The Last Cat of Kaer Marter
The halls of the castle were hauntingly empty, save for the flittering shadows cast by pale moonlight filtering through the tall, high windows. The occasional groan of settling wood echoed through the ancient stone passages, floorboards cooling as the winds of winter gently caressed the land outside. Formerly so vibrant and full of life, the old Elven palace was now still as a tomb. Almost.
Picking her way through the detritus left behind by the invading soldiers, a lone figure moved silently, carefully. Sylvia knew these halls all too well, having travelled to the former Witchers' stronghold on many occasions to ply her trade. In the gloom, the bard's eyes flashed brightly, picking out the faintest detail. Ears twitched, listening out for any signs of movement.
Her stomach was growling again. A sensation that filled her with dread. She'd quickly run through what scraps of food remained after the castle's occupants had fled, a few stale ends of bread, some old, hard lumps of cheese, the odd mouthful of tough, smoked meat. All too quickly, the supplies within the castle had run out, leaving her to suffer in her hunger. Eventually, the gnawing in her belly had pushed her to her limits, unleashing a side of herself she wished she could forget. A mouse had been the first victim of her hunger, the way it tasted making her heave, but her appetite gave her no choice. Still, she resisted as long as she could. At least a broken window on the upper floor had allowed in a trickle of rain, creating a shallow puddle she had used to slake her thirst.
She paused to look up at one of the high windows, regarding the clear sky outside. Once again, she pondered leaving the safety of the castle, but quickly dismissed the thought. Outside, there were wolves, bears... other things she dared not imagine. Alone, she stood no chance, especially now. Shaking her head, she turned away from the window. Cautiously, she padded on down the hallway, the pink soles of her bare feet leaving nary a trace in the wreckage of destroyed furnishings and scattered papers.
The Great Hall of the castle waited for her, cool, dark. In the grate of the fireplace, the ashes of the last fire to be lit still lay. She'd curled up in those ashes the first couple of nights, clutching to the lingering warmth that remained there. It hadn't taken long for that precious heat to fade, though, forcing the young bard to seek alternative ways to find heat. A few blankets and drapes dragged from the beds upstairs, some small cushions laboriously dragged from the plush couches that littered the castle, and she had built herself a small nest of velvet, feathers and silk in the corner of the tavern. Finding her little refuge, she burrowed her way under the layers, curling up snugly in the little den.
She peeked her nose out from under the covers, glancing about with not a little sorrow. The tavern was so still, lifeless, where before it had pulsed with life. Witchers sharing stories of their exploits over dark ale. Lovers retreating to shady corners for their secret trysts. Soldiers building bonds of brotherhood through feats of strength and wit. And over it all, Sylvia's music, delighting and enthralling all who fell under its spell.
Grief welled up in her breast at the memory, sorrow for the loss of such joy and energy. Now, in its place, only silence remained.
Unbidden, a song rose in her throat. The words came to her, even if her mouth could no longer pronounce them. A strange, garbled sound rose from her, but the tune of the ditty remained clear. Where before she had sung of happiness, adventure and bravery, now the song she sang was one of loss and pain, a lament. The halls echoed with the lilting tune.
In a few short minutes, weariness overcame her, and her voice faded. Sylvia retreated back into her makeshift nest, sleep taking her.
~o~0~o~
It was some hours later when Sylvia awoke, something having roused her. Her ears perked up, listening cautiously. Was it the soldiers again?
Last time, they'd ransacked the castle, tearing down golden fixtures and digging through the stores greedily. One of the Temerians had seen her, cruelly throwing a half-empty bottle of wine at her retreating back. The bottle had struck the wall above her head, showering her in glass shards and sour-smelling liquid, but she'd managed to escape before any of the Temerians could give chase, slipping away into the shadows. The next day, the troops were gone, called away by their superiors.
