“No.” he said finally. “We have not arrested anyone by that name.”
“Really?”
“My memory does not fail me in this instance. I do apologise, Your Excellency.”
“I also,” said Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen icily. “Especially since it seems impossible in these conditions, to conduct a mutual extradition of criminals. I will not annoy your Lordship further. I wish you health and success.”
“Good health and good luck.”
“Mutually. Good-bye, Your Excellency.”
The ambassador went out, after some complicated, ceremonial bows.
“Kiss my sempitemum meam, smart ass.” Dijkstra muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ori!”
The secretary, red from coughing and grunting, emerged from behind the curtain.
“Philippa is still holed up in Montecalvo?”
“Yes, hem, hem. With her friends Laux-Antille, Merigold and Metz.”
“Any day war could break out, the border of the Jaruga will explode, and they go and lock themselves up in a wild fortress! Take your pen, and write. “Beloved Phil …” Damn!”
“I wrote: "Dear Philippa."”
“Good, continue.''You might be interested to know, that the oddity in the winged helmet, who disappeared as mysteriously as he appeared on Thanedd, is called Cahir Mawr Dyffryn and is the son of steward Ceallach. Surprisingly, we are not the only ones looking for this strange individual, but as it turns out, Vattiera de Rideaux and people of that son of a bitch …'' ”
“Lady Philippa, hem, hem, does not like such words. I wrote: "the scoundrel".”
“Fine, the scoundrel Stefan Skellena. ''And you know as well as I, dear Phil, that the intelligence services of Emhyr are urgently looking for only those agents and emissaries, who vowed to rip Emhyr apart. Those who were meant to do his bidding in the cities or die, but betrayed him, their commands left unexecuted. Things look pretty strange, however we were confident that Cahir was ordered to capture princess Cirilla and deliver her to Nilfgaard.'' New paragraph. ''The matter raised a reasonable amount of suspicion in me and strange though it may be, I have come up with some surprising theories. However, they are not meaningless, and I would like to discuss them with you in private. With deepest respect et cetera, et cetera.''”
* * *
She went to the south, straight as an arrow, to the banks of the Ribbon, and after crossing the river, trekked over wet ravines, covered in a soft carpet of bright green moss. She assumed that the witcher, not knowing the terrain as well as her would not risk crossing by the human side. By cutting through the huge half circle formed by the river, part of which bulged into Brokilon, she had a chance to catch up. Travelling quickly and without stopping she even had a chance to overtake him.
The finches sang, and they were not mistaken. The sky had darkened considerably in the South. The air became thick and heavy, and the mosquitoes became extremely annoying, almost unbearable.
When she found herself in a marshy meadow, overgrown with black alder festooned with naked green catkins, she felt a presence. She heard nothing but she felt there was someone. She knew there were elves.
She stopped her horse, so the archers hidden in the thicket had the opportunity to take a good look at her. She held her breath, hoping she would not startle them.
A horsefly buzzed over the deer carcass, which rested over the haunches of her mount.
Rustling. A quiet whistle. A whistle in response. The Scoia'tael emerged from the bushes like ghosts, and only then Milva breathed more freely. She knew them. They belonged to the commando of, Coinneach Dá Reo.
“Hael.” she said, dismounting. “Que'ss va?”
“Ne'ss,” said elf curtly, whose name she could not remember. “Caemm.”
The others were camped not far, in a clearing. There were at least thirty, more than just the Coinneach commando. Milva was surprised, the numbers of Squirrel detachments had started to decrease. The commando groups she had seen lately were bloodstained, ragged and sickly, barely holding on in the saddles of their weak horses. This commando was different.
“Cead, Coinneach.” greeted the approaching leader.
“Ceadmil, sor'ca.”
Sor'ca. Little sister. She gave this name to those with whom she regarded as friends, to express her respect and sympathy, although they were older than herself. At first, she was known as Dh'oine to the elves, human being. Later, as she helped them regularly, they began to call her Woedbeanna Aen, "woman of the woods". Later still, when they began to know her better, they called her as the dryads did. Milva, meaning Kite. Her real name, which she revealed only to her closest friends on the condition that they returned the gesture, did not sound right in the elven tongue. They pronounced it Mear'ya, with a slight grimace, as if it was akin to something unpleasant in their language and they would immediately decide to call her "sor'ca" instead.
