Book 3: The Wolf Dies
Chapter 6
Barefield
The caravan of Redanian soldiers had stopped for the day in a small town not far from the Dragon Mountains. Radovid and his most senior officers took rooms in the local tavern while the rest of his men set up a bivouac outside of town. In one of the smallest tents were two Redanians guarding Lydial and Malek, whose hands were not only still tied behind his back but were also secured to a large, metal stake that have been driven deep into the ground.
Barcain crouched down and walked into the small tent, snowflakes visible in his hair and on the shoulders of his armor. He looked at the two guards.
"You can step out. I'm going to speak with my family."
After watching the two exit the tent, he turned back to face his uncle and grandmother.
"I have no doubt that either of you are pleased with me."
"Yeah…some might call you a traitor," said Malek.
"Understandable," said Barcain, nodding his head. "Except that I would have never turned my back on Nilfgaard if it hadn't turned its back on me first. All I ever wanted was to be like you, Uncle. To be a part of a greater cause. To belong. To serve the Empire. But it made it crystal clear that it didn't want me. So, I found a country that did. A group that would accept me."
"You think Radovid actually accepts you? Does he know you're a quarter Aen Seidhe?" asked Malek.
"He does…and he doesn't care. Contrary to popular opinion, he doesn't actually hate all nonhumans. He just hates the Scoia'tael. And he has good reason to. They fought on Nilfgaard's side in the Second War. If I was a Nordling, I'd hate them, too."
Malek shook his head. "Barcain, don't be a fool. You can't actually believe that he'll let you keep the Sword."
Barcain suddenly had a look of confusion on his face.
"Uncle, I don't want to keep it," he answered. "I'm not a power-hungry madman. I have no plans to rule a country on my own. I just want to play my part. That said, I do think I'll get to use the Sword quite often. For my service to the crown, King Radovid has already promised me virtually any role I'd like. And I've requested a position similar to the one you played with Emhyr. In that role, I see the Sword coming in very handy."
"That's assuming you can find it," said Lydial. "And there's nothing else in the rest of the Essean scrolls as to its whereabouts."
Barcain smiled. "That won't be a problem, Nain. Despite what you believe, Essea's scriptures aren't the only texts that have answers."
He then pulled out a small book from inside his gambeson.
"Dad's special journal."
"You've had it all along?" Lydial was incredulous.
"It's a pretty good read. A young man named Lan writes of a really interesting story. Of an Aen Seidhe elf carrying a magical sword who got lost in the mountains. There was a blizzard and an avalanche, which destroyed the mountain pass; he took a dangerous fall into a deep gorge; he hid out in a cave until the storm passed. Then, four days later the elf comes into town and kills three of his compatriots. But, before doing so, he tells them that the sword was lost somewhere up in the mountains. The story continues, but those are the highlights. However, the journal is missing some pages – and some crucial details – like the name of the town and the name of the mountain range. But, fortunately, you provided those for me, Nain."
He then smiled widely again. "We're on the precipice of what could be this Continent's most incredible discovery. I'll get all the credit, of course, but just between us…I couldn't have done it without you."
"It was you," whispered Malek. The look on his face was one of disgust and disbelief.
Barcain turned from Lydial to look at Malek.
"Come again?"
"It was you," he repeated. "That book went missing the night your parents were killed. You did it, didn't you? You killed Hannamiel. Your own mother."
The smile fell from Barcain's face. He stared at Malek but said nothing.
"Barcain?" said Lydial, her voice full of fear and uncertainty.
He looked at his grandmother and nodded. "I'm sorry, Nain. I didn't mean to. All I wanted was the book. That's it. I needed it…if I was going to start a new life, but my worthless, piece-of-dung father wouldn't hand it over. I swear that man was good for nothing," he said, shaking his head. "We struggled, and mom tried to stop us. She fell and hit her head on the desk. Killed her instantly."
Barcain looked away, as if replaying the memory in his mind. He then looked at Malek.
