Baptism of Fire

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  Assire made no comment. She waited patiently; looking at her recently filed and painted nails.

  ‘Undoubtedly, you remember,’ Fringilla Vigo continued, ‘how three years ago, Emhyr called us all and ordered us to establish the whereabouts of a person. In the area of the Northern Kingdoms. Undoubtedly, you remember how mad he was when we did not succeed. Albrich, who explained that it was impossible to probe so far, let alone pass the screens. And now listen. A week after the famous Loc Grim audience when celebrating the victory of Aldersberg, Emhyr suddenly noticed Albrich and me and honored us with a conversation. The meaning of his speech, without trivializing too much goes as follows: “You are freeloaders, indolent and lazy. Your fairground tricks cost me a fortune and I get no benefit from them. The task that I set for your pitiful academy was completed by a simple astrologer in four days.”’

  Assire var Anahid snorted with contempt, still stroking the cat.

  ‘I found out easily,’ Fringilla continued, ‘that the astrologer was none other than the infamous Xarthisius.’

  ‘So the person that was sought, this Cintran, is to be the candidate for empress. And Xarthisius found her. Then what? Was he appointed Secretary of State? Head of the Department of Impossible Tasks?’

  ‘No. They threw him in the dungeon a week later.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what this has to do with Cahir, son of Ceallach.’

  ‘Patience. Let me do this is order, It is necessary.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m listening.’

  ‘Do you remember what Emhyr gave us three years ago when we began to look?’

  ‘A lock of hair.’

  ‘Right.’ Fringilla reached into her purse. ‘Precisely this hair. The light hair of a girl of six years. I kept a few. And it had paid off because, the person who cares for the Cintran princess isolated at Darn Rowan id Stella Congreve, Countess of Liddertal. Stella some time ago contracted some debts of gratitude to me, so it was no problem gaining possession of a second lock of hair. This one. It is somewhat darker, but hair darkens with age. Nevertheless, the locks belong to two completely different people. I have examined them and there is no doubt about it.’

  ‘I imagined a revelation of this kind,’ Assire admitted, ‘as soon as I heard that the Cintran had been isolated in Darn Rowan. The astrologer either failed to find the correct subject or was pulled into a conspiracy to provide a fake person to Emhyr. The conspiracy that will cost the head of Cahir aep Ceallach. Thank you, Fringilla. Everything is clear.’

  ‘Not everything,’ the black-haired sorceress shook her head. ‘First, it was Xarthisius who found the Cintran, it was he who brought her to Loc Grim. The astrologer began to read horoscopes after he realized that he had brought a false princess to Emhyr and began an intensive search for the truth. And the crazy old man ended up in the dungeons for a stupid mistake in his art or for fraud. All I have been able to establish, is that he was able to determine the whereabouts of the wanted person to within a hundred mile radius. And this was an desert, an uninhabited desert somewhere beyond the mountains of Tir Tochair behind the Velda river. Stefan Skellen, who was sent there, found nothing but scorpions and vultures.’

  ‘I would not have expected anything else from Xarthisius. But this will not have any influence on the issue of Cahir. Emhyr is angry, but he does not send anyone to torture and death for no reason. As you yourself have said, someone arranged for the fake princess to be delivered to Loc Grim. Someone has found a double. So there is a conspiracy and Cahir has been drawn into it. I will not rule out that it was unconsciously. That he was used.’

  ‘If he had, they would have done so until the end. He would have been the one to bring the double to Emhyr. But Cahir has disappeared without a trace. Why? After all his disappearance had to awaken suspicion. Could he have expected Emhyr would spot the fraud at first sight? Because he would realize. Would realize because he was…’

  ‘A lock of hair,’ interrupted Assire. ‘A lock of hair from a six year old girl. Fringilla, Emhyr has not been looking for this girl for three years, but much longer. It seems that Cahir has been pulled into something terrible, something that began when he was still riding around on a stick pretending it was a horse. Humm… Leave me this lock of hair. I would like to do some tests.’

  Fringilla shook her head slowly, her green eyes narrowing.

