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A warm breeze stirred the golden treetops, filling the garden with a soft, ringing rustle. Dry leaves thickly covered the paths and lawns, and from time to time another leaf would drift down – a broad maple one or a delicate birch one. Autumn came early in these lands; the proximity of the Mahakam foothills made itself felt.
The elf crossing the garden toward the elegant columned porch moved with habitual grace, as if gliding over the golden carpet dotted with islands of still-green grass. However, the harmony of autumn was not to remain undisturbed: the heavy boots of the soldier in black uniform, respectfully following behind, pressed the fallen leaves into the ground with a sharp, almost violent crunch. The elf winced slightly and glanced back, but didn’t slow his pace.
"Please, my lord Faoiltiarna, this way", the soldier overtook the elf on the porch steps and stopped right in front of the wide-open white double doors. "You will be escorted further within."
Inside, the villa looked just as beautiful as it did from the outside: a spacious, dimly lit hall with tapestries on the walls, a wide marble staircase, and dark walnut furniture on thin curved legs. There was no one in sight. The elf looked around thoughtfully, then sat down on a chair upholstered in striped red-and-white silk. The out-of-place colour scheme had apparently remained from the previous owner; however, the huge banner hanging from the stairwell was exactly as it should have been – black and gold, with the omnipresent Nilfgaardian sun.
"My lord Faoiltiarna," an officer with a silver salamander on his shoulder emerged from the side gallery. "Thank you for waiting. If you would be so kind, please follow me. The general council is taking place in the hall, but the emperor awaits you in his private study."
“Lead on,” Faoiltiarna sighed, rising to his feet. “Can you tell me – who owned this villa before?”
“A Lyrian merchant, a pharmaceutical magnat,” the officer explained readily, turning his head slightly and slowing his pace as they walked through a narrow gallery with high pointed windows. “They say the damned Nordling tucked his tail between his legs and ran for his life the moment we crossed the river,” he gave a light chuckle. “As you can see, most of the furnishings are untouched, though some things will need replacing, of course,” he gestured toward the portraits of crowned monarchs adorning the wall. “But as a temporary headquarters, it’s not too bad, would you say?”
“Not too bad,” Faoiltiarna agreed as he walked beside him. “Almost like ours.”
“Is it so? If you’ll forgive my curiosity, what does your headquarters look like?”
“It depends,” the elf answered seriously. “Usually we choose a large oak tree, and after that there are two options: either among the branches or between the roots.”
The officer gazed at him in surprise, evidently expecting a smile to follow the joke. When none came, he let out another strained laugh just in case.
"Here we are," he stopped in front of a tall carved door. "I’ll announce you. You are, of course, familiar with court etiquette, but let me remind you: upon entering, you must bow immediately, then wait until His Majesty invites you to approach. Do not look at him first, and also don’t–"
"I'll manage," the elf interrupted. "If possible, make it quick."
The officer tightened his lips but said nothing. Opening the door, he announced that Isengrim Faoiltiarna, commander of the elven partisans, had arrived for an audience with the emperor.
"Of course!" came a cheerful exclamation from within. "Let him in, at once!"
"Go in," the officer said quietly, making a gesture. "Remember what I told you."
Faoiltiarna snorted and stepped inside.
The emperor’s study had evidently once been a library: towering bookcases reaching the ceiling occupied nearly every wall. Bright afternoon light poured in through the enormous window, falling in diagonal rays across the desk and another, smaller table covered with maps, charts, and figures.
“My lord Faoiltiarna!” The emperor spread his arms in greeting, a smile playing on his lips. “I’m delighted – truly delighted – to finally meet the legendary commander in person. Please, come in, sit down,” he gestured toward the chairs by the map table. “Are you acquainted with Marshal Coehoorn?”
“Haven’t had the honor,” the elf replied evenly, walking forward at an unhurried pace and returning the nod of Coehoorn – a tall dark-haired man, who looked still rather young for a marshal. “I used to deal more often with Vattier de Rideaux. Before… that incident in July.”