"It was an accident. It can happen to anyone, right, Uncle? I mean, you know something about that, don't you? Killing a loved one by accident."
oOo
Blue Mountains
Yennefer, the raven-haired sorceress from Vengerberg, strode purposefully throughout the third-floor lab in the Aen Seidhe palace just as she'd done every day since she'd first arrived there the past summer. Each hour of each day she meticulously monitored the magic that was sustaining the dozens of elven fetuses being housed in special, glass containers. For the last several months, she'd possessed a solitary focus – to "birth" as many of those elven fetuses as she possibly could, and she knew the exact number. She'd already helped ten new lives come into the world. And though, so far, they'd all been adopted by Aen Seidhe families there at the palace, deep down in her heart, she hoped that, one day, she would be able to call one of the as-of-yet-born babies her own.
The sorceress was not naïve, though. She clearly recognized that, while the elves were grateful for her service, they would never turn one of their own kind over to a human – much less to a witch – to raise. She knew that, in their minds, she'd never be more than "Aunt" Yennefer to any of the new infants. But that didn't deter the sorceress – not in the least. She was too close to becoming a mother again, and she'd not let anyone or anything stop her. She was more than willing to assist the Aen Seidhe and bide her time, and then when the last baby was born, she – and it – would simply leave together. She was a powerful wielder of magic…so who could stop her? And to Yennefer's mind, becoming a mother was simply her due. If not for her magic, then all of the fetuses would have already perished. Thus, it just made sense – she deserved the opportunity to adopt, raise, and love one of them as her own, and the thought of holding her own new-born in her arms brought a smile to the normally stern-faced woman. It was then that Yennefer was brought out of her thoughts by the door to the lab opening.
"My pardon, Lady Yennefer," said an elf, "but you have a visitor – the Witcher."
The sorceress' eyes involuntarily widened a fraction of an inch, accompanied by a short intake of breath, but she immediately regained her composure and reapplied her typical, stoic countenance. It would be unseemly for a sorceress to ever be seen as anything other than in complete control.
oOo
Geralt sat in a large, metal chair in one of the first-floor rooms of the Dol Blathanna palace. It was, perhaps, the most uncomfortable chair that he'd ever sat in. There were no cushions; the seat seemed to incline at a strange angle; there were no arms on which to rest his elbows; and, because of his prosthetic leg, he couldn't sit in the position in which he was accustomed. The entire situation seemed to mirror what he was feeling inside. He was starting to think that coming to the palace had been a complete mistake.
The witcher honestly felt more unease dealing with the raven-haired sorceress than he ever did prior to facing down some post-Conjunction monster. For, at least, with the monster, he knew how to prepare. But there was no bestiary entry for one Yennefer of Vengerberg. Most of the time she displayed an ice-cold, hard, haughty shell, but she could just as easily erupt into a fiery blast of anger – many times for reasons that were completely unknown and unfathomable to him. If anybody in their tumultuous relationship had ever needed the ability to read minds, it was him and not her. Typically, when he'd been around her in the past, Geralt had been in a near-perpetual state of bewilderment and confusion by her behavior. The only thing that the witcher knew for sure about the sorceress from his decades-long, on-again, off-again relationship with her was that she seemed to only be satisfied with him when he made her the center of his universe. As long as he ensured that his life revolved completely around her and that he was at her every beck and call, then there was mostly peace between them. Of course, even then it was only most of the time. He had routinely aggravated her simply just by being himself. So much so, that he honestly wasn't even sure why she liked having him around at all. They seemed to do nothing but bring out the worst in each other. All of that said, though, he could admit that their entire relationship hadn't been totally unpleasant – the sex had been very passionate – but overall, the one word that came to mind when he thought of their time together was "exhausting."
In that moment, Geralt made up his mind to leave. He decided that he'd try to do what he needed to without Yennefer's help after all. But just as he stood up from the chair, he heard the click-clack of heels on the marble floor coming from the other side of the room's door. He knew that cadence of steps anywhere. Even the way she walked was distinctly and uniquely Yen-like.
