doing this
for cash. I don’t believe that behind it there’s no…’
‘I don’t give a damn about your beliefs. There will be no deal. And no
percentages. Make up your mind about the price for the information.’
‘Had it been anybody else,’ Codringher coughed. ‘I would have thrown
them out the doors, convinced that they’re trying to deceive me. But such a
noble and naive generosity fits an anachronistic witcher like you perfectly.
This is so like you, beautifully and pathetically old-fashioned… getting
yourself killed for nothing…’
‘Stop wasting time. How much, Codringher?’
‘Double the amount. Five hundred in total.’
‘I regret,’ Geralt shook his head, ‘That I’m unable to afford such a
sum. Not at the moment, at least.’
‘In that case, I renew my proposition from when we first met,’ said the
advocate slowly, still fiddling with the star. ‘Work for me and you will be
able to afford everything. Information and other luxuries.’
‘No, Codringher.’
‘Why not?’
‘You won’t be able to understand.’
‘This time you’re hurting not my heart, but rather my pride. Because I
pride myself in always understating everything. The backbone and foundation of
our professions lies in wickedness, yet you still prefer the anachronistic one
to the modern one.
The witcher smiled.
‘Exactly.’
Codringher started coughing again, wiped his lips and then opened his
yellowish-green eyes.
‘Have you taken a peek at the list of magicians which lay on the
desktop? The one with Rience’s potential employers?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘I won’t give it to you until I check it carefully. Don’t put too much
trust in what you have read. Dandelion told me that Phillippa Eilhart probably
knows who’s backing Rience but she refused to share her knowledge with you.
Phillippa wouldn’t bother protecting just any sucker. There must be some
important person behind all this.’
The witcher was silent.
‘Watch your step, Geralt. You’re in great danger. Someone is playing a
game with you. Someone is watching your every move, maybe even directing them.
Don’t let arrogance and confidence take hold of you. The one who’s toying with
you isn’t a striga or a werewolf. It’s not the Michelet brothers. Not even
Rience. The Child of the Elder blood, my ass. As if it wasn’t enough with the
throne, wizards, kings and Nilfgaard, now we also have the elves. Stop this
game, witcher, leave it. Ruin their plans by doing something they won’t expect.
Break up this insane relationship; don’t let anyone associate you with Cirilla.
Leave her to Yennefer, go back to Kaer Morhen and don’t show yourself outside.
Hide in the mountains while I peruse the elven manuscripts, slowly, carefully,
with no rush. And once I gain the information about the Elder Blood and the
wizard, you will gain enough money and we will make the deal.’
‘I can’t wait. The girl is in danger.’
‘True. But I also know that you are believed to be an obstacle on the
way to her. An obstacle that must be neutralized. As a result, you are the one
in danger. They get to the girl only after eliminating you.’
‘Or after I stop the game and retreat to Kaer Morhen. I paid you too
much, Codringher, for advice like this.’
The advocate turned the iron star around his fingers.
‘For the amount which you paid me today. I’ve been working actively for
quite some time, witcher,’ he said, coughing. ‘The advice I gave you is
well-thought out. Hide in Kaer Morhen; disappear. And then, those who are
looking for Ciri shall get her.’
Geralt’s eyes narrowed and he smiled. Codringher didn’t pale.
‘I know what I’m talking about,’ he added looking him straight in the
eyes. ‘Ciri’s adversaries will find her and do with her whatever they want.
While both you and her will be safe.’
‘Explain, please. But quick.’
‘I found a certain girl. A war orphan from a Cintran noble family. She’s
been through the refugee camps and is currently measuring and cutting fabrics
in Brugge, having been taken in by a clothier. Seemingly nothing about her
stands out. Except one thing. She quite resembles a person from a portrait of
the Lion Cub of Cintra… Would you like to see her picture?’
‘No, Codringher. I don’t wish to. And I won’t agree to this sort of
thing.’
‘Geralt.’ The advocate closed his eyes. ‘Tell me, what exactly leads you
to such decisions? If you want to save your Ciri… then you can’t afford the
luxury of contempt. No, sorry. You can’t afford holding contempt in contempt.
The times of contempt are approaching, colleague, the times of terrible,
boundless contempt. You must fit in. My proposition is simple. Someone will
die, so that someone else can live. A person you love will survive. Some other
girl will die, a girl you don’t even know, someone whom you’ve never seen,
someone whom…’
‘Whom I can hold in contempt?’ interrupted the witcher. ‘Am I supposed
to pay for what I love with contempt for myself? No, Codringher. Leave that
other child alone, let her continue measuring fabric. Destroy her picture. Burn
it. And for my two hundred and fifty crowns, which you have put inside your
drawer, give me something else. Information. Yennefer and Ciri have left
Ellander. I’m sure that you know about it. I’m sure that you know where they’re
going. I’m sure that you know if someone is following them.’
Codringher tapped his fingers on the desk and coughed.
‘The Wolf, unmoved by the warnings, still wants to hunt,’ he said. ‘He
cannot see that he is the prey, that he’s running straight into a trap set by
the real hunter.’
‘Don’t be so banal. Be consistent.’
‘As you wish. It’s not hard to figure that Yennefer is going on the conference
of Wizards, which will take place on the Island of Thanedd in Garstang at the
beginning of July. She’s moving slyly, doesn’t use magic, so it’s hard to trace
her. She was still in Ellander a week ago, so I presume that it will take her
three, four more days to reach the city Gors Velen, just a stone throw away
from Thanedd. On the way of Gors Velen she will have to go through Anchor
village. If you set out now you will be able to take out those who are
following her. Because, indeed, she is being followed.’
‘I hope,’ Geralt smiled nastily. ‘That those aren’t royal agents?’
‘No,’ said the advocate, looking at the iron star. ‘These are not
agents. But it’s also not Rience, who’s smarter than you because he stopped
showing himself in public after the ordeal with the Miechelet brothers. Yennefer
is followed by three paid mercenaries.’
‘I presume that you know who they are?’
‘I know everybody. Which is why my advice is as follows: don’t bother
them. Don’t go to Anchor. I will make use of my links and connections. I will
try to bribe the thugs and reverse the contract. In other words, I will send
them after Rience. If it works…’
He stopped suddenly and threw the iron star. The weapon howled through
the air and pierced the portrait right in the middle of Senior Codringher’s
forehead.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ the advocate smiled broadly. ‘It’s called an orion. An
invention from overseas. I’ve been practicing for over a month and scoring
almost every time. Could be useful. In the range of thirty meters such a star
is deadly and in addition to that it can be easily hidden in a glove or hat.
Nilfgaardian Special Forces have been using them since last year. Ha, ha, if
Rience is indeed spying for Nilgaard it would be ironic if he were found with
an orion in the skull… Don’t you think?’
‘I don’t. You’re the one supposed to be doing the thinking. You’re the
one with two hundred and fifty crowns in your drawer.’
‘Sure,’ Codringher nodded. ‘I assume that you are giving me a free rein
in this aspect. Let us commemorate Rience’s impending death with a minute of silence.
Why the scowl, dammit? Have you no respect for death?’
‘Too much to stand still when idiots are jeering at it. Have you ever
pondered your own death, Codringher?’
The advocate coughed again and stared at the handkerchief.
‘I have,’ he said quietly. ‘A lot. But that is none of your business,
witcher. Are you going to Anchor?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Ralf Blunden, known as ‘Professor’. Heimo Kantor. ‘Short’ Yaxa. Do any
of those names ring a bell?’
‘No, they don’t.’
‘They’re all good with swords. Better than the Michelets. I advise a
better weapon. Like the Nilfgaardian stars. I could sell you a few. I have lots
of them.’
‘I’m not interested. They’re impractical. Too much noise.’
‘The noise works in the psychological way. It can paralyze the victim
with fear.’
‘It’s possible. But it can also alert. I could dodge it.’
‘If you saw the throw, perhaps. I know that you can dodge the spears…
but from behind…’
‘From behind as well.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Let’s make a bet,’ said Geralt coldly. ‘I will turn in the direction of
your moronic father and you will throw the orion at me. If you hit me, then you
win. If you don’t, then you lose. If you lose, you will decrypt the elven
manuscripts. You will get information about the Child of Elder Blood. Fast. And
on credit.’
‘What if I win?’
‘You will do it anyway and pass the results to Yennefer. She will pay.
It’s a win-win situation for you.’
Codringher opened the drawer and brought out a second orion.
‘You’re hoping that I won’t accept the challenge.’ It was a statement,
not a question.
‘No,’ smiled the witcher. ‘I’m sure that you will.’
‘You’re quite a dare-devil. Did you forget? I have no conscience.’
‘I didn’t forget. After all, the times of contempt are approaching and
you are always going with the times. But I have remembered your remarks about
my anachronistic naiveté and so this time I’m taking a risk with no
hopes for a profit. How’s that?’
‘Very well then.’ Codringher picked up the iron star and stood. ‘My
curiosity has always been stronger than reason and mercy. Turn around.’
The witcher complied. He looked at the portrait and then closed his
eyes.
The star howled and pierced the wall four inches from the frame.
‘Holy shit!’ yelled Codringher. ‘Son of a bitch, you didn’t even
flinch!’
Geralt turned around and smiled. In a very nasty way.
‘Why should I have flinched? I could hear that you aimed so as not to
hit.’
***
The inn was deserted. On a bench, in a corner, sat a young woman with
circles under her eyes. Turned modestly to one side, she nursed an infant. A
man -- possibly her husband -- dozed next to her, his broad shoulders resting
against the wall. In the shadows, behind the stove, sat another person which
Aplegatt could not quite distinguish.
The innkeeper raised his head, saw Aplegatt
and, upon noticing his uniform and the Aedirn coat of arms on his chest,
frowned momentarily. Aplegatt was used to this kind of welcome. He was a royal
messenger, and as such had the unquestioned right to a fresh mount. The royal
decrees were explicit: in every town, village, inn and county, messengers had
the right to a fresh horse, and woe betide those who failed to comply.
Messengers, of course, left their own mount behind and issued a receipt for the
new one which the innkeeper could present to the local mayor for compensation. But
things could go rather differently. As well, messengers were always viewed with
fear and suspicion: will he, won't he? Will he take our Precious to her doom?
our little Sparrow, barely weaned? or our beloved Little Crow? Aplegatt had
seen it before, children sobbing as their favourite horse was saddled and lead
from the stable, clinging to their playmate; more than once he saw the faces of
adults pale at the injustice, at their helplessness.
‘I don't need a fresh horse’ he said
brusquely. He had the impression that the innkeeper breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I
just need to eat, because the road really did me in. Got something in that pot
of yours?’
‘There's a bit of soup left, I'll bring it right away, have a seat. Will
you be staying with us tonight? It's already getting dark.’
Aplegatt thought for a moment. Two days
earlier he had met Hansom, a messenger he knew, and as per the usual orders,
they exchanged missions. Hansom was carrying letters and a message for king Demavend,
and he took off at great speed through Temeria and Mahakam, towards Vengerberg.
As for Aplegatt, having taken the mail for king Vizimir of Redania, he
continued towards Oxenfurt and Tretogor. He still had more than three hundred
miles to cover.
‘I'll eat and then I'll be on my way’, he
decided. ‘It's a full moon, and the road is clear enough’.
‘Your choice’.
The soup he was served was thin and had little flavour, but the
messenger didn't notice such details. At home, he savoured his wife's cooking;
at work, he ate what he was given. He ingested his meager meal slowly, holding
his spoon rather awkwardly with fingers still stiff from holding the reins.
A cat who had been dozing on the bench near the stove raised its head
suddenly and hissed.
‘King's messenger?’
Aplegatt shuddered. The question came from the man who had only a moment
before been sitting in shadow; now suddenly close to the messenger. His hair
was white as milk, plastered to his forehead by a leather headband, and we wore
a black jacket covered in silver studs, as well as heavy boots. Above his right
shoulder shone the pommel of his sword which he wore across his back.
‘Where does your road take you?’
‘Wherever the royal will takes me’, replied Aplegatt coldly.
He never answered such questions any differently.
The man with the white hair was quiet for a while; watching the
messenger intently. His face was abnormally pale with strangely dark eyes.
‘The royal will’, he said finally, his voice unpleasant, a bit hoarse, ‘probably
orders you to make haste. You are no doubt anxious to be on your way.’
‘And how does that concern you? Who are you to rush me?’
‘I'm nobody’, said the man with the white hair with a horrible smile. ‘And
I'm not rushing you. But if I were you, I'd get out of here as quickly as
possible. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you.’
For such statements, Aplegatt had another well worn reply. Short and
sweet. Calm and composed, but leaving no doubt by whom a royal messenger was
employed and the punishment which met anyone daring to touch even a single hair
on his head. But something in the man with the white hair's voice convinced
Aplegatt not to use that reply.
‘I've got to let my horse rest a bit, sir. An hour, maybe two.’
‘I understand’. The man with the white hair nodded, then turned his head
as if to listen to something outside. Aplegatt listened too, but all he could
hear were the crickets. ‘Rest then’, said the man with the white hair as he
adjusted the belt of his scabbard which crossed his chest. ‘But don't go out
into the yard. No matter what happens, don't go outside.’
Aplegatt refrained from asking any questions. He knew instinctively that
it was best not to. He leaned over his bowl and continued fishing for the few
pieces of ham floating on the surface of his soup. When he looked up again, the
man with the white hair was gone.
A moment later, there was the neighing of a horse and the hammering of
horseshoes in the yard.
Three men entered the inn. When he saw them, the innkeeper began
feverishly wiping his tankard. The woman with the nursling moved closer to her
husband who was dozing and woke him with a jab of her elbow. Discretely,
Aplegatt moved the stool where he had set his belt knife closer to him.
As they approached the counter, the men looked over their hosts and
sized them up. They walked slowly causing their spurs and weapons to jingle.
‘Welcome, gentlemen’. The innkeeper cleared his throat and spoke. ‘What
can I get you?’
‘Hooch’, said one of the men, short and squat, with long arms like a
monkey. He wore two crossed Zerrikanian sabers on his back. ‘Want some,
Professor?’
‘Gladly’, acquiesced the second man as he adjusted his spectacles --
made of polished crystal, with bluish reflections and gold frames -- which were
planted on his hooked nose. ‘As long as the alcohol is unadulterated.’
The innkeeper served them. Aplegatt noticed that his hands were
trembling slightly. The men stood with their backs to the counter; they sipped
the contents of their clay mugs unhurriedly.
‘My dear innkeeper’, said the man with the glasses suddenly, ‘it has
come to my attention that two ladies passed by this establishment, not very
long ago; they were heading with alacrity towards Gors Velen.’
‘Lots of people pass through here’, stammered the innkeeper.
‘You could not have failed to notice the ladies in question’, said the
man in the glasses, slowly. ‘One of them has black hair, and is of exceptional
beauty. She rides a raven stallion. The second, younger, with light hair and
green eyes, rides a speckled mare. Did they pass through here?’
‘No.’ Aplegatt, who felt a sudden chill up his spine, beat the
innkeeper. ‘They didn't come through here’.
He remembered the words of the young girl: danger with grey feathers;
warm sand...
‘Messenger?’
Aplegatt nodded.
‘Where did you come from and where are you going?’
‘Wherever the royal will takes me.’
‘The young ladies I mentioned, you wouldn't have met them, by chance?’
‘No.’
‘You're awfully quick to deny it’, growled the third man, tall and pole
thin. His hair was black and shiny, as if it was greased back. ‘And I don't get
the impression that you searched your memory very thoroughly.’
‘Leave it, Heim.’ The man with the glasses gestured. ‘He's a royal
messenger. Not a troublemaker. What is the name of this establishment, innkeeper?’
‘Anchor.’
‘And how far to Gors Velen?’
‘What?’
‘How many miles?’
‘Me, I never measured it in miles. But it must be three days travel...’
‘By horse?’
‘By cart.’
‘Hey!’ Shorty exclaimed suddenly. He stood and looked out through the
mostly open door. ‘Have a look, Professor. Who's that one? Isn't that...’
The man with the glasses also looked outside and his face fell at once.
‘Yes’, he whistled. ‘It's him, positively. We're in luck, it's all
falling into place.’
‘We wait for him to come in?’
‘He won't come in. He's seen our horses.’
‘Shut-up, Yaxa. He's saying something.’
‘You have a choice.’ Coming from outside, a voice, slightly hoarse but
resonant, which Aplegatt recognized immediately, rang out. ‘Either one of you
comes out here and tells me who hired you, and you leave here without any fuss.
Or the three of you come out. I'm waiting.’
‘Bastard...’ snarled the man with the black hair. ‘He knows. What do we
do?’
Slowly, the man with the glasses put his mug back on the counter.
‘What we were paid to do.’
He spit into his hand, shook his hands and drew his sword. Immediately,
the other two also drew their weapons. The innkeeper opened his mouth as if to
scream, but quickly closed it again upon seeing the cold, piercing look cast by
the man in the blue glasses.
‘Everybody sit down, mouths shut’, said the man. ‘Heim, when the battle
starts, try to surprise him from behind. We're off, friends, the shits gonna
fly! Let's go!
As soon as they were outside, the fight began: groaning, stamping and
the clanging of swords could be heard. And then a cry rang out. A cry to make
your hair stand on end.
The innkeeper paled, the woman with the circles under her eyes let a
muffled scream as she clutched her nursling to her bosom. The cat on the bench
stood, arched its back and raised its tail. Aplegatt, still seated, slid
quickly into a corner. His knife was on his lap, but he had not yet removed it
from its scabbard.
Outside, again there was the sound friction on a plank, a whistling and
the clanging of blades.
‘You!’ shouted someone savagely, and this shout, while followed by a
rather salty curse, was nonetheless a desperate cry of rage. ‘You!’
The clashing blades whistled through the air. Then suddenly, a very loud
piercing noise which seemed to tear the air around it rang out. It was as if a
huge sack of grain crashed onto the planks. From one of the hitching posts, the
sound of horseshoes was heard, as well as the neighing of the frightened
horses.
Again, something heavy crashed loudly onto the planks, the fast, heavy
footsteps of someone running echoed in the yard. The woman with the nursling
pressed closer to her husband, the innkeeper tried to back further into the
wall. Aplegatt took out his knife, still keeping his weapon hidden under the
table. The running man was coming towards the inn; it was clear that at any
moment he would be at the door. But before he appeared, there was the whistling
of a blade.
The man screamed and, immediately after, he staggered into the common
room. He nearly fell on the threshold, but managed to stay upright. He took a
few steps forward, slowly, wavered and only then collapsed in the very center
of the room, sending up a cloud of the accumulated dust between the
floorboards. He fell face first, hands at his sides, legs bent. His crystal
glasses crashed to the floor and shattered in a million bluish pieces. A dark,
shining puddle began to spread beneath his now immobile body.
No one moved. There wasn't even a scream.
The man with the white hair entered the room.
He slipped the sword he held easily into its scabbard on his shoulders.
He approached the counter, not even bothering to look at the corpse spread on
the floor. The innkeeper shrank back.
‘They were bad people’, said the man with the white hair hoarsely. ‘And
now they are dead. When the bailiff comes, he might mention a reward for their
heads. Let the bailiff do as he pleases with it.’
The innkeeper nodded fervently.
‘Maybe’, continued the man with the white hair after a moment, ‘some
colleagues or friends of these bad people might wonder what happened to them.
To them, innkeeper, simply say that the Wolf ate them. The White Wolf. And tell
them that they should look behind them often as well. One day, they'll see the
Wolf at their heels.’
***
It was past midnight when Aplegatt reached the gates of Tretogor, three
days later. He was angry because he had been forced to loiter by the moat, he
had nearly ripped out his throat shouting to wake the guards: these guards
slept with the angels and were none to quick to open the gate. Aplegatt
didn’t fail to curse them generously, going back at least three generations.
Later, he was pleased to hear their commander, once wakened, roundly complete
the list of insults he had himself muttered about the mothers, grandmothers and
great-grandmothers of these no-goods. Naturally, there was no question of
seeing king Vizimir in the middle of the night. Anyway, he had given up the
idea. He hoped to rest until the morning bells. He was kidding himself. Rather
than being shown somewhere to rest, he was taken post haste to the guard house.
It wasn’t the City Guard that awaited him inside, but the other one, the big
one, the gigantic one. Aplegatt knew him, it was Dijkstra, the king of
Redania’s intelligence man. Dijkstra – the messenger knew – was used to hearing
news destined exclusively for royal ears. Aplegatt gave him his letters.
‘You have oral messages?’
‘I do, milord.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘From Demavend to Vizimir’, Aplegatt recited with his eyes closed. ‘First,
the Masqueraders are ready for the second night after the full moon in July.
Second, I will not be gracing the assembly of the Crafty on Thanedd Island with
my presence, and I advise you to do the same. Third, the Lion Cub is dead.’
Dijkstra winced slightly and drummed his fingers on the table…
‘Here are the letters for king Demavend. And for the oral message…
listen carefully and use that memory of yours. You will relay it to your king,
word for word. To him alone, and no one else. Nobody, got it?’
‘Got it, milord.’
‘The information is as follows: ‘From Vizimir to Demavend. Contain
absolutely the Masqueraders. There has been a betrayal. The Flame has gathered
an army in Dol Angra and is waiting for any excuse.’ Repeat.’
Aplegatt did so.
‘Good.’ Dijkstra nodded. ‘You will leave at sun up.’
‘I’ve been on the road five days, milord.’ The messenger rubbed his
buttocks. ‘If I could only sleep until at least mid-morning… Would you allow
me?’
‘Is your king, Demavend, sleeping right now? And me, am I sleeping? For
even asking, boy, I should punch you in the face. You’ll be fed, and you can
stretch your legs a bit on the grass. After that, you’ll hit the road before
sunrise. I’ve asked that you be given a little thoroughbred stallion. You’ll
see, he runs like a hurricane. And stop moping. There’s still this small purse
for you, it’s a bonus, a little extra. So you don’t go saying Vizimir is
stingy.’
‘Thanks to you, milord.’
‘When you reach the woods along the Pontar, be careful. Squirrels were
seen there. Not to mention that those countries don’t lack for regular bandits.’
‘Oh yes! I’m aware of that, milord. Oh dear! When I think of what I saw
three days ago!’
‘What did you see?’
Aplegatt quickly related the events in Anchor. Dijkstra listened, his
powerful arms folded across his chest.
‘The Professor…’, he said thoughtfully. ‘Heimo Kantor and Little Yaxa.
Slain by a witcher. At Anchor, on the road to Gors Velen, or Thanedd, Garstang…
And the Lion Cub is dead?’
‘What are you saying, milord?’
‘It’s of no importance.’ Dijkstra looked up. ‘At least, not to you.
Rest. And at dawn, go.’
Aplegatt ate what he was given, and stretched out a bit. He was so
tired, he barely had time to blink. Before dawn he had already passed the city
gates. His stallion was certainly frisky, but reluctant. Aplegatt didn’t like
that kind of horse.
On his shoulders, between his left shoulder blade and his spine,
something itched unbearably; no doubt, some flea had bitten him while he dozed
in the barn. And no way to scratch it.
The stallion pranced and whinnied. The messenger spurred it and took off
at a gallop. Time was of the essence.
***
‘Gar’ean’, whistled Cairbre. Hidden behind the branches of a
tree, he watched the road. He leaned. ‘En Dh’oine aen evall a
stráede!’
Toruviel leapt up, she grabbed her sword and adjusted it; with the tip
of her boot, she kicked Yaevinn, who was sleeping near her in a clearing, in
the thigh. The elf jumped, and cursed, burned on the hot sand where he placed
his hand.
‘Que suecc’s?’
‘A horse on the road.’
‘A horse?’ Yaevinn grabbed his bow and quiver. ‘Cairbre? Just one?’
‘Yes. He’s getting closer.’
‘Well! Let’s fix him. That’ll make one less Dh’oine.’
‘Leave it.’ Toruviel grabbed him by the sleeve. ‘What’s the point? We’re
supposed to be scouting, then it’s back to the commando. Must we really kill
civilians on the road? Is this what the fight for liberty has come to?’
‘Exactly, yes. Move.’
‘If we leave a body on the road, the next patrol that passes will sound
the alarm. The army will come after us. They’ll be watching the fords. We might
have trouble crossing rivers.’
‘Hardly anyone comes this way. We’ll be long gone by the time they find
the body.’
‘This rider is long gone too’, said Cairbre from his treetop perch. ‘Instead
of chatting, you should have shot. Now you won’t be able to hit him. He’s at
least two hundred yards away.’
‘With my sixty-six pounds?’ Yaevinn caressed his bow. ‘With my lovely
thirty inch engine? Anyway, that’s not two hundred yards. One fifty, max. Mire,
que spar aen’le.’
‘Yaevinn, leave it…’
‘Thaess aep, Toruviel.’
The elf spun his cap around so that the squirrel tail attached to it was
out of his line of sight, drew his bow up to his ear with strength, aimed with
precision and let go the string.
Aplegatt never heard the arrow. It was a silent arrow, specially
fletched with long, narrow grey feathers. The arrow was equipped with a grooved
shaft to make it lighter and more rigid. The point with its three razor sharp
blades, quickly reached its target in the middle of the back, between his left
shoulder blade and his spine. The blades were mounted such that they radiate
from the center; upon entering the body, the point turns like a screw and
eviscerates the tissue, and shatters the bone. Aplegatt slumped forward onto
his mount's neck, then slid to the ground, inert like dead weight.
On the ground, the sand was warm, burning even in the beating sun. But
the messenger never felt it. He was killed instantly.
To say that I knew her would be an exaggeration. I
think that no one, save the Witcher and the Sorceress, had really come to know
her. The first time I saw her, she didn’t make a big impression on me, even
despite the unusual circumstances surrounding our meeting. I’ve known people
who claimed that from the moment they’d seen her they could feel the breath of
death following the girl. To me, however, she appeared perfectly ordinary even
though I knew that she was anything but – which is why I earnestly tried to
see, to discover, to feel the oddity in her. But I couldn’t see nor feel
anything. Anything that would be a signal, an omen or a foreshadowing of the
tragic events to come. Those that happened because of her. And those that she’d
caused herself.
Dandelion. ‘Half a century of poetry’
Chapter
Two
Near the
crossroads, right where the forest ended, nine poles were erected. A carriage
wheel was attached to each. Above the wheels, a flock of ravens and crows
picked and shredded corpses tied to the rims. The height of poles and the
number of birds made it impossible to tell for sure who the remains belonged
to, but they were undoubtedly dead. There was no other possibility.
Ciri
turned her head away from the sight and wrinkled her nose. The wind was blowing
from the direction of the poles, so the nauseating stench of the rotting
corpses was sprawling over the crossroads.
‘Splendid
decoration,’ Yennefer bent in the saddle and spit onto the ground, temporarily
forgetting that not so long ago she had scolded Ciri for doing just that. ‘Colorful
and smelling of roses. But why here, at the edge of the forest? Usually such
things are placed right before the city walls. Am I not right, my good men?’
‘It’s the
Squirrels, my lady,’ explained one of the traveling merchants, halting his
horse. ‘Elves. Up there, on the poles. That’s why they’re placed here. As a
warning for other Squirrels.’
‘Does
this mean,’ the sorceress glanced at him, ‘that every Scoia’tael caught alive
is brought here…’
‘Elves,
my lady, rarely let themselves be captured alive,’ the merchant interrupted. ‘And
even when warriors manage to catch one, they’re taken to a town, since that’s
where resident non-humans dwell. But an elf struck in a battle is brought to
the crossroads and strapped to a pole. Often, they’re brought from afar, all rotten
and stinky…’
‘And to
think,’ muttered Yennefer, ‘that we were forbidden from practicing necromancy
on account of respect for the majesty of death and remains deserving reverence,
peace, ceremonial burial…’
‘What do
you mean, my lady?’
‘Never
mind. Let us not waste time, Ciri; better to leave this place. Pfeh, I feel
like I’ve already been contaminated by that stench.’
‘Me too,
eueueee!’ said Ciri, overtaking merchant’s wagon. ‘Let’s ride at a gallop,
okay?’
‘Fine…
Ciri! I meant a gallop, not a frenzy!’
***
They soon
approached a city: huge, surrounded by walls, bristling with spike-shaped
towers. Sea could be seen behind it, blue-green, sparkling in the morning sun,
dotted with white spots of sails. Ciri stopped her horse at the edge of the sandy
cliff, stood on stirrups and greedily inhaled the wind and the smell.
‘Gors
Velen,’ said Yennefer, riding up to her. ‘We've finally arrived. Let’s go back
on the road.’
They took
off at a gallop again, leaving behind few wagons and wood-carrying pedestrians.
Once they were alone, the sorceress slowed down and nodded at Ciri to do the
same.
‘Come,’
she said. ‘Closer. Take the reins and lead my horse. I’ll need both hands.’
‘What
for?’
‘Take the
reins, I said.’
Yennefer
took out a silvery mirror, wiped it and quietly murmured a spell. The mirror
slipped out of her hands and floated above stallion’s neck, right across her
face.
Ciri
sighed in admiration; licked her lips.
The
sorceress took off her bonnet and for a moment energetically combed her hair.
Ciri was silent. She knew that Yennefer was not to be disturbed when making her
hair. The beautiful and seemingly incidental disorder of her curly, lush locks
needed a lot of work and attention.
The
sorceress reached to the packs again, then put on diamond earrings and
bracelets. She took the scarf off and unbuttoned her shirt, exposing neck and
the black necklace adorned with an obsidian star.
‘Ha!’
Ciri finally lost patience. ‘I know why you're doing this! You want to look
pretty, because we're visiting a city! Am I right?’
‘You are.’
‘What
about me?’
‘What
about you?’
‘I want
to look pretty too! I will make my hair...’
‘Put your
bonnet back on,’ ordered Yennefer harshly, still regarding her reflection. ‘Back
where it was. Cover your hair.’
Ciri
hissed angrily but obeyed. She had long since learned to read various tones of the
sorceress' voice. She knew when to try arguing and when to stay silent.
Yennefer,
having finished arranging the curls on her forehead, retrieved from her pack a
small green-stained glass jar.
‘Ciri,’
she said in a softer tone. ‘It’s a secret journey we’re on. And this journey
hasn't ended yet. Which is why you have to hide your hair under the bonnet.
There are men before every gate who are being paid for being watchful of all
new-comers. Do you understand?’
‘No,’
Ciri retorted tactlessly, pulling the reins of the raven stallion. ‘You decked
yourself out so much that those observers from before the gates will have their
eyes pop out of the sockets! Some secrecy!’
‘The city
we’re heading to,’ Yennefer smiled, ‘is Gors Velen. I don’t need to camouflage
myself in Gors Velen, rather the opposite. With you, it’s another matter. You
are not to be remembered by anybody.’
‘Those
who will be gazing at you are bound to notice me as well!’
The
sorceress uncorked the jar which smelled of lilac and gooseberry. She dipped
her finger in the liquid and rubbed some of it under her eyes.
‘I doubt,’
she said, still smiling mysteriously, ‘that anyone’s going to notice you.’
***
A long
line of riders and wagons stood before the bridge and travelers were crowding
before the gates waiting for their turn. Ciri grumbled at the perspective of a
long wait. Yennefer, however, straightened herself in the saddle and continued
trotting, her gaze high above the heads of the travellers – who quickly stepped
aside and made way, not sparing the shaft of spears on the reluctant ones.
‘This
way, this way, honourable lady!’ called one of the guards, staring at Yennefer
with a reddened face. ‘This way, please! Move aside! Move aside, plebes!’
The
commander of the guards emerged from the garrison grumpy and angry, but once he
caught sight of Yennefer he brightened up, opened widely his eyes and mouth,
and bowed.
‘I humbly
welcome you in Gors Velen, my lady,’ he stuttered, straightening and still
staring. ‘At your service… How can I help you, madam? Perhaps you need an
escort? A guide? Shall I call somebody?’
‘There’s
no need.’ Yenenfer looked down at him ‘I won’t stay for long. I’m heading to
Thanedd.’
‘Naturally…’
The warrior shifted weight from one leg to the other, never taking eyes off
sorceress' face. Other guards were gazing at her as well. Ciri proudly lifted
her head but quickly realized that nobody was looking at her. As if she were
invisible.
‘Naturally…’
repeated the commander. ‘To Thanedd, yes… For the conference. I understand,
naturally. Therefore I wish…’
‘Thank
you,’ the sorceress hurried her horse, clearly uninterested in commander’s
wishes. Ciri followed. Guards were bowing before Yennefer, not sparing the girl
so much as a glance.
‘They
didn’t even ask for your name,’ she muttered, catching up with Yennefer and
carefully leading her mount through the mud-covered ruts. ‘Nor for our
destination point! Did you cast a spell on them?’
‘Not on
them. On myself.’
The
magician turned around and Ciri gasped loudly. Yennefer’s eyes were burning
with a violet flame and her face radiated with beauty. Dazzling. Provocative.
Dangerous. And unnatural.
‘The
green jar!’ guessed Ciri. ‘What was that?’
‘Glamarye.
An elixir. Or rather, an ointment for special occasions. Ciri, do you really
have to ride into every puddle?’
‘I want
to clean horse’s hooves.’
‘It
didn’t rain for a month. This is swill and horse-piss, not water.’
‘Aha…
Say, why did you use that elixir? Were you really so desperate to…’
‘This is
Gors Velen,’ cut Yennefer. ‘The city which owes its prosperity in big part to
wizards. Sorceresses, to be precise. You’ve seen how sorceresses are treated
here. I didn’t feel like introducing myself or proving who I am. I wanted it to
be obvious at the first sight. When we pass that red house, we’re turning left.
Slower, Ciri. Keep your horse in check or you will run over some child.’
‘Why did
we come here?’
‘I told
you that already.’
Ciri
hissed, tightened her lips and prodded the horse with her heel. The mare
danced, barely missing a coach. The driver stood up and looked like he was
about to give her a piece of his mind, but once he saw Yennefer he sat back
down and indulged in analyzing his shoes.
‘Do that
again,’ uttered Yennefer, ‘and I'll get upset. Quit acting like a juvenile
lass. You're an embarrassment.’
‘You want
to send me to some school, right? I don't want to go!’
‘Quiet.
People are staring.’
‘They're
staring at you, not at me! I don't want to go to no school! You promised me
that we'll always be together, and now you want to leave me! All alone! I don't
want to be alone!’
‘You
won't be. There are many of your peers at this school. You will have plenty
friends.’
‘I don't
want friends. I want to be with you and with... I thought...’
Yennefer
turned around instantly.
‘You
thought what?’
‘I
thought we were going to Geralt.’ Ciri looked up unashamedly. ‘I know what you
were thinking all the way. And why you were sighing at night...’
‘Enough,’
hissed the sorceress and the blaze of her eyes caused Ciri to hide her face in
horse's mane. ‘You've become insolent. I would like to remind you that the time
when you could resist me has long gone. It was your own decision. Now, you must
be obedient. You will do what I say. Understood?’
Ciri
nodded.
‘I know
what's best for you. I always do. And so, you'll listen and obey. Is that
clear? Stop the horse. We're here.’
‘This is
the school?’ grumbled Ciri, eyeing the impressive exterior of the building, ‘It's
already...’
‘Not a
word more. Get down. And show proper manners. This isn't the school; the
school's in Aretuza, not Gors Velen. This is a bank.’
‘What do
we need a bank for?’
‘Ponder
it on your own. Dismount, I said. Not right into a puddle! Leave the horse,
service will take care of it. Take off your gloves. It's not proper to enter a
bank in riding gloves. Look at me. Adjust your bonnet and collar. Stand
straight. You're not sure what to do with your hands? Then don't do anything!’
Ciri
sighed.
The
service, which had greeted them bowing and scraping, was made up entirely of
dwarves. Ciri gazed at them intently. Although just as short, husky-built and
bearded, they didn't resemble her friend Yarpen Zigrin nor his ‘boys’. The
servants were dull, uniformed, bland. And humble, which was the last thing one
could say about Yarpen and his boys.
They
entered the building. The magic elixir was still working, so Yennefer's sight
immediately caused a great stir, a lot of running, and more bowing and scraping
which was cut only by the appearance of incredibly fat, richly dressed dwarf
with white beard.
‘Honourable
Yennefer!’ roared the dwarf, tinkling the golden chain hanging down his neck,
long past his white beard. ‘What a surprise! And such an honour! Please, please
come to the office! And you all stop standing and gaping! Back to work, to the
counting frames! Wilfli, immediately bring to the office a bottle of Castel de
Neuf, year... you pick which one. Be quick! Make yourself welcome, Yennefer.
I'm truly happy to see you. You look... eh, damn, breathtaking!’
‘You too,’
smiled the sorceress, ‘seem to be doing all right, Giancardi.’
‘Of
course. Come in, please, to the office. But no, no, ladies first. You know the
way, Yennefer.’
The
office was dark and pleasantly cool; air carried the scent which Ciri
recognized from the tower of Jarre, the scribe: the scent of ink, parchment and
dust covering the oak furniture, gobelins and old books.
‘Sit
down, please,’ the banker offered a chair to Yennefer and a questioning gaze to
Ciri. ‘Hmm...’
‘Give her
a book, Molnar,’ said the sorceress, noting the look. ‘She loves books. She'll
sit at the other end of the table and won't bother us. Right, Ciri?’
Ciri
deemed it pointless to answer.
‘A book,
hem, hem,’ muttered the dwarf, coming up to the cupboard. ‘What do we have
here? Oh, revenue and expense ledger... No, not that. Customs duties and port
charges... that won't do. Credit and reimbursement? No. Oh, how did it get
here? Devil knows... but it might suit you. Take it, child.’
The book
was titled ‘Physiologus’ ; it was very old and very tattered. Ciri cautiously
turned the cover and several pages. The content immediately caught her
interest, as it was about mysterious monsters and beasts and full of pictures.
For the next few moments she tried to share her interest between the book and
the conversations between the dwarf and the sorceress.
‘Got any
letters for me, Molnar?’
‘No.’ The
banker poured wine for Yennefer and himself. ‘No new post. The last ones, from
month ago, I passed to you through established means.’
‘I
received them, thank you. Has anybody... shown an interest in those letters?’
‘Not in
here,’ smiled Molnar Giancardi. ‘But you're aiming at the right board, my dear.
The bank of Vivaldi’s has confided in me about an attempt to track those
letters. Their branch in Vengerberg has also discovered an attempt to keep
track on the history of your account. One of the men in service turned out to
be disloyal.’
The dwarf
stopped and looked at the sorceress from under the bushy eyebrows. Ciri
listened intently. Yennefer was silent, playing with her obsidian star.
‘Vivaldi,’
Molnar carried on, lowering his voice. ‘Either couldn't or didn't want to start
an investigation about this matter. The disloyal and corruptible clerk fell
into the moat while drunk and drowned. Unfortunate accident. Pity. Too soon,
too hasty...’
‘No need
to cry over spilt milk,’ the sorceress pouted her lips. ‘I know who was
interested in my post and account, Vivaldi's investigation wouldn't have
brought a new light.’
‘If you
say so...’ Giancardi scratched his beard. ‘You're heading to Thanedd, Yennefer?
For that huge conference of the wizards?’
‘Indeed.’
‘To
decide on the fate of the world?’
‘Let's
not exaggerate.’
‘There
are many rumours around,’ the dwarf said dryly. ‘And many things are happening.’
‘What
events, if I may inquire?’
‘Since
last year,’ replied Giancardi, stroking his beard. ‘One can see strange changes
in the fiscal policy... It's not in your interests, I know...’
‘Elaborate.’
‘Poll tax
and winter tax were doubled, the taxes which directly fund the army pay. All
merchants and businessmen must make additional payments to Royal Treasury: the ‘tithe’,
a whole new tax, one tenth of all profits. Dwarfs, gnomes, elves and halflings
pay higher poll tax. If they're involved in commerce or manufacture they're
also burdened with the ‘nonhuman’ income tax, a ten out of every hundred.
Because of all this, I have to give up to state more than sixty percent of my
income. My bank, all branches included, pays the Four Kingdoms annually six
hundred marks. Allow me to elaborate: it's almost three times the charge of a
noble duke or count with a huge estate.’
‘Humans
are not burdened with additional payment for the military?’
‘No. They
only pay the poll tax and the winter tax.’
‘In other
words,’ nodded the sorceress. ‘It is the dwarfs and other nonhumans who fund
the campaign against Scoia'tael, taking place in the forests. I've been
expecting something like this. But what is the relation between taxes and the conference
on Thanedd?’
‘After
those conferences of yours,’ muttered the dwarf. ‘Something always happens.
This time I'm hoping that nothing will. I'm hoping that your conference will
stop things from happening. I would've been glad, for example, if those curious
price shocks would cease.’
‘Clarify,
please.’
The dwarf
leaned back in his chair and clasped fingers on his belly.
‘I've
been working in this business a decent number of years,’ he said. ‘Long enough
to be able to relate some currency movements with certain facts. And lately,
there's been a rise in prices for gems. Because there's a high demand for them.’
‘Coins
are being exchanged for jewels to evade losses from fluctuation and parity of
the coin?’
‘That
too. Gemstones also have one important quality. A pocket-size pouch of diamonds
equals some fifty marks, while the same value in coins would weigh twenty-five
pounds and need a big sack to carry it. It's easier to flee with a pouch than a
sack. And both hands are free, which isn't pointless. One hand can hold a wife,
while the other can be used to punch some fucker in the gob, if the need
arises.’
Ciri
snorted quietly but Yennefer silenced her with a frown.
‘So,’ she
raised her head. ‘Some are already preparing to escape. Where to, I wonder?’
‘Far
North is most popular. Hengfors, Kovir, Poviss. Not only is it farthest from
here but these states are neutral and have good relations with Nilfgaard.’
‘I see,’
mischievous smile didn't vanish from magician's face. ‘Jewels in the pocket,
wife in hand and going up North... Isn't it too early yet? Ah, nevermind this.
What else is growing more expensive, Molnar?’
‘Boats.’
‘What?’
‘Boats,’
repeated the dwarf and grinned. ‘All boatbuilders from the coast are busy with
commissions from quartermasters of King Foltest's army. Quartermasters pay well
and keep making new purchases. If you're looking to invest in something,
Yennefer, then invest in boats. Golden business. Producing boats of reed and
bark, issuing an invoice to lonboards from the best pine, sharing with the
quartermaster...’
‘Stop
teasing me, Giancardi. Explain.’
‘Those
boats,’ said the banker casually, staring at the ceiling, ‘are transported
south. To Sodden and Brugge, to Yaruga river. But, to my knowledge, they are
not used by the fishermen. They are being hidden in the forests on the right
bank. It's said that the army is training the boarding.’
‘Aha.’
Yennefer bit her lip. ‘But why are people so eager to get north? Yaruga is
south.’
‘There's
a justified concern,’ murmured the dwarf, glancing at Ciri. ‘that emperor Emhyr
var Emreis will not be pleased by news about aforementioned boats being
launched. Some believe that such a launching might enrage Emhyr and when it
happens it's safer to be far from the Nilfgaardian border... Damn, let the
harvest come quick. If anything is going to happen, it will be before harvest.’
‘Granaries
will be full.’ said Yenenfer slowly.
‘Indeed.
Horses won't graze on barren land and fortresses with full granaries can
withstand long siege... Weather seems promising for the crops... Yes, weather
is truly great. The sun is shining, mushrooms await rain in vain... And the
Yaruga is very shallow in Dol Angra... Easy to cross. From both sides.’
‘Why Dol
Angra?’
‘I
presume,’ the banker glared sharply at the sorceress while stroking his beard, ‘that
I can trust you?’
‘You
always could, Giancardi. Nothing has changed.’
‘In Dol
Angra,’ said the dwarf slowly. ‘There's Lyria and Aedirn, which are in military
alliance with Temeria. You don't suppose that Foltest, who’s buying the boats,
is going to use them all for himself?’
‘No,’
replied the magician. ‘I suppose not. Thank you for your information, Molnar.
Who knows, maybe you're right? Maybe our conference really will manage to
change the fate of the world and it's inhabitants?’
‘Don't
forget the dwarves,’ snorted Giancardi. ‘And their banks.’
‘We won't.
Speaking of which...’
‘I'm all
ears.’
‘I have
expenses, Molnar. And if I try to pay them from the account at Vivaldi's bank,
someone might end up drowning again, so...’
‘Yennefer,’
the dwarf interrupted. ‘I owe you unlimited credit. A long time has passed
since the pogrom in Vengerberg. Perhaps you have forgotten it, but I never
will. No member of Giancardi family will. How much do you need?’
‘Fifteen
hundred temerian orens, transferred to the Cianfanelli bank in Ellander, for
the temple of Melitele.’
‘Done.
Good transfer, donations to temples don't get taxed. Anything else?’
‘How high
is the annual tuition fee in Aretuza school?’
Ciri
pricked her ears up.
‘Twelve
hundred novigrad crowns,’ replied Giancardi. ‘There's also a matriculation for
new students, about two hundred crowns.’
‘Damn,
it's gotten higher.’
‘Every
price has. Students don't lack anything, they live in Aretuza as if they were
princesses. And half of the city earns their living from them: tailors,
shoemakers, confectioners, suppliers...’
‘I'm
aware of that. Transfer two thousand into the account of the school.
Anonymously. With a note, that it's all for the matriculation and tuition
fee... for one student.’
The dwarf
put down his pen, glanced at Ciri and gave her an understanding smile. Ciri,
still pretending to be busy with the book, listened carefully.
‘Is that
all, Yennefer?’
‘I'd also
like to ask for three hundred novigrad crowns, in cash. I will need at least
three dresses for the Thanedd conference.’
‘What do
you need cash for? I can give you a check. For five hundred crowns. The prices
of imported fabrics also rose hellishly much, and wool or linen is not up to
your standard. And if you need anything - for yourself or for the soon-to-be
student of Aretuza – my shops and stores are open for you.’
‘Thank
you. What interest rate shall we agree on?’
‘You have
already paid your interest,’ the dwarf raised his head, ‘for the whole
Giancardi family, Yennefer, during the pogrom in Vengerberg. Let's not talk
about it anymore.’
‘I don't
like debts like that, Molnar.’
‘Neither
do I. But I'm a merchant, a businessdwarf. I know what it means to be indebted.
Allow me to repeat: Let's not talk about it. You may consider everything you
asked for to be done. The thing you didn't ask for, as well.’
Yenenfer
raised her eyebrows.
‘A
certain witcher, dear to you,’ Giancardi chuckled, ‘had recently visited the
town Dorian. I've been informed that he had taken a loan of a hundred crowns.
The usurer is working for me. I shall erase the debt, Yenenfer.’
The
sorceress glanced briefly at Ciri, frowning deeply.
‘Molnar,’
she said coldly. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie. I doubt that he still considers me
dear to him, and if he finds out about the erased debt, he will hate me even
more. You know him, how obsessed with honour he is. How long ago was he in
Dorian?’
‘About
ten days ago. He has been spotted later in Little Meadow. From there, as I was
informed, he rode to Hirundum, answering the notice of local peasants. A
monster, as usual.’
‘And he
will be paid next to nothing for dealing with it, as usual.’ Yennefer's voice
changed a bit. ‘And, as usual, it will barely cover the costs of medical
treatment, if the beast maims him. As usual. If you truly wish to do something
for me, Molnar, then get involved in this. Contact the peasants and raise the
reward. So he'll earn a living.’
‘As
usual,’ snorted Giancardi. ‘What if he finally figures it out?’
Yennefer
glared at Ciri, who was watching them and listening, not even pretending to be
interested in the Physiologus.
‘Pray,
tell,’ she retorted. ‘Who will break it to him?’
Ciri
lowered her gaze. The dwarf smiled, stroked his beard.
‘Before
heading to Thanedd, are you going to stop by Hirundum? Accidentally, of course?’
‘No,’ the
sorceress turned her head away. ‘I'm not. Let's change the subject, Molnar.’
Giancardi
continued stroking his beard and looking at Ciri. Ciri lowered her head,
coughed, shifting in her chair.
‘Indeed,’
he agreed. ‘It's time to change the subject. But your pupil seems to have
gotten bored with the book... and with our conversation. And the thing I want
to discuss with you now will bore her even more, no doubt... Fate of the world,
fate of the dwarfs, fate of their banks, such a boring subject for young
maidens, future graduates of Aretuza... Let her out from under your wings for a
while, Yennefer. Let her take a walk in the town...’
‘Oh, yes!’
cried out Ciri.
The
sorceress frowned and opened her mouth to protest but suddenly changed her
mind. Ciri wasn't sure, but suspected that it was influenced by a wink from the
banker.
‘Let the
girl take a look at the marvellous old town of Gors Velen,’ added Giancardi,
smiling widely. ‘She deserves a bit of freedom before... before Aretuza. And we
will have a talk about other matters... hmm, private matters. No, I'm not
suggesting that the girl should walk alone, although it's a safe town. I shall
give her a companion and a guard. One of my best clerks.’
‘Forgive
me, Molnar,’ Yennefer didn't return the smile. ‘but I doubt than in current
times, even in such a safe town, the company of a dwarf...’
‘It
didn't even cross my mind,’ Giancardi said offensively, ‘to pick a dwarf for
her companion. The clerk I've been thinking of is a son of a respected
merchant. A full-blooded human. Do you think that I only hire dwarves? Oi,
Wilfi! Call Fabio here, lively!’
‘Ciri,’
the sorceress came up to her and whispered, ‘don't get any foolish ideas,
please. Don't cause me any shame. And keep your mouth shut when you're with
that clerk, understood? Promise me that you'll be careful. Don't nod. Vows
ought to be made in clear voice.’
‘I
promise, Mistress Yennefer.’
‘Don't
forget to look at the sun from time to time. You will return at noon. Be
punctual. And if... No, I doubt anyone will recognize you. But if you notice anyone
staring at you...’
The
sorceress reached to her pocket, taking out a tiny chrysoprase marked with
runes and shaped like an hourglass.
‘Hide it
in your sack. Don't lose it. If the need arises... Do you remember the spell?
But be discreet, because the active amulet emits strong vibrations and the
activation itself leaves an echo. If you are close to someone sensitive to
magic you will not conceal yourself but rather reveal your presence. Ah, and
here you can have... in case you want to buy anything.’
‘Thank
you, Mistress Yenenfer.’ Ciri put the amulet and coins to the sack and stared
curiously at the boy entering the office. The boy had freckles and wavy auburn
hair, reaching the collar of his grey uniform.
‘Fabio
Sachs,’ Giancardi announced. The boy bowed with respect.
‘Fabio,
this is Lady Yennefer, our honourable guest and client. And this young lady,
her pupil, wishes to tour the town. You will accompany her, guide and protect
her.’
The boy
bowed again, this time in the direction of Ciri.
‘Ciri,’
said Yennefer coldly. ‘Stand up, please.’
She
complied, surprised, knowing the customs enough to be aware that such gesture
isn't required of her. Suddenly, a realisation hit her. The clerk appeared to
be her peer, yet he was a head shorter than her.
‘Molnar,’
sighed the sorceress. ‘Who is supposed to watch over whom? Could you give this
task to someone with a bit more impressive posture?’
The boy
blushed and gazed at his master searching for permission. Giancardi nodded with
encouragement. The clerk bowed once again.
‘Honourable
lady,’ he started smoothly and with no hesitation. ‘I may not be tall but you
can rely on me. I know the town and surroundings well. I will take care of the young
lady best I can. And when I, Fabio Sachs Junior, son of Fabio Sachs, swear to
do something the best I can then... then many a man cannot compete.’
Yennefer
gazed at him for a while, then turned to the banker.
‘Congratulations,
Molnar,’ she said. ‘You know how to pick your staff. This young clerk will be
of great use to you in the future. Indeed, a diamond in the rough. Ciri, I
entrust you to the care of Fabio, son of Fabio, for it is a man of honour and
can be relied on.’
The boy
flushed red as a tomato. Ciri realised that she had too.
‘Fabio,’
the dwarf opened a casket, rummaging through its contents. ‘Here's a half-noble
and three... and two fivers. In case the young lady has any wishes. If she
doesn't have any, you will return them. Now, off you go.’
‘Noon,
Ciri,’ reminded Yennefer. ‘Not a second later.’
‘I know,
I know.’
***
‘I'm
Fabio,’ said the boy, once they ran down the stairs onto a busy street. ‘And
your name is Ciri, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What
would you like to see in Gors Velen, Ciri? The Main Street? Goldsmith’s Lane?
Seaport? Or maybe the town square and the market?’
‘Everything.’
‘Hmm,’
pondered the boy. ‘We only have time until noon... We should go to the town
square then. It's a market day today, so you can see a lot of interesting
things. But before that, we’ll climb up the wall, from which you can see the
whole Bay and the famous Thanedd Island. What do you think?’
‘Let's
go.’
The
street was full of rumbling carts hauled by horses and oxen; coopers rolling
barrels; noise and haste. The disorder made Ciri a bit dizzy – clumsily, she
stepped down the wooden pavement and fell ankle-high into mud and manure. Fabio
offered his hand but she rejected the help.
‘I can
walk by myself!’
‘Hmm...
of course. Let's go then. The place we're in right now is the main streets of
the town. It's called Kardo and it connects both gates, The Main Gate and the
Sea Gate. This way here leads to the town hall. Do you see that tower with the
golden weathervane? That's the town hall. And that place with the colorful sign
is a tavern called the Unlaced Corset. But there, hmm... we won't go there.
We’ll take a route through the fish market on Circuit Street.’
They made
a turn in the alley and entered a tiny square pressed between the walls of
houses. The square was filled with stalls, barrels and vats smelling of fish.
Merchants and buyers were involved in loud negotiations, as if trying to outcry
the seagulls circling above their heads. Cats were lying underneath the wall,
pretending not to be interested in fish in the slightest.
‘Your
mistress,’ said Fabio suddenly, ‘seems very firm.’
‘I know.’
‘She's
not a close relative of yours, right? It's plain at first sight!’
‘It is?
How?’
‘She's
very beautiful,’ answered Fabio with the cruel, disarming honesty of a youth.
Ciri spun abruptly, but before she had a chance to retort with a biting remark
alluding to his height and freckles, the boy was already dragging her between
the trolleys, barrels and stalls, while explaining that the turret adjoining
the square is called The Thief's Tower, that it was built of stones found at
the bottom of the sea, and that the trees growing beneath it are called
sycamores.
‘You sure
are quiet, Ciri,’ he noticed after a while.
‘Me?’ she
feigned surprise. ‘Nothing of the sort! I'm just listening to what you're
telling me. You're very informed, you know. I was meaning to ask...’
‘Ask
away.’
‘If it
far from here to... to the town Aretuza?’
‘Not at
all! But Aretuza isn't a town. Let's climb up the wall, I'll show you. The
stairs are over there.’
The wall
was high and the stairs were narrow. Fabio had a hard time catching his breath,
as he never stopped talking. Ciri was informed that the wall surrounding Gors
Velen was a fairly new construction, much younger than the town itself, which
had been built by the elves; that it was thirty five feet tall and that this
type of a construction was called a casemate wall, made of hewn stone and adobe
brick, because this sort of material was best-suited to withstand blows from a
battering ram.
Cool
marine wind blew at the top. Ciri gladly inhaled it after the thick air of the
town. She laid her elbows on the edge of the wall, looking down at the seaport,
rich in colors from the sails.
‘What is
that, Fabio? That mountain?’
‘Thanedd
Isle.’
The isle
appeared to be very close. And it didn't resemble an island at all. It looked
like a giant stone pole emerging from the waves; a huge ziggurat engirdled by a
spiral path, zigzags of stairs and terraces. Terraces were engulfed in green
from the amount of groves and gardens, and the green was adorned with soaring
white towers stuck to the rock like swallow nests, and by decorative domes
crowning the buildings surrounded by galleries. The building didn't appear to
have been put up. They seemed to have been carved in the slopes of that
mountain in the sea.
‘All of
this was built by the elves,’ explained Fabio. ‘By the use of elvish magic, it
is said. But for as long as we can remember, Thanedd belongs to the wizards.
Near the peak, close to those shiny domes, there's Garstang palace. In a few
days, a big conference of the wizards will take place there. And look, there at
the very top, that high, lone tower with crenellations – that’s Tor Lara,
Seagull's Tower...’
‘Can it
be accessed from the land? It's quite close.’
‘It's
possible. There's a bridge connecting the shore with the island. We can't see it
from here because it's behind the trees. Can you see the red roofs at the feet
of the mountain? That's Loxia palace. That's where the bridge leads. Only
through Loxia you can get to the path leading to the upper terraces...’
‘And
what's at that place with all those beautiful groves and ponds? And gardens? I
don't know why it doesn’t fall off the rock... What is the name of this palace?’
‘This is
Aretuza, the one you were asking about. That's where the famous school of
sorceresses is.’
‘Ah,’
Ciri licked her lips. ‘So that's where... Fabio?’
‘Yes?’
‘How
often do you see the students of this school? This Aretuza?’
The boy
gaped at her, clearly surprised.
‘Never!
No one ever sees them! They're not allowed to leave the island and go out to
the town. And no one from outside is allowed at the school grounds. Even the
Count and the Bailiff, when they want something from the sorceresses, go only
as far as to Loxia. On the lowest level.’
‘Just as
I thought,’ Ciri nodded, gazing at the shiny roofs of Aretuza. ‘This isn't a
school but a prison. On an island, on a rock, above an abyss. Nothing but a
prison.’
‘Maybe a
bit,’ admitted Fabio. ‘It must be difficult to get out of there... But no, it's
not the same as being in prison. The students are young ladies, after all. They
need to be guarded...’
‘Against
what?’
‘Well...’
the boy was stammering. ‘You know...’
‘No, I
don't.’
‘Hmm... I
think... Oh, Ciri, they're not locked up there by force. They want it
themselves...’
‘Yeah,
right,’ Ciri grinned mischievously. ‘They wanted it, so now they're stuck in
this prison. If they hadn't, then they wouldn't let themselves be locked up.
It's not hard; the key is to make a run early. Before they get there, because
it might be difficult later...’
‘What do
you mean? Run? Where to...?’
‘These
poor souls,’ she interrupted, ‘probably had nowhere to run. Fabio? Where's the
town... Hirundum?’
The boy
gave her a confused look.
‘Hirundum's
not a town,’ he corrected. ‘It's a huge farm. There are orchards and gardens
providing vegetables and fruit to all towns in the region. There are also many
ponds with carps and other fish...’
‘How far
is Hirundum? Which way is it? Show me.’
‘Why
would you need to know that?’
‘I asked
you to show me.’
‘See that
road, leading west? The one the wagons are at? That's the road to Hirundum.
About fifteen miles, through the woods.’
‘Fifteen
miles’, Ciri repeated after him. ‘Not far for a good horse... Thank you, Fabio.’
‘What
for?’
‘Never
mind. Now take me to the market. You promised.’
‘Let's go
then.’
Ciri had
never before seen such a hustle and bustle like the one at the square in Gors
Velen. The noisy fish market they had just crossed seemed quiet as a temple in
comparison. The square itself was gigantic and yet so crowded that it appeared
as if they would only be able to see it from afar, because getting anywhere
close to it would be miracle. Fabio, however, managed to get through the
rabble, pulling Ciri behind him.
Vendors
were yelling, customers were even louder, children lost in the crowd cried and
screamed. Cattle were bellowing, sheep were bleating, birds were clucking and
quacking. Dwarven blacksmiths keenly hit some plates with hammers, stopping
every now and then to drink and curse. The sounds of pipes and dulcimer could
be heard from several directions. In addition to that, someone hidden in rabble
continuously blew into a zurna. It was certainly not a professional musician.
Ciri
dodged before a squealing swine and fell onto chicken cages. Someone pushed her
and she stepped on something soft and meowing. She leapt away, almost falling
between the hooves of a huge, stinking and terrifying animal.
‘What was
that?’ she groaned, regaining her balance. ‘Fabio?’
‘A camel.
Don't be scared.’
‘I'm not
scared!’
She took
a curious look around. She watched the halflings, busy crafting decorative
goatskins, she cooed over beautiful dolls sold by a pair of half-elves. She
gazed at products made of malachite and jasper, offered by a grim and gloomy
gnome. She regarded with connoisseurship swords at the blacksmiths workshop.
Afterwards, she observed for a while girls weaving wicker baskets and came to
the conclusion that there's nothing in the world that would be worse than work.
The
zurnist stopped blowing. Someone probably killed him.
‘What is
this wonderful smell?’
‘Doughnuts,’
Fabio groped the pouch. ‘Do you wish to try one?’
‘I wish
to try two.’
The
vendor handed three doughnuts, took a fiver and gave a change of four pennies,
one broken in half. Ciri watched the breaking of the penny, hungrily devouring
the first doughnut.
‘Is this,’
she asked, while reaching for the other one, ‘where the saying 'halfpenny's
worth' comes from?’
‘Indeed,’
Fabio bit on his doughnut. ‘Didn't you have halfpennies at your home?’
‘No,’
Ciri licked her fingers. ‘At my home we had golden ducats. Besides, the whole
breaking thing was stupid and pointless.’
‘Why?’
‘Because
I wish to try one more.’
