Book 2: The Wolf Hunts

Chapter 5

Vizima, Temeria

Fringilla Vigo rolled over in bed, and when her hand fell upon the cool sheets, she realized that she was alone. She raised herself up and looked about her third-story bedchamber. The moon was almost full, and its beams passed through the windows, bathing the room in soft light. Her eyes quickly scanned around her, noticing the clothes that were haphazardly strewn over the furniture and the floor. Then, her gaze shifted to her right. Attached to the boudoir was a small balcony, the double doors to which were wide open. An enormous silhouette, taking up half the entryway, stood still in the moonlight. The sorceress threw the sheets off of her naked body, slipped out of bed, and tiptoed quietly up to the shadow. She then pressed her bare breasts against the small of Malek's back and wrapped her arms around his stomach.

"This is the second night in a row that I've woken up with you missing from my bed. I don't like it. Do you normally have trouble sleeping or is it just because you're in bed with a 'wicked' sorceress?" she asked, rubbing her hands back and forth over the muscles of his abdomen.

"No, Miss Vigo. It's not you. It's…typical," he replied.

"Malek, as I said last night, at this point, I think our relationship has moved past you calling me, 'Miss Vigo.'" She lightly dragged the fingernails of both hands downward until she had him firmly in her grip.

"Now," she purred, "Come back to bed."

Later, the petite sorceress was lying on top of Malek, resting her sweat-soaked hair and head on his chest.

"Malek?"

"Yes, Fringilla?"

"I'm curious. Why did you have me open a portal to Dol Blathanna yesterday? What did you do there?"

When he didn't respond, she asked, "State secrets?"

"Something like that," he responded.

"Fair enough." After a pause, she asked another question. "Do you…do you think we'll actually defeat Redania? Or, can you not answer that either?"

"I can, and…I don't know. It doesn't look promising at the moment."

"If we don't, what will become of the Empire?"

"Oh, the Empire will survive…even if we never cross the Pontar…even if we get pushed back to south of the Yaruga, the Empire will survive."

"But, not the Emperor?"

Malek shook his head, but then realized she couldn't see him. "No. I doubt he would survive that."

"And you, Malek – what would become of you?"

"That, Fringilla, is unknown."

The green-eyed woman then raised herself up so that she could look down into his face.

"You shouldn't have to die with Emhyr, Malek. You know too much. You do too much. You are way too valuable to the Empire."

Malek smiled. "That's kind of you to say, and I happen to agree with you. But I'm not the one you'd have to convince...if it comes to that."

"So, are you saying that, if it was obvious that the demise of Emhyr's reign was near, you'd…distance yourself?"

Malek's smile disappeared, and he snatched the woman's tiny wrists in his hands.

"Tread carefully, Miss Vigo. These walls have ears, and your words could easily be misconstrued as borderline treasonous."

"No, Malek, you listen to me," she said forcefully. "No one man is greater than the Empire. It was here long before he was born, and it'll be here long after he's gone. His days are few – everybody knows it, but yours don't have to be. So, ask yourself - just where do your loyalties lie…with him or with the Empire?"

The eyes of the man bore into Fringilla's. She thought that she saw him give just the slightest nods of his head, but he said nothing. But, then, she felt something unmistakable, and a smile came to her face.

"Really, Malek? Again?"

oOo

"Geralt…could I…could I ride with you, please?"

The witcher sat atop Roach under the afternoon sun and rode slowly next to a small, covered wagon, which was being driven by Lydial and Evie. A second wagon, steered by Benny and Rien and carrying a sleeping Nikolai, was right behind them on the trail heading west toward Ard Carraigh. The wagons and supplies had been confiscated from the abandoned academy, and the spare horses pulling them had been provided by Thacker's dead men. Barcain was the only other person on horseback, riding on the opposite side of the first wagon as Geralt. The orphans – along with Gretel - either rode in the back of the wagons or would occasionally get out and walk alongside. Geralt had given the strumpet two choices after finding her imprisoned in the town hall dungeon – either stay behind bars and hope someone found her or come with them. When he told her that she'd be free to go once they got to Ard Carraigh, she'd easily made up her mind.

