Book 3: The Wolf Dies
Chapter 3
The Tir Torchair Mountains
Geralt squinted his eyes at the old woman sitting next to him.
"I've met the Lady of the Lake," he rasped out. "I'm pretty positive you're not her."
The woman's smile disappeared. "No? Well, that's what you called me when I pulled you out of the water." A frown then came to her face. "Huh, that's disappointing. I kinda liked that name. 'My Lady' - it's got a certain…elegant dignity to it, don't you think?"
The witcher stared at the woman, his brows furrowed. "Did you give me a potion to addle my brain, or are you just crazy?"
Her smile returned. "Crazy like a fox."
"That's not the saying. It's sly…you know what – never mind."
With a slight grunt, Geralt lifted his torso up and rested on an elbow. He wasn't really sure if he could trust his mind in that moment. His recollections from the past several days, including his conversations with both Gaunter O'Dimm and Evie, all seemed a bit hazy. He figured it was due to the delirium brought on from the infection. What was real versus what was a dream or a vision seemed to blur together. However, when he looked down at his blanket-covered body, he saw that the blanket where his lower right leg should be rested flat on the mattress. The reminder that his leg was amputated seemed to suddenly bring his mind into focus, and he clenched his jaw, slightly nodding his head.
"You said you pulled me from the water. I had my wife's corpse with me. Please tell me you grabbed her, too."
The woman frowned slightly. "Okay, I'll tell you that I did."
Geralt sighed. He could already tell that conversing with this woman for too long would bring on a headache.
"Did you or did you not grab my wife's corpse?"
"Yes, I did. Evie's over on that table," said the woman, pointing to the other side of the room. "But I didn't know she was your wife. I'm terribly sorry."
"Wait - how do you know her name?"
The woman shrugged. "I just assumed. Her name's just about the only thing you've said for the last three days. When you weren't moaning in your sleep, you were mumbling her name. So, I put two and two together. As I said, I'm as smart as a chort."
The witcher simply shook his head and then looked to where she had just pointed. He saw what he assumed to be Evie, but she was no longer wrapped up in the tent fabric that he had used before, up on the mountain. She was covered with a different type of material and looked to be bound up with string in an expert manner. He then looked back at the woman.
"What did you do?"
"Well, no offense, but she was soaked through and starting to smell. As a woman, I can tell you – she probably didn't like that. So, I stripped her bare, wiped her clean, slathered her in some preservative solution, and wrapped her up back up tightly in some thick material that I treated to be water-resistant. Don't worry – I was gentle with her."
The witcher just stared at the strange woman in front of him for a long moment.
"Thank you," he finally said, looking the woman in the eye and giving a slight nod of his head. "Are you an herbalist or an alchemist?" he asked, pushing his torso up further so that he could lean back against the wall.
"Oh, I've picked things up here and there. At my age, I've dabbled in a little bit of everything. I'm just glad that I could be of service. But tell me – how are you feeling?"
The witcher was quiet for a moment, as if he was listening to his body. He finally nodded his head.
"Actually, not bad," he answered. "My stump is still sore, but it's not on fire like before. And my mind seems clear."
"Well, I'll be the judge of that."
She then bent forward, and before the witcher could object, she quickly ran her tongue across his forehead.
"Lady, what the hell are you doing?" the witcher asked, wiping away her saliva.
The old woman smiled. "There you go – calling me 'Lady' again. And you're right – your infection is gone. My tongue never lies."
Geralt, one eyebrow cocked, looked at the grinning woman.
"Your tongue never lies?"
Then, a thought came to his mind. He lifted the sheets and saw that he was completely naked underneath.
"You know what – I don't even want to know how you healed me. Let me just say 'thank you' and leave it at that."
The old woman winked at the witcher. "You're a wise one, Whiteylocks."
oOo
Geralt sat at a small table, devouring his second bowl of steaming hot soup. As he was eating, he kept glancing up at the old woman who was sitting on the other side of the room on the lone bed. It was well after sundown so the cabin was quite dark. Only the flames from the hearth's fire gave off any light. She was mumbling to herself as she busily worked on what looked like two, thick tree branches.
"Gracie, what are you doing up here - living in the mountains all by yourself?" he asked.
