Had they seen their next door open, perhaps, both of them would have hesitated. There was no way of knowing whether the inside of that room would change on such an occurrence, but that thought was so fleeting that Kain barely registered it before the scenery around them changed.
Neither noticed when exactly the black glassy floor became grass and moss and the tall black walls dissolved into thin air, and instead, there were old and thick trees towering around them. The canopies were far above, scarcely allowing a few glimpses of sunlight blazing through the leaves rustling in every lackadaisical breath of wind.
A young woman was strolling between the trunks on quiet bare feet. Her light tunic was quite short and revealing, leaving nothing to the imagination, but it didn't seem to be of any concern to her. Braiding a strand of her light-chestnut hair lazily with nimble fingers, she eyed the stranger wistfully as she approached. The stranger didn't seem to look her way, his attention fully on the beast that came with him – a huge royal griffin. The beast, however, noticed her a while ago, its ears pricked and eyes darting in her direction cautiously. The dryad was watching them with avid interest. She hadn't seen a griffin up close before; they preferred to stay away from all humanoid forms unless very hungry or enraged. An unwitting smile claimed her mouth when the stranger made a croaking sound and the beast obeyed by strutting away and flying up to break through the canopy. A dozen of leaves fell twirling to the ground in its wake. The stranger opened his palm to one of them and it lowered there as if guided by magic. He turned to the dryad with a calm expectance. They gave each other a once-over of initial curiosity.
"A wonder of a sight," she commented, brushing her finished braid over her shoulder, and selected another strand to keep her hands busy. "He's a beauty, a rare one to see for the likes of me. I suppose I should be grateful to your Path that brought you two here."
The stranger appeared to be quite young, not even twenty summers, she estimated, with shoulder-long white hair spilled over the collar of his jerkin. A sword peeked from over his shoulder with a cat pommel. A similar cat head medallion was hiding against his chest.
He said nothing, but the dryad wasn't flustered. Her light hazel eyes narrowed impishly, studying him. Her skin was of a greenish tint only born dryads could boast. "What are you?"
There was a subtle twitch of his brow betraying confusion. "Which aspect do you want me to name?"
She pretended to frown suspiciously. "How many are there?"
"I could think of a few."
"Is griffin-tamer one of them?"
"I don't think so."
"Your griffin was just here."
"He's not mine. He merely trusts me, same as I him."
She nodded in what felt like acknowledgement as if he passed a test. "Nevertheless, he's yours. Just as you're his. A bond connects two into oneness, no?"
The Cat pondered a second. "I guess this one I can't argue."
"With that decided, what more are you?"
"A witcher."
She hemmed, her eyes narrowing, and approached, leaning closer to look him in the eye, then skimmed her gaze along his frame up and down. "Not a usual one, then?"
"Met witchers before?"
"Just one. He made me think he was quite usual. Barren flower."
"Then it makes me unusual, yes."
"How so? Because you're Aen Seidhe?"
"No, I'm not that."
She frowned in doubt, but upon combing his hair with her fingers to peek at one of his ears she got her confirmation. "A hair like yours is strange if you're not… changed."
He shrugged. "Mother nature doesn't answer those questions. It's what it is."
She laughed. "Only if one knows how to ask and how to listen. Sometimes we see answers in our Waters. But it's no good for you."
"What's in that Water?"
"It can make you forget all of what you are. It can make you see things that would drive you mad. But with us, it's guiding, it's showing things we ask about. If we know what to ask."
He considered her. "Why ask me things you already know?"
"I have to see what you know, so we are…" She hemmed, looking upwards at the canopies while she was seeking a better word. "Um… on the same branch?"
He cracked an amused smile. "Right. Smart tactic. More questions?"
"You think a witcher is what you are? Even if you are not changed?"
The Cat shrugged uncertainly. "I walked in there as a druid. And walked out as a witcher. And as it turns out, sometimes one cannot be both." He gestured briefly up where the griffin had disappeared earlier.
"You can choose?"
"I can. I don't know if I want to be just one forever and never the other. Like cutting off a healthy limb for no reason."
"True. It's folly. But you said you can't be both."
"Maybe it's what the Path is about. To find a way to be."
She snickered. "But it's like loving trees but bringing your axe along to cut some down."
"What if a tree is hit by lightning and can burn the rest of the forest? You let it burn? Or you destroy it to save the rest?"
She pondered it for a bit, finishing another braid absentmindedly. Then she brushed it over her shoulder. "Didn't think of it that way. Bitter duty, that."
"Someone has to do it so others wouldn't have to."
"You never lament it?"
"What?"
"Your duty? Things it takes from you?"
"I guess I outgrew that lament."
She averted her eyes with a touch of sadness in them, toying with the end of her braid. "I don't think I'll ever do."
He got bewildered at first, but then recognition followed. "I'm sorry."
She turned to him with interest. "Why?"
"The war's hard on your kin. It's unfair and horrible to have it never stop."
She shrugged almost nonchalantly. "Humans never learn, and they never end. It won't change because rulers are human. But it's not about that. War is a duty, yes, and so is survival, legacy. But do you believe that duty is all? Or should there be more?"
"Some of us resign solely to duty so others can have more," he responded after a moment's consideration. "It's a sacrifice. Willing or not. But… well, I don't see any reason not to indulge in things you want for as long as the duty gets fulfilled."
She nodded, her lips spreading in a smile; she laughed. "It's what the other witcher said. He used different words, but he meant the same. He taught me that sometimes barren flowers smell so much better than those that bear fruit. You believe that?"
"I do," he mused, connecting the dots in his head. "Was he also a Cat?"
"A Wolf. He made me open my eyes wider. I saw more." She bent and picked a pebble from the ground, and held it on her open palm between them. "It's a rock. Its purpose is to be and lie in its spot where it needs to be. There is nothing else to it. It doesn't desire. But sometimes we see a beautiful rock and we want to have it – to look at it when we need beauty. We take it from its spot, and its destiny… or duty changes. It still is, but it also gives us beauty. Does it make its duty less? No. Does it give us something more? Yes. Like you said – being both."
She carefully put the pebble back in the same spot where she'd picked it, then straightened up and met the Cat's eyes with a sincere, searching gaze.
"You know the price for staying here," she said. He nodded, and so did she. "Your duty or my duty don't have to take away the beauty of connection. I wish we could be both."
"As far as I heard, your kin doesn't think the same way."
"Some do," she said. "But not many, no."
