The paved square in front of the Temple of Melitele lay deserted under the night sky. Nestled between the high buildings, it was completely covered in shadow except for the random places where the edge of a cobblestone caught the light of the waning moon. The darkness made it easy to approach or leave the sanctuary unseen, except of course, if you had a witcher's senses.

From his hiding place on an opposing rooftop, Geralt had a good look over the place. Pale hair hidden beneath his hood, he had held out there for hours, watching the streets empty with the lengthening shadows and windows brighten one after the other. With the fading sunlight, the air had begun to cool and he shivered slightly under his woolen cloak, drawing it closer around his shoulders without averting his eyes from the streets below.

He hadn't dared to wait in the temple itself despite the comfort of warmth and light it would have provided. He couldn't be sure if his message to Triss had been intercepted, couldn't know whether she would come alone. After what had happened at the inn this morning, the streets had been crawling with guards, patrols having tripled at least, and he would have bet his sword that someone had talked to the witnesses at the inn already, who were sure to remember Triss visiting him. It was why he had gone through the trouble of hiring an errand girl to get at least a chance of reaching out to her without drawing too much attention.

Approaching footsteps echoed in the street below, but Geralt knew by their heavy sound and the lantern's bobbing light that it was merely another patrol – the third one in the past half hour. Muffled voices wafted up to him, shreds of conversation followed by distorted laughter, and then two guards came into view, crossing the square in slow strides and disappearing into the shaded alley beyond.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a familiar whisper took shape, trying to take control as it had countless times today, and he closed his eyes in an effort to silence it. Trembling from the effort, he steeled himself against the attack, felt the strings of chaos cut into the fabric of his mind as he struggled to force the intruder from his thoughts. Not today, he told himself. Not tonight.

Finally, the whisper died down and he let out a shaky breath. Something had to be done about this soon or he would break, focus or no. He really hoped that Triss had been successful.

Somewhere from a dark alley behind him, he heard footsteps approaching, light and fast, but lacking the stealth of a burglar or hunter. No beam of light gave the traveler away. He didn't doubt for a second that it was Triss, following his invitation to meet him tonight. Out of habit, he made a conscious effort to listen for any other signs of life, noticed some infant crying behind a closed window, the lazy flutter of pigeons on a nearby rooftop, the almost silent descent of a bat starting its nightly hunt, but couldn't identify any threat. She hadn't been followed. They were safe.

He watched her pull open the heavy, tarnished door of the sanctuary, candlelight reflecting off the cobblestones for a moment before they were swallowed by shadows again. He waited for another heartbeat, then slid down the roof like a cat, gliding into the street below. The wound in his side protested as his feet made contact with the pavement, the impact rippling through his body like a wave, and he gritted his teeth. It was no concern, he told himself. He would heal in time, should be glad that his headache was gone at least. Right now, he had to focus on the task at hand.

Incensed warmth embraced him as he entered the temple. Above him, the vaulted ceiling disappeared into darkness, the light of the torches against the walls unable to reach the farthest corners of the room. Melitele was the great mother goddess, loving and dependable, and as such her home was open day and night, providing comfort to those who needed her. Geralt knew that he only had to call out and one of the sisters would show, offering spiritual guidance or help as a healer. In lack of a hospital, the sick and wounded of Vizima turned here, as well as women in labor. He didn't believe in the gods, but he felt that if Melitele existed after all, she wouldn't have minded him seeking refuge in her house tonight.

Her statue was in the back of the building in a secluded apse, surrounded by narrow leaded windows. The thick walls would make sure the conversation didn't carry, and a surprise visitor wouldn't be able to spot them from the doorway. When it came to a secret meeting place, it was as safe as it could get. Still, he felt his back tense in apprehension as he stepped through the archway, wary of what he might find.

The sorceress sat with her back to him gazing at the marble statue at the center of the room, her gray traveling cloak flowing around her like water. Melitele's sculpture stood on a pedestal illuminated by countless candles. Her finely chiseled face bore an expression of loving acceptance and she spread her white marble hands in a welcoming gesture towards the spectator below. At her feet lay a branch of lavender, an offering, it seemed, by the sorceress.

"Triss."

His voice was low, barely above a whisper, and it echoed strangely in the enclosed space. She turned around at the sound of her name and gave him a smile that spelled surprise and relief in equal parts.

"Geralt. I'm glad you're okay."

His lips curled into a half-smile. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"Of course I'd come. I promised."