Earlier, he'd finally convinced her to tell him her real name so that he wouldn't be forced to call her, "m'Lady". She'd told him that she'd been born Graciella, but no one had ever called her that except her parents – long since dead.
"I'm not by myself. I've got Prickly Pete. He's great company," she replied, referring to her donkey.
The witcher gave a slight nod of his head.
"Fair enough. I've spent half my life talking to my horse, but that still doesn't answer the question of what you're doing up here, so far from human civilization."
At that, Gracie's hands stopped working and she looked up at Geralt. For the first time since meeting her, he saw a bit of sadness in her eyes.
"For some reason, I just never seemed to fit in down there."
Geralt nodded and waited, expecting her to say more, but she didn't. She just stared back at him for the longest time until he finally nodded. She, then, went back to work on the two branches so he went back to the soup.
A few minutes later, she cheerfully announced, "Tada! All finished!"
"Finished with what?"
"With your gift, Mr. Grumpypants.
"My gift?"
"Yes. I've been working on them for three days now – ever since I pulled you out of the water. What do you think?"
She then held the pieces of wood in front of her, standing them up on their ends. Secured to the top of each five-foot tall straight branch was a much-shorter, perpendicular piece that was wrapped tightly with some thick cloth.
The witcher didn't say anything. He just stared at the pieces of wood with a small look of disgust on his face.
"They're crutches!" remarked Gracie with a big smile.
The witcher shifted his eyes to the old woman. "Yeah, I know what they are."
"Huh. You don't seem pleased. Do you not like the wood that I chose?"
Geralt sighed. "The wood is fine. Look…I'm grateful, but…witchers aren't supposed to end up like this."
"Like what?"
"Crippled," he said, the contempt clear in his voice. "Witchers are supposed to die on the Path, not end up as…invalids. I had to learn early on to reconcile myself to the fact that I'd probably die young, but…never to this. I mean, who's ever even heard of a witcher on crutches?"
Gracie shrugged. "'Supposed to.' I've never been a fan of doing what I was supposed to do, which is good since life rarely turns out the way it's supposed to anyway. Maybe this means you're not supposed to be a witcher anymore."
Geralt stared into her kind eyes. After a bit, he slightly nodded his head and looked back at the crutches in her hand.
"Yeah. But what does that make me then?" he whispered to himself.
oOo
Geralt knelt in the dark with his eyes open and his pupils dilated. He glanced briefly at Gracie, who was snoring loudly in the cabin's one bed, and then stared at the crutches leaning against the table next to him. He had spent the previous hour attempting to meditate but with no success. He'd been hoping that, if he could get back into a restive state, he'd receive another vision from Evie. He so longed to see her and speak with her again – even if it was only in his mind. He also would have loved to have received some kind of message from Essea, but, despite his attempts at meditation, no vision and no message ever came. In fact, he'd had trouble meditating at all for he just couldn't calm his mind. Since coming out of his three-day coma that morning, emotionally-charged thoughts had been swirling through his mind: regrets over his actions in the cavern; confusion about Essea's ultimate plans; thoughts of Barcain and his betrayal; worries about Lydial's safety; and what he would do if he ever faced Malek again. But, perhaps, the most prominent thought was his doubt – doubt over just how he was actually going to accomplish what he needed to do with a missing foot.
Finally, with a quick glance back in Gracie's direction, he stood on his one good leg and – with a look of disdain across his face - reached for the crutches, being careful not to make any noise by banging them against each other or the table. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake and see him fumbling around on the damn things.
He tentatively placed the crutches under his arms and then reached down and gripped each shaft. He placed the ends of both of the crutches a couple of feet in front of him and then pushed forward with his left leg. His body swung forward until his left foot came back into contact with the cabin's hard, dirt floor. As quietly as possible, he began to move around the small table. When he got back to his original position, he nodded his head. It seemed that Gracie had done a fine job of picking solid enough branches to support his weight. He hadn't felt or even heard any significant strain on the wood.
