Book 3: The Wolf Dies

Chapter 2

The Tir Torchair Mountains

Geralt was doing his best to keep his head above water, but with only one arm – he was holding onto Evie with the other – and with only one good leg, he simply didn't have the power to fight against the force of the river's rapids. It was a miracle that he had not yet been slammed against any boulders or been hit in the head or on his inflamed stump by the numerous logs floating along. His lungs were on fire from a lack of oxygen, and with all of his might, he propelled himself upward with a kick of his leg and a pull of his cupped hand. A moment later, his head bobbed up above the surface, and in that instant, the witcher did two things - he took a deep breath, and he also cast his eyes down river.

"Damn it," he thought to himself as his head submerged again under the rapids.

The witcher hadn't seen any dangerous boulders up ahead. In fact, he hadn't seen anything but blue sky – just a complete ending of the river itself. He was heading towards a waterfall, and he had no idea just how high it was or exactly what lie below. Suddenly, he felt himself falling through the air, head over end. Several seconds went by before his body slammed against the water's surface below, knocking the wind from his lungs and ripping Evie's corpse from his grip.

Immediately, the witcher began sinking, the weight of his weapons and armor pulling him down. In his weakened state, he simply had nothing left to give. He opened his eyes and looked toward the surface, seeing Evie's body above him, backlit by the rays of the afternoon sun. He let one hand drift upward as he continued to sink deeper and deeper down, the darkness closing in all around him.

"Evie," he whispered in his mind, and then a moment later, capable of holding his breath not a second longer, he involuntarily inhaled, taking in a lung-full of water.

As the oxygen to his mind began to diminish, the witcher suddenly felt a small hand grasp his own. He lifted his head and swore that he saw a human shape – that of a naked female with long, dark hair.

"The Lady of the Lake?" was his last thought just before his vision went black.

oOo

Nazair

Yeshua bent over the table and, with one eye shut, brought his face down close to the top. He scanned the surface and then slowly ran his fingertips over the smooth, finished wood. He nodded his head, and a smile of satisfaction emerged on his face as he raised back up. Yeshua was a carpenter, and his small shop was connected to his home on the outskirts of Aranbhaile. But he wasn't just any carpenter. He was a master-craftsman, known all over the Nilfgaardian provinces for his expertise in working with wood. It didn't matter what the customer wanted – something as simple as a breadbox or as complex as an ornate frame to grace the walls of a royal palace – the quality of Yeshua's work was unmatched.

It was just past noon, and Yeshua's shirt was clinging to his body, and his sweaty forearms were speckled with sawdust. He had every window and door of his shop open as an invitation for any breeze to blow through and cool the place down. He was just moving to grab a different tool when he heard a strange – but somehow familiar – noise coming from outside his shop. Yeshua jerked his head upward and gazed through the open front door, and his eyes went wide in shock. Across the dusty road, under a large tree in neighbor Allman's field, was a filthy albino wolf, its fur caked in dirt and dried blood. The creature was staring right back at Yeshua, and it emitted a noise from its throat – a half-growl, half-whimper.

Yeshua suddenly realized that his heart was pounding. He blinked his eyes, thinking that this might be another vision, but deep down, he knew it was real.

"Le-Leyna!" he yelled as quietly as possible. He didn't want to spook the wolf.

When a few seconds passed and he still hadn't heard his wife answering back nor coming his way from inside their home, he turned his head toward the open door that connected his shop with their house and shouted louder.

"Leyna! Come out here, now!"

"Yeshua!" he heard her yell back in fear.

He quickly turned his head back to the door, but the wolf was no longer there. He rushed to the shop's front entrance and gazed up and down the road, but the wolf was nowhere to be seen. Just then, Leyna came running into the shop. When she saw her husband standing, she let out a huge sigh.

"Oh, you gave me such a fright," she exclaimed. "I thought you were having another episode."

Yeshua slowly turned back to face his wife.

"An albino wolf," he said, the shock evident in his voice. "Right across the road. I saw it."

