Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Take it easy, take it easy…”

Yennefer aided the Witcher to his feet. He winced, prickling her with needles of worry, but appeared to be steady once up.

“I’m not that old,” he grumbled, touching a hand to the back of his head he had thumped against the rocks when falling.

She smiled, a bit wryly. “Certainly not older than me.”

He sensed a trap and avoided it, setting his eyes on the portal protected by the shield. He could still see the magic flicker and twinkle around the arc. “The hell we’re supposed to do about it? I bet Kain would know.”

“Maybe not. It’s not that easy to break guarding spells, Geralt. You’ve tried to touch it and nearly died. I hope you won’t execute the same stupidity and try again.”

“We— I need to get inside.”

“That is mighty unfortunate, but I cannot break it this very moment. I told you, it would take time. I’m… I’m still tired, weakened. I cannot possibly do anything about this right now. We have to ask for help. There is no way around it.”

He turned a glare to her, unable to squelch the anger from his gaze, but hoping she knew it wasn’t directed at her. He was angry with himself for having lost time, for having made a few wrong steps here and there that had possibly taken him to this dead end.

And yet, there was something else to the ire he felt. “Val, is it? That your suggestion?”

She narrowed her eyes a tad, but didn’t flinch. “Not just him. We need them all working together with us — with me — because this is not a simple riddle or a matter of faking a key to pick that lock, figuratively speaking. It’s an Aen Elle spell. They have been wielding magic before the age of men came. This is serious.”

“What do you mean by all of them?”

“I meant others, well, maybe except for Philippa, even though Val is the only one I trust completely.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, “And Triss?”

Yennefer rolled her eyes and turned away from him, pacing a few languid steps, glancing around the walls of stone. “Triss has been betraying certain levels of friendship for her own personal matters of heart, and you… well, you would have remembered if…” She paused, pondering, then looked to him, frowning. “What do you remember?”

He furrowed his brow, bemused. “What do you mean? Triss? We’ve known each other since our youth.”

“Have you copulated?”

He sighed, sensing her annoyance. “A couple of times in the past. But you’ve asked me this before, in Skellige.”

She smirked; a caustic little smirk, “Oh, that you remember. Wonderful. And how was it?”

He took a sharp breath, beginning to get annoyed as well. “This is hardly the ti—“

“How. Was. It.”

“We have agreed upon remaining just good friends quite a while ago. Does that satisfy you?”

A jibing smile curved her mouth, but her eyes were filled with venomous glare. “It sure as hell would if she ever tried to live by it.”

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, pacing a few steps away, rubbing his face. Then he snapped a glare her way, “What about Istredd?”

She put her fists on her hips, her chin jerked up with a daring gaze, “What of him? Yes, we were lovers. No, not since you and I… well.” She let out a sigh, her arms folding. “Not since Ciri came into my life. She paved my way back to you. We wer— We are family. All three of us. That has not changed for me. I haven’t lost my wits.”

“I didn’t do this on purpose,” he said with a ghost of accusation that pricked her heart. She pressed her lips together and averted her eyes, saying nothing.

That stupid wish be damned.

“Let us—“

“Yes,” she hurried to agree. “As you were assuming, there has to be some other way in.”

“Maybe up there on the surface…”

“I doubt that. Elder Folk liked hidden paths and magical doors. What we see here is it.”

“Just one portal?”

She contemplated for a moment, twirling her forefinger in her curls, then waved a hand for Geralt, “Stand away, over there. I shall try something.”

When he obediently went into the furthest corner from her, careful not to invade the magical barrier on the arc, Yennefer stood straight, her legs slightly apart in a more steady posture, her arms loosely held by her sides, slightly spread, her fingers wiggling lazily as though tugging at some invisible strings. After a while, she shook her head, stroking her hands through her hair in frustration, and threw a glance at him. “I don’t know where to even begin, what to start with.”

A jolt of disappointment went through him, and then he remembered something. “Could you try with this?” He held a white-stone medallion to her on an open palm. She took it reverently, eyeing the stone glistening in the light of her firefly.

“It this blood?” she brushed a thumb over the spot.

“Yes, it’s Kain’s.”

“Ah, it’s the one he stole from Istredd’s room, isn’t it.”

“Correct.”

“That might give us something. Step aside, I need space.”

He did, and she held the anchor between her palms in front of her chest, concentrating, groping for a feel.

Geralt watched in fascination as she took slow, deep breaths and her magic sparkled around her midsection and her fingertips, sending reverberations through his medallion. It continued awhile, and then she began to move, a slow step, then another. Her eyes opened, but her face was so serene it seemed to him like she was sleepwalking. Her firefly circled around her head, illuminating her face like a ghost’s.

She strolled along the wall, one of her hands holding the medallion, the other outstretched, scanning, skimming it as though in a search of hot spots. Her movements slowed when her hands came to skim over the wall with cracked tiles with floral ornaments that dated back to the fabled elven king of past. Her fingers glided over them, stroking, halting, waiting, then gliding on. Then she stood still again, her palm pressed to the wall. Her head tipped down a bit.

“I sense something,” she said in a voice of someone who woke up from a deep slumber, stepping back from the wall. “I cannot say what, but there is some sort of a… feel. Or an echo of something. It’s not him, but something else.”

“Behind that wall?” he asked, approaching. He eyed it critically, judging it couldn’t be too thick. He gently moved her away with his arm, and prepared to make Aard.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she said, stepping back and waving for him to move aside. She gave him the anchor and shook her hands, preparing. “We don’t know what’s behind it, can’t risk blowing it to bits.”

He didn’t argue and let her summon her power with another bout of focus that didn’t come easy anymore — he could see she was indeed tiptoeing on the edge of exhaustion, and felt a pang of guilt. Her hands moved as she chanted a short spell, and the fragment of the wall began to crackle. The cracks grew deeper, running as though from an earthquake, and then the wall began to crumble to pieces, leaving a passage.

When the dust settled and she sent her firefly in, they saw it was a rather small chamber. A part of it was in rubble from a partially collapsed ceiling. Behind the pile of rocks and dirt was a wall with an arc on it — another portal.

“That was what I sensed, I think,” she said. “But it’s buried. And maybe broken… It’s… a body here. You see?” She waved a hand, and her firefly obediently floated down, illuminating a mummified corpse in a dusty old robe. Its mouth was open and lower jaw crooked, which looked rather eerie, like an eternal scream.

“It’s old,” Geralt said, crouching next to it. “Probably deposited here by the portal and trapped for good. An awful way to die. Bloody portals…”

Yennefer winced, rubbing her throat absentmindedly, eyeing the arc peeking from the pile of rubble. Why would a portal lead to a small cubicle with no way out? What was the point of this room?

“There’s something on him,” Geralt said, pulling some old parchments from under his robe, carefully in case they were fragile. He unfolded them as Yennefer bent over to look, and they examined the drawing. “Schematics for a sword with special properties and balance. Seems like Cat School witcher sword.”

“What’s so special about it? Is it different than yours?”

“Well, looks like it’s a different proportion for the alloy, and some runes to be engraved. Cats liked their own ways of enchanting. They rarely preferred the traditional schemes most schools used. They brought a few of these to Kaer Morhen. Kain has one, too.”

“This is all fascinating, but how does that help us?”

“Whoever this was, he took those schematics from inside this place. It means Cats have used this ruin as one of the hiding places for their secrets. Including the potions recipes for the Trials. And it was before Philippa has been hiding here. I haven’t found anything like this inside when searching for her, either.”

“Look, there’s something under his sleeve.”

Geralt pulled out a copybook with a black leather cover. The leather was old, scratched and shabby. The pages were stiff as he opened it carefully. The writing began as beautiful, perfectly linear-aligned, and after a while turned uneven and jerky as though scribbled in haste. In the end, the letters were scary to look at, like some mad ramblings spilled on the page.

Their eyes skimmed through the lines.

“It’s that archeologist Istredd told us about,” Yennefer said. “There was a group searching for Est Tayiar in secret. They all disappeared without a trace. So, they did find it, after all.”

“And paid the price,” Geralt murmured. “There was a Cat witcher with them. He killed them all and took their trophies. This man escaped and got trapped.”

“That Cat witcher, was it—“

“No, it was a male. Kiyan.”

“You knew him?”

“No, never heard of him. He was a hired assassin, it says here. Working for someone named Prince Adrien.”

Yennefer frowned. “Not sure if I heard of him. My mind is scrambled.” She rubbed her scalp again tiredly.

“Drahim Castle… You know where it is?”

“Somewhere around Novigrad, I presume. There were a few belonging to powerful families of the past.”

“I should find it.” He closed the diary and slid it into his jerkin, then gingerly put the schematics parchments there.

“We shall do so as soon as we can, but please, Geralt, look at us.” She took him by the shoulders and made him look at her. “We both need rest. We cannot possibly help anyone if we don’t get at least a few hours of rest. We won’t find anything here — not until we ask to unbury this portal. And while someone else is doing it, we can sleep. All right?”

