‘No, it’s not them. At least, not just them. Someone else is, too. Someone who is leaving a trail of corpses behind them. Someone who does not shrink from blackmail, bribery or torture . . . While we are on the subject, is a gentleman by the name of Rience in any of your services? Ah, I see from your expressions that either he isn’t or you won’t admit it – which comes to the same thing. I repeat: they are searching for Calanthe’s granddaughter, and searching in such a way as to make you think twice about their intentions. Who is looking for her, I ask?’
‘Hell !’ Foltest thumped his fist on the table. ‘It’s not me! It never occurred to me to marry some child for some throne! After all, I—’
‘After all, you have been secretly sleeping with the Baroness La Valette for the past four years.’ Meve smiled again. ‘You love each other like two turtle doves and just wait for the old baron to finally kick the bucket. What are you staring at? We all know about it. What do you think we pay our spies for? But for the throne of Cintra, cousin, many a king would be prepared to sacrifice his personal happiness—’
‘Hold on.’ Henselt scratched his beard with a rasp. ‘Many a king, you say. Then leave Foltest in peace for a moment. There are others. In her time, Calanthe wanted to give her granddaughter’s hand to Ervyll of Verden’s son. Ervyll, too, might have caught a whiff of Cintra. And not just him . . .’
‘Hmm . . .’ muttered Vizimir. ‘True. Ervyll has three sons . . . And what about those present here who also have male descendants? Huh? Meve? Are you not, by any chance, pulling wool over our eyes?’
‘You can count me out.’ The Queen of Lyria smiled even more charmingly. ‘It is true, two of my offspring are roaming the world – the fruits of delightful abandon – if they have not been brought to the gallows yet. I doubt that either of them would suddenly desire to be king. They were neither predisposed nor inclined that way. Both were even stupider than their father, may he rest in peace. Whoever knew my deceased husband will understand what I mean.’
‘That’s a fact,’ agreed the King of Redania. ‘I knew him. Are your sons really more stupid? Damn it, I thought it wasn’t possible to get any more stupid . . . Forgive me, Meve . . .’
‘It’s nothing, Vizimir.’
‘Who else has sons?’
‘You do, Henselt.’
‘My son is married!’
‘And what is poison for? For the throne of Cintra, as someone here so wisely said, many would sacrifice their personal happiness. It would be worth it!’
‘I will not permit such insinuations! And leave me alone! Others have sons, too!’
‘Niedamir of Hengfors has two. And is a widower himself. And he isn’t old. And don’t forget Esterad Thyssen of Kovir.’
‘I would count those out.’ Vizimir shook his head. ‘The Hengfors League and Kovir are planning a dynastic union with each other. They are not interested in Cintra or the south. Hmm . . . But Ervyll of Verden . . . It’s not so far from him.’
‘There is someone else who is just as near,’ remarked Demawend suddenly.
‘Who?’
‘Emhyr var Emreis. He is not married. And he is younger than you, Foltest.’
‘Bloody hell.’ The King of Redania frowned. ‘If that were true . . . Emhyr would bugger us without grease! It’s obvious that the people and nobility of Cintra will follow Calanthe’s blood. Imagine what would happen if Emhyr were to get his hands on the Lion Cub? Damn it, that’s all we need! Queen of Cintra, and Empress of Nilfgaard!’
‘Empress!’ snorted Henselt. ‘You exaggerate, Vizimir. What does Emhyr need the girl for, what the hell does he need to get married for? The throne of Cintra? Emhyr already has Cintra! He conquered the country and made it a province of Nilfgaard ! He’s got his whole butt on the throne and still has enough room to wriggle about!’
‘Firstly,’ noted Foltest, ‘Emhyr grips Cintra by law, or rather by an aggressor’s lawlessness. If he had the girl and married her, he could rule legally. You understand? Nilfgaard bound in marriage to Calanthe’s blood is no longer Nilfgaard the invader, at which the entire north bares its teeth. It is Nilfgaard the neighbour whom one has to take into account. How would you want to force such a Nilfgaard beyond Marnadal, beyond the Amell passes? Attacking a kingdom whose throne is legally occupied by the Lion Cub, granddaughter of the Lioness of Cintra? Pox! I don’t know who’s looking for that child. I’m not looking for her. But I declare that now I’m going to start to. I still believe the girl is dead, but we can’t take the risk. It looks as if she is too important. If she survived then we must find her!’
