Ciri, in three steps stood before him, Geralt silently gasped. He heard Yennefer sigh. Bloody hell, he thought, anyone can see it! Everyone in the Black Ones army will see it! The same attitude, the same sparkling eyes, the same gesture with her mouth, the way she crosses her arms over her chest. Fortunately she inherited her mother’s ashen mane. But even so, those who aren’t blind can see whose blood she is.
‘You,’ Ciri said, directing an angry look at Emhyr. ‘You won. And you think you won with dignity?’
Emhyr var Emreis did not respond. He just smiled and eyed the angry girl. Ciri clenched her teeth.
‘So many dead, so many dead for this end? And they lost with honour? Death is an honour? Only a beast would think so. I have looked at death up close and have not become a beast. And it will never happen.’
He did not answer. He looked at her, seeming to drink her in.
‘I know,’ she hissed, ‘what you are up to. What you want to do with me. I’ll tell you now – I will not let you touch me. And if you do … I’ll kill you. Even if tied up. When you sleep, I’ll bite through your throat …’
The Emperor with a quick gesture silenced the murmuring of his officers.
‘This will happen,’ he drawled, not taking his eyes from Ciri, ‘as intended. Say goodbye to your friends, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.’
Ciri looked at the witcher, Geralt made a dismissive motion with his head. The girl sighed. She hugged Yennefer and whispered together for a long time. Ciri then approached Geralt.
‘A pity,’ she said quietly. ‘It seemed that everything was beginning to improve.’
‘It seemed to be so,’ said the witcher.
They embraced.
‘Be brave.’
‘He will not have me,’ she whispered. ‘He will not have me, don’t worry. I will escape him. I know a way …’
‘Do not kill him. Remember, Ciri. You cannot!’
‘Fear not, I didn’t even think about it. You know, Geralt, I’ve had enough of killing. There has been all too much.’
‘Too much. Goodbye, witcheress.’
‘Goodbye, witcher.’
‘Don’t cry.’
‘That is easy for you to say.’
* * *
Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard escorted the witcher and the sorceress to the bath chamber, to a large marble bathtub filled with warm, fragrant water.
‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘Take your time. I’m leaving, but I will leave people her to carry out my orders. When you are ready, call out. A Lieutenant will bring a knife. But as I said, do not rush.’
‘We appreciate it,’ Yennefer said seriously. ‘Imperial Majesty?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I would ask you not to hurt my daughter. I do not want to die with the notion that she is crying.’
Emhyr was silent for a time. A very long time. He bowed his head and leaned on the door.
‘Lady Yennefer,’ he finally said, an unreadable expression on his face. ‘You can be sure that I will not hurt yours and Geralt’s daughter. I have trampled the corpses of people and danced on the barrows of my enemies. I thought that was all I could look forward to. But your suspicions are unfounded - will never be able to hurt her. I know that now. Thank you to you both. Goodbye.’
He walked out of the bath chamber and quietly closed the door. Geralt sighed.
‘Should we undress?’ he looked at the steam rising above the tub. ‘I’d hate for them to pull me out as a naked corpse …’
‘I imagine it does not matter how they pull us out,’ Yennefer pulled off her shoes and socks and with quick movement began to unbutton her dress. ‘Even though this is my last hour, I will not bathe dressed.’
She pulled her shirt over her head and jumped into the tub, splashing the water.
‘Well, Geralt? Why are you standing like a statue?’
‘Because I had forgotten how beautiful you are.’
‘You’re very forgetful. Now, get in the water.’
When he sat down beside her, she immediately threw her arms around his neck. He kissed her, stroking her waist above the water and under it.
‘Is this,’ he asked for the record, ‘the right time?’
‘For this,’ she murmured, dipping one hand under the water and touching him, ‘every time is appropriate. Emhyr repeated twice that we were not to rush. What better way to spend the last few moments we have been given? Why mourn and lament? It’s not worth it. Why examine our consciences? It is stupid and trivial.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Then what?’
