Then Cahir is alone. Well, not really alone. There are more than a score elves in the camp now with new arrivals joining every day. Soon, they will form commandos and start attacking convoys again. Although he has become an expert at raiding caravans over the last couple of months, with his bad hand and shoulder he will not be able to help them, at least not yet. Fringilla would be furious if he tried. However, staying idle and living at the Scoia'taels' expense without contributing is not how Cahir wishes to spend the next two or three weeks. He would soon die of sheer boredom. Luckily, there are a few things he is good at besides fighting. Fishing for one. He knows how to knock up a fishing rod from virtually nothing to catch trout and crayfish with it, even the occasional pike. It is perhaps the single one activity he enjoys despite it requiring a considerable amount of patience. While living in the woods after Emhyr had kicked him out of the palace, going fishing was - aside from hunting - what he spent most of his time with whenever there was no convoy to attack. And then, there were the mushrooms. He has become quite good at telling the edible from the poisonous ones, another useful survival skill in a forest. Fringilla cannot be opposed to him venturing out into the woods to collect fungi, can she? Like fishing, it is neither particularly strenuous nor dangerous. He can still take it easy as ordered, and it will keep him busy. And out of the elves' hair. They might prefer having the camp to themselves most of the time and not share it with a hated Dh'oine.
So, Cahir spends most of his time by the river or searching for summer oyster mushrooms, different kinds of early boletes and other fungi when he is not resting or sleeping. The days pass. The weather is unusually warm and dry for the north. Nothing much happens. It is not the worst way of life. Actually, it could be quite enjoyable if he did not miss Fringilla so much. Especially when he is having his usual nightmares, but not only then. The hut feels awfully empty without her. It would be nice to have somebody to talk to once in a while, too. Cahir is not the chatty type and used to being on his own. Still, having a friend to share his thoughts with, even his fears and sorrows, felt good. Now this friend is hundreds of kilometres away on a dangerous quest while the elves - understandably - want as little to do with him as possible. Besides the occasional furtive glance, a curt nod and a grunt when he brings his catch of the day, it is as if he did not exist. A mere ghost tolerated at their table, nothing more. They are not openly hostile, though, and he manages. Slowly, he is getting better, too. Physical activities are a lot less exhausting and, after some days, Cahir can move his injured shoulder without it causing him much pain. The cut on his left palm has left an ugly scar, but it seems his middle finger is gaining back both its sensitivity and motility. The other two fingers not so much. Well, three functional fingers are always better than two, even though it will not be enough to shoot a bow, not if he wants the arrow to hit the mark. If he had a sword, Cahir would start to exercise a bit, however, he does not. His blade is, most probably, rusting away in the grass on the cliffs of Thanedd Island. He cannot ask the Scoia'tael for a sword, either, they hardly have sufficient weapons for themselves. They would not want to waste one on him.
More than two weeks go by like this and Cahir grows increasingly restless. There has not been any news from Nilfgaard. Fringilla promised to come back for him or at least contact him somehow, and Francesca would not leave the Scoia'tael in the dark about what is going on either, would she? Mages always find a way to communicate if they wish to do so. Even if his friend cannot portal all the way across the continent just to ask how he is doing, he should have heard from her by now. Is he perhaps too impatient again? But what if Fringilla's plan was thwarted, if they were found out? What if Emhyr had the two sorceresses arrested? Or, even worse, executed? The thought that something might have happened to Fringilla is too horrible. She cannot, must not be dead. Is it possible that she has forgotten about him again? No, Fringilla would not do that, would she? But why is there no message, no anything? The uncertainty is hard to bear, and with every passing day it is growing harder.
Then, early one morning, things suddenly change. And not to the better, the contrary. When Cahir wakes up, he finds himself surrounded by half a dozen Scoia'tael, the tips of their swords pointed at his heart. What the hell? He lies stock still, hardly daring to breathe. None of them is moving, either. What are they waiting for? And, more importantly, why the fuck did they sneak up on him like this? What do they want? If they wished to murder him in his sleep, he would surely be dead already. Have they grown tired of his presence and intend to kick him out? They could just ask him to leave. The forest is huge and he is well enough by now to survive on his own. Why the hostility all of a sudden? They have not somehow found out about Gallatin or the other elves he killed? If they have, he is royally fucked ...