Leyna wrinkled her brows at her spouse. When she realized that he was being serious, she walked over to the open, front door, and looked towards the field. After her eyes scanned in both directions and saw nothing, she looked at her husband.

"Yeshua," she said with concern in her eyes, "are you sure you didn't have another seizure?"

"Leyna, please don't patronize to me. I'm not going mad. I know what I saw."

She was about to respond, when she heard a guttural caw coming from outside. They both turned their heads and just stood there, speechless at what they saw before them. Across the road, perched in a high branch in the large tree, was a white crow. It was looking directly at Yeshua. It cawed twice more and gave a flap of its wings.

"Do you believe me now?" Yeshua whispered.

Leyna just nodded. Her mouth was open, mesmerized by what she was seeing. Finally, she spoke.

"What do you think it wants from you?"

"I don't know, but…I guess I'll find out," he answered as he stepped through the door.

Leyna was right behind him. The two of them slowly walked across the dirt road and stood before the large tree, looking upward toward the crow. It stared down at Yeshua, cawed again, and then took flight. It flapped its wings and headed off toward the north-east. After flying a hundred yards, the crow looked back, but Yeshua had still not moved. He was still standing in the middle of the road, his eyes fixated on the bird. The crow circled back around and lit on a lower branch of the tree in front of the carpenter and his wife. It, again, looked right at Yeshua and, this time, cawed very loudly several times.

Leyna reached up and gripped the sleeve of Yeshua's shirt.

"I think it wants you to follow," she whispered.

oOo

Maecht

Timataal was concerned. In their thirty plus years of friendship, he'd never seen Malek as he was in his current state. Sure, he'd seen Malek drunk before, but it had always been after successfully completing a difficult mission. During a moment to relax and celebrate still being alive. He'd never known his friend to use alcohol to drown his sorrows. But, in the last twenty-four hours, since they'd arrived in Maecht, it seemed as if Malek was only doing two things - either drinking or sleeping it off.

Not that there was much else to do as they waited for Lydial to work her way through all of the Essean manuscripts. Timataal was honestly surprised that she'd even agreed to read and divulge their contents. He wasn't sure what Barcain had used to persuade her, but he didn't figure that he'd simply said "please." Barcain may have been Malek's nephew, but there was something about the man that just rubbed Timataal the wrong way.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of a bottle slamming down against the table top. Malek – sitting across from him - had just re-filled his mug to the brim and was taking a long, slow, deliberate drink. The red-head knew Malek was hurting. In fact, he'd purposely given the big man space and time to process his grief. That morning, Malek had told him that he needed to take a walk. When he hadn't returned to their inn by nightfall, Timataal went looking for him, eventually finding him in a tavern on the other side of town. They'd been sitting there in relative silence for the last couple of hours, Malek showing no interest in eating, playing cards, or doing anything other than steadily consuming the alcohol before him. Timataal didn't like the path down which his friend seemed to be heading so he decided that it was time to say something.

"You couldn't have saved her. You know that, right? There was no way across that abyss."

Malek looked into his friend's eyes and breathed deeply. He then stared down into his mug and took a deep gulp. He carefully set the mug back on the table and stared at Timataal.

"You think that's what I'm upset about? That I couldn't save her?"

Timataal raised an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah. Is it not?"

A look of disgust crossed Malek's face and he clenched his jaws tightly.

"I killed her, Tim. I killed my own flesh and blood."

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

"In the cavern, I shot her. She died because of me."

"Alright, slow down. Tell me exactly what happened."

"I saw Eilhart across the abyss. I had that witch right in my sights. I fired, and then… Evangeline went down." Malek was shaking his head. "There's no way I should have hit her. No way."

"Are you sure…cause there was a lot going on in that cavern, Malek. That huge scorpion was attacking us. We were all trying to fight it off. Are you sure no one bumped into you, knocked your aim off?"

"No one. I'm positive. And I know there's nothing wrong with my weapon, with the barrel, because my very next shot – my next one at Eilhart - hit dead-center."

Timataal breathed out loudly. "So, somehow…you shot – and possibly killed - your own niece?"