He moved to the cabin's front door and opened it as quietly as possible. He knew that he needed to spend some more time practicing with the crutches, for maneuvering with them still felt incredibly awkward. He moved out into the front yard area of the cabin and began experimenting with the crutches under the full moon. He tested the best way to hold the crutches, just how far out in front of himself he could place them, and just how fast he could move in a straight line with them. Ten minutes later, he placed the crutch under his right arm against a nearby tree, pulled his steel sword, and began swinging the blade right-handed all the while with a crutch under his left arm. Despite his incredible agility, the witcher did lose his balance several times, quietly cursing each time he fell to the ground. After about a half an hour, the muscles throughout his body – but especially in his left leg - were burning like fire so he stopped and rested, kneeling in the grass.
"How the hell am I gonna make it across the Continent on these things?" he asked himself as he cooled down under the moonlight.
"Very slowly, I imagine," came Gracie's voice from behind him.
He'd been so focused on practicing with the crutches that he hadn't even noticed that her snoring had stopped or that she was standing at the doorway.
He turned on his knees to face her.
"Sorry if I woke you."
"You didn't. I just sensed you needed company."
The witcher shook his head. "That right?"
She nodded. "I saw you swinging your sword."
"Yeah," he said with a sigh. "I'm about as skilled as a drunken, seven-year-old."
"Really? Now you're just being silly. You know perfectly well a seven-year-old couldn't even lift a sword that size. He'd be way too little."
"Right," said the witcher with a smirk. He then gazed at the small, old woman.
"Speaking of 'too little,'" he said. "I haven't asked you, but how in the world did a little woman like you pull me from that lake. Especially with my armor on, my swords on my back. How was that even possible?"
Gracie smiled. "It is a mystery, isn't it?"
"It is. Care to enlighten me?"
She didn't say anything for a long time, just staring at the witcher. Finally, she spoke.
"Do you believe in miracles, Geralt?"
"Maybe. I guess it depends on how you define 'miracle.'"
"Simple. An event that the laws of nature nor the laws of magic can't truly explain."
Geralt immediately thought back to a few nights past, to the small, glowing butterfly that had flown through the storm and had landed on his hand. He then nodded his head.
"Yeah…I guess I do."
"I do, too. I'd like to think that, maybe, there's a power greater than us. And, maybe, just maybe, it breaks into our world at times – right when we need it the most."
"And you think that's what happened in the lake?"
"Do you have a better explanation?"
"Guess not," he answered with a shake of his head. Then, a small grin came to his face. "Though, it doesn't explain why you were in the middle of the lake - naked - in the first place."
"You cheeky bugger – you saw that, did you? Well, I was fishing, obviously."
Geralt furrowed his brow. "Fishing? Why do you get naked to catch fish?"
"Who said anything about catching them? I just like talking with them."
"That's what you call 'fishing' – talking to them?"
She answered with a nod and a smile.
The witcher stared back with a furrowed brow. "Okay, but that still doesn't explain why you were naked."
"What – you think it makes more sense to jump into the lake fully clothed? And people call me crazy," she said, shaking her head.
oOo
"Gracie, I can't let you do this," said Geralt.
He was standing, with the aid of his crutches, in the doorway of her small cabin while she was out in the front yard. Next to her, she had her saddled donkey, and attached to it was a litter carrying Evie's corpse.
"And I'm not going to let you tell me what I can or cannot do," she responded with a smile.
"Okay. Fair enough. In that case, I won't accept it."
"Yes, you will. You accepted the crutches and you'll accept Prickly Pete. What else are you going to do – crutch yourself and Evie across the continent? Even you're not that stubborn."
"I could be."
Gracie laughed. "Geralt, I can tell you're a man who doesn't like to ask for help. Think it's a sign of weakness, right? Heck, I imagine you've probably never even needed to ask for help in the past. But you do need help now. So, please don't be too pig-headed and proud to take it. Besides, helping you has made me feel useful again. You wouldn't deprive an old woman of feeling useful, now would you?"
"Fine," he said with a sigh. "But I'm gonna pay you. You can't just give away your only donkey."
Gracie laughed again. "Pay me with what? Everything you own either floated down river or was on the back of your camel, and he's probably halfway to Zerrikania by now."
Geralt clenched his jaws and sighed again. Then, after a moment, he unsheathed his silver sword from his back.
"Then, I'll pay you with this," he answered, as the early-morning sunlight reflected off of the silver blade. "You could sell it and buy a dozen donkeys."
Gracie cocked her head at Geralt and looked at him strangely. "You're going to give me your silver sword?"
