It takes Fringilla quite a bit longer than a minute to return and Cahir is half asleep again when she does, but the smell of rabbit stew combined with another of Fringilla's commands wake him up quickly enough. It is almost a little embarrassing how automatically he responds to orders, but he cannot help it. Judging by her broad grin, Fringilla is enjoying this far too much.

Sitting side by side, they eat in companionable silence until their bowls are almost empty.

"You know what's funny about what you told me?" Fringilla suddenly asks.

"I tell you the shit story that is my life and you find it funny? Nice friends I have," Cahir scoffs, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Not funny funny. Just kind of - perplexing," Fringilla corrects herself. "And don't be mad at me for saying it, but you, Cahir, were Emhyr's top general, you've commanded armies, taken cities. And in truth you're still this little, lost, half-starved boy from the streets of Nilfgaard looking for a home, for a family. It's quite heartbreaking."

He huffs.

"Guess we aren't so different then," he says after a moment of silence, turning toward her. "You, Fringilla, were the Emperor's most powerful sorceress, you've commanded scores of mages, almost took Sodden with your unrestrained magic. And in truth you're still the insecure litte girl whose talents were always overlooked by those she wanted to impress no matter how hard she worked for it, who was always overshadowed and pushed to the sideline by others. A great pair we make."

"A great pair indeed." Surprisingly, Fringilla starts to chuckle instead of being offended. "You're right, Cahir," she then says, serious once more. "I was like this for many, many years, most of my life actually. But I'm not this girl anymore thanks to Emhyr and his wine cellar. You've changed, too." She looks at him sitting there on his bedroll, wrapped in a blanket, unshaven, his longish hair tousled, still pale and drawn, so young and so very, very unhappy.

"Cahir, why don't you just forget about this whole White Flame Cirilla stuff and go north?" she suddenly asks. "A new beginning? Get a patch of land, raise some chickens, find a buxom woman to boss you around, make some cute little blue-eyed baby Cahirs ..."

"What?" he asks, equally surprised as amused. "Where did you get that idea from, Fringilla? You aren't feverish all of a sudden?" What she proposes sounds nice enough actually, but things like these only come to pass in fairytales, don't they? He would surely be bored out of his mind after a few days anyhow.

"You know what happened to the last guy who had dreams like this? He was drowned and devoured by the monster roaming the sewers beneath Oxenfurt, poor sod. I kind of liked him. Anyway," Cahir continues, a rare smile playing on his lips, "how would I know anything about chickens - besides how to eat them?"

"Right, you probably don't." Fringilla giggles. The mental image of Cahir leading a flock of chickens out into the garden instead of an army into battle is too hilarious. What is even better, though, her friend seems to have his dry sense of humour back, at least a little.

"Would you let go of it all, Fringilla?" he asks when she is done giggling. "Start anew somewhere?"

"No." She shakes her head decisively. "I wouldn't." Not until she has taken her revenge on the White Flame. As soon as it is done, perhaps she will. A little cottage by the sea, just for herself, loads of books and a pet, a parrot maybe. She could collect plants, make potions, tinctures, teas and salves and sell them at the market. No politics, no responsibilities, no ambitions. Could be nice, who knows?

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

That night Cahir has all kinds of weird dreams, but, like so often, he only remembers a muddle of images when he awakes, sweaty, his head throbbing, and not well-rested at all. Images mostly of the highlights of his crimes and, strangely enough, of the white-haired Witcher. The way the man was glaring at him from yellow mutant eyes was quite unsettling. What is even more peculiar, he must have dreamt about a song, a sad, hauntingly beautiful elven love song accompanied by a lute. He vaguely recalls a few snippets of the tune. If he had one, he would bet his shirt that it was the Sandpiper's voice. But how is that possible? And why would he of all people dream about a song like this? No, it must have been one of the Scoia'tael singing while sitting up late around the campfire under the stars. Elves do that, right? Gaze at the firmament for hours, reminiscing about their glorious past before the arrival of humans to the continent. However, to his knowledge, none of them is in possession of a lute. Very mysterious.

Cahir sits up gingerly and, squinting, looks around for Fringilla. However, she is not inside the hut. Instead of her, he sees strange flashes of light that cannot possibly be real. He feels a little dizzy and nauseous too. Shit, this only happens when one of his recurring migraines is on the horizon. Just his good luck. He swears, closes his eyes and lies back again with a groan. Fringilla is probably getting them breakfast. His stomach feels empty but his head is already hurting too much to give a single thought to food. A nice souvenir from Aretuza, courtesy of Tissaia de Vries, may she rot in hell. Thinking of Tissaia, it suddenly occurs to Cahir that he has never asked Fringilla what became of his torturer. Francesca was so determined to take revenge for Filavandrel, she surely tried everything to end the former rectoress, but did she succeed? Cahir hopes she did. Tissaia's death would definitely not be one he would moan, no. The contrary.

It does not take long for Fringilla to return, indeed with one big bowl of breakfast in each hand. Cahir heaves another groan at the sight. Not at seeing Fringilla, of course, but because of the food she will certainly try to force on him.

"What's the matter, Cahir? Tired of my lovely face already?" she says jokingly.

"Headach," he murmurs. The cheerful expression on Fringilla's face instantly turns into one of concern.

"How bad is it?" she asks sympathetically.

"Vicious."

