The temple's atmosphere was peaceful, filled with the gentle shushing of the tide on the nearby coast. The many wind chimes that hung from trees tinkled their chorus. A salty breeze perfumed the air, mixing with the fragrance of the sweet olive bushes and the smoky temple incense. No one was in the courtyard, as it was late in the evening and many had retired to bed.
So there were no witnesses to behold as the air wrinkled and twisted to open into a roaring portal. Two figures burst from the swirling rift, their feet scraping a cacophony against the paved stone. One held the other. Speckles of blood stained the courtyard ground on their arrival.
Immediately, the fracture in space closed behind them. All was silent once more, save for the sound of their heavy breathing. Her heeled boots dragged roughly across the stone. A hand pressed against her left thigh where a sword had slashed it. Damn, it hurt.
She heard the soft pattering of approaching feet. Both she and her companion lifted their heads to see who was confronting them.
They came without torches or lanterns—nothing to illuminate the darkness. She could barely see who they were, and all she could tell was that there were two of them.
Then she heard one of them speak. Softly, to the one next to them. "Abbess." It was a woman's voice. "I recognize that one."
"As do I," the other replied, also a woman. Her voice was deep and throaty, but pleasant sounding all the same.
Her hand tightened on her thigh, and she ignored the waves of pain that crashed over it. "Where…?" she croaked, but she couldn't finish her question. She was exhausted and thirsty, and her head was beginning to feel light.
"Take them to the eastern hall," the woman, the one known as the Abbess, ordered. The other stepped towards them. Instinct made the one holding her draw back.
"Easy," the woman assured. "You're hurt. We can help."
"It's okay," she told her companion. She felt him relax. They were led from the courtyard. She found it peculiar that the woman navigated her way to the hall with no light at all. She seemed at ease with the blinding darkness.
Like the open air, the eastern hall too had no light. It was only when the woman nursed a fire into the hearth that she could finally see. The woman's hair was a soft brown, with a tinge of red. Locks at either side of her head were braided and pulled back to be tied loosely together. She wore a simple blue tunic and pants that ended at the middle of her shins. The woman turned back, and it became clear why she had required no light to illuminate her path. Her eyes were completely white. The woman was blind.
"Have a seat," the woman said, indicating towards a wooden bench by the crackling fire. Her gaze did not follow them as they went to take their seats. "I'm Nadja, by the way. And you… you're her, aren't you? The Lady of Time and Space? Cirilla?"
"Ciri," she corrected automatically. "And yes. You've heard of me?"
"When I've not much left but to hear, yes," Nadja replied. "And your companion. My apologies, but I don't recognize you."
"I didn't expect otherwise," he mumbled next to her, and Ciri fought down the urge to elbow him in the ribs.
"Your name, then?"
"Craven Espane aep Caomhan Macha. But if it is convenient for you, you may simply refer to me as Avallac'h." She hated whenever he did that.
"Oh… kay," Nadja said slowly. "I will."
Slow, shuffling footsteps reached their ears. Ciri looked back to see a middle-aged man enter the hall. Gray crept from his temples and his hairline, and had even infiltrated his beige beard. Ciri noticed how his eyes did not move from the blank stare he held in front of him. He crouched next to her and set down the bag he brought with him.
"Sword wound," he noted, though his eyes were pointed towards Avallac'h's knee.
"How bad is it?" Nadja asked.
"It will heal and the leg will work," the medic replied simply. He began pulling supplies from his bag—a cloth, a pot of salve, a spool of thread, and a case of various-sized needles. "Nadja," the medic said, "a bowl of water. And two cups for our guests."
The woman left quickly to fulfill the order. The medic rose to his feet and pulled over another bench so that he could sit across from Ciri. "How long since the wound was inflicted?" he asked.
"Less than an hour," Ciri answered. She had been slashed shortly before she and Avallac'h had fled through the portal, courtesy of the Wild Hunt. Then, she added the question, "Are you blind too?"