“I understand,” the emperor instantly grew serious. “A mistake. A dreadful, unforgivable mistake, for which the guilty ones will certainly be punished. Please accept my sincere apologies on behalf of our intelligence service. Vattier is here too, by the way – shall I call him and tell him to explain himself in person?”
"No need," Faoiltiarna replied, sounding somewhat puzzled. "I’m still not sure why I was summoned here, but I'm certain it wasn't for that. I’d prefer to get straight to the point."
"Naturally," Emhyr sat down, and the marshal followed suit. After a brief hesitation, Faoiltiarna took the seat opposite them both.
"First of all… though, wait a moment. Would you like something to drink after your journey?" Emhyr nodded toward the crystal decanters with colorful liquids lined up on the edge of his desk. "Nilfgaardian lemon vodka, Ebbing brandy, and here – Sodden mead. Tell me, do you take an interest in enemy drinks?" he smiled. "Nordlings will never learn how to make proper wine or strong liquor, but their mead and beer are quite decent, wouldn't you agree? Do you agree, Coehoorn?"
"Entirely so, Your Majesty," the marshal nodded. "Though I don't drink myself. But I've heard things from the lower ranks."
“There, you see!” the emperor waved a hand. “No? Then later, at dinner. My Impera soldiers shot a great deal of game in the local forests, though I imagine game meat will hardly impress you…” He leaned back slightly. “We invited you here, my lord Faoiltiarna – and are most grateful that you accepted the invitation – as a consultant.”
Faoiltiarna shot the emperor an intent glance.
“A consultant?” he repeated.
“Yes, yes, in a manner of speaking. You see, a few disagreements have arisen within our headquarters,” Emhyr pushed a chart toward him. “Tell me, what is your – or the elven folk’s – usual way to determine where an elf ends and a human begins? What fraction of blood still makes a human an elf?”
Coehoorn let out a slight cough.
“If I may, Your Majesty, I’m still inclined to believe that blood is not the main factor. The inhabitants of Lower Alba are not all carriers of true Nilfgaardian blood, yet they are easily distinguished from northerners from Nazair or Maecht. Language, clothing, religion, manners…”
"Come on, Menno, we're not talking about Nazairi peasants here," Emhyr leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table. "We're speaking about Temeria and Redania – that's a completely different matter. So, what do you say, my lord Faoiltiarna? One-eighth? One-sixteenth? Or, as some put it, 'a single drop of blood already makes an elf'?"
"It varies," the elven commander shrugged. "Some among us believe half-elves are already humans. The problem is that humans themselves don't think so, and they hang half-elves just as readily as purebloods."
"I see, I see," Emhyr leaned forward with interest. "And quarter-elves?"
"Them too."
"Really? Is elven blood, diluted three-quarters, still so prominent?"
"Usually it is," Faoiltiarna’s lips twisted in a bitter smirk. "Especially when there's a bad harvest, or livestock disappears, or enemy attacks. Then, in any village, they'll immediately find a quarter-elf or simply someone whose ears aren't shaped quite right."
"No doubt about that," the emperor nodded seriously. "One can expect nothing else from barbarians. But so much the worse for them. Menno, explain what we are planning to do."
The marshal straightened up.
"For the past two days, this villa has hosted a large-scale conference of army commanders, ministry officials, and secret service personnel," he began. "A major offensive to the North is planned for the coming month. By the end of the year, we intend to seize Aedirn completely, and Kaedwen at least in the south-eastern regions, reaching the Pontar. Additionally–"
"Just a moment," the elf interrupted. "Wasn't a non-aggression pact signed with Kaedwen? Not even a week ago?"
The marshal and the emperor exchanged glances. The corners of their mouths twitched.
"This pact with Kaedwen will not interfere in the slightest with the plans the marshal is speaking of," Emhyr replied after a brief pause. "Continue, Menno."
“According to the directives received from the emperor, economic and… other matters are considered no less important than military objectives,” the marshal resumed. “The economic sector is overseen by Peter Evertsen: transportation of machinery, entire factories, communication routes, and so forth.”