He hated to admit, but it was the bitter truth. He felt as though his bones were made of cinders barely held together. His head was buzzing with a nasty ache.

“Please, let me take you home for now,” she asked. When he nodded, she smiled with relief, then gave the room and the corpse a cursory glance to make sure they didn’t miss anything else they could take. There seemed to be nothing but the corpse itself. She considered taking a bone like she did with the Flying Stag skeleton, but decided against it. The way he died was pretty clear, and his diary told the rest.

They stepped out from the little tomb, and she raised her hands to open a portal back to Vizima.

Istredd didn’t even try to hide or tame down his excitement when Yennefer gave him the archeologist’s diary from Est Tayiar. His eyes were wide and sparkly like a child’s at the time of presents, and he held the diary with a reverence as though it was a sacred piece of ancient times he had dug up from the hard soil at one of his sites.

“This is amazing, Yenna!” he said, turning the pages with two fingers as though they would fall apart like ashes. “Incredible! Now it’s finally clear what truly happened to this expedition. It’s of a grand importance to all our order and for all professors of his trade.”

“There is also a matter of a witcher’s involvement,” Geralt reminded, his arms folded, a stern frown marring his face. He was eyeballing Istredd with a bit of warning. “I would advise a certain delicacy in handling this case.”

Now it was Istredd’s time to scowl. “Are you trying to tell me you wish this case remained a mystery? I do not suppose it’s possible now that it’s finally revealed, and all those people who died for their cause deserve recognition for their bravery and the sacrifices they have brought to the altar of science and knowledge of our past. Even with regard to your lack of involvement with such sophisticated and educated circles, I expect you understand the importance of this.”

“Had it been you who recovered it — yes, I suppose I would not be in position to make demands,” Geralt said, making a slow intimidating step closer to the mage. Istredd held his ground, and the Witcher’s gaze with his aggravated one. “But it just so happened that it was Yennefer and me who have. And I advise you to be discreet concerning the matters of my trade.”

“It has nothing to do with you or your school,” Istredd refused to give up, his eyes narrowing. “Is it not a common knowledge that the School of Cat has always stood apart from the rest of them and at odds with you all? Is it not a common knowledge that it was Cats who instigated the famed massacre at Kaer Morhen? Yes, I’ve been keeping myself informed on these matters, as well as many others.”

“It has nothing to do with these things you call common knowledge, Master Sorcerer. This particular matter needs to be kept between us for the sake of at least a handful of Cat witchers who still carry on their duty with dignity and honor, including my brother.”

Istredd gave a scoff and glanced at Yennefer for support, but she looked utterly bored and worn out. “I believe Geralt has a point here,” she offered with an impassive mien, and noticed Istredd cheeks turn redder. “We are still searching for that Feline, and while we’re at it, this whole discovery shall remain between us.”

“What about after?” Istredd inquired, holding the diary to his chest behind his folded arms. “These people deserve recognition and proper burial.”

“Of course, no one argues this,” Yennefer said. “However, the identity of their killer might not need to be revealed as a Cat witcher.”

“Indeed,” Geralt added. “He could no longer be called a witcher if he partook in such affairs. He would have been placed before the Witcher Trial and sentenced to death for his breaking our laws of conduct. He is no more than a mercenary hired by the culprit of the whole affair.”

“Oh?” Istredd raised an eyebrow. “And who would that be?”

“You shall read the journal and find out,” Geralt said.

Istredd hemmed, taken aback by this simplest of notions so his indignation began to deflate. “Very well, then.” He looked to Yennefer, his features softening into a most pleasing arrangement. “I shall personally oversee and aid with all the tasks concerning the shipwreck once the Est Tayiar portal is unburied. We are to start on it immediately. You need to rest now, and do not worry,” he stroked her arm, smiling, and to Geralt’s annoyance, Yennefer’s lips stretched into a genuinely warm smile. “As soon as it’s done, I will personally alert you. Oh, and I have taken the liberty of preparing a bath for you, knowing you would need it. It awaits in your quarters, as hot as you’ve always preferred. Please, do take advantage of its restoring properties.”

He executed an elegant bow, aimed for the Witcher, but mostly for her, and went to his desk to find a preservative for the diary’s aged pages. Yennefer tugged Geralt out of his study, past Triss and Francesca who clustered at their desk preparing to work on the skull and the wooden chip Yennefer had brought. Neither even looked their way, already engrossed in curiosity.

That buffoon, Geralt thought, and tried to steer away from Istredd’s haughty mien clinging to his mind like a wet leaf.

“He is trying to help,” Yennefer said as though sensing his thoughts.

He felt a prick of a vexed suspicion she was peeking inside his head without permission, but felt too tired to confront her about it. “He better make the best use of his digging talents on that portal,” he grumbled before they stepped into the library.

Several mages were bent over books and papers and maps at one of the desks, talking quietly and skimming fingers over the map’s surface. Geralt glimpsed their attention to Velen as they passed them by. Fringilla was waiting in the furthest section, alone. There was a map of the Continent spread over her desk. She was flipping through a book and put it down when Geralt and Yennefer approached. Geralt cast a quick glance at the cover: something about Elven magic.

She cracked a pleasant smile, “Your discoveries are most curious, we are happy to help with it. Rita shall join us shortly. Oh, and Dandelion and Priscilla are still unconscious but they’re taken good care of, Zoltan remains by their side.”

“Thank you so much for everything,” Geralt said, offering his own smile soaked with warmth and gratitude that made Yennefer’s teeth ache.

“I’m happy to aid you, always.”

“I need to ask for another favor,” he said. Fringilla expressed an alert attention, moving closer to him. “But it has to remain between us. You two are the only ones I can trust with this.”

Yennefer and Fringilla exchanged quick blazing looks behind his back while he bent over the desk to put the medallion with Lara’s profile on it. The spot of blood soaked into the stone’s pores was as brightly red as if spilt a second ago.

“An anchor?” Fringilla frowned, bending over it. “Whose blood is it?”

“Kain’s,” Geralt said. “It won’t come off. I suppose it’s the stone’s properties. I wonder if you could locate him with this.”

“It would be quite a simple task for any sorcerer, had it been a simple stone,” Fringilla said, brushing a fingerpad over the medallion. “Given the nature of this mineral and its origin that is beyond this world, I foresee it would be a tricky business. But we shall do our very best.” She straightened and directed her most sincere gaze at him. “We’ll find him, Geralt. One way or another, but we will. I shall start on it, and you two, please, get some rest.” She stroked a hand down his arm, and even gave Yennefer a small smile. “This secret is safe with me. I promise.”

“Not even Morvran,” Yennefer specified.

Fringilla’s smile gained a sharper edge, “I understood the first time. Do not worry yourself, Yenna. No one will see this thing.”

“I should have gone to my own room,” Geralt muttered once again — a third time at least on Yennefer’s count — while she was helping him out of his jerkin, then lowered to her haunches and began to unlace his trousers.

“I believe this chamber is perfectly suited for a sorceress with tastes as demanding as mine, and therefore should be a heavenly level of comfort for a witcher.”

She cast a wily glance up at him, sending a pleasant stir through his loins inspired by both her position and the lure of her eyes, so magically violet. That unruly strand of her raven hair falling over her forehead and curling against her cheek added some erotic charm that immediately reflected in a certain tightening of the fabric beneath her fingers. She noticed. Of course she did. He glimpsed the smile — no more than a tic in the corners of her mouth.

“I was not referring to comfort,” he said, and felt it was the most useless of topics to keep up with. The spacious round steaming bath in the corner of the decorated room was calling to both of them, and he found less and less reasons to argue that invitation.

“I’m perfectly aware of your fondness for being difficult every chance you can get.”

“That is not true. And you insist you’ve known me for so long.”

She emitted a soft scoff, pushed his trousers down along his legs, slowly, sending a subtle shiver through his muscles she took as a compliment to her skills, and when he stepped out of them, they floated away towards a chair, folding dutifully as they did before landing on top of his jacket.

She acknowledged his semi-erection and sent another sharp, complacent glance up at him while her finger traced lightly along the side of his manhood stiffening as if by magic. She hemmed, smiling with open satisfaction as she rose, her fingers trailing up his torso. “You were saying something,” she murmured, her lips nearly touching his, “about something unimportant… Mm?”

“I’m a witcher,” he whispered, his own mouth twitched in a hint of a smirk. “We’re randy by nature.”

She rolled her eyes with a growl, pushing away from him. “And you dared state that it was I who needed to always have a final word!”

He spread his arms briefly, “And is that not so?”

Unlacing her corset, she shot him a fiery gander and pointed a finger at him as a few sparks shot off its tip, “One more word from you and I swear!”