He settled onto the bench next to her and pulled down his hood, gazing into her face. She wore the same green dress he remembered from the first time he met her, the same golden earrings. In the warm light of the candles, her curls looked like dark bronze.

"I appreciate it. After what happened this morning, I was worried you'd rather keep your distance. You've probably heard that I killed a guard."

She must have spotted the self-reproach in his voice because her brows furrowed in sympathy.

"Yes, I know," she said softly. "A captain of the city guard came to talk to me about it. He wanted to know where to find you."

That didn't come as a surprise.

"What did you tell him?"

"Well, I didn't know where you were. I'm glad you thought of a clever way to contact me though, because he put one of his men in front of my door to watch me. Seems like I'm under surveillance now."

"I'm sorry, Triss. I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay," she interrupted him gently. "I just had to answer some questions, that's all. I put a sleeping spell on the guard to leave unnoticed."

"How long until he wakes up?"

"An hour at least. I'll be fine."

He hoped so. He really didn't want to get Triss in any more trouble than he already had. As of now, he deeply regretted dragging her into this. This could damage her reputation, endanger her position at the royal court, or worse.

"Don't worry about it." She must have sensed what was going on in his head. "I'll be fine."

She looked at him reassuringly and he averted his eyes, turning to face the statue again. She followed his gaze. In the flickering candlelight, Melitele's face seemed almost alive. They shared a moment in silence.

"Why this place?" She asked suddenly.

"Huh?"

"The temple of the mother goddess. Patroness of love and peace. I understand why we couldn't have met at a tavern. But wouldn't some dark back alley have been the more obvious choice?"

He smiled at the suggestion, raising his eyebrows as he shook his head.

"Dark back alleys aren't exactly safe. There's a lot of lowlifes who meet in that sort of place."

"Oh my goodness. You really are worried about me."

He looked at her, expression serious.

"Yes."

"I can take care of myself, you know."

"Still, I don't like to take unnecessary risks."

"Hm." She let the information sink in. "Does that mean you don't want my company when you move on Celaena?"

"No," he said softly. "I do want your company. I need you to lift this curse. Actually, I don't think I have a chance of fighting this alone. But I don't want to put you in danger if it can be avoided."

He felt her gaze rest on him and wondered what she saw. He felt bone-tired, exhausted both mentally and physically, and he doubted that the semi-darkness concealed it.

"How are you holding up?"

"I think we have to do something soon," he said plainly. "It's exhausting to fight her. She doesn't give up easily."

She nodded her understanding.

"Well, in that case, we'd better move quickly. I really hope you're feeling up to taking her on."

It sounded like she had made some progress. He looked at her hopefully.

"You were able to locate her?"

"Yes. She's got a hideout not far from Vizima. It's..."

She stopped herself, brows furrowed, tilted her head as if she was listening to something. Then he felt it too. The medallion trembled against his chest, a soft humming that was building into a strong buzz. Triss jumped to her feet and he grabbed her arm to hold her back, then stood and unsheathed his steel sword, eyes focused on the possible threat that might appear in the archway at any moment. He extended a long arm towards her, indicating her to stay behind him, and slid into the main hall.

"F***."

Blinding light spilled from a tear in space that was opening halfway across the main hall, air folding around a glaring gap of light. He squinted against the brightness, hand raised instinctively to shade his eyes, and saw two silhouettes emerge from that portal, one lithe and slender, the other one rather tall and massive.

He sensed Triss move but didn't dare to turn his eyes from the intruders, nerves taut as adrenaline kicked in. His hands tightened around the hilt of his sword, all weariness and lingering pain suddenly invalid. Once more he found truth in Vesemir's words – no matter how tired you are, you can always fight.

The portal disappeared and the piercing light with it. It took mere seconds for Geralt's eyes to adjust and he recognized the features of the smaller figure instantly.

"Celaena."

The muscular man who had arrived with her was unfamiliar. He wore light leather armor, black hair cropped short. Geralt noted the long sword at his belt, recognized the balanced stance of a trained fighter. Their eyes met across the room and the man drew his weapon but stopped his advance as Celaena raised her hand. Geralt wondered if he too was under her spell.

"Look what we have here." Her frosty voice made him shiver. "I expected to find you here, witcher. But Triss? That's a pleasant surprise."

Triss stepped forward, eyes hard and unflinching. "Why are you here?" she demanded sharply.

"I've come to find out what you've done to my witcher. Things have gone quite smoothly until you interfered."