“Yet there are things far more important than machinery,” the emperor interjected once more. “For instance, labor resources. I didn’t ask you about half-elves without reason, my lord Faoiltiarna. According to our estimates, every fourth person in the North – perhaps more – carries either your blood, the blood of Aen Seidhe, or ours, the Nilfgaardian blood of the descendants of Dhu Seidhe. Not a single drop of that blood, naturally, must be lost. Those citizens will remain in their homes and will continue to work their lands.”
“And the rest? The humans?” the elf asked.
“Nordlings,” Coehoorn corrected him. “Meanwhile Nordlings hold no value for these territories: they will easily be replaced by Nilfgaardian settlers. Here, look.” He turned a large black-and-white map toward the elf. “Some figures are provided here.”
Faoiltiarna leaned closer. It was an ordinary map of the north-eastern part of the continent, drawn in simple ink. However, there were no names, no cities, no terrain marks – only the borders of kingdoms around vast white space. Within it, columns of numbers and notes were written: "Seidhe," "N. – mandatory labor," "N. – resettlement," "N. – special measures." There were especially many "special measures" marked for Rivia and Aedirn.
"This is all very informative," the elf said, raising his head from the map, "but what does any of this have to do with me?"
"We expect that the pace of the advance will be rapid, possibly even lightning-fast," the marshal explained. "Army units will require mobile teams capable of operating quickly along the front and in the near rear: conducting censuses, appointing administrations in captured areas, establishing order, dealing with partisans… and so on."
"I'm afraid you are mistaken, gentlemen," Faoiltiarna frowned. "The Scoia'tael are not clerks or administrators. We are meant to fight for liberation, not clean up your mess. Forgive me," he stood up from the table, "but if this is the essence of your proposal, then I'm afraid I can’t…"
"Wait, wait," Emhyr raised his hand. "Sit down. The marshal, of course, did not mean that. Sit down, for heaven's sake, let me explain!"
The elf sat down, crossing his arms over his chest.
"We are talking about a much broader range of tasks," Emhyr continued. " Besides the ordinary matters well familiar to you, there are more important aspects to this war. Special ones. Ones that will allow us to change the course of history on the Continent."
"Special ones," the elf repeated, narrowing his eyes slightly as he studied both the emperor and the marshal.
Coehoorn lowered his gaze and shuffled his papers.
"Your Majesty," he said without looking up, "might I…"
"Yes, yes, go join the others, Coehoorn," the emperor waved his hand impatiently. The marshal gathered his papers, bowed, and headed for the door, his heels clicking sharply on the parquet. Faoiltiarna winced in displeasure at the piercing sound.
"Wait a moment…" Emhyr rose and, circling the desk, approached Coehoorn to whisper something in his ear.
This went on for quite some time. Faoiltiarna looked out the window, where sunlight filtered through the golden leaves, sending glints across the glass.
"Tell me, my lord Faoiltiarna," the emperor turned sharply toward him when the marshal had finally disappeared behind the door, "are you a patriot?"
"I have no homeland, that is to say, no patria, as Your Majesty is well aware," the elf replied coldly. "The state of Dol Blathanna has distanced itself from us, the Scoia'tael. Not least, as far as I know, on your orders."
"Oh, come now," Emhyr waved his hand as he took a few steps towards a small table and poured a yellowish liquid into two glasses. The crystal caught the bright autumn light and glittered in sharp facets. "If anything, I did you a favor. You know as well as I do that Dol Blathanna is a colossus with feet of clay, and Henselt and Demavend will crush it – along with all its inhabitants – the moment Nilfgaard withdraws its troops beyond the Yarra."
Faoiltiarna was silent, looking at the emperor from under his brows, arms crossed over his chest. His face remained completely motionless.
“What I wish to offer you is the only realistic chance of avoiding such a tragic outcome,” the emperor extended a glass towards the elf, and when he didn’t move, set it down on the table in front of him. “Let us be frank: we are on the brink of a great turning point. Don’t smile, don’t smile,” he raised a hand, though there was not the slightest trace of amusement on the elven commander’s face. “I’m serious. You and I are the only ones who decide anything in the world right now: I am the emperor of Nilfgaard, and you are effectively the leader of the elves. Because Francesca Findabair, forgive me for saying so,” he inclined his head for a moment, “is utterly incompetent as a queen.”