The sound reached her again, a scraping noise, perhaps a door opening? But no booted feet. The armoured boots of the Temerians were impossible to mistake. No, this was something else. Someone else. Someone trying to be quiet. Curiosity roused, Sylvia emerged from her nest once more.
She wove her way through the castle, listening carefully. Occasionally, the noises would echo down the halls, the padding of leather-clad feet on flagstones, the clink of metal striking metal, the rustle of papers.
As she rounded a corner, she spotted the flicker of torchlight up ahead. The door to what had once been the Grandmaster's chambers was ajar, a thin sliver of orange light escaping through the gap. Carefully, Sylvia approached, gently pushing her nose through the gap to widen it. Silently, she slipped through the doorway, body dropping low as she slipped into cover behind a high-backed chair next to the door.
A figure was there, in the room, holding a torch aloft as he regarded the desk that sat opposite the doorway. He was large, tall, very broadly built and dressed in simple clothing. Sylvia couldn't see his face from where she was lurking, but the scent he carried... it was familiar.
Curiosity driving her further, the bard slipped out from her hiding place, furtively circling the figure. She moved towards the fireplace in one of the walls, eyeing up the mantle above the open grate. Tensing her legs under herself, she made a quick calculation, and leapt.
The young bard surged through the air, launching herself a full five feet up the wall before catching the edge of the mantle, just barely. With a mighty heave, she pulled herself up, barely making a sound. Just as she thought herself victorious, her body nudged a candlestick sat upon the mantle. She watched with horror, unable to stop it, as the brass decoration teetered on the brink before falling, striking the floor with a loud thunk.
The figure straightened, turning in a flash to regard the source of the noise. The torch lifted higher to provide more light as shrewd, aged eyes scanned the room. Sylvia started as the flames lit up the features of the man, revealing someone she knew all too well. The shaved head, the long, greying beard, the lips normally twisted with mirth, Bertram the Steward was a comforting and familiar sight to her.
Bertram took only a moment to spot the cause of the sound, eyes narrowing as he focused on Sylvia. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened, then a twinkle of recognition sparked within his gaze, a small smile pulling at his mouth.
"He-hello, little one!" He chuckled. "I think I know you, don't I?"
The Steward strode across the room, reaching up to Sylvia with a gentle hand. Kind fingers reached behind her ears, scratching there comfortingly. The bard tensed for just a moment, before melting into his touch, warmed by the sudden human contact.
"I guess during the siege, we forgot all about you, young bard." Bertram whispered gently. "I'm sorry, little one."
Sylvia felt the vibrations rise from her chest, a thrumming that echoed through her whole body as she pushed against the hand. Her ears flicked back and forth under his touch, the sensation of his fingers running through her fur sending waves of happiness through her. A coarse tongue flickered out to rasp against his palm, the only way she could communicate her happiness. Her back arched as her sleek tail twitched back and forth. Bertram let out another low, fond chuckle.
"Don't you worry, little one. I'm gonna get you out of here. Its probably not good to take you to where the Witchers went. Too many threats about for one as small as you. But I know a few farms where you could find a home. You stick with old Bertram, and I'll see you right."
The little white cat on the mantle mewled quietly. As Bertram proffered a shoulder, the little creature that had once been a bard leapt, claws finding purchase in the fabric of his shirt. She carefully walked across his broad shoulders, nuzzling his neck gently to express her thanks. He cooed fondly as he reached up to scratch her behind the ears again.
"You stick with me, little Sylvia. We victims of the Mirror Man need to look out for one another." He turned a curious eye towards her. "Maybe in time we'll find a way to fix your little problem for you. But in the meantime, you'll have a safe place with me."
Sylvia curled up on his shoulder, purring contentedly. In moments, the Steward finished gathering what he was seeking in the Grandmaster's desk, then turned to leave. Carefully, the pair left the castle, Bertram taking some old, long-forgotten roads to avoid any Temerian patrols.
And so, under the cover of darkness, Sylvia left the Witcher fortress for the final time, the last Cat of Kaer Marter.