"Swell," he whispered to himself after exhaling deeply. After several long moments of silence, eventually the door to the room opened and in walked the sorceress from Vengerberg.
oOo
A battle was raging inside of Yennefer as she walked down the halls and then the stairs towards the first-floor room where Geralt awaited. She believed that she truly loved the romantically-clueless and emotionally-distant little boy hidden inside a grown man's body, but she was also tired of him breaking her heart. Every time she lowered her defenses and let him in, he'd invariably turn and run – if not that week, then within a few months. It had happened every time. But, despite the pain he'd caused her, she was still excited by him. He had some hold on her that she just couldn't explain. Perhaps, it was because – in spite of how she'd treated him when they'd first met - he'd still risked his life to save hers from the djinn all those years ago. She could admit that that sacrifice had made a lasting impression. While countless men had been willing to sacrifice a little – swallowing some of their masculine pride - in order to be with her, no other man in her life had ever been willing to die in order to save her. In contrast to the aloof, outward appearance that she had so carefully cultivated over the decades, she truly did long for intimacy deep down inside, and the witcher had always touched her and, at least, partially-satisfied that longing in ways that no one else ever could.
With that thought, a small smile came to her face. She couldn't deny it – she was looking forward to seeing Geralt again and hearing him call her "Yen." He was the only person she allowed to do so. A tiny surge of pride and satisfaction also swelled up inside of her. She knew – despite what he'd told her after the djinn on the Skellige mountaintop had broken the magical bond between them – that the witcher would always come back to her. Even if no one else understood it, they were meant for each other. She knew that in her heart.
Once the sorceress reached the first-floor door, she paused. She quickly brushed her hands over her outfit, smoothing out the wrinkles, and then dropped the smile from her face. Even though she was pleased that he was there, she couldn't let him know that – at least, not at first. She needed to make him sweat things out a bit. She had to be in control – at all times – but especially when it came to her relationship with him. The raven-haired sorceress took a deep breath and then reached for the knob and opened the door.
oOo
"Greetings, Yennefer. You look fantastic," the witcher said quickly, before the sorceress could get a word out. He was hoping that an initial compliment would set an amicable tone for the entire conversation. He was also sporting his best and most disarming smile.
Yennefer stopped several feet from him and looked at him with a small glare.
"Are you kidding?" he thought to himself, his smile faltering somewhat. "How could that have been the wrong thing to say?"
"Hello, Geralt," she said in a very clipped manner. "Since when did you start calling me 'Yennefer?'"
"Uh…ever since I remembered you telling me that I'd lost the right to call you 'Yen,'" he said, returning the small and - he hoped - ingratiating smile to his face. "Anyway, you look great."
"Yes, you said that already. You, on the other hand…I've never seen your hair so short."
He nodded, and the memory of Evie chopping off a dozen inches of his hair in the mountains above Ban Ard automatically popped into his mind. Thinking of her made his smile disappear.
"Yeah, I cut it a few months back," he said solemnly.
Yennefer's eyes narrowed again, and she was silent for a moment.
"Really? Don't you mean your flavor of the month cut it?"
A flash of anger surged through the witcher because he knew that she had just read his mind again, despite the countless times he'd told her that he considered it an invasion of privacy. But instead of saying anything, he closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing.
"A gentle word turns away wrath. A gentle word turns away wrath. A gentle word turns away wrath," he said to himself over and over again.
The last thing he wanted right now was to fight with her. Eventually, he exhaled deeply and opened his eyes.
"Let's try this again, shall we? How are you, Yen? You're looking well."
"Why are you here, Geralt?" she asked with a definite icy tone. "You've made it crystal clear that…" But she suddenly cut off her thought mid-sentence. "What exactly do you want with me? I know you didn't just pop in to say hello."
"Fine. If that's how you want it," he answered with a nod. "Are you proficient in sanguimancy?"
