16. Vergen Besieged

Dying was less mysterious to Geralt of Rivia than to almost anyone else. He'd actually done it once before, and though he had serious lapses in long-term memory, he recalled that sensation fairly well. Death in each of its iterations certainly had unique qualities, but there were some experiences that were - or at least, should have been - common to everyone. Geralt had tasted these commonalities before, which is why he recognized what not-dying felt like. After floating in a delirious, thoughtless void, the sudden, immense weight constricting his chest was rather un-death-like. Equally unlike dying was the rush of wind that tousled his hair wildly, consistently blowing for a good fifteen minutes or more (if his sense of time in this half-alive-half-dead state could be trusted). In the deep recesses of the witcher's mind, some light was still on, even in the mental fog of the unconscious. He pondered with great curiosity the pressure around his midsection, the whipping wind, and the feeling of weightlessness as his arms and legs flailed like a rag doll, swaying to and fro without his consent. Not dead. Not yet, he concluded. Can't die yet. Have to find Yen. Have to find Ciri…

—

An apple falls to the soft padding of lush green blades below, drawing the slightest smile out of the raven-haired woman. She lazily reaches over, plucks it from the ground, and takes a bite. A tiny stream of juice escapes from the corner of her curved lips - liquid that she deliberately leaves there, as if inviting assistance in cleaning it up. The witcher responds as expected, leaning in and kissing it off tenderly. The woman shares a few bites, then takes a few more, then tosses the half-eaten fruit carelessly overhead. She isn't concerned with it - there are hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands more, ripe for the picking. She rolls over and gently lays her folded arms and head on the witcher's chest. She says something about a girl, though the details are just blurry enough to obscure their meaning. She's sad. She misses the girl. The Witcher misses her equally - perhaps more, if such a thing were possible. Together, they wonder where or when this girl might be, and if they'll ever see her again.

Eventually their wondering fades into drowsiness. He falls asleep, and the slow rise and fall of his chest has a soothing effect on the woman. She joins him in slumber. Both are naked, and perfectly comfortable that way. Why wouldn't they be? There's no one else in the world but the two of them. They could have slept for hours, had it not been for the frost. They awake with a start, their alert, rapid breaths visible in the piercing cold air. A warble of distorted sky, a flash of light, a thunderous crack, and suddenly, they're no longer alone. They're running, fleeing, seeking weapons to defend themselves. It's all too sudden. There's a struggle, an iron fist against a face softened by leisure. The woman is torn from the witcher's grasp. He screams, he rages, he kills, first with his bare hands, then with the weapons of his slain foes… but she's gone. He has to find her. It's all that matters now. He has to find Yennefer.

—

"Are you awake, then? Oh, good!" The voice said, at first distant and nearly indiscernible, as if heard underwater. Geralt's head bounced painfully against the rough boards underneath him, responding to every rock and divot on the ground as squeaking wheels ferried his weight across the uneven landscape. He tried to open his eyes, but saw nothing.

"I'm not dead, so…"

"You're on your way to Vergen," the voice answered. He felt like he should recognize it, but although it was familiar in a way, it was also very foreign. "I found you, near-dead. It's a good thing, too. You wouldn't have lasted much longer on your own."

"The fog… I was choking on it."

"You shouldn't have tried to cross it without protection. Philippa and your friends became concerned when you didn't return."

"How long…"
"You left two days ago, though I'm not sure when you walked back into the fog."

"How did I get out? And… wait - who are you?"

The voice hesitated, responding in a slow and calculated tone. "… a friend."

"A friend who has an amulet of protection?"

"The fog has been lifted, Geralt. Henselt's army is mobilizing to march on Vergen. They will arrive one day from now. You must help defend it."

"No. Witchers are-"

"Neutral. Yes, I know. However, I also know that you sidestep your code when doing so becomes necessary to defend the defenseless."

"Sounds like you know a lot about me, but I know nothing about you. Who are you? Tell me."

"You don't remember me, but you saved my life once… before it began, actually. My father spoke very highly of you, of your honor. I have seen he was not mistaken. A life for a life, Geralt of Rivia. I am simply returning the favor."

