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Chapter Text

“It is telling of him, both as a man and as a ruler, that Emhyr var Emreis choose to attempt to abdicate the position of emperor on the exact same terms as he had ascended to it: his.” - extract from “The White Flame - a biography of Emhyr var Emreis, emperor of Nilfgaard".

The von Everec estate had been described by the Vivaldi bank agent as "somewhat rustic but charming, if a little bit run-down, with a beautiful view of Millers lake". It was in fact, thought Morvran as he gently stepped around an overgrown flowerbed, better described as one step above a ruin, a ruin that may or may not have been on fire at some point or the other and certainly not the estate worthy of a noble lord or lady. It was also, in his professional opinion, military indefensible and far to small to house something as important as the court of the Viceroy of the northern territories.

None of this appeared to faze the current incumbent however. Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Queen of Cintra, Princess of Brugge, Duchess of Sodden, Heiress to Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, and suzerain of Attre and Abb Yarra as well as of course heir to the Empire of Nilfgaard and, most recently, the appointed viceroy and regent of the Northern Territories by his majesty Emhyr var Emreis, emperor of Nilfgaard was already scrambling up the front stairs, as curious as a cat. The princess was dressed in her usual traveling attire, black armored vest over a red shirt with her riding pants tucked into thigh-high boots, dagger at her side and sword slung over her back in the witchers manner. The only sign of her imperial status was the ruby inlaid golden chain around her neck with the sun of Nilfgaard inlaid in black and gold.

Morvran cleared his throat: "Are you certain about this place your grace? Surely there are more suitable accommodations to be found closer to the city itself? Why, I saw at least two very suitable estates just on the way from Novigrad to here."

"Those are not for sale Morvran and I do not" the princess paused as she tried the door handle "bloody things stuck, could any of you help with this" Two of Morvrans men scrambled forward and could with a bit of effort pry the doors open.

"As I said, I do not believe it to be suitable for the Viceroy to live either as a renter or on the charity of a Novigrad noble house. Sets a bad precedent." The princess dusted of her gloved hands and took her first steps into the hallway. Morvran, somewhat less enthusiastically, followed her inside.

"Surely we could requisition more suitable lodgings?"

"You are thinking like a soldier again Morvran. We are not going to persuade anyone of the authority of our rule if the first thing we do is to start confiscating people’s country manors. And as for the distance, this is just close enough to Novigrad to keep an eye on the city and just far enough to keep the city and its temple from keeping to close an eye on us." The princess put her hands on her hips and balanced back on her heels "Why I think this will do nicely!"

Morvran was less enthused. If the outside of the building had been shabby and run down, the inside was positively falling apart, a cold moldy smell filling the rooms and the only sound being the draft moving around dust and ashes. The upstairs floorboards seemed to creek on their own accord and Morvran could swear he heard voices in the rustling of the leaves outside.

"Your grace, are you certain it is properly safe?" Morvran continued as he gingerly followed his lady up the stairs "Old abandoned houses like this may be haunted, have ghosts or other specters live in its walls, no? Not to mention what other foul creatures may have taken up residence."

"Oh not to worry Morvran" said Ciri while turning the staircase corner "I spoke to Geralt about this place, he has already banished the ghost and its demon familiars months ago" Morvran stumbled on the last step as the princess happy extolled that the house had indeed been haunted but was, apparently, no longer so. Morvran was far from a coward: he had faced and dealt in death since he could don armor and swing a sword but the otherworldly and monstrous was something he tried to think as little of as possible. Morvran dealt with men and women; statistics and intelligence reports and left the mysterious, magical and consequently deadly to those either wise or foolish enough to deal with such matters. Witchers, in his admittedly limited experience, tended for somewhere in the middle.

"I see" said Morvran as he followed his sovereign-to-be into what had perhaps once been a drawing room and out onto the balcony that circled the upper floor. "I suppose I have no ground to question the esteemed master Geralt of Rivia then if he says that the house is safe."

"No grounds whatsoever Morvran. Sweet Melitele you truly can see the lake from up here."

Morvran pretended not to have heard the use of the name of the northern goddess instead if Nilfgaards holy sun. He was not what one could call especially pious but he did make a mental note of reminding the princess of certain political realities as they pertained to religion. Which was one of the reasons why the next sentence out of the princess mouth almost caused him to stumble once more.

"There are however a number of people buried in the backyard that I would have you remove Morvran. With care mind you, I will not have your engineers disturb their rest more than absolutely necessary. There is a chapel on the other side of the lake, see if the men can fetch a priest from there."

Morvran, who´s natural distaste of the house had risen once again at the thought of its garden also containing a graveyard of all things, was hesitant to answer. "I see your grace. May, ehh, may is ask to whom the bodies belong?"

"I have absolutely no idea Morvran. Thieves, vagabonds, poor folk who hoped this house contained sufficient valuables to give them a better life. Unfortunately, the caretaker of this place took offense at their presence and killed them." The viceroy sighed "If I could but know their names I would have their bones returned to their families but I´m afraid this will have to do."

"The caretaker your grace" Morvran was confused for a moment "but the papers from the bank did not mention any caretaker?"

"A creature summoned by the previous owner to tend to and protect the estate and its inhabitants from any threat. Also tended to the flower beds apparently." The viceroy briefly wrinkled her forehead "A relict or some sort of golem made of flesh perhaps? Or another kind of summon, maybe from another dimension?" the viceroy turned around to see Morvrans already pale face grow paler. "Oh not to worry Morvran! Geralt took care of that one as well. Its witchers work, professional interest only. Though more of a hobby these days I suppose."

Morvran slowly shook his head "Your grace, if there are any other occult phenomena associated with this house, please do not tell me."

***

Imperial Palace of Nilfgaard, one month earlier

"Your Viceroy? In the North?" Ciri stared incredulously at her father. The now (almost) undisputed ruler of the continent was standing at the window of his private study in the imperial palace, staring out at the flowing Alba below.

"Yes. The North is still restless and I fear some of our governors have exacerbated the situation. To heavy demands of taxation and corvée labor, to little understanding of local customs. I need someone to hold the entire government in hand. That person needs to be someone I can trust completely and that at the same time the nordlings can accept. Someone with an understanding of the local customs and a title of a northern royal house." The emperor turned around. "That means you."

Ciri crossed her arms across her chest "Is that the sole reason?"

"Hardly. A ruler should never do anything out of pure expediency. You could also say it’s a test, a trial."

"A trial?"

"Is that not what the witchers call it? The final test before one assumes one’s proper role, one's station in life."

Ciri smiled with the corner of her mouth "The witchers trials are somewhat more complicated. It involves magic, alchemical substances, physiological changes to the body: it is what makes them witchers rather than highly trained hunters." She paused "I do hope you do not have similar plans for me."

"In a way I do." Said the emperor "Oh, nothing as drastic as mutations but in its own way as much or even far more far-reaching. I´m molding you into a ruler Cirilla. The guilds and nobility are growing weary of me and only my promise of eventual abdication has sated them and kept the knives from our backs thus far." The emperor returned to his desk and sat down while Ciri remained standing.

"That and what you did when you returned from the North." Ciri had not been there to witness it herself but had heard the stories, of guilds-men and generals hanging from the roof beams of houses along the market streets, of imperial assassins hunting down entire families, of bloody public dismemberments and silent garroting in the imperial dungeons. Rumors had followed the blades and daggers of the emperor’s executioners north until the imperial countercoup had reached all the way to the Pontar. Such had been the way of politics in Nilfgaard for almost as long as the empire had existed but when she had first heard of it the disgust she felt almost made her turn down her father’s offer cold. In the end it had only ended up galvanizing her in her decision.

"You disapprove? Well its well that you do I suppose, every ruler has to develop their own style of ruling. And by eliminating the worst of the plotters I have left the field open for you to take the throne as the merciful one. But time Cirilla, time is of the essence. Normally a ruler would have half a lifetime to prepare to take the throne but we only have this short period."

"As I remember, you did not spend your preparations to rule particularly diligently either. Or was the role of ne'er-do-well husband of the heir to the throne of Cintra truly such an education?"

"Careful daughter." Something gleamed in the emperor’s eye. "Do not presume your idle childhood memories can teach you of what my time at your grandmothers court were like." The emperor stood. "Come, I wish to show you something."

On a table of Mag Turgan hardwood a map of what had once been the northern realms lay. The old borders were still shown, although someone had taken the liberty of not to subtly filling her father’s conquests with red ink.

"Temeria is still restless but I believe the local junta we put in place under its child queen have the situation in hand at the moment. Redania, Aedirn and Kaedwen remain restless but there is as of yet no clear focal point for resistance. Skellige, Lyria, Rivia remain out of our control but are unwilling to entertain hostilities on their own. And Kovir retains their neutrality." Her father put his finger down on a single point on the map. "There, Novigrad. Novigrad is the key. He who controls it controls the Pontar and he who controls the Pontar controls Redania, Temaria, Aedirn and Kaedwen all. All trade throughout the north flows through its ports and warehouses. Control Novigrad and you control lifeblood of everyone and everything north of the Yaruga."

"Not to mention the church." Her father smiled slightly at her interjection.

"You learn quickly. Indeed, the church of the eternal fire. Possibly the largest religion of the North, certainly the most organized. The power behind Radovids throne, whether they admit to it or not. It was their believers that manned his witch hunters, their rabble-rouser's that stirred the people against his enemies and in the end it was their followers who made up the most enthusiastic parts of his armies. And it is they who can form a center of resistance to our rule, not some third cousin to Radovid or Henselt."

Ciri narrowed her brow at her father’s analysis. He was not wrong, not directly but perhaps, as she thought it, not quite right either.

"The Church of the Eternal fire has held a stranglehold over the north since Radovid took his throne. They were hunting down sorcerers, hedge mages, village witches and wise-woman. When I left Novigrad they had started to turn on non-humans." Ciri recrossed her arms over her chest. "They seem to be missing from your equation father."

Her father smiled his humorless smile again. "Yennefer of Vengeberg, Geralt of Rivia and even a touch of Triss Merigold in that answer. Your compassion lends them, and you, credit but never confuse compassion with wisdom Cirilla. As rulers we do what we must to keep anarchy at bay, only after that may we consider what we want or believe. Nevertheless, if such are your motivations I shan't be the one to stop you. Rule as you will daughter, that is the point of this exercise." Her father turned his back to her and returned to his desk, laden with correspondence.

"I have already made the suitable arrangements. You will travel in the manner which befits a princess of Nilfgaard and an imperial viceroy. I will send Morvran Voorhis and a detachment of the Impera brigade with you, as well as a large enough set of clerks to man your administration. Nevertheless, part of your task will be to build your own court: the nordlings will not consent to be ruled by foreigners. Your ship will leave in two days, in the meantime I suggest you get familiar with the latest intelligence reports on your future demesne."

Seeing her father’s last words as a dismissal, Ciri gave a curt nod and turned towards the door.

"Cirilla." Emhyr said. She turned around to face her father again. The candlelight played with the shadows on the emperor’s face and his tired eyes stared back at her. "You may or may not trust me or my intentions but all of my hopes go with you. Good luck daughter."

***

And so it was that only a few weeks later, three Nilfgaardian galleys skirted the Pontar delta and pulled into Novigrad harbor. Their arrival was of course no surprise: the ships had made their way in full view of the coast and the cities lighthouses had signaled their approach. Crowds had gathered, the temple guard stood on parade attention in their white and crimson armor next to rows of black armored Nilfgaardians. Priests of the Eternal fire chanted their blessings across the waters while crowds of Novigrads highest and lowest filled the piers and the rooftops as the imperial galley docked (those cynical or superstitious noticed that the ship did in fact dock at the same pier as had been used by the late king Radovid for his last docking). Hierarch Hemmelfart himself stood beneath a crimson and gold canopy, surrounded by the cities Chancellors and representatives of noble families decked out in splendid silks and satin.

As the boarding plank descended the good citizens caught a first glimpse of their new viceroy. Erect and slender, her white hair held back by a simple golden diadem and the sun glistened on the golden chain symbolizing her rank as it lay on bed of black velvet. She was unarmed but for a dagger of a strange and alien design lodged in her belt studded with sapphires and agates. She descended the gangplank slowly but surely, her head held aloft. Behind her strode the might of Nilfgaard. Some would say that the lioness of Cintra, good queen Calanthe, long gone, strode in her shadow. As she met and ceremonially bowed before the hierarch he took up his priest’s chant. A deacon held up a chalice filled with holy ashes, some of which the hierarch gripped with fat, bejeweled fingers and sprinkled some on the viceroy's brow. She raised her head and, together they faced with the crowd, lords spiritual and temporal. It was, all would agree, a highly successful ceremony and an auspicious moment that perhaps peace had finally, at long last, come to the north.

It was also the beginning of a battle that would shake not just the city of Novigrad, but the north and the known world to its core.

Chapter Text

“By the time of the end of the third northern war, the church of the eternal fire in many ways stood at the apex of its power. Unmatched in terms of organization, the upheavals of war had brought it new converts and it’s alliance with King Radovid the Stern of Redania had made it the unofficial state religion of the kings burgeoning empire. In Novigrad its rule was unchallenged. Yet this very success would also turn out to be a weakness: by wedding itself so strongly to the Redanian monarchy, the underpinnings of its power came loose when Radovid died, ironically within sight if the Church's holiest temple.” - from the collected lectures of professor Liliac Zonderbund, university of Nazair, late 13’th century.

The sounds of the faithful still praying out on the temple square melded with the smell of incense burned in the great pyres and the morning sea breeze wafting through the open windows of the hierarch’s chambers. Cyrus Engelkind Hemmelfart, by the grace of the holy flame hierarch of the church of the eternal fire stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by a platoon of deacons in the process of divesting him of his heavy, ornate robes. He winced as one of the younger deacons mistakenly clipped his ear with his heavy neck chain.

"Be careful you klutz" hissed the head deacon of the group. The boy, for he wasn't much more than a boy, grew pale as he tried to avoid looking directly at the hierarch, all while his superior stared daggers at him, eyes promising a considerable amount of pain in his immediate future.

"Lay of the boy brother deacon" said the hierarch "we have all been young once." The hierarch breathed a sigh of relief as the last of his heavy vestments were lifted off his shoulders. "What is your name young brother?"

"Adso your holiness. Adso of Tretogor."

"Adso you need to be more careful. Our appearance is crucial tool in our role as guides of the people and the guardians of the holy flame." He paused "Chin up lad. Learn from your mistake and do not let it mire your confidence. One day, when I am long in my grave it might be you who have to speak to the congregation." The Hierarch lifted his eyes to the head deacon "No punishment for this one brother. I will not have my clergy beaten into submission." 

"Of course your holiness" the head deacon bowed as he and his subordinates withdrew, carrying the hierarchs formal vestments with them. 

"You show admirable patience with the novices your holiness." The man standing unobtrusively against the wall remarked.  Helveed, the grand inquisitor of the church, was a man who’s sturdy built and prizefighter looks betrayed his origins on Novigrad’s less favorable neighborhoods. 

"We have all been young and clumsy once Helveed." The hierarch paused for moment. "Well maybe not you." Clad in a more comfortable linen robe, Hemmelfart strode over to a nearby table and poured himself a goblet of dark red wine out of a crystal decanter. Satisfied he sat tiredly down in one of the ornate chairs spread throughout the room.

"My mind and soul will never grove tired of reading the liturgy but I´m afraid this old body is starting to accept a more heretical position. Please, please, sit down Helveed." He gestured with one ring-studded hand towards another chair. "Tell me, what news of our erstwhile Nilfgaardian princess?" 

 "Nothing good your holiness. She has spent most of her time at that estate of hers over by millers lake. When in town she usually stays in her palace or at the Nilfgaardian embassy, when not gallivanting about town trying to impress the smallfolk. She has also payed her respects to several of the local nobles at their country estates, including the Vegelbud’s of course and recently visited Oxenfurt where she endowed the university with a hefty imperial endowment." Helveed paused "Of course none of that is secret. But the girl is clearly trying to buy support among both the commons and the nobility."

"If having tea with the country gentry and handing out baubles to poor folk and cross-eyed scholars is all that she was doing then I would be able to sleep easily. What of troop movements?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary your holiness. They are maintaining a small garrison in Oxenfurt and one further downstream at White bridge, as well as the few troops they have here in Novigrad. But apart from the march on Crows nest a fortnight ago little seemed to be out of the ordinary." The grand inquisitor leaned back into his chair. "While I fully share your distrust of Nilfgaard we have to account for the possibility that she is not sent here to directly oppose us."

"Directly oppose us?" the Hierarchs voice was raised "How can she not directly oppose us! Why would Emhyr send her here if not to pacify the north? You think Emhyr accepts to share power with the church? We stood behind Radovid, you think he has forgotten that? And what of the girl herself?" Hemmelfart all but erupted from his seat "Look at her history? She was raised by witchers and sorceresses, by dryads and the Queen bitch of Cintra, the damned Calanthe who only accepted the clergy to teach if they kissed her slippers beforehand!" Hemmelfart throw up his arms and stood at the open windows, his arms grasping at the windowsill as he looked out onto the harbor below. "I could see it, Helveed. A world where families no longer send their children to be eaten by the monsters that dwell in the swamps, where kings would look to the good of their people and not to whatever poison their mage advisor's drip into their ears. Where people could find salvation in faith, not in the quack decocts of the village witches. Where the demons were kept at bay."

The grand inquisitor looked at his hierarch. He was not a passionate man by disposition, which was why he had chosen a career in the Church's bureaucracy rather than as a reverend preaching to the crowds. Even so he could not find himself disagreeing with the outburst. 

"The war has left Nilfgaard weak your holiness, it is unlikely the girl will march on us with an army. But we also lost too much, too many resources were given to Radovid to be squandered." He put up a hand as the hierarch turned around angrily. "I know, we both agreed with the decision at the time. To have a king rule the north, the whole north, who also was among our supporters was an opportunity we couldn't turn down. But Radovid was never truly among our faithful, he was after our resources and thought we shared in his petty hatreds. Saint Lebioda himself said that it is not hatred that must guide us, but love."

The hierarch nodded and turned back towards his window. "The love of a stern father but not a cruel one. I know Helveed, I know. But I can feel them, feel the mages and agents of chaos return. They are out there, salivating at the thought that our flock may remain unprotected. I cannot let that happen, I will not let that happen."

"Neither will I. But your holiness, we must bide our time for now. There are a number of avenues I believe we may explore and it is not like sorcerers will appear here today out of shadow and fire. We still have time."

***

At the shore of Millers lake, fire sprouted out of clear air, formed into a quickly spinning spiral that extended outward until it was taller and broader than a man. In the center of the spiral a darkness blacker than the darkest night formed and out of the vortex a sorceress sprang. 

Triss Merigold dusted some imaginary lint of her forearm and took in her surroundings. A few peasants out weeding the fields stared in terror at the woman who had appeared out of nowhere. Triss presented them her most winning smile and shouldered her pack as she set of along the road. She could already see two Nilfgaardian troopers wheeling their horses around towards her and she made sure that the letter she had received a few days prior was where it could be easily reached for in her belt. It turned out to be quite unnecessary however for when they reached her, the riders immediately dismounted and bowed in the Nilfgaardian manner.

"Enchantress Merigold. You have been expected. If you would like to borrow my horse we will guide you to the estate."

While Triss had never visited the von Everec estate during her sojourn in Novigrad she had had it described by one of her colleagues in Kovir as a dismal place, decrepit,  plagued by probably unnatural fogs and rotting underneath the weight of the sins supposedly committed there. She was thus pleasantly surprised to find its walls repaired and an ornate cast iron gate installed. On the left side what looked like a barracks building was taking shape while on a hill above the grounds a guard tower surrounded by scaffolding was proudly flying the imperial banner. 

Triss dismounted her horse outside of the manor and was hurried inside by a doorman who showed her up the stairs, at the top of which one of Nilfgaard’s most celebrated generals was finding himself stopped dead in his tracks by a thirteen year old girl.

"I‘m sorry general Voorhis" the girl did in fact not sound sorry in the least to Triss "but the viceroy has left strict instructions that she doesn, does not wish to be disturbed."

"I am merely trying to deliver these reports she asked for."

"In that case you may give them to me general and I will make sure she gets them." The girl held out her hand in manner a less charitable person would call insolent.

"These are classified intelligence reports." Morvran Voorhis said carefully in the voice of a man unaccustomed to show patience to maidservants blocking his way "I fail to remember you having clearance to view any of these Gretka."

"In that case you will simply have to wait until her highness has the time to receive you. Otherwise you will have to go through me." The girl defiantly balled her fists against her waist. 

General Voorhis looked like he was contemplating doing just that when he noticed Triss standing in the staircase. The generals face smoothly flowed into place. "Ah enchantress Merigold. We have been expecting your arrival" Morvran gave his best courtiers bow. "I am afraid that young mistress Gretka here is blocking our path."

"As a matter of fact I'm not" said Gretka. Turning towards Triss she gave a far from inelegant curtsy "Her grace left instructions that enchantress Merigold would be let into her presence as soon as she arrived." Gretka opened the door she had been blocking with an exaggerated flourish, hustling Triss inside and leaving Morvran outside to contemplate what his face suggested was asking for a new assignment. 

Gretka, Triss surmised as she entered the room, was not particularly good at the parts of her job that did not entail standing up to unwanted visitors. The room was warmly but haphazardly decorated, as if the person in charge had seen to many styles to choose from and not cared enough to make an informed choice. Dark rugs from Ofir covered the floor while the walls were covered with a haphazard collection of paintings, mixing enough styles and eras to make a curator weep. Silken pillows were piled on the divans together with haphazardly folded clothes and a stack of pastries was carelessly piled on top of a silver platter of Mahakam design. There was at least, Triss though with some relief, no rats spiked to the walls. 

"Triss! You came!" Ciri came rushing around a folding screen that divided the sitting room from what Triss assumed was the sleeping area and threw herself around her neck. "I wasn´t sure whether I would be seeing you so soon. How was your journey?"

"It’s not every day one gets called by the imperial viceroy. It was long but uneventful."

"I am glad! Gretka!" Ciri turned towards the girl who was looking at Ciri with unabashed worship in her eyes "Go tell the stable-master to have horses saddles, my Nilfgaardian and the Ofiri mare for enchantress Merigold and bring them to the rear gate." The girl bowed and stepped outside, slyly stealing a pastry on the way. Triss made a mental note to discuss certain matters with the girl. "Kovir is treating you well? Come sit down". Ciri gestured towards one of her divans.

"It is. Nasty weather but fruitful work. We have even started to hold discussion on whether to open an academy. It will be bare-bones of course but maybe we can finally start rebuilding organized magical education and training in the North."

"So I have been told! Is Margarita there with you?" Ciri crossed over to an ornate cabinet and produced a carafe of wine. She poured out a generous amount in two crystal glasses and returned to the table. 

"She is. Margarita may protest but she is a teacher in her bones." Triss tried the wine and found it an excellent Kaedweni vintage. Clearly whoever was stocking Ciri's cellars knew their business. "This is of course things you could have learned from your spies or from a simple letter. As much as I love meeting you your summons indicated you had an important matter to take up with me.” Triss put down her glass on the table. “Why am I here Ciri?"

"Oh yes." To an outside observer the princess might as well seem unconcerned as she stood up again and crossed the room to a desk overflowing with stacked papers and open a locked drawer, first with a simple binding spell and then with a key. To Triss she might as well has been fidgeting. "Here." Ciri produced an ornate scroll and handed it to the sorceress. The scroll was made of the finest vellum, it edges decorated with scarlet frills and in bold letter told that the bearer, Triss Merigold of Maribor, enchantress and graduate of the mage school of Aretuza, hero of Sodden and Undvik, savior of the mages of Novigrad, leader of the mage chapter of Kovir, had been appointed to the position of advisor to the viceroy of the northern territories, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, crown princess of Nilfgaard, followed by a galloping host of other titles. The document was punctuated by Ciri´s signature, as flowing and sharp as a witchers sword cut and her official seal, carrying the lions of Cintra and the great sun of Nilfgaard. The text was surrounded by exquisite black and golden scrollwork.

"Is this an imperial command?" Triss asked lightly.

"Of course not! Who do you think I am?" Ciri paused "It´s an offer, yours to refuse. But I dearly need an advisor with your experience in both politics and magic."

"Why me?"

"Well it’s not like there are a lot of northern sorceresses left. Margarita is trying to restart her academy as you said, Keira Metz have disappeared into medical research and I'm fairly certain I can actually throw Phillipa Eilhart further then I trust her. Appointing an elven sorceress is to politically fraught at this juncture and also..."

"Ciri!" Triss interrupted her sharply. "You know what I mean. Why not Yennefer?"

Ciri stood abruptly and strode over to her dresser. Leaning against it she seemed for a moment almost frozen in place. Triss simply sat with her arms crossed and waited for her to speak. "I know that if I asked Yennefer she would come immediately, unhesitatingly. She would take up her position and she would be grand at it." Ciri stared at her own reflection in the mirror. "But Triss I don´t want her to. She has made such terrible sacrifices for me, endured such hardships, she and Geralt both. Now that they have finally found some measure of peace I cannot, I will not be the one to drag them out of it." Ciri was gripping the dresser even tighter when she felt Triss's arms around her waist. She slowly exhaled with released emotions.

"Is this magic?" Ciri said

"Of a kind. Call it elder sister calming technique. Learned it at Aretuza." The two women stood like that for a moment before Ciri disentangled herself. 

"Also there is one more reason.” She said with her old enthusiasm restored. ”The horses should be ready by now, I´ll explain more on the way."

Triss raised her eyebrow "We are going somewhere?"

"To Novigrad."

***

Ciri's plan had evidently been to leave by the rear entrance in order to avoid commotion and being saddled with escorts. Unfortunately, general Voorhis seemed to have seen through this particular ruse and already had a squad of cavalry ready next to their horses which he diligently introduced as their escort, despite Ciri´s half-hearted attempts to argue with him. They thus took on something off a huff, Ciri leading the way while arguing with the Lieutenant in charge of whether to take a short cut along the dried-out riverbed. Triss stayed in the middle of the column next to a grizzled old sergeant.

"Is it always like this sergeant?" inquired Triss in Nilfgaardian, gesturing towards the princess arguing with, or rather at, the lieutenant.

"Quite so Mylady. The princess has a mind of her own but we have our orders from the emperor himself to see her safe." The sergeant paused briefly. "Not to worry my lady, we are Impera brigade, we are used to this sort of business."

"Been with the brigade long sergeant?" 

"Five years ma'am. Was with the Alba before that, 20 years. Came home after the third war and me daughter met me with my grandson on her arm. Though there and then I’d switch to a safer posting, begging your pardon my lady."

"Never thought of taking the coin and the farm and retiring? After twenty years your enlistment should be up."

"Soldiering is the only trade I know my lady. Seen both the best and the worst it has offer, was at both Brenna and Sodden."

Triss suddenly felt a shiver despite the warm day. "Sodden...that is a name I've tried to forget. I was there to, at the hill with the northern mages."

"So I’ve heard my lady. Wretched business, worst field I ever saw, worse than even Brenna. None of these young pubs" he turned around and gestured to the troopers bringing up the rear of the column "have any inkling what it was like. And too few of us left to tell them."

Triss crookedly smiled despite herself and the subject matter. "Who´s like us, ehh sergeant?"

"Damn few and they're all dead my lady."

The two veterans had fallen into a companionable sort of silence when Ciri returned from the head of the column and the sergeant smoothly moved his horse to the rear as the princess took up her place next to Triss.

"These damn conventions! Every time I try to leave by horse they insist saddling me with this escort. If we were ambushed I could cut my way out or escape through my powers but try telling Morvran that!" Ciri sighed "You know sometimes I really wonder whether I should have just cut my losses and run away to Zerrakania or somewhere."

"Why don't you?"

"Because I foolishly believe I can make a difference. To the North, to Nilfgaard to everyone." Ciri picked an errant leaf from a tree along the road as the forest opened up to the fields beyond. "Worst thing is that I almost start to enjoy it. Not the power as such and definitely not all this silly formality but the chance to make a difference, a real difference." She shook her head. "How’s that for arrogance?"

"I don´t think it is arrogant" the sorceress said "You have been granted power, real political power and instead of simply trying to accumulate more like half the rulers of the continent, you want to use it to make a difference. Yet at them same time you understand why you need to make difference.” Triss lingered in a though for a moment “The worst sorceress and sorceress I´ve meet are the ones who think their power make them and their desires innately good and desirable. As long you do not close your mind to those who may disagree with you I would say you stand a fair chance." She paused for a moment and added. "Even if it on the insistence for an escort."

"Well I suppose that is your job."

"Amongst others. Tell me Ciri, you said there was another reason why you asked for me." Triss looked out over the vineyards surrounding them. 

"There is. I´m taking on the church Triss. Oh, not the faith itself, that is anyone own business. But the organization, the political machine that stood behind Radovid. I'm taking on anybody who has the power and inclination to tie a mage, an herbalist or a non-human to a stake and burn them. And I want you, Triss, because I know what it feels like to run away. And I know what it feels like to finally turn around and punch back."

Chapter Text

Cleaver will cut yer balls
And Whoreson wanna to hold them
Reuven he just wants your rolls
But the king already sold’em
- popular Novigrad childrens rhyme

As their party neared the Oxenfurt gate, Triss could spot the changes wrought since her last visit. Some were obvious, like the lack smoldering pyres that had once greeted visitors and that the once ubiquitous witch hunters were nowhere to be seen. Yet refugees were still crowding the road, fleeing from a countryside torn apart by war and marauding bands of demobilized troops and deserters. As the guards used their halberds to part the crowds in front of them, Ciri was seated upright in the saddle, stone-faced, hands gripping the pommel of the saddle. 

"You cannot take responsibility for every individual that suffers Ciri. No human being can."

"I know Triss, I know." She slowly edged her horse forward "Do you know that the hierarch and some nobles like to throw coins to the crowds as they pass the gates? A fortnight ago, three people were trampled and beaten to death by their fellows by the Tretogor gate? They killed each other fighting for scraps." Ciri shook her head "It’s disgraceful."

The crowds parted and the group continued through the gate, whereupon they turned right alongside the wall. After short ride through a backstreet the party arrived at a three floor, freshly painted building. Triss recognized it since her stay in Novigrad: the Vilmerius hospital. The buildings refurbishment had not just been focused on the walls as Triss could see a small imperial pennant floating from the building’s roof. 

"I´m not as foolish as believing you requisitioned the town hospital" she said as they dismounted "but I do wonder how it came to fly the Nilfgaardian flag."

"It’s an imperially supported hospital now, dully sanctioned and payed for by the customs duties on the Pontar." Ciri said as she likewise dismounted. "City council wasn´t paying and the church has run up enough debt funding the war effort. So, I took over the founding."

Triss looked up at the newly polished sign "Admirable."

"It’s at least something I can take responsibility for. Better to see people healed than have then fighting over scattered coins." Ciri waved to her soldiers to stay outside the building as she and Triss walked towards the entrance.

"General Voorhis has no problem with you spending the vice regal budget on the hospital?"

"Ha! On the contrary. A 'hearts and minds operation' he called it, a supposed military tactic. Have you ever heard something so absurd?" Ciri shook her head as they entered the building. Triss had remembered the ground floor as a dank room filled to the brim with the sick and desperate but was pleasantly surprised to find the walls freshly white-washed with medical orderlies in their distinctive masks processing through patients, some of whom went upstairs towards the treatment facilities while others were provided with potions and remedies from behind an apothecary bench in the corner. A tall man dressed in simple blue robes and a leather apron, his face sporting an impressive graying mustache strode over from where he had been conversing with a red-complexioned matron.

"Your imperial highness, it is an honor to have you visit us again." As the man spoke and made courteous bow, the ambiance of the room fell to a whisper as the good burghers of Novigrad looked at their nominal overlord having appeared in their midst. Triss studied the faces and saw fear, awe, uncertainty and just a little bit of exaltation. These people have never known a princess, and an imperial one at that, to take any interest in them. They have yet to make up their minds about you. Be careful here Ciri, it was never the clergy themselves who built the pyres.

"Likewise. This is my advisor, enchantress Triss Merigold, newly arrived from Kovir. Triss, this is the director and chief surgeon Joachim von Gratz."

"We have meet previously." Triss reached out to shake the man’s hand. "It is good to see you again magister."

"Likewise enchantress. You helped us acquire some ingredients we could not have managed to get out hands on through normal means."

"It was a trifle. The help you gave to some of my mages was extremely generous, not to mention hazardous." Triss said while mentally kicking herself. My mages indeed, Triss have you let your new position go to your head?

"Do no harm and help those you can. It is the oath we swear as physicians. Are you here to see the accounts?"

"If it’s not too much trouble. Also, I have a favor to ask of you later." Ciri asked

"Of course, your highness, if you would please come with me." von Gratz gestured to the staircase next to a small statue of Melitele. The two women followed him upstairs and Triss could hear the buzz of conversation return to the hall behind them. 

"Are you sure it was wise to introduce me among the populace like that?" Triss asked Ciri "Most of these people would have cheered if you put me on a pyre."

"They will have to learn to trust mages eventually. If the story goes around that the viceroy has redeemed a woman who was once on every wanted poser in town, maybe they will come to confront their own prejudices."

"More likely to turn them against you." 

Ciri simply shrugged. She had, Triss thought, never been the person to go around a problem or challenge. Much like her adoptive parents, she barreled straight through them instead, with breakneck speed and a perhaps somewhat cavalier approach to consequences. She had always found that admirable in a way, but time and pain had taught the sorceress that it was not always the best method. 

On the top floor, they were greeted by orderlies going back and forth between the various treatment rooms. Ciri noticed an old woman sitting on a rough-hewn stool in the corridor and set off towards her.

"The viceroy has shown an interest in some of our long-term patients." Said von Gratz

"I can see that."  Up here the crowd seemed much less undecided when it came to their viceroy and Triss wondered if this was what general Voorhis meant when he talked of hearts and minds. If it was her peculiar upbringing or raw instinct Triss did not know but Ciri appeared to have an ability to appeal to people. Unlike her stubbornness, this was something she had definitely not learned from her adoptive parents, neither of whom were particularly suited to making themselves liked. Indeed, thought Triss as she followed von Gratz into his study, that may at the end be what had held those two together, despite the best efforts of the world and occasionally themselves to tear each other apart. 

The director’s study was barely worthy of the name, a cluttered room not much bigger than a closet. One thing that Triss immediately noticed however, was the unrolled ornate scroll fastened to one of the walls. It did, in fact, look almost suspiciously like the one she herself had been given earlier that day. von Gratz followed her eye and smiled. "I presume you have a similar one? At the estate I was told she brought a crate of those with her."

"Indeed. Is the hospital doing well?"

"Well enough. With imperial patronage comes resources but also an added layer of suspicion. There are preachers out there who harangues their flock and anyone passing by not to consult the heathen imperial doctors. But they come after dark to seek remedies for their ailments all the same.” 

"They did so to us as well when we operated here. Then they turned us over to the witch hunters once those same ailments were cured." The sorceress sighed. "Forgive me. The journey here was tiring."

"Nothing to forgive. I have felt abandoned by those I cared for too. Perhaps..." the man’s speech interrupted when Ciri entered the study. 

"von Gratz, some of the family members of the guests seem to be going hungry. Is there any way the cook can make up something apart from broth for the patients?" 

"Of course, I think it can fit within the budget. Are you here to look at the books your grace?"

"No, I simply wanted to look in on how some of the patients are faring, we can detail a more official inspection for another time. I do have a favor to ask you magister. Is there a way we can exit this building without anyone noticing?"

The physician thought for a moment. "We do have an entrance to the sewers underneath the main surgery suit, if that would work your highness." 

"Splendid! Until later then von Gratz." Ciri stood up. "Come Triss, I need your help introducing me to someone."

The sorceress followed Ciri out the room "Certainly. Who would that be?"

"The only king left in this city."

***

The putrid grove gave cause for at least the first part of its name. Even having emerged from a short excursion through the sewers, Ciri could still feel the smells of the harbor mixed with reek of unwashed bodies and refuse thrown onto the streets. Its walls did not as much tower as lean over the passersby. As they walked up the battered gate (clever that, a sturdy one would have attracted attention), Ciri noticed the how the people around them, the street beggars, the drunks, the swaggering gang members, all were surreptitiously watching their movements. She could feel no ill intentions from them, just unspoken questions and a deep-rooted wariness.

Triss strode up and slammed the rusty door knocker twice. A small metal grate opened and Ciri could see a stern face sporting a black, filthy set of mustaches appear beyond. The man’s small, beady eyes focused on Triss and seemingly shoot open in surprise and recognition.

"Ye? Though ye were dead." The man said.

"Hope that is the worst thing you ever thought of me Porter. We are here to see the king."

"Aye miss Merigold, so you are." A door set into the gate swung open, revealing a heavy-set man half as wide as the gate itself. He nodded towards Ciri "You will leave your weapons here. No one it let into the presence the king armed." Ciri looked to Triss who nodded slightly. She unslung her sword from her back and took her ornate dagger form its place on her belt and handed them over to the man.

"Keep an eye on, I shall be wanting them back later."

The man shot her an annoyed glare. "Why does everyone new who come through here insist of repeating these damned threats? I wouldn't keep me job long if I stole from guests." The man muttered to himself as he set down Ciri's weapons among a small collection of weaponry. Ciri followed Triss onto the small square that made up the center of the city-within-a-city. Unlike the streets outside, the inhabitants here, while much the same clientele, seemed far more relaxed to their presence. Children of many races played together as a few whores of their shifts sat discussing business around a table. An herbalist peddled suspicious looking herbs and the rank smell of Fisstech caused an unwelcome oang of desire to shoot down Ciri’s spine.

 Novigrad may have become an imperial city but here in the Putrid grove a different sort of monarch ruled.

"Well this is certainly a charming spot. Are you certain this is where the King of Beggars reside?"

Triss smiled beneath her hood. "Do you know there was once a time that this was my favorite place in Novigrad? The one place where I could for a moment let my guard down, not believe that everyone I saw was a spy for the witch hunters." Triss gestured with one manicured hand towards the grove’s inhabitants. "Most of these people can say the same. Whether they be running from the temple guards, creditors, abusive husbands or tight-fisted bankers, the grove gives them a safe space. The veterans, the refugees, the whores and the orphans, the refuse your father and Radovid’s armies swept up in their wake and tossed ashore on Novigrad’s docks. This is the place they go for safety. You of all people should be able to appreciate that Ciri." She stopped in front of an unassuming door down a narrow cul-de-sac "Here we are." Without knocking, Triss opened in and entered.

"Well well well, if it isn't the sorceress Merigold. Heard you were back in town with the imperial entourage but didn't expect to see you at my door so soon." The man speaking was large and broad shouldered, head shaved so well he might as well have been bald and a face as craggy as the misshapen cobblestones outside. His clothes were a garish mix of gang colors and he carried multiple small purses hanging on his person. "And who is this? Another witcher friends of yours, a girl this time?"

"Always good to meet you mr Bedlam. This is my new employer." Ciri lowered her hood.

To his credit, the King of Beggars kept an excellent Gwent-face. "The viceroy herself? Here to grace my humble palace with her presence. To what do I owe the honor?" he bowed slightly, never holding his hand far from his dagger.

"Well" said Ciri holding out her hands in an as non-threatening manner as possible "I'm not conducting a lone crusade on organized crime."

"I'd hope not, though I be honored to enter such a contest with you. Please, sit" the gestured to two rough-cut wooden chairs in front of a sturdy table overload with coin, money-pouches and documents covered in the arcane runes of accountants. "To what do I owe the honors?" the man poured red wine out of an earthenware cup into three simple cups and raised his own in a salute, taking a deep swig as if to prove there was no poison slushing about inside. 

Ciri had never bothered to learn the first things about wine and had once driven her father’s chamberlain to near apoplexy with her inability to spot the difference between a good Toussaint Erveluce and an Ebbing Drusty. Casting a sidelong glance at Triss told her that despite its humble appearance, the king of beggars knew his wines.

"I am trying to locate a certain object, no, a series of objects in fact, that I believe may have landed in your possession."

"Really?" the man leaned back in his chair "I have to have a talk with my crew then. Didn't rightly know they had stolen something from the viceroy herself. What is it that you have lost my lady?"

"We haven't lost anything Francis" Triss interjected. "It’s just something we believe you may have picked up."

"And what would that be?"

Ciri leaned forward across the table. "Sigismund Djikstra’s information network."

The man had an absolutely marvelous Gwent face. "Who?"

Ciri leaned back and pulled an exacerbated face. She turned to the sorceress next to her. "Are you certain this is the man? The King of Beggars, the last remaining criminal overlord of this city. The man hasn´t even figured out who he did business with for all these years!" 

Triss smiled. "Now Ciri, the man is simply trying to play us." It was the sorceress time to lean forward across the table. "Now Francis, to not be coy. You knew very well who Sigi Reuven really was, far better than the other two half-wits. What interests the viceroy is what happened to his men, his informants, the spies he had hidden away throughout every inn, brothel and court from Kovir to Nilfgaard."

"If I had I'm not sure why I should tell you. Do not you do not have your own spies?"

They're my father’s spies, not mine though Ciri. Out loud she said "One can never have enough spies, or so I've been told. Not to mention the cut-throats, gangsters and thieves he kept in is employ here in town. At least you picked up those yes?" Ciri added. 

The man looked back and forth between the two women and smiled the type of smile that most people in Novigrad would have fled screaming from. He stood up. "This has been a delightful little double-act but I don't think we have anything more to discuss."

Ciri had never been like most people. "How is the plan going?" she asked. The man stopped.

"I don´t know what you are talking about."

"I´m sure you don´t. The plan, oh king of beggars. Your plan."

"The big plan," Triss added "the far-reaching plan to remake this city head-to-toe. How is it going Francis?"

The man stared grumbling back at Triss. "You told her about that?"

"The Viceroy has a particular interest in visionaries. Particularly those whose visions are close to her own."

"Really?" the king of beggars eyed over Ciri with a look of someone appraising a particular well forged florin. "Since when do my visions align with Nilfgaard?"

"Since I became viceroy of the northern territories. " Ciri interjected. "Since my father and me made a deal allowing me to rule the way I wanted. But most particularly, oh king, since I set out to rid this city of its oppressors."

The man sat down again slowly. His eyes never leaving Ciri's as he slowly filled their cups from his earthenware jug. "Continue."

"It’s fairly simple really. We have common enemies."

"You think I intent to liberate my city and just hand it over to Nilfgaard?"

"Last time I checked it was already handed over to Nilfgaard. It’s our banners that hang next to the cites on the gates, it’s our troops patrolling the Gildorf district, our ships moored at the wharf." Ciri paused. "Nilfgaard has no interest in destroying Novigrad. And even if it did, I would not take any part in it." 

"Interesting" the man’s face was yet unreadable. "Yet last time I saw the church was still in power. And you were doing precious little about that. Or do you think reopening the hospital is going to make the populace fall at your feet?"

"No as a matter of fact I do not." said Ciri and toyed with her wine-cup. "I re-opened the hospital because it needed re-opening and since neither the city council nor the church, nor you for that matter, seemed willing to lift a finger. As for the church, let us entertain for a moment the idea that I summon Nilfgaards legions here and have them storm temple isle and cut of the primarch's head right in the grand basilica. What would that accomplish? Street fighting, open rebellion, the fat leech of a prelate’s bloody robes held up as a martyr’s banner for all to follow. I would be destroying Novigrad while trying to save it and much of the north along with it." She shook her head "I'm not my father, bloody conquests do not interest me. What interest me are these people, this city." She looked the king of beggars straight in the eye. "What interests me is to never see another pyre lit. Now if you can help me with that, I will welcome your assistance. Otherwise, we have precious little to discuss." Ciri crossed her arms across her chest and leaned back in her chair.

A silence had fallen over the room as the king of beggars mulled over Ciri's words. Outside, the noise of the city was a constant, the putrid grove buzzing with its peculiar kind of activity. Ciri and Triss simply sat, the princess with her arms still cross and the sorceress with hers folded on the table.

"Interesting." The man said at last. "I was certain when I saw your face that you were going to offer me something ridiculous, like the burgomastership or a Nilfgaardian noble title. You believe I will simply go along with your plans?"

"Depends. Either you're a man who actually believe the ideology you spout or you are just another hypocrite. Triss here tells me you are the former but if you are in fact the later I will shed no tears." Ciri stood, followed by Triss. "You know where to find me if you wish to actually do something about this city. Until then, farewell." The two women slipped their hoods back up and turned towards the door.

"Wait." The duo turned. Francis Bedlam, the King of Beggars had stood back up. "I will go along with this idea, this 'alliance' of yours, for a time. But I promise you princess, if I see you deviate from what you've promised me and mine, there will be Nilfgaardian corpses in the gutters until  me or someone else have placed a dagger between those ribs of yours."

Ciri bowed and turned to Triss. "You were right. An honest man, after a fashion." She turned towards the man and bowed. "Until we meet again, your majesty."

Chapter Text

“One of the more pertinent features of the late var Emreis dynasty is the expansion of the empire’s ruling elite to increasingly include non-nilfgaardians hailing from the northern provinces of the empire. While this trend can be said to begin during the reign of Emhyr var Emreis, it becomes particularity distinctive during the reign of Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon and her successors (for an alternate view on whether this constitute a continuation of var Emreis policies or not, please see Van Albeck, “The Cintran empire - a revisionist history of late 13th century Nilfgaard”. - Peoples of the sun - a social history of the Nilfgaardian empire, Ebbing university, 1674

They had hanged his men among the branches of the blooming linden tree, knights and soldiers alike swaying aloft like overripe fruit, their decaying bodies bereft of the cleansing salvation of holy flame. Most it seemed had already been dead when they had been hoisted aloft: others had not been as fortunate. The victors had deprived them of arms and armor but made sure that their tattered red surcoats had still been left so that anyone could see what his men had been and what they had become.

The knight had followed their tracks down from their abandoned and ransacked camp, followed the small path through the undergrowth until he had reached this spot by the sunken country road disappearing into the dense forest here north of Oxenfurt. Hoping for the best, he had turned the bay mare he had acquired after alighting from a river barge in the same city, to follow where his men had walked. Knowing that he might as well expect the worst, he had made sure to bring the shovel he’d found in the camp with him.

As he scanned the faces of his fallen knights, he came to the realization that he did in fact know almost all of them, by face and more often than not by name. Their order had after all become so small at the end and he had always believed that as their commander, it was his duty to know every man under his command. There was Roderick, the farmer’s son who had joined after a forktail swallowed his sister and no one else had seen interested in taking up the cause to avenge her. Miroslav, the half-elf that the knight had recruited personally from Vizima’s slums, in an attempt to show that the order did not discriminate between humans and non-humans, Miroslav who had been full of rage at his Scoia'tael brethren. Sir Hendrick of Beusch, who to his ambitious father despair had taken his knightly wows seriously and found the one group of like-minded individuals left in the world.

It had been cleverly done he was the first to admit as he dismounted his horse. His men were fully aware of the dangers of being taken by surprise in their sleep and would always thus have had multiple men on watch and their weapons nearby while in camp. But having spotted a rich but lonely merchants wagon, presumably on the way north for the millers market or the viceregal estate, they had scrambled excitingly, elated of finally chancing upon a target which may finally earn them more then robbing peasantry and followed this narrow trail toward their planned ambush site: followed that was until they had been ambushed in turn here, as the path dipped into a natural hollowed dug by the trees roots. With no way out, his men had either fought to the last or surrendered. In the end their last choice had not mattered: they all had come to meet with the same end.

The identity of the attackers was no secret as they had been considerate enough to leave a message. Pinned to the trunk of the tree was a single broadsheet, marked with the Nilfgaardian sun and the Redanian Eagle, stating that in the name of the imperial Viceroy of the northern territories and the queen regent of Redania, these men were bandits (definitely not soldiers and certainly not knights) who had been taken in the process of committing crimes against the greater commonwealth and had thus been made to answer for their crimes on the spot, as law and custom dictates. A postscript added that if anyone had been robbed of their possessions by these men the objects may be retrieved at the Viceregal palace in Novigrad.

Signed Morvran Voorhis, general of Nilfgaard, commander of imperial forces under the command of their highness, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, crown princess of the empire and viceroy of the northern territories.

The knight sighed and for a moment pressed his forehead to the cool tree trunk. He had hoped against hope that this group would have still been within his capability of saving. As he stripped himself of his mail, crimson surcoat and cloak it did no escape his sense of irony that once it would have been them to hung bandits from trees and left notes of legal frivolities behind to explain their actions.

Once.

Burying his men would take most of the day. He had at first hoped he could burn them, but the rains had come in just a few days prior and there was no way for a lone man to gather enough dry kindling for a pyre. Instead, his men would have to be laid to rest side by side in the cold wet earth. By dusk, his back and hands were as weary as after any battle and his shirt was stained by sweat. Yet his men were laid to rest and as he sprinkled a smattering of holy ashes out of the pouch he carried with him upon their grave he wowed that he would someday come back for the bones and have them burned as their faith and oaths required. For no matter what people may call them, they were still his men, knights of the order of the flaming rose. Donning his mail, surcoat and woolen cloak, the knight turned his horse west, towards Novigrad. There was, just perhaps, men he could still save.

***

Morvran studied the folders in front of him with a frown. The apparent similary between the what was on the one hand a compilation of tax revenues of upper Aedirn during the last year of king Demawend's reign and on the other hand a more recent report by the imperial governor was concerning. The problem lay not in that the numbers differed substantially; any imperial governor so obviously incompetent or carelessly corrupt would not keep his posting, or indeed his head, for very long. The problem was that a third another report, delivered to the viceroy’s desk courtesy of the now incumbent sorceress advisor, seemed to indicate that the actual tax revenue currently extracted was in fact far higher than the one shown in either document. Said report was of course based on little more than the price of Aedirnian marble in the Novigrad market, delivered by one of the shifty fellows that the viceroy and the sorceress had somehow impressed as an intelligence network but it was still concerning. It was not the kind of thing that Morvran, well versed in military intelligence as he were, would have picked up on.