She gave him a hard stare. "Really, Geralt? Every average graduate of Aretuza has mastered that…and I am clearly not average."
"Sorry, sorry," he replied, holding both hands up. "I should have known better than to question your skills. I was just making sure."
"Your inquiry does surprise me, though. I thought your sensibilities were too delicate to deal in blood magic."
"Now you're just being difficult, Yen. You know very well that it's necromancy – black magic – that I've got an issue with. I don't want you to try to raise the dead. I just need you to find someone for me."
A snide look creased the sorceress's face.
"Let me guess – your little flavor of the month ran off with someone else."
Geralt didn't say anything for, again, he felt a spark of anger. He just clenched his jaws tightly and did his best to control his breathing. This witch had a special gift for getting under his skin. He just stared at his former lover, and as he studied her face, his anger suddenly disappeared and he was overcome with sadness. The woman in front of him had been blessed with so much, and yet, she was so damn miserable. He wondered if she'd ever truly known peace and joy and contentment in her heart. Everywhere she went, women were jealous of her beauty just as men were drawn to it. An untold number of people would have literally killed to have the type of power that she possessed. But instead of focusing on the gifts she had and being grateful for those blessings, she chose to allow bitterness to consume her. Bitterness over the things done to her. Bitterness over the things she couldn't have. And, throughout her life, that hardness had driven virtually everyone away from her – had always kept people at a distance. Other than himself and Ciri, he wasn't sure that Yennefer had ever truly had any real friends in life. In all the time that they'd known each other, Geralt could think of only one person who Yennefer honestly considered a friend – Triss – and even she'd ended up betraying the raven-haired sorceress by pursuing him. It was actually all very sad when he thought about it.
For the first time in his life, the witcher was seeing Yennefer as she truly was. On the inside, she was still the same, broken little girl with the humpback and the abusive father that she'd always been. A scared and angry little girl railing against the unfairness of life, truly believing that somehow life "owed" her everything she wanted. And because she couldn't get what she wanted, then she'd simply make everyone else around her as miserable as she was.
Despite the epiphany he was having about Yennefer, it wasn't making him judgmental. Rather, it was making him sad and empathetic because he, too, had felt the same way at various times in his life – bitter at having never known his family; bitter over having no choice in becoming a witcher; bitter over his sterility, over being an outcast; over the loss of his loved ones; and bitter, too, over the unfairness of life. Geralt suddenly felt overwhelmed by Essea's grace. The witcher knew that, had God not reached down and placed some of his "light" or "goodness" inside of him, he'd be just like the woman across from him – completely jaded, joyless, friendless, and without any real hope in the world that life could be better.
Geralt shook his head slowly as he looked at the sorceress.
"You know, Yen, it doesn't have to be this hard."
She furrowed her brow at him. "What doesn't?"
"Life…relationships…they don't have to be this difficult. Kindness isn't a weakness."
A look of condescension came to Yennefer's face.
"I know you've always fancied yourself somewhat of a philosopher – dispensing your pseudo-intellectual pearls of wisdom to the naïve peasant-girls that you so love to bed down, but, please, Witcher – you giving relationship advice? That is rich. Don't forget to whom you're speaking. I'm not one of your random bed-warmers. I actually know you. You'd rather fight a dozen zeugls than to ever actually commit to anyone…so don't talk to me about relationships."
Geralt just stared at his one-time love, a variety of responses running through his mind. In the past, he would have chosen a sarcastic barb, and even now, one had automatically come to mind. More so, he could've told her about Evie. Told the sorceress that she didn't know him as well as she thought because he'd actually given the historian his heart and taken her as a wife, but he knew that would have hurt Yennefer deeply, and the last thing he desired was to get into one of their epic fights - even though he was quite sure that that's what she wanted. Over the years, he'd learned that, in her twisted psyche, Yennefer somehow equated fighting with showing that you cared. To her, it meant that the couple was passionate – or some other such nonsense. He figured it somehow had to do with the abusive home in which she was raised. Regardless, he didn't have the energy to deal with it anymore.