"If you won't tell me your name, tell me who your father is. Maybe I'll remember him."

The voice went silent for a long time, as the boards beneath Geralt's throbbing head continued to bump and rattle.

"… his name was Villentretenmerth," the voice replied with a somewhat wistful quality, "but you may recall him as Borch Three-Jackdaws."

The name sent a sudden jolt of memories through the witcher's mind. He saw many images, layered upon one another, as if all at once. Snow-capped mountains. Competing hunting parties. A brush with death, narrowly saving the sorceress Yennefer. Relational tension - vexing in its intensity. A golden dragon, a slain mother, an un-hatched egg…

"You're… a dragon?"
"So you do remember, then?"

"A bit. Was that you at La Valette castle?"

"Yes… that was I," she replied with a hint of remorse. "I was not altogether myself… it's difficult to explain. I did not recognize you at the time. I apologize for my actions toward you."

"Why are you taking me to Vergen? You do realize their leader is known as the 'dragonslayer'…"

"Come, Geralt. You don't believe that story any more than I do. I am for Saskia's cause just as you should be - because this world is inhospitable to those like us, those whose kinsmen are fading away from the earth. We are outcasts wherever we sojourn. Upper Aedirn will be a place where terms like 'freak,' 'beast,' and 'non-human' no longer have meaning, where sentient beings of all kinds are treated with the respect they deserve."

"You don't really believe that do you?" He fired back, trying to move around, but finding himself unable to. "You've lived a short time, mistress dragon. Sixteen, eighteen years, if I remember correctly. Take it from someone who's walked the earth as an oddity for a century - ostracizing those who are different and casting the blame for life's hardships on them isn't new. It's woven into the fabric of society. A warrior queen with a idealistic dream won't be able to change it."

"We will never know if we never try," she said, matter-of-factly. "You will fight alongside the resistance. This is fated. I have a sense of it."

"Is that so?" He asked skeptically.

"Do you doubt it? If you recall, my father knew many things, even to the point of predicting the paths of fate yet to be unfolded. Sadly, I failed to inherit the full measure of his wisdom, but I see glimpses, approximations… I hear whispers."

"And they tell you I'll fight for Saskia and her dwarves?"

"They tell me you will fight to defend those important to you, just as you risked death to save the sorceress Triss Merigold."

His heart quickened at the reminder. Triss was in the hands of the empire, and Geralt was another day removed from finding and freeing her.

"Your heart aches for her," the dragon said, with a flavor of curiosity in her voice. "You do love her… although she is not the only one you ache to be reunited with."

His pulse now sped to a fevered pace. He tried again to move, to look at the dragon, but could neither see nor move anything.

"What do you know of them? Tell me! Please…"

"I can see only in glimpses, sir Geralt, as I explained. However, in gratitude for your efforts alongside the resistance, I shall tell you what I can. There are three women dear to your heart, whom love has bound you to, each in their own way. All three yet live. One is in the grasp of an enemy once thought to be an ally. One is an ally of one once thought to be an enemy. One believes herself to be safe, yet will soon stumble into terrible peril."

"Where are they?"

"I cannot say. I have told you all I know. You must rest, for your body is in a deep consciousness which I can only speak to for so long without risk to your health. Rest now, witcher. Regain your strength. You will need it soon."

Geralt felt a tingle in his skull, as though a warm blanket had been removed from his mind. The sudden cold prickled his thoughts like a thousand tiny needles. An immeasurable heaviness descended upon him, and the world went dark and numb.

—

"Wake up, Geralt! Quickly now… are you listening? Get up! You must get up at once…"

This female voice was easily recognizable. Philippa Eilhart. Geralt forced his eyes open, quickly adjusting his pupils to the relatively bright indoor light. He was lying on a bed in Philippa's home - the same bed Saskia had been on when he left to search for Triss.

"Look at me! Can you focus? Are you listening?" Philippa said, snapping her fingers inches from his face.

"I can hear. What-"

"Henselt's army is at the gate," the sorceress interrupted. "They marched through the night, and caught us at a disadvantage. I need you to buy me time. Understand? Stall them! I had Cynthia dress you, though we're short on swords. There's a pickaxe by the door. Take it and get to the wall before we're both cut down."