The White Wolf looked down to see Isaac, the lad with the scarred face, peering up at him. In the last two days, every time the small caravan had stopped to eat, the young boy had found a seat near the witcher. The first time, he hadn't said anything. He'd just sat quietly and listened to whatever conversation Geralt was having with those around him. But, during their second stop, Geralt had asked the boy his name, which the witcher soon discovered had been a mistake. For after that, he found that the lad was way too inquisitive for the witcher's taste. He'd asked the monster-hunter countless questions since then – almost all of them pertaining to his swords, his fighting skills, the monsters that he'd killed, and the like.

The witcher, still looking down at the boy, paused for a moment but finally answered, "Sure, kid."

Then, he leaned down and pulled Isaac up and into the saddle with ease. Evie looked over to see the young boy sitting in front of Geralt and leaning back against the witcher's chest, and a grin crossed her face.

"Geralt, can I ask you a question?" asked Isaac.

Evie saw Geralt give the faintest of sighs, which made her grin even wider.

"Sure, kid. What do you want to know now?"

He then proceeded to pepper Geralt with an onslaught of questions for fifteen minutes straight. During this entire time, the witcher kept looking over at Evie, who was staring at him with a warm smile on her face.

After Isaac's final question – about witcher meditation – Geralt said, "You know, kid, I think you really need to hang out with Evie."

"Why is that, Geralt?"

"You two are a lot alike. You both like to ask a lot of questions. I think you're a future historian in the making."

The boy was silent for a moment. Then, he said. "Nah. I'd rather be with you. I don't want to be with someone who asks a lot of questions."

The witcher nodded his head. "Yeah, I know what you mean, kid. They can be annoying sometimes."

He made eye-contact with Evie, who narrowed her eyes at him, but the smirk on her face made it clear that she knew he was joking.

Isaac didn't understand the sarcasm and continued talking.

"I need to be with someone who has answers, not questions."

"Well, I'm starting to run out of answers. I think you've asked me everything I know."

Isaac didn't say anything else for several minutes. Finally, he asked, "Is Lydial a witcher, too?"

Geralt had a perplexed look on his face. "No, she's not. Why do you ask?"

"I've seen her down on her knees, doing witcher-meditation sometimes. If she's not a witcher, what is she doing?"

"She's praying."

"Oh," Isaac replied simply. "Praying…that's talking to God, right?"

"Uh huh."

"What do you exactly talk to him about?"

"Don't know, kid. I've never done it. How about you ask her?"

He then led Roach over, closer to the wagon, next to where Lydial and Evie were seated on the front bench.

"Lydial, Isaac's got a question for you. In fact, it'd probably be best if he sat next to you for this."

He then picked up the small boy and placed him on the bench next to Evie, who just shook her head at the witcher. He just smirked back at her. She stood up to let Isaac scooch over to sit in between the two women.

"What is it you wanted to know?" Lydial asked.

"What's the difference between what you do and what Geralt does…between meditation and prayer?"

"Well, I can't rightly speak on witcher-meditation – you'll have to discuss that with Geralt - but I can talk to you about prayer. Unlike regular meditation, when I pray, I'm not just clearing my mind or focusing my thoughts inward. I'm actually focusing all of my thoughts outward - toward my God. I'm mentally speaking with him. His name is Essea."

"Why do you talk to him?"

"Well, because he's not just my God, and my protector and provider. He's also my best friend. Do you have a best friend?"

Isaac shook his head, a sad look coming to his face. "I used to."

"I'm sorry. What was your best friend's name?"

"Billy."

"Did you like spending time with Billy, playing together, talking about different things?"

"Yeah, he was great."

Lydial nodded her head. "Friends are important. Spending time with them is important. And that's one reason I pray. That's me spending time with my best friend, Essea. Do you understand?"

"I guess. Doesn't look like a lot of fun, though," he replied. "Why do you kneel?"

