‘Just like that. The mistletoe cutters have left.’
‘Where did they go?’
The bee keeper threw his Hamadryad wife a look and was silent for a moment.
‘Where?’ Repeated the witcher.
The bee keeper's striped cat sat in front of the vampire and began to meow loudly. The Hamadryad wife gave it a smack with her broom.
‘A bad omen when cats meow in the middle of the day,’ gasped the bee keeper, strangely confused. ‘And the Druids… they… have fled to the North Case. Yes. That's right. To the North Case.’
‘Some sixty miles south,’ estimated Dandelion unconcernedly, almost cheerfully. Under the witcher's gaze, however, he quieted immediately.
In the ensuing silence, the only sound was the evil meowing of the cat as it was chased out of the house.
‘Well,’ said the vampire, ‘what does difference does it make?’
* * *
The following morning brought more surprises. And puzzles, however, their solutions were very quickly found.
‘The fact strikes me…’ said Milva, who was the first to crawl out of the haystack after being awakened by voices. ‘The fact strikes me that I am always right. Look at this, Geralt.’
The clearing was filled with people. It obvious at first glance that five or six bee keepers had gathered here. The experienced eye of the witcher also spotted a few trappers and at least one coal burner in the crowd. All together they were about twenty men, ten women, a dozen teenagers of both sexes, and too many children to count. They were equipped with the six wagons, twelve oxen, ten cows, four goats and sheep, and an ample amount of all kinds of dogs and cats. The amount of barking and meowing taking place under these circumstances undoubtedly had to be considered a bad omen.
‘I want to know’ – Cahir rubbed his eyes – ‘what is this supposed to mean?’
‘Trouble,’ observed Dandelion, pulling straw from his hair. Regis was silent, but his expression was strange.
‘We invite the noble lords to breakfast,’ said the bee keeper when he noticed them. He had been accompanied to the haystack by a broad-shouldered man. ‘It's ready. Oatmeal with milk. And honey… And, allow me to introduce Jan Cronin, our eldest bee keeper…’
‘A pleasure,’ lied the witcher, without returning the bow, because his knee hurt like hell. ‘And this crowd, who are they?’
‘Well…’ The bee keeper scratched his head. ‘You see, winter is coming… The honey is already broken and the new hives are drilled… its once again time for us to move to the North Case, to the town of Riedbrune… with the honey now supplied, we will spend the winter there… But the woods, they are dangerous to travel… alone…’
The eldest bee keeper cleared his throat. The bee keeper seemed to pull himself together a bit and looked at Geralt.
‘You are mounted and armed,’ he stammered. ‘You look like you are brave and able to put up a fight. With you, we can travel anywhere without fear… And you will benefit as well… We know every trail, every forest, every floodplain, and every scrub… And we will provide you with food…’
‘And the Druids,’ Cahir said coldly, ‘have moved away from Caed Dhu. And onto the North Case. What a strange coincidence.’
Geralt walked slowly to the bee keeper. He grabbed him with both hands by the front of his jacket. But immediately afterward he changed his mind, let go of the jacket, and smoothed it. He said nothing. Asked no questions. But still the bee keeper hurried with his explanation.
‘I told the truth! I swear! May I sink into the ground if I was lying! The mistletoe cutters are gone from the Caed Dhu! They're not there!’
‘And they are on the North Case, yes?’ growled Geralt. ‘The same place you and your rabble are going? Where you would like to travel with an armed escort? Speak, lad. But remember what you said, because you actually might end up in the ground!’
The bee keeper lowered his eyes and stared nervously at the ground under his feet. Geralt eloquently remained silent. Milva, who had finally understood what the witcher had implied, cursed indecently. Cahir snorted disapprovingly.
‘And?’ urged the witcher. ‘Where have the Druids gone?’