“Where are you heading?” Milva looked around slowly, but still did not see any wounded or sick. “The Eighth Mile? To Brokilon?”
“No.”
She refrained from asking further questions, she knew better. She was content to just watch their faces, immobile, concentrated, noting the ostensible calm, exaggerated, as they organised their equipment and weapons. It was enough to look into their deep, bottomless eyes to understand. She knew that they were peparing for battle.
From the south, black clouds gathered. The sky grew dark.
“And where are you going, sor'ca?” Coinneach asked, casting a quick glance at the deer laid over her horse, he smiled slightly.
“South,” she replied coolly, to avoid any mistunderstanding. “By Drieschot.”
The elf's smile disappeared.
“On human shores?”
“At least until the Ceann Treis.” she said with a shrug, “I will skip the route past the Brokilon waterfalls, because …”
She turned her head when she heard a horse snort. New Scoia'tael had come to join the already large commando. These Milva knew better.
“Ciaran!” She exclaimed, without hiding her astonishment. “Toruviel! What are you doing here? I've just taken you to Brokilon and you're back …”
“Ess'creasa, sor'ca.” Ciaran aep Dearbh interrupted gravely. The bandage around the head of the elf was stained with blood.
“Yes,” Toruviel repeated after him, dismounting carefully so as not to disturb her arm bent in a sling. “We heard news. We could not remain stuck in Brokilon when each arrow counts.”
“If I had known,” Milva muttered with a pout, “I would not have made all that trouble for you. I would not have risked my neck at the crossing.”
“The news came last night.” Toruviel quietly explained. “We could not … We can not abandon our comrades at a time like this. It is impossible, you understand, sor'ca.”
The sky darkened more and more. This time, Milva clearly heard the thunder rumbling in the distance.
“Do not go South, sor'ca.” Coinneach Dá Reo said. “A storm is brewing.”
“And what can a storm do …” She paused, looking at him closely. “Ha! So it's that kind of news? Nilfgaard, yes? Soldiers of the Empire march across Sodden to the Jaruga? They will strike at Brugge? Is that why you are going?”
He did not answer.
“Yes, just like Dol Angra.” She looked into his dark eyes. “The Emperor of Nilfgaard will use you, just as before. Your people protect their rear so they can slaughter humans by sword and fire. And after, once the Emperor has made peace with the kings, they will crush you. You will perish in your own flame.”
“Fire purifies. And it hardens. We must go through it. Aenyel Fhael, ell'ea, sor'ca? Or as you say: the baptism of fire.”
“I prefer another kind of fire.” Milva took the deer from her horse and dropped it on the ground at the feet of the elves. “The one that crackles under a spit. Here, for you will need the energy on the road. I no longer need it.”
“Will you go to the South?”
“Yes.”
“Do not go, sor'ca.”
“Leave me be, Coinneach.”
“A storm is brewing in the South.” The elf repeated. “A great storm. And a great fire. Take shelter in Brokilon, sister, do not ride south. You've done enough for us, you can do nothing more. You do not have to go. We must. Ess'-Tedd, esse crease! It is time for us to leave. Farewell.”
The air was heavy and dense.
* * *
The spell of teleprojection was tricky, the sorcerers were to speak with one voice, by joining hands and thoughts. Even then, it turned out to be a devilishly strenuous exercise, partly because the distance was so considerable. The clenched eyelids of Philippa Eilhart quivered, Triss Merigold panted, and sweat beads ran down the high forehead of Keira Metz. Only the face of Margarita Laux-Antille expressed no fatigue.
The small room plunged into semi-lit darkness, suddenly, a mosaic of light began to dance along the dark wood paneling. Outlined by a white glow, an orb appeared above the round table. While Philippa Eilhart chanted the last incantations, the orb came up right in front of her, on top of one of the twelve chairs placed around the table. An indistinct silhouette took shape inside it. The projection was not very stable, the image flickered, but it soon became clearer.
“Holy shit,” Keira muttered, wiping her forehead. “Do they not know of glamarye or any other beauty spells in Nilfgaard?”
“Apparently not.” said Triss from the corner of her mouth. “They certainly have not heard of fashion either.”