‘And shall we decide now who she will marry when we find her?’ Henselt grimaced. ‘Such matters should not be left to chance. We could, for that matter, hand her over to Vissegerd’s guerrillas as a battle standard, tied to a long pole – they could carry her before the front line as they attack the left bank. But if the recaptured Cintra is to be useful to us all . . . Surely you see what I mean? If we attack Nilfgaard and retrieve Cintra, the Lion Cub can be put on the throne. But the Lion Cub can have only one husband. One who will look after our interests at the mouth of the Yaruga. Who of those present is going to volunteer?’
‘Not me,’ joked Meve. ‘I waive the privilege.’
‘I wouldn’t exclude those who aren’t present here,’ said Demawend seriously. ‘Neither Ervyll, nor Niedamir, nor the Thyssens. And bear in mind that Vissegerd could surprise you and put the standard attached to a long pole to unexpected use. You’ve heard about morganatic marriages? Vissegerd is old and as ugly as cow’s dung but with enough decoctions of absinthe and damiana down her throat, the Lion Cub might unexpectedly fall in love with him! Is King Vissegerd included in our plans?’
‘No,’ muttered Foltest, ‘not in mine.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Vizimir hesitated. ‘Nor in mine. Vissegerd is a tool, not a partner, that’s the role he is to play in our plans for attacking Nilfgaard – that and no other. Besides, if the one who is so earnestly seeking the Lion Cub is indeed Emhyr var Emreis, we cannot take the risk.’
‘Absolutely not,’ seconded Foltest. ‘The Lion Cub cannot fall into Emhyr’s hands. She cannot fall into anybody’s—Into the wrong hands . . . Alive.’
‘Infanticide?’ Meve grimaced. ‘An ugly solution, my kings. Unworthy. And surely unnecessarily drastic. First of all, let us find the girl – because we still don’t have her. And when we have found her, give her to me. I’ll keep her in some castle in the mountains for a couple of years, and marry her off to one of my knights. When you see her again, she will already have two children and a belly out here.’
‘Leading to, if I count correctly, at least three future eventual pretenders and usurpers?’ Vizimir nodded. ‘No, Meve. It is ugly, indeed, but the Lion Cub, if she has survived, must now die. For reasons of state. Gentlemen?’
The rain hammered against the windows. The gale howled among the towers of Hagge castle.
The kings grew silent.
‘Vizimir, Foltest, Demawend, Henselt and Meve,’ repeated the marshal. ‘They met in a secret council in Hagge Castle on the Pontar. They conferred in privacy.’
‘How symbolic,’ said the slender, black-haired man wearing an elk tunic marked with the imprints of armour and rust stains, without looking round. ‘After all, it was at Hagge, not forty years ago, that Virfuril defeated Medell’s armies, strengthened his control over the Pontar Valley and established today’s borders between Aedirn and Temeria. And today Demawend, Virfuril’s son, invites Foltest, Medell’s son, to Hagge, summoning Vizimir of Tretogor, Henselt of Ard Carraigh and the merry widow Meve of Lyria to complete the set. They are meeting now and holding council in secrecy. Can you guess what they are discussing, Coehoorn?’
‘I can,’ the marshal replied succinctly. He did not say a word more. He knew that the man with his back turned hated anyone to display any eloquence or comment on obvious facts in his presence.
‘They did not invite Ethain of Cidaris.’ The man in the elk tunic turned away fr
om the window, clasped his hands behind his back and strolled slowly from the window to the table and then back again. ‘Nor Ervyll of Verden. They did not invite Esterad Thyssen or Niedamir. Which means they are either very sure of themselves, or very unsure. They did not invite anyone from the Chapter of Wizards. Which is interesting, and significant. Coehoorn, try to see to it that the wizards learn of this council. Let them know that their monarchs do not treat them as equals. It seems to me that the wizards of the Chapter have had some doubts in this respect. Disperse them.’