‘If the water cools down,’ he murmured caressing her breasts, ‘then the cuts will be painful.’
‘For pleasure,’ Yennefer dipped a second hand below the water, ‘it is worth paying a little pain. Are you afraid of pain?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither. Come, sit on the edge. I love you, but I will not, damn it, dive.’
* * *
‘Oh, oh …’ said Yennefer tilting her head so that he wet hair arched over her back. ‘Wow …’
* * *
‘I love you, Yen.’
‘I love you too, Geralt.’
‘It’s time. Let’s call.’
‘Let’s call.’
The called out. First the witcher called and then the sorceress after him. When they received no response, the shouted in unison.
‘We are ready! Give us the knife! Hey! Damn it! The water is cooling!’
‘Then get out of it,’ Ciri said, peering into the bath chamber. ‘They’re all gone.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. They are all gone. Besides the three of us, there is not a soul here. Get dressed. You look awfully ridiculous naked.’
* * *
As they dress, their hands began to tremble. Both of them. With utmost difficulty they dealt with the buckles, hooks and buttons. Ciri chattered.
‘They are gone. Except for ourselves. Each and every one of them. They took all the prisoners, mounted their horses and left. They left no one behind.’
‘They left no one?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Incomprehensible,’ Geralt shook his head. ‘I don’t understand it.’
‘And nothing happened,’ Yennefer cleared her throat, ‘to explain this?’
‘No,’ Ciri replied quickly, ‘nothing.’
She lied.
* * *
At first, she had tried to appear fine. Erect, proud, head held high and her face impassive, while being pushed into the gloved hands of the Black knights, while throwing bold and challenging looks and those helmets which made her so afraid. No one was touching her now, after the officer with the silver ornament on his helm growled at his officers.
She walked between two rows of soldiers who escorted her to the gate. Their boots stomped loudly, their chainmail clinked and their weapons rattled.
After advancing a few steps, she looked back for the first time, a little time later; she did it a second time. She would never see them again anymore, she suddenly realised with terrifying clarity.
Neither Geralt nor Yennefer. Never again.
That awareness, in one fell swoop wiped away her fake mask of courage. Ciri’s face contracted and contorted her eyes filled with tears, and her nose ran. The girl fought with all her might, but in vain. A wave broke the dam as the tears made an appearance.
The Nilfgaardians in salamander cloaks looked on silently. And amazed. Some had seen her on the stairs covered in blood, had seen her talking with the Emperor. A witcheress with a sword, who was defying the Emperor himself. And now they were stunned, seeing a simple girl crying and sobbing.
She was aware of their gazes. Their eyes were burning like fire, prickling her skin. She struggled, but to no avail. The more she tried to restrain herself, the more she cried.
She slowed and then stopped. The escort also stopped. But only for a moment. A grouchy officer grabbed her with iron hard hands under her arms. Ciri glanced ove
r her shoulder again. She offered no resistance. But wailed louder, more desperate.
The Emperor, Emhyr var Emreis stopped, this dark man whose face had awakened strange and confusing memories. With a sharp order, he ordered he loose. Ciri sniffed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Seeing the Emperor approach he stifled a sob and proudly raised her head. Although at the time she realise how ridiculous she must look.
Emhyr watched her for a long time. Without a word. Then he approached and reached for her.
Ciri, whose reactions to such movements were to instinctively recoil, did not react this time to her surprise. Even greater was her surprise to find that the contact with this man was not distasteful.
He touched her hair, as if to count the snowy strings. He touched her cheek, his fingertips running along the old scar. Then he hugged her, cuddling her close to his chest, stroking the back of her head. And she, shaking and crying uncontrollably, let him.
‘A strange thing, fate,’ she heard him whisper faintly. ‘Goodbye, my daughter.’
* * *
‘What did he say?’
Ciri’s face clouded.
‘He said, Va Faill, luned. In the elder speech – Goodbye, my daughter.’
‘I know,’ Yennefer nodded. ‘What happened then?’
