Chapter One
Just a few minutes' rest. That's all I need, then Vergen awaits.
Saskia clutched the scarlet red wound on her chest where she'd been pierced by a jagged branch a few hours ago. She leaned against one of the trees surrounding Loc Muinne and eased herself into a sitting position upon its base. The ancient city was barely a speck in the distance now, but she found herself steering her gaze towards it. She could still make out the smoke overhead—a beacon of her final act of ardent loyalty to Philippa Eilhart.
Philippa. The dragoness clenched her teeth. She detested the very thought of the sorceress who had commandeered her own will—who had used her for the nefarious purposes now smoldering in Loc Muinne…and gods only knew what others slated to follow. Since Philippa had first arrived in Vergen, Saskia had caught wind of dwarven grumblings that the sorceress couldn't be trusted, but she had hand-waved them away then. After all, they were hardly the only traces of distrust among the diverse rebellion.
The worst part was that, even under Philippa's influence, her will had still seemed her own. She'd deliberately charred the armed men who came to apprehend Síle de Tansarville at the peace summit, and she'd made every feral strike and snap against Geralt of Rivia intending to end his breath. She'd hated what Philippa wished her to hate…even those she'd come to trust.
But never again, she promised herself. She had seen the dark colors that painted the hearts of those who cast spells, and she would never allow herself to become accessory to their schemes again.
"The smell…" a woman's voice lamented not far off. "I can still smell them burning." Whoever the speaker was, she was getting closer and she sounded nearly delirious. "The smell…I can never forget that smell…"
Saskia planted an instinctive firm grip on her sword hilt. "Who goes?!" she called.
"It's only us," responded a coarse male voice. Him, she recognized.
"Saskia? Where are you?" added a third, drawling voice. Him, too.
She released her sword. "Right here."
Three sets of footsteps approached from around the tree. Iorveth greeted her first. He saw the grave injury adorning her chest then glanced back tensely at Geralt, who joined him a few seconds later. The witcher had his arm around a downcast red-haired woman Saskia didn't know.
"If only I could have been there…" the redhead murmured.
Geralt consoled her. "You couldn't have known, Triss."
Meanwhile, Iorveth moved to Saskia's side. "Geralt told me everything," he said quietly. "How do you fare?"
"I'll manage." She rubbed her chest and looked over at the woman called Triss. "Who is she?"
"The sorceress Geralt came to Aedirn to find," he replied. Saskia set her lips in a fine line by the word sorceress.
"If I'd been at the peace summit, I could have said something…done something…" Triss continued.
"Nilfgaard was behind it all," Geralt reasoned. "I doubt they would have let you just walk out of their camp."
"If what you said before is true, Geralt, then Nilfgaard means to raze the whole of the Upper Kingdoms," Saskia cut in abruptly. "I must make haste back to Vergen if we're to have a chance of defending Upper Aedirn." She gazed pointedly at Triss. "And I'm sure, in light of these events, you two have business of your own to attend." She began attempting to slide herself up the trunk of the tree into a standing position, with some effort.
Triss lifted her head forlornly. "Um…but you couldn't possibly make it all the way back to Vergen in your condition," she protested. "At least…at least let me look at your wound. I think I can help."
"That won't be necessary, thank you."
"Saskia." Geralt's placid voice brought her attention back to him. "It's alright," he said knowingly. "You can trust her."
Before Saskia could object, Triss knelt in front of her and inspected the injury, her hands still unsteady. "Gods…no wonder they call you Dragonslayer," she commented. "This wound could kill a troll, let alone an average human."
The dragoness looked at Geralt from the corner of her eye, silently asking, "She doesn't know?" Geralt must have understood, for he shook his head.
"I know a spell that can speed up the body's ability to heal itself. It'll also reduce any…disfiguring scars," Triss explained.
Saskia's body could already rapidly heal itself, and one of the benefits of the Polymorph illusion she donned was that her human guise never retained its scars. But she opted not to tell this sorceress either of these facts.
"The spell causes discomfort, though," Triss continued. "You'll have to hold still until it's done."
Saskia looked at her. "You spoke of the smell of burning," she said. "Did you mean the…events at the peace summit?"
"No." Triss shook her head slowly. "I meant the slaughter of every mage in Loc Muinne after the peace summit."
"What?"
"I've never seen such a bloodbath…not even in Rivia," she murmured. "When it got out that sorceresses had a hand in the kingslayings, the armies turned on all who practiced magic in the city. Even street vendors who never had dealings in politics were seen as threats."
A ragged sigh, a haunted gaze into space, and Triss went on.
"In just hours, Loc Muinne became a tomb for mages. Impalements, burnings, crucifixions…I even saw several corpses with their hands cut off so they couldn't cast spells. Why did they bother…? The magic barrier was still in place, so the mages couldn't have protected themselves, anyway. They never had a chance."
Saskia grimaced at the sordid tale Triss wove. "And all while those responsible get away clean…" she murmured.
"Not entirely," Iorveth remarked.
"It's only a matter of time before the remaining, responsible few are found," Geralt added. "Then there will be justice."
"But at what cost?" brooded Triss. "All mages should not have had to answer for the deeds of Philippa and her lot."
Saskia lowered her eyes to the ground at these words.
"…Go on," she urged the redheaded mage. "Cast your healing spell. I am ready."