‘Well sir, who should know where they are,’ the bee keeper finally stammered. ‘But they might be on the North Case… It’s as good a guess as anywhere else. The North Case has so many great oaks and the Druids love oak forests…’
Behind the bee keeper now stood two of elder Cronin’s hamadryads, his wife and daughter. It was apparent, and fortunate, that the daughter took after her mother and not her father. The witcher could not help thinking that the bee keeper compared to his wife like a wild boar to a mare. He noticed a few women approaching from behind the hamadryads. They were much less beautiful, but all three looked at him pleadingly.
He threw a glance at Regis, not knowing whether he should laugh or curse.
The vampire shrugged. ‘Ultimately,’ he said, ‘the bee keeper has the right of it, Geralt. All in all, it is probable that the Druids have moved to the North Case. That terrain fits them quite well.’
‘This probability’ – the witcher’s look was very, very cold -’Do you think it is big enough to suddenly change direction and strike out at random with this rabble?’
Regis again shrugged his shoulders. ‘What’s the difference? Consider: The druids are not in Caed Dhu, which eliminates this direction. A return to the Yaruga, I believe, is not up for debate. All other directions are therefore equally good choices.’
‘Really?’ The temperature of the witcher’s voice matched his eyes. ‘And from all these other directions, which do you consider to be the most appropriate? The direction the bee keeper travels in? Or a completely different direction? Can you determine that in your infinite wisdom?’
The vampire turned to the bee keeper, the elders, the hamadryads, and the other women. ‘And what,’ he asked earnestly, ‘are you so afraid of, good people, that you ask for an escort? What do you fear? Say it honestly.’
‘Oh, dear sirs,’ sighed Jan Cronin, as all too real horror appeared in his eyes. ‘That’s the real question there… We have to travel through the wet wasteland! And it, dear sir, is horrible! There are Drowners, Sawpads, Endregas, Gryffens and other such horrible monstrosities! The last time we went in there, two weeks ago, a wood sprite caught my son and he only had time to groan before he was gone. Are you surprised that we don’t trust ourselves to go in there with our women and children? Hmm?’
The vampire looked at the witcher and made a very serious face. ‘In my infinite wisdom,’ he said, ‘I recommend that the most appropriate direction is the direction that is most appropriate for a witcher.’
* * *
And so we journeyed south to the North Case, a tract of land at the base of the Amell Mountains. We went with a large entourage, which had everything: young maidens, bee keepers, trappers, women, children, young maidens, pets, household goods, young maidens. And large amounts of honey. This honey stuck to everything, even the young maidens.
The train moved at the pace of oxen and pedestrians. Our marching speed was reduced, but not because we had gone astray. Rather, everything went like clockwork – the bee keeper knew the routes, the trails and the dikes between the lakes. And this knowledge paid off, oh yes. It began to drizzle and suddenly the whole damn river country sank into a fog as thick as porridge. Without the bee keeper we would have inevitably gotten lost somewhere deep in the swamps. We did not have to waste time or energy for the procurement and preparation of food – we had three sufficient meals a day, albeit modest. And after dinner we were allowed to lie belly up for a while.
In short, it was wonderful. Even the witcher, the old grouch and complainer, began to smile more often and to enjoy life, because he had calculated that we covered fifteen miles a day, a feat we had not accomplished since we had left Brokilon. It had nothing to do the witcher though, because although the wet wasteland was so wet that one can hardly imagine anything dry, we did not meet an
y monsters. Well, at night the ghosts howled a bit, the forest-banshees cried a bit, and pale lights danced on the moors a bit. But nothing sensational.
We were a little worried, however, that we were back to travelling in a random direction and again had no clearly specified target. But how did the vampire Regis put it – ‘it is better to go forward without a goal, than to have a goal and stay in one place, and it is certainly better than to stay in one place without a goal.’
* * *
‘Dandelion! Strap on your tube more thoroughly! It would be a shame to drop half a century of poetry into the ferns.’
‘Do not worry! I won’t lose it, you can be sure of that. And I let not let it be taken away! Anyone who wants to take this tube away will have to take it from my cold, dead body. May I ask Geralt, what is causing your sparkling smile? Wait, let me guess… Congenital idiocy?’
