Geralt settled into his chair, catching up on some much needed quiet time after his audience with the Duchess. He carelessly put his boot-clad feet on the table, ignoring the small, indignant gasp from Barnabus-Basil as he caught sight of Geralt's lack of manners while he bustled past the dining room. The witcher didn't really care, it was more comfortable to sit this way (and it stretched out his hamstrings quite nicely).

He raised his wine goblet to his lips again, draining the last drop of alcohol. It was a fruitier wine than he would have chosen, but it was cold and plentiful. He contemplated his meeting with the Duchess as he ate his dinner, planning out his questions to Damien. He couldn't shake his gut feeling that Damien knew a lot more than he'd let on, and a witcher's instincts were rarely far off.

He heard Damien's arrival before he saw him.

He replaced his feet on the ground and stood up, moving towards the sounds of a jingling horse bridle and clinking chainmail. He opened the front door, raising an eyebrow at the elaborate suit of armor that the captain still wore.

"Do you sleep in that rig too?" He asked drily, a small smirk dancing around the corners of his mouth as Damien let out a rare chuckle and dismounted.

"Thankfully, no. My sleeping armor is better padded," the captain quipped, his reply muffled as he ducked behind his horse to tie the reins to a nearby tree. Geralt waved towards his stables, where Roach had curiously stuck her head out of the partitioned door.

"You can put your mare in there with mine. Roach won't bite. She keeps her mouth shut."

He hoped that Damien would catch on to his non-verbal request as he gave a minute jerk of his head towards the wooden building. My steward is too interested in this case; we need to go where he can't eavesdrop.

Taken aback, Damien nodded and began to lead his docile steed towards Roach. Geralt closed the front door behind him, effectively shutting out B.B., who was trying his hardest to act like he wasn't eavesdropping. Geralt couldn't blame him; he and Damien weren't exactly close. If they were spending time together, something was afoot.

Geralt sauntered after Damien, waiting until they were fully inside the stables before he spoke.

"Her Grace wasn't happy with you this afternoon," he drawled, leaning against the hay bin as Damien settled his horse. "Did she thaw out?"

Damien didn't reply for a moment, tying and retying the knot in his reins.

"Yes, and no," he finally admitted, finally settling on a knot that would have made a Skelliger drool with envy. "She has ordered me to help you in any way that I can."

"Sounds like quite the punishment." Geralt's dry reply was muffled by his closing of all of the barn doors. He even threw the deadbolts home for good measure. In response to Damien's raised eyebrow, he shrugged.

"My majordomo is nosy," he said by way of explanation.

As soon as the doors were latched properly, Geralt sat down on a bale of hay and surveyed the captain with his golden eyes; his cat-like pupils dilated in response to the rapidly darkening light streaming in from the skylight.

"So, you were going to tell me about the baroness."

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything that might be useful, so everything."

Damien sighed, slowly shucking off his armor and plate and settling into a comfortable position on another bale. "It's quite a long story."

"I have time."

"Sophie-Marie's father was a very important man in Toussaint, while his money was still plentiful," Damien began, scratching his bald head in thought. "She was firmly established as a very rich and powerful woman, on all fronts. I heard rumors that she was going to be married off to a Nilfgaardian noble, which caused quite a stir amongst the knights vying for her hand. Her father was in favor with the emperor, so her prospects were bright."

"I thought she didn't have any interest in suitors."

"She didn't appear to, however, that simply ensured that with each passing week that the young dandies became increasingly more desperate to gain her favor. Her father had his pick of the nobles here, but it appeared that he wanted her to marry for love if she could. I'm not sure if it was his idea for her to leave for Nilfgaard, or hers. I suspect she had a lover in the North."

"You think she was murdered by someone who was jealous?"

"If so, the person who did it wanted her to suffer," Damien said bluntly, shaking his head. "I don't believe so, but then again, we're a passionate people."

"People do stupid things when they're in love. Was she ambitious?"

"Yes, very."

"Any chance that she could have pissed someone off who she was competing with? Anything that she did that could have put her at odds with anyone?"

"I don't know, I wasn't privy to any of the private conversations that she had with her Grace," Damien said stiffly, clearly offended by Geralt's blunt style of questioning.

Geralt decided that he didn't care. He was working; there was no room for niceties, not when people were dying.