"So you… collect rocks?" His mouth twitched with fleeting amusement.
"You're the second one I feel I want to take with me because the one from before was returned to its place." She reached to touch her fingertips to his medallion, then the skin beneath it, her eyes searching his. Her smile bloomed and turned teasing. "Do you wish to learn this connection? I do."
He returned her smile, and she took his hand, leading the way.
"I know a beautiful place. The right one to greet our Brokilon and see if it welcomes you. But only for those who stay. You have a name?"
"Gwyncath. What's yours?"
"I am Morénn."
When they disappeared among the trees, their quiet voices fading behind the rustling of the canopies worried by the wind, Kain realized he had forgotten to breathe. He drew in a slow, deep breath, feeling tight in his chest. It took a bit of an effort to avert his eyes from the place she had been standing and laughing moments ago.
So alive. Like not a day had passed.
Aen Woedbeanna. A dryad.
Ciri's jaw clenched in annoyance. Of course, these were the memories that had impacted Kain's life – the women he had conquered and the ones who had conquered him.
"Are you doing this on purpose?" she asked, attempting to remain calm for the sake of the mission, yet feeling ire continue to swell inside her like the rising tide. "Does it amuse you? To twist the knife? To show how easily you form connections to those who are not me?"
It didn't immediately make sense to his mind while he tried to rule down the stirred emotion. He turned to stare at her, utterly bewildered.
The forest dissipated around them, revealing the same black walls and glassy floor. Neither noticed.
"Amuse me?" he repeated, disbelieving. The shock brought about by her statement echoed deep within him with an unwitting bite of indignation. "Do I look amused to you? I could equally assume you wished for a glimpse of that Black Knight with a winged helmet. Did you?"
Ciri scoffed. "Why would Cahir bring you pain? He never made love to me." She paused, reconsidering. "On second thought, that image probably would not bother you at all."
She strode toward the end of the hallway they had yet to explore, muttering curses under her breath. She had no intention of opening another door with Kain at her side.
"We are splitting up."
He gnashed his teeth, squelching the remaining ire. It kept clawing at him.
"You want to get lost here?" he asked, following her. "We already have no clue how to find Geralt and Yennefer. If we lose each other, it's over. For all of us."
For you, yes, Ciri thought. She had no doubt in her mind she could eventually teleport out of the tower. Either that or a portal would send her through. "For all we know, Geralt and Yennefer are already back outside while we are in here wasting time spectating the parade of your old lovers."
Kain let out a frustrated sigh. "Very well, then take us out of here if you truly believe we're searching in vain."
Ciri held her hands out to him as if daring him to take them. She had to admit she quite enjoyed seeing Kain so unbalanced. Annoyed, even.
She grabbed onto him before he could change his mind, summoned her powers, and teleported.
Something was wrong. She could tell before they even dematerialized. It was a sensation in the pit of her stomach. A tugging on her heart. A certainty she would not land on her feet.
When they appeared with their backs to the tower ceiling, mid-air, and suddenly falling face-first towards the marble floor thirty feet below, all Ciri could do was squeak with surprise.
She tightened her grasp on Kain and summoned her power anew, pulling them both away a mere second before gravity could crush them against the stone.
They reappeared at the very spot they had tried to leave from in the first place, flat on the floor, hair ruffled, and with pounding hearts.
Ciri couldn't help but laugh.
Kain gasped, disoriented, his heart thrashing from the disarray of jumping. He shot her a look of vexed amazement. "Did you do that on purpose?"
"Of course not." She smiled. "Do you think I'm trying to kill you?" Ciri pushed herself up to sit, eyeing the faraway ceiling drowning in shadows. "I don't think the Tower wants us to leave."
Or it's you who can't, he thought, and felt an immediate pang of guilt. It wasn't her fault. None of this was.
He heaved a sigh, clinging to the thought of her innocence, and sat up, ran a hand through his hair. "If that's what it is, then we should proceed with the search. Unless you want to share another brilliant idea." He picked himself up and held out a hand to help her to her feet.
"We could always try again." She took his offered hand. "Though my fingers are feeling a little twitchy."
Judging by the look he gave her, that was a firm no.
"Let's see if there's a door to check," he murmured, starting down the corridor.
Ciri was reluctant. This cursed tower meant to torment them with painful memories and she had more than enough. What would it put on display this time? Leo Bonhart? Her time spent doing forced combat in the arena in Claremont? Geralt bleeding out and dying in the streets of Rivia?
They stopped at the next available door. Ciri's hands clenched painfully at her sides before she found the courage to proceed. She opened it.
The scene that came alive before them had no blood or death. No evil bounty hunters.
It was a beautiful bedroom. A suite. Large and spacious, decorated with the most exquisite of furniture and fabrics.
Ciri did not even have to see her younger self to remember exactly what was about to happen. She knew from the moment the room came into view. It had been hers, after all. Temporarily. And only one thing of particular note had occurred there.
It was her second day in Auberon's palace; a day spent on the river in a boat with Avallac'h. She had confessed to him her frustrations of the night before. King Auberon had not made any efforts to complete the act the two of them had been tasked to do, and to Ciri, time was already running out. Surrounded by the long-lived who had not a care in the world about time's passing, she had so very little of it.
This night needed to be different, she had decided. Auberon had to deliver on his contract so all this fuss would be over and Ciri could return home to those who needed her.
She had just been bathed and prepped with various lotions and creams, her lips and cheeks painted a faint pink, and her eyelids smeared with golden shadows to make the green in her eyes sparkle like emeralds.
Like the night before, she'd been dressed in ridiculously complicated undergarments and a long silk gown with a short train that dragged behind her on the floor as she walked. Ciri assumed the servants had been hard at work tailoring her dresses to fit her frame, so much shorter than the beautiful and tall Aen Elle females.
It was supposed to make her feel pretty. But all Ciri saw when she caught her reflection in a looking glass was a little girl playing make-believe. She wondered if it made the elves laugh behind her back. It would not surprise her. Everyone had made sure she knew how little they cared for her presence here at court.
When she stepped away from the looking glass and witnessed the two plates that had been set at her table, it gave her pause. Was she to dine in her own chambers tonight? Would Auberon come to her this time? It didn't seem likely. She had yet to see the King outside of his quarters.
Her stomach fluttered in surprise when the door opened and Eredin Bréacc Glas strode inside, followed by a short procession of the strange grey-dwarf servants carrying serving dishes and carafes of wine.
