Chapter Three
The journey to Hengfors was announced. Within a week, the members of the convoy were selected, and their cargo gathered. Now, Saskia collected her things in her private quarters. In an hour's time, the company would depart.
She filled a travel pack with anything she may need: rations, maps, a compass, parchment and quill, among others. She mounted her shield and sword. All the while, her thoughts were on the difficult journey ahead. True, as Saesenthessis,she could fly over the Kestrel Mountains herself and deliver the iron ore to the Hengfors League, then return with much-needed provisions to Vergen before Nilfgaard could even mount an attack.
But the Pontar Valley needed her to be Saskia, not Saesenthessis. This mission was an opportunity for more than just a secure winter. She saw how divided her subjects were, how they squabbled among races and castes. By working together to achieve this seemingly distant-goal, they'd be another step closer to the harmony she and her father always strove for.
Still, with so much uncertainty on the horizon, she found herself once more wishing for Borch Three Jackdaws' ability to see the future. "Father…I hope what I do is right by you," she muttered to herself on her way out.
She was intercepted just outside her door. "Lady Saskia?" a small voice murmured.
She turned and met the speaker: a dwarven child. The little girl's strawberry blonde braids swiveled from side to side on her head as she coyly rocked back and forth in the Dragonslayer's presence. Her arms hugged around a package wrapped in robust cloth, tied meticulously with twine. Her face was tilted down towards her cargo, as though she wanted to hide her face in it.
"Yes?" Saskia leaned on her knees to face the child. "Speak."
"The family Olgar would like y' to have this," she recited, each word rehearsed. She extended the parcel with both arms. It was nearly the same size as its bearer. Saskia accepted the offering and unknotted the binds. The dwarven girl added, "I tied the string m'self."
The contents were soft. Saskia removed the cloth wrapping, and inside was a bundle of heavy, wine-colored material. Unfolding revealed it was a fur-lined cloak—embroidered with thick dwarven symbols along the bottom, latched by a metal clasp at the neck, and adorned with a tassel at the end of the hood.
"We made it fer yer journey," the child explained.
Saskia allowed a faint smile to creep on her lips. "It's beautiful; I've never seen its peer." She draped the gift on her shoulders. There were slits on each side, which her pauldrons fit easily through. Standing up straight, she found the garment reached down to her ankles. Great care had clearly gone into making it for her. "And it's to the family Olgar that I owe my gratitude?" she asked.
The girl nodded briskly. "We Olgars're a tailorin' clan, moved t' Vergen from Temeria after Henselt took over our part of the kingdom," she replied. "Everything we have, we owe to y—er, the Virgin of Aedirn."
Touched, Saskia knelt down to her. Her chin barely leveled with the top of the girl's head. "What is your name, young Olgar?" she asked.
"Delia. M' folks're Hilde and Oscar."
Saskia smiled warmly. "Then, Delia Olgar, tell your family their gift was sincerely appreciated, and I shall always think of their generosity as I wear it on the many cold nights' travel ahead. Tell them, also, that I hope they find themselves at home in Vergen, and I trust their fine craft will be put to good use here."
The girl grinned. "I will." With a tilt downward of her head, she shuffled away.
Saskia felt the fur lining of the cloak. She couldn't identify the animal it originated from—likely native to another region. The warmth it afforded truly would be appreciated on the journey ahead…if she truly were human. Her dragon nature remained ever hidden beneath her human guise, and among the advantages it brought was a strong resilience to extreme temperatures. Nevertheless, she tucked the gift's wrappings away in her personal effects and fastened the cloak's clasp around her neck as she strode on to Vergen's gates. She may not have had need of the garment…but best her subjects thought she did.
On the way, she was passed by Yarpen Zigrin, Zoltan Chivay, and a few town dwarves. All were carrying travel packs and headed towards the gates.
"I knew ye wouldn't disappoint us, Yarpen," Zoltan said. "It's no trading company without yer ugly mug."
"Aye, it'd be too bloody peaceful without y' too, ya cockerel," Yarpen retorted. "But I've yet to see eye or ear of Dandelion this morning. Did the git mention whether he was coming or not?"
"Mention it? The bastard never shut up about it all bloody week," Zoltan grumbled. "Since the convoy was announced, all he'd blab about was how Saskia's company would need moral support in the Kestrel Mountains, whilst freezing our arses off and facin' who knows what sorts of fanged beasts. And of course, he was convinced that his music was the 'universal language' or some drivel to give us that moral support."
"Yet no sign of him now," remarked Yarpen.