“Neither have they heard of make-up.” said Philippa quietly. “But don't say a word now, girls. And do not gape at her. We must stabilize the projection and greet our guest. Strengthen me, Rita.”
Margarita Laux-Antille repeated the formula of the incantation and gestured to Philippa. The image flickered several times, it started to lose its vague picture and unnatural glow, the contours and colours became more acute. The sorceresses were now carefully observing the silhouette that was facing them. Triss bit her lip and glanced at Keira.
The woman within the projection was pale and her complexion was ugly. She had bland, expressionless eyes, narrow bluish lips and a slightly hooked nose. She wore a bizarre, conical, rather crumpled hat. Thin, dark, greasy hair hung from underneath it. Her robes were loose and shapeless, black with a silver trim, and frayed at the shoulder making her look unattractive and neglected. They were embroidered with a circle and a crescent star which served as the only decoration worn by the Nilfgaardian sorceress.
Philippa Eilhart rose, trying not to unduly expose her jewels, her laces and her cleavage.
“The venerable Lady Assire,” she said. “Welcome to Montecalvo. We are delighted that you have accepted our invitation.”
“I accepted out of curiosity.” said the Nilfgaardian sorceress with an unexpectedly pleasant and melodious voice, instinctively adjusting her hat. Her hands were thin, marked with yellow spots, and her nails were broken and uneven, obviously bitten.
“Only out of curiosity,” she reiterated, “however the consequences could indeed prove to be disasterous for me. I beg you to give me an explanation.”
“I will do so in a moment,” Philippa nodded, motioning the other sorceresses. “But before then, allow me to call the projections of the other participants of the meeting and make a cross-presentation. I ask a little patience.”
The sorceresses united hands again and resumed their incantations. The air in the chamber rang like taut wire from the ceiling coffers and once again descended in a glowing haze, filling the room with flickering shadows. Above three of the unoccupied chairs, spheres of pulsating light began to form, the outlines of the silhouettes within becoming visible. The first to appear was Sabrina Glevissig, wearing a provocatively low-cut turquoise dress with a large, standing lace collar, which formed a beautiful setting for her curly hair crowned with a brilliant diadem. Next to her, emerging from the misty light projection, was Sheala de Tancarville in a black velvet gown trimmed with pearls, her neck wrapped with a silver fox boa. The Nilfgaardian sorceress nervously licked her thin lips. Just wait for Francesca, thought Triss. When you see Francesca, little black rat, your eyes will pop out of your head.
Francesca Findabair did not disappoint. Her dress was the colour of blood, revealing her appetizing form. She wore a necklace of rubies, an ambitious hairdo, and her doe eyes were encircled with keen elven makeup.
“Ladies, I wish you all welcome to Montecalvo,” said Philippa. “I took the liberty of inviting you here to address some issues of significant importance. I regret that we meet as teleprojections, however, due to the times and the distances between us, a real meeting would have been impossible. I, Philippa Eilhart, the mistress of this castle, as hostess and instigator of this meeting will handle the introductions. To my right, Margarita Laux-Antille, the head of the Academy of Aretuza. To my left, Triss Merigold, of Maribor, and Keira Metz, of Carreras. Next, we have Sabrina Glevissig, of Ard Carraigh and Sheala Tancarville of Creyden, representing Kovir. Then Francesca Findabair, known as Enid an Gleanna, the current ruler of the Valley of Flowers. And finally Assire var Anahid of Vicovaro, from the Empire of Nilfgaard. And now …”
“And now I will say goodbye!” Sabrina Glevissig yelled, pointing at Francesca with her hand covered in rings. “You went too far, Philippa! I'm not going to sit at the same table as the damn elf, even as an illusion! She failed to clean the blood from the walls and floors of Garstang. The blood she and Vilgefortz spilled!”
“I beg you to observe the proprieties and keep your cool.” Philippa leaned on the edge of the table with both hands. “Listen to what I have to say. I do not ask anything more. When I finish, each of you will decide whether to stay or leave. The projection is voluntary, it can be interrupted at any time. The only thing I ask of those who decide to leave, is to keep the secrecy of this meeting.”