Malek, looking into his friend's eyes, just nodded.

Timataal reached across the table, grabbed the bottle of booze, and carefully refilled Malek's mug. He then filled his own.

"Then, I say, let's drink," declared Malek's best friend.

oOo

Montecalvo

Philippa Eilhart opened her eyes and immediately gasped, but her shock wasn't because she didn't know where she was. The burgundy-colored canopy above her clued her into the fact that she was in her own bed in her own castle. Her joyful amazement was because her vision had been fully restored. She could tell that the eyes in her head were her own. She breathed in deeply and detected a musty smell, which made sense considering she hadn't been home in over a month. But, while her surroundings were familiar, she could instantly tell that her body was not. It felt odd, and it wasn't just due to the new eyes. She raised herself up from the mattress and threw back the covers. She was completely naked and gasped again at what she saw.

"What in the hell did he do?" she asked herself.

The sorceress quickly got out of bed and rushed over to her vanity set. When she saw herself the mirror, her jaw literally fell open. She slowly sat down in the short chair located in front of the vanity, but her eyes never left her reflected image.

Suddenly, Philippa's heart began beating rapidly. Her breathing was fast and shallow, and, then, tears started to well in her eyes. Looking back at the sorceress from Montecalvo was a young girl - an eleven-year-old Philippa with poor complexion; dry, lifeless hair; and an incredibly skinny frame with small breasts. And, then, the memories flooded her mind.

"But I miss him," timidly squeaked Philippa, with her head down and wringing her hands together in her lap.

"I know you do," replied Tissaia de Vries. "It's common and natural for new students to be homesick in the first two weeks. But it will pass."

Philippa, with her feet barely touching the floor, sat in a large chair across from the expansive desk of the assistant rector of the Aretuza Magical Academy.

"But my brother's all I've got," the girl whispered as tears streamed down her acne-covered face.

Upon hearing those words, the stern-faced woman rose from her seat, came to the other side of the desk, and sat in the chair next to Philippa. She turned their chairs so that they were facing each other.

"My dear, you are wrong about that," said de Vries. "You have something inside of you that is far greater than any other person could ever be."

Philippa lifted her head just a smidge and peered at the intimidating woman through the long hair that had fallen forward and was covering her face.

"Miss Eilhart, you have the ability to control the Power," the sorceress continued. "With magic, you will never want for anything…ever again. Doesn't that sound fantastic?"

Philippa gave a slight nod of her head.

"And no one will ever be able to hurt you again. No one will ever beat you or rape you or take advantage of you ever again. Not your father. Not your brother. No one. You can have kings of nations bowing at your feet. People will worship you for what you can do. And…you can make yourself look however your heart desires."

With that, Tissaia de Vries moved her arms and spoke a spell. Philippa looked up to see what was happening, and suddenly a bright, red light shot from the sorceress' hands and covered Philippa's face, the Power blowing the girl's lifeless hair back. Philippa, startled, lurched against the back of her chair. When she looked back at the assistant rector sitting across from her, she noticed that the witch held a small mirror in her hand.

"Go ahead, look at your face," she said. "See for yourself what magic can do."

Philippa glanced up at de Vries but then, eventually, scooched forward in her chair and peeked into the mirror. Her breath caught in her throat, and then a small smile appeared on her face. The first smile she'd worn in weeks. Her acne had disappeared. The skin on her face was as clear and as smooth as that of the sorceress sitting across from her. She finally pulled her gaze away from the mirror and looked into the adult witch's eyes.

De Vries nodded. "What I just did for you is nothing, Philippa. Just a small taste of what the Power can do." After a pause, she continued. "But Magic comes with a price. Family, as you know it, will no longer exist. You will become sterile, never having a child of your own. And you will need to forget about your brother."

"But -" she began to protest.

"No! No 'buts,'" said de Vries forcefully. "You cannot have everything. That is the cost of magic."

She then reached forward, put her fingertips under Philippa's chin, and lifted her face back up.

