Chapter Eight
"I must say these travel rations, adequate though they may be, tend to take their toll on one's palate," whinged Tarn, arms wrapped uncomfortably around his torso as he leaned towards the campfire.
"Rrrrrrgh…how do you never tire of your own voice?" Lark groaned in response, sparing Iorveth the trouble as he sat in strained silence. The arrangement had been fair enough—the dwarves supervised Tarn by day, per Saskia's ruling, and when the sun set the burden fell to the Scoia'tael. The elves had enjoyed a reprieve during the few hours travel to the foot of the Kestrel Mountains. They had remained unbothered when the camp was assembled and the team finally stopped to rest. But as soon as darkness had settled in and the fire had been ignited, Zoltan had been only too happy to give up the dwarves' talkative ward for the evening. It seemed even Saskia's mercy had failed to plant a seed of humility in the conceited Aedirnian noble.
"I'm simply making an observation," Tarn continued to Lark. "The mountainous woods draw near, and game is bound to be aplenty even in this late month. In fact, conditions seem ideal for wild boar hunting. Bearing this in mind, I do hope that those infamous Scoia'tael arrows of yours prove capable of piercing more than just monster hides and hapless civilians' hearts, if you take my meaning."
Lark scoffed. "A wild boar? At once, your Lordship," she jeered. "Will you be taking that roasted on a spit, or served in a stew? Perhaps a chalice of wine would please you, too."
"Why such hostility, woman? Surely you must also be hungry."
"Of course I am," she answered. "But unlike you, I don't remember a time I wasn't. No one has ever presented me a banquet with a bow and a courtesy. So, I keep my mouth shut and content myself with what I have." With her toe, she prodded the edge of a log on the fire to kindle the flames. "Now why don't you do the same, before I tell Saskia how uncooperative you were in our charge?"
"I assure you, there's absolutely no need for that."
"Good, then shut up."
Tarn bit his lip. "...In any case, I'm certain our Lady would agree—"
"What part of 'shut up' were you unclear on?! Be silent! Say no more! Thaess aep! Shut up!"
Iorveth had had enough. He stood up from the fire, leaving Tarn and Lark to their sparring of words, and wandered to the edge of the campsite. This idle talk of hunting game and of banquets did nothing to feed the refugees awaiting back in Vergen; it only served to further stir the appetites of the already-hungry convoy. But there was another reason he sought a moment's peace: if he had to endure the Count's presence a moment longer, he feared he may break his promise along with the dh'oine's neck.
Tarn deserved none of the mercy Saskia had shown him. Not after his haughty words in Murivel's smoldering streets. Not after he had all but ordained himself the rightful sire of her future heir. Iorveth knew his kind well enough. He was but another Prince Stennis—of lesser standing, but as self-righteous and bigoted as they come, despite his thinly veiled support of equality.
"Now I believe it's your roll," Saskia's voice issued from elsewhere in the camp. He turned and saw her seated in a circle with the dwarves, their lanterns on a dice poker board. There was a clatter of dice and a round of mirthful laughter from all spectators, plus the victor. With Saskia's back turned and her cloak's hood raised, Iorveth passed on by without her seeing him.
If the unthinkable happened and the Count discovered the Virgin of Aedirn's true nature, there was no doubt his façade would crumble away quickly. The chivalrous hand he extended her now would hold the first stone to be cast at her then. Iorveth abruptly shook his head, refusing to dwell on that disastrous scene.
Saskia had no equal in Upper Aedirn. No one was fit to seek her as his own. No one. Yet the thought of the likes of Tarn setting his sights on her was the most insulting of all. He tightened a fist. If she knew how the noble had spoken in Murivel's streets, would she have still granted him such leniency?
The dirt trail he walked began to incline into the towering first peak of the mountain range. There was a fallen log just off the path—perfect for an evening of solitude and stargazing. As he crossed over to it, he noticed footprints in the path. The blackening sky had made them hard to see from a distance. At close range, however, it was clear they were deep (due to the morning's rain that had dampened the path) and they were numerous.