  ‘I’ll leave it. But be cautious, Assire. Do not get into something terrible. Because this will draw attention to you. At the beginning of the conversation you mentioned that you could not afford it. You promised clarify the reasons.’

  Assire var Anahid rose and went to the window, she stared out at the setting sun glistening on the roofs and towers of Nilfgaard, the capital of the Empire, called the City of Golden Towers.

  ‘You said once, and I remember,’ she said without turning around, ‘that magic should not be divided by borders. That the good of magic should be the greatest good, which should be above all kinds of divisions. Something like that would require… a secret organization… something like a convent or a lodge…’

  ‘I’m ready,’ Fringilla answered the unspoken question of the Nilfgaardian sorceress. ‘I am determined and ready to proceed. Thank you for the trust and honor. When and where is the meeting of this lodge, my secretive and mysterious friend?’

  Assire var Anahid the Nilfgaardian sorceress turned around. On her lips was a shadow of a smile.

  ‘Soon,’ she said. ‘Now I will explain everything. But before I do… I’ll give you the address of my seamstress, Fringilla.’

  ‘Not a single fire,’ Milva whispered staring at the dark shore of the river, whose surface glistening in the moonlight. ‘Not a soul there either. The camp held two hundred refugees. Did no one save their neck?’

  ‘If the imperials won, they would have taken everyone into slavery,’ Cahir replied, also in a whisper. ‘If your side won, they would have taken the refugees away from this place.’

  They moved closer to the shore, to the overgrown marsh reeds. Milva stepped on something and jumped back, stifling a cry at the sight of a hand emerging from the mud covered in leeches.

  ‘It’s just a corpse,’ Cahir muttered grabbing her arm, ‘Ours. A Daerlan.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Seventh Daerlan Cavalry brigade. White scorpion on his sleeve…’

  ‘Gods,’ she shuddered violently, clutching her bow in her sweaty fist. ‘Did you hear that voice? What was it?’

  ‘A wolf.’

  ‘Or a ghoul… Or some other damned soul. There must be a lot of dead bodies in the camp… The plague, I will not go to the other shore at night!’

  ‘We’ll wait until dawn… Milva? What is that strange…’

  ‘Regis…’ The archer suppressed a cry, smelling the smell of wormwood, sage, coriander and anise. ‘Regis is that you?’

  ‘It is I,’ the surgeon quietly appeared out of the darkness. ‘I was worried about you. You are not alone, I can see.’

  ‘You see well,’ Milva let go of Cahir’s arm, who had already reached for his sword. ‘I am not alone but the same cannot be said about yourself. Regis, where is the witcher? Dandelion? And the rest? Do you know what happened to them?’

  ‘I know. Do you have the horses?’

  ‘We have them. Among the reeds…’

  ‘Then we head south, following the course of the Chotla. Without delay. Before midnight we must be in Armeria.’

  ‘What about the witcher and the poet? Do they live?’

  ‘They live. But they are in trouble.’

  ‘What trouble?’

  ‘It is a long story.’

  Dandelion groaned, trying to turn around and put himself in a more comfortable position. However, it was an impossible task for someone who was lying in a pile of sawdust and shavings and was bound with ropes like a ham about to be smoked.

  ‘We were not handed immediately,’ he gasped. ‘There is hope…’

  ‘Calm down,’ the witcher lay quietly, watching the moo
n visible through a hole in the roof of the woodshed. ‘Do you know why Vissegerd didn’t hang us right away? Because we are to be executed publicly at dawn, when the entire army has gathered. For propaganda.’

  Dandelion was silent. Geralt heard him sniff regretfully.

  ‘You still have a chance to escape,’ he said to appease him. ‘Vissegerd wants to carry out his private vendetta against me, but he has nothing against you. Your Count friend will get you out of prison, you’ll see.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ replied the bard, to the astonishment of the witcher, calmly and quite reasonably. ‘Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Do not treat me like a child. First, for propaganda purposes, hanging two is better than hanging one. Secondly, I witness a personal vendetta, he will not leave me alive. No, brother, we’ll swing together.’

  ‘Stop, Dandelion. Stay quietly and think of a plan.’

  ‘What plan, dammit?’

  ‘Anything.’