The plum
filling of the doughnuts worked magic. Ciri was in high spirit and the bustling
square ceased to terrify and began fascinating her instead. She no longer
followed Fabio, now she was the one who dragged the other in the biggest crowd,
to a place where someone spoke to the mob from a makeshift platform supported
on barrels. The speaker was a fat, old man. Judging by his shaved head and grey
robe Ciri assumed him to be an errant priest. She had seen some of them when
they visited the Melitele Temple in Ellander. Mother Nenneke always called
them, ‘the insane fanatics.’
‘There's
only one law in the world,’ bellowed the fat priest. ‘God's law! All of nature
is subjected to it, the whole earth and everything living on it! But magic and
spells are defying this law! And so wizards are cursed and the day of
retribution is nigh, the day when holy fire will destroy their accursed isle!
The walls will fall, of Loxia, Aretuza and Garstand, the walls in which these
pagans are gathering right now to plot and scheme. The walls will fall...’
‘And then
I'll have to put them bloody things back up again,’ complained the journeyman
mason in a lime-stained coat, who stood next to Ciri.
‘I'm
warning you, good, god-fearing men!’ yelled the priest. ‘Don't trust wizards;
don't turn to them in your need! Don't let them trick you with their beauty nor
learned speak, for let it be known that wizards are like whitewashed graves,
clean from the outside, stinking on the inside!
‘Look at
'im,’ said a young maiden with a basket full of carrots. ‘All them big words…
'e's barkin' at magicians out of spite, no doubt!’
‘Sure
thing,’ agreed the mason. ‘Himself bald like an egg, beard tanglin' between his
knees. And wizards neither grow fat nor go bald... And sorceresses, heh, what
beauty...
‘For that
beauty they sold their souls to the devil!’ cried a short man with cobbler's
hammer hooked at his belt.
‘You're a
fool, shoemaker. If not for kind ladies of Aretuza, you would've gone out of
business long ago! Their money pays for your stew!’
Fabio
pulled Ciri's sleeve and they dove back into the crowd which was moving to the
center of the square. They could hear the rumbling of the drums and loud calls
for silence. The mob wasn't willing to obey but the town crier didn't seem
bothered by it. He had a sonorous voice and experience in using it.
‘It is
hereby announced,’ he shouted, unrolling a parchment. ‘That Hugo Ansbach,
halfling-born, has become an outlaw, for he has given room and hospitality to
elven bandits going by the name of Squirrels. The same applies to Justin
Ingvar, a blacksmith, born a dwarf, who had been forging arrows for those
scoundrels. Therefore, the Count has issued arrest warrants for both. Whoever
captures them shall receive a reward: fifty crowns in cash. And whoever offers
them shelter or food shall be regarded as an accomplice and punished as
severely as the criminals themselves. And if they are found in a field or a
village, then the whole farm or village shall be held accountable...’
‘Who
would,’ yelled one of the spectators, ‘give shelter to a halfling? Search the
farms of their brethren and you'll find them there, and then throw them all,
nonhuman scum, in the scorpion pit!’
‘To the
gallows with them, not the pit!’
The town
crier continued reading announcements of the Count and town council, but Ciri
lost interest. She was just about to leave the crowd when she felt a hand
groping her bottom. It was in no way accidental, completely tactless and
surprisingly skilled. The narrow space made it almost impossible to turn, but
Ciri had learned in Kaer Morhen how to move in places where it's difficult to
do so. She spun around, creating a bit of commotion in the process. The bald
priest standing behind her grinned with arrogance. The grin appeared to say -
What are you going to do now? Blush cutely and nothing more, yes?
The
priest clearly never dealt with Yennefer's ward.
‘Keep
your paws to yourself, baldie!’ Ciri hissed with fury. ‘Grab your own ass,
you... you whitewashed grave!!!’
Taking
advantage of the fact that priest couldn't move while trapped in the crowd, she
tried to kick him, but Fabio prevented her, quickly drawing her away from the
clergyman. Seeing her shake with anger he proceeded to calm her down with
sugar-sprinkled funnel cake, the sight of which immediately turned Ciri's
thought away from the incident. They stopped next to a stall which offered them
a good view at the scaffold and pillory. The pillory, however, hoed no
wrongdoer and the scaffold itself was decorated with flower garlands and was
used by a troupe of wandering musicians, playing on fiddles and blowing
bagpipes and shawms. A young, dark-haired girl in a sequin-embroidered jerkin
was dancing and singing, shaking a tambourine and merrily stepping with her
tiny boots.
A
sorceress bit viciously by serpents cold and vile,
Observed
the reptiles choke and die as she did herself smile!
The crowd
around the scaffold cheered loudly and clapped to the rhythm. The seller of
funnel cake threw a new portion in the boiling oil. Fabio licked his fingers
and pulled Ciri by the sleeve.
There
were plenty of stalls and many offered various snacks. They ate a creampuff
each, then – together – a smoked eel, as well as some very peculiar thing,
fried and served on a stick. Afterwards, they made a stop at the barrels with
sauerkraut and pretended to be interested in buying to get a sample. When they
stuffed themselves and left without buying anything, the merchant called them
little shits.
They
moved ahead. Fabio spent the rest of his money on a basket of bergamot pears.
Ciri looked up at the sun but decided that it wasn't yet noon.
‘Fabio?
What it's in those tents and booths under the wall?’
‘Various
attractions. Would you like to take a look?’
‘I do.’
People
standing before the first tent were all men, shifting their legs with
excitement. Sounds of flute came from the inside.
‘Dark-skinned
Leila,’ Ciri deciphered the lopsided sign on the side. ‘Reveals in her dance
all secrets of her body... How silly! What kind of secrets...’
‘Let's
go, let's go,’ urged Fabio, flushing pink. ‘Oh, look, this is interesting. It's
the clairvoyant’s booth. I have two pennies left, it should be enough...’
‘Such a
waste of money,’ scoffed Ciri. ‘A two-penny prophesy! One has to be a real
prophet to know the future. Prophesying is a great talent. Even among the
sorceresses only one out of every hundred has this ability.’
‘My
oldest sister,’ disagreed the boy, ‘was foretold that she would marry and she
really did. Don't be petty, Ciri. Let's go in....’
‘I don't
want to marry! I don't want any prophecies! It's hot and this booth is stinking
of incense, I'm not going inside. If you want to, then go alone, I'll wait. I
don't know why you need a prophecy so badly. What do you want to know?’
‘Well...’
stammered Fabio. ‘What I want to know most is... if I will become an explorer.
I want to be an explorer in the future. To travel the whole world...’
He will,
Ciri realized suddenly, feeling her head spin. He will be sailing on huge white
ships... He'll reach lands no one has seen before... Fabio Sachs, the great
explorer... A cape will be named after him, a headland of a continent which is
yet to be named. At fifty-four he will have a wife, son and three daughters,
but he will die far from his home and family... Of a disease which is yet to be
named.
‘Ciri!
What's wrong?’
She
rubbed her face with her palm. She felt like she'd just emerged from water,
swimming towards the surface from the bottom of a deep, ice-cold lake.
‘It's
nothing...’ she muttered, looking around. ‘I feel a bit dizzy... It must be the
heat. And the incense...’
‘I think
it might be that sauerkraut,’ said Fabio with seriousness. ‘We shouldn't have
eaten so much. My tummy feels weird too.’
‘I'm
fine!’ Ciri boldly raised her head, indeed feeling much better. The realization
which had struck her now dispelled, lost from memory. ‘Come, Fabio. Let's go
ahead.’
‘Want
another pear?’
‘Sure I
do!’
Under the
wall, a group of youths were playing a spinning top game for money. The top was
spun with a pull of the string in such a way that it rolled around the chalk
circles. Ciri had outplayed most boys from Skellige and all girls at the
Melitele Temple. She was considering the possibility of joining the game and
taking from the urchins not just their money, but their patched breeches as
well, when her attention was drawn away by loud shouts.
At the
very end of the line of tents and booths, cramped between the wall and stone
stairs, stood a curious, half-round construction, formed by sheets spanned over
copper rods. Between two such rods was an entry, guarded by a tall, pockmarked
man, dressed in gambeson and striped pants. Before him a crowd had formed.
People lined up to throw a handful of coins into the man's hand and then
disappear under the sheet. The pockmarked man put the money in a metal box and
shook it crying hoarsely.
‘Come,
good men! Come! See with your own eyes the most terrifying monster the gods
have made! Shock and horror! A living basilisk, the venomous terror of
zerrikanian deserts, devil incarnated, hungry for human flesh! You’ve never
seen a monster like it, men! A fresh catch from the Corrabian Seas! See him;
see the living, stern basilisk with your own eyes, because you will never see
another anywhere else! This is your only chance! Here, at my tent, for just
three fivers! Two fivers for women with kids!’
‘Ha!’
exclaimed Ciri, brushing off the wasps buzzing around the pears, ‘A basilisk? A
living one too? I must see it. I’ve only seen pictures of it. Let’s go, Fabio.’
‘I don’t
have any money left…’
‘But I
do. I’ll pay for us both. Let’s make haste.’
‘That
will be six fivers,’ the pockmarked individual peered at the coins dropped on
his hand. ‘Three fivers each. Lower price only for women with kids.’
‘He,’
Ciri pointed her pear at Fabio, ‘is a kid. And I am a woman.’
‘Lower
price only for women with kids in their arms.’ Growled the man. ‘Add two more
fivers, witty lass, or make way for others. Make haste, people. Only three more
tickets left!’
Under the
canvas, spectators were gathered, surrounding a makeshift podium on which stood
a wooden cage, covered with a carpet. When the tent was full, the pockmarked
man stepped onto the podium, grabbed a long rod and knocked off the carpet. The
stench of carrion sprawled around. The mob rustled and backed away.
‘Smart
move, my good men,’ commented the man. ‘It’s not safe to get too close!’
Inside
the cage, clearly too small for it, lay a curled up reptile, whose skin was
covered in scales forming a curious pattern. When the pockmarked man poked the
cage, the reptile tussled, stretched its neck and hissed furiously, exposing
its pointy, sharp, white teeth. The spectators sighed loudly. A small, fluffy
dog yipped from the arms of a woman, who looked like a merchant.
‘Observe
it well, my good men,’ yelled the pockmarked man. ‘And be happy that
abominations like this one don’t live in our vicinity! This is a monstrous
basilisk from Zerrikania! Don’t come any closer, because even locked in a cage,
it can still kill you with its breath!’
Ciri and
Fabio made their way to the front.
‘The
basilisk,’ the men on the podium went on, ‘is the most venomous creature in the
world! For the basilisk is the king of all reptiles! If there were more of them
around, the world would be doomed! Fortunately, it’s a very rare monster,
because it can only be born from an egg laid by a rooster. And as you all know,
no rooster lays eggs but for a deviant who offers his rump to another like a
hen would.’
The
spectators burst into laughter at the joke. The only one who didn’t laugh was
Ciri, staring at the creature which attacked the bars annoyed by the noise,
trying in vain to unfurl its maimed wings.
‘Eggs
laid by this rooster,’ continued the pockmarked man, ‘must be brood by a
hundred and one venomous snakes! And once the basilisk hatches…’
‘This is
no basilisk.’ Stated Ciri, biting on the pear. The pockmarked man glared at
her.
‘And once
the basilisk hatches, I said,’ he repeated, ‘it devours all the snakes from its
nest, absorbing their venom. It absorbs so much that it can kill not just with
a scratch of its teeth and the touch of its scales, but even with its breath
alone. And if a knight impales it with his spear, then the poison spreads all
the way to his arm, killing the rider and the horse at the same time!’
‘That’s
an untrue untruth!’ said Ciri, spitting out a seed.
‘It’s the
truest truth!’ objected the man. ‘It will kill the rider and it will kill the
horse!’
‘As if!’
‘Quiet,
girl!’ scolded the merchantress with the dog. ‘Don’t interrupt! We want to hear
more!’
‘Let it
go, Ciri.’ Advised her Fabio, nudging her side. Ciri hissed at him, reaching
for the next pear.
‘From the
basilisk,’ the pockmarked man raised his voice, ‘runs every living thing, the
moment they hear its hiss. Every living thing, even the dragon, even the
crocodile, and the crocodile is a terrifying creature in itself, you know if
you’ve seen it. There is just one animal which doesn’t fear the basilisk and
that is the marten. The marten seeing the basilisk in the desert rushes quickly
to the forest, searching for a secret herb known only to it and eats it. Then
the basilisk’s venom no longer works on the marten and it can bite the monster
to death…’
Ciri
sneered loudly.
‘Oi,
smartypants!’ the pockmarked man lost control. ‘If you don’t like it then get
lost! There’s no point in listening and looking at the basilisk!’
‘It’s not
a basilisk.’
‘Oh, yes?
What is it then, miss know-it-all?’
‘A
wyvern.’ Replied Ciri, licking her fingers. ‘A simple wyvern. Young, rather
small, starved and dirty. But still just a wyvern.’
‘Oh,
look!’ yelled the man. ‘What an expert! Better shut your mouth or…’
‘Enough!’
spoke a fair-haired youth in a velvet beret and squire’s clothes, who was
supporting by the arm a fragile-looking lady in apricot-colored dress. ‘Manners,
sir monster-catcher. Do not threaten a lady or I’ll be forced to scold you with
my steel. And the whole affair feels like a scam to me!’
‘What
scam, honorable knight?’ the pockmarked man bridled up. ‘The brat is -- I mean,
the young lady is wrong. It’s definitely a basilisk!’
‘It’s a
wyvern.’ Repeated Ciri.
‘This is
no vern! Its a basilisk! Look how ferocious it is, how it hisses, how it bites
the bars! Look what huge fangs it has. Fangs like a…’
‘Like a
wyvern.’ Ciri pulled a face.
‘If
you’re so knowledgeable,’ the man gazed at her like a true basilisk, ‘then come
closer! Come and let its breath sweep over you! Do it and everyone will see you
drop dead! Come on!’
‘Gladly.’
Ciri wrestled her arm from Fabio’s grip and took a step forward.
‘I won’t
allow it!’ cried the fair-haired squire, leaving behind his apricot companion
and standing in Ciri’s way. ‘I won’t let you endanger yourself, my lady!’
Ciri
flushed at the title, gazed at the squire and fluttered her eyelashes at him in
the way she had practiced on Jarre the scribe.
‘There is
no risk, my chivalrous knight.’ She smiled seductively, forgetting Yennefer’s
warnings and her story about the idiot and the cheese. ‘No harm will happen to
me. That whole poisonous breath is a bluff.’
‘Nevertheless,’
the youth lay his arm on the hilt of his sword, ‘I wish to be by your side. For
your safety and protection… will you let me?’
‘I will.’
Ciri couldn’t figure out why the expression of anger on apricot-lady’s face filled
her with so much delight.
‘I’m the
one who’s caring for her safety!’ Fabio threw the squire a challenging glare. ‘And
I will go with her too!’
‘My good
men,’ Ciri was swelling with pride, ‘Show some dignity. Do not fight. There’s
enough room for you both.’
The
surrounding crowd babbled when she approached the cage, almost feeling the
breaths of both boys on the back of her head. The wyvern hissed furiously and
tussled, its reptilian stench attacking their nostrils. Fabio grunted loudly
but Ciri didn’t back off. She came even closer and reached to the cage, almost
touching it. The monster threw itself on the bars, scratching them with its
fangs. The crowd rustled, someone cried out.
‘So?’
Ciri boasted, turning around. ‘Am I dead? Have I been poisoned by his
supposedly venomous creature? If this is a basilisk then I am…’
She
paused, seeing her companions’ faces suddenly go pale. She spun abruptly and
watched how the bars bend under pressure of the enraged beast.
‘Everyone
escape!’ she yelled. ‘The cage is breaking!’
Screaming
spectators ran to the exit. Some were trying to make way under the sheets but
they only got themselves and others entangled in it. The squire caught Ciri’s
arm at the exact same moment she tried to leap away; as a result they both lost
foothold and fell down, taking Fabio with them. The merchantress’ fluffy dog
was yipping, the pockmarked man was cursing and the apricot lady gave a
piercing shriek.
The bars
broke with a crack and the wyvern emerged from the cage. The pockmarked man
jumped down from the podium and tried to keep it back with a stick but the
monster disarmed him with one blow and whipped its spiky tail at him, making a
bloody mess of his pockmarked cheek. Hissing and unfurling its maimed wings,
the wyvern flew down from the podium and pounced at Ciri, Fabio and the squire,
who were trying to pick themselves up from the ground. The apricot lady fell
unconscious. Ciri considered leaping away but realized that she wouldn’t make
it in time.
They were
saved by the fluffy dog, which had escaped the merchantress, who was now
entangled in the sheet and her own dresses. Yipping madly, the dog pounced at
the monster. The wyvern hissed, raised its body, caught the dog in its claws
and sunk teeth in its neck. The dog whimpered loudly.
The
squire rose to his feet and reached to his side, but he didn’t find his sword,
because Ciri was quicker. She drew the sword with one rapid move and made a
roundhouse jump. The wyvern rose, dog’s severed head hanging from its jaws.
It seemed
to Ciri as if all the moves she had learned in Kaer Morhen had executed
themselves without her will. She cut the surprised wyvern in the belly and
dodged when the reptile jumped at her. The beast fell onto the sand, bleeding
profusely. Ciri jumped over it, aptly dodging the tail, walloped the monster in
the neck with precision, swerved, performed an unnecessary dodge out of a
habit, and gave the opponent another blow, this time crushing its spine. The
wyvern curled up and lay motionless, with the exception of its tail, which
still writhed and banged, raising a cloud of sand.
Ciri
quickly shoved the blood-stained steel into the squire’s hand.
‘Everything’s
alright!’ she yelled to the gathering spectators. ‘The monster is dead! This
brave warrior killed it!’
Suddenly,
she felt a clench in her throat and stomach and her vision darkened. Something
had given her a mighty blow in the ass. She looked around disoriented and
realized that said something was, in fact, the ground.
‘Ciri…’
whispered Fabio kneeling beside her, ‘What’s wrong? Gods, you’re pale as a
ghost…’
‘It’s a
pity,’ she muttered, ‘that you can’t see yourself.’
People
were gathering around them. Some were poking the wyvern’s corpse with sticks
and brooms, some were checking on the pockmarked man; the rest was applauding
the heroic squire, fearless dragon-slayer, the one who prevented a massacre.
The squire was trying to revive the apricot lady, still staring with confusion
at the hilt of his sword, covered in dried blood.
‘My hero…’
the apricot lady regained consciousness and threw her arms around squire’s
neck. ‘My saviour! My beloved!’
‘Fabio,’
murmured Ciri, seeing town guards making their way through the crown. ‘Help me
up and take me away from here. Fast!’
‘Poor
children…’ a fat townswoman nodded at them when they were sneaking away from
the commotion. ‘You sure were lucky. If not for the brave warrior your mothers
would cry their eyes out after you!’
‘Find out
whom the youth is working for!’ yelled craftsman in a leather coat, ‘He
deserves to be knighted for this deed!’
‘And the
monster-catcher to the pillow! He deserved a good whipping! Bringing such a
beast into a town, among the people…’
‘Water,
quick! The lady has lost consciousness again!’
‘My poor
Princess!’ wailed the merchantress leaning above whatever was left of the dog. ‘My
poor baby! Peopleee! Catch his girl, this rogue who annoyed the dragon! Where
is she? Capture her! It’s not the monster-catchers fault, but hers!’
The
guards, helped by many volunteers, began combing the crowd. Ciri managed to get
over her dizziness.
‘Fabio,’
she whispered, ‘We need to split up. We’ll meet in the same alley we arrived
here from. Go. And if someone stops you and asks about me, feign ignorance.’
‘But…
Ciri…’
‘Go!’
She squeezed
Yennefer’s amulet and activated the spell. The spell worked immediately and
just on time. The guards, who were already making way in the crowd towards her,
stopped confused.
‘The
Hell?’ moaned one, looking directly at the place Ciri stood. ‘Where she at?
I’ve just seen her ‘round here!’
‘Over
there! Over there!’ yelled the other one, pointing in the opposite direction.
Ciri
turned around and walked away, still a bit dizzy from the rush of adrenaline
and activation of the amulet. The amulet worked exactly the way it was supposed
to – nobody could see her. Nobody at all. As a result, before getting out of
the crowd, she was shoved countless times, kicked and stepped on. She missed by
a heartbeat a crate thrown down from a wagon. She was almost stabbed with a
pitchfork. Spells, it seemed, had a bad side as well as a good side – and just
as many values as flaws.
The
amulet didn’t operate for long. Ciri didn’t have enough power to control it and
prolong its work. Fortunately, the spell stopped working at the right moment –
just as she stepped out of the rabble and saw Fabio waiting for her.
‘Oh,
dear!’ sighed the boy, ‘Oh dear, Ciri. You’re here. I was so worried…’
‘You were
worried for nothing. Let’s go back. The noon has passed already, we must make
haste.’
‘You sure
dealt with that monster well.’ The boy gazed at her with respect. ‘You were
moving so fast! Where did you learn to move like that?’
‘Like
what? The wyvern was killed by the squire.’
‘Not
true. I saw it myself…’
‘You saw
nothing! Please, Fabio, don’t tell anybody about it. Not one soul. And
definitely not lady Yennefer. Oh, she would scold me so hard if only she knew…’
She was
quiet for a while.
‘These
people there,’ she nodded at the square, ‘were right. I was the one who
provoked the wyvern… it’s all because of me…’
‘It’s not
your fault,’ disagreed Fabio. ‘The cage was rotten and badly-built. It could
burst at any moment: an hour from now, tomorrow, the day after… It’s better
that it happened then, because you could save…’
‘The
squire saved!’ yelled Ciri, ‘The squire did! Get it into your thick skull! I
swear if you let the word out I’ll change you into… into something terrible! I
know magic! I will magic you into…’
‘Oi!’
exclaimed a voice from behind their backs, ‘Enough of this!’
One of
the women following them had dark, evenly combed hair, sparkling eyes and thin
lips. She wore a short, violet silk coat trimmed with dormice fur.
‘Why
aren’t you in school, student?’ she asked coldly, glaring at Ciri.
‘Wait,
Tissaia,’ said the other woman, younger, tall and blond, in a green dress with
a considerable neckline. ‘I don’t recognize her. I don’t think she’s…’
‘She is.’
Cut the dark-haired one. ‘I’m certain that she’s one of your girls, Rita. You
can’t possibly know them all. She must be one of those who sneaked out through
Loxia during the chaos when the students changed quarters. And now we shall
wait for her explanation. Well, student?’
‘What?’
Ciri frowned.
The woman
pursed her thin lips and evened the cuffs of her gloves.
‘Where
did you steal that amulet from? Or perhaps someone had given it to you?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t
test my patience, student. Tell us your name, class and name of your
preceptress. Now!’
‘What?’
‘Are you
playing dumb, student? Your name! What is your name?’
Ciri
clenched her teeth and her eyes shot green flames at them.
‘Anna
Ingeborga Klopstock’ she hissed tactlessly.
The woman
raised her hand and Ciri immediately understood the seriousness of her mistake.
Yennefer had demonstrated to her paralyzing spells only once, tired with her
long whining. The feeling had been considerably unpleasant. It was the same
now.
Fabio
cried terrified and leaped towards her but the other woman, the blond one,
caught him by the collar and forced him to stay in place. The boy jerked his
arm but the woman had an iron grip. Ciri couldn’t move. The dark-haired one
bent down and glared at her.
‘I am not
in favour of corporal punishment,’ she drawled her words coldly, evening her
cuffs yet again, ‘But I will ensure that you’re whipped, student. Not for misbehaviour,
not for the theft or elopement. Not even for wearing illicit clothes, walking
out with a boy and telling him about things you were forbidden from discussing.
No, you will be whipped for being unable to recognize an Archmistress.’
‘No!’
yelled Fabio. ‘Don’t hurt her, Ma’am! I am a clerk at Molnar Giancardi’s bank
and this lady is…’
‘Shut up!’
yelled Ciri. ‘Shut….’ The gagging spell was casted quickly and brutally. She
could taste blood in her mouth.
‘Well?’
the blond woman urged Fabio.
‘Speak.
Who is this haughty little miss?’
***
Margarita
Laux-Antille emerged from the pool with a splash.. Ciri could not stop herself
from taking a peek. She saw Yennefer in the nude many times and she didn't
think anyone could have a more beautiful figure. She was wrong. At the sight of
a naked Margarita Laux-Antille even marble statues of goddesses and nymphs
would sob with jealousy.
The
Sorceress grabbed the bucket of cold water and poured it on her breasts, while
swearing obscenely and shaking it off.
‘Hey, girl,’
she nodded at Ciri, ‘be so good and pass me a towel. Come on, stop pouting.’
Ciri
hissed quietly, still offended. When Fabio let out who Ciri was, the
sorceresses dragged her through half of the city, exposing her to public
mockery. In Giancardi's bank the whole incident was immediately explained. The
Sorceresses apologized to Yennefer, explaining their behaviour. The
misunderstanding was caused by the disciples of Aretuza, who were temporarily
transferred to Loxia as the school facilities were turned into rooms for the
guests and participants of the conference. Some adepts took advantage of the
chaos during the move and fled from Thanedd to the city. Alarmed by the
activation of Ciri’s amulet, Margarita Laux-Antille and Tissaia de Vries
mistook her for one.
The
sorcerers’ apologized to Yennefer, but none of them thought of apologizing to
Ciri. Yennefer was looking at her while listening to the apology, and Ciri felt
like her ears were burning. And the most unfortunate one was Fabio - Molnar
Giancardi scolded him so harshly that the boy had tears in his eyes. Ciri felt
sorry for him, but she was also proud of him - Fabio kept his word and he
revealed nothing about the wyvern.
Yennefer, as it
turned out, knew Tissaia and Margarita. The Sorceresses had invited them to the
Silver Heron, the best and most expensive inn in Gors Velen where Tissaia had
stayed upon arrival, avoiding, for reasons known only to her, approaching the
island. Margarita Laux-Antille, who was the Principal of Aretuza, had accepted
the invitation of the older Sorceress and for a time shared a room with her.
The inn was real luxury. They were in the basement baths, which Margarita and
Tissaia had rented for their exclusive use, paying for it an unimaginable
amount. Yennefer and Ciri of course, were encouraged to use the restrooms and
as a result they had all soaked alternately in the pool and had spent a few
hours sweating in the sauna, as well as non-stop chatting.
Ciri gave the towel
to the sorceress. Margarita patted her gently on the cheek. Ciri snorted and
jumped and splashed into the pool of scented rosemary water.
‘Floats like a little
leaf’, smiled Margarita as she lay down next to Yennefer on a wooden couch. ‘And
she is as well formed as a nymph. You’re giving her to me, Yenna?’
‘That is why I
brought her here.’
‘For a year I take
it? She knows the basics?’
‘She knows, but let
her start like everyone else, from the beginning. It would not do her any harm.’
‘Good thinking’, said
Tissaia de Vries, who was busy ordering the drinks that, were on the marble
table covered with a layer of vapour droplets. ‘Good thinking, Yennefer. It
will be easier on the girl if she starts together with the other novices.’
Ciri emerged from the
pool and sat down on the edge of the timbering, twirling her hair and splashing
her feet in the water. Yennefer and Margarita chatted idly, occasionally wiping
their faces with cold, wet towels.
Tissaia, modestly
wrapped in a sheet, did not join the conversation, giving the feeling of being
totally absorbed in bringing order to the table.
‘I apologize humbly
to the noble ladies!’, Exclaimed a voice from above from the unseen innkeeper. ‘Excuse
me for daring to disturb, but… an officer urgently wants to see Madame De
Vries! They say that this will suffer no delay!’
Margarita
Laux-Antille chuckled and winked at Yennefer, after which both, as if commanded,
withdrew the towels from their bosoms and adopted a position convoluted and
highly challenging.
‘Let the officer
enter!’ Cried Margarita, holding back laughter. ‘Go Ahead! We are ready!’
‘Like children’,
sighed Tissaia de Vries, shaking her head ‘Cover yourself, Ciri.’
The officer entered,
but the trick of the sorceresses completely fizzled out. The officer was not
disturbed by the sight before their eyes, didn’t blush, never opened their
mouth, nor averted their eyes. Because the officer was a woman. A tall woman,
slender, with a thick black braid and a sword at her side.
‘Madame,’ said the
woman dryly, making a slight bow towards Tissaia de Vries, resulting in a
rattle of chain mail. ‘I bring news that your orders have been executed. I
request permission to return to the barracks.’
‘Granted,’ Tissaia
said. ‘Thank you for the escort and for your help. Happy journey.’
Yennefer sat on the
couch, and looked at the insignia on the shoulder of the warrior which had the
colours black, yellow and red.
‘Do you know who I
am?’
The warrior bowed
stiffly, wiped her sweaty face. The bath was hot and she wore chain mail and a
leather jacket.
‘I’m often in
Vengerberg,’ she said. ‘Lady Yennefer. My name is Rayla.’
‘Judging by your
badge, you serve in the special forces of King Demavend.’
‘Yes, Madam.’
‘What rank?’
‘Captain.’
‘Very good,’ laughed
Margarita Laux-Antille. ‘I see that the army of Demavend have finally begun to
give official patents to soldiers who have ovaries.’
‘Can I retire?’ The
warrior stood up straight, placing her hand on the hilt of her sword.
‘You can.’
‘I noticed the
hostility in your voice, Yenna’ said Margarita finally. ‘What do you have
against the Lady Captain?’
Yennefer got up and
took two cups from the table.
‘Have you seen the
posts that are along the roadside?’ She asked. ‘You should have seen them; you
should have smelled the stench of rotting corpses. These posts are her idea and
her work. Her and her subordinates from the Special Forces. They are a band of
sadists!’
‘This is war,
Yennefer. This Rayla has had to see on more than one occasion her
comrades-in-arms who have been taken alive into the hands of the Squirrels.
Hung by their wrists in the trees as a targets for arrows. Blinded, castrated
with their feet burned in bonfires. The atrocities committed by the Scoia’tael
would not shame Falka herself.’
‘The methods of the
special forces also closely resemble the methods of Falka. However this is not
it Rita. I do not pity the fate of the elves. I know what war is. I also know
how to win a war. You win with soldiers with conviction and sacrifice defending
the country, defending their homes. And not with such as this Rayla, with
mercenaries fighting for money, who cannot and do not want to sacrifice
themselves for anyone. They do not even know what it is to sacrifice. And if
they do, they despise it.’
‘To the Club, with
your sacrifice and contempt. What does it matter to us? Ciri, run up above and
bring us another carafe. Today I want to get drunk.’
Tissaia De Vries
sighed and shook her head. This did not escape the attention of Margarita.
‘Fortunately,’ she
laughed ‘we are no longer in school, dear teacher. We are free to do what we
want.’
‘Even in the presence
of a future adept?’ Tissaia asked venomously. ‘When I was Principal of Aretuza
...’
‘I remember, we
remember’ Yennefer cut in with a smile. ‘Although we would like to, we did not
forget. Go for the carafe, Ciri.’
Above, while waiting
for the carafe, Ciri witnessed the departure of the warrior and her unit,
consisting of four soldiers. With curiosity and admiration she contemplated
their appearances, faces, clothes and weapons. Rayla, the captain with the
black braid, was in an argument at that moment with the proprietor of the inn.
‘I will not wait for
the sunrise! And I don’t give a fuck that the door is closed! I want to leave
the city immediately! I know that the inn has its own stables and postern gate!
I command you to open it!’
‘The laws ...’
‘Bullshit, what do I
care for laws. I execute the orders of the great teacher de Vries!’
‘All right, Captain,
do not shout, I will open ...’
The aforementioned
gate, as discussed, was a narrow and firmly secured exit leading directly
across to the other side of the wall of the city. Before Ciri could take the
carafe from the hands of the maid she watched as the postern gate was opened
and Rayla and her unit went outside into the night.
She was thoughtful.
‘Well, finally,’
Margarita said happily although whether it was from seeing Ciri or the carafe
that she was carrying. Ciri put the carafe on the table, obviously wrong,
because Tissaia de Vries immediately move it. In serving, Yennefer destroyed the
entire composition on the table and once again Tissaia started sorting it. Ciri
imagined with horror Tissaia in the role of teacher.
Margarita and
Yennefer resumed their conversation not forgetting the carafe. Ciri realised
that she would soon have to go for another. She sank into her thoughts while
listening to the conversation of the sorceresses.
‘No, Yenna’,
Margarita shook her head. ‘You are not someone I see on a regular basis. I
broke up with Lars. It’s over. Elaine deireadh, as the elves say.’
‘Is that why you want
to get drunk?’
‘Among other things’,
confirmed Margarita ‘I am sad, I am not hiding. At the end of the day we’ve
been together four years. But I had to break up with him. A stick is not a boat
...’
‘Especially,’ snorted
Tissaia de Vries staring into the golden wine that swayed in her cup ‘given
that Lars is married.’
‘It is,’ the
sorceress shrugged her shoulders ‘irrelevant. All the attractive men of that
age that I am interested in are married, I cannot help it. Lars loved me, and I
seemed for a time I also found that I loved him ... Ah what can I say. He
wanted too much from me. He threatened my freedom and I gag just thinking about
monogamy. At the end of the day, I have you as an example, Yenna. Remember that
conversation in Vengerberg? When you decided to break with your Witcher? I
advised you then that love is not just lying in the street. Yet it was you who
were right. Love is love and life is life. Love passes ...’
‘Do not listen to her
Yennefer.’ Tissaia said with an icy voice. ‘She is full of sadness and bitterness.
Do you know why she is not going to the banquet of Aretuza? Because she is
embarrassed to be there alone, without the man with whom she associated
with for four years. They envied her. But she lost it because she could not
appreciate his love.’
‘Wouldn’t it be
better to speak of other things?’ Yennefer proposed, apparently unconcerned but
her voice had changed somewhat. ‘Ciri, serve us. Damn this carafe is almost
empty. Come on, be good and bring us another.’
‘Bring two,’ smiled
Margarita ‘As a reward you will get a sip and sit down with us, you will no
longer have to strain your ears from a distance. Your education starts here,
now, from me before you reach Aretuza.’
‘Education!’ Tissaia
rolled her eyes. ‘Gods!’
‘Hush dear teacher.’
Margarita gave a wet slap to her thigh feinting anger. ‘I am now the Principal
of the school! You do not get to throw me into the final exams!’
‘Well, too bad.’
‘Note that from me
too. Now would be a private consultation, like Yenna’s and should not tire the
adept, she wouldn’t have to clean up the snot of the mourners, nor quarrel with
the proud. Ciri, listen and learn. A sorceress always acts. For better or
worse, that we’ll see later. But we must act, courageously and grab life by the
horns. Believe me, little one, the only regret is having been inactive,
indecisive, hesitant. Although sometimes the action and the decision produce
grief and sadness, one does not repent of them ever. Look at this lady so
serious that is sitting there, gesturing pedantically and ordering everything
on hand. This is Tissaia de Vries, a great teacher, who educated tens of
sorceresses. Teaching them to act. That indecision ...’
‘Leave it, Rita’
‘Tissaia is right,’
Yennefer said, looking at a corner of the baths. ‘Leave it. I know that you are
sad because of Lars, but do not turn this into a lesson for life. The girl will
still have time for this kind of lessons. And she will not learn them in
school. Ciri, go get another carafe.’
Ciri rose. She was
already fully dressed.
And completely
determined.
***
‘What? ‘ Yennefer
screamed. ‘What? What do you mean gone?’
‘She told me ...’
muttered the innkeeper, turning pale and pressing back against the wall. ‘She
told me to saddle a horse ...’
‘And you listened to her?
Instead of asking us?’
‘Lady! How was I to
know? I was sure she was following orders .. the thought did not cross my
mind... ‘
‘Fucking idiot!’
‘Easy, Yennefer,’
Tissaia pressed a hand to her forehead ‘Do not get carried away by emotions. It
is night. They will not let her out beyond the gates.’
‘She asked,’
whispered the innkeeper ‘that they open the postern gate ...’
‘And why did they
open it?’
‘Because of the
conference,’ the innkeeper dropped his eyes, ‘the village is full of sorcerers
... People are afraid, nobody dares to cross their path ... How could I refuse?
She spoke just like you Madame, the very same voice ... And she even
looked the very same way ... no one even dare to look her in the eye, let alone
ask questions ... She was like you ... the very same thing ... She told me to
get her a pen and ink ... and wrote a letter’
‘Give it to me.’
Tissaia de Vries was
faster.
‘Lady Yennefer,’ she
read aloud.
Forgive me, I’m going
to Hirundum because I want to see Geralt. I want to see him before going to
school. Forgive my disobedience, but I have to do it. I know you will punish
me, but I will not regret the indecision and hesitation. If I have to regret
let it be by action and decision. I am a sorceress. Grab life by the horns.
I’ll be back as soon as I can.
Ciri.
‘Is that all?’
‘There is a
postscript:
Tell Mrs Rita, that
the school will not have to wipe my nose.
Margarita
Laux-Antille shook her head in disbelief. And Yennefer cursed. The innkeeper
blushed and his mouth fell open. He had heard many curses before, but not
that one.
***
The wind was blowing
from the mainland towards the sea. Waves of clouds moved towards the moon
hanging over the forest. The road to Hirundum was plunged into darkness.
Galloping had become too dangerous. Ciri slowed the horse down and started to
trot. Slowing the horse to a walk never crossed her mind. She had to hurry,
She heard in the
distance the rumble of a storm approaching, from time to time the glow of
lightning shone on the horizon; highlight the sawtooth form of the tree tops.
She stopped the
horse. She was at a crossroads, the road forked into two, with both forks
looking identical.
Why had Fabio not
said anything about the crossroads? Ah, who cares if I don’t know the way, I
always know where to go ...
So why now do I not
know which fork to take?
A huge shape
noiselessly moved over her head. Ciri’s heart felt like it leaped into her
throat. The horse whinnied, kicked and galloped off in a rush, choosing the right
fork. She stopped it after a while.
‘It’s just a ordinary
owl.’ she whispered, trying to calm herself and the horse. ‘An ordinary bird
... There is no reason to be afraid ...’
The wind intensified,
dark clouds covered the moon completely. But before her, in view of the road on
the path that twisted through the forest, there was a clearing. She rode
faster, the dirt sprayed out from under the hooves of the horse.
Soon she had to stop.
Before her was a cliff and the sea from which arose the familiar black cone of
the island. From here she could not see the lights of Garstang, Loxia or Aretuza.
She only had eyes for the slender, solitary and ornate tower of Thanedd.
Tor Lara.
It thundered and a
moment later a blinding flash of lightning ribboned across the cloudy sky and
joined with the top of the tower. Tor Lara windows flashed like red eyes, it
seemed as if the inside of the tower had been on fire for a second.
Tor Lara ... The
Tower of Seagulls... Why does this name awaken in me such terror?
The wind shook the
trees, the branches rustled, Ciri squinted her eyes, dust and leaves hit her on
the cheeks. The horse snorted and twisted below her. Ciri managed to recover
control. Thanedd Island was to the north, she had to head in westward
direction. The sandy road lying in the darkness was as a clear as a white line.
She moved the horse into a gallop.
The thunder boomed
again. Suddenly, in a flash of lightning, Ciri saw riders. Dark, fuzzy,
silhouettes moving on both sides of the road. She heard a scream.
‘Gar’ean!’
Without thinking Ciri
spurred the horse, pulled the reins, turned and went into a gallop. Behind her
there was shouting, whistling, neighing and the clatter of hooves.
‘Gar’ean! Dh’oine!’
Galloping hooves, the
rush of wind. A darkness in which shone the white trunks of the birch
trees along the road. Thunder. In the flash of lightning, Ciri could see two
horses were trying to cut off the road. One man stretched out his hand, trying
to seize her reins. In his hat was pinned the tail of a squirrel. Ciri dug her
heels into her horse, and laid low across its neck, her momentum throwing the
hand aside. Behind her, screams, whistles, a roar of thunder. A flash of
lightning.
‘Sparle, Yaevinn!’
Galloping, galloping!
Faster, horse! Thunder. Lightning. Fork in the road. To the left! I’m never
mistaken. Another fork. To the right! Gallop horse! Hurry, hurry!
The road started to
lead up, but the sand under the horse’s hooves, although being spurred on,
started to slow it down...
At the top of the
rise Ciri looked around. Another flash of lightning illuminated the road. It
was completely empty. She listened but could hear nothing but the leaves
rustling in the wind. The thunder rumbled.
There was no one there. The
Squirrels ... Were just a recollection of Kaedwen. The Rose of Shaerrawedd... I
found it. The is not a soul here, not one follows me...
The wind hit her. The
wind is blowing from inland, she thought, and I feel it on my right
cheek ... I am lost.
Lightning flashed again, its
light reflecting off the shining surface of the sea, on its background the
black cone of Thanedd Island. And Tor Lara. The Tower of Seagulls. The tower
which pulls me like a magnet... But I do not want to go to that tower, I am
going to Hirundum. Because I have to see Geralt.
The lightning flashed
again.
Between her and the
cliff stood a black horse. And on it sat a knight wearing a helmet decorated
with wings of a bird of prey. Suddenly the wings fluttered, and the bird takes
flight...
Cintra!
A paralysing fear
griped her. Her hands clenched painfully around the reins. Lightning flashed.
The Black Knight reared up on his horse. Instead of a face he wore a monstrous
mask. The wings fluttered...
Her horse without any
urging went into a gallop. Darkness, punctuated by lightning.
The forest came to an
end and under the horses hooves there was a splash, and the sounds of a swamp.
The sound followed her from the wings of a bird of prey. Closer... Closer...
A furious gallop, her
eyes wept for more speed. The lightning raced across the sky. In its light Ciri
could see alders and willows lining both sides of the road. But they were not
trees. They were the servants of the King of Alders. Servants of the Black
Knight, who galloped behind her, and the wings of the bird of prey rustling on
his helmet. Grotesque monsters on both sides of the road stretch out their
hands towards her shoulders, laughing wildly, opening the black maws of their
mouths. Ciri was thrown forward onto the horse’s neck. Branches whistled, whipped,
and hooked on her clothing. Deformed trunks creaked, the holes opened and
closed, and then become covered in a mocking smile...
Young lion of Cintra!
Child of the Elder Blood!
The Black Knight was
right behind her, Ciri could feel his hands trying to grab her hair. The horse
fuelled by her screaming, jumped forward, and beyond an invisible barrier,
breaking branches with a crack...
Ciri
pulled the reins and leaned into the saddle, she turned the panting horse
about. Shouting wildly, furiously. She drew her sword from it sheath and swung
it over her head.
This is not Cintra!
I’m not a little girl! I’m not unarmed! I will not let you...
‘I will not let you!
You will not touch me anymore! You will not touch me ever again!’
Her horse with a
splash and a squelch landed in water, which reached up to its belly. Ciri
leaned forward and screamed, then struck the stallion with her heels and turned
it back towards the bank. A pond, she thought. Fabio said something
about fishponds. This is Hirundum. I was right. I’m never wrong...
Lightning. Behind her
was a dike, and beyond that the black wall of the forest, penetrating into the
sky like a saw. And nobody else. Only the howling of the wind cut through the
silence. Somewhere in the swamp a duck quacked in fright. No one. There is
nobody on the dike. No one was following me. It was a phantom, a nightmare.
Memories of Cintra. I only imagined it.
Off in the distance
was a light. A streetlight. Or a fire. It’s a farmhouse. Hirundum. It is close.
Only a little further...
Lightning flashed.
One, two, three. With no thunder. The wind died suddenly. The horse
neighed, then tossed it head and reared.
In the
black sky appeared a milky film, which cleared quickly, twisting like a snake.
The wind blew again, and from the dike arose a dust storm of dead leaves and
grasses.
In the distance , the
light faded away. It sank and melted into a flood of a million little fires
which suddenly glow blue and cover the entire swamp.
The horse snorted,
neighed, the dike raged. Ciri with difficulty remained in the saddle.
Nightmarish riders
appeared like a ribbon that crossed the sky. As they moved closer Ciri was able
to get a better look at them. Their helmets were bristling with buffalo horns
and their plumes were frayed. Under the helmets were the white masks of the
dead. The riders rode on skeletal horses covered with ragged blankets. The wind
howled with anger among the alder trees, a sword of lightning split the black
sky relentlessly. The wind howled even louder. No, she thought, not
the wind. It was a ghostly song.
The nightmarish
parade turned directly towards her. The hooves of their horses pass through the
ghostly lights hanging over the swamp. At the head of the host rode the King of
the Wild Hunt. A rusty helm sat upon his cadaverous face, his eye sockets
gaping holes where a livid fire burned. Frayed robes fluttered around his body.
He wore a breastplate covered in rust, upon which rattled a necklace, empty
like a pod of beans. Once it contained precious stones. But these had fallen
out during the wild chase across the sky. And they had become the stars...
This is not real!
This is not! It is a nightmare, a hallucination, a delusion! It only seems like
it to me!
The King of the Wild
Hunt spurred his skeletal steed and broke into a wild and hideous laughter.
‘Child of the Elder
Blood! You belong to us! You are ours! Join the procession, join our Hunt! Let
us run, run to the end of eternity, until the limit of existence! You are ours,
daughter of Chaos! Join us and know the joy of the Hunt! You are ours, you’re
one of us! Your place is among us!’
‘No!’, she cried ‘Be
gone! You’re dead!’
The King of the Wild
Hunt laughed, his rotten teeth tapped on his rusted armor. His burning eye
sockets peered from his skull mask.
‘Yes, we are dead.
But you are death.’
Ciri clutched her
horses’ neck and dug her heels into its side. The horse ran along the dike at a
dizzying gallop. Behind her she could feel the spectral pursuers.
***
Bernie Hofmeier, a
Halfling and a farmer from Hirundum, raised his curly head, listening to the
sound of distant thunder.
‘A dangerous thing,’
he said ‘this storm without rain. Lightning strike in the wrong place and
there’ll be fires...’
‘A little rain would
not hurt,’ sighed Dandelion, who was tightening the strings of his lute. ‘because
the air is that thick it can be cut with a knife... My shirt is glued to my
back, the mosquitoes surround us... But I think it going to remain in the
clouds. The storm will circle us and will fall somewhere else in the north.
Perhaps the sea.’
‘It’s falling in
Thanedd,’ confirmed the Halfling. ‘It is the highest point in the surrounding
area. That tower on the island, Tor Lara, draws fucking lightning. During a
storm, it looks like it is wreathed in flame. It is surprising that it doesn’t
fall apart...’
‘It’s magic,’ The
troubadour said with conviction. ‘Everything about Thanedd is magical, down to
the rocks. And the wizards are not afraid of the lightning. But what am I
saying? Did you know, Bernie, That they can catch lightning?’
‘Don’t fuck with me!
You’re lying, Dandelion.’
‘May the Gods strike...’
the Poet paused, glanced anxiously at the sky. ‘May a duck bite me if I’m
lying. I’m telling you Hofmeier, wizards capture lightning. I’ve seen it with
my own eyes. Old Gorazd, the one who was slain on Sodden Hill, once captured
lightning right before my very eyes. He took a long length of wire, one end
fasten to the top of his tower, while the second...’
‘The other end of the
wire is put into a bottle,’ suddenly spoke the shrill voice of Hofmeier’s son
sitting on the porch, he was a small Halfling with a thick head of curly hair
like a sheep’s fleece. ‘In a glass demijohn, like the one that my dad uses
stores his wine.’
‘Home, Franklin!’
Shouted the farmer. ‘To bed, to sleep! It’s almost midnight and we have work to
do tomorrow! And there will be no fooling with bottles and wire during a storm,
or you’ll get the strap. You’ll not be sitting on your ass for two weeks!
Petunia, take the boy from here. And bring us more beer!’
‘You’ve had enough,’
Petunia Hofmeier said angrily as she carried the child inside. ’You’ve put
enough already in your gullet.’
‘Do not growl. Soon
the Witcher will return. It is proper to treat a guest.’
‘When the Witcher
comes back, you can go get it for him.’
‘Oh stingy woman’
Hofmeier growled, but so that his wife could not hear. ‘All of her family, the
Biberveldts of Knotweed, are to a man, misers... The Witcher has been gone a
long time. He went over to the ponds and disappeared. A strange man he is. Did
you see the way he was looking at the girls Cinni and Tanderinki this evening
when they were playing in the yard? Strange look in his eye. And now... I get
the impression he went to be alone. And that he took lodging in my house
because it is on the outskirts, away from the others. You know him better
Dandelion, tell me... ‘
‘Know him?’ The Poet
killed a mosquito on his neck and strummed his lute as he watched the black
silhouette of alder trees by the pond. ‘No, Bernie. I don’t know him. I don’t
think anyone knows him. But something happened to him, I can see it. Why did he
come here, to Hirundum? To be closer to Thanedd island? And when I proposed
yesterday riding together to Gors Velen, from where you can view Thanedd
Island, he refused without hesitation. What keeps him here? Did you offer him a
lucrative job?’
‘Well there,’
muttered the Halfling ‘If I’m being honest, I do not believe that there really
is a monster. The child that drowned in the pond may have had a cramp. But the
point is everyone started shouting that it was a Vodyanoi or a Kikimora and
that we must call a Witcher... And they offered him a soldier’s fortune. And
what did he do? He spends three nights by the dikes, then sleeps during the day
or sits without saying a word, watching the children like a mother... Strange.
I would say even, peculiar.’
‘Well one might say.’
Lightning flashed,
illuminating the farm and buildings. For a moment shone the ruins of an Elven
palace across the dike. For an instant the orchards rattled with the
sound of thunder. Violent winds sprang up, trees and reeds rustled over the pond
and marred the mirrored surface of the water crumpling and tarnishing the tips
of the floating water lilies.
‘The storm is headed
this way.’ Said the farmer glancing at the sky. ‘Maybe it’s the island
magicians with their spells? Thanedd must house over two hundred of them...
What do you think, Dandelion, what are they going to discuss at this confernce
of theirs? And will it do any good for us?’
‘For us? I doubt it.’
The troubadour strummed his fingers along the strings of the lute. ‘These
meetings are usually a fashion show, gossiping, backbiting and the opportunity
for internal wrangling. Quarrels about whether to generalize magic or make it
more elitist. Fights between those who are kings, and those who prefer to exert
pressure on kings from a distance... ‘
‘Ha!’ Bernie Hofmeier
said. ‘Then I see that this meeting on Thanedd will be no worse than thunder in
a storm.’
‘Maybe, But what do
we care?’
‘You do.’ said the
Halfling grimly ‘Because you strum the lute and sing. You look at the world
around and see only rhymes and music. But no more than twice in the past week
did the army trample our cabbages and turnips beneath the hooves of their
horses. The army chases the Squirrels, the Squirrels run and disappear and the
path of both passes over our cabbages...’
‘No time to mourn the
cabbages when the forest burns.’ recited the Poet.
‘You, Dandelion,’
Bernie Hofmeier looked at him askance ‘when you say something I do not know
whether to laugh, cry or kick you in the ass. I’m serious! And I say that
terrible times have come. With posts on the highways, gallows, the dead in the
fields and the roads, this country is starting to feel like the times of Falka.
And how can we live like this? By day people come with threats from the king
that we will be put in the stocks for helping the Scoia'tael. And at night the
elves show up and you try to refuse them help! Thus, very poetic, see how the
night takes on a reddish appearance. It is so poetic it makes me want to vomit.
And so we are caught in the crossfire...’
‘You’re counting on the Congress of Sorcerers
to make a difference?’
‘Count on it. You
said yourself that there are two factions among the Sorcerers. There were
already times when Sorcerers mitigated kings, put end to wars and rebellions.
After all it was the Sorcerers who made peace with Nilfgaard three years ago.
They can now...’
Bernie Hofmeier
paused and pricked up his ears. Dandelion’s hand muted the string of the lute.
From the darkness
emerged the witcher from the direction of the dike. He walked slowly towards
the house. Again the lightning flashed. When the thunder struck, the witcher
was already with them, on the porch.
‘What happened,
Geralt?’ Dandelion asked to break the awkward silence. ‘Did you get the monster?’
‘No. This is not a
night to track. It’s a restless night. Restless... I’m tired, Dandelion.’
‘Then sit down and
rest.’
‘You misunderstand
me.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered
the Halfling, looking at the sky and listening. ‘A restless night, something
evil is brewing... The animals are crowded in the barn... and screams can be
heard in the wind...’
‘The Wild Hunt ‘ the witcher
said quietly. ‘We’ll close the shutters, Mr Hofmeier.’
‘The Wild Hunt?’
Bernie was terrified ‘Ghosts?’
‘Do not fear. It
flies high. In the summer it always flies high. But it may wake the children.
The Hunt brings nightmares. Better close the shutters.’
‘The Wild Hunt’
Dandelion said, glancing nervously up. ‘heralds war.’
‘Nonsense.
Superstition.’
‘But shortly before
the attack on Cintra by Nilfgaard...’
‘Quiet!’ The witcher
interrupted with a gesture, straightening up suddenly, staring into the
darkness.
‘What is...’
‘Horses.’
‘Damn it’ Hofmeier
hissed, springing up from the bench. ‘at night it can only be Scoia’tael...’
‘One horse’ the Witcher
interrupted, taking up his sword which he had placed on the bench. ‘One real
horse, the rest are the ghosts of the Hunt... Damn, it is not possible... In
the Summer?’
Dandelion also rose,
but he was ashamed to flee, as neither, Geralt or Bernie had made a move to
escape. The Witcher drew his sword from it sheath and ran towards the dike, the
Halfling without hesitation rushed after him, arming himself with a pitchfork
along the way. Lightning flashed again, illuminating on the dike a galloping
horse. And behind the horse came something vague, something that was irregular,
woven with darkness with glowing flashes, a whirlpool, mirage. Something that
gave rise to panic, disgusting, visceral horror that twisted the entrails.
The Witcher cried,
raising his sword. The rider saw him and hasted their gallop, steering the
mount towards him. The Witcher cried again. Thunder boomed overhead.
There was a flash
again, this time it was not lightning. Dandelion crouched next to the bench and
would have crawled under it, but it proved to be too low. Bernie dropped his
pitchfork. Petunia Hofmeier ran from the house screaming.
In a blinding flash
materialized a transparent sphere, inside loomed a figure which was rapidly
gaining form and shape. Dandelion recognized her immediately. He knew those
black curls and that obsidian star on a velvet ribbon. What he did not know and
had never before seen was her face. The face of Fury and Rage, the face of the
Goddess of Vengeance, Destruction and Death.
Yennefer raised her
hands and shouted a spell, from her hands poured a hissing spiral of sparks
that cut the night sky and reflected thousands of times from the surface of the
pond. The spirals darted like spears through the tangled cloud chasing the lone
rider. The cloud gurgled, and to Dandelion it seemed that he heard the cries of
ghosts, and he saw nightmarish silhouettes of spectral horses. He
saw it only for a split second because the cloud suddenly shrunk, collapsed
into a ball and sped up into the sky, stretching with the momentum and dragging
behind it a tail like a comet. Darkness fell, lit only by the glow of a lantern
that Petunia was holding.
The rider led the
horse into the courtyard before the house and jumped from the saddle, then
hesitated. It was then that Dandelion realized who it was. He had never seen
this lean, ashen haired girl. But her immediately recognized her.
‘Geralt…’ The girl
said quietly. ‘Lady Yennefer… I’m sorry… I had to. You know…’
‘Ciri’ said the
Witcher. Yennefer had taken a step towards the girl, but stopped. She was
silent.
To which of the two
will she go to first, thought Dandelion. The
witcher, or the sorceress, or none of them. To whom will she first approach? To
him? Or her?
Ciri did not approach
any of them. She could not choose. So she passed out.
***
The house was empty,
the Halfling and his family had gone to work at dawn. Ciri pretended to sleep,
so she heard when Geralt and Yennefer left. She slipped out of bed, dressed
quickly and quietly slipped out of the room, following behind them out into the
courtyard.
Geralt and Yennefer
turned towards the dike between the white and yellow water lilies. Ciri hid
behind a ruined wall and watched both of them through a crack. She had thought
that Dandelion, a famous poet, whose poems she often used to read, was still
asleep. But she was wrong. Dandelion the poet was not sleeping. And caught her
red-handed.
‘Hey,’ he said,
approaching suddenly and laughing. ‘Is it nice to spy and eavesdrop? More
discretion, little one. Let them be alone for a while longer.’
Ciri blushed, but
quickly opened her mouth.
‘First, I’m not
little.’ She whispered proudly. ‘And secondly I do not think I’m bothering
them, right?’
Dandelion grew
serious.
‘Probably not,’ he
said. ‘In fact you might even be helping.’
‘How, In what way?’
‘Don’t pretend. You
were very clever yesterday. But you didn’t fool me. You pretended to faint
right?’
‘Yes,’ she muttered,
turning her face away. ‘Lady Yennefer realized, but not Geralt…’
‘They brought you
inside the house together. Their hands touched. They sat next to your bed
almost until dawn, but didn’t say a word to each other. It’s only now that they
have decided to talk. There, at the dike, by the pond. And you decided to
eavesdrop on what they are saying… To spy on them through a hole in the wall.
Are you so interested in what they are doing there?’
‘They aren’t doing
anything there. A little talking and that’s it.’
‘And you’ Dandelion
sat down on the grass under and apple tree and leaned his back against the
trunk, but not before examining to make sure there were no ants or
caterpillars, ‘Would like to know what they are talking about?’
‘Yes… No! And anyway…
Anyway, I can’t hear anything. They are too far away.’
‘If you want,’ the
bard laughed ‘I’ll tell you.’
‘Any how would you
know?’
‘Ha, ha. Noble Ciri,
I’m a poet. A poet knows all about these kind of issues. I’ll tell you
something else: Poets know more about such matters than the people who are
involved.’
‘Sure!’
‘I give you my word.
The word of a Poet.’
‘Yes? Well… Well,
tell me what they are saying. Explain to me what it all means!’
‘Look out through the
hole again and then tell me what they are doing.’
‘Hmm… ‘ said Ciri
biting her lower lip, then leaning down a peered through the crack. ‘Lady
Yennefer is standing by the willow… Pulling off the leaves and playing with her
star… She isn’t saying anything and she isn’t looking at Geralt… And Geralt is
at her side. He lowered his head. And said something. No, he is silent. Oh,
what a face… What a funny face he has…’
‘Child’s play.’
Dandelion found an apple in the grass which he started to rub against his pants
and then examined critically. ‘He is asking her to forgive him for his various
foolish words and actions. He apologizes for his impatience, lack of faith and
hope, his stubbornness, his viciousness, his anger and attitude which is
unworthy for a man. He apologizes for what he once did not understand, for which
you would not understand…’
‘Impossible, that’s a
lie!’ Ciri straightened and pulled her bangs violently back from her forehead. ‘You’re
making it up!’
‘Apologizes for what
he understands only now.’ Dandelion stared at the sky and his voice began to
take the proper rhythm for ballads. ‘For he wants to understand, but is afraid
that he does not have time… And what they have he’ll never understand. He
apologizes and asks for forgiveness… Hmm, hmm… Meaning … Conscience… Purpose?
All trivial, shit…’
‘That’s not true!’
Ciri stamped her foot. ‘Geralt doesn’t say those things! He… doesn’t say
anything. I saw him, he stands with her silently…’
‘This is the task of
poetry, Ciri. Speaking of what other would keep silent.’
‘What a silly task.
And you made it up!’
‘This is also the
task of poetry. Hey, I hear voices coming from the pond. Quickly, take a look
at what is happening.’
‘Geralt’ Ciri said,
eye again peering through the hole in the wall, ‘stands with his head lowered.
And Yennefer is yelling at him horribly. Yelling and waving her arms. Oh… What
does this mean?’
‘Child’s play’
Dandelion again stared at the clouds floating in the sky. ‘Now it is she who is
apologizing to him.’
‘I take thee to my wedded wife, to have and to holde from this day
forwarde, for better, for wurse, for richer, for poorer, in sickenes, and in
health, to love and to cherishe, til death us departe.’
iaiii
Old marriage vows
We don't know much about love. Love is like a pear: it's sweet and it
has a distinct shape. Try to define the shape of a pear.
Dandelion, Half a century of poetry
Chapter Three
Geralt had reasons to believe – and so he did – that the banquets of
wizards looked different from feasts and revels of regular mortals. However, he
didn't expect them to differ so drastically.
Yennefer's offer to accompany her to the banquet at the eve of the conference
was surprising, though not dumbstruckingly. It wasn't the first such offer.
Before, when they were still living together, Yennefer desired his company at conferences
and gatherings. Back then, he refused. He was certain that wizards would treat
him as a freak and a spectacle at best, and as an intruder or pariah at worst.
Yennefer laughed his fears off, but didn't insist. Since in all other
situations she could be so insisting that the whole house shook and creaked, it
only served to reinforce Geralt's belief that his suspicions were true.
This time he agreed. Without hesitation. The offer was made after a
long, sincere and emotional talk. After the talk, which brought them back
together, putting aside former conflicts, the talk which melted the ice of
bitterness and pride. After the talk at Hirundum's dike, Geralt would agree to
every, virtually every offer from Yennefer. He wouldn't refuse even if she proposed
a visit to hell in order to drink a glass of boiling tar while having a small
talk with a bunch of fiery demons.
And there was Ciri, without whom that talk would have been impossible –
that meeting wouldn't have taken place. Ciri, who, according to Codringher, was
an object of interest to some wizard. Geralt hoped that his presence at the conference
would provoke the wizard and force him to make a move. But he didn't say a word
about this to Yennefer.