"What are you doing here?" The question fell from Ciri's lips before she could stop herself, her gaze roaming the open doorway as if expecting Auberon would soon shuffle through. He did not.
The servants deposited their trays on the table and promptly left, closing the door behind them and leaving her alone with the tall black-haired elf.
Eredin was not wearing his usual armor. Instead, he donned black trousers, knee-high leather boots, and a red silk shirt that exposed the top of his chest. Ciri made a mental note that, like Auberon, his skin was smooth and void of hair.
When he spoke to her, it was Elder Speech. A test, perhaps? To gauge how much of the elven traits had been passed down to her from Lara?
"I was hoping to have the honor of dining with you tonight, Zireael." Eredin pulled out a chair and offered it to her in the same manner a noble lord would for a lady.
"I thought I was to see The King," Ciri murmured uncertainly, fingers nervously toying with the sleek fabric of her dress.
Eredin smiled kindly, putting his even teeth on display. "And you shall. Once he is free of today's obligations. Later, Swallow O'mine. Now come."
He gestured to the chair and Ciri finally relented, settling down and allowing him to gently push her closer to the table. She didn't meet his gaze. Not yet.
Mine. Swallow O'mine.
The day before he'd called her 'our'. Now he moved on to 'mine'. Did that have meaning?
Whatever the reason, it made Ciri's face flush with blood.
If Eredin noticed, he did not say. He served her rosé wine and vegetables roasted with garlic and other spices, encouraging her to eat as soon as her plate was full.
Ciri didn't speak. She ate quietly and timidly, unsure of the reason for his visit. The last they spoke, Eredin had issued her a strange warning to ensure she would not try to escape. A warning that had set Avallac'h on edge. She still did not know why. But Eredin had turned from kind and gentle to menacing in a matter of seconds. Which version of him was she dealing with now?
"I hear last night was not to your liking," Eredin said finally, sipping from his glass as he surveyed her across the table.
Ciri stiffened. Avallac'h had told him? Or Auberon himself?
Eredin looked vaguely amused. "Did you think it would all be over in one night?"
Ciri put her fork down, annoyed. "I knew there were no guarantees. But I expected him to at least try. Seeing as all the worlds depend on this child I am to bear for you."
He waved a hand. "There is still time."
A sigh left her mouth, long and drawn out. "You ancients and your time. You forget not everyone shares this luxury."
"So eager to return to a world that has done nothing but harm you." Eredin's cold eyes narrowed.
"I have loved ones in that world."
"And more enemies than could fit in this city, luned. Vicious brutes who would disfigure a pretty child's face." His gaze settled on Ciri's prominent scar and once more she flushed with humiliation.
"I suppose such things do not matter to them. You humans have the lowest of standards. Anything with a hole is deemed a worthy mate." Eredin chuckled and drank from his glass.
Ciri stared him down. She shouldn't have been surprised by his words. He'd made her feel similarly low when they first met. Like she was unworthy of treading on their soil. Like she was nothing.
"You are the brute," she said angrily, fingers clutching the armrests of her chair. "Beautiful to look at but ugly where it matters most." She put a hand to her chest just above her heart to demonstrate. "I have surrendered. I am giving you what you want. And yet you seek to wound me with cruel words and mocking glances."
Eredin tilted his head to the side as if curious, his intense gaze never leaving hers. "Does it matter to you what I think, Zireael?"
Ciri felt taken aback. She swallowed. "I… No. Of course not. I do not care." Silence. Briefly. "The Aen Elle have strange methods of romancing, is all I am saying. Do you usually insult the people you wish to lie with?"
Eredin smiled, chuckling into his glass. "Do you think that is why I am here? To romance you?"
"…No!" Gods, he was focusing on all the wrong words. Making her feel flustered and clumsy. Ciri shook her head to emphasize just how wrong he was, making tendrils of her ashen hair come loose from its updo. "I am doing what you demanded. I intend to keep my promise. So why do you continue to punish me as though I am being difficult?"
Eredin's smile didn't waver. He was watching her keenly, clearly hoping another outburst would leave her lips and amuse him further. He hadn't a care in the world that this was difficult for her. That she had cried herself to sleep the night before. That she was petrified of what would await her back home should she not return quickly enough.
Her problems meant nothing to him. To them.
"Forget it," Ciri breathed and stood, knocking the chair onto the floor with her rapid movements. "I do not have to entertain you. It was not part of our agreement."
She made for the door as quickly as her high-heeled shoes would allow, needing to flee his presence which had begun to feel cloying and painful.
His long white fingers wrapped around her elbow before she could reach for the door handle, his movements so fast she had not even noticed him rising from his seat.
He pulled her back towards the table, that taunting smile replaced with something else.
"Forgive me, me elaine luned," he whispered, bringing Ciri's wrist to his lips. He placed a kiss where the skin gently pulsed with the beating of her heart and made an involuntary shiver ripple through her. "I forget how fragile dh'oine can be."
Ciri's brow furrowed sullenly but she did not pull away. "I am not fragile."
"Oh, but you are," he contested, keeping a hold of her hand in both of his, staring down into her wide-eyed gaze, searching for something there. "You are young. That is where your impatience stems from. Children are always in a hurry. You will grow. And you will learn."
He paused to watch her reaction.
Ciri tried to display none at all, yet her anger rapidly vanished. She hated herself for that.
"Our King is old." Eredin reclaimed his seat but did not release her hand. They were almost the same height when he was seated. Almost. "He likes to take his time. With everything. As is our way. You think you displeased him. That his lack of carnal advances means you have done something wrong."
Yes, Ciri thought. What else was she to think? The King had summoned her to his chambers for one reason only. And it wasn't to correct her grammar or hear her life story.
"What could you possibly have done?" Eredin asked so softly he hardly sounded like himself.
Ciri hesitated. Bonhart's old taunts sprung to the back of her mind. They always stayed with her no matter how much she tried to forget.
"I know I'm not pleasing to look at," she said finally, fighting to hold back hot tears of shame. "I am skinny. And scarred. I don't have the poise of a Lady. I know I am not what most men would desire."
Eredin's hand lifted to her face, his thumb caressing the length of the scar that ran down her cheek. Ciri inhaled sharply, a jolt of desire combusting between her thighs.
"Did he say such things?" Eredin asked.
"No…"
"Then why do you believe it to be so?"
Ciri's mouth opened to speak but she couldn't for a long moment. When she finally found her voice it was one of frustration and confusion. "Because others continue to tell me. You compared me to compost just yesterday!" she pointed out. "Unless that word means something different here, it does not call forth images of beauty and desire!"