"Well, I was taught by my parents that, in those times when I have formal prayer, I am supposed to kneel before Essea as a sign of reverence and respect. To bow down before him in humility, to show that he is my King and Lord. But, to be honest, most of the time when I pray, I don't kneel because it just wouldn't be practical since I talk to him all throughout the day. Like I said, he's my best friend."

"When you talk to him, do you ask him for stuff?"

"Well, yes and no. God's not just some genie who you only go to when you want something from him. Prayer is so much more than that, but yes, I do ask him for things – to watch over my loved ones, to protect us from evil, to encourage us through hard times. But many times, I'll pray and I won't ask him for anything. I'll just tell him what's on my heart and mind. My worries and fears. Tell him that I'm grateful to him for the things that he's sent that are bringing me joy."

"If he's God, doesn't he already know all of that?"

Lydial laughed. "Well, yes, he does, but…I believe that I am his child, and like any good father, he wants me to come to him and speak with him – even if he already knows everything that's going on in my life."

"Does he ever say anything back to you?"

She shook her head. "No, not really. He reveals himself to me, to everyone, through his creation – through the world, the stars, the moon. And over the years, I believe that he has spoken directly to specific individuals. He's given direct revelation to certain prophets and priests, who, in turn, wrote down what he revealed about himself and his character. But he's never revealed anything specifically to me. And that's why the holy scriptures -" and at that, she pulled the Essean tome from a bag that was next to her. "That's why this book is so precious and important. This is the primary way that he has chosen to tell us about himself. Reading this is how we get to know God, to know who he truly is. And it's through knowing him that I can actually love him…because, Isaac, you can't truly love someone that you don't know. Whatever feeling that is…it's not true love. So, that's why I read this every day, so that I can more fully understand who he is, what is promises are, and how I can live a life that honors him."

She looked down into Isaac's face, and he just nodded at her.

"I'm sorry. I think I got a little off topic. Do you think you understand, or do you have more questions?"

He shook his head. "No. I think I get it. You pray to talk to him, and you read that book to hear him talk to you. Right?"

Lydial smiled and nodded. "Yes. That's pretty close."

At that point, Isaac heard laughter from some of the kids playing in the road behind him. He stood up on the bench and looked their way. A moment later, he turned to Lydial.

"Thanks, Lydial, for explaining prayer." He then looked at Geralt. "You, too, Geralt."

He then jumped down from the wagon and ran back to the others.

Evie turned to Geralt and smiled. "Sweet kid. And, you're sweet, too, being so patient with him. I know that it must be driving you crazy, answering all of his questions."

The witcher looked back at the kids running around the other wagon, and then he looked at Evie and slightly shrugged.

"I remember what it's like…growing up without parents. So…" He didn't finish his thought. "Anyway, he's not the first kid I've ever dealt with. Ciri was about his age when I took her in."

"What was she like?"

He shook his head. "Nothing like him. She didn't ask questions. She made demands. She was…a spoiled, stubborn, little princess…literally. Luckily, she grew out of it, for the most part, but it took quite a while."

"I'm surprised you had the patience to deal with her."

The White Wolf nodded his head. "Yeah, me, too. She was difficult at times. But…she was just a little kid – lost, alone…scared. She needed someone to protect her, to love her."

Geralt, without even realizing it, had reached down with his left hand and was gripping Ciri's wolf-head medallion that was tied to the belt loop of his pants. After a moment, he spoke again but he was staring straight ahead when he did.

"She was an orphan, too - or, at least, she thought she was," he said very quietly, as if he was only speaking to himself.