Perhaps these were the tracks of those who escaped Murivel, he reasoned. They must have passed this way when the rain was heaviest, putting them a rough day ahead of the team. But these concerns could be delayed for a few hours. He propped his bow against the side of the log and settled onto the fallen trunk. His back stretched along the log's length and his arms folded behind his head. His attention was surrendered to the nocturnal opals of the sky.
The tranquility all around tempted him to underscore it with music. It seemed like an eternity since he had made use of his flute, and the last time on the bank near Flotsam was more tactical than recreational, as he recalled. He found himself absentmindedly reaching for the instrument in his effects.
The first notes to a bygone melody drifted into the air. The burdens of the day became silent to his mind. The stillness was a pleasant change. Though he never once regretted his alliance with the forces of Upper Aedirn, it did make these moments of solace rare and few, so he relished them while he could. As he played, his thoughts turned to the olden days when the Aen Seidhe were in their prime—when elves could freely spend their days creating music like this, unfettered by intruding humans.
The song ended, and he rested the flute on his chest. He remembered the unborn elven children on the way back in Vergen, who would become the first in generations to regain the simple joys stolen from their ancestors. There would be no dismal futures as indentured servants, or as perpetual fugitives in the forests, for the young Aen Seidhe of Vergen. They would spend their days learning and applying the arts, and practicing archery and swordplay for sport rather than survival. For that future, no price was too high, and the mild inconveniences brought by this journey were but a token sacrifice.
Footsteps approached him from the campsite, accompanied by a dim lantern light growing brighter as it grew closer. He sat up, partly expecting someone coming to tell him that the dispute between Tarn and Lark had reached disruptive heights while he was gone.
Instead, Saskia's face was lightly silhouetted by the lamplight. She held her Aedirnian shield in front of her defensively, but let it lower as soon as she saw him.
"That was you playing?" she asked.
He stashed the flute away. "I would not have done so, had I thought it may disturb you."
"Disturb me? I'm not one to take offense at the arts, Iorveth," she said. "I just came to investigate, suspecting dryads, and instead I find…well, you continue to surprise me." The lamp's weak glow revealed a faint smile on her face.
Iorveth stood up. "If these mountains were home to dryads, I'd have expected Lark to warn us."
"So you do trust Lark." Her tone was odd, as if confirming something she doubted before. When he gave no reply, Saskia further explained, "She appeared to believe otherwise when we spoke."
"Her garish human tendencies are…distasteful to me, no doubt," he replied flatly. "But she's shown me her impure blood does not sully her dedication to the Scoia'tael cause. I content myself with that."
"Yes." Saskia paused, lowering her arm and bringing her lamp to hip level. It looked as though she was waiting for him to speak. For a moment, he mulled on whether to tell her what Tarn had said to him. At its core, the Count's intent was of no concern to him, and all he may accomplish by bringing up a matter of her personal life was to offend her.
"I'll make this a brief interruption," she finally added, turning back towards the camp. "Let me leave you to your thoughts."
On the other hand, this may be his only opportunity to speak to her in private, and in earnest. "Hold, Saskia," he spoke up.
She stopped and looked back. "What is it?"
He reclaimed his bow and approached her to continue in a muted voice. "It's the Count. In Murivel, there were…things he said out of turn."
She lowered her cloak's hood. "He is known to do that. Like what, exactly?"
"Our Lady won't live forever; she's only human," he repeated bitterly, pacing a few steps in either direction as he recalled Tarn's conceit."What's to become of her legacy if she yields no heir? One day, the Virgin of Aedirn must relinquish her title and choose a worthy suitor, if she expects the free Pontar Valley to survive her."
Saskia sighed. "He said that to you…one of the most feared enemies of humankind? And in the midst of a burning city, no less?"
"I stayed my hand from him so he may face your judgment," he replied. "But most impertinent of all, in spite of his actions yesterday, he seemed ever confident he was among the 'worthy stock' he refers to. Though he wouldn't admit to it outright."
There was a moment's hesitation. Iorveth glanced away from Saskia into the darkness, suspecting he had said too much.