‘Then … Then he let me go, he turned around and walked away. He shouted orders. And they all left. They passed me, quite indifferently, stomping, pounding and rattling in their armour, out the gate. I heard neighing and galloping. I’d don’t understand. Although if you think about it …’
‘Ciri.’
‘What?’
‘Do not think.’
* * *
‘Castle Stygga,’ repeated Philippa Eilhart, looking out from under her long eyelashes at Fringilla Vigo.
Fringilla did not blush. IN the last three months she had been able to product a magic cream which acted on blood vessels. Thanks to that cream the blush on her face didn’t show, and no one could know that she was ashamed.
‘Vilgefortz was hiding in castle Stygga,’ Assire var Anahid confirmed. ‘It is in Ebbing on the shore of a mountain lake whose name, my informant, a common soldier, cannot remember.’
‘You used the past tense,’ Francesca Findabair said.
‘Correct,’ Philippa took control again. ‘Because Vilgefortz is dead, my dear colleague. He and his companions are dead. This service was provided by our good friend the witcher Geralt of Rivia. Obviously we underestimated him. We all do. We made a mistake. We all do. Some more than others.’
All the sorceresses as if on command looked at Fringilla, but the cream was working reliably. Assire var Anahid sighed. Philippa slapped her hand on the table.
‘Although it may seem like an excuse,’ she said dryly, ‘our activities associated with the war and the preparation of the peace negotiations and the fact that the Lodge was not involved with the case and final solution of Vilgefortz, have to be considered as a failure on our part. Something like this must not be repeated, dear ladies.’
The Lodge – except for Fringilla who was pale as a corpse – shook their heads.
‘At the moment,’ Philippa said, ‘Witcher Geralt is somewhere in Ebbing. Along with Yennefer and Ciri. We will need to consider how to find them …’
‘And the castle?’ Sabrina Glevissig interrupted. ‘Have you forgotten to do something about that, Philippa?’
‘No, I have not forgotten. If there is going to be a legend, one must have the proper version and one in our favour. I’ll entrust this task to you, Sabrina. Take Keira and Triss and take care of it. See that no trace is left.’
* * *
The explosion was heard in Maecht, the flash – because it happened at night – was visible even in Metinna and Geso. A series of earthquakes caused by the explosion were felt even further. In virtually all corners of the world.
Congreve, Estella vel Stella, – The daughter of Otto of Congreve, married to the old Count Liddertal. Upon the death of the latter, rapidly recovered, managed her inheritance most judiciously, amassing for herself a not inconsiderable fortune. Enjoying the esteem of the emperor Emhyr var Emreis (sic), she was considered a person of great importance by the court. While she had no official duties, it was generally believed that the emperor was in the habit of paying considerable attention to her words and opinions. Because of her close personal relationship with the young Empress Cirilla Fiona (sic), whom she loved like her own daughter, she was jokingly referred to as the "Imperial mother-in-law". She outlived both the Emperor and the Empress, and died in 1331; as to her huge fortune, it fell to distant relatives on the Liddertal side of the family, called the Whites; being stupid and short-sighted, they squandered every bit of their inheritance.
Effenberg and Talbot, Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, tome III
CHAPTER TEN
The man stealthily approaching the camp was very clever and cunning. His position changed quickly and he moved silently and swiftly so that his approach would not be noticed by anyone. Anyone but Boreas Mun. Boreas was very skilful in approaching manoeuvres.
‘Show yourself, stranger,’ he called, making sure to make his voice sound confident and bold. ‘Your tricks won’t work on me. I can see you out there!’
One of the boulders on the hillside against the starry sky moved and turned into the silhouette of a human figure.
Boreas turned the spit roast as the meat was burning. Pretending to comfortably support himself, he put his hand on the handle of his bow.
‘My property is not worth much,’ he said in a calm tone with a thread of warning. ‘I only have a few things, but I do not intend to lose them. I will defend them to the death.’
‘I’m not a thief,’ said the deep voice of the man hiding among the rocks. ‘I am a pilgrim.’