The sorceress arrival a fortnight before had definitely caused some changes around the estate, one of which was himself being forced to move into the now finished barracks building. A certain feeling of decorum had settled over what had previously been more akin to an army camp than an imperial palace. It had taken less than a raised eyebrow for the servants to double their efforts in making sure the estate was kept spotless, a whiff of disinterest to ignore the viceroys half-hearted pleas that the main building did not in fact need redecorating. Even Gretka had been on her best behavior since the sorceress took her to a side to explain that whatever the viceroy may let her indulge, as a chambermaid in service to the imperial court there were certain standards to uphold, unless one wanted to let the viceroy down. It had not stopped the girls infuriating intransigence unfortunately: she was however far more diligent in carrying out her duties.

With a sigh Morvran bundled the reports and hid them away in a desk drawer. Left in front of him, previously hidden by the binders, was the letter he had been putting off reading. His father’s letter was the usual mix flowery and dreary, mixing extravagant phrases with detailed numbers on the ins and outs of the family holdings and businesses. Nilfgaard was afterall not the north where most nobles looked down on the merchant trade and preferred to keep to their landed holdings, if not squandering their time hawking and hunting. Instead, his homeland had been established by merchants and while these families now held noble titles, they had not forgotten the importance of a broad investment portfolio. Agriculture, long-distance trade, mining...the list if his family’s interests was long enough that his father and uncles had to employ a veritable army of clerks and accountants just to keep track of them all.

To tell the truth, Morvran had never had more than a cursory interest in any of his family cartels various business dealings apart from their stud-farms, much to his father’s chagrin. Said stud-farms had to be fair been enormously profitable, as least as the wars was still ongoing and the army needed any good horse it could get, but with the wars apparently winding down many of them had started to run at a loss and the cartel, itself a complicated amalgam of shares held by his father, uncles, aunts and multiple cousins and relations had started to shed them. Morvran had halfheartedly protested this in a letter a few months passed, only to receive a scatting reply that he should not behave like the time they had sold his childhood pony.

Their merchant cartel had thus decided to invest heavily in Toussaint wine-manufacturing and silk manufacturing now that the northern markets was opening again to Nilfgaardian goods. This latter affair was of course something that his father had increasingly started to involve him in: he had spent many a meeting with their family's representatives in Novigrad. While something that northerners often mistook for corruption, this was in fact the methods that had won their empire: where the armies conquered the merchant guild followed and his families position in the merchant guild was just as important as his father’s seat in the imperial senate, or Morvran’s military commission.

Having eyed through the long-business report, Morvran opened a desk-drawer to produce an empty sheet of paper and turned to the real letter hidden within. His family had long-since developed ways to hide messages in seemingly innocuous or common merchant correspondence. Looking at the column of figures outlining various goods his father planned to transship through Novigrad, Morvran picked out a seemingly random series of numbers which he knew were contained the code keys. Substituting the numbers for letters a shorter, curter message appeared on the piece of paper.

The guild is impatient

Support for you remains high, girl still an unknown, of questionable legitimacy

Finding an accommodation or developing a report with the princess would be expedient

Will the north rise? If yes, consider returning home. Failure of conquest useful tool, personal involvement disastrous.

 While at least some of the curtness could be attributed to the encoded nature of the message, most, Morvran knew, was in keeping with how his father usually expressed himself. Prince Voorhis was a man who treated words, letters and coin as all equally valuable and thus to be dispersed equally niggardly. And he was, as was his wont, up to his neck in what some would call intrigue, others politics. As always there were opposition to the emperor and his policies. And as always, his father was, predictably enough, trying to play all the possible angles he could find. It was a move as natural to the man as breathing and, Morvran supposed, something he gave equally little thought to. And as usual he presented his queries with all the sophistication of winning a procurement bid for army grain supplies.

Developing a report with the princess would be expedient, oh father, you might as well try and seduce the whirlwind.

Morvran absentmindedly turned the note over in his hand. He had been raised with the knowledge that he was one of the principal possible successors to the emperor: had indeed assumed that he was favored as such when the emperor took him unto his staff. He had thus been shocked when the emperor had taken him into his study and informed him that his long-lost daughter Cirilla was in fact not dead and, which was somewhat less surprising, that he planned to appoint her as his heir. His father, and large parts of the senate and nobility with him, had been outraged. Morvran, and indeed most of the military staff then under the emperor’s direct command, had waited, equal parts apprehensive and curious. The one thing they had all taken for granted was that the princess would accept the honor: who wouldn't want to be emperor of Nilfgaard?

Then he had first meet her in the throne room in Vizima. That she had been curt and seemingly annoyed had not been unexpected: that she and her witcher protector had to leave for some vital task had perhaps been a bit odd. But that she was actually considering turning down the honor handed her was bordering on incomprehensible. In the months that followed, a sliver of discontent had crept into the otherwise phlegmatic general: who was this upstart who dithered on whether to accept the offer of the throne, who though the empire unworthy of her. When young, Morvran had seen his several father’s friends executed after making a failed attempt at the throne. He had seen armies sweep forward by the imperial command, seen his men die for the sun banner and this princess wasn't sure if she wanted a position that people literally killed to gain?

As his emperor commanded him to White Orchard to escort the princess home, as she had deemed to take up the position she, according to any standard Morvran had grown up with, was born to, he had been seething. He remembered as he walked up that small slope, seen the princess staring off into the distance together with the witcher. Seeing as they hadn't noticed him, Morvran had been on the verge of clearing his throat to gain their attention when he overheard something that had at first confused him.

"I realized that if I want to change anything I must do so from there. From Nilfgaard."

Morvran had of course had ideas for what he wanted to do should he ever gain the throne. But that was not, he understood as he awkwardly tried to shier away from what was obviously a very private conversation, what the princess was saying. And the implication of that hit Morvran like a ballista bolt.

For most of his life, Morvran and his peers had assumed that power was its own reward, if not the inherent right of the nobly borne, that the trappings that came with it was their just due. The princess, on the hand, treated the trappings as an annoyance and the power as a means to an end. An end, Morvran would learn on that cold ride back to Vizima, which was change. Change for the better, for the peoples, north and south. If one has the ability to do the right thing, the princess had told him on that ride, then what right does one have not to do so? The thought, as Morvran turned it over in his mind, was almost intoxicating. And that intoxication, personified in a princess long though lost, had forced him to confront an uncomfortable truth.

He, Morvran Voorhis, was an idealist.

And that, as his father had drummed into him throughout his childhood, was something a nobleman could not afford to be. Nor, as the emperor had continuously reminded him during his career, was idealism a welcome feature among generals. "The worst commanders I have ever suffered were all cowards, corrupt or idealists." his emperor had once told him.

A knock on the door interrupted his ruminations. "My lord, her highness's adjutant has arrived." One of his men announced from the other side. Morvran quickly flung the letter into the fireplace, stood and straightened his doublet.

"Bring her in."

The position of imperial adjutant was an important one if ceremonial. Traditionally held by the scions of the highest noble houses, the young officers so selected made out an important part of the emperor’s personal staff: indeed, Morvran had begun his own military career in much the same way. It was typical of the court to provide the heir to the throne with a large pool of possible candidates for the position. It was equally typical for the viceroy to pick the most unconventional choice.

Unlike the north, with its long tradition of warrior queens and female fighters, Nilfgaard had never had many women in its armed forces, outside of the intelligence branch. There were no specific legal prohibitions on this, rather it was simply as with everything else not the way things were done among the high nobility of the empire. But of course, per his father’s constant lamentations and his viceroy’s outright glee, as the empire expanded it had changed. And one of those changes stood at attention before him right now.

"Lieutenant Rosa var Attre, reporting sir." The lieutenant was decked out in a golden trimmed black jerkin with the golden sun emblazoned over the chest, over an elegant black and silver doublet with sleeves that ended in white wrist ruffs, dark riding pants ending in a pair of high cavalry boots with silvered spurs (not a knightly gold). A long, exquisitely decorated sword was attached to her belt, one laced kid glove resting on its silver pommel as she elegantly bowed. "I am by imperial command here to take up my posting as the viceroys adjutant." With her right hand she politely handed over a scrap of velum with the imperial staff seal on it.

As pompous junior officers went, Morvran had seen worse. Indeed, he had probably been worse himself, Morvran thought to himself as he pretended to carefully peruse the standard military script of the lieutenants transfer orders.

"Very well, Lieutenant your order has been received and" Morvran pressed his signet ring first to a small inkpot and then to the velum "authenticated. Welcome to the Viceregal staff." He held out his hand and var Attre quickly grasped it in the manner of someone still unaccustomed to such greetings. "Tell me Lieutenant, have you met the Viceroy yet?"

"No sir, I was away at the academy during her time at the court. I believe my father and sister were introduced."

"Splendid! I believe we shall find her in the exercise yard." Morvran walked towards the door, gesturing for the lieutenant to follow him.

"You must give my regards to your father when you next write to him, his advice was very useful as we begun to set up our administrative apparatus. His knowledge and experience of this city served us well."

"I will convey your gratitude general."

"Please do. So, tell me lieutenant, how does it feel to be back in the north?" The pair exited the barracks building where Morvran had his offices and walked towards the exercise yard.

"Permission to speak freely general."

Morvran smiled. "First lesson lieutenant. By the viceroys order we all speak freely amongst ourselves." His eyes caught Gretka traipsing across the yard. "Even those who some of us may think shouldn't."

The lieutenant followed his eye. "Northerners are such an... undisciplined lot, aren't they sir?"

Morvran raised an eyebrow "Attre is a Cintran dependency is it not? Doesn't that technically make you a northerner?"

"I grew up in Nilfgaard, the empire is my home general." The lieutenant said with a sharp intonation.

"Hmm, well I wouldn't let the viceroy hear you say that if I were you. She has opinions on the subject. Ah here we are."

In the yard five quintains had been raised. Unlike those on your typical cavalry field, these had been raised in close proximity to one another, usually not longer then a sword or spear-length in-between. Two of had also been raised aloft, high enough that one would need a lance or halberd to reach them form the ground. The viceroy, wearing a light padded gambeson over her customary white linen shirt stood in front of the setup, sword drawn, point angling downward.

Morvran could see the puzzled look on var Attres face out of the corner of his eye. He leaned towards her and whispered mirthfully "Don't blink."

Before the lieutenant had time to query exactly what Morvran meant the princess moved.

She raised her arm for an apparent overarm strike towards the nearest quintain. Before the blow could land she disappeared in an emerald flash and reappeared behind another one, her strike landing square on its shield. Immediately she spun around and disappeared again, coming out of her spin eight feet up in the air to strike the tallest one from a backhand strike. Next she appeared behind the one she had first moved to strike and hit it with a straight thrust, using the momentum to somersault forward and again reappearing to the side of another quintain, striking it from below, ducking from beneath its return-blow only to again disappear and materialize behind the fifth one to strike it with a quick flourish only to disappear and materialize in the spot where she had originally begun.

The first quintain was still spinning, gears creaking under stress. The process had taken less than five heartbeats.

The viceroy wiped a drop of sweat from her forehead and picked up the sword-sheet she had left leaning against an rack of training blades, sheeting her sword with a flourish. Morvran cleared his throat.

"Your highness, may I interrupt?"

The viceroy turned around, green eyes focusing first on Morvran and then on the lieutenant. Despite not looking much like him, the viceroy's eye mimicked her father’s habit of seemingly looking straight through you, measuring you onto some unknown scale. "Of course general."

"May I introduce lieutenant Rosa var Attre, your imperial adjutant. You remember we discussed the assignment earlier?" var Attre bowed, courteously.

"Yes I do. Greetings lieutenant." The viceroys arm shook as if she had to physically stop herself form attempting to shake the lieutenant’s hand, something that Morvran had been stringent about. "I believe I fought alongside your Uncle at Undvik, yes?"

Var Attre nodded. "Indeed your highness, he had the honor of commanding the 7th Ymlat infantry there."

"I thought so. Is he still in the service or has he returned to Attre?" The viceroy sat down on a stool and begun the process of oiling and sharpening her blade, something she still insisted on doing herself.

"Returned to Attre my lady."

"Oh that's good. I hope I will be able to pass by when I return to Cintra in the near future." The princess stretched her neck and nodded towards the training field. "Do you fence var Attre? Apart from your basic combat training I mean."

"I do your highness."

"Great! Then we will have a bout when we return from Tretogor."

"Tretogor my lady?"

"We are planning a shindig, lieutenant. And I mean to make sure the guest of honor appears."

Morvran nodded. "I'll order the horses saddled and an escort prepared your grace."

"No need for that Morvan." The princess smiled "Tell me var Attre, have you ever traveled by teleport?"

Chapter Text

"Lift a curse from someone turned into a monster? I ask why would someone do such a thing? One does not stop being a monster just because one loses fangs and claws: no human soul can recover from that and that's a professional opinion." - Attributed to an anonymous witcher of the School of the Cat,

Grand inquisitor Helveed stepped around the beggar crouching on lame legs in the gutter, his rough-spoon cloak almost touching the tattered flagstones. The beggar, a war veteran judging from scarred face and the Redanian emblem pinned to his tunic, silently held out his only hand begging for alms as Helveed entered the tavern. The inside was much like any Novigrad harbor dive: reeking of spilled beer, sour wine and unwashed bodies, scantily clad women gyrating on tables to the tune of a badly strung lute. As a meeting spot, it was a particular choice, as if the host had intentionally hoped to put a pious clergyman off his center. But Helveed had grown up around places like this and payed little heed. In any case, he was fairly certain he could find both one and two lower ranking clergymen cavorting upstairs.

No higher-ranking ones of course. They favored the Passiflora.

Helveed strode straight ahead across the straw-covered floor, ignoring a vaguely hopeful greeting from a scantily clad strumpet, aiming for the corner table. He unceremoniously pulled out a chair and sat down heavily, eyes glowering at the woman sitting across from him. Hand cradling a mug of ale, dirt-blond hair shaved at the temples and collected in a topknot trailing behind her, a naked blade lying on the table in front of her, the woman looked every bit the pirate she had once been.

"Ye're late." Said the woman. Her Skellige accent was pronounced.

"I have no intention to miss the reading of the liturgies, not even for you Gudrid." Said Helveed, ignoring a mug of ale put in front of him by a deferential barman. "You asked for a meeting."

"My my, so quick to business. And here I was about to show ye some of the finest hospitality from the old homestead. Frothing ale, roasted pork with onion and mushroom, a pick of the girls and here you just want to skip straight to the matter of hand. You ought to relax more Helveed. Do you good." The women emptied back her mug and haphazardly throw it behind her. The barman quietly appeared with a new one.

Still ignoring the ale in front of him, Helveed leaned forward. "We are not friends Gudrid and I have no intention of carousing with your second-class buccaneer friends. We already had a deal; you move against the king of beggars and we support you. Simple enough of an equation I thought. You asked for a meeting."

The woman leaned back in her chair, ice-blue eyes never leaving Helveed's face as his question hung in the air between them.

"I don't like doing business with people whose motives I don't understand." she said at long last "When the Hierarch helped negotiate the terms of the syndicate years back, I understood it. Peace on the streets, let everyone go on their merry way, no churchmen wetting their knickers seeing pilgrims get knifed when sticking their noses where they don't belong. But now you are actively trying to provoke a gang war. Why?"

"The syndicate was a failure." Helveed admitted "It only worked as long as all the players cooperated. But then Wiley got in bed with Radovid, Reuven got himself into politics, Varese got his arrogant self seized by a mob and burned..."

"On one of your pyres." Gudrid interjected.

"Well, quite. No need to intervene to save his skin since the Syndicate had already collapsed. And Bedlam" Helveed held out his hands "I have nothing against Bedlam. Unfortunately he has plenty against me and holy father church. And as such we cannot have him around. Simple as that."

Gudrid nodded her head. "Alright, enough of your fucking politics Helveed. I get it. But I need money. I'll trust any one of my people against any three of his but that doesn't help much when he has another three. Get me some coin and I can hire real muscle, proper Skellige warriors, not your city riff-raff and dock scum. Plenty of those itching for a fight now that the queen has made peace with Nilfgaard."

"When the time is right you will have it."

"Fuck yer time Helveed, I need that coin right now if I'm gonna..."

Helveed stood up abruptly and smashed the palm of his fleshy hand down on the table. "When the time is right Gudrid! And not a second before that. Don't like it, I can find another ganger to take your place as well." Helveed turned and walked out of the tavern, pointedly ignoring Gudrid’s crew as they stared daggers at him. As he exited the door he adjusted the hood and stepped wide around the pool of blood gathering in the gutter.

Someone had slit the throat of the beggar.

***

In a narrow alleyway in Tretogor, green-blue lightning flashed and a faint smell of burnt ozone filled the air as two women appeared out of nothing. For a single moment they both appeared to stand still as statues, then one of them leaned over and loudly threw up against the nearby wall. 

"Sorry about that var Attre, the first time teleporting can be harsh on you." Ciri comforted her adjutant.

"It's no matter your grace, just said surprised is all" said var Attre "just surprised that is a...oh fuck." She doubled over again and loudly threw up in the gutter. "I'm terribly sorry your grace, would you mi--oh bloody hell!"

Ciri turned around politely. "It alright, Rosa. Let it all out." Scanning the alley, Ciri's eye focused on a broadsheet attached to the dirty old whitewashed wall. It sat at an odd angle and despite being by all appearances freshly printed its edges were already drooping down, as if whoever had put it up had been in a hurry and busy looking over their shoulder. A monstrous crowned face stared back at Ciri and with a swift motion she ripped down the poster, folding it and putting it in her belt.

"Your grace, I'm" var Attre stumbled on the words "sorry, about that display. I assure you that next time I will..."

"Oh stop it Rosa" interrupted Ciri "you did fine. My first time was far worse believe me." She started walking down towards the end of the alley as it opened onto a busy side-street.

Tretogor was a city that more than anything felt regimented and cramped. Where-as Novigrad with it’s often haphazardly put together buildings and chaotic street life felt like a step into anarchy, Tretogor was planned out like an army camp, straight streets and narrow alleyways parting tall, whitewashed buildings. Where Novigrad was a city of merchants, Tretogor was a city of clerks and clerks like their lives neat and orderly like their paperwork. As they made their way down the streets, passing painted storefronts that would have been picturesque if not so consistently uniform, Redanian bureaucrats on their way home from their ministries passed by, carrying their papers in manila folders or elaborately painted and locked wooden boxes. Eyes staring straight ahead, mouths salivating for the evening meal, few of them paid any attention to the two women walking among them.

The Old Goose was on the upper scale of the town’s taverns, freshly cleaned glass windows gleaming in the evening sun, sensible square cut tables festooning its porch. A serving girl welcomed the pair inside and into a chamber decorated with green and golden tapestries, where-in a small round table sat in between chairs up-holstered in red cloth. In one chair sat an old man dressed in court finery, a scarlet doublet with black and silver facings, golden-rimmed spectacles pushed high up onto his nose. In the other chair sat Triss Merigold.

"Viceroy" Triss started formally as she came to her feet "This is Rufus von Dirve, chamberlain to the queen, an old acquittance of mine from the Temerian court."

The man bowed low. "Your highness." His accent was that of Temeria.

"Greetings Master von Dirve. Thank you for helping is with the arrangements."

"It is my duty your grace. And I believe I owe Enchantress Merigold, as she says, a 'favor." The man stepped away from the table. "If you will excuse me I have to see to my mistress. The postern gate will be open to you." The man bowed low again and existed the room.

"A Temerian?" Ciri asked as she pulled out a chair after the man had left. "I thought Radovid limited his court and council to Redanians?"

"Rufus came her with the queen when she married and was a part of her private household, not a royal retainer. Technically he is still her servant to that of the Redanian crown but as long as she serves as regent for her son he remains the closest the country has to a real chamberlain. The situation is a bit...delicate from what I understand. In any case, it is thanks to him we have access to extend your invitation to the queen."

"That's good, then...var Attre why don't you sit down?"

Var Attre pulled out a chair with a single jerky movement and sat down. Triss smiled.

"I believe your new adjutant is still not used to court life, such as it is. Hello Lieutenant."

"Your gra...I mean enchantress, sorry."

Triss chuckled and raised a hand. "No need Lieutenant. It is a big change to move from the Academy to her highness court." The sorceress looked at the hourglass standing on a small table by the door. “We should not linger here to long, von Dirve will have the queen waiting for us soon enough.”

***

"Redania." mused her father, staring at the continental map painted on the wall of his study. "I never conquered Redania. Radovid’s heartland, the center of resistance. The hard core of the free north and thus, its breaking point. And I never conquered it."

  Ciri looked back at the man. Their nightly discussions had become a fixed point in their day, she spending most of her time with various tutors to teach her all she needed to know about the laws and customs of the empire she begrudgingly had agreed to rule, he in his duties wrestling with the same laws and customs. They were not truly familiar with one another, not in the way she and her grandmother had talked about her day while watching the candles burn down, nor the way she and Yennefer had spent their evenings in Ellander. A teacher with a prized student at most, not a father and daughter. The walls between them were still too high and to impenetrable and in all honesty, Ciri wasn't sure whether she didn’t prefer it that way.

  "They surrendered." She reminded him.

  "A negotiated peace is not a surrender nor a conquest. Their child-king, their foreign queen regent. Weak, battered but not defeated. Not a threat today, but tomorrow?" The emperor sighed and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "A clean victory would have been better. We did not beat Radovid at the battlefield, he was beaten in an alleyway in Novigrad. A fitting end for a man of his ilk perhaps but a true victory? A victory like Ebbing or Nazair…"

  "Or Cintra." Ciri bluntly stated.

  Silence suddenly filled the small room as only the sound of dripping tallow from the candles could be heard. Finally, the emperor spoke.

  "What happened in Cintra was...unfortunate. You do recall I had the men responsible hanged?"

  "Only after they lost at Sodden, which makes one wonder whether your motive was to avenge the slaughter or the defeat."

  "Wars are bloody affairs."

  "Then why fight them? Why start war after war, conquest after conquest? What purpose does it serve?"

  It was far from the first time their nighttime conversations had circled back to these questions. In many ways, Ciri had regretfully concluded, she and her sire were quite alike. They were, she immodestly admitted to herself, quite intelligent and both had little patience with those they considered foolish. Her father’s capacity for work and powers of analysis often impressed her. But they always foundered on these reefs of morality.

  "For multiple reasons," her father answered. "For security, for the prosperity of the realm and its people, for glory."

  "Glory is not worth the lives of innocents!"

  Her father sighed in the manner of a teacher suffering a particularly obtuse student. "Glory is nothing but a way to gain prestige and prestige is coin Cirilla. Nothing more and nothing less. Men will greedily seek it and will follow those who attain it. Those rulers who fail attain it, well, your grandfather failed, and the usurper stepped into in his place, over the bodies of your uncles and aunts. Were they not innocent?" The emperor gestured to the painting of his father which decorated one wall. Ciri had of course never meet the man or indeed meet many who had apart from her father, as first the usurper and then Emhyr himself had purged almost anyone active in court politics at the time. From the painting, Fergus var Emreis smiled back at her, a sad little smile from a sad little man whose weaknesses would led to his family's near destruction and his only heir cast out into the wilderness, a cursed thing to be saved only by a kings folly and a princess's love.

  Or so the story went. Sometimes when trying to merge the picture of the father she barely remembered with the one she actually had, Ciri was not so sure whether curses could truly be lifted.

***

Adda the white, princess of Temeria and queen regent of Redania, was a slim woman with a hard face. Sitting in an over-sized ornate armchair at the end of an oblong wooden table in the small chamber at the top of one of the royal castles outlying towers, she looked in every inch a queen. Her dress was a flamboyant scarlet brocade which melded smoothly with her hair, dyed red with henna, a golden crown inlaid with rubies balancing on top of her locks. A large sapphire hang in a silver chain around her neck and golden rings set with precious stones adorned her long fingers, which tapped out an unclear rhythm against the armrests. Her dark brown eyes revealed more then she wished. There was steel there, as well as pain and behind it, perhaps, fear.

A cornered predator, harried but still dangerous.

At the princess left sat a surprisingly young man in a velvet doublet and on her right sat von Dirve. Opposite them another sumptuous armchair stood, with two flanking chairs in similar positions. The room was otherwise barren apart from a small cupboard decorated with a crystal decanter and glasses and some faded tapestries showing what seemed to be scenes from the suppression of Falka's rebellion.

A fitting decoration for a queens last stand thought Ciri as the three individuals got up from their chairs and bowed, low for von Dirve and the young man in the velvet doublet, a courteous nod from the queen. Ciri responded with a courteous nod of her own and uninvited took her seat at the head of the table, opposite Adda. The queen sat down again, followed by her courtiers as Triss and Rosa took their own seats. The valet that had opened the postern gate silently served them wine from the decanter and then left the room.

"I greet and welcome you to Tretogor your highness" said Adda. "Rest assured had we been informed of your plans to visit we would have prepared a more fitting welcome."

"The state visit will have to wait I'm afraid." Said Ciri "I hope we will be able to return to Novigrad tonight."

"Indeed, I was informed as such by my chamberlain. This here is Count Nicolas von Erfram, my royal secretary."

"Count von Erfram.” Ciri nodded to the man. “I thank you for receiving us at such short notice. This is Triss Merigold, chief adviser and lieutenant Rosa var Attre, my adjutant."

Adda nodded to the two women. "I know you from your time at my father’s court enchantress Merigold. I believe it was against your advice that he launched his final campaign against the la Valletes?"

"I did caution him against it your majesty." Triss said politely.

"Yes, pity he didn't listen. Or that you didn't slow him down enough from reaching my dear bastard sister in time. You could have had a queen on the throne of Temeria, not a child. Although I suppose the little bastard serves Nilfgaard’s purposes well enough. As do you." The queen looked back at Ciri. "Have I offended you, to speak thus about the little brat? A bastard is what she is you know, sired on an up-jumped baroness by my beloved royal father behind the back of her doltish husband. I'm sorry if that is so, but you must admit, viceroy, that us born of royal and imperial houses should hold ourselves to certain standards."

Ciri was largely non-plussed by the queen’s outburst. "Standards are set by rulers your majesty. I see no implicit reason why standards cannot be changed. My own royal mother married a cursed creature she found in the woods one day."

"A cursed creature just so happened to be the future emperor of Nilfgaard."

"Neither she nor my grandmother knew so at the time."

"Quite right, or else the great Calanthe would not have tried to hire a witcher to slay him." She paused "I've heard the ballad. Strange that one lowly witcher could touch so many royal lives, don't you think." Her hand unconsciously touched the sapphire at her throat. It was, Ciri saw on a closer look, an inclusion, a tiny bubble of pure air trapped inside the gaudy rock. "I must admit to some puzzlement of the clandestine nature of your presence. Why does the imperial viceroy need to sneak around Tretogor like a common thief?"

Ciri looked to Triss who cleared her throat. "We have come to propose an alliance of sorts your majesty. While the peace treaty between Nilfgaard and Redania stipulated that the Redanian throne would owe fealty to the emperors of Nilfgaard in return for a considerable amount of autonomy, the viceroy believed that this is a matter in which she has not right to order you to take part. The influence of the Church of the Eternal fire has been growing in power over the last few years and have come, we believe, to become a serious impediment to the successful operation of royal authority and good governance. While the imperial throne, as personified in the viceregal authority" here the sorceress nodded to Ciri "holds religious tolerance in its northern territories as an important principle, such tolerance cannot come at the cost of not being able to carry out our duties. We believe that a similar conundrum has come to face the Redanian throne as well."

It was von Erfram, the royal secretary, who spoke next. "The Redanian throne is a loyal child of the church. Our alliance was set in stone by her majesties beloved husband. Why should we move against it?"

"Because the church is not a very loyal father" said Ciri.

"You would know all about disloyal fathers, wouldn't you, princess of Cintra?" asked Adda, her mouth a frosty smile.

Ciri tried not to move a muscle. Her nostrils flared briefly, and her green eyes narrowed, as if aiming at a target. var Attre gave her a worried glance while Triss, far more experienced, did likewise not move a muscle and simply sat impassively, looking at the queen.

"Indeed I do" said Ciri after a moment. "But can't you say the same about the church? They still put these all over the town and countryside." She pulled out the broadsheet she had taken from the alleyway and slid it across the polished table. "They put them out all over Novigrad as well" she added as Adda slowly turned the parchment around and stared at the grotesque image thereupon.

The queens face was an interesting study in silent fury. It first went red to match her hair, then it turned white, white as the knuckles which grabbed the broadsheet. Her teeth grinded together and Ciri caught herself looking at the corners of the queen’s mouth whether fangs were about to appear. Finally the queen whispered:

"Get out."

"Your majesty..." von Erfram started.

"Get out!" the queen shouted "All of you!" von Dirve and von Erfram quickly collected their papers and existed the room, followed by var Attre and Triss. Ciri remained seated.

As the door closed Adda abruptly stood up and shoved the parchment away, throwing it and various other documents on the floor. She stalked over to the nearby window that looked out over her capital. Rainclouds were gathering above the city.

Ciri bent down in her chair and picked the broadsheet off the floor.

"For what it's worth" she said looking at it "it doesn't look anything like a Striga to me."

The queen remained silent. Outside the rain started falling. Bureaucrats and peddlers caught outside made haste for shelter, busy little lives that had never had to contend with a curse. Somewhere across the city temple bells chimed.

"Eight years." She spoke at last. "For eight years I have been their loyal queen. Funded orphanages, cared for wounded veterans, spoke my husband’s case to my father while he still lived. I patronized artists to decorate their temples and prayed to the eternal fire every day. Yet they still see me as a monster, as...that thing." She laughed a mirthless laugh. "You know as a princess one expects to be a foreigner. To be married away to a strange country for the sake of some alliance or treaty. Even you must have known those expectations."

"When I was nine" began Ciri "I was promised to Kistrin of Verden. My grandmother hoped to secure another local alliance to balance out the one with Skellige."

"But you didn't marry him."

"No I ran away instead."

"And he would eventually die beneath the swords of your father’s soldiers and his kingdom be annexed. Poor bride you made him." Adda turned around. Framed by the window, her red hair seemed to wash out against the rain. "And then your grandmother hoped to wed you to my future husband."

"For a while. Would have promised me to half the continent if it would have helped shore up the Cintran throne. But king Vizimir, or more likely Phillipa Eilhart, broke of that engagement. And then Nilfgaard came."

"The very country you so happen to become the crown princess of. A peculiar career you had." The queen strode over to the cupboard and filled a crystal glass with red wine, knocking it back with a proficiency which would had impressed in any harbor tavern.

"Not more than you." Ciri leaned back in her chair. "I studied with the witchers at Kaer Morhen. There are few cases of a Strigas curse being lifted and too my knowledge there is no one else currently living. Most cases have been high-born from what I understand, only they could afford the witchers fee, but there are precious few princesses among them."

"If you are trying to flatter me don't bother." Adda refilled her glass and sat down again opposite to Ciri. "I had an earful of it growing up. My father’s courtiers were full of it. 'My how special you are your highness, what a great destiny you must have before you.’ While behind my back they sneered and checked beneath their beds that I wasn’t hiding there ready to eat them. They couldn't wait for my father to fob me of on some unfortunate royal sod. And here?" the queen made a sweeping gesture indicating the wall, the castle and possibly the city and kingdom besides. "Half of them wanted to shut me up in some tower somewhere. When I was with child some poor fools were preaching in the street that the child was a demon, the next Falka, half-human, half-striga, all beast. Radovid put payed to that mind you. But I knew he was just as disgusted as the rest of them. He never came to my bed after our sons’ birth and had he not caught that dagger in Vizima I don't want to imagine what would have happened." The queen emptied her wineglass again and looked at it contemplatively. "Is it true what they say that it was Philippa Eilhart herself who wielded the knife?"

"So I've heard."

"That's two for two then. Perhaps she'll come for me one day." The queen sighed and balanced her check in the palm of her left hand. "Now I would love to help out a fellow princess with the forces of destiny hanging above her but as I'm sure you understand I cannot make any move against the church. My position, the circumstances of my...birth makes it impossible. They will call me monster, a degenerate..."

"They already do" Ciri interrupted, nodding towards the parchment lying on the table between them. "They always will and once your son comes of age they will do the same to him. It’s a wound they cannot stop probing, a knife they will not stop twisting. They will not stop because you ask them nicely or meekly roll over." Ciri sent the parchment sliding across the table. "They want to call you a Striga? Fine. Be the Striga. Go for their throats."

The room fell silent once more. The rain was now beating on the glass windows of the tower as the queen stared down at her painted reflection.

"Do you know what human blood tastes like?" Adda asked suddenly. "Not the little drops you get when you prick your finger on a needle, real blood still being pumped by the beating heart of your victim? The way they move when you sink your fangs and claws into them." She clenched her fist, painted nails digging into the palm of her hand. "I do, I remember. Not all of it mind you, not as coherent memory but flashes, shards of events that surface at the oddest time." She slowly unclenched her fist. "And they think I'm a danger to them. When I first held my newborn son and the only thing I could think of was that I knew, knew, what he would taste like. I almost throw myself from the tower. And the church laughs and use my pain against me." The queen breathed out and then seemingly steeled herself.

"Fine then." She said at last "Let's be the Striga." She looked up at Ciri. "I will give you what aid and support I can muster. But I will not send my armies against the church. In any case I'm not sure you could count fully on their loyalty."

"There won't be a need for armies." Ciri stood up "All I need right now is a demonstration. I am planning a ball at my estate outside Novigrad, your presence would show Hemmelfart and his gang that their days of working through the Redanian state is over. If the church is divested of its support network it will fall over by itself and they will have to content themselves with religious matters, which I don't object to."

“Then it is agreed.” Said Adda and raised her glass in a silent toast, which Ciri reciprocated. She walked over to the door and opened it. "Shall we join the others?" Adda nodded and followed Ciri downstairs, where the others were waiting, sitting on old benches covered in fresh sheepskins in what looked to be a guardroom. Triss and var Attre sprang up quickly while von Dirve and von Erfram were more laborious, staring uncertainly at their queen.

"One question." Adda said. Ciri turned around. The queen had stood again, one hand absently playing with her sapphire necklace. "What if I decide to go further? To play the Striga fully and divest my dear bastard sister of her kingdom?"

Ciri's answer was immediate. "Then I will have to play the witcher. And throw you and your armies back across the Pontar."

Adda smiled and nodded. "A good answer, viceroy. I look forward to seeing your estate." She bowed before turning around and leaving the room. Ciri acknowledged her with a slight bow of her own. von Dirve and von Erfram exchanged a puzzled look and followed their queen out, leaving Ciri Triss and var Attre alone.

"Did it work?" asked Triss.

"It did, better than I thought it would. I suppose us children of destiny have an affinity for one another. Tell me Rosa, do you believe in destiny?"

"I don't rightly know your highness."

Ciri smiled "That may be the wisest answer. Come on, we're going back to Novigrad."

"By horse your Highness?" var Attre asked hopefully. Ciri smiled and shook her head.

"Don't worry lieutenant" said Triss "the second time is usually much easier."

Chapter Text

"Write the story of a battle? One may as well try and write the history of a ball!" - quote attributed to Field Marshal Menno Coehoorn

***

     Colored lanterns had been hung between the carved lampposts weaved around with climbing roses that covered the roadway from Millers lake all the way from Brunwich. Once the guests had passed the old mill they found that the lampposts had been wrought as a flowered colonnade, where they would pass beneath vaults of flowering ivy, only to emerge into an open space surrounded by hedges in front of the estate. Valets in imperial livery stood ready to handle coaches and horses while exquisitely dressed chamberlains were placed to guide the guests through the iron-wrought gate and into the main courtyard beyond. Freshly blooming flowers gave of a multitude of scents, strong enough that some artifice surely must have been brought and gold-on-black imperial banners fluttered in the evening breeze along the outer walls. Music flowed from an orchestra artfully placed along the rims of a fountain, overseen by the great master Dandelion himself. Standing discreetly but nonetheless present were Impera brigade halberdiers in freshly polished armor, lanterns gleaming in burnished gold and matted black, iron fist surrounded by the velvet glove. The effect was that as if one had been transported to Nilfgaard itself, something the arriving nobles, bankers, merchants and clergy were all very well aware of. The vice-regal court had been generous with its invitations and the right people were saying, as was their won't, that a similar fete had not been seen since the Vegelbuds grand parties.

On a small raised dais in front of the main house, the viceroy was sitting in an oaken chair with gold engravings and a high backrest with the Nilfgaardian sun. On either side she was flanked by her advisors, general Voorhis and enchantress Merigold. As they arrived, guests would be brought into her presence by the chamberlains and introduced and it did not go unnoticed that the viceroy, unlike late king Radovid during his short sojourn in the city, stood to greet all up to the most insignificant of the guests.

"A wonderful occasion your grace" said Ingrid Vegelbud as she bowed low before Ciri. "It makes me happy that someone has taken up the mantle that I dropped."

"Your congregations are a Novigrad legend lady Vegelbud" said Ciri, nodding her head towards the woman. "Is Albert doing well?"

"From what I've been told by him, his tutors and mistress Merigold very much so. Though I'm afraid he has also taken the opportunity to partake in some of Lan Exeter’s more base pleasures."

"As is a students won't from what I understand. I invite you to partake in our feast." Ciri gave the formal declaration with a sweeping gesture of her arm and Lady Vegelbud bowed yet again as she backed off the dais.

Next to Ciri Triss gave a quiet nod. "You are getting good at this." The sorceress was wearing a high-necked velvet dress in a deep cobalt blue, with long hanging sleeves, a white trimmings and pearls sewn into the fabric. Her red hair was not tied up in their customary buns but instead gathered in a single knot at the back of her head, from which her hair fell freely down her back through a gold- and sapphire hairclip.

"Practice, no worse than the killer at Kaer Morhen. Emhyr made me practice this four hours a day." said Ciri through gritted teeth while maintaining her beatific smile as a gaggle of Dwarwen bankers, their doublets dripping with seemingly half of Mahakans jewels and gemstones, approached. The leading one, white beard flowing, swooped off his dark green beret adorned with a pheasant feather and bowed with a flourish.

"We thank you for your hospitality your grace. Truly has auspicious times returned to Novigrad if even us dwarfs are invited to the banquets of the rulers."

"No ruler can afford to slight her bankers my friends." Said Ciri to amusement of the group "And who could fail to invite as charming a guest as you master Vivaldi? And you master’s Cianfanelli and Zammorto." The dwarves bowed again. Ciri looked at the fourth member of the group and smiled even more widely. "And you master Giancardi! It's been far too long."

The fourth dwarf, stout even by the standards of his people, bareheaded with an enormous mane of a hair bowed low. "I am pleased that her highness remembers me, even if it was only for a short while we meet back in Gors Velen. I was saddened when I thought you might have disappeared in the disaster at Aretuza and gladdened when I heard that was not the case. I hope you will convey my best wishes to your foster-mother."

"I will certainly do so master Giancardi." The princess nodded and the four dwarves left to join the rest of the revelers. Next on the list were members of the leading spice merchant family in Novigrad, followed by Mistress Yoana of the armorers guild, the Kovarian consul and the halfling master Meiersdorf with his sons, owners of the Honeyfill brewery. The estates gardens were filling up fast as Novigrad and southern Redania’s high and mighty arrived, in gilded carriages, on horseback, carried in sedan chairs and at least one person on foot. Nobles cavorted with bankers, highly skilled guildsmen with knights, professors up from Oxenfurt with imperial bureaucrats.  Ninety-nine and one dishes were served, according to Nilfgaardian court tradition and cups, crystal glasses and elaborately wrought glassware from Ebbing were overflowing with wine, mead and spirits.

"If I don't get to have a drink myself soon I might start beheading people." Ciri grumbled while still holding onto her smile.

"Don't be silly Ciri, you're an imperial viceroy, you have people to do the beheading for you." Said Triss face holding the same serene expression.

"If I may your highness" Morvran interjected "I could have the men start rounding up some prime choices for summary execution. Lord Artran beat me at the races last time I was in Novigrad and I'm afraid I still haven't forgiven him."

"Oh be quiet the both of you."

The next person to approach the dais was a young woman with short, mousy brown hair held back by a simple diadem, dressed in a dark-green velvet dress with a white bodice and a black silken bolero studded with silver. She bowed with a flourish. "Tamara Strenger, your highness, baroness-inherit of Velen."

Ciri eyed the woman through darkened eyelashes. "Tamara Strenger. I met your father when I passed through Velen years ago. I was sad to hear of his passing. We were informed that you had joined king Radovid’s witch hunters and disappeared."

The woman smiled with dispassionate eyes. "Thank you, your highness. I have been traveling and only recently returned to claim my barony. Foul place though it may be but it is still home and I think I could do some good for it."

"Perhaps" said Ciri "what is the exact status of the barony Morvran?"

"As I recall the barony was never formally recognized by the emperor. Under the treaty of incorporation, the area should have returned to Temerian suzerainty, with the stipulation that Nilfgaardian forces under command of the viceroy would be in charge of its defense and order for the foreseeable future. I will have the clerks look up the exact legal status if you wish your highness."

"Thank you" said Tamara "your highness." The woman bowed again and moved off into the crowd.

"Most peculiar." Said Morvran "I thought she and the baron were estranged."

"Parental estrangement is not hindrance to taking up one's duty Morvran" Ciri observed as a massive gilded carriage pulled up outside the gates. "Everyone pucker up, the main attraction is here."

The carriage drew to a stop and the valets that opened its door bowed particularly low. Hierarch Hemmelfart walked down the short inbuilt steps to the ground, contemptuously waving away the valet that stood by to assist him. Standing erect, his massive bulk holding up his vestments like a cathedral onto itself, the hierarch had an undeniable presence that, even were he not the hierarch, would still have made him the centerpiece of any given occasion. Given that he was, his domination had a clear authority.

Ciri glanced at the man’s companions as they made their way towards her. Inquisitor Helveed was a known factor, if a slippery one. The man on the right was an unknown however. He carried himself like a knight, wearing a scarlet doublet with the insignia of the order of the flaming rose embroidered in gold and a deadly functional sword at his side. His hair was the color of straw, as was his short goatee and piercing eye stared out form a thin, hook-nosed face. Ciri was unpleasantly reminded of a similar tall, thin-faced man she had meet long ago. But were those eyes had been blank these were sad, as if the man was about to do something he regretted but nonetheless would carry through.

A fanatic then.

The hierarch stopped and bowed. Unlike the other guests his bow was short, more of a neighbor’s courtesy then a guest of an imperial princess. He is setting himself up as an equal thought Ciri.

"Viceroy." The hierarch’s voice was booming even when speaking casually.

"Hierarch. I am pleased that you could answer my invitation."

"Who would I be otherwise? Even a priest must on occasion eat and drink." Said the man jovially while folding his hands over his ample stomach. He turned to his companions. "I believe that you are already acquainted with chief inquisitor Helveed. This is the Grand master of the Order of the Flaming rose, Sir Siegfried of Denesle."

The knight bowed deeply. "Your highness." His voice was melodious, aristocratic with hard r: s. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Grand master. Forgive me my surprise, I was under the impression that your order had been disbanded."

"Nothing to forgive your highness. Legally you are correct. King Radovid withdrew most of our privileges and impressed our resources for the war effort. Most of my brethren were scattered to the four winds. I hope to change that however."

Morvran spoke. "Many of your men have turned bandit sir. How do you account for that development?"

"Desperate times general. Indeed, I hoped that I could find some way to dissuade my brethren from that path before imperial justice caught up to them. It is my belief that a reconstituted order would be in Nilfgaard’s interest: before the war we specialized in hunting down bandits and monsters. You do not have enough soldiers for the former and as for the later" He looked directly at Ciri. "There are precious few witchers left."

"An intriguing suggestion sir." Said Ciri. "No doubt we shall discuss it at great length at some later occasion." She held out her hand and the knight bowed to kiss it lightly with the proficiency of a true cavalier. The hierarch smiled and moved his right hand in a blessing and the three men strode off.

"Your grace" said Morvran "I do not trust that knight. My men have been fighting order remnants all over the area and if your friends in Novigrad are to be believed they are deeply involved in the Fisstech business there. I do not believe that man is simply here to convince his wayward brothers."

"Probably not Morvran. But is he the Hierarchs creature? Have a talk with the man when you can find the time."

***

The major downside of being a noble, Ciri had discovered, was that you had to spend time with nobles.

"So the harvests this year looks to be positively ghastly." Said baroness Istvan, fanning herself with a garishly painted fan. "Now my husband, the lout, wanted to change our tenants arrears to fixed sums rather than percentages so that we do not lose out but I told him, I told that silly old man, 'no Jan' I said 'those poor folk have suffered enough what with the war and what-not, do not throw them from house and hearth just because you got greedy you fool.' And I do think he listened to me but still years like these are hard for us landowners you know. Now I heard a rumor, and of course I'm sure your highness knows that one must not put any stake in rumors, but nevertheless a rumor that the imperial throne might be willing to compensate vassals that lose out due to our tenants, poor sods as they are, not being able to afford to pay their arrears. Now if you could ask your father whether he has any actual plans on the matter it would be most helpful. Just so we can keep the tenants clothed and feed you understand?"

And if it wasn't the nobles it was the merchants with their deep pockets and high pretensions.

"Now my nephew has bought himself a set of armor and talks about taking off for Toussaint to become a knight-errant! Poor fool spends nary a minute on his sums and accounts but instead prances around the countryside on a destrier with a lance and shield. Had my dear brother still lived he would have set him right good and proper. Unfortunately the rascal has already come onto some of his inheritance, not the firm mind you, no no, fear not your highness, I have that one in s firm hand, haha, and will fulfill our army contracts with the same gusto as always, no as I was saying I cannot control his private finances. As it is, is there any way that he could be stopped from entering the lists at Beauclair? Of course, I have little pull so deep into the empire but if the viceroy could find it within her time to write to the duchess I would be most obliged."

Ciri smiled and spoke some of the noncommittal phrases that she and Triss had practiced beforehand. As you are their viceroy and the heir to the Nilfgaardian throne they will all try and talk to you, charm you and have you use your imperial hand to solve whatever little problem they may struggle with. The trick is to seem as interested and understanding as possible while at the same time not promising nor refuse whatever it is that they want you to do. Instead one had to be pleasant, charming and a little aloof but still make sure that everyone walked away feeling that they had gotten their personal minute with the viceroy.

It was an art that required as much concentration, willpower and finesse as any fencing style she had learned at Kaer Morhen. Triss, who proclaimed herself a novice with less than a century's experience, called it mingling. Indeed, the sorceress was proving to be an expert at the game, moving around the crowd with an elegant flourish before circling back to Ciri's side to move her onto the next guest with an urgent need for an imperial ear. Annoyingly, Morvran was proving himself to be equally adept, moving back and forth between her side and some notable or another, surreptitiously taking turns with Triss to make sure Ciri was minded at all times. Ciri found herself equal parts grateful and annoyed at the pair, especially as they were nothing but smiling and courteous throughout. At least Lambert had the common decency to call me a fucking dolt when I screwed up. She turned her gaze to Rosa, who unlike the other two had been continuously following her, standing courteously on step behind Ciri at all times as befitted an adjutant.

"Familiar with this sort of thing lieutenant?"

"All too well your highness. Had to attend all sorts of parties during my father’s time here, much the same clientele, even some of the same favors. Hated it, spent most of the time wishing to either run away or run someone through. Ehh, begging your highness’s pardon."

"None taken, I understand your wish completely."

"Better you than me your highness." Ciri turned around with a raised eyebrow and the lieutenant actually blushed. "I mean, ehh, no offense-"

Ciri laughed her first genuine laugh of the evening. "None taken Rosa. You need to joke more often." She straightened her face as another petitioner approached. This time it was Tamara, the supposed heiress to the barony of Velen. Ciri eyed the girl carefully. While she had meet the girl’s father and had found him brutish but honest with a soft spot for run-aways, she had gathered both from what reports she had had of the place and from Geralt’s taciturn commentary that all had not been well in the Baron's household. Which made her return, as Morvran had put it, puzzling.

The girl made a proper bow. "A magnificent evening viceroy. I'm sure the good folk of Novigrad’s elite will talk about it for the longest time. 'Why this make a great party but do you remember the feast thrown by the viceroy Cirilla?'"

"A gracious comment. Partaken in many a party?" Ciri said.

"Hardly. My father was, well he was all for feasting, but fancy glasses and tableware? Musicians and colored lanterns? No, ale, grilled venison and a strong rye vodka with his soldiers were more to his speed." 

"So I've gathered. He was a gracious host when I visited."

"He was...a lot of things your highness."

Ciri indicated a spot next to her and Tamara stepped up. "I must admit I was surprised to see you return." She said "I was informed by people who usually know their business that you had left Velen, Novigrad and Redania altogether. And that you had taken up with the witch hunters."

"Only for a brief while." Tamara held up her hands as she saw Ciri eying her suspiciously "Oh I was an enthusiastic enough recruit when I joined up your highness. But then Radovid died and the organization was disbanded soon afterwards. Probably for the best, while my commander and me stuck to chasing those monsters and men that actually harmed people too many witch hunters used their prerogatives far too broadly and too mercilessly. As for me I traveled, your highness. Up the Pontar, to upper Aedirn and Kaedwen." She shook her head. "Places are still not recovered from the war I'm afraid. Bandits and rebels everywhere and I'm afraid your highnesses governor is only making things worse."

"Your highness you cannot allow her to insult the imperial administration in this wa-" Rosa began before Ciri held up her hand. Tamara simply raised an eyebrow.

"No insult if it is true. Believe me I wish it wasn't. But as long as the current governance stance stays as it is the stronger the rebel army will grow. Believe me, I've meet most of their leadership, even the dragonslayer herself." The girl shook her head "Much good that that did. But in any case, not much I could do there, so I decided eventually to return to Velen. Felt I could do more good there." 

"Which is why you have asked for your fathers title back?"

"Even terrible fathers can leave useful gifts," said Tamara.

"True enough" said Ciri. "I will not lie to you. No matter what the clerks come up with the decision regarding Velen is not mine to make. Either the titles and the right to confer them belongs to the Temerian crown, in which case you need to travel to Vizima to make your claim. And if the right belongs to Nilfgaard well-" Ciri held out her hands in a restrained but broad gesture. "I'm just the viceroy. The ability of handing out titles and privileges lies with the emperor and the emperor alone."