He was lost in his thoughts for a while, and then he turned and looked back again at the kids. Of the nine, Isaac was the only one that didn't have at least one sibling in the group. In the last two days, the witcher had seen how they all interacted whether it was while playing, eating meals, or getting ready to sleep, and Isaac always seemed to be slightly off by himself. It wasn't obvious. He wasn't isolated, but he always just seemed to be on the fringes. Geralt wasn't sure if that was Isaac's choice or not, but he was clearly not as much a tight-knit member of the group as the rest. He always seemed a bit unsure of himself - unsure of his role, unsure of his place. Perhaps, that was why the boy had so obviously attached himself to the witcher. Geralt could certainly relate. He'd felt like an outcast his entire life. As a witcher – a mutated human – he had never fit in with any group. Humans scorned him because of his mutations, non-humans distrusted him because he was human, and sapient "monsters" feared him because of his profession. And if truth be known, he'd always even felt a little like an outsider with most witchers, too. He'd never felt that he'd truly belonged anywhere – except on the Path, alone. But that had started to change in the last few weeks with the realization that God had, at some point, reached down and touched him in a mysterious way. And he knew it wasn't random chance at all that that realization had coincided with Evie and, soon after, Lydial entering his life. He had no doubt that it was all connected somehow.

Pondering on all of this – God, orphans, and outcasts - made him think of the exclusivity of the religion of the Eternal Fire, and then a question popped into his head. A question that he wanted answered. Coming out of his thoughts, he saw that Roach had dropped back just a bit during his introspection. He gave her a light squeeze with his feet and she sped up to draw even again with Evie and Lydial. Evie looked at Geralt with concern in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah," he responded, and then a small smirk came to his face. "Though, now…I guess it's my turn to ask Lydial some questions."

"No problem," the elf said, with a smile of her own. "What's on your mind?"

"One of the last things Iorveth said to me was that Essea was the God of the Aen Seidhe. And I've heard you say – and that book of yours say - that the Aen Seidhe are his chosen nation. What exactly does that mean – his chosen nation?"

"Well, we believe that he chose us out of all of the races to have a special and unique relationship with him. Unfortunately, over the centuries, that fact has caused a lot of Aen Seidhe to become arrogant. They believe that our special status is somehow due to some grand attributes that we possess that other races don't."

"I take it you don't believe that."

"Not at all. Our earliest historical scriptures show the Aen Seidhe not as a powerful, conquering nation but as humble, lowly, starving slaves. And it was at that point that Essea chose to reveal himself to our leader, Creideamh. It was while we were a weak, beaten-down, oppressed nation that he chose us. He delivered us out of slavery. He protected us as we crossed the dangerous ocean. He led us to the Continent and helped us prosper for centuries. So, I honestly don't know where all of the Aen Seidhe pride comes from, but those that have it have clearly forgotten our history. The truth is that there should be no such thing as an arrogant believer of Essea."

Geralt was nodding his head. "Okay. So, he chose you while you were a nation of slaves. But, chose you for what – for what ultimate purpose?"

"I honestly don't know for sure. As I told Isaac earlier, I'm not one of his prophets. He's never spoken directly to me, but…I believe – based on things I've read – that his plan is to reveal himself, to reveal his majesty to the entire world through us."

"What? Why would he even need to do that? Couldn't he just reveal himself to whomever he wants?"

"Of course. Our God is in heaven, and he can do whatever he pleases. I don't know why he's chosen this as his plan. Nor do I even understand it really. I just know that it is."

"So, let me get this straight. Essea's plan is to reveal himself to you, the Aen Seidhe, and then the Aen Seidhe are supposed to tell the rest of the world about him?"

"More or less, yes."

At that point, Geralt's eyes narrowed. "Well, I'd say it's 'less.' If that's the plan, then you, elves, have seriously failed in your part. In my century of living, I've traveled all over this continent, met hundreds and hundreds of Aen Seidhe, and I just heard of Essea two weeks ago. What the hell have you Esseans been doing for the last twelve centuries? Hell, in just twelve months, the fanatics of the Eternal Fire have spread the name of their god all across Kaedwen."

"Geralt!" whispered Evie, looking embarrassed.