The pilgrim was tall and robust, measuring about seven feet and Boreas noticed quite the stomach on him. He held a cane in his hand that was a thick as a pole carts and looked like an ordinary pilgrim stick. Boreas Mun wondered how suck a big, hulking man could move with such agility.
He became concerned. His bow, a composite bow with seventy pounds of pressure, which could dispatch an elk at a hundred paces, suddenly seemed like a fragile child’s toy.
‘I am a pilgrim,’ the figure repeated. ‘I have no evil …’
‘The other one,’ Boreas interrupted sharply, ‘can come out too!’
‘What other …’ the pilgrim stuttered and stopped, seeing from the darkness on the opposite side of the fire, emerge a slim, noiseless shadow.
This time Boreas Mun was surprised. The other man was an elf – his expert trackers eye detected it right away by the way he moved. And being surprised by an elf had no shame.
‘I apologise,’ the elf said, his voice slightly hoarse. ‘I did not hide from the two of you out of malice, but out of caution. Um, I’d recommend you turn the spit a bit.’
‘He’s right,’ said the stranger, leaning on his cane and sniffing audibly. ‘The way the meat smells, it’s over done.’
Boreas turned the spit, sighed, cleared his throat and sighed again.
‘Gentlemen, please sit down,’ he said finally. ‘Wait a few minutes and the roast will be done. I say, it is a knave who refuses hospitality to pilgrims on the road.’
Grease dripped into the fire and the flame blazed brighter. The pilgrim whore a felt hat with a wide brim, which hid his face quite effectively in shadow. The elf wore around his head a colourful scarf, which did not hide his face. When they saw him in the firelight, the tracker and the pilgrim winced. They made no sound, just held their breaths at the sight of his face, which was once beautifully elven, but now was disfigured by an ugly scar that ran diagonally across his forehead, brow, nose and cheek to chin.
Boreas Mun grunted and turned the spit again.
‘The smell,’ he did not ask, but made a statement of fact, ‘is what attracted you to my camp.’
‘Indeed,’ said the pilgrim with the hat, ‘I don’t want to brag, but I smelled
your roast at quite a distance. But I kept a proper vigilance. The fire, that I approached yesterday, the ragged savages were roasting a woman.’
‘That is true,’ said the elf. ‘The next morning I found human bones in the ashes.’
‘The next morning?’ the tall pilgrim repeated.
‘How long have you been following in my footsteps, my Lord elf?’
‘A long time.’
‘What kept you from revealing your presence?’
‘Caution.’
'The Elskerdeg Pass,' Boreas Mun said turning the spit and breaking the awkward silence, 'does not enjoy the best reputation. I have also seen bones in fires, corpses on stakes and hanging from trees. In the surrounding mountains are hidden outlaws, outcasts and the followers of perverted cults. And creatures who only see a man by himself as food. Supposedly.'
'Not supposedly,' said the elf. 'Definitely. And the further east you go into the mountains, the worse it gets.'
'Are you also headed east? For Elskerdeg? To Zerrikania? Or even further, to Haakland?'
Neither the pilgrim or the elf answered. Boreas Mun didn't really expect one. First, the question was indiscreet. Second, it was stupid. From where they were standing it was only possible to head east. Through the Elskerdeg Pass. Where he was headed.
'The roast is ready,' Boreas, with a deft movement, which was also intended as a warning, flicked open a butterfly knife. 'Come, gentlemen, don't be shy.'
The pilgrim took out a hunting knife and the elf a stiletto which was by no means a kitchen implement. All three, however, used their blades to cut the food. For some time all that could be heard was the crunch and crackle of eating and the sizzle of bones thrown into the fire.
The pilgrim belched dignified.
'Interesting animal,' the pilgrim said, looking at the shoulder that he had just cleaned as if he had spent three days in an anthill. 'The taste reminds me of lamb, but it was a tender as a rabbit … I do not remember ever having eaten anything like it before.'
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 06] Page 40