"Hm," was the response from the witcher, who wasn't quite finished with his questions. "What's the deal with Sophie-Marie? Why did she have so many knights drooling over her? Was it her money?"

Damien shrugged. "She was very beautiful. There's very little that a besotted knight won't do for a pretty woman, and she was-" he flushed a dark shade of red, which clashed with his angry purple scar, "-ahem, a match for her Grace."

"I see," Geralt chuckled, shaking his head. "So, you knew her. Annarietta's not a great judge of character; I want to know what she was really like."

For a second, he thought that the captain was going to argue with him about the Duchess' knack for making friends with less than stellar people, but apparently Damien was forced to agree.

"She was rather...discriminatory," he admitted finally, avoiding Geralt's steady gaze. "Her lack of interest in anyone, even to the point of complete apathy, was something that she never grew out of."

"You care to elaborate on that?"

"She had a bad habit of ignoring those who weren't immediately useful to her," The captain said carefully, indicating with a wave of one hand that Geralt should fill in the blanks. "Sophie-Marie was kind to her friends, but cold and unfriendly to everyone else."

"Charming."

"Hardly," Damien said stiffly, and Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Apparently de la Tour was still learning what sarcasm was.

"So, that still doesn't explain how she died or why so many knights have gone looking for her."

"Yes, well, her death was quite tragic. I'm sure the young men who went to find her were trying to give her peace."

"Start with her death. What happened?"

"She left Beauclair for several weeks in the spring about fifteen years ago, quite suddenly. When she came back, she was different."

"Hm. How so?"

"She was oddly kind to everyone, making arrangements for her school and leaving her beneficiaries quite a generous sum of money. Shortly afterwards, she fell grievously ill."

"Sounds like she knew that she was going to die," Geralt replied, leaning back and closing his eyes. "What kind of illness was it?"

"I'm not sure. What I do know, is that it was very swift. Her body was unmarked with physical signs of malady, but she died within two weeks."

"Strange. Did the family notice anything weird about the sickness?"

"Besides the fact that no one else caught it, no. They were, understandably, devastated by it."

"Where's her body?"

"At the southern end of Mere-Lachaiselongue cemetery, there's quite an ornate memorial statue. You can't miss it."

"Figures. I've probably walked past it."

Damien's reply was very quick. "I wasn't aware that you spent any of your leisure time in graveyards."

Geralt nearly snorted. He knew the place well, better than he'd like to. "Yeah, sometimes I have to. I spent a lot of time with a higher vampire there last year."

"You keep peculiar company, witcher." Damien shook his head and stood up, refastening his armor. "I'm afraid that I don't know any more."

"That's not true," Geralt muttered, "You left out what happened to the knights."

"They disappeared. No one has found any trace of them. No armor, no weapons, and certainly no documents explaining where they were going and what they were doing."

Damien's irritated reply didn't bother Geralt in the slightest.

"I'm gonna sum this up then. She was beautiful, snobby, and rich. Sophie-Marie didn't care for suitors, and she went on a vacation and then died." Geralt wasn't terribly impressed with the conversation, but at least he had a couple of leads.

"That's the essence of it."

"Great. Anything else that I should know?"

"Yes, although I can't guess that it will be helpful to you. There was some rumor that she even spurned a sorcerer's attentions, but I didn't give that much credit-"

"Hang on," Geralt interrupted, his eyes narrowing to slits, "You didn't think to mention from the beginning that she might have pissed off a sorcerer?"

"She wasn't entertaining any suitors, it didn't seem important, what's another one-"

"You don't get it," Geralt said curtly, crossing his arms. "I've been on the receiving end of an enchantress' wrath, and let me tell you, she's more likely to portal you several miles just to drop you in a lake than talk to you after you've rejected her. They're old, and they're beautiful, they don't get turned down often."

"Portal you into a lake...?" Damien asked slowly, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "If that's not a Common tongue idiom that I've never heard, there must be a story to that."

"Yeah, there is," Geralt replied darkly, glaring at the captain. He wasn't really in the mood to explain why Yennifer of Vengerberg had done just that to avoid talking about her feelings like an adult.

She hadn't taken being dumped particularly well.

"Any further questions?"

"Yeah, plenty. Who was the guy?"

"I don't know."

"Aren't you helpful. I'll start there. Her family is likely to know something about him. Warlocks aren't subtle."