"It's okay, Evie. He's right." She then looked back at Geralt. "You're right, Geralt. I won't defend us. And I'm as guilty as anyone. We have no excuse. The simple explanation is that we saw how our fellow Aen Seidhe, those that decided to move into the human towns and cities, would eventually fall away from the faith – if they hadn't already. I think that the rest of us, to combat that, reacted in the opposite extreme. To keep from being absorbed into the human culture, we decided to isolate ourselves instead. But I don't believe that either of those courses of action – absorption or isolation – is what Essea calls for us to do. Absorption gives us a lot of people to talk to but with nothing significant to say to them, and with isolation, we still have life-changing news of Essea, but no one to share it with. So, you're right, we've down a lousy job of sharing the great news of our God with the world around us."

The witcher didn't say anything for the longest time. He just stared off into the distance, breathing very slowly and deeply. Evie and Lydial didn't speak either. In the silence, they could hear the sounds of the wagon wheels turning and the horses' tails swishing flies off their backs.

Finally, Geralt looked again at Lydial. To Evie's eyes, he looked a bit calmer.

"So…even though the Aen Seidhe are his chosen people, you're saying that he's apparently the God for all. That he'll accept everyone, even…a mutant like me."

Lydial nodded. "Yes, Geralt, he will."

"And just why exactly do you believe that? On what basis? Just because you want to?"

She shook her head. "No. Because he says so in his scriptures."

Geralt nodded. "Can you give me an example?"

"I can. Give me just a moment."

And then Lydial gave the reins to Evie so that she could grab the tome. Eventually, she found the page she was looking for.

"This is one of our poems of praise," she said.

"Blessed, Essea, may you be gracious to us and bless us and make your face shine upon us – so that your ways may be known throughout the earth, your salvation among all of the nations.

You, Essea, are a father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, and savior to the oppressed.

You set the lonely in families and lead out the prisoners with singing.

May all the races praise you, O Holy God; May all the nations be glad and sing for you, for you rule all the earth with righteousness and equity.

None that come to you will you ever turn away."

Geralt was silent for a bit before eventually asking. "And who wrote that?"

"The 'father' of the Aen Seidhe nation. Our first prophet and priest, Creideamh."

"Who Essea spoke to?"

"Among others. Yes."

"And why should anyone believe that this Creideamh wasn't just some lunatic, making up nonsense? I mean, the world is full of people claiming that God spoke to them, right?"

"You're right. But most of what Creideamh recorded wasn't just what Essea revealed exclusively to him. He documented all of the promises that Essea made to the Aen Seidhe nation – breaking their chains of slavery, supplying them ships to cross the Great Sea, giving them a land of their own. He wrote about all of God's miracles – raining down fiery meteorites from the skies, providing sustenance during the years on the ocean after the original stores of food ran out, causing a giant tidal wave to safely place the ships on the Continent's shores instead of allowing them crash into the rocky cliffs…and much more. These were miracles witnessed by thousands of Aen Seidhe. So, if he'd simply been writing mythical stories, he'd have been called out on it. But there's no evidence that he ever was."

The witcher nodded his head. "Okay. That makes sense. Do you mind if I read it?"

"Of course not," Lydial answered, before passing the tome to Evie, who passed it to Geralt.

After only a moment, they both heard a deep sigh coming from the witcher.

"I tried reading this book that first night in your cabin. Couldn't understand it then. Can't understand it any better now in the light of day. Can only make out every other word or so." He then handed the book back to Evie.

"Geralt, are you okay?" asked Evie.

He looked her in the eyes and then shook his head. "No. I'm not."

"What's wrong?"

"I honestly don't know. I just feel…I don't know…unsettled."

"Can I help you? Do you want to talk?"

He shook his head again. "No. I think I just need to be alone with my thoughts for a while. Okay?"

"Okay. Just know that I'm here for you."

Geralt nodded and then urged his mare into a canter. Evie watched the witcher ride off down the trail, small clouds of dust stirred up by Roach's hooves.

Lydial reached over and patted her granddaughter's knee. "He'll be okay. I'm going to pray for him. Would you like to join me?"