  The speech of the poet prevented the witcher from concentrating. He needs something. He expected at any moment the woodshed would be invaded by Temerian military intelligence, who would certainly be working for Vissegerd. The Secret Service would certainly like to ask him about the various details of the events at Garstang on island of Thanedd. Geralt knew almost no details, but he knew that before the agents would believe him, he would become very, very sick. His only hope was on Vissegerd, blinded by the desire for revenge, had not notified the agents of his capture. The Secret Service would be able to remove the prisoners for the claws of the angry Marshal and take them back to their headquarters. More precisely, they could take back to their headquarters what was left of the prisoners after the first interrogation.

  At that moment the poet thought of a plan.

  ‘Geralt! We can act like we know something important. That we are really spies or something like that. Then…’

  ‘Have mercy, Dandelion.’

  ‘We can also try and bribe the guards. I have money hidden. Doubloon, sewn into the lining of my shoe. For a rainy day… Call the guards…’

  ‘And then they take everything and you still swing.’

  The poet recoiled in disgust, but then relented. From the camp they could hear cries, the stamping of horses and worse, the smell of the soldier’s pea soup, a bowl of which at the moment Geralt would give all the steak and truffles in the world. The guards standing next to the shed chatted idly, laughing and occasionally cleared their throats and spat for long periods. The guard were professional soldiers, it was possible for them to communicate using compound sentences with pronouns exclusively filthy and disgusting.

  ‘Geralt?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wonder what happened to Milva… And Zoltan, Percival and Regis… Did you see?’

  ‘No. I have not ruled out that during the fighting they were cut down or trampled by horses. There in the camp, lay their bodies.’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ said Dandelion, stubbornly and with hope in his voice. ‘I do not believe that people as sly as Zoltan, Percival… Or Milva…’

  ‘Stop deluding yourself. Even if they survived, they cannot help us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For three reasons. First, because they have their own problems. Second, because we lie bound in a shed which is located in the center of a camp of an army of several thousand people.’

  ‘And the third reason? You mentioned three.’

  ‘Third,’ he replied wearily, ‘the limit of miracles for this month has already been exhausted when the women of Kernow found their missing husbands.’

  ‘There,’ the surgeon said, pointing out the glowing dots of campfires. ‘There is the fort of America, the current troop camp for the Temerian army concentrated in Mayena.’

  ‘The witcher and Dandelion are imprisoned there?’ Milva stood in her stirrups. ‘Ha, it is so dark… There will be crowds of armed people around and guards. We will not be able to approach undetected.’

  ‘You will not have to,’ Regis said, dismounting from Pegasus. The gelding snorted, irritated by the herbal aroma floating from his rider. ‘You will not have to sneak.’ He repeated. ‘I can handle this myself. You go with the horses towards the brightest star of the Seven Goats. Wait at the river where the Chotla empties into the Ina. When I manage to free the witcher, we’ll head in that direction. There we will meet.’

  ‘He is highly arrogant,’ Cahir whispered to Milva after dismounting from their horses found them close to each other. ‘Alone, without any help he is going into trouble, did you hear? Who is he?’

  ‘I truly, do not know,’ whispered Milva. ‘But I believe what he says. Yesterday with his bare hands, he pulled a horseshoe out of red hot coals, before my eyes…’

  ‘A wizard?’

  ‘No,’ Regis said from behind Pegasus, giving evidence of exceptionally sensitive hearing. ‘Is it that important? I do not ask for your personal details.’

  ‘I am Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach.’

  ‘Thank you and I am full of admiration,’ the surgeon’s voice held a hint of mockery. ‘as that Nilfgaardian name was pronounced with almost no accent.’

  ‘I’m not…’

  ‘Enough!’ Milva cut him off. ‘There is no time to argue and dawdle. Regis, the witcher is waiting for a rescue.’

  ‘Not before midnight,’ the surgeon said coldly, looking at the moon. ‘So we have time to talk. Who is this man, Milva?’

  ‘This man,’ the archer said, getting angry, ‘helped me out of trouble. This man will tell the witcher when he meets with him, that we are going the wrong way. Ciri is not in Nilfgaard.’

