In the books he used to pass the time at Kaer Morhan, Thyssen often read that, in a time of danger, the mind enters a state of hyper-concentration. Time begins to pass at a slower rate, everything unimportant fades from view, and ideas flit about the head like tiny bolts of lightning.
As his opponent drew his sword, Thyssen reflected that nothing of the kind was happening. If anything, the opposite was the case: he kept on thinking that he needed a really clever trick to escape the mess he found himself in, leading him to wonder why no good ideas were popping into his head and whether he might not be as clever as he sometimes hoped he was; all of which was, at best, distracting from his predicament.
His opponent let out a cry and charged. The peasant's friends had meanwhile put on a black cloak on him, and though at first Thyssen thought the man looked ridiculous, he looked a bit like a charging Nilfgaardian now. It had to be admitted that his opponent did look rather threatening.
Thyssen dodged. He was not a bad swordsman; while he was no match for any witcher oe soldier, the lessons he took at Kaer Morhan at least taught him the proper way to hold a sword. The problem was that his opponent was several times his size and proper footing cannot not save anyone from a disparity of that magnitude.
Still, he dodged and rolled successfully. Had Vesemir been there to witness this, I dare say he would complain that his former charge had managed to undercut his own, already rather low, expectations; but, be that as it may be, Thyssen's rolls proved good enough to escape the jabs of his opponent.
"The witcher's toying with him!" someone shouted.
It was, to put it mildly, a charitable interpretation, though Thyssen was glad to hear it voiced. But it seemed to irritate his opponent all the more, who charged at him with renewed energy, nearly knocking over a burning torch, which had been mounted on a half-full trough which, in a less festive time, was used for watering pigs.
As his opponent turned around, Thyssen looked at his surroundings more closely. A plan was beginning to form in his mind.
He began to parry as well as dodge, seeking to maneuver his opponent to where he wanted him. Careful not to cross swords directly - the pure strength of his opponent would likely sweep him off the field - his dodges began to be more planned. A minute later, he was standing with his opponent besides the same torch that was nearly knocked over.
There were, in fact, quite a few of these torches all around, mounted on barn walls, or freestanding on wooden bases, for it had grown dark and the peasants seemed unbothered by the obvious fire hazard. It occurred to Thyssen that while he had not the strenght to conjure up a flame at a distance - all he could manage, the last time Vesemir had tested him was a burning match - manipulating an existing flame, especially when he was right beside it, was within the range of his powers.
And so, at the right moment, he straightained up, loudly proclaimed, "Enough fun! Time to put an end to it," and put all his energy into an Igni to pull the fire from the torch onto his opponent's cloak.
It would not have worked, had they were not been standing right beneath the torch; but, as it was, the black cloak quickly began burning. Screaming, the peasant began to frantically unclasp it, and would have likely done so quite successfully had Thyssen not - for safety's sake, he would tell others later - taken the opportunity to knock his opponent over into the pig trough, extinguishing the fire in the pail of water.
Reader, I will spare you a detailed account of all that transpired thereafter. I will say only that there was much concern on the part of the villagers, concern which manifested itself in the form of screaming and hysterics, particularly among the women-folk. The peasant who had challenged Thyssen was not hurt, though his cloak had to be discarded. Thyssen had received no further challenges from the men of the village that night.
But if he had thought that the victory would lead the women of the village to swoon over him, nothing could be further from the truth. The power to call forth fire might sound impressive in theory; but, when presented with it plainly before their faces, our Northern peasants will recoil in horror, pray to whichever god they worship, and look upon the wielder of this power with unease which can easily mature into hatred. And for good reason; for is there not somethoing unnatural, something of the devil about it?
In short, after being shunned by the very people with he had hoped to impress, Thyssen rode his horse back to Oxenfurt, where he spent the remainder of the evening alone in his chambers. He resolved that, henceforth, he would limit his forays to the countryside as much as possible.
"I often see his shadow on the walls," the contessa said gesturing around the entrance hall. Thyssen shrunk his shoulders as best he vould, seeking to take up as little spacwe as possible. He felt more trhan a little intimidated to be here, in a castle whose towers could be seen for miles around, standing beside its owner.
"How long does he linger?"
"Moments. He only wishes to let me know he is here. Nothing more"
She seemed remarkably collected, at least compared to Thyssen's regular clientele, who tended to recount their problems in tones bordeing on hysteria. In any case, her problem seemed an especially easy one. He would make an act of banishing the ghost and paint the walls a different color, one less given to reflecting shadows.
He prolonged the conversation for a while, asking perfunctory questions that an actual witcher might ask. I will not bore you with them, dear reader,; rather, let us skip ahead a half-hour when Thyssen had judged it safe enough to get down to business.
"It would be my honor, your ladyship, to banish the ghost …"
"Goodness," the contessa cut him off before erupting into a laugh. "You have got the wrong idea entirely. The last thing I want to do is banish poor Frasie!"
That was how she had referred to her late husband, the Duke of Fraserburgh.
Thyssen was confused. "Then may I ask what services your ladyship requires?"
"Why, I sorely need to talk to him. You know I'm hosting the spring cotillion in a month?"
Thyssen did not know what a cotillion was but he nodded nonetheless.
"Oh, Frasie used to throw the most marvelous balls! He spent the better part of each year planning the parties he would throw. The decorations were always beautiful, the food splendid, the clothes he suggested were exquisite. Everything was perfectly gay!
"Ever since he departed," the contessa said mournfully, "my parties have lacked a certain joie de vivre."
Thyssen must have looked confused for the contessa took him by the hand and led him to one of the doors of the entrance hall.
"Look here," she said, pointing to a set of pink ribbons which decorated the entrance of the door. "What do you think of those?"
"They are very pretty madam," Thyssen said. That was apparently the wrong response, for the contessa's face contorted and she stomped her foot on the ground in anger.
"No, no, no," she cried, "for the pink clashes with the orange-yellow glow refracting from the chandeliers." She directed Thyssen's attention to colored collections of crystals hanging from the ceiling.
"Indeed, I see now that you are right, your ladyship," Thyssen said cautiously after a pause.
"I only noticed it this morning," the contessa went on, clearly incensed. "Frasie would have spotted it right away. But I've had these ribbons hanging here for over a week."
She sighed. "Can you imagine what would hapenned at the cotillion?" She shook her head in a burst of emotion. "Can you imagine what people would have said?"
"If I might ask, your ladyship," Thyssen said, seeking to steer the conversation to safer ground, "what is that you'd like me to do?"
"I want to walk through the chambers of the castle with Frasie," the contessa said, "room by room. And I want to hear what he thinks of my decorations. Is this something you can arrange?"