They set off from Hirundum straight to Thanedd; him, her, Ciri and
Dandelion. At first, they made a stop at the huge Loxia palace, at the
south-eastern bottom of the mountain. The palace was bustling with guests and
their companions, but Yennefer was able to quickly aquire lodgings. They stayed
there one whole day. Geralt spent it talking with Ciri; Dandelion on running
around gathering and sharing rumours; and the sorceress on picking clothes. And
once the evening came, the witcher and Yennefer joined the colourful procession
on the way to Aretuza – the banquet's destination. And now, in Aretuza, Geralt
was experiencing wonder and surprise, even though he had promised himself not
to.
The giant hall was T-shaped. The longer part had windows, narrow and
unbelievably high, almost reaching the ceiling. The ceiling was high as well.
So high, that it was difficult to make sense of the murals which adorned it,
least of all the gender of the nude figures which made a repeated
appearance in the paintings. Windows were of stained glass, which must have
cost a fortune, and yet the hall was uncomfortably cool. Geralt wondered why
the candles hadn’t gone out yet, but stopped after taking a closer look. The
candelabras were magical, perhaps even illusory. Either way, they gave a lot of
light, much more than regular candles.
When they entered, close to a hundred guests were already entertaining
themselves inside. The hall, in the witcher's opinion, could accommodate at
least three times that, even if tables were to be placed in the middle, in the
shape of a horseshoe, in accordance with the custom. But the traditional
horseshoe was missing. It seemed that they were to feast while standing,
wandering tirelessly alongside the walls decorated with tapestries, garlands
and pennants fluttering in the wind. Under the tapestries and garlands stood
rows of long tables with piles of fancy food on even more fancy plates between
fancy flowery compositions and fancy ice figures. Upon taking a closer look,
Geralt decided that there was more of the fancy than of the food.
‘No benches.’ He stated grimly, smartening up the short, black,
snug-fitting jacket Yennefer picked for him. The jacket of this kind was
known as a doublet and it was the newest fashion trend. The witcher had no idea
where its name originated from and didn't wish to find out.
Yennefer didn't react. Geralt didn't expect her to, as he knew that the
sorceress rarely reacted to statements of this sort. But it didn't discourage
him. He kept whining. He just felt like whining for a bit.
‘No music. Cold as hell. Nowhere to sit. Are we supposed to eat while
standing?’
The sorceress gave him a look.
‘Indeed,’ she said, surprisingly calm. ‘We shall dine while standing.
Furthermore, care to remember that longer stops near the tables with food are
considered a breach of etiquette.’
‘I shall take note of that,’ he murmured. ‘Especially considering that
there's not much to stop for, as I see.’
‘Unrestrained drinking is a huge breach of etiquette.’ Yennefer
continued to instruct him, dismissing his complaints. ‘Avoiding small talk, in
turn, is an inexcusable breach...’
‘And how much of a breach,’ he interrupted, ‘does that gaunt idiot in
goofy pants make by pointing at me to his companions?’
‘A tiny one.’
‘What are we going to be doing in here, Yen?’
‘Walking around the hall, making acquaintances, complimenting,
conversing... Stop messing up your hair.’
‘You didn't let me tie it up...’
‘Your ponytail looks pretentious. Come, take my hand and lets go
forward. Standing near the entrance is a breach of etiquette.’
They wandered around the hall, which was slowly filling with guests.
Geralt was hungry as all hell but he quickly realised that Yennefer wasn't
exaggerating. It was clear that the customs of the wizards truly demanded to
eat and drink little and be casual. On top of that, every stop at the table
required the use of etiquette. Someone always noticed, projected joy from the
meeting and greeted with fake enthusiasm. After a mandatory kiss of air before
the cheeks or an inadequately firm handshake, after fake smiles and even more
fake compliments, came a short and wearisome talk about nothing in particular..
The witcher looked around, searching for familiar faces, mostly out of
hope that he wasn't the only odd one out. Yennefer assured him that he wouldn't
be and yet he didn't notice or couldn't recognize anyone else who didn't belong
to the wizarding fraternity.
The pages were going from guest to guest, offering wine. Yennefer didn't
drink at all. The witcher wanted to, but couldn't. The doublet was
uncomfortably tight beneath the arms.
With an apt use of her arm, the sorceress dragged him away from the
table and led him to the center of the hall, which was at the same time the
center of everyone's attention. Resistance was useless. He knew what it was all
about. It was a simple demonstration.
Geralt knew what to expect, therefore he quietly withstood the looks of
insatiable curiosity from the sorceresses and enigmatic smiles of the wizards.
Despite Yennefer's insistence that the etiquette forbade the use of magic on
such parties, he didn't believe that wizards could control themselves,
especially with Yennefer provocatively bringing him out in the public's view.
And he was right. He could feel the vibrations from his medallion as well as
the sting of magical impulses. Some, women in particular, were tactlessly
trying to read his mind. He prepared himself for that beforehand, so he knew
how to respond. He looked at Yennefer at his side, at the black-white,
sparkling with jewels Yennefer, with her raven hair and violet eyes, and the
eavesdropping magicians were losing focus and retracting abashed, to his utter
satisfaction.
Yes, he said in his thoughts, yes, you are correct.
There's only her, her at my side, here and now, and this is all that matters.
Here and now. And where she was before, with whom she was, doesn't matter in
the slightest. Now, she is with me, here, among you. With me and no one else.
That's what I'm thinking about; thinking about her, all the time, feeling the
scent of her perfume and the warmth of her body. And you can choke on the envy.
The sorceress clasped at his arm and pressed herself to his side.
‘I appreciate that,’ she murmured, leading him back to the tables. ‘But
avoid excessive ostentation, please.’
‘Do you wizards always take sincerity for ostentation? Is it because you
doubt sincerity even when you see it in somebody's thoughts?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And yet, you appreciate it?’
‘Because I don't doubt you.’ she clasped his arm even harder, then
reached for a plate. ‘Put some salmon on it for me, witcher. And some crabs.’
‘These crabs are from Poviss. They were probably fished out a month ago
and days are blistering hot. Aren't you afraid...’
‘These crabs,’ she cut in, ‘have been crawling at bottom of the sea this
morning. Teleportation is a wonderful invention.’
‘Indeed.’ He agreed. ‘Worth making available for the public, don't you
think?’
‘We're working on it. Make haste, I'm hungry.’
‘I love you, Yen.’
‘I asked you to spare me the ostentation...’ she stopped suddenly,
jerked her head up, pulled her dark locks from her face and opened her violet
eyes widely. ‘Geralt! This is the first time you've said it!’
‘Impossible. You're fooling with me.’
‘I'm not. Up until now you've only ever said in in your thoughts, never
aloud.’
‘Does it make any difference?’
‘A huge one.’
‘Yen...’
‘Don' speak with full mouth. I love you too. See what I meant? Gods,
you're about to choke to death! Raise your arms, I'll pat your back. Take a
deep breath.’
‘Yen...’
‘Breathe, breathe, it will pass.’
‘Yen!’
‘Yes. My sincerity for yours.’
‘Do you feel well?’
‘I've been waiting for this.’ She squeezed out lemon juice onto the
salmon. ‘It wouldn't be proper to react to confessions made in thoughts. I've
heard the words, I could respond to them and I did. I feel very well.’
‘What happened?’
‘I'll tell you later. Eat. The salmon's delicious, I swear on the Power,
truly delicious.’
‘Can I kiss you? Here, now, in front of everybody?’
‘No.’
‘Yennefer!’ a dark-haired sorceress freed her arm from her companion and
came up to them. ‘So you've decided to come after all? Oh, how wonderful! I
haven't seen you in ages!’
‘Sabrina!’ Yennefer smiled so brightly that that everyone, sans Geralt,
might have been fooled. ‘Dear! So good to see you!’
The sorceresses embraced each other cautiously and kissed the air next
to their diamond-onyx earrings. The earrings, in the shape of a grape bunch,
were identical – the atmosphere cooled in an instant.
‘Geralt, allow me to introduce you to my schoolmate, of Ard Carraigh.’
The witcher bowed down and kissed the offered hand. He had learned long
ago that all sorceresses expected a kiss on the hand upon the greeting, a
gesture worthy of a duchess at least. Sabrina Glevissig raised her head, her
earrings jingling. Quietly, yet conspicuously.
‘I've always wanted to meet you, Geralt,’ she smiled. Like all
sorceresses, she didn't bother with honorifics or other courtesies. ‘I'm glad
to make acquaintance with you. You finally stopped hiding him from us, Yenna.
I'm surprised how long it took you. There's nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘I think so too.’ Yennefer replied casually, squinting her eyes a bit
and ostensibly brushed her hair aside, revealing her earring a bit more. ‘Beautiful
bodice, Sabrina. Breathtaking even. Am I right, Geralt?’
The witcher nodded. Sabrina's bodice, weaved of black chiffon, revealed
absolutely everything that could be revealed, and there was quite a bit of
that. Carmine skirt, with a silver belt and rose-shaped buckle, had a cut at
the side with accordance to the latest fashion trend. The trend, however,
required the cut to reach the thigh, while Sabrina's reached the hip. A
nicely-shaped hip.
‘What news from Kaedwen?’ asked Yennefer, pretending not to notice what
Geralt was staring at. ‘Is your king, Henselt, still wasting money and time on
hunting Squirrels in the forests? Is he still considering a punitive expedition
against the elves in Dol Blathanna?’
‘Let us forget politics.’ smiled Sabrina. The predatory look in her eyes
and the slightly longer than regular nose resembled the classic portrayal of a
witch. ‘Tomorrow, at the conference, we will spend enough time discussing it.
And listening to plenty of moralising About peaceful coexistence... About
friendships... About the need to take a solid stance in the face of plans of
our kings... What else are we going to hear about, Yennefer? What else do
Vilgefortz and the Council have in store for us?’
‘Let us forget politics.’
Sabrina Glevissig laughed and her earrings jingled loudly.
‘Rightly so. Let's wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow... Tomorrow everything
will be explained. Ah, politics, never ending disputes... They have a terrible
effect on beauty. Fortunately, I have a wonderful cream; trust me, darling, it
works magic on wrinkles... Would you like a recipe?’
‘Thank you, dear, but I don't need it. Really.’
‘Ah, I know. I've always envied you skin back in school. Dear Gods, how
many years has it been?’
Yennefer pretended to greet back someone in the distance. Sabrina, on
the other hand, smiled at the witcher and with one swift move presented
everything the black chiffon didn't cover. Geralt swallowed, trying his hardest
not to gape too much at the pink nipples, perfectly visible under the
transparent cloth. He looked with fright at Yennefer. The sorceress was smiling
but he knew her too well to be fooled. She was furious.
‘Oh, forgive me.’ she said suddenly. ‘I see Philippa; I have something
urgent to discuss with her. After me, Geralt. Bye, Sabrina.’
‘Bye, Yenna.’ Sabrina Glevissig looked the witcher straight in the eyes.
‘Let me congratulate you on your... taste.’
‘Thank you.’ Yennefer's voice was suspiciously cool. ‘Thank you, my
dear.’
Philippa Eilhart was accompanied by Dijkstra. Geralt, who had met him
before, had something to be thankful for – he finally saw a familiar face,
someone who wasn't a wizard. But he was far from happy.
‘I'm happy to see you, Yenna.’ Philippa kissed the air next to
Yennefer's earring. ‘Welcome, Geralt. You both know count Dijkstra, am I right?’
‘Who doesn't know him.’ Yennefer nodded and offered Dijkstra her hand,
which the spy kissed with reverence. ‘I'm glad to meet you again, count.’
‘It's a pleasure,’ stated the chief of king Visimir's secret service, ‘for
me as well, Yennefer. Especially in such a pleasant company. My deepest
regards, mister Geralt...’
Geralt, failing to ascertain that his regards were even deeper, shook
hands with the man – or at least tried to, because the size of the hand was
well above the norm and made the handshake tough to execute.
The huge spy was dressed in a beige doublet, rather informally
unbuttoned. It was plain that he felt at ease in it.
‘I thought I saw you talking with Sabrina?’ said Philippa.
‘I did talk with her,’ hissed Yennefer. ‘Did you see what she's wearing?
One must have neither taste nor shame to... Gods, she's years older than
me... Nevermind. If only she had anything to show! Damn bitch!’
‘Was she trying to interrogate you? Everyone knows that she's spying for
Henselt of Kaedwen.’
‘Really?’ Yennefer feigned ignorance, which was rightly accepted as a
great joke.
‘And how are you, count?’ inquired Yennefer, once Philippa and Dijkstra
finished laughing.
‘Quite well.’ Visimir's spy bowed.
‘Considering,’ smiled Philippa, ‘that the count is here on a business
trip, such statement is like a compliment. And, like all compliments, it's not
very sincere. Barely a minute ago he confessed to me that he'd prefer a good
familiar shadow, the smell of burning torches and roasted meet. He also misses
the traditional table, soaked with beer and gravy, which he could bang on with
his mug to the rhythm of indecent songs of the drunkards, and which he could
gracefully pass out under to sleep among the dogs eating the scraps. And all my
arguments proving the superiority of our feasting traditions were, believe it
or not, dismissed.’
‘Is this so?’ the witcher gave at the spy a much warmer look. ‘And what
arguments were those, if I may ask?’
This time, his question was treated as a wonderful joke, as both
sorceresses burst into laughter.
‘Ah, men,’ sighed Philippa. ‘You don't understand anything. How is it
possible to impress everyone with your dress and body shape while in the dark
and half-hidden by the table?’
Geralt, unable to think of a retort, bowed. Yennefer squeezed his arm.
‘Ah,’ she exclaimed. ‘I see Triss Merigold over there. I have an urgent
matter to discuss with her... Forgive us. See you later, Philippa. I'm sure
we'll find enough time for chatting. Isn't that right, count?’
‘Certainly.’ Dijkstra smiled and bowed deeply. ‘I'm at your service,
Yennefer. Just give me a nod.’
They approached Triss, who was sparkling with shades of blue and
aquamarine. Upon seeing them, Triss cut the talk with two male wizards, laughed
brightly, hugged Yennefer and performed the ritual of air-kissing. Geralt took
the offered hand but decided to act against the customs – he embraced the
sorceress and kissed her soft, peachy cheek. Triss blushed lightly.
The wizards introduced themselves. One was called Drithelm of Pont
Vanis, the other was his brother Dethmold. Both in the service of Esterad of
Kovir. Both very taciturn. Both hurriedly left.
‘You talked with Philippa and Dijkstra from Tretogor,’ noted Triss,
playing with a heart-shaped necklace of lapis lazuli, framed in silver and
diamonds. ‘You are, of course, aware who Dijkstra really is?’
‘We are,’ confirmed Yennefer. ‘He talked with you? Tried to interrogate
you?’
‘He did,’ the sorceress giggled. ‘With significan’t caution. But
Philippa was a great disturbance to him. I honestly thought they were in better
terms.’
‘They're on great terms,’ Yennefer warned her. ‘Be careful, Triss. Don't
let out one word about... you know whom.’
‘I know. I'll be careful. And by the way...’ Triss lowered her voice. ‘How
is she? Will I be able to meet her?’
‘If you finally decide to teach in Aretuza,’ Yennefer smiled, ‘you'll be
able to see her everyday.’
‘Ah!’ Triss' eyes widened. ‘I see. Is Ciri...’
‘Quiet, Triss. We'll discuss it later. Tomorrow. After the council.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Triss smiled in a very strange way. Yennefer frowned, but
before she had a chance to inquire, a disturbance reigned in the hall.
‘They're here,’ Triss coughed. ‘They've finally arrived.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Yennefer, moving her gaze from her friend's eyes. ‘They're
here. Geralt, you finally have an opportunity to meet the members of the Capitul
and the Highest Council. If we have time, I'll introduce you to them, but for
now it will be good if you get to know who's who.’
The wizards stepped aside, bowing to the entering celebrities. The first
one was an aged but robust man in surprisingly modest wool clothing. At his
side was a tall woman with sharp features and dark, evenly combed hair.
‘This is Gerhart of Aelle, known as Hen Gedymdeith, the eldest of the
living wizards, ‘ explained Yennefer. ‘The woman next to him is Tissaia de
Vries. She's not much younger than Hen, but elixirs are not beneath her
dignity.’
Behind the pair was an attractive woman with very long, golden hair,
wearing a lace dress in the colour of mignonette.
‘Francesca Findabair, known as Enid an Gleanna, 'Daisy of the Valley'.
Don't gape at her, witcher. She's commonly considered to be the most beautiful
woman in the world.’
‘She's a member of the Capitul?’ he was surprised. ‘She looks quite
young. Also the work of magic?’
‘Not in her case. Francesca is a pure-blooded elf. Take note of her
companion. It's Vilgefortz of Roggeveen. That one's young, indeed. But
remarkably talented at the same time.’
The term ‘young’, as Geralt was aware, was used in reference to the
wizards up to the age of a hundred. Vilgefortz looked no more than thirty-five.
He was tall and well-built, he wore a short doublet in the style of a knight
but without the coat of arms. He was also hellishly good-looking. It was
striking even with Francesca Findabair at his side, with her huge, doe-like
eyes and astonishing beauty.
‘The short man next to Vilgefortz is Artaud Terranova.’ explained Triss
Merigold. ‘The five of them compose the Capitul.’
‘And that woman with a strange face behind Vilgefortz?’
‘It's his assistant, Lydia van Bredevoort.’ stated Yennefer coolly. ‘A
person of no importance, but staring at her face is a big breach of etiquette.
You should look at the three men behind her, instead, these are the members of
the Council. Fercart of Cidaris, Radcliffe of Oxenfurt and Carduin of Lan
Exeter.’
‘This is the whole Council? I thought it was bigger than that.’
‘The Capitul has five members and the Council likewise. Philippa Eilhart
is also in the Council.’
‘There's still one person missing,’ he shook his head and Triss giggled.
‘You didn't tell him? You really don't know, Geralt?’
‘About what?’
‘Yennefer's a member of the Council. Since the battle of Sodden. You
didn't want to brag, my dear?’
‘No, my dear,’ the sorceress looked her friend in the eyes. ‘Firstly, I
don't like to brag. Secondly, I had no time to do so. I haven't seen Geralt for
a very long time, there's a lot to catch up with. We have a long list of things
to do and we will get things done in accordance to that list.
‘Of course,’ Triss nodded meekly. ‘Hmm... After such a long time... I
understand. There's a lot to discuss...’
‘Discussions,’ smiled Yennefer, giving the witcher a lust-filled look, ‘are
at the end of the list. At the very end, Triss.’
The auburn-haired sorceress flinched and flushed.
‘I understand,’ she repeated, playing with the heart-shaped jewel.
‘I'm glad to hear it. Geralt, bring us wine. No, not from this page.
From the one further away.’
He obeyed, recognizing the tone of her voice. While lifting the goblets
from the page's plate, he discreetly watched the sorceresses. Yennefer spoke
fast, though quietly, Triss listened with her head low. When he returned, Triss
was gone. Yennefer didn't show any interest in the wine, so he put the
unnecessary goblets on the table.
‘I hope you weren't too harsh?’ he uttered. Yennefer's eyes glowed
violet.
‘Don't try to fool me. You think I don't know about you two?’
‘If it's about that...’
‘Yes, that,’ she cut. ‘Don't make faces and refrain from making
comments. But most of all, don't lie. I've known Triss for longer than I’ve
known you, we like each other, we understand each other and we always will,
regardless of any... incidents. Yet now I could sense she had some doubts. I
dispelled them, that's all. Let's not divulge.’
He didn't wish to. Yennefer brushed hair from her face.
‘I'll leave you alone for a while, I must speak with Tissaia and
Francesca. Eat something, I can hear your stomach growling. And be cautious.
Someone will surely try to interrogate you. Don't let them trick you, and be
sure not to bring me shame.’
‘Rest assured.’
‘Geralt?’
‘Yes?’
‘A moment ago you asked if you could kiss me here, in front of
everybody. Does the offer still stand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mind the lip-gloss, please.’
He threw a glance at the rest of the guests. They watched the kiss but
unobtrusively. Philippa Eilhart, standing in the distance with a group of young
wizards, winked at him and pretended to clap.
Yennefer jerked her lips away from his and sighed.
‘Such a small thing and yet so satisfying,’ she murmured. ‘Well, I'll be
going now. As for later, after the banquet... hmm...’
‘What is it?’
‘Don't eat any garlic, please.’
Once she was gone, the witcher relinquished formalities, unbuttoned the
doublet, drunk from both goblets and tried to make do with food. Ineffectively.
‘Geralt.’
‘Count.’
‘Don't use titles with me,’ Dijkstra winced. ‘I'm no count. Visimir
ordered me to introduce myself as one so as not to irk the magicians with my
plebeian descend. Well, how do you fare with impressing everyone with the dress
and body shape? And pretending to be having fun?’
‘I don't need to pretend anything. I'm not on duty.’
‘That's interesting,’ smiled the spy. ‘But this only confirms the
rumours that you are unique and exceptional. Because everyone else here is, in
fact, on duty.’
‘Just as I feared,’ Geralt didn't smile back. ‘I expected to be
exceptional. As in, completely out of place.’
The spy inspected the plates, reached towards one and picked a big,
green pod of a vegetable unknown to Geralt.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I must thank you for the Michelet brothers. Many
in Redania sighed with relief after you butchered all four of them at the docks
in Oxenfurt. I sure had a laugh when the medic called by the investigation,
after having been shown the injuries, stated that the weapon used must have
been a scythe arched edgewise.’
Geralt declined to comment. Dijsktra bit on the second pod.
‘It's a pity,’ he went on, chewing, ‘that you didn't contact the mayor
afterwards. There was a reward for them, dead or alive. Quite a sum.’
‘Too much trouble with the tax return,’ the witcher also decided to try
the green vegetable, which turned out to taste like a soaped celery. ‘Besides,
I needed to make haste because... Oh, but I must be boring you, Dijkstra, after
all you know everything already.’
‘Let's not exaggerate,’ grinned the spy. ‘Surely not everything. Where
from, besides?’
‘From Philippa Eilharts mouth, for one.’
‘Reports, stories, rumours. I must hear them out, such is my job. But my
job also requires of me to sieve them all through a very dense mesh. Recently,
for example, I've heard the news of someone killing the infamous Professor and
his two comrades. Everything took place in a tavern in Anchor. The person
responsible for that also didn't bother to seek the reward.’
Geralt shrugged.
‘Rumours. Sieve them through a dense mesh and not much will be left.’
‘I don't need to. I know exactly what will be left. Most of the time,
what is left is an attempt of deliberate misinformation. Speaking of which,
how's little Cirilla, the poor, sickly girl who died of dysentery? In good
health, I hope?’
‘Cease while you're at it, Dijkstra,’ replied the witcher coldly,
looking the spy in the eyes. ‘I know you're here on duty, but don't get too
eager.’
The spy snickered. Two passing sorceresses gave them looks of confusion.
And curiosity.
‘King Visimir,’ explained Dijkstra, ‘pays me extra for every uncovered
secret. Eagerness secures my future. You may find it funny, but I have a wife
and children.’
‘I see nothing funny about that. Work for securing your family's future,
but not at my expense, if I may ask. This hall, it seems, doesn't lack in
secrets.’
‘Not exactly. The whole of Aretuza is a one big riddle. Surely, you've
noticed? Something's up, Geralt. And I'm not talking about the candelabra.’
‘I don't understand.’
‘I do believe it. I don't understand either. But I truly wish to.
Wouldn't you? Ah, sorry. You probably know everything already, don't you? From
your charming Yennefer of Vengerberg, that is. And to think that there used to
be time when I, too, learned things from the charming Yennefer. But, oh, how
long has it been?’
‘I honestly don't know what you're going on about, Dijkstra. Could you
speak your mind more clearly? Try. But not if it's a part of your duty. Forgive
me, but I'm not going to work on your extra pay.’
‘You think I want to deceive you?’ the spy pulled a face. ‘Trick you
into providing me with information? You're hurting me, Geralt. I'm merely
curious if you notice, in this hall, the same patterns I do.’
‘What patterns do you see?’
‘Aren't you surprised by the complete absence of the crowned heads at
this conference?’
‘Not one bit,’ Geralt managed to pierce a marinated olive onto a stick. ‘The
kings likely prefer the traditional kind of feasts, at the table, which they
can gracefully pass out under in the morning. Moreover...’
‘What?’ Dijkstra devoured four olives he unashamedly picked from the
plate with the use of fingers.
‘Moreover,’ the witcher pointed at the crowd, ‘the kings need not
bother. They sent an army of spies in their stead. Those in the fraternity, and
those excluded from it. Probably so that they would find out what is up.’
Dijkstra spit out the olive pips, picked up a long fork and started
poking around a crystal salad-bowl.
‘And Vilgefortz,’ he noticed, ‘took a great care not to omit a single
spy. He has all royal spies on one plate. Why would Vilgefortz need to gather
all spies on one plate, I wonder?’
‘I have no idea. And I don't care. I told you I'm off duty. I'm, so to
speak, beyond the plate.’
Visimir's spy fished a small octopus out of the bowl and studied it with
revulsion.
‘They eat it,’ he shook his head with false compassion, then turned back
to Geralt.
‘Listen carefully, witcher,’ he uttered quietly. ‘Your conviction to
your impartiality, your conviction that you don't care about anything and don't
need to care... It frustrates me and forces me to gamble. You like to gamble?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I'm proposing a wager,’ Dijkstra raised the fork with the octopus. ‘I'm
betting that in the course of the following hour, Vilgefortz will ask for a
talk with you. I'm betting that during this talk he will prove to you that you are
not impartial and that you are, in fact, on his plate. If I'm wrong, then I'll
eat this shit in your full view, with the tentacles and all. Do you accept the
wager?’
‘What will I have to eat, if I lose?’
‘Nothing,’ Dijkstra looked around quickly. ‘If you lose, you will
recount Vilgefortz‘s speech to me.’
The witcher was silent for a while, looking calmly at the spy.
‘Excuse me, count,’ he said finally. ‘Thank you for the chat. It was
very informative.’ Dijkstra was disturbed.
‘So much...’
‘So much.’ Geralt cut him off. ‘Goodbye.’
The spy shrugged, dropped the octopus back in the bowl, turned and
walked away. Geralt didn't watch him leave. He moved to another table, led by a
desire to try some of the huge, pinkish-white shrimps, mounting to the silver
plate among lettuce and limes. They seemed tasty, but feeling the curious
stares cast at him, he wanted to eat the crustaceans in a dignified manner, in
accordance with etiquette. He approached the shrimps ostensibly slowly,
plucking appetizers from other plates.
At the second table stood Sabrina Glevissig engaged in a conversation
with a red-haired sorceress. The red-haired one had a white skirt and a white
georgette bodice. The bodice, like Sabrina's, was also completely transparent,
but it had some strategically placed embroideries. The embroideries, Geralt
noticed, had an interesting quality: they covered and revealed alternatively.
The sorceresses talked while stuffing themselves with slices of lobster
in mayonnaise. They spoke quietly and in Elder Speech. Although they weren't
looking at him, they were clearly discussing him. He strained his sensitive
witcher hearing discreetly, while pretending to be busy with the shrimp.
‘...with Yennefer?’ repeated the red-head, playing with a pearl necklace
bound around her neck so tightly that it resembled a collar. ‘Are you kidding
me, Sabrina?’
‘Not at all,’ denied Sabrina Glevissig. ‘You won't believe it, but it's
been going on for several years. I'm surprised - how can he stand that harpy.’
‘What's so surprising? She cast a spell on him - keeps him charmed. How
many times have I done that myself?’
‘He's a witcher. They cannot be charmed. Not for so long, at least.’
‘In that case, it must be love,’ wistfully sighed the red-head. ‘And
love is blind.’
‘He is the blind one,’ grimaced Sabrina. ‘Would you believe, Marti, that
she had the audacity to introduce me as her schoolmate? Bloede pest,
she's years older than me... Nevermind. I'm serious, she's hellishly possessive
of this witcher. The little Merigold just smiled at him and this hag cussed her
and chased her off. And even now... just look at her. She's standing there with
Francesca but she doesn't take her eyes off him.’
‘She's scared,’ giggled the red-head, ‘that we'll steal him from her, if
only for one night. How about it, Sabrina? Shall we give it a try? The man's
attractive, so unlike those uppity snobs of ours, with their complexes and
complaints...’
‘Speak lower, Marti,’ hissed Sabrina. ‘Stop gaping and flashing your
teeth at him. Yennefer is watching us. Keep class. You want to seduce him? It
would be tactless.’
‘Hmm, you're right,’ agreed Marti. ‘But what if he suddenly came up to
us with the proposition?’
‘If so,’ Sabrina threw a predatory look at the witcher, ‘then I would
offer myself in the blink of an eye, even if we were to do it on a rock.’
‘And I would do the same,’ giggled Marti, ‘even on a hedgehog.’
Staring at the tablecloth, the witcher hid his face behind the shrimps
and cabbage leaves, glad that the mutation of his blood vessels disabled
blushing.
‘Witcher Geralt?’
He swallowed the shrimp and turned around. A wizard with familiar
features smiled slightly, touching the embroidered lapels of his violet
doublet.
‘Dorregaray of Vole. We know each other. We've met...’
‘I remember. Forgive me, I didn't recognize you at first. I'm glad to
see you...’
The wizard smiled a bit wider, taking two goblets from the page's plate.
‘I've been watching you for some time,’ he admitted, offering Geralt one
of the goblets. ‘You said that to everyone Yennefer introduced you to. Is it a
deceit or just a non-critical approach?’
‘Politeness.’
‘For them?’ Dorregaray pointed at the crowd ‘Trust me, they're not worth
it. They're a conceited, envious, mendacious bunch; they won't appreciate your
politeness and may even take it for a sarcasm. With them, witcher, one needs to
converse in their own way, basely, arrogantly, rudely; you may even impress
them then. Will you have a drink with me?’
‘The swill served here?’ smiled Geralt pleasantly, ‘With all distaste.
But if it suits you... I shall force myself.’
Sabrina and Marti, eavesdropping from behind their table, burst into
laughter. Dorregaray glared daggers at them, turned and clinked their cups,
with a sincere smile this time.
‘Point for you,’ he acknowledged with ease. ‘You learn fast. Curses,
where have you gained such wit, witcher? On the roads you stride in search for
dying species? To your health. You might not believe it, but you're one of the
few here for whose health I honestly want to drink.’
‘Is this so?’ Geralt took a sip, savouring the taste. ‘Even despite the
fact that I butcher dying species for a living?’
‘Don't gripe at my words,’ the wizard patted his arm. ‘The banquet has
just started. You'll probably speak to more people, so you ought to save some
of your glib remarks. As for your occupation... You, Geralt, have at least
enough dignity not to keep trophies. But take a look around. Go ahead, forget
the etiquette, they like to be stared at.’
The witcher obediently fixed his gaze on Sabrina Glevissig's breasts.
‘Look closely.’ Dorregaray grasped his sleeve, pointing at the passing
sorceress. ‘Shoes made of horned agama's leather. Have you noticed?’
He nodded - insincerely, as he only took notice of what remained
uncovered by the transparent tulle bodice.
‘Oh, and there we have a rock cobra,’ the wizard correctly identified
another pair of shoes parading through the hall. The fashion, which had
recently shortened the dresses, helped him with the task. ‘And over there...
white iguana. Salamander. Wyvern. Spectacled caiman. Basilisk... All of them,
without exception, endangered species. Curses, why not stick to veal and pork
leather?’
‘You're going on about leatherworking, Dorregaray, as always?’ asked
Philippa, approaching them. ‘About tanning and shoemaking? What a trivial and
repulsive subject.’
‘Different strokes for different folks,’ scowled the wizard. ‘That's
some delightful embroideries you have there, Philippa! Diamond ermine, if I'm
not mistaken? Very dainty, indeed. You are, of course, aware that this species
had been brought to extinction twenty years ago for its beautiful fur?’
‘Thirty years ago,’ Philippa corrected him, stuffing herself with the
leftover shrimps. ‘I know, I know, the species would undoubtedly be brought
back from extinction, had I ordered the milliner to embroid my dress with mops
of tow. I have considered it. Unfortunately, the colours wouldn't match.’
‘Let's move to the other table,’ proposed the witcher. ‘I saw a decent
bowl of caviar. And since lake sturgeons are also close to extinction, we ought
to make haste.’
‘Caviar in your company? I've been dreaming of this,’ Philippa winked,
slid her arm under his, smelling of cinnamon and nard. ‘Let's make haste, then.
Will you keep us company, Dorregaray? No? See you later, then; have fun.’
The wizard snorted and turned around. Sabrina Glevissing and her
red-haired friend watched them leave with looks more poisonous than the venom
of endangered cobras.
‘Dorregaray,’ whispered Philippa, unashamedly pressing herself to
Geralt's side, ‘is a spy for king Ethain of Cidaris. Stay vigilant. The talk
about reptiles and fur is a prelude to interrogation. And Sabrina Glevissig was
pricking up her ears...’
‘...because she's spying for Hanselt of Kaedwen,’ he finished for her. ‘I
know, you've mentioned it before. And that ginger one, her friend...’
‘She's dyeing her hair. Don't you have eyes? It's Marti Sodergren.’
‘Whom is she spying for?’
‘Marti?’ Philippa laughed, her teeth flashing from behind spicy red
lips. ‘For nobody. Marti's not interested in politics.’
‘Outrageous. I had the impression that everyone here is a spy.’
‘Many are,’ the sorceress winked. ‘But not all. Not Marti Sodergren.
Marti is a healer. And a nymphomaniac. Ah, damn it, look! The caviar's been
eaten! Every last grain! Someone's licked the bowl! What shall we do now?’
‘Now,’ Geralt smiled innocently, ‘you will announce that something's up.
You'll tell me that I need to shed neutrality and make a choice. You will
propose a wager. I cannot even imagine what my prize could be if I win. But I
know what I will have to do if I lose.’
Philippa Eilhart was silent for a long while, not taking her eyes off
him.
‘I should have known,’ she said quietly. ‘Dijkstra lost it. He gave you
an offer. Even though I told him about your contempt for spies.’
‘I have no contempt for spies. I have contempt for spying. And for the
contempt in itself. Don't propose any wagers, Philippa. I also feel that
something's up. And let it be. I'm not involved and I don't care.’
‘You've already said it once. In Oxenfurt.’
‘I'm glad you remember. I hope you remember the circumstances as well?’
‘Perfectly. I didn't disclose to you the identity of Rience's master
back then. I let him escape. Oh, how mad at me you were...’
‘That's an understatement.’
‘Now it's time to make amends. I'll give you Rience tomorrow. Don't
interrupt, don't make faces. This is no wager. It's a promise, and I keep my
promises. No questions, please. Wait till tomorrow. Now we shall concentrate on
caviar and trivial talk.’
‘There's no caviar.’
‘Give me a moment.’
She looked around, moved her hand and whispered a spell. The silver
vessel, shaped like a fish in motion, immediately filled with roe of the
endangered lake sturgeon. The witcher smiled.
‘Can you satisfy hunger with an illusion?’
‘No. But it's enough for a craving. Try some.’
‘Hmm... Indeed... Seems more tasty than the real thing...’
‘And you won't gain weight,’ the sorceress proudly exclaimed, squeezing
lemon juice onto the next spoonful of caviar. ‘Would you mind getting me a
glass of white wine?’
‘Not at all. Philippa?’
‘I'm listening.’
‘Etiquette supposedly forbids the use of magic here. Wouldn't it be more
appropriate to conjure up an illusion of taste alone? Just a sensory illusion?
I'm sure you could...’
‘Of course I could,’ Philippa Eilhart looked at him through the glass. ‘The
construction of such a spell would be easier than the construction of a flail.
But sticking to a sensory illusion would rid us of the pleasure provided by the
act of eating. The process, the movement, the gestures... The talk accompanying
it, the eye contact... Allow me to entertain you with a humorous comparison,
will you?’
‘I'm laughing already.’
‘I could conjure up an orgasm too.’
Before the witcher regained speech, they were approached by a short, slim
sorceress with long, straight, fair hair. He recognized her right away – it was
the lady in shoes made of horned agama's leather and green, tulle bodice which
didn't even hide a detail as tiny as the small spot above her left breast.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but I must interrupt your flirting. Philippa,
Radcliffe and Dethmold are asking for few minutes of your time. It's urgent.’
‘Well, if so, then I will go. Bye, Geralt. We shall flirt another time!’
‘Aha!’ the blonde confronted him with her eyes. ‘Geralt. The witcher
Yennefer is crazy about? I've been watching you and wondering who the hell
might you be. I was truly bothered by it!’
‘I know that feeling,’ he remarked, smiling politely. ‘I'm experiencing
it right now.’
‘Excuse my blunder. I'm Keira Metz. Oh, it's caviar!’
‘Careful, it's an illusion.’
‘Devil take it, you're right!’ the sorceress dropped the spoon as if it
were a tail of some dangerous scorpion. ‘Who could be so tactless... You? You
can cast illusions of the fourth degree? You?’
‘Me,’ he lied, never ceasing to smile. ‘I'm a master magician,
pretending to be a witcher in order to remain incognito. Did you really believe
that Yennefer would fall for a simple witcher?’
Keira Metz stared him in the eyes, scowling.
On her neck was a medallion in the shape of an ankh cross, silver and
lined with rhinestones.
‘Would you like some wine?’ he offered to cut the uncomfortable silence.
He feared that his joke wasn't received well.
‘No, thank you... colleague magician,’ said Keira coldly. ‘I don't drink.
I cannot. I'm about to get pregnant tonight.’
‘With whom?’ asked the passing dyed friend of Sabrina Glevissig, dressed
in transparent georgette bodice with strategically placed embroideries. ‘With
whom?’ she repeated, fluttering her eyelashes innocently.
Keira turned around and looked her up from the white iguana shoes to the
pearl tiara.
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘None at all. Occupational curiosity. Won't you introduce me to your
companion, the famous Geralt of Rivia?’
‘With displeasure. But I know we won't be able to get rid of you
otherwise. Geralt, this is Marti Sodergren, a healer. She specializes in
aphrodisiacs.’
‘Must we speak of business? Oh, you left some caviar for me? How kind of
you.’
‘Careful,’ the witcher and Keira said in unison. ‘It's an illusion.’
‘Indeed!’ Marti Sodergren bent, wrinkling her nose, then reached for a
cup and studied the traces of red lipstick. ‘Philippa Eilhart, no surprises
there. Who else would have the audacity? What a shrew. Did you know that she's
spying for Visimir of Redania?’
‘And she's a nymphomaniac?’ risked the witcher. Marti and Keira snorted
at the same time.
‘Were you counting on it when you were coming onto her?’ asked the
healer. ‘If so, then you should know that someone must have fed you false information.
Men don't figure in Philippa's preferences anymore.’
‘Or maybe you're a woman?’ Keira Metz puffed out her lips. ‘Maybe you're
only pretending to be a man, colleague master magician? To stay incognito? You
know, Marti, he confessed to me a moment ago that he likes to pretend.’
‘He likes and he does,’ Marti smiled maliciously. ‘Right, Geralt? Not so
long ago I saw you pretending to have bad hearing and not to know the Elder
Speech.’
‘He has many flaws,’ said Yennefer coldly, coming up to them and possessively
clutching witcher's arm. ‘He has nothing but flaws. You're wasting your time,
girls.’
‘It seems so,’ agreed Marti Sodergren, still grinning. ‘We wish you fun.
Come, Keira, let's go get a drink of something... lacking alcohol. Perhaps I
will, too, decide on something tonight?’
‘Uff,’ he sighed once they left. ‘Great timing, Yen. Thank you.’
‘You're thanking me? Probably insincerely. In this hall there's a total
of eleven women showing off their tits through transparent clothes. I left you
for half an hour, only to catch you talking with two of them...’
Yennefer stopped, staring at the fish-shaped dish.
‘... and eating an illusion,’ she added. ‘Oh, Geralt, Geralt. Come.
There's an opportunity to introduce you to people who are worth it.’
‘Is one of those people Vilgefortz?’
‘How curious,’ the sorceress squinted her eyes, ‘that it's him you're
asking about. Yes, Vilgefortz asked to meet you and speak with you. I must warn
you that this talk may appear trivial and light-hearted, but don't let it fool
you. Vilgefortz is an experienced and intelligent player. I don't know what he
wants from you, but stay vigilant.’
‘I will be,’ he sighed. ‘But I doubt that this experienced player of
yours will be able to surprise me. Not after all the things I've gone through
here. I've been apprehended by spies, drowned in dying reptiles and ermines.
I've been fed non-existent caviar. Nymphomaniacs with no interest in men have
doubted my manhood, threatened me with rape on a hedgehog, pregnancy and even
an orgasm of the kind that does not require any movements. Ugh...’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Only a bit of white wine from Cidaris. But there was probably an
aphrodisiac in it... Yen? After my talk with Vilgefortz can we return to Loxia?’
‘We won't go back to Loxia.’
‘What?’
‘I want to spend this night in Aretuza. With you. Aphrodisiac, you say?
In the wine? Interesting...’
***
‘Oh my, oh my,’ sighed Yennefer, stretching on the bed and laying her
thigh onto the witcher's. ‘Oh my, Oh my, my. It's been so long since I've
made love this way... So very long.’
Geralt disentangled his fingers from her heir, but didn't reply.
Firstly, because he feared the hidden provocation in her statement. Secondly,
because he didn't want the words to wipe the taste of her pleasure from his
lips.
‘It's been so long since I've made love with a man who would profess his
love for me, and whom I would love back,’ she murmured after a while, once it
became clear that the witcher wasn't going to fall for the trick. ‘I've almost
forgotten what it feels like. Oh my, Oh my.’
She arched her back even more, stretching her arms and clutching at the
corners of the pillow, and the sight of her breasts basking in moonlight sent a
shiver down his back. He embraced her and they lay motionlessly, silent and
still in the afterglow.
Shrill cries of cicadas could be heard from outside, as well as the
faraway voices and laughs, indicating that the banquet was not yet over,
despite the late hour.
‘Geralt?’
‘Yes, Yen?’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘About the talk with Vilgefortz? Now? I'll tell you in the morning.’
‘Now, please.’
He stared at the little cabinet at the corner of the chamber. Books were
piled on it, sketchbooks and other items left by one of the students
temporarily evicted to Loxia. Supported by the books sat a plump ragdoll in a
frilly dress, rumpled by the excessive hugging. She left her dolly, he
thought to himself, to be spared ridicule in Loxia's dormitory. She left
behind her beloved doll. And now she's probably unable to fall asleep without
it.
The doll's button-eyes stared back at him. He turned his gaze away.
When Yennefer was introducing him to the Capitul, he watched the
wizardly elite closely. Hen Gedymdeith gave him just a single, weary look – it
was clear that the banquet had already managed to tire the elderly man. Artaud
Terranova bowed slightly with a dubious grin, leading his gaze from him to
Yennefer, but it quickly melted under the glares of other people present. The
azure eyes of Francesca Findabair were impenetrable and hard like ice. The
Daisy of The Valley smiled when they were introduced to each other. Her smile,
beautiful as it was, had terrified the witcher. Tissaia de Vries, seemingly
busy with constantly improving her cuffs and jewellery, smiled a lot less
beautifully but considerably more warmly. It was Tissaia who initiated the talk
first, recounting one of his chivalrous witcherly deeds, which he couldn't
recall and which was probably made-up.
And then Vilgefortz joined the discussion. Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, the
wizard of impressive posture, magnificent beauty and sincere voice. Geralt knew
that people with his looks were completely unpredictable.
They spoke shortly, feeling the concerned looks directed at them.
Yennefer's for the witcher. Vilgefortz, in turn, was gazed at by a sorceress
with kind eyes who was constantly trying to hide the lower half of her face
with a fan. They exchanged a few conventional comments, after which Vilgefortz
proposed moving the talk to a more secluded place. Geralt was under the
impression that Tissaia de Vries was the only person surprised by this.
‘Have you fallen asleep, Geralt?’ urged Yennefer, breaking him out of
his thoughts. ‘You were about to recount to me your talk with Vilgefortz.’
The doll was staring at him down from the cabinet.
‘Once we've entered the cloister,’ he began, ‘That girl with the strange
face...’
‘Lydia van Bredevoort. Vilgefortz's assistant.’
‘Yes, right, you've mentioned it. The person of no importance. Well
then, once we were in the cloister, said person of no importance stopped,
looked at him and asked him something. Through the use of telepathy.’
‘It wasn't a breach. Lydia cannot use her voice.’
‘I thought so. Because Vilgefortz didn't answer in that manner. He
said...’
***
‘Yes, Lydia, it's a great idea,’ said Vilgefortz. ‘Let's take a walk
through the Gallery of Glory. You'll have the honour of taking a peek into the
history of magic, Geralt of Rivia. I'm sure you know it well, but this time
you'll see it visualised. If you’re a connoisseur of art, it may terrify you.
Most of these paintings were made by the enthusiastic students of Aretuza.
Lydia, be so kind and let some light in this shadow.’
Lydia van Bredevoort made a sign with her hand and the corridor became
brighter in an instant.
The first painting featured an ancient ship, tossed by the waves among
the rocks outcropping from the whirling deep. At the prow stood a man in white
robes, his head adorned by a halo.
‘The First Landing,’ guessed the witcher.
‘Indeed,’ confirmed Vilgefortz. ‘Ship of the Exiles. John Bekker subdues
the Power. He calms the waves, proving that magic need not be just evil and
destructive, but can be used to save lives as well.’
‘Is this an authentic event?’
‘I doubt it,’ smiled the wizard. ‘Most probably Bekker and the rest of
the crew were throwing up over the brim. The Power was subdued only after the
landing, which happened to be peaceful. Let's move forward. Here you can see
John Bekker again, forcing water out of stone near the first settlement. And
there we have Bekker, surrounded by kneeling settlers, dispersing the clouds
and stopping the storm from destroying the crops.’
‘And that one there? What event does it portray?’
‘The Finding of the Chosen. Bekker and Giambattista test the children of
arriving settlers in order to find the Sources. Selected kids will be taken
from their parents and brought to Mirthe, the first domicile of the wizards.
You're looking at a historic moment. As you can see, all kids are scared, only
that resolute brunette reaches to Giambattista with a trusting smile. This is
the famous Agnes of Glanville, the first female wizard. The woman behind her is
her mother. She looks quite sad, for some reason.’
‘And the scene with a gathering?’
‘Novigrad Union. Bekker, Giambattista and Monck make a truce with the
chiefmen, priests and druids. Something to do with a pact of non-aggression and
the separation of magic from the politics. Terribly corny. Let's go on. Here we
have Geoffrey Monck setting off up the Pontar river, known at the time as Aevon
y Pont ar Gwennelen, the Riven of Alabaster Bridges. Monck was sailing to Loc
Muinne in order to convince the elven mages to school a group of children. You
might be interested in the fact that among these children was a boy called
Gerhart of Aelle. You've met him today. That boy is now known as Hen
Gedymdeith.’
‘This particular scene,’ the witcher looked at the wizard, ‘Lacks in
drama. After all, only a few years after Monck's successful expedition, the
army of Marchal Raupenneck from Tretogor carried out a massacre of Loc Muinne
and Est Haemlet, killing all elves regardless of age or gender. And so began a
war, which ended with the slaughter in Shaerrawedd.’
‘Your admirable knowledge in history,’ smiled Vilgefortz, ‘ought to make
you acknowledge the fact that none of the respectable wizards took part in this
war. Therefore no student felt inspired to paint it. Let's continue.’
‘Very well. And what is this depiction? Ah, I know. It's Raffard the
White ending the feud between kings and marking the end of the Six Years War.
And over there, Raffard declines to accept the crown. Beautiful, noble gesture.’
‘You think so?’ Vilgefortz cocked his head. ‘Well, a gesture it was.
However, Raffard did accept the post of a Royal Counsellor which put him the
place of true ruler, as the king was retarded.’
‘The Gallery of Glory...’ muttered the witcher, coming up to the next
canvas. ‘And here?’
‘The historic moment of the vocation of the first Capitul and the
resolution of the Law. From the left: Herbert Stammelford, Aurora Henson, Ivo
Richert, Agnes of Glanville, Geoffrey Monck and Radmir of Tor Carnedd. For the
sake of accuracy, this painting also lacks in drama. Soon afterwards a very
brutal war broke out, and all who opposed the Capitul and refused to follow the
Law were slaughtered. Raffard the White, among others. But historical texts are
silent about this, so as not to blemish the beautiful legend.’
‘And this one... Hmm... Yes, it was definitely painted by a student.
Rather young one, too...’
‘Certainly. It's an allegory, at that. An allegory of the triumphing
feminity, I presume. Air, Water, Earth and Fire. And the four famous
sorceresses who mastered them. Agnes of Glanville, Aurora Henson, Nina
Fioravanti and Klara Larissa de Winter. Look at the next, better-drawn
painting. It's Klara Larissa again, opening the academy for girls. In the same
building we're standing in right now. And the following portraits picture the
most famous graduates of Aretuza. A long history of triumphing femineity and the
subsequent feminization of the profession: Yanna of Murivel, Nora Wagner, her
sister Augusta, Jada Glevissig, Leticia Charbonneau, Ilona Laux-Antille, Carla
Demetia Crest, Yiolenta Suarez, April Wenhaver... And the only living one:
Tissaia de Vries...’
They went ahead. Lydia's silken dress whispered quietly as they walked,
and its whisper held a hint of a dreadful secret.
‘And this one?’ Geralt stopped. ‘What is this terrifying scene?’
‘Martyrdom of the mage Radmir, skinned alive during Falka's rebellion.
The background shows Mirthe, burned at Falka's order.’
‘For which Falka had been burned in turn. At the stake.’
‘It's a well-known fact. Temerian and Redanian children to this day play
burning Falka at the eve of Saovine. Let's turn back a bit, so you'll see the
other side of the gallery... I see you want to ask something. I'm listening.’
‘I'm wondering about the chronology. I know, of course, about the youth
elixirs, but the paintings picturing people who are dead together with those
who are still alive...’
‘In other words, you're surprised to have met Hen Gedymdeith and Tissaia
de Vries but not Bekker, Agnes of Glanville, Stammelford or Nina Fioravanti?’
‘Not really. I know you're not immortal...’
‘What is death?’ Vilgefortz cut in. ‘To you?’
‘The end.’
‘The end of what?’
‘Existence. It seems that we've entered the philosophical field.’
‘Nature knows not the notion of philosophy, Geralt of Rivia. What we
call philosophy is merely the funny and pathetic attempts at understanding
Nature made by man. The result of such attempts is also called philosophy. It's
as if the beetroot pondered the meaning of its existence, calling it an eternal
and mysterious Conflict of Bulb and Leaves, and considering the rain to be an
Inscrutable Motive Power. We, wizards, don't waste time on guessing what Nature
is. We know what She is, because we are Her. Do you understand?’
‘I'm trying but speak slower, please. Don't forget that you're speaking
to a beetroot.’
‘Have you ever wondered what happened when Bekker forced water out of
the rock? It's said very simply: Bekker subdued the Power. He'd bound an
element to his will. He'd reigned over Nature, dominated Her... What are your
views towards women, Geralt?’
‘Excuse me?’
Lydia von Bredevoort turned around with a whisper of silk, waiting for
his answer. Geralt noticed in her arms a paiting wrapped in paper. He had no
idea where it came from, as Lydia hasn't been carrying anything a moment ago.
The amulet on his neck gave soft vibrations.
Vilgefortz was smiling.
‘I was asking,’ he repeated, ‘about your views towards the relations
between a man and a woman.’
‘What part of these relations are you referring to?’
‘Do you think it's possible to bind a woman to your will? I am, of
course, talking about real women, not girls. Is it possible to rule over a real
woman? Conquer her? Force her to yield to you? And if so, then how? Answer me.’
***
The ragdoll's button eyes were still fixed at them. Yennefer turned her
gaze away.
‘You answered?’
‘I did.’
‘How?’
‘You know.’
***
‘You understand,’ said Vilgefortz at last. ‘And it
seems like you've always understood. So you will also understand that once the
concept of will and subjugation, of domination and submission, of male master
and female slave, is gone and forgotten – only then we can truly achieve unity.
An attachment and a bond. Mutual diffusion. And once you achieve this, death
will no longer matter. There, in the banquet hall, John Bekker is present, as
water which has once gushed out of the rock. Saying that Bekker has died is
like calling water dead. Look at the next painting.’
He did as he was told.
‘It's exquisite,’ he said finally. Instantly he
felt delicate vibrations from his amulet.
‘Lydia,’ Vilgefortz smiled, ‘Is thanking you for
the appreciation. And I shall congratulate you on your taste. The art work
depicts the meeting of Cregennan of Lod with Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal, the
legendary lovers, forced apart and destroyed by the times of contempt. He was a
wizard, she was an elf, one of the elite Aen Saevherne, the Knowing. What could
have become the beginning of reconciliation, ended up as a tragedy.’
‘I know this story. I used to take it for a mere
fairytale. What happened for real?’
‘That,’ the wizard stated somberly ‘is a mystery to
all. All, but for a chosen few. Lydia, hang your painting next to it. Geralt,
you may admire Lydia's newest work of art. It's a portrait of Lara Dorren aep
Shiadhal, based on an old miniature.’
‘My deepest regards,’ the witcher bowed to Lydia
van Bredevoort; his voice didn't tremble. ‘It's truly a masterpiece.’
His voice didn't change at all, despite Lara Dorren
aep Shiadhal looking at him down from her portait with Ciri's eyes..
***
‘What happened next?’
‘Lydia
was in the gallery. We both went out to the terrace. And she laughed at my
expense.’
‘Over
there, Geralt. If you don’t mind. Tread only on the dark tiles, please.’
Below
the sea roared, the island of Thanedd stood among the white foam of the surf.
The waves crashed against the walls of Loxia, which were located just below
them. Loxia sparkled with light, like Aretuza. Towering above them was the
stone block Garstang which appeared to be black and dead.
‘Tomorrow,’
the wizard eyes followed the witcher ‘member of the Capitul and of the Council
will be wearing their traditional robes, you know the ones from the old
engravings, black capes and pointed hats. Also we will carry staves and canes,
we’ll look similar to wizards and witches that scare children. It’s a
tradition. Accompanied by some other delegates, we head up to Garstang. There,
in a room specially prepared we will debate. The rest will wait in Aretuza for
us to return with our decisions.’
‘The
gathering in Garstang, in a small group, is also a tradition?’
‘Absolutely.
It is ancient and dictated by practical considerations. It happens that the
deliberations of wizards there have been fairly stormy and reached a very
active exchange of views. During one of these exchanges a ball of lightning
damaged the hair and dress of Nina Fioravanti. Nina spent a year working to
surround the walls of Garstang with magical aura blocking spells which were
incredible strong. Since then, spells do not work in Garstang and the
discussions run quietly. Especially when we remember to take away the knives of
the disputants.’
‘I
understand. And this solitary tower, above Garstang at the very top. What is
it? Some building of importance?’
‘That
is Tor Lara, the Tower of Seagulls. A ruin. Important? Probably yes.’
‘Probably?’
The
wizard leaned against the railing.
‘According
to Elvish traditions, Tor Lara is connected via some form of teleportation
device with the enigmatic Tor Zireael, the Tower of the Swallow, which has not
yet been found.’
‘How?
How is it you haven’t succeeded in discovering the teleporter? I don’t believe
it.’
‘You
are correct. We discovered a portal, but it was necessary to block it. There
were protests, everyone rushed to do experiments, each sorcerer wanted to
become famous as the explorer of Tor Zireael, the mythical home of Elvish sages
and wizards. The Portal, however is irreparably flawed and brings chaos. There
were casualties, so it was blocked. Let’s go, Geralt, its getting cold.
Careful. Step only on the dark tiles.’
‘Why
only on the dark?’
‘These
buildings are in ruins. Moisture, erosion, strong winds, salt air, all of it
affects the walls terribly. Fixing them would cost a fortune, so we use
illusions. Prestige, you know.’
‘Not
quite.’
The
wizard raised his hand and the terrace disappeared. They were standing in front
of an abyss, on a precipice which at the bottom were bristling teeth of rock
bathed in foam. They were on a narrow belt of dark tiles arranged as a
trapezoid between the porch of Aretuza and the pillars that supported the roof.
Geralt
maintained his balance without effort. If he were a human, not a witcher, he
would not have managed to keep it. But even he was surprised. His sudden
movement did not escape the attention of the wizard, nor the look on his face.
The wind buffeted the narrow catwalk, and carried the sound of waves from the
abyss below.
‘Not
afraid of death.’ Vilgefortz said with a smile. ‘But you are afraid for her.’
***
The
rag doll looked at him with its button eyes.
‘He
mocked you.’ Yennefer murmured, hugging the witcher. ‘There was no danger,
surely he had you both wrapped in a levitation field. He wouldn’t have risked
it… What happened next?’
‘We
went to another wing of Aretuza. He led me into a large chamber, it was
probably one of the teachers offices, maybe even the head. We sat at a table on
which stood an hourglass. The sand was falling. I sensed the smell of perfume,
I knew Lydia had been in the room before us…’
‘And
Vilgefortz?’
‘He
asked questions.’
***
‘Why did you not become a wizard, Geralt? Did
the Arts never attract you? Be honest.’
‘I
will. Yes they appealed to me.’
‘So
why not follow the voice of inclination?’
‘I
felt that it would be more reasonable to go with the voice of reason.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Years
of work in the witcher’s profession have taught me to measure the strength of
intentions. You know, Vilgefortz I once knew a dwarf, who dreamed of becoming
an elf. What do you think would have happened if he had followed the voice of
inclination?’
‘Was
that supposed to be a comparison? A parallel? If so, it is completely
inaccurate. A dwarf could never be an elf. Because his mother was never an elf.’
Geralt
was silent for a long time.
‘Well,
yes,’ he said finally. ‘I could have guessed that. You’ve been digging around a
bit in my resume. Can you tell me, for what purpose?’
‘Maybe,’
smiled the wizard slightly. ‘I dream of a painting in the Gallery of Glory? The
two of us, at the table, and a brass plate inscription reading: “Vilgefortz of
Roggeveen’s pact with Geralt of Rivia.”’
‘That
would be an allegory,’ said the witcher. ‘With the title: “Knowledge trumps ignorance.”
I would prefer a more realistic picture, bearing the title: “Vilgefortz
explains to Geralt what’s going on.”’
‘Isn’t
it obvious?’
‘No.’
‘Have
you forgotten? The painting that I dream of, hangs in the Gallery of Glory,
they will look at it in future generations, and they will know perfectly well
what is going on, what the event shows in the painting. Painted on the canvas,
Vilgefortz and Geralt agree and forge a pact which as a result, Geralt, not
following the voice of inclination, but a true calling, finally enters the
ranks of Sorcerers, putting behind his present life which is lacking in meaning
and devoid of a future.’
‘And
to think,’ said the witcher after a long moment of silence. ‘I had believed
that nothing could surprise me anymore. Believe me Vilgefortz, I will remember
this banquet and its magical comedy of events for a long time. Surely it is
worth a picture. With the Title: “Geralt leaves the island of Thanedd, bursting
with laughter.”’
‘I do
not understand,’ the wizard bowed slightly, ‘I am lost in thy flowery speeches
and densely woven fancy words.’
‘The
cause of your misunderstanding is clear to me. We are too different to
understand. You are a powerful wizard of the Capitul, who has attained oneness
with nature. While I am a wanderer, a witcher, a mutant, who travels the world
and kills monsters for money…’
‘The
flamboyance,’ interrupted the wizard ‘has been replaced by banalities.’
‘We’re
too different.’ Geralt did not let himself be interrupted. ‘A small fact that
my mother was, incidentally, a sorceress, cannot erase this difference. But
just out of curiosity, who was your mother?’
‘I
have no idea.’ Vilgefortz said calmly.
The
witcher fell silent immediately.
‘The
Druid Circle in Kovir,’ the wizard took a moment ‘found me in the gutter in Lan
Exeter. They took me in and educated me. As a druid, of course. You know what a
druid is? They are tramps, that walk through the world and kneel before the
sacred oaks.’
The
witcher stayed silent.
‘And
then,’ continued Vilgefortz ‘during some druidic rituals my talents surfaced.
Talents that clearly and without a doubt allowed them to determine my origins.
I was conceived, of course, by accident, by two people, of whom at least one of
them was a sorcerer.’
Geralt
was silent.
‘The
druid who discovered my humble abilities, of course, had fortuitously met a
sorcerer.’ Vilgefortz calmly went on. ‘And he generously offered me an
education and development and the prospect of joining the Brotherhood of
Sorcerers.’
‘And
you,’ said the witcher hollowly ‘accepted the offer.’
‘No.’
Vilgefortz voice became increasingly cold and unpleasant. ‘I rejected it in a
less than polite, even rude way. I unloaded all of my rage on him. I wanted him
to feel guilty, him and all his magical brotherhood. Guilty, for the gutter in
Lan Exeter, guilty for one or two rogue sorcerers. The sorcerer, it was clear,
neither understood nor was he bothered by what I said then. He shrugged and
walked away, thus marking himself like all of his brethren, insensitive,
arrogant, bastards worthy of the highest contempt.’
Geralt
remained silent.