He raised his hands defensively and went to her round intricate table where a bowl of fruit sat next to a candlestick. He plucked a few grapes and popped them in his mouth, then fished out a plum and, picking a decorated little knife from behind the bowl, cut it in two and plucked the pit out.

Yennefer, delightfully naked, stood behind him, a washcloth fisted in hand. “For someone in a hurry to get back on the road, you’re surprisingly idle. Get in the tub.”

He turned to her, licking his lips, and put another half of the plum against her lips. She frowned, murmuring, “I’m in no mood for plums,” but his fingers pushed the fruit past her strained lips.

As she chewed, he said, “It’s firm and juicy and rather sweet but with the right amount of sourness that opens its flavor in the most favorable, lively way that a fully ripe and soft one would never compensate with all its sweetness and honeyed aroma. It’s a lot like you.”

The enchanted bemusement shimmered off her face like a mild jinx; she swallowed, her eyes narrowing at him. “Did you just compare me to a plum?”

He leered at her. “It is but a florid metaphor not just any sorceress can perceive. I trusted you would.”

He lowered himself into the tub with a sigh of bliss as his muscles readily relaxed in the steaming, aromatic heat. He closed his eyes, “This is perfect.”

Istredd knows precisely how to make it perfect, Yennefer thought, dipping the cloth in the water. An image of two black kestrels came to her with scary vividness, and she swatted it away. Wringing the cloth, she began gliding it up and down his arms, standing behind him, then up his stomach and across his chest. He gave another sigh of pleasure as she brushed it along the insides of his thighs, slowly, gently.

She made him shift and stepped into the tub, settling behind him with her legs wrapping around his hips, and washed his back with a thorough dedication, brushing her lips over his wet skin in the wake of the cloth. Her free hand traced tingling patterns on his side, snaking to tease his stomach and inching lower but not quite where he yearned for her touch.

She shifted to have her back to him, offering him the cloth, and he returned the favor, relishing in the sight of the smooth curve of her back, the way a few strands escaped the pins and clung to her wet skin in curls and spirals. He leaned in, nuzzling into the back of her neck, eliciting a low moan from her and smiling against her skin. His lips brushed her shoulderblade, his tongue darted out to lick the drops of water and suckle her skin, tease it with his teeth. He could hear her heart accelerating and relished that feeling of power that came so rarely with sorceresses… or it was the sorceress… that scent… that scent…

His eyes came into focus on hers, so bright, so piercing under the thick lashes. There was something else in that stare, something so dazzling and familiar and yet perplexing, something he felt he had to grasp for, but now was not the time. The cloth slipped out of his fingers under water, and his hands came to rest on her hips, the balls of his thumbs rolling over her hipbones. Her eyes misted with unmistakable lust, her lips parted to let out a small ragged breath.

“I distinctly recall your saying you were exhausted,” he teased, smiling coltishly.

“Oh Geralt,” she sighed, placing her hands upon his chest, a beguiling smile dawning on her lips. “I would pass on making love to you only when I’m dead. If you can’t remember me — remember that.”

She leaned in to kiss him, her hand slipped down between them to guide him in. They moaned together, still locked in the kiss that deepened as she began to move, feeling no longer tired but eager to ravish him as if both their lives depended on the passion flow between their bodies. The weariness would return, she knew, but for now nothing else mattered.

When she passed the towel to the Witcher and picked a grape from the fruit bowl, there came a knock on the door. Her jaw tightened instinctively; she knew who it was.

“It’s nothing,” she responded to Geralt’s raised eyebrows, and donned her velvet robe. “Get in bed.”

Istredd stood behind the door, looking both apologetic for interrupting her leisure and glad to be doing so. His eyes took notice of the wet strands clinging to her neck, the aroma clinging to her skin, the blush on her cheeks he would never misread in his life.

“There is something I needed to tell you in private,” he said, trying to ignore all the vexing moments. “I’ve been to the catacombs under Oxenfurt, went through the narrow passage up to the portal that I could not access. However, it’s not why I’m here. I found this on the floor by the portal.” He opened his palm revealing an anchor medallion. “If it was Geralt’s brother who was there last — it must be what he dropped there, either with or without intention.”

Yennefer took the medallion from him, brushing a thumb over the profile, unable to help herself. The stone invited to be touched, stroked and admired. “Thank you for bringing it,” she murmured, and made an effort to tear her eyes off it, closing her fingers over it. She smiled at Istredd. “I guess it’s a good thing you went there, after all. I presume your main goal was…”

He shrugged, “Successful. I did manage to obtain a trinket that once belonged to Professor Gloger who led the Est Tayiar expedition, but with the journal it’s rather unnecessary.”

“Still, it proved to be useful in the end.” She placed a kiss on his cheek. “Now, I truly need to lie down. I’m really—“

“Oh, of course, I’m sorry,” he hurried to agree. “I merely thought I’d give it to you…”

“Yes, thank you. You did right. Thank you for helping. For that ruin, the portal… if he’s kept there, we need to get to him in time…”

“Of course, Yenna, I understand. I shall work as fast as I can. Do not worry. I shall come for you when we’re finished.”

He walked away.

She closed the door and walked through the hall back to her chamber. Geralt was in her bed, all candles were out except for the one on her bedstand.

“What was it?” he asked.

“Istredd brought something from Oxenfurt,” she said, tossing the anchor on the covers. He picked it up, frowning, as she discarded her robe on the chair and slipped under covers with him. “He thinks Kain dropped it in front of the laboratory portal before he was captured.”

“He might have… though I would bet he deliberately left it there.”

“I would think so, too.” She gently pulled the medallion from his fingers and placed it on the bedstand, then turned to him, her head propped on one hand. Her other stroked his collarbone.

A dreamy smile playing on his lips, he traced his fingers along the line of her shoulder, slipped to the swell of her breast, circling her nipple, so pale only its contour defined it. “A shard of ice…” he whispered, sending an electric shiver through her nerves.

“What, Geralt? What?” But his eyes were closed, his breath slow and even.

A ghost of sadness touched her heart with its cold breath. She wished she could open a portal into that dusty little room with mice scratching in the walls and bugs ticking in the drawer. What would she not give…

The forest parted, revealing the grove with a narrow ribbon of a bubbly spring running through it, then crossing into an orchard where the trees stood with bushy crowns and branches heavy with ripe apples, green and red and pink, and dark red cherries peeked between the leaves. The peach trees offered their fruit, spreading their honeyed aroma with the light evening breeze. The sky begun to gain more red as the sun lowered itself behind the far mountains’ ridge. The air turned cooler.

Caranthir strolled, leading his horse behind him, lamenting the metallic clangs of his armor suddenly grating on his nerves. He wished to find a bit of peace in the quiet of nature that was about to settle for the night. He pulled one gauntlet off and reached for an apple. He picked a huge bloody red one and turned, offering it to his horse. The stallion, a mighty black named Daemor, bit off a half, chewed hungrily, and delicately picked the remaining part off his rider’s palm, nodding in appreciation.

Caranthir smiled, and torn a peach off a branch for himself, passing through the orchard in languid pace. He bit into the fruit and delighted in the taste, so rich and vibrant. Nothing in Tir ná Béa Arainne tasted like this; that land was as bleak and corrupted as dh’oine occupying it. It could birth no fruit worthy of his home. How outrageously humiliating it was to depend on that dirty brat’s defiled gene for saving this place. How could a sorry mutated creature like her be any good for a place as magnificent as Tir ná Lia?

Tightening his teeth, he chucked the clingstone away. His head was beginning to ache.

The orchard ended with a small clearing before the riverbank. Caranthir mounted and sent his horse into gallop across the bridge and towards the tower sticking out ahead like a dark beacon.

There was a couple of riders awaiting at the end of the final bridge. They bowed as he crossed and approached them, and one of them said, “Commander Eredin Bréacc Glas awaits you, Lord General. We were asked to direct you to the Palace immediately as you arrived.”

“I am on my way,” Caranthir responded, and they bowed once again and turned their horses, riding away. At least I’m still trusted with my privacy, he thought with a bitter aftertaste, and trotted towards the city gate. Enjoying the cool breath of the breeze on his face, he looked up, observing the dramatic colors of the dusk above. Soon enough the stars would come through the darkening canopy. He hoped to be home by then.

He hoped.

Serebtyr, Eredin’s Homestead Minister who arranged and settled all matters at the Royal Palace, greeted Caranthir in the courtyard as soon as the servants led the horse away. He bowed and invited the young mage to follow him to Eredin’s chambers. Caranthir had been raised in this palace and could find his way around it with his eyes closed same as at Crevan’s where he currently resided, but the high society etiquette was air and water for Aen Elle as he had been taught since early days, as well as every child of nobility.

