To leave or to stay
It takes three more days until, finally, the high fever breaks. Three days and, not to forget nights, of delirium, raving and fever dreams alternating with spells of unconsciousness or near unconsciousness. Which leaves Cahir so utterly exhausted when the temperature does peak off that he sleeps for days on end, too weak to keep his eyes open for more than a few moments at a time. The fever, together with the poultice, has done its job, though. The cut in his left palm still hurts like hell at the slightest movement of the hand but the bacterial infection causing the swelling and inflammation has gone down considerably and the injury has started to heal. As has the wound in Cahir's shoulder. All in all, things seem to look a lot better for the young Nilfgaardian. Time to finally find out what really happened to his elven squad, Isengrim Faoiltiarna decides and joins Breon who is on his way to take a bowl of meat broth to where the human is sleeping fitfully.
"Cahir?" Breon touches the knight's shoulder to wake him up. Which he does with a start. Disoriented, Cahir's wide eyes flit from one elf to the other until he realises where he is and with whom. He relaxes visibly, the current location and company apparently much preferable to the setting of his dream.
"Sorry to wake you up," Breon says, "but I reckon you must be hungry. Want some soup?" Glancing at the bowl in the elf's hand, Cahir nods and sits up gingerly. Slightly dizzy from the upright position, he leans against the trunk of the tree for support. He is indeed hungry, famished after not having eaten anything at all for days - he has no idea how many. And the broth smells good. Suppressing a groan from the agony in his shoulder, he moves the wooden spoon from the bowl in his lap to his mouth. Repeatedly. It is well worth the pain. The soup is delicious. It does not take Cahir long until the rather small bowl is empty. And none too soon as his arm has started to tremble from the exertion and pain. His eyelids heavy like lead and a headache beginning to bloom behind his temples, he is ready to drop again. How pathetic. And impossible as the leader of the elves has surely not come to watch him eat.
He has not. The Iron Wolf sends Breon away with a meaningful gaze from his dark eyes. Then the conversation, or rather interrogation, commences.
"You are certain it was Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf?" Faoilitarna asks when Cahir has told him about Princess Cirilla, the witcher and the massacre in the courtyard with the fountain.
"Yes," the knight confirms, blinking wearily. He is leaning heavily against the larch now, very pale and sweaty from the last remnants of the fever and the strain of sitting upright and keeping his eyes open for so long, hoping the Iron Wolf will be done with his interrogation soon so he can curl up under the blankets and go back to sleep for a few more days. The headache has worsened, too, and it is increasingly difficult to concentrate on the conversation.
"And why again has he brutally slaughtered every single one of my men, but spared you?"
"I don't know." Cahir is aware that this sounds at least as unbelievable as the whole witcher story, but it is the truth. The Princess might have stayed her hand because she has, most likely, never cut a man's throat before. Why the White Wolf did not kill him, though, is, and will probably forever remain, a total mystery. Definitely not because of scruples about killing people, nor for lack of practise.
"Hm." Faoiltiarna does not sound convinced, but he leaves it at that. "I've heard that the Witcher Geralt was badly injured in a duel with Vilgefortz," he then adds, "that he might be dying. Or dead already."