Cahir does not have to wait long for his questions to be answered. The elven leader with the ugly scar, Isengrim Faoiltiarna, enters the shelter, a piece of parchment in his hand.
"Listen up, Dh'oine, and don't move!" he snarls from above. As if there was any possibility for Cahir to not hear what he is saying, the elf's words resound loud and clear in the small and now very crowded hut. And moving is out of the question if he does not want to end up with an elven sword embedded in his chest.
"Herewith I inform you," Faoiltiarna conntinnues in a cold and very formal tone of voice, "that you, Dh'oine, are wanted for high treason by Emperor Emhyr var Emreis. As his allies, we will comply with his request to arrest you and send you to Nilfgaard to be tried and executed. We will now fetter and gag you. If you move just a single finger, you're dead, understood?"
Cahir looks up at the elf, aghast. Shit, that is not what he expected. Has Emhyr found out about his betrayal? But how? Nobody knew except the princess, the Witcher and Fringilla. If the girl in Nilfgaard is the real Cirilla, it is possible that she has told the White Flame about their encounter on Thanedd. However, would she? Would she speak a single word with the man who ultimately ordered her city to be burned, her people, her family to be slaughtered? Cahir strongly doubts it, not of her own free will, no. On the other hand, she could have been coerced into spilling all her secrets. However, if his dreams are true and the real Cirilla is not in Nilfgaard, it would mean that Fringilla must have snitched on him. But she would never do that, not unless she had no choice. Did Emhyr have her tortured? Gods, hopefully not. The thought alone makes Cahir feel sick to his stomach. Half a dozen swords pointed at him do not exactly make things easier. He swallows down the bile rising to his throat.
"It seems like your emperor believes you provided him with a fake princess," Faoiltiarna elaborates. "I'm not sure how you would have been able to do that as you were with us the whole time. But, whether or not you're guilty is none of my concern. We obey orders, no more, no less." He motions at one of his men. "Gag him!"
The elf sheathes his sword and kneels down next to Cahir. With five keen blades still trained on his heart and throat, there is nothing he can do to defend himself. Pleading with Faoiltiarna to let him go would be futile, that much is obvious, although the elf knows that he is innocent. Well, not truly innocent, but not guilty as charged. It will not help him one bit, but it is good news. It means that Fringilla did not give him away and that Cirilla is not in Nilfgaard, like he suspected. Is she in the desert with the monsters and the unicorn after all? It is definitely not a good place for a young girl, but sill, so much better than by Emhyr's side. Cahir shudders inwardly. Then the elves forces his mouth open with one hand and with his other one shoves a piece of cloth between his teeth and deep down his throat. He gags violently, tears starting to his eyes.
"Careful, the emperor wants him alive!" Faoiltiarna shouts and the elf pulls the gag back a little, just so that Cahir can breathe again. They fasten it with a strap, then tie up his hands. He bites down on the gag hard while they are doing it. His left hand is not bandaged anymore and the cut healed but it still hurts like hell when they grab it, totally irrespective of the fresh scar. They truss him up with a coarse rope so the only part of his body that he can still move is his head. Everything else is completely immobilised. Well, not the tips of his fingers, but this will hardly help. He is utterly and completely fucked. At least there is a chance that Fringilla is still free and in Nilfgaard. Perhaps Francesca and she found out about the fake princess and abandoned their original plan? And now they are trying something else to take revenge on Emhyr? Maybe there is still some tiny little chance that they can somehow help him, save his life one more time? If the emperor trusts them, they might be able to convince him of his innocence in this fake princess conspiracy? But who has provided the princess double? Vilgefortz? It must be him, who else? Leaves the question where the real princess is. Princess Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra, she who can move the world. His princess. Will he ever see her again?
Well, if he believes there is still some faint chance of this happening, he must be completely deluded. The elves are wrong, Cahir decides as the lid of the coffin they have just thrown him into is nailed shut, his ears ringing from the powerful hits of the hammer on the nailheads. The stars are wrong, too. There are no invisible strings of fate, no destiny that brings people together. It is all a lie. He has taken the stars reflected in the pond for the night sky. And now he is drowning in the murky, slimy water of the pond. Hopefully, the princess is luckier than him. Hopefully, her father will never get his pervert hands on her. Hopefully she will never learn that this monster is her own father. Hopefully she will find happiness somewhere safe with someone who loves her with all their heart for who she is, not for what they can use her for. Hopefully, the stars will align for her, the real stars, not their reflection. Hopefully there is enough hope for her.