"Wait… Cynthia-"

Philippa left in a hurry, ignoring the witcher's words. He sat up for a moment, rotating his stiff shoulders, then rose to his feet and descended the stairs. Waiting by the door was an iron pickaxe, slightly rusted with age. He took it by the rough wooden handle and rushed outside. The fortress city of Vergen was in a state of pandemonium, its residents scurrying around like ants after an anthill's been kicked over. A trio of dwarves nearly knocked him over as they rushed toward the wall with kettles cradled in their arms. A man and woman were arguing sharply about who would take their children and flee through the southern gate. An elf with long, black hair in braids was partitioning out steel-tipped arrows to a crowd of impatient archers. Geralt felt out of place standing there, still dazed, armed only with a mining tool. He had no idea where to go or who to talk to about helping, so for a moment, he merely stood and watched. The thunderous roar of several thousand footsteps approaching quickly snapped him out of his stupor.

The witcher pushed through the crowd to the top of the outer wall, where he could see just how bleak the situation was. Four companies of solders - each at least three hundred strong - marched ahead of an assortment of heavy siege weapons. They were already entering the steep-sloped canyon that led up to the outer gate. It was the perfect place to spring an ambush of hot oil, or boulders, or arrows, but the defenders of Vergen weren't in place.

"To the wall! Oil to the wall!" A gruff voice shouted angrily. Geralt picked it out from the crowd with ease - it belonged to Yarpen Zigrin. "Get that ploughin' oil over here now, ya lazy laggards! The cock-suckers are right under us!"

He gesticulated wildly as dwarves frantically wiggled their way through the crowd, sloshing liquid black as tar on each other in their haste. Henselt's army reached within three hundred yards, then broke rank and rushed forward, filling the canyon with the roar of a battle cry. They were met quickly by a volley of arrows from Iorveth's Scoia'tael, but with about half of the archers still receiving their allotment of arrows, the effect was underwhelming.

"Ladders! Ladders are coming!" Yarpen shouted, pointing at the sea of uniforms below and dodging an upward-aimed arrow that nearly hit him in the face. "Get the oil! Weapons at the ready, lads!"

Twenty seconds later, the first kaedweni ladder clanked against the top of the outer wall, and was immediately doused in oil and set ablaze. Undaunted, another three popped up within sixty seconds, each receiving a similar treatment. All the while, arrows whizzed by in both directions, easily striking flesh in the tightly-compressed masses of soldiers. Those who had the misfortune to fall to the ground were immediately trampled by their own compatriots, lost in the undertow of momentum pressing the crowds toward each other. The kaedweni's kept bringing ladders, and eventually they had too many to counteract. The elven archers couldn't change their position to strike the climbers without opening themselves up to counterattacks, which left the burden of repelling the troops to those at the top of the wall, Geralt included.

Reluctantly, the witcher entered the fray, casting Aard at the top of one of the ladders, and sending the entire structure, along with its climbers, crashing down to the crowd below. Realizing the need to neutralize such a threat, a handful of archers released projectiles at Geralt from the base of the wall. He ducked under the stone ledge, crawling behind cover and springing back up, only to be beset by three kaedweni soldiers at once. He swung the pickaxe in a wide arc, narrowly blocking two sword strikes, and ducked under a third. Compared to the finely-honed blades he normally carried, the pickaxe was as lumbering and unwieldy as a heifer in a horse race. He was nearly too late to block the next attack, and only avoided being stabbed by leaning back and twisting his torso like a circus performer. A dwarf assisted him, running one of the assailants through from behind, and caused enough of a distraction for the witcher to go on the offensive. He kicked one soldier in the chest, then spun 180 degrees and swung downward with all the force he could muster. Even a well-placed block wasn't enough to keep the iron tip of the tool from piercing both the man's hardened leather helmet and skull, sinking three inches into the space behind his left eye socket. Geralt left the pickaxe embedded in his foe and stole his sword, turning back around just in time to block an off-balance strike and slash the attacker cleanly across the throat. "Neutral" or not, the battle had enveloped him.

