Sequel to "And quietly lay the frozen lake"

Once again following the right-hand tributary of the Sansretour, the hanza rode through the deep, pristine snow toward the Sansmerci Pass that was looming majestically straight ahead. Right behind it, intimidatingly massive, lay the Mortblanc, the White Death, the last pass they had to conquer on their journey south. Well rested after the enforced stay at the cave the horses kept moving at a good pace, soon leaving lake and dense forest far behind as the path climbed steadily higher and higher up the mountain. The stream had stopped meandering and, laden with frazil and big lumps of ice, shot swiftly through its narrow, rocky bed that had carved a deep gorge into the mountain side bearing testimony to thousands of years of erosion.

Around noon, Regis called the first halt. It was high time, too, since Cahir could barely keep his eyes open by now, breathing hard and leaning heavily against Milva, and when he dismounted, he had to steady himself against the horse as not to fall. Ungracefully flopping down against one of the last remaining trees, a solitary, weather-beaten, gnarly mountain pine, he almost instantly dozed off huddled up in his fur coat while the others took care of the horses and started a campfire to heat water for a warming cup of tea.

Slowly but surely the Sansmerci Pass came closer as the company continued on their journey in the early afternoon. Sometimes it was hard to see where to steer their horses as everything, including path and stream, was drowned in snow. However, the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless azure sky, their bellies were full with delicious venison and hot tea and their spirits high finally being on the move again. If the Gods were with them and the weather did not suddenly change, their prospects of crossing the two high mountain passes without much difficulty looked quite good. And then they would finally leave the blasted snow behind as they descended into the Sudduth valley with its warm Toussaint-like microclimate. They might even make a new friend in Caravista, if Reynard de Bois-Fresnes's cousin Guy was still alive...

In the early evening just a little before sunset when Cahir again showed signs of falling asleep in the saddle, the barber-surgeon ordered them to stop by a dilapidated hut that once might have a been a shepherd's humble summer abode and which now would serve them well as a shelter for the night. It was not much, the roof carved in in places and the walls riddled with gaps and drafty, but it was still better than having to sleep outside in the deep snow without any form of protection at all against the adverse elements.

Cahir's shoulder now displayed almost all the colours of the rainbow, but the swelling had gone down visibly and the puncture wounds were healing nicely. The jostling and jolting from the movements of the horse had caused him a considerable amount of pain, but being a knight and trained soldier, he had not complained but had gritted his teeth and ridden on. However, completely drained from sitting up in the saddle for hours and the constant pain, he fell fast asleep on his bedroll right after Regis had finished inspecting his injury.

Later in the evening - the rest of the company had a nice little fire going and were chatting softly while eating dinner - Cahir woke up from the grumbling of his stomach and hungrily joined the others around the campfire. Mouth full with roasted venison, Angoulême was telling tall, pretty frivolous tales from her time with Nightingale's hanza and Cahir only half listened, mostly concentrating on the food and his own rather disconcerting thoughts. When he had had his vision about Ciri, it had felt so real. He had been dead sure it was, but now doubt was creeping in. Re-examining the dream in his mind, it did seem fantastic, totally unbelievable. The existence of one unicorn alone sounded like a fairy tale - but a whole herd of them? If there were herds of unicorns somewhere - anywhere - roaming this continent, wouldn't people be bound to notice them sooner or later? Yet there were no legends, hell, not even fairy tales that ever mentioned more than a single unicorn, at least not any that he knew of. It sounded absolutely insane. What if it had indeed been nothing but a crazy fever fantasy after all? What if the Witcher was right and Ciri was long dead?

Deep in thought, Cahir only belatedly noticed that the girl had stopped talking and must have asked him a question since everybody was looking at him expectantly.

"Sorry, what?" he asked, blushing slightly.

"I asked if you stole a horse, too?" Angoulême repeated exaggeratedly slowly so that even a daft person would be able to understand her.

Cahir looked blankly at the flaxen-haired girl, utterly confused. "Why on earth would I steal a horse? My family breeds them, the fastest ones in the entire Empire."

Angoulême rolled her eyes, sighing dramatically. "Your back, the scars?"

Now it dawned on the young knight what her strange question was about. Of course, they had all seen the criss-cross of scars on his back when Regis had treated his injuries. He was acutely aware of that but since nobody had brought up the topic so far, he had totally blocked it out. As whipping was a common punishment for horse thieves - if they were not hanged - some of the bandits in Nightingale's hanza that Angoulême had been talking about had probably sported a similar array of scars.

He hesitated.

"Angouleme, stop pestering the man," Geralt butted in. "He saved your life, for fuck's sake! Let Cahir eat in peace. He doesn't need to tell us anything if he doesn't want to."

The expression on Angouleme's face changed from blatantly curious to deeply disappointed. Almost bursting with curiosity for days, it had been cruelly difficult for her to wait as long as she had before popping the question. It was pretty stupid, but it had never occurred to her that Cahir might refuse to share his - so far - well-kept secret.

"We all have told our stories, warts and all," she muttered sullenly, not willing to give up that easily. Even Regis and Milva, although they tried to look indifferent, appeared to be slightly disappointed.

"It's not that I don't want to tell you," Cahir finally started, not looking at his comrades but staring into the fire. "But it's - it's a long story."