"…I'm not surprised to hear what Tarn aspires for," she declared at last. "In fact, I imagine he is not the only noble in Upper Aedirn to entertain the very same idea. For the elves, dwarves and human peasantry, a free realm means an end to persecution. But what do you think nobles like Count Marco seek to gain from this domain, with an unmarried woman at its helm and amenable to his charms?"
Iorveth's arms crossed. "I'd give much to see his foolish notions put to rest," he grumbled.
Saskia looked behind her, checking to be sure they were alone, then went on just above a whisper. "What am I to tell him, then? That he's a fine man, but I await a suitor of my own kind to soar down from the sky? Besides, while Tarn's tendencies are—to use your words—distasteful to me, we need his help for now. We rely on his influence and standing to persuade those in Hengfors to barter with us. Let the Count keep his motives…however misguided they may be."
Iorveth also glanced about for prying ears and finding none. "…I'm loath to admit, he had a point," he said. "Your guise has fooled the humans so far. What of the decades to come, when they see you un-aged and without a successor to meet their expectations?"
She cast her eyes to the ground. "…To tell the truth, Iorveth…I've thought about that, and I see no solution yet for it," she confessed. "I can assume no other forms but this to take up my own mantle. And since my father could take on any form, whilst I can take on only one, then it's doubtful that any successor of mine could Polymorph at all. So for now I don't know what will happen, and it troubles me."
He gave a single nod of understanding. "Whatever it takes, we'll not let your legacy become undone," he assured her. "The free Upper Aedirn was founded on an…adapted truth. Perhaps it will take another to thrive."
"Of course. The way forward will reveal itself in time," she agreed. "But for now, our focus is to remain on surviving the winter."
"And so we will."
She lifted the lantern to chest level once more. "I should get back and assure the others there's no danger. Stay awhile longer, if you like," she bade him, then turned to leave.
As Saskia walked across the footprints left by yesterday's travelers, Iorveth's eye was caught by a small glint at her feet-a metallic object on the ground, reflecting the light from the lantern.
"One more thing," she added, pausing to look back. The lamp switched hands, and the glint was gone. "Why did you tell me this now? What Tarn said?" she asked.
He looked back up to her. "The walls have ears even in a caravan," he replied. "I saw no other opportunity to bring up such a confidential subject to you alone."
"…Were you worried about his intentions for me?"
The question caught him off guard. Worried? About a silver-tongued coward's advances on the Dragonslayer?
"Affronted, yes, but worried?" He shook his head. "Never. If he tried to act on those intentions he'd find himself as infertile as an elven elder, and by far swifter means."
She chuckled at the choice of words. "Be at ease. You delivered me from a toxic relationship once before. There's no need to make a habit of it."
With that, she left him once more alone with the stars.
(***)
The team's departure the next morning started late, after a much needed rest. Custody of Tarn returned to the dwarves, which put a temporary stop to his banter with Lark.
Lionel and Faye, however, provided enough ambient talk in their place. Apparently the peasant had witnessed the sorceress' morning ritual to store The Power in her crystals, and had reacted with the wonderment of a child capturing his first firefly. He followed Faye closely and hounded her with starry-eyed questions.
"What was all them words you said when you made them stones glow like 'at?" he asked while readying his horse.
"An incantation," she replied, climbing atop her own steed sidesaddle and twisting her ash blonde hair around her fingers.
"But what's it mean?"
Her eyes closed. "O Spirits of Yore, I beseech thee, lend to me thy power to be kept safe away for another day."
"'How come you don't just say it like that, then?"
"Because then it wouldn't work."
"Why not?"
"The spirits of yore are quite particular in that sense." She smiled in a cryptic way, making it unclear if she was serious.
Iorveth's horse awaited on the other side of the pair, so he passed them by as their conversation continued.
"I bet you wandwavin' lot can make all sorts of things easier with magic," Lionel said, paying no mind to the Scoia'tael commander's presence.
"Magic is just another part of this world. It cannot change the world…only aid in its melding," Faye murmured.
"Can it fix boots, you suppose?" Lionel twisted his heel into the ground. "I don't mean to put no pressure on you, Miss, but this one 'ere's in a bad way, after that beast back in town got 'old of it, so I'd be most obliged."
"I could fix it."