"Philippa, with magic, you don't need a family anymore. Magic will become your everything. It will become your family. It will become your lover. It will be your god. It will protect you. It will strengthen you. It will give you freedom. Magic - and magic alone - is the only thing worth worshipping in this world, and you, Miss Eilhart, will be able to use it…to caress it…to control it."

She then leaned back and withdrew her hand from Philippa's face.

"But the choice is yours. If you prefer to be with your brother, then I can give you a parcel of food and a few coins, and, in the morning, you can be on your way. I can teach you the full power of Magic - things that your little mind can't even imagine, but what I can't do…is decide for you. So, what do you choose, Miss Eilhart – Power or your brother?"

The skinny, pubescent girl looked into the sorceress' eyes and swallowed.

"I choose magic," she said with a nod of her head.

Philippa came out of her memories, still staring at her eleven-year-old self in the mirror, and a single tear fell down her cheek. She then clenched her jaw, cast a spell, and suddenly, the acne on her face disappeared. She may have looked like a little girl, but she actually felt stronger than she'd felt in years – perhaps ever.

"Well," she said out loud, "this body is not what I had in mind, but I am alive…so it appears that the little bald man kept his word after all. And most importantly, I can still control the Power."

A moment later, she conjured a small bathrobe to fit her thin body. As she slipped it on, she felt an odd, uncomfortable sensation across the back of her shoulder, as if the fabric had snagged on something sharp. She pulled the robe back off and turned her back to the mirror. She saw something small and black in the middle of her right shoulder blade. She reached across her neck, moved her fingertips over her back, and furrowed her brows. She felt several, very bristly, inch-long hairs.

oOo

Maecht

"Damn it, Mal," groaned Timataal. "We're not young anymore."

The two men – who were both approaching sixty summers - were still in the same tavern where they'd been the night before, not even bothering to walk back to their room at the inn on the other side of town. They were the only ones left in the tavern. The owner, having noticed the Nilfgaardian armor and the size of both men, had decided not to argue with them about closing time.

Timataal was lying down on a sticky, wooden bench, while Malek, fighting off sleep, was still in his chair with his head and torso resting on the table's surface. The big man raised his torso up and swiveled his head on his neck from side to side, his vertebrae cracking so loudly that Timataal could hear it several feet away. The morning sun was still several hours from peaking over the horizon and embers were still glowing in the tavern's hearth. Malek just grunted back in response.

"I don't remember. What did we finally decide on?" asked the red-head.

"We decided that you can drink about as much as a little school girl now," murmured Malek. "That and…we're going after that damn Sword."

"And why, again, did we decide that? The second one, not the first."

"For Evangeline."

"Oh, yeah. That's right. And once we find it? We gonna take it back to Nilfgaard…give it to…well, whoever's in charge now?"

Malek shook his head. "The only thing that I have waiting for me in Nilfgaard is…probably a noose, certainly not anyone with open arms."

"Too true," said Timataal with a laugh. "I've never seen a bridge so thoroughly burned as the one between you and Miss Fringilla. So, then…what - we're just going to use the Sword ourselves? Please tell me you're not letting your little-shit of a nephew have it."

"I'm drunk…not stupid."

"Alright," said Timataal. "In that case, count me in."

And after that, the two finally passed out.

oOo

Geralt stood on a small hill in the middle of an orchard and turned slowly in a circle while the glorious rays of the sun shone down, illuminating his surroundings. He felt a gentle breeze tickle his skin and whisper in his ears, and the limbs of the fruit trees, covered in blooming white petals, swayed ever so softly. He stopped turning and then looked down the hill to both see and hear the sparkling blue water of a river roll lazily by. He recognized this orchard. It was a sacred place for the witcher. It was where Evie had agreed to be his wife, but he wasn't sure what he was doing there in that moment. Geralt glanced down and noticed that he was standing on his own two feet. His leg was whole, which confused the witcher even more. And, then, his heart skipped a beat for he'd caught the scent of vanilla in the air.