* * *
It came to pass that the team of archaeologists from the University of Castell Graupian conducted excavations at Beauclair, under an ancient charcoal layer, which indicated a large fire. They pressed forward to an even older layer, dating to the 13th Century BC. In this layer the remains of walls of mud and mortar formed a sealed cavern, which the scholars excavated with great enthusiasm and found two excellently preserved human skeletons: a woman and a man. Beside the skeletons they found – in addition to weapons and numerous small artefacts – a thirty-inch long tube of solidified leather. The leather had a coat of arms embossed in faded colours, though the rhombuses and lions were still visible. The group's head, Professor Schliemann, an eminent specialist in the Sigillography of the Dark Ages, identified these as the emblems of Rivia, an ancient kingdom, whose location is not known for sure.
The enthusiasm of archaeologists reached its climax, for manuscripts were kept in such tubes in the dark ages, and the weight of the container led them to believe that there were plenty of papers and parchments inside. The extremely well preserved condition of the tube gave hope to the idea that the documents would be legible and shed light on the darkness vanished in the past. The century would speak! It was an incredible stroke of luck, a victory of science, that could not be wasted. As a precautionary measure a linguist and researcher of dead languages had been summoned from Castell Graupian, as well as professionals who would be capable of opening the tube without the slightest risk of damaging the precious contents.
Meanwhile, rumours of a ‘treasure’ circulated among Professor Schliemann’s employees. As chance would have it, these words came to the ears of three individuals who had previously been grave robbers, but were now employed by the excavation to work in the clay. They were known by the names: Grabsch, Zapp, and Kamil Ronstetter. Convinced that the tube was literally filled with gold and jewels, the three hired excavators stole the priceless artefact in the middle of the night and fled into the forest. There they kindled a very small fire and sat around it.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Zapp said to Grabsch. ‘Open the tube!’
‘I would, but it won’t budge,’ complained Grabsch at Zapp. ‘it’s clamped as ratshit!’
‘Then give it a kick with your boots, you fucking rat!’ Kamil Ronstetter recommended.
Grabsch was speechless after he opened the priceless discovery and the contents fell onto the ground.
‘Ratshit!’ cried out Zapp in surprise. ‘What's that?’
The question was stupid, because it was obvious at first glance that it was sheets of paper. Therefore was Grabsch gave no answer, but took one of the sheets in his hand and held it in front of his nose. For a long moment he stared at the strange-looking characters.
‘Written all over,’ he finally explained professionally. ‘These are letters!’
‘Letters?’ cried Ronstetter Kamil, pale with horror. ‘Written letters? Oh ratshit!’
‘It describes magic!’ Zapp gasped in horror and his teeth rattled. ‘Letters means witch stuff! Don’t touch the ratshit! Because you can get infected!’
Grabsch didn’t have to be told twice; he threw the tube into the fire and wiped his hands on his trousers with jerky movements. Kamil Ronstetter kicked the other papers into the fire – after all, some children could have stumbled on the dirty stuff. Then all three hurriedly left the dangerous place. The priceless relic of the Dark Age was burning with a bright, high flame. For a few moments the centuries spoke in the crackling fire and the blackening paper. Then the flame was extinguished, and darkness as black as ratshit covered the earth.
Houvenaghel, Dominik Bombastus (1239 – 1301) – Became rich in the province of Ebbing by conducting large-scale enterprises; set up business in Nilfgaard. Already respected by previous emperors, he was elevated to the rank of viscount and Salz Graf of Venendal by Emperor Jan Calveit; as reward for services rendered, the office of mayor was awarded.
Faithful counsellor to the Emperor, Houvenaghel benefitted from his full confidence and took part in many public affairs. In Ebbing, he indulged in many charity ventures, spending considerable sums of money to support the needy and the poor and to build orphanages, hospitals and nursery facilities. A great lover of fine art and sports, he donated a theatre and a stadium to the capital city, both of which bore his name. He was a model of propriety, honesty and respectability in mercantile circles.
Effenberg and Talbot, Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, vol VII
CHAPTER FOUR
‘The last and first name of the witness?’