‘I was
sick of the druids already.’ continued Vilgefortz sincerely. ‘So I left the
sacred oak trees and went out into the world. I did many things. So I am
ashamed of still to this day. I finally became a soldier for hire. My life
unfolded as you can imagine, as a stereotype. A victorious soldier, a beaten
soldier, a marauder, robber, rapist, murderer, and finally a fleeing fugitive
to the end of the world from the noose. I ran away to the end of the world. And
there, at the end of the world I met a woman. A Sorceress.’
‘Be
careful’ the witcher whispered, his eyes narrowing. ‘Be careful Vilgefortz that
the search for similarities does not take you to far.’
‘The
similarities have already been completed.’ The wizard did not drop his gaze. ‘Since
I did not know how to handle the feelings I harboured towards the woman.
Neither did I understand her feelings as she tried to help me. I left. Because
she was promiscuous, arrogant, angry, numb and cold. Because she was impossible
to dominate and her dominance was humiliating. I left because I knew she cared
about me just because of my intelligence, personality and this fascinating
mystery blurred the fact that I was not a sorcerer and only a sorcerer’s favour
was more than a night. I left because… Because she was like my mother. Suddenly
I realized that what I felt for her was not love but a feeling far more
complicated, powerful but difficult to identify: a mixture of fear, anger,
rage, remorse and the need for atonement, guilt, loss and damage, a perverse
need for suffering and punishment. What I felt for this woman was hate.’
Great
was silent. Vilgefortz looked away.
‘I
left,’ he continued after a moment. ‘because I could not live with the
emptiness which has enveloped me. I suddenly realized that this is not the lack
of the woman that was causing the void, but the lack of what I was feeling. A
paradox right? I think I’ll stop, you can guess the rest. I became a sorcerer.
Out of hatred. And only then did I realize how stupid it was. I mistook the
stars reflected on the surface of a pond as the sky at night time.’
‘As
you noticed the parallels between us were not quite parallel.’ Geralt muttered.
‘Despite appearances, we have little in common, Vilgefortz. What did you want
to prove by telling me your story? That the path to magic mastery, thought
twisted and difficult, is open to all? Even for, sorry for the parallels,
bastards and foundlings, vagrants or witchers…’
‘No’
interrupted the wizard. ‘I did not intend to argue that this route is available
to all, because it is obvious and long since proven. It does not require either
any evidence the fact that for some people there is simply no other way.’
‘And
so,’ smiled the witcher. ‘I have no way out? Do I have to sign the
aforementioned agreement that I will become the subject of paintings and become
a sorcerer? Just because of genetics?
Wow. I know a little theory of heredity. My father, I learned with a little
effort, was a vagabond, ignorant, mercenary adventurer. I have the advantage of
paternal genes, not only maternal. The fact that I have a beard seems to
confirm this.’
‘Certainly.’
The wizard grinned. ‘The hourglass has dropped almost all its sand and I
Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, master of magic, a member of the Capitul, Am still
conversing with an ignorant mercenary the son of an ignorant, mercenary and
vagabond. We talk about matters and issues, as we all know, are common topics
of discussion and comments at the fires of ignorant mercenaries. Such things as
genetics, for example. Where did you hear that word, my mercenary? From the
school in the Ellander temple where they spell and write twenty-four runes?
What made you decide to the read books where you can find these and other
similar words? Where you honed your eloquence and rhetoric? And what were you
doing? Trying to converse with vampires? My genetic vagabond, that Tissaia de
Vries smiles at. My witcher, mercenary that fascinates Philippa Eilhart, so
that both of her hands tremble. At the mention of, makes Triss Merigold blush.
Not to mention Yennefer of Vengerberg.’
‘Perhaps
it is a good thing that they do not remember. There is so little sand left in
the hourglass that you could almost count the grains. Do not paint any more
pictures for me, Vilgefortz. Say what is going on. Tell me in simple words.
Imagine sitting by the fire, two vagabonds, roasting a suckling pig, which they
had just stolen, and unsuccessfully trying to get drunk from birch juice. It is
a simple question. Answer. Vagabond to vagabond.’
‘What
is this simple question?’
‘What
pact do you propose? What arrangement have we entered into? Why do you want me
in your boat, Vilgefortz? What cauldron, in which it seems to me, begins to
boil? What’s in the air here, apart from the chandeliers?’
‘Hmm.’
The wizard thought, or at least pretended to. ‘The question is not simple, but
I will try to answer. But not vagabond to vagabond. As a mercenary to mercenary
like I was.’
‘All
right.’
‘Then
listen, friend mercenary. Prepare for a good fucking. A terrible slaughter of
life and death, no quarter will be given. Some will win; the others will be
eaten by the crows. I counsel you, friend, join with those who have the greater
chance. Join with us. Join with the others, and I’ll spit on you, because they
have no chance, and you will die with them. No friend, don’t show me your grin
here, I know what it means. You want to say that you are neutral. That you and
those you care about will just wait it out hiding in your mountain, Kaer
Morhen. That is a bad idea, friend. Everything you love is with us. If you do
not join, you’ll lose it all. And then the emptiness, nothingness and hatred
will swallow you. Then the time of contempt, which is coming will destroy you.
So be sensible and stand on the right side, when the time comes to choose. And
the choice will come. You can believe me.’
‘Incredible,’
the witcher’s took on a sinister smile, ‘how bothered you all are by my
neutrality. To what extent it makes me the object of proposals for pacts and
agreements, offers of cooperation, instructions about the need to make choices
and stand on the right side. Let’s end this conversation Vilgefortz. You lose
this time. In this game, I am not an equal partner. I see no possibility that
we are both in the same picture in the Gallery of Glory. Especially in the
battles.’
The wizard
was silent.
‘Arrange’
continued Geralt, ‘your chessboard, the king, the queen, the bishop and the
tower, do not worry about me because on this chessboard I have as much
importance as the dust that covers it. This is not my game. You say that I have
to choose? I assure you you’re wrong. I will not choose. I will adapt to
whatever happens. I will adapt to what others choose, I’ve always done this.’
‘You’re
a fatalist.’
‘I am.
Although it is still a word you should not know. Again, this is not my game.’
‘Really?’
Vilgefortz leaned across the table. ‘In this game witcher, on the board is
already a black horse, for good or bad you are joined by bonds of destiny. You
know who I’m talking about, right? You do not want to lose her? Know there is
only one way to do it so as not to lose.’
The
witcher’s eyes narrowed.
‘What
is it you want from the child?’
‘There
is only one way you can find that out.’
‘I
warn you. I will not let you hurt...’
‘There
is only one way you can do that. I have proposed such a way, Geralt of Rivia.
Think about my proposal. You have all night. Think when you look to the sky. To
the stars. Do not mistake them for those reflected on the surface of a pond.
The hourglass has run out.’
***
‘I
fear for Ciri, Yen.’
‘You
shouldn’t.’
‘But...’
‘Trust
me.’ She hugged him. ‘Trust me, please. Don’t worry about Vilgefortz. He is a
player. He wanted to approach you, to provoke. He partially succeeded in this.
But it doesn’t matter. Ciri is under my care, and Aretuza is secure, She will
be able to develop her abilities here, and not be disturbed. By anyone. As for
being a sorceress, forget it. She has other talents. And is destined for other
things. Believe me.’
‘I
believe you.’
‘That’s
significan’t progress. And do not worry about Vilgefortz. Tomorrow will explain
many things and solve many problems.’
Tomorrow, he thought. She’s hiding
something from me. And I’m afraid to ask. Codringher was right. I’m tangled in
a nasty cabal. But now I have no way out. I’ll have to wait for what tomorrow
brings that apparently will explain everything. I have to trust her. I know
something will happen. I will wait. And I will adapt to the situation.
He
looked at the writing desk.
‘Yen?’
‘I’m
here.’
‘When
you studied in Aretuza... when sleeping in rooms like this... did you have a
doll without which you could not sleep?’
‘No,’
Yennefer stirred violently. ‘I did not have a doll. Don’t ask me that, Geralt.
Please don’t ask me.’
‘Aretuza.’
He whispered, looking around. ‘Aretuza on the island of Thanedd. Her home. For
so many years... When she comes out from here, she’ll be a mature woman...’
‘Stop.
Don’t think about it and don’t talk about it. Instead...’
‘What,
Yen?’
‘Make
love to me.’
He
embraced her. Touched. Found. Yennefer, in an incredible way was hard and soft
at the same time, she sighed loudly. The words they said were broken, sighs and
aspirations which disappeared in a hurry, ceased to have meaning and dispersed.
So silent, focused on finding themselves on the search for truth. They were
looking a long time, carefully and lovingly, fearing the sacrilege of haste,
the lightness and neglect. They looked hard, intense and passionate. They
looked carefully, fearing the sacrilege of the absence of finesse.
They
found each other, they overcame fear and a moment later, they found the truth,
which exploded under their eyelids, awesome, blindingly obvious, a groan tore
at his mouth which was clenched in determination. He then shuddered and time
froze, everything disappeared, and only became a functioning sense of touch.
An
eternity passed, reality returned, and for the second time he shuddered and
began to move slowly, awkwardly, like a big loaded wagon. Geralt looked out the
window. The moon was in the sky but what happened a moment ago should have
thrown it to the ground.
‘Wow,’
said Yennefer after a time, wiping tears from her cheeks with a slow movement.
They
lay motionless between the disordered sheets, among tremors, between the warmth
and the expiring happiness, among the silence that swirled around the
indistinct darkness pregnant with the smell of the night and the voices of the
cicadas. Geralt knew that in such moments as these sorceress telepathic
abilities were heightened and very strong, he thought so intensely about issues
and beautiful things. The brightness of the rising sun. In the dawn mist
hanging over a mountain lake. In crystalline waterfalls filled with jumping
salmon, as bright as if made of molten silver. The warm drops of rain hitting
the leaves of a rose bush in full bloom.
He
thought of her. Yennefer smiled, listening to his thoughts. The smile trembled
on her cheeks with the silver by the moon shadow on her eyelashes.
***
‘A house?’ Yennefer asked suddenly. ‘What house?
Do you have a house? Do you wish to build a house? Ah... sorry. I should not...’
He was
silent. He was angry with himself. Thinking about her had inadvertently allowed
her to read the thoughts he harboured about it.
‘A
beautiful dream.’ Yennefer lightly stroked his arm. ‘A house. A house built
with your own hands and in the house you and me. You would raise horses and
sheep, I would take care of the garden, food and Cardaria would weigh the wool
that we would take to the market. From the orens that we would be given from
the sale of the wool and various fruits of the earth we would by everything we
need, say a little copper kettle and an iron rake. Every so often we would
visit Ciri with her husband and their three children, sometimes Triss Merigold
would come and to be with us for a few days. We could grow old with dignity.
And if I get bored at night you would play the bagpipes made with your own
hands. Playing the bagpipes, as everyone knows is the best remedy for the
blues.’
The
witcher was silent. The sorceress coughed softly.
‘Sorry,’
he said at last. He raised himself on his elbow, leaned over and kissed her.
She moved to rapidly embrace him. In silence.
‘Say
something.’
‘I do
not want to lose you, Yen’
‘After
all I have.’
‘This
night is over.’
‘Everything
ends.’
No,
he thought. I do not want it to be so. I’m tired. Too tired to accept the
prospect of principals, after which you have to start all over again. I wish...
‘Do
not talk.’ With a quick movement Yennefer laid a finger on his lips. ‘Do not
tell me what you want or what you crave. Because I might not be able to fulfil
your wishes and that would cause me pain.’
‘And
what do you want, Yen? What do you dream?
‘Only
about things that can be achieved.’
‘What
about me?’
‘I
already have you.’
He was
silent for a long time. And waited for the moment she broke the silence.
‘Geralt?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Make
love to me, please.’
At
first, they filled each other, both were full of fantasy and imagination,
ideas, discoveries and new desires. As usual, it soon proved that it was both
too much and too little. They understood at once and again proved their love.
When
Geralt came to, the moon was still in place. Cicadas chirped loudly as if they
would also like to fight fear and unrest on the basis of madness and passion.
From a nearby window on the left wing of Aretuza someone hungry for sleep
screamed and fumed bitterly, demanding silence. From the window across someone,
apparently gifted with an artistic soul, enthusiastically applauded and shouted
congratulations.
‘Oh, Yen...’ Whispered the witcher in
shame.
‘I had a reason...’ she kissed him and them
nestled her cheek into the pillow. ‘I had a reason to scream, so I screamed.
That should not be suppressed, it is unhealthy and unnatural. Hold me, if you
can.’
Teleporter of Lara, also known as, after the
name of its discoverer Benavent’s Portal. Located on the island of Thanedd on
the top floor of the Tower of Gulls. Standing, periodically active. Principles
of operation: not known.
Destination: unknown, probably distorted as a
result of spontaneous decay, possibly many branches and forks.
Note: The teleporter is chaotic and deadly.
Experiments absolutely prohibited. Do not allow the use of magic in the Tower
of Gulls and the immediate area in particular, teleportation magic. The Capitul
reviews all exceptional applications for permission to enter Tor Lara in order
to visit the teleporter. The request must be justified by research work and
specialization in this field.
Bibliography: Geoffrey Monck, “The Magic of the
Elder Folk”, Immanuel Benavent, “Portal of Tor Lara”, Nina Fioravanti “The
Theory and Practice of Teleportation”, Ransant Alvaro, “The Secret Gates.”
Prohibit (index of forbidden artifacts)
Ars Magica, Ed. LVIII
Chapter
Four
At first there was only chaos pulsing,
sparkling, a cascade of images, a vortex, a spiral full of sounds and voices.
Ciri saw a tower reaching to the heavens, on whose roof lightning danced. She
heard the cry of a bird of prey and she was this bird. She flew with great
speed, below her was a raging sea. She saw a small doll made from rags, and
suddenly she was the doll wrapped in a darkness that vibrated with the song of
cicadas. She saw a large black and white cat, and suddenly she was the cat,
around her was a dark house, with dark wood panelling, it smelled of candles
and old books. She heard someone repeatedly say her name, summoning her. She
saw a silver salmon leaping in a waterfall, heard the patter of rain hitting
the leaves. And then she heard the strange, prolonged scream of Yennefer. And
this cry awoke her, snatching her from the depths of timelessness and disorder.
Now, unsuccessfully trying to remember a
dream, she heard the quiet sounds of a lute and flute, the jingle of a
tambourine, singing and laughter. Dandelion and a group of vagrants who he had
accidently met were still having fun in the room down the hall.
Through the window, fell a ray of
moonlight, brightening the darkness and giving the room in Loxia the appearance
of a dream. Ciri threw the sheets aside. She was sweaty, her hair stuck to her
forehead. In the evening she had trouble getting to sleep, a shortness of
breath, even with the window open. She knew what the reason was. Before leaving
with Geralt, Yennefer had isolated the room with a spell of protection.
Although it was supposed to prevent anyone from entering, Ciri actually
suspected that it was to keep her from leaving. She was a prisoner. Yennefer,
though pleased with the meeting with Geralt, had not forgotten or forgiven her
wild Hirundum getaway, thanks to which this meeting took place.
Meeting with Geralt alone had filled her
with sadness and disappointment. The Witcher was taciturn, tense, anxious and
clearly lying. Their conversations occurred at a fast pace and involved
fragmented, broken and unfinished statements and questions. The Witcher’s eyes
and thoughts fled and disappeared into the distance. Ciri knew where.
The room down the hall became quieter and
the sound of Dandelion singing and the lute strings where like a murmuring of a
brook over stones. She recognised the melody, which the bard had been composing
for several days. The ballad, Dandelion had boasted of several times, was
entitled “Elusive” and would bring triumph to the poet at the annual tournament
held for bards in the late autumn at the castle of Vartburg. Ciri listened
attentively to the words.
Above wet rooftops flying,
Yellow water lilies swim,
But I at the end understand you,
If you would let me…
The sound of hooves, horsemen galloped in
the night and the horizon glows with fires. A bird of prey screeches, spreading
its wings and leaping into flight. Ciri again plunged into sleep, hearing
someone repeatedly call her name. Once it was Geralt, once Yennefer, once Triss
Merigold and finally a few times, a girl she did not know, thin, blonde and
sad, looked at her from the corner,
bound in brass miniature.
The she saw the black and white cat, after
a while she was the cat and watched with its eyes. All around her was a
strange, dark house. She could see shelves full of large books, some candles
illuminated the desktop, in front of it two men were bent over parchments. One
of the men coughed and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. The second, a dwarf
with an enormous head, sat in a chair with wheels. He was missing both legs.
***
‘Incredible…’ Fenn sighed, running his eyes
over the mouldy parchment. ‘It’s hard to believe… Where did you get these
documents?’
‘You would not believe me if I told you.’ Codringher
coughed. ‘Do you now understand who Cirilla, Princess of Cintra, really is? A
Child of the Old Blood… The last offshoot from that damn tree of hatred! The
last branch and on it a poisonous apple…’
‘The Old Blood… As far back as… Pavetta,
Calanthe, Adalia, Elen, Fiona…’
‘And Falka.’
‘The gods, that’s impossible! First, Falka
did not have any children! Secondly, Fiona was the legitimate daughter of…’
‘First, about Falka’s youth, we know
nothing. Second, do not make me laugh, Fenn. You know very well that the sound
of the word “legal” causes me spasms of mirth. I believe in this document,
because in my opinion it is authentic and speaks the truth. Fiona, Pavetta’s
great-grandmother was the daughter of Falka, this monster in human skin. Hell,
I do not believe in those crazy divinations, prophecies and other crap, but
when I remember Ithlinne’s predictions…’
‘Stained Blood?’
‘Stained, tainted, cursed, it can be
understood differently. And according to legend, if you remember, it was Falka
who was cursed, because Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal cast a curse on her mother.’
‘These are fairy tales, Codringher.’
‘You’re right, this is a fairy tale. But do
you know when they are fairy tales no longer? The moment when someone starts to
believe in them. And someone believed in the story of the Old Blood. Especially
in the passage which says that an avenger will be born of Falka’s blood that
will destroy the old world, and on its ruins build a new one.’
‘And this avenger would be Cirilla?’
‘No. Not Cirilla. Her son.’
‘And searching for Cirilla is…’
‘Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard.’
Ended Codringher in a cold tone. ‘Do you understand now? Cirilla, regardless of
her will, is to be mother to the heir to the throne. The Archduke will become
the Archduke of Darkness, successor and avenger of that devil Falka. The
Holocaust, and the later reconstruction
of the world is, I believe, to be run in a controlled and monitored manner.’
The cripple was silent a long time.
‘Do you not think,’ he said at last ‘that
we should tell Geralt about this?
‘Geralt?’ Codringher curled his lip. ‘And
who is he? Could it be by change that he naively told me that he is not working
for profit? Oh, I think he is not working on his own behalf. He is acting for
others. Unwittingly anyway. He pursues Rience, who is on a leash, but he
doesn’t feel the collar around his own neck. Why should I inform him? To help
those who want to take possession of the goose who lays the golden eggs to
blackmail or gain favour with Emhyr? No, Fenn. I’m not that stupid.’
‘The witcher is on a leash? Whose?’
‘Think.’
‘Damn!’
‘A well-chosen word. The only person who
has influence over him. In whom he trusts. But I do not trust her. And I never
did. I am going to get into this game too.’
‘It’s a dangerous game, Codringher.’
‘There are no safe games. There are only
games that are worthwhile and others that are do not deserve it. Fenn, brother,
do you not understand what has fallen into our hands? A goose that to us and
nobody else will give us a huge egg, every last one of them gold…’
Codringher burst into a fit of coughing.
When he removed the handkerchief from his lips it was speckled with blood.
‘Gold will not cure you,’ Fenn said,
looking at his companion’s handkerchief. ‘And it will not give me back my
legs…’
‘Who knows?’
Someone knocked at the door. Fenn shifted
uneasily in his wheelchair.
‘Are you expecting someone, Codringher?’
‘Yes. For people I’m sending to Thanedd.
After the golden goose.’
***
‘Do not open it,’ cried Ciri. ‘Do not open
the door! Behind it is death! Do not open the door!’
***
'I’m
opening it, I’m opening it.’ Codringher shouted, as he lifted the latch, after
which he turned to the cat, who was merely meowing. ‘Shut up, damned beast…’
He stopped. At the door were not those he
was expecting. At the door were three people he did not know.
‘Are you Mr Codringher?’
‘The lord is gone on business.’ The lawyer
changed the tone of his voice to a slight squeak. ‘I am the butler of my
master, I am called Glomb, Mikael Glomb. What can I do for the noble lords?’
‘Nothing,’ said one of the individuals, a
tall half-elf. ‘Since your master is not here, we’ll leave a letter and a
message. Here’s the letter.’
‘I will deliver it reliably.’ Codringher,
well into his role as a bumbling servant, bowed humbly and reached out to pick
up a bundle of scrolls connected by a red rope. ‘And the message?’
The rope that held the scrolls unfolded
like a snake to attack, lashing forward to tightly entwine his wrist. Tall gave
a strong pull. Codringher lost his balance, flew forward, so as not to collapse
on the half-elf, he leaned left placing his hand on the half-elf’s chest. In
this position he was not able to avoid the knife, which puncture him in the
stomach. He shouted and pulled back, but the magic rope was still wrapped
around his wrist. The half-elf wandered back towards him and stabbed him once
again. This time Codringher hung onto the blade.
‘Here is the message and greeting from
Rience,’ the tall half-elf hissed, tearing the dagger strongly upwards opening
the lawyer like a fish. ‘Go to hell, Codringher. Straight to hell.’
Codringher wheezed. He could feel the blade
grinding and crunching his ribs and sternum. He fell to the ground, rolling
into a ball. He wanted to scream, to warn Fenn, but only managed to screech and
squawk which was immediately stifled by a wave of blood.
The tall half-elf stepped over the body,
followed behind by the other two. They were human.
Fenn was not surprised.
Ringing like a struck chord, one of the
minions fell back, struck by a steel ball in the middle of the forehead. Fenn
moved away from the desktop, trying in vain to reload the arbalest with
trembling hands.
Tall jumped towards him, with a strong
kick, he overturned the chair. The dwarf rolled onto the papers scattered on the
floor. Crawling helplessly with small arms and the stumps of his legs,
resembling a spider that had had its legs torn off. The half-elf kicked the
arbalest out of reach of Fenn. He quickly reviewed the documents that lay on
the desktop without paying attention to the crippled man trying to crawl on the
ground. His attention was caught by a
small framed brass horn and miniature of a blonde girl. He picked it up
an took it.
The second thug who had been examining the
man hit by the ball from the arbalest approached. The half-elf raised his
eyebrow questioningly. The thug shook his head.
The half-elf placed the miniature and some
of the documents he took from the desk and put them in his breast pocket. He
then took a bunch of quills from and inkwell and lit it from the candlestick.
Rotating them cause the bundle to be well lit, after which he let it fall onto
the desk, among the stacks of scroll which instantly burst into flames.
Fenn howled.
The tall half-elf removed from the table
that was already burning, a rum bottle used to remove ink, went to the dwarf
and spilled its contents over him. Fenn gave a sharp cry. The second thug
pulled from a shelf a sheaf of papers and threw them over the cripple. The desk
stood roaring with fire all the way to the roof. Another bottle, smaller,
exploded with a bang, the ashes sprinkled the shelves. Papers, bundles and
folders began to blacked and twist and stoked the fire.
Fenn screamed.
The half-elf was beside him holding a
burning scroll.
Codringher’s black and white cat sat on a
nearby wall. In his bright yellow eyes reflected the fire that turned a
pleasant night into a terrible parody of day. The surrounding area was filled
with screams. Fire! Fire! Water! People were running towards the house. The cat
froze, staring in amazement and contempt. These idiots were going there,
towards the fiery pit that he barely managed to escape.
Turning around with indifference, the cat
continued licking its paws stained with Codringher’s blood.
***
Ciri woke up covered in sweat, her hands
painfully clutching the sheets. All around her was silence and the soft
darkness was pierced by a dagger of moonlight.
Fire. Fire. Blood. Nightmare... I do not
remember anything, I do not remember...
She inhaled deeply the crisp night air. The
shortness of breath was gone. She knew why.
The protection spells did not work.
Something has happened, Ciri
thought. She jumped out of bed and dressed quickly. She strapped on a dagger.
She had no sword; Yennefer had removed it and left it in the care of Dandelion.
The poet was probably asleep already, Loxia was quiet. Ciri was wondering if
she should go and wake him up when she suddenly felt in her ears heavy beats
and the rhythm of blood.
The bright beam of moonlight through the
window became a road. At the end of the road, far away, there were doors. The
doors opened and Yennefer appeared.
Come here.
Behind the sorceress opened another door.
One after another, endlessly. In the gloom she could make out the black forms
of columns. Or maybe they were statues... I’m dreaming, thought Ciri,
I myself do not believe this. I’m dreaming. This is not a road, it is light, a
streak of light. I can not walk through the...
Come here.
She obeyed.
***
Were it not for the witcher’s foolish
scruples, if not for his impractical rules, many of the later events would have
had a completely different course. Many events would probably never even taken
place. And then the history of the world would be different.
Bu the world’s history unfolded as it
unfolded, and the sole reason for this was that the witcher had scruples. When
he awoke at dawn and felt the need, he did what anyone would have done. He
walked onto the balcony and peed in the pot of nasturtiums. Scruples. He
dressed quietly so as not to wake Yennefer, who was fast asleep, motionless and
hardly without breath. He left the dwelling and went into the garden.
The banquet was still going on, but judging
by the sound, in a rudimentary form. The windows of the ballroom had a light
still burning which filled the atrium and illuminated the clumps of peonies.
The witcher went a little further into the dense bushes and there stared at the
shining sky, from the horizon appeared the first glowing purple streaks of
dawn.
When he returned slowly, reflecting on
important issues, his medallion stared shaking vigorously. He grabbed it with
his hand and felt the vibrations across his entire body. There was no doubt.
Someone had cast a spell in Aretuza. Geralt pricked up his ears and heard
muffled screams and a banging clatter coming from the gallery in the left wing
of the palace.
Any other would have turned around without
hesitation and returned to their room pretending not to hear anything. And
then, the history of the world would also have developed differently. But the
witcher had scruples and principles and was used to following foolish and
unrealistic rules.
When he came running through the gallery
and into the hallway, there the struggled continued. Some soldiers dressed in
gray jackets were restraining a sorcerer who was lying quietly on the floor.
Directing the soldiers was Dijkstra, head of the secret services of Vizimir
king of Redania. Before Geralt could take any action, he was also restrained.
Two other soldiers in gray pushed him against the wall while a third person
held an iron triton to his chest .
All the soldiers on their chest had a
medallion with the eagle of Redania.
‘This is called “falling into the shit”’ Dijkstra
quietly explained, while he approached. ‘And you, witcher, seem to have a
natural talent for getting into it. Stand still and try not to pay attention.’
He finally saw the sorcerer being held by
the arms. It was Artaud Terranova, a member of the Capitul.
The light that allowed him to see the
details came from a ball that hung over the head of Keira Metz, a sorceress
that Geralt had spoken with that night at the banquet. He hardly recognised
her. She had changed light tulle netting for rough masculine clothes and
carried a dagger at her side.
‘Cuff him.’ She commanded briefly. In her
hand jingled shackles made of a bluish metal.
‘Do not dare to put those on me!’ Terranova
cried. ‘Don not dare, Metz! I am a member of the Capitul!’
‘You were. Now you are an ordinary traitor.
And you’ll be treated like a traitor.’
‘And you’re a mangy bitch, you...’
Keira took a step forward; swaying slightly
in the hips and with all her strength she slammed her fist into his face. The
sorcerer’s head whipped back so far that for a moment Geralt had the feeling
that it was going to detach from his neck. Terranova was hanging limply from
the hands that held him, with blood running from his nose and lips.
The Sorceress did not deliver another blow,
but her hand was raised. The witcher saw the flash of brass knuckles on her
fingers. He was not surprised. Keira was tiny; such a blow could not have been
given with only her bare fist.
Geralt did not move. The soldiers held him
tightly, and the tips of the triton poke his chest. Geralt was not sure that if
he moved he could get free. Had he even know what to do.
The soldiers put chains on the wrists of
the sorcerer, which were placed behind his back. Terranova screamed, twisted,
bent and tried to vomit. Geralt knew already, what kind of shackles they were.
It was an alloy of iron and dimeritium, a rare mineral, whose properties
consisted of stifling magical abilities. This stifling accompanied rather
unpleasant side effect for magicians.
Keira
Metz raised her head, pushing aside the hair on her forehead. And then saw him.
‘What is he doing here, damn it? How did he
get here?’
‘He put his nose,’ Dijkstra replied
impassively. ‘Where he has a talent for putting in. What would you have me do
with him?’
Keira growled and stamped several times on
the floor with the heel of her boot.
‘Keep an eye on him. I do not have the time
now.’
She left quickly, behind her walked the
Redanians, who dragged Terranova. The glowing ball hovered behind the
sorceress, but dawn was already starting to shine. At a sign from Dijkstra, the
soldiers released Geralt. The spy came and looked the witcher in the eye.
‘Keep absolute peace of mind.’
‘What is happening here? What is...’
‘And absolute silence.’
Keira Metz returned after a short time, not
alone. She came accompanied with a sorcerer with hair the colour of flaxen that
the previous day had been introduced to Geralt as Dethmold of Ban Ard. Upon
seeing the witcher, the sorcerer curse and slammed his fist into his hand.
‘Damn it! Is this the one whom took a
liking to Yennefer?’
‘This,’ Keira confirmed. ‘is Geralt of
Rivia. The problem is that I do not know how he is with Yennefer...’
‘I also do not know.’ Dethmold shrugged.
‘In any case, he is already involved in this. He has seen too much. Take him to
Philippa, she can decide.’
‘There is no need,’ Dijkstra said sleepily.
‘I can vouch for him. I’ll take him to where he belongs.’
‘Fine then.’ Dethmold said. ‘Because we do
not have time. Come, Keira, up there things get more complicated...’
‘Beware those who are angry.’ The Redanian
spy muttered, looking after those departing. ‘A lack of skill, nothing else. A
coup like all coups are like gazpacho. It should be eaten cold. Come on,
Geralt. And remember, peacefully, with dignity, without any fuss. Do not make
me regret not tying you in chains.’
‘What is going on, Dijkstra?’
‘Have you not guessed?’ The spy walked
beside him, three soldier hang behind them. ‘Tell me honestly, witcher, how did
it happen that you came to be here?’
‘I was afraid the nasturtium where drying
up.’
‘Geralt,’ Dijkstra gave him an evil look.
‘You are up to your neck in shit. And you are just keeping your mouth above the
surface, but your legs do not reach the bottom. Someone is giving you a helping
hand, risking that they might also fall in and drown. Then stop these stupid
jokes. It was Yennefer who told you to come here, right?’
‘No, Yennefer is still asleep in bed. Has
this reassured you?’
The huge spy turned sharply, seized the
witcher by the shoulders and pinned him to the wall of the corridor.
‘No, it has not reassured me, fucking
idiot,’ he yelled. ‘Do you not understand, clown, that sorcerers honest and
loyal to the kings do not sleep tonight? Have not even gotten into bed? Those
who are sleeping in their beds are traitors bribed by Nilfgaard. Traitors who
themselves have been preparing a coup, but for later. They did not know that
there plans had been discovered we were warned of their intentions. And right
now they are being pulled from their warm beds and being given a knuckle duster
to the nose and their wrists are being put in dimeritium shackles. The traitors
are finished, understand? If you do not want to go down with them, stop
pretending idiot! Where you recruited by Vilgefortz last night? Or were you
recruited before by Yennefer? Speak? Hurry, because the shit has already
started to reach your mouth!’
‘Cold gazpacho, Dijkstra.’ Geralt reminded
him. ‘Lead me to Philippa. Calmly, with dignity and no fuss.’
The spy let him go and took a step back.
‘Come on,’ he said coldly. ‘Up these
stairs. But this conversation is finished. I promise you that.’
***
Where the four corridors joined beneath a
column that supported the roof, was illuminated with a clarity that came from
lanterns and magic globes. Soldiers and sorcerers gathered here. Among the
latter were members of the Council: Radcliffe and Sabrina Glevissig. Sabrina,
like Keira Metz, was also wearing gray men’s clothing. Geralt realised that the
coup was taking place before his eyes and could recognise the different
factions by their uniforms.
Kneeling on the floor was Triss Merigold,
bent over a body lying in a pool of blood. Geralt recognised Lydia van
Bredevoort. He recognised her by her hair and silk dress. The face he would
never have recognised, because it was no longer a face. It was a hideous,
gruesome death’s mask, with bared teeth gleaming through half of her check and
the lower jaw was deformed, sunken, and badly swollen.
‘Cover her.’ Sabrina Glevissig said dully.
‘When she died the illusion dispelled... Damn it, cover her with something.’
‘What has happened, Radcliffe?’ Triss
asked, removing the hand from the hilt of the dagger stuck below Lydia’s
breastbone. ‘How could this happen? It was to be done without deaths!’
‘They attacked us.’ The sorcerer muttered,
bowing his head. ‘When they took Vilgefortz they fell on us. There was an
uproar... I myself do not know how... It is her own dagger.’
‘Cover her face!’ Sabrina turned sharply.
Geralt saw her eyes gleam like charcoal.
‘How did he get here?’
Triss jumped up quickly, and threw herself
on the witcher. Geralt saw her face before her hand. Then he saw a flash and
went down softly into darkness. He felt hands on his neck and a violent jolt.
‘Hold him, because he’ll fall.’ Triss’s
voice was unnatural, it sounded like she was feigning anger. She tugged at him
again, so for the moment he found himself next to her.
‘Forgive me,’ he heard her quickly whisper.
‘I had to.’
Dijkstra’s men held him down.
He shook his head. He moved to his other
senses. In the corridor there was movement, the air rippled, carried smells.
And voices. Sabrina Glevissig cursing, trying to calm Triss. The soldiers,
smelling like barracks dragged along the ground a dead body, the silk dress whispering.
Blood. The smell of blood. And the smell of ozone. The scent of magic. Raised
voices. Steps, the nervous tapping of heels.
‘Hurry! This has been going on too long! We
should already be in Garstang!’
Philippa Eilhart. Nervous.
‘Sabrina, Marti Sodergren is faster. If
necessary, get her out of bed. Something is wrong with Hen Gedymdeith. I think
it’s a heart attack. Have Marti address it. But do not tell her anything about
what is going on. Triss, you have to locate and then take Dorregaray, Carduin
and Drithelm to Garstang.’
‘Why?’
‘They represent the kings. Let Ethain and
Esterad be informed of our action and it consequences. It will bring... Triss,
you have blood on your hands! Who?’
‘Lydia.’
‘Damn. When? How?’
‘Does it matter how?’ said a cold, calm
voice. Tissaia de Vries. Her dress rustled. Tissaia was dressed in an evening
gown, not a rebel uniform. Geralt listened but could not hear the clink of
dimeritium chains.
‘You pretend to be affected?’ Continued
Tissaia. ‘To be worried? When organising a revolt, when armed soldiers are
entering in the night, you have to expect there will be casualties. Lydia is
dead, Hen Gedymdeith is dying. I saw for a moment, Artaud, his face was
butchered. How many more victims will there be Philippa Eilhart?’
‘I do not know.’ Philippa replied sharply.
‘But I will not go back.’
‘Of course. You do not back off for
anything.’
The atmosphere trembled, heels hit against
the floor at a familiar rhythm. Philippa was approaching him. He remembered the
nervous rhythm of her steps when, the day before they walked together around
the room of Aretuza to feast on the caviar. He remembered the smell of cinnamon
and nard. Now the smell was mixed with baking soda. Geralt did not think he
would participate in any coup, but if he were involved, he didn’t believe he
would brush his teeth beforehand.
‘He can not see you Phil.’ A seemingly
sleepy Dijkstra said. ‘He sees nothing and saw nothing. The one with the pretty hair has blinded him.’
He heard and felt the breath of Philippa,
her every move, but shook his head awkwardly, feigning being perplexed. The
Sorceress was not fooled.
‘Do not pretend, Geralt Triss has darkened
your eyes, but do not get your head removed. How is it you have appeared here?’
‘I ran. Where is Yennefer?’
‘Blessed are those that do not know.’
Philippa’s voice held no mockery. ‘You will live longer. Say thank you to
Triss. It was a weak spell, blindness, you will see again soon. And so you have
not seen what may not be seen. Watch them, Dijkstra. I’ll be back.’
Once again movement. Voices. The soprano
sound of Keira Metz, the low nasal tone of Radcliffe. The tapping of soldiers
boots. The raised voice of Tissaia de Vries.
‘Let go of her! How could you? How could
you do it?’
‘She’s a traitor!’ said nasal, Radcliffe.
‘I do not believe it’
‘Blood is not water.’ Philippa Eilhart said
coldly. ‘And Emperor Emhyr has promised the elves freedom. And an independent
state of their own. And that was enough to immediately betray us.’
‘Answer!’ Tissaia de Vries said with
emotion. ‘Answer her, Enid!’
‘Answer, Francesca.’
The clinking of dimeritium shackles. And
the lilting elvish accent of Francesca Findabair, the Daisy of the Valley, the
most beautiful woman in the world.
‘Me Va a Vort, Dh’oine. These N’aen and
dice’n.’
‘Is that enough for you, Tissaia?’ said
Philippa’s voice, like a bark. ‘Do you believe me now? You, me, we all are and
have always been to her Dh’oine, human, which she being Aen Seidhe has
nothing to say to us. And you, Fercart? What has Emhyr and Vilgefortz offered
you to, to make you decide to betray us?’
‘Go to hell, perverted slut.’
Geralt gasped, but did not hear the sound
of the brass knuckles colliding with a jaw. Philippa had more control that
Keira. Or did not have any brass knuckles.
‘Radcliffe, take the traitors to Garstang!
Dethmold, offer you arm to the great teacher de Vries. Go now. I will join
you.’
Steps. The smell of cinnamon and nard.
‘Dijkstra.’
‘Here I am, Phil.’
‘Your subordinates are not needed here.
Have them return to Loxia.’
‘Are you sure...?’
‘To Loxia, Dijkstra!’
‘At your service, noble lady.’ The spy’s
voice was perceived mockery. ‘The footmen will have already done their share.
It is now the exclusive domain of sorcerers. And so i promptly removed myself
from the beautiful eyes of your Highness. I did not expect gratitude for the
assistance and participation in the coup but I’m sure your Highness will keep
me in grateful memory.’
‘Sorry, Sigismund. Thank you for your
help.’
‘Not at all, it has been a pleasure. Hey,
Voymir, gather the troops. Five will be with me. Bring down the rest, they are
to wait down below and embark on the Waterfall. Of course, in silence, on
tiptoe, without noise or fuss. Use the side corridors. Off to Loxia’s port and
not a word! Off!’
‘You have not seen anything,’ Philippa
Eilhart said in a whisper to Geralt, the witcher caught a whiff of cinnamon,
nard and baking soda. ‘You have not heard anything. You have never spoken to
Vilgefortz. Dijkstra will lead you to Loxia. I will try to find you there
when... When everything is over. I promised you something yesterday and I will
keep my word.’
‘And what about Yennefer?’
‘He is obsessed.’ Dijkstra returned,
shuffling his feet. ‘Yennefer, Yennefer... I get bored. Don’t worry about him,
Phil. There are more important issues. Did you find in Vilgefortz’s belongings
what you expected to find?
‘Yes. Here, this is for you.’
‘Oho!’ The rustle of paper. ‘Oho! Oho, oho!
Beautiful! Duke Nitert. Excellent! Baron...’
‘Discreetly, without names. And I ask of
you, when you return to Tretogor, do not start immediately with executions. Do
not induce an early scandal.’
‘Do not be afraid. The big boys on this
list, greedy for the gold of Nilfgaard are safe. For now. They will be my
beloved marionettes to pull the strings on. And then impose on them more
strings... Out of curiosity, were there any other lists? Do Kaedwen, Temeria or
Aedirn have traitors? I would be glad to take a look. Even half a glance...’
‘I know you’d be happy. But it is none of
your business. These lists have been given to Sabrina Glevissig and Radcliffe,
they will know what to do with them. And now, goodbye. Hurry.’
‘Phil.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Restore the witcher’s sight. Let’s not
have him stumble on the stairs.’
***
In the ballroom of Aretuza the banquet
continued, but had changed its form to something more traditional and intimate.
Tables had been removed, sorcerers and witches had brought into the room sofas,
chairs, and stools from who knows where, they sat on the and engaged in various
amusements. Most of the diversions might have been considered tactless. A large
group sat around a huge barrel, drinking, chatting and occasionally bursting
into raucous laughter. Those that had long exercised the search for appetizers
with silver forks, now shamelessly gnawed mutton ribs that they held in both
hands. Some played cards with passion, contempt for those around them. Some
slept. In one corner, a couple was kissing passionately and with the eagerness
with which they did showed they were not going to confine it to kissing.
‘Just look at them, witcher.’ Dijkstra
leaned over the balustrade of the gallery, watching the sorcerers from a
height. ‘How they play happily, you’d think they were youths. Meanwhile, the
Council has been pried and almost all of its members are on trial for treason
for allying with Nilfgaard. Look at this park. Just seek a secluded corner, and
before the end of a fuck, Vilgefortz will already be hanging from a rope. Ah,
the party, a kiss and a flower...’
‘Shut up, Dijkstra.’
***
The road to Loxia was a zigzagging stair
leading down the slope of the mountain. Stairs laced with terraces decorated
with poorly maintained hedges., flowerbeds and potted dry agaves. Dijkstra
stopped at one of the terraces they had just passed and approached the wall,
lined with the stone heads of chimeras, from which water poured out from
between their teeth. The spy bent down and drank for a long time.
The witcher came closer to the railings.
The sea shone golden, the sky’s colour was even more trashy that the painting
in the Gallery of Glory. Down below he saw detachments of soldiers that had
come from Aretuza and hurried to approach the harbor. They crossed over a
bridge that cross to the shore through the cleft in the rock.
What suddenly caught his attention, was the
lone colourful character. The figure was conspicuous because it was moving so
quickly. And in the opposite direction that the Redanians. Up to Aretuza.
‘Come.’ Dijkstra , hurried him with a
cough. ‘He who rises early, the gods help.’
‘If you are in such a hurry, go alone.’
‘Well, of course,’ sneered the spy. ‘Then
you can go back to the top and save your Yennefer. And fuck like drunken
gnomes. We go to Loxia, witcher. Do you have delusions or something? Do you
think I pulled you out of Aretuza because I’m secretly in love with you? Of
course not. You are out of there because I need you.’
‘For what?’
‘Are you pretending? Studying at Aretuza
are a hundred ladies from the best families of Redanian. I can not risk a
conflict with the esteemed rector, Margarita Laux-Antille. The rector did not
give me Cirilla, Princess of Cintra, who was brought to Thanedd by Yennefer.
However, they will release her to you. When you ask her about it.’
‘Where did you get this funny idea that I’m
going to ask?’
‘From the funny assumption that you want to
ensure the safety of Cirilla. Under my protection, under the protection of King
Vizimir, she will be safe. In Tretogor. On Thanedd it is not safe. Refrain from malicious comments. Yes, I
know that initially the kings intentions were not exactly the cleanest in the
world about the girl. But it has changed. It is now clear that Cirilla alive,
healthy and safe can be, in the coming war, more valuable than ten heavy
cavalry detachments. Dead she is not worth a damn.’
‘Does Philippa Eilhart know what you
intend?’
‘She does not know. She does not even know
that I know that the girl is in Loxia. My dear Phil lifts her head up high, but
King Vizimir still gives the orders in Redanian. I will fulfil Vizimir’s
orders, the machinations of sorcerers give a shit. Cirilla will be out on the
Waterfall and will set sail for Novigrad and then on to Tretogor. She will be
safe. Do you believe me?’
The
witcher leaned over one of the heads of the chimeras and drank water from the
monstrous maw.
‘Do you believe me?’ Dijkstra repeated,
coming over to him.
Geralt straightened up, wiped his mouth
with his hand and punched him straight in the jaw. The spy staggered, but did
not fall. The nearest Redanian soldier leaped and tried to grab the witcher,
but he grabbed air instead, and immediately sat down, spitting blood and teeth.
Then they all rushed at him. They created a crowded clutter of confusion and
this is precisely what the witcher wanted.
One Redanian had his face smashed into a
stone chimera; the gushing water was immediately stained red. The second was
punched in the windpipe, he double over as if he’d been hit in the genitals. A
third was beaten in the eye with an elbow, and fell back groaning. Dijkstra
grabbed the witcher in a bear hug, but Geralt hit him hard in the shin with his
heel. The spy howled and comically hopped around on one leg.
Another soldier tried to hit the Witcher
with a swordstaff, but it just whistled through the air. Geralt grabbed him by
the elbow with one hand, the other by the wrist and spun him, knocking him to
the ground into two others who were trying to rise. The soldier he was holding
was strong and was not releasing the sword staff. Geralt tightened his grip and
broke his hand with a snap.
Dijkstra, still limping on one leg, made
for a triton with the intentions of nailing the Witcher to the wall between its
three points. Geralt reached down and grabbed the swordstaff with both hands
and applied a principle known to scholars as leverage. The spy, saw before his
eyes the joints of the brick wall, as he was launched into the air but it was
too late to avoid the blow to the crotch from the head of the chimera.
Geralt used the swordstaff to take down
another of the soldiers, he then thrust the sword at the ground and with a blow
from his boot broke it, shortening the shaft. He tested the blade, first by
hitting Dijkstra in the back who was sitting astride the chimera’s head, then
by silencing the cries of the soldier with the broken hand. The seams had long
ago been ripped on his doublet and the witcher felt much better.
The last of the soldiers who were still
standing attacked with a triton, thinking that its length gave him an
advantage. Geralt hit him in the face and the soldier collapsed into a pot of
agaves. Another Redanian, with extraordinary stubbornness, grabbed the
witcher’s thigh and bit him painfully. The witcher with a furious kick robbed
the man of any possibility of biting.
Running up the stairs, gasping was
Dandelion. When he saw what was happening he turned white as paper.
‘Geralt!’ he shouted after a moment. ‘Ciri
has disappeared! She’s gone!’
‘I was expecting this.’ The witcher hit one
of the Redanians that did not want to stay down. ‘But be thankful you did not
wait, Dandelion. I told you yesterday that if something happened you were
immediately to come to Aretuza. Did you bring me my sword?
‘Both!’
‘That sword is Ciri’s, you idiot.’ Geralt
hit the soldier who was stirring in the agaves.
‘I don’t know anything about swords,’
hissed the poet. ‘By the gods, stop hitting them! Don’t you see the eagle of
Redania? These are King Vizimir’s people! This is treason and rebellion, you
could go to the dungeon...’
‘To the gallows.’ Said Dijkstra, drawing
his dagger and approaching at a stagger. ‘You are both going to the gallows...’
He could not say any more as he fell to all
fours, felled by a blow to the side of the head by the shaft of the swordstaff.
‘Breaking on the wheel,’ Dandelion said
grimly. ‘Proceeded by being poked with hot tongs...’
The witcher kicked the spy in the ribs.
Dijkstra fell onto his side like a slaughtered elk.
‘Dismemberment.’ Said the poet.
‘Stop it, Dandelion. Give me both swords.
And get out of get quickly. Escape from the island. Run away as far as you
can!’
‘And you?’
‘I’m going back to the top. I have to save
Ciri... And Yennefer. Dijkstra, lie quietly and leave the dagger alone!’
‘You will not get away with this,’ the spy
gasped. ‘I will bring my... I will follow you...’
‘No, you will go.’
‘I will go. I have fifty men on the deck of
Waterfall...’
‘Is there a surgeon among any of them?’
‘Why?’
Geralt went behind the spy, bent down,
grabbed him by the foot, and twisted it sharply with great force. It cracked.
Dijkstra screamed and fainted. Dandelion groaned as if it had been his own
joint.
‘What you do to me after this,’ murmured
the witcher. ‘I don’t give a shit.’
***
At Aretuza it was quiet. In the ballroom
only a few remained, not having the strength to make noise. Geralt avoided the
room, not wanting to be seen.
Not without some effort he found the room
where he had slept with Yennefer. The halls of the palace were a labyrinth, and
all look alike.
The rag doll was watching him with its
little button eyes.
He sat on the bed, and clutched his head in
his hands. On the floor there was no blood. But hanging on the back of a chair
was a black dress. Yennefer had changed. Into male attire, the uniform of the
conspirators? Or dragged away in her underwear. In dimeritium chains.
***
At a bay window sat the healer, Marti
Sodergren. She lifted her head when she heard his footsteps. Her cheeks were
wet with tears.
‘Hen Gedymdeith is dead.’ She said, her
voice cracking. ‘Heart attack. I couldn’t do anything... Why did they call me
so late? Sabrina struck me. I was struck in the face. Why? What has happened
here?’
‘Have you seen Yennefer?’
‘No, I’ve not seen her. Leave me alone. I
want to be alone.’
‘Show me the shortest way to Garstang.
Please.’
***
Aretuza consisted of three overgrown
terraces, above, the slope of the mountain was steep and inaccessible. On the
slope stood Garstang. The foundation of the palace was a dark boulder, homogeneous, smooth, close to the rocks. Only
the top floor gleamed with marble and stained glass windows, the sun shone
golden on the gilded dome plates.
The paved road leading to Garstang and
beyond, to the top, twisted around the mountain like a snake. There was,
however, another way, a shortcut, stairs that connected the terraces, and just
under Garstang they disappeared into a dark tunnel. Marti Sodergren pointed out
to the witcher just those stairs.
Beyond the tunnel was a bridge crossing an
abyss. After the bridge the stairs climbed sharply upwards, twisting and
disappearing behind a bend. The witcher quickened his pace.
The balustrade of the staircase was
decorated with statues of fauns and nymphs. The statues produced the impression
of being alive. They moved. The witcher’s medallion began to strongly vibrate.
He rubbed his eyes. The apparent movement
of the statues were that they changed appearance. The smooth stone was
transformed into a porous and shapeless mass, eaten by salt and wind. They
immediately returned to normal.
He knew what it meant. The illusion that
masked Thanedd swayed, was falling apart. The bridge was also partly illusion.
Through the fading camouflage loomed a cliff and a waterfall crashing loudly
against its background.
There were no dark tiles to indicate a safe
path. He crossed the bridge slowly, watching every step, cursing in his mind
the wasted time. When he found himself across the abyss, he heard the footsteps
of a man running.
He recognised him immediately. From above,
down the staircase, came running Dorregaray, the sorcerer in service to King
Ethain of Cidaris. He recalled the words of Philippa Eilhart. All sorcerers
representing neutral kings had been invited as observers to Garstang. But the
way Dorregaray was peeling down the stairs suggested that the invitation had
been withdrawn suddenly.
‘Dorregaray!’
‘Geralt?’ Gasped the sorcerer. ‘What are
you doing here? Don’t just stand there, run away! Quickly, down the stairs, to
Aretuza.!’
‘What happened?’
‘Betrayal.’
‘What?’
Dorregaray suddenly shuddered and coughed
in a strange way, and immediately bent over and fell, directly into the
witcher. Before Geralt could grab him, he saw the shaft of an arrow with gray
feathers sticking from his back. He staggered with the sorcerer in his arms and
it saved his life, because a second identical arrow, instead of going through
his throat, slammed into the stone and the ironically smiling face of a faun,
ripping of the nose and part of the cheek. The witcher let go of Dorregaray and
ducked behind the balustrade of the stairs. The sorcerer fell on top of him.
There were two archers, and both had hats
with squirrel tails. One was at the top of the stairs, drawing his bow; the
second was drawing his sword from its sheath and ran down the stairs, skipping
several steps at a time. Geralt freed himself from Dorregaray and sprang up,
while he drew his sword. An arrow sang, the witcher stopped its singing by
bouncing it off the tip of his sword quickly. The second elf was already
closing, but seeing the arrow reflected by the sword, hesitated for a moment.
But only for a moment. He threw himself at the witcher, his sword made the air
moan with the swiftness of his cut. Geralt quickly sidestepped, so the blade of
the elf slipped by his sword. The elf lost his balance, the witcher spun
smoothly and delivered a blow to the side of his neck, just under the ear. Only
once. It was enough.
The archer on the top of the stairs again
drew his bow but had no time to release the string. Geralt saw a flash, the elf
cried out, threw up his hands and fell down, hitting the steps. The back of his
jacket was on fire.
Running down the stairs was another
sorcerer. At the sight of the witcher he stopped, raising his hands. Geralt
wasted no time explaining, he fell flat on the ground, and the hiss of fiery
lightning flew over him, smashing the faun statue into fine dust.
‘Stop,’ he yelled. ‘It’s me, the witcher!’
‘Damn it,’ the sorcerer panted,
approaching. Geralt could not remember meeting him at the banquet. ‘I had
mistaken you for one of those rogue elves... What about Dorregaray? Alive?’
‘I think so...’
‘Quick, to the other side of the bridge!
He gladly dragged Dorregaray, because in
his haste he did not pay attention to the shaking and fading illusion. Nobody
chased them, but despite this, the sorcerer raised his hand, shouted a spell
and sent a lightning bolt to destroy the bridge.
‘That should stop them.’ He said.
The witcher wiped the blood flowing from
Dorregaray’s mouth.
‘He has a punctured lung. Can you help
him?’
‘I can,’ Marti Sodergren said with effort,
climbing the stairs from Aretuza. ‘What’s going on, Carduin? Who shot him?’
‘The Scoia’tael.’ The sorcerer wiped his
forehead with his sleeve. ‘There is fighting
in Garstang. Fucking gangs, each worse than the other Philippa by night
put people in chains, along with Vilgefortz and Francesca Findabair, so
Francesca introduced Squirrels to the island! And Tissaia de Vries... Damn,
they have messed this up!’
‘Speak clearly, Carduin!’
‘I will not waste time chattering! I’m
going to Loxia, there I’m immediately teleporting to Kovir. And those there, in
Garstang, can kill each other! It does not matter! We are at war! All this mess
was engineered by Philippa to allow the kings to declare war on Nilfgaard! Meve
of Lyria and Demavend of Aedirn provoked Nilfgaard! Do you understand that?’
‘No,’ said Geralt. ‘I do not want to
understand. Where is Yennefer?’
‘Stop it!’ screamed Marti Sodergren, bent
over Dorregaray. ‘Help me! Hold him! I can not pull out the arrow!’
They helped her. Dorregaray groaned and
shuddered, the stairs were also shaking. Geralt initially thought it was the
magic of Marti’s healing spells. But it was Garstang. Suddenly the stained
glass windows exploded, flickering in the windows of the palace was fire and
smoke.
‘The battle continues.’ Carduin clenched
his teeth. ‘They are going hard, spell after spell...’
‘Spells? In Garstang? But there is the
magic blocking aura!’
‘It
is Tissaia’s doing. She suddenly decided on which side to stand. She has
removed the block, dissipating the aura and neutralizing the dimeritium. Then
everyone jumped at each other’s throats! Vilgefortz and Terranova on one side,
and Philippa and Sabrina on the other... The columns broke and the roof
collapsed... And Francesca opened the entrance to the basement and then, there
were these elven devils... We shouted that we were just neutral but Vilgefortz
laughed. Before we could build a shield, Drithelm received an arrow through the
eye, then they covered him like a hedgehog... I did not stay to await the
development of the issue. Marti, do you have much left to do? We have to get
out of here!’
‘Dorregaray will not be able to walk.’ The
healer wiped her bloody hands on her white ball gown. ‘Teleport us Carduin.’
‘Here? Are you crazy. Tor Lara is too
close. Portal Lara produces emanations that affect all teleportation. No one
can teleport from here!’
‘He can not walk! I have to stay with him...’
‘Then stay!’ Carduin stood. ‘And have fun!
I like living! I’m returning to Kovir! Kovir is neutral!’
‘Wonderful.’ The witcher spat, looking at
the sorcerer who disappeared into the tunnel. ‘Camaraderie and solidarity! But
I can not stay with you, Marti. I have to go to Garstang. Your bother has
destroyed this bridge. Is there another way?’
Marti Sodergren sniffed. Then lifted her
head and nodded.
***
He was near the walls of Garstang when
Keira Metz fell on his head.
The path indicated by the healer led
through a hanging gardens of linked serpentine stairs. The stairs were thickly
overgrown with ivy and honeysuckle,
vegetation made it difficult to climb, but provided cover. He worked his way
unnoticed to the same wall of the palace. While seeking entry, Keira fell on
him, both collapsed into a blackthorn bush.
‘I’ve broken a tooth,’ The sorceress said
sadly, lisping slightly. She was dishevelled, dirty, covered in plaster and
soot and on her cheek was a large hematoma.
‘I think I broke my leg,’ she said,
spitting blood. ‘ Is that you, witcher? I fell on you? How come?’
‘I wonder, too.’
‘Terranova kicked me out the window.’
‘Can you get up?’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘I want to get inside. Unnoticed. Which
way?’
‘Are all witchers,’ Keira spat again, she
moaned, trying to get up on her elbows. ‘crazy? The fighting continues in
Garstang! It is so hot that even the stucco on the walls is melting! Are you
looking for trouble?’
‘No, I’m searching for Yennefer.’
‘Ha!’ Keira ceased her effort and lay on
her back. ‘I would like it if someone loved me so much. Take my hand.’
‘Maybe another time. Now I have to hurry.’
‘Take my hand, I say! I will show you the
way into Garstang. I need to get that bastard Terranova. Well, what are you
waiting for? You could not find the entrance, and if you did, you’d be finished
off by the bastard elves... I can not walk, but I’m still able to cast a few
spells. If someone gets in our way, they’ll regret it.’
She screamed when he lifted her.
‘Sorry.’
‘Never mind,’ she surrounded his shoulders
with her arm. ‘It is this leg. You still smell like her perfume, you know? No,
not that way. Turn around and go uphill. It is the second entry, on the side of
Tor Lara. Maybe there are no elves... Auuu! Careful, dammit!’
‘Sorry. How did the Scoia’tael get here?’
‘They were in the basement. Thanedd is
empty as a shell, below there is a great cavern, you can reach it by boat, if
one knows the way. Someone had betrayed us.... Auuu! Careful! Don’t shake me!’
‘Sorry. So the Squirrels came by sea?
When?’
‘The gods know when. Maybe today, maybe a
week ago? We were preparing for Vilgefortz and Vilgefortz for us. Vilgefortz,
Francesca, Terranova and Fercart... We messed up badly. Philippa thought that
they wanted to start a seizure of power in the Capitul, to exert influence over
the kings... And then they were going to kill us during the conference...
Geralt, I can not stand it... Leg... Put me down for a moment. Auuuu!’
‘Keira it is an open fracture. Blood is
running down the leg.’
‘Shut up and listen. Because it is about
your Yennefer. We went to Garstang, to the Chamber. It has a magical lock, but
the lock does not work on dimeritium, we felt safe. Discussions began. Tissaia
and the neutrals shouted at us, we yelled at them. And Vilgefortz remained
silent and smiled...’
***
‘I repeat, Vilgefortz is a traitor! He has
partnered with Emhyr of Nilfgaard, pulled into a conspiracy! He broke the law,
betrayed us and the kings...’
‘Slowly Philippa. I know that the grace
that surrounds you from Vizimir, means more to you than the solidarity of the
Brotherhood. The same applies to you Sabrina, You play the same role in
Kaedwen. Keira Metz and Triss Merigold represent the interests of Foltest of
Temeria, Radcliffe is an active tool of Demavend of Aedirn...’
‘What does this have to do with it,
Tissaia?’
‘The interests of kings do not necessarily
coincide with ours. I know perfectly well what was going on. The kings began
the extermination of the elves, and other non-humans. Maybe you, Philippa, you
think it is right. Maybe you, Radcliffe, you think it appropriate to assist
Demavend’s troops in a raid on Scoia’tael. But I am against it. And no wonder
Enid Findabair is against you. But that still does not imply treason. Do not
interrupt me! I know exactly what your kings planned, I know you want to start
a war. Actions that could lead to the avoidance of war may constitute treason
in the eyes of your Vizimir, but not mine. If you judge Vilgefortz and
Francesca, also judge me!’
‘What war are you talking about here? My
king, Esterad of Kovir, will not support and aggressive action against the
Nilfgaard Empire Kovir is and will remain neutral!’
‘You are a member of the Council, Carduin,
and ambassador to your king!’
‘Look who’s talking, Sabrina?’
‘Enough!’ Philippa banged her fists on the
table. ‘I will satisfy your curiosity, Carduin. You ask, who is preparing for
war? Nilfgaard is preparing, it is them who plan to attack and destroy us. But
Emhyr var Emreis remembers Sodden Hill, and this time he decided to protect himself,
by enlisting sorcerers into the game. Therefore he made contact with Vilgefortz
of Roggeveen. He bought him, promising power and ambition. Yes, Tissaia.
Vilgefortz, the hero of Sodden, is to become the governor and ruler of all the
acquired North. It is Vilgefortz, assisted by Terranova and Fercart, who is to
govern the provinces that arise in place of the kingdoms that are conquered, he
will be the one shaking the nilfgaardian stick upon the slaves that inhabit
this country to work for the empire, and Francesca Findabair, Gleann an Enid,
is to be queen of the Elves of the Free State. This will, of course be a
Nilfgaard protectorate, but the elves want simply from emperor Emhyr to be
given a free hand to kill humans. And the elves want nothing with greater
passion than to kill Dh’oine.’