"I'll get you more willow bark tea. It should help." It always does when she has a headache, usually from working excessively and sleeping too little, or from using too much of her chaos. Both can hardly be the reasons in Cahir's case, though, not at the moment.

"Do you suffer from headaches often?" Fringilla then inquires.

"Define often," he says weakly.

"Every couple of weeks? Like once every other month or so?"

"Mmh."

"Since when?"

"Started after what your fabulous former headmistress did."

The torture, of course. Tissaia trying to pierce Cahir's mind for information. So it is not only nightmares but also migraines as aftereffects. Figures. Fringilla knows of people who ended up nothing more than blubbering idiots for the rest of their life after having been subjected to such a painful treatment. She herself has used mind-reading spells on occasion to extract important pieces of intelligence from uncooperative prisoners. Most are not able to put up much of a fight. It is usually over quickly and, if you do it carefully, does not cause lasting harm other than the victim feeling bad about betraying their secrets. But Fringilla knows Cahir. He would not have given in, no matter what, and he told her just yesterday that it did not work. She assumed it was simply because, with the Brotherhood not condoning torture, Tissaia did not use the full potential of the spell, did not dig very deep. After all, Tissaia de Vries is not cruel like Philippa Eilhart who has been known for bending the Brotherhood's rules, for enjoying causing people pain. And, besides the occasional nightmare, Cahir seemed okay. Maybe her assumption was wrong? Perhaps Tissaia is not so very different from Philippa after all? No, wrong, Fringilla corrects herself, was not is.

"Tissaia de Vries is dead. She took her own life," she says matter-of-factly.

"What?" Cahir looks up at his friend, perplexed. This is certainly not the end he would have imagined for the formidable arch-mistress of Aretuza. However, the news did not come as much of a surprise to Fringilla.

"She should not have used Alzur's Thunder on us. Magic like this has too high a cost. Like with Yennefer at Sodden. The spell must have drained Tissaia's will to live. In addition, she presumably felt responsible for all those dead mages. It was she who freed Vilgefortz and our other allies who had been taken captive by Philippa Eilhart. She believed that Philippa was staging a coup together with forces from Redania and was lying about Vilgefortz and his involvement with us. Funny, how such a highly intelligent person can so tragically misjudge a situation. And all because she was in love with Vilgefortz."

"Wait, what're you talking about, Fringilla?" Cahir stares at his friend even more bewildered than before. With his splitting headache he must have misunderstood. Or she is mistaken. "Vilgefortz, our ally? It's not possible. He fought against us at Sodden. Hell, he's the mage who wanted me executed!"

"I was also more than surprised to hear it. But Francesca assured me he was the one to open the gate into the Aretuza courtyard for you. Rience was working for him. Vilgefortz leading the northern mages against us must have been staged. There must have been some bigger picture that we were never privy to, that Emhyr has been keeping from us the whole time. And, Cahir, as much as I hate to say it, but it looks like he thought a public execution was your just punishment for losing him both the battle and the princess."

"No, this cannot be right." Cahir shakes his head, groaning softly when another flash of pain explodes inside his skull. "Emhyr did not have me arrested or punished in any other way when I returned."

"Cahir, you still don't get it, do you? The Emperor never cared about you, or me or anybody else. He doesn't even care about his daughter, or would he have subjected her to all this if he did? Certainly not! With Vilgefortz's help Emhyr could easily have arranged a safe and much less accidental escape for you if he had wanted to. But he didn't. He let you be tortured, let you rot there and was alright with you losing your head so Vilgefortz could strengthen his position and influence in the Brotherhood. When you managed to run on your own, he simply jumped at the opportunity to use you again. Emhyr only cares about Emhyr, nobody else. And Vilgefortz is exactly the same. I wonder which of the two will be the first to betray the other for their own personal gain? Will be interesting to watch." Fringilla gives a harsh laugh.

Cahir closes his eyes and swallows down the lump in his throat. "You - You might be right about Emhyr," he finally says, his lower lip trembling slightly. "But my head's hurting too much, I - I can't think straight. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry, Cahir. I should let you rest. Francesca and her elves are having a feast to celebrate Tissaia's passing tonight. You're invited."

"Am I?" He looks at her disbelievingly. Fringilla nods and gives him a smile. "I didn't even need to bribe her. Just told Francesca why you'd be more than happy to hear this piece of news." Cahir sighs and looks down at himself. "I - I'd need a shirt."

"Right, I agree, you definitely do. I'll find you something," Fringilla says, grinning at him. "You're far too sexy topless. The female elves will eat you alive if they see you like this. Three more arrived here just yesterday."

"Sure, they certainly dig unshaven, unkempt and unwashed, bedridden, useless humans," he huffs. Then Cahir remembers his dream. "Fringilla, these new arrivals, they did not by any chance bring a lute?"

"A lute? No, there's no lute or any other musical instrument here. Why? You don't want to shake a leg on the dance floor?"

"Very funny. I - I just thought I heard somebody play during the night. Must have dreamt it."

"You dreamt about lute music? That's a nice change from the usual nightmares about desert monsters and all the other scary stuff you talk about in your sleep."

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I can sleep outside."

"No, it's okay, Cahir. It's kind of nice not to sleep alone. Even though you snore and do need a shave and a bath. And, no, don't say sorry again."

"That an order?"

"Yes! And now I'll get you your tea. You look like you need it. And a shirt. I'm sure you wouldn't want to miss the feast."