His lips twitched again, eyes twinkling with amusement.
"I am a rude old man," he declared. "Do not take my jesting to heart, Swallow."
Jest? It had seemed anything but when he had insulted her the day before.
Before she could question his statement, Eredin's eyes narrowed on her face again. "Still so very young," he murmured as if to himself. "Have you been taught of the pleasures to be had between men and women?"
"I know that men are not necessary for pleasure to be had," Ciri said defiantly, making the elf laugh. It felt like a victory somehow. To draw laughter because of her wit instead of her ignorance.
"I suppose that is true," he said. "But it won't help you much when you see Auberon later."
Ciri stiffened slightly. She'd almost forgotten she was expected to see the King that night.
Unexpectedly, Eredin yanked her forward with one hand, catching her with the other to have her straddling his thighs where he sat.
Ciri's eyes widened in surprise and sudden apprehension, trying to read Eredin's intentions on his inscrutable face.
"Auberon will most certainly take his time," he whispered, his face so close to hers she could smell the sweet wine on his breath. His hands fell to her narrow hips and he pulled her toward him as if he was a horse and she his rider, melting into his movements with her own body. "But there are ways you can inspire him."
Every time he drew her forward, Ciri felt the promise of pleasure. It was a whisper. A caress. As soft as a breeze. It was not enough.
So she settled on him with all her weight, gliding back and forth along his thighs, pressing herself against him like he was coaxing her to.
A low hum of approval rumbled in Eredin's chest.
Once she held the rhythm by herself, he released his hold on her and moved to palm her breasts through the fabric of her dress, massaging, pinching, making her whine softly with mounting desire.
Beneath her, Ciri felt the bulge of his crotch harden and grow more prominent in size. It thrilled her to know she could affect his body in such a way – this gloriously beautiful creature who despite all his obvious flaws and cruelty, had already imprinted himself on her mind.
He never kissed her. Never tried. But his lips hovered over her skin, spilling his warm breath onto the side of her throat as they ground against one another.
It was not quite like anything Ciri had ever experienced before.
Her time with Mistle had been softer, somehow. Even if they had been nude and curled up together like serpents in a nest. Skin had touched skin, fingers had explored, and tongues had tasted. But it was nothing like this.
This was urgent desire that needed to be fulfilled. It was give and take, pull and relent. Possession. His hands on her were strong. Commanding. As though she already belonged to him, and had ever since they first met.
Swallow O'mine.
Ciri's eyes fell shut when she neared the point of climax. She was breathing heavily, pent-up energy pushing at the seams of her body and threatening to spill over at any moment.
A confused gasp left her as Eredin suddenly lifted her off his lap and stood, taking hold of his wine glass for a last sip.
Ciri's legs were trembling, so she braced herself against the table. It felt as though she had been doused in ice water. Her body already mourned the loss of his touch. And despite it all, there was a throbbing between her thighs that would not cease, making her ache with the need for a release.
She turned to look at him over her shoulder, befuddled and on the verge of another episode of humiliation.
He did not return her gaze. Simply smoothed his rumpled shirt and placed his empty glass back on the table before peering out at the evening sky. The moon was climbing to replace the position the sun had held earlier.
"It's time," he said simply. "Auberon will be expecting you. Best of luck, little Swallow."
He left without another word. Without explanation or reason.
Ciri's fingernails dug into the table beneath her, the tears she had tried to keep at bay earlier finally pushing through the barriers she'd erected, trailing down her flushed cheeks.
Similarly, back in the present day, Ciri's hands were clenched so tightly as the scene evaporated before them, that her nails had created bloodied little half-moon crevices in her palms.
Kain had managed to keep a stony face, but inwardly he felt as though a horrid storm was raging and setting everything ablaze. The level of manipulation and how low the Elf had stooped with a girl that had only just begun her tentative journey from childhood to adolescence dipped him in a state of icy shock. Hearing her describe her encounters with her abusers and Auberon himself in a few meekly colored words and dry facts and seeing things in their true glory was like comparing the real sunset palette with one sentence describing it on parchment.
Fury and pain so shrill that it made Kain's spine grow colder wafted off Ciri's frame in thick coils. Her fists were white at her hips and tightening. There was nothing he could say to soothe her, nor did he sense it was appropriate to try, given the state she was in.
He settled for, "He'll pay for what he did. All of it."
"Tell no one," she whispered, trying her hardest to restrain her urge to destroy something and lash out in anger. "What we see here today, we should swear to tell no other. It is the only way we can proceed."
"Who would I tell?" he asked in a quiet voice, stung with her suspicion. "Geralt? The amount of suffering it would bring him I could never cause to anyone, let alone my own brother. No one will ever hear of any of this from me. You have my word."
Ciri's brow furrowed in mild confusion. "Why would Geralt suffer? It did not happen to him." It was strange. It felt as though she should already know the answer to that question, like it was just out of reach, and she was unable to grasp it.
It took Kain an extra second to see she wasn't being spiteful or mean, but genuinely baffled. It was insane to witness it, and for a moment it made him think he imagined her response. What if the Tower was making them lose their minds with more and more tricks and illusions even between themselves?
He swallowed, pondering whether he should address it at all or if it would lead to a worse banter. He decided to try. "It would drive him mad to see the whole extent of what he believes he failed to protect you from. The depth of his grief about it is already deeper than The Sedna Abyss. This would ruin him beyond repair."
It made sense, Ciri thought. Or rather, she knew it was supposed to make sense, only she couldn't fully comprehend it.
"Geralt's going to spend the rest of his life being miserable," she said eventually. "Perhaps it would be best if he understood he cannot save me." She started down the corridor again. "This place is endless."
Her words cut deep, but Kain sought solace in Geralt not being on the receiving end of it just yet.
He followed her, looking around for any more doors. The corridor seemed to have widened and sometimes from the corner of his eye, he noticed something akin to the mist they had seen outside. Another way to trick our eyes, he thought after glimpsing fleeting silhouettes and shapes in the corners and around the columns and statues. After a while, he stopped paying attention to it, distracting himself with thoughts about Geralt and Yennefer. Was it the same for them? Were they wandering the dark corridors of endless shadows each on their own or did they end up in places no other could reach?
He tried to keep Ciri in his field of view as they strolled around randomly, trying to not miss anything. The corridors gradually turned into wider halls with columns reaching upward like trees and it took more time to search around them for any nooks and crannies with possible doors. Statues seemed to be moving subtly in the dark gowned with mist.
