are making a mistake. You mistake the stars reflected in the surface of the lake at night for the heavens.’
The Chapter will do as he says, disguising his order as advice, thought Tissaia de Vries. We are all pawns on his chess board. He’s moved up, grown, obscured us with his brightness, subordinated us to him. We’re pawns in his game. A game the rules of which we do not know.
Her left cuff had once again arranged itself differently from the right. The enchantress adjusted it with care.
‘The kings’ plans are already at the stage of practical realisation,’ she said slowly. ‘In Kaedwen and Aedirn an offensive against the Scoia’tael has begun. The blood of young elves is flowing. It is reaching the point of persecution and pogroms against non-humans. There is talk of an attack on the free elves of Dol Blathanna and the Grey Mountains. This is mass murder. Are we to say to Gedymdeith and Enid Findabair that you advise us to stand idly by, to watch and do nothing? Pretending we can’t see anything?’
Vilgefortz turned his head towards her. Now you’re going to change tactics, thought Tissaia. You’re a player, you can hear which way the dice roll on the table. You’re going to change tactics. You’re going to strike a different note.
Vilgefortz did not lower his eyes from hers.
‘You are right,’ he said curtly. ‘You are right, Tissaia. War with Nilfgaard is one thing but we must not look on idly at the massacre of non-humans and do nothing. I suggest we call a convention, a general convention of everyone up to and including Masters of the Third Degree, including those who have been sitting on royal councils since Sodden. At the convention we will make them see reason and order them to keep their monarchs in check.’
‘I second this proposition,’ said Terranova. ‘Let us call a convention and remind them to whom they owe first loyalty. Note that even some members of our Council now advise kings. The kings are served by Carduin, Philippa Eilhart, Fercart, Radcliffe, Yennefer—’
At the last name Vilgefortz twitched internally. But Tissaia de Vries was an Archmage. Tissaia sensed the thought, the impulse
leaping from the workbench and magical apparatus to the two volumes lying on the table. Both books were invisible, enveloped in magic. The magician focused herself and penetrated the screen.
Aen Ithlinnespeath, the prophecy foretold by Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien, the elven seeress. The prophecy of the end of civilisation, the prophecy of annihilation, destruction and the return of bar-barianism which are to come with the masses of ice pressing down from the borders of the eternal freeze. And the other book . . . Very old . . . Falling apart . . . Aen Hen Ichaer . . . The Elder Blood . . . The Blood of Elves?’
‘Tissaia? And what do you think?’
‘I second it.’ The enchantress adjusted her ring which had turned the wrong way round. ‘I second Vilgefortz’s plan. Let us call a convention. As soon as possible.’
Metal, stone, crystal, she thought. Are you looking for Yennefer? Why? And what does she have to do with Ithlin’s prophecy? Or with the Elder Blood of the Elves? What are you brewing, Vilgefortz?
I’m sorry, said Lydia van Bredevoort telepathically, coming in without a sound. The wizard stood up.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but this is urgent. I’ve been waiting for this letter since yesterday. It will only take a minute.’
Artaud yawned, muffled a belch and reached for the carafe. Tissaia looked at Lydia. Lydia smiled. With her eyes. She could not do so any other way.
The lower half of Lydia van Bredevoort’s face was an illusion.
Four years ago, on Vilgefortz’s – her master’s – recommendation, Lydia had taken part in experiments concerning the properties of an artefact found amongst the excavations of an ancient necropolis. The artefact turned out to be cursed. It activated only once. Of the five wizards taking part in the experiment, three died on the spot. The fourth lost his eyes, both hands and went mad. Lydia escaped with burns, a mangled jaw and a mutation of the larynx and throat which, to this day, effectively resisted all efforts at regeneration. A powerful illusion was therefore drawn so that people did not faint at the sight of Lydia’s face. It was a very
strong, very efficiently placed illusion, difficult for even the Chosen Ones to penetrate.
‘Hmm . . .’ Vilgefortz put the letter aside. ‘Thank you, Lydia.’
Lydia smiled. The messenger is waiting for a reply, she said.
‘There will be no reply.’
I understand. I have given orders to prepare chambers for your guests.
‘Thank you. Tissaia, Artaud, I apologise for the short delay. Let us continue. Where were we?’