‘It’s an order.’
‘Any news from Rience?’
‘None.’
The man paused at the window and stood there for a long while gazing at the hills drenched in rain. Coehoorn waited, restlessly clenching and unclenching his fist around the pommel of his sword. He was afraid he would be forced to listen to a long monologue. The marshal knew that the man standing at the window considered his monologues a conversation, and viewed conversation as a privilege and proof of trust. He knew this, but still didn’t like listening to the monologues.
‘How do you find the country, Governor? Have you grown to like your new province?’
He shuddered, taken unawares. He did not expect the question. But he did not ponder the answer for long. Insincerity and indecisiveness could cost him a great deal.
‘No, your Highness. I haven’t. That country is so . . . gloomy.’
‘It was different once,’ the man replied without looking round. ‘And it will be different again. You will see. You will still see a beautiful, happy Cintra, Coehoorn. I promise you. But don’t be saddened, I shan’t keep you here long. Someone else will take over the governorship of the province. I’ll be needing you in Dol Angra. You’ll leave immediately once the rebellion is quashed. I need someone responsible in Dol Angra. Someone who will not allow himself to be provoked. The merry widow of Lyria or Demawend . . . will want to provoke us. You’ll take the young officers in hand. Cool their hot heads. You will let yourselves be provoked only when I give the order. No sooner.’
‘Yes, sir!’l’
The clatter of arms and spurs and the sound of raised voices came from the antechamber. Someone knocked on the door. The man in the elk tunic turned away from the window and nodded his head in consent. The marshal bowed a little and left.
The man returned to the table, sat down and lowered his head over some maps. He studied them for a long time then finally rested his brow on his interlocked hands. The enormous diamond in his ring sparkled in the candlelight as if a thousand flames.
‘Your Highness?’ The door squeaked faintly.
The man did not change his position. But the marshal noticed that his hands twitched. He spotted it by the flash of the diamond. He closed the door carefully and quietly behind him.
‘News, Coehoorn? From Rience maybe?’
‘No, your Highness. But good news. The rebellion in the province has been quelled. We have broken up the rebels. Only a few managed to escape to Verden. And we’ve caught their leader, Duke Windhalm of Attre.’
‘Good,’ said the man after a while, still not raising his head from his hands. ‘Windhalm of Attre . . . Order him to be beheaded. No . . . Not beheaded. Executed in some other way. Spectacularly, lengthily and cruelly. And publicly, it goes without saying. A terrifying example is necessary. Something that will frighten others. Only please, Coehoorn, spare me the details. You don’t have to bother with a vivid description in your report. I take no pleasure from it.’
The marshal nodded, then swallowed hard. He too found no pleasure in it. No pleasure whatsoever. He intended to leave the preparation and performance of the execution to the specialists, and he did not have the least intention of asking those specialists for details. And, above all, he did not intend to be there.
‘You will be present at the execution.’ The man raised his head, picked a letter up from the table and broke the seal. ‘Officially. As the Governor of the Province of Cintra. You will stand in for me. I don’t intend to watch it. That’s an order, Coehoorn.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The marshal did not even try to hide his embarrassment and discomfort. The man who had given the order did not allow anything to be kept from him. And rarely did anyone succeed in doing so.
The man glanced at the open letter and almost immediately threw it into the fire, into the hearth.
‘Coehoorn.’
‘Yes, your Highness?’
‘I am not going to wait for Rience’s report. Set the magicians to work and have them prepare a telecommunication link with their point of contact in Redania. Let them pass on my verbal orders, which must immediately be sent to Rience. The order is to run as follows: Rience is to stop pussyfooting around, and to stop playing with the witcher. Else it could end badly. No one toys with the witcher. I know him, Coehoorn. He is too clever to lead Rience to the Trail. I repeat, Rience is to organise the assassination immediately, to take the witcher out of the game at once. He’s to kill him, and then disappear, bide his time and await my orders. If he comes across the enchantress’s trail before that he is to leave her alone. Not a hair on Yennefer’s head is to be harmed. Have you remembered that, Coehoorn?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The communiqué is to be coded and firmly secured against any magical deciphering. Forewarn the wizards about this. If they bungle it, if any undesirables learn of my order, I will hold them responsible.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The marshal hawked and pulled himself up straight.