He reached up and smoothed down the stubble on his jaw with his hand, trying to give himself a fraction more time for the calmness to wash over him before he opened his mouth. Finally, he nodded several times and let out a small sigh.
"I have clearly angered you. I apologize for that. That was not my intention," he said, and then he turned and grabbed his cane from where it was resting against a nearby desk before looking back at the sorceress. "I'm sorry I bothered you, Yen. I'll show myself out."
And then he began limping towards the door, using the cane for support.
Just before he reached the threshold, Yennefer spoke, "Geralt, what happened to your leg?"
He paused, facing the doorway, and bit back the snide remark that naturally came to mind.
Instead, he turned around and said simply, "Just an accident."
"Well, let me see it. Perhaps I can help you." There was still no tenderness in her voice.
The witcher looked down at his leg and when he looked back up at Yennefer, she saw a wistful smile on his face. He then took his cane and rapped it twice against his right leg just below the knee. There was the unmistakable sound of wood hitting wood, which made the sorceress gasp.
"You're a powerful sorceress, Yen, but I don't think that even you can regrow a new leg."
oOo
"Give me the vial of blood," Yennefer ordered as she stood in front of a table covered with a variety of bowls and beakers filled with all type of substances.
She and Geralt were in a large room of the Aen Seidhe palace that served as both the sorceress' living quarters and her personal laboratory. It had taken Yennefer a few moments to get over the shock of Geralt's injury, but once she did, she found it in herself to assist the witcher.
As Geralt handed over the vial, she asked, "Just how old is the blood?"
He paused for a moment while he did some mental calculations.
"Well over a month."
A displeased look crossed the sorceress' face. "And I assume that it hasn't been under magical stasis during that time nor been, at the very least, kept in cold environments."
He nodded. "You'd assume right."
"Well, then, I won't guarantee the results. Magical experiments are only as good as the ingredients used. Someone as knowledgeable about alchemy as you are should know that."
"Duly noted – anything goes wrong…it's not your fault. I still need you to do this for me."
Yennefer uncorked the vial and made a face at what she saw and smelled.
"It's worse than I thought, but I suppose we'll just have to make do."
While the sorceress went about the process of preparing for the experiment, Geralt found a nearby chair and sat down. She scraped the dried blood out of the vial and put it into a large bowl. Then, she meticulously measured out various ingredients and added each one to the bowl, as well.
"So, was I correct in that you're looking for your…friend – the history professor?" she asked as she continued to work.
"No, Yen, you were not. She's dead. That's her blood."
Yennefer momentarily paused and glanced at Geralt out of the corner of her eye, but then she immediately went back to measuring out ingredients.
"I'm looking for her grandmother," he continued.
"And she's your friend's closest relative?"
"No, her brother is."
"Well, then Geralt, we're wasting our time," Yennefer said, turning from the table and looking straight at the witcher. "This spell is going to show you her closest blood-relative."
"I know," he said with a nod. "But I'm betting that they're still together so…if I find him, then I should find her."
"Does this have anything to do with what happened to your leg?"
He nodded again. "They're related."
"And you're still not going to tell me what it's about?"
"Too many people have died already. I don't want to bring you into the middle of it."
"And if I refuse to help you if you don't tell me?"
"Well, that wouldn't surprise me. I know you don't like secrets."
"But you still wouldn't tell me?"
"I'd ask that you trust me – that I have your best interest at heart. Wouldn't matter if you knew what it's about anyway. You've gotta stay here because of those fetuses on the third-floor, right?"
"Right – which means, then, that there's no harm in telling me," she answered with a small smile.
The witcher gave a small smile in return. "Well played."
Over the next ten minutes, Geralt gave Yennefer a very abridged and very watered-down version of the events of the last four months. He told her that they'd been searching for an old, Aen Seidhe artifact, but he didn't tell her any specifics - that it was tied to a prophecy or that it could conceivably possess the power to destroy nations. He knew that she knew he wasn't being 100% forthcoming, but, frankly, that was something they were both used to. Throughout their nearly thirty-year relationship, neither of them had ever truly opened up completely to the other.