Tamara nodded. "Nevertheless, I am sure you can offer a recommendation, in case you decide to trust me with the position. But I have taken up enough of your time" She bowed again and went to join the crowd.

"The girl wants to be you." Triss said were she had been standing partially obscured by a rosebush.

"Ambition, idealism, imperfect father...sounds like she already is. And she had some understanding of the problems we face in the upper Pontar valley to." Said Ciri, still looking at the retreating girl’s backside. "If she can bring us into contact with the leadership, we could perhaps negotiate some sort of settlement."

"Perhaps. But remember what they say about gift horses. And don’t let yourself be distracted by a pretty face." The sorceress added. 

***

Morvran meanwhile was trying to corner the supposed grand master of a supposedly defunct order. He made his way through the crowd, exchanging pleasant greetings and jovial jokes as required, focused on reaching the knight. The man had separated from the hierarch, who was holding a court of his own in the Gazebo and was instead amicably chatting with a few local nobles.

The man laughed dryly "Ah but I must leave you friends, I believe the general would like to have a few words with me." He turned to Morvran, saluting him with his empty wine glass. "An auspicious occasion general Voorhis! Truly the generosity of the imperial house is on full display."

"A mere congregation of local friends of the empire." The general answered modestly. He smoothly picked two glasses of a silver plate from a passing servant and handed one to the grand master, raising his own in a silent toast. It was Erveluce, light and fruity, tasting like a Toussaint summer. "I hope you did not take offense at my earlier interjection sir. A band of deserters, formally of your order, has been operating in these parts and my men have had multiple skirmishes with them. Just a fortnight ago we intercepted one group a mere league or so due south of this very mansion. It seemed too convenient that their old master would show up speaking of saving them from their path."

The knight smiled. "Indeed, I can understand your suspicion. But as I said, we are on the same side here. I too want my soldiers away from this place, just with their corporal forms intact."

"While I sympathies, may I remind you that your men have committed crimes? Farms burned, merchants bushwhacked, people murdered, violated. Their victims need restitution, justice. And when they have committed these acts they are no longer soldiers. They're bandits."

"Distasteful as may be, such things and worse happen in war, as you surely know." Said the knight, perusing the circling wine of his cup.

"We are no longer at war sir. This is the era of the Pax Nilfgaardia."

The knight smiled a mirthless smile "Correction. You are no longer at war, Nilfgaardian. Because you won. So, your men could effortlessly return to their homes as heroes or dust the blood of innocent Nordlings off their cloaks to become keepers of your Pax Nilfgaardia. But my men?" he shook his head "They dedicated their lives to the order. They would have no homes to return to no matter how the war ended. Without the order, without a purpose, they will fall apart, as any group of soldiers must once the chain of command breaks down. So I am trying to restore that chain." He looked Morvran straight in the eye. "Would you not do the same for the Alba division?"

"You're well informed." Said Morvran, taking a sip from his glass while thinking ferociously. The knight was right about the Alba, Morvran thought, there was little he would not have done for those men. And he was right about war as well. Morvran had never discussed the war much with the princess. Indeed, some cowardly part of him dearly hoped he would never have to discuss it, to see those emerald eyes glisten into fury or worse, disappointment or revulsion on the things he had done. While he always kept his men under the strictest discipline and supervision, there had been times when orders had been handed down. And Morvran had never been one not to follow orders, not matter how they might fill him with a private disgust.

"Pays to be" said the knight, seemingly oblivious to Morvran's internal struggle. "Of course, this is just me testing the waters mind you. I know well enough that I currently have no way of supplying those men, what with Radovid having confiscated our property."

"If you want your orders property restored you should be petitioning in Tretogor, not Novigrad."

"Already have. But her highness is unfortunately somewhat stingy when the subject is brought up. If the imperial government should take interest however..." the man left the idea dangling in front of Morvran like a seasoned fisherman.

Morvran refused to bite. "You came here with the hierarch. Isn't the church interested in paying it's holy warriors?"

The man pursed his lips. "Unfortunately no. Their finances are as strained as anyone’s. Such is the loser’s fate I suppose. His holiness, blessed be he, only takes an interest in my men’s immortal souls. He wished to save their souls from sin as I wish to save their necks from your nooses, general."

Morvran inclined his head. "You served Radovid, the empire's foe and enemy. And even though he betrayed you did you not lift a finger against him. And now you want to switch sides?"

"Hardly." Said the man. "The Order of the Flaming Rose serve and protect humanity, first and foremost, from anyone who may threaten it. Radovid was once our foe too mind you, when my predecessor unwisely led us into conflict with Foltest of Temeria." He drained his glass and sat it down on a stone table. "Think of it at least general. At a stroke you would solve both your bandit problem and your troop deployment problem. As for my men you would not do less for the Alba I am certain."

***

Ciri stood behind the curtains on the balcony that surrounded the second floor of her mansion. The fact that it was her mansion still did not quite cease to amaze her. Ever since Cintra burned she had been rootless. Yes, there had been Kaer Morhen of course and the temple in Ellander were she had stayed with Yennefer and long after that there had been Avallac'hs hideout in a realm far away. But none of those places had been hers as in truth she had been but a guest. A welcome, important, treasured and even beloved guest to be sure but still a guest. But the mansion was hers. Bought, of course, with the blood money of the imperial treasury but hers nonetheless. Even the guests were now hers and even if there were previous few among them that she would have invited on her own accord, there was still the fact that she, ever the vagabond, was now playing the host in a home of her own.

As life changes went it was one of the more dizzying. Her titles had never gone away, they had always been a part of her even when she scrabbled in the dirt, a stamp as permanent as the elder blood she carried in her veins. Nor had carrying responsibilities been strange to her: they had burdened her for almost as long as she remembered, from the moment her grandmother had tersely explained that she was now the only heir to the throne of Cintra. But a home of her own? That had been something she had not experienced since her grandmother’s knights had carried her away from the burning castle.

"A boorish bunch aren't they?" asked her guest. The queen of Redania, having snuck through a side entrance, was positively radiant tonight, wearing a dark-green velvet dress embroidered with gold. Her necklace with the inclusioned sapphire still lay at her breast, surrounded by pearls that grew up to her cambric ruff, her red hair flowing down her back from where it was held up by her crown. "I used to adore state functions as a princess. Always at the center of attention, everyone fawning after you. Still do sometimes. But the sheer mass of propositions, requests, pleas and demands, the jockeying for position and you yourself as the ultimate arbiter and dispenser of patronage. Still you can enjoy it as long as you remember that they all serve at your mercy. "

"I prefer not to think of people as being at my mercy."

Adda shrugged "Either they are your mercy or you are at theirs. No other way between rulers and ruled."

Before Ciri could retort Rosa appeared through the curtains. "Your highnesses I am sorry to interrupt but it's time for the viceroy’s speech."

Ciri took a deep breath and steeped forward. A clever tackle-and weights system pulled the curtains aside like at a better theater and Ciri stepped forward to the balustrade into the full view of the milling crowd below. Light from the lanterns reflected in her gold-and ruby tiara and the crowd hushed. At the sight of her appearance Dandelion cut of the orchestra with a quick movement of his arm and then had his brass section let out a quick fanfare to quiet those who still didn't get the point.

"My friends" began the princess, her voiced carrying across the group aided by the finest rhetoricians in Nilfgaard and a handy spell Triss had thrown beforehand "I welcome you all to my home tonight and hope this will be but the first occasion of many where we all can come together. These past few months have been fruitful ones, for Novigrad and its people, for the imperial crown and for me personally. Your warm welcome has been much appreciated and as a Nordling born and bred, it fills my heart with joy to be here in the jewel of the northern kingdoms." She scanned the crowd, saw their faces apprehensive but so far appreciative. A little flattery to start off she thought.

Next came somber realities. "Let us not mince words my friends. We all know that I am here as a result of war, a war that devastated many of these parts and sent good men and women fleeing from their homes. A war that, like all wars before, disrupted trade and good governance and accentuated lawlessness and division." She paused again and saw faces turn somber, nodding along, all remembering some reversal or loss they had suffered.

Then the promise. "But that time is at an end my friends. From this day I declare that the Pax Nilfgaardia has come to reign om either side of the Yaruga! Trade and travel will flow freely once more, now with no borders to stop them. The refugees will be given new homes and prosperity will reign. Nilfgaard may have come as a conqueror and Radovid as a tyrant but my reign, as your viceroy and future empress, will not be born of spite and hatred, but of love and justice." This particular hypocrisy, of equaling her father’s imperial war of conquest with Radovids still native tyranny did indeed rankle her but there was nothing to it but to say it out loud. You made your choice to associate with the empire Ciri, now live with it.

"And to celebrate this new beginning for the lands of the north I am joined today in friendship by a dear friend." At this given signal Adda walked through the raised curtains and faced the crowd.

The sudden in-breath of air was almost audible. As far as most people in the know were concerned, the Redanian monarchy still labored in spite and in quiet opposition to Nilfgaard. For the queen to appear, not as a hostage, petitioner or guest but introduced as a friend spoke of a massive reshuffling of the political situation.

"Citizens of Novigrad! Good children of Redania!" Began Adda "I shall but bother you a moment until I let you return to your merrymaking. I have come here tonight to tell you all that I share and participate in the viceroy’s vision. Let this be a time of peace and plenty, let old hatreds and squabbles no longer divide us, let one and sundry keep their own faith and let justice reign across the north." She reached down and grabbed two crystal goblets a servant had placed on a low table behind the balustrade. "A toast! To the viceroy and to a free, prosperous and secular north!" She handed one goblet to Ciri who raised it in turn, first to the queen and then to the crowd. An applause broke out and Ciri could not quite observe whether it had been started spontaneously or by the Nilfgaardians in the audience.

A wooden staircase had been added to the balcony, leading down into garden. Ciri held out her arm for the queen to grab and arm in arm the two women descended to the subject’s level. Looking out to the crowd she could see the Hierarch standing near the back where he had been holding court. His face was stuck on the same jovial expression he had held all evening. But his eyes told a different story.

***

Triss had not joined Ciri on the balcony, in order to allow the princess and the queen stand on their own and not appear to be under the control of what she still was sure most of the crowd thought of as a witch. Instead she remained near the back of the crowd, closing her eyes and feeling the emotions ripple through them. This was in many ways both far easier and simultaneously harder than listening to people's thoughts: less need for concentration but a greater risk of sensory overload. She felt surprise, elation, anticipation and just a hint of fear. Strenuously, she avoided looking at of even near the hierarch but she could still feel his chock, his surprise and his anger. She allowed herself a small smile as she saw Ciri and Adda descend the stairs. Feel that you old bastard? That is your power, your precious authority slipping away like grains of sand. This is the first part of my and every mage of the north’s retribution.

The thought of revenge and the sheer rolling emotions of the crowd were close to intoxicating, intoxicating enough that she didn't feel the woman sliding up behind her.

"A pretty speech." A harsh and uncomfortably familiar voice said "Almost worthy of an empress. Almost."

Triss turned around more quickly than she should have. The woman standing behind her was shorter and dark of hair, wearing a gossamer like dress made out of grey spun silk, somehow enhanced that it looked almost like silver: the effect was as if the wearer had been bathed in moon light. A starch white ruff surrounded the neck and the décolletage while two impossibly blue eyes shone out of a sharp, but not unpleasantly so, face.

The blue color of the eyes was of course impossible, as Triss knew they were in fact not real.

Phillipa Eilhart smiled. "It's been too long Triss, far too long. Kovir so dreadful you had to come down to this cursed place?"

Triss straightened her posture and bit back her surprise. "I had a duty."

"Really now, Triss Merigold had a duty? To whom, Nilfgaard? Hardly. To the adopted sister you have on occasion abandoned as you saw fit? Possibly." Phillipa appeared to fan herself with a long feather she held in her hand. "But at least you are not running off after some turgid man. So some improvement has occurred."

Triss refused to allow the other women rile her up. "What do you want Phillipa?"

"Me? Why, the same thing everyone here wants. Power. Specifically," she looked over to where Ciri and the queen was now weaving through the crowd "I want your job. I do think I am somewhat more qualified."

"I have served at royal council before."

"Please Triss, playing second fiddle to Keira Metz at Foltest's pathetic court for a couple of years barely counts. In Tretogor I held the north in the palm of my hand."

Outside the walls someone had started to set off fireworks that arched into the sky, showering the crowd with light. Triss shook her head. "Ciri does not trust you Phillipa."

"Good! She shows some sense then. Far more useful with a competent adviser that you can't fully trust then, well..."

Over by the beneath the balcony, an open space was cleared and Ciri signaled Dandelion who immediately lead his band into playing an uproarious Volta. Lords and ladies formed a circle around the impromptu ballroom and Ciri held out her hand for Morvran to take and lead her onto the dancefloor. She was, Triss saw, a surprisingly good dancer. Smiling regally, she and the general soon formed the center of a spinning crowd.

"Is this why you came all the way here? To bully me?"

"Oh, please Triss don't behave like some gilded student, this is not some pathetic girl--school popularity contest. I only want what is best for Ciri, for the empire, for magic and for the world. Us mages came to the brink of disaster and we have yet to claw back. We need leadership and with the lodge in shambles that leadership can only come from the imperial court. And we both know, Triss Merigold, we both know who is the more qualified to lead." The woman disappeared and a moment later Triss could hear the beating of wings. As the sound disappeared, she drew in breath deeply, yet couldn’t the hole the other woman had opened in her chest.

Under the shining stars and fireworks of Novigrad's sky a princess laughed and danced. A general smiled and tossed her in the dance. And a sorceress, despite the happy occasion, worried.

Chapter Text

Upper Aedirn , the Free state of Lormark, Saskia's free state, colloquially known as simply the free state. A small realm in the northern part of Aedirn along the southern bank of the Pontar. Established in the 1270's during the inter-war period between the second and the third northern war. Capital at Vergen. Formally a constitutional monarchy lead by a council subordinate to the Aedirnian throne, in practice ruled by a local warlord known as Saskia the Dragonslayer. Short lived, its territories would fall first to King Henselt of Kaedwen, who famously died during the penultimate siege of Vergen. Occupied by imperial forces during the third northern war and incorporated in the newly established imperial province of Aedirn. - Effenberg and Talbot, Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, Volume XIV

***

Dew-covered undergrowth slapped against Rosa's shins as she ran through the forest, moonlight reflecting off the glistening leaves as she frantically ran downhill. She could barely feel her feet sloshing about in her waterlogged boots, wet drippy mud falling of her pant-legs. The sword was still tightly gripped in her hand but the richly decorated scabbard had gotten stuck in a torn-bush a hundred feet back, the same bush which had ripped open her sleeve and sliced her left arm. Her breath was haggard, wheezing, begging her to stop for a moment. AS she tried to do just that however, a massive roar shattered the night.

Behind her, far too close for comfort, Rosa could hear how pine-trees and birches snapped like twigs as something enormous struck down on them like an unruly child jumping onto a flowerbed. The roar was even worse, strangely high-pitched yet reverberating into her very bones. It touched something deep down in her psyche, telling her that whatever delusions she may have held, here she was not a member of what the Oxenfurt scholars called the top predator on the continent.

Here she was the prey.

More breaking of trees was heard as a wind came rushing down the slope, not continuous as a storm but in on and off again streams, as if someone were holding a massive bellow to the mountain. Blind panic grabbed her again as she started down the slope. Behind her the roar and breaking of trees continued and came closer, impossibly fast.

An errant root became her downfall. Stumbling down the hill, her sword flying into the night, she barely succeeded in tucking herself into a ball as one of her fighting instructors had taught her, coming to her feet with a sprained ankle rather than a broken neck. Despite her fear and her commonsense she chanced a look behind her.

At first there was nothing but forest. But then something impossibly vast blackened out the sky, moon and stars disappearing from view, treetops breaking off as if scythed down.

Something came flying out the night and hit her forehead and everything became truly dark.

***

The dining room at what the people were more and more often calling the viceregal estate was one of the rooms left mostly unchanged by Triss interior decoration squads. Yes the rotting carpets had been replaced with new ones imported straight from Ofir, the chairs had received new upholstery and yes, some of the paintings had been replaced with what the sorceress insisted where the works of some of the North’s more famous masters. But the dark oak table was the same, as were the marble fireplace and the silver candelabras. The food, although served on porcelain decorated not as was the custom with the imperial seal but with nature scenes, was of imperial caliber. The fish course, a fat baked trout from a fish farm on a neighboring estate, served with garlic and lemon in the Vicovaran manner with a side dish of radishes in sour cream, was just being served.

Ciri refered to these occasions as her staff dinners, using a military term she had stolen from Morvran. While those affairs tended to be highly regimented, at least until the wine had flown widely enough, Ciri preferred to have her staff dinners more informal and used them as an opportunity to discuss future plans in an informal manner (Ciri mentally kicked herself for sounding like Emhyr) or for interrogating any passing imperial dignitary.

"So tell me, is it really true that the prefect had to change the supply route for the Aedirn garrisons from the Pontar to the overland route? I had hoped the security situation would be resolved by now, at least that is what his reports has been telling us. He has shown quite comprehensively that the number of skirmishes with the Free state army has decreased significantly in the last few months."

Quartermaster-general Tavar Eggebracht adjusted his spectacles as the mouthwatering dish was set down in front of him. "Not at all your highness, I am afraid he may indeed been understating his case. Changing the routes of the supply convoys, apart from making the supplies less susceptible to losses, also has the added benefit of decreasing the amount of skirmishes between rebel and imperial forces, as the former are mainly operating out of upper Aedirn along the Pontar. Bringing the supplies overland means far fewer opportunities for ambushes, even if it also means increasing the cost and delivery times."

"Damn operational success metrics." Morvran said. As Ciri turned towards him with a raised eyebrow he almost blushed. "Ah, forgive me your highness. It is a military term and a common problem, especially in counter-insurgency warfare. When success can no longer be measured in defeated armies or conquered territories commanders will be forced to find alternate measurements for operational success. They will then, almost inevitably, find some way to play those numbers to make themselves look more successful, since it is all proxies anyway."

"Quite so general." Said Eggebracht, nodding as he let his fork loose on the trout "in this case, by decreasing military activity along the Pontar the prefect has managed to bring down the intensity of the fighting, while he has so far been able to off-set the increased prices of transportation with local procurements."

"That would explain why some of the prices in Novigrad has gone up." Said Triss from her seat a Ciri's left. The sorceress had been uncharacteristically downcast since the ball yet remained aloof to any attempts by Ciri to coax out of her what the issue was. "However, if the Pontar is blocked wouldn't that mean the complete stop of the river trade?"

"Not necessarily." The quartermaster-general said "I believe the rebels are taxing the transports and thus funding their war. The increases you refer to are probably the result of merchants off-setting their losses." He paused to take a sip of wine. "I would be more concerned with the prize increases in Aedirn itself however. A lot of food is imported by barge from down-river and with the requisitions prices are increasing, which is not a healthy environment for an effective counter-insurgency campaign." The man attacked his fish with the gusto of a man who had spent a week traveling through the Mahakam foothills without access to the finer things in life.

"Troubling." Said Ciri simply and speared a radish with her fork.

***

Later, as Morvran had taken the quartermaster-general aside for a more formal debriefing, Triss joined Ciri on the porch outside. The princess was sitting in an armchair, looking out at the garden which only a week before had been filled with Novigrad gentry.

"You are thinking of going to Aedirn." The sorceress observed without further preamble.

Ciri smiled. "Am I that predicable?"

"You are. And stop smiling, it is not a compliment. Predictability in governance is a good thing, in governing not so much." With silent permission the sorceress sat down in the armchair next to her.

"Is there a distinction between those?"

"Always."

Ciri nodded and looked out at the garden. One by one, flower pedals were leaving their stems, given a slight push but the breeze and then circling slowly towards the ground.

"Why do you think we were not informed by my father’s people about the situation out there? Eggebracht saw it clear and our friend the king has been sending us regular reports as well. Only the vaunted Imperial secret service has been silent."

"Either they are incompetent or your father doesn't want you to know."

"Troubling." Said Ciri again "Do you really distrust Emhyr that much?"

"Don't you? Either that or the secret service has taken upon themselves to keep us in ignorance." Triss fixed her eyes on the gazebo on the other side of the garden. "I think we need to consider the possibility that your father is setting you up to fail."

"Or it is another damned test. Would be just like him." Ciri furrowed her brow. "Triss?"

"Yes?"

"Don't call him my father when we are in private. I have father and it's not him."

Triss shrugged. "A witcher's daughter cannot become an empress. You choose your father when you sat yourself on this path."

"And how I rue that choice some days." Ciri picked up a purple flower pedal that had fallen onto the armrest. "I miss him you know? Him and Yennefer. Every day, almost, both when I went away and now. I miss the rest of them, Eskel, Lambert, Vesemir..." She looked onto the sky, blinking away a single teacher voice becoming hoarse for a moment. "And I miss grandma. She if anyone would have known what to do."

"She would have shown them who was queen. She would have sent an army into Upper Aedirn and not pulled it back before everyone bowed before her. Is that the way you want to rule?"

"I suppose not. If I could just talk some sense into them..."

"Not everything can be solved by talking. Empires have their own logic, Nilfgaard will demand you put down the rebellion by force if needs be, otherwise others, from the church to local nobility will sense blood in the water."

Ciri cheeks heated. "I do not follow any imperial logic! I am not about to see innocents be slaughtered under my banner." She turned towards Triss. "Is this what you believe of me? That I'm Foltest or some other petty king itching to let the dogs of war of their leash? I did not accept this bloody crown to become an Autocrat!"

Triss did something Ciri had never seen her do before. She tsskkd. "You already are." She said, shaking her head. "A benevolent one yes but you are an autocrat Ciri, responsible only to the emperor and soon enough not even him." Triss sighed "Maybe that's what this rotten world needs. A benevolent autocrat. Someone fit to rule."

For a moment silence feel between them, only the sound of the gardeners rake to be heard.

"I ran with a gang once, did Geralt tell you?” said Ciri “Down in Geso, smack dab in the middle of the Korath frontier, all while half of Nilfgaard were looking for me. What a merry gang of young highwaymen we were! Thieves, murderers, brigands. We would ride were we wanted, take what we desired, kill anyone who protested. Sometimes we killed just for the cheer joy of it, the power of holding a life in your hand." Her fist clenched around the flower pedal. "I’ve tried drinks aplenty, fisstech, elven drugs you wouldn't believe but that power? Greatest high I've ever had."

Triss sat still. "Geralt never told me."

"That your little sister is a bona-fide murderer? A petty thief like those Morvran decorate the trees with? I suppose he didn't." She took a deep breath, air heavy in her lungs as she slowly unclenched her fist. "The point Triss, is that those people I rode with were damaged. Evil little bastards all but not from birth, well, not most of them. They were, what did you call the people in the Putrid grove, the refuse thrown up onto the docks. Only they ended up in Geso and instead of begging or selling their bodies for scraps they became the very thing they had ran from. And so they did more evil and more evil until the local baron to rid himself of them brought in a man you don't even want to think about. And thus, the violence and evil spreads. That’s the logic of empire."

She looked at the sorceress, green eyes meeting blue. "I can never atone for the things I did in Geso, no matter how many hospitals I open or orphanages I fund. But if I can avoid restarting that cycle again I will do everything in my power to do so."

Triss put her hands on her shoulders. "And I shall do what is within my power to help you. But if you take responsibility for every possible disaster in the empire you are going to spread yourself mighty thin."

"I don't know how to live any other way anymore. Avallac'h told me I was needed to save the world. I guess I never figured out how to stop."

"Imperial logic is not the white frost."

"Yet it is as merciless. And far more insidious." Ciri said.

"Like Emhyr?"

"Possibly." Ciri disappeared somewhere deep in thought. For a moment neither woman said anything, as each wrestling with memories of mistakes past.

"That girl, Tamara" Ciri finally said. "She said she met the rebel leadership. Maybe she is the key. If I can just meet with the dragonslayer herself maybe there is way to avoid all this."

***

The rain had backed up against the blue mountains, dark gray clouds out crowding each-other and drenching the upper reaches of the Pontar in hard yet still warm late-summer rain, turning the roads into muddy swamps and sending travelers, locals as well as rebel and Nilfgaardian patrols alike into hiding.

Ciri turned the edge of her hood up as far as she dared without getting wet. Around her, gray lichen covered boulders, pine trees and prickly bushes covered the rocky landscapes, as Upper Aedirn showed why it was a guerrilla’s haven. Ahead the road was dividing itself into two, an empty pole standing bereft of the way-sign it had once held.

"They tear them down to confuse your patrols." Said Tamara. Riding slightly ahead of Ciri with a green cloak thrown over her spiked witch hunters armor, the young women nudged her horse onto the rightward path. "Suppose they reckon anyone who has legitimate business here know the way already. The left fork goes to Vergen, used to be the most important center for the mining industry around these parts. Abandoned now though, nothing but empty houses since your garrison withdrew."

"What happened to it?" asked Rosa, bringing up the rear of their little column.

"King Henselt happened. And then, well, your army happened. Most towns have problems recovering from one sack, let alone two." Tamara turned around in her saddle. "Didn't they tell you that when you were with your father in Novigrad?"

"I was busy." Rosa grumbled.

"Busy playing at swordsmanship or busy harassing the small-folk?"

"Enough!" Ciri stated before Rosa could answer. "I asked you to take us to meet the dragonslayer, not needle my adjutant."

Tamara shrugged. "And I will do so, one of their camps should be up ahead, unless they moved it since last time I was here."

"Excellent. Rosa, would you mind the pack-horse?" Ciri told Rosa, who fell back to keep a closer eye on the pack-animal carrying the gear they had purchased after Ciri teleported them into Aedirn two days earlier. Tamara had, once summoned to the estate, shown herself quite eager to assist and had stood up gallantly to a thorough interview from a suspicious general Voorhis. Yes, she had served with the witch hunters for a time, no she had not done so from any particular love of the Redanian crown or the church hierarchy (devout as she admitted she was). Yes she thought the prefect of Aedirn was an incompetent and possibly corrupt fool, no she had not partaken in the rebellion but simply guided merchant caravans through the warzone, necessitating contacts with the rebel leadership. And yes, of course she understood that the exact jurisdiction over the Velen barony was somewhat unclear and that in any case Ciri was not about to hand it to her lock, stock and barrel. And while she actually agreed with Morvran that the idea to enter Upper Aedirn unescorted was foolish, she was willing to risk it if Ciri was.

In truth Ciri was glad for her company. So far she had managed to talk them through two roadblocks mounted by armed rebels or "freestaters" they called themselves, soldiers who payed them little heed once a small purse had been exchanged. Apart from knowing the ins and out of the road-network of upper Aedirn, Tamara held a wealth of information about Velen and the bandits that plagued the region (many of whom seemed to be her father's former subordinates) as well of the now defunct witch hunters. According to Tamara, she and her mentor had traveled this way, hoping to do some good in a region where the people needed protection from the unholy yet where the Nilfgaardian authorities couldn't watch them too closely. Unfortunately their coin and provisions had soon run low while the peasantry they wanted to protect were standoffish and disinterested in providing for yet another roving group of armed men. In the end, facing the choice of otherwise starving or turning to banditry, they had taken up as caravan guards.

Tamara had tersely told them tale as they had sat around the campfire one night after arrival. She was not what one would call a natural storyteller so she told what had happened plainly and to the point. In her telling, the small group had kept losing members either to bandits or to wild beasts or worse. Others had drifted off, some going home towards Redania, others joining either the bandit gangs or the free state.

"It's the lack of purpose. As a witch hunter your duty and purpose is clear. Protect humanity from monsters, be they fanged or degenerate. But as a caravan guard? Your purpose in life is to get one bunch of fat querulous bastards from point A to point B, the pay is bad and the food worse. Eventually they one by one decided to sneak off and do their own thing. I did to, eventually."

  "To protect humanity from monsters. Witchers say largely the same thing." Said Ciri

  "Fat piece of good they do." Said Tamara and spat. "Jumped-up mercenary mutants." She looked up at Ciri. "Look, sorry, I've met your foster-father and he seemed a decent man for the most part. But to stand by while monster harry the countryside until you get offered enough coin...its revolting. And in any case they're too few and from what I gather cannot mutate new ones." She made a sweeping gesture with her spoon. "Plenty of good men out there looking for a stable job with a purpose. Your government could do worse than to hire them on.

  "You want the imperial government to employ witch hunters?" asked Rosa incredulously.

 Tamara looked at Rosa, dark eyes seemingly fixing her on the spot "I want them to hire on good swords who have already proven their willingness to put their life on the line for the good of humanity. People who have been down in the mud and shit where the commoners live where no imperial official worth his perfumed handkerchief would dare go."

 Rosa had bristled at that comment as well. As she nudged her horse forward until aside Tamara's, Ciri shook her head at the display.

"This journey would be really be significantly more comfortable for all of us if you could refrain from attempting to drive her up the wall" Ciri said. "Good decorum is essential for prospective nobles, or so I've been told." She added as an extra incentive.

Tamara looked at her and raised an inquisitive eyebrow "Did you listen to the people who told you that?" she asked.

"Occasionally."

Tamara laughed. It was a surprisingly girlish laugh, coming out of that perpetually scowling face and made her look younger or more perhaps accurately, as young as she actually was.

"I'll give you that one your grace, I do. It’s just that..." she surreptitiously glanced back at Rosa "I know her type. Proper nob she is. You know there was a tale going around Novigrad that she threatened to cut up a couple of passersby for not treating her all lady-like? Claimed that that was the Nilfgaard way."

"It is an unfortunate law. One I will try to change."

"So it is true? Well, good luck with the changing I suppose. Still not going to make her drop the attitude. We had people like that coming by Crow's Perch, in black armor and fancy uniforms rimmed with gold, claiming my father’s men were integral to that part of the front and yet doing all but spitting in his face. Not that he didn't deserve that mind you." She said and spat herself to the side of the road.

"I only meet you father the once when I came through Velen. He seemed a decent enough man then but..." Ciri started.

"He was a monster." Tamara cut her off. "A loathsome, stinking, abusive bastard. I curse the day my mother married him. Only good thing he ever did me was to leave for war. That and hanging himself. Hope he is freezing wherever he went."

"He gave me a horse to travel for Novigrad and a letter of safe conduct for the journey."

"More than he ever gave me." Tamara spat again and thought of something. "Well no. He would give me toys, fine clothes, a pony even when he was in the mood, especially after he usurped his title and came into coin. It’s what they do you know, try and come up the fanciest gift they can give you as if that is enough to make up for all the rest. As if anything can make up for depriving you of your childhood." She shook her head beneath her cloak. "I'm sorry your highness, I didn't mean to share that with you."

"Don't be. I have ears to spare. Makes one understand while you would run of with the witch hunters, although not why you want his barony back."

"If one’s father deigns to give one such an inheritance how can you turn it down? It's a chance to do some good, spread the warmth of the holy flame. Or cleanse it in healing fire. Either way works." She looked up sharply. "We are coming up on the encampment."

***

The encampment had been built around an abandoned mining shaft, canvas roofs shading dark entrances, rotting collapsed scaffolding pointing accusingly at the sky. It was surrounded by a simple palisade set into a drystone foundation. It had evidently been there a while, as tents had been replaced with simple log cabins for barracks or supply depots. Deep churns were grinded into the roadway where caravans passed by, either simply paying their tolls or surreptitiously offloading goods for the rebels.

By one of the largest cabins, an elf clad in mismatched pieces of armor with a bandanna tied across his missing right eye stood on the porch, overlooking the proceedings together with a young curly bearded dwarf clad in an elegant if robust maroon doublet. Three eyes looked at the trio as they dismounted and walked towards them, one wary, two curious.

"Commander Iorveth." Tamara bowed. "I am here with missives from the merchant’s guild. Is the lady protector here?"

"Tamara of Velen, missing her caravan I see. You know very well that I wouldn't tell you where she was if I did know. If you have missives you may give them to master Burdon here." With those words he walked away as Skalen Burdon, as the dwarf formally introduced himself, ushered them inside. His office was sparsely furnished, most documents neatly packed into two wooden coffers while his desk was simple and fold-able. All was evidently designed to be packed up and moved quickly. As they had agreed beforehand, Tamara took the lead and presented her supposed case from the Novigrad ore-merchants guild. Burdon listened intently and politely, yet his eyes kept darting towards Ciri. Finally, he broke and asked a question:

"Ecxuse my lady but I cannot but notice the way to carry your sword. Are you perchance a witcher?"

Ciri raised an eyebrow "What because I carry my sword on my back? There are no girl-witchers master Brudon, as much as one may have wanted there to be."

"Ah yes, I suppose so. Sorry it's just that...well I once met a man, a witcher that is, and he carried his swords in the same manner. So even though I have never heard of there being any girl-witchers as you say I still hoped that maybe...well it was stupid, forgive me."

Ciri and Tamara looked at each other and then Ciri leaned forward. "Are you in need of a witcher master Brudon? For even if I may not technically be one I have studied some of their lore."

"It's just that, well..." the man glanced surreptitiously at the door as if he suspected someone may be listening in. He then conspiratorially leaned forward and whispered. "I believe that the lady protector may be cursed."

***

Rosa's eye's opened to stare up on a gray sky. Thunderclouds were still backed up against the mountains even if the rains didn’t to fall. Forehead and ribs aching, she gingerly tried to sit up, only to be overcome by a sudden bout of nausea that made her retch over the slope. Wiping her mouth with her glove, Rosa surveyed the devasted area. Trees lay haphazardly broken on the ground, flung around with apparent carelessness.

Neither the viceroy nor Tamara where anywhere to be seen. Their horses were long gone.

Rosa was alone.

Chapter Text

The largest and most famous draconid by far is the Draconis Maximus, communally known as the dragon. Existing in at least three different subspecies, commonly differentiated by the color of their scales, the dragon was once a common sight but is today thankfully rare. They form an important part in both elven and early human legends and are indeed still venerated as sacred in Zerrikania, their legendary status having given birth to rumors and exaggerated tales of their supposed intelligence and magical prowess. While these tales common and popular among the general populace, among men of science these tales are generally dismissed, as all available data points to the dragon lacking the advanced intelligence and social structures necessary to be considered sentient. It is simply a beast, if a magnificent one.  - Vilderheim and Stubbs, Lexus Draconis 

Helveed followed a torch-bearing attendant down the dark and damp tunnels underneath temple isle. That the rock upon which the temple stood was hollowed through like a Koviri cheese was one of the less well-kept secrets of Novigrad: drunken junior clergy jesting about the ‘holy’ mountain had seen to that. Yet few realized exactly how far, and how deep, the catacombs beneath actually went. The tunnels were not connected to Novigrad’s regular sewer system and had few if any openings outside those beneath the temple itself.

The uppermost tunnels had, like those beneath so many other cities of the continent, been built by the elves. Helveed had at most a cursory interest in ancient history but he knew that it was believed that they had built these catacombs as tombs for their dead. Said dead were long gone of course, ancient skeletons deposed off to give room for the urns of the faithful, many of whom had their ashes sent from far afield to be interred beneath the most sacred fire. Still underneath the catacombs were natural tunnels that had been dug out of the rock by flowing water over the eons. And beneath them, where Helveed now traveled, were tunnels more ancient still, strangely organic looking built by whoever or whatever inhabited the isle before the coming of the white ships.

The tunnel opened into a cavern illuminated by a dull orange glow. Not from lanterns but by a variety of fungi that grew along the walls. Helveed dryly wondered whether the fungi was here before, a remnant of whatever had lived here or whether the current inhabitant had somehow wrought them. In either case, they gave of an unnatural feeling that most priests would have been disturbed by. 

Helveed wasn’t most priests. And few things could disturb him. Including the inhabitant of the cave.

The woman did at first not look disturbing. Young, comely, with black hair and brown eyes, she walked around the cave like any peasant woman in her home.  She was bustling around her giant pot which stood on a small fire, the smoke of which disappeared up into some unknown ventilation shaft. If not the otherworldly surroundings she would have looked completely ordinary,

Well, the surroundings and the fact that she was stark naked. 

She was singing, a lullaby of cascading tones without any real sense of rhythm or melody that Helveed could discern. Her voice bounced of the walls of the cavern until it was almost singing in canon with itself.

“I can hear you, priest” said the woman as the song continued to bounce around the chamber. “I can smell you. Come, don’t be afraid.”

Helveed took a step forward into the cavern. “I am not afraid. Holy fire protects me.”

The woman looked at him and smiled. “You really aren’t, aren’t you. My sisters would have judged you a fool but I like that about you priest. For far to long I had people in awe and fear of me. It is warming to have someone not stand in fear but only in revulsion as you do.” The woman dipped a spoon into her broth and brought it to her lips, smacking loudly. “Excellent.” She held out the spoon towards Helveed. “Want a taste?”

He ignored the offer. “Is your - concoction ready?” he asked.

“It will be, it will be.” She smiled, revealing teeth to perfect to be human “Just what you asked for. Souls to be saved from indecency and heresy, just as you asked. Just remember my price priest. I want the girl. I want to carve out her heart like she carved out mine when she murdered my sisters.”

***

The lady protector, the young dwarf master Burdon had explained, had always had a tendency to behave queerly. When first leading the resistance in Vergen years ago she had often disappeared for long periods of time, with no explanation given. After her return this had been happening less frequently, yet of late this behavior had begun again. Long absences, still unexplained. Strange acquisitions for live goats or sheep to be taken into the mountains and left. Gemstones had disappeared from the warchest. And no word of what was going on, no even to her, ehh, closest advisor's (as he said this the young dwarf actually blushed). He had raised the question with the dragonslayer without answer and later with commander Iorveth, who with the solemn passion of the fanatic  had told him in no uncertain terms to keep his mouth shut and don’t bother the commander. But Burdon was not the kind of man to let Saskia, no the commander keep disappearing on him. But he was stonewalled, he said, by Saskia’s silence and commander Iorveth’s explicit orders. Himself he suspected a curse of some sort, for the dragonslayer was not the type to do irrational things. He had despaired, desparied that is until a witcher, or at least something close to it, had appeared in their midst. Relieved he had given them instructions on where the last batch of sheep had been left off. 

So they had set off again, trying to make a few extra miles from the encampment before nightfall. Tamara said she knew of a resting place a just little ahead and since the rains had let up and the road was clearly visible in the gathering twilight, they had decided to press on. 

It was as they were approaching the resting place that they were ambushed. 

At the academy, Rosa had trained for ambushes. How to plan them, how to avoid them, how to rally troops and counterattack. But nothing could have prepared her for what happened on that muddy mountain road. 

At first, it had been a sudden smell of sulfur that had filled the air. Then something enormous had risen over the ridge, bearing down on them like an avalanche. Their horses had panicked, throwing both Rosa and Ciri from their saddles. The last Rosa saw of Tamara was her holding on with hands and knees as her horse bolted down the path refusing to respond to anything but it’s own primal fear.

Rosa was a trained swordswoman but no witcher. She had never faced any monster. Had her first been a drowner, a nekker or even a troll she would had faced it bravely. A fiend, a forktail or even a Endrega she would have faced stoicly. But dragons are a different manner. Few creatures, possibly no creature strikes the same primordial dread into humans, the feeling of being tiny, insignificant, a lamb before the direwolf. Crashing to the ground she found herself petrified in fear as the creature swooped over them, causally picking up their packhorse with one of its clawed talons and throwing it against a rock, neck breaking with an audible thunk.

Ciri, on the other hand, was a trained witcher and reacted accordingly. Hitting the ground rolling, she came to her feet sword in hand. As the Dragon banked to face them, she disappeared in a flash and reappeared almost on top of it, behind it’s giant head. For a moment she seemed to stand there, sword raised to strike, backlit by the sundown. Then the dragon quickly rotated in mid air and moved it’s neck far enough for Ciri to lose her footing and fly spinning of the dragon, which continued its roation in order to hit the princess straight across her body with one wing. Rosa stared as the Dragon used its claws to deftly pluck the stunned woman from the air before turning level again. It landed, absentmindedly crushing a fallen pine underneath it’s bodyweight.

Training, duty, honor all disappeared form Rosa’s mind. Instead raw fear gripped her and she did the only thing she could think of.

She ran. 

Which was how she had ended up careening madly downslope, sword and scabbard lost in the underbrush.

Rosa stared at a gray sky. Light raindrops were slowly hitting her face, mingling with warmer tears. As she tried to stand up, a spell of nausea and dizziness caught her and she almost collapsed again but caught her herself on her palms. Slowly getting to her feet, she listened intently for any sign of the dragon. Finding none, she started to retrace her steps back to the road. The slope was gentler than it had felt the night before and she could find the ambush site easily enough. But that was the end of her skill. Even a witcher would have a hard time tracking a dragon and Rosa was no witcher. She was tired, hurting, lost in a strange country and utterly alone. She did the one thing she had left.

She fell to her knees and cried.

A glowed hand suddenly gently touched her shoulder. She balked and lost her balance, falling back onto her bum, one hand unconsciously going for her sword. It closed over nothing.

Tamara’s spiky hair and brown eyes stared down at her.

“You alright Nilfgaardian?” quizzed Tamara.

Rosa stared dumbfoundly at her, angrily blinking away her tears. “Alright? Alright! Where did you go?”

“Same place as you did. Away. Had to catch the horses, wanted to see if anyone survived.“ She made a gesture with the thumb at two of their horses standing by the wayside. “Where’s the viceroy?” Seeing Rosa’s tearstrucken face she realized. “The dragon took her.”

“Alive.” said Rosa, wiping her face with her muddy sleeve. She stood up, gently this time and walked towards the horses.

“Are you sure you should be riding in your condition?” asked Tamara.

“I need to find the viceroy.” Said Rosa and started to fiddle with her saddle, adjusting the straps that had come lose when the horse had thrown her.

“You are going to - the dragon took her Rosa! You said so yourself!” Tamara shouted. “Can you track it? I certainly can’t and I grew up in the country! You’re bloody city gentry, you will get lost in the hills until a wolf gobbles you up or you stumble of a cliff.”

“I have to try!” said Rosa defiantly. 

Tamara grabbed the horse’s bridle “I understand she is important to you and I don’t want to leave without finding out what happened to her either but-”

“You understand nothing! You waltz into the mansion, talking up how you think you could be the savor of Velen and it’s entire inbred peasantry! You haven’t the slightest idea of how nobility works do you? You think it’s about fucking choices!”” Rosa turned angrily towards Tamara. “If I return without the viceroy I’m dead! Do you understand, dead! My family will have lost everything! Do you understand that? Can you? No you don’t have one.”

Tamara’s face grew red “Do not talk about my family Nilfgaardian.” She growled.

It was far to late. “Your father was a ranker who blundered his way into a fake noble title so he could rob the people you claim you want to save! You and your mother got lucky.” Rosa’s diatribe was cut off when Tamara’s fist hit her gut, folding her over in the mud. Wheezing, trying to get up, she found herself staring at Rosa’s sword. The girls eyes burned with fury.

“You don’t get to talk about my mother Nilfgaardian. You say a word about her and you will die out here before your viceroy.” She pointed the tip at Rosa’s chin. “Fat difference that would make for me and mine if that dragon gobbled both you and her up. Which it will, because neither you nor me know where it came from.”

“Pity, that’s what I hoped you could tell me.” A dry voice said. As they looked up, a squad of elven archers had taken up positions on the surrounding hills, drawing their bows at the pair. Their leader, the commander they had meet back in the camp, stood upon a particularly impressive boulder, arms folded. He smiled, his single eye not betraying no trace of warmth. “Please, tell me all about this dragon?”

***

“Have you ever studied the works of Vysogota of Corvo?” Ciri asked the emperor during one of their nightly sessions. It was late winter, only a few months before she would embark for Novigrad and even here in the imperial palace the chill was palpable. A fire had been lit in the marble fireplace yet cold still seemed to seep in through the windows. Ciri was glad for her blanket and silently cursed the architects of these southern lands for not understanding how to properly isolate a building.

Her father, for she supposed she ought to call him that, seemed as unperturbed by the chill as he seemed unperturbed by everything else. Ciri had long suspected this was all an act, the way he believed a emperor ought to behave but had yet to catch him out of sorts.

“The run-away scholar? The dissident your grandfather sent into exile for conspiring against the imperial throne? The naive grandstander who foolishly believed he knew better then his emperor how to run the empire? That Vysogota of Corvo?” The emperor sipped his mulled wine. “Of course I have. He posits an interesting, if hopelessly naive, view of the source of political legitimacy.”

“He disagrees with autocracy.”

“Precisely. Hence he posits that rule by the aristocracy, through the form of a senate, is preferable.” The emperor waved his hand at Ciri’s attempted interjection. “Oh I know that is not the way he frames the issue but it is the logical end-state of the reforms he suggests: it is indeed what most of his so-called followers were ultimately after. It is a new way of tackling the same issue that has been at the forefront of our politics since the formation of the empire: from where should power originate? Popular sovereignty, as Vysogota calls it, cannot successfully face up to the entrenched interests of the aristocracy is, I fear, an idea that lacks any grounding in facts.” The emperor shrugged. “And even if popular sovereignty would succeed what then? Consider the elves of the north. While it is unquestionable that the northern monarchs have abetted and profited their peoples ill-treatment of them, it is also unquestionable that those attitudes are common among the populace. What does popular sovereignty mean for an elf, or a gnome or any other minority?”

“Are you saying that autocracy, rule by imperial fiat is a public good? That you carried out your wars to liberate the north from their incompetent monarchs.”

“Given the alternative, certainly. Oh I’m not so hypocritical to claim that we went to war to liberate the norths oppressed elder races through you have to admit it has been on occasion an efficient talking point. No, what I’, talking about is…enlightened despotism is a term I’ve seen thrown around the academies of late. Mainly to curry favor you understand but there might be some young scholar who treat the issue all the more seriously. A well read, fair ruler can impose the needs of the people upon the people.”

“The people have no say?”

“Certainly they have a say! And what they have said, in kingdom after kingdom after kingdom is that sovereignty, nay legitimacy, is a matter of blood. The divine right of kings, whether it’s sourced from the great sun, from the eternal fire or from any other gods. It is that belief, that loyalty, that holds rulers in power. Vysogota do not understand that, cannot, for it clashed with his rational view of human kind. I didn’t learn it myself until I walked among the people as a refugee. If not for the divine right and heritage of the house of var Emreis, would I have succeeded over the usurper? Would the people of Cintra have accepted you, a princes they hadn’t seen, well, not really anyway, for almost two decades as their legitimate queen?” he shook his head. “Council and senates are for aristocrats, scholars and merchants. The people will always prefer an autocrat as long as he is just.” The emperor tipped his winecup to her. “Or she.”

***

Ciri awoke staring at a rock ceiling. Her body hurt from feet to neck, as if someone had just picked her up and thrown her flat against a wall. As she shifted she could feel a whole array of bruises forming along her side and back. She was lying on what felt and certainly smelled like a sheepskin, thrown down on the rocky soil of the cave. 

Suddenly fully awake she instinctively reached out for her sword. Not finding it she instead reached for the dagger she wore in her belt, finding that scabbard as well empty.

“I have your weapons over here.” A melodious voice said. Through the gloom of the cave, Ciri could see a women sitting on log on the other side of a small campfire. “You took a fearful blow, try to move carefully. I have some spring water here if you’re thirsty.” The woman held up a water skin. Ciri slowly stood, wincing at the pain that shoot through her body while she hobbled her way over to the fire.

The woman seemed to be her own age or a little older, straw colored hair tied back in a knot at the base of her neck. She was wearing simple brown trousers and a checkered red over white Gambeson, unlaced in the front.  From her heavy, riveted military belt a simple undecorated sword hung. 

Gingerly, Ciri sat down on the log opposite to the woman. When offered the waterskin, her hesitancy was enough for the women to smile and say ”If I wanted you dead I would have killed you before you woke up.” The woman took a swig and held it out for Ciri again. “I’m Saskia.” She said simply.

Ciri took the offered waterskin and drank slowly, yet greedily, never taking her eyes away from the woman she had come here seeking. The woman looked perfectly ordinary, like any common soldier or seasoned traveler. When seeing her up close, she could see how just above her breast  a large blotch of scar tissue was accumulated below her collarbone, as if she had once been pierced by sharp object.

“I came here looking for you-” Ciri started.

“Oh?” the woman interrupted. “Here to join up, kill a few black ones for the cause? There are set procedures for joining the free state army.” She held up her hand before Ciri could interrupt her in turn. “I jest, I know fully well why you came here and truly, if you seek to do our cause a favor, you may start by falling on this very sword here, viceroy.” Saskia smiled without any of her previous warmth. “For by rights and for a free Pontar, no a free north I ought to rightly kill you here and now.”

Ciri took another sip of water and wiped her mouth of with her sleeve. “Well, to reuse your own words, why didn’t you?”

“Perhaps I wish to kill you in a fair fight.”

“A fair fight? Me beaten black and blue, hungry and without weapons? Sure you can find better excuses then that. I came her seeking you by myself, without an army, hoping to parlay with you.”

Saskia shook her head and held up a hand. “I know, I know, you wish to use that famous silver tongue of yours to convince me to lay down my arms at your feet, embrace the golden sun and become a good little imperial subject. Rumors of your escapades have reached even these parts. I wish to hear none of it. I swore an oath that I would vanquish tyranny wherever I found it and I stare at it right now. Wrapped within a glove of Nazairi velvet perhaps but tyranny nonetheless.“

Ciri had held her feet out towards the fire but now withdraw them. The cave was actually quite warm, not just from the fire but from occasional gusts of hot air coming from the deeper parts. She wondered if this region held volcanoes or another sort of geothermal energy. “Then I repeat my question. Why didn’t you kill me?”

Saskia stared at her inquisitively. “To tell the truth, I have a favor to ask of you, a task you are eminently suited for. Besides,” she mused “witchers don’t hunt dragons. We try and return the favor whenever possible.” She arced a eyebrow “Not surprised?”