Nowhere, thought Tissaia de Vries. But I’m listening carefully to you. Because at some stage you’ll finally mention the thing which really interest you.
‘Ah,’ began Vilgefortz slowly. ‘Now I know what I wanted to say. I’m thinking about those members of the Council who have had the least experience. Fercart and Yennefer. Fercart, as far as I know, is tied to Foltest of Temeria and sits on the king’s council with Triss Merigold. But who is Yennefer tied to? You said, Artaud, that she is one of those who are serving kings.’
‘Artaud exaggerated,’ said Tissaia calmly. ‘Yennefer is living in Vengerberg so Demawend sometimes turns to her for help, but they do not work together all the time. It cannot be said for certain that she is serving Demawend.’
‘How is her sight? Everything is all right, I hope?’
‘Yes. Everything’s all right.’
‘Good. Very good. I was worried . . . You know, I wanted to contact her but it turned out she had left. No one knew where for.’
Stone, metal, crystal, thought Tissaia de Vries. ‘Everything that Yennefer wears is active and cannot be detected using psychic visions. You won’t find her that way, my dear. If Yennefer does not wish anyone to know where she is, no one will find out.
‘Write to her,’ she said calmly, straightening out her cuffs. ‘And send the letter in the ordinary way. It will get there without fail. And Yennefer, wherever she is, will reply. She always does.’
‘Yennefer,’ threw in Artaud, ‘frequently disappears, sometimes for entire months. The reasons tend to be quite trivial . . .’
Tissaia looked at him, pursing her lips. The wizard fell silent. Vilgefortz smiled faintly.
‘Precisely,’ he said. ‘That is just what I thought. At one time she was closely tied to … a certain witcher. Geralt, if I’m not mistaken. It seems it wasn’t just an ordinary passing affair. It appeared Yennefer was quite strongly involved . . .’
Tissaia de Vries sat up straight and gripped the armrests of her chair.
‘Why are you asking about that? They’re personal matters. It is none of our business.’
‘Of course.’ Vilgefortz glanced at the letter lying discarded on the pulpit. ‘It is none of our business. But I’m not being guided by unhealthy curiosity but concern about the emotional state of a member of the Council. I am wondering about Yennefer’s reaction to the news of … of Geralt’s death. I presume she would get over it, come to terms with it, without falling into a depression or exaggerated mourning?’
‘No doubt, she would,’ said Tissaia coldly. ‘Especially as such news has been reaching her every now and again – and always proving to be a rumour.’
‘That’s right,’ confirmed Terranova. ‘This Geralt, or whatever he’s called, knows how to fend for himself. And why be surprised? He is a mutant, a murdering machine, programmed to kill and not let himself be killed. And as for Yennefer, let us not exaggerate her alleged emotions. We know her. She does not give in to emotions. She toyed with the witcher, that’s all. She was fascinated with death, which this character constantly courts. And when he finally brings it onto himself, that will be the end of it.’
‘For the time being,’ remarked Tissaia de Vries dryly, ‘the witcher is alive.’
Vilgefortz smiled and once more glanced at the letter lying in front of him.
‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘I don’t think so.’
Geralt flinched a little and swallowed hard. The initial shock of drinking the elixir had passed and the second stage was beginning
to take effect, as indicated by a faint but unpleasant dizziness which accompanied the adaptation of his sight to darkness.
The adaptation progressed quickly. The deep darkness of the night paled; everything around him started to take on shades of grey, shades which were at first hazy and unclear then increasingly contrasting, distinct and sharp. In the little street leading to the canal bank which, a moment ago, had been as dark as the inside of a tar barrel, Geralt could now make out the rats roaming through the gutters, and sniffing at puddles and gaps in the walls.
His hearing, too, had been heightened by the witchers’ decoction. The deserted tangle of lanes where, only a moment ago, there had been the sound of rain against guttering, began to come to life, to throb with sounds. He heard the cries of cats fighting, dogs barking on the other side of the canal, laughter and shouting from the taprooms and inns of Oxenfurt, yelling and singing from the bargemen’s tavern, and the distant, quiet warble of a flute playing a jaunty tune. The dark, sleepy houses came to life as well – Geralt could make out the snoring of slumbering people, the thuds of oxen in enclosures, the snorting of horses in stables. From one of the houses in the depths of the street came the stifled, spasmodic moans of a woman in the throes of lovemaking.