He walked around the table and approached the window. Pulling aside the curtain, he glanced outside, then carefully arranged the velvet drapery back into place before turning once more toward the elf.
“Well then, my lord Faoiltiarna? Do you see what I’m getting at?”
"Look," the elven commander sighed, "I am accustomed to military clarity. I have neither the time nor the habit for long courtly conversations, and I don’t understand hints. You want us to fight alongside your army. You’re probably going to promise us a couple of wagons of wheat and a dozen of your wretched army bows in return. Then you’ll throw us into the thick of it, and when luck turns against you on the battlefield and the Nilfgaardian people start asking questions about who’s to blame, whose fault it was – there will already be gallows in the main square waiting for the pointy-eared bastards. Am I correct in my assessment?"
"You are a born diplomat, my lord elf," Emhyr laughed reluctantly, taking a sip and sitting down opposite. "If everyone were as perceptive and straightforward as you, there would scarcely be any need for war at all. No – what I wish to offer you is something else entirely. Something altogether different."
He leaned across the table and started speaking quietly, abruptly.
“Complete freedom of action. Immediate supplies of everything you need and more. Independence from the army and Menno Coehoorn. Pay no attention to what he said earlier – you alone will be in command of the operations. No instructions from me, no explanations from you. Any methods necessary to achieve your goals. I repeat – any methods.”
The emperor straightened, watching the other closely.
“It’s true what I was saying about historic tasks, my lord Faoiltiarna,” he said. “And no one is better suited to accomplish them than the two of us. The most important, the monumental mission of our fraternal nations is to replace the miserable civilization of the Nordlings with an elven and a Nilfgaardian one. I hope there’s no need to explain what that means?”
“Explain it anyway,” Faoiltiarna answered quietly. “Does this concern…”
“Everything,” Emhyr inclined his head. “Books, monuments, churches, libraries – those must be removed first of all. Naturally, scholars and university professors as well: most of them are utterly hopeless and will cling to their prejudices until the very end. Bards, priests – they are of no use at all, they only spread harmful rumors and contagious diseases. Drunken peasants, useless workers - all these idlers must be sent to the Empire for compulsory work. Labor, you know, is a matter of honor.”
“And those unfit for labor?” the elf’s voice became quieter still, almost inaudible. “The elderly, children, the sick and wounded?”
“Well, what can be done?” Emhyr spread his hands. “Nilfgaard is a large and wealthy country, but even we can’t afford to feed thousands of new dependents. I’m sure you will find the best solution to this question.”
Silence fell as the elven commander stared down at the table before him, as though considering what had been said. Emhyr drank again from his own glass and nudged the second one closer to his companion. This time Faoiltiarna didn’t refuse and picked the glass up, twirling it slowly between his palms.
"At Thanedd," he said without raising his eyes, "almost my entire unit was killed. Twenty-six fighters. Including two of my cousins. Slaughtered with wild, inhuman cruelty."
The emperor sighed heavily and set his glass down on the table with a dull thud.
"I was informed of what happened," he replied. "Please accept my sincere condolences. Alas, it was impossible to…"
Faoiltiarna clenched his jaw.
"It was a monster," he said, staring into the corner of the room. "That is what Cahir told me. A white-haired monster, bred for killing. That man calmly and coldly slit the throats of seven elves and didn’t hesitate to finish off the wounded and unarmed one."
"Not exactly so, my lord Faoiltiarna," Emhyr pursed his lips slightly. "Apparently, Cahir aep Ceallach didn’t tell you everything. It was not a man, but a witcher."
Faoiltiarna's head snapped up, but he remained silent.
"Witchers, as you know," Emhyr continued, observing him closely, "are mutants, devoid of feelings and any concept of honor. It makes no difference to them whether they kill an oversized worm or their own neighbor, just because the neighbor’s wife is prettier or his cow is fatter. Killing a person is as easy for them as kicking a mangy mutt blocking their road. A mindless, animal hatred, if you know what I mean."