‘It is a heavy accusation. Therefore, the
evidence will have to be just as weighty. But before you throw this evidence on
the scales, Philippa Eilhart, be aware of my position. Evidence can be
fabricated, actions and their motives can be interpreted. However the present
facts do not change anything. You broke the unity and solidarity of the
Brotherhood, Philippa Eilhart. You chained up members of the Capitul like
thieves. Do not dare now to propose a place in the new Capitul your band of
coup plotters plans to create and sell to the kings. Between us there is blood
and death. Hen Gedymdeith’s death. And the blood of Lydia van Bredevoort. With
contempt you have spilled this blood. You were my best student, Philippa Eilhart.
I’ve always been proud of you. But now I have only contempt for you.’
***
Keira Metz was pale as parchment.
‘For some time now,’ she whispered. ‘it has
been quiet in Garstang. It is ending... they are chasing through the palace. It
has five floors, seventy-six rooms and halls. This is where they chase...’
‘You were talking about Yennefer. Hurry.
I’m afraid you’ll pass out.’
‘About Yennefer? Ah, yes... Everything went
our way, when suddenly Yennefer appeared. And introduce to the room the
medium...’
‘Who?’
‘A girl, about fourteen years old. Ashen
hair, big green eyes... Before we had time to contemplate it, the girl began to
prophesy. She told about the events in Dol Angra. No one had any doubts she was
telling the truth. She was in a trance, those in a trance don’t lie.’
***
‘Last night,’ said the medium. ‘an army
with the banners of Lyria and the standards of Aedirn perpetrated an attack
against the rule of Nilfgaard. They attacked Glevitzingen an outpost located in
Dol Angra. A herald announced on behalf of King Demavend to the surrounding
villages, from today, Aedirn assumes government over all the country. Then
called people to take up arms against Nilfgaard...’
‘Impossible! It is a hideous provocation!’
‘How easily those words leave your mouth,
Philippa Eilhart.’ Tissaia de Vries said quietly. ‘But do not worry, your cries
have not interrupted the trance. Keep talking, girl.’
‘Emperor Emhyr var Emreis gave the order to
answer blow with blow. Nilfgaard’s armies have entered this morning at dawn
Aedirn and Lyria.’
‘So then,’ smiled Tissaia. ‘Our kings have
shown themselves to be the intelligent, enlightened and peace-loving rules that
they are. And some sorcerers have proven on whose side they are. To those who
might have had the foresight avoided a predatory war they have been placed in
dimeritium chains and have absurd accusations levelled against them...’
‘It is all a lie!’
‘To hell with you all!’ Sabrina Glevissig
suddenly shouted. ‘Philippa! What does all this mean? What does this trouble in
Dol Angra mean? Didn’t we establish that it shouldn’t start so soon? Why had
this fucking Demavend not stopped it? Why is this slut Meve...’
‘Shut up, Sabrina!’
‘Oh no, let her speak.’ Tissaia de Vries
raised her head. ‘We speak of Henselt’s
Kaedwen army concentrating on the border. We speak about the soldiers of
Foltest of Temeria who surely now has his ships pouring in to the water that
had been hidden in the forests of Yaruga. We speak of the special forces under
the command of Vizimir of Redania next to the Pontar. Did you think, Philippa
that we are deaf and blind?’
‘This is nothing but a bloody provocation!
King Vizimir...’
‘King Vizimir,’ the impassive voice of the
ashen haired medium interrupted, ‘was murdered last night. Killed by an
assassin. Redania no longer has a king.’
‘Redania has long had no king.’ Tissaia de
Vries stood. ‘In Redania his majesty has been ruled by Philippa Eilhart, a
worthy successor to Raffard the White. Willing to sacrifice tens of thousands
of lives to achieve absolute power.’
‘Do not listen!’ Philippa cries. ‘Do not
listen to this medium! She is a tool, a mindless tool... Who do you server,
Yennefer? Who commanded you to bring this monster here?’
‘I did.’ Tissaia de Vries said.
***
‘What happened next? What happened to the
girl? With Yennefer?’
‘I don’t know.’ Keira closed her eyes.
‘Tissaia suddenly lifted the blockade. ‘With a spell. I’ve never seen anything
like it... We were stunned and blocked,
then she released Vilgefortz and the others... and Francesca opened the
basement door and Garstang immediately started swarming with Scoia’tael. They
were being lead by a monster in nilfgaardian armour and a winged helmet. They
were helped by a man with a scar on his face. He knew how to cast spells. And
protected himself with magic...’
‘Rience.’
‘Maybe, I don’t know. It was hot... The
ceiling collapsed. Spells and arrows... a massacre... Among them Fercart was
killed, among us Drithelm was killed, Radcliffe was killed, Marquard was
killed, Rejean and Bianca d’Este... Triss Merigold was injured, Sabrina was
wounded... When Tissaia saw the corpses she started to understand her error and
tried to protect us, tried to restrain Vilgefortz and Terranova... Vilgefortz
ridiculed and mocked her. Then he lost his mind and ran away. Oh, Tissaia... So
many dead...’
‘What about the girl and Yennefer?’
‘I don’t know.’ The sorceress was drowning
in coughing, spitting blood. She was breathing very slowly and with obvious
effort. ‘After one of the row of explosions I lost consciousness for a moment.
The one with the scar and his elves had overpowered me. Terranova first kicked
me, then threw me out the window.’
‘It’s not just your leg, Keira. You have
broken ribs.’
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I have to. I’ll be back for you.’
‘Sure.’
***
At first there was only a chaos of amber, a
dark pulse, a tangle of dark and light, a gibbering chorus of voices, which
came from afar. Suddenly the voices gathered strength, exploding all around her
in booms and noise. The light from the darkness became a fire that devoured
carpets and tapestries, sheaves of sparks that seemed to pour from the walls,
balustrades and columns that supported the roof.
Ciri choked from the smoke and realized
that it was no longer a dream.
She tried to stand up, leaning on her
hands. Her fingers touched something wet and she looked down. She was kneeling
in a pool of blood. Next to her lay a dead body. The body of an elf. She
recognized it instantly.
‘Get up.’
Yennefer was at her side. She had a dagger
in one hand.
‘Lady Yennefer... Where are we? I don’t
remember anything...’
Swiftly, the sorceress grabbed her hand.
‘I’m with you, Ciri.’
‘Where are we? Why is everything burning?
Who is this... this one here?’
‘I told you once, centuries ago, that chaos
stretches out its hand after you. Remember? No.
You probably don’t remember. The elf reached out his hand for you. I had
to killed him with a dagger, because his superiors are hoping that some of us
will reveal ourselves using magic. And I will, but I’m not yet fully
recovered... Are you fully conscious?’
‘Those sorcerers...’ Ciri whispered. ‘those
in the large hall... What did I tell them? And why did I say it? I did not want
to... But I had to say it! Why? Why, Lady Yennefer?’
‘Silence, ugly one. I made a mistake.
Nobody’s perfect.’
From below came a roar followed by a
shriek.
‘Come on. Quickly. We do not have much
time.’
They ran down the hallways. The smoke was
getting thicker, strangled, choked and blinded. The wall were shaking from the
explosion.
‘Ciri.’ Yennefer stopped at an intersection
of corridors and firmly squeezed the girl’s hand. ‘Listen to me now, listen
carefully. I have to stay here. See those stairs? Go down them...’
‘No! Don’t leave me alone!’
‘I have to. Again, go down those stairs.
All the way down. There will be doors and behind them a long corridor. Down the
hall there is a stable where a horse is saddled. Just one. Get it out and you
jump on it. It is a well-trained horse, it serves the messengers of Loxia. He
knows the way, simply spur him on. When in Loxia, look for Margarita and get
under her protection. Do not swerve from this path, not one step...’
‘Lady Yennefer! No! I do not want to be
alone!’
‘Ciri,’ the sorceress said softly. ‘Once I
told you everything I do is for your own good. Please trust me. Run.’
Ciri was already on the stairs when she
heard Yennefer’s voice again. The sorceress stood beside a pillar, leaning her
forehead against it.
‘I love you, my little daughter,’ she said,
her voice muffled. ‘Run.’
***
They surrounded her in the middle of the
stairs. Below her two elves with squirrel tails in their caps, above a man
dress in black. Ciri without hesitation jumped the railing and fled down a side
corridor. They ran after her. She was faster and would have escaped without
effort if it were not for the corridor ending at a window.
She looked through. Along the wall ran a
stone ledge, perhaps two spans thick. Ciri went through the window her feet on
the ledge. She turned from the window, her back to the wall. In the distance
shone the sea.
An elf leaned out the window. He had light
hair and green eyes, a velvet scarf was tied around his neck. Ciri quickly
turned away, moving to another window. But the man in the dark suit appeared.
He had dark terrible eyes and a red scar across his cheek.
‘We have you, girl!’
She looked down. There, very far away, she
could see the courtyard. Above the courtyard, about ten feet below the parapet
on which she stood, there was a bridge linking two galleries. Only it was not a
bridge. It was the ruins of a bridge. A narrow stone walkway with the remains
of a railing.
‘What are you waiting for?’ cried the man
with the scar. ‘Get out there and get her!’
The fair-haired elf with caution made his
way out onto the ledge, he pressed his back against the wall. He reached out his
hand. He was close.
Ciri swallowed. The stone bridge, the
remainder of the bridge was not narrower that the swing at Kaer Morhen, and she
had jumped dozens of times onto the swing, she could absorb the jump and keep
her balance. But the witchers swing was only four feet off the ground, while
below the stone bridge an abyss that the courtyard tiles seemed smaller than a
hand.
She jumped, landed, stumbled but kept her
balance by clinging to the broken railing. With safe passage she had reached
the gallery. She could not contain herself, she turned around and showed the
pursuers a bent elbow, a gesture which had been taught to her by the dwarf,
Yarpin Zigrin. Scarface swore loudly.
‘’Jump!’ He shouted at the blond elf
standing on the ledge. ‘Jump after her!’
‘You’ve gone mad, Rience.’ said the elf
with a cold voice. ‘Jump yourself, if you want her.’
***
Luck, as usual, did not accompany her for
long. When she left the gallery and slipped behind the wall, among the
blackthorns, they grabbed her. They grabbed her and pinned her in an incredibly
strong hug, a slightly short, overweight man with a swollen nose and a cut lip.
‘Come here,’ he whispered. ‘Come here,
little lamb.’
Ciri writhed and screamed, he clamped his
hands on her shoulders suddenly producing a paroxysm of crippling pain. The man
laughed.
‘Do not wiggle, grey sparrow, or you’ll
burn your feathers. Let me take a look. Let’s see what it is that makes you
worth so much to Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard. And for Vilgefortz.’
Ciri ceased to struggle. The short man
licked his cut lip.
‘Interesting.’ He hissed, leaning towards her.
‘So valuable you are to me, mind you, I wouldn’t give a sixpence. As well
appearances can be deceptive. Ha! My darling! And what if Emhyr gave you as a
gift to not Vilgefortz or Rience nor that gallant fellow in the feathered
helmet, but to old Terranova? Would Emhyr be so kind to old Terranova? What do
you say to that, prophetess? Since you are able to prophesy!’
His breath smelled unbearable. Ciri turned
her head, wincing. He got it wrong.
‘Do not give me the beak sparrow! I do not
shrink from birds. Or maybe I should? What, false seer? Did I guess wrong?
Should I be afraid of birds?’
‘You should,’ whispered Ciri, feeling dizzy
in the head and cold from a chill that was suddenly rising.
Terranova laughed while throwing back his
head. The laughter became a cry of pain. A great gray owl flew down quietly and
dug her claws into his eyes. The wizard let go of Ciri, and with a rapid motion
knocked the owl away from himself, then fell to his knees clutching his face.
From between his fingers flowed blood. Ciri screamed and fell back. Terranova
withdrew his bloodstained hands from his face which was covered with mucus, he
began chanting a spell with a wild piercing cry. He did not have time. Behind
him materialized an indistinct shape, a witcher’s sword howled through the air
and pierced his neck just below the occiput.
***
‘Geralt!’
‘Ciri.’
‘No time for sentimentality,’ said the owl
from atop a wall, transforming into a dark haired woman. ‘Run! Squirrels are
coming!’
Ciri freed herself from Geralt’s arms, and
looked in amazement. The female owl sitting on top of the wall looked terrible.
She was charred, scratched, smeared with ashes and blood.
‘You little monster,’ said the owl, looking
down from above. ‘For your untimely prophesy I should... But I promised
something to your witcher, and I always keep my word. I could not give you
Rience, Geralt. In return I give you her. Farewell. Flee!’
***
Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach was angry.
He had only been able to see for one second the girl he had been ordered to
catch, but before he had time to take any action, those sorcerers had
transformed Garstang into an inferno that prevented any action. Cahir lost his
direction in the smoke and fire, blindly running down halls, stairs and
galleries, cursing Vilgefortz to Rience, himself and the world.
From an elf he learned that the girl had
been seen outside the palace, on her way to escaping to Aretuza. And then luck
smiled on Cahir. The Scoia’tael found a horse saddled in the sable.
***
‘Run ahead, Ciri. They are close. I will
stop them, and you run. Run with all your might! Like in the Killer!’
‘Do you want to leave me alone?’
‘I’ll go after you, But do not look back!’
‘Give me my sword, Geralt.’
He looked at her, Ciri felt self conscious.
She had never seen eyes like those.
‘With a sword, you may have to kill. Can
you?’
‘I don’t know. Give me the sword.’
‘Run. And don’t look back’
***
Horse’s hooves rang on the road. Ciri
looked back. And she was paralysed with fear.
The knight in pursuit wore black armour
with a helmet adorned with wings of a bird of prey. The wings rustled, waving
wildly. Horseshoes created sparks on the cobblestones of the road.
Ciri was unable to move.
The black horse broke through the roadside
bushes, the knight gave a loud cry. In that cry was Cintra, a night of murder,
blood and fire. Ciri overcame her overwhelming fear and rushed to escape. With
momentum she jumped over a fence, falling into a small courtyard with a pond
and fountain. There was no way out of the yard, all about rose high smooth
walls. The horse snorted almost behind her. Ciri fell back, stumbled and
shuddered at finding her back against a hard, unmoveable wall. She was trapped.
A bird of prey flapped its wings and flew
away. The black knight made his horse rear, jumped the fence separating him
from the courtyard. The hooves echoed on the flagstones, the horse slipped and
fell, sitting back on its haunches. The knight reeled in the saddle, tipped.
The horse rose and the knight fell, causing a crash as his armour hit the
stones. He, however, rose immediately and moved quickly towards Cir, who was
squeezed into a corner.
‘Don’t touch me!’ She shouted, drawing her
sword. ‘I will never let you touch me again!’
The knight approached slowly, looming above
her like a huge black tower.
The wings on his helmet shook and
rustled.
‘You will not escape me now, young lion of
Cintra.’ Through the visor of the helmet his eyes burned mercilessly. ‘Not this
time. This time you have no escape, my wild lady.’
‘Do not touch me,’ she repeated, her voice
choked with horror, her back pressed against the stone wall.
‘I have to. I’m following orders.’
When he reached out, fear suddenly
disappeared; in its place was a wild rage. Tense muscles that had been
paralysed with fear, sprang into action, all the moves she had learned in Kaer
Morhen performed as if by themselves, smoothly and seamlessly. Ciri jumped, the
knight rushed at her, but was not prepared for a pirouette, that without
effort, took her out of reach of his hands. Her sword howled and bit, hitting
hard on his plate armour. The knight staggered and fell to one knee, from under
his pauldron a trickle of bright red blood appeared. Screaming with rage, Ciri
circled him again with a pirouette, she struck again, this time directly to the
top of his helmet, the knight fell on his other knee. Rage and fury blinded her
completely; she could see nothing but hateful wings. A shower of black
feathers, a wing fell off, the other hung down on the bloody pauldron. The
knight, still vainly trying to rise from his knees, tried to stop the sword
with his armoured glove, he groaned painfully, when the witcher’s blade cut the
mesh and hand. Her next blow struck his helmet from his head, Ciri jumped again
to gain momentum for the last murderous blow.
She did not strike.
There was no black helmet, no wings of a
bird of prey, whose sound had pursued her in her nightmares. He was no longer
the Black Knight of Cintra. Instead there was a pale dark-haired young man
writhing in a pool of blood, a young man with blue eyes and his mouth twisted
into a grimace of terror. The Black Knight of Cintra had fallen under the blows
of her sword, had ceased to exist, the wings that caused her to be afraid were
no more than limp feathers. The frightened boy, bent over, vomiting blood, was
nothing. She did not know him, had never seen him before. She did not care. She
was not afraid of him, did not hate him. She did not want to kill him.
She threw her sword on the ground.
She turned around, hearing the screams from
the Scoia’tael running from Garstang. She realised that in a moment they would
surround the courtyard. She realised that they would catch her on the road. She
had to be faster than them. She ran to the black horse, who was stamping its
hooves on the flagstones and galloped off with a cry, leaping into the saddle
as she ran.
***
‘Leave me alone...’ Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep
Ceallach groaned to the elves trying to
lift him, pushing himself up with his good hand. ‘I’m all right! It’s a
small wound... after her. After the girl...’
One of the elves cried, splattering blood
across Cahir’s face. Another Scoia’tael
staggered and fell to his knees, holding both of his hands to his belly, were
it had been torn open. The others fell back, dispersing across the courtyard
with swords drawn.
A white-haired monster attacked them. He
jumped from the wall. From a height it was impossible to jump without breaking
a leg. It was impossible to land softly, turning a pirouette that blurred to
the eye and killing a split second later. But the white-haired monster did it.
And he began to kill.
The Scoia’tael fought fiercely. They had
the advantage. But they had no chance. Cahir gaped in horror at the sight of
the massacre that was carried out. The gray-haired girl who had struck him a
moment ago was fast, was incredible agile as a cat who was protecting her
kittens. But the white-haired monster who jumped upon the Scoia’tael was like a
Zerrikanian tiger. The gray-haired girl from Cintra, who, for unknown reason,
had not killed him, had seemed to be crazy. The white-haired monster was not
crazy. He was calm and cold. And calmly and coldly killed.
The Scoia’tael had no chance. Their bodies
collapsed one after another on the flagstones of the courtyard. But none
yielded. Even when there were only two, they did not flee, again they attacked
the monster with white hair. Before Cahir’s eyes, the monster cut one of their
arms above the elbow, the next blow that was dealt was seemingly weak and
awkward, however, it threw the elf back, threw him back into the pond of water.
Water spilled over the edge of the pond in crimson waves.
The severed arm elf cursed in the fountain,
staring, watching his blood gush from the stump. The white-haired monster
grabbed him by the hair and with a quick slash of his sword, cut his throat.
When Cahir opened his eyes, the monster was
right before him.
‘Don’t kill me...’ he whispered, abandoning
his attempts to rise on the floor slippery with blood. The hand that had been
wounded by the gray-haired girl had stopped hurting and was numb.
‘I know who you are, Nilfgaardian.’ The
monster with the white hair kicked the helmet with the broken wing. You’ve
stubbornly pursued her for a long time. But you couldn’t even hurt her.’
‘Don’t kill me.’
‘Give me a reason. Just one. Quickly.’
‘I..’ whispered Cahir ‘I was the one who
took her from Cintra. The fire... I save her. I saved her life...’
When her opened his eyes the monster was
gone, he was alone in the yard, alone with the bodies of the elves. The
tinkling water from the fountain, poured over the edge of the pond, washing the
blood from the floor.
Cahir fainted.
***
At the foot of the tower was a building
that was one large room or rather a kind of colonnade. The roof of the
colonnade, probably illusionary, was full of holes. It was supported on carved
columns and pilasters in the form of scan’tily clad caryatids of stunning
beasts. They same caryatids maintained an arch portal, where Ciri had
disappeared. Behind the portal, Geralt distinguished stairs leading upwards. To
the tower.
He cursed under his breath. He did not understand why Ciri had run
towards it. Trailing behind her on the top of walls he had seen the horse fall.
He had seen her nimbly rise, but instead of running forward along the path that
wrapped around like a serpent to the summit, she ran down the mountain, towards
the lonely tower. The elves did not see
him or Ciri, as they were too busy with their bows trying to shoot humans who
ran to the foot of the mountain. Reinforcements had come from Aretuza. He
intended to follow Ciri up the stairs when he heard a murmur. From above. He
turned quickly. It was not a bird.
Vilgefortz, shaking his wide sleeves, flew
through a hole in the roof and dropped slowly to the ground.
Geralt stood before the entrance to the
tower, drew his sword and sighed. He had sincerely hoped that the dramatic
final battle would be fought between Vilgefortz and Philippa Eilhart. He had
not the slightest desire to participate in such dramas.
Vilgefortz brushed off his doublet,
settling the sleeves, glanced at the witcher and read his thoughts.
‘Fucking drama.’ he sighed.
Geralt made no comment.
‘She went into the tower?’
He did not answer. The wizard nodded.
‘So here we have the epilogue,’ he said
coldly. ‘Its crowning work. Or is it destiny? You know where the stairs lead?
To Tor Lara. To the Tower of Gulls. From there, there is no exit. Everything is
over.’
Geralt stepped back so that the caryatids
that formed the portal protected his flank.
‘Of course.’ He drawled, watching the hands
of the wizard. ‘Everything is over. Half of your accomplices are dead. The
corpses of elves who were brought to Thanedd are lying one after the other all
the way to Garstang. The rest have fled. From Aretuza reinforcements of
sorcerers and Dijkstra’s men have arrived. The Nilfgaardian that was to take
Ciri, has probably already bled to death. And Ciri is there in the tower. And
from there, there is not exit? I glad to hear that. It means that there is only
one entrance. And I’m guarding it.’
Vilgefortz was angry.
‘You are wrong. You can still not properly
assess the situation. The Capitul and the Council ceased to exist. The army of
Emperor Emhyr is marching north: deprived of advice, magic and assistance. The
kings are helpless as children. Under pressure from Nilfgaard, their kingdoms
will topple like sand castles. I suggested it to you yesterday , and today I
say: join the winners. We will spit on the losers.’
‘You’re the loser. To Emhyr you are just an
instrument. He needed Ciri, so he sent here the guy with the helmet with wings.
It will be interesting to see what Emhyr does when you communicate the failure
of your mission.’
‘You shoot at random, witcher. Of course,
you did not hit. What if I told you that Emhyr is my tool?’
‘I don’t believe it/’
‘Geralt lets be reasonable. Do you really
want to waste time with this theatre, is the final battle so trivial between
Good and Evil? I renew the proposal from yesterday. It is not too late. You can
still choose, you can come to the appropriate side...’
‘On the side, which today I thinned
slightly?’
‘Do not smile, your demonic smiles do not
impress me. A few elves made into mincemeat? Artaud Terranova? Small things,
insignifican’t details. We can pass over them on the agenda.’
‘But of course! I know your world view.
Death does not count right? Especially someone else’s?’
‘Do not be banal. I feel sorry for Artaud,
but in the end what are you going to do. Call it... a reckoning. Lately I have
tried to kill you myself twice. Emhyr was impatient, so I ordered some murders
against you. Every time I did it with real reluctance. I, you see, I still have
hope that one day we will be in that painting together.’
‘Throw away that hope, Vilgefortz.’
‘Sheath your sword. Let us enter Tor Lara
together. Be reassured that the child of the Elder Blood is up there somewhere,
probably dying from fear. And we will leave here together. You’ll be with her.
You can watch as she fulfils her destiny. And Emperor Emhyr? Emperor Emhyr will
get what he wanted. Because I forgot to tell you that although Codringher and
Fenn are dead, their work and ideas still live on.’
‘You’re lying. Get away from here. Before I
spit on you.’
‘Really, I have no desire to kill you. I
hate killing.’
‘Really? What about Lydia van Bredevoort?’
The wizard pursed his lips.
‘Do not say that name, witcher.’
Geralt tighten his grip on the hilt of his
sword and smiled mockingly.
‘Why did Lydia have to die, Vilgefortz? Why
did you command her to die? She had to divert attention from you, right? You
had to give yourself time to become resistant to dimeritium, to send a telepathic
signal to Rience? Poor Lydia, she of the wronged face. Everyone knew that she
was a person of no importance. Everyone. Even her.’
‘Shut up.’
‘You had Lydia murdered, wizard. You used
her. And now you want to use Ciri? With my help? No. Do not enter Tor Lara.’
The wizard took a step back. Geralt tensed,
ready to pounce and deliver a blow. But Vilgefortz did not raise his hand, he
stretched it a little to one side. Suddenly, in his hand, materialized a thick
staff, about six feet long.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘what bothers you in a
reasonable assessment of a situation. I know it is complicated and difficult to
predict the future, you’re right. This is your arrogance, Geralt. Clouding your
vision. Arrogance and ignorance. I’ll educate you then, do you a favour and
teach the ignorance out of you. I’ll teach you with this magic stick here.’
The witcher narrowed his eyes, lifting his
blade slightly.
‘I tremble with anticipation.’
Some weeks later, cured thanks to the
efforts of the Dryads and the water of Brokilon forest, Geralt reflected on the
mistakes made during the fight. He came to the conclusion that he had not made
any. The only error he committed was before the fight. He should have fled
before the fighting began.
The wizard was fast, the staff in his hand
flashed like lightning. Greater was the astonishment of Geralt, when the staff
rang against his sword. But there was no time to wonder. Vilgefortz attacked,
the witcher had to dodge and squirm in evasion. He was afraid of parrying with
his sword. The staff was made of iron and magic.
Four times he found himself in a position
to counter attack and strike. Four times he struck a blow. At the head, neck,
arm and the thigh. Each of the blows would have been fatal. But each was
parried.
No man would be able to parry those blows.
Geralt started to understand little by little. But it was too late.
He saw the blow that the wizard struck him.
The impact threw him against the wall. He pushed with his back, failed to make
a jump, to make a feint, the stroke had deprived him of breath. He received a
second hit in the shoulder, flew back again, hitting his head against the
pillar, against the chest of a caryatid. Vilgefortz turned away in a deft leap,
he waved his stick and punched him in the stomach, below the ribs. Hard. Geralt
doubled over and was struck on the side of the head. His knees weakened below
him suddenly and he fell. And that was the end of the fight. In essence.
Clumsily he tried to shield himself with his
sword. The blade pierced the wall and the pilaster, he erupted in a groan
vibrant and clear. He protected his head with his right hand, the staff fell
and broke his forearm. The pain blinded him completely.
‘I could leak your brain through your ears.’
Vilgefortz said from far away. ‘But this is a lesson. You made a mistake,
witcher. You have confused the reflection of the stars on a pond with the night
sky. Oh, did you vomit? Good. Brain injury. Do you bleed from the nose? Great.
So, I’ll see you. Someday. Maybe.’
He saw nothing and heard nothing. Sinking,
sinking into something warm. He thought that Vilgefortz had gone. He was
surprised, then, when his leg felt the vengeance of the iron staff, shattering
his femur.
Any following blows, even if they occurred,
he could not remember.
***
‘Hold on, Geralt, don’t give up.’ Triss
Merigold repeated endlessly. ‘Hold on. Don’t die. Please don’t die...’
‘Ciri...’
‘Do not speak. We have to get you out of
here. Hang on... By the gods, I have no strength...’
‘Yennefer... I have to...’
‘You do not have to do anything! You cannot
do anything! Hold on, don’t let go... Do not faint... Do not die, please...’
She dragged him across a floor strewn with
corpses. Geralt saw his chest and stomach bathed in blood that flowed from his
nose. He saw his leg, It was twisted at an odd angle and appeared much shorter
than his healthy one. He did not feel pain. He felt cold, his whole body was
cold. He wanted to puke.
‘Hold on, Geralt. Aid comes from Aretuza.
It is coming soon...’
‘Dijkstra. If Dijkstra gets me... if...
it’s all over...’
Triss cursed. Frantically.
She dragged him down some stairs. His
broken leg and arm bounced on the steps. The pain was revived, it bit into his
bowels, into his temples, flashed in his eyes, ears, to the top of his head.
But he did not scream. He knew that a shout would relieve him, but did not
shout. He just opened his mouth, which also brought relief.
He heard an explosion.
At the top of the stairs stood Tissaia de
Vries. Her hair was in disarray, her face covered with dust. She raised both hands, her fingers burned.
She shouted an incan’tation, and the fire dancing on her fingers burst forth in
a fireball which roared down the stairs, the flames crackling and blinding. The
witcher heard the rumble from below, the walls crumbling, the shrill screams of
the burnt.
‘Tissaia, no!’ Triss yelled desperately.
‘Don’t do it!’
‘Do not enter here,’ said the great teacher
without looking back. ‘This is Garstang on the island of Thanedd. Nobody
invited the royal servants carrying out the orders of their short-sighted
rulers!’
‘You’re killing them!’
‘Be silent, Triss Merigold! The coup
against the unity of the Brotherhood was not successful, this island is
governed by the Capitul! So keep the Kings away from the affairs of the
Capitul! It is our conflict and we’ll solve it ourselves! We will resolve our
issues and then put an end to this idiotic war! Because we, the sorcerers, we
are responsible for the fate of the world!’
Other fireballs shot forth from her hands,
the echo of explosions was repeatedly heard between the columns and walls.
‘Get out!’ She screamed again. ‘Do not
enter here! Get out!’
The screams from the bottom subsided.
Geralt understood that the besiegers withdrew from the staircase. Tissaia’s
silhouette blurred before his eyes. It was not magic. He had lost
consciousness.
‘Get out of here, Triss Merigold.’ The
sorceress’s voice sounded like it was coming from a distance, as if from behind
a wall. ‘Philippa Eilhart has already fled, flying away on owl wings. You were
an accomplice in this conspiracy, I should punish you. But enough of blood,
death and disgrace! Go away! Go to Aretuza, with your allies! Teleport. The
portal in the Tower of Gulls no longer exists. It collapsed together with the
tower. You can teleport without fear. To where ever you want. Even to your King
Foltest for who you have betrayed the Brotherhood!’
‘I will not leave Geralt...’ Triss moaned.
‘He can not fall into the hands of Redania... He is seriously wounded...
Bleeding internally... And I no longer have the strength! I do not have the
strength to open a portal! Tissaia! Help me, please!’
Darkness. Biting cold. From a distance,
from behind the stone wall, the voice of Tissaia de Vries.
‘I’ll help you.’
Evertsen, Peter, n. 1234, confiendent of Emperor Emhyr Deithwen and one of the true creators
behind the power of the Empire. A Constable in the army in the times of
the Northern War (see) since 1290, High treasurer of the crown. At the
end of the reign of Emhry, he was elevated to the dignity of the Empire. During
the reign of Emperor Morvran Voohis, he was falsely accussed of embezzlement
and convicted and imprisoned, f 1301 in Castle Winneburg. Posthumously,
he was cleared by the Emperor Jan Calveit in the year 1328.
Effenberg & Talbot,
Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, Vol V
Tremble, at the Destoryer of Nations. Who will trample your land and divide
it with the noose. Your cities will be destroyed and their inhabitants
deprived. The bat, the owl and the story will inhabit your homes, make them
into the serpents nest.
Aen Ithlnnespeath
Chapter Five
The commander
of the rider squad stopped his horse, removed his helmet and stroked his thin,
sweaty hair.
‘End of road’
he announced, looking at the bard‘s inquiring look.
‘Heh? How is
that?’ wondered Dandelion. ‘Why?’
‘We don‘t go
further. Look, down there is the stream, that is the Ribbon. Our task was to
escort you only to the Ribbon. That means its time to bid farewell.’
The rest of the
squad stopped behind them, but none of the riders dismounted.. All of them were
looking worriedly at all directions. Dandelion stood up in his stirrups and put
his hand over his eyes.
‘Where do you
see a river?’
‘I told you,
that it is down there. Go down, you will see it immediately.’
‘Escort me to
the shore at least,’ insisted Dandelion, ‘To the nearest ford...’
‘You will find
you ford alone. It hasn‘t rained since may. The water is low, the ford is
shallow. On the horse you will get through anywhere you like’
‘I showed your
governor a letter of safe-conduct from king Venzlav’ objected the bard.
‘The governor read the kings orders and I heard with my own ears, how he
told you to escort me to Brokilon. And you want to abandon me in this spinney?
What if I get lost?’
‘You won‘t’
growled grimly the second rider, that stood next to them, but did not talk
until now. ‘You won‘t have enough time to get lost. An arrow of some nymph
will find you first.’
‘You are
a band of frightened rabbits.’ said Dandelion snidely. ‘You fear woman.
Brokilon is on the other side of the Ribbon after all. The river is the border.
We haven‘t crossed it yet.’
‘Their border’
explained the commander, constantly looked around ‘is where their arrows reach.
From the forest an arrow can reach the shore like nothing. And it will still be
fast enough to pierce chainmail. You insisted on going to Brokilon, your
business, your hide. But I want to live, I won‘t go further.
I could just as well stick my head in a hornets nest!’
‘I explained
to you’ the bard put his hat on and
straightened up in his saddle ‘that I go to Brokilon with a message.
I am a royal ambassador, so to speak. I‘m not afraid of dryads. But
I ask you to escort me to the shore of the Ribbon. In case some footpads
attacked me in the spinney.’
The second rider,
the grim one, forced a smile.
‘Footpads?
Here? During the day? Sir, you won‘t meet a living soul here. These days
the nymphs shoot everyone who appears near the shore, and sometimes they raid
deep into our territories. Don‘t be afraid of footpads here.’
‘He is right,’
confirmed the commander ‘You won‘t find an idiot among the footpads who would
wait on the shore of the Ribbon. We are not idiots either. You will go alone,
without a weapon, without armor, even a mile away everyone will see
you are no soldier. Perhaps you will get lucky. But if a nymph sees us,
armed riders, we won‘t have enough time to run from their arrows.’
‘Good advice’
noted Dandelion. He patted his horse on the neck and looked at the path ahead
of him. ‘I will go alone. Farewell soldiers. Thank you for your escort.’
‘Don‘t be in
such a hurry to leave’ said the grim raider and looked at the sky.’The
evening draws near. Go when the fog appears above the river. So that, you
know...’
‘What?’
‘You can‘t aim
as good in the fog. If you have luck, a nymph could miss you. But their
bows, dear sir, only miss rarely.’
‘I said...’
‘You said, you
said, I heard you. You are travelling with a message. But I say,
message or not, they don‘t care. They will release an arrow and thats it.
‘You decided
that you will scare me?‘ asked the poet. ‘Who do you think I am?
A city bookworm? I, dear soldiers, have seen more battlefields than all of
you together. I also know something about dryads, for example, that they
don‘t shoot without a warning.
‘That was long
ago’ said the commander bitterly. ‘Those times are gone. Long ago they shot at
trees or at the ground. It meant, here is the arrow, here is the border –
and not a step further. If a man then immediately returned, he
could have saved himself. But that changed, now they only shoot to kill.’
‘Since when is
it like that?’
‘You know it
is like this.’ explained the soldier. ‘When the kings signed the peace treaty
with Nilfgaard, they attacked the elven groups without mercy. They attack them
from all sides, there is not a night when some of them don‘t run through
Brugge to search for safety in Brokilon. And when our people hunt the elves,
they almost always run into the nymphs that are going to help the elves.
Sometimes our soldiers can‘t control themselves... do you understand?’
‘I understand’
Dandelion looked at the commanders face and nodded. ‘While hunting the
Scoia’teal you went through the Ribbon and killed dryads. And they are paying
you back right now. War?’
‘Exactly. War.
Now it is a war to the death, no one survives anymore. The hatred between
us can‘t be forgotten anymore. I advise you for the last time: if you
don‘t have to, don‘t go there.’
Dandelion
swallowed hard.
‘The problem
is’ he said with a fighting voice and posture, which took a lot of
effort, ‘that I have to go. And I will. Evening or not, fog or not,
I have to go, when duty calls.’
The years of
training showed their worth, the bards trained voice sounded resonant and
powerful, firm and confident, like steel. The soldiers looked at him with
honest admiration.
‘Before you
go’ said the commander as he pulled out
a wooded field flask ‘drink some spirit, sir singer. Have a swig...’
‘Dying will
feel better’ added the grim second rider.
The poet drank.
‘A coward,
before he dies’ he said once he coughed and got his breath back, ‘dies
a hundred times, a brave man tastes death only once. Two deaths can’t
be, and one will come anyway. The Lucky Lady likes fearless man, she despises
cowards.’
The riders
looked at him with the highest admiration. They could not have known that
Dandelion recited the words of a rich epos. Written by someone else even.
‘Before
I forget’ the poet took out a leather pouch. ‘ I will reward you
for your escort. Before you return to the outpost, before the stern mother duty
calls you again, stop in an inn on the way and drink on my health.’
‘Thank you
sir,’ the comander flushed ‘You are generous, even when we... Forgive us that
we abandon you but...’
‘It is
nothing. Good luck’
The bard
adjusted his hat over his left ear, kicked the horse with his heel and went
down to the river. On the way the whistled the melody of ‘Weddings in
Bullerlyn’, a well known and quite rude drinking song.
‘In the
outpost, they told us’ he heard the words of the grim one, ‘that he is
a waste of food, braggart and coward. But he is a brave and valiant
man.’
‘You are
right’ agreed the commander. ‘He’s got a pair of balls size of a bear, we
must give him that. He didn‘t even look back, I was looking at him. You
hear that? He is even whistling. Ho, hoo. Did you hear what he said? That he is
an ambassador . The king doesn‘t make just anyone an ambassador. You have to be
a special footman to be made an ambassador...’
Dandelion
spurred his horse to get away as fast as possible. He didn‘t want to ruin the
impression that he made with so much effort. But he knew if he kept whistling,
his throat would go completely dry of fear.
The road was
shady and damp, wet clay and a carpet of leaves muffled the hooves of the
brown gelding, who the poet named Pegasusus. Pegasusus walked slowly and with
a drooping head. He was one of the not so numerous horses, that didn‘t
care about anything.
The forest
ended, but on the way to the shore he had to go through a meadow. The poet
stopped his horse. He looked carefully around, but did not see anything
suspicous. He strained his ears, but heard only a concert of toads.
‘So horsie,’ he
cleared his throat. ‘Onwards.’
Pegasusus
lifted his head a little and slowly lifted his usually drooping ears.
‘You heard
right. Onwards!’
The gelding idly walked forward, mud clucking under its
hooves. Toads jumped to escape its feet. A few steps ahead of them,
a scared duck honked and flew off.
The bard’s heart stopped for a moment, then it started to beat
wildly somewhere in his neck. Pegasusus paid no attention.
‘A hero went on...’
muttered Dandelion as he took out a scarf from his sleeve and wiped the
cold sweat from his forehead. ‘Without fear, he walked through the dangerous
swamp, and didn‘t get appaled by the jumping reptiles nor by flying dragons...
he went on and on... until he arrived near the immeasurable level of water...’
Pegasusus
snorted and stopped. They were at the shore, standing in reeds and cattails as
high as the callipers. The bard wiped his sweaty forehead again, then tied the
scarf around his neck. He looked at the thick alders on the opposite shore so
long and intensely, that his eyes started to weep. But he did not see anything
or anyone. Over the slow current of the river, he saw swarms of small insects.
The surface was filled with spreading circles, caused by fish grabbing their
prey. Around the shore, a cyan-orange kingfisher looped around.
Everywhere one
could see the results of beaver work, nibbled branches, gnawed tree trunks
washed by water. There are beavers here, he thought, an extraordinary
lot. No surprise, there is no one to scare the hard working woodgnawers. No
woodcutters, bandits or hunters that lay traps here. Those, who tried were hit
by an arrow and the crayfish ate them as they fell into the muddy shore. And I,
fool, am going here by my own choice. This is the Ribbon, the river above which
a deathly stench hangs, one that not even the smell of calamus and mint
can suppress...
He sighed.
Pegasusus
entered the water with his front hooves, dipped his head and drank for
a long time. Then he lifted it and looked at his rider. Water dripped from
his mouth and nostrils. The poet nodded his head, sighed again and loudly
sniffed his nose.
‘The hero
looked at the rough current,’ he said silently and tried not to chatter his teeth.
‘Then he ventured onwards, for his heart knew no fear’.
Pegasusus hung
his head and ears.
‘Knew no fear
I said!’
The horse shook
his head, the steel rings on his bits and halter rang. Dandelion kicked him.
The gelding walked into the water, with obvious indifference.
The river was
shallow, but thicky overgrown. Until they reached the middle of the riverbed,
Pegasusus dragged long offshoots with his feet. The animal walked slowly, and
tried to shake the vegetation, that hindered his movement, off his hooves with
every step.
The reeds and
alders of the opposite shore were close now. So close that Dandelion could feel
his stomach descending down into his pants. He realized, that in the middle of
the river, confined by the vegetation, he was a very easy target, one that
could not be missed. In his mind, he already saw the curved arches of bows, the
stretching strings, and the sharp tips pointing at his stomach, chest, throat.
He pushed the
horses sides with his legs, but Pegasusus did not move. Instead of speeding up,
he stopped and lifted his tail. The horse donuts loudly splashed into the
water. Dandelion yelped, shocked.
‘The hero
could not go through the roaring cascade,’ he yelped with closed eyes. ‘He died
a brave death, hit by countless arrows. He was forever swallowed by the
shadowy pool, dead in the embrace of weeds as green as nefrit, and all of his
remains disappeared... the current only carried horse shit to the sea.’
Pegasusus, who
was obviously relieved, walked on without exhortation to the shore and on the
shallow, without the annoying offroots, he even mischievously jumped so the
poets boots and pants were completely wet. Dandelion didn‘t even notice, the
vision of arrows pointing at his chest could not be banished and fear crawled
up his spine like a big, cold , slimy leech. Because barely a hundred
steps behind the alders, behind the green field of alloys, towered
a black, innacessible, threatening forest wall.
Brokilon.
A few
steps away from the shore, he encoutered a skeleton of a horse.
Stalks of cattails grew through the ribcage.There were also a few, smaller
bones. They did not look like horse bones. Dandelion shuddered and looked away.
The gelding
walked through the muddy shore with a lot of squelching and smacking. The
mud stank. The toads were silent for a while, the Ribbon grew silent.
Dandelion closed his eyes. He did not say anything, did not improvize.
Inspiration disappeared somewhere far away. Only the feeling of ice cold fear
remained, a feeling very strong, but thoroughly non-creative.
Pegasusus
walked calmly to the edge of the dryad forest, which was called by many the
forest of death.
I crossed
the border, the poet thought. Now everything will be decided.
Until I walked out from the water, they could have been generous. Not
anymore. Now I am an intruder. Like that one... My skeleton will remain
here too – a warning to those who would dare follow me... If the dryads
are here... If they are observing me...
He thought of
all the archery competitions and tournaments that he saw, the straw targets and
figurines pierced or torn to bits by arrows. What would a man hit by an
arrow feel? The hit? Pain? Or... nothing?
The dryads were
either not in the area, or did not decide what they should do against
a lone rider, because the poet arrived at the forest, stiff with fear, but
alive and healthy and in one piece. He could not get under the trees through
the overgrown, with roots and branches ruffled barrier, he did not want to do
enter the depths of the forest anyway. He forced himself to a risk – but
not suicide.
He dismounted
very slowly and bound his horse to a root sticking upwards. Usually he did
not do it, for Pegasus did not usually go away from his owner, but he did not
know how the horse would react to the sounds of flying arrows. Until now, it
never crossed his mind to subject himself or his mount to such sounds.
From his
saddle, he took his lute – an unique, beautiful instrument, with a slim fingerboard.
A gift from an elf, he though, as he stroked the inlaid wood. It
could be that it would return to the the Elder races... If the dryads did not
leave the lute with the corpse of its owner.
Close to him
was a big uprooted tree trunk. The poet sat on it, leaned the lute on his
leg, licked his lips and put his sweaty hands on his pants.
The sun was
setting. Above the Ribbon rose haze, a whitish cover that spread as far as
to the meadows near the shore. The air grew colder. Above his head he heard
a flock of cranes fly, he heard their call. It disappeared into the
distance, only the squawking of the toads remained.
Dandelion
picked the strings. Once, then a second time, then a third. He
twisted the pins, tuned the instrument and began to play. After a moment
he began to sing too:
Yviss, m’evelienn vente cáelm en tell
Elaine Ettariel Aep cor me lode deith ess’viell
Yn blathque me darienn Aen minne vain tegen a me
Yn toin av muireánn que dis eveigh e aep llea...
The sun
disappeared behind the forest. In the shadow of the old giants of Brokilon, it
grew dark quickly.
L’eassan
Lamm feainne renn, ess’ell
Elaine Ettariel
Aep cor...
He did not hear
them. He felt their presence.
‘N’te mire daetre. Sh’aente vort.’
‘Don’t
shoot...’ he whispered and obeying, her order he did not turn around. ‘N’aen
aespar a me... I come in peace...’
‘N’ess a tearth. Sh’aente.’
He obeyed, but
his fingers stiffened on the strings and his voice came from his throat only
with difficulty. But in the voice of the dryad there was no animosity and he,
for fuck‘s sake, was no amateur.
L’eassan
Lamm feainne renn, ess’ell.
Ellaine Ettariel
Aep cor aen tedd teviel e gwen
Yn blath que me darienn
Ess yn e evellien a me
Que shaent te cáelm a’vean
minne me striscea...
This time he
dared look over his shoulder. That what crouched near the big trunk near him
looked like an ivy shrub. But it was no shrub – shrubs don’t have large bright
eyes.
Pegasus
silently snorted and Dandelion knew that somehere in the darkness behind him,
someone was stroking his horse’s nostrils.
‘Sh’aente vort,’ asked the dryad, that was crouching behind him
again. Her voice sounded like rain falling on leaves.
‘I..’ he
bagan. ‘I am.... I am a friend of witcher Geralt. I know that
Geralt.. That Gwynbleidd is with you, here in Brokilon. I come...’
‘N’te dice’en. Sh’aente va.’
‘Sh’aent.’ asked warmly the second dryad, one voice with
the third. Perhaps with a fourth even, he was not sure.
‘Yea, sh’aente taedh,’ said with
a silvery girly voice that, what he though a moment ago was
a birch, rising a few steps away from him. ‘Ess’laine.... Taedh. Sing..
More about Ettariel.... Yes?
He obeyed:
Loving you is the goal
of my life.
Graceful Ettariel
Allow me to keep the treasure of my memories
And the magic flower
The pledge and symbol of your love
Most with dew like silver tears...
This time he
heard steps.
‘Dandelion.’
‘Geralt!’
‘Yes, it is
me. You can stop that noise now.’
***
‘How did you
find me?’ Where did you learn that I am in Brokilon?’
‘From Triss
Merigold... Dammit!’ Dandelion tripped and would have fallen if the dryad
walking next to him had not caught him skilfully. She was surprisingly strong,
despite her small body.
‘Gar’ean
táedh,’ she warned him. ‘Va cáelm.’
‘Thank you. It
is terribly dark... Geralt? Where are you?’
‘Here. Don‘t
fall behind.’
Dandelion sped
up, tripped again and hit the witcher, who stopped in the darkness in front of
him. The dryads walked past them without even a slightest sound.
‘Damn this
darkness. How much longer will we walk?’
‘Not much. The
camp is a bit farther. Who except Triss knows I am here? Did you tell
anyone?’
‘I had to tell
King Venzlav. I needed his letter of safe-passage to travel through
Brugge. Nowadays it is – a waste of words... I needed permission to travel
to Brokilon. But Venzlav knows you and he is in your debt. He names me, just
imagine, his ambassador. Im sure he will keep it secret, I begged him.
Don‘t be angry Geralt.’
The witcher
leaned closer to him. Dandelion did not recognize his face, in the darkness he
saw only white hair and the whitish effect of not having shaved for a few
days.
‘I‘m not
angry.’ The bard felt a hand on his shoulder and he had the feeling that
the cold voice until now, has changed a bit. ‘I‘m glad you came...’
***
‘I‘m cold’
shuddered Dandelion so much that the branches on which they were resting nearly
broke. ‘We could light a...’
‘Don’t even
think about it.’ the witcher stopped him. ‘Did you forget where we are?’
‘They never
...’ the startled poet looked around. ‘No fire?’
‘Trees hate
fire. They do too.’
‘Bloody hell.
We have to endure the cold? And sit in this darkness? If I stretch my hand
I can‘t even see my own fingers...’
‘Then don‘t
stretch out your hand.’
Dandelion
sighed and rubbed his stiff hands. He heard, how the witcher sitting next to
him was breaking off dry branches.
Suddenly
a greenish light appeared in the darkness, at first dull, but slowly
getting brighter. After the first, many more started to glow, in many places:
they moved like dancers or fireflies or wisps. The forest awakened with lights
and shadows. Dandelion also recognized the silhouettes of the dryads. One of
them came nearer and put something that looked like a glowing wreath of
grass and wicker near them. The bard stretched his hand and carefully
approached the green fire. It was cold.
‘What is it
Geralt?’
‘Rotten wood
and some type of moss, that grows only here in Brokilon. And only they know how
to bind it so it glows. Thank you Fauve.’
The dryad did
not answer but did not go away either. She sat down a bit farther from
them. She wore a wreath on her head, her long hair fell on her shoulders.
They were green, it could have been due to the light, or it might really have
been green. Dandelion heard, that the hair of dryads had all kinds of colors.
‘Taedh,’ said the dryad and looked at the
bard with her big eyes, glowing in her face that was split by two stripes of
camouflage paint. ‘Ess’ve vort sh’aente aen Ettariel? Sh’aente a’vean vort?’
‘No... Perhaps
I will sing a bit later,’ he answered warmly, carefully choosing
words from the Elder speech. The dryad stretched herself and gently stroked the
lute laying next to her, then she flexibly stood up. Dandelion looked at her as
she leaved to join the others, whose shadows were moving in the flexous light
of the moss lamps.
‘I hope
I did not offend her,’ he said silently. ‘She speaks with their own
dialect, I don‘t know the courtesy phrases...’
‘Look to see if you have a knife in your
ribs’ according to the tone of voice the witcher was not joking. ‘They answer
insults with a knife. But don‘t be afraid Dandelion, I think they
would be willing to forgive more than some language mistakes. They really liked
your performance under the forest. Now you are Ard Táedh to them
– The Great Singer. They wait for you to finish singing ‘Flower Ettariel’. Do
you know the rest? Because it is not your ballad.’
‘The
translation is mine. And I enriched the elven music register a bit
did you notice?’
‘No.’
‘Just as
I thought. Luckily the dryads know how to value art better than you.
I read somewhere that they are unusually musical. I built my savvy
plan on that, for what you by the way have not praised me yet.’
‘I praise’ said
the witcher after a short pause. ‘It was really savvy. And most of all you
were lucky – as always. Their bows are not infallible for two hundred steps.
And they usually don‘t wait, until someone crosses the river and starts singing.
They are very sensitive to bad smells, so if the corpse is carried away by the
Ribbon, the forest will not smell bad.’
‘Whatever’ the
poet cleared his throat. ‘The main thing is, it worked and I found you.
Geralt how do...’
‘Do you have
your razor?’
‘Huh? Of course
I do.’
‘I will borrow
it tommorow morning. This beard is annoying me.’
‘Why couldn‘t
the dryads... Hmmm... True, they use their razors only for mushrooms. You know
I will lend it to you. Hey, Geralt?’
‘Yes?’
‘I don‘t have
any food. Can The Great Singer ask his hostesses for dinner?’
‘They don‘t eat
dinner. Ever. And the guardians of the outskirts of Brokilon usually don‘t even
eat breakfast. You will have to wait until midday. I got used to it.’
‘But if we go
to their village, to the mysterious, in the inner of the forest hidden
Duén Canell...’
‘We will never
go there, Dandelion.’
‘How is that?
I though that... They have given you asylum after all. They are...
tolerating you after all.‘
‘That is
a fitting word.’
Both of them
were silent for a long time.
‘War’ said the
poet at last. ‘War, hatred and contempt. Everywhere. In all hearts.’
‘You are
poemizing.’
‘But it is
true.’
‘Just as. Well,
tell me what are you carrying to me. Tell me what happened in the world, while
they were healing me here.’
‘First.’
Dandelion cleared his throat. ‘You tell me what really happened in Garstang.
‘Triss did not
tell you?’
‘She did. But
I want to hear your version too.’
‘Triss surely
told you the more detailed and precise one. But tell me what happened while
I was here in Brokilon...’
‘Geralt,’
choked Dandelion. ‘I... I really don‘t know what happened to Yennefer and
Ciri... no one does. Triss also...’
The witcher
jerked violently, the branches cracked.
‘Am
I asking about Ciri of Yennefer?’ he muttered with a changed voice.
‘Talk about the war.’
‘You don‘t know
anything? Did no news arrive here?’
‘Some did. But
I want to hear it from you. Tell me please.’
‘Nilfgaard
attacked Lyria and Aedirn,’ began the bard after a while. ‘Without any
declaration of war. The reason was said to be an attack by Demavend‘s army on
some border fortress while the sorcerers met in Thanedd. Some say it was a provocation, that
those were Nilfgaardian forces dressed as Demavend‘s soldiers. How it truly
was, we will never know probably. In any case, the Nilfgaardian answer was very
swift and massive. A massive army crossed the border, one that had to be
collected in Dol Angra for weeks, months even. Spalla and Scala, the Lyrian
border fortresses were destroyed while marching. Rivia was prepared for months
of siege, but surrendered after just two days. The merchants and guilds were
demanding it. They were promised, that if the city opened its gates and payed
ransom, it would
not be ransacked...’
‘Was the promise honored?
‘It was.’
‘Remarkable.’
The witcher‘s voice changed again. ‘Honoring promises in these times? Not to
mention, that in the past there were no promises, and no one expected them. The
merchants and craftsmen did not open city gates in the past, but were defending
the walls, everyone at their outpost or war machine.’
‘Money has no country Geralt. The merchants
don‘t care under whose flag they earn money. And the Nilfgaardian paladins
don‘t care whose taxes they collect. The dead don‘t earn money, nor do they pay
taxes.’
‘Continue.’
‘After the
surrender of Rivia, the Nilfgaardian army continued to the north. They almost
did not face any resistance. Demavend and Meve were pulling their soldiers
back, because they could not create a line, and begin the decisive battle.
So the Nilfgaardians got to Aldersberg. To prevent a blockade, Demavend
and Meve decided to go to battle. The formation of their armies wasn‘t the
best... Dammit if there was more light I could draw you...’
‘Don‘t draw
anything. To the point. Who won?’
***
‘Did you hear
the new sire?’ said one of the intendants, out of breath and sweating. ‘The
messenger from the field arrived. We have won the battle! Victory! Ours, ours
is the day! We have beaten the enemy, beaten them!’
‘Silence,’
frowned Evertsen. ‘My head hurts from your yelling. Of course, I heard:
ours is the day, ours is the battle and victory too. That surprises me!’
The accountants
and registrars went silent, and looked surprisingly at their superior.
‘Are you not
happy, sir Chamberlain?’
‘I am. But I can
be happy silently.’
All were
suddenly silent and looked around embarrassed. Amateurs, thought
Evertsen, overconfident amateurs. Thats no surprise but up there, on the
hill evern Menno Coehoorn and Elan Trahe are cheering, even the grey-bearded
general Braibant, all are yelling and jumping, patting each other on the backs
like kids. Victory! Ours is the day! And whose should it be? The kingdoms of
Aedirn and Lyria could barely muster up three thousand cavalry and ten thousand
footman, and about a fifth was cut off from the battle during the first
days, cut off in besieged outposts and fortresses. Part of the remaining
army, the enemy had to reposition to the
rear and guard their flanks, endangered by attacks of our light cavalry or the
ambushes of Scoia’tael commandos. The remaining five or six thousand, in that
no more than twelve hundred armored knights, stood in the fields in front of Aldersberg.
Coehoorn threw an army thirteen thousand strong at them, in that ten
banners of heavy cavalry, the blooming nilfgaardian knighthood. And now they
are celebrating, brawling and demanding beer. Victory! What a surprise...
With one glance
he summarized the piles of papers and maps on the table, lifted his head and
looked around.
‘Now listen’
he told his underlings ‘I‘m giving orders.’
The accountants
and registrars froze in anticipation.
‘Each one of
you,’ he began ‘listened to the speech of field marshal Coehoorn to the
officers and soldiers yesterday. Please remember what the marshal yesterday
said to the soldiers, does not include you. You have other tasks and orders.
Mine.’
Evertsen
thought and rubbed his forehead.
‘War to the
palaces, peace to the huts, said the officer yesterday. You know that
principle, its taught at the Academy. This principle applied up until now,
tommorow you will forget it. From tommorow morning applies a new
principle, one that will become the unofficial motto of our campaign. That
motto and my order is: War to everything that lives, fire to everything that
can be burned. We can only leave a wasteland behind us. Tommorow we cross
the line, on which a future peace treaty will be signed. On the land that
will not belong to us, only burned land can remain. The kingdoms of Rivia and
Aedirn will be burned to ashes! Remember Sodden? The time of revenge has come!’
Evertsen
cleared his throat.
‘But before
the army destroys everything,’ he explained to the silent registrars ‘it is our
task to extract as much as possible from this country and land, everything that
will increase the power of our Empire. You, Audegast, you will collect and cart
all agricultural crops and plants. Everything that remains on the fields that
has not been destroyed by Coehoorns knights must be collected...
‘I don‘t have
enough men sir Chamberlain...’
‘There will be
enough slaves, get the locals to work. Marder and you... I forgot your
name...’
‘Helwet. Evan
Helwet, sir Chamberlain.’
‘You two will
collect all living stock. Chase up all herds, watch during quarantines in
isolated places. Kill the sick and suspicious ones, the others have to be
guided to the south on marked routes.’
‘Yes sir!’
And now the
special task, thought Evertsen, looking at his people. Whom to give that?
All rookies, with milk on their chins, they did not see a lot, did not
experience a lot... Ech, I need more experienced older
subordinates... Wars, wars, always wars... Soldiers die fast, of course
intendants die just as fast if we compare their ratio. But there is never
a need for soldiers, as new ones always come. Everyone wants to be
a soldiers, but who wants to be a registrar or accountant? Who wants
to tell their families and friends, that their heroic deeds were collecting
corn, counting sinking animals and weighing wax, how they lead convoys on bumpy
roads, convoys that were full of loot, how they lead bellowing hers of animals,
how they only felt dust, smells, and flies...
A special
task. The Gulet iron factory with smelting furnaces. The kalamin works, the
foundries and forges in Eysenlaan, fifty talents of a years production.
The tin factories and laundries in Aldersberg. The distileries, malt, weaving
and coloring factories in Vengerberg...
Dismantle and
transport. That was the order of Emperor Emhyr – The White Flame Dancing on the
Barrows of his Enemies. Two words. Dismantle and transport.
An order is an
order. It has to be fulfilled.
And the most
important task. The gold mines and their yield. Money. Valuables. Artwork. But
I will take care of that. Personally.
More pillars of
smoke, visible in the sky, appeared. And more. The army was rigorously carrying
out Coehoorns orders. The Kingdom of Aedirn was changing into a Kingdom of
Fire.
With lots of
rattling and rising clouds of dust, the colony of siege machines were rolling
on the road. Onto the still resisting Aldersberg. And onto Vengerberg, the
residential city of king Demavend.
Peter Evertsen
was looking and counting. Calculating. Peter Evertsen was the main treasurer of
the Empire and during the war the chief chamberlain of the nilfgaardian army.
He was in this position for 25 years now. Numbers and calculations, that was
his entire life.
Mangonel costs
fifty florins, trebuchets two hundred, a petraria at least a hundred
and fifty, the simplest ballista, eighty. A trained crew takes nine and
a half florins of monthly salary each. The colony marching on Vengerberg
costs about three hundred pounds, including the horses, oxens, tools and minor
equipment.‘A single mark of pure metal, weighing half a pound is equal to
sitxy florens.’
In front of the
slow colony was the light cavalry. Evertsen recognized the symbols on some
flags: the tactical banner of Prince Winneburg, who had transferred to the
front from Cintra. Yes, he thought, they have something to look
forward to. The battle is won, the Aedirnian army in ruins. The additional
reinforcements will not participate in the heavy battles with the regular army.
They will only intercept fleeing groups, surround dispersed squads without
leaders, murder, pilage and burn. They are looking forward to it, because its
the pleasant, cheerful soldiering. One that does not tire. Not kill.
Evertsen
calculated.
The tactical
banner is made of ten regular banners, that means two thousand riders. Because
Winneburg‘s men will not fight in any bigger battle, in some insignifican’t
fights only one sixth of them will die or be injured. On top of that, the
camps, rotten provisions, dust, lice, mosquitos, infected water awaits them.
And that, which can not be avoided in any war: typhoid. dysentery, malaria. The
diseases usually kill one fourth of the soldiers. We can‘t forget the various
accidents and unpredictable events, planned losses are another fifth. If we
count all that, about eight hundred of them will return home and no more.
Probably less.
More banners
were marching on the road, behind the riders were the footman. Archers in
yellow brigandines and round helmets, crossbowmen in flat kettle hats,
pavisiers and pikemen were all marching north. Behind them the heavy infantry,
like armored crabs, veterans from Thurn, Maecht, Gesso, Ebbing...