"What will your next memory be, do you think?" Ciri asked, her voice bouncing between walls in an echo.
She was curious. Especially now her own vision could be put to rest for the time being. "And why do you think the tower only conjures memories that wound?"
"I'm not brave enough to attempt to calculate in advance what I could see next," he responded honestly, peeking around another column. There was nothing but a faint veil of mist hanging over the floor like fog over water. "I wish I knew why the Tower makes us see anything at all," he added, squinting instinctively as something a few yards away attracted his eye. More mist, perhaps? But somehow it seemed dimly illuminated. He started towards it, musing in continuation of their talk: "It was supposed to be a means of travel, not divination..."
"And why did it show me other people's memories before, but solely my own now?" Ciri asked, not truly expecting an answer.
Though some acknowledgement of what she'd said would be nice.
"Kain?"
She squinted at the spot she'd seen him last, now doused in thick fog rising towards the ceiling.
"Hello?" She strode into the cloud of white, wafting a hand as if hoping it would disperse beneath her touch. "Kain?"
He was nowhere to be seen. And the longer Ciri remained where she stood, the more cloying the fog became.
"KAINAR!"
Philippa Eilhart was strolling languidly, skirting a beautifully decorated round table encrusted with magical circles of symbols surrounding a map of the Continent magically imprinted on its surface. Fringilla and Margarita were sitting at it in their respective chairs, and Triss was standing over hers, a cloth for sneezing fisted in one hand, both hands flying in emotional gesticulation while she talked. She couldn't keep herself sitting because her minor cold and sneezing problem had partially robbed her of the sense of power and confidence one needed to deliver a speech while sitting down with the same convincing impulse as while standing up.
Fringilla was paying more attention to Philippa and Margarita's reactions than to what Triss was reciting, since the Nilfgaardian sorceress was already familiar with things being said quite closely.
They had picked their old and trusty rendezvous place in Montecalvo for this emergency meeting, and it had taken a few spells on Philippa's side to turn their secret council chamber from a dusty and abandoned ruin into what it used to be during the Lodge's prime years.
It didn't take Triss long to report the current situation and express all her stress and concern at the state of their affairs, but Philippa's demeanor made it seem to have been quite a drag to listen to.
"I don't think you made it clear enough for us what exactly you want us to do about any of it," she said eventually, drawing her pacing to a stop. She turned to fix Triss with a look of nonchalant expectancy. "Go out there all together, then lock our hands and walk in circles through the fog calling their names until the Hunt rides through those ruins? Haven't you two indulged enough in this nonsense? And what have you found there? Soaked shoes, stuffed nose, and magical exhaustion."
"Have you not been listening to me?" Triss cried out indignantly in her nasal voice, tightening her fist around the cloth unconsciously, close to shaking it at Eilhart. "It's been nearly four days! We can't find them anywhere! We should—"
"Why do we have to bend backwards to find Geralt and Yennefer?" Philippa inquired, folding her arms. Her black eyes bored into Merigold's blue ones like daggers. "What good would it do any of us? The Witcher keeps reciting that nonsense about being neutral and Yennefer is doing everything in her power to hammer a bigger wedge between us and the girl. Without those two we can establish a better relationship with both Ciri and the Cat Witcher."
"Neither of them will ever trust you or cooperate with you," Triss said, her narrowed gaze spilling ire. "If you let their family perish, they will nev—"
"Family!" Philippa threw back her head with a loud thrill of laughter. "A sterile witcher and a rogue witch, such an honorable family for a royal blood." Mirth slipped off her face, her eyes turned sharper than two shards of fire glass stabbing into Triss. "Cirilla has never been some dirty orphan you pick from the street when they exhibit a grain of talent for the Arts. No, my dear silly Triss, she's always been and always will be the sole heir of a very powerful lineage of royal blood, whichever line you pick – elven or human. She is the greatest treasure, one of a kind to never be repeated and to eventually be ruined – if we let that false family of hers take over."
Breath hitching in the base of her throat, Triss gasped softly, then cast a quick glance at Fringilla who met her stare with a barely noticeable narrowing of her emerald eyes, as if saying this reaction was quite expected. Margarita wasn't looking at any of them, pretending to be meditating on the symbols on the table.
"Take over?" Triss inquired, bringing her indignation back to Philippa. "What do you mean by take over? Ciri would never rest until she finds them. Getting back to them was the only driving force behind her trials as a child, don't you remember? She went through so much just to get back to them, and when you tried to force her to part ways with Geralt forever — don't you remember what happened next?"
Philippa remained impassively quiet, her eyebrows slightly raised as though extending one more but a very small bead of patience towards the furious chestnut-haired colleague.
"Did you get what you wanted?" Triss pressed. "Did you make her bend to your will, or was it solely grief, pain, and destruction of all plans and ambitions that we got instead of that era of magical thriving you had promised us?"
"That is exactly what we have to rectify now," Philippa said in a tone you use on the densest children in the classroom. "It wasn't lost or doomed – we can still get there, we can still become The Great Lodge we were meant to be. And if Geralt and Yennefer are finally out of our hair, it is perfect for our goals."
"Geralt had nothing to do with your failures!" Triss argued. "He had nothing to do with your ambitions."
"He is the one Cirilla believes to be her destiny, you fool," Philippa retorted. "For as long as he's with her, she can never give us any of her time. If he's gone, she has to redirect herself, to realize her destiny has changed. With her joining us, we shall get everything we ever dreamed of. She can give us our own kingdom, she can help us rise from the ashes of the old Lodge and become the real power the rest of the Continent will have to respect and fear. When we become that power, she, as a member of it, shall be free in her choices as she wanted. She can be with her Cat Witcher and bear his children willingly. Nilfgaard won't touch us with her being one of us. And when Emhyr dies, the Empire will be ours. All of that is our future with Cirilla if Geralt and his witch are gone."
"Only she's also gone," Fringilla pointed out in a quiet voice. "None of them came back from that fated trip to Oxenfurt, and then to Tor Zireael. And it's been days, as we informed you."
"She travels between worlds," Philippa shrugged. "It can take her a week or two of searching, but she'll come back because there is no place like home." She smiled coldly with a brief gesture of spreading her arms.
"She might never come back," Triss remarked, as gloomy as a stormy night, "because even if they don't find Geralt or Yennefer with their efforts combined, they have each other. Ciri's home will be where Kain will go with her. Or where they end up and decide to stay."