“I know it very well,” Faoiltiarna replied through clenched teeth. “Elves are more familiar with such things than anyone. What exactly is your point?”
“What I mean is that there is neither my fault nor yours in the death of your unit,” the emperor explained. “The blame lies solely upon that savage – that subhuman who slipped his leash. I would like that to be perfectly clear, because I’m extremely interested in a long and close cooperation with the elves, and with you personally.”
He stood up and slowly walked along the window until he stopped in front of a bookcase filled with thick tomes.
“And that brings me to my next point.” He ran a finger along the gilded spines. “The destruction of your unit is a tragedy, but no less tragic is the condition of your compatriots. I cannot sleep peacefully knowing that every day dozens of elves – my brothers in blood,” he pressed a hand against his chest, “are subjected to unspeakable humiliation and persecutions. And not because Nordlings have some grand ambitions or lack resources. No. Just as with the witchers terrorizing the human race, they are driven solely by a deep, primitive hatred toward those who are by nature smarter and more advanced. The kind of hatred that makes the barbarians take up their axes and slash magnificent sculptures to pieces, destroy white marble palaces, piss upon ancient paintings. You are surely not unfamiliar with this either, my lord Faoiltiarna.”
The elf didn’t answer, but a shadow of repulsion crossed his scarred face.
“Thus,” Emhyr concluded, “I don’t think I stray far from the truth when I say that our actions will be a service to the entire population of the Continent. After all, when cholera-ridden rats infest a house in a village, the house is burned down, is it not?”
“Spare me the grand words, Your Majesty,” Faoiltiarna said dully. “I don’t give a damn about the Continent. Nor about civilization.”
He also stood up and approached the emperor, stopping in front of him. It was now obvious that they were almost the same height.
“I’ve never danced to anyone’s tune, and I never will,” the elf said, looking him straight in the eye. “Not the elders’. Not Francesca’s. And certainly not yours. But…” He tightened his lips. “The Northern Kingdoms owe the elves a debt. And I wouldn’t mind being the one to collect it.”
“With interest, my lord Faoiltiarna,” Emhyr remarked. “With royal interest. For all two hundred years and more.”
Both fell silent again. Beyond the window came the sound of marching troops and the angry shouts of officers.
"I have only one question," the elf broke the silence at last. "In the event of failure…"
"Failure is out of the question," Emhyr interrupted quickly. "Nilfgaard holds a strategic advantage in manpower, military power, and economy alike. And with your help, there will also be a tactical advantage."
"In the event of failure," Faoiltiarna persisted, " I would rather not become the scapegoat. Especially since you said there would be no written orders."
"Well then, tell me yourself what you want," the emperor spread his hands. "Would you like the rank of a brigade commander? Military oaths are taken and accepted before thousands of soldiers – would that be enough for you?"
"Perhaps later," the elf replied calmly. "For now, your word will suffice. I hope that the words 'honor' and 'decency' are familiar to you."
With a faint smirk, Emhyr picked up his own glass, slowly stepped closer, and pressed the second one into the elven commander's hand.
“The noblest words I’ve heard within these walls, my lord Faoiltiarna,” he said, raising his hand. “No, no, hold it like this. I wonder, are you familiar with our southern tradition - the bruderschaft drinking?”
“Cannot say that I am,” the elf inclined his head.
“Those who do it become friends, as close as brothers. They may address one another by name and without titles,” Emhyr explained. “And of course, they go together until the very end. This is my offer to you, my lord Faoiltiarna – not even the Imperial High Court could give you greater guarantees.”
The elf looked into the emperor’s eyes – eyes as dark as his own.
“I agree,” he nodded at last. “A strange tradition… but very well.”
"Excellent!" Emhyr smiled broadly, taking a step forward. "Let us cross our arms, like this… Do not look away… And now drink."
They drank simultaneously, each taking a sip, then set their glasses on the table. Embracing the elf by the shoulders, Emhyr briefly pressed their lips together.