Ignoring the
heat, the nilfgaardians regiments were marching swiftly. Drums were rumbling,
flags waving, tips of pikes, partisans, gizarms and halberds shining. The
soldiers marched cheerfully and courageously. That is how a winning army
marches. A undefeatable army. Onwards men, into battle! Onto Vengerberg!
To crush the enemy, take revenge for Sodden! To enjoy the happy war, loot and
return home... Home!
Peter Evertsen
was watching. And counting.
***
‘Vengerberg
fell after a week,’ added Dandelion. ‘You will be surprised, but there the
guilds defended bastions and their sections of wall until their last breath.
The attackers killed the castle crew, defenders of the city and anyone who
lived there, six thousand people total. A massive escape ensued after
that. The crushed troops and civilians began to escape to Temeria and Redania.
Crowds of refugees stretched through the Pontar valley and Mahakaman foothills.
But many were not able to escape; the nilfgaardian light cavalry were hunting
them, cutting them off... Do you know why?’
‘I don‘t.
I don‘t understand... I don‘t know much about warfare, Dandelion.’
‘They wanted
prisoners. Slaves. They wanted to catch as many people as possible. That is the
cheapest work force in Nilfgaard. That‘s why they were so focused on hunting
refugees. It was a big hunt for people, Geralt. An easy hunt. Because the
army was routed and no one defended the poor.’
‘No one?’
‘Almost no
one.’
***
‘We won‘t make
it...’ coughed Willis, looking over his shoulder. ‘We won’t escape...
Ah hell, the border is so close... so close...’
Rayla stood up
in her stirrups and looked in the direction they had come. The road wound up
around pines from the valley. Everywhere the eye could see, there was luggage,
thrown away in a hurry, in the ditches along to road were broken carts and
dead horses and cattle. Even further
away from the forest, black columns of smoke were rising. And one could audibly
hear roars and noise – the echoes of battle.
‘The back
train,’ Willis wiped the sweat and dust of his face. ‘Do you hear Rayla? They
have cought up to our back train! They will kill them!’
‘Now we are
the back train,’ said the mercanary dryly ‘Its our turn.’
Willis grew
pale, one of the soldiers listening let out a deep breath. Rayla yanked
her reins, turned her tired horse around.
‘We would not have made it anyway,’ she
stated. ‘The horses would collapse after a while. They would catch up and
kill us before we got to the pass.’
‘Lets throw
away what we can, and disappear into the forest,’ proposed Willis, but did not
look at Rayla. ‘Individually, every man for himself. Perhaps we will...
survive.’
Rayla did not
answer, only gestured with a head movement toward the pass, the winding
road, the last latecomers of the long crowd fleeing to the border. Willis
understood. He swore stupidly and jumped to the ground. He stumbled and leaned
against his sword.
‘Down from the
horses!’ he shouted hoarsely at the soldiers. ‘Block the road with anything you
can find! What are you looking at? Once our mothers bore us and once we have to
die! We are soldiers! We are the back train! We have to stop the hunting dogs,
stall...’
He stopped
talking.
‘If we delay
the pursuit, the people will get to the other side of the mountains, to
Temeria,’ finished Rayla and also dismounted. ‘There in front of us are women
and children. Why do you look so surprised? It is our work! They paid us for
that, did you forget?’
The soldiers
were looking at each other awkwardly. Rayla thought for a moment, that
they would start running away, that they would force the tired horses to
a last, desperate struggle, that they will ride to the colony – to the
salvation of the pass. She was wrong. She guessed them wrong.
In
a narrower place, they rolled over an abandoned cart. They hurriedly built
a barricade. A makeshift one. A low one. An insufficient one.
They did not
wait for long.
Two horses came
to the glen. They panted, stumbled, shook dust of their bodies. Only one of
them had a rider.
‘Blaise!’
‘Prepare
yourself...’ the mercanary blurted out and fell from his saddle into the
outstretched hands of the defenders. ‘Prepare yourself... shit, they are behind
me...’
The horse
croaked, did a few stepped to the side, as if he was dancing, fell to the
ground, rolled to the side and weakly nickered.
‘Rayla...’
rasped Blaise, looking away from the haunted animal. ‘Give me somthing...
A weapon. I lost my sword...’
The warrior,
still watching the pillars of smoke rising to the sky from the fires in the
valley, gestured with her head toward the cart. An axe was leaning against it.
Blaise took it and hefted it. When he stood up, blood was dripping from his
left pant leg.
‘What about
the others, Blaise?’
‘Dead’
whispered the mercanary. ‘All of them. The whole division... Rayla, its not
Nilfgaard... Its the elves. Squirrels... Scoia’tael are moving ahead, ahead of
the regular army.’
One of the
soldiers was not ashamed to whimper, another one fell to the ground and hid his
face in his palms. Willis swore and tightened the straps of his cuirass.
‘On your
positions!’ called Rayla. ‘Onto the barricade! They won’t get us alive! That
I promise!’
Willis spat,
tore off the three colored, black-golden-red cockade of the special forces of
king Demavend and threw it away. Rayla smoothed and rubbed her own badge. She
smiled crookedly.
‘I don’t know
if it will help you Willis. I really don’t know.’
‘Rayla, you
promised me...’
‘I did. And
I will fulfill my promise. On your positions lads! Get the crossbows!’
They did not
wait long.
After they
repelled the first wave, only six of them were left. The battle was short but
tough. The conscripts from Vengerberg were fighting like wolves, they matched
the battle-hardened soldiers in their ferocity. No one wanted to fall into
Scoia’tael hands alive. They chose death in battle. And they died hit by
arrows, pierced by pikes, sliced by swords. Blaise died laying down, sliced up
by the knives of two elves, that jumped on him after they pulled him from the
barricade. But none of the two elves stood up again. Blaise also had
a knife.
The Scoia’tael
did not let them breath. They threw a second attack at them. Willis, hit
by a spear for the third time, fell to the ground.
‘Rayla! He
called weakly, ‘You promised!’
The mercenary
repelled another elf and swiftly turned around.
‘Pleasant
journey, Willis. She put her sword against his ribs and pushed. ‘See you again
in hell!’
After
a while, she was alone. The Scoia’tael surrounded her on all sides. The
warrior, soaked in blood from head to feet. She lifted her sword and twirled,
her black ponytail whirling in the air. She stood among the dead, stooping,
terrible like a demon. The elves involuntarily took a step back.
‘Come!’ she
roared a challenge. ‘What are you waiting for? You won’t get me alive!
I am Rayla!’
‘Gláeddyv vort, beanna,’ said
a handsome blonde elf, calmly, with a face of a cherub and big
sky-blue eyes of a child, that appeared behind the backs of the hesitating
Scoia’tael. His snowwhite horse snorted, tossed it‘s noble head and
energetically raked the blood soaked gravel of the road.
‘Gláeddyv vort, beanna,’ said the
rider again. ‘Throw away that sword, woman.’
The warrior
laughed furiously. She wiped her face with her glove and that was smeared with
sweat, dust and blood into a terrible war paint.
‘My sword was
too expensive for me to throw around, elf!’ she shouted her answer. ‘If you
want to take it, you will have to break my fingers! I am Black Rayla! So
come!’
She did not
wait long.
***
‘No one came
to help Aedirn?’ asked the witcher after a long moment of silence. ‘It had
political bonds after all. Agreements of help... contracts...’
‘Redania,’
Dandelion cleared his throat, ‘fell into inner turmoil after the assassination
of the king. Do you even know that Vizimir was murdered?’
‘I know that.’
‘The head of
the state is, by title the queen Hedwig, but the land is in chaos. And terror.
They are hunting Scoia’tael and Nilfgaardian spies. Djikstra advised the whole
kingdom, the execution places were red with blood. Oh and Djikstra still can’t
walk. They carry him in a litter!
‘I expected
that. Did he pursue you?’
‘No. He could
have but did not. Ach, that is not important. In any case, the inner political
situation did not allow Redania to send the army to help Aedirn.’
And Temeria?
Why did Foltest of Temeria not help Demavend?’
‘As soon as
the invasion in Dol Angra started?’ said Dandelion silently. ‘Emhyr var Emreis
sent a message to Vizima...’
***
‘Curse them!’
growled Bronibor, looking at the closed doors. ‘What are they negotiating so
long? Why did Foltest even agree to give an audience to that nilfgaardian dog?
He should have cut his head off and sent it back to Emhyr. In a bag!’
‘By the gods,
duke, ‘ gasped High Priest Willemer. ‘He is a messenger, an untouchable
person. You cannot...’
‘I can’t?
I will tell you what I can’t! I can’t idly stand here and look,
as our enemy ravages the land of our ally! Lyria already fell and Aedirn is in
danger! Demavend won’t stop Nilfgaard alone! We must immediately send an expedition
to Aedirn and help Demavend by attacking the other side of the Yaruga! There
are not many soldiers there now, most of them were called to the north! And we
are negotiating here! We are talking instead of fighting! And we have
a nilfgaardian bastard as a guest!’
‘Silence
duke!’ Prince Hereward of Ellander coldly tamed the old soldier. ‘This is high
politics. You have to look further than the horses head and the end of the
tilted pike. We have to hear the messenger. Emperor Emhyr surely did not send
him without a reason.’
‘That is
clear, there is a reason.’ Bronibor cut him off. ‘Emhyr is crushing Aedirn
right now. He knows, that if we strike now, and with us, Redania and Kaedwen we
will beat him and push him even out of Dol Angra somehwere to Ebbing. He knows,
that if we attack Cintra, we will strike him in his unguarded stomach, we will
force him to a war on two fronts. He fears that! He tries to scare us so
we don’t cross his plans. That is the true reason why his messenger has come!’
‘It is wise, to hear out any message,’ said
the prince, ‘and then decide, what will be best for our country. Demavend
provoked Nilfgaard and now he is paying for his hasty step. As for me, I‘m not
in a hurry to go die for Vengerberg. What is going on in Aedirn, is none
of our business.’
‘Our business?
What is that, for fucks sake, bullshit? The Nilfgaardians are in Lyria and
Aedirn, on the right side of the Yaruga! That, and only Mahakam divides us from
them, is not our business? Only a complete idiot could say that....’
‘Enough
arguing’ Willemer cut them both off. ‘Not a word more, the king comes.’
The doors of
the negotiating room opened. The members of the Royal Council rattled as they
were pushing their chairs, then stood up. Many places were empty. The Crown
Governor and most of the commanders were with their armies, waiting in the
Pontar Valley, Mahakaman Foothills and on the shores of the Yaruga. The places
of the sorcerers were also empty. Sorcerers... Yes, thought priest
Willemer, here in the royal court in Vizima, the places of the sorcerers
will be empty for a very long time. Who knows, if not forever.
King Foltest
strode quickly through the room, stopped at the throne, but did not sit down,
only bowed down slightly and leaned his clenching fists on the table. He was
very pale.
‘Vengerberg is
besieged,’ said the Temerian ruler quietly, ‘and will be conquered in the next
few hours. Nilfgaard is marching to the north. The cut off regiments will
resist, but they cannot change the outcome of the war. Aedirn is lost. Demavend
fled to Redania. The fate of Queen Meve is unknown.’
The council
was silent.
‘Our eastern
borders, that is the delta of the Pontar Valley, will be reached by Nilfgaard
in a few days.’ Foltest quietly continued. ‘The last Aedirnian fortress,
Hagge will not hold for long. And Hagge, is our eastern border. And to our
southern border... an alful thing has
happened. King Ervyll of Verden has paid tribute to Emperor Emhyr. He opened
the fortresses on the lower Yaruga, those that should have watched our flanks.
In Nastrog, Rozrog and Bodrog are currently nilfgaardian troops.’
The council was
silent.
‘Thanks to
that, Ervyll kept his royal title, his feudal lord is Emhyr though. Formally,
Vergen remains a kingdom, it is not a de facto nilfgaardian province.
You understand, I hope, what that means? The situation has changed
radically. The fortresses if Verden control the delta of the Yaruga and they
are in the hands of the Nilfgaardians. Because of that, it is out of question
for us to cross to river. We cannot even weaken the army there by sending help
to Aedirn. It is not possible. The responsibility for my land and men burdens
me.’
The council was
silent.
‘Emhyr var
Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard,’ continued the king, ‘sent me a proposal...
An agreement. I accepted. I will tell you its contents. And you, once
you have heard me out, will understand... You will accept that... You will
say...’
The council was
silent.
‘You will say,’
fininished Foltest hesitantly, ‘that I bring you peace.’
***
‘So Foltest
lowered his tail and crawled away,’ growled the witcher and broke another stick
in his fingers. ‘He made an agreemend with Nilfgaard. He left Aedirn to its
fate...’
‘Yes’ confirmed the poet. ‘He only sent the
army to the Pontar Valley and occupied the fortress Hagge. The Nilfgaardians
did not enter the Mahakaman Valleys, did not cross the Yaruga in Sodden, did
not strike on Brugge, even though they have it, after Ervyll‘s surrender, in
their pliers. That was the cost of Temeria‘s neutrality.’
‘Ciri was
right,’ whispered the witcher. ‘Neutrality... Neutrality is vile.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. And
what of Kaedwen, Dandelion? Why didn‘t Henselt help Demavend and Meve? After
all, they also had an agreement, they were allies. And if Henselt pisses on
official seals and signs on documents like Foltest, on the royal word, he is
not completely dumb? He didn‘t get that after the fall of Aedirn and suspension
of Temeria, Kaedwen is next in line? The next who stands Nilfgaard in their
way? He should have helped Demavend if only because of pure foresight. Faith
and truth does not remain in the world, but has common sense disappeared too?
What, you can only find disdain and hatred?’
Dandelion
looked away. The green lamps were close now, they were surrounding them in
a tight circle. He had not noticed it before. Now he understood, that all
dryads were listening to him.
‘You are
silent,’ said Geralt. ‘That means that Ciri was right. Codringher was right.
Everyone was right. Only I, the naive, anachronistic, stupid witcher was
not right.’
***
Centurion
Digod, known under the nickname ‘Halfpot’, pushed the tent sheet and entered
with angry snorts and growls. The corporals stood up and reluctantly took up
a military posture. Before the centurion‘s eyes could adapt to the dimness
in the tent, Ziwyk quickly threw fur on a barrel of vodka between them. It
was not because, Digod was a a zealous objector of drinking in the
camp and on duty, but more to hide the content of the barrel from their
superior. The centurion did not have his nickname for nothing – he was known to
drink half a pot of alcohol on more
than one occasion, without slowing down. A military pot, he could flip
over and drink like a bowl of soup, and only rarely did something spill in
his ears.
‘So, what is
the situation sir centurion?’ asked Bode, the archer corporal, ‘what did the
commanders agree on? What are the orders? Will we cross the borders?’
‘A
moment’ snorted Halfpot. ‘That is hic,
hell! I will tell you everything, But first give me something to drink, my
throat is dry. And don’t try to tell me you don’t have anything, I can
smell the booze a mile away. I even know exactly where it is. There,
under that fur.’
Zywik,
muttering curse words, took the barrel out of hiding. The corporals leaned
forward like one, their tin mugs clattered against each other.
‘Aaaach’ the
centurion rubbed his eyebrows ‘Uuuuch, filthy crap. Pour me more Zywik.’
‘Now talk,’ said Bode impatienlty. ‘What are the orders?
Are we marching against the Nilfgaardians or will be stand here like pricks
before a closed Harlotry?’
‘Are you
missing battle?’ said Halfpot, sitting down heavily and leaning against
a saddle. ‘Are you in such a hurry to get to Aedirn? You are dragged
there aren‘t you? Hungry wolves showing their teeth, eh?’
‘Of course.’
Answered the smaller Staler, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Both of
them were crooked like a zerrikanian sabre, the legs of old cavalry men.
‘Of course sir centurion. We are on duty for the fifth night now, we sleep in
our boots. That is why we want to know, what awaits us. Are we going to battle
or back to the castle?’
‘We are
crossing the borders,’ said Halfpot finally. ‘Tommorow at dawn. Five banners,
the Grey at the front. And now pay attention, as I am telling you what
orders the great magrave Mansfeld of Ard Caraigh, that came right from the
king, to tell the commanders and centurions. Remember everything, because
I will not repeat anything. And they are orders that are unheard of.’
The whole tent
grew silent.
‘Nilfgaard
moved out of Dol Angra,’ began the centurion. They marched through Lyria, in
four days they reached Aldersberg and crushed Demavend‘s army. In barely six
days of siege they captured Vengerberg by betrayal. Now they are marching north and pushing the
remains of Aedirnian military to the Pontar Valley and to Dol Blathanna. They
are nearing Kaedwen. That is why we have the orders to cross the border and
march south, towards the Valley of Flowers. In three days, the Grey Banner must
stand on the river Dyfne. In three days, so we will march really quickly, but
not a step further than Dyfne. I repeat, not a single step!
Shortly afterwards, the Nilfgaardians will appear on the other side. With them,
and now pay attention, we cannot fight. Under any circumstances do you
understand? Only if they will try to cross the river will we go to the shore
and show our flags so that they know it‘s us, the Kaedweni army.’
It seemed that
there could not be no bigger silence in the tent,
‘How is that?’
said Bode after a while. ‘Not fight Nilfgaardians? We are going to war
aren‘t we? How is it, sir centurion?’
‘The order
was: we are not going to war, but...’ Halfpot scratched his neck. ‘But we are
carrying brotherly help. We are crossing the borders to protect the people of
Upper Aedirn... Aw hell what am I saying? Not Aedirn but the Lower Marks.
That was what the great Margrave Mansfeld said. He explained to us, that
Demavend was crushed, because he ruled stupidly and lead shitty politics. And
just as with him, it is the end of Aedirn. Only our king helped Demavend, lent
him lots of money – and such riches can’t just be ignored. It is time to get
our money back with interest. We also can’t let out brothers and countrymen
from the Lower Marks come under the control of Nilfgaard. We have to free them,
so that the Lower Marks, the ancient territory of Kaedwen, once under our rule,
now returns to our rule. Up to the river Dyfne. Our beloved king Henselt agreed
on that border with Emhyr of Nilfgaard. An agreement is an agreement, but the
Grey Banner must stand on the shores of the river. Understood?’
No one asnwered.
Halfpot frowned and waved his hand.
‘You didn‘t
undestand shit, I see. You don’t have to worry about it, because even
I didn‘t understand much more than you. Most importantly our beloved king,
dukes and the nobility understands. We are the army, we have to get to Dyfne in
three days, occupy the shore and stay alert! And that‘s it! Pour me more,
Ziwyk.’
‘Sir
centurion,’ stuttered Ziwyk. ‘What if... What if some Aedirnian soldiers
intercept us? What if they resist? After all we are marching armed through
their land. What will we do?’
‘And what of
our brothers and countrymen,‘ added
Staler carefully, ‘those that we are to free, begin to shoot arrows or throw
stones at us? What then eh?’
‘In three days
we have to stand on the shores of Dyfne.’ strongly reiterated Halfpot. ‘If
someone tries to stop or stall us, they are a clear enemy. And enemies
have to be neutralized on the spot! But, this is an order! The huts and barns
are not to be burned, the cattle not taken, do not pillage or rape the women!
Get that in your damn heads and the heads of your soldiers, who breaks this
order will be hanged.
The duke repeated it at least ten times, is that enough, Staler? This is an order for fucks sake! And now, out to your squads, everyone hurry up, the horses and equipment
must shine like the full moon! In the evening there is a rapport, the duke
and commanders want to see how the army is prepared. If some squad gets drunk,
then the corporal will wish he was never born! He won’t forget me until his
death! Carry out!’
Ziwyk got out
with the others, blinked in the sharp sunlight and looked at the chaos in the
camp. Corporals hurried to their squads, centuriouns talked, cadets and squires
were in the way of everyone. Cuirassiers from the Ban Ard trained and clouds of
dust rose around them. The heat was unbearable.
Ziwyk sped up.
He passed four musicians, that had come from Ard Carraigh yesterday. The
artists sat in the shade of the richly decorated tent of Margrave Mansfeld and
were composing heroic songs about the victorious campaign, about the kings
wisdom, the composure of the dukes and the bravery of the simple soldiers. As
always, they did it in advance so they did not waste time.
‘Our brothers
welcome us, welcomed us with breaaaad and saaaalt...’ sung one of them. ‘The
rescuers welcomed themselves and the rescued with bread and saaalt...
I say, Hrafnir, tell me some rhyme for “salt!”’
The second
musician gave a rhyme. Ziwyk did not hear it.
His squad
camped under some willows near a pond.
‘Ready
yourself!’ growled Ziwyk and stood far away enough so none of his men could
smell his breath. It would have no positive influence on morale. ‘Before the
sun moves my four fingers, the squad has to be ready for an inspection. Everything
must shine: weapons, armor, equipment, horses! In the evening there will be
a rapport, if I get disgraced by any of you, I will break your
bones. That son of a bitch will never forget me! Come on!’
‘We are going
to battle,’ guessed Kraska and quickly put his shirt into his pants. ‘ Are we
going to battle sir corporal?’
‘And what did
you think? That we are going to the harvest-home dance? We are crossing the
borders. Tomorrow at dawn the whole of the Grey Banner marches. The centurion
did not say in which formation, but our squad will be in the front as always.
So, move your arses! Hey, wait a moment! I have to tell you something
and that is an order. This will not be regular war lads.The dukes made up some
shitty new stuff, some rescuing or something. We are not going to the enemy but
with well... brotherly help for our ancient territory, yeah. So listen what
I say now: leave the people in Aedirn in peace, don’t steal...’
‘Why is that?’ Kraska’s mouth opened in
disbelief. ‘Don’t steal? And what will we feed the horses corporal?’
‘Get enough food for horses but not more.
Don’t beat the people, don’t burn the huts, don’t destroy the crops... Shut
your mouth Kraska! We are no raiding party, but an army, to hell with you! You
will obey your orders or get hanged! As I said: don’t pillage, don’t burn,
the women...’
Zywik paused and pondered.
‘The women,’ he added after a while,
‘plough them silently and out of sight, so that you are not seen.’
***
‘On the
bridge over Dyfne,’ finished Dandelion, ‘they shook hands. Margrave Mansfeld of
Ard Carraigh and Menno Coehoorn, supreme commander of the nilfgaardian army of
Dol Angra. They shook hands over the bleeding and flickering kingdom of Aedirn
and sealed it with the robbery and sharing
of loot. The most disgusting symbol the world has ever seen.’
Geralt was silent.
‘As we are at disgusting symbols,
Dandelion,’ he asked after a moment, ‘what did the sorcerers think?
I mean those from the Council and Capitul?’
‘None remained with Demavend,’ answered
the poet. ‘Foltest, on the other hand,
banished all of the mages that served him from Temeria. Philippa is in
Tretogor, she helps queen Hedwig with the turmoil that is still in Redania.
Triss and three others whose names I can’t remember are with her.
A few sorcerers are in Kaedwen, many fled to Kovir and Hengfors. Many
chose neutrality, because Esterad Thyssen and Medamir are as you know, still
neutral.’
‘I know. And Vilgefortz? And those who
were with him?’
‘Vilgefortz disappeared. It was expected that
he would show up in the conquered Aedirn as Emhyr’s governor. But no one has
seen him or heard from him. Of him, or his companions. Except...’
‘Speak, Dandelion.’
‘Except one sorceress. She became queen...’
***
Filavandrel aen
Fidhail silently waited for his answer. The queen, looking out of
a window, was also silent. The window lead into a garden, one that
was until recently the pride of the previous ruler of Dol Blathanna,
a governor of the tyrant of Vengerberg. Fleeing from the Free Elves,
marching as the vanguard of the imperial armies, the governor took most
valuables from the ancient elven castle, even part of the furniture. But he
could not steal the garden – so he destroyed it.
‘No,
Filavandrel,’ the queen finally answered his question. ‘It is too soon for
that, too soon. We should not think about expanding our borders, for we don’t
even safely know where they are now. Henselt of Kaedwen stands on the shores of
the Dyfne. The scouts report that he still hasn‘t stopped thinking about
possible aggresion. He could attack us any day.’
‘So we have
not accomplished anything.’
The queen
slowly stretched her hand. A small Tortoiseshell butterfly, that entered
through the window, settled on her laced sleeve, folding and unfolding it‘s
colorful wings.
‘We have
accomplished more,’ reminded the queen very silently, as to not frighten the
butterfly, ‘than we could have hoped. After a hundred years we finally
have our Valley of Flowers back...’
‘I would not
call it that,’ smiled Filavandrel bitterly. ‘After the march of the army, its
more like the Valley of Ashes.’
‘We have our
own land again,’ the queen asnwered and carefully inspected the butterfly. ‘We
are a nation again, and not exiles. And ashes fertilize the land, the
Valley will bloom once again in spring.’
‘That is
little, Daisy, very little. We have become modest. Only recently, we boasted
that we would push the humans to the seas, from where they came. And now he
limited our lands and ambition only on Dol Blathanna.’
‘Emhyr
Deithwen gave us Dol Blathanna as a gift. What do you expect me to do
Filavandrel? Should I demand more? Do not forget, that in accepting gifts
we have to have a certain degree of gratitude. Especially when it is
Emhyr’s gifts, for the Emperor never gives anything for free. The land he gave
us, we have to keep. The powers that we have, are just enough to defend Dol
Blathanna.’
‘We will pull
out the commandos from Temeria, Redania and Kaedwen,’ advised the white-haired
elf. ‘Lets call all Scoia’tael fighting the humans. You are their queen now,
Enid, they will obey you. Now, that we have our own land, their fight has lost
its meaning. Their duty is to come back and protect the Valley of Flowers. Let
them fight as a free nation protecting their country. For now, they are
dying in forests like bandits.’
The elf’s head
sank.
‘Emhyr will
not allow it,’ she whispered. ‘The commandos are to continue fighting.’
‘Why? What
for?’ Filavandrel aen Fidhail, straightened suddenly.
‘I will tell
you more. It is forbidden for us to support and help them. That was Foltest’s
and Henselt’s condition. Temeria and Kaedwen will respect our authority in Dol
Blathanna, but only if we officially condemn the actions of the Squirrels and
terminate all connections.’
‘Those
children are dying, Daisy. They are dying each day, dying in a unfair
battle. After the hidden contracts with Emhyr, the people will turn on them and
crush them. After all, they are our children, our future! Our blood! And you
are telling me, we have to terminate all our connections. Que’ss aen me
dicette, Enid? Vorsaeke’llan? Aen vaine?’
The butterfly
fluttered its wings, rose and flew to the window, where the flow of hot air
carried it away. Francesca Findabair called Enid an Gleanna, formerly
a sorceress, now the queen of the Aen Seidhe, the Free Elves, looked up.
In her beautiful blue eyes, tears glistened.
‘The
commandos,’ she said silently, ‘must continue the war. They have to trouble the
human kingdoms, make their preparations for war more difficult. That is Emhyr’s
order. I cannot stand against the Emperor. Forgive me Filavandrel.’
Filavandrel
aen Fidhail looked at her and bowed deeply.
‘I forgive you
Enid. But I do not know, if they will too.’
***
‘Not one of
the sorcerers changed their mind? Not even when Nilfgaard was beating and
burning Aedirn, no one abandoned Vilgefortz and joined Philippa?’
‘No one’
Geralt was silent
for a long time.
‘I don’t
believe it,’ he said finally very silently. ‘I don’t believe that none would
reject Vilgefortz, when his true motives and consequences for his betrayal came
to light. I am, as is known, a naive, stupid, anachronistic witcher.
Perhaps that is why I cannot believe that none of the mage‘s conscience
awakened.’
***
Tissaia de
Vries put her trained decorative signature under the last sentence of the
letter. After some thinking, she added an ideogram telling her true name.
A name, that no one these days knew. A name, she has not used for
a long, long time. From the time, she became a sorceress.
Lark.
She put down
the pen. Very carefully, straight, exactly across the written sheet of
parchment. For a long time she sat motionless, looking at the red ball of
the setting sun. Then she stood up. She went to the window. For some time, she
looked at the house roofs. Houses, in which ordinary people were going to
sleep, tired from their ordinary human lives and work, full of ordinary human
fears of what awaits them, what will happen tommorow. The sorceress looked at
the message on the table. A message for ordinary people. The fact, that
most ordinary people could not read, was not important.
She stood in
front of the mirror. She adjusted her hair. Adjusted her clothes. Blew
a non-existent speck from her puffed sleeve. Adjusted her necklace of
spinel over her neckline.
The candles
under the mirror were not in their places. A maid must have touched them
while cleaning the room. The maid – an ordinary woman. An ordinary person with
eyes full of fear, of what would happen. An ordinary person, lost in the times
of contempt. An ordinary person looking for hope and assurance in her, in
a sorceress...
An ordinary
person, whose trust she did not fulfill.
From the
streets, an echo of steps came to her, of heavy military steps. Tissaia de
Vries did not make a single motion, did not turn her head to the window.
She did not care whose steps those were. The royal guard? The judge with the
order to arrest the traitress? Assassins? Vilgefortz men? She did not care.
The steps grew
quiet in the streets.
The candles
under the mirror were not in the right place. The sorceress arranged them,
arranged the position of the tablecloth, so that its corner fell exactly in the
middle of the table edge and was parallel with the square candlestand. She
pulled her golden armbands from her wrists and put them on the smooth tablecloth.
She looked at everything with her critical eyes, but did not find any error.
Everything was perfect, exactly, as it should be.
She opened
a shelf of a dresser and took out a short scalpel with
a bone handle.
Her face was
hard and motionless. Dead.
The house was
silent. So silent that one could hear the petal of a fading Tulip fall on
the table.
The sun, red as
blood, slowly set behind the roofs.
Archmistress
Tissaia de Vries sat down on her chair, blew out the candles, arranged the
postion of the pen on the parchment for one last time, then cut the wrists on
both of her hands.
***
The fatigue
from the days travel showed. Dandelion suddenly woke up and realized, that he
probably fell asleep while talking. He moved a bit and rolled from the
heap of branches; Geralt was not laying next to him and their night-lying area
lost balance.
‘Where did...’
he sat down and cleared his throat. ‘Where did I stop? Ah, at the mages...
Geralt? Where are you?’
‘Here’ said
the invisible witcher out of the darkness. ‘Continue please. You were about to
speak of Yennefer.’
‘Listen,’
answered the bard, who knew perfectly well, that he would not mention even
a single word about the person concerned. ‘I really don’t...’
‘Don’t lie.
I know you.’
‘If you know
me that well,’ said the bard angrily, ‘why the hell are you forcing me to talk.
You know me like a gappy penny, you must know why I was silent, why I
did not repeat overheard gossip! You must know what kind of gossip that is and
why I want to spare you from it!
‘Que suecc’s?’ reacted one of the sleepy
dryads at his raised voice.
‘I am sorry,’ said the witcher quietly.
The Brokilonian lamps faded, only
a few green lights remained.
‘Geralt,’ Dandelion
interrupted the silence. ‘You always said, that you stand aside, you don’t care
about anything... She could have believed it. Perhaps she believed it when she
took part in Vilgefortz game...’
‘Enough,’ Geralt
stopped him. ‘Not a word more. If I hear the word game, I‘m in the
mood to choke someone. Ech, better give me your razor, I want to shave
finally.’
‘Now? Its
still dark...’
‘It is never
too dark for me. I‘m a mutant.’
The witcher
ripped the pack with toiletry needs from his hands and went to the well.
Dandelion realised, that sleepiness has completely left him. The sky was
getting brighter, dawn grew near. He stood up and walked under the trees, carefully
avoiding the sleeping, cuddling dryads
‘Do you
belong to those, who caused it?’
He turned
around sharply. The dryad leaning on the pine had hair the color of silver, he
could see that even in twilight.
‘An
unpleasant view,’ she said and crossed her hands on her chest. ‘The one, who
lost everything. It is interesting, bard, because I once though that one
can never lose everything, that something always has to remain. Always. Even in
the times of contempt, where naivety can take revenge in the cruelest way, one
cannot lose everything. And he... He lost a lot of blood, the option of walking
healthy, partial movement of his left hand, his witchers sword, the woman
he loves, the daughter he miraculously found, confidence, faith... I told
myself, that there had to be something he had not lost. But I was wrong,
he has nothing, not even that razor.’
Dandelion
didn‘t say anything, The dryad didn‘t move.
‘I asked, if
you also took part in it.’ she said after a while. ‘Perhaps my question
was pointless. Obviously, it is also your fault. If someone has friends, but
still loses everything, they are also guilty. For what they did, or did not.
Guilty for not knowing, what they had to do.’
‘What could
I have done?’ he whispered silently. ‘What could I have changed?’
‘I don’t
know,’ answered the dryad.
‘I didn‘t
tell him everything...’
‘That
I know.’
‘I‘m not
guilty.’
‘But you
are.’
‘No! I‘m not!
He jumped up,
the branches of their improvised bed cracked. Geralt was sitting next to him
and wiped his face. He smelled of soap.
‘You are
not?’ he asked. ‘What did you imagine? That you are a frog prince? Calm
down, you‘re not. That you are a braggart? In that case, it may have been
a precognitive dream.’
Dandelion
looked around. They were alone.
‘Where...
Where are they?’
‘In the outskirts of the forest. Pack up,
the time has come.’
‘Geralt, a moment ago I talked
to a dryad. She talked common without an accent. She told me...’
‘No dryad in
this squad talks common without an accent. You imagined something, Dandelion.
This is Brokilon, here you can see all kinds of stuff.’
***
On the
outskirts of the forest, one single dryad awaited them. Dandelion recognized
her immediately, it was the one with green hair that brough them the light and
wanted him to sing more yesterday night. She raised her hand for them to stop.
In her second hand, she held a bow and strung arrow. Geralt put his hand
on the bard‘s shoulder and pressed strongly.
‘Is something
wrong?’ Dandelion asked quietly.
‘Of course.
Be silent and don’t move.’
The thick mist
over the Ribbon muffled voices and sounds, but not enough, as Dandelion heard
splashes and the snuffling of horses. Riders were wading
through the river.
‘Elves’ he
figured. ‘Scoia’tael. They are running to Brokilon to hide right? A whole
commando...’
‘No’ said
Geralt, looking at the mist. The poet knew that the witcher‘s senses were
incredibly sharp and sensitive, although even he could not tell whether he was
using sight or hearing. ‘That is no commando, only those who remain. Five or
six riders, three additional horses. Stay here Dandelion, I‘m going there.’
‘Gar’ean,’ warned the green-haired dryad
and raised her bow. ‘N’te va, Gwynbleidd! Ki’rin!’
‘Thaess aep, Fauve,’ the witcher interrupted
her, unexpectedly harshly. ‘Aespar que va’en, ell’ea? Help yourself, shoot. If not be silent and don’t try to scare me off. Nothing
will make me afraid anymore. I have to talk to Milva Barring and
I will do it, whether you like it or not! Wait here, Dandelion.’
The dryad
dipped her head. And her bow.
Nine horses
emerged from the mist. Dandelion noticed, that truly only six of them had
riders. He recognized indistinct forms of dryads, abandoning the undergrowth
and going towards them. He noticed, that three riders needed help dismounting
and had to be supported, so that could reach the saftey of the Brokilonian
trees. Other dryads ran into the mist and disappeared like ghosts. From the
other shore, sounds of cries, whinning of horses and splashing water could be
heard after a while. He had the feeling he also heard the whiz of arrows,
but he was not sure.
‘They were
followed...’ he let out a sigh. Fauve turned to him. Her fingers still
held her bow.
‘Sing
a song, taedh’ she hissed. ‘N’te shaent a’minne, not about
Ettariel. Not love. No time. Now it is time to kill, so. Sing such a song,
now!’
‘I, I,’ he stuttered, ‘I did not cause
what is happening...’
The green-haired dryad was silent for
a while and looked away.
‘I did not either,’ she said and
disappeared into the undergrowth.
The witcher returned after about an hour.
He led two saddled horses - Pegasus and a brown mare. On the mare were
bloodstains.
‘That is an elven horse eh? One of those
who came across the river?’
‘Yes’ confirmed Geralt. His face was
motionless and his voice was alien. ‘That is an elven mare. I will take
her. Once I have the opportunity, I will trade her for a horse,
that knows how to carry a wounded man, and if the wounded falls, stays
with him. They did not teach that to this mare.’
‘Are we leaving?’
‘You are leaving,’ the witcher handed
Dandelion his reins. ‘Farewell, Dandelion. The dryads will accompany you two
miles upstream and there you can go, and don’t fall into the hands of the Brugge
mercanaries, they still could be waiting on the other shore.’
‘And you? Will you stay here?’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘You learned something? From the Squirrels?
Something about Ciri?’
‘Good luck, Dandelion.’
‘Geralt! Listen...’
‘What should I listen to?’ shouted the witcher, his voice braking.
‘I can’t... I can’t just leave her to her destiny. She is alone... She
must not be alone, Dandelion! You cannot understand that. No one understands,
but I know... If she is alone, the same thing will happen as before...
What once happened to me... You don’t understand...’
‘I understand. Thats why I’m going with
you.’
‘Are you insane? Do you know where I’m
heading?’
‘I know Geralt, I... I didn’t tell
you everything, I... I feel guilty. I didn’t do anything, I did
not know what to do... But now I know. I will go with you. I’m your
friend. I did not tell you... about Ciri, about the gossip I heard.
I met friends from Kovir, that heard with their own ears the messages,
that came from Nilfgaard... I figure that those messages may have reached
the Squirrels. That you already know everything from the elves that came
through the Ribbon. But allow... that it will be me... that tells you
everything...’
The witcher stood with his head and hands
hanging.
‘Jump on your horse,’ he finally said
with a resignated voice. ‘You will tell me on the way.’
***
That morning, an unusual excitement
reigned over castle Loc Grim, the summer residence of the Emperor. Even more
unusual because all the excitement and impatience surely did not belong to the
customs of the nilfgaardian nobility and all expressions of impatience and
excitement were regarded as inmature. Similar behaviour was regarded as
punishable by the nilfgaardian aristocracy, that even the inmature youth was
ahshamed of it, and for them, excitement and inmature feelings were natural and
excusable.
That morning on Loc Grim, no youth was
present, they had no place here. The great throne room was filled by serious
and stern magnates, squires and knights, all dressed in ceremonial court black,
like one man, refreshed only by white collars and cuffs. The men were
accompanied by equally serious and stern ladies, whom customs allowed to
decorate their black dresses with jewelry. All showed dignity, seriousnes and
strictness. But in truth, they were incredibly excited.
‘They say she is ugly. Thin and ugly.’
‘But she is supposed to be royal blood.’
‘From a illegitimate annexion.
‘Nothing like that. She is no bastard.’
‘Will she sit on the throne then?’
‘The Emperor will decide...’
‘Aw hell, look at Ardal aep Dahy and Count
de Wett... How they are looking... As if they had drank vinegar...’
‘Silence,
Graf... Are you suprised? If something from the gossip is true, then
Emhyr will give the squares to an ancient lineage. He will humiliate them...’
‘Gossip will remain gossip, it will not
be confirmed. The Emperor will not marry that bastard! He cannot do that...’
‘Emhyr can do anything. Careful with your
words baron, be careful what you say. There have been people who said that the
Emperor cannot do this or that. They end up executed.’
‘I heard he already signed the decree,
where he assessed the allowance. Three hundred talents of annual rent. Consider
that.’
‘And the title of Infanta. Did any of you
see her?’
‘Immediately after arriving she was
entrusted to Countess Liddertal. Her house is guarded now.’
‘The Countess probably got the order to
teach that brat some manners. A new Infanta is said to behave like the
child of cows.’
‘What is so strange about that? She is
from the north, from the barbaric Cintra...’
‘The more is the gossip about Emhyr’s
wedding more unlikely. No, no, that is completely impossible. The Emperor will
marry de Wett’s youngest daughter, as was established. He will not marry that
self proclaimed princess!’
‘It is about time he marries someone at
all. For the dynasty... It is about time Nilfgaard gets a crown prince...’
‘Then let him marry. Of course not with
that barbaric tomboy!’
‘Quieter, not so loud! I assure you,
dear gentlemen, that will not happen. What goal would such a marriage
further?’
‘Politics,
Comtesse. We are at war. Such a marriage would have politcal but also
strategical importance... The dynasty, from which the Infanta comes from, has
legal titles and recognized feudal rights for the lands around the Lower
Yaruga. If she becomes the wife of the Emperor... Ha that would be a move!
Look there at ambassador Esterad, how they whisper...’
‘I hope that
your eccentric theory is not serious, prince? Or did you advise Emhyr to do
that?’
‘It is my
business, what I mean seriously and what not. As for the Emperor‘s
decision, you would do best if you would not question it. You and everyone
else.’
‘So he
already decided?’
‘I do not
judge.
‘Then you are
wrong.’
‘What do you
mean, lady?’
‘Emhyr
departed baroness Tarnhann from the court. He ordered her to return to her
husband.’
‘He drove out
Dervla Tryffin Broine? Impossible! She was his favorite for three years...’
‘I repeat, he
sent her away from the court.’
‘That is
true. I heard that, Dervla Goldhair caused a horrible scene. Four
guards had to forcibly push her into the carriage...’
‘Her husband
will be happy...’
‘I doubt it.
‘By the Great
Sun! Emhyr rejected Dervla? Kicked her out because of that foundling? Because
of that barbarian from the North?’
‘Quieter!
Quieter, curse you...’
‘Who is
behind it? What side?’
‘Quieter,
please. They are watching us...’
‘That small
bitch... I mean infant... is said to be ugly. Once the Emperor sees
her...’
‘You mean, he
has not seen her yet?’
‘He did not
have time. He came from Darn Ruach an hour ago.’
‘Emhyr has
never chosen an ugly one. Aine Dermott... Clara aep Gwydolyn Gor...Dervla
Tryffin Broine... All beauties...’
‘Perhaps that
savage will grow pretty...’
‘Once she
bathes? I heard the nobility of the North does not do that often....’
‘Careful with
your words. You may be talking about the future Emperor‘s wife...’
‘She is still
a child. She is no older than fourteen.’
‘It would
obviously be a political marriage... A pure formality...’
‘If that was
the truth, then Dervla Goldhair would remain in the court. The Cintran waif,
politically and formally on the throne at Emhyr‘s side... And in the evenings,
Emhyr would give her the crown jewels to play with and he would disappear into
Dervla’s room... At least until she gets old enough to give him an heir.’
‘Hmm... you
may be right. So what is the name of this.... infant?’
‘Xerella or
something like that.’
‘No, no. It
is... Zirilla. Yes, Zirilla.’
‘A barbaric
name!’
‘Quieter,
damn it!’
‘Keep the
seriousness. You are acting like some fools.’
‘You dare!
I might consider those words an insult!’
‘If you want
satisfaction, paladin, you know where you will find me!’
‘Silence. The
Emperor...’
The herold did
not have to do much: a single tap of the pole on the floor was enough for
the heads of the nobility and knighthood to bow down like crops on a windy
day. Such silence grew in the throne room, that the herold did not even have to
raise his voice:
‘Emhyr var
Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carp aep Morvudd!’
The White
Flame Dancing on the Grave-Mounds of Enemies entered the room. With his usual
lively walk, energeticaly waving his right hand, he walked the Wall of
nobility. The Emperor‘s black dress did not differ from others, though it
lacked the laced collars and cuffs. His black hair, never artificially curled,
was held by a thin gold band, on his neck, the imperial chain gleamed.
Emhyr walked
on the podium and casually sat down on the throne, put his elbow on the armrest
and put his hand under his chin. He did not swing his leg on the other armrest,
which meant, that the ceremony was still in effect. None of the bowed heads
rose even an inch.
The Emperor
loudly cleared his throat. The guests let out a breath and stood upright.
The herold tapped the floor a second time.
‘Cirilla
Fiona Elen Riannon, Princess of Cintra, Princess of Brugge and duchess of
Sodden, heiress of Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, protector of Attre and
Abb Yaruga!’
All eyes
turned to the doors, where a tall, dignous Stella Congreve, comtesse of
Liddertal stood. Next to the comtesse, stood the holder of all the previously
listed magistral titles. Blond, pale, skinny, slightly stooped, dresses in a
long lightblue dress in which she obviously felt uneasy.
‘Emhyr
Deithwen straightened up in his throne, the guests immediately bowed down.
Stella Congreve inconspicuously pushed the blonde girl forward and both walked
through the hall of bowing nobles, the representatives of Nilfgaards best
families. The girl walked stiff and uncertain. She tried to copy the comtesse.
Cirilla Fiona
Elen Riannon stumbled.
Ugly and
skinny, thought the comtesse on the way to the throne. Clumsy and not very
smart. But I will make a lady out of her. I will make
a Princess out of her, just like Emhyr ordered.
The White
Flame of Nilfgaard watched her from the height of his throne. Like usual, his
eyes were slightly narrowed and on his lips, a hint of a snide smile
was playing.
The Princess
of Cintra stumbled a second time. The Emperor leaned back and touched his
cheek with a finger. He was smiling. Stella Congreve was close enough to
judge that smile. She froze with fear. Something is not right, she
realized, terrified. Something is not right. By the Great Sun, heads will
fall...
She retained
presence of mind, bowed down, and forced the girl to do the same.
Emhyr var
Emreis did not stand up from his throne. But he slightly nodded his head. The
guests held their breath.
‘Princess,’
said the Emperor. The girl cringed. Emhyr did not look at her, but he fixedly
observed the nobility assembled in the hall.
‘Princess,’
he repeated his salutation. ‘I am happy to be able to greet you in my home and
my land. I assure you, with my imperial word, that the day is near, when
all your titles, that rightly belong to you, and all lands, that you are entitled to inherit, will be
returned to you. The usurpers, who seized your lands, have declared war against
me. They attacked the Imperium, under the excuse of guarding the rights of your
lineage. Let the world know, that you came to me, not them, with a plea of
help. Let the world know, that here, in my lands, you are greeted with
acceptance and honor, belonging to your status, while you were a mere
exile in the lands of my enemies. Let the world know, that in my lands, you are
safe, while my enemies not only denied you your crown, but even sought your
life.’
The Emperor‘s
look stopped at the ambassadors of Esterad Thyssen, king of Kovir and on the
ambassador of Nedamir, ruler of the Hengfors League.
‘Let the
world know, including the kings, that hesitated on which side is law and
justice. I declare, in front of the world, that assistance will be
provided, yours and my enemies will be defeated. In Cintra, in Sodden and
Brugge, in Attra, on the islands of Skellig and in the delta of the Yaruga,
peace will rule again, and you will sit down on the throne to the delight of
your peasants and all justice loving people.’
The girl in
the lightblue dress, bowed her head even lower.
‘Until that
time comes,’ continued Emhyr, ‘you will be treated in my land with due respect
and seriousness from me and my people. And, because in your kingdom, the flames
of war are still burning, as proof of my respect and friendship of Nilfgaard, I grant
you the title of Infanta of Rowan and Ymlac, Lady of the castle Darn Rowan, to
which you will go now, to await the coming of a calmer, happier time.’
Stella
Congreve controlled herself perfecly, she did not allow even a shadow of
astonishment to cross her face. He won’t leave her with him, she
thought, he is sending her to Darn Rowan, to the end of the world,
where he won’t ever come. It is obvious, that he will not court the girl and he
won’t even think of marriage. It looks like, he does not even want to see her.
Why did he get rid of Dervla then? What is he hiding?
She recovered,
quickly grabbed the young girl‘s arm. The audience ended. As they were leaving
the room, the guests bowed, but the Emperor did not watch them anymore.
Once they
left, Emhyr var Emreis threw his leg over the armrest of the throne.
‘Caellach,’
he said. ‘To me.’
The Seneschal
stopped at the distance, that was ceremonially allowed and bowed down.
‘Closer,’
ordered Emhyr. ‘Come closer, Caellach. I would speak quietly. What
I say now, is only for your ears.’
‘Your
majesty...’
‘What is
still planned for today?’
‘The takeover
of delegating documents and the granting of the formal exequatur to the
ambassador of king Nedamir of Kovir,’ said the Seneschal quickly. ‘The naming
of governors, prefects and knights. The confirmation of earldom and the
relevent time allowance to...’
‘We will give
the exequatur to the ambassador and I will accept him in a private
audience. The other things, tommorow.’
‘As you
order, your Majesty.’
‘Tell
viscount Eiddon and Skellen, that immediatelly after the audience, I await
them in the library. For a confidential meeting. You will also be there.
And you wil bring your famous mage, that farseer.. What is his name?’
‘Xarthisius,
Majesty. He lives in the tower near the city...’
‘Im not
interested in where he lives. Bring him to my rooms.Quietly, secretly.’
‘Your
Majesty... is it smart to have that astrologer...’
‘I gave an order Caellach.’
‘Yes, your
Majesty.’
Before even
three hours passed, all who were summoned assembled in the imperial library.
The invitation did not suprise Vattier de Rideaux, viscount of Eiddon. Vattier
was the leader of military intelligence and Emhyr called him quite often –
after all, Nilfgaard was at war. The invitation did not surprise Stefan
Skellen, called Kalous, either. The Imperator granted him the function or
coroner – the expert on special and strange missions. Because of that, Kalous
was never surprised by anything.
The third
guest, however was increadibly surprised and also terrified of the invitation.
Even more so, because the Emperor turned to him first.
‘Master
Xarthisius...’
‘Your
Imperial Majesty...’
‘I have to
discover the location of a certain person. A person, that disappeared
or is hiding. Perhaps that person is imprisoned. All mages, to whom
I given this task, failed. You will take care of it.’
‘How far is
this... How far away may this person be?’
‘If
I knew that, I would not need you.’
‘I beg for
pardon, Imperial Majesty...’ choked the astrologer. ‘The problem is, that great
distances make astromancy very difficult and virtually excludes... Ehm, ehm...
And if that person is under magical protection... I can try, but...’
‘To the
point, master.’
‘I need
time... Preparations... If the conjuction of the stars will be favorable...
Ehm, ehm... Your Imperial Majesty demands a uneasy task. I need
time...’
Just a moment
more, and Emhyr will have him impaled on a tree,
thought Kalous. If that sorcerer won’t stop bumbling...
‘Master
Xarthisius,’ said the Emperor unexpectedly calmly, and kindly. ‘You will get
everything you need. Including time. Within reasonable limits of course.’
‘I will do
what is in my powers,’ assured the astrologer. ‘but I will only be able to
pinpoint
a approximate localization.. That means an area or radius....’
‘What?’
‘Astromancy...’ choked Xarthisius. ‘Astromancy
allows in great distances only a approximate area... With a great
tolerance... Very great. I don’t know if I will be able...’
‘You will be able, master,’ said the Emperor,
his dark eyes flashed ominously. ‘Your abilities have my full confidence. And
about the tolerance: the smaller yours, the bigger mine will be.’
Xarthisius
cringed.
‘I will need
the exact date of birth of that person,’ he said. ‘If possible also the hour. Something
that belongs to that person would also help immensely.’
‘Hair,’ said
Emhyr silently. ‘Can it be hair?’
‘Ach!’
rejoiced the astrologer. ‘Hair! That will significantly help... If only
I had urine or excrements...’
He looked into
Emhyrs eyes and shut his mouth and fell on his knees.
‘I humbly beg
your Imperial Majesty for forgiveness...’ he choked. ‘Please... Of course hair
will be enough, Enough... Where will I find them?’
‘They will be
delivered to you today, with the date and hour of birth. Master, I don’t
intend to distract you more. Return to your tower and begin observing the
constelations.’
‘May the
Great Sun watch over Your Imperial...’
‘Good, good.
You are dismissed.’
Now it is our
turn, thought Kalous. What awaits us?
‘If any of
you,’ said the Emperor slowly ‘speaks even a word of what will be said
here, you will be drawn and quartered. Vattier!’
‘I am
listening, Your Majesty.’
‘How did
this... Infanta get here? Who took care of it?’
‘From the
fortress Nastrog,’ the leader of intelligence furrowed his brow. ‘She was
escorted by guards of your Majesty under the leadership...’
‘Thats not
what I am asking, plague on you. How did she appear in Nastrog, in Verden?
Who delivered her to the castle? Who commanded it? Who sent the report? Which
commander?’
‘Pitcairn
Godyvron,’ Vattier de Rideaus answered immediately. ‘He was of course, informed
of the task, that Rience and Count Cahir aep Caellach had. Three days after the
events on Thanedd Island, two people appeared in Nastrog. To be exact, one
human and one half-elf. They supposedly had orders from Rience and Count Cahir
and gave the child to commander Godyvron.’
‘Aha’ smiled
the Emperor, so that Kalous felt frost on his back. ‘Vilgefortz promised me he
would catch Cirilla on Thanedd. Rience assured me the same. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn
aep Ceallach had detailed orders. And look, three days after the incident on
that mage‘s island, they deliver Cirilla to Nastrog over the Yaruga. Not
Vilgefortz, not Rience nor Cahir, but a human and a half-elf. Godyvron, of
course did not think about imprisoning them?’
‘No. Should I
punish him for it, Your Majesty?’
‘No need.’
Kalous
swallowed his saliva. Emhyr was silent, rubbed his forehead, the giant diamond
in his ring shone like a star. The the Emperor lifted his head:
‘Vattier.’
‘Your
Majesty?’
‘Declare an
alert to all your men. I order the capture of Rience and Cahir.
I presume, both are hiding in areas that are not under the control of our
forces, possibly with the Scoia’tael or elves of Enid Findabair. Arrest both
and they are to be immediately brought to Darn Rauch and be passed to torture
and law.’
‘What should
we ask them, Your Majesty?’ Vattier narrowed his eyes, pretending not to notice
the sudden pallor of Seneschal Ceallach.
‘Nothing,
Later, once they soften up, I will interrogate them personally. Skellen!’
‘I‘m
listening.’
‘As soon as
that damn Xarthisius finds something out – of course if that bumbling idiot is
able to do what I ordered – then immediatelly organise a search for
a person in the location that the mage pinpoints. You will get the
description. It is possible, that the astrologer will mark a location
under our rule. In that case, make everyone at your disposal who lives in that
area – all civilian and military personel. This is a matter of absolute
priority. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. Can
I...’
‘No you cannot.
Sit and listen, Kalous. Xarthisius probably won’t find anything out. The
person, that we are looking for, is almost certainly in a foreign land and
under magical protection, I bet in the same place as our mysteriously
disappeared friend Vilgefortz of Roggeveen. Because of that, Skellen, you will
prepare and train a special squad, which you will lead. You will choose
the best people. They have to be prepared for anything – and they cannot be
superstitous. That means they must not fear magic.’
Kalous raised
his brows.
‘Your new
squad,’ finished Emhyr, ‘will be tasked to invade and capture the, for now
unknown, but surely perfectly hidden and guarded hideout of sorcerer
Vilgerfortz, our former friend and ally.’
‘I
understand,’ said Kalous calmly. ‘If I understand correctly, the person
that we are looking for, if we find in them in that hideout, not even
a hair can fall off the head.’
‘You
understand correctly.’
‘And Vilgefortz?’
‘His can,’ the Emperor smiled cruelly. ‘His
hair must fall – together with his head. That also applies to anyother
sorcerers who will be in his hideout. Without exception.’
‘I understand. Who will be tasked with
finding Vilgefortz‘s hideout?’
‘You,
Kalous.’
Stefan Skellen and Vattier de Rideaux
exchanged short glances. Emhyr comfortably leaned back in his seat.
‘Is everything clear? Then... What is the
matter Ceallach?’
‘Your Majesty...’ said the Seneschal
imploringly, who had not joined the converstaion until now. ‘I beg
for pardon...’
‘There is no
pardon for traitors. There is no mercy for those, who do not fulfill my will.’
‘Cahir... My
son...’
‘Your son,’
Emhyr narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t know yet, what your son caused. I want
to believe that his guilt is only because of his stupidity and incapability and
that its not conscious treason. If that is the truth, he will be beheaded, and
not crushed on the wheel.’
‘Your
Majesty! Cahir is no traitor... Cahir would not...’
‘Enough,
Ceallach, not a word more. The guilty will be punished! They tried to
deceive me and that is unforgivable. Vattier, Skellen, in an hour, you will
return here for my signed instructions, orders and powers of Attorney, then
immediately start carrying out your tasks. And one more thing: I don’t
have to, I hope, tell you that that girl, whom you saw in the throne room
today, must be regarded as Cirilla, Princess of Cintra, Infanta of Rowan.By
everyone. It is a national secret!
The present men all looked at the Emperor
with astonishment. Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd smiled
‘You don’t understand? Instead of the real
Cirilla of Cintra, they delivered me some imposter. Those traitors, probably
assumed I wouldn’t know her. But I know the true Ciri. I would
recognize her even at the end of the world and in the darkness of the
underworld!’
“The puzzling
thing about the unicorn is that, although extremely timid and fearful of
people, if it encounters a young maiden, who has not physically been with a man,
in intimacy, it will approach her, kneel, and without fear place its head in
her lap. It is said in past and ancient times that there were maidens who did
not have real dealings with them. For many years they went without marriage and
practiced chastity, so they could serve as decoys for unicorn hunters. Soon,
however it was learned that the unicorns would only approach maidens that were
young. Being a wise beast, the unicorn inevitably understood that those that
remained a virgin were suspicious and unnatural.”
Physiologus.
Chapter
Six
She was awakened by the heat. The heat
burned her skin like an executioners iron.
She could not move her head, something held
her back. She tugged and howled in pain, feeling the tears and splits from the
skin on her temple. She opened her eyes. The stone on which she rested her head
was brown from the dry clotted blood. She touched her temple; her fingers felt
a hard, cracked crust. Her scab had been attached to the stone, and now flowed
with blood from where she had pulled her head away. Ciri coughed and spat out
sand and long sticky saliva. She raised herself up on her elbows; she looked
around, then lay back down.
On all sides she was surrounded by a rocky
plain, a red-grey, cut by ravines and faults, with mounds of stones piled here
and there and huge boulders in bizarre shapes. On the plain, high above, the
hot sun hung huge, golden yellow in the sky which distorted the view completely
with it blinding glare which vibrated the air.
‘Where am I?’
She carefully touched the swollen wound on
her temple. It hurt. It hurt a lot. I must have hit a pretty large
rock, she thought. I must have taken a good tumble through the air.
Suddenly she noticed her clothes torn and ripped, and found new sources of pain
in her kidneys, back, arms and thighs. During the fall, sand and pebbles had
gotten everywhere: in her hair, ears, mouth, also in her eyes, which were
stinging and weeping. Her fingers and elbows burned where they had been
scrapped to the bone. Slowly and gently she straightened her legs and groaned
again, because her left knee answered with a sharp pain. She massaged the knee
through her leather pants, she saw no swelling. When trying to breathe she felt
an ominous stinging in her side, and when trying to bend her torso she almost
screamed, a strong spasm emanated from her lower back. Just bruised, she
thought. I don’t think I have broken anything. If I had a broken bone it
would hurt more. I’m only a little battered. I can stand. I can get up.
Gradually, with slow movements, she assumed
a kneeling position clumsily trying to protect her injured knee. She then got
on all fours, moaning, panting and groaning. Finally after what seemed like an
eternity, she stood up. Only to collapse immediately back to the stones, due to
a way of dizziness. Feeling a violent wave of nausea, she lay on her side. The
rocks burned like fiery red coals.
‘I can’t get up…’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t…
I’ll burn under this sun…’
Her head was throbbing a dull, terrible,
unstoppable throb. Every movement made the pain grow worse, so Ciri stopped
moving. She covered her head with her arms, but the heat soon became
unbearable. She realized she would have to escape it. Overcoming the pain in
her body, squinting from the pain in her temples, she crawled on all fours
towards a huge rock shaped by the wind to resemble a large mushroom, whose
shapeless hat gave a bit of shade at its base. She curled herself into a ball,
coughing and sniffing.
She lay there a long time, until the sun
wandered across the sky and caught up to her again pouring its fire down from
above. She shifted to the other side of the boulder, only to realize that it
did not make a difference. The sun was at its zenith, the mushroom stone gave
almost no shade. She pressed her hands to her temples which were bursting with
pain.
She was awakened by a shuddering across her
whole body. The fireball-like sun had lost its blinding glare. It was now
hanging low over the jagged toothed rocks, it was orange. The heat had receded
somewhat.
Ciri sat down with effort and looked
around. Her headache had eased and was no longer blinding. She massaged her
head and noticed that the heat had dried the wound on her temple, turning it
into a hard slippery crust. Still, her whole body hurt, she felt that she did
not have one healthy place on it. She cleared her throat, sand gritted between
her teeth. She tried to spit the sand out, to no avail. She leaned back against
the mushroom shaped boulder, still warm from the sun. It had finally stopped
scorching, she thought. Now when the sun goes down, it will no longer be
unbearable, and soon…
Soon night will fall.
She gave a shudder. Where the hell am I?
How do I get out of here? And which way? Where do I go? Would it be better to
stay here and hope they find me? After all they’ll search for me. Geralt.
Yennefer. They won’t abandon me…
Again and again she tried to spit but could
not. Then she understood.
Thirst.
She remembered. Even during her flight,
thirst had tormented her. She remembered that in the saddle of the horse she
mounted when fleeing to the Tower of Gulls was a wooden canteen. At the time
she had no time to untie and drink from it. And now the canteen was gone. There
was nothing. Nothing but scorched stones, the tightness that the wound to her
head caused her skin, the pain in her body and the dryness of her throat, which
was not possible to relieve by even swallowing salvia.