By the time the witcher was done telling his story, Yennefer had finished with her preparations. She held a bowl in front of her that contained a large amount of a flaky, dry material.
"What's next?" asked the witcher, nodding towards the bowl in her hands.
"Well, there are different sanguimancy rituals and spells that can be used for locating purposes, but, given the condition of the blood sample that you gave me, then I think this will give us the best results. I'll give you a wet towel to cover your head, and you'll lean over the bowl as the incense is burning. It'll help if you try to meditate, too. I'll also cast a hypnotic spell over your mind. All of that together, should allow you to glimpse a vision of who you're looking for."
"So, I'll only see her closest blood-relative, right?"
"Initially, you may see several people, but, yes, the spell should quickly focus on the individual who has the closest blood-connection to your friend."
Geralt nodded. "Alright. Then, I'm ready."
oOo
Fifteen minutes later, Yennefer was watching Geralt, sitting in a chair, his forearms on the table in front of him as he leaned over the bowl of burning incense. Suddenly, the witcher jerked his head upward quickly, coming out of the magical vision. He took the towel off his head, sat up straight in the chair, and slowly shook his head back and forth. His brow was furrowed and he had a look of confusion on his face.
"What's wrong?" asked Yennefer.
Geralt looked her in the eyes. "Are you sure you prepared the blood correctly?"
The sorceress' only response was raising an eyebrow at the witcher.
"Right," said Geralt. "Sorry, it's just that…the vision was off."
"How so?"
"At first, it was like you said. I saw several people – folks I've never seen before. I'm assuming Evie's relatives. And then the vision quickly showed me Lydial and Barcain – her grandmother and brother. At that point, I assumed it worked perfectly and I started studying the land around them, looking for identifying markers. But, then, her uncle came into focus, and the vision stayed on him until it finally ended."
"I guarantee you that I did not make a mistake. If there was any error in the vision, it was because of the tainted blood you brought me."
Geralt was quiet for a while, staring off into space. Then, he nodded his head several times and looked at Yennefer.
"Well, I don't guess it really matters," he said, but the look on his faced showed that he wasn't entirely sure of that. "All three of them were together, in the same area. And, most importantly, I think I recognized their location. They're just outside of a town that I've been to many times."
"So, back on the Path then?"
"Yeah, they're at least a week's hard-ride away. Now that I know where they are, I should leave immediately."
"You know," said the sorceress with a smile, "I could open a portal for you. And yes, I know you hate them, but it'd get you there faster. Who knows where they'll be a week from now, right?"
Geralt looked at Yennefer and narrowed his eyes. "Yen, I know you too well. You're up to something."
A scowl came to her face and she shook her head.
"Typical, Witcher. You have no problem using me when it suits your needs, but if go out of my way to show kindness, you suddenly turn suspicious and run away. So, go ahead, Witcher, run away like you've always done." She shook her head again. "And you presumed to give me advice on relationships."
"Alright, alright," growled the witcher. "You made your point. I'm sorry. You're right - I should trust you." Then, he nodded his head to himself. "I'll have to leave my horse here, but a portal would be handy. And I could always acquire one of their horses." He then looked at the sorceress. "Okay. I'll take your portal."
Ten minutes later, Yennefer watched Geralt limp through her magical portal with his sword in one hand, his cane in the other, and his saddle bags over his right shoulder.
As soon as the portal closed, she immediately turned and strode purposefully back to her living quarters inside the palace. She shut and locked the door and then approached her megascope.
Yennefer fiddled with the crystals, and then, a moment later, a semi-blurry image of a person appeared in the air in between the three points of her megascope.
The raven-haired sorceress spoke to the vision in front of her.
"I have no doubt that you're surprised to hear from me, but something has come up. We need to speak – in person. I am opening a portal and coming through."