Evie nodded her head and grasped Lydial's hand.

oOo

Northern Redania

Philippa Eilhart sat in her castle at Montecalvo. Despite King Radovid's best efforts to have the sorceress' home razed to the ground, her magical protections, for the most part, had held off the attacks. At least they had held them off long enough for the soldiers and engineers to realize that they'd need a much greater arsenal to complete the job. And since almost all of the Redanian military forces and weapons were needed at the war front, then demolishing the fortress just hadn't been possible at the time. Thus, Philippa sat in a partially damaged and dark castle, which, frankly, fit her mood after her most recent run-in with Malek at the Dol Blathanna palace.

She sat behind a desk in her expansive, private study and library, but she wasn't alone. Sitting on a small sofa across from her was Oran Eilhart - her older brother, fellow magic user, and the assassin known as the Ghost. His magical ability was a fraction of his sister's, but given that Philippa was one of the most powerful magic users on the planet, that wasn't anything for the typical mage to be embarrassed about. Virtually every mage's power and ability paled in comparison to hers. However, because the clearly superior sorceress happened to be his little sister – two years his junior - then it did very little good for their already complicated relationship.

Philippa and Oran had actually been close as kids, growing up together in a run-down cabin in the woods in northern Redania. It was cabin that she had, decades later, demolished and on whose former site now stood her current castle. Being pummeled by their drunken, widower father seemed to forge of bond of understanding and camaraderie between the two Eilhart children, and Oran had always done his best to step in between his father and his little sister when their father was in a crazed-state. But few pre-pubescent boys can stand up to a fully-grown man, and once Oran was beaten and tossed aside, there was nothing to stop Philippa from being next. Over time, the beatings became fewer and fewer, but not because Mr. Eilhart had learned to control his demons. Firstly, the two had quickly learned to discern their father's moods, to anticipate a beating coming on, and to hide in the woods until the next morning. But, secondly, and more disturbing, was the fact that Papa Eilhart had found other outlets for his pent-up rage – specifically, visits to young Philippa's bed. Those nocturnal visits continued for a long time, until one night, Oran walked in on the two. The next time his father passed out in a drunken stupor, twelve-year-old Oran drove a pair of pruning shears through his father's throat. Then, he and Philippa tossed the body into the nearby river.

The next night, ten-year old Philippa slipped into Oran's bed, and she displayed her gratitude to her older sibling by showing him all the things that she'd learned from dearest dad. Oran was disgusted and ashamed. Not for what she had attempted to do, but because he'd let her. And for the next several months, he never stopped her. While Oran had always loved his little sister, he had discovered that he'd fallen in love with her, too.

Eventually, a great aunt came and took them to live with her, and soon after both Eilhart children were sent off to their respective magical academies, though Oran hadn't completed his education at Ban Ard. A few years later, they met up again, and Oran had hoped they could pick up where they'd left off. But his hopes were quickly dashed. The young woman in front of him, he had barely recognized, but not simply due to a change in physical appearance – though she had clearly transformed into a stunningly beautiful woman. What he hadn't recognized was the aloof, haughty sorceress who seemed to barely want to give him the time of day. She had acted as if he was a bothersome stranger instead of the brother who had loved her and tried his best to protect her. When he'd proposed that they spend the night together, she'd rebuffed him with an arrogant laugh. Their relationship had been rocky and mostly non-existent ever since.

"Okay, Sister. You got me here. So, what do you want? And make it quick. I've got a business to get back to."

"Oh, yes. Leading your merry band of cut-throats. Loan-sharking, extorting small-business owners, running street whores. Quite the entrepreneur that you've become."

"Go plough yourself. You think you're so much better than me? Well, at least I'm not reviled by my entire country. Everyone knows you killed King Vizimir. Thanks for handing the kingdom over to his deranged kid, you scheming bitch."

"Charming, as always, Oran."

"Is this why you brought me here – just to mock me? You know what…you deserve what you got. Most Redanians just wish that you'd had more than your eyes gouged out." Oran stood angrily, glaring at his sister. "I should have known better than to come here," he snarled, turning towards the open doorway that led to the hall. However, before he could get there, the doors slammed shut. He didn't even bother trying to open them. He knew that he couldn't overpower Philippa's magic so he simply turned around and saw that she was now standing behind her desk.