The blond sorceress started to saunter towards her, leisurely, but Geralt had the impression that the calmness was just a facade. There was a glint in her eyes, a tautness in her shoulders that spoke of fury.

Triss's eyes narrowed. "He's not your property."

"I beg to differ."

Magic sizzled across Triss's fingers and Geralt took that as his cue to attack. He leapt forward, sword poised to strike but was brought to his knees before he could even come close, the all-too-familiar presence in his consciousness suddenly yanking at the reins that harnessed his mind. He gasped at the shock, for a terrifyingly long moment unable to rise. At the edge of his vision, magical light exploded and he heard distorted laughter. Celaena, his muddled brain provided. Triss's attack must have missed her.

"Take care of him," he heard her sharp order. "But don't kill him. I need him alive."

Desperately, he struggled to regain control and let out a guttural growl as he forced the presence from his mind, regaining his footing just in time to block a strike that was aimed at his head to knock him out. The surprise on the face of his opponent lasted only for a split second, then the man swung his sword again, this time aiming at his shoulder. Geralt dodged the blow and retreated, putting some distance between himself and the man and hurled a blast of Aard at him. The blow carried the taller man off his feet and Geralt leapt towards him, sword raised.

Magic exploded to his left as Geralt brought his sword down on his opponent, who managed to roll from under the strike just in time. The witcher's sword hit the stone floor with a metallic clank.

Again, he felt the voice whisper in his head, softer this time, maybe because Celaena was occupied by her fight with Triss. Still, it was enough to distract him for a crucial second, and pain tore through his right arm as the blade of his opponent's sword found its mark, drawing blood.

"Melitele, have grace on us!"

Great, he thought. The noise of the fight had woken one of the sisters. He parried the next blow, grimacing at the pain, and withdrew, putting some distance between himself and the man. From the corner of his eyes, he glimpsed a pale, young woman in the doorway behind him. Blood ran down his arm and smeared the hilt of his sword.

"Get out of here!" He yelled, eyes locked on his opponent. "And bar the door!"

The last thing he needed was an innocent bystander getting hurt. He heard the door slam shut just when the man surged forward, sword swinging. Geralt dodged the attack and repositioned himself, watching his opponent circling him. Another flash of magic flickered along his line of vision, followed by a sharp scream he identified as Celaena's, and from one moment to the other, the whisper in his mind was gone.

It brought a knew clarity to the fight, and suddenly Geralt found that it wasn't hard to anticipate the other man's moves. The man was trained, yes, and he was skilled, but he didn't have the decades of fighting experience Geralt had, didn't move with the same instinctive precision.

When the man attacked again, Geralt sidestepped him easily, and after parrying two more blows, he spotted a weakness in his defense. Geralt advanced and made short work of him. His sword went in deep and the man fell to his knees, eyes wide with shock and pain. Geralt pulled out the blade and the man collapsed in a heap. Somewhere to his right, he heard Triss yelp, and he realized with sudden alarm that it had been a while since he had seen the last burst of magic. Geralt swung around.

At the far end of the room, Celaena held Triss before her like a shield. Her hand was buried in the sorceress's dark curls, yanking her head back as her other hand pressed the glinting blade of a knife against her throat.

"Don't move, witcher," she hissed. "Or your little friend here is dead."

He froze on the spot, the blood in his veins suddenly turned to ice. Celaena's eyes were wild, and her singed robes and tousled hair made her look like personified fury. He didn't doubt for a heartbeat that she would carry out her threat. Triss looked deadly pale, twisting in a futile attempt to escape the sharp steel that nicked the skin under her jawline. He could smell the remains of dimeritium in the air.

"I'm sorry, Geralt," she croaked, eyes wide with terror.

The sight made him tremble in helpless rage.

"What do you want?" he addressed Celaena.

Triss swayed on her feet, an effect of the dimeritium, Geralt suspected, and would have collapsed if it hadn't been for the fist in her hair.

"I want you, witcher," Celaena spat. "What little spell did that witch cast on you that helps you resist me?"

"Don't tell her." Triss pleaded with him.

She gasped as her head was yanked backward again.

Mind racing, Geralt considered his options and found they were terribly sparse. From where he was standing, he couldn't attack, there was simply too much distance between them. Celaena was smart enough to keep Triss between him and her, using her as a human shield, so the use of magic was out of the question too. Maybe he could bargain with her. Or lie.