"I'm getting' at that. This morning, he up and decided his unique talents would be 'best utilized' here in Vergen, with so many dispirited refugees in need of uplifting. Spoken while eyein' a passin' sorceress' arse, no less. Then he jogged off after her."
"Humans."
"Aye."
The dwarves passed on through Rhundurin Square. Saskia followed warily, a new cause for concern on her mind. Zoltan's words were true: the 'fanged beasts' laying in wait in the mountains would be a serious threat to them. Sadly, there were no witchers among them, and though her men had fought valiantly against the troops from Kaedwen, she had no idea of how they'd fare against monsters.
Awaiting her at Mahakam Gates was the young nobleman who had been the most articulate in his section at the rally the previous week. He sported an orange silk jerkin hardly suited for a mountain trek, and his peacock plumage hat still adorned his light brunette mop of hair.
"Count Tarn Marco," she addressed him. "I must admit, I wasn't expecting you on this expedition. At the assembly, you seemed most in favor of other options."
"Then I've made a poor first impression on you, Lady Saskia, and I entreat you to let my presence here serve to amend it." He bowed his head. If there was an art to speaking with an air of importance and pride, this young aristocrat was its master. "I've done as you asked and retrieved horses from my family's country estate to aid in our journey. They await outside Mahakam Gates. And might I just say, it's an honor to serve as your ambassador for this mission. I truly support your vision of Upper Aedirn as the birthplace of equality and tolerance. "
"But our hosts in Hengfors may not," she retorted. "Save your persuasive words for them, Tarn. That is why you accompany us, isn't it?"
He looked taken aback as she ventured past him.
"Tha…That's an exquisite cloak you wear, milady," he attempted. "It becomes you quite well. You must have imported it from an exclusive furrier in Vengerburg, if I be so bold to guess?"
"It was a gift, from a local family of dwarven tailors," she replied flatly.
"But that fur lining is unequaled by anything in this region. Is it fox? Mink?"
"Manticore," interjected a third speaker.
Saskia turned to the interloper. "Say again?"
"The cloak," Iorveth clarified. "It's lined with an Imperial Manticore pelt." Accompanying him were three Scoia'tael, including the dark-haired female from the rally.
"How can you tell that?" Saskia asked.
"Decades of sharing environs with the creatures of the wild have left their impression," he explained. "We're no monster hunters, but by knowing the predators of the woodlands and mountains well, elves had an improved chance of surviving. It was one less thing to worry about, aside the diseases and starvation we already faced."
Saskia stroked her chin in thought.
"The hide of a dangerous beast? Used in tailoring?" Tarn Marco glowered.
"'Waste not, want not' as the expression goes," the elf said, unfazed. "The Scoia'tael used to recover such furs by the crate from ambushed merchant carts."
"Ugh." The noble shook his head. "Milady, I've reserved my best stallion for you. Would you care to come and see him? I'm sure he'll take right to you."
Saskia waved her hand. "Go ahead, Count; I'll be along. Iorveth, I'd have a word with you first."
Tarn blinked hesitantly. He tipped his head once more with a strained effort and departed out the gate. Iorveth motioned to the Squirrels, and they too departed.
The dragoness turned to the elven commander. "I'm glad you decided to join us," she said. "Commerce with the Hengfors League was your idea, after all; I only recognized the merit in it."
"Our work securing the future of Upper Aedirn is not yet finished," he responded. "The Aen Seidhe leave nothing unfinished."
"Which is what I wanted to talk about. While we're in the Kestrel Mountains, there is a task I would entrust to you…but I venture that you won't like it."
He crossed his arms. "We'll see."
"These are dangerous conditions I lead my company into. I doubt we'll be back before the first blizzard strikes, and most of these men have never endured the mountains in wintertime, or… dealt with its monsters." She pinched her cloak's fur lining. "We'd do well to have someone at the forefront who has faced these harsh elements before—someone who can properly equip us for them."
"In other words, you ask that I attend to your company's survival," he guessed.
"I cannot do it myself," she admitted. "My…'upbringing' left me with little need to learn survival methods, or even how to dress a wound."
He nodded in understanding of what she really meant by "upbringing."
"I don't need to explain what this task would mean. We both know how these people perceive you…and not without sound reason." She eyed him directly. "Know that I don't ask you to do this so these humans may forgive you. They won't…at least not in their lifetimes. I ask you to do this simply because there are none here who match the survival skills of the legendary Woodland Fox." She gestured towards him. "If you should agree, just remember that our party's welfare—their lives—would depend on you. Even the humans'."