Geralt shrugged. "Why not? I don't need it anymore. My witcher days are over," he said, looking her square in the eyes.
The old woman stared at Geralt for several long, silent moments. Finally, she shook her head and spoke.
"Maybe so, but you've still got a long road ahead of you. A road most likely filled with all kinds of nasty creepy-crawlies, and I didn't save you from drowning just so you could then go off and get killed by…a couple of drowners. Wouldn't that be ironic? So, no, I'm not taking your sword, Geralt," she finished.
"Damn it, why is it that every woman I meet is so damn stubborn?"
Gracie smiled. "Just lucky, I guess. Look, if you want to pay me back, then I'll let you. But – I have a certain payment in mind."
"I think I'm afraid to ask."
"It's simple. The next person that you come across that needs help, simply help them. That's the only payment I want from you. That's all. This is a dark and evil world, Geralt. I don't have to tell you, right? So, let's just do our best to fight back against the darkness with a little bit of kindness. What do you say?"
The witcher nodded and then sighed. "Alright. I can do that…but it's gonna end up biting me in the ass. I just know it. It always does."
"I know, right?" Gracie said with a laugh. "Caring for others always costs us something, doesn't it? Saving you cost me my donkey." Then, her eyes went wide and she laughed again. "My ass. Helping you literally cost me my ass."
A small smile finally came to Geralt's face as he shook his head at the crazy woman.
oOo
Gracie hummed to herself as she moved about her small cabin, putting away vials and containers of various alchemical ingredients that she'd used to heal the witcher's wounds over the past four days. She'd watched him ride off just a half hour before, and the memory of seeing him on top of the diminutive donkey, his left boot almost touching the ground, brought a smile to her face. Despite her penchant for saying whatever was on her mind, she'd actually decided to keep her thoughts to herself at the time. He had to have known that he looked a bit silly on top of the little burro. He didn't need her to tell him. Whatever ego the man possessed, she knew that it had taken several damaging blows over the last week, and she wondered just how it all might change him. She also wondered just what the future held for the man, because he had told her where he was headed, and it made her nervous to think about it.
Gracie was suddenly interrupted from her thoughts by a knocking on her front door. She walked over and opened it, confusion on her face upon seeing Geralt standing there on his crutches.
"Did you forget something?"
He nodded. "I did. I made it down the mountain about ten minutes when I felt my heart being squeezed – as if it was in a rock troll's grip, and I knew I had to come back."
"Well, that is worrisome. Best take off your clothes and get back into to bed. I'll need to listen to your heart and give you a complete once-over."
Geralt shook his head. "No…it wasn't literally squeezed. Just – I don't know – convicted. You've been nothing but kind to me, and I almost left here without…without telling you."
"Telling me what?"
The witcher paused for a moment, a clearly uncomfortable look on his face. Finally, he sighed and then spoke.
"The power – the power that you think works miracles – I think I know who it is."
"Do you?" she asked, her smile reaching up to her eyes.
The witcher nodded. "His name is Essea, and I couldn't live with myself if I left here, having never told you about him."
"Then, you'd best come on in," she said, pushing the door the rest of the way open. "You already carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Any more guilt might just snap you in two."
oOo
Montecalvo
"O'Dimm!"
Philippa Eilhart – for what must have been the hundredth time - let loose with a rage-filled scream. She glared down at her torso and lower body, and her fury intensified. She looked up at the ceiling of her study and then frantically moved her head and eyes from side-to-side.
"I demand that you face me…you bald, lying…little cheat! I'll squash you like the worm that you are!"
The sorceress had been screaming the same insults and threats for over a week but to no avail. O'Dimm had not yet heeded her call.
"Well, well," she heard a voice coming from behind her. "Someone is in a bit of a snit."
Philippa immediately spun around, and if looks could kill, the Man of Glass would have been dead on arrival.
"Look at me! Look at what you've done!" she screamed. "I'll show you a 'snit.'"
In a flash, she spoke a spell and cast her hands forward in O'Dimm's direction. A red, wave of energy blasted forth from her palms, but half-way to her intended target, O'Dimm snapped his fingers, and the deadly Power stopped in mid-air, as if frozen. Not only was the sorceress' spell immobilized, Eilhart herself was, as well.