"I, and the rest of the temple," the medic said. "Do you not know where you are?"
"No."
"Hm," the medic grunted as he picked up the cloth and folded it neatly in half. "The abbess will fill you in, then."
"The abbess?" Ciri repeated. "Where is she now?"
"I believe she will wait until your wound is dressed and you are rested before she speaks to you," the medic replied. Nadja returned with the water, handing the bowl to the medic before offering the drinks to Ciri and Avallac'h. "I'm sorry," the medic said. "But you'll need to remove your trousers if I'm to clean this wound."
Ciri didn't see the harm. He was blind, anyway. However, she shot a look at the elf sitting next to her. He glared back. "I'm not leaving you on your own here," he told her.
"I'll be fine," Ciri snorted. "You can ease up on the leash."
"We're losing blood here," the medic piped in as he leaned on his knees. "Stay or leave, but do not hinder my work."
Avallac'h finally relented. Rising, he said, "I'll be close."
"Always is," Ciri sighed. Finally, she shimmied out of her pants, making sure to be delicate around her cut. With the cloth and water, the medic cleaned the blood away. Then he applied to salve on and around the wound. "A disinfectant," he explained to Ciri as he worked. "But mostly a numbing agent. It will make the stitching bearable." With the salve applied, the medic chose a medium-sized needle from the case and threaded it.
"Where am I?" Ciri asked as the medic readied his needle.
"A few miles from Roggeven," the man answered. "In a temple that borders the coast. Deml'ar Gaoithe."
"Temple of Wind," Ciri translated. "That explains the wind chimes."
"Hm," the medic grunted again. He lowered his hands and the needle towards her leg. "Let me know if you feel pain. Otherwise, you should feel only a faint tugging. You may look away if that helps."
"I've seen worse."
The medic didn't reply as he set about closing the wound. For a blind man, he stitched her leg with remarkable precision. "How are you able to do that?" Ciri couldn't help asking.
"Sightlessness does not always mean bumbling clumsiness," the medic mumbled. He offered nothing more. When the last stitch was placed, the medic tied a knot and cut the thread. He packed away his supplies. "The thread is made of collagen," he explained as he stood with his bag. "Dissolvable. When the wound heals the stitches will fall away on their own."
"Innovative," Ciri remarked.
"I suppose," the medic replied bluntly. "Keep the leg as still as possible. Nadja will show you to the rooms you'll stay in for tonight."
"Right," the woman said. "Two separate ones?"
"Yes," Ciri replied firmly. "Preferably on opposite sides of the temple."
Nadja gave her remark a humored grin. "Best I can manage is opposite ends of the hall," she jested back. The rooms she led them to were cozy and modest. There was a bed, and next to it was a nightstand with a stubby candle. But the bed was soft and the sheets were clean. That was all that mattered.
"Finally a decent night's rest," Ciri mumbled under her breath as she fell on the bouncy mattress. "Gods know I fucking deserve one."
It was late morning when Ciri awoke. Stark sunlight leaked through the window that was absent of any blinds or curtains. She threw her hands up and arched her back in a deep stretch. A loud exhale erupted from her mouth as she released herself from the stretch. Pain shot through her left leg, reminding her of the prior day's events. Ciri sat up and examined her thigh, gingerly feeling the stitches through her trousers.
She had been running for the portal's opening when she'd gotten slashed. A sword had been thrust towards her thigh with the intention of crippling her before she could escape. She'd swiveled to the side and caused the blade to score a cut around the circumference of her thigh instead, about three quarters of an inch deep. Ciri let out a heavy breath as she remembered the way she had stumbled then. They had only just barely managed to go through the portal in time.
Casting the memory from her head, she swiveled and planted her feet on the floor. Her boots had been discarded next to the foot of the bed, and her belt was draped over the nightstand. She was dressing herself when there was a soft knock at the door, and then it opened.