“No.” Said Ciri. “To many things that didn’t add up.” She started to count off on her fingers. “Why you killed a dragon that then nobody saw the body of, not even a tooth, despite literally every piece of any dragonid being valuable in any market. Why there are indeed no records of any substantial hoards recovered by the jewelers guild from the period of your quite sudden appearance five years ago, despite them always being first on hand to prevent inflation when a dragons hoard do enter the market. Why there have been occasional sightings in this area over the same period. And of course, what simpler way for you to rescue me from the clutches of the dragon that attacked us than if you yourself are that dragon.”

The woman smiled “An excellent deduction, young viceroy.” 

“I have my moments.” Ciri shrugged. “And I have some very capable advisers.” She shoot the woman an inquisitive look through the haze. “There was also a highly worried dwarf back at the encampment.”

If she didn’t know better Ciri could have sworn that the woman blushed. “Well, Skalen is a bit too worried about me.” Her glare quickly grew  venomous. “Not that is any business of yours and if you even think to use that fact against me.”

“I’m not. In fact that was something my advisers didn’t ferret out. As I said, I came looking for you, as you deduced. To avoid a massacre, another war.”

The woman pursed her lips. “That is easy. Don’t have a war. Withdraw your troops.”

Ciri shook her head. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Then what was the use of that speech you held at your banquet? I’ve seen the broadsheets, black ones have been nailing them to every noticeboard, wall and tree up and down the Pontar. You speak of the Pax Nilfgaardia as if it was not born out of war and death, presenting yourself, the heir to the throne of Nilfgaard as somehow different from your sire.”

“I am not my father.”

“Nor am I mine. More so the pity, the things he could do where without compare. But while he cared for humankind, he cared from aloft, from great height.” She shook her head. “Twice has these lands been invaded by your kind, twice by the Kaedweni. Yet they still stand, Aedirn still stands, the people still stand. You speak of your position, of Nilfgaard as it mattered to the people of these lands. It doesn’t. What matters is food in the bellies, safety and security. Justice, as you so eloquently and hypocritically, put it. And they can only achieve that by fighting for it.”

“Do they wish to fight for it?” Ciri asked.

“You left them little choice Nilfgaardian.”

“I’m from Cintra.” Ciri corrected her. “And do they really? Do the Pontar valley echo with the calls to rebellion? No. Mostly, people try to live their lives as they can, the merchants pay whatever bribes they need to get their goods flowing. Not even my prefect wants to fight.”

Saskia grimaced and had she been a different person Ciri was sure she would have spat. “Your prefect is corrupt, surely you know this? He has no other plans but for filling his pockets and returning to Nilfgaard in grand style. Which, being as well-informed as you are, you must know and yet you do nothing. You think I want to rule? I built a council in Vergen, a council of the people to rule for the people.”

Ciri nodded. She did in fact know about Saskia’s council: had studied it carefully in fact while in Nilfgaard. It had been, she thought, an admirable attempt, though it had never moved beyond a common town-council. Unfortunately, it had suffered from a major issue.

Almost no one (perhaps apart from Saskia) had seen it as a genuine ruling body. 

Oh they had tried. But in the end, the nobles had resented having to sharing a table with commoners and even worse, dwarfs and baseborne mercenaries. The dwarfs had resented the nobles for their prejudices and Saskia’s armies for bringing Scoi’atel into what had been a decent town. And the prince, who had served as a figurehead, had resented all of them for interfering in his kingly rights. And most of all he had resented Saskia, for daring to be more popular with the people and, more seriously, the army then him. No monarch who wished to remain long on his throne could risk such a rival. And so they had struggled and schemed and argued, all while King Henselts armies bore down on them.

It had ended, as such thing usually do, in blood.

“Yet they didn’t listen.” Saskia continued. “I know what you are about to say. ‘You have not legitimacy Saskia, the people cannot accept a non-dynastic ruler.’ Such foolishness.” She shook her head. “Of course among my kind no one would have thought to apply such logic. We are each a nation upon ourself.”

“Things look different from up on high.”

“No doubt. You do do things differently from us. It’s exasperating, really. I understand the wish to seek solace in the thought that a just king exists just around the corner or that a higher deity will come to the rescue. But I cannot understand why humans just surrender to that thought.”

Ciri nodded. “Us humans are fragile and short-lived. You cannot hold them to the same standards as dragons, you can’t even hold dwarfs or even elves to those standards.”

“Which is why I wanted to meet you. I believe I have a way out of our predicament.”

“Oh?” asked Ciri. 

Suddenly the cave was filled with a low pitched, undulating sound. It came from within the deeper parts of the cave, reverberating in her very bones. Saskia looked up, came to her feet with a purpose and made for the inner parts.

“Later. First it is time for that favor I was asking you for.” 

Ciri stood up more slowly, cautiously picking up her blade where Saskia had tossed it. “Most people will offer their services before asking a viceroy of a favor.”

Saskia turned and stared at Ciri. Her blue eyes were filled with an incalculable, equally human and inhuman sadness. She had seen elves with similar eyes. “I’m not asking a favor of the viceroy, the princess or the empress to be. I’m asking the witcheress.” With those words she turned and disappeared down the tunnel. Ciri followed, her boots crunching on loose rocks, gravel and bat excrement that covered the floor of the tunnel. The heat waves felt stronger now, coming up the tunnel at irregular intervals and a wheezing sound could be heard. Finally, she turned a corner and saw.

 A large cavern opened up onto the gray sky. Water, that had carved the passage out of the bedrock, was falling down its sides and accumulating in a pool that took up maybe half the caverns floor. On the dry part, surrounded by the bones and rotting flesh of sheep and goats, lay a dragon. Its scales were green but somehow losing in color, running languidly down the sides of its emaciated body. Its wings were a faded red, as if the heart no longer had the strength to pump blood through its many vessels. The hot breath, and the wheezing, was coming from the dragon. Its massive eyelid slowly slid open and a single, feverish golden eye stared at the two approaching women. 

Ciri had read all the was to read about dragons in Kaer Morhens library, for even if witchers of the wolf school customarily refused contracts on them they were pathologically incapable of not hoarding all knowledge there was on monsters. But she had never seen one in the flesh before. She turned to Saskia, her sad eyes meet Ciri’s.

“Is it sick?” asked Ciri, lacking anything else to say. 

“She is. She was poisoned many years ago, before my birth. She never truly healed. And then lately she retreated to a cave in the Mahakam mountains but payed little heed to your affairs and didn’t notice that the water she was drinking was killing her. Slowly it destroyed her stomach, her lungs, her heart. Lead poisoning, from all the mining. The dwarfs killed her without even laying eyes nor an axe onto her.”

Ciri nodded slowly, taking notice of one thing Saskia had said. “Your birth?”

“Yes.” She indicated the dragon with a nod of her head. “My mother. Myrgtabrakke, the dragon of Caingorn.” The dragon, presumably understanding her daughters word, let out a low whine. As it moved, gemstones glittered int eh waters reflection.

“I’m sorry.” Ciri said. 

“So am I.” Said Saskia. “I only met her little while ago. Normally dragons abandon their young once they are old enough to fend for themselves and I was raised by my father to boot. But then I heard a rumor of a green dragon showing up to places I had been.” She laughed without any joy. “First I though it might be a potential paramour I would have to chase off. But then I discovered it was her. She had been following me you see, keeping an eye on my progress from afar. But I found her in the end.” 

Ciri nodded “Maybe she wanted to make up for lost time.”

“That’s a human emotion. Dragons are much more practical in nature.” The statement was curt and with little conviction behind it. “I brought her here, did order extra requisitions to feed her, even brought gemstones to make her feel at home. But she can barely eat and have a hard time keeping down what little she does swallow.”

“You said she was the reason you brought me here?”

“I did.” Said Saskia. “There is no cure for her any longer, no medicine or magic that will heal her wounds. All I have been doing is prolonging the inevitable. And I am so tired of suffering.” She looked at the sword Ciri was carrying. “No cure.” She repeated “Just a witchers blade.” She took a deep breath. “I am sorry for laying this burden on you, truly I am. For I know it goes against the way you were raised. But I hold the belief that no child should raise a blade towards their parent, no matter their relation. And a witcher would know where to strike true.” 

“I have done worse.”  The two women walked towards the dragons massive head, its feverish eye never leaving them, it’s ragged breath coming ever more slowly. Ciri slowly drew her blade and put the scabbard down. She wanted to say something, to apologize to the majestic creature for what she had to do but the words failed her. The golden eye followed her and then slowly closed. Somehow, and Ciri would go to her grave not knowing how, she could feel that creature, no Myrgtabrakke, was content with what was about to happen. Ciri stopped beneath the wing and carefully aimed the point of her blade to where she knew the heart would be, putting her left hand upon the pommel for greater force. She could see in the corner of her eye how Saskia was cradling the massive head in her arms, whispering something Ciri couldn’t hear. 

It took but a single trust and Myrgtabrakke, the dragon of Caingorn, was at peace. And so another little piece of the old world was gone forever.

***

Iorveth and his elves had taken them back to the camp under guard and locked them in the same office where they had earlier met master Brudon, possibly as a way to show they had no real ill intent, more likely because as an old mining office it was the only building in the camp with a lock on the door. Their weapons had been confiscated and they had been briskly but thoroughly searched for anything that could aid in their escape, although Iorveth had at least been considerate enough to let one of his female soldiers do it. 

A single shared goblet of water and a few pieces of bread and cheese had been their only dinner and the two women were now left to their own devices, Rosa listlessly propped up against the wall and Tamara going through a chest of what appeared to be clothes, hoping to find something she could use escape.

“Forget it.” Said Rosa. “They are not so stupid as to leave a weapon or a tool behind. Are you going to strangle the elf with a scarf?”

“Doing anything is better then doing nothing Nilfgaardian. I have prayed, I have eaten and now I’m looking for a way out.” She continued her search.

 Rosa let her head fall back towards the wall. “I’m not Nilfgaardian.” She said. “I'm from Attre. Do you know where Attre is, Tamara of Velen? It’s south of Cintra, along the old border with Nazair. Right on what was once the frontier between Nilfgaard and the so called free north. Before the invasion.” Rosa closed her eyes, not looking whether Tamara payed attention or not. “Our dear never mourned duke fell with Calanthe and her army. My family were minor nobles then, barons. My grandfather survived the battle and was faced with a choice. He could fight on, be a hero, a dead hero mind you, to the nordlings. Or he could collaborate and make sure his family survived him. He made the harder choice, knowing that the so called patriots, Vissegerd and his ilk, would forever spurn him and that the Nilfgaardian nobles would forever see him as a parvenu.” Tamara was listening now, looking at Rosa with a quiet interest. “Yet he served the imperial administration, as did my uncle and my father. I was born to service, raised to speak Nilfgaardian over what you call the common speech, My sister, my cousins, all of us trained to serve the empire.” Rosa took a deep breath. Her voice was hoarse and tears were slowly falling from her eyes. “And now its over. Because if the viceroy dies here, if she dies before me then everything my family have fought for is lost. Everything! And I will be the failure that made people laugh and say that the traitors got what they deserved, that one cannot expect anything more from Attrean upstarts.”

“I don’t think your grandfather was a traitor.” Said Tamara. Rosa looked up and for the first time since they meet Tamara’s face didn’t have the slight sneer it usually had when talking to her. “Loyalty is not to be demanded, it is deserved or earned. Your grandfather’s choice was as legitimate as any other.” She herself sat down facing Rosa. ”And you will see your viceroy again.”

“How do you know?” asked Rosa.

Tamara smiled. “I have faith.”

Before Rosa could ask her what exactly she meant by that they could hear a key turning in the lock. They both got to their feet, intending to face their interrogators standing. A human soldier opened the door and Ciri, looking dirty, disheveled and tired walked through the door.

“Ah there you are!” She exclaimed at seeing them, almost throwing herself around Rosa’s neck before stopping herself and making a motion of dusting herself off. “So glad to see that the both of you are alright!”

Rosa was stammering “Your imperial highness - I -I mean we - the dragon...”

“Ah, yes well, I’ll tell you about it later. For now, we have things to do.” Ciri noticed the open chest and strode over to it and started to rummage around inside. 

“Shouldn’t we return to Novigrad? I mean we didn’t find the dragonslayer-” asked Rosa. Beside her Tamara smiled the beatific smile.
 
“You did.” Said a voice. Rosa turned around and saw a woman standing in the entranceway. “Me and your viceroy have made a pact of sorts.”

Before Rosa could inquire what sort of pact Ciri had dug up a huge purple beret with an attached gaudy pheasant feather, which she proceeded to jam down on Rosa’s head. She smiled.

“I have a big idea.” 

Chapter Text

The House of Venger, sometimes simply known as the Aedirnian dynasty, was the ruling house of the kingdom of Aedirn from its founding by Venger of Attre to it’s penultimate king, Demawend III, lasting a total of seventeen rulers. With Demawend III being assassinated during the kingslayer crisis of the early 1270’s and his only legitimate son and heir prince Stennis dying soon afterwards under unclear circumstance (the common tale that he was killed by an angry mob for poisoning his leading general Saskia the dragonslayer can safely be dismissed as a folktale) rule of the kingdom defaulted to the imperial government after the end of the third northern war. The main claimant of the time was a minor, Baldwin of Gulet, a bastard son to king Demawend III born in 1267 during the second war, whose claim was supported by the court of Lyria: the claim was however dismissed by the imperial government as illegitimate. - Effenberg and Talbot, Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, Vol. XV

***

“And so, while we are definitely willing to loan the viceregal administration the required sum, we must insist on a interest rate of at least five percent.” Old man Vivaldi leaned back in his chair to the approving nods of his fellow bankers.

Morvran stared back at the dwarf. “The interest on our outstanding loans is two.”

“Which is precisely why we have to increase the rates general. We are already paying a substantial part of the running budget for your administration and military presence and now you want to add infrastructure spending on top of that. With the north still in ruins and with so many outstanding loans our risk grows. As you are no doubt aware the Redanian throne have already come close to defaulting on their loans.”

“Infrastructure spending will bring benefits, not just costs.” Said Triss, who was sitting on Morvran’s left side. “Just the reconstruction of the Hindhold bridge together with the new southbound highway will help revitalize Velen and bring more gods to market in Novigrad. Shipping insurance rates have already gone down what with the peace with Skellige and with dredging along the Ismena your factories will be feed with all the mineral bounties of Mahakam. You all have a diverse set of business interests, surely you have taken that into your accounts?” 

Master Vivaldi held up a hand “All well and good enchantress. It is not the utility of your projects that worries me, it is us being out with millions of oren and we need a better surety than the uncertain promise of a future economic boom.” 

“The projects will benefit Mahakam as well.” Stated Morvran.

“With all due respect General I left Mahakam when I was but a wee lad. It is not my home and I have no reason to care particularly about its wellbeing.” The dwards voice was curt, if not exactly angry.

Triss interjected. “A possibility master banker. What if we pledged the road tolls on the Hindhold bridge as surety? Say for a period of five years.”

The dwarf stroke his beard. “That could do, that could do. It would take discussion of course, a new cost-benefit analysis.”

“Is that so? In that case may I propose we adjourn for today? You can conduct your cost-benefit analysis and I can have our clerks scare up some raw numbers on the sums we are projecting. Sounds fair?”

“Aye, fair enough.” They all stood and Triss extended the old dwarf her hand, which he proceeded to bend over and leave a featherlight kiss on. ”Be seeing you enchantress. General.” A valet ushered the dwarfs out. Morvran wrinkled his forehead.

“I had preferred if we kept the bridge tolls to ourselves.”

“Either way they would have payed for the construction, this way we simply avoid having an intermediary.” Triss rubbed her eyes. “We had to give them something Morvran, her highness instructions were clear on that manner. It fell within our purview and we acted.” She sighed and closed her eyes “Gods I’m tired.” She said to no one in particular.

The general nodded. “I will instruct the clerks to draw up the forms.” He said and left the room. 

Triss didn’t move. While Ciri was away on her ‘dragon hunting expedition’ as she had happily referred to it before packing up Rosa and Tamara and disappearing in a literal flash, work had been building up at a steady pace and Triss had found herself swamped, not just with her own duties but also with those Ciri had left to her and Morvran. To add insult to injury, the sorceress had been sleeping badly as of late. The encounter with Philippa a few weeks prior had rattle her more then she cared to admit.

Triss was like all graduates of Aretuza greatly skilled in exuding power and confidence, an air that they eventually were to carry effortlessly, making them seem the perfect, no, the obvious choice to advise kings and guide nations. Even those who like Yennefer circled on the outskirts of the games of kings took up this facade with aplomb. Yet Triss, skilled as she was, had never really been comfortable playing that role, largely because she had a hard time making herself believe in it. 

Triss had spend most of her life as a follower. She had followed Tissaia de Vries and Vilgefortz of Roggeveen to Sodden and war. She had followed Philippa Eilhart to the lodge and abject failure. She had followed Geralt of Rivia, first out of fascination, then out of adolescent infatuation, finally due to a lack of better ideas. And she had followed Ciri, first to Undvik and the battle with the wild hunt and now here to Novigrad and whatever goal her little sister had made for herself. And each time she had left a little piece of herself behind. Parts of her body and sanity at Sodden, her morality and self-respect with the lodge, her best friendship and eventually a broken heart with the witcher.

So far the only thing she had lost to Ciri was her ability to get enough sleep but some dark corner of her mind was reminded her that some future price was coming, even if it was just the cloy feeling of betrayal at serving Nilfgaard.

So when Philippa had swept in, all confidence, competence and natural authority, it had rattled her, badly. It had reminded her both of the price one had to pay as a follower and of the role she was ultimately playacting, much like Ciri was playacting empress. 

The sound of glasses clinking against each other brought her out of her reverie. Triss opened her eyes to see Gretka, grimacing as the tall glasses she had attempted to pick up had clinked against each other. 

“Try to hold them between your fingers.” Triss said.

“Yes mistress Merigold.” Said Gretka. The girl started to rearrange the glasses until she stopped. “Mistress Merigold, will you truly repair the bridge across the Pontar?”

“We will, but yes that is the plan. What do you think?”

“Not my place to say.” 

Triss chuckled. “Gretka, in the short time we’ve spent together I’ve never known you to be shy with your opinions.”

The girl blushed. “Well I think it’s good. Pa always complained that when he had piglets to sell he had to herd them to Crow’s nest and sell them to the merchants there instead of selling them directly in Novigrad. He reckoned the prices would be higher there.”

Triss looked at the girl, reflecting that Gretka seldom talked about her parents or indeed any part of her life before meeting Ciri. Like an adept at Aretuza there was a distinct before and after in the girls life. “Your family raised pigs?”

“Used to. Before the army came and took’em.”

“Which army?” Triss asked softly.

Gretka shrugged. “Can’t remember. Never mattered much in Velen anyhow. Soldiers were soldiers, black, red or blue.”

The door opened and Morvran reentered. Gretka swiftly curtsied and left the room, brandishing her glasses in one hand and bread-roll in the other. Morvran looked after her with disdain. 

“The girl needs to learn not to steal from the viceroys table.”

“The girl grew up starving general, she’s stealing food because she spent her childhood never knowing when or if the next meal was coming around.” Triss had privately  coached the girl to be more circumspect in her actions but was not about to let Morvran with his aristocratic prejudices know that. Instead she said “Is our other guest here?”

“He is.” Morvran gestured to a valet standing outside who bowed and ushered in the next visitor. 

The king of beggars for once looked almost deserving of the name. He was dressed in a dark-green doublet over an emerald shirt with multitude of rings on his fingers. He made a bow that would have made any courtier proud, were it not for the insolent smile. 

“Enchantress. I’m flattered to see that I’m only second to the bankers of Novigrad to be granted an audience.”

“Spare me the wit Francis I’m not in the mood.”

The man shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He fished up an apple from a bowl and took a bite. A drop of juice slowly fell down his chin. “Knights have been trickling into the city for the past week.” He reported. “Mostly either dressed as civilians or as mercenaries. They’re mainly staying in church hospices on Temple isle or in a few mansions owned by sympathetic and absent nobles.” He took our a small slip of paper from one of his doublets pockets. “I have the locations here.”

“That might be a bother.” Said Triss. “How are things at the docks?”

“Quiet, a bit to quiet for my taste. Had a sit down with Gudrid the other week but she swears up and down it’s naught but business as usual.”

“You trust her?” asked Morvran.

The King of beggars looked at him. “You worry about your knights general and let my worry about Gudrid and her reavers.” He turned back to Triss. “City council is still divided, some cling to following his holiness stupendous arse like the sheep they are while others are more interested in what your infrastructure program may bring. Speaking of which, the bankers will approve.”

Triss leaned forward. “You have information on this?”

“Nah” said the man. “Just a feeling that’s all.”

“The bankers are kin enough for you to guess their motions?” asked Morvran.

“You seem an educated man general. Can you tell me the difference between banking and organized crime?”

“No.”

“Shame.” said the king. “I always hoped to meet someone who could.” Unbidden, he picked up a small chalice from the table and filled it from a nearby decanter. “They know that long-term prosperity is what they need to refill their coffers after the war and they know, consciously or not, that an effective imperial administration is all that stands between them and the mob. You sold them the idea of trade but they know that the bridge might as well be used by an imperial intervention force. Which they approve of. The tolls merely give them an excuse to believe they are making a decsion based one economics.”

Triss tired eyes stared at the man “And what about you Francis? Do you relish the idea of military occupation? The effect it would have on your business?”

The king of beggars drained his chalice and put it down on the table. “If they come as friends and allies aye. My loyalty is to my city, not my purse. Unlike some others I could name.”

***

An early autumn fog was seeping across the battlements of Vengerberg, slowly enveloping merlons, watch-towers and black-cloaked sentinels alike. Iron braziers provided heat for the men, as they slowly cursed the army, the north, the military high command and even the emperor (if quietly) for posting them there, freezing so early in the year. Their officers have schooled them to adapt to the changing meteorological condition of their posting. Their veteran sergeants, on the other hand, had a more earthly expression.

Embrace the suck, they said.

Corporal Viltred Ap Hyvel, in command of the post at the Ellander gate, was doing some strong embracing indeed. Sat on a camp-stool he was absently carving on a stick, trying to mimic a leaf pattern his elven father had taught him. But he had been a woodcarver and he and Viltred had not spoken much since Viltred kissed the emperors coin and left with the army. Seeing the north in all its wet misery and outright prejudice against anyone without the requisite amount of human blood had generously explained to him why his father had not wanted him to go. But staying in their small Gesoan hometown as a perpetual apprentice to his elder brothers had not fancied Viltred and so he had followed the emperor’s banners north, like so many hundreds of thousands before him. Besides, he though looking at the stripe that adorned his tunic sleeve,  there were perks to command. One of which was the first pick of whatever delights would be left over from the feast he knew the prefect was throwing at this very moment. A few more years and he would be sergeant and in a few more years there would be coin, a diploma and choice land somewhere in the empire.

All in all, much better then Geso, even if one had to live with rotten northern weather.

“Chief, there’s someone approaching the gate.” Talbrek, a still spotty young soldier that had arrived barely a fortnight before said from where he was peering out over the battlements.

“At this hour?” Viltred put down his stick and stood up, feeling the full weight of his armor. Standing with one arm supported by a merlon he could indeed see a small trio of riders approaching through the dusk. “They should have stayed at some inn.” He drew in a breath and shouted “GATE CLOSED” in nordling (the language the nordlings arrogantly called common). When the trio on horseback kept moving he again shouted “GATE CLOSED! WHO GO THERE?”

“Viceroy Cirilla’s shaved cunt!” a voice answered in Nilfgaardian. “Who the fuck you think go there? Open the gate!”

Viltred shook his head. “Gate is closed until tomorrow! Follow the protocol.”

The trio was now almost at the gate. “Fuck your protocol! We have been riding since morning to get here and I ain’t waiting outside! We got a prisoner to hand over to the prefect.”

Well, that sounded almost to good to be true but the Viltred still marched down the tower staircase to the gate, where one of his men opened a small door sat into the massive gateway.

Up close the trio were not very impressive. Two of them were women, one with brown spiky hair clad in longcoat with a spiked pauldrons (and wasn’t that an idiotic thing). The speaker was wearing a gaudy purple velvet beret sloping down on one side and was otherwise clad in short-sleeved mail over a yellow tunic. The third person gender was obscured by his red and white checkered gambeson and, more importantly, a burlap sack over the head. His hands were tied to the pommel of the horse, which was led by the bridle by the first woman. 

“You don’t look like a prisoner transport” said Viltred cautiously. 

The woman spat to the roadside. “Do we look like the fucking military to you? I’m here to be payed in proper florins, not copper military scrap and this“ she gestured with her glowed thumb to the prisoner “is the biggest fucking payday you will ever see.”

Viltred nodded as the two womens purpose now made sense. “You’re bounty hunters.” He stated. 

“That’s right. And this is the big one.” The women nudged her horse over to the prisoners side and draw of the burlap sack with a flourish. Long blond tresses spilled out, those who were not stuck to the dried blood from wound on the womans forehead. “This here is the dragonslayer herself! Now open the bloody gate and take us to the prefect.”

***

Martin de Congreve, baron of Sternwick and by the grace of the holy sun and emperor Emhyr var Emreis the appointed prefect and ruler of Aedirn was a man who, despite his many vices, did not stint his guests. Hence, when summons went out for the great and noble of what once had been a kingdom to gather in what once had been a royal castle, the great good came, hustling together. The mood, initially subdued, became increasingly ebullient as the wine and spirits started to flow and the prefect, ever the gregarious host, toasted his audience of turn-coat nobles, opportunist merchants and Nilfgaardian officials. As the fog had laid itself over Vengerberg and a light rain had started to fall the evenings outdoor entertainments, the fireworks and the lanterns were called off. Instead the revelers kept to the great hall, as the guards pulled their cloaks up over their helmets and thought of the scraps from the nobles tables that would befall them. The good citizens largely shut their doors and stayed inside. Few looked out.

No one looked up.

On top of the tiled roof of one of the towers of the castle, hidden by a chimney, blue lightning briefly flashed. The gargoyles along the edge had suddenly increased in numbers, as two figures crouched among them. 

“That was…different.” drawled the taller one. “Any particular reason why we are on the roof and not inside the castle?”

“The magical protections of the building are stronger within its walls.” Said the shorter figure, sword slung over her back ”Also its harder to enter inside a building I haven’t been in before.”

“I don’t see why there would be an issue. I’ve seen Daerienn do things like that all the time.” The taller figure started to uncoil a rope he had wrapped diagonally across his chest

“I’m not a darienn, they force upon a portal, I - I simply slide through.” Gingerly the smaller figure stepped forward towards the edge of the roof, looking down at the courtyard five stories below. “A steep drop, make sure you tie the knot properly.”

“Do not lecture me about ropes dh'oine.” The first figure had tied the rope around the wing of a gargoyle and was now testing the knot to see if it would hold. “I’m the one who will risk a fall while you simply slide to safety.” He continued.

Ciri shook her head. “I can alter location, not velocity. It would likely kill me as surely as it would kill you Iorveth.” She narrowed her eyebrows, invisible beneath her hood. “And dh'oine, really? I can tell you that I carry elder blood, of Lara Dorren herself, in my veins.”

Satisfied at last with his knot the elf gingerly, silently lowered his rope down the side of the wall. He scoffed ”Sophistry for scholars and Aen Saevherne. A dh'oine is a dh'oine is a dh'oine.” He looked Ciri in the eye and handed her the rope. “Rhenawedd y dh'oine if you prefer to be more formal.”

“Princess of humans? Please. Servility doesn’t suit you.” Ciri gripped the rope and slowly started to descent, feet against the wall. Below her, far below her, empty flagstones echoed with the steps of the occasional passing guard or scurrying servant. Ciri was not much for fear of heights but she still shuddered internally as she slowly stared to descend. Above her Iorveth swung his lanky bulk out and followed her down. 

“Before he died.” Said Skalen Brudon “king Demawend prepared a addendum in his political testament, a addendum  which would in the event of his death and the demise of his son and legal heir legitimize his bastard son. Said son was of course born to a commoner but Aedirnian inheritance law does not pay any heed to the legal status of the parent or their relationship with the inheriting parent once a proper will and testament. Said addendum was hidden within the kings personal papers in Vengerberg. After the death of prince Skellen“ here the dwarf glanced almost apologetically at Saskia, in whose name and vengeance the late prince had been mobbed to death “there was little time to activate said addendum as the Nilfgaardian army invaded soon afterward, bypassed Lyria and fell upon disorganized and leaderless Aedirn.”

“What does it matter?” asked Tamara. “The bastard is properly dead by now as no one has heard of him and the addendum must been either destroyed or lost.”

“Not so.” Said Saskia. “The bastard prince is well and alive playing the role of a squire at the court of queen Meve of Lyria. We had considered contacting him but without any actual document he can inherit as well as any other bastard. Less well properly, given his lack of noble blood on his mother side. As for the addendum , well…” here Saskia turned to Ciri.

“The prefect is a politician. If he found it, and his reports tell me his clerks did a thorough inventory of King Demawends papers, he would have never have gotten rid of such an important document.”

“You think he had some plan for it?” asked Rosa with a furrowed brown.

“No. Schemes don’t work that way, all long-reaching and complicated. But the man knew that someday, maybe, it could be of use. Against me and my father, for me and my father, against the free state-” she through out her arms “the possibilities are endless. Its to valuable a tool to lose and so he will have kept it. But as it is too valuable to let just anyone handle, he would have kept in around his personal archives.”

Secretary Thorbrand had been working late, as was his fashion. Room illuminated by the oil lamps that were deemed safer than candles around the archives he was set to guard with his life, his eyes running beneath his spectacles, Thorbrand worked diligently late into the night for his master, the prefect. There were those who served their master on the battlefield, favor held high on lances and swords. But there was also those like Thorbrand who served late into the night, when the rest of the castle was busy with festivities, to make sure the paperwork was in order and that the archives were well tended to. 

He didn’t notice the window opening until a cold draft almost grabbed a hold of the report he had put to one side. Startled, he turned around in his chair only to look at a young, scarred, ashen-haired woman with a sword slung behind her back. She stepped down from the window-sill and held up a hand.

“Excuse me, please do not cry out.”

Thorbrand nodded slowly standing up, not taking his eye of the swordhilt behind her shoulder.

“Do you recognize me?” asked the woman. Thorbrand at first started to shake his head then suddenly remembered. An official portrait of a white-haired girl in a golden diadem, dressed in imperial finery. Not the scarred woman in a dark tunic standing before him but thue likeness was clear. “The viceroy? Your highness?” he said, looking around for anything he might use as a weapon or, failing that, an escape route. 

The girl smiled. “Exactly! I thank you for recognizing me master-”

“No! The viceroy would not come here sneaking inside like a, a thief! You’re an impostor, a dobbler, something-”

“I can assure you-” Ciri began, to no avail as Thorbrand suddenly started to shout.

“GUA-” his shout was silenced by the arrow that came gliding through the open window, piercing his throat straight through his windpipe. With a gurgle the man stumbled backwards over his desk, blood-stained papers scattering to the winds. 

Ciri whirled around. Iorveth, who had silently entered the room, adjusted the short re-curving bow he had taken in lieu of his usual elven longbow. 

“I did not tell you to kill him!” Ciri hissed.

“He was calling for the guards and you were wasting time. I saved the mission.”

“I could have talked him aroun-”

Iorveth, who had been closing the window that they had entered through, turned his head and fixated Ciri with his only eye. “Listen here, viceroy, princess, witcheress or whatever you want to call yourself. I am not your subordinate, I came here for one reason, for Saskia. I will not let your sentimentality endanger her in any shape or form. Now find the damn document before her neck ends up in the noose you put in front of her!”

***

The great hall, once the home of the kings of Aedirn, was decorated that night with identical black and gold sun banners, hanging along the rafters where the kings of old had hung multi-colored battle trophies. Long dark wooded tables were covered by embroidered cloth in dark blue and red, a tribute to the prefects family arms, guests seated on upholstered armchairs or simply carved stools, all according to rank and status. Silvered candelabras hovered in the air as the orchestra brought in specifically from Nazair for the occasion filled the air with the sound of harps and lute.

 The prefect himself, dressed seemingly somberly in black and silver, with a starched white ruff surrounded by his chain of office, had already toasted the emperor, the viceroy, the province of Aedirn, a swift resolution to the unfortunate uprising in the north as well as his wife when they led in the bounty hunters, prisoner in tow. They marched up the long row of tables flanked by soldiers in black cloaks and chain-mail, boots increasingly echoing on the flagstones as the crowd hushed and stared at the prisoner. Some were dumbfounded. Some were scared. Some were furious, at either the prisoner or at the bounty hunters that had caught her. Some simply wondered what the commotion was about and when they could go back to the excellent fair. 

The bounty hunters marched their prisoner down until they reach the high dais constructed by old king Demawends father. There they forced her down to her knees, greaves impacting the floor with a dull metallic crunch. Their escort smashed their boot-heels together in near unison, close enough to impress nearby nobles, far enough apart to enrage a few sergeants seated near the entrance.

The prefect, who had just been about to steel himself for another toast, found himself staring at the face of his enemy. Their eyes met, one pair runny and foggy with drink, the other pair sharp and half covered with dried blood. For a moment those eyes held steady, until the prefect broke the contact, telling himself that he had to address his audience.

Surprised or not, Martin de Congreve was a politician schooled in the cut-throat saloons of Nilfgaardian politics and reacted accordingly. 

“Friends-” he started magnanimously as he stood up “it appears we have a special entertainment for tonights fete! Behold Saskia, the self-claimed dragon slayer of Vergen. Behold the rebel against the empire’s rightful authority. Behold the end to the rising!” he gestured across the hall, signet ring sparkling in the candle-light. “Great nobles of Aedirn! Good officers and officials of Nilfgaard! What say you? Should we let this one adorn our dungeons? Or have her dance for our entertainment tonight as she finally sees who holds true authority over these lands?” 

“You don’t!” exclaimed the prisoner “Your authority is built on quicksand and lie-” one of her captors, the one in the longcoat with the spiked pauldrons, cuffed her across the ear not to gently. The other one, hair hidden beneath her enormous beret, held up an arm to stop her companion. “Let her speak.” She said said in nordling, clear enough to be heard by the crows, who stirred uneasily. For most of them, nobles of old Aedirn, looked uncomfortably at their Nilfgaardian companions and wondered if their sheer understanding constituted disloyalty.

Saskia had gotten herself up onto one knee now, despite the hand pressing down onto her shoulder. “You claim you found this country leaderless, it’s king assassinated. Your rule can only claim legality on this alone.”

The prefect made a cutting gesture with his hand. “It is right by conquest that forms the basis of our rule.” Immediately mentally kicking himself because while true as to the Nilfgaards control, it was the technically the collapse of the royal house that legitimated the current arrangement. ”Enough of this! These amusements, my friends, are taking a turn for the dull I fear. Guards! Gag her and take her away!”

The small group of soldiers made a move to obey, only to stop as the two bounty hunters formed a protective wall between their prisoner and the soldiers. “We haven’t been payed yet.” Said the beret wearing one in nilfgaardian, her voice pressed through gritted teeth, hand on the grip of her sword. The guards circled them, unsure whether they should charge the two women or not.

***
The door shook hard enough that Iorveth feared it would shake free of its hinges. The secretary had locked it from the inside, as was the standard procedure, which had saved them from the initial onslaught as the guards responded to his interrupted call. Iorveth had then resolutely started to stack furniture up against it, which had saved them as the soldiers had brought up some piece of furniture of their own to use as a battering ram. It would hold, he judged, at least for a little while. Even so, in his professional opinion, it would hardly hold forever.

“Hurry up!” he shouted into the room.

“I’m working as fast as I can!” Ciri shouted back from the other room the the filing cabinets were kept. “It would have been considerably easier if you hadn’t killed the man with the filing system in his head!” she was working franticly, moving up and down the aisles of folders and documents, opening locked cabinets with the substantial ring of keys the late archivist had left them.

Iorveth muttered an elven curse underneath his breath. Then his ears pricked up as the sounds coming from the other side changes, the dull bangs of the battering ram replaced with sharp thooks against the wood.

Axes.

***

Saskia had now gotten to her feet. “You usurp the crown without any right! By the Pontar concord, direct control over conquered territory can only be granted if there are no ruler to pledge the territory to Nilfgaard! So was granted Temaria, Redanian and Lyria. So should be granted Aedirn!” her voice was nor filling the entire hall, echoing among the rafters and imperial banners. “You break your own emperors laws!”

The guests were increasingly seething. Aedirnian nobles looked around, squinting in the candlelight as the suspicion that they had, somehow and by someone, been had. Nilfgaardian officials and nobles, now fully aware of the implications of what Saskia was actually saying, were pondering  the consequences and exactly how much shorter of a head the prefect would be if true. 

Many had already had to much to drink. Some were fingering the daggers and knifes they wore in lieu of proper weapons while the nervous troops ran their fingers along the shafts of their halberds, backs already aching from standing at attention for too long. The servants had stopped refilling the wineglasses and plates pilled high with delicacy’s, retreating out of the hall. Something was hovering in the air, something the hall had not felt since old king Demawend gathered his banners for war against Kaedwen the last time. Anger, fury, bewilderment, fear. Nobles and officials alike were feeling it.

The prefect, startled and somewhat drunk, felt this as well. “You speak of laws? You, an outlaw and a rebel who stood meekly by as the last scion of the house of Venger was lynched by an angry mob?” he raised his eyes to the crowd. “You hear that my lords and ladies? The bandit speak of laws!” he laughed.

Not as many as he had hoped laughed with him. 

“King Demawend left an heir!” Saskia shouted “A son, baseborn to be true but by his last will and testament his rightful heir! The boy is alive and well at the court of queen Meve of Lyria.” Now it was her turn to address the crowd. “A prince hidden away from you my lords, not by Nilfgaard but by the corrupt husk standing on the dais! Will you abide direct rule when a king is your right!” suddenly she shifted language. ”Lords of Nilfgaard will you let this man’s greed defame the empire?”

  Hands clenched, teeth grinding together, de Congreve saw across the room that the woman’s speech was gaining effect. Men and women stood or squirmed uncomfortably in their seats, shooting him accusing or quizzical glances. Had the woman preached rebellion they would have ignored her he knew. But cleverly she had hidden her banditry behind a facade of legality, Nilfgaardian legality at that. He made a furtive gesture with one hand. One of aids nodded and signaled the men standing behind the dais. These were member of de Congreve’s household guards, not the army garrison. Raising swords and halfpikes they slowly started to move around the table. 

Resigned, the two bounty hunters drew their swords.

***

The first splinter flew into the room as an gleaming axehead penetrated the door. Iorveth, now openly cursing, instinctively hit it with the chair he was carrying to better his barricade. The axe withdrew, only to again impact the rim of the opening. Another one smashed through to his right, opening a new hole. In the gloom beyond he could see the gleam of armor and drawn weapons and hear terse commands.

“They’re coming through!” he shouted, looking around any other pieces of furniture to stack against the door. A change in the tone behind the door and a movement warned him just in time to throw himself to one side as someone fired a crossbow through the opening. It struck the opposite stone wall with a metallic clang. Iorveth ducked beneath the firing arc to reach the other side and get closer to Ciri. Additional twangs were heard as two more crossbows were fired. One bolt went lower the the last one and struck Thorbrands limp body in an undignified place and manner. The other one went a little bit to the left and smashed an oil lamp. Burning oil splattered across the table, the floor and the papers and books strewn upon them.

Within a moment, half the room was on fire.

Iorveth was out of ideas. The axes were still at the door and now the fire blocked the window they had entered through.

“Dh’oine!” he shouted.

***

The household guards advanced slowly, deliberately, forming a neat half circle between their master and the prisoner. More arrogant men would have rushed forward immediately but these were professionals and thus advanced cautiously, not knowing the measure of the bounty hunters and well aware of the reputation of the dragonslayer, who despite being unarmed and still having her hands bound was standing defiantly in front of them. Corporal Viltred and his men had retreated a few steps, unsure of whether they were supposed to help or not. 

“Is this the way Nilfgaard deals justice?” Saskia was still shouting. “Is this the way to respond to accusations? Only a guilty man would attempt to silence an accuser! Where are your vaunted courts?” this last bit was directed at one table whom with the gavels hanging from their necks appeared to be legal staff.

“Liars need no hearing!” the prefect shouted back. Sweat was running down his brow, darkening the starched white of his ruff. An old philosopher had once said that you needed to understand your enemy in order to defeat them and Saskia understood them very well indeed. He was losing the crowd, he felt. But it would end when her blood finally spilled. Despite her accusations and calling on imperial law, Saskia had not produced any actual proof of her accusations. He motioned his guards forward.

The bounty hunters were now standing to either side of Saskia, swords at the ready. The taller one in the long-coat spoke in nordling.

“Congratulations Nilfgaardian. Your wish to die before your viceroy is about to come through.”

Before the one in the purple beret could answer the air between them and the guards exploded in blue lightning. A distinct smell of burnt ozone (and for some reason, smoke) filled the nostrils of those standing close.

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, crown-princess of Nilfgaard, viceroy of the northern territories, was in their midst. 

Her sword was sheeted and hung over her back, the distinctive white hair tied back revealing her scar, her golden chain of office hanging around her neck. In her glowed left hand was a folded piece of parchment. Her piercing green eyes fixed the viceroy and then slowly scanned across the crowd before returning to the prefect. The assembled notables, just now agitated and fidgeting, sat back, dumbstruck. On top of the dais the prefect fell back into his chair dumbstruck

“Martin de Congreve, baron of Sternwick, prefect of Aedirn.” She intoned his titles one by one. “It appears you have been in these lands for too long.”

The prefect got to his feet. “Your highness, I am so sorry, I wasn’t expecting-”

“I wasn’t expecting to be greeted without basic courtesy beholden to a member of the imperial family.” She angled her head. “Don’t you bow before your viceroy?”

The prefect, now somewhat over his earlier fluster, bowed from his waist behind the table, then walked, almost ran around it in order to bow onto the floor. The assembled crowd started to follow him as Ciri held up hand.

“My lords I am not here to be flattered.” She turned to the prefect. “As I hear it you have been accused of a crime here tonight?”

“Lies your highness!” said the prefect, still on his knees “lies made up by a bandit and a strumpet.” He looked up, hoping to see some sort of understanding in his viceroy’s eyes. There were none. In the single eye of the elf that had accompanied her and that he had ignored until now however, his death stared back at him.

“Is that so?” said the viceroy. She motioned to the bounty hunter in the purple beret. “Var Attre, release her bonds.” As Rosa sheeted her sword and set upon the rope with her dagger Ciri rounded the still kneeling prefect and steeped onto the dais. She turned around and leaned backwards onto the table. “Tell me, baron de Congreve, isn’t it true that the late king Demawend left a son and heir? Isn’t it true that, as the dragonslayer says, he left documents behind to ensure this child's ascendancy to the throne?” as she spoke she waved the parchment around, eyes around the hall transfixed to it. “But how could it be so” she asked rhetorically “why such a document would have been immediately turned over to my father the emperor once discovered here in the royal archives.” She turned the full force of her glare onto the prefect “Isn’t that so de Congreve?” and with a flourish she let the sheet of the parchment unfold. 

In truth, it could have been a list of ingredients for chicken soup with official seals attached, though Ciri, because no one was close enough to read it. Nevertheless it seemed the knock the air out of the prefect.

“Your highness, I wasn’t aware, I mean there were so many papers-” the prefect started.

“Enough!” Ciri interrupted him. In a more normal tone of voice she continued. “You have lied to your emperor, tarnished the name of Nilfgaard and through greed and rank incompetence threaten our position in these lands.” She turned her gaze to corporal Ap Hyvel ”Take him to the dungeons.” She soldiers, relieved to finally have some clear orders to follow, grabbed the now former prefect and dragged him away. His wife sobbing followed him and Ciri felt a pang of guilt watching her go. An innocent, in all probability, now with her name forever tarnished by her husbands actions. Steeling herself once more, she turned to the crowd. 

“Nobles of Aedirn!” the acoustics of the hall made her voice carry from the dais. “I’m afraid that what you have been told here tonight is the truth. The prefect has kept information from you and the heir to your throne is alive and well in the court of the queen of Lyria. My father the emperor has always abide by the treaties he signed and he will abide by this one as well.” This was of course not true in any sense of the word as her father had broken everything from peace treaties to his own marriage wows, though Ciri bitterly as the lie made her stomach churn. “An empire lives and dies by law and treaty. Your king, young Baldwin, will be sent for and enthroned as our vassal. The war will end your graces, for I already have a commitment by the rebels that they will lay down arms and even integrate into the kingdoms forces.” 

The last part caused a stir, from none more then Saskia and Iorveth, who suddenly stared at Ciri. Wait, theres more she thought. “To rule in the stead of your king until he comes of age we will appoint a regent among your own.” Ciri continued. “For government can be compared to a great beast and so it takes the greatest best slayer to deal with one. Thus we rule that Saskia of Vergen, dragonslayer of Aedirn and once champion of prince Stennis of the house of Venger will hold this position.” There was a stunned silence for a moment while Saskia looked as if Ciri had just hit her across the back of the head. Then the crowd, one by one started to applaud. Satisfied Ciri leaned back onto the table as assembled notables started to talk excitedly among themselves or getting up to approach first her and then Saskia.

There was, Ciri could suddenly see, some commotion by one wall. Soldiers were looking out one of the great windows across the yard where the archivist tower was on fire as years of tax rolls and several irreplaceable tomes of Aedirn history went up in flames. A woman in the late middle age, dressed in a fine if old dress held two crying children. One a boy briefly turned his head towards Ciri and she could in his face see the features of the archivist.

Suddenly, Ciri felt her victory turn to ash.

Chapter Text

She was a fishmonger and sure 'twas no wonder

For so were her father and mother before

And they wheeled their barrows through streets broad and narrow

Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive O

She died of a fever and sure no one could save her

And that was the end of sweet Marishka Maoileoin

Now her ghost wheels her barrow through the streets broad and narrow

Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive O

- Excerpt from Marishka Maoileoin, Novigrad ballad for the late 13^th century

It started in The Bits. 

A fishmonger, pushing her heavy cart up from the fish market in the early hours of the morning, sat down on the ledge of a municipal well to rest her weary feet. Fatigued, she hauled the rope that carried the water from the underground aqueduct and let the cold drink quench her thirst. Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, she stood and picked up her feet, pushing her overloaded cart down the narrow alleys to the sustenance of the city's poor workers, crying cockles and muzzles. She returned home to her tiny room as dusk fell.

By morning she had developed a fever yet pushed her cart down to the market and up the narrow alleys all the same. 

By afternoon she collapsed in the gutter, spewing blood. A passerby helped her to her feet and took her back to her home, leaving her cart to be plundered by scamps and beggars.

By midnight she was dead.

Two days later her good Samaritan collapsed himself over in the Silverton district. Five days later deaths had been reported in every district save Farcorners.

So it began.

***

Ciri carefully opened the door with the key she had been given by bank manager. The house was situated on a quiet back street close to the river market. Once this had been a fashionable street where high-end shops catering to the city's and kingdoms elite operated but wars and depression had caused the shops to be boarded up and abandoned. This house too had been abandoned but before the wars and had somehow, mysteriously, remained both intact and left alone by sacker's, squatters, and real estate developers.

It was less of a mystery, of course, if you knew to whom it belonged.

The doorway, while ornately and tastefully decorated in wrought iron, has no sign or other crest, for those who visit would have known very well why they visited.

The door opens silently, it's hinges apparently perfectly oiled despite them not having been in use for quite a long time. Inside, dark spotless wooden floors, partially covered by gold, opal and scarlet rugs from Ofir stretch towards the walls. Lights seemingly burn without fuel lighted the room, falling upon the heavy armchairs and tables and shelves covered by heavy tomes and exotic paraphernalia. A sorceress's parlor, at once comfortable and intimating. The air smells of incense and herbs. Gently Ciri steps forward.

For a moment, in her minds eye she can see how that door opens in another time or another universe. See the customer, a distraught noblewoman belly just starting to round perhaps or a merchant’s wife looking for someone, anyone to lift the spell cast on her infant child. She sees the raven-haired sorceress greet them sternly but confidently, ask them to sit down in one of the chairs and explain their trouble. She sees how a beautiful flaxen haired young women with deep green eyes serves the guest refreshments before take her place behind the sorceress chair. How the sorceress gestures to her.

"My daughter Cirilla" Yennefer says, in a tone that does not invite questions about how she came upon this daughter "just returned from her schooling at Aretuza. She will be assisting us in this matter. I vouch for her competence personally."

Ciri shook her head. The image, so clear a moment ago, had disappeared and the room was again empty, just the unnatural stillness and cleanliness of the sorceress home.

"I don't think she has been back here for years." Ciri turned around. Triss was standing in the doorway, dressed in a checkered tunic, green hose and traveling boots rather than the dresses she affected at the estate. Her eyes scanned the room, drinking in the surroundings like a desert wanderer just having found water. "Maybe even since before you met."

"You have been here before?"

"Many times. Used to stop over here so many times. There is, or used to be, a quite pretty garden in the back. We would drink wine and gossip about our fellows before, well" Triss shook her head sadly "That's all water under the bridge, ancient history really."

Ciri nodded and kept scanning the room. "She and Geralt lived here once, she told me."

"Yes before he left." Triss shrugged "That's even more ancient however and you shouldn't pry into your parent’s life before your birth. It's undignified."

Ciri smiled "Now who's calling me the witcher's daughter? Sure you don't want to come inside? Maybe we can scare up a bottle or two of that wine?"

The sorceress shook her head sadly "I don't think I would be welcome. Not anymore."

Ciri nodded and turned on her heels. The smell of incense and herbs followed her out. "You should talk to her." She said by way of admonishing the sorceress. "That was years ago."

"Your mother is not the forgiving type Ciri. And now that they are finally happy the last thing they need is this old fool prancing around." Triss firmly changed the subject. "You are needed back in Novigrad. Things have started to unravel."

***

The mansion, which had looked quite stately when she left, looked more and more like a military camp preparing for a siege. Wagons loaded with supplies stood jammed up against its outer walls and couriers came galloping tired horses through the entrances, leaving off reports to clerks and staff officers before handing off their horse to stable boys, getting a quick bit to eat and then storming out with a new horses and new missives.