There is none for him. Cahir closes his eyes. It is almost dark inside the coffin anyway, only a few rays of light fall through the several small holes drilled into the lid so he would not suffocate. Suddenly, the coffin is lifted off the ground and carried somewhere. There are voices, but the sounds are muffled by the wood. Why would he care anyway? It seems, the coffin is loaded onto a wagon. Then everything goes pitch dark. Not much later, the waggon starts to rumble along a rough forest track. Where to? Surely not o Nilfgaard like this? There is no way he will survive the week-long journey like this. But why would he want to survive it anyway? Just to be publicly executed in a most gruesome manner? After having been thoroughly tortured, of course. No, it would be better if he died here, in this coffin. What a fitting place to breathe your last breath ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
In the complete darkness of the narrow wooden box, Cahir does not have any idea how much time has passed. By now, every part of his body hurts from the endless jolting and rumbling of the wagon's wheels over rocks and roots. The occasional breaks when it came to a halt for the animals drawing the vehicle to rest and the hawkers to eat have not helped much. He must have fallen asleep several times, too. Could have been for minutes only, or for hours, hard to tell. It can easily be evening now. Or is it the next day already? Not impossible. It is getting warmer and warmer inside the coffin. Perhaps, Cahir wonders, they are not in a dense forest anymore and the sun is shining onto the tarpaulin? He is sweating profusely from the excessive warmth, his thirst becoming increasingly unbearable, and the air feels used up, stuffy. With the cover still in place, there is hardly any circulation to refreshen it. Cahir's head has begun to ache from lack of fresh air. Or is it from dehydration? His lips and throat feel so parched, he could empty an entire lake. If he owned a kingdom, he would gladly give it away for a breath of cool wind and a glass of clean water. No wonder he was having dreams about the red desert again. However, this time, the princess was not alone in the desolate place. She was fettered, much like him, but tied onto a horse with several riders surrounding her. If they were real, perhaps the men will save the girl from dying in the heat, but what do they intend to do with her? They looked suspiciously like bandits, definitely not the kind of people Cahir would trust with his princess, and the ropes around her hands did not bode well. He prays to all the gods, Nilfgaardian and northern ones, that it will not be out of the - quite literal - frying pan and into the fire for her.
The wagon rumbles on and on and on for hours on end and Cahir feels more and more like trapped in a frying pan himself. It is getting hotter and hotter every minute. Or is he getting hotter? His thirst has become so maddening, he would probably claw or bite open his veins to drink his own blood if he could. His head hurts like seven hells, making him feel nauseous and dizzy his dreams becoming increasingly abstruse. He does not remember much of them when he wakes up from yet another one, just an unsettling sense of dread and foreboding that is almost worse than his murderous thirst. Or is he not awake at all and this is one horribly long and confusing dream? But where did it start? And when will it end? Will it ever end?
His thoughts muddled from progressing dehydration, Cahir is only semi-aware when the wagon comes to another halt, the tarpaulin is removed and a few rays of light fall through the holes into his solitary lockup. Like through a dense fog he can hear muffled voices. One is louder than the others and commanding. A soldier? An officer? He seems angry. Then the coffin starts to move, making Cahir's stomach turn. The oblong box sways and wobbles as it is lifted off the wagon and dropped onto the ground with a thud. The sudden jolt tosses the back of Cahir's head against its bottom boards. He groans and blinks as tiny stars flitter across his vision. The jarring sound of wood breaking barely registers in his dazed mind. Then blazing daylight floods the coffin. Cahir squinches his eyes tightly shut against the onslaught of brightness.
"There he is, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, the bloody traitor, nicely bundled up. And still alive, it seems." The voice of the man is loud - too loud - and jeering. With an effort, Cahir blinks his eyes open a crack. A man in Nilfgaardian armour with short, greying hair and several scars in his face is leaning over the coffin, staring down at him with contempt. The face looks eerily familiar. He must have seen him before but Cahir's head hurts too much to recall where or when, let alone the man's name. The soldier, though, appears to have recognised the former general commander. He spits in Cahir's face, then draws himself up to his full height.