“The simplest and most primitive way of any world inhabited by a society is to forgo certain delicacies and sensibilities of expressing oneself,” Auberon, the late King of Alders, used to tell him. “It puts such individuals, as well as their society, on even lower level than many kinds of animals whereas even animals pay mind to their hierarchy and rules of conduct. As soon as you allow yourself the tiniest slip in thought, word or deed, my son — you are done for. And it is harder to climb back up upon your fall. Always remember this. It is not your name nor blood that makes you great and noble, but the way you carry yourself with even the lowliest of souls.”

Caranthir had been but a child, lively and unable to keep still for long, and yet Auberon Muircetach, the Great King of the Alders, possessed such a grand aura of presence and significance that had Caranthir in awe and attention. Not even Crevan or Eredin could instill such reverence in him until later age. Auberon never had to raise his voice or display a frown of any level of menace or warning. The warning would be his silence and that calm yet piercing way he would look at you. The look of calm patience of a higher being extended to a lower and sillier one was enough to turn little Caranthir into a dream child during the Royal audiences.

A small melancholic smile touched his mouth as he passed through those familiar corridors where every memory still lived as vibrant as if it was happening all at the same time and would never fade. He missed those days, despite the hardships of being the Golden Child with great expectations and mission weighing down his young shoulders. Those were good, lighter days. Good old days, dh’oine said so often.

Days before Xin’trea Luned.

“Should I bring some wine with dinner, General?” Serebtyr inquired at the door. “Any specific requests?”

“No, thank you, I shall pass.”

Serebtyr bowed, and performed an intricate knock on the door before opening it for Caranthir to enter. Rumor had it, there was a specific notification knock for every possible visitor that left no need for him to verbally announce anyone to his master.

Eredin, the Dearg Ruadhri Commander and the current King of Alders, was lounging in his parlor chamber. He stood and went to meet Caranthir and walk him in; there was a pleasant smile on his chiseled face that somewhat masked the hardness of his emerald eyes. “How wonderful to finally see you, Caranthir, my dear friend,” he greeted, and offered a quick hug. “You barely return from that accursed land, and I begin to worry for your wellbeing. After all, there are other riders in our squad to keep searching to grant you a reprieve of rest albeit shortened. Please, join me,” he waved an inviting hand, leading Caranthir to the beautiful tea table made of black marble with green and golden striae with a spread of several dinner courses, a carafe of wine made of deep-red glass with golden floral décor and two glasses to it.

Caranthir glanced over the luring dishes critically, finding himself wondering whether Eredin thought he had any secrets in need of revealing over a cozy arrangement like this, in which Serebtyr’s rumored skills would have aided in such a furtive manner that Caranthir would never know which morsel contained the special spice. Caranthir was indeed feeling peckish, and declining the offer would alert Eredin even more.

“Truth be told, Lord Comman—“

“Nonsence!” Eredin reacted. “Leave this to the field, my friend. In here, we shall be equals.”

“Truth be told, Eredin, I was hoping for a quick report and a chance to retire for a few hours. However, the arrangement is quite pleasing and stirs the appetite despite the weary aches.”

“Splendid!” Eredin said, his white teeth glistening in his predatory grin. They settled on their respectful divans across the table, and Eredin poured the wine. “First of all, I have to thank you, Caranthir.” He held up his glass and passed another to the young mage. “You saved my life, and I am endlessly grateful.”

“I was not the only navigator searching relentlessly…”

“Oh, certainly, all our navigators deserved praise for their work, and believe me, I have extended all my thanks were due. However, it was you who found me. Just in time. I shall not forget that, my dear brother. If there is any way possible to specifically thank you — please, do tell.”

Caranthir paused, taken off-guard with the sudden offer, and gave a soft shake of his head. “I cannot think of any requests at this moment. But I promise I shall bring it to you when I have it.”

“Very well,” Eredin nodded. “I ask you to do so without hesitation.” He saluted with his glass and took a sip.

Caranthir raised his glass with a small smile and brought it to his lips a bit slower, almost lazily, pricking his senses. He had been raised at court and had a handful of tricks up his sleeve. The wine seemed safe. He quickly whispered a spell into it and drank, relishing the taste.

“The quails are especially good,” Eredin advised, forking one to his plate. “The sauce of honey and nutmeg brings out a special flavor.” He sunk his knife into the meat, eyeing the Navigator with a wily glint in his eye.

Caranthir reached for the offered dish with his own fork and, after a momentary hesitation, picked one. He noticed Eredin’s eyes narrow just the tiniest bit, but then he lowered them to refill his glass.

“I have heard all about the two battles you have brought to dh’oine doorsteps,” he said. “Very nicely planned, indeed. And with a perk — a djinn. Quite creative. See, I could have hardly expected such flamboyant scheme from Imlerith, or even Isylthar. And that, my friend, is a compliment. How have you obtained such item of great rarity?”

“Through my Scoia’tael contacts. They have been of much help in the latest times. I am rather pleased with their input.”

“For as long as they do not expect too much in return,” Eredin raised an eyebrow, a slanted smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Ultimately, they wish for the same we are aiming for. They wish for our ilk to rule the land. They are sick of dh’oine oppression and I can understand it.”

“You sympathize with our lower brethren,” Eredin mused. “You have a young vibrant heart, Caranthir, that has not yet withered under the weight of ages and hardships of responsibility of leading our kin to salvation. It is most respectful and admirable, my friend. However, before we can save our own family, we cannot promise it to those of another world.”

“But they’re only there because—“
“I am aware. Terrible things happened during the Conjunction, things neither you nor I carry any responsibility for. It is our heritage, a burden to carry and a conundrum to resolve so our people live. We are certainly in favor of aiding those we call our brethren, however, our priorities are clear.”

“Absolutely,” Caranthir said in a low voice, and took a sip of wine.

“So, what of our Swallow?”

“She was present at both battles, and quite exhausted at that. Crevan was with her, mothering her like a hen, with his wings spread and clucking.”

Eredin emitted a soft laugh under his breath, his eyes dancing in amusement.

“I was about to challenge her Vatt'ghern when she attacked me and then leapt. I have all the reasons to believe she remains in Tir ná Béa Arainne. There was not enough power in her to carry her from it. I shall find the hole she’s hiding any time now.”

“I have no doubt,” Eredin smiled. “If anyone can find her, it is you. Nevertheless, if I may offer my humble angle of perception concerning that issue, I believe you might not be going the right way about it, my dear friend. In your passion for that particular confrontation you are locked in with Swallow, you might be missing a key element to capturing our little bird. It is her Cat. Once you get the Cat — Swallow shall come flying right into your palm where we crush her. Have you found her Cat, Caranthir?”

“I should admit he is quite more skillful in hiding and leaving little to no trace in his movements than Zireael. But I believe I have a trail. I’m pursuing it.”

“Wonderful to hear,” Eredin nodded, and leaned forward the table, his gaze so intense and so sharp that it looked as if his eyes were glowing with emerald light rather than reflecting the candles. “Bring him to me, Caranthir. Forget the brat, let her cower in whatever gutter she has crawled into to hide and lick her wounds. Forget her and bring him to me, and we shall finally fulfill our destiny. You and I, Caranthir, shall deliver our kin and save our world. You and I shall lead them to the new horizons and brighter glory. You and I, together. As we were meant to. As Auberon could not.”

Caranthir gave a barely noticeable nod, his eyes holding Eredin’s, feeling a chill creeping through his spine. “You shall have him here as soon as I grasp his elusive tail.”

“I harbor no doubt.”

Eredin sat back and finished his wine. Caranthir finished his, then rose to his feet.

“My apologies, but I must ask you to excuse me, for my bed is calling to me through the walls and gardens.”

“I dare assume you would benefit greatly from a steaming bath and a hearty massage, my friend. Why do you not join me in the Bath Parlor? Stay here for the night — this Palace is as much your home as it is mine.”

“Your offer is most generous, Eredin. I truly am grateful for your kind heart and sensitive nature. However, I have to decline. I admit I have been feeling a bit homesick for my— … the villa.”

Eredin refilled his glass and studied him pensively from under his thick eyelashes. “Do you not feel melancholic there? Under the circumstances, I would not be surprised. But if you insist — by all means. You know what is best for you. Only you and no one else, despite what Crevan liked to believe. Even Aen Saevherne might not know it all.”

“Perhaps you are right about that.”

“Either way, this is your villa now. Rightfully so. Do not correct yourself when you say it. All of it is yours. Were he pardoned, he would be your guest, not the other way around. Rest assured, it is done.”

“I thank you.”

“No need. It is but a formality. You can be excused, my dear friend,” he set the glass down and rose, taking Caranthir by the shoulders with a friendly smile. “Your home or here, all doors are ever open for you.”

Caranthir bowed his head and made to leave as Eredin settled down to finish his dinner. Halfway to the door, Caranthir turned around. “If I may ask a question.”

“Always,” Eredin turned to face him. “What is it?”

“Why do we not kill him? Why can we not kill Crevan?”