"What about Princess Cirilla?" the Nilfgaardian asks, ignoring the news about the witcher. "Have you heard anything about her? And Yennefer of Vengerberg?" Cahir is sure that the Lion Cub of Cintra is still alive, he can feel it. Like he has before, ever since he captured her and she escaped after the monolith fell, toppled by her wild scream. However, could any of the dreams he had about her be true? Were they more or less accurate visions of the present, maybe the future, or nothing but fever-induced hallucinations? Of course he knows that there are several deserts on the Continent, the by far hugest and most forbidding one not far from his home country Vicovaro, only the Tir Tochair mountain range separating the lush, fertile lands in the west from the deadly desert in the east. He has never set foot in the Korath desert but he has seen it from the mountains, an almost endless expanse of stone and sand stretching on and on and on. To the south, east and north. Nobody has ever crossed it and come back alive to tell the tale, nor does anybody know for sure what lies beyond. The maps of the Continent suggest another mountain range at the far side, which would explain why it hardly ever rains in this particular desert, the high mountain peeks preventing any moisture from the oceans on both sides to reach the area. About the flora and fauna nothing is known with certainty either as no person in their right mind would want to explore this most inhospitable and hostile-to-life place on the Continent. So it might well be possible that the gigantic louse-like monsters from his dreams with the enormous, cruelly hooked pincers that lurk under the sand to trap and suck dry their prey do exist in the Korath. The rest though seems far less probable. Like the fire shooting from the ashen-haired girl's hand as she stands surrounded by exploding flames and lightning shouting incantations that could burn down the world. Or the rain. Or the unicorn - especially the unicorn. And why would Cirilla be in the Korath or any other desert in the first place? All alone? With Yennefer, things are different. He knows for certain that the hazy images of the beautiful sorceress wiping his fever-hot brow and giving him water are delusions, nothing else. Delusions dreamt up from his memories and wishful thinking. Yennefer is not here and never was, no matter how much he might wish it was different. Unlike with the Princess, he does not feel if she is alive or not, though. His mind tells him that, with her magic restored, Rience cannot possibly have defeated her. She is the most powerful and incredible witch on the continent after all, having single-handedly destroyed his entire army. She cannot be gone. It is not only an unbearable thought, but also impossible. At least that is what he tells himself. However, it would be good to know.
"Rumour has it that Princess Cirilla entered Tor Lara, the Tower of the Gull, right before it collapsed. But her body was not found among the rubble. Some speculate that she went through what humans call the Benavent portal in the tower. It was created by elven mages many centuries ago, but that is a different story." The elf pauses for a moment, frowning darkly. "Today," he continues, "the portal is warped and chaotic, transporting people to totally random places. There have been casualties. That's why it was blocked up by the Brotherhood for many years and was only re-activated by accident in the chaos of the fighting. About the sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg I know nothing. Except that she is said to have been among the supporters of Vilgefortz."
"What? No, that doesn't make any sense. When last I saw her, she was attacked by Rience."
"Who has also disappeared without a trace. Like his master, Vilgefortz." Cahir frowns at that but says nothing. Hopefully both Vilgefortz and Rience are gone for good, preferably having died a most agonising death. Although the sorcerers were the Emperor's allies and thus he was forced to travel and work with Rience, Cahir despises the mage who is, in his opinion, totally mental. Vilgefortz he loathes for different, very personal reasons.
Faoiltiarna rises from the forest floor, indicating the end of the conversation. Finally. "Better get some more rest," he says, eying Cahir up critically before he leaves. "You still look like death warmed over."
"I have to thank you for saving my life, I suppose."
"Not me. Breon, Ingolf and Yildis there saw to that you didn't bite the dust." Faoiltiarna points to where the trio are sitting together, having lunch. "Thank them. It was touch and go for quite a while."
Cahir nods. He will thank them. But not now. Later. He lies down with a groan and closes his eyes. Very much later.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Cirilla is riding on a horse. Through a rocky ravine. She is wrapped in a blanket, her long, ashen hair unkempt and tangled, her face sunburnt, lips parched. The girl looks near to fainting. That is probably the reason why she is fastened to the rider sitting behind her with a belt. So she will not fall off. Or run. The man is not the only rider. There are more. Many. They look like hunters, or trappers. The ruffians are all around her, speaking in a simple, slovenly version of the Common Speech, still he does not understand a word. The images are blurry with heat and the voices distorted, jarring. In front of the trappers he notices two more riders, but they are not hunters. They are a knight and his squire. A knight in Nilfgaardian armour wearing a helmet with raptor wings. The knight gallops closer, the bird's wings whooshing and flapping as if it wanted to take flight. While the bird is growing bigger and bigger, the others fade into the distance, dissolving in the heat haze. All of a sudden, a reddish darkness is falling. The knight is very close. He dismounts and takes off the helmet. Cahir stares at him in shock. Emhyr var Emreis's dark, inscrutable eyes are burning into his. Paralysed with dread he watches the Emperor come ever closer until his shape is looming over him, blotting out everything else in Cahir's field of vision. Emhyr opens his mouth but Cahir, who is on his knees in front of his Emperor, knows what he is going to say even before he utters a sound. Strip. Bile rises to his mouth as his stomach roils and turns and he panics. Strip. The word reverberates in his mind, multiplies, the volume amplifying itself. Strip. Strip. Strip. No, he is not going to do it. Not ever again. He pushes the Emperor away with his uninjured hand. But then Cahir sees another face leering behind the White Flame. Dalgart. Terrified, he flails around wildly, screaming "No! No!" at the top of his lungs. And wakes up with a start. From the flaring pain in his hand and shoulder and his own shouts. Cahir barely manages to lean to the side before he retches violently.