O'Dimm side-stepped the lethal wave of Chaos in front of him and approached Philippa. He snapped his fingers again, and suddenly her eyes shifted towards him. When he smiled at her, her eyes glared all the more.
"I so hate to do this to you, Miss Eilhart, but you don't seem to be in a state where calm, rational dialogue is possible."
He then pulled up a chair and slowly sat down, casually crossing one leg over the other.
"Now…it seems as if you believe that I have breached our contract, but I can assure you – I have never once done so," he said, craning his neck to look up at the sorceress' face.
The Merchant of Mirrors then reached behind him and pulled out a scroll, which then miraculously unrolled itself and hung down straight at his side.
"Let's see…your exact words were…ah, here we are: 'Let me live, and let the world recognize my power and fear me as it should.' There were a few dying gasps interspersed in between your requests, but I didn't see the point in adding those," he said with another wide smile.
Instantly, the scroll rolled up tight, and he then put it away.
"So, Miss Eilhart, as you can see, I did fulfill my part of our contract, and – I must say – in a truly wondrous fashion. You demanded that I look at you. Indeed – just look at you. What a marvelous creature you are. You wanted to live…well, I dare say that you have more vitality and power than you've ever possessed. And as far as the world fearing you as it should…" O'Dimm then laughed. "…you shan't need to ever worry about that again."
He then crossed his arms in front of him.
"Of course, I've always tried to be a reasonable merchant. Always give the customers what they want, I say. Got to keep them happy. So, if you're not satisfied with how I fulfilled your desires, then just say the word, and I'll return you to the exact condition in which I found you – just a moment from death in that dirty, empty cabin." Then, the smile left his face. "But make no mistake, Miss Eilhart, you will fulfill your end of the contract regardless of what you choose."
O'Dimm's dark eyes stared right into those of the witch for the longest time, and then finally, he smiled again.
"So, what say you, Miss Eilhart?" he asked, with a snap of his fingers.
While Philippa's body remained immobilized, she suddenly had use of her mouth. She glared at O'Dimm, the muscles in her jaws bunched tight. Eventually, she spoke.
"Given the two options, then, obviously I prefer to stay in this condition," she said in a calm, measured - but venomous - tone
"Ah, I knew you'd be reasonable," he said with a smile. "And frankly, given that you're a polymorph, I'm not sure what you're so upset about. You should be used to living in non-human forms. Plus, just think of all the added benefits of your…new condition. Have you even tried communicating with your new brethren?"
Philippa's scowl turned into one of slight confusion.
"No. No, I have not. It didn't even occur to me."
"Well, try it. You might be pleasantly surprised," said O'Dimm. "In time, you'll see that I'm the best friend you could ever have. I don't just give people what they want. That's too simple. Their desires are too small. You want power and control, Miss Eilhart? Well, no one has more than me."
Suddenly, the sorceress looked at O'Dimm with different eyes, and she gave an almost-imperceptible nod of her head.
"And to show you that there's no hard feelings – how about I tell you where you can find one Radovid the Fifth, King of Redania? You have a little score to settle with him, do you not?"
For the first time in weeks, a smile came to Philippa's face.
"Indeed, I do."
oOo
The Holy City of the Aen Seidhe; 98 Years Post-Conjunction
Maccarreg paused at the bottom of the hill and looked upwards. Despite it being the middle of the night, there was enough illumination that he could see his older brother's silhouette at the top of the hill, kneeling down at the foot of the father's fresh grave.
The younger brother had gone to bed earlier in the evening totally exhausted. Seeing his father's health deteriorate the last few months had been the most difficult and emotionally painful experience that he'd ever gone through, but, given that Gaineamh had also been the only prophet and priest of the Aen Seidhe for the last one thousand years, it had been trying times for the nation as a whole, as well. Once Gaineamh's health began to decline, there had been numerous discussions – both within the city and without - as to whom his successor would be. To Maccarreg, it seemed as if half the families in the Holy City had put forward a candidate to be the nation's mediator with Essea. But it had been the leaders of the other three city-states in the south that had been the most vocal in their desire to rule the elven nation. All of this debate took place despite Gaineamh's decree that his eldest son, Taibhsear, would succeed him in the role of prophet and priest. Eventually, to placate all parties, it was decided that Essea, himself, would decide. Just a week ago, lots were cast, and just as his father had decreed, the lot fell to Taibhsear.