A brief slip of guard betrayed Eredin’s momentary surprise he swiftly covered with a humorous sneer. “Because it proves to be quite difficult to catch Aen Saevherne by surprise. Of all people, you know it best.”

“There were quite a few occasions we had him in our range. We could have ended it, could have cut Swallow off his aid and, perhaps, we would have gotten her by now. Why have you ordered our riders not to kill him? Why have you asked me to create that intricate curse, why toying with him like a cat with a mouse when we can end it?”

Eredin’s expression turned more serious. He acknowledged the questions with a nod, clucked his tongue, then met Caranthir’s gaze with his keen one. “I wish it were as simple. I truly do. I wish I could present his head to you personally. However, there are certain leverages in his possession that we cannot ignore.”

“His experiments?” Caranthir narrowed his eyes, making an unwitting step toward Eredin as indignation flashed hot in his gut. “But we have dozens of genetics working on his materials, on new discoveries. Are you telling me none of them is as good? Many of them are sages as well.”

“Being a sage means little when it comes to the gift itself, Caranthir. I am sure you understand what I mean by it. There are no certain, solid terms to describe and outline how that gift works in this or that individual, but there are differences in how it does. Differences we cannot deny. It takes time, ages and wisdom to find those paths and see the connections and make the most of it, but… Just as you are so talented and intuitive when it comes to feeling magic and developing your skills by a far quicker pace than any of your peers or even older mages, so does he wield his gift with an amazing grace and talent one should give him credit for.”

He sighed and took a sip of his wine, then looked back to Caranthir.

“I agree, our genetics working in the laboratory and the Tower are very skillful and talented in their own right. They have given us many results, some better than others, some promising at first but not surpassing the previous gain in the end. Let us face it: there is no Haurwedd past you. Even when they repeat all his steps by his journals, they get different results and not always the same ones, either. And for as long as they cannot explain that phenomenon to me, I hate to admit to you with all honesty that we still might need him. One-horn devils know how, but he managed to discover something very special, some knowledge or feel or essence of this process that our best mages, sages and genetics are still missing. He knew it was his major treasure, therefore he left no notes on it. It is in his head, and we need that head on his shoulders so it could give it up.”

“He will not, though,” Caranthir murmured, his hands fisting by his sides in helpless, tired frustration.

“Ah, but time does not matter for us. We shall persevere. As we always do. Everything breaks. Even the biggest mountain can shift if the right leverage is applied.”

Caranthir lowered his eyes to the flowery carpet under his feet, pondering it all carefully. Eredin watched him with a calm interest, sipping his wine. Eventually, Caranthir looked up at him, determination set about his stare. “That favor you mentioned. I know what I want.”

“What is it?”

“I want to be there. I want him to look me in the eye and tell me the truth.”

Eredin donned a slow carnivorous smile. “You have my word.”

The three lowly servant girls met Caranthir by the gate. They wore simple brown dresses, hid their hair under caps of the same bleak color, and kept their eyes lowered as much as possible. One of them led the stallion to the stables, and the other two made a quick work of undoing all the clasps and ties of his black and red armor, replaced his sabatons with light casual boots they had brought.

“Clean them,” he ordered, pointing at the greaves and sabatons marred with swamp dirt.

“At once, master.” The girls bowed low, and hurried away.

He looked up at the sky, watching the stars twinkle brightly at the dark purple canopy. There were no clouds, and the starry clusters looked like handfuls of diamonds spilt over the colorful nebulas and accompanied by moon five times bigger than the one he had been watching in that accursed dark world of dh’oine. He walked across the garden, taking his time, observing how the sky reflected in the pond and how the marble statues glittered in the moonlight. Averting his eyes from one of them in particular, he stopped before a small statue of a little elven boy sitting on his haunches on the lawn. It was surrounded by flowers that worried slightly in the breeze. The marble boy was fascinated by a huge butterfly sitting on his palm.

Caranthir glanced to the lawn behind him where another small statue of a little boy stood. This one was frozen in a posture of a petulant fit, his eyes squeezed shut, his little hands fisted.

(“It should be here from now on to remind you what defines a true high-born Alder, what sets us aside from lower forms of life who look like this in their impotent and embarrassing display of indecent emotions that turns them right back into apes, reversing ages of evolution.”)

Releasing a sharp exhale, Caranthir strode away towards the mansion.

The three homestead servants — young female elves — greeted him inside with their elegant bows. “Welcome home, Caranthir,” one of them named Elowyr said, a small deceptively shy smile playing on her lips.

“Should we serve your supper?” another one named Mirael asked.

“Prepare a bath,” he said. “And a mint lemonade. That’s all for now.”

They bowed and removed themselves from his way. Elowyr hesitated a moment, casting a quick glance at him over her shoulder before heading up the stairs.

Caranthir pondered for a moment, the image of the statue still in his inner eye, as well as Eredin’s bright, almost glowing stare. He approached the stairs and went left, to Avallac’h’s wing.

It was deadly quiet here, and yet it didn’t look or feel abandoned. There was not a speck of dust anywhere due to the servants’ work, the vast library was in neat order and the fireplaces were lit. A subtle shiver ran through his nerves when he reached for the door to the study; for a brief but sharply bright moment it felt that when he opened it, Crevan would be there, standing by his desk with his calm, knowing aquamarine eyes locked on him with mute inquiry.

No one was there, of course. The study was dipped in twilight, illuminated merely by the silver light pouring from the tall wide windows. Gauzy curtains worried in the breeze as if drawing breath. The desk was neat, no usual papers, drawings, boxes and books. Caranthir sat in the high-backed chair and pulled the drawer open where a heap of drawings lay on top of a few leather folders. He put the drawings on the desk and slowly brushed them with his palm like spreading a deck of cards. He pulled a few out and leaned back into the chair, turning in it slightly to take more advantage of the light coming from the open balcony.

Three of them marked the impressive progress Crevan had made with the dh’oine brat’s scar with his ointments and spells. Caranthir wrinkled his nose, dismissing the drawings back in the drawer.

Another depicted Auberon and Shiadhal standing behind a young Lara who looked nearly precisely like Swallow but a more refined, noble, neatly dressed and combed version without an ugly scar. Her pointed ears peeked from the tresses of lush long hair the brat could only dream of when she had arrived to Tir ná Lia with Avallac’h, looking like a mad lunatic with her tangled oily tresses sticking every whichway.

The drawing under it was of Lara alone. An older version, with more wisdom in her eyes, a barely there luring smile on her lips that looked simultaneously kind and conniving, depending on how you looked at it. There was a diadem in her hair like a golden branch with emerald leaves and amethyst flowers, a matching necklace hugging her neck, her long hair spilt over one shoulder curling at the ends. Caranthir’s fingers tightened on the parchment, tempted to crumple it and toss it up in the air and set it on fire. And watch the specks of ashes fall down like black snowflakes.

He tossed it in the drawer instead, and reached for the pile on the desk once again, putting a finger on a corner peeking from the middle and drawing it out. What he pulled out was a drawing of two portrait sketches put close as if for comparison. Lara and Caranthir. A wrinkle deepened between his eyebrows as he eyed the drawing, glancing between the faces, feeling slightly sick. Wondering what Crevan was thinking while drawing this and yet reluctant to really try to reach for such knowledge. Wondering if it would be there, beneath his fingertips had he tried…

His teeth clamped down and tight, he scooped the pile of parchments from the desk back into the drawer and pushed it closed with force. Then glanced up at the portrait standing on the desk, preserved inside an enchanted crystal glass. Standing among the flowers in her white and green dress decorated with golden ornaments, wearing the same jewelry set, the same barely-there smile, Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal was holding a flower in her hand. She brought it to her lips as if to inhale the fragrance, then held in out to the beholder in an eternal loop of the spell animating the picture. Her eyes, as green as Caranthir's own, were reaching deeper, past the confinement of the glass and into your mind to claim and possess, like she had Crevan's. Endlessly offering the flower as a token of her eternal claim. Here, attached to the side of the frame was a vial with that flower, suspended in glass, dead but faking life like a restless ghost.

“I would've run my sword through your treacherous gut and relish your life seeping out of your eyes,” he muttered. "You deserve no statues, no memories — you are nothing but an ape-loving traitor." The muscles in his face were twitching in disgust, his fingers curling into fists. "You twisted him, turned him into a traitor like yourself. There's nothing sacred about you, only poison he cannot live without, nor die from."

Nearly shaking, driven by a sudden urgent impulse, he reached for the portrait to smash it against the tiled floor and reduce it to powder. When his fingertips touched the glass, a bright blue flash crackled around it, sending a searing twinge through his whole body, jerking him stiff and hissing. The pain was as bright as a poisonous inspiration and held him for a long moment before it began to loosen its grip little by little. His eyes darted back to Lara's face and she seemed to be mocking him. He felt a surge of fury so hot he felt it would scorch his lungs and heart.