I cannot stay here. I
must find water. If I don’t find water I’m going to die.
She tried to get up, resting her hands on
the mushroom shaped stone. She rose slowly. She took a step. And with a yelp
collapsed and feel on her hands and knees again, her body spasmed in a dry
retch. A dizziness gripped her so strong that she was forced to lie on the
ground again.
I am powerless. And alone. Again. Everyone
has betrayed me, abandoned me, and left me alone. Just like before…
Ciri felt her throat constrict in an
invisible vice, her jaw ached and her cracked lips began to tremble. She
recalled the words of Yennefer. “There is nothing more disgusting that the
sight of a sorceress crying.” But no one can see me here... No one...
Curled up under the mushroom shaped stone,
Ciri sobbed, and started a dry, awful cry. Without tears.
When she tried to open her swollen eyelids,
they were reluctant to open, she realized that the heat had receded more, and
the sky was no longer orange but a cobalt blue dotted with thin strips of white
clouds. The disc of the red sun was lower than before, but it still poured heat
over the desert in waves. Or maybe the stones were radiating heat?
She sat down, noting that the pain in her
skull and her beaten body had ceased to bother her. At that moment, nothing
compared with the growing pit in her stomach and the terrible itching that
forced her to cough her throat raw.
I mustn’t surrender, she thought.
I cannot give up. Like in Kaer Morhen, I need to get up; I have to defeat,
overcome, and suppress this pain and weakness. I have to get up now and go. Now
at least I know in which direction to go. Where the sun is now in the west is
where I need to go. I have to find water and something to eat. I have to.
Otherwise I’ll perish. This is a desert. I flew to a desert. That thing I
entered in the Tower of Gulls, it was a magic portal, a device with which you
can move over long distances...
The portal in Tor Lara was a strange
portal. When she rushed to the last floor, there was nothing, not even windows,
just bare walls covered with fungus. And on one wall burned an irregular oval
filled with an opalescent glow. She had hesitated, but the portal had attracted
her, summoned her, even begged her. And there was no other way out, only the
brilliant oval. She had closed her eyes and stepped into it.
Then there was a blinding brightness and a
raging maelstrom, an explosion took her breath away crushing her ribs. She
remembered the flight in the silence, the cold and emptiness, then another
flash and the howling of the air. Above her blue, below a blurry greyness...
She dropped in flight, just as the sea
eagle drops the fish into the air when it is too heavy for it. When she hit the
stones, she’d lost consciousness. She was not sure for how long.
I have read in the temple about portals, she recalled,
shaking the sand from her hair. In the books it mentioned teleporters were
warped and chaotic, leading to nowhere to hurling people into unknown places.
Surely the portal in the Tower of Gulls was one of these. I’ve been thrown to
the end of the world No one knows where I am. No one is going to look for me.
If I stay here I die.
She stood up. Mobilizing all her strength
and relying on the rock, she took a step. Then a second. Then a third.
Those first steps made her realize that her
right boot buckles were broken and the drooping buckle prevented her from
walking. She sat down, this time voluntarily, without falling and did a review
of her clothing and equipment.
The first thing she discovered was her
sword. She had forgotten about it as the scabbard had slipped back. On her
belt, next to the sword, as always, was a small purse. A gift from Yennefer.
Containing “what a lady should always have with her.” Ciri untied the knot
holding it closed. Unfortunately the standard equipment of a lady did not
reflect the situation in which she found herself now. The purse contained a
tortoiseshell comb, a nail-file, and a package wrapped in linen that contained
a jade pot of hand lotion. Ciri, immediately began to pour the cream onto her
face and parched lips, and immediately licked her hungry lips of the ointment.
Without thinking she licked clean the entire jar, enjoying the soothing touch
of the fat and moisture. The chamomile, amber and camphor that were used to
flavour the cream tasted disgusting, but acted as a stimulant.
She tied the broken buckle of her boot with
a strip torn from her sleeve, got up and took a few steps to try it out. She
tore off some more and made a bandage that protected her temple and battered
sunburned forehead.
She got up, straightened her belt and
shifted her sword around on her hips; instinctively she drew it from the
scabbard, and ran her thumb down the blade. It was sharp. She already knew it.
I have a weapon, she thought. I’m a
witcher. No, I will not die here. As for hunger, I’ve endured fasting for two
days in the temple of Melitele. And water... I have to find water. I’ll walk
until I find some. This ploughing desert has to stop somewhere, if it is a big
desert I would have noticed it in the maps I studied with Jarre. Jarre.. I
wonder what he is doing now...
I’m decided. I’m going west, I’ll see
where the sun sets, it’s the only safe location. At the end of the day, I never
err; I always know which way to go. If need be, I’ll walk all night. I’m a
witcher. As soon as my strength returns, I will run the Trail. Then I will soon
get to the edge of the desert. I will endure. I must endure... Ha, I’m sure
Geralt has been in more than one desert like this, who knows maybe he has been
in others that are even worse...
I’m going.
The scenery did not change during the first
hour of her march. All around there was nothing but grey-red rocks, sharp,
which made her legs slip, forcing her to be cautious. A few shrubs, dry and
thorny with their twisted stems spread towards her from cracks in the ground.
When she first encountered the shrubs, Ciri stopped thinking that it would be
possible to find some leaves or a young branch that she could suck or chew. But
the bush had nothing but thorns that pricked her fingers. It did not serve to
even make a cane. The second and third bush were exactly alike, she ignored
them, passing without stopping.
Night fell quickly. The sun set over the
broken teeth of the horizon, the sky glowed red and purple. With the sunset
came the cold. At first she welcomed it with joy, as it relieved her burned
skin. However, it soon became even colder, and Ciri’s teeth began to chatter.
She quickened her pace, hoping that it would warm her up, but the effort again
awoke the pain in her knee. She started to limp. The downside of the sun
sinking completely below the horizon was the immediate darkness that followed.
There was a new moon and the stars that dotted the sky did not help. Soon, Ciri
could no longer see the road ahead. A few time she stumbled, painfully scraping
the skin on her wrists. Twice her foot slipped into a crack in the rock and she
only escaped a broken ankle thanks to her training as a witcher which helped
against falls. The march in the dark was impossible.
She sat down on a flat block of basalt,
feeling a paralyzing despair wash over her. She had no idea whether the
direction she walked was the same as where the sun disappeared behind the
horizon. She had completely lost sight of the glow, which had guided her
through the first hours after sunset. All around her was only velvety,
impenetrable blackness. And a piercing cold. Cold, which paralysed, biting the
joints, which forced her to shrink and put her head between her arms that ached
because of the awkward position. Ciri began to miss the sun, but knew that its
return would come crashing onto the rocks making them glow, which she would not
be able to endure. In which she would not be able to continue the march. Again
her throat felt gripped with the desire to weep, and embrace the wave of
despair and hopelessness. But this time despair and hopelessness turned into
rage.
‘I will not cry!’ She shouted at the
darkness. ‘I am a witcher I am a...’
Sorceress.
Ciri raised her arm, pressed her hand
against her temple. The Force is everywhere. In the water, in the air, on the
land...
She rose quickly, reached out slowly,
taking a few uncertain steps, searching feverishly for the source. She was
lucky. Almost immediately she felt a familiar buzzing in her ears, felt the energy
pulsing in a vein of water hidden in the depths of the earth. She drew upon the
Force carefully as she knew she was weak and in this state a sudden
de-oxygenation of the brain could send her spiralling into unconsciousness,
making the whole attempt futile. The energy slowly started to fill her; it gave
her a familiar sense of euphoria. Her lungs started to work stronger and
faster. Ciri controlled her accelerated breathing; too much oxygenation could
also have fatal consequences.
She succeeded.
First
tiredness,
she thought, then this crippling pain in my arms and thighs. Then the cold.
I have to raise my body temperature…
Slowly she recalled the gestures and
spells. Some of them she performed and spoke to quickly – suddenly she was
gripped by cramps and convulsions, violent spasms and light headedness that
bent her knees. She dropped to the basalt and calmed her shaking hands,
controlled her quick, arhythmic breathing.
She repeated the formula, forcing herself
to calmness and precision, to focus and unify her entire will. And this time
the results were immediate. An enveloping warmth caressed her thighs and neck.
She stood up, feeling the fatigue disappear, and her sore muscles relax.
‘I am a sorceress!’ she shouted
triumphantly, raising her hand high. ‘Come, Light immortal! I summon you! Aen’drean
va, eveigh Aine!’
A small globe of light appeared and hovered
just above her hand. It was the size of a butterfly and the light it produced
threw a dynamic patchwork of shadows onto the rocks. She slowly moved her hand,
steading the globe, placing it so that it hung in the air in front of her. It
was not a good idea. The light blinded her. She tried to put the globe behind
her back, but this also produced a bad result, her shadow covered the road,
deteriorating visibility. Ciri slowly moved the globe of light to one side and
hung it a little above her right arm. Although the globe would never match that
of a truly magical Aine, the girl was extremely proud of her achievement.
‘Ha!’ She said, elated. ‘It’s a shame that
Yennefer could not see this!’
She continued walking, cheerfully and
energetically, walking quickly and confidently, selecting the path in the
flickering and uncertain light and shadows cast by the globe. As she walked,
she tried to remember the other spells, but none seemed right or usefully in
this situation, moreover, some were very exhausting and she was a little afraid
of them and would not use them unless necessary. Unfortunately she didn’t know
any that would be able to create food or water. She knew they existed but did
not know them.
In the light of the magical sphere, the
desert, which seemed dead until then, came to life. Trying to escape from under
her feet where a bright array of beetles and hairy spiders. A small yellow and
red scorpion, dragging behind it its segmented tail ran across her path,
swiftly disappearing through a crack between the rocks. A green long-tailed
lizard disappeared into the darkness, making the sand crackle. There followed
in its wake a large rodent like creature, which leaped nimbly and very high on
its hind legs. She could make out several times in the dark, bright eyes and
once she heard a hissing sound coming from a rocky outcrop that froze the blood
in her veins. At first she intended to catch something that she could eat, once
she heard the hissing the desire to wander among the rocks was gone. She began
to look more carefully where she was putting her feet and images of books she
had read at Kaer Morhen swam before her eyes. A giant scorpion. The scarletia.
The vicht. The lamia. Creatures that lived in deserts. She walked, looking
fearfully around; her ears remained alert while her sweaty hand clutched the
hilt of her sword.
A few hours later, the globe of light had
grown weaker. The circle of light emanating from the globe grew smaller,
darkened and blurred. Ciri concentrated with difficulty and again uttered the
spell. The globe burned bright again for a few moments, but then darkened and
shrunk again. The effort staggered her, black and red spots danced before her
eyes. She sat down heavily, grinding gravel and loose stones.
The globe of light went out completely.
Ciri no longer attempted any spells, the exhaustion, emptiness and lack of
energy she felt within herself predicted the failure of the attempt.
Before her, on the horizon, a vague glow was
rising. I’ve taken a wrong turn, she thought with horror. I’ve been
walking in circles… At first I was going west, now the sun will rise directly
in from of me… That means…
She felt an overwhelming fatigue and
drowsiness that could not be dispelled by the fright or the cold that made her
shiver. I will not sleep, she decided. I must not… I must…
She was awakened by a penetrating cold,
the growing brightness, a stomach pain that twisted her bowls and the dry
itching in her throat. She tried to get up but could not. Her sore and cramped
limbs refused to obey. Groping her hands around, she felt wetness on her
fingers.
‘Water…’ she croaked. ‘Water!’
Trembling all over, she rose on all fours
and put her lips to the basalt plate and feverishly poked out her tongue to
collect the droplets of water that were running down the smooth surface of the
rock, collection in the clefts. One such cleft held about an inch of water. She
drank it down with the sand and gravel, not daring to spit. She looked around.
Carefully, so not to miss a drop, she
licked up droplets from a thorny shrub that had somehow managed to grow among
the rocks. Her sword lay on the ground. She could not remember drawing it from
its sheath. The blade was thick with a layer of dew. Carefully and thoroughly
she licked the cool metal.
Mastering the pain that numbed her body,
she crawled forward on all fours, in pursuit of moisture on other stones. But
the gold disc of the sun, rising above the rocky horizon, flooded the desert with
blinding golden light and the rocks dried up within minutes. Ciri welcomed the
rising heat, however she was aware of the fact that soon she would be
mercilessly roast and she’d miss the cold night.
She turned her back to the bright sphere.
It shone in the east. And she had to go west. She had to.
The heat grew and intensified rapidly and
soon it became unbearable. As noon approached it became clear that like it or
not, she’d have to change direction and seek some shade. She finally found a
refuge, a large rock resembling a mushroom. She crawled beneath it.
And then see saw an object lying among the
rocks. I was a small jade pot of hand cream, licked clean.
She found within herself enough strength to
cry.
***
Hunger and thirst overcame her weariness
and resignation. She undertook a staggering march. The sun was burning.
Far away on the horizon, through a
shimmering curtain of heat, she was something that could only be a mountain
range. A very distant mountain range.
As night fell, with enormous difficulty she
drew upon the Force, but only managed to create a magical globe of light after
several attempts and it exhausted her so she could not go on. She had lost all
energy, her warming and relaxing spells had failed her, despite many attempts.
The conjured light gave her courage and lifted her spirits, but the cold
extinguished it. The piercing cold gripped her and made her shudder until dawn.
She trembled, waiting patiently for the sunrise. She pulled her sword from it
sheath, placing it carefully on a stone so the metal could collect the morning
dew. She was terribly tired but hunger and thirst keep sleep at bay. She lasted
until dawn. It was still dark when she began to hungrily lick the dew from the
sword’s blade. When day broke, she immediately threw herself on all fours to
look for moisture in the hollows and crevices.
She heard a hiss.
A large colourful lizard was sitting on a
nearby block of rock, revealing a toothless mouth, its impressive crest swelled
and it hit the rock with its tail. In front of the lizard was a tiny fissure
filled with water.
At first, Ciri backed away scared but
immediately became overwhelmed by a wild and desperate rage. Groping around
with her trembling hands, she grabbed a sharp piece of rock.
‘That’s my water!’ She cried. “Mine!’
She threw the stone. It missed. The lizard
sprang onto the long nimble claws on its feet and scurried away into the maze
of rocks. Ciri threw herself down flat on the stone, and drank the remains of
the water from the fissure. It was then she saw it.
Behind the stone in a round nest, lay seven
eggs partially protruding from the red sand. She did not hesitate for a moment.
She approached the nest on her knees, grabbed one of the eggs and fixed her
teeth in it. The leathery shell burst
and a sticky ooze ran down her hands and flowed into her sleeve. Ciri sucked on
the egg and licked her hand. She swallowed with difficulty and did not notice
the taste.
She sipped the eggs and remained down on
her hands and knees, sticky, dirty, covered in sand with gluten hanging from
her teeth, frantically digging in the sand and uttering inhuman, weeping
sounds. She froze.
“Straighten up, Princess! Do not put your
elbows on the table! Be careful when you reach for the plate, or you’ll dirty
the lace on your sleeves! Wipe your mouth with a napkin and stop smacking your
lips! By the gods, has no one taught you, child how to behave at a table?
Cirilla!”
Ciri began to cry, her head resting on her
knees.
***
She lasted until noon, and then the heat of
the day forced her to rest. She slept for a long time, hidden in the shadow of
an overhanging rock. The shadow was not
cold, but it was better than the burning sun. Thirst and hunger drove away
sleep.
The distant mountain range seemed to be on
fire with the shining sunlight. At the top of those mountains, she
thought, there could be snow, there could be ice, and there could be
streams. I have to get there. I have to get there quickly.
She walked for almost the whole night. She
decided to follow the stars. The whole sky was covered in stars. Ciri regretted
not having paid attention in lessons and not wanting to study the atlas of the
sky in the Temple library. She knew, of course, the most important
constellations: The Seven Goats, the Vase, the Serpent, the Dragon and the Lady
of Winter, but they were too high in the sky and it was difficult to rely on
them during the march.
She managed to finally choose from a bright
star, which indicated in her opinion, the right direction. She didn’t know what
the star was called, so she gave it a name.
She called it the Eye.
***
She walked. The mountain range which was
her target was not one bit closer; it was still as far away as it was the
previous day. But it showed the way.
As she walked, she looked around intently.
She found another lizard’s nest with four eggs in it. She spotted a green
plant, which was no longer than her little finger, which somehow managed to
grow between the boulders. She tracked down a large brown beetle. And a thin
legged spider.
She ate everything.
***
At noon she threw up what she ate, and then
fainted. When she awoke, she looked for a bit of shadow to curl up in,
clutching her hands to her aching stomach.
At sunset, she began to march again.
Stiffly, like an automaton. Several times she fell but got up again and walked
on.
She walked. She had to go on.
***
Evening. Rest. Night. The Eye leads the
way. March until complete exhaustion, which arrived well before sunrise. Rest.
A little sleep. Hunger. Cold. There were no magical sources, failure to conjure
heat and light. Only the intense desire to lick the dew in the morning from the
sword blade and the stones.
When the sun rose, she fell asleep in the
growing heat. She was awakened by a searing heat. She got up and kept going.
She fainted after less than an hour’s walk.
When she came back to her senses, the sun was at its zenith, beating down. She
did not have the strength to seek shade. She had no strength to stand. But she got up.
She walked. She did not give up. For almost
the entire day and part of the night.
***
Once again during the hottest part of the
day she slept, curled up under an overhanging boulder stuck in the sand. The
sleep was light and tormenting. She dreamed of water, water that she could
drink. A large white waterfall, surrounded by mist and rainbows. A babbling brook.
A small spring in the woods, obscured by ferns submerged in the water.
Fragrant, wet marble palace fountains. Mossy wells and tubs overflowing… Drops
dripping from melting icicles… Water. Cold, crisp water that makes her teeth
hurt, but it tastes wonderful and unforgettable…
She awoke and jumped to her feet and began
to walk in the direction from which it came. Again, stumbling and falling. She
had to get back! She had walked past the water! She had left behind a steam
gurgling among the rocks! How could she have been so stupid!
She came to her senses.
The heat abated, approaching evening. The
sun pointed to the west. To the mountains. The sun had no right to be right
behind her. Ciri expelled her delusions and stopped her crying. She turned and
walked on.
***
She walked all night, but very slowly. She
did not get far. She dozed off on the march, dreaming of water. The rising sun
found her sitting on a stone block, staring at her sword blade and bare
forearm.
Blood is liquid. You can drink it.
She expelled the delusions and nightmares.
Licked the dewy sword blade and continued walking.
***
She fainted again. When she came to her
senses, she was lying on hot stones, burning in the sun.
Before her, through the quivering curtain
of heat, she was the jagged toothed chain of mountains.
Closer. Much closer.
However she had no strength left. She sat
down.
The sword in her hand reflected the burning
sun. It was sharp. She knew it.
‘Why are you tormenting yourself?’ asked
the serious and calm voice of the pedantic sorceress called Tissaia de Vries.
“Why prolong the suffering? Finally be done with it!’
‘No. I will not surrender.’
‘You do not understand. Do you know how you
die of thirst? At any time you will become mad and then it will be too late.
Then you will no longer know how to finish it.’
‘No. I will not surrender. I will endure.’
She put her sword back into its sheath.
Rose, staggered, fell. She rose once more, staggered and began to walk.
Above her, high in the yellow sky, she saw
a vulture.
***
When she regained consciousness, she did not
remember when she fell. She could not remember how long she had been lying
there. She looked up. Two other vultures had joined the other one circling
around in the sky. She did not have
enough strength to get up.
She realized that this was the end. She
accepted this calmly. Even with relief,
***
Something touched her.
Something lightly and carefully touched her
arm. After a long period of solitude, where only dead and motionless stones had
surrounded her, the contact caused, despite her exhaustion, her to suddenly
jump up, or at least try to jump up. The thing that had touched her backed
away, making a loud stamping.
With an effort, Ciri sat back down, rubbing
her bleary eyes with her fingers.
I’ve gone mad, she thought.
A few paces in front of her stood a horse.
She blinked. It was not an illusion. It was a real horse. A little horse. A
young horse, almost a foal.
She regained control of herself. She licked
her cracked lips and cleared her throat involuntary. The little horse scampered
back, grinding gravel beneath its hooves. It moved very strangely and its coat
was an unusual colour, a bay or grey. But perhaps it only seemed so because it
stood against the sun.
The little horse snorted and took a few
steps towards her. Now she could see it better. So much so that in addition to
the unusual colour, she also saw other strange anomalies on its body: a small
head, the unusual slenderness of its neck, thin hocks and a long rich tail. The
horse stopped and looked at her, turning its head in profile. Ciri sighed
silently.
From the sloping forehead of the horse
protruded a horn at least two spans long.
Impossible. Impossible, thought
Ciri, regaining consciousness and collecting her thoughts. Unicorns do not
exist on this world, they have become extinct! Even in the books at the
witcher’s keep – Kaer Morhen there are no unicorns! I only read about them in
books about myths at the Temple… Oh, and in the book Physiologus which I read in the bank of Mr
Giancardi there was an illustration of a unicorn… But the unicorn in the
illustration looked more like a goat than a horse, it had a hairy goatee and
its horns, I think, were about two cubits…
She was surprised that she remembered those events; they felt like they
had happened a hundred years ago. Her head suddenly started to spin and her
bowels twisted in pain. She moaned and curled into a ball. The unicorn snorted
and stepped towards her then stopped and raised its head high. Ciri suddenly
recalled what the book had said about unicorns.
‘Feel free to approach…’ Ciri croaked, trying to sit down again. ‘You
can, because I’m…’
The unicorn snorted, moved back and galloped away, waving it’s sharply.
But after a moment it stopped, shook its head, pawed at the ground with its
hooves and whinnied loudly.
‘Not true!’ Ciri cried, sobbing. ‘Jarre just gave me a kiss and that
doesn’t count! Come back!’
The effort obscured her sight and she feel lifelessly onto the stone.
When at last she lifted her head, the unicorn was again standing close by. He
looked at her inquiringly, bowed his head and snorted softly.
‘Don’t be afraid of me…’ she whispered. ‘You don’t have to be, because…
Because after all, I’m dying…’
The unicorn whinnied, shaking its head. Ciri fainted.
***
When she awoke she was alone. Sore, stiff,
thirsty, hungry and alone as a thumb. The unicorn had been a mirage, an
illusion, a dream. And it had vanished just like a dream disappears. She
understood it, accepted it, and yet she was filled with sorrow and despair, as
if the creature really existed, had been with her and then abandoned her. Just
like everyone abandoned her.
She wanted to get up but could not. She
rested her face on the rocks. Gradually she moved her hand to her side,
fondling the hilt of her sword.
Blood is liquid. I have to drink.
She heard a pounding of hooves and a
whinny.
‘You came back…’ she whispered, lifting her
head. ‘You really came back?’
The unicorn gave a loud whinny. She saw its
hooves close beside her. The hooves were wet. Dripping with water.
***
Hope
gave her strength and filled her with euphoria. The unicorn lead the way and
Ciri walked behind it, still not sure whether this was a dream or not. However,
exhaustion eventually overcame her and she got down onto her hands and knees.
Then she crawled.
The unicorns lead her between the rocks to
a shallow ravine, whose bottom was covered in sand. With her remaining
strength, Ciri crawled. She crawled. Because the sand was wet.
The unicorn stood before a recess in the
sand, snorted and scratched with its hooves, once, twice, three times. She
understood. Ciri crawled closer to help it. She dug, breaking fingernails,
clawing the sand aside. She sobbed while she dug, but she was unsure why. At
the bottom of the recess a muddy liquid appeared, she immediately put her lips
to it and swallowed the murky water along with the sand, so eagerly that the
liquid disappeared. With great effort Ciri controlled herself and continued to
deepen the hole with the help of her sword, then sat and waited. Grinding the
sand that was between her teeth and trembling with impatience, but she waited
until the recess was filled with water again. And then she drank. For a long
time.
On the third occasion she allowed the water
stand for a bit then drank four swallows without sand or silt. Then she
remembered the unicorn.
‘Surely you’re thirsty to horse.’ She said.
‘But you won’t drink mud. No horse drinks mud.’
The unicorn snorted.
Ciri deepened the hole further, reinforcing
its edges with rocks.
‘Wait, horse. Rest for a bit…’
“Little Horse” snorted and kicked and
turned its head.
‘Don’t look sideways at it. Drink.’
The unicorn approached the water with
caution.
‘Drink, Little Horse. It is not a dream.
It’s real water.’
***
Ciri, at first was reluctant to move away
from the spring. She had just invented a new way of drinking involving
squeezing a soaked handkerchief into her mouth, allowing her to remove a large
amount of the sand and silt. But the unicorn neighed and stamped its hooves
insistent that they leave, showing her the path again. Ciri, after thinking it
over, obeyed thinking the animal was correct, she had to keep walking, walking
towards the mountains and out of the desert. She went after the unicorn, first
looking around and etching in her mind the location of the spring. She did not
want to miss it if she had to come back here.
They walked all day. The unicorn, which she
had named Little Horse, lead the way. It was a strange horse. Biting and
chewing weeds that a normal horse would not touch not even the hungriest of
goats. And when he discovered a column of ants walking on a rock, he began to
eat them. Ciri at first regarded him with astonishment, then joined in the feast.
She was hungry.
The ants were terribly acidic and they made
her want to avoid vomit. There were a lot of ants and she could exercise some
control. The unicorn ate a lot of the ants until he’s stomach was content,
spitting out the touch chitinous shell fragments.
They walked on. The unicorn found yellowing
patches of thistles and ate them with gusto. The time Ciri did not join him.
But when Little Horse found another batch of lizard eggs in the sand, she ate
them all while he watched. Sometime later, Little Horse called her attention to
a large black scorpion with a tail at least half an inch long. Ciri crushed it
with her boot. Seeing that she was not going to eat the scorpion, the unicorn
ate it himself, and soon after he pointed out another lizards nest.
It turned out to be quite a tolerable
collaboration.
***
They kept walking.
The mountain range was getting closer.
When night fell, the unicorn stopped. He
fell asleep standing up. Ciri who knew horses, initially try to force him to
lie down, so she could try and sleep on him and take advantage of his heat. But
it was no good. Little Horse glanced at her and walked away, maintaining a
constant distance. They did not behave this way in the classical way, or as
they were described in the books of scholars. Apparently he had not the
slightest intention of putting his head in her lap. Ciri was full of doubt. She
did not disregard the accounts in the books about unicorns and virgins, but
there was also another possibility. The unicorn was clearly a unicorn foal,
maybe as a young beast; he had no damn idea that she was a virgin. She
dismissed the possibility that Little Horse was able to perceive and take
seriously those strange dreams she had dreamed. Who could take those dreams
seriously?
***
The unicorn disappointed her a little. They
had walked for two days and two nights, and although they were looking they
found no more water. Several times he stopped, shook his head and waved his
horn, then trotted through a rocky ravine which he scraped in the sand with his
hooves. He found ants and ant eggs and larvae. He found lizards nest. He found
a colored snake, which he skilfully stamped to death. But he found no water.
Ciri realized that the unicorn plainly did
not hold to a straight line of march. She had a reasonable suspicion that he
did not live in the desert. He was simply lost. Just like her.
***
The ants, which began to be found in
abundance, contained an acidic moisture, but Ciri began thinking more and more
seriously about returning to the spring. If they went much further and didn’t
find any water, she would not have enough strength to return. The heat was
still terrible, draining them while they walked.
She already had intentions to start explain
this to Little Horse, when suddenly he gave a shrill whinny, waved his tail and
galloped down between some jagged rocks. Ciri quickly followed, as she ate
ants.
A large space between the rocks was covered
with a layer of sand and in its center was a clear recess.
‘Ha!’ Ciri cheered. ‘You’re a very smart
horse, Little Horse. You found another spring. There must be water down there!’
The unicorn snorted sharply and trotted
around the cleft. Ciri approached. The cleft was large, at least twenty feet in
diameter. It was a precise and neat circle, resembling a funnel; it was so
regular that it looked as if someone had left a giant egg in the sand. Ciri
suddenly realized that a regular shape such as this could not have been created
by itself.
But it was too late.
Something moved in the crater and a violent
storm erupted flinging sand and gravel into Ciri’s face. She jumped back, fell
and saw that she was going down.
A shooting fountain of gravel that had hit
her also hit the edges of the crater and the waves started to drag her
downwards. She screamed and started waving her arms like a swimmer, trying
unsuccessfully to find support for her feet. She immediately realized that
thrashing around only worsened the situation, force the sand to collapse
faster. She rolled onto her back and spread out her hands and feet. The sand at
the bottom of the crater started to move and ripple, there emerging from the
sand were bronze colored pincers, more than half a fathom long ending in hooks.
She screamed again, this time much louder.
The storm of gravel that was showering
suddenly ceased. On the opposite side of the crate the unicorn was supported by
only its hind legs, he neighed like a demon, as the edge of the cleft started
to sink under his hooves. He tried to break free of the sand, but was in vain.
He sank in more and more rapidly, slipping towards the bottom. The horrible
claws snapped sharply. The unicorn snorted desperately, flailing, striking the
crumbling sand impotently with his front hooves. His hind legs where completely
trapped. When he slid to the very bottom of the crater, the monster hiding in
the sand snapped it horrible claws.
Hearing a wild shriek of pain, Ciri
screamed wildly and threw herself down into the crater, drawing her sword from
its sheath. Once she reached the bottom, she realized she had made a mistake.
The monster was hiding deep in the sand, where the sword could not reach. To
make matters worse, the unicorn held by the monstrous claw was being dragged
into the sand trap, the pain was making him go crazy screaming and striking
blindly with his front legs, which threatened to break her bones.
Her
witcher training and tricks were worth nothing down here. But there was a fairly simple spell. Ciri
conjured Force and launched a telekinetic blow.
A cloud of dirt flew into the air,
revealing the hidden monster that had grasped the leg of the unicorn. Ciri
screamed in horror. She had never seen anything so disgusting in any
illustration in the books of the Witchers.
She could not even image something so awful.
The monster was a dirty gray, dull and
squat like a bug sated on blood, sparse bristles covered the narrow segments of
its barrel-shaped body. It seemed that it had no legs at all; instead it had
claws which were almost as large as she was.
Deprives of sandy cover the creature let go
of the unicorn and immediately began to burrow with fast, jerky movements of
its huge body. It did this with extraordinary skill and the unicorn, trying to
escape the crater, helped by pushing down waves of sand. Ciri was seized by
rage and a lust for revenge. She threw herself on the now barely visible
abomination and thrust her sword into its back. She attacked from behind,
cautiously keeping away from the snapping pincers of the monster, as it turned
out it was able to reach pretty far back. She struck again, but the creature
burrowed at an amazing pace. But it did not bury itself in the sand to escape.
It did it in order to attack. He had no more than two more seizures before he
was hidden from them again. Once hidden, it launched a wave of gravel at Ciri
which buried her to mid-thigh. She struggled and tried to step back, but there
was nowhere to flee to, it had turned into a crater of quicksand, every
movement dragged the closer to the bottom. The sand bottom stirred and formed a
wave directed at her, a wave that contained snapping claws, ending in sharp
hooks.
Little Horse saved her. Charging to the
crater floor, striking his hooves on an area of sand that was bulging, which
betrayed the hiding place of the monster. His wild kicks revealed a gray back.
The unicorn lowered his head and stuck his horn into the monster, into the
joint of the torso, where the claws couldn’t reach. Seeing the pincers of the
monster hit the ground helplessly clawing at the sand, Ciri jumped and using
the momentum drove her sword into its body. She pulled it out and struck again.
And again. The unicorn pulled his horn free and put his hooves onto the
barrel-shaped body.
The monster did not try to bury itself
anymore. It was not moving at all. The sand surrounding it was wet with a
greenish fluid.
With difficulty, Ciri climbed out of the
crater. Ciri took a few steps, and then fell limply onto the sand, panting and
shivering as waves of adrenaline pounded in her temples and throat. The unicorn
walked around her. He stepped awkwardly; a wound in his thigh was pouring
blood, flowing down his leg in sheets, leaving red stains on the sand. Ciri got
up on her hands and knees and vomited violently. After a while she got up and
stumbled towards the unicorn, but Little Horse would not let her touch him. He
moved ran further away, after which he threw himself on the sand and rolled
around. He then cleaned his horn by stabbing it several times into the sand.
Ciri also cleaned and wiped the blade of
her sword, looking uneasily from time to time at the nearby crater. The unicorn
stood up, whinnied and approached her at a walk.
‘I’d like to examine your wound, Little
Horse.’ Little Horse whinnied and shook his horned head.
‘If not, no. If you can walk, we’d better
go. We had better not stay here.’
***
Soon they came across a large sandy shoal
dotted with craters, which reached to the edge of the rocks around it. Ciri
looked at in apprehension – some of the craters were twice as large as the one
which not long ago they had been fighting for their lives in.
They dared not cross the shoal dodging
crater. Ciri was convinced that the craters were traps for unsuspecting victims
and that monsters were hidden beneath lying in wait with their large claws
waiting for victims to fall in. By taking care and keeping away from the pits,
the sandy terrain could cross the without fear that any of the monster would
leave the pits and pursue them. She was sure that there was no risk, but she wished
to avoid testing her theory. The unicorn was of the same opinion; he snorted,
whinnied and ran around about then away from the shoals of sand. They decided
on a lengthy path around the dangerous territory, remaining on the firm and
rocky terrain, in which none of the beasts would be able to bury itself.
As they walked, Ciri did not take her eyes
off of the craters. Sometimes she saw the deadly traps firing jets of sand into
the air – the monsters deepening and renewing their burrows. Some craters were
so close to each other that the gravel thrown by one monster fell into the
other holes, alarming the creatures hidden at the bottom, which then began a
terrible cannonade and for a few minutes the sand rained and whistled around
like hail.
Ciri wandered what the sand monsters hunted
in the dry and lifeless desert. The answer came a moment later. From one of the
holes closest to her a dark object flew in a wide arc and fell not far from
them. After a moment’s hesitation, Ciri ran from the rocks onto the sand. The
object that had flown from the crater was a dead rodent that resembled a
rabbit. At least the fur did. It was a shrunken corpse, hard and dry as chips,
light and empty as a bladder. Not a single drop of blood remained in it. Ciri
shuddered. Know she knew what the monsters hunted and how they fed.
The unicorn gave a warning snort. Ciri
raised her head. In their vicinity there was no crater, the sand was even and
smooth. But suddenly, before her eyes, the smooth sand began to swell into a lump
and started moving in their direction. She left the dry little body of the
rodent and jumped back up to the rocks.
The decision to avoid the shoal had proved
to be the correct one.
They walked on, avoiding even the smallest
patches of sand, stepping only on solid ground.
The unicorn was walking slowly, stumbling.
Blood was gushing from his injured thigh. But he would still not allow Ciri to
approach and examine the wound.
***
The shoal narrowed considerably and began
to meander. Fine and loose sand gave way to gravel and heavy boulders. Since
they no longer saw craters, they decided to walk along the path indicated by
the sandbank. Ciri although again tortured by hunger and thirst, began to move
faster. There was hope. The rocky shoal was not a shoal. It was the bed of a
river flowing towards the mountains. The river was dry, but it would lead to
the source, the water was too weak and inefficient to fill the trough, but
there would probably be enough to drink.
She walked faster, but had to slow her
pace. The unicorn had slowed down. He trotted along with visible effort,
stumbled, entangling his legs. When evening came, he lay down. He didn’t stand
up when she approached him. He allowed her to examine the wound.
There were two wounds on both sides of the
thigh, swollen and hot. Both wounds were bleeding, along with the blood a
sticky smelly pus flowed.
The monster had been poisonous.
***
The next day was even worse. The unicorn
could hardly walk. In the afternoon he lay down on some rocks and refused to
rise. When Ciri knelt before him and touched his wounded thigh, he whinnied. In
that whinny was pain.
The pus flowed more strongly now, the
stench was sickening. Ciri drew her sword. The unicorn with a shrill bleat,
tried to rise but fell to his haunches on the stone.
‘I don’t know what to do…’ Ciri sobbed,
looking at the blade. ‘I don’t know… I probably have to cut the wound to remove
the pus and poison… But I don’t know! I could cause you more harm!’
The unicorn tried to lift his head and
whinnied. Ciri sat on the rocks holding his head in her hands.
‘I haven’t been taught how to heal,” she
said bitterly, ‘they taught me to kill, saying that this was the way to save
lives. It was a big lie, Little Horse. A Lie.’
Night fell quickly. The unicorn is dying,
Ciri thought feverishly. She went and collected thistles and stalks that grew
in abundance on the banks of the dry river bed, but Little Horse would not eat.
He put his head on the rocks and did not attempt to lift it. Only blinking.
From his nose foam started to appear.
‘I can’t help you, Little Horse’ Ciri said
her voice choked. ‘I do not have anything…’
Except for magic.
I am a sorceress.
She rose, extending her hand. And nothing.
She needed a lot of magical energy, and there was no trace. She was surprise,
she had not expected this. After all, water veins are everywhere she took a few
steps in one direction, then in another. She began to walk in a wide circle.
She made a full rotation.
Nothing.
‘Cursed desert!’ she shouted, clenching her
fist. ‘There is nothing in you! No water, no magic! They said that magic is
everywhere! That was a lie too! They have all lied, everyone!’
The unicorn snorted.
The magic is everywhere. In the water, on
land, air…
And in the fire.
Ciri smacked her fist to her forehead in
rage. Up until now there had been nothing but bare stones which would not burn.
But now she had dry thistles and stalks at hand, and with what little energy
she had left within herself she could manage a little spark…
She gathered more sticks and placed them in
a pile then covered them with dry thistles. She cautiously raised her hand.
‘Aenye!’
The little pile flared, and a flame flicked
and sprang up, it reached towards the leaves and devoured them shooting higher.
Ciri added more stalks.
‘Now what,’ she thought aloud, watching the
flames come alive. ‘How do I draw energy from it?’
Yennefer forbade me to touch the energy
of fire… But I have no choice! No time! I have to act now The stalks and leaves
will soon burn… The fire will go out… Fire… It is beautiful, and warm…
She did not know when or how it happened.
She was watching the flames and suddenly felt a throbbing in her temples. She
clutched her chest, she felt like her ribs would explode. A pain echoed in her
lower abdomen, crotch and nipples, pain the momentarily transformed into a
terrifying pleasure. She stood up. No, not stood up. She flew.
The Force filled her like molten lead.
Stars danced in the sky as if reflected off the surface of a pond. The Eye
burned in the west, and exploded in brightness. She took the brightness, and
with it power.
‘Hael, Aenye!’
The unicorn whinnied wildly and tried to
stand, leaning on its front legs. Ciri’s arm lifted by itself, her hand moved
by itself in a magical gesture, her lips shouted an incan’tation.
From her fingers came a rippling bright
light. The flames of the fire raged.
The light waves that came from her hand
touched the wounded thigh of the unicorn, focused and then penetrated.
‘I want you to be healed! I want it! Vess’hael,
Aenye!’
The Force exploded in her, she was filled
with a wild euphoria. The fire shot upwards, brightening. The unicorn lifted
his head, whinnied, then suddenly sprang up quickly from the ground, took a few
steps, extended his neck and touched his thigh with his nose then snorted as if
in disbelief. He released a high, piercing whinny, kicked and swished his tail
and then galloped away from the fire.
‘I’ve healed him!’ Ciri shouted proudly.
‘I’ve healed him! I am a sorceress! I managed to draw the Force out of the
fire! And I have the Force! With it I can do anything!’
She turned. The fire roared, throwing
sparks around.
‘We no longer need to look for a source! We
will not have to drink mud! Now I have power! I feel the Force that is in the
fire! I will make it rain on this damn desert! Water will burst from the rocks!
Flowers will bloom here! Grass! Kale! I can do anything now! Everything!’
She sharply raised both hands, shouting,
chanting incan’tations and invocations. She did not understand them, did not
remember when or if she had ever been taught them. It did not matter. She felt
the Force, felt the power burning with fire. She was the fire. She trembled
from the power coursing through her.
The night sky suddenly erupted with
lightning, among the rocks and thistles the wind began to howl. The unicorn
whinnied and reared. The fire erupted upwards, exploding. The sticks and stalks
that she had collected had been used up already, now the rocks burned. But Ciri
paid no attention to this. She felt the Force. She saw only the fire. She heard
only the fire.
You can do everything, whispered the
flames, you have our strength, you can do anything. The world is at your
feet. You are great. You are powerful.
Among the flames appeared a figure. A tall
young woman with long, straight jet black hair. The woman laughed wildly,
savagely as the fire whirled around her.
You are powerful! Those who have wronged
you, do not know who you are! Get even! Make them pay! Make them all pay! Let
them tremble with fear at your feet, hear their chattering teeth as they dare
not loop up at your face! Make them beg for mercy! But show them no mercy! Make
they pay! Make them pay for everything! Revenge!
Behind the dark haired lady was fire and
smoke, smoke and rows of gallows, rows of poles, pitchforks and tables and
piles of corpses. These were the bodies of Nilfgaardians, those who conquered
and destroyed Cintra, who murdered the king and her grandmother Calanthe, those
who killed people on the streets of the city. Swinging from a noose was a
knight in black armor, the rope was creaking while a swirling murder of crows
tried to peck at the eyes through the slits of a winged helmet. More gallows
stretched away into the horizon, from them hung Scoia’tael, those who had
killed Paulie Dahlberg in Kaedwen, and those who chased her on the island of
Thanedd. On a pole, convulsed Vilgefortz the sorcerer, his beautiful and noble
face was wrinkled and pale from the torment, the sharp and bloody end of the
pole was sticking out of his clavicle... Other sorcerers from Thanedd were
kneeling on the floor, their hands tied behind their backs, sharpen poles
awaited them...
Pole that had bundles of brushwood piled at
their base, stretched to the horizon that shone with a smoke haze. On the
nearest post, tied with chains was Triss Merigold... Beyond her was tied
Margarita Laux-Antille... Mother Nenneke... Jarre... Fabio Sachs...
No. No. No.
Yes, screamed the black haired
woman, death to them all, let them pay, despise them! They all wanted to
damage or hurt you! Or may eventually want to hurt you! Despise them, because
it has finally reached the times of contempt! Hatred, vengeance and death!
Death to everybody! Death, sacrifice and blood!
Blood on your hands, blood on your
clothes...
They betrayed you! They cheated you! Now
you have the power to get even!
Yennefer, her lips cracked and broken,
blood flowing from them, her hands and feet tied in chains, heavy chains
attached to wet, dirty dungeon walls. Gathered around a scaffold a crowd
yelled, Dandelion the bard lays his head onto a stump, the blade of the
executioner’s axe flashes brightly. The whores gathered under the scaffold
spread their handkerchiefs to collect the blood in them... The howl of the
crowd drowns out the blow that shakes the whole platform...
They betrayed you! Lied and cheated!
Everyone! You were a puppet to them, you were a puppet on a stick! They used
you! Condemned you to hunger, the burning sun, the thirst, the misery, the loneliness!
It is the time of contempt and revenge! You have the power! You are powerful!
Let the whole world tremble before you! Let the whole world tremble before the
Elder Blood!
Witchers were then brought to the gallows.
Vesemir, Eskel, Coen, Lambert. And Geralt... Geralt falters, he is covered in
blood...
‘No!’
Around the fire, behind the wall of flames,
a wild neighing, unicorns rears up, shaking their heads and beating his hooves.
Their manes are as frayed as war banners, horns, long and sharp as swords. The
unicorns are much larger then Little Horse. Where did they come from? How did
so many of them get here? The flames roared higher, the black-haired woman
raises her arms, her hands covered in blood. Her hair flowing in the heat.
Burn, burn, Falka!
‘Go away! Go away! I do not want this! I do
not want your power! Burn, Falka!’
‘I do not want it!’
You want it! You want it! The desire and
lust in you burns like a fire, pleasure enslaves you! This is the power, it is
the Force, this is the power! The most delightful please in the world!
Lightning. Thunder. Wind. The pounding of
hooves and neighing of crazed unicorns around the fire.
‘I do not want this power! I do not want
it! I renounce it!’
She did not know whether the fire faded or
her eyes darkened. She fell, feeling on her face the first drops of rain.
***
We must kill the Being, she cannot be
allowed to exist. The Being is Dangerous. Confirmation.
Denial. The Being did not call the power to
herself. She did it to save Ihuarraquax. The Being was compassionate. Thanks to
this Being Ihuarraquax is back among us.
But the Being has the Force. If she wanted
to use...
She will not use it. Never. She renounced
it. Completely. The Force has gone. It’s very strange...
You never understand Beings.
I do not have to understand. End this
Beings existence. Before it is too late. Confirmation.
Denial. Let us go. We will leave the Being
to her Destiny.
***
She did not know how long she lay on the
stones, shaking trembling, starring at the sky changing colours. It was
alternately dark and light, cold and hot and she lay helpless, dry and empty
like the skin of the rodent corpse, drained and spit out by the crater.
She did not think about anything. She was
alone, empty. She had nothing and she did not feel anything within herself.
There was no thirst, hunger, fatigue or fear.
She was dead, even of the will to survive.
There was just a great, cold, terrifying emptiness. She felt this emptiness
throughout her whole being, within every cell of her body.
She felt blood on the inside of her thigh.
She was indifferent to it. She was empty. She had lost everything.
The sky changed colours. She did not move.
Did it make sense to move in a void?
She did not move when she heard the
sounds of hooves and horseshoes around her. She did not react to the loud
cheers and shouts, the excited voices, the snorting of the horses. She did not
move when the strong hands grabbed her hard. She was lifted from the ground and
hung limp and powerless. She did not respond to the jerking and shaking or for
the sharp, abrupt questions. She did not understand them and did not want to
understand.
She
was empty and indifferent. She accepted with indifference the water that was
splashed onto her face. When they put the can’teen to her lips she drank.
Indifferent.
She was indifferent as well when they
hoisted her in to the saddle. Her groin was sensitive and sore. She was
trembling, so they wrapped her in a blanket. She was limp and weak and kept
slipping from the saddle, so they tied her with a belt to the rider who sat
behind her. The rider stank of sweat and urine. She was indifferent.
All around her were riders. And many
horses. Ciri looked at them indifferently. She was empty, she’d lost
everything. Nothing mattered.
Nothing.
Not even the fact that the knight who
commanded the riders wore a helmet with the wings of a bird of prey.
"When the
criminal's stake had been lit and the flames reached her, she began insulting
all the knights, barons, mages and councilors gathered in the square in such
foul language that they were all filled with dread. Though wet logs had been
stacked to prevent the hag from burning too quickly and provide her a chance to
suffer in the flames, dry wood was soon added to the fire to end the execution
more swiftly.
She must truly have
harbored a demon inside her as she uttered not a single scream though she
sizzled fair enough. Instead, she began cursing horribly.
"An avenger shall
be born from my own blood," she cried. "From the defiled Elder
Blood, a destroyer of nations and worlds will rise! He shall avenge my torment!
Death, death and revenge upon you and your offspring!" That was all she
managed to articulate before she perished. Such was the death of Falka,
her punishment for the innocent blood she had spilled."
by Roderick de Novembre
History of the World Volume III
Chapter
Seven
‘Look at her. Sunburned, full of wounds,
dirty. She is still drinking like a sponge and hungry. I fear for her. She came
from the east, I tell you. Passed through the Korath. Through the Frying Pan.’
‘Stories! Nobody survives the pan. She came
west from the mountains by the passage of Suchaka. She is barely on the edge of
the Korath and she had already had enough. When we found her she had already
fallen and her spirit broken.'
'It is uninhabited for many miles to the
west of here. Where did she come from?'
‘She walked, perhaps rode. For who knows
how long. There were horse footprints beside her own. Must have been thrown
from the horse in the Suchaka, would explain why she is beaten and bruised.’
‘Why is this child so important to
Nilfgaard, out of curiosity? When the governor sent for us, I thought that some
noble lady was lost. And what is this? An ordinary brat, a sweeper in rags, and
on top of that dumb and brainless. I don’t know if we have found the girl who
was…’
‘She is. And she is no ordinary girl. An
ordinary girl, we would have found dead.’
‘She’s not far off. And rain wouldn’t have
saved her. Plague, the oldest of beggars cannot remember it raining on the Pan.
The clouds always pass by the Korath… Even when it rains in the valley, no drop
falls there!’
‘Another week in these hills and there will
be nothing to eat… Hey, you cocksucker! Do you like beef jerky? How about dry
bread?’
‘Ask her in Elvish. Or Nilfgaardian.
Perhaps she doesn’t understand common. She is elf spawn…’
‘She is an oaf. When I put her on the horse
this morning, she sat like a puppet made of wood.’
‘Get your eyes fixed.’ The powerful and
balding one called Skomlik flashed his teeth. ‘You won’t get far in the
Trappers. She is neither stupid nor crazy. She is only pretending. She is a
rare and cunning bird.’
‘Why is she so important to Nilfgaard? The
promised reward has sent patrols everywhere… Why?’
‘I don’t know. But it would not hurt to ask her… With a
stick across her back, ask your… Ha! Was she looking at me? She understands
everything, she’s been listening attentively. Hey, girl! I’m Skomlik, a hunter,
of the so called Trappers. And this is, a stick –called stick! Do you like the
skin on your back? Then start talking…’
‘Enough! Silence!’
The command was shouted, loudly which did
not tolerate any opposition which came from the other fire, where sat the
knight and his squire.
‘Bored Trappers?’ The knight asked
menacingly. ‘Then get to work! The horses need cleaning! Get my armor and
weapons clean! Get to the forest for firewood! And do not touch the girl!
Understood?’
‘Certainly, Lord Sweers’ Skomlik
muttered. His comrades bowed their
heads.
‘Get to work! Carry out his orders!’ The
Trappers began to bustle.
‘Destiny punished us with this bastard.’
Muttered one. ‘The governor had nothing else to do but put us in league with a
fucking knight…’
‘I’ll say’ muttered a second under his
breath, looking sideways ‘After all it was us Trappers who found the girl. Our
noses were the ones that made us ride the Suchaka.’
‘Right. The credit will be ours and so will
the reward… We’ll get the money, florens in a heap at our feet, for us Trapper,
and we’ll thank the governor…’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ hissed Skomlik, ‘they’re
going to hear you…’
Ciri was left alone by the fire. The
Knight and the Squire looked at her questioningly, but did not speak.
The Knight was an old man but strong, with
a stern countenance marked by scars. During the trip, he always wore the helmet
with the wings of a bird, but they were not the wings Ciri had seen in her
nightmares, and then again on the island of Thanedd. He was not the Black
Knight of Cintra. But he was a Nilfgaardian Knight. When giving orders, he
spoke smoothly, but with a distinct accent, the accent was similar to elves.
With his squire, a boy not much older than Ciri, he spoke in a language similar
to the Elder Speech, but less melodious, more harsh. It must have been the
Nilfgaardian tongue. Ciri, who was well acquainted with the Elder Speech,
understood most of the words. But she did not betray this. During the first
stop on the edge of the desert they called the Frying Pan or Korath, the
Nilfgaardian knight and his squire showered her with questions. She did not
respond because she was stunned and confused and only half conscious. After
several days of travel, when they left the rocky cliffs and enter into a green
valley, Ciri came to he senses, she began at last to see the world around her
and react sluggishly. But she still did not answer the questions, so the knight
stopped addressing her. It seemed that he was not paying attention. He dealt
with only the wild men who called themselves the Trappers. They also asked.
They were very aggressive.
But the winged helmet Nilfgaardian
immediately called them to order. It was clear who was the master and who the
servant.
Ciri pretended to be dumb, but listened
carefully. Slowly she began to understand the situation. She had fallen into
the hands of Nilfgaard. Nilfgaard had been looking for her and found her,
probably following the route she had taken from where the chaotic teleporter
from Tor Lara had sent her. What Yennefer had failed to do, what Geralt had
failed to do, the winged helmet knight from Nilfgaard and his band of Trappers
had succeeded.
What happened on Thanedd to Yennefer and
Geralt? Where was she? She had a terrible suspicion. The Trappers and their
leader, Skomlik, talked in a simplistic and clumsy version of the common
language, but with a Nilfgaardian accent. The Trappers were normal people, but
served a Knight of Nilfgaard. The Trappers were happy at the thought of a
reward that the governor would pay for finding Ciri. In florens.
The only countries where the currency was
the florin and the people served governors that managed the imperial provinces,
where in the South.
***
The next day, on the banks at the edge of a
stream, Ciri started thinking about the possibility of escape. Her magic could
help. Carefully, she tried a simple spell, a weak telekinesis. But her fears
were confirmed. There wasn’t even a spark of magical energy. After playing with
the fire, her magical ability had left her entirely.
She fell back into indifference. She
withdrew into herself and sank into apathy. For a long time.
Until the day they rode through a moor and
the Blue Knight crossed their path.
***
‘Oi, oi’ Skomlik muttered, looking at
the horse that barred their way. ‘It is Varnhagen, from the fortress of Sarda…’
Horsemen approached. At the head, on a
powerful horse, was a giant wearing iron armor which shone with blue tones.
Alongside him was another man in armor, behind were two riders in simple grey
clothes, undoubtedly pages.
The winged helmet Nilfgaardian approached
them, holding his dancing bay one step away. His squire stroked the hilt of his
sword and swung into the saddle.
‘Stay back and take care of the girl.’ He
shouted at Skomlik and the Trappers. ‘Do not meddle!’
‘We are not drunks,’ Skomlik said quietly
as the squire moved away. ‘We are not drunks that interfere with the quarrels
of the Lords of Nilfgaard…’
‘Will there be a fight Skomlik?’
‘Inevitably. Between Sweers and Varnhagen
there is hatred of family and blood vengeance. Guard the girl. If we are lucky,
we will take all the reward for her.’
‘It’s a sure thing that Varnhagen is also
looking for the girl. If he prevails, we will only be four…’
‘Five.’ Skomlik smiled. ‘That one behind
Sarda is my family. You’ll see, this brawl will benefit us and not the
knights…’
The knight in blue armor reined in his
horse. The knight with the winged helmet stood opposite. Blue’s companion
stayed behind. His strange helmet was adorned with two leather straps that hung
from his visor and looked like two big moustaches or walrus tusks. Across his
saddle he held a menacing weapon, which resembled a little spear, much like
what was used by the guards of Cintra, but with a much shorter haft and a
longer spearhead.
Winged and Blue exchanged a few words. Ciri
could not hear what, but the tone of the two knights left no room for doubt.
These were not words of friends. Blue suddenly rose in the saddle, pointed
sharply at Ciri and said something loudly and angrily. Winged shouted in
response equally angry and waved his hand covered in an armoured gauntlet,
presumably to tell Blue to go away. And so it began.
Blue spurred his spurs into the sides of
his dapple and leaned forward; raising the axe he had carried attached to his
saddle. Winged edged forward his bay and drew his sword from its sheath.
However before the armed men had time to engage in the fight, Two Tusks
attacked, spurring his horse into a gallop with the haft of his spear. Winged
squire threw himself at him, drawing his sword, but Two Tusks shifted in his
saddle and jabbed his spear into the squire’s chest. The long spearhead pierced
with a bang through the breastplate, the squire cried piercingly and fell from
his horse onto the ground with both hands gripping the shaft that was sticking
from his chest.
Winged and Blue collided with a crash and
thud. The axe was more dangerous but the sword was faster. Blue was hit in the
shoulder; a piece of metal flew to one side, the rider turned and pulled the
reins, he reeled in the saddle, crimson streaks started to flow down the blue
armour. The fighters separated at a gallop. The winged Nilfgaardian turned his
horse, but Two Tusks fell upon him, grabbing his sword with both hands,
readying to strike. Winged pulled on the reins, but Two Tusks leading his horse
with only his knees, galloped alongside. Winged managed to hack at him in
passing. Before Ciri‘s eyes, the metal cracked and sheets of blood burst forth.
Blue had already returned, brandishing his
axe and yelling. Both armoured opponents exchanged blows and broke apart. Two
Tusks fell back onto Winged, horses colliding and swords rang. Two Tusks cut at
Winged, smashing into his bracers and shield. Winged straightened and struck a
powerful blow into the right side of Two Tusks’ breastplate. Two Tusks swayed
in the saddle. Winged stood in his stirrups and swung again with force, and
tore between the shoulder and helmet. The broad and sharp sword pierced with a
loud bang on the metal, and got stuck. Two Tusks tensed and shuddered. The
horses withdrew, kicking and biting the bit. Winged leaned against the
saddlebow and pulled at the sword. Two Tusks slipped from his saddle under the
hooves of the horses. The horse’s shoes struck and crushed the armor.
Blue turned his dapple around again and
attacked, raising his axe. He guided the horse with difficulty using his
wounded hand. Winged noticed and skillfully went right, straightened in his
stirrups and launched a terrible blow. Blue parried with his axe which pulled
the sword from the hands of Winged. The horses crashed together again. Blue was
a powerful man, the heavy axe in his hands rose and fell like a stick. It fell
onto the armor of Winged with a loud crash and the bay was almost knocked to
her haunches. Winged staggered, but held his place in the saddle. Before the
axe could fall again, he dropped his reins and his left hand, grasping a heavy
angular mace hanging from a leather sling, and struck a blow to the blue
helmet. The helmet rang like a bell, now it was Blue who was rocking in the
saddle. The horses groaned, trying to bite each other and did not want to
separate.
Blue, clearly stunned by the blow of the
mace, still got a hit in with his axe to his opponent’s breastplate. The fact
that both were still in their saddles seemed a miracle, but it was simply
caused by the high pommel they were holding. Down the sides of both horse
flowed blood, especially visible on the dapple. Ciri watched in horror. In Kaer
Morhen they had taught her how to fight, but she could not imagine how she
could face up against one of these strongmen. Or even stop one of those
powerful blows.
Blue grabbed with both hands the handle of
the axe that was stuck deep into the chest of Winged, straightened and pulled,
trying to knock his opponent out of the saddle. Winged hit him hard with his
club, once, twice, thrice. The blood spurted from under his helmet onto the
blue armor and grey collar. Winged jabbed at the bay with his spurs, the sudden
jump of the horse pulled the sharp axe from his breastplate. Blue, who was
leaning on his saddlebow, dropped the handle. Winged changed his mace to his
right hand, threw it and struck a terrible blow to the head of Blue’s horse.
Holding the reins of the horse in his free hand, the Nilfgaardian hit with the
mace, the blue armor sounded like a smelting iron, blood flowed from under the
shattered helmet. Yet another blow and Blue fell head first under the horse’s
hooves. The dapple backed away, but the bay, obviously trained for it, kicked
the fallen knight with a crash. Blue was still alive, as attesting to his
desperate cries of pain. The bay continued to kick him with such force, that
Winged, wounded could not sustain his seat and fell with a crash next to Blue.
‘They’ve both been killed.’ Groaned the
Trapper who had hold of Ciri.
‘Sir Knights, to hell with them.’ Spat
another.
The pages of Blue watched from afar. One of
them turned his horse.
‘Stop, Remiz!’ Skomlik screamed. ‘Where are
you going? To Sarda? Do you hurry to the scaffold?’ The pages stopped, one
looked, shading his eyes with his hand.
‘Is that you Skomlik?’
‘Yes! Come Remiz, fear not! Knightly feuds
are none of our business!’
Ciri suddenly had enough of indifference.
Nimbly slipping from her captor, she started running, caught Blue’s dapple and
with a jump was in the saddle with high anxiety.
She would have gotten away, had the pages
from Sarda not been in their saddles and not had fresh horses. They caught her easily, grabbing the reins.
She jumped off and rushed towards the forest, but the horsemen caught up with
her again. One grabbed her by her hair, pulled and started to drag her. Ciri
screamed and clung to his hand. The riders threw her directly at the feet of
Skomlik. He swung his stick, it whistled; Ciri screamed and curled up, covering
her head with her hands. The stick whistled again and hit her on the hands. She
rolled on the floor, but Skomlik approached, kicked her and put his boot on her
back.
‘You want to flee, bitch?’
The stick whistled. Ciri howled. Skomlik
struck again and poked her in the back.
‘Don’t hit me!’ She cried, shrinking back
from him.
‘So you do speak, bitch! Maybe you’ll miss
your tongue? I’ll do…’
“Remember, Skomlik!’ Shouted one of the
Trappers. ‘Do you want to slay her, or what? She’s worth too much to throw
away!’
‘Lightning,’ Remiz said, dismounting. ‘Is
this who Nilfgaard has been looking for, for a week?’
‘She is.’
‘Ha! All the garrisons seek her! You do not
know how important this person is to Nilfgaard! They said that a powerful
wizard was loose somewhere in the area. Such was spoken of in Sarda. Where did
you catch her?’
‘In the Pan.’
‘You lie!’
‘She was, she was’ said Skomlik angrily.
‘We have her and the reward is ours! Why are you standing around like mummies?
Tie this bitch to the saddle! We are getting out of here, fellows!’
‘The noble Sweers’ said one of the Traps,
‘is still breathing…’
‘Not for long. Slit his throat! We go
straight to Amarillo, fellows, to see the governor. We grabbed the girl and now
the reward.’