Morvran met Ciri and Triss in front of the main building. "I have von Gratz here with the latest report from the city. So far we are looking at maybe 1-200 dead and another couple of hundred seriously ill, in every district." He shook his head. "It's bad."

Inside the mansion, the doctor, looking like he had precious little sleep and most of it in the same clothes he was wearing, bowed wearily to Ciri. She impatiently waved him to his feet. "What are we dealing with?"

"I'm...not sure your highness." The doctor sounded fatigued and immensely frustrated "At first we thought it was the sweating sickness, or an influenza or even pollution of the water supply. But the tests we ran didn't show anything out of the ordinary and the symptoms vary. At the moment we are working at trying to isolate the sick but with the city as overcrowded as it is..." he furrowed his brow "Something else is peculiar. So far all the victims have been, well, human."

Ciri looked up at the last comment. "Are you sure?"

"Yes definitely. I had my people make the rounds of the Farcorners and nothing. What I can tell you is that people have started to grumble."

"Grumble is a one word for." Morvran interrupted "We are going to have pogrom at our hands at this rate. Last night two dwarfs were beaten to death by the Lacehalls. No witnesses, no help."

Ciri turned towards him "What does the City guard say?"

"The captain I spoke with said, and I quote, 'dwarfs kill each other all the time'." Morvran crossed his arms. "Incompetents aren't even trying."

Ciri stared back at him. Finally she said between gritted teeth. "Morvran, next time you're in the city you speak to that captain, personally and you tell him that the imperial viceroy demands-"

"Would appreciate" Triss supplanted.

"-would appreciate that he reopens his investigation and do a proper job before I-" she threw up her hands "Well, let him use his imagination."

Morvran smiled "I will do so at first opportunity your highness."

"See that you do. Magister-" she turned again to von Gratz "Thank you for informing us, I will need a full written report to be distributed to the other cities in the region." Ciri looked him up and down. "Before that however I suggest that you have a rest. Have the steward prepare a room for the good doctor Triss." The tired old man bowed and gratefully followed the sorceress. Ciri turned around and started up the staircase, Morvran in tow.

"I will of course do my utmost to coax the guards to do their jobs properly for once. Nevertheless, I do not believe they will meet with much success even if they do try. Maybe our new friend the King of Beggars would be a more suitable choice?"

"If we were only trying to find the murderers yes, it would be." A guard opened the door to her chambers and she stepped inside. When she heard how Morvran had stopped outside she turned around with an irritated look. "Oh for the love of...come inside Morvran, we don't have the time to stand around."

With some hesitation he followed her inside. Ciri’s chambers were as before divided into a sitting area, which after Triss’s renovations was now tastefully decorated with walls covered with tapestries and dark wooden furniture brought up from Mag Turga. The walls were covered with paintings showing landscapes of what Morvran believed to be Cintra. It was also considerably less messy then it once had been. The sitting area was divided from what he guessed was the sleeping area by a paper screen decorated with flying cranes.

"Oh of course I want the them found and punished and I'm certain the king could do that." she continued "But that would be tyranny Morvran, using criminal gangs to dole out justice, and I am not a tyrant. Which is what they want me to be, need me to be." She made a vague motion with her head in the direction of the city. "Their entire rule is based on fear. Which is why we cannot answer in kind." She took a warm wet towel from a bowl that Gretka had appeared with and washed her face before looking up again. "No matter how much we want to." She unhooked her sword and handed it to Gretka before she walked around her screen, leaving Morvran standing uncomfortably no being sure whether or not he had been dismissed.

"It's not what we learned at the academy." He finally said for lack of anything better.

"Well, honestly, screw what you learned at the academy Morvran." Beside him Gretka fussed with mounting the sword on the rack by the wall. The girl then disappeared into a wardrobe and reappeared with a change of clothing which she hurried around the screen with.

"Well, since we are on the subject of rulership your highness." Morvran continued "There is the little matter of your expedition to Aedirn."

"It went well didn't it?" Ciri asked from behind the curtain. Then she continued, a bit more subdued "A corrupt stain on the name of the empire removed, a stable vassal put in his place, an end to the insurgency."

"The political situation will no doubt be advantageous to our cause." Morvran for a moment appeared to make a deep study of his boots. "I am speaking, in fact, of the dragon you fought."

Ciri  stuck her head out from behind the curtain and Morvran went beet-red when he noticed her shoulders were bare "Who told you?" she asked before she noticed his reddening face and how he turned around with a precision that would have made any guardsman proud. She laughed "Morvran no need to be shy." She chided him.

"Simply trying to respect decorum your highness."

"Yes, well, sorry. Inappropriate of me. You were saying?" said Ciri while withdrawing again.

"Ah," Morvran mentally kicked himself for stumbling on the words "What I was going to say was that you put your life at an unacceptable risk. Going alone and incognito into a rebel held war zone is dangerous enough without adding dragon hunting to the itinerary." He tried to speak in a as normal a tone as possible. It didn't fool his viceroy.

"Were you worried about me Morvran?" came Ciri's voice, gently teasing, from behind the curtain.

"Well I'm worried about the integrity of the empire if it's only dynastic heir disappears into the wilds of Aedirn-" Morvran began in a lecturing tone and was interrupted when Ciri, now fully dressed in one of her linen shirts and a red embroidered west, stepped around the curtain, white-blond hair falling beneath her shoulders. She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Movran sighed. "I was worried about you, your highness. Your duty to guard your own life and safeguard the continuation of the dynasty may be something you take lightly but not me. It is my duty, my foremost duty, to my emperor and to my, to our country to ensure you come home alive and in one piece. You told me once that you wanted to change the world. Well you cannot change the world if you are dead and your death, your highness, will set of a civil war and a dynastic struggle that will make the northern wars look like a gentle disagreement." He paused briefly and met his sovereign to be's eyes. Ciri stood still with her arms crossed "All I ask is that you take better care of your life your highness. No matter what you may yourself believe it does not belong solely to you anymore." He bowed. "May I be dismissed?"

Ciri nodded, silently. Morvran moved backwards out of the room, formally. The door closed behind him and, a moment later, opened again as Triss entered with no need for invitations by viceregal command. The sorceress looked inquisitively at the viceroy. "What did you do to general Voorhis?" She asked.

"He had some opinions on the Aedirn mission." Ciri said by way of explanation. "Sit down, you look tired Triss." She said as she looked herself in the mirror and started adjusting her hair.

"Is that why he was blushing?" Triss said while reclining back on the couch. Gretka disappeared and reappeared with two goblets of fresh pressed apple cider, one of which Triss toke while smiling at the girl. She was getting better she thought with approval. Yes, congratulations on that achievement great teacher, you have successfully taught a servant girl to do her job. Another century and you could maybe instruct first-year students at Aretuza. She looked at Ciri's new clothes and at the screen. "Did you...change in front of him? Where did you learn to seduce men Ciri?"

Ciri almost spat out her cider. The sorceress laughed. "Oh you were not trying to seduce the man?"

"I was trying to save time and he had something to let of his chest!" Ciri said while blushing. "I was not trying to seduce him!"

Triss smiled behind her cup. "Well it would be a decent dynastic match."

Ciri smile faded. "Oh not you too. I'm not into this to start a bloody dynasty Triss, I accepted the throne because-"

"Because you want to do good and change things, I know. But those changes would be considerably more permanent if you actually started a dynasty." Triss drank of the cider. "Seduction or no, Morvran is right. Your life no longer belongs to you."

"Did you eavesdrop on us?" Ciri asked incredulously.

"I'm a sorceress." Said Triss by way of explanation. "As your chief advisor is behooves me to be informed of everything my mistress is doing. As your elder sister, well-" the sorceress eyes twinkled. "It is always my prerogative what you get up to with men. Or women, I don't judge."

Ciri stuck out her tongue at her as Triss laughed. Then she asked. "Do you think he was right? Did I risk my life frivolously?"

"Hardly, or I would never have allowed you to go."

Ciri looked at Triss and raised her eyebrows. "Allow?"

"Figure of speech." Triss sounded non-plussed. "What I'm more concerned about is the precedent. The fact that you can be almost anywhere instantly does not mean you can be in two places simultaneously. A realm cannot be successfully run for long if it is dependent on the personal intervention of the monarch. And every problem cannot be solved with a sword-cut and a slick tongue."

Ciri looked at her thoughtfully while draining her own cup. Then she said. "Like the disease."

Triss's face grew somber again. "Exactly like the disease." She shook her head "von Gratz and his cronies are stumped and rightfully so. Outbreaks of disease in cities such as Novigrad are nothing new but diseases that only attack one species are incredibly rare. It does not take an overly paranoid mind to believe it's foul play, particularly with the street preachers still out there spouting drivel."

"I though you said they couldn't find anything wrong with the water supply?"

"It what they said. But then again they are but common doctors." Triss put her cup down. "I've sent for help."

***

A witcher and a sorceress rod the Oxenfurt road towards Novigrad. On their way they passed caravans of merchants, imperial couriers, enterprising beggars and traders, all whom the couple ignored. They were bickering.

"I don't understand why we could not simply portal in." complained one of them, the dark haired one.

"We had equipment to retrieve." Answered the other, hair tied up in a knot on the top of the head.

"Still doesn't explain why we could just use the most efficient method." The first one continued.

The second one exasperatedly threw her head back and started to unwind the topknot. "Lambert, I do not intend to exhaust myself holding a portal open while you fling sensitive equipment, my equipment mind you, that costs more then you used to make in a season, through it." She threw a look back at the two pack horses he was leading, overloaded with gadgets, sacks and chests. "I have no idea what the market looks like in Novigrad these days but since those nutters in the temple are still in charge I'm fairly certain most of these items could not be bought there. Which is why we detoured to both Oxenfurt and Velen."

"I detoured to Velen!" Lambert protested.

"Well, yes darling, but I did swear a holy oath never to set my foot in that fetid swamp again." Said Keira and batted her eyelashes at the witcher. "And holy oaths are to be kept, no?"

"You didn't have to fight a bunch of drowner's and drain swamp water from your boots." Lambert grumbled.

"True, but I did have to argue with a group of highly uncooperative merchants." She turned around in her saddle and started to rummage around in a saddlebag.

"What are you looking for, slyzard tongues and rotgut?"

"Close." Said Kira and then produced a bottle and a wrapped item with a flourish. "Almond bread and cherry cordial! Don't have time for a picnic but I thought a nice road snack could cheer you up." She broke off a part of the bread and handed it to Lambert, who accepted it greedily.

"You know I love you?" He said between mouthfuls.

"I know you simpleton." She said with a laugh and started to work the cork of the bottle.

Novigrads walls soon towered above them. The roads were not as full as they once had been, close to the city. In the outskirts, children were no longer seen playing, elven and dwarven parents shushing them inside when the two not-quite-humans came close. By the gate they had to stop as the road was blocked by guardsmen who escorted a wagon. As it lumbered past they could see the stained sheets covering bodies.

"I didn't expect it to get this bad this quickly." Keira said and shook her head sadly.

"It's going to get alot worse." Lambert remarked. The wagon was gone but the guardsmen still blocked the road. "You're going to let us pass?" he asked their commander.

The guard commander spat. "Fuck you mutant. Ain't your kin dying. Don't need more of you spreading diseases."

Lambert blanched "Want me to come down there so you say that to my face?"

"Lambert!" Keira interrupted him. Ignoring the fuming witcher she turned back to the guard. "Good man, we simply wish to pass. And I would very much appreciate it if you let us." A silver coin appeared and disappeared in her hand suggestively. The commander, torn between greed, loathing and fear, hesitated. One of his men mumbled under his breath. "You gonna take a mutant lovers filthy coin boss?"

"That fucking does it!" Lambert swung his leg across his mounts neck and all but jumped off the horse and landed in front of the men fist clenched. The men took a half-step backwards, unsure of what was happening.

"Magister Metz!" a woman’s voice interrupted. Behind the guards a quartet of Nilfgaardian soldiers at horseback had appeared, led by a young woman in an officers breastplate.

"Yes?" Said Keira pleasantly.

The girl bowed briefly in her saddle. "Lieutenant Rosa var Attre, adjutant to the viceroy." She turned to the guardsmen. "These people are imperial guests’ commander and you will show them any courtesy beholden to a member of the viceregal court."

The guardsmen, grumbling, dispersed, and let Keira and Lambert pass. Rosa gestured to her men to take positions at their rear and sides while pushing her own mount forward. "The Viceroy will meet you at the palace. Under the circumstances I think it would be prudent if we provided you with an escort."

Keira nodded. "Things have become that bad huh?"

"Worse." Said the lieutenant.

***

Imperial operations in Novigrad proper were carried out in two buildings standing opposite to one another at Gildorf square. One, the once embassy, held the clerks, the archives, the barracks and other paraphernalia of government. The other, the mansion that had once belonged to the la Valletes before their decamping for Vizima, was the official town residence of the viceroy, which meant it most days stood empty. Nilfgaardian soldiers stood posted at all entrances to the square and oversaw the daily commerce as people came to and fro. The businesses still flourished but increasingly, the luxury shopping and street performers had decamped for hierarch square while those who better catered to the needs of imperial bureaucrats took their place.

The imperial highness, the viceroy or "my worst and only student" as Lambert had referred to her to Keira with a superb disregard for any thoughts of lèse-majesté, was not present when they arrived and were ushered into a parlor were Triss, wearing a green dress framed with white silk, was waiting to receive them. The room was richly decorated, hardwood floors offset by whitewashed walls decorated with tapestries showing nature scene and a ceiling painted in mythological motives.

"Triss!" Keira held out her hands and the two sorceresses fell in each other’s arms, kissing each other cheeks.

"Keira! Thank you for coming so quickly." The nodded to the man standing back "Lambert."

"Merigold." Lambert said, ignoring a death stare from Keira. "Fancy surroundings you got yourself set up in. This were we'll be working?"

"No. We are making the imperial Vilmerius hospital the center for control, the doctors there have allocated you room for your equipment."

Lambert nodded "I will take the stuff to the hospital then and set it up." Triss looked at him with astonishment.

"You? You are going to set up the lab?" she looked incredulously at Keira who smiled slightly.

"Lambert has been doing great work as my research assistant. He probably knows more about the laboratory equipment then I do."

"All witcher’s are trained alchemists." Lambert filled in. "And anyway, I'm done with the path."

A voice came from the door "You hung up your blades wolf? Feeling too old for the business?" Ciri was standing leaning on the doorway, sword scabbarded at her side, chain of office around her neck, her adjutant and a pale-faced Nilfgaardian officer standing behind her. Keira and Triss stood up and bowed, courageously. Lambert simply crossed his arms.

"If that" he gestured with his head towards her blade "isn't just something you carry around to cut cakes with I'm more the willing to take you down to the training grounds and show you just how old I am pup. Bet you a crown your parries are still too slow." The adjutant took a half step forwards, face furious but the officer held out his arm to stop her and simply shook his head sadly.

Ciri smiled wolfishly. "There's a training ground in the cellar of the old embassy building. Willing to meet you there if you don't need a lie-down first."

"You're on." Said Lambert, caught himself and looked apologetically at Keira. "I mean, after I set up-"

Keira waved her hand graciously. "Oh go and fight already, it's an imperial command Lambert. Come on, shoo." Lambert followed Ciri out followed by the two Nilfgaardians while Ciri started to explain some sword technique she had learned. Triss reached for a decanter and held it up for Keira. "Est est?" she asked.

"Oh I don't mind, don't mind at all." Said Keira and watched Triss fill two finely wrought silver cups. She accepted her cup and sniffed the bouquet. "This is fine isn't it?" she said and tasted the wine. "68?"

"65 actually." Said Triss and reclined with her own cup. "One of the perks of working for the imperial court."

"I can imagine." Said Keira. "So how is our young imperial princess?"

"Young." Said Triss and reclined while looking at the ceiling, its fresco painted with exotic birds and cupids. "Impetuous. Courageous. Idealistic, occasionally furious and completely without any sense of decorum or self-preservation."

Keira smiled. "Well we've advised worse."

Triss looked up. "We?" she asked.

"Figure of speech. You are not dragging me back into politics Triss, I'm done with that profession. Now I intend to live a simple life with my research and my practice and the frankly obscene heap of gold I intend to earn from both."

"And with your witcher." Said Triss, smiling.

"He's a perk." smiled Keira, dimples showing.

"Keira Metz, traveling sorceress and healer-woman. Not what I expected to be your goal five years ago."

"Because it isn't" said Keira and leaned forward to refill her cup. "I'm going to go down in history as the greatest medical mind of the century. Nothing less would be acceptable."

Triss raised her own cup in a salute. "I'll drink to that."

Outside, the people kept dying.

Chapter Text

To be present at the field of battle with enough men is better than being far away with many. Paradoxically, being present with too few is worse than being absent with too many. This is the central dichotomy and tension of warfare. - Tacticus Coehoornies, unfinished manuscript, ca 1264. 

“Have faith” thundered Hierarch Hemmelfart from his pulpit, “have faith for this calamity too shall pass and those who keep the faith shall be rewarded!” 

The open plaza in front of the towering edifice of Great Temple of the Eternal Fire seemed filled. People from all over the city and from the outskirts, villages and noble estates all had come to hear the Hierarch. Deacons stood by the braziers that surrounded the plaza centered on the great fire pit beneath its golden roof, keeping up a low-level buzz of chanting as they surreptitiously threw sticks of incense into the fires. The crowd held candles, oil lamps, simple torches, anything to produce a flame to banish darkness and hail the rising sun. 

“And I say to you, as saint Lebioda once wrote, ‘let every man keep his faith for it is his surest shield. Be generous to your neighbor, but keep an eye on those who may not have as good feeling towards you.” The hierarch stood on a marble platform in front of temple tower itself, his scarlet- and gold vestments shining in the morning sun. “For you are good men all, and true, and shall never strike in anger but keep your just faith and are  shielded by it in turn’.”

The choir of young novices standing in rows before Hemmelfart chanted. “For our faith in you is our truest shield.”

The hierarch paused and looked out at the crowd. “There will be those who will encourage you stray from the path, to use the threat of twilight to let this city sink once again into true darkness. It shall not be! For our faith is strong and can overcome any threat!” Hemmelfart held up his hands above his balding head and looked out towards the rising sun as it shined onto temple isle. “In the Sacred Flames holy name, LET THERE BE LIGHT THIS DAY!” and in the tower behind him and in the nineteen temples across Novigrad, a thousand silver bells began to ring.

“All citizens must take precautionary measures,” the black and gold liveried herald cried from his position on the stairs leading up to the Kingfisher inn, surrounded by a small squad of Nazairi marines in burnished hauberks and black surcoats edged with indigo “including but not limited to the following; the boiling of drinking water, the removal of any foul smelling foodstuffs and offal from their housing and if so necessary, the removal of any pet or other animal that may assist in the spreading of disease.”

“You gonna kill our dogs Nilfgaardian?” cried a man in the crowd. “Why don’t you start with your own?” and he spat in the direction of one of the marines, who immediately lowered his Guisarme only to be stopped by his corporal. The herald continued. “These orders are for your own safety. So says Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, crown princess of Nilfgaard and Viceroy of the northern territories by the command of his grace, emperor Emhyr Var Emreis.”

“Now listen here,” said Zoltan. “Unless we make some fuckin con-tin-gency plans we’ll all gonna find ourselves with our heads smashed in and bleeding out in the gutter.” The small group of bankers, merchants, artisans, mercenaries and honest gangsters that made up the for a lack of a better word leaders of Novigrads dwarven community were gathered in the main upper room of the Rosemary and Thyme (or whatever the fuck Dandelion had re-branded it as this week), its inlaid glass windows letting in multicolored beams of sunlight that made the dust particles dance over round table the dwarfs were standing around.

“Contingency for what?” asked a  dandy in a dark blue doublet studded with pearls, silken beret sat at a rakish angle with its pheasant feather pointed just so. “It’s not we who are dying? We know better then to live in filth like the humans.” His smooth black beard entwined with golden ornaments waved slowly as he talked. Some of the younger members nodded along.

Zoltan smashed his fist into the table “That is the fucking problem you brainless nob. We are not dying! So even the people who used to look at us with some level of toleration have started thinking we are poisoning the wells. And you know what scared, angry humans do.” 

The dandy shrugged “We’ll leave in that case. Nothing we haven’t done before. No serious assets are on hand here anyway, it’s all paper.”

Another dwarf, her doublet ill-fitting over her massive smiths arms shook her head “Your assets maybe master banker but not ours. Me and me lads have put twenty years of sweat and toil into our forge. You expect us to carry it out on our backs?” Several of her fellow masters nodded along.

The dandy smiled “Or sell it. I'm sure I can help you find a buyer.”

The smiths face grew red and she unconsciously reached for the axe Zoltan had made her leave at the door. “Why you little…”

“Enough!” cried old man Vivaldi. The room silenced as the dwarf, even more ancient looking today, scanned the room with his runny eyes. “I have been alive far longer then any of you and one of the major reasons for that is that I can smell the pogroms when they come. And it is coming, if nothing changes. So Zoltan is right, either we make ready to get out” he held up a bejeweled hand to stop the protestations of the artisans “or we make ready to let Nilfgaard in.” He looked them in the eye one by one, old man Vivaldi, master banker, one of the richest men north of the Yaruga, the only dwarf said to be more powerful than the king of Mahakam himself. “And I am to old to run.”

“This is the punishment from heaven!” yelled the preacher, standing on top of a cart covered with threadbare scarlet cloth, lighted candles and religious paraphernalia. “This is the punishment for living side by side with the unclean and inhuman. They take our charity all while taking the  bread from our mouths and the coin from out pockets!” The small crowd of a dozen or so stood scattered in front of him looked up with worried faces, some clutching deep red prayerbeads, others standing more sceptically with their arms crossed. One cannot be too certain, in this time, who had the right of it. “We are being attacked!” The preacher continued. “And his Holiness himself said today that those to take up the sword in the defense against those who would take this land we made from us while we showed nothing but naive toleration.”

On the other side of the square, an elven mother quickly scuffles pass, dragging her wide-eyed half-human son firmly by the hand. Eyes follow her. Some disdainful, some angry, some even fearful.

Disdain is normal. Anger happens. But fear scares her. Tolerance, she thinks, is not a sport for the fearful.

***

His holiness was in a rare mood, Siegfried noted as he followed the silent acolyte into the private chambers of the hierarch. Large, ornate, with painted plastered wall and mosaic floors and windows facing the eastern countryside over the sheer drop of temple isle, his holiness lived in a style that only vaguely resembled the cloistered living some would expect of a priest. Siegfried, who himself had lived simply, if comfortably, when he had a cloister to live, had long since come to not have any great expectations when it came to the way the church’s leading clergy lived. After all, saint Lebioda teaches that our bodies are merely empty vessels set on earth to do gods work so why not keep that vessel comfortable and in shape to carry it out? At least, that was one theory that Siegfried, wearing a simple priest robe of dark-red linen in lieu of his armor, sword and surcoat, was considering as he was brought into the hierarch’s presence. 

Having just preached the man was garrulous in the way of any artist following a successful performance. Storming about his chamber while still in his vestments, accompanied by his flustered staff and the silent, unperturbed grand inquisitor, his holiness let all hear his thought on todays service.

“Did you see that crowd Helveed? Been a while since we last saw such a gathering.” The hierarch stopped for a moment to let a deacon divest him of his heavy gold chains. “I mean on a holy day yes. But on a regular daily sermon? Magnificent.” The deacons helped him out of his outer vestments and he chased them away with a gesture of his hand then turned to Siegfried, who bowed, deeply. “Ah, grand master! Just the man. Did you see the crowd?”

He could indeed almost still hear the crowd as an attendant opened the windows before retreating, the mixture of burning charcoal, rotting garbage and stale water of the city mingling with the lingering of incense and myrrh from the fires “I so did you holiness.” The knight answered. “Indeed I stood in their midst.”

“Oh you did? Helveed why didn’t we ensure the grand master had a better position to hear the sermon?”

Before Helveed could say anything Siegfried answered himself. “Thank you your holiness but there was no need. I prefer to stand among the people I am charged to defend, such is the promise of my order.” He caught himself briefly. “Or at least it will be again.”

Hemmelfart smiled beatifically “I am certain it will be grand master! Some of your men may have lost faith but it will change. Just look at the crowd today!” he flung out his fleshy hand in the general direction of the city. “They are gathering at the feet of holy father church once more. When death is on the door, who do they turn to? Poets and doctors? Nilfgaard? No, it’s us.” He turned around and to his surprise Siegfried could see a single tear fall down the mans cheek. “It is a tragedy and I feel the pain of everyone who suffers. But maybe grand master, maybe this is a sign from god. Maybe this is how he chooses to separate the chaff from the wheat.” Silhouetted against the window, the morning sun stood out like a halo around the man. “Maybe this is how he will allow us to bring this city back into order.”

“Wise words your holiness.” Said Siegfried and bower his head slightly so that the hierarch wouldn’t see the look on his face. In the corner of his eye he could see Helveed looking impassively at the hierach. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what you did, Helveed, what we did. Oh you fool you have sentenced us to eternal damnation for the sake of mankind. Had he just been a knight he might have told the truth there and then. But he was a grandmaster of knights, knights in need of a cause and a purpose, and for their sake and the possible damnation of his eternal soul, he kept silent.

***

The estate was less of a flustering beehive then it had been only a few days earlier, Tamara observed as she arrived back that afternoon. Couriers were still coming and going but the yard looked a lot less like a supply dump then it had but a week earlier. The crowds of petitioners who would occasionally crowd the estate were also nowhere to be seen. Still, there was a different edge to the activity thought Tamara as she handed the reigns of her horse to a stable-hand. A sharp, clean, undulled edge of a blade that had yet to be used.

Tamara rolled her eye’s at the comparison. Once, only a few weeks or so after arriving at Crows’s Perch, her father had showed up after sobering up from another one of his drunken bouts with an armful of silks and flowers for her mother and, for some reason, poetry books for her. It had been an eclectic pick, since her father amongst other things had been illiterate. Just a pathetic guess at some gift appropriate for a girl to old for dolls but not old enough for silks. Lacking in will to spend any time with her sire and certainly lacking in any friends her own age or gender, she had spent a few months immersed in the works of the great masters, not all of whom were that great if one was to be honest. This was before a wandering preacher had introduced her to the gospel and the way of the holy fire and she eventually gave the books to the flame, a paltry offer to purify herself before god. But some of it had stuck around and it tended to surface at the strangest times.

“How was the sermon?” Rosa was sauntering down the main staircase of the building.

“Spiritually fulfilling.” Said Tamara. “Beautiful hymns.” She turned towards the entrance to the cellars as Rosa fell in step alongside her.

The estates kitchens were situated in the cellars of the west wing. Large ovens crackled daily as the cooks prepared food for the viceroy, sundry guests, courtiers, staff and soldiers. Some bakers kneaded large brown pieces of dough into bread while other fuzzed over cakes formed like the towers of Nilfgaard, apprentices plucked chickens and ducks for the viceroys dinner, assistants poured vats of finely hacked root fruits into massive cauldrons holding stew while chefs finely cut slices of weal to be beaten into cutlets. A small squad of kitchen boys sat around a low table folding dumplings while a sturdy kitchen maid carried out mountains of used pans into another room to be cleaned. The room all but oozed of frying meat, hacked garlic, boiling herbs and baked bread. A red faced master chef oversaw the proceedings from his position at the center of the basement all while watchful guardsmen stared at the food preparations.

A few tables with simple benches had been sat aside for the staff to have their meals near the back end. Rosa and Tamara sat down opposite one another. A chefs apprentice, sweat dripping beneath the scarf she had tied around her head, silently put down a bowl of dumplings floating in thick beetroot stew, half a wheat-loaf dripping with honey and two large earthen cups of cider. Tamara ferociously attacked her dumplings down while Rosa was content of nibbling on the bread.

“You know I was considering going with you some day.” Said Rosa. Tamara halted lifting her spoon to her mouth and looked at the girl (Rosa was in fact exactly two months older then Tamara but she kept thinking of her as a girl) who blushed. “I mean if it would be alright with you. I only went with my father when he had to and the diplomats box is not the same as the congregation.”

Tamara nodded briefly and then shook her head. “Now is not a good time.” She continued wolfing down her food.

“Because of the unrest you mean? Surely it won’t matter if I go incognito? The church welcomes all, or so I’ve heard ad nauseum since the first time I sat my foot in Novigrad.”

“Now is not a good time.” Tamara repeated. The dumplings had disappeared and she lifted her bowl to her mouth and drank down the stew. A single drop appeared in the corner of her mouth and Rosa saw the blood-red liquid slowly fall down her chin. Tamara sat her bowl down and made to stand up. 

Rosa held up her hand. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“I need to make my report to the viceroy.” Tamara said, frowning.

“I would advise you stay a while.” The lieutenant said, pushing Tamara’s cider cup towards her. “If I cannot visit I would at least like to hear about the sermon. Also,” she grimaced “Now is not a good time to impose on her highness.”

***

A map of the city was laid out on the table in what had once been the drawing room, gates, canals and known entry points marked out in red ink, its corners held down by silver candlesticks, their wicks unlit. 

“I suggest we start calling in the outlying garrisons.” Ciri started while moving her finger around the map. “We have troops in Oxenfurt, at Crow’s perch, in Roggeven and at forts scattered up and down the Pontar. If we call them in we can increase our presence patrols and it won’t matter that the watch refuses to get off their behinds. In the meanwhile we should move as much of our Impera from here into the city proper.” She put down a finger on the map near the docks. “Trade is slow at the moment what with the epidemic so we can rent, rent mind you Morvran,” she held up her finger in front of him “some warehouses to use as barracks as the reinforcements come in.”

Morvran looked at the map and frowned “I do not question the need for reinforcements but should we really start putting troops into the city piecemeal? Better to concentrate our forces beforehand. We would also leave the estate vulnerable to attack.”

Something flashed and then disappeared in Ciri’s eye. “Morvran, a full-blown pogrom could break out in Novigrad at any moment. We need more troops into the city now and apart from Crow’s perch our garrison here is the only one that’s close enough. The Oxenfurt garrison is scattered over half the countryside conducting anti-banditry operations and it will take too much time to pull them in and make them ready to march.”

“Even so, moving troops into the city before we have time to gather in strength could serve to enrage the opposition further, before we have enough troops to control an uprising-”

“We are not controlling any damn uprising!” Ciri smashed her knuckles into the table, causing one of the silver candlesticks to start wobbling, round and round until it fell over and started to roll instead. “We are saving people’s lives, people Morvran, good people who are being used as scapegoats for something we do not understand.”

The general nodded, face calm nails digging into his palms behind his back. “My apologies, I misspoke-”

“No,” said Ciri and shook her head sadly “No you didn’t Morvran. Because for you they are not people aren’t they? Oh I do not mean you are particularly prejudiced against elves. It’s just that to you these people are just numbers aren’t they? Acceptable casualties in some imperial game, better a hundred of them then one of ours. They are not Nilfgaardian like you so what do they matter?” She turned her gaze towards the map again, controlling her outburst.

Morvran seemed to contemplate his boots. Finally he said in a low voice “I though we were Nilfgaardian?”

“You are. I’m not, I’m Cintran. It’s your empire, not mine.”

The general was silent for a moment then said in a low voice. “The empire must be an empire for all it’s citizens or it has no value. You told me that, riding to Vizima. If you it’s future empress do not believe it has any value then what chance does it have?” Ciri crossed her arms and looked at him with a frown. “Sending in our troops piecemeal could lead to a defeat, either in the streets or at some other location where an enemy can strike at us piecemeal. And a defeat could send the empire’s position in the north tottering and that could ignite a new war. Or it could threaten your position before you have even taken the throne-”

“I am not letting people die just to sit my arse easier on the throne. Of all the insipid reasons to stand aside-”

“You do not understand your value then, or how your promises may backfire. This is not about choosing whom will die and I do not consider these people life’s of any lesser value then our own.” Morvran paused and drew in a deep breath. Then he told her something he hadn’t even told his father. ”Between the wars I took command of a battalion deployed in the upper Yaruga valley. My first command, and in all honesty my father had more to do with it then any shown brilliance on my part. I had only been there a month when the alderman of a neighboring village came to the fort. One of my soldiers, he said, had broken into the home of a solitary farming family and butchered them over a few florins and some wine and hotcakes. We knew that arms were still around since the war and that a new rebellion might break out if we weren’t careful. So I tried to be clever. I assured the aldermen that we could conduct a full investigation and then I ordered my officers to start look over duty rosters, comb through our soldiers personal belongings, interrogate any trooper that could have any information.”

“You caught the killer?” Ciri asked.

“No. Indeed, we had naught but the alderman's word that it even was on of our soldiers. Then one evening my second in command, an experienced captain came into my office. He said that since we had loudly promised that a guilty party would be punished then if we now told the people that we had found nothing we would not have been believed. Indeed, he said, since I had taken the good alderman at his word I had already accepted responsibility for the deed on the behalf the imperial army. To this start blaming someone other assailant now, well, who would believe us? They knew they were not Nilfgaardians after all, to easy to believe we decided to ignore the issue.” Morvran clenched his fists. This last part was the hardest. “So eventually we gathered the whole unit together in the exercise yard. We told them that as we could not find a guilty party, our duty and honor forced us to give the alderman something. So we drew lots. And one man, gods I forgotten his name, was thus chosen, stripped of his armor and taken to the village.” Morvran’s voice was harsh “They beat him to death with grain flails. Because I, young, arrogant and full of myself had promised them justice. We never found the real killer.” 

The room was silent. Ciri was about to speak when Morvran seemingly shook himself and stood at attention once more. “Forgive me your highness, I did not mean to bore you with those stories. I simply wanted to urge you to tread carefully and remember that you do not only speak for yourself. May I be dismissed?”

Ciri nodded slowly. As Morvran turned around to leave however, she spoke “I will not change who I am Morvran. Not for the throne, not for Nilfgaard not for…well, anyone.”

“And I will never ask you too.” said Morvran and bowed.

Chapter Text

Novigrad? Like any other human city, just bigger is all. Come for the work, leave for the prejudice.
- Anonymous Dwarwen merchant

It began with, of all things, a lovers tryst. As dusk fell upon Novigrad, Mila, daughter of a baker at Glory Lane, finished her choirs, washed and bound her hair and changed into her better dress for a rendezvous with Yildir, a half-elven dockworker from Far Corners, who had donned a new white shirt decorated with flowery embroidery by his elven mother. The pair typically met in an abandoned townhouse in the Silverton district, where they could freely enjoy each other’s company and bodies, as young people do. Her father, worried and annoyed at his daughters disappearance, especially with the plague and such, decided to look for the girl and enlisted one of his apprentices to help, telling him that Mila had “probably run off with that damn elf”. His apprentice, a sturdy if not very bright lad in his turn enlisted some of his cousins, fish mongers working the market of the same name, telling them his master’s daughter had been “taken away by some elf”. They, gallantly looking wherever they could think, stopped at a nearby inn to quench their thirst, where they bragged to the onlookers that they were out looking for a girl “ravished and taken by elf’s and other non-humans.” Just what you would expect wasn’t it, they said, now that some many of their own kinds were down with sickness.

So it was that the elf Zirklas, a for his kind young man originally having come to the town from Vizima during the Flaming Rose rebellion years before, a butchers helper by trade, found himself cornered by half a dozen angry humans stinking of drink and wielding work-tools and daggers. 

He was lucky. The canal was nearby and his pursuers did not much feel like swimming. As he dragged himself from the stinking waters, the same group, now swelled with onlookers, attacked a series of markets stalls run by non-humans. A dwarf, Hildebart by name valiantly tried to defend his livelihood.

He was the first victim, bleeding out in the gutter with his head smashed in by a mallet, as Zoltan Chivay had prophesied days before. 

The violence spread through the city like a miasma, entering every home and filling every head with fear, anger and dread. Some citizens bolted their doors and windows and hide in the cellars or attics, away from wrathful humans and (mainly imaginary) vengeful elves and dwarfs. 

In The Bits, gangs armed with daggers, clubs and shortswords smashed in doors and windows in their hunt. Those who tried to fight back died, no matter how valiantly they fought, dying under the cudgels of their once neighbors. Belongings were thrown into the streets, to be stolen or set alight in the bonfires that followed wherever the priests went. Other escaped, down side streets, through the sewers or over planks laid across the roofs of the narrow alleyways, as per one of Zoltans con-tin-gency plans. On Hierarch square, the bankers palace of the Vivaldis stood firm, if bombarded with bricks and abuse. By the docks, some zealots launched an attack on the brothels, on the theory that those sinful people must have done something to deserve it. 

Blood ran into the sea.

The violence was not evenly distributed. In the Lacehalls, rough men and women wearing the checkered handkerchiefs of the King of Beggars Blindeyes fanned out from Putrid grove and formed ranks to keep the mob away. By Tretogor gate another group, were worked into fury by an errant preacher for an attack on Far corners. He harangued them just a moment to long, enough for a single guard corporal to work up the courage to close the portcullis before he hid with his colleagues.

As the attacks spread other, more official kinds of violence mounted. St. Gregorys bridge was guarded by double rows of temple guards, the only place coincidently were they stood up to the the mob. One group descending on the Gildorf district were met with barricades of double rows of shields from the garrison. At Glory gate, a group of arsonists were faced by a returning Nilfgaardian patrol on horseback. Words and oaths were exchanged between the mob and the lieutenant in charge. A tailor by the name of Roderick threw a paving stone at the officer. 

Roderick was by all accounts a decent man who kept his head down and supported his family, always being polite to the non-humans he encountered in his work. But that day his eyes were alight with fury and his mainly ornamental rapier was already stained with the blood of a halfling woman he and his mates had encountered on their way over (her name was Bifurdia and she was returning home from a twelve hour shift at the spinning shop). His projectile bounced of the helmet of the officer who rocked in the saddle. His men, seeing that they were under attack, charged. As the mob retreated, Roderick slipped on the wet cobblestones and fell square on his back. The last thing he saw was a steel-clad hoof of a Nilfgaardian warhorse.

***

The first sign that something was seriously amiss in Novigrad reached the estate before midnight, when the lookouts at the watch-tower on the western hill noticed an unusual pattern of lights rising from the city. As darkness fell, they could not use their semaphore to contact the troops stationed in the Gildorf district. Instead a patrol was sent, while the officer of the watch wrote down a note in his duty log and decided against notifying the viceroy or general Voorhis (he would later be demoted and posted to the Korath frontier, his old father to languish at the thought of his son’s dishonor). The patrol took a wrong turn however, taking one of the byways towards the Pontar and not reaching the city until the next day (the officer in charge would fall in the ensuing fighting thus redeeming himself and his name). As such it was not until dawn when a courier urged his exhausted horse through the gates and all but fell off to give his report to the general (the horse would later die due to internal bleeding caused by the desperate rider’s spurs and unlike the officers its name would not be remembered). 

Morvran, eyes blear-eyed from lack of sleep but still in a immaculate uniform thrown over his sleeping shirt, met up the courier and read the short, terse message jotted down by the city garrison commander and immediately turned on his heels, running past the wilting flower beds and up the granite steps of the mansion and through the main entrance. In the staircase Triss waited for him, outwardly serene and rested looking, hands neatly folded over the night-robe she had thrown over her high necked sleeping gown.

“I’ve already asked Gretka to wake the viceroy up.” Triss informed him.

“How did you know the news needed the viceroys attention?” asked Morvran as he kept walking up the stairs.

Triss fell into stride beside him and all but rolled her eyes. “Morvran, I’m a sorceress. And even if I wasn’t your face alone tells more then you would like.” The two stopped in front of the viceroy’s chambers. One of the guards posted opened the door slightly and conversed with someone on the other side. He then nodded and together with his companion opened the dark wooden doors, brass details gleaming in the single ray of sunshine that penetrated the eastern windows.

Her highness was up and alert, already dressed in shirt, boots and riding pants and in the process of lacing up her armored vest, Gretka standing by with her baldric and sword. “What happened?” she asked without further preamble.

Morvran cleared his throat. “A courier just arrived from Novigrad your highness. It appears that riots have broken out in the city.”

“Is it a pogrom?” she asked, silently.

Morvran swallowed nervously. “Information is unclear at the moment but yes it appears to be.”

“When?” Ciri asked as she finished lacing up her armor.

Morvran was standing stiff as a ramrod and staring at some imaginary point above Ciri’s head. “Last night your highness.”

Ciri froze in movement. Her green eyes flashed with fury as she spun around to face her general. “Last night! How come we only hearing about this now? Where was our lookouts? Why weren’t we told?”

“The semaphore towers were inoperable and the courier couldn’t find his way in the dark. As for our lookouts…I have no excuse your highness.”

“No you bloody don’t Morvran!” Ciri’s face was red with fury. “You told me to be patient, to wait for the reinforcements to trickle in, to…” Ciri bit her teeth together, seemingly making herself calm down through sheer force of will.

“We can await apportioning blame till later.” Triss added.

Ciri’s jaw seemed to unclench “True.” She grabbed the baldric from Gretka and threw it around her neck and secured the belt-buckle. The servant girl retreated out of the room like a tippy-tapping ghost. “Rosa!” Ciri shouted and as if summoned through magic her aide appeared, still buttoning the top buttons of her doublet.

“Your highness?”

“We are going to Novigrad. NOW!”  Ciri turned her head towards Morvran. “Get every man you can ahorse and ready to ride for the city. They need to secure the gates as well as open up a free path to our troops in the Gildorf district. They need to secure Far corners and the Bits, thats were the heaviest concentrations of non-humans are.”

“I shall lead them myself your highness.” Morvran stated.

“You will do no such thing! You stay here and coordinate the reinforcements coming in from Oxenfurt.” Ciri all but snarled “And you can secure the estate, since you though that a priority.” Without another word the princess held out her hand and with only the slightest wince Rosa grabbed hold of it. They both disappeared in a flash of blue, leaving Morvran staring at his own two feet.

“She will calm down.” Triss offered.

Morvran shook his head “I made a mistake, a terrible mistake.”

“She will forgive you. She is more forgiving than her father, either of them.” The sorceress seemed to glow suddenly as swarms of firefly like lights raced across her body, replacing the nightgown with a more businesslike outfit. “Call up the troops general, and protect the estate. For once, let the rest of of us worry about her.” With a reverberating hum the Triss opened a portal and stepped through it, leaving the general alone in the princess’s chambers. 

***

The concoction was not properly ionizing. Lambert swore softly as he looked at the percolating tubes that stood seemingly haphazardly placed around the table, a madmans collection of strangely shaped glassware that only a skilled alchemist or sorcerer would gave recognized as gnomish crafted, the best there was. Lambert was to be fair maybe a little of both but mainly neither but he still knew how to operate the equipment better than most. The large backroom of the hospital that he and Keira were using as laboratory was filled with the sharp and pungent smells of alchemy, the heat generated by the burners causing sweat to run down his back. The plastered waddle walls were cowered with notes and diagrams or rough bookshelf's that held the research notes and medical tomes that Keira had, if one wished to be charitable, ‘loaned’ from various institutions throughout the city. The only sounds was the low bubbling of the concoctions and the scrapes of the sorceress’s quill on paper. Hence why Lambert, not one of the worlds quieter people, tried to swear as softly as possible.

It didn’t work.

“Lambert if you have to make noises can you please do so at your own time?” asked Keira irritably. The sorceress stood bent over a table covered with notes and open books, left hand supporting her head while she jotted down notes with her right. “I’m on the bloody verge of something here and your insistent profanity is making it fucking hard to concentrate.”

“Sorry.” Lambert said. He nodded toward the equipment. ”Just this sodding thing refuses to work right.”

“Oh leave it be then. I’ll have look later, see what your broke.”

Lambert scowled under the accusation and Keira somehow picked up on it despite having her back turned. She put the quill back into the ink down and stood straight, looking at Lambert underneath her bangs. “So sorry darling, didn’t mean to take it out on you like that. Just on the verge of something here.” She paused “Possibly a breakthrough. Or a breakdown. Either way I’m on the verge.”

Lambert nodded, reminded himself that neither he nor the sorceress had done much in the way of sleeping the last few days. The work was overwhelming and it wasn’t like the city was a welcoming place to sightsee in (in any case it wasn’t like Lambert liked Novigrad much either).

“Nah, I get it, gotta get it out of your system sometimes.” He felt a quiet rumble in his stomach and changed tack. ”You hungry?” 

“Famished, absolutely famished. There should be some bread and cheese in the pantry.”

Lambert shock his head. “I was thinking something fresher. There’s a decent dumpling shop down the street. Want some?” he stretched out to his full length “anyway I need to get some exercise.”

“I would love to Lambert.” Said Keira and smiled.

Lambert nodded and picked up his steel sword which was standing leaning against the wall in it’s scabbard, throwing it around his shoulder and opening the door. 

The front room of the hospital was much emptier now that it had been turned into a clearing house for the epidemic. It was early morning, Lambert realized as he saw through the windows, which also explained why there seemed to be almost no people around apart from two members of the night-staff, who were napping on benches. Stepping past them, Lambert opened the door and existed the building into the morning gloom.

He immediately noticed something was off. The hospital was not situated on a main street but still there should be some people out. Even worse, the Temple guard that should have been stationed outside where nowhere to be seen. Lambert walked a tad more carefully, crossing the small yard and turning the corner towards the dumpling shop, which was how he avoided literally running into the group approaching from the opposite direction.

They were an odd bunch, everything between beggars in drags to longshoremen in rough homespun to apprentices in well-made but practical outfits to one or two young men in the fancy sliced doublets of the latest fashion. The one thing they had in common was that they were human and armed, with cleavers and daggers, clubs and rapiers, torches and the odd spear. At their head was a preacher in the scarlet robes of a fire priest. It was he who now pointed to Lambert.

“See! A witcher, a mutant, a Nilfgaardian devil spawn, one of the poisoners of the hospital. Men, slay this foul creature and then burn his poisoning central to the ground!” Behind him, the men picked up their improvised weapons and slowly started to advance on Lambert.

“Well fuck.” said the witcher and promptly turned on his heels.

The ancient mages and alchemists that had once created the witcher’s guild had twisted and turn every part of their charges bodies that they could in order to make them better fighting machines. So it was with some inner satisfaction that Lambert now wholly ignored that part of his heritage opting instead for the flee reflex. Fortunately for him, the mob had just steeled themselves to attack a lone if armed and dangerous man and so took time to reorient themselves to the new situation and give chase, allowing Lamberts superhuman reflexes and speed to give him a good head start. He was across the yard in a flash, all but smashing through the door and barring it behind him, startling the two napping attendants.

“Block the doors and windows!” he shouted as he grabbed the nearest table and swung it around.

“What, but then how will…” one of the attendant started.

“No time” Lambert interrupted “there’s a fucking mob lead by one of those priest bastards heading this way to torch the place! Now help!”

The attendants started to push furniture up against the door. Lambert meanwhile concentrated on closing and barring the window shutters. They wouldn’t hold for long, he knew, but any time was better than none. Just as he though that as he reached the second to last shutter it swung inward with a crack. Two men were pushing their way through, almost blocking each other until Lamberts Aard sign literally threw them outside again like so many ragdolls. He could hear the swearing of their compatriots as he swung the shutters close and barred them, heaving up a bench to block the windows for good measure. As he finished the last windows swung open and another man entered.

“Lambert what is all this racket?” Keira asked as she stepped across the threshold to their laboratory. 

The windowhad been the one closest to their laboratory. Lambert’s fingers desperately started to form the Aard sign, despite knowing full well that Keira stood in between him and the rioter. It was too quick for any of the more complicated spells that sorceresses preferred. The man swung a heavy mallet sideways that Keira, quick as a cat, ducked under. Lambert saw her quickly push her hand into one of the pouches that hung from her belt. Something gleamed by her hand as she straightened and she punched upwards, hitting the mans chin with a textbook perfect uppercut that laid him out flat.

The bronze knuckleduster gleamed around Keiras hand.

Before the man had the opportunity to come to his senses Lambert was on him. He didn’t bother reaching for a weapon or tool, instead he simply reached for the mans neck and used his mutation enchanted muscles to heave the upper body and bring it down hard onto the iron rimof a sturdy chest. The neck snapped with an audible crunch and the body was left sprawling. Not missing a beat, Lambert was off, slamming the window shut before anyone else thought of entering. Already he could hear the smashing noises as the mob assaulted the door. He looked at Keira, who was busy making some sort of complicated gesture with her hands. 

Suddenly she threw her hands up in the air, silver light briefly emanating from them and dispersing into the roof. Outside, Lambert could hear some of the shouts be replaced by screams as if someone had just gotten burned. The beating noises ceased as the shield took form. Keira stood still, sweat-drops falling down her face.

Once, in Ebbing, Lambert had seen a statue of a local, almost forgotten deity, a large man straining underneath the weight of the globe that he carried on his shoulders. Keira looked much the same as she tried to hold the shield steady.

“How long can you hold?” he asked. There was little sentimentality in the question, cold professionalism had taken over (and wouldn’t Vesemir have had a laugh at that).

“Not as long as I’d like”. Keira sounded equally dispassionate “Been burning the candle at both ends I’m afraid.” she offered a weak smile.

Lambert nodded and looked at the two orderlies and doctor von Gratz had come down the stairs to see what the commotion was about.

“Is there another exit apart from the back door?” Lambert asked them.

“There is the opening to the sewers-” the doctor answered before drawing himself up to his full height “you can take that one but we can’t get the bedridden patients through there. And I am not abandoning them.” He said with the dignified finality of a man ready to be led to the scaffold. 

Lambert exchange a brief glance with Keira who seemed to bite her cheek before slowly shaking her head. Her pose held.

“Right! You heard her.” Lambert said. “Get all the patients to the back room and barricade the stairs and every door between it and you. We will hold out as long as we can.” The doctor nodded and ushered his underling upstairs. The sounds of moving furniture and frightened voices soon followed them.  