The sounds increased, grew louder. He now made out the obscene lyrics of the carousing songs, learned the name of the moaning woman’s lover. From Myhrman’s homestead on the canal came the broken, uncoordinated gibberish of the charlatan who had been put, by Philippa Eilhart’s treatment, into a state of complete and, no doubt, permanent idiocy.
Dawn was approaching. It had finally stopped raining, a wind started up which blew the clouds away. The sky in the east was clearly paling.
The rats in the lane suddenly grew uneasy, scattered in all directions and hid amongst the crates and rubbish.
The witcher heard footsteps. Four or five men; he could not as yet say exactly how many. He looked up but did not see Philippa.
Immediately he changed tactic. If Rience was amongst those approaching he had little chance of grabbing him. He would first
have to fight his escort and he did not want to do so. Firstly, as he was under the influence of the elixir, those men would have to die. Secondly, Rience would then have the opportunity to flee.
The footsteps grew nearer. Geralt emerged from the shadows.
Rience loomed out of the lane. The witcher recognised the sorcerer instantly and instinctively, although he had never seen him before. The burn, a gift from Yennefer, was masked by the shadow of his hood.
He was alone. His escort did not reveal themselves, remaining hidden in the little street. Geralt immediately understood why. Rience knew who was waiting for him by the charlatan’s house. Rience had suspected an ambush, yet he had still come. The witcher realised why. And that was even before he had heard the quiet grating of swords being drawn from their scabbards. Fine, he thought. If that’s what you want, fine.
‘It is a pleasure hunting for you,’ said Rience quietly. ‘You appear where you’re wanted of your own accord.’
‘The same can be said of you,’ calmly retorted the witcher. ‘You appeared here. I wanted you here and here you are.’
‘You must have pushed Myhrman hard to tell you about the amulet, to show you where it is hidden. And how to activate it to send out a message. But Myhrman didn’t know that the amulet informs and warns at the same time, and so he could not have told you even if roasted on red coals. I have distributed a good many of these amulets. I knew that sooner or later you would come across one of them.’
Four men emerged from around a corner of the little street. They moved slowly, deftly and noiselessly. They still kept to the areas of darkness and wielded their drawn swords in such a way as not to be betrayed by a flash of blades. The witcher, obviously, saw them clearly. But he did not reveal the fact. Fine, murderers, he thought. If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.
‘I waited,’ continued Rience without moving from the spot, ‘and here you are. I intend to finally rid the earth of your burden, you foul changling.’
‘You intend? You overrate yourself. You are nothing but a tool.
A thug hired by others to deal with their dirty work. Who hired you, stooge?’
‘You want to know too much, mutant. You call me a stooge? And do you know what you are? A heap of dung on the road which has to be removed because someone prefers not to soil their boots. No, I am not going to disclose who that person is to you, although I could. But I will tell you something else so you have something to think about on your way to hell. I already know where to find the little bastard you were looking after. And I know where to find that witch of yours, Yennefer. My patrons don’t care about her but I bear the whore a personal grudge. As soon as I’ve finished with you, I’m going after her. I’ll see to it that she regrets her tricks with fire. Oh, yes, she is going to regret them. For a very long time.’
‘You shouldn’t have said that.’ The witcher smiled nastily, feeling the euphoria of battle aroused by the elixir, reacting with adrenalin. ‘Before you said that, you still had a chance to live. Now you don’t.’
A powerful oscillation of his witcher’s medallion warned him of a sudden assault. He jumped aside and, drawing his sword in a flash, deflected and annihilated the violent, paralysing wave of magical energy directed at him with his rune-covered blade. Rience backed away, raised his arm to make a move but at the last moment took fright. Not attempting a second spell, he swiftly retreated down the lane. The witcher could not run after him – the four men who thought they were concealed in the shadows threw themselves at him. Swords flashed.
They were professionals. All four of them. Experienced, skilled professionals working as a team. They came at him in pairs, two on the left, two on the right. In pairs – so that one always covered the other’s back. The witcher chose those on the left. On top of the euphoria produced by the elixir came fury.
The first thug attacked with a feint from dextra only to jump aside and allow the man behind him to execute a deceptive thrust. Geralt spun in a pirouette, evaded and passed by them and with the very tip of his sword slashed the other one from behind across