The witcher breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, savoring the feelings tied to that scent. As he exhaled slowly, he heard a soft voice from behind say his name. He turned quickly, and his breath caught in his throat. Evie stood before him, wearing the blue dress that she'd worn on their wedding day. She looked radiant and alive, with a kind smile on her face. Geralt wanted to rush towards her and hold her tightly, but he had no idea what was going on, and he didn't want to do anything that might cause her to vanish. Suddenly, the witcher felt the strangest sensation. A feeling he hadn't sensed in over nine decades. He felt actual tears welling up in his eyes. Overcome with emotion, he fell to his knees and lowered his head. When he finally looked up at his wife, the tears ran down his cheeks.

"Forgive me, Evie. Please forgive me. You died because of me. I should have saved you."

Seeing the tears in his eyes, Evie's faced filled with compassion.

"Geralt, there's nothing to forgive. You couldn't have saved me in the cave. It was simply my time."

His eyes were devouring his wife. "Are…are you a ghost?" he asked with a furrowed brow.

"No, I'm not a ghost, Geralt."

"Then, what…are you an angel?"

Evie smiled a little more widely. "No, I'm not an angel, either. I'm just me. Your Evie."

"Then, I don't…is this all in my mind?" he asked, staring into her eyes.

"Yes, Geralt, it is," she answered. Seeing the pain on his face, she continued, "But that doesn't mean it's not real."

The witcher sighed. "Then, I don't understand, Evie. I don't understand any of this."

"I know you don't, but do you trust me, Geralt?" she asked.

"Of course, baby. Completely."

He couldn't take his eyes off his wife, and he noticed the breeze was blowing some loose hair across her cheek. She reached up and hooked the strands of hair behind her ear, which brought a small, sad smile to the witcher's face. But it also stabbed him right in the chest.

"Then, don't lose heart, Geralt, for Essea is with you. Trust in him."

The witcher shook his head slightly. "I…I want to, but…how can I? I mean, he had to know how this would all end…that you were going to die in that cave. So, then…why did he ever lead you to find the Sword in the first place?"

"That will become clear to you in time. But I can tell you this - death is not the end, Geralt. For us, it's not a 'good-bye.'"

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, baby, I promise."

The witcher exhaled deeply.

"Okay," he said, nodding his head. "I trust you, and…I'd like to trust in him. But I'm not going to lie – there's still a lot of doubt."

"Then, pray to him, Geralt. Pray that he will grant you the faith to believe him, the faith to overcome your doubts."

"And…and if he answers my prayers – if he gives me the faith to trust him – what then?"

"Then, continue to do what you've been doing since the night I first met you - act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with him."

"Walk with him to where?"

"Wherever he leads you…until he finally brings you home."

"Evie…I want to be home with you…now."

She smiled lovingly at Geralt. "I know you do, and one day you will be. But until then, Essea has plans for you. So, trust him, and obey him, even though you don't understand." After a pause, she said, "I have to go now. And you still have more days to live, so get up, Geralt."

The witcher continued to stare at his wife. "I don't wanna get up," he said, shaking his head slightly. "I don't wanna go through life without you."

"I know. But he will give you his grace to do so – just enough to get through today."

"Great. And tomorrow?"

"And tomorrow, he'll give you just enough again. So, get up, Geralt. Get up."

Evie continued to urge Geralt to rise as she slowly backed away from him. A misty fog suddenly appeared from the river and enveloped her.

As she started to fade from his view, he swore that he heard her whisper, "I love you, husband."

He swallowed and another tear fell down his cheek. He whispered back, "I love you, too," just before he woke.

Geralt slowly opened his eyes, and a short, low groan escaped from his throat. He looked up and saw a wooden ceiling above his head.

"Well, well, Mr. Sleepyhead finally wakes." A feminine voice came from somewhere nearby.

He turned his head and saw that he was in a small cabin. Sitting next to him was a gray-haired woman with a wrinkled face and a sparkle in her eyes.

"Who are you?" he croaked. His mouth didn't seem to be working very well.

She smiled widely, showing a missing tooth.

"Me? Why…I'm the Lady of the Lake."