The entire, contentious dispute seemed to drain Gaineamh of his last vestige of life for he died a short time later, and in the few days since, the two brothers had been in the center of a storm of activity. Given their father's stature, a private, family burial of the body would not suffice. A public funeral was also offered to the thousands of Aen Seidhe who wanted to pay their respects. Of course, before that could take place, other official ceremonies had to occur – specifically, anointing Taibhsear as the third prophet, priest, and judge of the elven nation.
Maccarreg's older brother had seemed to handle all the pomp-and-circumstance better than he had. The younger sibling wasn't one who relished the politics and ceremony typical of the priesthood. He was a military elf - a career soldier who, while quite skilled with both his mind and tongue, was even more so with his blade. And it now looked like he was finally going to get the chance to use that skill.
While Maccarreg may have gone to bed both physically and emotionally exhausted, as he stood at the base of the hill, he felt more alive than he had in years, and he strode with purpose upwards, toward his brother. As he ascended, his mind replayed a conversation that he'd had with his father. It was a conversation that they'd had several hundred times in the last century.
Ever since the Conjunction of the Spheres, a devastating civil war had been going on amongst the eight Aen Seidhe city-states in the northern area of the continent, and there was no secret as to the cause of the war. Whoever possessed the Sword of Destruction – the name given to Apophis' weapon decades ago – had an inexplicable desire to kill his neighboring elves. Many times, the wielder of the Sword would even turn on his own city-state, killing hundreds and thousands of his own soldiers and citizens. And it didn't matter how peace-loving the elf was prior to holding the blade. Once the Sword fell into his grasp, he suddenly had nothing but death and destruction on his mind – hence, the origin of the weapon's moniker.
The elves of the south knew without a doubt that the Sword was possessed by some type of evil force. How exactly this force influenced the Sword's 'owner,' Maccarreg didn't know, but there was no denying that it changed its wielder in physical, mental, and emotional ways. Over the last one hundred years, more times than not, the Sword's master would become so mentally unstable that they'd commit suicide before ever being actually defeated by an outside foe. Then, the Sword would be picked up by another elf, and the war would simply continue, just with someone new leading the carnage. For decades, Maccarreg had routinely asked his father, Gaineamh, permission to head north in order to capture the Sword of Destruction and destroy it once-for-all.
"This is Essea's hand," had always been Gaineamh's answer. "They are all reaping what they have sown. Our Lord is discipling the northern Aen Seidhe for turning from him. He is purging them of those who worship false gods."
"Maybe so, Father," Maccarreg had always replied, "but the purge is just about complete. There are hardly any Aen Seidhe left in the north, and, eventually, whoever has the Sword will head south for us. They've got to be stopped before they get here."
"That may be, my son, but it will have to be done in Essea's time. I've sought his will in this matter repeatedly, and he has, as of yet, never given his blessing for the mission you seek. Maccarreg, you are an elf of action so I know this is frustrating for you, but please heed my warning. If you go against our God's will in this, you will fail. For there is no wisdom, no insight, and no strategy that can succeed against the Lord's sovereign plan. But, if you wait for his timing, if you are in line with his will, then nothing will be able stop you, for God's purpose always prevails."
Those words from his father were in his mind as Maccarreg reached the summit of the small hill that was outside of the city's walls. He paused for a moment to look at the back of his brother, still kneeling beside their father's grave.
"I knew you'd be up here," he said, stepping closer to his sibling.
"And I knew you'd come," Taibhsear retorted. "Let me guess, now that Father is dead, you want my blessing to go north."
He then turned around and stood facing Maccarreg.
"Yes…and no," answered the soldier. "As my earthly leader, I'd like your blessing. As hard as it may be for me to submit to my older brother's authority, I will always do my best to do so."
Taibhsear smiled and nodded. "However?" he asked.
"However, there's a higher authority than you. Tonight, an angel of Essea came to me. He instructed me to capture the Sword."
Taibhsear said nothing for the longest time, simply staring at his younger sibling.
"If this was anyone else but you, then I'd question this vision. It seems pretty convenient, given that this is what you've wanted to do for the last century."