Geralt worked his way back from the wall, all too aware that the life expectancy for the front line was dismal, and sought instead to neutralize those attackers who broke through the front line. He slashed and stabbed his way through several soldiers, who, despite their uniforms and armament, were untrained in proper sword fighting techniques. Quantity has a quality all its own, however, and eventually the relentless onslaught of bodies pushed the dense, shoulder-to-shoulder fighting back toward him. He beat off several waves before finding himself back to back with an ally. Once there was a momentary break in the motion, he turned to see Saskia herself swinging her glistening broadsword fiercely.

"What are you doing out here?" He shouted at her, now more concerned with covering her flank than with any kind of offense. "You should be holed up in the keep."

"With Stennis and the nobles?" She shouted back, breathing heavily as she continued to swing her blade. "I'd sooner be run-through alongside my men than cower as they die defending me."

"You're going to get your wish," he replied, casting Aard to give himself room to maneuver effectively.

"Not so. They're thinning out," she said, turning to look over her shoulder. It was a poor choice of timing. A soldier who had been on the ground sprang back up, swinging for Saskia's throat. She threw her arm up at the last second, crying out in pain as his blade tore through her leather gauntlet. Before she could counter, the witcher swiped the man across the temple, dropping him instantly. He turned and saw that she was correct - the attackers faded from the front lines like a wave receding from the shore.

"They're regrouping," he said warily.

"I know," she replied, panting and hissing in pain as she clutched the wound on her arm, which rained crimson droplets onto the stone wall.

"We have a minute - let me bandage that for you," he offered. She recoiled, opening her mouth to object, but he was too fast, and had already taken hold of her arm to inspect the wound. It was then that the obvious struck him - something he immediately kicked himself for failing to notice days earlier. Her blood looked perfectly normal, but it smelled different - in a way that the slowly-repairing synapses in the memory center of his brain recognized. His hand froze, still clamped around her wrist, and he turned his eyes from the wound to her face. Her eyes met his, wide with fear. His narrowed, brows lowered in a knowing look. Hers softened, pleading with brows pulled together, as she shook her head, but her silent petition was ineffective. The witcher yanked on that wrist, pulling the young woman away from the regrouping crowd and around the corner of a tower.

"You're the-"

"Yes!" She hissed in a half-whisper, eyes firing an intense warning to maintain discretion.

"Damnit, Saskia!" He grunted, releasing her arm and folding his disapprovingly. "What the hell are you doing out here with a sword? You could turn the tide of the battle singlehandedly."

"Or kill my own men by mistake!" She countered passionately, still speaking in hushed tones. "You don't understand, Geralt. I can very easily lose myself when I… you know. When I'm… not myself. Besides, if they understood my true nature, all this would unravel. They need a leader to believe in, not a beast to fear."

He began wrapping her arm with his belt, applying just enough pressure to staunch the bleeding without cutting off sensation to her hand. "Even your father in all his might was vulnerable in human form. You're taking a terrible risk."

She straightened her posture defiantly. "I am not afraid to die for my cause, witcher. Come, we must fight. The beast and the hunter, side by side. Your friend the bard would wet himself with excitement."

He chuckled, adjusting his grip as another wave of soldiers approached, joined this time by the rhythmic thudding of a battering ram. "Let's try and live through this, and we'll tell him all about it."

The dragon-turned-woman fought valiantly at the witcher's side, as a dragon should be expected to, but the two of them could do nothing to prevent the battering ram from breaching the outer gate. A stream of soldiers poured through, overwhelming the men and dwarves defending the inner gate. The coalition forces retreated in a hurry, covered by a volley of arrows from Iorveth's archers, and barred the inner gate behind them. The smaller gate, which formed the last line of defense for the city, was far less robust. The soldiers who had just retreated feverishly piled anything of weight behind it, bracing it for the eventual impact of Henselt's battering ram.