A familiar face appeared balancing a tray on one hand. "Breakfast," Nadja announced as she slipped through the door. She went over to the nightstand. Before setting the tray down, Nadja reached over and shifted Ciri's belt out of the way. Ciri still didn't quite understand how they managed to do that.
Smoked kippers and thick slices of nutty bread with blackberry jam wafted enticing odors into the air. "Didn't know if you could walk out on your own, so I brought some to you just in case," Nadja said.
"Thank you," Ciri replied. Just as Nadja was turning away, she quickly asked, "When can I see the abbess?"
"Your friend asked the same thing," Nadja replied, nodding her head towards the door. "And I'll tell you what I told him—the abbess will see you when she's ready. For now, eat up and let that leg rest." She left.
Ciri hadn't even gotten one slice of bread down when the door opened again. "How is your leg?" Avallac'h asked.
"As well as a cut up leg can be," Ciri answered. The elf ignored her remark as he stooped slightly to examine her leg.
"He did a decent job," Avallac'h noted. "Sit back, Zireael. Let me tend to the wound." Ciri obeyed, knowing Avallac'h's magic would speed up the healing rate exponentially. As he began casting over her leg, a tingling sensation pricked at her thigh. It was a strange feeling, but it wasn't unpleasant.
"Have you learned of our whereabouts?" Avallac'h asked as he worked.
"We're close to Roggeven," Ciri answered.
"Not too far from Novigrad, then."
"No. And this temple—Deml'ar Gaoithe, it's called. Elven." She gave the room a quick sweep with her eyes. "No elves here. Not that I've seen."
"And what about that surprises you, Zireael? Humans have a very active history of invading elven civilization, like rats to a larder." Ciri rolled her eyes at his statement. "Deml'ar Gaoithe," Avallac'h repeated. "Hmm… Never heard of this place before."
"Few have."
Ciri looked up, though Avallac'h continued casting. A woman leaned on the doorframe with one shoulder. She looked young—older than Ciri, of course—but 30 at most. Her course, wavy black hair fell in thick locks down her back. She wore the standard two-layered tunic—a tight, royal blue one held together by laces at the front over a thin, airy white one. A double-strapped belt wrapped around her waist, and from it hung a thin gold chain that looped in two low arcs. With every little movement, the chains rattled gently. The leather boots she wore were light and soundless. Though simple, her appearance gave off a regal air.
"Abbess," Ciri guessed, remembering the woman's voice from the night before.
The abbess straightened from the doorframe. "My Lady," she greeted. Her honey colored eyes stared over the girl's head. Ciri pursed her lips. The dark-haired abbess knew a lot—knew quite a lot.
"There's no need for that," Ciri said. "Just Ciri is fine."
"Then I ask you to return the favor," the abbess replied. "Only the residents of my temple refer to me as 'abbess,' and you are not one of them." Almost as if she detected the subtle change in Ciri's mood, the abbess continued, "You are not sightless, so you cannot stay here. But I will not cast you out. Not until your leg has recovered."
"What would you like us to call you then?" Avallac'h asked. He had finished with Ciri's leg for the day. She moved it. It hurt still, but it was a pain she could ignore.
"Demadira," the abbess replied. A smile curved her lips as she added, "But if it is convenient for you, you may simply refer to me as Dema." Avallac'h said nothing, but Ciri grinned at the cheeky comment. "And you," Demadira said, turning her face towards the sage. "Avallac'h—or as Nadja tells me: the one with the name that goes on and on—you are an elf?"
"Yes," Avallac'h replied. "And does that bother you?"
"I married an elf," Demadira stated. "And my mother was one. So please, Avallac'h, the only thing that bothers me is your tone."
Demadira was a half elf? Ciri would've never guessed—the abbess looked human through and through. The half elves she had seen showed much of their elven blood through their appearance—slim frames, cascading locks of silken hair, and the telltale point of their ears. The abbess's feminine curves were slightly marred by her bulky physique. Her hair was course and thick, and her ears were round.