"If I tell you, will you let her go?"

Celaena's lips twitched, obviously enjoying having the upper hand. "Of course."

"Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"Well, it seems you don't have much of a choice. Because I sure as hell am going to finish her off if you don't tell me what's going on."

She changed the angle of the knife and a line of red appeared, stark against the pallor of Triss's skin. Triss pressed her eyes shut, lips trembling as a sob escaped her lips. A single drop of red ran down the blade and dropped to the floor.

"Stop it!" His voice was hoarse.

Celaena would kill her if he didn't comply. The madness in her eyes made that very clear.

He didn't have a choice.

He had to give in.

"She gave me an amulet," he said, mouth suddenly dry. His hand trailed to the pendant hidden under his shirt and he pulled it out for her to see. "It helps me focus."

She squinted, trying to make out the engraving in the dim light. For a moment he thought she would doubt his answer but she nodded curtly, apparently satisfied.

"Take it off."

"You promised to let her go."

She gave him a devilish smile and for a moment he wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for a priestess. There was nothing good about that woman, nothing gentle or wise. She was a monster to the core of her heart.

"I will. After you take off that amulet."

"How do I know that you'll keep your word?"

"Well," her smile broadened. "You'll just have to trust me."

His eyes wandered to Triss's face and he saw the terror etched into her lines, saw the beads of sweat glisten on her forehead, the dark bruises at her throat next to the shallow cut of the knife. His eyes met hers and he saw her pleading with him not to do it, but he couldn't just let her die. This was a gamble that he had to take.

Hands shaking, he sheathed his sword and reached up to the leather string that tied the amulet around his neck. He paused.

There were voices outside the temple and a moment later, the door flew open and several uniformed men marched in. The city guard, he realized. The sisters of Melitele must have sent for help. Given that the whole fight couldn't have lasted more than a couple of minutes, the guard's response time was rather impressive. On the other hand, he pondered, there had been lots of patrols today.

Part of him wanted to run, make for the back entrance that led into the temple garden and make his escape, but that might well be Triss's undoing. So he stayed, feet rooted to the ground, and watched Celaena's face lose color as the guards took position around them in a wide circle.

"Don't come closer," Celaena shouted, "Or I'll kill her."

The guards didn't move, neither did Geralt. He noticed that most of them had drawn their swords, one or two having a crossbow at the ready. They didn't dare to shoot though, not as long as Triss was between them and Celaena. Their eyes were locked on the knife that pressed against Triss's throat. It didn't take much to sever the carotid artery, a little pressure on the blade and it would all end in crimson misery. It would take merely a second, and a second was too short to try anything. There was nothing they could do.

For long moments there was nothing but silence and Triss's panicked breathing sounded unnaturally loud. Then Celaena repositioned, trapping Triss between her body and the blade, and let go of her hair to extend a hand. The witcher medallion jerked on its chain, and Geralt realized what she was doing even before he saw the air fold beneath her fingers, silver light swirling from the portal that formed before her.

"This is not over," she told him, voice dry and cold like coming death. Then she pulled Triss with her into the blinding light.

The moment the portal vanished, the guards closed in around him and Geralt raised his hands in surrender. Witcher reflexes or no, there were too many of them and the bolt of a crossbow would kill him at that short range. Not that his life was worth much, with the curse and all, but he felt responsible for what had happened to Triss, and he couldn't save her if he was dead.

One of the guards stepped closer and took his swords while another one ordered him to hold out his hands. They were chained behind his back.

He knew that they would be mad at him for killing one of their own, knew that they would let it out on him, so the beating didn't come as a surprise. What surprised him though, was that they didn't wait until they had taken him in and carried it out right there on the spot, in the temple of the mother goddess. He took the punishment stoically, almost welcoming the physical pain that momentarily drowned the hatred he felt for himself. They took turns, driving their fists into his stomach and striking him across the face, pulling him up again when he doubled over. Somewhere between the blows, he was aware that the young woman from before had returned, watching the scene from a distance, wide-eyed, her hand pressed against her mouth.

A random blow hit the barely healed wound in his side and he cried out in pain, knees buckling as agony took his senses. Whoever had dealt the blow must have taken pleasure in his reaction, because he was kicked in the same spot again. He curled into himself as pain exploded in his side, a shockwave that tore through his bruised body like fire, drowning his consciousness in a red haze. Darkness gathered at the edges of his vision, and when the foot slammed into him another time, he passed out.