Tissaia de Vries penned her practised, decorative signature beneath the final sentence of the letter. After lengthy reflection, she also added an ideogram signifying her true name alongside. A name no one knew. A name she had not used for a very long time. Not since she became an enchantress.
Skylark.
She put her pen down, very carefully, very precisely, across the sheet of parchment. For a long while she sat motionless, staring at the red orb of the setting sun. Then she stood up and walked over to the window. For some time she looked at the roofs of houses. Houses in which ordinary people were at that moment going to bed, tired by their ordinary, human lives and hardship; full of ordinary human anxiety about their fates, about tomorrow. The enchantress glanced at the letter lying on the table. At the letter addressed to ordinary people. The fact that most ordinary people couldn’t read was of no significance.
She stood in front of the looking glass. She straightened her hair. She smoothed her dress. She brushed a nonexistent speck from her puffed sleeve. She straightened the ruby necklace on her breast.
The candlesticks beneath the looking glass stood unevenly. Her servant must have moved them while she was cleaning.
Her servant. An ordinary woman. An ordinary human with eyes full of fear about what was happening. An ordinary human, adrift in these times of contempt. An ordinary human, searching in her – in an enchantress – for hope and certainty about tomorrow . . .
An ordinary human whose trust she had betrayed.
The sound of steps, the pounding of heavy soldiers’ boots, drifted up from the street. Tissaia de Vries did not even twitch, did not even turn to face the window. It was unimportant to her whose steps they were. Royal soldiers? A provost with orders to arrest the traitress? Hired assassins? Vilgefortz’s hit men? She could not care less.
The steps faded into the distance.
The candlesticks beneath the looking glass stood out of kilter. The enchantress straightened them and corrected the position of a tablecloth, so that its corner was exactly in the centre, symmetrically aligned with the candlesticks’ quadrangular bases. She unfastened the gold bracelets from her wrists and placed them perfectly evenly on the smoothed cloth. She examined the tablecloth critically but could not find the tiniest fault. Everything was lying evenly and neatly. As it should have lain before.
She opened the drawer in the dresser and took out a short knife with a bone handle.
Her face was proud and fixed. Expressionless.
It was quiet in the house. So quiet, the sound of a wilted petal falling on the tabletop could be heard.
The sun, as red as blood, slowly sank below the roofs of the houses.
Tissaia de Vries sat down on the chair by the table, blew out a candle, straightened the quill lying across the letter one more time and severed the arteries in both wrists.
The fatigue caused by the daylong journey had made itself felt. Dandelion awoke and realised he had probably fallen asleep during the story, dropping off in mid-sentence. He shifted and almost rolled off the pile of branches. Geralt was no longer lying alongside him to balance the makeshift bed.
‘Where did I . . .’ he said, coughing. He sat up. ‘Where did I get to? Ah, the sorcerers . . . Geralt? Where are you?’
‘Here,’ said the Witcher, barely visible in the gloom. ‘Go on, please. You were just going to tell me about Yennefer.’
‘Listen,’ said the poet, knowing perfectly well he’d had absolutely no intention of even mentioning the person in question. ‘I really know nothing . . .’
‘Don’t lie. I know you.’
‘If you know me so well,’ said the troubadour, beginning to bristle, ‘why the bloody hell are you making me speak? Since you know me through and through, you ought to know why I’m keeping my counsel, why I’m not repeating the gossip I’ve heard! You also ought to be able to guess what the gossip is and why I want to spare you it!’
‘Que suecc’s?’ said one of the dryads sleeping nearby, on being woken by his raised voice.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Witcher softly.
Almost all of the green lanterns of Brokilon were out; only a few of them still glimmered gently.
‘Geralt,’ said Dandelion, interrupting the silence. ‘You’ve always maintained that you don’t get involved, that nothing matters to you . . . She may have believed that. She believed that when she began this game with Vilgefortz—’
‘Enough,’ said Geralt. ‘Not another word. When I hear the word “game” I feel like killing someone. Oh, give me that razor. I want to have that shave at last.’