"You okay?" Lightly a hand taps his shoulder. Cahir grunts something unintelligible in between the last heaves, then spits and turns around. The ginger-haired elf is kneeling next to him, a look of concern on his face. What is his name again? Ingold? Ingwolf? Wordlessly, the elf hands him a water skin and he drinks in long gulps.
"I'm Ingolf," the elf introduces himself. "Let me check if you are feverish again." He reaches out with one hand but Cahir shakes his head.
"I'm alright. Just a nightmare."
"Sounded like a pretty nasty one, too," Ingolf says, looking a bit sceptical. However he does not insist on feeling Cahir's temperature.
"Hm." Cahir shudders inwardly at the still lingering, vivid images. "You - you haven't found an amulet by any chance?" he then asks. If he has lost the enchanted pendant in the middle of the fighting in the catacombs or hallways of Garstang, there is no hope of recovering it, Cahir is aware of that. But maybe, just maybe he still had it in the courtyard? Perhaps it got loose when he was blasted into that wall or when Cirilla attacked him? With a lot of luck the elves might have found it there. "An oval black stone with a golden Nilfgaardian sun?"
Ingolf rummages in his trouser pockets. "This one?" He holds up a black stone amulet by its black leather thong and smiles. Cahir is so surprised and relieved that he is lost for words and only nods. "Here." Ingolf lets the amulet drop into Cahir's hand. "You were thrashing and tossing and turning so much in your fever sleep, we thought it was better to remove it. So you wouldn't strangle yourself by accident."
Cahir looks at his grandaunt's amulet for a moment, still not quite believing his eyes. But he can already feel it, the pleasant, soothing warmth radiating from the magical stone into his hand and up his arm into his injured shoulder and from there everywhere in his body. He closes his eyes. He knows he is only imagining it, but he can almost hear and feel Merlin, his grandaunt's black cat, curled up and purring in his lap.
"Thank you," he says sincerely as he puts the amulet around his neck, where it belongs, "for everything."
"Just stop shouting in your sleep, or Grimbart might throttle you after all."
"I will. I promise."
And, with the magic amulet safely tucked away underneath his shirt, at the same time both refreshingly cool and pleasantly warm against his naked skin, Cahir knows that he will keep this promise.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"Looks like somebody got lucky."