"Get him out of that thing and lock him up in the prison cart!" he orders loudly. "The one over there where nobody can see what we've got here. There's a substantial bounty on the traitor's head. We don't want to lose him."
The officer has hardly finished his command when rough hands grab Cahir by the shoulders and legs and heave him out of the wooden box that was his prison for so many hours. Or days? Being confined inside of it felt like a terrible eternity. However, now that he is finally out, things do not seem to be improving, the contrary. Cahir moans from the pain in his still sensitive left shoulder as he is hauled across a clearing. Blurrily, he notes several wagons arranged in a semicircle and a stockade-like fence with a gate. Black banners sporting the golden sun mark it as a Nilfgaardian checkpoint. Have they come so far south already? Or has the Nilfgaardian army advanced so far north? Cahir is sure they cannot have crossed the Yaruga yet. They must be somewhere in Verden or Brugge. Not that it matters much. Knowing where they are will not change a thing for him. The soldiers manhandled him into a cart with only a few vertical slits in the side and a kind of narrow strip of lattice window running from front to back directly beneath its roof. The last thing he is aware of is a kick in the ribs, then everything fades to black.
When he wakes up, aching and shivering and hot and cold and barely able to open his eyes from fatigue, Cahir slowly registers the familiar sounds of fighting. Shouts, swearing, the clanging of metal against metal, grunts and groans and more shouts and swearing. Are northern troops attacking the checkpoint? He tries to catch a few words through the din for clues, but in vain. The words are not loud enough, or is it the crescendoing buzzing in his ears that drowns out their meaning? Before he swoons again, though, Cahir hears a voice that sounds familiar. The Sandpiper? No, it is impossible. He must be dreaming, or hallucinating, or finally losing his mind altogether. Then he loses consciousness.
Cahir wakes up with a jolt when cold water is splashed into his face. For a moment he has no idea where he is, how he got there and why he cannot move. He blinks frantically into the dim light surrounding him.
"Ssh," a long-haired, bearded man with dark skin says. He lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then starts to cut through the leather strap holding the gag in place. The stranger is neither a Nilfgaardian nor northern soldier or Scoia'tael. Who is he? Will he help him? Is he real? It feels real enough when the stranger removes the gag from his mouth. Cahir coughs and gags violently. Then there is the face of a young woman leaning over him. She smiles down at him from between long, brown hair.
"Here, drink, you must be thirsty," she says, holding a cup to his parched lips while the man cuts away at his fetters. They are freeing him. Cahir can hardly believe it. This is not a dream, is it? A cruel vision that will vanish any moment? But the water against his lips is cold and fresh and delicious. It cannot just be a figment of his imagination, no. While the friendly woman supports him into a half-sitting position, he swallows greedily.
"Not too fast or you will make yourself sick," the woman cautions after he has had a few mouthful of water and takes the cup away. Cahir wants to protest, but his teeth begin to chatter and he feels so nauseous, he closes his eyes with a groan.
"He must be badly dehydrated, poor sod," he hears the man say like from afar, then Cahir passes out again.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
When Cahir wakes up, he does not remember much of the last few hours, only that the woman and the man must have taken turns at giving him more to drink. He is covered with several blankets, too. He sits up gingerly. A young girl with a head scarf, perhaps ten or eleven years old, sits by the door observing him with big eyes while holding a doll made of rags. She turns around abruptly and climbs off the wagon.
"Mum, dad, he's awake!" Cahir hears her shouting. A minute later, the dark-skinned man and his wife are back.
"You look better," the man notes. Cahir nods. He cannot see himself, of course, not without a mirror, but he does feel better.
"Thank you for helping me," he says hoarsely.
"You're welcome." The woman gives him a friendly smile. "Here, have a cup of tea. I'll get you something to eat, too, it'll be ready soon. We don't have much, but you look like you need it." She passes Cahir a cup full of warm, herbal tea, then gets up and leaves again. The tea smells of peppermint and honey. Cahir empties it in one go.
"I owe you my life, I suspect," he says to the man, his voice sounding more like himself again.
"Enemy of our enemies must be a friend, I guess," the man answers seriously. "But I'd still like to know who you are and why those Nilfgaardians took you prisoner."
Shit, Cahir swears inwardly. What is he supposed to tell his saviour? He cannot possibly tell him the truth. But his brain still feels too sluggish to come up with a convincing lie.