“You don’t have to stay Lambert.” Keira said softly

“Hell if I don’t. Not gonna lose all those notes.” He quickly leaned over and kissed Keira on the cheek. “Or anything else for that matter. Besides, plenty of monsters to slay here.” He reached back and unsheathed his steel blade, taking up a position between the door and the the sorceress. 

“I though that sword was for humans.” Keira offered as a weak joke.

Lambert considered the position they were in, the cries from upstairs, the weapons and fanaticism flowing from outside.

Geralt or Eskel would have said something epic or laconic Both are for monsters. A sword is tool.

“Fuck it all.” Said Lambert and raised his sword into a ready position.

***

The morning fog still covered the thick branches, undergrowth and swampy ground of the forest where his men were forming up and trying to catch their breaths. Siegfried looked at the ragged troops with a sense of pride. The original plan had been for the men to be shipped down the Pontar by barge before the word was given to the priests in the city to start whipping the mob into a frenzy. Unfortunately, it seemed as the mob had done so all by their lonesome and Siegfried and his men had been forced to execute a forced night march, dragging their equipment along the muddy river roads before entering the dark forest. They had picked their way through forest paths and back roads and half the time he had been convinced that they were lost before finally arriving here. Now they were forming into a battle line, putting on helmets and fastening shields while drinking from canteens and munching on hardtack and dried meat. Overhead, barely seen through the branches, the noon sun was peaking through the leaves.

He felt pride in them. Only a few weeks before they had appeared little better than bandits, preying on outlying farms and lonely merchants, hunted by imperial patrols. But now they were here and seemingly as ready for war as they had ever been. Knights of the Falming Rose again.

He turned to the witchhunter next to him that had served as their guide through the dark forest.

“We should be ready to advance in a moments notice.” He said.

The witch hunter nodded. “Good. The majority of their forces should have left by the city by now. This approach is uncovered until you’re almost to the wall.”

Siegfried nodded gravely and rubbed his chin. Throughout the excitement he had forgotten to shave. “Unfortunately, we are skulking here like thieves. Cannot be avoided I suppose.”

“The estate is a symbol, the center of Nilfgaardian power.” The witchhunter interjected. “Destroy the estate and your destroy the very core of the their rule. The viceroy will have no choice but to negotiate and his holiness will lead the north to salvation.” The words sounded memorized, as if read from a script but somehow surprisingly heartfelt. 

“True. Though it does me no pleasure to cut down cooks and maidservants instead of soldiers.”

“God will know his own. Their deaths are but a small price to pay for the spreading of the gospel.” Something stocked in the witchhunters throat and Siegfried looked at her out of the corner of his eye. If he didn’t know better he would have thought a tear was forming. 

“Kill them all.” Said Tamara Strenger. 

Chapter Text

O cursed be the cruel wars, that ever they should rise,
And out of happy Nilfgaard, press many a man likewise
They took her Harri from her, likewise his brothers three,
And sent them to the cruel wars in mountains and sea.

- Nilgaardian folk song, banned by the order of Emperor Emhyr var Emreis.

When first arriving at a battlefield, try and find the highest available point in order to ascertain the situation. At least so had one of the old dusty tomes on military strategy that Ciri had begrudgingly perused during her 'studies' in Nilfgaard claimed. It was on this advice that Ciri and Rosa appeared perilously poised on top of the copper tiles on the clock-tower of Novigrad’s city hall, looming as it was over Hierarch square. The plaza itself was abandoned, she saw, only a few enterprising thieves seeking what had been left over. The banking houses were surprisingly still standing, heavily barricaded, fronts defaced with dirt, offal and crude slogans. Ciri grabbed on to a gargoyle that allowed her to lean out from the tower in an awkward angle. Even though the tower was tall it was not tall enough that roofs and chimneys didn't block most of it from view.

If the riot couldn't be seen from her vantage point it could still be heard, however. Shouts, screams and chanting was carried on the winds, raising up from streets boiling with fear and anger. She could see smoke rising here and there but no real fires. Yet. She looked toward the hospital and wrinkled her brow as she saw something glint in the air around it. Magic clearly, and of a higher level than anything they had seen recently.

"Look over there!" shouted Rosa. The girl had climbed the spire and was hanging off it like a banner, pointing to the Northwest. Looking in the direction her adjutant suggested, Ciri could see the road leading down from the Gildorf district and how a black and golden testudo was slowly making its way down, shrugging off the occasional thrown missile from the rioters.

"Right, there's where we'll start!" She reached up and grabbed Rosa's hand again and the two women disappeared only to reappear behind the advancing testudo. The street was clear and several of the soldiers bringing up the rear aimed their weapons in surprise at the two women. Ciri found herself staring into the brown, freckled face of a young soldier.

He's even younger than me. Ciri thought are they all as young as this? Is this what ruling means?

"Ha-the viceroy!" the young man said, not sure whether he should bow or keep his shield up. A corporal shoved him aside with an annoyed glare.

"Put your weapon down you lout, it's the princess." The man saluted with his scarred knuckles touching the side of his helmet. "Sorry about that your highness, we weren't expecting you."

"Likewise corporal. Could I speak to your commander?"

The question was unnecessary as behind the corporal the word was already out of the captain. A sharp trumpet blast was heard from somewhere inside the formation and it split open, soldiers rushing out with shields held high in a crescent formation. The rioters scattered before them, retreating down alleys and passageways. At another trumpet blast, the soldiers stopped, taking up blocking positions and forming shield walls to cut off the newly cleared streets.

From the scrum a tall, darkhaired woman in gold-rimmed black plate armor appeared, marching up to Ciri and saluting smartly.

"Your highness! Captain Assire Dyffryn var Ceallach." Her accent was that of Vicovaro.

"Pleased to meet you captain. Is the garrison commander here?"

"He stayed behind at the square your highness!" the woman paused and added as to not inadvertently insult her commander. "That is, it's his duty to secure the palace and the offices, not to lead sorties." She pointed an armored gauntlet down the street "We're headed to the hospital; magical energy was detected emitting from it and there’s a mob outside. Orders were to secure the premises and evacuate any patients back to the square." She pointed to a few wagons that were following them.

"You're not holding it?" Ciri asked.

"Not for long without reinforcements ma'am." The captain seemed to mentally kick herself "I mean those are our provisional orders from the garrison commander your highness. What are yours?"

Ciri affected a thoughtful position, glowed hand stroking her cheek. Inside her mind was furiously working. Alright, this is a battlefield. What is right here, risking our troops for greater control of the ground in hope of saving more lives in total? Weighing our troops versus the lives of civilians? Negotiate an end to hostilities? For possible the first time in her life she almost wished Emhyr were present. Would he hesitate? If so, he would have made damn sure no one could figure out that he was and for once she envied him his icy exterior.

Instead it was another voice, a memory from what felt like another lifetime, that came into her head.

When in doubt act Vesemir said You either strike or you flee. No witcher ever won a fight through hesitation.

Fine then. Ciri turned to the captain. "I want you and your men to continue the advance. Use the wagons and whatever you can find to seal off and barricade these streets. Reinforcements are headed for the Oxenfurt gate and Farcorners, we need to secure it and a corridor from there to Gildorf."

The captain nodded and was about to say something when one of her men shouted "Incoming!" Suddenly a minor barrage of items; stones, roof slats and bottles started to fall upon the soldiers.

"Protect the viceroy!" var Ceallach shouted and several soldiers with big pavises formed into a protective roof over Ciri. Through the gaps she could see how several people, young boys and girls going by their stature, had climbed the roofs and were now raining down projectiles and insults on the company.

Stupid kids Ciri thought, at the same time as the captain shouted "Clear these roofs!"

"Wa-" Ciri did not have time to finish her order. Crossbows twanged, bolts flew and insults were replaced by screams. Through the gaps she saw how one young boy was hit in the leg, stumbled and with a bloodcurdling scream fell down the three floors of the building, hitting the pavement stones with a crack. The survivors scattered, more screams indicating that some had fallen down on the other side.

"I'm sorry your highness." The captain to her credit sounded genuinely mournful. "I should have awaited your order."

Without moving her eyes away from the corpse of the boy, Ciri waved her away. "You followed regulations." She took a deep breath. "You have your orders captain. Carry them out." The captain saluted once again and turned around to start giving out orders to her subordinates. Ciri kept staring at the corpse of the boy. He could not be older then Gretka, a lanky urchin out for a bit of fun.

So this is it then? Tyranny? Killing foolish boys in the name of the greater good. The lesser evil?

You're an autocrat Ciri. This is your work; this is how you kill. Not by blade but through orders and regulations, filtered down the chain.

Show them who is queen.

Not every problem can be solved by a slick tongue.

If you have to choose between one evil and another, don't choose at all.

Now who is the witcher's daughter?

You're the empress, the lady of the worlds. If there is no third choice you bloody well create it. This voice was firmer, new, and completely her own.

 She turned to var Attre. The lieutenant had managed to secure a shield from somewhere and was busy fastening it to her arm. "Come on Rosa, we need to talk to the commandant. And after that we need to summon the town council." She clenched her teeth. "Novigrad has to help solving Novigrad’s problems."

***

Morvran was sitting in his tiny study, hand absentmindedly scratching out orders on a wax tablet as he ran the scenarios of the last couple of days through his head. It was a basic exercise they taught at the academy, go through your plan and the chain of events and find the flaw in your reasoning, then redo the scenario again, again and yet again. They used parchment, dice and figurines he remembered, boys and girls pushing imaginary armies across imaginary battlefields against wholly imaginary yet dastardly evil foes. Sometimes they won, sometimes they lost, their teachers nodding sagely and claiming that defeat was the best teacher. And that may have been true. In school at least.

Morvran sighed. It was a pathetic, obvious observation that the real world did not offer an opportunity at do-overs. As such, throughout his career Morvran had always played the military game carefully, always collecting and sifting through as much information as he had available before coming to a decision and committing to a course of action. It was not the most dashing method of warfare but it had the upside of bringing your troops home alive. And it should have worked. For surely there was no sense to starting of riots willy nilly? Surely the opposition must have had a plan, provoke the entry of more Nilfgaardian troops into town and then set off the fuse? Morvran’s methodical brain had refused to accept any other option.

Except it had failed him this time. And that failure was now killing innocents in Novigrad. Also, and it shamed him as much as it surprised him that this was his foremost concern, it had made him let down his viceroy.

He had once or twice in his career let down his emperor and been faced by the cold eyes and stern rebukes that were the consequence of such failure (if you were lucky). But the princess’s anger burnt differently than her sire, green eyes afire with passion and fury and silent betrayal. It drilled down into the very depths of your soul and fixed you in place, the flipside of the obvious care she gave to her staff and advisers.

A rapt knock on the door awoke him from his reverie. He cleared his throat and answered. "Yes?"

The door opened and one of his remaining soldiers (the rest having left for Novigrad) stepped inside. "Sorry to disturb you sir, wondered if you could come for a moment."

Morvran wrinkled his brow and stood, only taking a moment to hang his sword from his belt before he followed the soldier outside. The air was muggy, one of the last warm autumn days before the plunge into the colder months. In Nilfgaard, he knew, it would still be warm and the peasantry waiting to bring in the second-field harvest. Here in the north you cold already taste the coming winter.

The barracks building loomed big and empty behind him as he crossed the yard, walked past the manor-house and entered the back gardens, empty save for the workers sorting out the withering flowers from the few still blooming piles. He mounted the steps to the back wall with ease, standing next to where the guards were huddled together.

"What is it corporal?" he asked the man in charge.

"Cannot be certain sir. Wyclaff here" he gestured to the trooper next to him "thought he saw something gleam in the undergrowth. I thought about sending out a patrol but when we are undermanned as we are..." He shrugged.

"Did you contact the watchtower?" asked Morvran, gesticulating to the tower atop the Draken hill.

"We sent a runner sir, they didn't answer the semaphore. Lazy bastards. Rest of us have been in armor since this morning but they decided to sleep it off."

Morvran nodded thoughtfully. Then an ice-cold thought gripped his innards.

"Corporal" he asked carefully "rustle up the officers and have them collect the troops, here in the back garden, at arms. Do it now." The corporal stared at the generals face for a moment before swallowing and then setting off. Morvran turned and stared at the forest, mentally calculating the distance between the forest and the estate, then adding the caltropps and traps his men had constructed at the base of the wall. He could hear, just out of earshot how the soldiers were collecting their stacked arms and moving into ranks behind him, He looked again upon the watchtower, hoping to see some sign of the men posted there. But it simply stood on its hill, watching, silent.

Dead.

And then the forest exploded in a broiling mass of men, sun gleaming of armor, weapons and scarlet surcoats as the the Order of the Flaming Rose, long thought dissolved, launched their last charge.

***

The townhall had been abandoned by its staff at the inception of the riot. Unlike the temples or other buildings belonging to the church it had not been protected by the temple guard, nor had any of its largely human councilors been willing to lend any of their own armsmen to shield it. As a result, windows had been smashed and the bottom floor plundered, the building only surviving by dint of bigger targets for the mob such as the nearby banks. It was now surrounded by a double line of Nilfgaardian soldiers, which looked impressive if one didn't look too closely and realize they were naught but navy rowers pulled off their benches and fitted with helmets, gambesons, billy clubs and a uniform only in the quick wash of black paint splattered on their borrowed shields.

The square had been cleared only a short while ago, after captain var Ceallachs troops had successfully reached the Oxenfurt gate only to find it wide open and held by a small commando of Dwarven volunteers who had taken over once the guards fled their posts, gate-towers cramped full of non-human civilians sheltering from the mobs. With the portcullis open her Impera cavalry had flooded though, armored men on horse sweeping down the streets knocking rioters, enterprising thieves and probably several others besides aside with blunted lances, the flats of their blade and the sheer mass of their destriers. The mob had scattered, temporally, however she knew fully well that her small groups of horsemen could not control the whole city.  Barricades where already going up in the fishmarket, barely a stone’s throw from where she was resolutely marching, Rosa shadowing her footsteps.

The battered doors of the nearby Vivaldi bank opened carefully, armored dwarven bodyguards and human mercenaries fanning out in front before old man Vivaldi himself exited surrounded by his closest associates and hanger-on. The old man waddled up to Ciri and bowed deeply.

"Your Highness," he said urbanely "I cannot begin to tell you how pleased I am to see you and your men." He gestured, half to the press-ganged sailors, half to the Impera who were watering their exhausted mounts from the fountain.

"And I cannot begin to tell you how pleased I am to see you alive, master Vivaldi! Is your family safe?"

"Safe and sound," he nodded to the building behind him "It looks pretty but I had it built to withstand anything but proper siege weapons. The mob couldn't put a dent in it." He sighed, wearily, an old, unaccountable sadness sagging his face. "We have been here before. I don't suppose everyone else was so fortunate."

Ciri nodded toward him, stifling useless sympathy or assurances to the old dwarf who had heard it too many times before. Instead she said "We are gathering up as many people as we can and sealing of Farcorners and The Bits. More are also coming in through our lines." She looked up at the clock tower looming over the square. "Tell me, master Vivaldi, how good is my credit?"

The old dwarf looked startled, almost "After today? Very good indeed your highness. But if you are looking for gold bullion, we are somewhat lacking."

"I don't need gold master. I need to summon your fellow councilors. Could you have your assistants accompany my soldiers to pick them up? I need them assured that we hold no hostile intent."

Vivaldi shrugged "I could certainly assist but I'm not sure they will heed a dwarfs council, especially today of all days." Bitterness flowed back into his voice. "Not certain its they who have to worry about hostile intent."

In the middle of the square a glowing portal suddenly opened and Triss Merigold stepped through it. Reorienting herself towards the viceroy, she nodded surreptitiously. "They will head or they will be dragged. Either way works for me but I would prefer it to be peaceful, for now." Ciri said with a finality in her voice.

***

Mathematics, one of Morvran's teachers had told him, ruled the battlefield and this was a scenario he had at least mentally rehearsed. It was approximately 100 paces between the wall and the edge of the forest. Covering that distance, for a trained if somewhat rusty soldier in armor should not take slightly more than a minute. Raising the ladders they carried with them should not take more than another followed by yet another to actually get troops in line and up the ladders and over the wall.

Moving his troops, who were still being booted into lines from the barracks yard to the back wall would take almost two minutes. A crossbow could lose four aimed bolts a minute but given the time to get into position he could not estimate more than three aimed shots. Even aimed at the men with the ladders it would not be enough to stop the charge.

His brain switched to the next scenario, back-up plan. He had counted four ladders meaning the enemy would come across the wall at four distinct points, at a pace of one every five to ten seconds, which meant at most 24 a minute. He had a bit more than a dozen crossbowmen meaning 48 aimed shots a minute, the wall less than thirty steps from the mansion patio meaning crossbows should successfully penetrate any armor.

It was a bottleneck.

"Back to the porch!" he screamed, waving his men back from the parapet, just in time as arrows started to impact. He sprinted across the garden, heedless of the wilting flowerbeds and ornate bushes. Arrows were flying over the wall and impacting the mansion, crashing through windows, lodging in beams or bouncing off stone depending on where they landed "Form a battleline at the porch!"

"Sustained fire on points of entry!" he ordered the captain in charge and then immediately had to duck out of the way as the crossbowmen raised their weapons and released at the first knights that crossed the wall. Screams and shouts of anger could be heard behind him, with the knights battlecries raising beyond the wall. Morvran turned to the commander. "We'll hold them as long as we can with crossbows."

"They won't come in from behind?" the man asked.

Morvran shook his head as a squired helped him into his clamshell breastplate. "No, open terrain we would have spotted them. They are gambling on a straight charge."

The man cupped his chin in an armored gauntlet "We could retreat," he suggested "we have enough horses for the remaining garrison.

Morvran froze while adjusting his baldric. There had been cavalry among the group outside, but not enough to stop a retreating group of Impera.

"That would leave the clerks and the servants at their mercy." Morvran protested.

"Acceptable casualties sir. Don't like it much either but it is the militarily sensible option," the captain persisted. "Are you going to sacrifice my men for a building?"

The burned-out shell of the mansion fluttered before Morvrans eyes, dead men and women in the viceregal livery hanging from the roofbeams.

She would never forgive me he realized with a resigned finality.

Beyond the man’s shoulder Morvran could see a familiar curious face stick out. And he made his decision.

"Gretka!" he shouted. The girl fearlessly rushed across the patio until she skidded to a halt next to the captain, who instinctively raised his shield to cover her.

"Run and get the major-domo," Morvran started, "tell him to gather up all the servants, the clerks, the stable-boys, everyone. Tell them to blockade themselves in the kitchens and not get out unless me, the viceroy or mistress Merigold gives the order, no one else! The kitchens are underground and separate from the main building if it burns you can still survive there. We will hold as long as we can. Understood?"

The girl nodded, pirouetted on her heel and ran back towards the building. At the door she stopped and turned around. "General!"

Morvran turned his own head towards the girl with a questioning expression. 

"Don't die general," she said. After a little while she added "Her highness would not be happy," and disappeared into the house before he could answer.

Morvran turned back to the captain, whose face was a blank mask. "Any further orders sir?"

"The building is a symbol captain," Morvran said, "a symbol of Nilfgaard. Destroying it without a fight will undermine our rule far more than the loss of your men will. Why else would they leave us such and open venue of retreat? It is the military sensible option, we are staying." With those words Morvran drew his sword and pushed his way to the forward line. The parapets on the other side were slick with blood and the dead and dying, crimson surcoats made darker where the bolts pierced. Someone had ordered pavises brought up the ladders, forming walls facing inward that more and more men were forming up behind. Morvrans bottleneck was increasingly wide open and steadily more and more knights were assembling.

They were not charging immediately he noticed, dashing his hopes that they commit piecemeal. Across the yard, he could see the straw-haired head of their commander getting his troops in line. Their eyes locked for a split second. Then the knight raised his sword and waved his men forward.

The knights charged with a courage born of fanaticism and desperation in equal measure. The Impera met them with solid professionalism born of duty and fatalism.

The last flowers of the painstakingly cared for garden disintegrated beneath steel-shone boots.

***

They were not a merry company, the elders of Novigrad, as they were shuffled in through the doors and up the stairs to the hall that served as their traditional conference room. Most of them had bet on hunkering down from the riots that were still afflicting almost half the town and were not pleased to have to answer imperial summons. Grumbling as they may be, they had still had time to dress in their finest and Ciri, standing as she was behind a curtain which parted the hall from an adjacent room, was relieved to see that none of them seem to be dragged or otherwise physically harmed.

The halls roof was undecorated, dark wooden beams crossing it and merging seamlessly into the wood paneled walls holding paintings representing the individual guilds. A large beast of a man, shirtless but for a leather apron was beating out metal in one while on the one next to it a fishmonger held up a tuna bigger than he was. There were seamstresses bathing in lace, spice traders measuring out a king’s ransom of the stuff and a fairly offensive caricature of a dwarven banker. The artwork was gaudy, self-congratulatory and in somewhat bad taste. The walls were otherwise bare, save for the Impera brigade troopers which now lined them interspersed between the artworks. Originally the soldiers had tried to clean their breastplates from the soot, blood and indents from rocks and sticks but Ciri had ordered them to halt, better to ram home the seriousness of the situation. The smell of smoke and the drumbeat of marching troops filtered in through the open windows.

Vivaldi and a few other dwarves had tactfully stood off to the side as not to appear to closely aligned with Nilfgaardian power. The elders had not taking their assigned seats along the enormous square piece of a table that was the centerpiece of the room. Most of them were conferring in small groups, carefully eying each other and the enormous throne like chair that had been manhandled down from the Gildorf palace and propped up at one end. As the last elders entered the chamber Ciri turned from the curtain to the bronze mirror Rosa had "requisitioned" from an otherwise plundered tailor-shop. She carefully began to apply the kohl that they had likewise requisitioned, swearing when her shaking hands caused it to smudge.

"Let me," said Triss.

"No it's alright, I'll manage it." Ciri answered.

"Let me," said Triss in a voice which brokered no argument and gently wrestled the small brush from Ciri. "Sit still," she commanded, carefully wiping away the smudge with a wet towel she had produced out of nowhere "this is not a day to apply your own makeup." She handed the towel to Rosa and carefully applied the dark substance around Ciri's eyes. She leaned back and inspected her handiwork. "Rouge?"

"It's a conference not a ball! Anyway it's not the impression we want to give."

"True," said Triss and put the brush back into its small cylinder. She reached into a purse hanging from her belt and produced a heavy, ornamented golden chain. "You forgot this."

Ciri stared at the chain, its interlocking links gleaming dully in the dusky room. The great sun of Nilfgaard stared back at her, golden rays disappearing into the black onyx it laid upon. "It's awfully uncomfortable..."she started half-heartedly.

"So is the throne. So is ruling. This," she gestured toward the room beyond the curtain "calls for a ruler, not a witcher."

Ciri silently accepted the chain and draped it around her neck, Triss helping with the intricate locks that held it together at the small of her neck. She then took a deep breath and marched toward the opening as an attendant draw the curtain to a side.

Boots slammed together and scabbard chapes smashed into the checkered stone floor as the Impera stood at attention. Ciri strode into the room at a quick pace, temporally ignoring the council. She unclipped her scabbard from her belt and put its crimson, silver-decorated shape down in front of her at the table. The sound was audible in the otherwise silent room. She sat and wordlessly gestured to the councilors to take their seats. As they shuffled in place, she slowly eyed them one by one. As the scrapings of the chairs stopped, she spoke without further preamble.

"Gentlemen! This city, your city, our city, is in crisis. Citizens are being dragged from their homes and murdered in the streets. As I heard I hastened here hoping to assist and yet what do I find? Murderers roaming free. Streets bereft of their guardsmen. Councilors covering in their homes!" she paused to eye the group "This is your city and yet it takes imperial troops to restore order. Have you no ways of keeping killers off the street?" She left the question hanging in the air, hovering above the table like a firework waiting to explode.

The councilors, or the human ones at least, seemed to fidget in their seats. Finally one, the leader of the spice monger’s guild spoke. "It is Temple Guard's duty to maintain order."

Ciri nodded her head and pursed he lips. "Indeed, Master, the temple guard. Tell me councilor Hamleigh, where is your Temple guard? Last I saw they were blockading Temple Isle, not letting anyone through their lines including those looking for asylum. Or else hiding in their barracks." Ciri leaned back in her chair. "When my father, the emperor, sent me here he told me that Novigrad was a free city, the jewel of the northern kingdoms, shown capable to rule itself. And what do I find?" she gestured towards the open window and the councilors involuntary draw in a breath of ash and pyre. "This situation cannot stand gentlemen. I came here to offer my assistance yet this building, the civic heart of Novigrad, stood empty. Surely you are not without means? Why have you not ended these riots?"

Hamleigh stared at the table. "It is not that easy..." he murmured.

One man, the leader of the fishmonger’s guild frowned his bushy eyebrows at Ciri. "Ended them? And how do you suppose we do that? Let your thugs run rampant? Do you not think we see what you are doing? You are preparing a fig leaf for a Nilfgaardian military response against the city and holy father church!"

Ciri cut him off with gesture, eyes focusing on the man who make a visible effort not to shirk beneath her gaze. "I am doing no such thing and if you would but look outside you would see that our troops are in fact not storming the barricades but sealing them off. If this was but a fig leaf do you not think we would have acted by now councilor?" she fixed him for another heartbeat before turning towards the room again. "My proposal is as follows: as the temple guard have yet to intervene I propose that the government, both imperial and local, deputize a city militia to deal with this unrest. Your guilds will each stand up a certain number of volunteers, supplemented by your own guardsmen and the imperial treasury-" by which she chiefly meant Vivaldi's bankers "-will stand the cost of equipping and paying these militia. Their primary mission will be to convince the rioters to come down from their barricades peacefully and ensure the security of the city." She could see some careful nods across the table as the men contemplated her suggestion.

The fishmonger was not yet done, however. Lumbering to his feet he shouted "This is an outrage! First you let your butchers cut down good men trying to protect their home from pestilence and now you want us to send our guildsmen to fight their own! Its Nilfgaardian casualties you are trying to prevent, not create a peaceful solution! Novigrad has stood on its own for a hundred years, you think we cannot rule our own city? Who you think you are-"

The man didn't have time to finish. Ciri rushed to her feet and slammed the scabbard of her sword to the table. "Who am I? I am your liege! I am the lady of the worlds! I am the lioness of Cintra, come here to protect your silly little city from its own prejudices and liberate it from its shackles. I am Nilfgaard!" the man had abruptly sat down, back plastered to the back of his seat. Ciri continued, still standing but in a lower voice. "I could send for my father’s armies and lay waste to this city should I so choose. Yet every move I make to help you help yourself you reject. What will it be gentlemen?" She sat down again, regally, affixing the room with a stare the courtiers of Nilfgaard would have found discomfortingly familiar.

Hamleigh spoke first. "I believe we should follow her highness suggestion. This situation cannot stand and if the imperial government seeks to restore order, we should help them."

Vivaldi, who with his fellow dwarfs had been silent till now, spoke. "I do not think it comes as a surprise for anyone that the banker’s guild agrees with the viceroys proposal."

One by one the councilors, even the fishmonger, nodded in ascent. Ciri spoke. "Well then councilors. Awaits us only to fix our seals to parchment to make our decision binding. I have already prepared the necessary documentation." Triss, standing silent at her side nodded to a notary who stepped forward and lay down one of Ciri's ornate scrolls on the table. "I suggest we conclude our business quickly and then go back to prepare councilors. I want the militia to start mustering before supper." She stood and the men hurried to stand and bow. She swept out of the room, Rosa in her wake, Triss staying to make sure no one got second thoughts.

Ciri strode right across the anteroom to a corner table and oured and swiped a small glass of wine standing there next to a blue-glazed devanter, hands shaking with adrenaline.

"A dangerous habit to use drink to calm one’s nerves." The King of Beggars was lurking, there was no other word, in a corner half-hidden by a mini cypress. He was again dressed in street clothes, checkered patches sewn onto his dark-green tunic, pouches hanging from his belt. "Good speech by the way, the old fisherfool didn't know what hit him."

Ciri left his comment without answering. "Do you think they will help?" she asked.

"Oh, sure they will." he shrugged "Just enough so that they can say they followed up on their part of the bargain of course. The dregs of their guilds and household will be here within the hour. May I?" He indicated the corner table. Ciri nodded and he filled his own cup from the decanter. "Of course, while that will give you the councilor’s famous fig-leaf it will not be enough. And they will argue ad nauseum over who will captain your militia."

Ciri shook her head. "They can try. I inserted a clause in the deal that says that if the post is vacant, in an emergency the imperial government can deputize a captain."

The man raised his glass in a surreptitious toast. "Clever, but not something that will make them likelier to offer up their own men. But then again I don't think you would have had your sorceress summon me if you thought that."

"No." Ciri looked at her own glass and the decanter appraisingly before putting it down with a firm gesture. "I need your men."

The man pretended to consider this. "That would risk leaving my holdings, not to mention my status, which is all that protects me from the men in that room incidentally, unprotected."

"Yes it will." Ciri said simply. The king of beggars looked at her as if waiting for something else to be said. But Ciri simply continued. "I cannot offer any guarantees, not for criminal enterprises. But you said that you were willing to fight and sacrifice for a better Novigrad. Was that a lie? Because Novigrad needs you, oh king."

The man nodded. "Alright." He said "I appreciate the honesty. I will order my cutthroats to leave their colors and head here to join up." He raised an eyebrow. "Surprised?"

"Not very-" Ciri admitted, "but still gratified. I didn't think you would show up if you didn't imagine something similar was on the table."

The craggy face parted in a quick smile that then grew somber. "You are a smart one Viceroy. But in truth, there was another reason why I came here. I just received intelligence that the knights are massing outside town."

Ciri felt her stomach grew cold. "Where?" She asked, knowing the answer.

"The estate." The King of Beggars confirmed.

***

The king’s men were naught if not efficient. As their runners, young rapscallions still too young for serious street fighting, fanned out through the broad streets and narrow back-alleys of the city they quickly alerted the squads of thugs who in turn, grumbling, started to make their way to Hierarch square where Nilfgaardian quartermaster were handing out equipment from the back of wagons pushed in from plundered Temple guard armories. With them came volunteers, unlucky guildsmen who had drawn the short straw, a smattering of professional mercenaries and a few ashamed guardsmen.

The streets around the putrid groove had been close to empty before but were know almost deserted. A bit further down the street, along the docks, the doors to a warehouse opened on rusty hinges. A woman, sides of her head shaved down to the scalp leaving only a single lock of black hair flowing across it and down her back, stepped through hefting a double-handed axe. She looked down the alleyways where the king's blindeyes had stood guard and found them empty. Smiling, she turned her head to the small gathering of armored warriors standing inside.

"Well me boys, looks like the king has left his palace unguarded and lonesome. What say you we go teach him a lesson, the ol'fashioned Skellige way?" her words were met with hoots of laughter and roars of approval as she turned and led her shieldwall down the street.

Novigrad has not finished dying.

***

It was when the captain fell that Morvran understood that they were about to lose. Not enough soldiers remained to form an orderly line and when the man next to him went down, it was the work of instants for the knights to drag the captain out. One used a gisarme to hook the man’s leg out from under him as he parried the blow of another while a third drove the point of a poleaxe through the small opening between the gorget and the helmet. Blood rushed out across his black-and-golden surcoat as he fell to the ground, grasping futilely for air that would not come. Two of the knights stepped away while a third hefted a dagger to make sure the man was truly dead.

They were nothing if not thorough. But in any case, they were probably over-cautious. None of his fallen men had stood again, though many still writhed in agony.

You learn a lot chasing Scoia'tael through swamps and forests. How to poison your weapons not the least of it. 

There was a lull in the fighting as the two sides again drew apart. Real battles were never continuous, Morvran knew from experience, because there was only so long that soldiers could swing weapons before their arms grew too tired to wield them. His own sword-arm already felt like lead, its joints stiff with effort and his underclothes were drenched with sweat. His mouth tasted of blood from where he had bit his chin while parrying a particularly wild stroke. The air smelled of blood and sweat and fear.

He hoped Gretka had managed to badger the staff into the kitchens. Knowing the girl’s talent for hectoring he was fairly certain she would have, yet he was still worried (and wasn't he surprised to be worried about a peasant brat from Velen, especially now of all times).

"Sir." His one remaining sergeant pointed to where the enemies had started to reach around their flank, edging for the building. The textbook answer was a withdrawal, pell-mell those few yards into the building and barricade it as best they could. Morvran stared across the short, bloody distance that separated the two miniature armies. Walking behind his lines, painted shield in hand, sword laying bare onto his shoulder, Siegfried of Denesle, grand master of the Order of the Flaming Rose, stared back at him. Concerned that he would see through the ruse? No, that was to easy and again Morvran brain started their calculations. There was about ten between the lines and as many back to the house. Not all of his men would make the retreat but enough would.

Morvran raised his eyes. On the battlements of the wall the enemy’s crossbowmen had now formed up. Waiting for that one moment when the short retreat back to the house meant his men were no longer blocked by their own forces.

Staying put was impossible. Retreat was suicidal. Only one thing left.

"Sergeant," said Morvran very carefully, "we are to charge." He nodded in the direction of the enemy commander.

The man swallowed but let no other emotion show. "As you say sir." He silently turned and started to reform his men.

Morvran eyes were watering but his mind was clear. People were already dying in Novigrad, partially do too his mistake. Him dying here would perhaps be a fitting punishment for failing his emperor or more importantly, his viceroy. Behind him his men were hafting weapons and forming into a tough wedge. He thought of some inspiring words of failing that, some sort of prayer.

"I'm sorry your highness." He whispered to himself. Then he raised his sword and ordered the charge.

It almost worked.

The ground was slippery and strewn with the dead or dying, slowing down or occasionally even tripping his men. The crossbowmen at the battlements panicked at the unexpected move and several let lose their shafts, mainly hitting the building but also some of his men as well as their own. The groups, now equal in desperation if not numbers, collided with a metallic crash that sent soldiers tumbling over.

Morvran ducked from a clumsy handstroke to force his sword with a two-handed thrust through the hauberk of one of the knights, pulling the blade free only to narrowly miss an axestroke from another who was in turn half decapitated by one of the men following Morvran. The enemy pressed in from the sides as he swung wide, angling his blade to slip off the rim of a shield and across the eyes of another knight, who fell back screaming, clutching his face.

The grand master was in front of him. He parried Morvrans first blow with his shield, then launched into a series of counterstrokes that drove him back and almost into his own men. Morvran ducked from a blow and swung wildly for the legs, missing but forcing the man back, allowing him strike again with his back hand in a move that forced a low parry while at the same time allowing Morvran’s blade to glide free for a thrust at the man’s throat. It was a practiced and efficient killing strike, were it not for the blow that came from behind with force, smashing against his back plate but not penetrating. He fell forward and the grand master reacted on instinct, hitting him across the face with his shield with enough force that Morvran could hear his nose breaking. The shock was strong enough for him to drop his sword. He stumbled on something, catching himself as he fell backward to the ground and immediately rolling off to the side to avoid a downward sword stroke from his opponent. He kicked out blindly and felt the blow connecting with a wrist, saw the man’s sword fall from his hand. Morvran gripped it and immediately swung it around in a wide circle, aiming at the ankles of two approaching knights whose feet were clad in simple boots. They fell howling as the sword cut through flesh and leather. He came up to his knees and turned on instinct to parry a blow he felt rather then saw.

The grand master had found a poleaxe and drew it straight for Morvran, at a speed and ferocity that belied his wiry frame. The angle made a proper parry impossible and as the axe head caught on the blade, Siegfried drew the long sharp pike at the end forward, catching on the edge of the breastplate and driving into and through his shoulder, forcing him to the ground and pinning him to it like an insect in some particularly macabre collection.

The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced. He heard a bloodcurdling scream and belatedly realized it was his own voice. He kicked out again, but the man was ready this time and simply jumped back, leaving Morvran pinned. He tried to grip the shaft with his left hand, but his fingers betrayed him and slipped. Something tore in his shoulder as he moved and for a moment the world went black.

Then the colors bled back again, red from the blood covering his palms and the knights surcoats, black and gold from Nilfgaardian uniforms, gray from the clouds above and the dull armor below. Scream and shouts of anger could be heard as the remaining knights (and there was quite a bit fewer of them he saw with some bitter satisfaction) corralled his men. Veterans or no, bunched up they couldn't swing their weapons properly and so were easy prey for the enemy. Again he tried to remove the polearm and again he failed. He could already feel the poison spreading through the body.

"Your men put up a better fight than I had expected." The grand masters voice was neutral, as if they were but two craftsmen discussing business. "I hope you can forgive some dishonorable conduct." He bent down and retrieved his sword. "This is war, after all."

Morvran stared at him, tried to form words that refused to come, trying to blink away the hot, shameful tears as he heard his last men being butchered and the crossbowmen having ran around the battle already breaking into the estate he had sworn to guard. But nothing came. The man carefully stepped around his prone body.

The grand master stood beside his head and raised the sword over his head in both hands, point aimed at Morvran’s throat. His pale, tired eyes look oddly sad. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Morvran swallowed. It took all his remaining energy to keep his eyes open and focused on the blade about to descent.

Azure lightning flashed.

Another blade came flying out of literally nowhere, cutting the grand masters throat and all but decapitating him. He fell to the side silently, an astonished look on his face.

The swallow had come.

Ciri's eye were flashing green fire and her mouth stuck in a snarl as she turned at the remaining knights. They were tired, exhausted and had just been in the belief that they had won. They were unprepared for what came. Morvran was not sure whether it was bloodloss or something else. He had seen Ciri moved once, the combination of the elegant dance that was witcher swordsmanship and the otherworldly abilities she had inherited from a distant past. She would raise her sword in a blow, then disappear and reappear just before it connected, withdrawing her blade and then striking a man at the other side of the group. It was lightning quick and seemed almost effortless. But it was not battle.

Some men threw down their weapons and fled from the demon that had appeared in their midst. One officer started running towards the house, throwing the door open and shouting for the men still inside. If he had been less loud, he would have heard the hum of a portal. Then he was thrown backwards, his surcoat and shirt and hair and skin aflame as fire suddenly erupted from the open doors and windows, scorching the building and any of the knights caught inside it.

A woman, her hair scarlet against the flames walked through the opening, flames circling and dancing around her arms like coiled snakes. Some of the knights fled. Other stood stupefied as sorceress and witcheress destroyed them.

The Order of the Flaming Rose had burned its last embers.

Morvran opened his eyes again. He wasn't sure when he blacked out, but the garden seemed eerily quiet were just now a battle had been raging. Then he could hear the roar of fire and as he turned to see, he could see the estate aflame.

He could feel a glowed hand cupping his head. He looked up into two emerald eyes.

"Your highness." Morvrans’ throat was dry but he forced the words out. "I'm afraid I’ve failed in my mission."

"You didn't Morvran." Ciri said, tears now fouling her makeup. He shook his head weakly and winced at the pain in the shoulder.

"I should have advised you better. I should have anticipated this attack. I should..." He coughed dryly and for a third time grabbed the shaft of the poleaxe. He looked at Ciri. "Please?" he asked.

See nodded and grabbed the poleaxe with her other hand and together they pulled. Lightning danced in front of his eyes and again he thought he would pass out. But then the pain disappeared and was replaced with a numb feeling.

"It will be alright." Ciri assured him, then looked up at Triss. The sorceress held up a glowing hand briefly and then shook her head sadly.

"The poison is beyond my skill."

Ciri looked at the sorceress desperately and was about to say something when Morvran interrupted her. "It's of no issue your highness. It's my duty."

Ciri shook her head. "Don't say that Morvran. Don't die for me, or for anyone."

Morvran smiled a weak smile. Unbid his shaking hand rose and touched her cheek where the kohl had been smudged out by tears.

"Like seducing the whirlwind." He whispered to no one in particular.

And then he closed his eyes, and the world went dark.

Chapter Text

A chain of command is only as strong as its weakest link. - officers primer, Markus Braibant Military Academy

A king stood in the ashes of his realm and listened to the mocking cries of gulls. What had once been the small city-within-a-city of the Putrid Grove was now but a blackened shell, doors smashed, windowpanes hanging ajar, wood-and-waddle walls smeared with ash. Belongings lay haphazardly thrown onto the ground, broken pottery, smashed boxes, ripped clothing. Between two houses, a clothesline was still absurdly festooned with laundry, white sheets flapping in the winds like a flag of surrender.

Blood in the gutters.

Gudruns raiders had been thorough, he had to give them that. They had smashed the gate like so much driftwood and cut down his remaining toughs like sheep, unreinforced gate and Novigrad street mobsters being of little consequence to reavers weaned on the more dangerous prey of Nilfgaard. Seeing their opportunity, they had lunged for the throat and ripped it out.

The King of Beggars, or Francis Bedlam as his new-found friends at court called him, was not by nature an excitable man. Whereas his colleagues in the gang-running business had built their empires through reveling in death and intimidation, he had always tried to as far as possible be the reasonable one. The man with the deal, with the pouch of gold in his hand but a very visible dagger stuck firmly in his belt. It had served him well, left him alive whereas so many others have found themselves swinging at the order of the law or cut down by the rules of the streets. But had it also left him soft?

Slowly he walked through the remnants of the raid. Putrid grove had been his home, his castle, his refugee from the mad house that his city had become at the hands of fanatics. Its ever-transient population had always held a great proportion of the city's victims de jour, be it mages and alchemists during the reign of Radovid, refugees during the wars and non-humans just now. He had welcomed them, fed them, clothed them, offered them protection (in return for a small fee or a favor of course) and either taken them into his employ or sent them on their merry way, hopefully to think fondly of him and someday, somehow return the favor.

A foolish hope his colleagues had mocked him but that was before one such refugee turned up with an imperial princess in tow, vindicating his strategy and then some. And that had led him to hop-nobbing with nobles, sorceresses and imperial bureaucrats and finally properly using that marvelous intelligence network Sigismund Djikstra had left behind, ferreting out secrets near and far.

It had been a revelation. Of all his colleagues on the syndicate, Sigi Reuven as he had called himself and Sigismund Djikstra as Francis knew he was named (whether that was the name his mother had given him was anyone's guess) had been the most impressive. Physically intimidating, sure. But a mind so sharp it could cut diamonds and where it not for his primary interest being the political and military situation, Francis was sure he and the others would soon have been as much crab-food at the bottom of the bay and Djikstra would have ruled the Novigrad’s underworld like his own blessed kingdom. But to see the world through his eyes, see the web of information being thrown across the world and come back filled with secrets, had been, in a word, mesmerizing.

The little alley that led to his office was a mess. Two of his men had tried to make a stand and found themselves cut down by the axes of the Skellige raiders, their blood smeared across the walls. Beyond them the door was flat out thrown into the room and beyond there was nothing but the sign of a thorough ransacking.

He looked at the faces of his fallen gangers. The office itself was of little consequence, most of his gold and papers having been transferred to secure bank-vaults long before. But such loyalty as these men had shown could not be had cheap, especially in Novigrad especially after this. As a gang leader, one thing you could never show was weakness.

Something gleaned in the mud. He stopped down and picked up a silver coin that had been wedged in the mud. It was Nilfgaardian, the emperors profile half scratched out. Turning it between his fingers he smiled bitterly when he saw the imperial seal.

He had flown to close to the sun and forgotten the streets he had once claimed to rule. And, much as he himself had done once, someone had snuck up behind him and cut off his wings.

***

The Gildorf palace was overrun with wounded soldiers, evacuated servants, clerks afraid to go home and imperial citizens fleeing theis. The square outside had been turned into a military encampment, as troops filtering into the city were stabling their horses and stacking their weapons in neat rows. Storefronts were turned into commissariats as the owners who dared open made money hand over fist selling to the incoming troops. Another building had been converted to house the evacuated staff and patients from the hospital.

The estate had still been smoldering when Triss left it. It had taken all her energy to smother the flames enough to stop the whole building from going up in smoke, then half an hour of coaxing to get all of the servants out of the kitchens where they had cleverly concealed themselves. A company moving up from Oxenfurt had quick marched at the sound of battle and arrived in time to garrison the broken walls while detailing troops to escort the staff to Novigrad.

Ciri had disappeared, carrying general Voorhis still body away in a flash.

Around a table what remained of imperial high command in Novigrad (considerably diminished since the commandant had taken a brick to the head during one of the later skirmishes) stood huddled around a table in what once had been a guest bedroom.

"So, the bastards have set up barricades here, here and here," Zoltan Chivay, deputized captain of the Novigrad city militia and arguably its commander once its appointed guild member had disappeared back to his home at the inception of gang warfare, said as he put down cragged fingers on the crude map drawn on the back of a few old proclamations that covered the table. "We were all ready to go in after them when most of the gangers skedaddled and now we're stuck with barely enough warm bodies to man the perimeter."

"We could concentrate the militia with our troops and go in after them," a man in a navy overcoat said.

"With respect, commodore, that is contradictory to her highness order," captain var Ceallach, to whom command of the garrison had defaulted, stated. The captain had not been out of armor for almost two days and she very much smelled like it. "We should focus on reinforcing the perimeter and keep the rioters away from the vulnerable districts."

Commodore Helberg, commander of naval forces under viceregal command, shook his head "Her highnesses orders are based on a previous situation. We have an opportunity here to strike while the churchmen are still caught up in their praying. We can break through the walls of the buildings to avoid their barricades and with my men added to yours we have a respectable force."

"Yer men are sailors who only look like soldiers if you squint hard from a distance," Zoltan interjected, "any counterattack and they will break and then our homes are exposed once again."

The commodore huffed "You riff raff wouldn't know a soldier if he so stood on your neck dwarf. This is my command."

"The naval forces are your command, not the army." var Ceallach crossed her arms over her breastplate and eyed the commodore. "While you get stuck in clearing barricades our friends at Temple Ilse could sally forth and unscrew our entire position."

"Enough!" Triss interrupted. After the trio had quieted down, she continued "The viceroy’s orders were clear. We hold our positions."

The commodore bristled. "With respect, enchantress, you do not hold any military authority so I fail to see what gives you the right to order us to do anything."

"With respect, Commodore," Triss answered "I am simply communicating her highness orders. Tell me, I haven't had the time to brush up on Nilfgaardian military law, is the punishment for disobeying an imperial command still quartering? Or have they commuted it to hanging by now?" She stared at the man until he averted his eyes, then nodded. "You may go. See to your posts and keep us informed." Helberg and var Ceallach saluted and left as Zoltan lingered. The dwarf wrinkled his brow.

"These idiots are going to piss away any advantage we have over who gets to be in charge."

Triss sighed "Ciri will be back soon."

"Aye, I'll suppose she will be," nodded Zoltan. Triss arched a tired eyebrow.

"You know, I thought you were going to say. 'Are you sure?'"

Zoltan shook his head. "Nah, not that girl. She came back from who-knows-where before, she'll come back now." He nodded courteously and left.

Triss stared after him and whispered silently to herself. "Were it so easy, Zoltan. Were it so easy.” She turned and walked toward a thin, lacquered door which opened onto the sitting room she used as an impromptu office when in the city palace. The room was dark, as dusk had started to fall outside and the servants had not lighted the lamps, either out of confusion or in intimidation of the two people that did occupy the room.

Keira and Lambert were stretched out on a divan, Keira half on top of the witcher who was lying on his back, arm dangling off the side and hand hovering an inch above the hilt of his sword. They were both snoring outrageously.

Triss smiled, shook her head and yawned. Her table was neat, the chaos of the day having apparently stopped the daily accumulation of paperwork. A single letter, lacking the stamps of official correspondence, lacking any address. A single seal was pressed into the red wax, a sculpted owl looking almost alive.

Filled with trepidation she broke the seal. The note was short and to the point.

Triss

This has gone on far enough. There are ways to fight this that you have yet to employ. For the future of the north I expect to be on the next council meeting.

We both know who has the more competence in this matter.

Phillipa

Triss read the note twice over. Then she folded it, put it into her tunic pocket and leaned back.

Sleep took her almost before her head met the back of the chair.

***

His holiness was in a rare mood, Helveed observed, as he stood in the man’s chamber. As the riots had started and raged outside the man had gone from ecstatic to despondent and back again, as at first the riot had run roughshod over the city, then the Nilfgaardian troops had returned and the viceroy had managed to assemble the town council for an emergency conference. Seeing the city about to fall into the hands of the enemies of god, he had then turned outright gregarious when the news of the battle of the von Everec estate reached them.

"Can you imagine Helveed?" he asked as he walked to and fro in his rooms, waving arms making his vestments fly around like a flock of nesting seagulls, voice booming as if before the congregation. "That den of vice and heresy extinguished? The home of the proud viceroy cleansed in holy fire? It is like a passage from scripture Helveed."

Privately Helveed agreed with his hierarch, yet he also thought a more realistic approach was in order. "The loss of grand master Siegfried and his men was a setback," he said, "we could have used them right now to shore up our position in the city."

"Indeed, indeed," nodded the hierarch. "I will honor their memory. Martyrs, martyrs all. When the time is right their order shall be reborn from ashes, as all things." He shook his massive head, "I was a fool to doubt you Helveed. A knightly order would have given us a level of control, a real weapon, far better than depending on the temple guard and the syndicate I put up years ago. You were right to distrust them Helveed, why they are fighting each other, just as the battle for the faith is ongoing."

Helveed inwardly grimaced, knowing full well who had set up the gangs to fight one another. "I concur that they must be honored but may we wait your holiness? Linking ourselves to the order, especially now that it is functionally defunct as a fighting organization, would only risk bringing the wrath of the empire down on us. As of now we still have deniability, tenuous as that may be."

"Indeed, indeed. There are times when the works of god needs by necessity be done in the shadows."

"And such there is further work to be done. By your leave, your holiness?" Helveed bowed and the hierarch nodded sagely.

Once he had left the room Helveed picked up the pace. Despite what he may have told the hierarch, the loss of the order had deprived them of a highly useful tool, making them more dependent on the temple guard, on the rioters outside and of course, on Gudrun’s buccaneers who were already taking apart Francis Bedlam’s criminal empire.