Triss assumed her spellcasting stance, arms raised. An aura gathered at her fingertips, the gradually grew into a radiant ball of energy. She directed it over Saskia's chest, and like a lightning bolt it coursed into her. Also like a lightning bolt, an intense shock followed. Saskia winced, but recalled Triss' instruction not to move. She tensed, and waited for the spell to conclude.
All at once the sensation stopped. Saskia noticed the wound had been reduced to a scratch no more serious than one from a thorn bush—an effect that would have taken several more hours on its own, even with her dragon nature.
She was relieved, also, to feel no sudden increase of deep devotion to the caster. "My thanks," she said, and stood up straight once more.
Triss gave a weak smile. "The free Pontar Valley will need its leader now more than ever."
Saskia nodded. "We'll start preparing for our Nilfgaardian aggressors at once."
"It's not just the Nilfgaardians you'll have to worry about now," Geralt said. "The carnage we saw today isn't likely to end in Loc Muinne. Magic folk all over the realm will be targets. I wouldn't be surprised if Vergen becomes a haven for refugee sorceresses."
"Bloede cáerme," muttered Iorveth. "A score more Eilharts passing through Mahakam Gates? Exactly what we need."
Saskia glanced aside unsurely.
"…But how can we call Vergen free if we turn them away for what Philippa and those like her have done?" she finally posed. "Mages or no, they're soon to be outcasts with nowhere else to go."
"Not all sorceresses are like Philippa," Triss offered. "If Vergen is the only place they have to call home, then most would defend it in the trying times ahead."
"All the more reason to be on our way, then," said Saskia. "I presume this is where we part?"
"Mhm," Geralt assented. "Triss' and my goals lead us elsewhere."
"Good luck in them," bade Saskia. "May we meet again in brighter times."
"I'm sure we will," said Geralt.
"If only there were any certainty that brighter times lay ahead," Iorveth mused.
"Yes," agreed a morose Triss. "If only."
Thus, the witcher and sorceress departed. As though joined at the hip, they shrank into the distance until the forested horizon claimed them. Iorveth and Saskia stood, unspeaking, for a few brief moments. Finally, the elven bandit broke the silence.
"So the dagger worked, after all," he said. "I feared another of the witch's foul tricks when she claimed it must pierce the heart."
"That would have been a trick, then," said Saskia. "Geralt only laid it upon my head, and my fascination with Eilhart faded away, as though the figment of a dream."
"I knew it. That bitch…" Iorveth quavered with suppressed fury, clenching his teeth and tightening his fists. "If I ever see her again, I'll—"
"And believe me, I wouldn't stand in your way," Saskia interrupted. "But we mustn't seek her out. I shared her will long enough to believe she expects just that."
He allowed his anger to slacken at her words. "Then, Vergen awaits," he declared. "If you intend to fly there, I shall see you in a week's time."
After waiting for a reply and receiving none, he took a few slow, reluctant paces in the town's direction. She watched his retreating back, mired in her thoughts.
When the enchanted dagger had been pressed against her forehead and her senses regained, Geralt had admitted to her he hadn't acted alone in breaking the spell. The sole reason Iorveth had left his Scoia'tael units to their revelry in the newly liberated Vergen and journeyed to Loc Muinne was to see her rid of Philippa's hex. Had Saskia been told before that her sorceress advisor would betray and use her, and that it would be the Upper Kingdoms' most notorious and lethal brigand who strove to aid her, she'd have been skeptical at best.
Then Geralt had struck a more personal chord and suggested Iorveth's reasons for helping her weren't purely objective. "He'd do anything for you," the witcher had claimed. "What are you prepared to do for him?"
At the time, she had cited an interest in dwarves as a means to change the subject. It wasn't untrue; the hearty and stout way the dwarven people had about them indeed appealed to her. Among their many traits, they made commendable warriors, rousing tavern companions, and honest citizens.
Regardless, she was aware of the wistful glances Iorveth cast at her when he thought she wasn't looking. In spite of the decades' worth of human blood tainting his hands, she couldn't fail to acknowledge the expression of sincere relief he wore just now upon their reuniting, nor his obvious desire to speak with her a few moments longer. Only now did she realize that since Vergen took up arms, she'd barely exchanged words at all with the one who first made her "The Dragonslayer."
She could oblige him that, at least.
"Wait," she called to Iorveth, following after him. "Perhaps I should walk, too," she said. "There are armies still nearby who recognize my true self as a tool of the sorceresses' bidding."
He nearly smiled as he waited for her to catch up, and they strode side by side, bound for the dwarven town.
"Eilhart made you a tool of her bidding," he spoke up, "only because you were at your most vulnerable. If more sorceresses do come, we'll proceed cautiously to ensure it doesn't happen again."
"That is wisest," she agreed. "One thing is certain: there will be no more advisors. Philippa Eilhart's post is to remain vacant; from now on, it's the people I look to first."
"Just as the people look to you."
As they ventured on wordlessly, she was aware of his frequent glimpses towards her. He tried to remain subtle, but the disfigurement concealed beneath his bandana hindered his peripheral vision, meaning he had to turn almost completely towards her. There was something on his mind, and with a long hike ahead, she elected to address it.
"Geralt told me of your role in dispelling the curse," she said. "I had no doubts of your devotion to the free Pontar Valley. But for your devotion to me, I am...grateful."
He faced her. "Without you, there'd be no free Pontar Valley." A pause. "…Did the witcher say anything more?"
She shook her head. "…Nothing of import."