Glancing up, Breon and Cahir halt their sparring. Even though Cahir's shoulder still feels stiff and hurts a little whenever he moves his right arm, not to speak of his left hand which is no use at all, Breon is no match for him in a sword fight. But he is eager to learn and Cahir is more than willing to correct his posture and stance and show him a few new tricks. The elf has saved his life after all, so this is the least he can do. Earlier, Ingolf and Yildis were there for some swordsmanship training too, plus a few other elves before they all left to go hunting. Except for Breon. And, obviously, the leader of the elves who is just approaching them. Not for sword training though, Cahir suspects. Faoiltiarna is an exceptionally good sword fighter for an elf, and, with his momentary handicaps, could probably beat him easily. They have not talked since Cahir told the Iron Wolf about the witcher and Cahir had the impression that the commander, like most of the other elves in his commando, wanted to have as little to do with him, a hated Dh'oine, as possible. He could have told him to leave as soon as the young knight was well enough to sit on a horse, and Cahir had expected him to do just that, but, strangely enough, he did not. At a total loss what he ought to do himself, Cahir just stayed on with the elves and, so far, Faoiltiarna has let him. He even seems to approve of the sword training sessions. Cahir would have liked to help with the hunting too, but with his left hand still bandaged and not able to move any of his fingers, it is impossible for him to shoot a bow. So, besides the sword training, he has taken to spending most of his time fishing in one of the streams running through the forest. As they are rather small, it is mostly trout and greylings, but the fish are a nice and welcome addition to the menu. Plus he can keep out of the elves way for most of the day. And think. However, as much as he has been pondering what to do, he has not come closer to a decision, a solution to his dilemma. Were he to do his duty as a soldier and knight and return to Cintra or Nilfgaard without the Princess, he knows that he will be executed, the Emperor has made this clear enough. And he would be really lucky if it was the gallows right away, not a dungeon cell and torture before the end. Although he is not afraid of dying, not really, he shudders at the thought of having to relive another public execution, this time one without a last minute rescue. The prospect of more weeks, maybe months or years of imprisonment and torture is even worse. So horrible that he cannot bring himself to do it. However, what is the alternative? Run? Go north and try to start a new life? Maybe in Kovir or even further north, beyond the Dragon Mountains? But this would be desertion, an act of high treason. If the Emperor found out, he would wipe out all his family, he has said so repeatedly. Kill his parents, sisters, their families. Having worked for Nilfgaardian Intelligence for a while, Cahir is well aware that Vattier de Rideaux' spies are everywhere. As are Dijkstra's. His chances of escaping undetected to neutral territory and disappearing there for years, long enough to be completely forgotten, are more than slim. Probably as non-existent as the chance of the Emperor's forgiveness. Staying with the elves in some kind of limbo between duty and treason seems to be the wise choice, at least for the moment. Duty as the Scoia'tael are the Emperor's allies and, by training them, he is supporting Nilfgaard's war effort in a way. Treason as he has not reported back to the Emperor or any other Nilfgaardian official. Which he ought to have done as soon as he was lucid enough to write a brief message. Faoiltiarna might have, though. Is that why the elven commander is seeking him out now? But if he did inform the Empire about Cahir still being with his commando, the outcome could not possibly be lucky for him in any way, could it?
"I have news. From your Empire," Faoiltiarna says, motioning the knight to follow him. "Regarding your princess." Cahir sheathes his sword, nods to Breon and joins the elven commander, trying not to let show on his face the turmoil of emotions those words have generated. From the small clearing they have been using as training grounds it is not far to the elf's dwelling. As it is summer, albeit a northern one with temperatures not much higher than an average spring day in Nilfgaard, most elves, and the one human in their company, still sleep on the ground under the stars. Some have built themselves platforms in the trees where they spend the nights, though, while the Iron Wolf, being the commander, enjoys the privilege of having his own hut. It is built of branches and leaves and surprisingly roomy. There is even a table and some other pieces of furniture the elves have brought from the ship.
"Sit." Faoiltiarna points to a low stool covered in soft furs. Cahir does as told and the elven commander sits down opposite him in a similar chair, only that his has a backrest. Which he leans into while taking his time to eye Cahir up.