Not that they had succeeded as well as he had hoped. The fiery destruction of the estate had been a bonfire that had shown the north exactly how weak Nilfgaards authority really was. And while the riots outside had caused casualties, most of them civilian and most non-human, the expected counterstroke had not materialized. Once the initial fighting was over the viceroy had withdrawn her troops and instead attempted to use Novigrad's elders against holy church, sparing the city the massacre by black ones that was crucial to remind their flock that peace could not be had with heretics. As such they were at an impasse, a situation the Helveed was highly uncomfortable with.

His path took him down from the Hierarchs chambers, through the sumptuous apartments set aside from foreign dignitaries which now stood pristine and empty. His smooth leather shoes left nary a sound and with his robes hood up he could be mistaken for any old deacon, lost in the search of the kitchens. The halls were cool, smelling as always faintly of the smoke from the holy fires lit throughout the complex and of the myrrh and incense thrown thereupon. Helveed turned a corner and entered a small sidechapel. The room was octagonal, dark red marble floors and pillars holding up a roof of stone long since smudged by the soot of the cauldron-sized copper brazier that stood as the centerpiece of the room and served as the only source of light. On the wall’s pictures of the travails of Saint Lebioda had been painted, recording his revelations and miracles in faded colors.

Helveed had often wondered what it must have been like to perform miracles, to alter the shape of the world using naught but faith and the power of god. Such power, he imagined, must be pure, whole unlike the abominations wrought by sorcerers who twisted God’s creation into their own twisted idea. As a young man Helveed had walked the earth, trying to find God’s voice in every good deed and every blooming flower but only found traces of his own inadequacy. Finally he had decided that god wanted him for a different purpose, and if god did not want to have him as a vessel of his holy miracles, then he could be his wrath instead. 

A single figure was kneeling in front of the fire, her silhouette sharp and black against the flames. In front of her was a small row of candles, lighting up her face and casting shadows across the room and a ghostly image onto the copper side of the cauldron. Her hands were pressed together in prayer, while her dirty and bloodied armor seemed to press into her, dwarfing the girl before god. Her sword was lying neatly sheeted by her side.

Helveed stopped at a prudent distance. "How long have you been at prayer child? Have you eaten at all?" he asked.

His approach had been habitually silent yet the girl didn't seem to stir "Since I finished my report Your grace." She said, ignoring yet answering the second question.

Helveed nodded appreciatively and slowly walked around her, standing off to the side. The girls face was smudged were tears had run, her eyes facing the tiles. "The congregation has meet at least three times since then my child. Plenty of space for prayer in the company of god." The question as almost rhetorical, for he could for see the answer as the girl’s head shook, almost violently.

"I will not sully the congregation. I prefer to pray by myself." Her voice was not as some would have expected cracking but fierce and somber.

The priest nodded sagely "The decent choice," he pointed to the candles, "praying for your fallen comrades."

"Praying for all the fallen. Even the Nilgaardians." A silent question on the propriety of this was hanging in the air.

"As you should. They were deluded yes but we should mourn even those, no especially those who die without gods saving grace and purifying flame."

The girl nodded, lips moving as if she wanted to say something else. Helveed, a skilled confessor and interrogator both, waited.

"I broke bread with them. I traveled with them. They trusted me and I, I-" a sob could be heard echoing throughout the empty room.

"Betrayed them?" Helveed said. The answer was a simple nod. When no other answer came, he stepped closer and knelt beside her, gently cupping her chin with his hand and slowly turning her face towards his.  "You did no such thing child. You stopped them from making a mistake, to commit an act of violence against holy father church. In doing so you may have well saved their souls." Her eyes meet his and he continued "The viceroy, good friend  that she may be is naught but a tool of Nilfgaard, though she may not realize so herself. For them nothing is holy, as you should know seeing how they once promoted your father. You stopped them from creating more of him."

Tamara nodded slowly "So then god will forgive me?"

Helveed smiled "He already has child," bones painfully cracking he stood, "remember that it is us who keep the monsters at bay." He nodded towards the candles. "Those men feel as martyrs and need no prayer to see them right. Save a prayer for your mother and then go to rest child," he said as he left the room, leaving Tamara alone with the dancing shadows.

His own chambers awaited. While simple in comparison to the opulent apartments held by the hierarch they were not spartan, for Helveed was long past the stage where he believed neglect of basic bodily comforts to be a godly act (and in any case, his bones were old enough to protest). A simple bed of undecorated spruce wood curtained of by a wool hanging, an unlit fireplace with a high-backed chair standing in front of it, a simple writing desk positioned underneath the only, high window. The floor was covered with sheepskins brushing up against the single wardrobe he used for storing his more ceremonial vestments.

Helveed move is stiff neck back and forth and looked without too much enthusiasm on the pile of correspondence piled up on his desk. It had been a tiring few days and he could feel his years as he cumbersomely walked towards the writing desk.

Something picked him up by the scruff of his neck like a naughty kitten and threw him clear across the room, impacting the desk and scattering his correspondence through the air like snowfall.

The crone was towering over him. She had shed her human form, blotched and wrinkled skin covered with puss barely covered by sackcloth, one eye covered, the other a black multifaceted darkness. Her pointed hat reached upwards and disappeared in the gloom by the ceiling and her extra, deformed arms hang limply, protruding from the stomach at an obscene angle.

"You have forgotten our bargain, priest." Her voice seemed low yet it filled the room, harshly echoing throughout chamber. Helveed, breath having left his lungs, could not answer.

"The girl for a curse, priest. We made a bargain, and bargains are to be upheld."

"I have not forgotten," Helveed wheezed, "but the political situation has changed..." he didn't manage to continue as the crone picked him up like a doll and lifted him to her eye level. The only eye was wounded he saw, and maggots crawled in and out.

"Politics? I do not care for human politics priest. You made a bargain and bargains are to be upheld. You wanted to sacrifice your own people to your god. Do you think I will stop if you fail to uphold your end of the pact?" She let go and Helveed crashed to the floor, gasping for air. The crone looked down on him pitifully. "Your worship blinds you priest. I was a god too, a far more real one then any that can be found in your books and pyres. Gods are not to be worshiped; we demand tribute! And if you fail to provide priest, I will turn this stinking city into a clean swamp and hang your rotten carcass from your tower until it falls apart."

Helveed had not felt fear since he was a small boy. But staring into that dead eye he felt it clear.

"A bargain is a bargain, priest." The crone said with a finality and suddenly exploded into a flock of crows, disappearing among the rafters.

***

In her dreams, there was fire. The estate was a pyre, flames eating the expensive tapestries and furniture, licking along the walls and making torches of the men so engulfed. One man staggered screaming towards her, arms outstretched like a child looking for its mother. The flames contorted his face in obscene ways and then he was Lytta, body a burned-out husk and the flames were those of Sodden, roaring towards an ink-black sky alight by the golden sun banners. Lytta screamed and then those screams were Triss own as she fell to the ground among the corpses, their armor burnt pitchplack no matter which king they had fought for and their bodies melting into the ground. She frantically beat her bloody hands against her chest as her skin dissolved, as black ravens descending from the sky to feast. One bird landed on Triss screaming body, opened its  violet eyes and whispered a single word.

Traitor.

Triss awoke to someone shaking her awake. Opening blurry eyes, she could see the dark shape of a servant standing above her.

"I'm sorry to wake you, enchantress," the woman begun "but her highness has returned."

Triss immediately stood up from her armchair and left the sitting room, stalking down the corridors towards Ciri's chambers. The palace was spending an uneasy night; it was never a quiet place but this night it was buzzing in fatigued and anxious activity. Even if the evacuated staff members had not been housed up here on the upper floors there was still the clerks who tiredly and with bleary eyes attempted to keep the administration going, rasping goose pens cutting out columns of numbers on parchment which didn't necessarily make sense anymore. Outside the shouts and foul oaths from the soldiery coming and going on their patrol and redeployment schedules. The regular staff, lamplighters, cooks, and cleaners were going about their own business just as the Impera had doubled their guards and stood with swords unsheathed and crossbows drawn.

As she approached the door, it opened, briefly, to allow Gretka to slip out, holding a pile of bloodied clothing in a basket. The girl startled at Triss approach and attempted to curtsy, causing her to almost drop her burden.

"Gretka," Triss nodded to her, "shouldn't you be resting?" the girl had been nervous bunch of energy as they returned to the city and as the fear she had suppressed during the attack had roared back.

Tired eyes narrowed at her question. "The viceroy has returned, and it is my duty to attend," she answered stubbornly.

Triss nodded, wishing silently had been less effective in pounding in the idea of loyalty of service into the girl, as Gretka disappeared down the stairs. The girl had always been devoted, and despite idolizing them, the world was not always kind to devoted servants of political figure. Wearily Triss reached for and opened the door.

Ciri's chambers in the town palace were better organized and far less personal then the ones she used at the estate. Dark panels giving way to light colored plastered wall in the Novigrad style, paintings by great masters hung with an exactitude that made them seem identical in the gloom from single candelabra hanging from the roof. The floor was mosaic, spirals of sea-green moving out from the center in a wave pattern. Almost by the center blood was smeared as Ciri had unceremoniously dumped her armor. Her sword was respectfully held by Rosa, who stood at some sort of attention despite looking as tired as Gretka.

Ciri was washing. Stripped down to the waist she was using a towel to wipe away dust and blood and sweat, dipping it back and forth into a large porcelain bowl, its surface already inked dark with the filth. Mainly she was succeeding in smearing it across her body.

Triss nodded towards Rosa, who bowed, instinctively.

"Lieutenant var Attre, this will not do. Have them tap up a bath and bring it here." Rosa looked confused back and forth between Triss and Ciri for a moment. "Now lieutenant." Triss said in a voice which brokered no argument. Rosa swallowed, nodded and after a moment’s confusion put Ciri's sword down against an armoire before she hurried out.

Ciri was still attempting to wash herself. Without turning she said. "You don't have to be cross with Rosa. Be cross with me."

Triss briefly pondered claiming not to be cross then thought better of it. "You disappeared," she said bluntly.

Ciri nodded. "I know."

Triss shook her head. "No, as a matter of fact I'm not sure you do. You abandoned the palace grounds in sight of the enemy. You didn't return to Novigrad, no you vanished into the ether, leaving a command vacuum here which could have been disastrous should our friends at Temple isle decide to move."

"You were here."

"I am a sorceress and a northerner and certainly no leader!" Triss involuntarily raised her voice. "It was only thought pure inertia I managed to hold the situation together."

Ciri turned her head towards her adviser and tried to smile, weakly. She said, "You underestimate yourself," before turning back to the mirror.

Triss stomped across the chamber, grabbed Ciri's naked shoulder and spun her around. "No, you still fail to understand your importance!"  Ciri moved her hand to brush away her hand but Triss held firm. "You are the viceroy, the crown princess, the empress to be. Without you this whole thing, this ramshackle government we have managed to piece together collapses. You are the monarch, it cannot function without you, not for any length of time, not when you disappear without warning during a crisis."

Ciri stared at Triss, eyes misting. "Morvran…I had to try, try something! I couldn't let someone die like that, in my arms. Not again." She made a movement to turn and Triss slowly released her hold.

"Is he alive then?" she asked.

Ciri affected a shrug. "I don't know," she admitted. "I just...stood there, at that battlefield, saw them all lie there dead and I thought, if I could just save this one life." She turned toward Triss and for a second the sorceress could clearly see the girl she had met among the witcher's at Kaer Morhen, all those years ago. "I couldn't bear to see another person die for me." She smiled weakly. "Is that arrogance?"

Triss was not amused. "It’s far worse than that. Its cowardice."

"Cowardice? When I'm trying to sa-"

"Yes, cowardice," Triss interrupted. "Because guess what Ciri? People will die. They will always die. They will die with your name on their lips or cursing it! They will die because our laws will demand it! They will die poor in a gutter because we reached a trade agreement with Kovir and put all the cobblers in Nazair out of business! We are not in the hero trade. We are in the ruling trade." She paused to inhale. "And in our trade people die, because or despite of our decisions, or lack thereof. When you rush to help one person, you endanger a hundred, a thousand more. And if you cannot accept that, if you cannot carry that burden and make those choices, then tell me so I can pack my things and leave." She stared at Ciri for another moment before straightening and stating, flatly. "Once your bath is ready, I suggest you eat something and go to sleep. There will be briefings for you to attend in the morning, your highness." And with that she turned and left, leaving her ruler alone with her thoughts and bowl full of bloodied water.

***

After they had lugged the bathtub up into the viceroy’s quarters and the servants had excused themselves, Rosa had kept a weary vigil in case she would be needed to rescue her exhausted monarch from drowning in her own bathtub. In the event it was not necessary, although Ciri kept uncharacteristically quiet, munching away without enthusiasm on a plate of beef-and turnip pastries, before exiting the tub and slipping behind a folded screen to put on a nightshirt that had been left for her.

Rosa cleared her throat. "May I have your leave, your highness?"

"Yes, sure," Ciri said absentmindedly. Rosa was half-way to the door when Ciri called out again. "Rosa, would you die, on my order? I mean not literally, but if that’s the way the dice fell?"

Rosa nodded. "Yes your highness."

"Why?"

Rosa thought a second. "It’s my duty your highness, my sworn duty, to you, to Nilfgaard."

"I am but one person Rosa," said the voice behind the screen.

The lieutenant shook her head. "With respect your highness you are not. You are the princess, the empress-to-be. You are the personification of the empire, the guarantee that we will not fall into war and feuding. Dying to protect you would be dying to protect my family..." she paused, briefly "In the long run I mean."

The was quiet beyond the screen. The Ciri spoke again, softly. "That will be all Lieutenant."

Rosa bowed and turned smartly and left. Behind her the chamber fell into dusk and silence.

It was only after she exited that she realized she hadn't bothered to find out whether she had been assigned her own bed. Given the confusion and influx of evacuated staff she somehow doubted it. Instead she plucked an army bedroll from a supply closet and unfolded it near Ciri's door, taking up an uneasy vigil. She was feeling her eyelids grow heavier when Gretka came up the stairs, balancing a teapot and a plate of food. She stopped when she saw Rosa.

"Her highness is asleep." Rosa said.

"Oh," said Gretka, "I had hoped to give her something more to eat."

Rosa was about to tell her to go downstairs again when something in the girl’s disappointment face made her mellow "I'm sure she would be grateful that you cared," she said, smiling. The corridor was silent but for the shuffling feet of the guards when Gretka’s stomach loudly growled. Rosa arched an eyebrow. "When was the last time you ate?" she asked. The girl blushed and Rosa padded the bedroll beside her. Gretka hesitated for a moment and then sat down next to Rosa and started eating.

"Thank you," she said. Rosa smiled and pinched of a piece of spiced bread.

"It is of no matter." They ate in silence for a while.

"I hope general Voorhis didn't die." Gretka said.

"You like the general?" Rosa asked.

"I like teasing him. So serious. And I like that way her highness laughs when I tell her about it." Gretka rolled her eyes. "I know, I know, not proper, blablabla."

Rosa laughed and shifted position. "You know, after today I don't think we have to worry about what is proper." She looked down at the girl. "I’m glad you got through it."

"Yeah," said Gretka, "so am I. Glad you're not dead I mean." She smiled briefly before wolfing down the last of the bread. Some of the candles had gone out and starlight was gleaning through the opposite window.

"We should all be so lucky." Rosa paused, eyes trying and failing to track the contours of a painting in the dusk. "The princess asked if I would die for her. I said yes, thought it obvious. Why is that?"

Gretka nodded. "Cause she would do the same for us."

Rosa inhaled deeply. "True, you would know, wouldn't you? Gretka?" The girl didn't answer and then Rosa felt the weight of a head on her shoulder.

The girl was asleep.

Chapter Text

"Rulers? Aye, I've seen plenty of those. Leaders? Them too. But rulers who can actually lead, why they are few and far between." - From the collected saying of Vysogota of Corvo.

A missive lay on the plain oaken table, scarlet seals broken and dirtying the polished surface with broken pieces of dried wax. Ciri, sitting in a high chair at the head of the meeting stared at it like a particularly loathsome venomous snake.

"Are they seriously expecting me to show up?" she asked in a tone equally disgusted and incredulous.

"If not they have wasted lots of good parchment on nailing these to every wall between the temple square and the Lacehalls," Francis Bedlam, still mainly known under his sobriquet the King of Beggars, uncrossed his arms across his crumbled doublet and picked up a broadsheet from the table. The man looked like he hadn't slept in days; he had in fact at the very least not slept since the day before when the center of his criminal empire went up in literal smoke. "The Hierarch invites all and sundry to come and join hands with him and the Viceroy and pray for the souls of the good citizens of Novigrad that passed in the recent struggles."

"Including, I gather, the pogromists?" Ciri let her rhetorical query hang in the air above the meeting table before leaning back again. "I assume we are about to tell him where he can stick his papers?" She looked at Triss, Keira, var Ceallach and the others sitting around the small table. Rosa was standing at her usual position behind Ciri's chair while Lambert was leaning on an armoire, scowling with the air of someone forced into something against his will.

Triss cleared her throat "There are...several options we may pursue. I have discussed setting up a separate, co-religionists, ceremony in a suitable location, however that may cause many undecided to come down on one side and not the one we want them to come down on."

"Can't we just barricade the bridge?" asked var Ceallach.

"Not without risking another riot." Triss said shaking her head, "and we are spread thin as we are." She looked at the King of Beggars who shrugged.

"My people expect me to drag Gudrun into the gutter and fight it out. She's not gonna accept anything but victory, she’s got too much invested already."

"Of the church's money." Ciri pointed out."

The man shrugged again. "Of course. Not like her to do something out of religious conviction and anyway it's not her faith. And she has more reinforcements coming, at least that's the word I got from Skellige." He rapped his knuckles in a quick staccato on the table. "If you want the streets back in order you need to put either her or me out of the way and I hope," he said with a humorless smile "I have proven myself too valuable to discard."

Triss nodded along. "Also, apart from the uncertain security situation, there are also reasons to actually consider attending."

Ciri stared at her "Such as?"

Another voice spoke up, startling Lambert where he stood "To do otherwise would be to show weakness."

Philippa Eilhart stood in the opening into Triss study. Her blue irises shone like ice, standing off to her ruffled collar and wine-red dress, imperiously taking in the room with eyes that didn't fully track. She bowed, a courtier’s bow, long languid and deep. "Your imperial highness." She intoned every i with precision.

Ciri moved to stand but caught herself. Instead she waved her hand in what she hoped was an majestic gesture. "Philippa Eilhart. In my palace," she briefly glanced over at Triss "I assume you were invited?"

"On a consulting basis only, your highness. May I?" she indicated a seat at the other end of the table. Ciri nodded briefly and the sorceress sat down. "Thank you. It is good to finally met you again your highness, it’s been too long."

The faces around the tale were a study in contrasts. Lambert was outright scowling, Triss face was a mask of forced impassiveness, the King of Beggars an equally silent mask, var Ceallach mainly looked confused and Keira sat impassively, either from anger, stress or fear.

"That is certainly one way of looking upon it," said Ciri as she regarded the elder sorceress. "The counterpoint, on the other hand, may be that was far too short a time."

Philippa angled her head in what those that did not know her might have considered a mute apology. "Indeed. Ages ago, a different time, different politics. An effective ruler would see past such things, when needs must."

"And I presume you know when needs must don't you Philippa ." Ciri leaned back in her seat, eyes not leaving the sorceress impassive blue orbs. "Does needs must also tell me why I need to stick my head into a nest of vipers?"

"The alternative is that you let the Hierach rail against you unsupervised and show yourself afraid, or even worse, that you deprive his congregation of seeing his fat face which while a boon from your perspective may not be so to the true believers of Novigrad."

"So instead you suggest I simply sit at his feet like a supplicant." Ciri turned to Triss "Is this the advice you asked her to come her to peddle?"

Triss shook her head. "No. Philippa has a plan, a plan I do wish she would arrive at," she said with a quick sidelong glance at the sorceress, "but a plan nonetheless."

Philippa smiled and bowed her head in Triss direction. "Yes, forgive me. It has been entirely too long since I was last at council." She cleared her throat. "What is the most significant, mysterious, nay tantalizing asset in her highness history?" She asked the room at large. "The one that sets her apart from every other crowned head on the continent?"

"Her claim to the imperial throne," said var Ceallach.

"No." Philippa shook her head "that is her claim to legitimacy. Try again."

Lambert opened his mouth to say something and Phillipa snapped her fingers. "Not you." The witcher stopped, startled and scowling.

The King of Beggars crossed his arms over his chest. "You know magister, I've heard of you as a great sorceress and politician. Not a trickster of wordplay."

"A man who refuses suffer fools gladly," Philippa inclined her head toward him. "Someone like you will be useful."

"She's trained a Kaer Morhen," Lambert said stubbornly, his voice a blend of pride and hidden pain.

Philippa turned around and looked at him, eyebrows arched in mock surprise. "Amazing. To think you were the clever wolf," She turned back toward the rest of the table, "But yes, he is correct. The viceroy is a trained witcher, a slayer of beasts." She looked between the now confused faces of the council. "So have her slay a beast! Right there in the plaza. Save the entire unwashed congregation and his holiness too."

Ciri narrowed her eyes. "You want to unleash what, a troll, on temple isle?"

"No," said Philippa , "think bigger."

"Zeugl?"

"No," the sorceress smiled wicked grin and her eyes were shining. "A dragon."

And the meeting dissolved into pandemonium. Lambert shouted something about dragons being intelligent creatures, Ciri agreed with him, the King of Beggars, animated at last, growled something about unleashing such a beast in the middle of the city and var Ceallach shouted something about the troops being inadequate to face such a creature which was wholeheartedly ignored.

"Enough!" Triss brought the meeting to order again. "As distasteful as it is this is a plan with real possibilities, unlike every other option which seem to be somewhere between ´compromise´ and ´lay siege to temple island´."

"How would you even coerce a dragon to show up at the appointed time?" Lambert said.

"That is frankly none of your business," Philippa answered him, "but for the sake of argument, let’s say that I managed, a few years back, to bring such a creature under a certain level of influence. In any case, I have yet to hear a better plan." She looked around the room, at the silent faces and scowling brows.

"And in return you'd want what?" asked the King of Beggars.

"So direct. You should learn my dear criminal mastermind," Philippa said, "to be more circumspect when dealing with nobility. But as this is Novigrad and thus an uncivilized place I want nothing much. Just this seat at the table." Her blue eyes stared at him unblinkingly.

The king shrugged, briefly. "Not my seat to give."

"Quite right," answered the sorceress.

"But it is mine," Ciri said, "and I won't stand for it. Witcher’s don't hunt dragons."

Philippa shook her head. "Witcher’s of the Wolf school of Kaer Morhen, mayhaps, though I have seen reports to the contrary. But in any case, what of it? Would you sacrifice this city to uphold your precious code? A dragon may be a sentient being but is it worth more than a human? Or an Elf, a Dwarf or any other of the hundreds dying daily as long as this situation continues. Are you ready to sacrifice their lives? Witcher’s can afford to pretend not to have to choose a lesser evil; rulers may not."

Keira, seemingly reluctantly, cleared her throat. "We may need a distraction around Temple Isle anyway." As everyone looked at her, she continued, "I have studied the contagion. It made no sense at first, to many vectors of attack, the way it ignores non-humans, the way the infection rate seems to ebb and flow and most importantly the fact that we haven't seen in spread more than marginally outside Novigrad." She took a deep breath. "It's not a medical issue; its magical. Specifically a kind of curse. I've spent all morning trying to triangulate it and I think it emanates from beneath Temple island."

Triss raised an eyebrow and smiled and even Philippa seemed impressed. "That was fast." Triss remarked.

Keira shrugged. "I've seen it before. In Velen, an entire village was wiped out once by an outbreak like that. Couldn't do anything to stop it and yet it refused to spread."

Ciri froze, briefly. "Where in Velen?" she asked.

"Near Crookback bog," answered Keira and confirmed her suspicions.

***

"What is duty?" Ciri asked one evening.

  "It is what a person owes someone else, beyond that which is legally required," the emperor answered. The hour was late and the last embers of the fireplace were dying down. Outside, a thick snowfall, unusual this far south, fell slowly among the golden towers of Nilfgaard. "A person to their lord, a lord to a god, a ch-" he interrupted himself to surreptitiously sip the last dregs from his winecup, "-in any case, what is required."

  Ciri was not letting him off that easily. "A child to their parent? Really?"

  "It is common practice and belief," the emperor answered, "though what exactly is required in any particular case may depend upon the parent."

  She smiled at the small victory. "So in that case circumstances may change one's duty? What was yours to your parents?"

  The emperor stared silently into the fireplace, brown eyes colored gold in the soft lightning like the sun of Nilfgaard itself. "Vengeance," he said at last.

  "So simple?"

  "The simplest duties are often the hardest. We ask alot of eachother Cirilla. Society is a never-ending, ever expanding web of duties and demands up and down, sideways and lengthways, ever twisting and often contradicting. Yet we all must have a duty, or else we are nothing but idiots. You know the original meaning of the term?"

  "A single person, alone," she stated.

  The emperor smiled a thin smile "Very good."

  Ciri rested her cheek in the palm of her hand. "Then what of our duty as monarchs."

  She wasn't sure if she even expected an answer, but she received one all the same.

  "Perpetuation. We are the spiders, the spinners, that create and maintain the web, patch it where needed, expand it where we can."

  "And if it breaks?"

  "Then we are the first ones to fall." The emperor said simply.

  Ciri leaned back in her armchair. "You make it sound oddly unselfish, duty."

  "On the contrary it is the most selfish thing in the world. For what spider wants to risk losing its web?" he shrugged. "Yet it is hard. You may be asked to give up on things you rather wouldn't. Family, comfort, love, family, vengeance and fury even." He smiled again. "I suppose I was lucky in the later regard."

  "But very much not so in the former."

  "Quite so." Emhyr said. Silence mounted up between them again, Ciri unwilling to push and her sire unwilling to give. Eventually the emperor put his cup down and stood. "The hour grows late and there is a day tomorrow as well." He put his hands against the armrests and pushed himself to his feet.

  "You never did apologize." Ciri said as the emperor turned to leave. Slowly he turned back towards her, more of a shape then a person outside the glow of the fireplace.

  "Emperors never apologize Cirilla. You should learn that as well." He turned and left. "Good night daughter."

  Ciri remained in her armchair. In front of her the embers one by one died down and disappeared.

***

Outside, the wind had picked up, causing flags and pennons to snap and beat against their poles. Inside the air was stale, confined.

And Ciri was seething. Fists clenching and unclenching, green eyes staring at some point at the table, ears buzzing with the sounds of Keira’s last words.

"Crookback bog," she repeated slowly, each intonation a curse onto itself. "The damn fools sent for the crone of Crookback bog."

Around the table, faces lit with either recognition or confusion. Ciri looked up. "A monster, a witch, no a relict is probably the correct technical term. One of three similar creatures playing demigods in Crookback bog in Velen, due south-east of here." She exhaled deeply and finally unclenched her fist. "I killed the other two, years back. If it is her spreading this disease then we have to take her out."

"Indeed," said Philippa. "Destroying her should be a primary objective. If Keira can locate her underneath Temple Isle a strike team should be able to infiltrate by teleport."

Ciri nodded. "I will lead it."

"With respect, your highness, you should do no such thing." Philippa flatly stated and held up her hand as she saw Ciri getting ready to protest.  "There are three reasons for this. First, your life is simply too valuable to risk at a monster hunt in the catacombs beneath Temple isle. Second, the isle is warded and while we may be able to penetrate them we will risk setting off alarms. Should we strike concurrently with the ceremony on top we will have all the distraction we can ask for and you need to be present for the ceremony-"

"Present? There is a monster underneath the isle, who else is qualified to fight it?"

"Ciri." Triss interrupted. There was silence for a moment before she continued. "Not even you can be in two places at once. And your duty is not to chase monsters in the dark anymore." Her eyes pierced Ciri until the princess finally nodded in acquiescence. "Phillipa, continue."

"Third," Phillipa said undaunted, glancing over at Lambert, "loath as I am to say this we have an expert in the art of monster-killing present."

Lambert detached himself from the wall and sneered at the sorceress. "I'm retired."

Phillipa rolled her cold blue eyes. "Surely this is a situation that takes precedence?"

"Is it? How much you gonna pay me Phillipa?"

"The viceregal administration will of course compensate you." Triss interjected. Lambert arched an eyebrow at her and then looked at Keira, who nodded imperceptibly.

"Fine," he said, throwing out his hands. "I'll go polish my blades and prepare the oils," he motioned to leave.

"Lambert," Ciri said, catching the Witcher's eye. "She has, well, had Vesemir's medallion. She took it while we fought."

Lambert stopped in his track, cursed under his breath and left the room.

"He didn't ask your leave." Philippa observed dryly.

"He's a witcher, I would not expect him to behave anyway else." Ciri said.

"Dangerous precedent that."

"It is my precedence to set." Ciri rapt her knuckles on the table once and stood up. "Councilors," she said in more formal tone of voice, "we have preparations to make and precious little time to make them. Keira, are your calculations finished?"

"More or less." Keira answered, "though there are some matters I have to over with enchantress Merigold before we finish." Triss arched an eyebrow in surprise before nodding in acquiescence .

"Very well," Ciri said standing up as the others quickly followed suit, "let's be about it then. Mister Bedlam, a word?"

Ciri left the room, Rosa and the king following her tracks. "We need to end this situation with the gang war. We cannot afford it, not now."

"I assume you won't be lending me troops?" he asked, smiling slightly and without humor.

"Cannot have soldiers openly interfere in gang warfare and in any case, I need everyone to contain riots. You need to make a deal with Gudrid, Gudrun or whatever her name is.

The man rubbed his chin in though. "That may be hard. She is winning, or at least she thinks she is and with more Reavers on their way her advantage seems to be increasingly permanent."

Ciri stopped abruptly and turned to the man. "I will give you what little support we can muster but I, no, Novigrad needs you to negotiate an end or pause to hostilities," she paused ofr effect, “by any means or costs necessary.”

"That is a distasteful choice you leave me," he noted.

"All our choices are distasteful," she took a step closer and an unwelcome feeling of being cornered spread down Francis Bedlams spine. "'I asked you once whether you were a visionary or a hypocrite. It’s time to make that choice mister Bedlam." And she turned and disappeared down the corridor.

***

Triss followed Keira into the sitting room turned office. The other sorceress was poised, calm and it was only the fact that Triss have known her for some time that alerted her to her seemingly nervous energy. Keira stopped in the middle of the room, hands clenched. Triss sidestepped her, walked to the nearby cabinet and poured them each a cup of wine. Keira accepted hers without looking.

"So," Triss started "was there anything else that needed discussing? You were correct about the spread of the contagion, yes?"

"Of course I was," Keira answered, through back her hair as she down half her glass. "That’s not the issue."

"Then what is?"

Keira looked up and her eyes seemed to narrow into sharp points. "Triss. Are you actually going to let her do this?"

"Ciri?" Triss asked, knowing it was not the correct answer.

"Phillipa!" Keira exclaimed "Are you actually going to let her take your position like that? Easy? Unbothered?"

Triss was far from unbothered truth be told but she didn't need to tell Keira. She shrugged "Her plan might just work, distasteful as some parts of it are. I honestly didn't think you would be bothered by those parts."

"I knew about her bloody dragon already," shrugged Keira "I don’t care about that, Witcher’s codes and whatever, just that you seem to be willing to hand over your position to Philippa on her say so."

Triss shrugged and reached for her cup. "She is by far more qualified."

"So then you will just give up your post? Because you know that despite all that she may say now, she will not agree to share anymore power then she deigns."

Triss frowned over the rim of her cup. "Do you think this is about power Keira?" she asked as she sat it down "Do you seriously think I'm sitting here out of my own pleasure, lusting over power? That is the most insipid-" 

"You?" the other sorceress interrupted, "It’s not about you! It’s about us. All of us," she made a sweeping gesture around the room, "it’s about every sorceress, hedge witch, alchemist and wise woman north of the Yaruga who have spent the last decade hunted by lunatics! Scared people! Vulnerable, poor and in hiding. People who are barely daring to raise their heads because Nilfgaard, Nilfgaard which mind you forces every sorcerer into strict imperial servitude, happened to kill off their oppressors." Keira suddenly seemed to be towering over Triss "Those people need a voice. And more than that they need a leader, someone capable and who understands and can communicate their needs."

"Still sounds like you are describing Philippa," said Triss, standing and maneuvering past Keira "She has the charisma, the experience, the raw power. She led Redania to a golden age, she created the lodge, she sat at the-"

"She got Sabrina and Sheala killed!" Keira interrupted. "Assire too for that matter! She ended her nations golden age by overthrowing its legal government and sending it into a war it could not win! She oversaw the destruction of the brotherhood of sorceress, a destruction that could have been avoided had she listened to Tissaia, Tissaia, whom she drove to suicide!" Keira gasped for air allowing Triss to interrupt.

"You are being too hard on her."

"And you are not being hard enough. That was always your weakness."

"Then if I am so weak why should I hold any post at all? Why shouldn't I hand over the reins?"

"Because you are a leader!" Keira exclaimed, grabbing hold of Triss shoulders.

An almost stunned silence fell upon the room. "I'm a what?" asked Triss in a perplexed voice.

"A leader," Keira continued in a gentler tone, "that is what you are Triss Merigold. Not what you expected? Nor I to tell the truth." She sighed, let go of Triss shoulders and turned around to sit down on a divan, shoulders sloping. "I don't know Triss, to be honest. I don't know what will happen and I definitely don't pretend to have any powers of precognition." She looked up again, soft smile on her lips. "What I do know is this: when the witch hunts were at the worst, when the pyres were burning, when Aretuza itself had been put to the torch you were the only person who did anything. When Philippa was obsessed with regaining an eyesight she never particularly needed, when I hid in a swamp looking for foolish ways to ingratiate myself with Radovid, you acted. You lead a disparate and scared group of people and united them, lead them to safety from the clutches of the with hunters. If it were not for you everything we build, over so many centuries, would have been lost. But it survives and that it does so is down to you. No one else, not me and certainly not Philippa."

"I..." Triss stammered, "I didn't think like that then. It was just spur of the moment and I needed plenty of help-"

"Exactly," interjected Keira, "you didn't think. You simply stepped into a situation where anyone else would have kept their head down and plotted their own escape and... lead. That is astonishing, I've never seen anything like it." She shook her head again. "Phillipa has had her chance. She has not accepted it, probably will never accept it. That’s her great weakness you see, her inability to perceive that someone else's opinion may contain greater wisdom. She hears but does not listen." She laughed a sad little laugh, sound bouncing around the room like a bird trying to escape "Tissaia created us, groomed us for ruling. She had so many hopes for all of us and for so long I though we all ended up disappointing her." She looked back at Triss and smiled again. "Except not all of us did." She grabbed her cup and emptied it, put it back on a cabinet with decisiveness. "I would like to say it's your choice but it’s not. You can lead. For the sake of all of us, you must lead."

She turned and walked towards the door until Triss called for her. "What about you?"

Keira turned around and laughed, for real this time. "Me? Oh, excellent idea, apart from a tiny problem: I'm a jealous, greedy cantankerous bitch that nobody in their right mind likes." She smiled "And I've come to like me that way. This is your burden, Triss Merigold of Maribor. And while you may not think you are, you are ready for it."

***

Rosa followed Ciri like a shadow. The princess stalked down the corridors, unconsciously sending servants scurrying out of her way and driving the guards to new feats of stone-faced attention. An angry looking ruler was never good news and even if Rosa knew the princess wouldn't so much as scold a servant, those used to work at imperial courts took no such chances. Finally they reached Ciri's chambers, the viceroy flopping down face-first onto a divan in an undignified manner.

"Should I have your meal sent for your highness?" Rosa asked after a moments silence.

"No, later, I'm not hungry." Ciri waved her hand in Rosa's general direction "you can go eat though if you wish, I won't need you for a while."

Rosa nodded and yet didn't move. Ciri looked up after a moment. "Was there anything else?"

Rosa stared straight ahead, standing stiff as a ramrod with her hands clasped behind her back "Your highness I would like to volunteer for the Temple isle strike team."

Ciri swung her legs off the divan as she sat up, leaning forward with her arms folded in her lap, staring at the girl. "Why?" she finally asked.

"It's...my duty." Rosa answered, finding herself incapable of meeting her viceroys gaze and turning her eyes downward.

"Your duty, as I understand it, is to stay by my side. Besides, this mission is dangerous, to be handled by specialists backed up by our best swords."

"I'm a good sword!" Rosa blurted out, "You have seen me on the training grounds, I even trained with the witcher-" she fell silent as Ciri held up a hand.

"Rosa I do not doubt, nor have I never doubted your prowess. Even if we had never sparred Morvran vouched for you and my trust of him-" a pained looked quickly appeared and disappeared on Ciri's face and she briefly hide her gaze from view "in such manners is, was implicit." She looked up again. "What is it you are seeking to prove?"

Rosa fidgeted with her feet. "It's...hard to explain, your highness."

"Try me."

She took a deep breath and started "In upper Aedirn I ran from the dragon, in panic like a coward, " she unconsciously committed a brief act of Lèse-majesté in holding up a hand as Ciri started to interrupt her, "I know, I know, not like I could have done much, although nor, would I like to point out, will I be of any help against the dragon magister Eilhart plans to unleash. But underneath Temple isle, I can fight, I can contribute."

Ciri shook her head sadly "You don't need to prove yourself to your viceroy Rosa."

"But I need to prove myself to me, your highness. I need to know, to feel that I deserve this position, that I'm not here do to not my father’s rank or circumstances of my birth." She looked Ciri in the eyes and said, "General Voorhis fought and fell. You fought, enchantress Merigold fought, everyone but me. I know it's silly, I know it's foolish, but I need to fight, this time if no other time."

Ciri looked her adjutant in the eye and was reminded of another girl, balancing on the killer of Kaer Morhen long ago, desperate to prove herself.

"Are you sure there is no other reason?" she asked, finally.

"I'm sure." Rosa said, voice quavering but unwavering.

"Then the mission is yours." Ciri said, hoping against hope she was not sending someone else to their deaths.

***

Criminals preferred to meet in public yet out of sight.

As the King of Beggars approached the alleyway he nodded towards his toughs, as they stood scattered behind boards and stacked barrels, visible enough so that you could see that they were there, hidden enough that you couldn't ascertain their numbers.

Gudrun's warriors made no such effort. Swords and armor bared, wolf-like smiles on their faces. Skellige sea-reavers all, they had precious little to gain by hiding and any exaggeration could easily be handled by their sheer presence.

Gudrun already stood in the middle of the alley, sword sheeted at her side and a battle-axe thrust into her belt, freshly shaved scalp at the sides of her head gleaming along with her burnished hauberk. She had always felt somewhat outs of place in Novigrad, he mused, not quite home among the usual riff-raff that made up the city's criminal fraternity, like a war dagger placed with common cutlery. Like this, wearing armor and weaponry like a second skin and ready to parlay with an all but defeated foe, she seemed far more in her element.

"Francis Bedlam," she said without further preamble. "Come down from the Gildorf heights to be among us commoners at last." She smiled broadly, as if they were but two old friends that hadn't met in while rather than rival gang leaders.

"Gudrun," he answered urbanely, "setting fire to the very streets she seeks to rule."

"It’s the way of the old homestead," she shrugged, "sends a certain message, doesn't it?"

"Sends a message that you don't care about the people who walk them."

Gudrun frowned, "Listen to you, hung out with a Nilfgaardian princess for a month and now you're running for town council." She spat. "I'm no fucking politician, Francis. And neither are you." She threw out her hands "This here's a gang war, not a bloody tea-party."

"Civilians are getting caught in-between Gudrun," he protested, "that's not good for business."

"Oh, so we are talking business now? Thought we were talking politics."

The king sighed. "Business and politics are two sides off...it doesn't matter. What matters is that you, in the middle of a riot, in the middle of a political struggle took up arms, with reinforcements from across the sea."

"And you want to know how I did it?" Gudrun sneered "Is that why you called this meeting? Well you can shove-"

"I already know," the king interrupted. "You got money from the church and used it to hire mercenaries. I would like to say I wondered why, but I get that too. You saw a shot at becoming the undisputed leader of Novigrad's criminal underworld and you didn't give a damn that you sold yourself into servitude of those bastards over at Temple isle to do it. Without a single care about this place we all live in."

The woman rolled her eyes, "Platitudes. That was always you and Sigi's problem, the fucking platitudes." She threw out her right arm, keeping her left on the hilt of her sword "Look around you! What do you see? Nobles and clergy? These are the fucking docks Francis. The fuck do we care? We're ganger's, killers and thieves. Yeah I don't have any political ambitions, no high an' mighty but never ripening plan to remake this city." She shook her head in exasperation. "I just want my corners."

"And in your search for those you have declared a war, a war I now have to fight even though there are far more important matters to attend to."

"Well yes." The woman’s eyes darted to a fro confusedly. "That’s the point isn't it?"

The king straightened. "Indeed. And so we are at an impasse. Because I cannot let you take these streets in the name of the church. I will not."

The wolf-like grin reappeared. "And how you gonna stop me Francis? I've torched your grove, a quarter of your men are hiding beneath their mothers’ skirts, a whole bunch are already dead. And I have more reavers on their way from Skellige."

For the first time since they began the conversation Francis Bedlam smiled a wolflike smile of his own. "Do you, indeed?"

***

Harald Stigvason was not by nature an easily excitable man. He had fought and raided up and down the coast from Poviss down to the very mouth of the Alba and beyond, met strange people of strange lands and killed quite a few of them too. So it was with some reluctance he tore himself from his charts when the young hand on lookout in the prow started calling out.

"What is it Bjorn?" he called back.

"Come have a look chief! There’s a pretty one marooned out here!"

Grumbling, the old warrior folded his charts grasped his spyglass and started to walk down the aisle between the rowing benches. The three draakars that held Gudrun's reinforcements were moving in a staggered formation up the coast of Velen, currently slowly cruising through the dangerous sandbars of what the locals hauntingly called the coast of wrecks. The charts were not of much use here, as the sandbars were ever shifting but he wanted to plan the last lunge for Novigrad with precision.

"What’s the matter lad?" He asked as he reached the fo'c'sle.

"There's a pretty lady on that sandbank." The youth said and pointed.

Harald raised his spyglass and looked. Astonishingly the boy was not telling tall tales, there was indeed a very pretty red-haired lady standing on a sandbar just above the waterline, seemingly waving frantically. "Aye," he said, "she's a pretty one." He folded his glass back together and ruffled the boy’s hair. "But we should be careful lad. There are sirens and other, fouler creatures out there who take the forms of pretty women to lure sailors to their deaths. Better to stay clear, there will be lots of beauties in Novigrad for you."

The boy opened his mouth to answer. And then Harald was thrown first into him and then clear off the railing when suddenly fire erupted behind him and engulfed his ship. Burned and flailing around in the cold water, Harald Stigvason never saw the flaming orbs crashing down from the sky, setting fire to sails, hulls and warriors alike. He sank to the dark bottom of the cold ocean, as his reavers flailed and burned above.

On the sandbar, Triss stared at the conflagration for a moment, then opened a portal and stepped through it.

***

Gudrun's smile was gone. "No matter," she said. "I still have enough men here to win. And I am going to win Francis."

"Maybe," Francis shrugged, "but it will be hard going. Hear me out instead."

She scoffed. "I'm not interested in whatever deal you have in mind. The syndicate is over."

He nodded along "Indeed, so it is. Which is why I have the following suggestion. A merger. Our gangs will merge, my men and subordinates will stay in place, a place mind you Gudrun, where they can stand to help you out a great deal." She opened her mouth to protest gain and he held up a hand. "I will abdicate any position of authority in return for you guaranteeing my followers safety, which I know you will do because despite everything you are far too pragmatic to do anything else." He took a deep breath. "In return, apart from the already stated conditions, you will not support the church further. Furthermore, you will allow those of my men already deputized to assist the city militia in cleaning up the rioters and you will assist the Nilfgaardians in protecting the non-human quarters until this has all subsided."

Gudrun opened her mouth, closed it and stared at him with eyes narrowed. "That’s it?" she asked. "You expect me to believe you would just hand over everything you built out of the goodness of your heart? I've never figured you for meek Francis."

"And it was good for you that you didn't," he answered with a frosty smile, "for I would have made you pay for that mistake. But as far as what I would get, well I have a few hundred thousand in the bank." He shrugged as the sea breeze turned, carrying the smells of the harbor into the alley. "But most importantly, Gudrun, I will get a free Novigrad."

***

They were a motley band, the surviving witchhunters of Novigrad. Half a dozen men or so, wearing cast-offs of old armor and their characteristic leather coats. All that he could find in the city, save the girl Tamara whom he still judged too emotionally compromised to be of much good. Not particularly impressive if he had to tell the truth but at least they would do better in the tight confines underneath the island then the temple guard, Helveed thought.

His holiness had given him leave not to attend the ceremonies, despite him being one of the architects. Ostentatiously, this was so he could keep his face away from the crowds and be in charge of any response should the Nilfgaardians attempt to strike while the ceremonies were ongoing. In truth, ever since his spies in the city had told him the viceroy planned on attending, he had been fairly certain that no such response was forthcoming. The father would possibly have done so but Helveed felt he had the measure of this girl by now. She would smile and bid her time. Time she, god willing, did not have.

Helveed, meanwhile, had to sort out a mistake. It was not the first time.

"Are we ready commander Graden?" he asked. The man, armor in somewhat better condition than the others, dark hair drawn back into a slick ponytail, nodded.

"Ready as can be your Eminence," he hesitated somewhat, "I would have liked to be able to gather more experienced swords. The crones of Crockback bog are no laughing matter."

"It would be impractical to involve more men then already assembled commander" Helveed said curtly. He picked a sword of a rack, hefted it contemptuously then put it down and lifted an battle-axe instead. Graden regarded him with hidden skepticism.

"You should stay behind Eminence."

Helveed dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Nonsense. This is my fight commander, in the darkness against the enemies of holy father church," he sighed and stretched his weary back, "always was."

Graden nodded and raised his arm, waving it in a circular motion. "Witchhunters, move out!" he took up position at the front together with one of Helveed silent attendants. The inquisitor himself took up a position in the middle of the column as they walked down the dark corridors of temple isle towards the entrance to the tunnels below.

Silently, unseen and unheard on soft leather boots, Tamara followed them.

Chapter Text

"An avenger will be born of my blood," she cried. "From my tainted Elder Blood will be born the avenger of the nations and of the world! He will avenge my torment! Death, death and vengeance to all of you and your kin!" Only this much was she able to cry out before the flame consumed her. Thus perished Falka; such was her punishment for spilling innocent blood. - Roderick de Novembre, The History of the World, Volume II

Flags and pennants were whipping in the breeze as the imperial party approached St. Gregory's bridge. Temple guards in red and white, seemingly oblivious to the fact that their city had gone through a near week of rioting, were holding crowds back as those who had risen too late to get good standing room by the basilica were trying to get across the bridge before it closed. Some of the more enterprising merchants had reopened their stalls, hawking food and drink and supposedly holy amulets to the passersby.

The imperial party did not care. Riding behind the sun-banner and the gold-on-azure banner of Cintra, the viceroy, golden diadem at her brow and chain of office around her neck flashing in the occasional sunspot was clad not for war but not strictly speaking for peace either. Her black doublet sat over a burgundy embroidered shirt and her sword was by her side. Rows of Impera brigade troopers, their battered armor newly refurbished and repainted, followed in her wake.

Riding the long way round Temple isle the party halted before the slope that led up onto the gates to the courtyard before the temple, dismounting, every fourth man taking four horses by the bridle in the manner of cavalry preparing to fight on foot. The princess walked, respectfully but perhaps quite not humbly, towards the bronze gates. An usher, scarlet and white vestments resplendent, banged his staff onto the cobblestones three times.

"Who approaches this holy sanctuary?" The words were ritual, spoken when the monarchs of the north dared to show at the site of the holiest of fires.

"An empress." Ciri answered.

"Does thee claim to rule here?"

"I claim no such thing, for the rule of man does not extend to the holiest of places." Another ritual, if untrue for monarchs from Radovid the great through Falka and recently Radovid the mad (as the emperor propaganda named him) had breached these very gates by force of arms.

"Be thee welcome then," exlaimed the usher, "for you knowst thy place and the limits of thine power." He ceremonially touched the gate which swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.

I know my limits and place better then you can fathom, thought Ciri as she stepped through the gates into the open space beyond. Her court followed her, the usher visibly recoiling at Triss, for it was by now well known that the viceroy kept a sorceress.

They were but the last to arrive. Parishioners had been arriving all morning and stood in their assigned rows.

His holiness stood upon the dais and looked out onto the crowd. Temple guards, Nilfgaardian soldiers in blackened armor, the great and small of Novigrad gathered in their throngs to hold onto his every word and hope for delivery from evil. Humans almost all, for few of the elder races had dared to stand among their once neighbors so soon after the pogrom. It was a sad fact, he reflected, that they would not do so, for only by embracing holy father church and letting him embrace them in turn could they truly safeguard themselves and become a part of the community. But they insisted on being absent. Church elders in their scarlet vestments were standing in their rows next to imperial bureaucrats in black, white and gold.

And in the front, with her accursed sorceress standing behind her whispering in her ear, was the princess, the viceroy, boldly meeting his eyes like that day she had arrived. If you would but humble yourself before god you would be a perfect servant of holy father church he thought regretfully.

In a cavern beneath the isle fire blossomed from empty air as a portal opened. Keira stood arms stretched out as she held it, as Lambert, Rosa and a few handpicked Nilfgaardian soldiers went through it. At last the sorceress, wearing a dark-blue and silver tunic in liu of her usual dresses, stepped through and closed it behind her. Briefly she held two fingers against her temple and then nodded to the others. Quietly they disappeared into the gloom.

Triss leaned forward and whispered to Ciri, "Strike team's in place."

And far from Novigrad but yet to near for the comfort of its inhabitants had they known, a shadow moved among the clouds.

The dragon was coming.