‘Now? It’s still dark . . .’
‘It’s never too dark for me. I’m a freak.’
After the Witcher had snatched the pouch of toiletries from him and headed off towards the stream, Dandelion realised he had shaken off all drowsiness. The sky was already lightening with the promise of dawn. He got up and walked into the forest, carefully stepping over the dryads, who were sleeping cuddled together.
‘Are you one of those who had a hand in this?’
He turned around suddenly. The dryad leaning against a pine tree had hair the colour of silver, visible even in the half-light of the dawn.
‘A most deplorable sight,’ she said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Someone who has lost everything. You know, minstrel, it is interesting. Once, I thought it was impossible to lose everything, that something always remains. Always. Even in times of contempt, when naivety is capable of backfiring in the cruellest way, one cannot lose everything. But he . . . he lost several pints of blood, the ability to walk properly, the partial use of his left hand, his witcher’s sword, the woman he loves, the daughter he had gained by a miracle, his faith . . . Well, I thought, he must have been left with something. But I was wrong. He has nothing now. Not even a razor.’
Dandelion remained silent. The dryad did not move.
‘I asked if you had a hand in this,’ she began a moment later. ‘But I think there was no need. It’s obvious you had a hand in it. It’s obvious you are his friend. And if someone has friends, and he loses everything in spite of that, it’s obvious the friends are to blame. For what they did, or for what they didn’t do.’
‘What could I have done?’ he whispered. ‘What could I have done?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered the dryad.
‘I didn’t tell him everything . . .’
‘I know.’
‘I’m not guilty of anything.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘No! I am not . . .’
He jumped to his feet, making the branches of his makeshift bed creak. Geralt sat beside him, rubbing his face. He smelled of soap.
‘Aren’t you?’ he asked coolly. ‘I wonder what else you dreamed about. That you’re a frog? Calm down. You aren’t. Did you dream that you’re a chump? Well, that dream might have been prophetic.’
Dandelion looked all around. They were completely alone in the clearing.
‘Where is she? Where are they?’
‘On the edge of the forest. Get ready, it’s time you left.’
‘Geralt, I spoke with a dryad a moment ago. She was talking in the Common Speech without an accent and told me . . .’
‘None of the dryads in that group spoke the Common Speech without an accent. You dreamed it, Dandelion. This is Brokilon. Many things can be dreamed here.’
A lone dryad was waiting for them at the edge of the forest. Dandelion recognised her at once – it was the one with the greenish hair who had brought them light during the night and encouraged him to continue singing. The dryad raised a hand, instructing them to stop. In her other hand she was holding a bow with an arrow nocked. The Witcher put his hand on the troubadour’s shoulder and squeezed it hard.
‘Is something going on?’ whispered Dandelion.
‘Indeed. Be quiet and don’t move.’
The dense fog hanging over the Ribbon valley stifled voices and sounds, but not so much that Dandelion was unable to hear the sp
lash of water and the snorting of horses. Riders were crossing the river.
‘Elves,’ he guessed. ‘Scoia’tael? They’re fleeing to Brokilon, aren’t they? An entire commando unit . . .’
‘No,’ muttered Geralt, staring into the fog. The poet knew the Witcher’s eyesight and hearing were incredibly acute and sensitive, but he was unable to guess if his assessment was based on vision or hearing. ‘It isn’t a commando unit. It’s what’s left of one. Five or six riders, three riderless horses. Stay here, Dandelion. I’m going over there.’
‘Gar’ean,’ said the greenhaired dryad in warning, raising her bow. ‘Nfe va, Gwynbleidd! Ki’rin!’
‘Thaess aep, Fauve,’ replied the Witcher unexpectedly brusquely. ‘M’aespar que va’en, ell’ea? Go ahead and shoot. If not, lock me up and don’t try to frighten me, because there’s nothing you can frighten me with. I must talk to Milva Barring, and I will do so whether you like it or not. Stay there, Dandelion.’
The dryad lowered her head. Her bow too.