  ‘Indeed, a revelation.’ The surgeon’s voice softened. ‘And what is your source, esteemed Cahir, son of Ceallach?’

  ‘That is a long story.’

  Dandelion had been silent a long time when one of the soldiers set to guard them broke off his conversation in mid curse, slurring, a second one groaning. Geralt know that that there were three of them, so he listened, but the third soldier issued no sound.

  He waited with bated breath. The sound that caught his ear was not the opening of a creaking door, but the sound of snoring. The guards had fallen asleep on duty.

  He exhaled and cursed without a sound and was ready to immerse himself in thoughts of Yennefer when the witcher medallion around his neck quivered suddenly and a powerful smell struck his nostrils of wormwood, basil, coriander, save and anise. And God knows what else.

  ‘Regis?’ he whispered in disbelief, unsuccessfully trying to raise his head from the floor.

  ‘Regis,’ Dandelion whispered back, moving and rustling. ‘No one else stinks so… Where are you? I cannot see you…’

  ‘Quiet.’

  The medallion stopped vibrating, Geralt heard a sigh of relief from the poet and immediately after heard the sound of a knife cutting through rope. A moment later, Dandelion groaned with pain caused by the circulation being restored to his limbs, he tried to suppress the groans by biting his fist.

  ‘Geralt,’ The fuzzy, shaky shadow of the surgeon came near him and immediately cut the ropes. ‘You need to get yourself past the guards. Follow the brightest star of the Seven Goats to the east. Straight to the Ina. Milva is waiting there with horses.’

  ‘Help me get up…’

  He stood up on one leg, then the second, biting his fist. Dandelion’s circulation had had time to return to normal. The witcher, after a moment, was also ready.

  ‘How do we get out?’ the poet suddenly asked. ‘The guards at the door are snoring, but they…’

  ‘They won’t’ interrupted Regis in a whisper. ‘But be careful leaving. The moon is full and there is lots of light from the campfires. Although it is night time, there is still a lot of traffic in the camp, but this is good. The patrol has already grown tired of asking for the password. Go. Good luck.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Do not worry about me. Don’t wait for me or look back.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Dandelion,’ th
e witcher hissed. ‘He said not to worry about him, didn’t you hear?’

  ‘Go,’ repeated Regis. ‘Good luck. Goodbye Geralt.’

  The witcher turned.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ he said. ‘But it is better that we never met again. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Perfectly. Do not waste time.’

  The guard slept in picturesque poses, snoring and muttering. None of them stirred when Geralt and Dandelion slipped through the open door. None of them reacted when the witcher unceremoniously pulled off two heavy homespun cloaks.

  ‘This is no mere sleep,’ Dandelion whispered.

  ‘Of course not,’ Geralt, hidden in the darkness of the shed, looked around the square.

  ‘I understand,’ the poet sighed. ‘Regis is a sorcerer?’

  ‘No. Not a sorcerer.’

  ‘He pulled the horseshoe from the fire. He lulled the guards to sleep…’

  ‘Stop talking and concentrate. We are not safe yet. Put on the cloak and head through the square. If anyone stops us, we pretend we are soldiers.’

  ‘Okay. If anything happens, I’ll say…’

  ‘We pretend we are stupid soldiers. Let’s go.’

  They cut across the yard, keeping away from the soldiers gathered around the wagons and campfires. People wandered back and forth across the square, two more, did not attract any more attention. No one’s suspicions were aroused, no one hailed nor tried to stop them, They quickly and without hassle made their way towards the palisade.

  Everything was going smoothly, a little too smoothly. Geralt became restless, because he instinctively sensed danger and this feeling, as they moved further away from the center of the camp, grew instead of declining. He kept repeating to himself that there was nothing surprising about any of this –in the middle of a busy night two people wouldn’t be noticed, they could only be threatened if someone raised the alarm after finding the guards sleeping at the woodshed. Now, however, they approaching the perimeter where sentries necessarily had to be vigilant. It was while leaving the camp that the witcher remembered that there was in Vissegerd’s command the scourge of desertion and he was sure that the guards were ordered to give careful attention to any who wished to leave the camp.