Damien frowned, bending a piece of straw around his fingers as he thought. "I believe he had blond hair, and two different coloured eyes. But I may be incorrect, she died some time ago."

Geralt sighed, standing up and opening the doors to the stable. "Thanks. That'll be enough to start."

"Work with haste, Geralt. I have other things to do besides guide you through a contract," Damien muttered, striding past Geralt, his armor clinking. His mare followed dutifully behind as he clomped into the courtyard and mounted. He rode away without another word, clanking and banging away like a bag full of cans.

The corners of Geralt's mouth twitched into a smile as he listened to the racket echoing off of the foothills as Damien rode back to Beauclair.

Geralt glanced over at Roach, who had quietly stepped over to nuzzle at his shoulder. "Think I've got my work cut out for me?" Geralt asked quietly, raising a hand to scratch at her ears.

She let out a long, enthusiastic sigh and lipped at his sleeve. He took that as a "yes" and smirked gently, patting her neck.

"Time to get back on the Path, I guess."

Roach huffed in response.

"Don't be like that. I never let you get hurt," Geralt grumbled.

The next day found Geralt, once again, in the world's most uncomfortable doublet. He hated velvet, he hated stitching, and he sure as hell hated that he'd spent twenty minutes cleaning his boots only to muddy them again as soon as he dismounted off of Roach. Irritably, he ran a hand over his hair, striding towards the Baron of Montmartre's grand home.

To his surprise, he was greeted politely by a butler, who ushered him into a grand foyer and lead him straight to a parlor adjacent to the Baron's study.

For a family who doesn't have any money left, they're living a pretty easy life, he thought, his curiosity piqued. He took a moment to observe the finery around him, calculating the estimated worth of the knick knacks and opulent décor. His eyebrow rose when his brain finally spat out a number, and his eyes narrowed.

That's a lot of money. Far too much for a destitute family. I think I'll have to do a little investigating.

He had a gut feeling that there was something fishy going on here. It made no sense whatsoever that a Baron who was widely considered penniless would have several sets of candlesticks that could keep Geralt off the Path for six months.

His mind flashed over several possibilities, most of which involved the sale of fisstech or counterfeit wine. After the fiasco with the Sangreal wine, Geralt wouldn't put it past anyone to fake ownership of rare alcohol (especially not a Baron who was once known for his vineyards).

He concentrated for a moment, activating his witcher senses and scanning over the house. He wasn't surprised to notice the entrance to a secret room hidden off the parlor. He wasn't picking up on any magic, or the scent of anything illegal, but he was still suspicious.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the butler, who ushered him up the small set of stairs that led to the Baron's study. Geralt nodded in thanks as he caught sight of the man of the house.

The Baron wasn't quite what he was expecting.

He was tall, broad in the shoulder, and sported a trim beard. He stood at Geralt's approach, nodding graciously as Geralt sank into a small, respectful bow.

"My Lord," Geralt murmured, straightening up and clasping his hands behind his back.

"You must be Geralt," the Baron rumbled, extending his hand to shake. Although he was slightly taken aback by the affable manner of the nobleman, Geralt shook it. He kept his expression impassive, still analyzing every aspect of the man and his house before he came to a final judgement.

"The Duchess sent word, didn't she."

The lord chuckled, folding himself back into his plush armchair and steepling his fingers together. "She did. Anna Henrietta is not one to reign in her demands. I've known her since she was a child, so I cannot say that I was surprised. Please, sit."

Geralt settled into another chair, crossing his arms and watching the baron with his amber eyes. "You know why I'm here then."

"I do," the Baron admitted, running a hand through his thick hair. Geralt observed that his hands bore the scars of swordplay, and his palms were calloused. He clearly kept in good shape, and Geralt was surprised to see, despite the fact that the lord was easily in his early sixties, that he barely sported any grey in his hair or beard.

"I won't waste your time then. Start at the beginning," Geralt replied briskly, waiting expectantly for the man to continue.

The Baron nodded, clasping his hands in front of him. "Very well. The contract was indeed written out on my orders. I have no doubt that you have heard some of the rumours associated with my daughter's death."

"I have now," Geralt replied carefully, his eyes narrowing to slits. "The contract wasn't exactly forthcoming."

"That is entirely my fault," the Baron admitted, shrugging his broad shoulders. "You see, I'm not entirely sure what to make of the situation. But, it has become dire enough that I could not stand to ignore it any longer."