Nine horses emerged from the fog, and Dandelion saw that indeed only six of them were bearing riders. He saw the shapes of dryads emerging from the undergrowth and heading to meet them. He noticed that three riders had to be helped to dismount and had to be supported in order to walk towards the trees of Brokilon and safety. The other dryads stole like wraiths across the hillside, which was covered with wind-fallen trees, and vanished into the fog hanging above the Ribbon. A shout, the neighing of horses and the splash of water came from the opposite bank. It also seemed to the poet that he could hear the whistle of arrows. But he was not certain.
‘They were being pursued . . .’ he muttered. Fauve turned around, gripping her bow.
‘You sing a song, taedh,’ she snapped. ‘N’te shaent a’minne, not about Ettariel. No, my darling. The time is not right. Now is time to kill, yes. Such a song, yes!’
‘I,’ he stammered, ‘am not to blame for what is happening . . .’
The dryad was silent for a moment and looked to one side.
‘Also not I,’ she said and quickly disappeared into the undergrowth.
The Witcher was back before an hour had passed. He was leading two saddled horses: Pegasus and a bay mare. The mare’s saddlecloth bore traces of blood.
‘She’s one of the elves’ horses, isn’t she? One of those who crossed the river?’
‘Yes,’ replied Geralt. His face and voice were changed and unfamiliar. ‘The mare belongs to the elves. But she will be serving me for the moment. And when I have the chance, I’ll exchange her for a horse that knows how to carry a wounded rider and, when its rider falls, remains by him. It’s clear this mare wasn’t taught to do that.’
‘Are we leaving?’
‘You’re leaving,’ said the Witcher, throwing the poet Pegasus’s reins. ‘Farewell, Dandelion. The dryads will escort you a couple of miles upstream so you won’t fall into the hands of the soldiers from Brugge, who are probably still hanging around on the far bank.’
‘What about you? Are you staying here?’
‘No. I’m not.’
‘You’ve learned something. From the Squirrels. You know something about Ciri, don’t you?’
‘Farewell, Dandelion.’
‘Geralt . . . Listen to me—’
‘Listen to what?’ shouted the Witcher, before his voice suddenly faltered. ‘I can’t leave— I can’t just leave her to her fate. She’s completely alone . . . She cannot be left alone, Dandelion. You’ll never understand that. No one will ever understand that, but I know. If she remains alone, the same thing will happen to her as once happened to me . . . You’ll never understand that . . .’
‘I do understand. Which is why I’m coming with you.’
‘You’re insane. Do you know where I’m headed?’
‘Yes, I do. Geralt, I— I haven’t told you everything. I’m . . . I feel guilty. I didn’t do anything; I didn’t know what to do. But now I know. I want to go with you. I want to be by your side. I never told you . . . about Ciri and the rumours that are circulating. I met some acquaintances from Kovir, and they in turn had heard the reports of some envoys who had returned from Nilfgaard . . . I imagine those rumours may even have reached the Squirrels’ ears. That you’ve already heard everything from those elves who crossed the Ribbon. But let . . . let me tell you . . .’
The Witcher stood thinking for a long time, his arms hanging limply at his sides.
‘Get on your horse,’ he finally said, his voice sounding different. ‘You can tell me on the way.’
That morning there was an unusual commotion in Loc Grim Palace, the imperator’s summer residence. All the more unusual since commotions, emotions or excitement were not at all customary for the Nilfgaardian nobility and demonstrating anxiety or excitement was regarded as a sign of immaturity. Behaviour of that kind was treated by the Nilfgaardian noblemen as highly reprehensible and contemptible, to such an extent that even callow youths, from whom few would have demanded greater maturity, were expected to refrain from any displays of animation.
That morning, though, there were no young men in Loc Grim. Young men wouldn’t have had any reason to be in Loc Grim. Stern, austere aristocrats, knights and courtiers were filling the palace’s enormous throne room, every one of them dressed in ceremonial courtly black, enlivened only by white ruffs and cuffs. The men were accompanied by a small number of equally stern, austere ladies, whom custom permitted to brighten the black of their costume with a little modest jewellery. They all pretended to be dignified, stern and austere. But they were all extremely excited.