A flicker of annoyed doubt swept through Philippa's black gaze, all but briefly. "He's not like her. He's been raised with duty and discipline as his top values, unlike our royal brat. He would not leave this world to its doom for her love alone."
"Love makes you do the stupidest, most reckless things," Margarita mused, picking at an embroidered flower on her skirt.
"I had a peek into his head that once," Philippa said, "and I know he wouldn't dismiss his duties for a girl. He's a witcher, after all."
"Geralt had retired with Yennefer after the pogrom," Triss reminded. "He wouldn't have ever come back if not for the Hunt's intrusion."
Philippa smirked at her, "Little do you know. He's been hunting beasts here and there, leaving a string of unsettling rumors about a white-haired witcher picking out the remaining monsters. Almost a ghost story akin to what The Wild Hunt was leaving in its wake." Her smirk turned more biting as she observed the expression on Triss's face. "I don't think he ever intended to drop by an old friend like you. All focus on duty. A witcher to his core."
Triss winced, and finally remembered she was still standing. She had no more steam for it and lowered into her chair, putting her cloth to her nose to blow it gently. It was quite sore and reddish.
"What if Ciri and Kain find those two," Margarita said, "and settle with them in another world? We will never know. They just vanished, and there's nothing we can do."
"I don't believe it," Philippa swatted a hand. "Remember how both Yennefer and Cirilla pestered us about Oxenfurt and people and fighting the Hunt? It's her unfinished task, and that Sage of hers will never let her forget it. He's the one to know exactly where she is."
"Only he's nowhere to be found, either," Triss said in her nasal voice, wiping her nose clean, then burned her cloth before pulling a fresh one from her belt purse.
"So what, we do nothing, and wait?" Margarita asked, and looked to Eilhart, expecting that no one else will put a word before the black-eyed sorceress spoke.
"Waiting a few more days or a bunch of them won't hurt us," Philippa said. "After all, Triss and Fringilla tried their best to find them and failed. The Tower is in ruins and the one on Thanedd doesn't seem to be operational – is that right?" She looked to Merigold and Vigo.
They nodded.
"Things are shifting around Novigrad and Oxenfurt," Philippa continued. "Redania is still in aftershock of what befell their former king. The task of searching for any information on Sunstone still stands – the Hunt won't go away if Ciri fled for a time being. We need to know how to pick our battle if they return before she does."
"And what if the Riders won't return?" Fringilla mused, her eyes narrowed wistfully as she turned to Philippa. "Because they got their prize? What if by going to Tor Zireael, Ciri and Kain played right into their hands? If the portal worked for them like the one in the Academy basement and carried them right to the Aen Elle world? We won't know, either. And they will never return. But the Aen Elle can come back to our world here and avenge their brethren, their fallen comrades, and most of all their beloved Lara Dorren? They will massacre most of the people and make the remaining ones their slaves."
Even Philippa scowled at that scenario, while Triss and Rita began to look openly appalled. And all three of them recognized immediately that this was a quite plausible version of possible events.
"Ciri is our only chance to prevent that," Fringilla added. "Because it's Ciri that we all depend on for help. Avallac'h, Kain, Emhyr, Mousesack, Skellige people, even the remaining witchers – they all are connected to her Path, not ours. They would stand by her side, not ours. We need her, or this war is lost for good. Even if we reunite The Lodge, Phil, we won't be able to withstand The Wild Hunt's magic on our own."
Silence fell among them like a light blanket while they contemplated, each one attempting to calculate their options.
"Even with the predicament you described," Philippa spoke eventually, "there's not much we can do at this point. It's still too early to believe it's truly what happened. I suggest we wait a bit longer, another bunch of days. If Cirilla and Kain are not back, we shall join our efforts with the Skellige druids and attempt to either find a way to draw Ciri back, or look for the Sunstone to use it as a beacon. If Sage promised it would work for the Hunt, it has to work for her, as well."
"In theory," Margarita added.
"It's a very good theory, for her power is their legacy," Philippa responded. "Now, if that's decided, we shall disperse in our search for Sunstone's location."
She never waited for their acknowledgements; her arms made a habitual pass opening a portal, and then she was gone.
Margarita glanced between Fringilla and Triss with a kind of uncertainty one feels while debating whether or not to say anything. Triss gave an imperceptible shake of her head: not here.
All of them vacated the chamber in silence.
"Can't believe no one told me!" Dandelion tightened his fingers on his mug of mead.
"Aw, doncha start that shite with me again, mate," Zoltan grumbled, putting a new pitcher of mead on the table before settling across from his friend. "How would ye sing and cheer up folks then? And ye gotta do it – we have to make our ends meet here. Besides, there's nothin to tell. None of us knows a thing."
"Sod the ends and singing! Geralt's gone! All of them are gone! That's not nothing! That's… that's a catastrophe! Another Conjunction! Or worse! What if… if… what if that Hunt has them? This is so awful! So awful my mind cannot take it! It's going to bust!"
"Drink up," Zoltan suggested wearily and raised his own mug to his mouth. "First we hear from Merigold and that other one… eh…"
"Fringilla," Dandelion muttered. "Fringilla Vigo. She's the cousin of my long lost love Anarietta of Toussaint… Ah, Zoltan! I do miss that place so much! I was at my happiest there! How I wish to be back in time in my Little Weasel's arms while Geralt's having his own pleasantries attended in the library… ah, good times… such good times…" The corners of his mouth turned downwards like on a theatrical mask of grief; he slurped his mead, staring in front of himself with despair and apathy. "I wish they told us about that… whatever they went to do… Geralt or Ciri or… well, anyone of them. We'd help… somehow… But no, no one tells us anything anymore… I think it's how old people feel, you know… when you're so useless no one bothers to share their plans because you don't matter… And Shani! How could she not tell us! How could she tell that Lodge and not us! How, Zoltan?!"
"Calm yerself, Poet," Zoltan recited with resigned patience of a man who had seen and heard all of that in different variations during the last two hours, ever since he had to finally break the news, or rather the fatal lack thereof. "That sodden elf would never let our lassie get hurt. He'd drag her right back here if it was so. Put er to sleep again, that whoreson. If they're all together out there, it's better than apart. Together they should be fine. If that elf ain't here sulkin, he must be with them, like that other trip before they brought another pricked-eared here for some visions." He snorted contemptuously and drank.