"How could you tell he was an elf?" Ciri asked, glancing at Avallac'h. If she had only his voice to go by, she never would have guessed.
"The way he articulates his words. There's a difference," Demadira answered, tilting her head a few degrees as she spoke. "It's subtle, but it's there. He sounds… yes, that's it. He sounds like the Hound."
This time, Ciri couldn't hold back her chortle. "A hound?" She couldn't believe the abbess had compared Avallac'h to a dog. That definitely wouldn't please him.
"No, the Hound," Demadira corrected. "A person. An elf, in fact. That's how I knew. You sound a bit like him."
"Do I?" The sage sounded unusually intrigued. Ciri looked up at him. His brow was furrowed slightly as he frowned at Demadira. "This Hound… is that the only name he goes by?"
"It is the name he wishes to be called," Demadira said, placing her hands on her hips.
"And how is he blind?"
"That's an insensitive question, Avallac'h." Demadira sounded as though she were chiding a rowdy adolescent. "I never ask, and I don't plan to."
"Of course," Avallac'h said.
The abbess fell silent. Regarding them wasn't quite the term Ciri would've used for what she did. Listened? It was a sightless scrutiny that didn't make Ciri feel any less watched. Then, the lull broke when Demadira said softly, "Deml'ar Gaoithe is sheltered from the world by the sea on one side, and a ring of mountains on the other. The water and shallow and perilous to ships, and the only way through the mountains is by a long, winding tunnel through the rock. Many have perished in that tunnel, and only those who feel at home with darkness are able to navigate its maze. We are not accustomed to the uninvited, but we aren't barbarians. So long as you are here, you will be protected. My people will treat you with the utmost respect. But I am their abbess, and I will not tolerate any disorder or harassment." She let empty air follow her words.
Ciri opened her mouth to speak, but Avallac'h quickly shot her a silencing glare.
"You'll find no trouble from us," the elf replied.
"Thank you." To Ciri, she said, "Rest well." Turning on her heel, Demadira left the two to the room.
Once they were alone again, Ciri looked to Avallac'h with raised eyebrows. "That went well," she mused.
"Remarkable how she makes us seem welcomed and unwelcomed at the same time," Avallac'h responded.
"I know. I thought you were the only one who spoke in mixed, backwards messages and riddles."
The elf didn't look very amused. "How is your leg?" he asked again.
"It's fine," Ciri answered dully.
"It should only take a week to heal," Avallac'h predicted. "For now, we can put our lessons aside."
"A week?" Ciri repeated. It wasn't like the elf to stay in one spot for so long.
Avallac'h sighed. "The portal was abrupt, and its coordinates were random," he explained. "It will take Eredin a while to pick up our trail, especially in a place as isolated as this. And given what we have gone through, I do believe a little respite is in order."
"Your feet starting to hurt?" Ciri teased. She paused as a realization came to her. "But once Eredin catches my scent again, he'll come looking for us here."
"We'll be long gone by then."
Ciri shot a glare up at Avallac'h. "You know that's not what I mean."
"Zireael," Avallac'h said. "We must put your protection above that of anyone else's. Slowing down to save everyone from the Riders is impossible, and will put you right in Eredin's reach. This is common sense." Ciri looked away. "With any luck, Eredin will not find this place, or leave it alone to pursue us."
"Do you really think he'll do that?"
Instead of answering, Avallac'h headed for the door. "Try not to worry," he told her. "Stay in your room and rest."
"Oh, I'll definitely do that."
"I don't know why I even bothered." The elf's mutter trailed him as he disappeared through the doorway.
At Ciri's request, Nadja led the girl around on a tour of the temple's almost forty acres of grounds. The place was beautiful, as elven-crafted sites were. Flora grew in kempt harmony with the stonework. Wherever they went, the tinkle of wind chimes and the cool touch of ocean breeze followed them. Many of the areas of the temple grounds were residential. People actually lived here, Ciri realized. This was their home.