"You look much improved, Nilfgaardian," the Iron Wolf states eventually. "Also you might have wondered why I have let you stay even after you recovered from your injuries." Cahir inclines his head slightly to confirm that he has indeed asked himself that question. "I am well aware that you did not fulfil your mission and would probably be punished for your failure if you were to return to Nilfgaard," Faoiltiarna starts to explain. "Which is, presumably, the reason why you are still here." He darts a sharp glance at Cahir, his eyebrows arching up questioningly. The young knight nods curtly, but does not say anything. "You should know that I am not interested in the internal quarrels of the Nilfgaardian Empire, nor in anything else concerning the human race - unless it affects the fate and future of the Aen Seidhe," the elven commander continues. "As our alliance with your Emperor is of considerable importance to us, I have sent a message to Field Marshal Coehoorn with a comprehensive report about the events on Thanedd. Including information on your whereabouts. That was when you were still very sick and nobody could say for sure if you would survive. However, messages seem to travel slowly in times of war and I have not yet received an answer with orders concerning your fate. That is why I have not seen any necessity to send you away. The news concerning the Princess might change things for you, though." Faoiltiarna stands up and walks over to a wooden chest. He opens its lid and, from the depth of the chest, produces a wineskin and two crystal wine glasses. He fills the cut glasses with the dark crimson liquid making them shimmer like rubies in the rays of sunlight filtering in through the spaces between the branches and leaves of the hut's provisional roof. He passes one glass to Cahir before sitting down again and taking a sip. And another, longer one. Then he resumes his tale.
"I have heard, from reliable sources, otherwise I would not have summoned you, that Princess Cirilla is in Nilfgaard. Soon to be married to your Emperor."
"What?" Cahir exclaims, then starts to cough, choking on the whine he was just about to swallow when Faoiltiarna dropped the news.
"At the moment the girl is staying with the Countess of Liddertal," the elf continues when Cahir has regained his breath and most of his composure, "whose task it seems to be to prepare her for the impending audience with her soon-to-be husband at Loc-Grim-Palace. An envoy of King Esterad Thyssen of Kovir, who is to attend the reception ceremony, has already arrived in Nilfgaard. It seems," the elf takes another swig of wine, "somebody was luckier than you and managed to apprehend the Princess. As Emhyr has what he wants, he might be more inclined toward lenience, though. There is even talk of a general amnesty, which appears to be a tradition in the course of a royal wedding. I thought you might be interested." However, what Faoiltiarna believed to be good news does not have the expected effect on the Nilfgaardian. On the contrary. Instead of rejoicing at the prospect of being able to return to his home country without the danger of being severely punished for his failure, Cahir looks shocked by the tidings, distraught, like he cannot - or refuses to - believe what he has heard. Which is quite odd. Well, it is not Faoiltiarna's ambition to understand the workings of the human mind in general, nor his aspiration to explore this specific human's motifs and motivations in particular. As long as he does not receive any definite orders, he could not care less if Cahir leaves or stays. He has been making himself useful lately and mostly keeps to himself, and in spite of his high rank in the Nilfgaardian military - or former high rank? -, has not even once tried to order the elves around, which is quite exceptional for a Dh'oine, Faoiltiarna has to give him that. And the forest is big indeed. So, the human can make of the news whatever he wants. Why would he, Isengrimm Faoiltiarna, care?
The Iron Wolf stands up and raises his glass. "To your future Empress!" He empties his drink with one long swallow. As does Cahir, who, to the elf's surprise, has neither risen from his seat nor returned the toast before downing the wine. Very odd indeed. However, still not having said a word, the Nilfgaardian does not seem inclined at all to explain his strange behaviour and Faoiltiarna does not ask. As he could not care less.
"Thank you," Cahir murmurs while standing up and depositing the glass on the table, not looking the elf in the eye. Then he leaves without another word. The Iron Wolf gazes after him with a frown as he disappears in the forest. It is obvious that the knight is keeping something from him, something big. And feeling bad for it. Well, he cannot really imagine how the impending marriage of the Nilfgaardian Imperator to the Princess of Cintra could affect the elves in any way. So, presumably, it is just some inter-human thing and not really relevant for the future of the Aen Seidhe. Solely inter-human affairs he could not care less about.
Faoiltiarna picks up the wineskin and refills his glass up to the brim. Since the Nilfgaardian has not, as courtliness and tradition demands, returned the toast, he is going to do so himself. He positions himself in the entrance, he raises the glass.
"To the future of the elven race!" He brings the glass to his mouth. However, before he takes the first sip, thinks twice. "And to the confusion of our enemies, whoever and wherever they are," he adds. Then empties the glass in one go.