"Tell me what you know about it…your lordship."

Geralt hastily amended his request when the lord glanced at him in surprise, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. There was something about the way that the nobility in Toussaint refused to put aside all of their stuffy airs, even in the face of tragedy or adversity, that rubbed him the wrong way.

It felt dishonest. He wasn't fond of any of the Northern lords, but at least they wouldn't try to find a delicate way to communicate. He was too old to put up with unnecessarily long explanations and too much formality.

"Please, call me Giles. I haven't done much to warrant my title in the last decade," Giles murmured, pouring two goblets of wine and offering one to Geralt. "I have a good feeling that we will be seeing an awful lot of each other, and, forgive my bluntness, you remind me of our Northern cousins, of whom I am quite fond."

"Diplomatic of you," Geralt replied, gratefully accepting the wine and taking a large gulp of the cool, fruity alcohol. To his surprise, it was quite good. It was also quite an expensive vintage.

A very expensive vintage.

Hm.

"I have come to appreciate bluntness, good Witcher. You would be amazed at how many people become unnecessarily verbose upon the arrival of their tax collector," Giles replied drily, tapping his finger against the silver of the goblet. "I assume you are the same, given your profession and your necessary requests for compensation."

Geralt couldn't shake the feeling that there was something dangerous about this man, so he didn't respond right away. It was something about the way that he'd phrased his indirect question; Giles was fishing for something.

Geralt thought for a moment before nodding and taking another sip of the wine. "The job isn't easy. The money isn't all of it though. I'll admit that I took this contract because of the reward, but I'll stay until the end because I gave my word."

"Very noble. I respect that immensely. Very well, I will give you a more detailed version of the story."

Geralt waited for him to continue, subtly concentrating and sending the area of influence of his witcher senses through the room. As his eyes flicked into the corners of the study, he felt his medallion vibrate slightly.

Hm. Magic. Guess I'll listen to what he has to say and then figure out if he's lying.

"My daughter, as I'm sure you've heard, was set for Nilfgaard. She was quite eager to go, so I arranged for her to be accepted into the royal court. When word reached us that our request was successful, she begged me to allow her to go to Kovir to purchase the most opulent of the North's fashions."

"And you let her go."

"Naturally. She was to represent our family in the North, my honour would not permit me to send her in such a state as to make her a target for the more firmly established noblewomen in the court," the Baron said firmly, eyeing Geralt over his goblet. His tone had darkened, and Geralt was interested to hear that the human's heartbeat had increased.

"You're not wrong," he murmured, determined to diffuse the tension. "If they smell blood in the water, you're as good as dead. Figuratively that is."

"Precisely. She took two of her handmaidens and my most trusted bodyguard and left for Kovir. When she returned, she seemed to be in extremely good spirits. She had managed to purchase what she needed, and she continued to make arrangements for her beneficiaries and see old friends before she was scheduled to leave."

"Did you notice anything odd about her behaviour?"

"Hm, not especially, no. From what I remember, she was both excited and eager to leave."

"Why the rush?" Geralt asked bluntly, setting down his wine and lacing his fingers together.

"I believe it had something to do with a disagreement that she had with the Duchess," Giles said slowly, his eyes rolling up to the right as he tried to remember. Geralt noticed of course, and was confident that he was telling the truth.

"Do you remember what the argument was about?"

"Frankly, I believe that Annarietta was angry that Sophie-Marie was leaving. She was still married at the time, and she counted very dearly upon my daughter." The Baron's tone grew slightly strained, and he swallowed loudly. Geralt found it very interesting that his heartbeat increased once again.

"You disapproved of their friendship, didn't you."

"It isn't quite that easy, I wasn't fond of the way that my poor daughter was expected to be available as a shoulder to cry on at all hours of the day. Sophie dedicated her time to helping others, I fear that her beneficiaries suffered due to her constant exhaustion."

"In what way?"

"She was markedly less patient, less willing to forgive mistakes or idiocy. Forgive my bluntness, witcher, but she simply did not have the energy to suffer fools. Nilfgaard was a way to start fresh."

"So she's the one who brought up leaving?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about her sickness."

"It was abrupt. She was of a healthy constitution, rarely ever caught cold. She complained of a stomach pain, and then she came down with a fever. She had chills, vivid dreams, and night terrors."