“I knew it!” Sabrina moved so suddenly that for a moment she came out of the projection. “A secret meeting! Secret arrangements! In short, a conspiracy! And the intent is clear. Do you mock us, Philippa? First you demand that we keep this from our kings and our colleagues, which you have not seen fit to invite. And there sits Enid Findabair, by the grace of Emhyr var Emreis the reigning ruler of the elves of Dol Blathanna, who actively supports and arms Nilfgaard. That's not to say I'm not more amazed at the projection of a Nilfgaardian sorceress here in this room. Since when did the sorcerers of Nilfgaard cease to profess blind obedience and docile servility towards the Imperial power? And what secrets are we talking about here? If she's here, its at the knowledge and consent of Emhyr! At his command! She is the eyes and ears of the Emperor!”
“I doubt it.” said Assire var Anahid calmly. “Nobody knows that I participate in this meeting. I was asked in secrecy, which I have preserved and will maintain. It is also in my own interest to do so - if my participation came to light, I'd lose my head. For that is why there is such servility among sorcerers in the Empire, they have a choice between slavery and the scaffold. I have undertaken a risk by accepting your invitation. I did not come here as a spy and I have only one way to prove it, my own death. Just break Lady Eilharts request of secrecy. If the news of our meeting leaves these walls, I lose my life.”
“For me, the betrayal of this secret could also have unpleasant consequences,” Francesca smiled charmingly. “You would have a marvelous opportunity for revenge, Sabrina.”
“I will get revenge in some other way, elf.” Sabrina's black eyes flashed ominously. “If the secret comes to light, it will not be through my fault or carelessness. Not mine!”
“Are you implying something?”
“Of course,” Philippa Eilhart interjected. “Of course, Sabrina gently reminds us of my work with Sigismund Dijkstra. As if she herself had never maintained any contact with the agents of King Henselt.”
“There
is a difference,” Sabrina growled. “I was not Henselt's mistress for three years, let alone his spies!”
“Enough of this! Shut up!”
“I agree.” Sheala de Tancarville suddenly said outloud. “You've said enough, Sabrina. Enough already about Thanedd, enough about espionage and personal affairs. I do not come here to take part in such discussions or to listen to you spread your resentment and bombard us with insults. I'm not interested in the role of mediator, and if you invited me here with this intention, I will say it was to no avail. Indeed, I already suspect that I participate in vain, and I unnecessarily lose precious time at the great expense of my research work. However, I will refrain from making assumptions. Finally, I propose we call on Philippa Eilhart to begin, so we can finally learn the reason for this gathering. We will learn the role in which we play here. Then, without unnecessary emotions we will decide whether we should continue the show or lower the curtain. The discretion of which we are asked to commit, of course, obliges us all. And I, Sheala de Tancarville, will personally take appropriate action against the indiscreet.”
None of the sorceresses moved nor uttered a word. Triss did not for a moment doubt Sheala's warning. The Kovir recluse did not make threats she threw to the wind.
“We give you the stage, Philippa. I ask that the venerable congregation remain silent until you are finished.”
Philippa Eilhart rose, rustling her dress.
“Dear sisters,” she said. “The situation is serious. Magic is threatened. The tragic events of Thanedd, thoughts that I remember with regret and reluctance, have shown that the effects of hundreds of years of seemingly conflict-free cooperation, can be forgotten in the blink of an eye, when excessive private interests and ambitions emerge. Today we are in a breakdown, a disorder, and we run into mutual hostility and distrust. This is what happens, when things begin to spiral out of control. To regain control, to prevent a terrible disaster, we should take a strong hand to the helm of this ship carried away by the storm. Lady Laux-Antille, Lady Metz, Lady Merigold and I have already discussed this matter and have reached an agreement. Rebuilding the Chapter and Council destroyed at Thanedd is not enough. Besides, no one is capable of rebuilding both of these institutions, and there is no guarantee that it will not be infected by the same disease that destroyed the previous one. We propose a completely different, secret organization that will serve only the affairs of magic, which will do everything in its powers to prevent a disaster. For if magic dies, this world will perish. Just as centuries ago, a world devoid of magic and the progress it brings will plunge into chaos and darkness, it will be drowned in blood and barbarity. All ladies present here are welcome to join our initiative, to actively participate in the proposed secret group. We have invited you here to hear your views on on this matter. I am done.”
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 04] Page 4