Staggering, he stepped away from the desk, kicking the chair back from him. "You old scheming devil!" Feeling the pain from the blast still subsiding reluctantly, Caranthir knew with a deadly clarity that Crevan foresaw this exact moment. It meant what Caranthir had guessed long time before, soon after Crevan escaped Tir ná Lia: nothing in here could bring him answers Crevan could have forgotten to hide.

It was infuriating beyond belief, beyond what Caranthir thought he could bear in one given moment, and he felt magic burning in his hands, eager to break out.

He tightened his fists, drawing a ragged long breath, then another. Then he spun around and left the study, banging the door closed behind him, spilling a curse under his breath.

The bath was steaming, spreading a delicate mixture of tantalizing aromas. Two servants poured the last of oils in the water and walked away. Elowyr remained, insisting on helping him out of his clothes. She pulled the chainmail off him, then stepped closer to loosen the braids running from his temples and behind his ears.

"It's been so long since your last visit," she said, her fingers running through his tresses, untangling them. "You shouldn't be exhausting yourself hunting that dh'oine. You're not the only one in the service. Why wouldn't they appoint another navigator—”

"It is my duty I shall not be discussing with the likes of you," he said through gritted teeth, toeing off his boots.

She shifted her position to unlace another braid. "I was not trying to be disrespectful. I am merely expressing my concern about you as Eredin lounges here while you have to trudge through their foul swamps without rest for days in search of that useless mutant.” After a pause, she mused, as if in afterthought, “Perhaps, you best should kill her. Let the bogs consume her body and tell Eredin she drowned there at her own stupid volition to not come back he—”

He turned and backhanded her so swiftly she didn't even have time to make a sound until her body was flung to the floor. She gaped up at him in belated alarmed surprise, her hand came to rest against her burning cheek, a thin trickle of blood creeping from her nostril over her parted lips.

He stood over her, livid. “Do you even understand what leaves your foul mouth, you stupid wench? Should I drag you before the Ministry for treason or should I spare them the hassle and behead you right here?”

Her eyes and mouth widened in terror, she shook her head a little, struggling for words. “I— I… I am— Forgive me, I never… I would never mean it like that! I would never betray our people, nor you! Never!” She scrambled to her knees, shifting to stand on them before him. “Forgive me, but do you not see how it is worth conside—“

He grabbed her by the throat and flung her onto the divan, pressing her down beneath him, tightening his grip. Her face flushed, she struggled and wheezed, her hands unwittingly wrapped around his wrist. “You want me to become a traitor now?” he raged. “Suggest I lie to my King?! Suggest I throw away our heritage and let dh’oine win? Just because some ignorant servant decided it is a good idea?”

Her eyes began to roll, her throat working under his palm that let no air through. He set his jaw and loosened his grip just a little. She sucked in a series of urgent gasping sips, her eyes wide and locked on his. She tried to speak, but it was too quiet even for a whisper, and he had to lean closer to make sense of her gasps and wheezes. “If even a part… of your mind believes… I could ever betray… you… I would gladly… accept death by your hand… Caranthir… I will die happy… relishing your final touch…”

He stared down at her in sudden uncertainty when her hands released his wrist in display of submission. Her eyes still wide, her heart thrashing so hard he could feel it under his arm, but all that was shock. Despite his threats and pain, she didn’t fear him. She feared death, but at this moment when his hand was on her skin, it was all that mattered to her, no matter what came next.

She’s insane, he thought with a baffled marvel, feeling his anger subsiding like a retreating tide. He took his hand away hastily as though she had plague, and stepped back from the divan.

She coughed, rubbing her throat, her eyes pleading with him. “I did not mean… It’s not… Allow me to explain…”

“Explain,” he echoed, watching her like one would an experimental explosive upon setting the cord on fire.

“Forgive my brazenness, I trusted you have thought about what her return would bring. I… I shouldn’t have spoken, but I simply—“

“Get to it.”

She sucked in another ragged breath, as though gathering her courage. “The reason for bringing her here is still the same, Caranthir. Only our great King is dead, and… there will be another suitor of high blood.”

Caranthir nearly opened his mouth to respond, but a sense of growing dread began to creep through his spine and choked off his wind.

“I asked Crevan about it once,” she continued. “When dh’oine was here. I brought herbs to his laboratory, and Crevan seemed preoccupied. He admitted to me that our King was struggling. I asked what would happen if that arrangement failed to work. He assured it was too early to state that, however, he humored me when I asked why not try this with Eredin. He said Eredin, albeit noble by blood of his long line of Alders, does not possess the ability to pass the best gene setup to their offspring. The simulations showed their combination would most likely turn out average.” She paused, trying to gauge his stony expression. After a moment, she added, “When I asked about him, he frowned as though I offended him, but then said he had not calculated his own odds. That left—“

Caranthir raised his hand, stopping her, made another uncertain step back, and slumped on the marble brim of the bath. He propped his elbows on his knees, his head lowered to his hands, fingers tangled in his hair. His gaze roamed the tiles on the floor; his thoughts were like a ball of fighting dogs, all ripping at each other.

Elowyr slipped off the divan to her knees and warily inched closer to Caranthir while he didn’t even seem to notice. Only when her hands touched his knees, his eyes came to rest on her face as though from a deep slumber, a bit foggy and disoriented.

“Do not think about it now,” she cajoled in a quiet, soft voice. “There are dozens of chances of her dying to her own rashness. Nothing is set in stone. And Crevan, he was the one to be mated to Lara. If only he would not be tried for treason—“

“He will not be,” Caranthir murmured, still feeling as though submerged deep under water, and that water was as heavy as his head. The hidden facets of Eredin’s ideas were finally catching light and reflecting their colors to him. The bigger picture was gaining clarity.

“That is good!” she beamed. “Then it is the solution. Eredin will not accept his whims now that he is the King. It will be sorted. You will see.”

Caranthir held little hope for everything to just sort itself out, but in one aspect she was right: now was now, and later didn’t exist yet. Everything changed constantly. The future was not set.

Cautiously, like handling a barely tamed tiger, she pulled his shirt off, then unlaced his trousers. Only when she coaxed him into the bath, the strong and relaxing warmth of water rich with aromatic oils and essences began to loosen the stiffness in both his muscles and his stunned mind. She settled behind him, her fingers expertly kneading the back of his neck and shoulders, slipping down his arms and chest, then returning back to his neck and sneaking up into his scalp, coaxing a soft moan of pleasure from him. Her mouth curved in a furtive smile.

She reached to the tray with the mint lemonade, poured a glass from the dainty green crystal carafe and put it in his hand. He looked at it, focusing, and the glass turned misted, biting his fingers with cold. He took a swallow, and felt more clarity seep in.

Her hands were on his shoulders again; he shrugged them off. “Go.”

“But—“

“I said go away!”

Frowning and biting her lip in frustration, she picked his chainmail and clothes and went for the door. Mirael was behind it to announce visitors.

Lorendil Ar-Sinach walked in with the usual spring to his pace and a grin on his face that immediately turned bawdy. “Who would have thought! That rare occasion we actually find you at home, and you’re indecent. Do you not feel lucky, Aelsylle?”

Aelsylle, strolling around him, rolled her eyes and settled on the bath brim, unabashed by the sight. “Oh yes, I am thrilled.” She gave Caranthir a sympathetic look. “I apologize for that late visit, but this disturber of peace insisted you would not mind.”

“No need,” Caranthir waved a dismissive hand with a small smile. “He’s right, it has been a while.”

“Heard of your visit to Eredin,” Lorendil said, picking at the fruit bowl Mirael had brought along with drinks before leaving them alone. “Some of our squad were sent to fetch you right after we returned from patrol. How did it go?”

“A little show of gratitude and some masked nudge in the backside.” Caranthir glanced between his friends with an ironic mien.

“Your overstaying there after we all came back did not count, I assume,” Lorendil chuckled. “That Hawk’s patience is busting. We are being dispatched again at dawn to follow that trail of yours.”

“He expects miracles from you,” Aelsylle said. “It is a burden.”

“It is a trap,” he agreed. “I need to watch my every move not just because of Crevan, but Eredin now as well. It is almost a treason to admit, but I breathed freer while he… well.”

“Of course, that goes without saying,” Lorendil smirked. “You found him too soon.”

“Shush, you two rascals,” Aelsylle warned, but not without a furtive smile she hid behind her glass.

“Have you found anything else, though?” Lorendil asked, genuinely interested. They both leaned forward with unwitting expectation.

“Not yet,” Caranthir admitted. “I begin to wonder if I even can. Crevan turned out to be so incredibly good at foreseeing things and leaving traps in his wake…” He frowned, recalling his earlier discovery with Lara’s portrait. “It will take more efforts.”

Aelsylle tapped her chin wistfully. “Has it occurred to you that, perhaps, the more effort you execute, the thicker is the wall?”

Both men looked at her with a sort of curious confusion.