Maccarreg gave a small smile. "I don't blame you. I'd be suspicious, too. But, luckily, you do know me."
"Yes, I know you'd never fabricate receiving a message from Essea," Taibhsear said with a nod. "When do you plan to leave?"
"Tomorrow. My men are ready. Essea knows I've been preparing them for this day for years."
The elder sibling nodded again. "Did this message from God specify that you are to go alone – just you and your men?"
Maccarreg immediately furrowed his brow and squinted had his brother.
"No," he finally stated. "No, it did not. Why do you ask?"
"In that case, you are to take elves with you from each of our three, neighboring city-states here in the south."
"Brother, please tell me you're jesting," the soldier said with a shake of his head. "You actually want me to take along the same elves that tried to deny you your rightful place as prophet and priest? I know these elves, Taibhsear. And you do, too. You know they can't be trusted. They may not be in the middle of the civil war, but they have turned their backs on Essea just as much as any of the city-states in the north. Their worship of God is purely lip service. They have no true love for him. They offer nothing but cold, external, religious practices, and even then - only when it's required. The rest of the time, they live however they see fit."
"I agree, Maccarreg. And it's for that reason that we can't simply wash our hands of them. They are still our brothers, and we need to bring them back into the fold. The only way we can do that is to maintain our alliances with them. If we cut ourselves off, then they'll never care one whit what we have to say to them. We'll never have any kind of positive influence."
"Brother, they already don't care one bit what we have to say. Father spent the last century pleading with them. Begging them to genuinely repent, to return to a loving relationship with Essea, but our words mean nothing to them."
"I couldn't agree more, and that's why we have to persuade them with our actions. We have to continue to pursue them. Maccarreg, you have been blessed. Tonight, you received an actual message from God. And, now, we have the chance to invite our brothers who have strayed to be a part of this – to be a part of Essea's sovereign plan. You're right - we have every right and reason to exclude them, but…just think what it would show them if we choose to include them anyway."
The younger brother just stared at the elder and shook his head, his thoughts clearly on his face.
"Plus, you're going to need all the help you can get."
"I've got Essea on my side," said Maccarreg. "That's all I need."
"Yes, that's true, but don't forsake the means by which he helps us. Essea has given you neighbors that can aid you. I've been praying about this for months – ever since Father took ill. I knew you'd be coming to me with this. And while I have received no direct word from God on this matter, I still feel that bringing soldiers from the other city-states is the correct course of action."
Maccarreg exhaled deeply. "So be it. If this is your instruction, then I will submit. But just so you know, I don't plan on fighting for the Sword head on. We won't acquire it 'fairly.' Surprise will be the key. Me and my soldiers…we're as silent as the midnight breeze. So, I'll take these other soldiers, but I am in charge. I will decide how to best use them."
Taibhsear nodded and smiled. "Brother, I wouldn't have it any other way. I'd never tell you how to fight a battle. That's your area of expertise. Just…promise me one thing."
"What's that?"
"Do your best to come home."
Maccarreg smiled back.
"Hey, it's me. Besides, as father always said, 'If Essea be for us, then who can be against us?'"
oOo
Maecht
There was a little caravan of five mounted riders heading north. Timataal and Aarian – the only other of Malek's men left alive - led the way, with Barcain riding by himself a yard or two behind them. Bringing up the rear – and completely out of ear-shot from the rest - were Malek and Lydial, riding side-by-side.
That morning, the full-blood Aen Seidhe had informed them all that she'd found verses within the Essean scrolls indicating that the last known location of the Sword of Destruction was in the far north of the Continent – most likely in the now-named Dragon Mountains.
"That's it? That's all it says? That it's somewhere in the Dragon Mountains?" Timataal had asked. "Granted, that's more than we knew yesterday, but that mountain range spans the entire continent from the east to the west. We could spend a dozen lifetimes up there and still never find it. You sure there's nothing more specific?"
"Nothing yet," Lydial had answered. "But I'll keep searching."
"Don't worry about it," said Barcain with a confident smile. "Essea will show us the way. 'Ask and ye shall receive,' right, Nain?"
There was then a short debate on the best way to travel, but eventually, it was decided by all that horse-back would suffice. If needed, they could always change their minds later and head west for the coast to find a ship sailing north.