"Well then," he said cheerfully, drawing back, "now the two of us, Isengrim, are bound together to the very end. To the victory – because there can be no other outcome."
Faoiltiarna stood motionless. For several seconds he stared aside, then slowly brushed the back of his hand across his lips. And then a smile slowly appeared on his usually stern face – the first one in the entire long conversation.
"To the end," he said hoarsely. "To be honest… Emhyr… I never thought I would ever call a human my brother."
"I understand you completely," the emperor placed a hand on his shoulder. "But the task, damn it, is not an easy one either, is it? These Nordlings – you know how they are, like weeds. Leave one sprout alive, and before you know it, they’ll fill your lands again."
"It is simply hard to believe," the elf rubbed his eyes with his fingers. "Our lands… after all these years… But apparently, something really is ending, and something is beginning."
"A new era is beginning," Emhyr regarded him intently. "An era of enlightenment and liberation. The North will burn to ashes in a cleansing fire, only to be reborn anew. And the name of that flame will be Faoiltiarna."
The elf exhaled sharply and looked away, clenching his jaw. But when he spoke again, his voice was steady and calm, as always.
"Well then, farewell, Emhyr," he said with a slight bow. "Thank you for everything. I’ll go back to my unit immediately, and at dawn we march. I’ll see you again in Vengerberg."
"Farewell, my friend, and may luck be with you," the emperor replied warmly. "Please do take care."
Faoiltiarna turned sharply and departed. Emhyr watched him go with the same gentle expression, but the moment the door closed the smile slid from his face.
He rang a small bell, and when a secretary emerged from the side door, ordered that Menno Coehoorn be summoned.
“We have reached an understanding,” he announced without preamble as soon as the marshal stood before him. “Friends forever. You see, Coehoorn, it is not so difficult if one knows what buttons to press.”
“I have never doubted Your Majesty’s abilities,” the marshal bowed slightly. “Still, to lull an elf’s suspicions…”
“Childishly easy.” Emhyr waved a hand dismissively. “I fed him talk about common goals, a great new age, all the usual nonsense. Now listen carefully, Coehoorn.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and paced a few steps, choosing his words with care.
“All the dirty work must be done exclusively by the elves. Not the slightest shadow of suspicion must fall upon the regular army. You may chop the wood and hand them the torch, but it is the elves who must hold it to the fire. At the same time, they shouldn’t suspect anything – let them think they have complete freedom of action.”
“I understand, Your Majesty.”
“Let them kill and torture as much as they please. You are not to interfere, but you shouldn’t participate either. Gather as many locals as possible at the executions – both for intimidation and for the obvious reasons.”
“You are an incomparable strategist, Your Majesty.”
“Spare me your clumsy flattery, Coehoorn, I have no time for it.” Emhyr shook his head as he approached the window and looked outside. “Issue the necessary orders. Ensure the elves are supplied with everything they require, first-rate provisions. Give them those… explosive crossbow bolts and arrows as well. And orions. Let them bury themselves deep.”
"Your Majesty, is it worth…"
“It is, Coehoorn, it is,” The emperor turned with a sly narrowing of his eyes. “I want them neck-deep in shit. So that, when the time comes, not a single living soul will have any doubts as to who is responsible for all the excesses and violations of imperial law.”
“As you command, Your Majesty.” The marshal bowed his head. “I shall see to it immediately.”
“Go. Dismissed.”
Once the marshal had left, Emhyr turned and approached the bookcase once more. Running his fingers along the shelves, he selected a thick volume, opened it, and began flipping through the pages.
“Foregorn… Fiardo…” he muttered under his breath. “Ah, here…”
He marked the title of an article with his fingernail; right beside it was a picture of a young woman with slightly pointed ears. She was tied to a stake amidst tongues of flame, yet her expression was joyful, even triumphant, and her dark eyes gazed at the reader with malicious glee.
"Falka," Emhyr read in a low voice with a satisfied smile. "A torturer. A martyr. A liberator."
And then he added, glancing out of the window into the distance, where the endless lands of the North lay, still unconquered.
"A cleansing flame…"