‘They say she’s ugly. Skinny and ugly.’
‘But she allegedly has royal blood.’
‘Illegitimate?’
‘Not a bit of it. Legitimate.’
‘Will she ascend to the throne?’
‘Should the imperator so decide . . .’
‘By thunder, just look at Ardal aep Dahy and Count de Wett . . . Look at their faces; as though they’d drunk vinegar . . .’
‘Be quiet, Your Excellency . . . Do their expressions surprise you? If the rumours are true, Emhyr will be giving the ancient houses a slap in the face. He will humiliate them—’
‘The rumours won’t be true. The imperator won’t wed that foundling! He couldn’t possibly . . .’
‘Emhyr will do whatever he wants. Heed your words, Your Excellency. Be careful of what you say. There have been people who said Emhyr couldn’t do this or that. And they all ended up on the scaffold.’
‘They say he has already signed a decree concerning an endowment for her. Three hundred marks annually, can you imagine?’
‘And the title of princess. Have any of you seen her yet?’
‘She was placed under the care of Countess Liddertal on her arrival and her house was cordoned off by the guard.’
‘They have entrusted her to the countess, in order that she may instil some idea of manners in the little chit. They say your princess behaves like a farm girl . . .’
‘What’s so strange about that? She comes from the north, from barbaric Cintra—’
‘Which makes the rumours about a marriage to Emhyr all the more unlikely. No, no, it’s utterly beyond the pale. The imperator is to marry de Wett’s youngest daughter, as planned. He will not marry that usurper!’
‘It is high time he finally married somebody. For the sake of the dynasty . . . It is high time we had a little archduke . . .’
‘Then let him be wed, but not to that stray!’
‘Quiet, don’t gush. I give you my word, noble lords, that that marriage will not happen. What purpose could such a match serve?’
‘It’s politics, Countess. We are waging a war. That bond would have political and strategic significance . . . The dynasty of which the princess is a member has legal titles and confirmed feudatory rights to the lands on the Lower Yarra. Were she to become the imperator’s spouse . . . Ha, it would be an excellent move. Just look over there, at King Esterad’s envoys; how they whisper
. . .’
‘So you support this outlandish relationship, Duke? Or you’ve simply been counselling Emhyr, is that it?’
‘It’s my business, Margrave, what I do or don’t support. And I would advise you not to question the imperator’s decisions.’
‘Has he already made his decision then?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘You are in error then, to doubt it.’
‘What do you mean by that, madam?’
‘Emhyr has sent Baroness Tarnhann away from the court. He has ordered her to return to her husband.’
‘He’s broken off with Dervla Tryffin Broinne? It cannot be! Dervla has been his favourite for three years . . .’
‘Now she has been expelled from the court.’
‘It’s true. They say the golden-haired Dervla kicked up an awful fuss. Four royal guardsmen had to manhandle her into the carriage . . .’
‘Her husband will be overjoyed . . .’
‘I doubt that.’
‘By the Great Sun! Emhyr has broken off with Dervla? He’s broken off with her for that foundling? For that savage from the North?’
‘Quiet . . . Quiet, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Who supports this? Which faction supports this?’
‘Be quiet, I said. They’re looking at us—’
‘That wench – I mean princess – is said to be ugly . . . When the imperator sees her . . .’
‘Are you trying to say he hasn’t seen her yet?’
‘He hasn’t had time. He only returned from Darn Ruach an hour ago.’
‘Emhyr never had a liking for ugly women. Aine Dermott, Clara aep Gwydolyn Gor . . . And Dervla Tryffin Broinne was a true beauty.’
‘Perhaps the foundling will grow pretty with time . . .’
‘After she’s been given a good scrubbing? They say princesses from the north seldom wash—’
‘Heed your words. You may be speaking about the imperator’s spouse!’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 59