“What I mean is,” she elaborated, “when you go about it with the effort and force prepared to break through his barriers, it might be exactly what he’s built them for. Mayhap you need an approach he expects from you less? You understand?”

“I don’t,” Lorendil admitted with not a grain of shame for it. Aelsylle cast a mock reprimanding glance at him only a female friend is capable of granting: it contained both pity for his shortcomings and benevolence regardless of such.

Caranthir was mulling it over as he drank, and his frown was deepening. “I am not certain I can—“
“You have demonstrated how you felt plenty of times,” she said. “But being a Sage does not mean he knows everything at every given moment, either. He is no god. Remember, emotions always fuel magic in one way or another. Given how their world is coming together to protect their claim on that dh’oine girl, I believe most of his efforts and thoughts are directed that way. This is how you found his secret hiding place. You might find more while he looks the other way.”

“You think he would make such mistake again now that he knows?”

“I do not suppose he can cover up his secrets any better simply because you learned how to pick his locks. I truly believe you might pick more if you use different approaches. After all, every lock is different, be it a real or a magical one.” She spread her hands in simple as that gesture, and finished her drink. “Even though they teach us magic at the Tower, wearing all those serious faces and presenting us with thickest tomes, none of it makes it an exact science. It is mostly about intuition and how you wield it. Whether due to Crevan’s tutoring or your own natural talents, but you are one of the most intuitive mages I know, Caranthir. Even among Sages.”

His lips twitched in a flicker of a grateful smile. She offered one of gentle encouragement.

“There is certainly something to it,” Lorendil added, his expressive face mimicking hard reflections as he nodded slowly for good measure. Neither of his friends was able to keep from a chuckle. He cracked an approving grin. “Yes, now this is better. I did not come here for a night of Tower lecture and grim faces. Who wants to hear my newest poem?”

They both grimaced, but he began to recite, ignoring their mocking protests and splashes.

When the night got older and Caranthir came to his bedchambers, Elowyr brought a set of fresh clothes for the morning. She was about to leave when he stopped her to look at her face. Her cheek was bruised and slightly puffy, her throat still held the red imprint of his hand. She raised her eyes to his timidly, but once again he saw no fear, nor blame.

“Forgive my rudeness,” he said, laying his palm over her cheek. Her eyes widened a bit as she felt the pain gradually dissolve. He moved to her throat, repeating the spell, and then stepped away.

“It is fully my fault,” she said, stepping after him, eliciting a flash of alarm in his stare. “I should have explained myself better from the start… or not spoken about it to begin with.”

He dismissed it with a nod, and then her fingers hooked onto his robe’s belt. He pushed her hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

“I merely wanted to—“

“No. Leave me.”

When the door closed behind her, he sat on the side of his bed, rubbing his temples.

Wondering if sleep would even come.

When it came to punctuality and mages, it was all about the sense of time the particular mage possessed — or didn’t. If you asked any of them about it, you would get either a swat of a hand (if you were lucky) or a quick sizzle of a spell reserved for nuisances that would gift you with the most charming visage of a toad (if your luck was fresh out). Some individuals, more likely to be older and tired of aged tomes’ pages enough to crave a live audience instead, would break into a prolonged lecture of how the very subject of time was elusive enough by itself and, when applied to a mage, the concept of it could dissolve entirely. When it came to sorceresses, it rang most true, as the majority of their male counterparts would gladly testify to.

However, when Philippa Eilhart sent her secret invitation for the first gathering of the old Lodge before it could be reborn into its new and brilliant version, none of the recipients allowed their own personal concepts of time interfere with being on time for it.

Except, however, for one.

“Is Keira not coming?” Triss inquired, glancing between the faces gathered at the huge round table in their old summit hall at Montecalvo. “I have sent her a message specifically asking to make an exception, even though after Kaer Morhen—“

“It shall be her greatest loss, then,” Philippa announced, examining her nails as she lounged in her chair with the expression of confident contentedness worthy of a queen whose spouse has just died and left the kingdom in her autocratic hands. “I hope that lousy witcher is worth it for her. Although, we all know her demands rest quite low.”

“But this is about Ciri and the fate of the Continent,” Triss said with an air of tired disappointment, lowering her eyes to her injured leg she was still nursing. Damned be that allergy for potions. “At times like this we cannot afford to lose an ally like her.”

“Pshaw,” Philippa said. “Not much of a loss there. No one can be dragged towards greatness by their hair, Triss. Everyone who knows what is best for them is here.”

Except for Yennefer, Triss thought with a bit of a lament.

None of the other three sorceresses present let any reactions show on their idle faces, each seemed to be consumed by her own thoughts. Margarita Laux-Antille was sipping Est Est she had brought with her and seemingly solely for her own entertainment; Francesca was idly curling her finger into a strand of her blond hair, while Ida was slowly turning the coral ring on her finger, either listening to others or meditating on things only an elven Sage could contemplate.

For a split second, a whiff of magic went through the air like a charge before a portal opened and let out Fringilla Vigo and Morvran Voorhis by her side. She arrived on his arm as though they entered a ballroom, and Triss was certain it was exactly the message. This Fringilla she was seeing every day at Vizima castle was not quite the same that had to be broken out of the Nilfgaardian dungeon cell. No Northern sorceress in her sane mind could trust Nilfgaard with her fate, and yet Triss found an ember of envy glowing in her gut for Vigo’s current status. Having the ear of a small kingdom’s ruler was not quite the same as being one of the wheels of the Empire’s carriage.

Fringilla’s arm slipped from Morvran’s and he executed an elegant bow. “I offer my greetings, Ladies of the Arts, and my sincerest gratitude for finding the time to attend this meeting.”

“It was quite a pleasure to receive that call for a meeting, General,” Philippa said, donning a smile that looked both pleasant and somewhat predatory. Her nearly black eyes bore into Morvran as though emanating their own power that aimed to bend his mind. “It is about time to make an official step towards restoring our Lodge, especially given how the world and particularly our North requires our aid and services at this dire time.”

“Indeed, the time is most dire, Lady Eilhart,” he agreed. “It is imperative each of us understands with perfect clarity where we stand and what happens next.”

“What happens next has left my tongue not a minute ago, General Voorhis,” Philippa said, her eyes narrowing just a tad. Triss assumed it would be apt to give Morvran a whopping headache at the very least without the secret protections and precautions all royal Nilfgaardians were so keen on at their court. “Before the Lodge is officially restored and settled, there is nothing any of us could do openly, for none of us is eager to end up on the pyres you so mischievously backed up. Oh yes, I am aware of that little arrangement with the Hierarch and his witch hunters. Very convenient and quite an expected move on Great Sun’s part, indeed.”

Morvran smiled. “Whatever may or may not have happened between me and the Hierarch, gods bless him, could not have possibly concern you, for I dare state we all see you right here in front of us, alive and quite well off against all such odds. Is it not a marvel of its own, Lady Eilhart?”

“Oh, but this is not a wonder in the slightest,” she said. “You need me. The Wild Hunt is at our door, every able pair of hands wielding magic is in high demand, and no one can afford losing a sorceress of my expertise and knowledge. If not anything else, this solid fact speaks in favor of your strategic talents, especially at your age.”

Triss felt her cheeks flush with heat and color; she felt an urge to cover her eyes and pinch the bridge of her nose and appear anywhere around the world but in this damn chair. She cast a furtive glance around the table, but none of the other sorceresses gave out any emotion but mild interest inspired by the vocal sparring.

Morvran’s smile grew, showing his even teeth, and he put a hand to his heart, bowing slightly. “I am mostly flattered by the compliment, especially coming from you of all people, which should be deemed no less than a miracle. And a miracle such as this we all shall take as a good omen for our future alliance.”

He lowered his hand and dimmed his smile a few notches, which immediately revealed a sharp glint deep in his blue eyes. “Now that all the pleasantries we could possibly exchange by this time are covered, let us finally get right down to the very reason we are all here.” His eyes darted to Philippa and held hers with an unabashed and confident stare. “It is my humble understanding that your perception of the plans Nilfgaard harbors for the Lodge and your personal participation in it are quite askew from the true horizon, for which I offer my apologies, for it would be my direct duty to explain and describe it in detail to clear out all the possible doubts, uncertainties and illuminate all blind spots for each and everyone’s comfort.”

The royal visage of the content Gwent player that was about to win the final round began to crack and fall off Philippa’s face, revealing the growing suspicion and indignation that nearly set her eyes aflame. “I stand corrected,” she uttered through gritted teeth, but then her mouth twitched in a small sneer that was barely a cousin to the social and pleasant one from earlier. “And I am not in the least surprised. After so many years of my service to Redania, I have learned all the possible ways and tricks your royal ilk went for to betray my kind. Each of us has lived long enough and seen more than her share to know the true undercurrents even when someone like you, young and promising, comes forth and announces changes and peace for all. It shall never be. Every royal line is rotten to the core, and no good new springs could grow from it.

