Chapter Text
It's a dark, moonless night, a sober night. I'm walking on soft, mossy ground. The cool night air smells good. Leaves brush against my face; I reach out and push them out of the way.
My boot hits smooth paving stones. No more leaves in my face. Castle ruins in the middle of the wood? It's strangely illumined here: there's a soft glow of bluish light barely reflecting off some still figures—statues? Here's a statue of a woman. There's something, or rather someone, prone at her feet.
I approach the statue. I see the profile of the face. The eyes—no, there are no eyes. Only a blindfold. One hand holds something. It's a familiar instrument for an alchemist or a herbalist: scales. These are fine ones, much better than the ones I use.
There's something in the other hand. I have to go around the other side to see. Ah, a sword. It looks heavy for her; she's holding it such that its tip rests on the ground.
"Themis?" The name escapes me involuntarily.
The statue turns and faces me. Surprise nails me to the ground, and I sense her blindfolded eyes looking me up and down. A slight breeze slinks past my cheek like a cat, and the scales quiver with the movement of the air. I hear a loud scraping sound: she's lifted the sword off the ground. I am about to turn and run when I realize she's holding it with the hilt, not the point, towards me.
My arm is compelled to move by some force beyond my control. I grasp the sword by the handle and am surprised by how well it molds to my grip and how beautifully balanced the weight of the sword seems. As if the sword were made just for me.
The statue—Themis, I suppose—seems to regard me with approval. I feel as if she's chosen me for some task. She points to the silhouette beside her feet.
It's Dettlaff.
--
Regis hit the back of his head against the tree trunk as his head involuntarily jerked back upon his nineteenth return to the waking world since he had sat down under the large, shady tree to rest twenty minutes ago. It was noon and the air was hot, humid, and stifling. He traveled in mist form best at night, so the daylight hours were given over to walking to stretch his physical legs, gathering sustenance, and trying to rest. He badly wanted to sleep in a cool, comfortable bed under a solid roof, but his route, meticulously planned to avoid any place he might encounter another higher vampire, was notably short of such places as inns and cemeteries—and populated places in general.
He tried to swallow away the unease that crept up into his throat at the thought that the area to which he was headed was quite densely populated, and that his final destination was a cabaret and tavern. It would be worth it, he told himself, to see the poet again. He would ask Dandelion how that noble head of his was doing, whether the faint scar of the war wound that Regis had patched up was having the desired effect on the ladies. He would ask him how he was doing in general: Geralt had briefly told Regis about Dandelion acquiring the establishment now known as the Chameleon in Novigrad, and that Dandelion seemed to be seriously seeing a trobairitz named Priscilla. Given that Dandelion's purportedly very serious affair with Anna Henrietta hadn't exactly lasted, Regis doubted that he would meet the fair Priscilla by the time he reached Dandelion in Novigrad.
Novigrad... Regis sighed and idly twiddled a twig between his fingers. He was counting on the vehement anti-non-human and anti-magic stance of King Radovid being sufficiently irritating to higher vampires that most of them would have moved elsewhere. Yes, they could utterly subjugate this world if they wanted to, but most higher vampires didn't want to. Most higher vampires just wanted to live their lives unmolested and unbothered by hysterical humans trying to stake them and shove garlic down their throats.
Since Regis was anathema to his kind and any higher vampire was allowed to take his life, he had to take further special measures to ensure his own safety. The south, the Nilfgaardian Empire, had seemed a good place to hide out from other vampires when he had first set out from Toussaint, but when he began having the dreams—more precisely, the one dream—he found that he couldn't stay put, even though he was safe in Vicovaro. He was going crazy from the self-imposed isolation, which he wouldn't have ever believed could drive him crazy, but it made sense: he'd spent the time before Stygga with Geralt's hanza and enjoyed their companionship, and he'd spent the time after Stygga with Dettlaff...
The snap of the twig breaking between his fingers sounded dull in the thick air. "Why," he wondered aloud, "does the dream always stop right where it does and go no further?" After all, he knew how it all ended.
--
"Are you sure you have enough food for the road?" Marlene asked, the papery skin between her eyebrows scrunching into a close cluster of fine vertical lines.
"More than enough, thanks to you." said Geralt as he clapped a hand on a heavily laden saddlebag. Roach twitched an ear. "Could you ask B.-B. to come over one last time?"
"Right away. Come home in one piece, please." She spread out her arms.
"I'll try my best." He answered her invitation to an embrace and tried to take its almost maternal warmth into his memory, to last him for the long road ahead. She patted his back, withdrew, smiled, and went off to locate the busy majordomo of Corvo Bianco.
Geralt pulled out a letter and read it over once more.
Dandelion, I got your letter and I'm setting out for Novigrad now. I'll try to arrive before this letter. There's no time for correspondence if your suspicions are founded. And if it turns out to be nothing, the work of a copycat, treat me to something at a restaurant that tops Marlene's cooking. Meanwhile, make sure there's someone with Priscilla at all times. Not sure about your idea of getting Dudu to be a decoy, though. Take care. Geralt.
He looked up to see Barnabas-Basil Foulty approaching, apparently unhurriedly, but in fact rather quickly. The majordomo had mastered the art of dignified yet efficient movement.
"What does sir require?" he asked Geralt.
"This letter to be sent. It's already addressed." Geralt handed the letter to Barnabas-Basil. "Thanks, B.-B. Really appreciate you taking care of everything."
The majordomo bowed his head slightly. "Sir will take care of himself?"
Geralt was a little surprised at the question, which was uncharacteristic of Barnabas-Basil. He had no idea where Marlene and B.-B. had gotten the idea that he was in particularly great danger on this trip, since he hadn't discussed it in detail with them. "Of course. Farewell."
"Safe travels."
They were right to be concerned, of course.
Now for one last thing. Geralt smoothed Roach's mane with one hand, as the mare was getting a little impatient to set off, and looked up at the unkindness of ravens in a nearby tree. "I know you're watching me. Make yourself useful and send a message to him, will you?"
It surprised Geralt when one raven actually swooped down, landed on the horn of the saddle, and looked at him with its beady black eyes.
It surprised the raven when Geralt took out a tiny roll of paper and a piece of string.
--
Regis chuckled. "So he tried to tie a note to your leg?" The raven cawed. "Yes, yes. I send him letters incognito from time to time, but he doesn't have an address for me. At least he tried to communicate. Thank you for your patience." The raven plucked a berry from Regis's open hand and flew off.
Popping the rest of the foraged berries into his mouth, Regis smiled as he pictured the witcher solemnly dictating the contents of his note to a listening raven. Smart birds, they were. Geralt was lucky there happened to be one right there that actually understood Common Speech. Then the smile faded and was replaced by tightly pressed lips as Regis recalled Geralt's message.
Dandelion asked for my help and I'm headed to Novigrad, though it may not turn out to be anything at all. You said you were going to try to see Dandelion in your last letter. It would be best if you waited until I understand the situation.
Well, Geralt, going it alone again, I see, Regis thought. You're trying to keep me in the dark; you're trying to spare me. Very well. When Dandelion asks for Geralt's help, he feels that he's in mortal danger, and it's something only a witcher, not a political ally, can take care of. Probably a monster, then. It may not turn out to be anything, but if it does, Geralt wants me to wait. He sent a raven, something he's never attempted before, to tell me that. He believes that I could be in danger if he is right about the nature of the threat.
"A higher vampire," Regis said aloud with a grimace, startling some nearby birds foraging in the same bushes he'd gotten the berries from. He stood up and gathered up his black woollen cloak from the grass. "And it seems logical to the witcher, of course, that it is better to face one without the help of another higher vampire..."