‘What else, Coehoorn?’
‘The count . . . He is here already, your Highness. He came at your command.’
‘Already?’ He smiled. ‘Such speed is worthy of admiration. I hope he didn’t exhaust that black horse of his everyone envies so much. Have him come in.’
‘Am I to be present during the conversation, your Highness?’
‘Of course, Governor of Cintra.’
Summoned from the antechambers, the knight entered the chamber with an energetic, strong and noisy stride, his black armour grating. He stopped short, drew himself up proudly, threw his wet, muddy black cloak back from his shoulder, and laid his hand on the hilt of his mighty sword. He leaned his black helmet, adorned with wings of a bird of prey, on his hip. Coehoorn looked at the knight’s face. He saw there the hard pride of a warrior, and impudence. He did not see any of the things that should have been visible in the face of one who had spent the past two years incarcerated in a place from which – as everything had indicated – he would only leave for the scaffold. A faint smile touched the marshal’s lips. He knew that the disdain for death and crazy courage of youngsters stemmed from a lack of imagination. He knew that perfectly well. He had once been such a youngster himself.
The man sitting at the table rested his chin on his interlaced fingers and looked at the knight intently. The youngster pulled himself up taut as a string.
‘In order for everything to be perfectly clear,’ the man behind the table addressed him, ‘you should understand that the mistake you made in this town two years ago has not been forgiven. You are getting one more chance. You are getting one more order. My decision as to your ultimate fate depends on the way in which you carry it out.’
The young knight’s face did not twitch, and nor did a single feather on the wings adorning the helmet at his hip.
‘I never deceive anyone, I never give anyone false illusions,’ continued the man. ‘So let it be known that, naturally, the prospect of saving your neck from the executioner’s axe exists only if you do not make a mistake this time. Your chances of a full pardon are small. Your chances of my forgiving and forgetting are . . . non-existent. ’
The young knight in the black armour did not flinch this time either, but Coehoorn detected the flash in his eyes. He doesn’t believe him, he thought. He doesn’t believe him and is deluding himself. He is making a great mistake.
‘I command your full attention,’ continued the man behind the table. ‘Yours, too, Coehoorn, because the orders I a
m about to give concern you too. They come in a moment, for I have to give some thought to their substance and delivery.’
Marshal Menno Coehoorn, Governor of the Province of Cintra and future Commander-in-Chief of the Dol Angra army, lifted his head and stood to attention, his hand on the pommel of his sword. The same attitude was assumed by the knight in black armour with the bird-of-prey-winged helmet. They both waited. In silence. Patiently. The way one should wait for orders, the substance and presentation of which were being pondered by the Emperor of Nilfgaard, Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, the White Flame Dancing on the Grave-Mounds of Enemies.
Ciri woke.
She was lying, or rather half-sitting, with her head resting high on several pillows. The compresses on her forehead had grown warm and only slightly damp. She threw them off, unable to bear their unpleasant weight and their stinging against her skin. She found it hard to breathe. Her throat was dry and her nose almost completely blocked with clots of blood. But the elixirs and spells had worked – the pain which had exploded within her skull and dimmed her sight a few hours ago had disappeared and given way to a dull throbbing and a sensation of pressure on her temples.
Carefully she touched her nose with the back of her hand. It was no longer bleeding.
What a strange dream I had, she thought. The first dream for many days. The first where I wasn’t afraid. The first which wasn’t about me. I was an . . . observer. I saw everything as if from above, from high up . . . As if I were a bird . . . A night bird . . .
A dream in which I saw Geralt.
In the dream it was night. And the rain, which furrowed the surface of the canal, spattered on the shingle roofs and thatches of sheds, glistened on the planks of foot-bridges and the decks of boats and barges . . . And Geralt was there. Not alone. There was a man with him in a funny hat with a feather, limp from the damp. And a slim girl in a green cloak with a hood . . . All three were walking slowly and carefully along a wet foot-bridge . . . And I saw them from above. As if I were a bird. A night bird . . .
Introducing the Witcher Page 91