***

The passage was tight, hewn out of sheer bedrock and dripping with moisture that rendered their feet in danger of slipping. They marched in a truncated column, Lambert somewhere in the gloom ahead, pupils dilated by the Cat potion, Keira following some distance behind holding a silver pendulum that slowly, ever so slowly inched back and forth. Rosa followed her, with the two Impera brigade troopers bringing up the rear. Wherever they reached a junction the witcher would halt, scanning the corridors until the rest of the party caught up and the sorceress pointed out the direction.

At one point Lambert halted and bent down to the ground. As the rest of the party caught up, he groveled. "Someone passed through here. Recently, several people, proper boots."

"Patrols?" Rosa asked.

"Could be. In any case, we knew there could be others down here."

They continued onward and at the next junction Keira indicated a roughly hewn passage turning off from the main one they had been following. The path took them forward and downward until they were sure they must have reached sea level. Then, suddenly, the ground evened out and a faint light could be seen in the distance around a bend.

Lambert silently held up his hand. As the party stopped, he inched ahead along the passageway, a black upon black shadow scarcely visible in the sudden gloom. Indeed, to Rosa he seemed to have entirely disappeared until he suddenly was among them again.

"This opens up into a cave just beyond that bend," the witcher said in a low voice "its lightened, not sure by what. There's what looks like a woman in there but she ain't no woman. There's a larger opening in the opposite wall and three small ones in the roof. Keira," he nodded to the sorceress, "will produce a shield to block the crone from escaping that way." He said it as if they had already decided on a plan and it dawned on Rosa that the witcher and the sorceress must have been communicating telepathically the whole time. "I want the rest of you to concentrate on blocking the other opening, don't let her muscle her way through and don't let anyone else come through either. We're not alone down here. I'll take care of the crone," he finished as he drew his silver sword from its scabbard.

And as on cue, they could hear raised voices beyond the bend.

***

The Hierarch had almost finished the speaking parts of his sermon. He had kept it ostensibly neutral, so far, keeping away from any direct accusations. Instead he focused on the sad times that would make neighbors turn on each-other, the culpability on both sides for escalating the violence, the squalor that non-humans lived in despite the best efforts of city authorities. He did take the opportunity to take a perhaps unwarranted swipe on the guild council and their refusal to cooperate with the church in their efforts to stem the epidemic, causing furrowed brows and murmurs among some of the assembled notables.

Then the choir took up song. It was a lament, old as the temple itself. It hearkened back to the first days after landing, when men had carefully walked into what they thought were virgin lands, homes long lost in the mists behind them. It was a song of longing, of fear and of excitement, a promise that those lost creating a new homeland had not died in vain.

The Hierarch had chosen it himself. It was one of his favorites, had been since when he was but a novice. It was picked up by the sopranos of the choir boys, by the baritones of the adult priesthood and eventually by the congregation itself, slowly at first, almost unwilling. The Hierarch stood silent but then he took up the song himself, willing the crowd to sing with him. The nobles, the merchants, the paupers and the gangers, the city guards and even the guildsmen themselves took up the song, until all but the Nilfgaardians stood, silent to the voices of fate.

Do you listen, viceroy? thought the hierarch, do you listen to the sounds of the fateful? Can it be heard, even to the empty halls of Cintra where your twice accursed grandmother rots, her soul too prideful to accept salvation? Can it be heard all the way to your father, he-who-dances-upon-tombstones? Do you see know what you have raised your hands against?

The girl stood silent at the forefront of her followers, steely vermillion gaze looking upon him almost with sadness rather than the fear he expected or the reverence he deserved. You still believe you can win? Arrogance.

He almost shook his head but self-discipline stopped him. No gloating, not when remembering the blessed dead. His arms, heavy in their vestments, seemed to rise of their own accord, bejeweled fingers seemingly cupping the sun that had risen to its fullest most blessed zenith. Around him the choir and the congregation reached a crescendo, their song reaching for the heavens. He closed his eyes, let the sunlight cleanse him. The shadow of a single cloud seemed to blow across courtyard, all but briefly and he could feel the brush of wind on his face. Another blessing, he thought, briefly, as the song seemed to make the very foundations and the tower of the temple shake. The bells rang out quickly, out of tune, as if a child had rattled them.

And the Hierarch realized that it was no longer song he was hearing, but screaming. He opened his eyes and turned around, ponderous in his heavy vestments.

Something enormous was lodged into the side of the building, meter long talons prying apart the polished stonework revealing the brick and mortar beneath. Thin, leathery wings blotted out the blessed sunlight, the few remaining rays reflecting in green-golden scales.

A dragon sat perched onto the side of the great tower of the Temple of Eternal Fire.

And for the first time in a long time, the hierarch wondered if his god had finally abandoned him.

***

"So you have come for me, priest?" the voice was sounded like two in one, one guttural hiding in another melodic, bemused rather than suprised. "Have another request to make?"

"Save your breath monster." This voice was simpler, firm, used to command, "I have not come to parlay."

"So I see," Rosa, Lambert and Keira were slowly inching their way forward and around the corner. Beyond it lay a cavern, lit by an enormous fire reflecting of a sooty bronze cauldron and by fungi that seemed to emit their own eerie orange light. By the cauldron a young woman stood, nude and seemingly unbothered by it. In front of her an old man in a simple priest robe stood with feet firmly planted to the ground, hands on the shaft of a battle-axe, sweat gleaming on his pate. Beside him, a gaggle of men in mis-assorted armor but holding weapons like they knew how to use them were slowly fanning out across the room into a rough semi-circle centered on the priest. "You have come to kill me I presume? Need to dispose of the evidence so quickly, priest?"

"You are a threat to this city and to holy father church," the old man said, "that did never change, and you delude yourself monster thinking I would just let you go."

"Let?" the voices were simultaneously angry and incredulous. "Do you think you have the authority to let me do anything little priest?" The woman’s skins suddenly started to change, meld and mold, transforming. Arms grew long and sinewy, with claws rather than fingernails, back grew, distorted as a child set of arms grew out of the stomach, grasping. Her body shot upwards as the face rotted into a deadly visage, maggots crawling form the beehive eye of the weavess. "We made a bargain and bargains are meant to be held, priest."

Lambert turned around and whispered, "Right new plan, we let these idiots have a go first and once they're dead then we go in. Be ready to block the chamber," he said as he turned back to the proceedings below, just as a new voice was heard.

"What bargain?"

Tamara was standing in the opposite opening, weapons still sheathed, a look of surprise, fear and consternation upon her sad face. Her appearance, so far underneath the island was surprising enough to silence both the priest and the crone.

"What bargain?" Tamara reiterated, "what bargain can we have with such a...beast?"

"Be silent! There are things here beyond your understanding," the priest added, "but looks can be deceiving. This beast has been useful, to a point."

"It is our way Tamara," Graden, her old commander, pleaded, a soothing look on his face "we fight in the shadows to defend the light from all enemies. Sometimes that means using methods and allies that we would otherwise find repugnant."

Tamara looked between the two men and almost seemed convinced. Then the crone spoke.

"Wait. I recognize you girl," she crooked her misshapen head to the side, "you are the child of our pet, our servant whom you tried to steal from us."

Tamara's eyes widened and her breath shortened "You...you are a crone? Of Crookback bog?" she turned towards the Helveed "You made a deal with this thing? It took my mother!"

"And so let you onto a better path-" Helveed began.

"It took my mother!" Tamara drew her sword and charged the crone blindly. Helveed held out a foot as she passed and she went sprawling, sword clattering away on the rough stones.

"As one you little fool," he admonished her, "or I will feed your carcass to this thing."

The Crone cackled "Your priest had people that needed killing girl," a tongue, far to long for a human briefly licked her lips, "little lambs of Novigrad, led to the slaughter like the darling children of Velen, all for your church’s glory and salvation."

"It killed my mother." Tamara reiterated, eyes crying, "it killed my mother and you negotiated with it. You helped it kill more people!"

"We do what we must," said the priest, now looking at the crone, "sacrifices are needed in the name of god. Your mother would have understood."

Tamara looked stunned for another moment. Then, she grabbed the hilt of her dagger and before Helveed had noticed or any of the witch-hunters could stop her, she turned on her knees and drew it deep into the priest’s gut.

Helveed looked stunned as he doubled over. The witch-hunters looked confused, one already marching towards Tamara with a raised sword, Graden tersely shouting commands, the Crone drawing herself up to her full height for the charge.

And something snapped inside Rosa, propelling her round the corner and over the ledge into the chamber. Behind her she could dimly hear Lambert cursing and Keira chanting the words of her spell. She landed clumsily, drawing her sword as she stood, charging either at or towards Tamara.

***

The dragon seemed to draw a deep breath, neck craning back as it surveyed the panicking crowd. Then the neck snapped back, fire licking the stonework, setting awnings, flags and vestments afire. People instinctively dived for the ground, rolling themselves away from the raging movable inferno. His holiness, just now so filled with righteousness covered, was reduced to a quivering mess. Then the fire reached his pulpit.

Hierarch Cyrus Engelkind Hemmelfart had lived a long life in the service of his god. He had given generously to charities, helped restore the Temples to their former glory, helped negotiate the end of the second great northern war and inadvertently helped prolong the third. His words had given succor the grieving and encouraged the hatred of fanatics alike. His flock had healed the sick and needy while at the same time killing those who stood against church doctrine. He had been a shining light to some and a searching, ever-present threat to others. He had been a light to his followers, a conjurer of political and ecclesiastical tricks (though he would resent the comparison). He had taught his flock that it was they and only they that deserved salvation. 

The fire, so alike the one he had worshiped almost his whole life reached him. And his heavy vestments went up like a pyre.

Afterwards, Novigrad legend would have it that the burning Hierarch ran the full length of the courtyard, out through the gates and over the edge towards the waiting ocean below. In truth he barely made it off the dais before he stopped moving.

The dragon roared, seemingly willing to shake down the walls. Then it turned, its head aiming for the choir, who took cover in panic.

Something flashed in the space between the beast and its prey.

Ciri's sword was out, sunlight and fire reflecting down its length as she held it, end pointed downward. The dragon stopped for a split second, as if unsure what to do. Then it lunged, neck snapping forward snake-like at incredible speed, fangs extend to catch the viceroy in her jaws.

They closed on thin air. Ciri moved, diagonally, aiming a thrust towards where she knew the dragon’s heart would be. It danced out of the way, stone and marble cracking beneath its weight. Ciri moved again but this time it was ready, and she narrowly sidestepped the back paw crunching down on where she had been a moment past. As the dragon circled her she ducked down, sliding beneath it to stand and stab upwards from a kneeling position, sword breaking past the scales into the flesh beneath. The dragon roared in pain. Crossbow bolts started impacting it, bouncing off the scales harmlessly but irritatingly. Beyond the dais the Impera were rushing forward, weapons held grimly with whitened knuckles inside armored gauntlets, their duty to their sovereign to be and their own honor overriding their mortal fear of the creature in front of them.

Turning towards this approaching threat, the dragon crouched, its back-paws clawing at the ground, stomach protected from Ciri as it drew in breath again. Then it shuddered as Ciri reappeared, this time standing awkwardly balanced on its neck. It roared as she drew her sword down through the thick neck muscles, bucking like a wild horse, hard enough to throw the princess off had she not kept a firm grip on the hilt.

Then the dragon’s hind-legs extended with speed and power and it lunged into the air with the viceroy still hanging from its neck.

***

Lambert landed cat-like a bare moment after Rosa. Coming up from a roll he slashed for the unprotected legs of a nearby witch-hunter, opening his femoral artery with the tip of his sword. In the corner of his eye he could see another witch-hunter go down with a crossbow quarrel through his throat, the two Impera troopers loosed their weapons before joining the general melee below.

Tamara and the fallen inquisitor had become the focal point of the fight. First Graden reached her, face a tight mask of anger and betrayal, sword poised for a killer blow. As it fell, Rosa reached her, clumsily parrying the blow while knocking the commander sideways with the impact of her shoulder. As they both jockeyed back to their feet the Crone rushed forward, easily disemboweling one of the men who came to close with a swipe of her claw-like fingers.

Lambert arrived at a pirouette, sword flashing towards the crone's abdomen. Impossibly fast she turned and bended her ungainly form backward at an angel impossible for humans. With a flick of his wrist the witcher changed the direction of his stroke and one of the deformed arms growing out of the Crones stomach went flying in a spray of blood. She cried out in fury, one clawed hand shooting forward towards the witcher who slid to the side, narrowly avoiding it. The Crone launched herself forward before Lambert had the time to steady himself, only to be thrown back by a Aard blast. The two opponents paused, just for a moment, facing each other over claw and blade as the room around erupted into frantic combat.

Rosa narrowly avoided a stroke at her midriff as Graden got back to his feet. He didn't stop however, using the momentum to bring his broadsword up and to chop down at a narrow angle. Rosa sidestepped and followed up with a riposte of her own, stabbing squarely at the man’s face. Graden parried, catching her sword between the crossguard and lower part of his blade and, gripping it reversed, drew the pommel square into Rosa's face. Her nose broke with the sound of someone smashing eggshells.

A witch-hunter who froze in indecision between attacking Lambert or the crone received a stroke over the throat for his trouble as Lambert closed with his prey. The Crone, as he quickly surmised, was fast and had reach on him but she wasn't very experienced in this sort of combat and unlike a true beast she did not have instinct backing her up. He dove beneath a tall sideswipe, not quite low enough as he could feel a stinging sensation down his back. He was amply awarded however when his counterstroke flew out and met flesh. The Crone screamed, in agony this time and then exploded into a cloud of Black crows. The flock took air, making it for one of the openings in the cave roof and Lambert watched with satisfaction as the birds seemed to bounce off an invisible forcefield. Then the satisfaction turned to alarm as the birds suddenly formed into a compact wedge and dived for the Keira standing on the ledge.

***

The dragon shot upward with incredible speed and it was only with supreme effort and the fact that its massive head took away some of the force of the wind that allowed Ciri to hold on. As it started to slow at altitude, she pulled out her dagger and smashed it between the scales, giving her an extra handhold as the dragon rolled in the air. She pulled her sword free with the momentum and, as the dragons back faced the ground, teleported a short distance over to its stomach, jamming her boots into the right wing-pit. Her dagger pulled free and disappeared in the slipstream, falling towards the city below. Then, barely holding onto her position with her feet, she raised her sword and struck home.

From below little of these details could be seen. What they did see, clerics and Novigrad citizens, Nilfgaardian soldiers and roaming gangers, was the dragon rising, roaring from Temple isle, surrounded by flame and smoke. They saw it rise until it almost reached the clouds and slow and slowly roll over. Then it shouted, a roar that could be heard all the way down to the Pontar. And then, slowly at first but then faster and faster it fell towards the sea.

***

Keira saw the cloud of birds coming and jumped from the ledge she had been standing on, landing clumsily. For a moment the spell wavered and seem to break but then she got control of it again as she attempted to run away from the Crone who had now reformed and was making for her with an animal speed. One of the Nilfgaardian soldiers tried to intercept her with his poleaxe but the creature swapped him aside, throwing the armored man clear across the chamber, impacting one wall with a bonecrushing thud.

It was enough delay for Lambert. Rushing forward, sword held low he struck ferociously yet precise in an upward stroke opening the side of the creature. Using his momentum he turned the stroke into a pirouette, turning to avoid a wild counter stroke only to cut downwards again, severing another of the creature arms, stumbling backward to avoid a lunge. As the creature wads unbalanced Keira dropped her spell and uttered a single word. Force, unseen and unbending formed in front of her.

A witcher's Aard sign is an imprecise thing, a wave of force striking outwards evenly. There was nothing random about the simply spell Keira uttered. Carrying all the force of her lover’s sign in a pocket of air the size of a thumb, it impacted the Crones beehive eye, breaking it and its festering maggots apart. The Crone howled, but only briefly. Lambert severed her head with a counter-riposte.

Rosa stumbled backwards and almost dropped her sword from the pain. Then instinct and training took over. Instead of stumbling or jumping backwards, as one might do after receiving such a blow and indeed what Graden was counting on, she pressed her blade sideways and up, forcing her opponent to sidestep. As he tried return his sword to a guard position, Rosa's glowed hand shot out and grabbed the naked blade it close to the point, dragging it aside. She then lunged forward as her own swordpoint fell toward the floor, now inside her opponent’s guard. With her weight behind it, her blade impacted the witch-hunter commander across his face and chest. While his armored coat deflected the blow from his innards, his face had no such protection and he fell backwards. Rosa almost fell on him but managed to twist to the side at the last moment, rolling along the floor until she could stand. She jumped over a clumsy sidestroke along the floor, landing unsteadily on her feet beside her opponent. Then she pushed her point home, deep and true, through the buff coat and into his heart.

Rosa var Attre had acted at swordplay since she was a girl and taken lessons from some of the greatest fencing masters in the known world. It was, however, the first time she had killed anyone. She looked down at his grimacing still face, wondering if she should feel something, something beyond exhaustion, pain and a deep boned weariness.

She looked up. The remaining witch-hunters were either dead or had fled when the barrier fell. Lambert and Keira were holding onto eachother. The remaining Nilfgaardian soldier was helping his comrade remove his helmet. Tamara was kneeling over the fallen inquisitor, face a mask of numbness and resignation. Rosa stumbled over towards her. Her hand was gripping the hilt of her sword yet the fury she had felt when she first saw Tamara seemed to have left her. The other girl looked up at her.

"While you kill me?" she asked.

Rosa opened her mouth to answer but found only air and the bitter tang of her own blood flowing from her broken nose. "You betrayed us," she tried to think of something else to say but could only find a question, "why?"

"Does it matter?"

"So many lost. The garrison at the estate, innocent Novigrad citizens, general Voorhis..." She shook her head "Why?"

"Does it matter, Attrean who wants to be Nilfgaardian?" Tamara looked away so that their eyes wouldn't meet, "Heretics die."

White knuckled gripping her sword, Rosa might have swung it if not for Lambert grasping at her shoulder. "It's not worth it," the witcher said, "believe me, it’s not worth it. She might deserve it, but it won't make you feel any better." Rosa dimly nodded and lowered her sword.

Lambert reached out and dragged Tamara to her feet. "Cir-, I mean the viceroy will deal with you." He said as he led both girls away towards the two remaining soldiers. Only Keira remained beside the inquisitor.

He was still breeding, short wheezing breaths as he held onto the bleeding wound in his guts.

"I could do something about that." Keira said as she looked down at him clinically.

"Spare me witch," Helveed said, "I will not have my body defiled with your sorcery, nor would I trust you even if I did."

Keira nodded and then shook her head. "As expected," she said "refusal to see us for what we are."

"I see all too clearly," the inquisitor countered, "and someone will finish what we started. The world will see you lot for what you are, sorceress, and that day you will wish it was me who got ahold of you." The man winced as pain shot though him. "Just leave me. In another world I would have had you at your pyre."

"Me and how many innocents?"

"The innocent and merciful would simply have met their maker and his paradise more quickly. Yet there are few of those among your kind, witch."

"No," said Keira and raised her boot over his head, "I don't suppose there are."

***

In the plaza in front of the Temple of the Eternal fire, the remaining congregation stood stunned. Some have fled when the dragon arrived, pressing forward blindly in the throng. But the gates had been closed and in anycase the monster had disappeared almost had soon and sudden as it arrived, fleeing from the viceroy’s sword. As it took off and rose, they could all see it, see the smoke and fire of the beast and the flashing of lightning from the viceroy’s peculiar sorcery. Then the dragon fell, fell and kept falling, disappearing into the sea beyond view.

For a split moment the crowd stood still. Suddenly lightning flashed again and the viceroy, dirty, wet, with blood dripping down her brow and sword unsheathed., appeared on the dais.

It was an ending fit for a tale. As indeed, it had meant to be.

Ciri's eyes swept across the crowd. Then she drew in breath and began to speak. Aided by a handy spell her voice boomed across the plaza.

She had rehearsed her speech ahead of time. Yet afterwards she could for the life of her never remember a single word that she said, whether or not she spoke from the script or whether she improvised. Standing on that dais mere feet away from the hierarch’s body, naked sword in hand. She spoke of peace, of reconciliation, of Novigrads freedoms being enshrined in a new charter as an imperial free city, of town councils and laws. Of justice and reconstruction. She did not utter a word in accusation about the now leaderless church but merely asked the people to keep the hierarch and the dead in their prayers.

It was a speech that would be repeated by bards, heralds and broadsheets, up and down the Pontar and from Kovir all the way to Nilfgaard itself. It heralded, some said, a new beginning, a new world remade from the ashes of the old. Others murmured, for they understood that this new world may not be as gratifying to them as their old. Most simply shrugged, enjoyed the tale and went on with their lives.

And Ciri stood on the dais and spoke and among those who listened there were those who thought of the old lioness of Cintra, seemingly come again. It was, in more ways than one, the end of an era.

***

A passerby would have taken him for a fisherman, the elf sitting in the little boat gently bobbing back and forth on the ocean beyond lighthouse isle. For extra effect he did hold a fishing rod, longbow stowed in the vessel in case anyone came to close: no one did. In fact he was all alone on the ocean when the dragon came crashing down, smoking like a meteor. He immediately stowed his rod, dragged on an expertly tied knot to unfold the sail which caught the breeze and bore him diagonally towards where the dragon had impacted. As he came closer, he brought in sail and locked the tiller into place as he scrambled over to the bow. He seemed to scan the water, then his arms shot downward, grasping around the forearm that was shooting up from the other direction. He heaved backwards, lost his footing and he and Saskia went sprawling on the deck of the boat. They lay so for a moment, chipping for breath.

"Well," said Iorveth sardonically, "that-"

"If you are about to say," said Saskia, dripping wet, blood smeared across her throat and soaking her pant-leg "that it went swimmingly, I may actually kill you."

***

In the palace waiting room they had used as a meeting space Triss sat in an armchair, eyes closed. The slight sea-breeze came through the open window, making the curtains move leisurely, bringing with it the smell of the sea, woodsmoke and the raw promise of a wet autumn. The outside sounded almost quiet without the constant clanging, swearing and tramping of the previous day’s military activities.

"Are you actually napping?" the voice seemed concerned but had that familiar undercurrent of condescension. Triss opened her eyelids to see Philippa standing over her, looking regal in new dress of green brocade.

"Just resting my eyes," Triss answered. She though first of standing but then changed her mind, indicating an armchair for Philippa to sit in.

"Our plan seemed to have worked out better than expected," Philippa said as she languidly draped herself over the armchair, "the crowd have been lapping up the princess's speech. She might make a proper empress one day."

"She will, and sooner then you may realize," Triss nodded toward an elaborated missive that lay on the polished oaken table. "We have received summons to start preparing our return to Nilfgaard. The emperor seemed to have moved up his plans for the abdication and corresponding coronation."

Philippa nodded, "Any mention of why?"

"I have my theories," said Triss. She found her right hand nervously playing with the tails of a cushion and mentally slapped it, "None that I care to share however."

Philippa frowned. "Triss if we are to work together-"

"We are not," Triss interrupted her curtly, "which is why I asked you to come here."

Philippa sat straighter, alert, her amethyst eyes staring at the other sorceress, "We made a deal. A dragon for a seat at council."

"But you provided no such thing," Triss reached into a satchel that was standing propped up against the leg of her chair. Her hand came out holding an ornate, ancient looking dagger that she unceremoniously dropped on the table. Philippa raised an eyebrow.

"Ah," she said, "I thought I must have lost that thing in Loc Muinne."

"You did," Triss answered, "a certain elf ransacked your house there hoping to find anything that could explain certain...abnormalities in his commander’s behavior. He correctly identified that as a spellbinding object, though he had no idea what it truly was until he showed it to me."

"You went to meet Saesenthessis then?" Philippa asked.

"Yes, me and Ciri, just after you told us of your plan. It was not hard to connect the dots Philippa, what other dragon would you had the opportunity to spellbind." Triss shook her head, "They're sentient creatures and you would have us butcher one like a beast in an arena."

"Do not lecture me on morality Triss! You have done the same and for baser reasons."

"And I regret those actions. Which is another difference between us I think." Triss sighed and rested her cheek in her palm. "You are correct in a way Philippa. The world needs us, the empress must have a sorceress by her side. But" and she turned her head and looked at the woman she had once so strongly admired and more besides, "oh Philippa, darling Philippa, it cannot be you. It can no longer be you."

Philippa looked back at her, looking almost ready to pounce before she chuckled mirthlessly and leaned back, arms folded. "So that’s all there is to it? Triss Merigold got a taste of real power and now thinks she can lead?"

"I suppose that yes, yes that's it."

"You may come to regret this decision later."

"I will face that regret when I come to it. If I come to it. But I suppose I have gotten good at living with my regrets over the years. You should try so." Triss leaned back in her armchair and closed her eyes again. She could hear Philippa scoff and then felt the telltale aura of transformation, followed by the soft beating of wings before she was alone again.

"Goodbye Philippa." Triss said, to herself more than to the missing sorceress. A single tear ran down her cheek. Whether it was from sorrow or relief she couldn't say.

***

The cells beneath city hall had the misfortune of being the only proper prison in town ever since the old witch-hunters’ headquarters mysteriously burned down. With the riot they would have been set to overflow if not for the quick thinking of Zoltan Chivay who had had his newly founded city militia requisition a warehouse by the docks to hold prisoners. It had largely been for naught Ciri reflected, for most of the rioters had simply slunk back home after they took down their barricades. In the end, very few would stand trial for the pogrom but would go home and forget.

Their victims would not have such an easy time she knew. But the evidence and witness accounts were what they were and Ciri was learning an impromptu lesson about the difference between justice and law.

Newly elected burgomeister Hamleigh was about to learn another one. "I must protest this viceroy. Novigrad is a free city, has always been a free city since we threw out the Redanians and it is most irregular for the imperial viceroy to personally demand the release of prisoners."

Ciri arched an eyebrow. "I would have thought that having an imperial viceroy at all would be most irregular burgomeister? In any case," she said as they reached the iron banded door to one of the cells "there are special conditions that apply to this case."

The door opened onto a thin, damp vaulted room, lighted only the lamps outside, no furniture but for a single wooded cot bolted to one wall. The King of Beggars, looking for all the world like he was enjoying a day in the sunshine, was stretched out on his back. He looked up at the pair standing in the doorway.

"I did not expect to see such illustrious guest for my hanging." He stood and bowed sardonically "It is a great honor."

"This is not a hanging," said Ciri shaking her head wryly, "I believe the technical term might be jailbreak. You’re leaving with me."

The Burgomeister tried to hold a professional mask but was increasingly failing. "Your grace, this man is a citizen of Novigrad and a villain that have caused the utmost misery and-"

"So are the pogromists Burgomeister. But I don't see you rushing to bring them to justice."

"That is a different issue." To his credit the man looked embarrassed by his impotence, real or feigned.

"Perhaps. But in any case, this man is in fact not a citizen of Novigrad, he is a noble in my employ."

The men’s reaction was a study in contrasts. The burgomeisters eyes widened and for a moment he seemed to be chipping for air, all while the King of Beggars simply lifted an amused eyebrow.

"Preposterous," Hamleigh seemed to think of something else to say before coming up with "only the emperor can make Nilfgaardian nobles."

"That is true," said Ciri while nodding, "Yet Bedlam here is not strictly speaking a Nilfgaardian noble. He is a baron of Cintra," she turned to the man in the cell, "you are a well-read man Francis, will you remind the burgomeister who the queen of Cintra is?"

The man’s smile was catlike "You are, your majesty."

"So I am. So you see, good burgomeister, there is nothing legally untoward going on here. And if concerns you I will have him work off his debt to society."

The burgomeister just shook his head and threw his hands up. "I see. May I have your leave your highness?"

Ciri nodded and the man left, the guard following him, leaving Ciri alone with the criminal who now openly chuckled. "That was masterfully done," he said "though I don't see what you need an old pickpocket for. This is a free city now, an imperial free city so I've heard, first and only of its kind."

"First of many I hope," Ciri leaned on the wall and immediately thought better of it, as it was both damp and filthy "But you cannot enjoy it, can you, your dream come through. Will that bother you Francis?"

"No," said the man, "I always knew I would never truly be able to enjoy that city, if I've ever created it. That's why they call them dreams, ain’t it?"

"Well in that case," said Ciri, shifting to a side to show the open door, "you are free to come with me. We will be returning to Nilfgaard shortly."

The man nodded and sauntered for the door. "So you do have need of an old pickpocket."

"I have the need of the man who have the keys to one of the world’s greatest intelligence networks. Because you did keep those files safe, I hope?"

"They are safe," he answered, "but, and I think I asked you this question before, doesn't the rulers of Nilfgaard have their own intelligence service?"

"My father has." said Ciri and the man nodded on the unsaid implication, "You said once you wanted to make a better Novigrad and hopefully we can now say that we did. Will you make a better world?"

"Well, it's not like I have other plans for my retirement," shrugged baron Francis Bedlam, once King of Beggars.

***

Tamara had been locked up in a small room that had once been a servant’s quarters. It was simple, whitewashed walls and a single bed, table and chair. Her guards had provided her with meals and a washbasin but otherwise left her alone. A single large wax candle stood unlit, and she was sitting on her cot staring at it when the door opened to let Ciri in.

"I thought you'd lit it," she said looking at the candle, "I asked them to leave it for you."

"I don't know what it means anymore." Tamara answered, eyes unwavering from the unlit wick.

"Well I have no pretensions to be a religious person," Ciri said while she pulled up the chair do sit on it backwards, backrest facing Tamara, "but I suppose it means what you want it to mean."

"Some would say that thought borders on the heretical," the other woman mused.

Ciri scoffed, "I think I've heard enough about heresy to last a lifetime."

"True," said Tamara. For a moment the room fell silent, Tamara playing with the wick of the unlighted candle, Ciri observing her. Then the once witch-hunter spoke again. "Will I hang?"

"I have it on excellent opinion that you should," Ciri added, "as an example to be made if nothing else. But I would like to know why first. Why this church, this corrupt hierarchy commands such loyalty." She laughed mirthlessly, "Why, I suppose, when I tried to foster loyalty in a whole city I failed in one of the people closest to me."

Tamara nodded. "I was lonely once," she began, "alone and scared and surrounded by coarse men and women who looked away. Never knowing when the next blow might fall, on me or my mother. Never knowing when the tide of war would turn on us. I was a lonely girl with no friends and no one to trust, surrounded by violence and death. Do you know what that's like?"

"More then you know." Ciri said in a low voice.

Tamara smiled without much humor. "So I suppose that story was true. Hard to know these days, with bards and imperial propagandist inflating and enhancing."  She breathed in. "Anyway, one day a mendicant preacher from Novigrad stopped by. My father’s me laughed at him of course, derided him. But somehow they also seemed to fear him, just a little. These were men that didn't fear much besides my father mind you. So I was intrigued. And one day I snuck out and into the peasants hut where he held his sermon." Tamara shook her head a little. "Anyway, I won't bore you with the whole conversation story. Suffice to say that when he left, he had given me three gifts: a prayer book, a belief that there was a higher purpose to our wretched existence and a promise that somewhere out there, there was a family, waiting for me, waiting for us, me and mother."

The air was still. Overhead the floors squeaked from a passing servant. "I tried to tell my mother," Tamara continued, "asked her to pray together but while she humored me she never believed. 'There are so many powers out there, my girl' she said, 'why does it matter which one we pray too?'" She shook her head "Of course she'd already made her bargain with the crones then, unbeknownst to me. So in any case, we made a plan to escape, my father's rages made us leave earlier than intended and, just as we were free and clear the crones took her away." Tamara took a deep ragged breath. "So I joined the witch-hunters to free her and later after she passed to make sure that no one else would be forced to make the same bargain, that they could all find the absolution I found." And then she laughed, again. "And then I found out that the very church is served made the same bargain, only worse, with the same monsters. So tell me, viceroy," she said and pushed the candle over towards Ciri "what should I light this for?"

Ciri pondered the candle for a moment, then said "While I will not tell you whether or what to believe Tamara, I've found, and pardon me if it is a pedestrian observation, that there is a distinction to be made between faith and doctrine. The fact that your church hierarchy betrayed you does not mean that your faith is misplaced," she gently pushed the candle back "nor that you betrayed your mother." She stood. "After midnight my guards will come and escort you to the Oxenfurt gate. They will provide you with a horse, a purse and some provisions. You can then go wherever you wish, though I advise you to stay away from Novigrad for the first little while."

Ciri turned towards the door and paused briefly, before turning back towards Tamara. "I don't know if I can forgive you, exactly, but what I cannot do is blame you. Not with my...well it doesn't matter. Maybe one day I can tell you the truth of those stories your bards and propagandists tell. Until then live well, Tamara of Velen." The door opened and closed after her.

In the chamber she had just left a single candle was lit.

Chapter Text

The months that future empress Cirilla I spent as viceroy of the northern territories is one of the more understudied periods of her reign. While some of the legends of that time has to be dismissed as mere fancy, it is incontrovertible that many of the policies that would characterize her reign, from the institutions of the free imperial cities that would drive the 14th century transformation of the continental economy to the religious and racial toleration to the integration of "northerners" into the ruling elite and administration of the empire, began there. -  George Van Albeck, The Cintran empire - a revisionist history of late 14th century Nilfgaard, 1668

Novigrad's many lights shined in gloom behind them as the Imperial squadron made for open water. Ciri stood on the fantail of the flagship, a bulky galleass surrounded by smaller galleys, her elbows resting on the railing. Rosa was standing at her usual casual attention, a position made somewhat ridiculous by the swaying of the ship.

"Pretty isn't it?" Lambert seemed to materialize at her side, "always thought Novigrad looked best as you left it."

"That's says more about you then about Novigrad," Ciri answered, smiling. "Wait till you see Nilfgaard."

"No thanks. This has been enough politicking for me, we'll be getting off in Cintra and head south for the winter, somewhere warm and without the bullshit," he shrugged, "I heard about the dragon. You did good."

 "All those tumbling’s of the tumbler weren't wasted after all."

"Well," Lambert said and stretched, "you did have a good teacher."

"That is true," Ciri answered and then after a beat, "Eskel was great."

Lambert sputtered for a second as Ciri laughed. "Why you litt..." he shook his head ruefully, "to say such a thing about your darling fencing master." He opened one of the copious pockets in his jacket, "reminds me," he said withdrawing a wolfs head medallion on a silver chain, "this is yours."

Ciri received the medallion and turned it back and over in her hand. "Vesemirs," she said in confirmation, smiling somberly. "Maybe I should return it to Kaer Morhen? I took it on impulse, can't even remember why."

Lambert scoffed. "Nonsense. Why return there? Kaer Morhen's dead, it died with Vesemir. And anyway he'd want you to have it." Lambert threw a spiteful look at Rosa and the Impera waiting further back and reached out and ruffled Ciri's hair. "You're the last wolf he trained. And it might not mean shit, doesn't really mean shit to me 'cause I hate the whole fucking profession but it meant something to him. So you keep that and remember what he taught you."

Ciri closed her hand around the medallion and smiled. "Thanks Lambert."

"You're welcome. Anyway, Keira doesn't take to sea travel well so I've gotta head back down."

Ciri held up the medallion towards the light, the distant fires reflecting in its silver surface. "How was the fight?" she abruptly asked Rosa.

"Not like something I've ever seen. Or care to see again." The girl raised her hand to her nose, still covered in bandages and touched it gently "but at least people will be able to tell me and my sister apart now."

"Was that ever an issue?"

"All the time. And how she would find ways to entertain herself with that."

Ciri opened the lock on the medallion and locked in place around her neck. "Do you feel you proved yourself?" she asked.

"That I'm not a coward yes. As for the rest..."

"The rest?" Ciri echoed as she turned around, looking at her adjutant.

Rosa looked at her feet for a moment. "Tamara called me Attrean who wants to be Nilfgaardian. And it’s true, or at least it used to be." She paused and took another deep breath. "I've spent my entire life in transit. Born in Nilfgaard, raised here and other-were, following my father in whatever paths his career took him. But everywhere we went we were Nilfgaardians. Except of course, in Nilfgaard. In Nilfgaard, we were northerners, Cintran's since no one knew where Attre was anyway."

Ciri nodded gently. "Go on."

"So I tried to be the most Nilfgaardian Nilfgaardian you have ever seen. But lately I came to realize something. It actually doesn't matter. Attre is in Cintra so I'm both Attrean and Cintran. So why can't I be Nilfgaardian as well? I've been trying to solve a contradiction that isn't even there." She shrugged. "I serve the empire. I serve my home and my family. Why," she said and smiled wryly "I even serve the rightful queen of Cintra. So why cannot I be all those things at once?

Ciri smiled. "That's the right answer, I suspect."

"I think it is."

"What do you think?" Ciris question was aimed at the girl coming up behind Rosa, balancing a tray holding cup of mulled wine.

"I think the people who staff this ship don't know how to make a room," Gretka said reproachingly. "And the cooks took way too long to heat the wine."

Ciri took the cup, approvingly inhaling its scent. Then she nodded toward the shore. "How about it Gretka? Will you miss home? I know Novigrad isn't Velen but its right next door."

"No," the girl answered hastily. "I mean yes, a little I’ll suppose. But it's not like Velens been home since da sent me into that swamp. As for the rest," she shrugged, "flags and colors and nationalities never meant much of anything to us poor folk. I'm a servant of the empress and that's all I ever need to be."

Both Ciri and Rosa smiled and nodded approvingly. "I suppose that that is the right answer as well," said Ciri and mirrored Lambert's gesture by ruffling the girl’s hair.

***

An emperor was standing over his mother-in-laws tomb. The great marble sepulcher, the traditional resting place of the Cintran monarchy, was a grand, echoing and empty building close to the castle grounds, restored at great expense from imperial coffers. No gift had been deposited by the ruler of most of the known world, only wilting flowers left by errant loyalists decorating the grave.

"Are you trying to impress me in some way by meeting here?" Ciri's voice came out of the gloom.

She may had hoped to startle him, but Emhyr had long since grown used to the abilities of this daughter of his. "Hardly. It is indoors, away from prying eyes and, I suppose, a natural place for a father and daughter to...reminiscence."

"Of all the places where I could think of reminiscing with you, grandmas grave is not one of them!" Ciri answered hotly, "Or are you trying to convince me that you actually loved and looked up to her?" She left the question and the accusation hanging in the air between them, vibrating among the floating dust particles. 

The emperor was silent for a while. Then he spoke "I hated her. Everything I suggested, everything I tried she thwarted. She kept eyes on me like a hawk, always made clear in so many subtle and unsubtle way that I was not to be trusted. The frustrations of everyday life...it gnawed at me." He exhaled deeply. "Yet I always respected her. Even in my darkest moods I could see her for what she was, the greatness she exuded. Not flawless, no, all too human, as are we all. But a leader to be counted on." The emperor pursed his lips, "She was my greatest teacher. So I make sure to pay my respects when I can."

"What about my mother?"

"Well," said the emperor and his face grew masklike again, "I don't think she would appreciate my visiting." He turned towards Ciri again, "How did you find ruling?"

"You've read my reports."

"Several times and in detail. But I was asking what it felt like."

Ciri pondered the question for a moment. "It was hard. Decision after decision, each and every one risking so many things, seen and unforeseen. Yet there was an... intoxication to it, I suppose, a thrill. I can understand why some crave it."

"Do you?"

"Still not sure," she sighed. "I sent people to their deaths. I choose who would live and who would die. I made decision the repercussions of which will spread throughout the world. I learned lessons, some which I would almost have preferred to avoid. I cajoled, tricked and lied. As for the rest, well..." she stared at the roof and the single sunbeam breaking through the colored windows. "I'm not sure if I'm ready to talk about that."

The emperor nodded. He bowed his head briefly to the tomb and then made to leave, before Ciri interrupted him. "Does it ever get easier?" she asked.

"Which part?"

"The killing. The lying. The inherit ruthlessness of power, manipulation, trickery and seeing people die under your orders. Because of your orders. Does it ever get easier?"

"It did for me," the emperor answered softly "and if you are very, very lucky Cirilla, it will not do so for you." With those words he turned, leaving her alone among the graves of her ancestors.

Years later, Ciri would remember it as the closest thing her father ever gave her to an apology.

***

On the once battlefields of Sodden, a sorceress read her own name on a cenotaph. The last parts of the autumn harvest were being collected in the fields behind her, wheat stacked circularly as the peasants busied themselves preparing for the winter. The fields seemed to stretch to the horizon where a city of tents and pavilions heralded where the imperial party, traveling up the Yaruga from Cintra, had camped.

Triss bent, tracing the etchings on the stone with her fingers. She knew them by heart of course, the slain mages of the north, fallen in the first attempt to stem Nilfgaards expansion. Lytta, Yoël, Vanielle, on and on, thirteen names. And at the end, there was there was the fourteenth, Triss Merigold, incorrectly thought to be among the fallen.

For a moment she could again feel the fire and acid on her hair and skin, hearing the undulating screams that she realized were her own. But she banished those thoughts quickly by force of habit. A part of her wryly wondered whether maybe Triss Merigold had indeed died that day and if she was just going through the motions of her afterlife. Or perhaps, she thought as the traced that final letter and stood again, she had died here only to be born anew. A baptism of fire.

A dry clearing of throat was heard behind her and she turned. An Impera sergeant was standing there, winged helmet held in place underneath is arm, hair more grey than black.

Despite the intrusion, Triss smiled. "Still alive then, sergeant?"

"Still alive milady, not for lack of trying on the part of the good populace of Novigrad." He stopped next to her, eying first the monument and then the hill around them. "Amazing," he said, "never thought I'd actually ever get on top of this hill. Lost many friends trying," he suddenly seemed to realize to whom he was speaking, "begging you pardon milady."

Triss shook her head, "No need sergeant, I lost many of my own stopping you." She nodded towards the stone, "Most of them are on there. As am I, incidentally."

The sergeant seemed to flinch, ever so slightly, then nodded seemingly impressed. "Back when I was with the Alba we used to say that those who got their name written on the casualty list could never be killed," he seemed to consider this for a moment, "though maybe that was because they could slip off home with no one the wiser."

"We who are dead do what we can sergeant." Overhead, a long V formation of birds fluttered past, crying out for the south. "Couldn't miss walking the old battlefield either?"

"Actually I came to pay my respects. Not just for yours but for ours as well," he looked around, looking uncomfortable, "there's no cairn or monument for our dead here, not even after the third war. Not that I blame anyone mind you, who wants a monument to an invading army around...there’s a statue in Nilfgaard to commemorate the dead but, begging milady's pardon, it’s kind of crass. Not the same as where they fell and are buried, somewhere out there," he gestured backwards with a glowed hand. Then he reached into his satchel to retrieve a small clay bottle. The soldier looked at the sorceress questioningly and she nodded in approval. He took a step closer to the stone and spoke.

"Well lads, it's, ehh, it's been a while. Didn't think I would ever be able to visit but here I am. Might be my last tour, if what they say is right and we don't have to do this anymore, at least that’s what the new empress says and I believe her. So, I, well, you know," his voice seem to stock for a moment, "I hope you're happy, wherever you are." For a moment he bowed his head, seemingly in prayer, then he uncorked the bottle and poured in silent libation. Then he swung it back and swigged, for a moment. He looked over at Triss and held out the bottle for her. Triss raised an eyebrow but took the it anyway.

"Absent friends," she said, raising the clay bottle in a toast, thinking of the dead and the living, of Lytta, Tissaia, Phillipa and Yennefer. It was strong plum wine, not vodka as she had first thought, the sweetness of fruit mixing with the bitter aftertaste of alcohol. Then she handed it back to the sergeant, who corked it and returned it to his satchel. The two veterans descended the hills and walked towards the encampment in the setting sunlight.

The monument stood alone among the ripe wheatfields of Sodden.

***

Brokilon was as it ever had been, Ciri reflected as she walked slowly behind her dryad escort through the cavernous forest. Willows stretched to the ground, creating the effect of passing through a series of tunnels on paths that were barely visible, for the dryads preferred their forest that way. She would scarcely had found her way forward were it not for her escorts, who meet her at the edge of the wood, silently leading her in a more dignified manner then the last time she had been here, covered in blood that wasn't hers.

The path opened onto a clearing. Ancient oak trees surrounded a pool, steam slowly off its surface. A dryad, taller than most and with a cascade of silver hair reaching the small of her back sat on a bare rock covered with moss, toes idly dangling into the water. Ciri pondered for a moment whether she should bow but finally decided against it. Instead she stood simply, waiting for the dryad to acknowledge her as her escorts melted away.

"The waters of Brokilon does many things," queen Eithné said without preamble, "it tells the future, it changes memories and pasts. It is the lifeblood of the forest and through it we become Brokilon." She reached down cupping a slender hand, filling it with the steaming water. "Here, in Col Serrai, it heals on the outside and," she opened her fingers and let the waters empty back into the pool, "kills on the inside."

Ciri nodded. "The sulfur."

"If that is how you wish to explain it," the dryad queen said with a nominal shrug.

Silence fell again, before Ciri reached into her belt to withdraw a decorated scroll with scarlet tassels. It was, she realized, the last one of the batch she had brought with her to Novigrad. She held it out towards the queen. "The treaty, as agreed."

Eithné turned her head slowly and quirked an amused eyebrow. "And what use is fine velum to me, oh empress to be? We have no archives here, no hordes of scribes to write and compile stacks upon stacks of useless documentation."

Ciri felt her cheeks redden but persisted. "Quite true. Nonetheless, the bargain has been made and the treaty entered into law. Brokilon and its borders will be protected, incursions no longer allowed, outlying areas evacuated and regrown."

"Protected for all time?" the queen asked.

"It’s what the paper says," Ciri shrugged "but for as long as I reign at the very least. That I swear."

"An empress reign is but a speck of time in the life of the forest," sighed Eithné and stood, walking towards Ciri, her statuesque body towering over her. "But I suppose it will have to do." She raised her hand and Ciri wondered for a moment whether to shake it or simply hand over the scroll. In the end neither was necessary as the queens hand moved to the side, gesturing towards another dryad that had materialized out of the gloom. "Aglaïs will take you to what you seek." With those words the queen of Brokilon sat down again, silver eyes fixated on the steaming pool.

Ciri followed her new companion down another short path. The dryad didn't speak or offer any explanations, nor did Ciri feel much like asking questions before the path opened onto another clearing where a small waterfall fell down into yet another hotspring. A small, ramshackle hut had been constructed out of stone and fallen timber. In front if lay a single log of elm upon which a man was sitting.

Morvran looked different, even thinner than before and with a short beard covering his cheeks. The peasant homespun he was wearing in lieu of his usual uniform made him seem younger, somehow, sunlight dancing on his normally so pale skin as he turned his face towards the warmth.

For a moment Ciri stood silent looking at him before she spoke. "Enjoying your vacation, general?"

She had half-expected him to fly to his feet yet instead he simply turned, smiled, stood and bowed. "Your highness," he said "it pleases me to see you well."

"To see me we...why you silly fool!" Ciri stepped forward and suddenly threw herself into a hug. He winced all but slightly as her arms pressed on his shoulders. "Sorry, sorry," said Ciri disentangling herself, "I wasn't sure you'd make it. The dryads promised but, well,"

"I'm relieved as well," Morvran said and the furrowed his brow, "though truth be told I do not remember much. It’s all a blur between the battle and a few days ago, like," he blushed briefly " well I'm certain you're not interested." He rubbed his left shoulder with his right hand.

Ciri reached out and touched the wound gently. "I am," she said.

Morvran nodded and gestured towards the log. As they sat down he said, "but first, I'm sorry to impose, but what about the troops and the servants. At the estate I mean?"

Ciri shook her head. "Your men fell to the last. I've already made sure that personal recompenses and pensions will be paid to their families." Then she smiled. "But the staff survived! The servants, the clerks, the kitchen staff, even Gretka. She asked about you, by the way."

Morvran laughed, simultaneously bitterly and relieved. "Well I'm glad then," he said as he wiped a tear from his face. "Glad that they all made it." Then he broke down and sobbed, openly. Ciri put her arm around him, gently this time, until he stopped shaking. He took a deep breath and rubbed his face with his hands. "I was so worried you must understand. Here, isolated, not aware anything and the dryads either unwilling or unknowing about what happened. Did we win, by the way? I mean not the fight but-"

"We did," said Ciri, removing her arm, "eventually though it took effort and some utterly absurd charades." She stretched her boots out toward the   water. "I had to fight a dragon. Well, pretend to fight a dragon which is essentially the same thing."

Slowly the general turned his face towards her, looking first horrified before he outright burst out laughing. "That is the...I’m sorry your highness but that is the most you way to get out of a political problem."

Ciri stared at him before she started laughing to. "I have other ways to solve problems I'll have you know," she said and slapped his arm lightly. He almost flinched at the unexpected contact, the euphoria of relief leaving him. "Sorry," she said before he could apologize.

"No need your highness," he said, formality between them returned. They sat silently for a moment. A late dragonfly buzzed between the rising clouds of steam, translucent wings reflected in the pool.

"Honestly I had expected you to be upset," Ciri said after a while.

"Maybe once I would have been," he said and shrugged, "but after the things I've seen you survive, seen you accomplish...why I'm not worried in the slightest."

Ciri shook her head. "I'm not invincible Morvran. I just happen to have a certain set of skills and abilities, skills that have next to no use in Nilfgaard. When the estate fell, I was powerless to stop it, an obvious trap that I walked right into. So many dead and why? Because I thought I was smarter than the people we faced and underestimated their resolve. Time and again people were hurt and I was powerless to do anything about it." She snorted and bent down, looking for a pebble to skip across the surface.

"Cirilla," Morvran began and she froze at the unexpected familiarity "you are but a person. A person with gifts and power yes but just one woman, not a god. And no one blames you as hard as you blame yourself. Which is why you will make a great empress. Which is why only you can make the empress we need and make the empire worthy of its people."

"’An empire that does not serve its people is not an empire worth existing.’” Ciri quoted from memory. “You think so? I will need a lot of help."

"I know so. And you will have it, all that I can muster and more besides."

Ciri smiled. Then she stood and dusted herself off. "Well then general, I suppose I have no choice but to go and empress then!" She held out her hand for him to grasp, dragging him to his feet. "And its Ciri, Morvran. Remember that if you want to help out."

"I will try, Ciri" he said, smiling and grasping her forearm. "To the end."

And then, in a flash of blue lightning, they were gone.