"I - I," he starts, his mind going blank. "My name," he tries again, "it's Dheran." His brother's name. It's the only one he can think of. Hopefully it does not sound too foreign and suspicious. A horse whinnies in the distance. "I - I tried to steal one of their mounts," he adds on the spur of the moment.
"I'm Hans," the man introduces himself. "Guess you aren't a particularly good horse thief then, Dheran." Hans grins. "You were fortunate they didn't string you up on the next tree right away. That's what they usually do, I've heard. Seems you had more luck than brains."
"Mmh," Cahir agrees. It definitely appears like it for once although he still has no clue how. "What - what happened here?" he asks. "Where are the soldiers?"
"Dead, but see for yourself. Think you can stand?" Cahir nods. He struggles to his feet. For a brief moment he feels dizzy again and has to support himself against the side of the wagon, but luckily the dizziness passes and he stays on his feet without help. He gazes out through the open door. A dead soldier is lying in his blood, his carotid artery severed. Another one not far from him with a bleeding hole in his chest. And there are more, at least a dozen dead Nilfgaardians, but not a single enemy soldier. How can they have killed all the Nilfgaardians without losing even one of their own? This is not possible - unless they used witchcraft?
"The white-haired stranger killed them all," Hans explains, getting off the cart. "He was incredible, impossibly fast, agile like a panther and strong like a bull. The Nilfgaardians stood no chance. Only those over there," he points at three bodies with arrows stickig out of their chests, "were shot by a woman. She looked like an elf or dryad."
"The white-haired stranger, was he clad all in black?" Cahir inquires, climbing off the wagon after Hans. "He didn't have yellow eyes by chance?"
"He was, and he did. Do you know him?" Hans asks, surprised.
"A little. He's a Witcher." And probably the only one who could have murdered all those soldiers on his own, or almost on his own. Witchercraft, not witchcraft. It figures.
"A Witcher? Not the famous one from the songs? Geralt of Rivia?" Cahir nods. "I'll be damned!" His dark-skinned companion exclaims. "Now everything makes sense!" "Where did he go?" "He, his bard friend and the archer took a horse each and rode down that path, south." Hans motions in the direction. "You don't intend to follow them?"
"I have to." All of a sudden, Cahir knows it is true. This is what he needs to do. Find Geralt of Rivia and help him save Princess Cirilla. This is how he will keep his promise, how he will see her again. What happened here cannot be a coincidence. It must be fate after all.
"They've got quite a bit of a head start, I fear, more than eight hours." Hans frowns. "And they are on horseback. There's no way you'll catch them on foot, Dheran. You should rest some more anyway. Have dinner with us and a good night's sleep. You can decide what to do tomorrow."
"No, it can't wait." The sun will set in less than two hours. There is no time to be lost. It is too dangerous to stay here anyway. "You, Hans, need to leave, too. It will be swarming with Nilfgaardians here soon. We're lucky nobody has come yet." Cahir looks at his saviour urgently. "Take your food and your family and get them to safety. Go as far north as you can. To Kovir or Poviss. And never look back."
Hans nods slowly. His new friend sounds as if he knows exactly what he is talking about. How? Probably, it's like he expected in the first place. The Nilfgaardians did not arrest him for horse theft but for desertion. Which would mean he is a Nilfgaardian himself. Perhaps it is better then not to invite him for dinner ...
"Good luck to you, Dheran," he says. Then he walks over to where his wife and daughter are sitting around a small fireplace with several others, mostly elderly peasants. He whispers a few words into her ears, far too softly for Cahir to understand. His wife glances briefly in his direction and he gives her a nod. Then Cahir turns around. If he manages to get hold of the horse he heard whinny in the distance and hurries, he might catch up with the Witcher in a few days if he is lucky. Perhaps it is what destiny wants?
No, wrong, not perhaps. It is what destiny demands.
When Cahir is about to walk through the gate, something catches his eye. A ray of sunshine is reflected off a shiny object lying half covered in dirt between a big, empty chest and the fence. The peasants must have plundered the Nilfgaardian's road toll, accidentally dropping the small item. Cahir picks it up. A golden brooch decorated with rubies and emeralds. He has seen it before. On the hilt of a sword. On Thanedd. The Witcher might want it back.
The end