"I'm afraid that, as usual, we have gotten off to a poor start. Let me apologize."

Oran furrowed his brow on hearing that.

"You've never apologized to me – for anything. What exactly do you want, Philippa?" he asked with suspicion dripping from every word.

The sorceress walked around her desk, sat on the sofa, and patted the cushion next to her.

"For now, I'd just like for my big brother to come sit next to me. Let me show you how contrite I am," she said with small smile.

Oran stood still, staring at his sister – the one that he loathed and the one that he still loved. He, eventually, walked towards the sofa, hating himself that she still had ahold of him.

oOo

Tressa, sitting between Benny and Rien on the front seat of the second wagon, watched the witcher ride off by himself. Despite traveling in his party for the last forty-eight hours, she wasn't really any more comfortable around him now than when they'd first met. Of course, she could admit that first impressions were hard to overcome and that their first meeting had been a very rocky encounter. He had come to the castle to kill the monster…the man…that she loved. And even though he had spared Rien and even though he now seemed to be going out of his way to help all of them, she still didn't trust him, for she couldn't get that initial confrontation down in the dungeons out of her mind.

"Benny, how long have you known the witcher?" she asked.

"Oh…at least fifty years"

"Are you two friends?"

The mage scratched his chin and looked up. "Well…he's not a typical friend, but yes, I'd consider us friends – at the least, friendly acquaintances."

"What do you mean by 'typical?'"

"The last time I saw him was almost a decade ago. So, we're not the type of friends that constantly stay in touch. That's what I mean. But I trust him with my life."

"What? How?" she asked incredulously.

"Despite the myths about witchers, Geralt has a streak of goodness in him."

"But he was going to let you – his friend - die in the dungeons. And he was going to kill Rien even though he'd only killed those men to protect us. And, not only that, I'm pretty sure he was even willing to kill us – me and Lukas - to get to Rien. How can you say he's good?"

"I understand your point of view, but you're only seeing one piece of the puzzle."

"What do you mean?"

"Regardless of what people think, he tries to do the 'right' thing – at least, his definition of 'right.' And despite sometimes doing things – like killing – that other people find questionable, he has a certain honor about him. Remember – he tried to give Rien a chance to talk things out, right?"

Tressa reluctantly nodded her head.

"And what you didn't see was him trying – twice – of talking me out of going into the Academy with him in the first place. He knew it was going to be potentially dangerous, and he didn't want anything happening to me. But I told him I was going anyway. So, I knew what I was getting into."

The teenage girl let her eyes drift out towards the horizon while she pondered what he had just said. Finally, she had another question. "When Rien had you in his grasp, you told the witcher, 'Do what you have to do.' Did you really mean that?"

Benny nodded and laughed. "I did. I obviously didn't want to die, but I also knew the situation, and I didn't want Geralt to feel guilty if things turned sour. He was down there, ultimately, because he was trying to save people he cared about, and like I said, he'd tried talking me out of going with him. So, it was my own fault that Rien got the jump on me."

Rien looked at Benny and nodded his head.

"Let that be a lesson to you, Tressa. Before you go into a dangerous situation, you'd better count the costs and calculate the risks. And, then, if you decide to go ahead a jump in anyway, then face the consequences with dignity. Don't whine and complain that you didn't know what you were getting into."

At that point, Benny glanced at Rien, but the teenager girl's eyes had drifted out towards the prairie around them and had missed his look.

"So, you're saying that he really would have let you die and he really would have killed us and Rien to save Evie?"

"That, I don't know. Perhaps, but now we're dealing in hypotheticals."

"Well, that doesn't make me trust him much – even if you do. How can I trust somebody who'd kill an innocent person just to get what he wants?"