"Damnit!" Saskia said under her breath, stealing a moment to inspect the commotion behind the inner gate. "It's too soon!" She shoved her opponent back and took off running, retreating to the base of a small tower and waving a hand signal. Geralt followed, striking two soldiers down along the way. A dwarf atop the tower waved a dark blue flag, and moments later, the periodic volley from the Scoia'tael archers became a torrent of arrows. The first few rows of advancing men were cut down in an instant, boxed in helplessly by the wide, stone-walled channel between the two gates. At the behest of their commanders, another line took their place, falling a few paces closer, then another, and another after that. The losses were obscene, but the kedweni's pushed on, one hard-fought inch at a time, until at last, the archers' ammunition was exhausted.

"Geralt!" The dragon-general shouted. He rushed to her side. "Something's happened to the dwarves at the north gate." She pointed to a rectangular column next to the large gate, which had recently succumbed to the attackers. "Get to the gatehouse, wait for three blasts of the ram's horn, then cut the rope on the far wall. Hurry!"

He didn't take time to ask for clarification, dashing back along the top of the side wall of the channel toward the gatehouse. Rather than end any more lives, he took an agile approach, leaning, weaving, dodging and blocking his way toward the stone fortification. One final blast of Aard knocked two attackers (and unintentionally, one defender) off the wall and into the channel below, and he reached the base of the column. The iron door had been broken off its hinges - Geralt rushed past it, stepping over the bloodied corpses of the dwarves Saskia mentioned, and reached the upper room. Seeing no rope to be cut, he hurriedly scanned the low-ceiling, cube-shaped room, and found what looked like a trap door in the corner of the ceiling. There was no handle to be seen, so he resorted to brute force, taking a war hammer from the hands of one of the slain dwarves and bashing the square ceiling panel until daylight shone through. With effort, he lifted himself through the opening and stood on the wooden roof. Directly in front of him, hidden behind the three-foot-high stone railing, was a crank with a thick, woven rope descending through the middle of the wall. He crouched by the crank, sword in hand, and watched the battle below, waiting for his signal.

The kaedweni's were at the inner gate, lobbing a cluster of arrows at anyone who popped their head over the wall as the battering ram slowly lumbered forward. An armored, wheeled cart also advanced behind it, flying the royal flag. Henselt himself had arrived to glory in his victory.

Saskia was nowhere to be seen, and outside of the occasional millstone or iron kettle tossed over the wall, the defense of the city had all but ceased. There was relative silence in the air as the ram reached the wall, its huge, iron capped cylinder drawn slowly back… then a thunderous crash, as it slammed against the door. The arched doorway buckled, shuddering as bits of rock and dust fell from the surrounding wall. It wouldn't hold up to more than a handful of strikes. Fortunately, it wouldn't need to. In the calm before the next strike, the sound of a horn rang through the stone corridor in three distinct blasts. Geralt did as he was instructed, striking the taut rope with all his might and cleaving it in two. With a rumble and a metallic roar, a colossal iron curtain unfurled like a giant sheet of chainmail in the doorway where the outer gate once stood. A trio of dwarves descended via ropes on either side, bolting the bottom of the curtain to the base of the doorframe before being cut down by the crowd of soldiers around them. Before the kaedwni's could realize they'd been trapped, gallons of oil cascaded from the side walls, splashing over leather helmets and soaking into boots.

Amidst the mass confusion, Philippa Eilhart appeared at the top of the inner gate, waving her arms in a wide series of arcs. Geralt knew what was coming next, and fell flat against the wooden roof of the gatehouse just before a huge plume of fire descended from the sky, igniting the oil-soaked channel between the two gates, which now imprisoned nearly a thousand soldiers, along with their siegecraft. A sudden rush of hot air billowed over the stone ledge next to Geralt, after which he rose up to witness the carnage. Wails and groans mixed together in a chorus of horror, as men were broiled alive. Behind the metal curtain, the remainder of Henselt's army routed, trampling one another as they retreated northward. Saskia joined Philippa atop the inner gate, shouting orders and pointing toward the armored cart ostensibly carrying Henselt and his advisors. A small company of elves rappelled to the flaming pit and extracted the monarch and his advisors, hoisting them up to safety as men writhed in agony on the stone floor below.