‘Selborne, Kenna. Sorry, I mean Joanna’
‘Occupation?’
‘Miscellaneous services.’
‘Does the witness make fun? The witness should mind the fact that this is a treason trial, by an Imperial Court! The lives of many people will depend on the witness’s testimony, because treason is punishable by death! The witness is reminded that she did not appear voluntarily before the court, but was presented by the Citadel, where she was being held in solitary confinement, and whether she is returned or is released into the world depends, among other things, on the testimony of the witness. The Court has permitted this long tirade to make the witness aware of just how completely inappropriate it is that such antics and jokes have even been brought into this room! They are not only tasteless, but may also have extremely serious consequences towards the witness. The witness has half a minute to think about it. Afterwards, the Tribunal will ask the question again.’
‘I'm ready, Your Honour.’
‘Please address us as ‘High Tribunal.’ The occupation of the witness?’
‘I'm a psionic, High Tribunal. But mainly in the employ of Imperial Intelligence Service, which means…’
‘Please give brief and concrete answers. If any additional explanations are needed, you will be asked for them. The court is aware of the fact that the witness cooperated with the Imperial Intelligence Services. However, I ask you to put on record what the name ‘psionic’ means, which the witness has used to describe her profession.’
‘I have pure PPS, that is to say I am a psychic of the first type, with no possibility of PK. Specifically, I do the following: speak and listen to the thoughts of others, which can be done from a distance with a wizard, an elf, or another psionic. And penetrate their minds to transmit an official order. That means forcing someone to do what I want. I am also clairvoyant, but only under a sleep state.’
‘Let the record show that the witness, Joanna Selborne, is a psionic, one with extrasensory abilities. She is capable of telepathy, tele-empathy, and precognition under hypnosis, but has no psychokinetic abilities. The witness is reminded that the use of magic and extrasensory abilities is strictly prohibited in this hall. We continue with the interrogation. When, where and under what circumstances was the witness exposed to the person that has been posing as Cirilla, the princess of Cintra?’
‘The fact is that I had never heard the name Cirilla until I was in the slammer… that is, in solitary confinement, High Tribunal. During the investigation, I was told that she was the same person who had always been mentioned in
my presence as Falka or the Cintrierin. However, the circumstances were such that I need to describe the timeline, which will make things clear. They were this: I was approached in a tavern in Aetolia by Dacre Silifant, who is sitting there…’
‘Let the record show that the witness, Joanna Selborne, has voluntarily called the accused Silifant. Please continue.’
‘Dacre, High Tribunal, was in the process of recruiting a crew… That is, an armed division. Murderers and assassins, both men and women… Dufficey Kriel, Neratin Ceka, Chloe Stitz, Andres Vierny, Til Echrade… All no longer living… And those who have survived are mostly seated here, under guard…’
‘Please specify exactly when the witness’s encounter with the defendant, Silifant, took place.’
‘It was last year, in the month of August, towards the end. I do not remember the exact date. In any event it was not in September, because that September, ha, left an impression on me! Dacre, who had heard of me somewhere, said that he needed a psionic for his crew, and one that was not afraid of magic, because they would have to deal with wizards. The work, he said, was for the Emperor and Empire, it paid well, and the commander of the crew would be none other than The Owl himself.’
‘By ‘The Owl’ the witness refers to Stefan Skellen, the Imperial Coroner?’
‘That is who I mean, sure.’
‘Let the record take note. When and where did the witness meet Coroner Skellen?’
‘That was in September, on the fourteenth, in the small fort Rocayne. If the High Tribunal will allow me, Fort Rocayne is a border station which protects the trade route from Maecht to Ebbing, Geso, and Metinna. That is where Dacre Silifant led our crew, fifteen horses. So overall we were twenty-two, because there were others were already posted in Rocayne, under the command of Ola Harsheim and Bert Brigden.’
* * *
The wooden floor echoed with the sounds of heavy boots, clinking spurs, and clattering metal buckles. ‘Greetings, Stefan!’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05] Page 12