But she also recognized that a portion of the temple grounds was dedicated to training. She asked Nadja what kind of fighters was drilled here.
"They are what the abbess refers to as the crown jewels of Deml'ar Gaoithe," Nadja answered with a prideful beam. "They are called the Fairtheoirí. In common, that's—."
"Sentinels."
"Right," Nadja said. "It's very tough to join their ranks, or so I hear."
"You're not one of them?"
Nadja laughed. "Do I look like one, Ciri? I'm just a temple resident, though I conduct most of the caretaking here. The novitiates go through extensive training. It's a grueling process."
"I can sympathize," Ciri said, thinking back to her time at Kaer Morhen.
"If you want to know more about the Fairtheoirí, you can ask the abbess. She trained as one when she first came here. Her teacher was her predecessor—Abbot Calyn."
Ciri kept that in mind for when she next saw Demadira. The Fairtheoirí fascinated her, especially knowing that there was a class of warriors similar to witchers. They came to a stone terrace that bordered the edge of the temple. Here, the water could be seen beyond the long stretch of rocky sand.
"How did you get here?" Ciri asked, switching to a different topic as she watched the sea lap against the beach.
"Same as everyone else," Nadja said. "We're found."
"Found?"
"Yes, the Fairtheoirí find us as they travel the world—children born without sight or adults who have lost theirs. They give us the option to be taken to the temple, and most agree. It's not hard to understand why. If they have the time, the Fairtheoirí will lead us here themselves. Or they will leave a scent marker and the Hound finds us."
"The Hound?" This was the second mention Ciri had heard of him.
"Yes, that's his main duty—to find the scent markers and bring the person back here. I don't know how he manages. Sometimes the person will be beyond Redania's borders, but he always finds them."
"He's an elf," Ciri noted, remembering Demadira's words.
"Elves, half elves, quadroons. They all live here. A few dwarves, too."
A community as mixed as this one was rare. In fact, Ciri could think of no other place as diverse as this. In the world beyond the hidden temple, such a communion was impossible.
"We are more the same than we are different," Nadja explained, as though she knew what Ciri was thinking. "We all want to live. We want to be accepted, be happy. And we are all sightless. Whether someone is an elf or a dwarf, or anything else, hardly matters in the scheme of things."
"This temple is centuries ahead in their thinking," Ciri said.
"You think so?" Nadja said with a bashful smile. "Well… it's just common sense, isn't it?"
"It is."
They walked from the terrace and headed towards the center of the temple grounds. As they did, voices drifted with the wind. They grew louder with every step. Words spoken in harmonic unison reached Ciri's ears, and she realized from their intonation and words that it was a prayer.
They walked around a sprawling tree. Ciri spotted a small assembly gathered in front of a beautifully sculpted effigy of the goddess. They kneeled with burning incense in their hands, and among the front row was the abbess. A brass pot sat at the foot of the statue.
"Mother Melitele, offer us guidance should we stray. Give us strength when we are weak. Show us compassion when we are unwanted—so that we may do the same. We walk in light and in dark. We see without seeing."
Ciri noticed that Nadja had bowed her head and followed along with the prayer in a hushed voice. When they were finished, all except for the abbess rose to plant their incense into the pot and quietly depart. When only the abbess remained in front of the statue, Nadja lifted her head.
Demadira was still quietly speaking. Her hands clasped the stick of smoking incense between her hands as she continued, "Keep my brothers and sisters safe. Watch over them, Calyn. Keep my love safe… and happy." Demadira bowed her head lower and raised her hands a little higher. After a few heartbeats, she rose and planted her incense. Then she walked away from the statue. As she passed the two, she said, "Carry on, Nadja. There's still much to see."
"Dema," Ciri said, stopping the abbess in her tracks. "If you're not busy, I want to ask you something."