"I know he's your grandson, but why are you helping him?" asked Malek in a quiet voice as their horses walked slowly along the trail.
Lydial glanced quickly at the large man out of the corner of her eye and then straight ahead again towards the path in front of them. She immediately thought of the innocent lives up in Dol Blathanna and the threat that Barcain had made. She didn't actually know if he had the ability to follow through with that threat, but she had no doubt that he would try if she failed to assist him. That was something on which she wasn't willing to take a chance.
"None of your business," she stated in a neutral tone.
Malek nodded. "Fair enough. I wouldn't trust me either."
"And just why should I? You killed my granddaughter."
"True, but it was an accident. I was actually trying to save her."
"Really? Then do me a favor – don't ever try to save me."
Malek sighed deeply. "I know you're upset, and you have every right to be, but I promise you – no one feels worse about Evangeline's death than I do. I'll have to live with the knowledge that I killed her for the rest of my life."
Lydial glanced at Malek again. "Just why are you helping him?" she whispered.
"I think you're mistaken on just who is helping whom. He was spying for me, remember?"
"Right…he was. I've heard you and your friends talking. I know that you're…persona non grata with the Empire these days. So, let me guess, you just want the Sword for yourself now."
"Oh, you're damn right that I want to find that Sword. But not for myself," Malek said, shaking his head. "Not for myself."
oOo
Nilfgaard
Fringilla sat alone in her quarters within the luxurious mansion of the Vigo estate. She was feeling incredibly melancholy, and she wasn't sure why. Today should have been a day of rejoicing. Her cousin, Donato, had been crowned the newest ruler of the empire. It actually hadn't taken much to usurp Emhyr's throne given that he hadn't been seen or heard from in over two months. In fact, what was left of the Nilfgaardian spy network throughout the north could find not hide nor hair of him.
Rumors abounded, of course. Some said he'd died heroically, attacking Radovid's palace in Tretogor. Others said he'd turned coward and fled during the invasion of Redania. Some said he'd been killed by strange, never-before-seen magical creatures rampaging through the north. A few – those who knew Emhyr best – didn't believe any of that scuttlebutt. The man had ruled the Nilfgaardian Empire for over two decades and had survived countless coups and battles. They viewed him like a cockroach – nearly unkillable. He might be off hiding in some foreign land now, licking his wounds, but they had no doubt that he'd return to the capital city one day to reclaim his throne. But, until then, the wheel would keep turning. The empire was like a twenty-ton boulder rolling downhill. It'd keep tumbling along regardless of who claimed to be in charge.
The sorceress thought back to that day's activities. The coronation had not been an overly, extravagant affair – at least, as far as coronations go.
"We are still dealing with the deaths of thousands of our young men in the north. Too festive of an event would be in poor taste at the moment," Donato had said two weeks prior. "The crown needs to be seen as being sensitive to the plight of our common folk. They are the mules of the empire, after all."
Therefore, the subdued and reserved coronation only had guests numbering in the hundreds instead of the thousands and only lasted three days instead of the customary seven.
As one of the newly-crowned emperor's closest relatives, as a powerful sorceress, and as the soon-to-be duchess of Toussaint, Fringilla had no shortage of admirers and sycophants. But despite being constantly surrounded for the last three days, she'd still felt utterly alone. She was amazed at how that could be.
She rose from where she was lying on her chaise-lounge and pulled her silk robe tightly around her. She walked into her bed chambers and stopped in front of her dresser, on top of which sat a large porcelain bowl filled with clean water. She took the bowl from the dresser and set it on a nearby table. She knew that what she was about to do was not healthy, but she didn't care. She recognized that she was borderline obsessing, but she didn't know how to stop. The sorceress waved her arms in an intricate fashion and began speaking a spell in the Elder tongue. Suddenly, an image appeared within the water. And not just an image but sounds, as well. She inhaled deeply and, subconsciously, held her breath for a moment.
After several minutes of staring at and listening to the image, she suddenly felt disgusted with herself. She wasn't sure with whom she was angrier – him or herself. With a wave of her hand, the image disappeared, leaving nothing but the still, clear water in the bowl.
Fringilla walked slowly to her bed and slipped under the covers, but sleep would not come. For every time she closed her eyes, she saw the same thing – the face and voice of Malek VanderBosch.