‘To Amarillo?’ said Remiz scratching his
forehead, looking at the recent field of battle. ‘There we will be greeted by
the executioner! What will you tell the governor? The Knights were defeated but
you are okay? When the whole thing is revealed, the governor will send you to
hang, and we will be sent to Sarda… And there the Varnhagens will skin us in
strips. You can go to Amarillo, but I’m staying in the forests…’
‘You are my family, Remiz.’ Skomlik said.
‘Even though you are a whoreson because you gave one to my sister, you’re still
a relative. So I’ll save your skin. We will go to Amarillo, I say. The governor
knows that between Sweers and Varnhagen there were matters of family. They met;
they fought each other, the usual thing with them. And what did we do? The girl
ran, and we found her later. We are Trappers. And now you to are a Trapper,
Remiz. The governor will have no fucking idea what went on with Sweers. We are
not going to tell…’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Skomlik?’
Remiz asked while eyeing the other page from Sarda.
Skomlik slowly turned and suddenly pulled
out a knife and plunged it into the throat of the page. The page gurgled and
collapsed to the ground.
‘I did not forget.’ Said the Trapper
coldly. ‘Well, now it is you and us. There are no witnesses, and now there are
less heads for the reward. To the horses, fellows to Amarillo! It is still a
long way between us and the reward. There is no time to waste!’
***
When they emerged from the dark and humid
forest, they saw a village at the foot of the mountain, a few thatched roofs
within a circle formed by a low stockade which separated them from a small
meandering river.
The wind brought the smell of smoke. Ciri
moved her numb hands, which were tied with ropes to the pommel of the saddle.
She was completely numb, her buttocks ached unbearably, and a full bladder
teased her. She had been in the saddle since sunrise. At night she could not
rest because she was forced to sleep with her hands tied to the wrists of two
separate Trappers lying on either side of her. With each of her movements, the
Trappers reacted with profanities and threats to her life.
‘A farmhouse,’ said one.
‘I see,’ replied Skomlik.
Coming out from the forest the hooves of
the horses were surrounded by tall, sunburnt grass. They soon found themselves
on a bumpy road leading down to the village, towards a bridge and a wooden gate
in the palisade.
Skomlik stopped his horse and stood in the
stirrups.
‘What is this village? We have never
stopped here. Remiz, do you know this area?’
‘Before’ Remiz said ‘this town was called
White River. But a revolt began; some of those here joined the rebels, then
Varnhagen of Sarda raized the village and put people to death or took them as
servants. Now only Nilfgaardian farmers inhabit here, all peasants. And they
now call the village Glyswen. The farmers are believed to be bad people. I say
we do not halt here. Let us go further.’
‘We must give the horses a break,’ said one
of the Trappers. ‘And fodder. And it sounds to me like musicians are playing
inside. If they give us trouble, these peasants, I’ll wave the order from the
governor before their noses, the governor is a Nilfgaardian as they are. It
will quickly bring them to their knees.’
‘Oh, yes,’ growled Skomlik ‘I’ve not seen
any Nilfgaardian who kneel. Remiz, is there an inn in Glyswen?’
‘There is, Varnhagen did not burn it.’
Skomlik turned in his saddle and looked at
Ciri.
‘We’ll have to disguise her. Lest anyone
recognise her… Give me a cloak. And put the hood up over her head… Go! Are you
ready, brat?’
‘I have to go behind the bushes…’
‘I’ll give you bushes, bitch! Crouch on the
road! And do not forget: in the village or in the open, do not think you are
clever! One peep and I’ll cut your throat. If I don’t get the reward for you,
not one will.’
The rode up at a walk, the horse’s hooves
echoed on the bridge. At once from behind the stockade figures emerged armed
with spears.
‘They guard the gate,’ whispered Remiz.
‘I’m curious to know why…’
‘Me too,’ Skomlik replied, rising up in his
stirrups. ‘They guard the gate and the by the mill the barrier has fallen and
once could drive a cart through there…’
They approached and then reined in their
horses.
‘Greetings, gentlemen!’ Skomlik shouted
jovially, if somewhat unnatural. ‘Good morning!’
‘Who are you?’ asked the taller of the
farmers.
‘We, my friend, are the military,’ lied
Skomlik leaning over his saddle. ‘in the service of our master, the governor of
Amarillo.’
The farmer ran his hand along the shaft of
his spear, looked askance at Skomlik. Doubtlessly not knowing he was addressing
a Trapper.
‘His lordship the governor of Amarillo sent
us here.’ Skomlik continued his lie. ‘To see how faired his countrymen, the
good people of Glyswen.’
‘We are doing fine.’ The farmer said. Ciri
noted that he spoke common like Winged, with the same accent and style of
speaking, although he tried to imitate Skomlik’s jargon. ‘We are used to coping
alone.’
‘The governor will be content, when we
recount this to him. Is the inn open? We have dry throats…’
‘It’s open.’ The farmer said darkly. ‘At
the moment, it is open.’
‘For how long?’
‘For now. Soon the inn will be stripped of
its rafters and planks to put onto the granary. We get no benefit from the inn.
We are too busy working, to go to the inn. Only strangers come to the inn, and
people who we are not happy with. Those are the ones who stay there.’
‘Who?’ Remiz paled slightly. ‘People from
the fortress of Sarda? Could they be the noble lords of Varnhagen?’
‘The farmer frowned and his lips moved as
if from a desire to spit.
‘No, unfortunately. It is the militia of
the Baron. The Nissir.’
‘Who are the Nissir?’ Skomlik frowned. “And
where are they? And under whose command?’
‘There is one older than them all, tall,
dark, moustachioed like a catfish.’
‘Heh!’ Skomlik turned to his comrades.
‘Excellent. This one sounds familiar, no? It sounds like our old friend Vercta
“Trust me”, remember him? And what is this man and the Nissir doing in your
town?’
‘The Nissir,’ the farmer said darkly, ‘are
bound for Tyffi. We are honoured by the visit. They carry a prisoner. He
belongs to the gang of Rats.’
‘Sure!’ Remiz snorted. ‘And what would you
have the militia of the Emperor do?’
The farmer frowned; his hands shook on the
haft of the spear. His companions murmured softly.
‘Ride to the inn, gentlemen.’ The muscles
in the farmer’s jaw shook vigorously. ‘And talk to the Nissir, your companions.
You are in the service of the governor. Ask, then why are they taking the
bandit to Tyffi, rather than nailing him to a pole with the oxen, here in town,
just as the governor charges. And remind your Nissir friends that the power
here is not the Baron of Tyffi. We already have the oxen yoke and the sharpened
stakes. If the Nissir refuse, we will do what is necessary. Tell them.’
‘I’ll tell them.’ Skomlik winked to his
comrades. ‘Farewell, gentlemen.’
They set off at a walk between the huts. The
village appeared deserted, there was not a soul. Under one of the fences a
gaunt pig rolled in the mud. A large black cat dash across the path of the
riders.
‘Pah, fuckin cat!’ Remiz leaned to one side
of his saddle and spat, then cross his fingers in a sign of protection against
the evil eye. ‘Bloody thing crossed in front of us!’
‘I hope it chokes on the mouse in its
gullet.’
‘What?’ Skomlik looked around.
‘A cat. Black as pitch. It crossed the
road.’
‘The hell with it.’ Skomlik looked around
again. ‘Look around, it seems deserted. But I have seen glances that people
were home. And I saw at another door a man with a spear.’
‘Caring for the females,’ laughed the one
who wished mouse problems upon the cat. ‘The Nissir are in town! Did you hear
what the farmer said? He doesn’t like the Nissir.’
‘And no wonder. “Trust me” and his company
do not forgive. Eh, the Nissir are not looking or anything. The Barons appoint
them “Guardians of Order”, so they are charged to keep it and to keep the
roads. Shout in a peasant’s ear: “Nissir!” and he’ll be scared with shit
running down his legs. However from time to time. Just as a calf goes to
slaughter, they’ll find a back bone and then it’s more than farmers that are
nailed in the winter, you’ll see. You saw those at the gate, they had fierce
mouths? These are settlers from Nilfgaard. No joking with them... Ha, here is
the inn...’
They spurred their horses.
The inn has a thatched roof, slightly
sunken and heavily covered in moss. It was some distance from the huts and
utilitarian buildings; it however marked the central point of the entire land
surrounded by the broken palisade, where the two paths crossed through the
village. In the shadow of the only large tree around, lay a corral, for
livestock and horses. Of the latter there were five or six horses unsaddled. In
front of the doors, on the stairs, sat two men dressed in leather doublets and
pointed leather hats. Both of them hugged to their chests a few jars of clay
and they had a bowl full of gnawed bones.
‘Who are you?’ Shouted one of the men at
the sight of Skomlik and his company, as they dismounted. ‘What do you seek?
You’d better be on your way! The inn has been occupied on behalf of the law!’
‘Do not shout, Nissir, do not shout.’
Skomlik said, pulling Ciri down from the saddle. ‘The gates were open and we
entered. Your commander, Vercta is our friend.’
‘I don’t know you!’
‘Because you are a fledgling! “Trust me”,
and I even served together in the old days, before he came here to Nilfgaard.’
‘Well, if so...’ Said the man hesitantly,
dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword. ‘Go in. I don’t give a shit...’
Skomlik pushed Ciri, another trapper
grabbed her collar. They went inside.
Inside it was dark and stuffy and smelled
of smoke and burning things. The inn appeared almost empty; only one table was
occupied standing directly in the streak of light that came through the window
of fish membranes. Sitting at it were several men. In the background, near the
fireplace, the innkeeper was busy, rattling pots.
‘Honour to the lords of Nissir!’ Skomlik
boomed.
‘We do not honour any ox.’ Snapped one of
the company sitting by the window, spitting on the floor. Another stopped him
with a gesture.
‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘These are our fellows,
do you not recognise them? Skomlik and his Trappers. Welcome, welcome!’
Skomlik beamed and walked towards the
table, but stopped when his eyes fixed on the pole that supported the beam.
Next to the pole sitting on a stool was a thin, blond boy of less than twenty
years, strangely bent and twisted. Ciri realized that the unnatural position
stemmed from the fact that the boy’s hands were twisted back and tied, and his
neck was attached to the pole by a leather belt.
‘May I be showered with pustules!’ One of
the trappers that had seized Ciri’s neck, snorted loudly. ‘Look, Skomlik! It’s
Kayleigh!’
‘Kayleigh? It can’t be!’
One of the Nissir sitting at the table, a
fat man with hair cut into a picturesque forelock, bust out in a loud guttural
laugh.
‘It can be.’ He said, licking a spoon.
‘It’s Kayleigh, in his filthy person. It paid off to get up at dawn. He shall
fetch me at least thirty florins in good imperial coin.’
‘Kayleigh, well, well.’ Skomlik frowned.
‘That means the Nilfgaardian yokel spoke the truth...’
‘Thirty florins, damn.’ Remiz sighed. ‘That
is something... Lutz, Baron of Tyffi pays it?’
‘Yes’ confirmed another Nissir with brown
hair and a moustache. ‘Lutz of Tyffi, our lord and benefactor, is a powerful
baron. The Rats robbed his governor on the highway, he is burning with rage and
has put up a reward. And we, Skomlik, will take this reward, trust me. Ha, just
look at the men here, like puffed up owls. It was not to their taste that we
captured the Rat, we also have been ordered to track down the leader of the
gang!’
‘Trapper Skomlik,’ the fat man with the
pointed forelock, indicated Ciri with his spoon ‘you also caught something. A
little girl. Do you see, Vercta?’
‘I see,’ a man with black whiskers flashed
his teeth. ‘Skomlik are you so pressed by poverty, that you are stealing
children for ransom? Who is this slut?’
‘Never you mind!’
‘Wow that was fierce.’ Laughed, the man
with the forelock. ‘We just want to make sure she is not your daughter.’
‘He’s daughter?’ Vercta, the man with the
black moustache laughed. ‘I say, to have a daughter means he’d have to have
balls.’
The Nissir roared with laughter.
‘Ah, look mutton heads!’ Skomlik yelled.
‘To you Vercta, I’ll say no more, but before Sunday, you’ll be amazed who will
be most famous, you and your Rat or me and what I do. And we’ll see who is more
generous: your Baron or the imperial governor of Amarillo!’
‘You can kiss my ass.’ Vercta said
contemptuously returning to his soup. ‘Along with your governor, the Emperor
and all of Nilfgaard, trust me. I do not care. Even I know that Nilfgaard seeks
a girl. I know there are rewards for her. But I don’t care shit for it. I’ve
served the governors and Nilfgaardians and I spit on them. I now serve Baron
Lutz and answer only to him and nobody is hurt.’
‘Your Baron,’ Skomlik croaked ‘serves
Nilfgaard, he licks the boots of the Nilfgaardians. So do not speak so
casually!’
‘Do not shout,’ said the Nissir in a
conciliatory tone. ‘I should not have spoken against you, trust me. That you
have the girl the Nilfgaardians are looking for is a good thing. I’d see with
pleasure that you take the reward and not those fucking Nilfgaardians. And you
serve the governor? Nobody chooses the masters, they would choose, right? Come
on, sit down with us and let us drink to this meeting.’
‘Well, why not.’ Skomlik agreed. ‘Just give
me a length of rope. I’ll tie the girl to the pole with your Rat, okay?’
The Nissir roared with laughter.
‘Skomlik, the terror of the border!’
Laughed the man with the large forelock. ‘The armed wing of Nilfgaard! Come on
Skomlik, tie her up nice and strong. But use an iron chain, because this famous
prisoner is ready to break the rope and break your noses before fleeing. She
looks so dangerous that even my hair is standing on end.’
Skomlik and even his companions burst out
laughing. The Trapper flushed, dropped the rope and approached the table.
‘I
meant for security, not to take...’
‘Do not worry about these asses.’ Vercta
interrupted, breaking the bread in his hands. ‘You want to talk, sit down and
wait in queue. And this girl, you can hang her by her legs from the ceiling. I
don’t care a pig’s shit. It is terribly funny, Skomlik. For you and your
governor she is perhaps and important prisoner, but to me she is an emaciated
and scared kid. Do you want to tie her up? She’s, trust me, barely able to
stand upright, so how is she going to flee. What are you afraid of?’
“I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of.’ Skomlik
bit his lip. ‘This is a Nilfgaardian village. Here we have not been welcomed
with bread and salt, and for your Rat, they say they have a sharpened stick.
And that is their right; the governor has decreed that justice is to be done to
bandits at the site of their capture. And if the prisoner is not given to them,
they are ready to sharpen sticks for you all.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the man with the forelock.
‘Crows frighten them. They better not put us in the midst of this or we will
make their blood flow.’
‘We will not give over the Rat.’ Said
Vercta. ‘We go to Tyffi. Baron Lutz can fix the issue with the governor. Ah,
let them chatter in vain. Sit down.’
The trapper, lett go of his sword belt, at
the table the happy Nissir started yelling for the innkeeper. Skomlik grabbed a
stool and kicked it towards the pole, grabbed Ciri by the shoulders and pushed
her so she fell, hitting her arm on the bound boy’s knees.
‘Stay here.’ He growled. ‘And don’t move,
you wiggle like a bitch.’
‘You louse.’ Cried the boy, looking at him
with narrowed eyes. ‘You dog…’
Ciri did not know most of the words that
flew out of the boys crooked and crumpled mouth, but by the changes occurring on
Skomlik’s face she concluded that the words must have been incredibly filthy
and offensive. The trapper paled with rage, his hands shook, he hit the bound
boy in the face, grabbed him by his long hair and shook him, hitting the boy’s
forehead into the pole.
‘Hey!’ Cried Vercta, while rising from the
table. ‘What’s happening here?’
‘I’m removing the fangs from this filthy
rat!’ Skomlik growled. ‘I’ll put both of my feet up his ass!’
‘Come here and stop tearing at his throat.’
The Nissir sat down, taking a gulp of beer from his mug then wiped his
moustache, ‘Your prisoner can sit, we won’t stay long. And you, Kayleigh, don’t
play the daredevil. Sit quietly and think about the scaffold which Baron Lutz
has order be erected in town. The list of things the Baron is going to do to
you is already written and trust me, it is three cubits long. Half the town has
already bet to see how long you will hold. So save your strength Rat. I put a
small sum of money on it myself and I hope that you do not disappoint me and
hold out until at least castration.’
Kayleigh turned his head and spat, as much
as the belt around his neck would allow. Skomlik pulled up his belt and
measured Ciri with a malevolent look, then joined the company at the table,
cursing, because the pitcher that the innkeeper had bought only had a few
remnants of foam.
‘How did you take Kayleigh?’ He asked,
indicating his desire to extend his order to the innkeeper. ‘And on top of
that, alive! Because his position in the Rats, I’ll give you credit.’
‘In truth,’ Vercta said, looking critically
at what he had just removed from his nose, ‘we were lucky, that’s all. He split
off from the gang to go through New Forge to see a wench and spend the night.
The mayor, who knew we were not far, sent out a call. We were able to arrive
before dawn and got him in the haystack, before he had time to chirp.’
‘And his wench entertained us all.’ Laughed
the big man with the forelock. ‘Apparently her night with Kayleigh hadn’t
satisfied her. When we were done with her she couldn’t move her arms or legs.’
‘Well then I say this to you bastards.’
Skomlik said loudly and mockingly. ‘You could have had more money. Instead of
wasting time with the girl, you could have been applying heat to the Rat to
find where the gang spent the night. You could have had Giselher and Reef… Just
for Giselher, the Varnhagen of Sarda where offering twenty florins a year ago.
And that fucker, what’s her name … Mistle, I think… For her the governor would
have given more money after what she did to his nephew in Druigh when the Rats
raided a convoy.’
‘You, Skomlik,’ scowled Vercta ‘are either
stupid by nature, or this hard life has screwed with your head. We are a party
of six. Was I going to attack the whole gang myself? And the reward will not
escape us. Baron Lutz is going to roast Kayleigh’s heels in the dungeon, not
waste time, trust me. Kayleigh is going to sing, giving us all the hiding
places and shelters, and then we’ll go with a strong band, surround them and
take them out like a crab from a shell.’
‘It’s clear. They are going to wait. When
they learn that you captured Kayleigh they will go into other shelters and
hideouts. No, Vercta, you have to look at the truth. You swapped the reward for
a romp with a maid. You are so… you have only shit in your heads.’
‘You are the fool!’ Vercta stood. ‘If you
are in such a hurry, go after the Rats yourself along with your heroes! But
take heed, because hunting the Rats is not the same as catching a prepubescent
girl!’
The
Nissir and Trappers began to scream and throw curses at each other. The
innkeeper promptly served more beer, grabbing an empty jar from the big man
with the forelock, which was aimed at Skomlik. The scuffle soon settled down,
the beer refreshed and soothed throats and temperaments.
‘Bring food!’ They cried to the fat
innkeeper. ‘Scrambled eggs with sausage, beans, bread and cheese!’
‘And beer!’
‘Why cry over spilt milk, Skomlik? Today we
have money! We caught Kayleigh with his horse, purse, trinkets, sword, saddle
and sheepskin, and everything we sold to the dwarves!’
‘And we also sold the red slippers from his
wench. And her necklace!’
‘Ho, ho, what better reason to drink!
Radem!’
‘Why are you so happy? We have reason to drink,
not you. You, with your important prisoner, you can have the snot from her nose
and the fleas that bite her! Your prisoner and your spoils, ha, ha!’
‘Son of a bitch!’
‘Ha, ha, sit down, and close that mouth!’
‘Let us drink to peace! We invite you!’
‘Where are those scrambled eggs, innkeeper,
the plague devour you! Make haste!’
‘And bring beer!’
Ciri, curled up on the stool, raised her
head, finding Kayleigh’s angry green eyes looking at her from under a mattered
mane of blond hair. A chill pierced her. Kayleigh’s face, although not ugly,
was evil, very evil. Ciri suddenly realised that this boy who was not much
older than her was capable of anything.
‘I think the gods have sent you to me,’
whispered the Rat, his green eyes penetrating her. ‘To think, I did not believe
in them and they have sent you. Do not look, little idiot. You gotta help me…
Give me your ear, plague…’
Ciri shrank even more, lowering her head.
‘Listen’ Kayleigh hissed, flashing his
teeth which almost looked like a real rats. ‘In a few moments when the
innkeeper wanders by, cry out… Listen to me, dammit…’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He’ll beat me…’
Kayleigh’s lips twitched and Ciri
immediately understood that being hit by Skomlik was by no means the worst that
could happen. Although Skomlik was big and Kayleigh was skinny and bound, she
felt instinctively who she should be more afraid of.
‘If you help me,’ whispered the Rat. ‘I’ll
help you. I am not alone. I have friends who will not leave you here… You
understand? But when my friends arrive, when everything starts, I cannot be
attached to this pole because I’ll be chopped to pieces by these bastards…
Listen to me, dammit. I’ll tell you what to do…’
Ciri bowed her head even lower. Her lips
trembled.
The Nissir and the Trappers gobbled the
scrambled eggs like wild boar. The innkeeper returned from stirring a pot and
brought to the table mugs of beer and a loaf of white bread.
‘I’m hungry!’ cried Ciri obediently, paling
slightly. The innkeeper stopped, looked at her, then turned to the participants
of the banquet.
‘Can I give her some, gentlemen?’
‘No!’ Shouted Skomlik, flushing red and
spitting scrambled eggs. ‘Stay away from her, go near her and I’ll break your
legs! I forbid it! And you sit quiet, stop this mischief, or you’ll…’
‘Hey, hey, Skomlik, what did she do?’
Vercta interjected, swallowing with effort bread topped with onions. ‘Look at
him guys, he eats with someone else’s money, but spares the girl. Innkeeper,
give the girl a bowl. I pay and I say who eats and who doesn’t. And who doesn’t
like this can just leave on their hairy ass.’
Skomlik flushed even more, but said
nothing.
‘Something I just remembered’ added Vercta.
‘The Rat must be fed, so that he doesn’t become anaemic on the road, because
then the Baron will have our skins, trust me. Girl feed him. Hey innkeeper! Get
some food for them! And you, Skomlik, what bothers you? What is it you
dislike?’
‘Keep an eye on her,’ The Trapper nodded
towards Ciri ‘because she is a strange bird. If she was an ordinary girl,
Nilfgaard would not be after her, the governor promised money…’
‘If she is common or uncommon,’ laughed the
big man with the forelock ‘I can show you, just look between her legs! What say
you fellows? Do we take her out to the barn for a while?’
‘Do not dare touch her!’ Skomlik growled.
‘I will not allow this!’
‘There he goes! As if we asked permission
from him!’
‘This dispute is over my head, I’m to
deliver her alive and well! The governor of Amarillo…’
‘Shit on your governor. Did you drink at
our expense and now you deny us one fuck? Eh, Skomlik, do not be stingy! Your
head will not fall, fear not, nor will your profit be lessened! You will
deliver her whole, a girl is not a bladder, she will not explode from a
shagging.’
The Nissir burst into mocking laughter.
Skomlik’s companions echoed it. Ciri trembled, turned pale and looked up.
Kayleigh smiled sarcastically.
‘Do you understand now?’ His lip whispered,
slightly smiling. ‘When they get drunk they will take you. Mistreat you. We are
in the same boat. Do what I commanded. If I succeed, you also…’
‘The food is ready!’ Shouted the innkeeper,
He did not have a Nilfgaardian accent. ‘Come here, lady!’
‘A knife.’ Ciri whispered, taking the bowl
from the innkeeper.
‘What?’
‘A knife. Quickly.’
‘That is enough, no more!’ Shouted the
innkeeper unnaturally, squinting in the direction of the feasting and adding
porridge into a bowl, ‘Please leave.’
‘A knife.’
‘No. I feel for you, daughter but I cannot.
I cannot, understand. Go…’
‘From this inn,’ she recited the words of
Kayleigh in a trembling voice, ‘no one will come out alive. A knife. Hurry. And
when it starts, run away.’
‘Hold the bowl, toad!’ Shouted the
innkeeper, turning so that he hid Ciri. He was pale and his teeth chattered.
‘Closer to the pan!’
She felt the cold touch of a kitchen knife
that he slipped from his belt, covering the handle with her tunic.
‘Well done.’ Kayleigh hissed. ‘Sit down so
you can shield me. Put the bowl in my lap. In your left hand take the spoon, in
the right the knife. Now cut the rope. Not there, asshole, under the knot on
the pole. Careful, they are looking.’
Ciri felt dryness in her throat. She bowed
her head almost to the bowl.
‘Feed me and eat some too.’ His green eyes
stared at her from under half closed lids, hypnotically. ‘Slowly, slowly. Be
brave little one. If I get out, so do you…’
True, thought Ciri, while cutting
the rope. The knife smelled of iron and onions, the edge was recessed from
repeated sharpening. He is right, how do I know where these scoundrels are
taking me? How do I know what this Nilfgaardian governor wants from me? Maybe
what is waiting for me in Amarillo is the wheel, drills, pliers or red hot
irons … I will not be carried away like a lamb to slaughter. Better to take a
chance…
With a roar the window flew inwards,
together with the frame, from outside a stump that were used for chopping wood
landed on the table, causing havoc among the bowls and mugs. Following in the
footsteps of the stump, onto the table jumped a blond girl with short cut hair,
wearing a red tunic and high shiny boots that reached above the knees. She
knelt on the table, waving her sword. One of the Nissir, the slower one, did
not have time to get up and back away, he fell back onto his stool, spraying
blood from his slashed throat. She dropped lightly from the table, making room
for a guy who jumped in through the window who was dressed in an embroidered
sheepskin jacket.
‘The Raaaatttsss!’ Shouted Vercta,
struggling with his sword which had gotten tangled in his belt.
The fat man with the forelock drew his
weapon, jumped towards the girl kneeling on the floor, swung, but the girl
while on her knees, deftly parried the blow then dropped to the ground, the boy
in the sheepskin jacket, who had jumped down behind him, hit the Nissir with
ease in the temple. The fat man hit the ground, like a mattress made of straw.
The doors of the inn were opened by a kick
and two more rats entered the rom. The first was tall and swarthy and wore a
studded jacket with a scarlet scarf tied at the front. This one, with two quick
slashes of his sword, sent two trappers to separate corners, then cut at
Vercta. The second, a broad-shouldered blond sent a wide cut in the direction
of Remiz, Skomlik’s brother. The rest took flight towards the kitchen door. But
the Rats were entering there as well. At the rear jumped suddenly a dark girl
dressed in a colourful outfit. A quick thrust of her sword pierced one of the
Trappers, then chased the another, and soon after skewed the innkeeper before
he could yell who he was.
The room was filled with the noise and
clashes of swords. Ciri hid behind the pole.
‘Mistle!’ Kayleigh shouted, having broken
free from the ropes that bound him, was now wrestling with the strap around his
neck that was still binding him to the pole. ‘Giselher! Reef! To me!’
The Rats, however, were still busy
fighting, though Skomlik heard Kayleigh’s cry. The trapper turned around with
the intention of nailing the Rat to the post. Ciri reacted quickly and
instinctively; just like during the fight with the Wyvern in Gors Velen, like
in Thanedd, all the movements she had learned in Kaer Morhen took over
suddenly, almost without her participation. She jumped out from behind the
pole, spun in pirouette; fell heavily on Skomlik, hitting him in the hip. She
was too small and puny to dislodge the huge trapper, but managed to disrupt the
rhythm of his movement. And turn his attention to her.
‘You whore!’
Skomlik swung his sword and the air howled.
Ciri’s body again made the same economical dodge, the trapper almost fell over,
following the path of his accelerating blade. Cursing vilely, he hacked again,
putting the full force of his body behind the blow. Ciri jumped agilely aside,
landing safely on her left foot and then spun in the opposite direction in a
pirouette. Skomlik hacked again, but was unable to reach her.
Vercta abruptly fell between them, covered
in blood.
The trapper stepped back and looked around.
He was surrounded only by corpses. And the Rats were approaching from all sides
with swords ready.
‘Stand fast.’ The swarthy one with the red
scarf said coldly, finally releasing Kayleigh. ‘It seems he wants to slice this
girl at all costs. I don’t know why. I do not know by what miracle you have not
already done it. But let’s give him a chance, since he wants it so much.’
‘Give her a chance too,’ Said Giselher, the
one with the broad-shoulders.,‘let this be a fair fight. Give her iron, Firespark.’
Ciri felt in her hand the grip of a sword.
It was a little too heavy.
Skomlik grunted furiously, threw himself
upon her, brandishing his blade in front of him. He was too slow. Ciri avoided
the feints and cuts through fast turns, without even trying to stop the blows
raining down. The sword only served as a counterweight to facilitate her easy
evasions.
‘Incredible!’ Laughed the girl with the
short cut hair. ‘She’s an acrobat!’
‘She is fast.’ Said the one in the
colourful outfit, who had given her the sword. ‘Quick as an elf. Hey you!
Perhaps you would prefer one of us? You are having no luck with her!’
Skomlik glanced back, then all of a sudden
lunged at Ciri stretching like a heron with its beak. Ciri avoided the
onslaught with a short feint, she turned. For a second she saw a swollen and
throbbing vein on Skomlik’s neck. She knew that in the position she was in he
was unable to avoid her blow. She knew where and how to strike.
She did not strike.
‘Enough of this.’ She felt a hand on her
shoulder. The girl in the colourful outfit pushed her, while two other Rats,
the boy in the sheepskin jacket and short hair, herded Skomlik into a corner of
the room, keeping him in check with their swords.
‘Enough of this fun.’ Repeated colourful
outfit, Ciri turned to face her. ‘This is taking a little too long. And it is
your fault, girl. You can kill him, or not. I get the feeling you will not live
long.’
Ciri trembled, looking at the big dark,
almond shaped eyes, seeing bare teeth through a smile so small as to make it
look ghostly. These were not human eyes or teeth. The girl in the bright outfit
was an elf.
‘Time to blow.’ Giselher said sharply, the
one with the scarlet scarf, evidently the leader. ‘It really is taking too
long! Mistle, finish off the bastard.’
Short cut hair approached, carrying a sword.
‘Mercy!’ Skomlik screamed, falling to his
knees. ‘Forgive my life! I have small children... Little ones...’
The girl struck a strong blow, turning at
the hips. Blood splatter onto the whitewall as a large irregular spot of
crimson.
‘I can not stand small children.’ Said
short hair, while with a swift movement flicked the blood from the sword.
‘Do not just stand there, Mistle.’ Scarlet
scarf urged her. ‘To the horses! We have to blow! This is a Nilfgaard
settlement, we have no friends here!’
The Rats quickly ran out of the inn. Ciri
did not know what to do, but had no time to reflect, Mistle, the short haired
one, pushed her towards the door.
Before the inn, among the remains of the
gnawed bones and jars, were the corpses of the Nissir guarding the entrance.
From the village came running farmers with spears, but in light of the Rats
emerging, they immediately disappeared among the huts.
‘Do you know how to ride?’ Mistle shouted
at Ciri.
‘Yes...’
‘The come, grab one and gallop! There is a
reward for our heads in this Nilfgaardian village! They’re all reaching for
bows and spears! Ride behind Giselher! By the middle of the street! And stay
away from the huts!’
Ciri flew over the low railing, grabbing
the reins of one of the trappers horses, jumped into the saddle then slammed
the rump of the horse with the flat of her sword, which she had not let go off.
She went into a fast gallop ahead of Kayleigh and the colourful elf, who was
called Firespark The Rats rushed in the direction of the mill. She saw out of
the darkness of a house, jump a man with a crossbow, pointed at Giselher’s
back.
‘Stop him!’ She heard from the rear. ‘Stop
him, girl!’
Ciri leaned in the saddle, jerking the
reins and forcing her galloping horse to change direction, raising her sword.
The man with the crossbow turning at the last second, she saw his face furrow
in fear. Her hand hesitated only a moment, which was enough for her gallop to
bring her alongside him. She heard the sound of the string releasing, the horse
screamed, dropped to its haunches and reared. Ciri jumped, pulling her feet
from the stirrups, landing lightly and dropping into a squat. Firespark, who
was approaching, launched from the saddle a heavy blow, cutting down the crossbowman.
The crossbowman fell to his knees, leaned forward and fell onto his face into a
puddle, splashing mud. The wounded horse snorted and flung to the side, finally
running between the huts, kicking hard.
‘You idiot!’ Yelled the elf, as she rode past
Ciri. ‘You bloody idiot’
‘Jump on!’ Kayleigh shouted, approaching
her. Ciri ran, grabbed the hand he offered to her. The momentum pulled at her
shoulder joint until it cracked, but she managed to jump on the horse, clinging
to the back of the blond haired Rat. They went at a gallop past Firespark. The
elf turned, chasing down another crossbowman, who threw down his weapon and ran
towards the barn doors. Firespark reached him effortlessly. Ciri turned away.
She heard the crossbowman scream cut short, like a wild beast.
Mistle caught up with them pulling along a
saddled horse. She shouted something, Ciri could not understand the words, but
she realised on the fly. She released Kayleigh’s back and jumped back to the
ground, ran to the saddled horse which was getting dangerously close to the
huts. Mistle threw her the reins, looked up and shouted a warning. Ciri turned
just in time to perform a half pirouette which helped her avoid the treacherous
onslaught of a spear wielded by a stocky farmer who had emerged from a pigsty.
What happened next haunted her dreams for a
long time. She remembered everything, every movement. The half pirouette that
saved her from the tip of the spear, had set her in the ideal position. The
spearman, however, was leaning forward to heavily, was unable to either jump
away or shield himself as he held the spear with both hands. Ciri struck a
blow, turning in an opposite half pirouette. For a moment she saw his lips open
to scream in his face that was covered by a few days growth of beard. She saw on
his long bald forehead the line where his cap or hat protected against a tan.
And then everything she saw, was obscured by the fountain of blood.
Still holding the horse by the reins, the
horse broke into a ghoulish squeal, and turning knocked her to her knees. Ciri
did not let go of the reins. The wounded man screamed in a death rattle, was
thrown convulsively into the straw and manure where blood flowed from him like
a pig. Ciri felt bile rising to her throat.
Next to her nailed to her horse was Firespark.
The elf seized the reins and tugged, forcing Ciri, who was still clutching the
reins, back to her feet.
‘Into the saddle!’ She screamed ‘And run!’
Ciri contained her nausea and jumped into
the saddle. On the sword, which she still held in her hand was blood. She
barely mastered the desire to throw the weapon as far away from herself as
possible.
Mistle appeared from among the huts,
chasing two people. One managed to escape by jumping a fence; the second was
struck, feel to his knees and clutched his head in both hands.
Both Ciri, and the elf started off at a
gallop, but after a moment stopped. Returning from the mill was Giselher with
the other Rats. Behind them shouting encouragingly to each other was an armed
group of farmers.
‘Follow us!’ cried Giselher passing them at
a gallop. ‘Follow us, Mistle! To the river!’
Mistle, leaning to one side, tugged the
reins, turned her horse and was soon galloping behind him, jumping a low fence.
Ciri put her face into the mane of her horse and followed. Firespark galloped
along beside her. The momentum of the race had messed her beautiful black hair,
revealing a small, pointed ear adorned with a filigree earring.
The man that Mistle had wounded was still
kneeling in the middle of the road, swaying and clutched his bleeding head with
both hands. Firespark turned around, rode up to him and struck with her sword
from above with all her might. The wounded man screamed. Ciri saw severed
fingers leap to the side like long cut chips, then fall to the ground like fat
white worms.
With great effort, she managed not to
vomit.
Before the hole in the palisade, waiting,
were Mistle and Kayleigh, the rest of the Rats were already far ahead. All four
went into a sharp, extended gallop, next to the river, the spraying water
reached well above their horses’ heads. Bent over, cheeks snuggled into the
manes of their horses they crossed onto the sandy rocks , then ran on through a
meadow covered with lupines. Firespark, having the best horse, was ahead of
them.
They entered a forest, in the humid
darkness between the trunks of the beeches. They caught up to Giselher and the
others, but stopped for only a moment. They crossed the forest and entered a
moors, then enter a gallop again. Ciri and Kayleigh soon began to lag behind
the others, the trapper mounts were unable to keep the pace with the other Rats
mounts. Ciri had another problem: it was a big horse and her feet barely
reached the stirrups and during the gallop she was unable to adjust them. She
knew how to ride without stirrups no worse than with stirrups, but knew at this
pace she could not sustain a gallop for long.
Fortunately, after a few minutes Giselher
slowed and stopped , allowing her and Kayleigh to join the group. Ciri came at
a trot. She still could not adjust the strap on the stirrups. Without slowing
she shifted her right leg over and sat down side saddle on the horse.
Mistle, seeing the position the girl was
riding in burst into laughter.
‘See, Giselher? Not only is she an acrobat,
but also a mountebank! Hey, Kayleigh, where did you get this devil?’
Firespark, stopped her beautiful chestnut
mare, still dry and eager to continue came nearer, pushing into the grey mare
Ciri rode. Her horse snorted and stepped back, tossing its head. Ciri pulled on
the reins and leant in the saddle.
‘Do you know why you are still alive,
moron?’ the elf growled, pushing aside the hair from her forehead. ‘That farmer
that respected your life so mercifully dropped the hammer early and hit the
horse instead of you. Otherwise you would now have a bolt sticking out of your
back! Why are you wearing that sword?’
‘Leave her alone, Firespark’ Mistle said,
stroking sweat from the neck of her mount. ‘Giselher, we need to slow down, the
pace is killing the horses! No one is chasing us’
‘I want to cross the Velda as soon as
possible.’ Said Giselher. “We can rest across the river. Kayleigh, how is your
horse?’
‘It’ll endure. It is a thoroughbred, not
meant for racing, but it’s a strong beast/’
‘Well, let’s run.’
‘One moment,’ said Firespark. ‘What about
this brat?’
Giselher looked back, adjusted his scarlet
scarf and fixed his gaze on Ciri. His face, his expression, reminded her a
little of Kayleigh – the same angry grimace of the lips, the same squinting
eyes and the protruding lower jaw. But he was older than the blond haired Rat –
bluish shadows on his cheeks testified that her shaved regularly already.
‘True,’ he said sharply. ‘What about you,
lass?’
Ciri lowered her head.
‘She helped.’ Said Kayleigh. ‘It it were
not for her, that nasty trapper would have nailed me to the post...’
‘The villagers,’ added Mistle ‘saw her
running away with us. She slashed one, I doubt her survived. Those
Nilfgaardians are farmers. If the girls falls into their hands, they’ll kill
her. We can not leave her.’
Firespark snorted angrily, but Giselher
raised his hand.
‘Let us cross the Velda,’ he decided. ‘Then
we’ll see. Come, sit on the horse as you should, girl. If you fall, we will not
see. Understand?’
Ciri nodded readily.
***
‘Tell me, girl, who are you? Where are you
from? What is your name? Why do you travel under escort?’
Ciri bowed her head. During the gallop she
had plenty of time to try and invent a story. She had invented a few. But the
leader of the Rats did not look like someone who believed just anything.
‘Come on,’ urged Giselher. ‘You have ridden
with us a few hours. You have listened to us, but I have not had a chance to
know the sound of your voice. Are you mute?’
The fire shot up in a cloud of sparks and
flames, flooding the ruined shepherd’s hut with a wave of golden light. As if
obeying a command of Giselher’s, the fire lit up of the questioned party making
it easier to discover if it held lies or falsehood.
But I can not tell them the truth.
Ciri thought desperately. They are thieves. Bandits. If they found out what
the Nilfgaardians want me, that the Traps caught me for a reward, they may want
the reward themselves. Besides, the truth is too incredible I do not even
believe it.
‘We saved you from the village,’ the leader
of the bandits slowly continued. ‘We brought you here to one of our hideouts.
Gave you food. You are sitting here by our fire. So tell me who you are!’
‘Leave her alone.’ Mistle said suddenly.
‘When I look at you, Giselher, I’m suddenly reminded of the Nissir, or the
Trappers or one of those bastard Nilfgaardians. I feel like I am in an interrogation,
tied to a rack in the dungeon.’
‘Mistle is right,’ said the blond wearing
the sheepskin jacket. Ciri twitched upon hearing his accent. ‘It is clear that
the girl does not want to say who she is and she is entitled to that. When I
joined you, I also did not talk much. I did not want to mention I was one of
those bastard Nilfgaardians...’
‘No shit, Reef.’ Giselher waved his hand.
‘With you it was different. And you Mistle, you exaggerate. There is no
interrogation. I want to hear who she is and from where she is from. Once I’ve
heard it I’ll show her the way home and that’s it. How can I do that if I do
not know...’
‘You do not know anything.’ Mistle looked
back. ‘Even if she has a home, which I doubt. The trappers grabbed her on the
road because she was alone. That’s typical of these cowards. If she is forced
to go, she would not survive alone in the mountains. Wolves would tear her
apart or she’d die of hunger.’
‘So, what do we do with her?’ the broad
shouldered one said with a young sounding voice, while stirring the wood in the
fire with a stick. ‘Do we leave her near a village?’
‘Great idea, Asse.’ Mistle sneered, ‘Do you
know the farmers? With the lack of hands to do the work now. Maybe they can get
the girl to graze cattle, breaking her leg so she can not escape. In the
evening she will be treated like a nobody, and therefore common property. And
you know how she’ll pay for the roof over her head. And in the spring will have
fevers after recently giving birth to someone’s bastard in a pigsty.’
‘If we leave her the horse and the sword,’
Giselher drawled slowly, still looking at Ciri. ‘I would not want to be in the
shoes of the farmer who wanted to break her leg. Or make a bastard. You saw the
dance that she danced in the inn with the trapper whose throat Mistle cut. He
was slashing air and she danced as if nothing was happening… Ha, I do not care
about her name or her family, but would be happy to know where she learned
these tricks…’
‘Tricks will not save her,’ Firespark said
suddenly, who had been busy sharpening her sword. ‘She can only dance. To
survive she must learn to kill, and that she does not know.’
‘I think she knows.’ Kayleigh smiled. ‘When
in that village she ripped open the neck of that farmer, the blood flew out
half a fathom…’
‘And at the sight of it she nearly
fainted.’ Snorted the elf.
‘Because she is still a kid.’ Mistle
interjected. ‘I can imagine who she is and where she learned these tricks. I’ve
seen people like her before. She’s a dancer or acrobat with a traveling
troupe.’
‘And since when,’ Firespark snorted again
‘do we care about dancers and acrobats? Damn, midnight is approaching, sleep is
overcoming me. Let’s stop with the empty chatter. We have to sleep and rest,
tomorrow at dusk we will be in Forge. You have not forgotten that it was the
mayor who gave the Nissir, Kayleigh. The whole village will see how the night
takes on a red face. And the girl? She can have the horse and sword, both were
honestly earned. Give her some food and some money. For helping to save
Kayleigh. Let her go where she wants, let her care for herself…’
‘All right,’ Ciri said, pursing her lips
and rising. There was silence broken only by the crackling fire. The Rats
looked at her curiously, waiting.
‘All
right.’ She repeated, amazed at the sound of her voice which sounded so alien.
‘I do not need you, I have not asked for anything… And I do not want to be with
you! I’ll leave…’
‘So you’re not mute.’ Giselher said
sombrely. ‘You can speak, even cheeky.’
‘Look at her eyes.’ Firespark snapped.
‘Look how she is holding her head. Bird of prey. Hawk!’
‘You want to leave.’ Said Kayleigh ‘But
where, do you know?’
‘What do you care?’ Ciri screamed, her eyes
flashing a brilliant green. ‘Do I ask you, where you go? I don’t care! I do not
need you at all! I can… I can handle it! Alone!’
‘Alone?’ Mistel repeated, smiling
strangely. Ciri was silent, bowing her head. The Rats were also silent.
‘It’s night.’ Giselher finally said. ‘Do not
ride at night. Do not ride alone, girl. He who is alone, dies alone. There,
near the horses, are blankets and furs. Take some. Nights are cold in the
mountains. Why are you looking at me with those green lanterns? Prepare a bed
and sleep. You have to rest.’
After a moment of reflection, Ciri obeyed.
When she returned, carrying a blanket and furs the Rats were no longer sitting
around the fire. They stood in a semicircle, and the brightness of the fire
flared in their eyes.
‘We are the Border Rats.’ Giselher said
proudly. ‘Smelling the spoils of loot miles away. And there is nothing we are
not able to crack. We are the Rats. Come here, girl.’
She obeyed.
‘You have nothing.’ Giselher said, handing
her a silver studded belt. ‘Accept this.’
‘You
have nothing and no one.’ Said Mistle, throwing over her shoulders with a
smile, a green satin doublet and a plain weave blouse.
‘You have nothing.’ Said Kayleigh and his
gift to her was a small dagger in a sheath studded with precious stones. ‘You
are alone.’
‘You have no one.’ Asse repeated after
giving Ciri a decorative baldric.
‘You have no family.’ Said Reef in his
Nilfgaardian accent, handing her a pair of soft skin gloves. ‘You have no one
nearby…’
‘ Everywhere you are a stranger.’ Finished Firespark
with seeming carelessness, and quickly and unceremoniously placed a beret with
turkey feathers on her head. ‘An Outsider everywhere and always different. How
shall we call you, little hawk?’
Ciri looked into her eyes.
‘Gvalch’ca.’
The elf laughed.
‘Once you start to speak, you speak in
multiple languages, little hawk! Very good. You will carry the name from the
Elder People, a name that you yourself have chosen. You will be called Falka.’
***
Falka.
She could not sleep. Horses shuffled and
neighed in the dark, the wind whispered through the tops of the pines. The sky
was covered with starts. With great clarity shone the Eye, her faithful guide
for many days while in the wilderness of the desert. The Eye pointed west. But
Ciri was not sure if that was right. She was not sure of anything.
She could not sleep even though for the
first time in many days she felt safe. She was no longer alone. She had placed
the bed of blankets and furs in a corner, away from the Rats, who slept on the
clay floor of the ruined hut, by the warm fire. She was away from them but
still felt a closeness and presence. She was not alone.
She heard quiet footsteps.
‘Do not be afraid.’ Said Kayleigh. ‘I will
not tell,’ whispered the blond hair Rat, while he crouched beside her ‘I will
not tell them anything about the reward promised for you by the governor of
Amarillo. There in the tavern you saved my life. I will reward you. With a
beautiful thing. Right now.’
He lay beside her, slowly and carefully.
Ciri tried to get up but Kayleigh forced her to lie down with a movement that
was not violent, but strong and firm. He put a finger gently on her lips. It
was not necessary. Ciri was paralysed with fear and her throat was painfully
tight and dry and a cry could not have escaped, even though she wanted it. But
it did not. The silence and darkness were better. Safer. More intimate. Hiding
her fear and shame. She moaned.
‘Be quiet, little one.’ Kayleigh whispered,
slowly untying her shirt. Slowly and smoothly he slid the fabric down off of
her shoulders and pulled the shirt above her waist. ‘Do not be afraid. You’ll
see how pleasant this is.’
Ciri shivered at the touch of his fingers,
dry, hard and rough. She lay motionless, stretched taunt and full of fear and
an overwhelming disgust, that sent heat waves to her temples and cheeks.
Kayleigh slipped her left arm under his head and drew her closer to himself,
trying to remove her hands that convulsively pulled the bottom of her shirt
down in vain. She began to tremble.
In the darkness around her she suddenly
felt a movement; she felt a jolt and the sound of a kick.
‘Have you gone mad, Mistle?’ Barked
Kayleigh, sitting up a little.
‘Leave her alone, you swine.’
‘Piss off. Go to sleep.’
‘I said leave her alone.’
‘Does this seem unwelcome? Did she yell or
stir? I just wanted to comfort her in her sleep. Don’t interrupt.’
‘Get out of here or I’ll make you.’
Ciri heard the screech of a sword leaving
its scabbard.
‘I’m not kidding,’ Mistle repeated, looming
in the darkness above them. ‘Go over to the others. Now!’
Kayleigh sat up, cursing. Her got up
without saying a word and went quickly.
Ciri felt tears running down her cheeks,
faster and faster, moving like worms crawling into her hair beside her ears.
Mistle lay down beside her and covered her skin diligently. But did not close
the shirt, leaving it open as it was. Ciri started shaking again.
‘Quiet, Falka. Everything is fine.’
Mistle was warm and smelled of cattle and
smoke. Her hand, unlike Kayleigh’s hand was more delicate, more tender. More
enjoyable. But the contact was making Ciri tense again, her body stiffened with
fear and disgust, she squeezed her jaw shut. Mistle stuck to her, holding her
protectively and whispering soothing words, but also her soft hand was crawling
tireless like a snail, warm, calm, confident, determined, aware of it route and
purpose. Ciri felt the grip of fear and disgust open up and release their prey,
she felt the pressure release and fell down, down, deeper, into a warm and
humid swamp of resigned submission.
She moaned dully, desperately. Mistle
breath scorched her neck, velvet moist lips kissed her shoulder, collarbone and
then very slowly moved lower.
Ciri, moaned again.
‘Hush, little hawk.’ Mistle whispered,
gently pushing her arm under her head. ‘You will not be alone. Not anymore.’
***
Ciri awoke at dawn. She slipped from under
the fur and slowly and carefully, as to not wake Mistle, who slept with parted
lip and her eyes hidden by her forearm. Her forearm had goosebumps. Ciri
carefully covered the girl. After a moment’s hesitation she leaned forward and
gently kissed her cropped spiky hair. Mistle purred in her sleep. Ciri wiped a
tear from her cheek.
She was no longer alone.
The rest of the Rats were also asleep, one
was snoring loudly, while another let lose a fart. Firespark was lying with her
hand across Giselher’s chest, lush hair scattered in disarray. The horses
snorted and kicked, a woodpecker was at the trunk of a pine hammering it with
short blows.
Ciri ran to the river. She washer for a
long time, shivering with cold. She washed with sharp movements of her hands,
trying to remove what could not be removed. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Falka.
The water foamed and hissed onto the rocks,
sailing into the distance, in fog.
Everything flowed into the distance. Into
the fog.
Everything.
***
They were outcasts. They were a strange
jumble created by war, misery and contempt. War, misery and contempt joined
them and spat them out, like a swollen river spits out and deposits on beaches
black polished stones and pieces of wood.
Kayleigh had woken up in smoke, fire and
blood in a plundered castle lying between the corpses of his adoptive parents
and siblings. Crawling among the corpses in the courtyard was Reef. Reef was a
solider of the punitive expedition, which Emperor Emhyr var Emreis sent to
quell the insurgency in Ebbing. He was one of those who had conquered and
plundered the castle after a two day siege. Having conquered the casted, his
comrades abandoned Reef, although Reef was still alive. But the care of the
wounded had never been customary in Nilfgaard special forces.
At first Kayleigh wanted to finish off
Reef. But Kayleigh did not want to be alone. And Reef and Kayleigh were only
sixteen.
Together they licked their wounds. Together
they killed and robbed a tack collector; together they gave away the beer to an
inn, and then riding through the village on stolen horses, throwing away the
rest of the stolen money, dying of laughter the whole time.
Together they fled the pursuit and
Nilfgaardian Nissir patrols.
Giselher deserted the army. Perhaps it was
the army of the lord of Geso who had allied with the rebels from Ebbing.
Probably. Giselher was not sure where he had been dragged from and enlisted. He
had been drunk. Once he sobered up and got his first drill sergeant, he
escaped. At first, he wandered alone, but when the Nilfgaard destroyed the
confederation of rebels, the forest was full of deserters and fugitives. The
fugitives soon joined into bands. Giselher joined one of them.
The band plundered and burned villages,
attacking caravans and transports that were running in wild flight from the
Nilfgaardian cavalry squadrons. During one of these flights, the band ran to
escape into the woods but ran into Elves and found death and destruction. The
death was in the form of invisible hissing gray feathered arrows from all
sides. Once shot pierced through his shoulder and pinned him to a tree. The one
who pulled the arrow the next morning and took care of the wound was
Aenyeweddien.
Giselher never learned why the elves sent
Aenyeweddien into exile, for what crime she had been condemned to death.
Because for a free elf, death was being alone in the narrow stretch of no man’s
land separating the humans from the free Elder People. A lonely elf will die,
if they can not find a companion.
Aenyeweddien had found a companion. Her
name, in free translation was “Child of Fire”, was to complicated and poetic
for Giselher. He called her Spark.
Mistle came from a wealthy and noble family
of Thurn manor, north of Maecht. He father was a vassal of prince Rudiger, he
joined the rebel army, let himself get killed and disappeared without a trace.
When the population of Thurn fled the city before the news of the impending
punitive expedition the notorious Peacekeepers of Gemmer, Mistle’s family also
fled, but lost Mistle in the panic that gripped the crowd. A decorated and
delicate lady, who from early childhood had been carried around in a sedan
chair, was unable to keep up with the fugitives. After three days of wandering
alone she fell into the clutches of slave hunters who followed the
Nilfgaardians. A girl under seventeen years was worth a lot. If she was intact.
The hunters did not touch Mistle, after checking earlier that she was intact.
After that check, Mistle sobbed all night.
In the valley of Velda, the caravan of
hunters was attacked and destroyed by a band of Nilfgaardian deserters. They
killed all the hunters and male slaves. They spared only the girls. The girls
did not know why they had been spared. The ignorance did not last long.
Mistle was the only one who survived. She
was pulled from the ditch, where she was thrown, naked, covered in bruises,
filth, mud and blood. She was saved by Asse, the son of a village blacksmith,
who had followed the Nilfgaardians for three days, mad with desire for revenge
for what the marauders had done with his father, mother and sisters, which he
had witness while hiding among some reeds.
They all met one day during the
celebrations of Lamas, the Harvest Festival, in one of the villages of Geso.
War and poverty had not then devastated the country’s high veld. Farmers
celebrated as tradition dictated the beginning of the crescent moon, with
dancing and noisy entertainment.
They did not have to search for too long
for each other in the crowd. They differed a lot from them. They had many
things in common. They shared a taste for noisy, colourful, imaginative
costumes, stolen trinkets, beautiful horses and swords which they did not
remove even to dance. They were distinguished by their arrogance and
haughtiness, their self-confidence and mocking chatter and their violence.
And their hatred.
They were children of the times of
contempt. And for others they only held contempt. What counted to them was
strength. Efficiency in arms, which they quickly acquired on the highways. Fast
horses and sharp swords.
They became comrades. Companions. Friends.
Because those who are alone, shall die of famine, sword, arrow, the stakes of
the peasants, on the scaffold or by fire. Whoever is alone dies: stabbed,
beaten, kicked, defiled, like a toy passed from hand to hand.
They met at the Harvest Festival. The
sombre, dark, skinny Giselher. Kayleigh, thin, long hair, with evil eyes and
mouth arranged in a hideous face. Reef, who still spoke with a Nilfgaardian
accent. Mistle, tall, long legged, with straw coloured hair cut so short that
it was stiff as a brush. Spark, large colourful eyes, slender, and light in the
dance but fast and deadly in battle, with thin lips and small elvish teeth.
Asse, broad shouldered, with a white moustache and a twisted beard.
Giselher became the leader. They adopted
the name the Rats. Someone had called them that once and they loved it.
They robbed and killed, and their cruelty
became proverbial.
At first, the governor of Nilfgaard
underestimated them. They were sure that, like the other bands, they would soon
fall victim to the angry peasants or would destroy and kill each other, when
their greed for the stored booty triumphed over the bandit solidarity. The
governor was right in regards to the other gangs, but they were wrong about the
Rats. Because the Rats, children of contempt, despised the spoils. They
attacked, robbed and killed for fun and seized shipments of military horses, cattle,
grain, straw, salt, tar and cloth which they distributed in villages. With
handfuls of gold and silver to pay tailors and craftsmen for things they loved
above all else: weapons, clothes and ornaments. Those they paid well, who
sheltered and hid them, even when flogged but the Nissir would not betray the
hiding places and routes of the Rats.
The governors offered a large reward, and
at first there were those that rejoiced at the prospect of Nilfgaardian gold.
But at night, the homes of the informers became engulfed in flames and as the
fire died down from the smoke rode ghostly riders with swords. The Rats
attached as rats. In silence, betrayal and cruelty. Rats loved to kill.
The governors turned to other methods that
had worked with other bands; sometimes they tried to introduce a traitor among
the Rats. They were unsuccessful. The Rats did not accept anyone. They were a
compact and fraternal six made by the time of contempt and they did not want
strangers. They despised them.
Until the day when a girl appeared, ashen
haired, tight-lipped and agile as an acrobat, who knew nothing about the Rats.
Except she was like each of them. She was
alone and full of sadness, sadness for what had been stolen from her in this
time of contempt.
And in times of contempt, one who is alone
must die.
Giselher, Kayleigh, Reef, Firespark,
Mistle, Asse and Falka.
The governor of Amarillo was astonished
beyond measure when he was told that there were now seven Rats.
***
‘Seven?’ The surprised governor of Amarillo
said, looking at the soldier in disbelief. ‘There were seven, not six? Are you
sure?’
‘I wish I was as healthy as I was sure.’
The sole surviving solider of the massacre said faintly.
His desire was quite natural – the head and
half of the soldier’s face was covered by a dirty bandage and covered in blood.
The governor, who had been in more than one battle, knew that the soldier had
been hit at the back from above – the end of the blade, went from left to
right, precise, requiring skill and speed, directed at the right ear and cheek,
in places not protected by a helmet or iron collar.
‘Give me your account.’
‘We were walking along the Velda in the
direction of Thurn.’ Started the soldier. ‘The order was to save on of the
convoys being transported by Lord Evertsen which was heading south. We were
attacked by the fallen bridge when we were crossing the river. One cart was
stuck, then we had to use horses from the second to pull it out. The rest of
the convoy went ahead; I was left with five men and with the bailiff. And we
were jumped. The bailiff, before he was killed, had time to shout that these
were the Rats and then they had him around the throat… They overthrew us all.
When I saw this…’
‘When you saw him,’ the governor scowled
‘You put your heels to your horses. But you were too late to save his skin.’
‘She caught up with me’ The soldier bowed
his head ‘the seventh; I hadn’t seen her at first. A girl. Almost a kid. I
guess she was left at the back of the Rats, because she was young and
inexperienced…’
A visitor to the governor emerged from the
darkness in which had been sitting.
‘Was it a girl?’ He asked. ‘What was she
like?’
‘Like all of them. Painted up like an elf,
colourfully like a parrot, dressed in bright velvets and brocades, with a hat
with a feather.’
‘Blonde?’
‘I think so, sir. When I saw her, the horse
she was riding was going fast, thinking that one of her companions was about to
be made into mincemeat and she would make them pay blood for blood… I came in
from the right and cut at her.. How she did it I don’t know. But I missed her.
It was if the blow had gone through a ghost or spirit… I do not know how the
devil… As though I was stopped, she got in behind me. Straight in the nose…
Sir, I was at Sodden in Aldersburg. And now from that girl I have a souvenir on
my face for life..’
‘Be glad that you are alive,’ snorted the
governor, looking at his guest. ‘And be glad that you were wounded when you
recovered consciousness. Now you will become a hero. If you had avoided the
fight, if you had no mementos on your face when reporting the loss of cargo and
horses, you soon would have found yourself on the gallows. Well, march on. To
the hospital.’
The soldier left. The governor turned
towards the visitor.
‘You see, sir coroner, that service here is
not easy, I have no peace, I have my hands full of work. You there, in the
capital, you think the provinces are all horsefly, beer, wenches and bribe
taking officials. You never think to send more people or dogs, only commands –
give, take, find. Putting everyone one alert, running from morning to night…
and here our heads are bursting with our own problems. Five or six bands like
the Rats prowling about. True the Rats are the worst, but not a day passes…’
‘Enough, enough.’ Stefan Skellen pursed his
lips. ‘I know why you serve you laminations, governor. But it is in vain. You
are not to abandon your orders. Rats or no Rats, bands or no bands, you have to
keep up the search. By every means within reach, until I say enough. This is an
order from the Emperor.’
‘We have been looking for three weeks.’ The
governor scowled. ‘Not knowing, in the very least, who or what we are looking
for, a spook, ghost, or a needle in a haystack. And what are the results? A few
of my men have disappeared without a trace, likely killed by rebels or a
vagrant. I’ll say it again, coroner, if we have not found your girl, we will
not find her. Even if she was here, which I doubt. Unless…’
The governor stopped, pondered, looking
askance at the coroner.
‘That girl… The seventh that rides with the
Rats.’ Kalous dismissively waved his hand, trying to make his
gesture come out convincingly.
‘No, Governor. Do not look for easy
solutions. The girl described or any other girl adorned with brocade is surely,
not the girl we want. It’s definitely not her. Continue the search. That is an
order.’
The governor murmured, looking out the
window.
‘And with that band,’ he added with a
seemingly indifferent voice, Emperor Emhyr’s coroner, Stefan Skellen
called Kalous, ‘with these
Rats or whatever they are called… Regain order, governor. In the provinces the
order must prevail. Get to work. Capture and hang them, without formalities or
ceremonies. All of them.’
‘Easy to say.’ Muttered the governor. ‘But
I will do what is in my power. Assure the Emperor. But I think this seventh
girl from the Rats is worth keeping alive, however, just to be sure…’
‘No’ Interrupted Kalous, taking care
that his voice did not betray anything. ‘No, exceptions, hang them all. All
seven. I do not want to hear any more about them. I do not want to hear another
word.’
End of Second Volume.