"Oh, dear gods in heaven, I don't know what we will do if they… if… I can't! I can't, I don't want to even think about it! But nor do I know how to stop! I swear, all the scenarios exploding in my head are worse than anything I can think about!"
"Just calm yerself and drink," Zoltan reminded, refilling the Bard's mug. "It's not the worst any of em been through. Some of hardships we had shared with our good old witcher…" He sighed, a subtle smile faintly touching his mouth. "He ought to be all right, ye'll see. They're all fine, just dealin with somethin. We had that before – that Bog and then their stay at Ellander with no warnin us, and we been goin mad here all the sam— … Hey, Dandelion?"
The Poet raised his red eyes to meet the dwarf's; they welled up and began to stream tears. "I'm not sure I know how to live in a world without him, you know? After that pogrom… It was so hard. It was impossibly hard. Until we got this inn and you got my back, pulled me together… but… It took me so long to ease up on lamenting not ever meeting him again. Even Ciri disappeared, abandoning us for good. But at least we knew Geralt was living his best with the love of his life… out there… and now… Now it's different. It's utterly different and so wrong, Zoltan. He didn't even remember properly that she's his love... If we never know if he… if they… I don't… I can't…"
"Hey, hey, no, don't do that to yerself, pal, don't," Zoltan persuaded in a soft voice filled with sympathy. "Ye don't know, so don't just say such things. Not good to do that. Don't jinx. We ain't losin em. We just got our lassie back, all of us together again. We ain't losin em like this."
Dandelion released the mug from his grip and covered his face with his hands, hunching over the table, rocking slowly back and forth. No sounds came from under his palms, but Zoltan suspected his eyes were getting wetter.
The dwarf heaved a long sigh, pained by his friend's suffering as well as his own worries and ire. Sure thing, ire was also there – ignited by what he felt himself and what Dandelion said about being useless. Indeed, Zoltan had been doing useless things when he could have helped Geralt with his tasks. Who cares about cabaret and profits overweighing expenses when their lassie was in trouble and their two witchers couldn't be expected to do all the hard work by themselves! Zoltan should have gone with them.
He was furious with himself for not getting that enlightening resolution before this happened.
Before it was too late. Or could be. Who knew now? Dandelion was right about that, as well: they could never know. That was the scariest part of this predicament. If even the darn Lodge was puzzled, it truly was as seriously grim as it could get.
Suddenly both started and exchanged wild, alert glances when they thought they heard something. Then they both jumped to their feet, their chairs toppling, and pelted up the stairs. Dandelion won the race with his longer legs by a mere second when they burst into the Red Suite, scaring the three sorceresses into gasps and flashes of magic flames erupting from Triss's palm by sheer instinctual fright.
"What? What did you learn? Where are they? What do we do?" Zoltan and Dandelion began bombarding them with questions immediately after busting in.
"Oh dear gods," Triss sighed, her palm pressed to her chest where her heart was trying to leap up and out of her mouth.
"Ye seen that crazy owl bitch?" Zoltan asked. "She toldja anythin worthy?"
"Do you have a plan?" Dandelion intoned, staring between them with eyes wide and bulging like eggs. "A spell? A place to look? Allies to help you? Anything? Anything at all?!"
"Let's calm down a bit," Fringilla offered, pulling herself a chair to sit on. Triss was too agitated and distraught to stop sneezing, and Margarita settled on the edge of the bed. "We have no news – we weren't doing magic. As for plans, well, Philippa doesn't seem to be willing to do anything to find them as of yet. She believes we have to wait a bit longer, because Ciri always comes back, and she'd bring them all along."
"OW, that sodding, damned hag!" Dandelion shook his fists, then was appalled and looked at them timidly. "She can't hear, can she…"
"We cleared out the means she could use for it," Fringilla said and shrugged. "Those we found."
"Oh, good…" Dandelion wasn't convinced.
"It's been days now," Zoltan remarked, frowning. "Not too many, but if things go wrong, every hour counts. We all know how it is. How can we continue to sit on our fat arses and expect it all to just unravel in our favor? If it was a mere delay like they had before, Yennefer would've sent us a message. They'd find a way to tell us, ain't that right?"
"Of course she would have," Triss agreed, wiping her nose. "But I don't believe things are good."
The other sorceresses and the Bard with the dwarf peered at her with a mixture of dismay and outright fear.
"I know, I know, but sidestepping our suspicions and worst fears is not wise right now, either," she said. "I feel it's bad. And it makes me afraid for them more and more with each passing hour. Zoltan is right – we can't count on them being all right just because they're so capable or because we wish it so. We have to find a way to get to them, and Philippa wants to stall. She outright told us it's best if Geralt and Yen are gone from Ciri's life."
Zoltan's face distorted in fiery anger. "That wretched feathered whore! How dare she! If not for Geralt, her arse'd be ashes by now. Shoulda let em hunters get er and burn er at their ploughin stake."
"Let's not dwell on should-haves," Fringilla put in. "Regardless of things she says and wants, we don't have to follow her. We have before, and gained nothing good from it."
"She was The Lodge's founder," Margarita sighed. "She's an old and crafty sorceress, she has foresight and wisdom. But it's about how she uses it all that's not so tasteful."
Zoltan spat, folding his arms as if to contain his seething fury. "I'd give no broken oren for er life now."
"But what do we do?" Dandelion inquired, searching their faces one after another. "However wise she might be, she doesn't know that, either, does she?"
"No," Triss confessed. "None of us does. It's the Tower of the Swallow we're dealing with. And it's ancient elven magic, no match for us or any spells we could come up with. We need someone capable—"
"Ye mean an actual elf," Zoltan put in.
"Not just any elf," Fringilla added. "Some Aen Seidhe would be no good. We tried to find Avallac'h, but to no avail. Aside from him, there's barely anyone else but Francesca to ask."
"It would take a strike of luck to have her agree," said Margarita. "We can hardly convince her to help us prevent Aen Elle destroying this world. Her people are angry with ours. They might welcome their higher brethren, for all we know."
"But it's madness!" Zoltan barked. "Those arrogant, cold-hearted bastards like this ploughin Sage won't care 'bout em, either. They massacre everythin they see, no?"
"Well, actually, there are many stories about The Wild Hunt saving Aen Seidhe and Scoia'tael from human oppressors and taking them back to their world," Fringilla said. "Some Scoia'tael believe it and would welcome them as saviors. Francesca could be of such mindset — after her wretched deal with Nilfgaard, I wouldn't count on her good will."