“You cannot have our hand in that vile alliance you wish to build. No sorceress of the Lodge shall ever be controlled, forced, manipulated and put to death for crimes you belie us with. None of us will ever forget and forgive what the likes of you have done to our sister, Sabrina Glevissig. That shall never come to pass again, if all of us together defy you.”

She rose from her chair, her eyes hard and narrowed while holding Morvran’s gaze, but then she cast a look around the table and saw it in all its ugly and yet undeniable clarity just as General had put it.

No one else stood up.

Fringilla Vigo, who had taken a seat at the table even though Morvran remained on his feet, allowed herself the tiniest of smiles that added the last cut to Philippa’s bravado. All the other sorceresses watched her with impassive faces, and only Triss Merigold, that naïve, near useless youth, good for nothing with that stubborn, foul preference of hers for Yennefer and her unruly ward, had the decency to look embarrassed.

Morvran offered a quick smile albeit a bit on the condescending side. “Before we can delve into further misunderstanding and put the whole affair at risk, allow me to elaborate.”

He gestured an invitation for her to sit back down, and when she expressed her reluctance but followed the directive nonetheless, he did as he promised.

“First and foremost, allow me to assure all of you, that I am in no way presenting any threat or hold a dagger of a secret and deceitful plan behind my back. I am here on my own will, as well as an official representative of the Nilfgaardian Crown, even though this summit could be deemed as a preliminary Lodge summit as of yet, for the key element to bind it all together into a neat and finalized deal is missing. Without Princess Cirilla, as you, dear Lady Eilhart, have stated several times before this day, the agreement to revive the Lodge and grant it all the properties you deem necessary would be impossible, or at the very least, very improbable.

“Therefore, for the convenience of everybody present, let our main focus in the interim be the outlining of the steps needed in order to reach the goal of yours.”

“Let me in my turn remind you, General,” Philippa said, her arms folding, “that there could be no steps for us to take until we are officially allowed to take them.”

“I admire your lever of prudence and foresight, Lady Eilhart,” Morvran said with a smile that looked every bit a genuine expression of the feeling he voiced. “However, as I have already stated moments ago, Princess Cirilla and her commitment to your cause is one of the key conditions you personally have named for the official reestablishing of the Lodge, and I am merely following the protocol you yourself have suggested. Have I not been informed correctly? If so, I have to apologize and invite you to make it clear to me now with everybody present.”

“That would be a fair condition to follow if Princess Cirilla were the one to found the new Lodge,” Philippa corrected with a sort of a condescending smile of her own. “However, her part will merely be to pledge her allegiance to the Lodge and commit to it as a member. That means there needs to be the official Lodge she could rightfully join.”

“Ah, the intricacies of political diplomacy,” Morvran admired. “Be it as it may, at this time we find ourselves in the most dangerous setting, all things considered. With no way of predicting where and when the Wild Hunt will choose to strike again, our first priority is to ensure Princess Cirilla’s safety. Everything else is secondary, for even if you deem this an issue of Nilfgaardian Crown, given Princess Cirilla is our Emperor’s direct heir, I will have to remind you that she is also the direct heir to the Cintran throne with no other rightful competitors and therefore the future Queen of one of your Northern kingdoms. And for as long as you wish to claim one of the Northern crowns yourselves as a ruling council of sorts, it should be your collective desire to secure the most powerful member of your union and ensure her wellbeing before your claims can be legally satisfied.”

“Given the position your Crown put me in,” Philippa played back, “where I can scarcely show my face in the streets without risking persecution for what was a grand favor to the aforementioned Crown, I am rightful to be wary of what you bring to this table, General. That crime you condemn me for has cleared your path to Redania and Kaedwen both. I am fully in my rights to expect leniency from Nilfgaard, which has not yet come my way.”

“I always render worthy talents their due where it’s appropriate,” Morvran responded, “and I hold a great deal of respect for your uncanny ability to avoid detection and remain hidden when such is your necessity. However, I should also make it clear to you that as soon as it would become my Crown’s direct order to hold you accountable for the said crime and a list of others that could be added for good measure, no amount of skill and talent would keep you out of our grasp. The mere fact of your sitting here as calm and confident as you are means my Crown has not yet decided that such order needs to be signed. Everything can change, as we all know, but I came here to seek solutions rather than widen the gap between us and exchange threats unfavorable for both parties.”

“It is nothing else but a blunt, naked threat,” Philippa accused, her expression stony with cold ire.

“It is nothing more than a mere clarification of where my Crown and your person stand.” His smile was gone in favor of the calm, serious expression, which relied that all jests and courtesies were put to rest. “Seeing you insist so much on how your crime has come from your intention of providing a certain service to my Crown, allow me to clarify it once and for all that there has been no such request coming from Nilfgaard that you have fulfilled. In fact, that deed was no more than an act of personal vengeance in the eyes of Nilfgaardian Crown and that of Redania and Kaedwen, and no amount of your attempts to present it from the side you favor more could change that simple fact that requires no additional explanations for anyone who has witnessed that act with their own eyes and would testify to it.

“Now, it is my understanding that you wish to wash that act — or rather its stigma — off your person to, as you put it, be free of fear to show your face in the streets. If that is the case, I hereby offer you the most direct path to such salvation.” He spread his arms briefly to emphasize his point, “It lies through doing what you claim you are most eager to do: work with the Lodge members to hinder the Wild Hunt and aid our war efforts against the Aen Elle forces. Work with the Lodge to locate Princess Cirilla and ensure her safety and provide all means possible to save our world from imminent downfall.

“As you can see, all members of the former Lodge willing to join efforts on that front are here with you, ready to work with you regardless of your crimes. You are here, unharmed and free, because Nilfgaard recognizes your standing with the Lodge, as well as your experience and power, and is willing to provide you with a chance of confirming your position in the new Lodge that is to be established with all the advantages attached. Are you willing to accept our hand and move forward to our common goals together?”

She smirked disdainfully, “In the same manner Lady Findabair has once upon a time, driven by your Crown’s promise to restore her kingdom and her people’s rights? I am certain each of us recalls how that panned out.”

“Oh, I am scarcely to comment on any arrangement I have not been a part of, Lady Eilhart. Nevertheless, I dare state you are well aware that Lady Findabair’s presence in person among us tonight is the result of certain winds changing to warmer ones between our kingdoms.” He smiled, casting a quick glance Francesca’s way before returning an expectant one back to Philippa.

“No more than another promise,” Philippa said.

“A blood oath to be kept,” Ida put in, drawing all the eyes to herself for a moment of surprise. She, however, expressed no reaction to sudden attention, her indifferent demeanor hinting that those would remain the only words spoken by her at this meeting.

“Do we have an agreement, Lady Eilhart?” Morvran inquired. “Or you would prefer to discuss your case with the Emperor himself, trusting he would offer a more preferable solution, given his age and authority?”

Her mouth momentarily pressed into a line as she considered her options. Then a smile as void of any warmth as the thickest of snowcaps in Skellige mountains twitched her mouth. “Given it has been our plan to save this world and Cirilla all along, we shall gladly proceed with it and continue with our research.”

Morvran smiled, “By all means, I shall distract you no longer.”

Before the clawing hand of the Wild Hunt Navigator can grasp her, Ciri scrambles to her feet as fast as her exhausted body allows, and runs. She throws all the meagre shreds of her strength into that final burst because she needs to leap. She has to lure him, pull him away to chase. Their eternal vicious circle of chase she barely believes would ever break…

The final instant before her leap she turns over her shoulder to make sure he follows, to glimpse the red cape flapping like demonic wings, the helmet, the black and red armor as though marred with blood that could never be washed off. She turns…

There is no tall dark figure on her heel ready to grab her by the hair.

Caranthir is far behind, back on the destroyed market square littered with rubble and bodies, and he has Geralt in his grip.

A spear of deadly terror jabs through Ciri’s heart, but it is too late, too late to stop the leap… the glow of magic is around her, but the image is too clear, too crisp.

When Caranthir’s sword plunges through Geralt’s chest, Ciri starts to scream…

A flash of green… the world tumbles… and she screams, screams, ripping the very fabric of the world apart around her… she screams…

“Tis alright, tis alright,” a whisper came through the thick veil, lifting a bit of weight off her chest.

Ciri heard a wheeze, and it took a few long disoriented moments to feel it was coming out of her sore throat. She emitted a cough; it hurt.

It was dark, and then a faint orange glow came through the black. Distantly, she heard a crackle of fire, but still felt cold. She shivered.

Vysogota, she tried to say, but only another strained wheeze came out.

“Tis alright,” the calming, husky voice said. It felt kind. Caring. “Tis alright. Yer safe. Yer healin. Rest some more, child.”

Her eyelids felt too heavy, and she stopped trying to crack them open.

She rested some more.