With the king secured, Saskia had mercy on the burning soldiers, motioning to Philippa, who began a second spell. Moments later, a cold, white mist fell on the flaming charnel house, extinguishing the fire. Archers appeared along the top of the walls, ready to put down any reprisal of hostilities, but the survivors in the channel had no fight left in them. Relieved that the battle was over, Geralt descended the gatehouse stairs, and inadvertently ran over a short woman who was in a hurry to climb up.

"Master Geralt! Saskia requests your presence at the keep," she said, once she regained her footing.

The tired witcher heaved a long sigh and dropped his head, wiping blood and sweat from his brow. "Of course she does. I'm on my way."

The proceedings were already underway when Geralt arrived in the conference room. Henselt and two well-dressed men stood at sword-point facing Saskia, Philippa and Cecil Burdon. Yarpen Zigrin and Iorveth stood nearby, arms crossed, motioning to Geralt when he entered.

"What more? Shall I bring you the moon as well?" The bearded king bellowed, scoffing with arms stretched wide, "Or perhaps a goose who lays golden eggs?"

"Total withdrawal and surrender," Saskia repeated slowly. "It's not a complicated request, king. Though you should have accepted my terms before your men were burned to ashes."

Henselt folded his arms, grinning and shaking his head. "Do you mean to march on Ard Carraigh, then? I warn you, missy - a battle may be won by a witch's trickery, but victory in war is not so easily stolen."

"I could care less about your land and your castle," she replied matter-of-factly. "Agree to my terms and you and your men will be free to return there."

The king huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes. "Fine. List your terms, oh lady general."

Saskia clapped her hands, and a dwarf handed the king a sheet of parchment.

"In addition to retreat and surrender," she said in a slow and measured tone, "you will appear at the summit in Loc Muine and formally acknowledge the free state of Upper Aedirn, fully independent."

"Yes, yes, take your damned river valley. Am I free to go, your ladyship?"

Saskia's countenance changed suddenly - eyes glazed, pupils dilated, cheeks and forehead unnaturally flat and emotionless. "I shall require one final thing before your departure," she said. "The head of Dethmold the mage.

"Dethmold? Why? You wouldn't deprive me of my court advisor… especially not when we're set to appear together at the mages' summit three days from now. Come now, surely we can make other arrangements…"

Geralt felt his medallion vibrate as Saskia responded. "Síle de Tansarville will now serve as your advisor." He kept a straight face, though his mind immediately spun in a different direction. No one from Vergen had even mentioned her name, much less her strategic importance. He snuck a side glance at Iorveth, who's face wore a quizzical look. Clearly he wasn't privy to this plan either.

"Let's be reasonable," Henselt said, less confidently. "There's no need to kill the man to replace his post-"

"I'll have Dethmold's head," Saskia interrupted, lips curled and voice sinister, "or I'll have yours. You have five seconds to decide. One…"

"By the gods, woman!"

"Two… three…"

"Alright, alright!" Henselt turned to one of the noblemen at his side. "Bring me the head of Dethmold. Now!"

There was an uncomfortable silence as the man rushed out of the room. Henselt looked sick to his stomach. Saskia stared at the humbled king stone-faced. Iorveth turned toward Geralt with a look of shocked surprise. Yarpen muttered something under his breath about one less kaedweni. The slightest hint of a smile crept over Philippa's painted lips. Moments later, the nobleman returned, gasping and panting, and dropped a severed head, eyes still open, at Saskia's feet. Geralt's heart leapt within his chest - it was the face of the mage in Shilard's tent.

—

"I'm telling you, something is very wrong, Gwynbleidd," Iorveth began, pacing back and forth across Geralt's modest room at the inn. "I know Saskia, better than most. Better than anyone. This is not like her. Her voice, her demeanor… her eyes look like she's on fisstech, but ten minutes earlier they were normal. I don't… I don't know. You saw it as well, didn't you? Tell me I'm not going mad."

Geralt sat motionless in his chair, raising one eyebrow slowly. "I don't think you know her as well as you think you do."

Iorveth froze, turning his head toward the witcher suddenly with intense, furrowed brows. "What do you mean? How much… what have you heard?"

"I… know who her father is," Geralt answered after a slow exhale, taking care to be vague in case Iorveth didn't know Saskia's secret.