"That's your right – not to trust him or like him, but I think you're focusing too much on what he might have done and not on what he actually did do. He tried talking me out of going with him because he was concerned with my safety; he did give Rien a chance to parley; he could have easily cut you and Lukas down with his blade, but he simply used a Sign instead; and he did spare Rien's life, even though the entire purpose of going in there was to take his head. If you want to dislike him because he can be gruff and distant, so be it. But you can't dislike him for being a mindless killer who murders innocent teenagers– because that, he clearly is not."

Tressa sighed. "Yeah, I suppose so. So…he's not dangerous?"

Benny laughed again. "Oh, no. He's very dangerous. But no more than the man you're sitting next to right now…but you still trust him, right?"

She looked at Rien and then looked back at Benny with a small smile. "I guess I see your point."

oOo

Geralt stood atop a small hill overlooking the road to Ard Carraigh. Roach was by his side, munching on the thick, green grass that covered the rolling hill-country of central Kaedwen. There weren't many trees around in that particular area so he could easily see the two-wagon caravan, about half a mile away, moving slowly westward. The discussion with Lydial had stirred up conflicting feelings, and his thoughts and emotions had become all jumbled in his head. He'd simply needed some time alone to sort them out. He realized, then, that he hadn't been alone in close to two weeks, and historically, being around too many people for too long – like a pebble in a shoe - would eventually irritate him to no end.

As he stared at the front wagon carrying Evie, he kept reliving certain bits of the conversation in his mind. Clearly, at one point, he'd gotten angry – angry that the Aen Seidhe had this knowledge of God that they'd kept hidden and private. He thought of just how selfish they were to do that. It'd be the equivalent of him stumbling upon a magical fountain that could heal all assortments of diseases and infirmities, and instead of going out and telling others of this amazing news, he'd simply kept it to himself. He thought back to the time in his twenties when he'd spent so much energy investigating all the different gods of all the different cultures. He wondered how different the last eighty years of his life would have been if some Aen Seidhe elf had simply told him of Essea back then. Of course, if God was truly all powerful, like Geralt hoped he was, then he had to admit that God, ultimately then, was in control of this, too. He must have had some reason for not revealing himself to Geralt until now. The witcher just didn't understand it, and he wanted to. He was tired of being confused, which is how he'd felt for the last few weeks. He felt as if his entire perspective on life had been turned upside down – the fact that he still hadn't slept with Evie was just one of many, obvious examples. In the past, he would have taken her to bed at the first opportunity.

His anger at the Aen Seidhe had eventually dissipated, and it had been replaced by a sense of optimism as their discussion had continued. And now, a half hour later, it was that hope that he was focused on. There was one line that Lydial had read to him that kept running through his mind, and it was that one line that led the witcher to do something that he'd never done in his one hundred years. He prayed. He didn't get on his knees. He didn't even bow his head. He simply closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and after exhaling slowly, he spoke aloud.

"God… 'None who come to you will you ever turn away,'…right? So…here I am. I'm convinced that you exist, but…I need clarity because I don't know who you are. I'm starting to believe that you're Essea, but…I'm just not sure. I need…I need for you to reveal yourself to me…somehow…so that I can know."

At that point, he paused for a long time. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes and scanned the sky. Upon seeing nothing but clear skies dotted with some wispy clouds, a small smile came to his face.

"So, no lightning bolt or clap of thunder?" He nodded his head. "Alright."

After another deep breath, he closed his eyes again and finished. "I don't know how to end one of these things so…I guess…thanks for listening."

The witcher opened his eyes, and they automatically drifted upward. He saw thin clouds gliding slowly across the bright blue skies, and then his gaze lowered to watch the high grass of the rolling plain swaying in the gentle wind. For the longest time, he remained motionless, just standing peacefully in the warm afternoon sun and calmly listening to the soft rustling sound of the breeze in his ears and sensing its refreshing touch on his face. Eventually, he nodded slightly to himself, mounted Roach, and rode slowly down the subtle slope of the hill towards the caravan – to his love and to the rest of the motley crew of outcasts and orphans.