"How long was she sick?"

"Ten days," Giles replied sadly, running a hand over his beard. "She tossed and turned until she finally fell asleep and never woke up-"

His voice cracked on the last word, and he hurriedly looked down at his boots. Geralt didn't press; he had no doubt that Giles truly was a grieving father.

"Was there anything strange about the sickness?"

"Yes, although I did not notice it at the time."

Geralt raised an eyebrow, hoping that he would continue. He didn't like repeating his questions.

"She repeated a phrase over and over again, she even scratched it into the wood paneling above her bed," the Baron said hesitantly, his foot tapping nervously. "However, as soon as she died, it was gone. There was no sign of it. We feared that she had been cursed, but there were no other indications."

Finally, Geralt was getting somewhere. He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes widening slightly. "What was the phrase?"

"Deithwen. I haven't the faintest idea of what it means, but-"

"It means "white flame" in the Elder Speech," Geralt said firmly; his concerns were confirmed. There was magic involved in the lady's death. He wasn't sure yet it if it was a sorcerer's fault, or a curse, but he was determined to find out.

"Elder Speech? There are few elves in Toussaint, witcher."

"They're not the only ones who use it," Geralt replied darkly, standing abruptly and striding towards the door. He glanced over his shoulder at the baffled lord. "Well, are you going to show me where she died, or not?"

The stupid doublet was making him cranky.

His medallion began to vibrate once again as they ascended to the topmost room in the house. As the door creaked open, moving slowly on neglected hinges, Geralt could smell the familiar burnt-sugar smell of magic.

His suspicions were confirmed as his medallion continued to vibrate frantically against his chest; it felt like a second heartbeat. Without waiting for the Baron's permission, he stepped over the threshold and into the room. A solid four inches of dust covered every surface, and he sharpened his vision and pushed his witcher's senses farther out around him.

Immediately, several things caught his interest.

"Has anyone been in here since she died?" Geralt asked quietly, sure that he'd figured out half of an answer to that question before it had even left his lips.

"No, I don't allow the staff to disturb it," Giles said firmly, coughing into his sleeve as Geralt strode around the room, sending small flurries of dust into the air. "Have you found anything?"

"Maybe. It smells like old magic in here. If no one has been in here, then why have those three items been moved?" Geralt replied, indicating the items in question. They were so obvious to him that they may as well have been glowing with light.

A mirror, a comb, and a feather quill. They're not covered in dust, and, the dust pile underneath them is smaller than the dust around the rest of the room. They were moved, and for quite a while. Hm. Something is going on here, and I don't like it.

"I beg your pardon?"

Geralt resisted the urge to sigh with annoyance and gestured at the items again. "Those three things have been moved. Someone's been in here without you knowing about it. If I have my facts straight, you're dealing with someone who is playing with dark magic."

"Witcher, I beg you. Please find out who is using my daughter's image to do harm," the Baron said quietly, clearly overcome with shock. "I don't understand why-"

"Yeah, well join the club," Geralt grumbled, inspecting the mirror with a keen eye. "I'll need to do some research, but it's more than likely that your daughter died of a curse, and that's what's keeping her from moving on."

What he didn't tell the Baron was that the kind of magic that he was talking about was necromancy.

He wasn't sure how he was going to find and kill the person responsible for taking the lives of so many young knights, but he always found a way to get the job done. Besides, he could always ask Triss if she knew anything that could help him.

"Who would do such a thing..?" Giles whispered, clearly both shocked and horrified by Geralt's observations. He couldn't blame the guy, but he wasn't about to coddle him; he still had questions.

"I heard something about Sophie-Marie turning down a sorcerer's attentions," he began carefully, watching Giles out of the corner of his golden eye, "Can you tell me anything about him?"

"Uh, yes. He was from the North, perhaps Velen. He was quite rich, and handsome, but my Sophie-Marie did not entertain any notion of remaining in Toussaint," Giles replied distractedly, running a hand through his thick hair.

"You got a name?"

"Yes, I believe his moniker was Gwaethe the Generous. But, to be frank, I have not seen nor heard of him since her death," the Baron said miserably, still staring at Sophie-Marie's room with a face pale with shock.

"That'll do for now. I'll investigate and find out what I can," Geralt said gently, his mind already whirring.

Gwaethe the Generous, huh? It shouldn't be too hard to track you down.