"What sorta incantation would you need for that, then?"
"None. Just a needle and twine."
"Right."
Soon afterward the team was moving again, leaving nothing behind of their campsite but some charred firewood. The distance to the mountain's incline—and the site of Iorveth's retreat the night before—seemed all the shorter on horseback and by daylight. They neared the fallen log, and once again he could make out the tracks of the travelers who passed this way just ahead of them. Only now, by the grace of the sun, he could discern more about who had left them. There were crescent-shaped signs of horseshoes, flanked on each side by the straight lines of a carriage's wheels. There were footprints large enough to belong to a human or elf, smaller ones likely left by dwarves, and the miniscule tracks of a child.
"Well! You know what this means, don't you? By the looks of these tracks, we shall soon discover what became of Murivel's citizens after all," Tarn proudly proclaimed.
"Shut it, Count," grunted Yarpen.
Paying no attention to Tarn's revelation, Iorveth noticed that the child-sized tracks appeared to trail along on their own, unaccompanied by an adult's tracks at their side. True, there had been a street urchin left to perish in the ruins of Murivel, but he would have expected even humans to keep their own children close as they fled the city.
An eerily familiar melody reached Iorveth's ears. He glanced up from the dirt path and followed the sound to Saskia, a few fathoms ahead. Her reigns in hand, her back straight and proud and her attention firmly between the tawny ears of her palomino steed, she was softly humming the very same song he had played in this spot last night. He remembered their talk by the log where, in the faint glow of her lamp, he thought he had spied one of her rare smiles as she realized it was him playing.
He also remembered that the lamp's glow had illuminated something else in this spot during their conversation: a tiny, likely metallic object on the ground.
He scanned the path around him for it. Sure enough, he spotted something reflective at his mount's feet, laying just inches from the child-sized tracks. Composed of multiple interlaying cogs and spurs, it looked like a missing gear to a device of some sort.
"Odd," he remarked to himself.
"What's that, elf?" Zoltan asked. Deep in thought, Iorveth had not even noticed the dwarf in earshot. There had been hostilities between them back in Flotsam to be sure, but those grudges were little more than old scars now—faded by a mutual kinship in Geralt, and of course by the shared victory in Vergen. "What's odd?" pressed Zoltan.
"That bauble, by the child's tracks," Iorveth replied, gesturing towards the spot on the ground. "What could it be, that a fleeing child was carrying it during an escape?"
"Hmm? …Whoa there!" Zoltan halted his own horse and dismounted to pick the object up. After reseating himself in the saddle and trotting forward so as not to slow the caravan down, he looked at his find as though appraising its value.
"Bollocks. This ain't no ordinary bauble," he finally declared. "It's a piece of gnomish machinery, it is—I'd stake my left nut on it. And these 'child's tracks,' as you called 'em, are a gnome's footprints."
"A gnome?" Iorveth looked down to the tiny tracks a final time. That explained the lack of an adult's tracks at their side. Still, he was puzzled. "But what was this gnome doing in Murivel?"
"Well, he didn't inscribe his whole fucking business on this piece of shine, that's fer sure," said Zoltan. "But I've been around enough gnomes in Mahakam to know their handiwork when I see it. This," he waved the gear between his thick fingers, "goes to some sort of complex gnomish machine. Shite, who knows, maybe he was in the middle of buildin' it when all Hell broke loose in town."
"Whatever the device was, it must have been valuable to him, if he bothered to carry it away with him as they fled," Iorveth speculated.
"Except he'll be kickin' himself in the arse now, when he finds out this piece is missing," Zoltan replied. He pocketed the trinket. "Maybe we oughtta keep it. I'll show it to Saskia once we stop, let her decide what to do with it."
"Very well."
As they ventured on, the path leading up into the Kestrel Mountains became steeper and steeper. Occasionally, Iorveth would spot another patch of the previous travelers' footprints wherever the ground was wet enough. He was more mired in unanswered questions now than ever. First, a spellcaster hiding amongst the ranks of bandits, and now a gnome building an unknown machine in a town right before it burned.
His intuition whispered to him that the small Vergeni party was walking into something very big.