"Probably not," Triss said. "But we have to try. What other option do we have? I will alert Mousesack and his druids. Perhaps they know some tricks to get in touch with Kain who's not a stranger to druid magic."
"You suggest Frin and I go to Francesca?" Margarita smirked. "So she possibly laughs in our faces and then sells us out to Phil?"
"Are ye really so afraid of that sorry old fussock?" Zoltan demanded, his arms akimbo. "What can she do against ye three, huh?"
"The worst mistake one can make with a sorceress is underestimate her," Triss reasoned. The other two nodded.
"Never mind her," Dandelion put in. "What do we do about Geralt and his family? Are there any other powerful elves besides Francesca?"
"There was one," Fringilla said. "But we don't know where she is and whether we can reach her."
"Nor that she would be willing to aid us," Margarita added. "If Francesca wouldn't…"
"Look, ye ladies," Zoltan said, starting to feel fed up with useless debates. "There's no mayhaps or might'ves anymore – we're past that. Anythin at all ye got – ye gotta try. Now. Because we're losin precious time cluckin here like chickens with their darn eggs stolen from under their arses."
"Geralt and I met a group of despaired elves once," Dandelion said. "They near killed us but then that lady ordered them to free us, and I got my precious lute from one of them. I'm willing to go anywhere and see anyone, be it Francesca or any Scoia'tael or anyone at all, just to make them hear reason. I can be quite convincing and likable. I can be of help. If you need it, I'm at your service. We have to do something now. Please." He looked from one face to another with pleading expectancy.
"It's a good offer," Triss smiled meekly. "We appreciate it immensely, but when it comes to servants of the Arts – to The Lodge and those who've been in it — it might be best if we do it on our own. They wouldn't trust outsiders."
"Aye, I imagine." Zoltan scoffed, scowling. "Fine. Whatever ye do, hurry. And don't forget to keep us informed. We gonna take it very personally if ye leave us out."
"We would never," Fringilla promised. "We're in the same ganza."
"Ye better remember that," the dwarf smirked.
"What if we send a message to Emhyr?" Dandelion suggested in a timid voice. "He surely has more resources and mages to—"
"So we could end up on the receiving end of his fury for failing his daughter?" Triss played back. "We never know how twisted his grief and helpless ire will be. I don't want to taste it just yet."
Her two colleagues shook their heads in agreement.
"Emhyr is highly unstable when it comes to Ciri," Fringilla said. "Now is not the right time to test his limits. Let us do our utmost and then see where it leads us."
"Well, if you say so," Dandelion muttered, and then Zoltan ushered him from the room.
"Ye get to it, ladies," he threw over his shoulder before closing the door. "Time's waistin."
Once alone, the sorceresses exchanged looks or anxiety and fatigue. None of them had managed any good sleep in the last few days, especially Triss and Fringilla. Triss had been struggling with her cold, dropping by Shani's clinic every night for new mixtures and herbal solutions. Shani had been treating her with inhalations where Triss had to inhale steam from brewing herbal essences, and only that began to show results. She stopped sneezing so often, and her nasal tone of voice began to improve towards her natural one. Fringilla had told her a day ago that she would have been well already if not for the liberties they had been taking with magic while searching endlessly around the Tower ruins.
"Are we truly going to implore Francesca to hear us out?" Margarita asked, half-lying on the bed propped on one elbow.
"We have to try," Triss recited. "But I shall speak to Mousesack first. Just… wear something warmer this time."
"Don't you think Phil could have spoken to Francesca already?" Margarita mused, her eyes narrowing. "Perhaps, others she could reach? And then kept it from us?"
"Why would you think so?" Triss hated how the suggestion bit her gut with suspicion, but couldn't pass on the bitter irony. "Because it's what you did, feeding her news of Geralt's misfortunes as soon as you heard?"
Margarita grimaced. "Oh for Arts' sake, like you wouldn't run to her with anything about Ciri and her Cat boy."
"I never betrayed anything that would put them in danger!" Triss exclaimed, flushed with indignation. "And you could've told us! We might have reacted sooner!"
"I thought Yennefer would tell you! Or did she not want you to get to him before she did?"
"Nonsense!"
"Now is not the time," Fringilla said, raising her voice to stop them. "Things said and done won't help find them."
Margarita shrugged. "I didn't want any harm, just to see her reaction. And you heard her – she wants The Lodge back in its power, and obviously, she can't make it with just the three of us by her side. Yes, she wants Ciri, but it can't be all her ambition and plans extend on."
"Probably not," Fringilla said. "But after our failures and her miscalculations, she would be more careful with whom she invites."
"Whom would you think?" Margarita perked up an eyebrow.
"Francesca could accept it, given things that befell her people," Triss said. "Keira… Think she'd decide to drop her willing getaway with Lambert?"
Margarita shrugged with a brief wily smile. "She can get bored with the quiet and the witcher. She's not the most predictable of us, nor patient. But do you believe it's what we should do? After everything that happened to The Lodge up until now, is this wise to attempt that rise again?"
"It depends on the agendas and minds that pick them," Fringilla recited, tossing her a meaningful glance. "Why, you have doubts? Then please, do air them. It's safe here. No feathers, not a drop of water in this room."
Margarita contemplated, lowering her eyes to the floor, then shook her head in thought and glanced between them, looking weary. "Things she says about power and instilling respect and fear into rulers... It scares me. Makes me think she learned nothing from Sabrina's mistakes."
"Sabrina got too confident and thus too careless," Triss said. "That was bound to end in a fall. But Philippa chooses different strategies. If she didn't, she'd never have survived this far. She even avenged her torment. Underestimating her prowess at power games is the worst mistake."
"Her power games more often than not include sacrificing pawns in the hunt for royal figures," Fringilla said. "This time she could get more ruthless, and more of us could perish in her battles. Geralt and Yennefer are gone. Who's next?"
They fell silent, each gripped by anxiety of that prospect.
"Let us address our raging issues first," Triss suggested after a few beats. "If we get Yennefer back with us, our setting also shifts for the better."
"Indeed," Margarita sighed, getting up. "Let's get on with it."
"Mousesack should know first," Fringilla said. "Triss is on it. You, Rita, could go to Oxenfurt to see if anything changed there, and if not – return to Gors Velen in case you need to reassure Philippa that we're all busy with the Sunstone matter. As for Francesca… I'd like to try something else first, if neither of you minds. I believe it could work."
Neither of them minded.
~~~ WRITERS' NOTE:
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