"Oh, that's just great," Iorveth lamented, rolling his eyes. "Who told you?"

"Her blood. The smell. It's different… to a witcher. I knew her father, though only briefly."

Iorveth lowered his voice, speaking with a grave tone. "Geralt, you mustn't tell anyone. Anyone-"

"I know. I won't," he interrupted. "But that aside… yes, I did notice how oddly she was acting, and I felt magical energy in the room right before she changed character."

Iorveth's lips curled disdainfully. "Philippa. That bitch… do you think she's cast a spell over Saskia?"

"It's possible. I've heard stories of such things, but on humans, not dragons."

"So it was Philippa who wanted that mage dead? Why?"

"Protection," Geralt answered. "He was working with the nilfgaardian ambassador, probably behind Henselt's back. They're hunting down sorceresses. Apparently there's a cabal of them who've been meddling too deeply in politics."

"Too deeply? What an absurd notion! Meddling in politics is all sorceresses do."

"Well, these must've stepped on the wrong toes."

"And how do you know all this?" Iorveth asked skeptically.

"I ran into them when I was looking for Triss. It's a long story. Shilard has her, and I thought up until ten minutes ago that he had Síle, too, but clearly I was wrong."

"Clearly," Iorveth agreed. "So Síle and Philippa are working together somehow, and… she's found a way to cast a spell to control Saskia's mind?"

"It's not a regular spell," Geralt surmised, replaying the events in his mind. "Philippa didn't utter a word, didn't form any signs…" he went silent for a moment, thinking through possibilities. "Wait - the ingredients for the antidote - what were they? Do you remember?"

"Of course I remember! Quebrith, salvia, datura, and the petals of a rosa thaesse."

"A rose of remembrance? Those aren't ingredients to heal the mind… they're ones to loosen the mind, to make it more pliable…"

"What are you saying? That the poisoning was staged?"

"It was real," Geralt confirmed, "but I'm beginning to wonder if Stennis was framed. After all, it was Philippa who tasked me with investigating it. She even suggested the suspects."

"Well, if that's the case, her plan worked to perfection. Use Stennis to launch Saskia into leadership, seize control of her mind, then dispose of the prince to further establish her rule… all without getting her hands dirty."

"You're right - he's probably in danger at this point. Where is Stennis now - still confined to his room?" Geralt asked.

"Did you not hear? During the commotion of the siege, a group of plebs broke through his security detail and lynched him."

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"I wish I was."

"Damn."

"Indeed." Iorveth placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Well, I've heard enough. Time to kill a witch."

"Not so fast. She can read minds, remember? We can't just walk up and slit her throat. Besides, these are hunches, theories-"

"So what would you do, Gwybleidd? Leave Saskia at the mercy of that hag? We must free her!"

"We will… but I need information from her first. Our best chance is to catch her while she's sleeping."

Iorveth exhaled sharply, glowering in silence for a moment. "Alright, then. We'll take her while she sleeps, but in the meantime, I need to speak with Saskia, to see if there's a way to warn her."

"Bad idea."

"I don't really give a damn if it's a bad idea. I'm going."

Geralt followed Iorveth back to the keep, where a maid was dutifully mopping blood and spinal fluid from the stone floor.

"Looking for Lady Saskia, masters?" She asked, no doubt having overheard Iorveth asking every person on the way in to the inner room. "Alas, but you've just missed her! She left with the sorceress, not five minutes ago - stepped right through a glowing hole in the air. It was the oddest thing I've ever seen."

The elf pounded his fist against the table. "Damnit! What now? Have you any idea where they might've gone?"

"We know where they'll be in three days," Geralt offered calmly. "Loc Muinne."

"Yes… yes, that's true. That could work."

"The problem is, neither of us is on the guest list. You're wanted for terrorism, and I am for regicide."

"Come now, Geralt, a wanted poster's never stopped soldiers like us. Help me liberate Saskia, and I'll help you free Triss. After all, Shilard is sure to be there… and maybe even Letho, if he still has a desire to take crowned heads. I have a small ship an hour's ride from here. It's much swifter than the barge. If we make haste, the two of us could reach the city before then."

"Alright, then. Let's make haste."