"I am not busy if you ever need something," Demadira replied as she turned back to Ciri. "But first you must take your weight off of that leg. Sit."
Ciri glanced around for a bench, but there was none. That was not the idea the abbess had in mind. Demadira lowered herself onto the grass under the tree and sat cross-legged. With Nadja's help, Ciri sat on the ground across from her.
"How is Merithe?" Demadira asked Nadja.
"The fever's passed," the brunette woman answered. "And the baby is fine, too."
"Good. Check on them, please."
"Yes, Abbess." Nadja's soft footsteps retreated away.
Demadira rested her hands idly on her thighs. "Your friend," she began lightly, "has been casually interrogating people about the Hound. Has he not been around his own people in a while?"
It seemed the abbess wasn't aware that Avallac'h was not one of the Aen Seidhe. "No," Ciri answered. "He's been away from home for a while."
Demadira gave a single nod. "It's an uncomfortable pain to bear," she agreed. "But his search will be in vain, I'm afraid. The Hound is quite reserved—he keeps to himself and hardly shows. I am one of the few he ever speaks to. Now." Demadira gave her thighs a light slap. "What was it you wanted to ask?"
"Nadja told me a bit about the Fairtheoirí," Ciri said.
A knowing smile came to the abbess. "And it intrigued you?" she guessed. "As it would. You were raised by witchers, and I have seen many parallels between them and my Fairtheoirí."
Ciri gave a nod, and then quickly remembered to say, "Yes."
"Well, hmm… how do I explain? The Fairtheoirí are the temple's elite warrior echelon. Electing to join the ranks is optional, but one must give up their name and go through intense training. Sightlessness is not accepted as an excuse. Training does not only include combat, but mastery of movement and stillness as well. A Fairtheoirí's blindness is an asset, and you'll have to forgive me when I say that I truly believe they are better than their seeing counterparts."
If what Demadira said was true, Ciri yearned for the opportunity to spar with a Fairtheoirí. Maybe even with the abbess herself.
"And then there is another parallel with witchers," Demadira continued. "As part of their training, the novitiate is fed concoctions that enhance senses—namely tactile and auditory ones." With a grin, the abbess added, "I hear the pattering of your friend's feet even now. Probably still looking for the Hound, I would guess. But that is where the similarities end. Discipline is the single most important aspect of the Fairtheoirí. They follow the Oath. All swear to it upon gaining their rank. And once they do, their name is returned to them."
"And you trained as one."
"I did. And I won't deny it—it was awful. I wanted to quit, but Calyn wouldn't let me."
"I thought you said becoming a Fairtheoirí was optional."
"It was supposed to be, but when I came to the temple, the Fairtheoirí were a dying race. The ranks dwindled when Calyn became abbot, because he decided that not all who came to the temple should have to be a Fairtheoirí. Some just wanted a normal life, and he granted that. But the echelon paid for his decisions, and their numbers declined sharply. He was a desperate man when I met him. But looking back, I'm glad he pushed me. A friend of mine, Lovise, once told me she couldn't imagine herself as anything else. I share in that sentiment." Demadira leaned her head against a hand. "She's gone now," the abbess sighed. "Like many I once knew."
Despite her youthful appearance, age seemed to weigh her shoulders down. As a half elf, Demadira's lifespan stretched further than a human's. Ciri wondered just how old the abbess was.
The shouting of children drew Ciri's attention. She looked to Melitele's statue. The space in front of it was now crowded with a group of playing children. As they darted around, a little girl had her toe caught in the crevice between tiles. Her body smacked on the ground. Demadira sighed, her eyes still directed towards Ciri. "They'll learn," the abbess said softly. "If that is it, Ciri, I must take my leave now." Demadira rose and offered a hand down. Ciri took it and pulled herself up to her feet.
"Thanks for the chat," she said. Demadira answered with only a smile and turned away. The soft clatter of the gold chain accompanied her quiet steps.