"You're right." He uncrossed his arms. "I don't like the sound of that. But if this is what you need of me, so be it…on one condition."
"What condition?"
"My men revere you, Saskia," he said, "but they still also look to me for guidance. We are no less united than we were in Flotsam's forests. If I'm forced to choose between the wellbeing of the Scoia'tael and that of the dh'oine, understand I can't turn on my own. I can't, and I won't."
"I understand perfectly, and I expected no less," she agreed. "I promise you this: I will do all in my power to ensure it doesn't come to that."
"Your promises are among the few that I value," he replied somberly.
"Yours, too, have proven they're worth their weight," she commended. "So there's one more thing I must ask. I trust you'll find it more agreeable." Saskia reached into her travel pouch and produced a familiar book. Philippa Eilhart's spellbook, with one of the pages torn out. "I found this in my former advisor's effects when her quarters were cleared for new tenants," she explained. "Is this how you discovered what she'd done?"
"I sensed something awry from Henselt's surrender," he recalled. "But Geralt confirmed it with a page from this."
She extended the spellbook to him. "Keep it safe," she instructed. "It's likely we'll need it."
He took it dubiously. "But why give it to me? I haven't a working knowledge of magic spells."
"You haven't, perhaps," she said. "But our sorceress has."
"The one with the pebble?" Iorveth remembered the platinum blonde's folly at the assembly.
"Cecil tells me her name is Faye of Ban Ard," Saskia explained. "She fled here from Kaedwen, after Henselt readily jumped at the chance to purge his kingdom of sorceresses following Loc Muinne. Faye was in shock from the atrocities she'd seen, and didn't utter a word during her first week in Vergen. She hasn't been, to use Cecil's words, 'Mining with the right end of the pickaxe' ever since."
"Yet she's coming with us?"
"She spoke the truth; we may need to teleport back here quickly if Nilfgaard attacks. Time is of the essence, so we may wish to teleport back here anyway, once our trade is made. Not to worry—I haven't forgotten what she could be capable of." Saskia laid her palm on the cover of the spellbook. "That's why you have this. You said you realized first that something was amiss when Philippa had me spellbound. Now, if our Faye proves to be but another Eilhart, you'll know what to do."
He stashed the book away. "It's funny," he mused. "Eilhart was so certain you were incapable of leading without her influence. You prove her wrong ever further each time we speak."
Her mouth tightened, threatening to smile. "You think so, do you?"
"I know so."
She covered her head with the cloak's hood and glanced down as though to say something...right before an approaching clatter of hoofbeats on stone grabbed her attention.
"Look out! Look out!" hollered a peasant's voice atop the horse. Saskia sprang back just in time for the unruly red horse to cut in between her and Iorveth as it galloped on through to Rhundurin Square.
"Stop him!" cried Count Tarn Marco from the far end of Mahakam Gate. "Stop that imbecile before he hurts my father's favorite mule!"
The Scoia'tael girl came running after the horse—or mule, according to Tarn. "Pull the reigns, you idiot!" she shouted to the rider. "If you flail them around, the animal will only ignore your commands!"
"I'm trying!" the inept rider wailed. As the mule started to buck and kick, vendors in the square dove for cover. There were loud exclamations as stands were kicked over and goods scattered. "Help! He won't listen to me!"
The Squirrel caught up to the mule and seized the reigns, bringing the wayward animal to a halt. She pulled the reigns downward, bringing the mule's face to hers, and stroked its nose to calm it. Vendors peered cautiously out from under their stands.
"Did you hear nothing the dh'oine in the feather hat just said?" she reprimanded the rider once the mule was subdued.
Saskia now recognized the rider as the ginger-haired peasant from the assembly.
"This animal," continued the Squirrel, "is for pulling the supply wagon. It isn't trained for a rider."
"I…I…" stammered the peasant. "I meant nothin' by it…honest…I just thought that…"
She gave an exasperated sigh. "Get off."
"But—"
"Get. Off."
He slid sheepishly off of the mule's back. She led the animal back outside Mahakam Gate, with a humble utterance of "Many pardons, Commander," as she passed Iorveth, averting her face.
"Tend your duties, Lark," he responded.
The ginger peasant limped after Lark, having just discovered the sore consequence of saddle-less riding suffered by so many men before his time. "Good…mornin'…Saskia…" he groaned with each step, trying to be discreet as he nursed his afflicted nether parts.
"Lionel," she acknowledged.
Once Lark and Lionel were out of earshot, Iorveth looked at Saskia. "…Is that man coming along as well?"
"Only if he walks the whole way."