The spy struggled to breathe, nervously gasping for air through lips covered with maple syrup.
‘Untie him,’ Faoiltiarna ordered his Squirrels. ‘And let him wash his face.’
The order was carried out immediately. A moment later the mastermind of the unsuccessful ambush was standing with head lowered before the legendary Scoia’tael commander. Faoiltiarna looked at him indifferently.
‘Scrape the syrup thoroughly from your ears,’ he finally said. ‘Then prick them up and listen carefully, as befits a spy with many years’ experience. I shall give you proof of my loyalty to the Imperator. I shall give you a thorough account of the matters that interest him. And you will repeat everything, word for word, to Vattier de Rideaux.’
The spy nodded eagerly.
‘In the middle of Blathe, which according to your reckoning is the beginning of June,’ the elf began, ‘I was contacted by Enid an Gleanna, the sorceress also known as Francesca Findabair. Soon after, on her orders, a certain Rience came to my commando. He was said to be the factotum of Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, also a sorcerer. A plan of action was drawn up in utter secrecy, with the aim of eliminating a number of mages during the conclave on the Isle of Thanedd. The plan was presented as one having the full support of Imperator Emhyr, Vattier de Rideaux and Stephan Skellen; otherwise I should not have agreed to collaborate with Dh’oine – sorcerers or not – for I have seen too many entrapments in my life. The involvement of the Empire was confirmed by the arrival of a ship at Cape Bremervoord. On board was Cahir, son of Ceallach, equipped with special authorisation and orders. According to those orders I selected a special squad from the commando, which would be answerable only to Cahir. I was aware that they were trusted to capture and remove a . . . certain individual . . . from the island.’
‘We sailed to Thanedd,’ Faoiltiarna began again after a pause, ‘on the ship which had brought Cahir. Rience had some amulets and he used them to surround the ship with a magical fog. We sailed into the caverns beneath the island. From there we proceeded to the catacombs under Garstang. There we realised at once that something wasn’t right. Rience had received some telepathic signals from Vilgefortz. We knew we’d have to start fighting any minute. Fortunately, we were ready, because the moment we left the catacombs we were plunged into hell.’
The elf contorted his mutilated face, as though the recollection pained him.
‘After our initial successes, matters became complicated. We were unable to eliminate all the royal sorcerers, and we took heavy casualties. Several mages who were party to the conspiracy also perished, while others began to save their skins and teleport away. All of a sudden Vilgefortz vanished, then Rience, and Enid an Gleanna soon followed suit. I treated that final disappearance as the conclusive signal for our withdrawal. I did not, however, give the order, but waited for the return of Cahir and his squad, who had set off at once to carry out their mission. When they did not return, we began to search for them.’
‘No one,’ Faoiltiarna said, looking the Nilfgaardian spy in the eyes, ‘survived from that squad; they were all brutally slaughtered. We found Cahir on the steps leading to Tor Lara, a tower which exploded during the battle and ended up as a heap of rubble. He was wounded and unconscious; it was clear he had not accomplished the mission he had been assigned. There was no sign of his target anywhere and royal troops were already pouring out of Aretuza and Loxia. I knew there was no way Cahir could fall into their hands, because it would have been proof of Nilfgaard’s active involvement in the operation. So we took him with us and fled back to the catacombs and then the caverns. We boarded the ship and sailed away. Twelve remained of my commando, most of them wounded.’
‘The wind was at our backs. We landed to the west of Hirundum and hid in the forest. Cahir was trying to tear off his bandages and was yelling something about an insane girl with green eyes, about the Lion Cub of Cintra, about a witcher who had massacred his men, about the Tower of Gulls and a mage who flew like a bird. He demanded a horse and ordered us to return him to the island, citing the imperial orders, which under the circumstances I had to treat as the ravings of a madman. As we knew, war was already raging in Aedirn, so I considered it more important to swiftly rebuild my depleted commando and resume the fight against the Dh’oine.’
‘Cahir was still with us when I found your secret order in a dead drop. I was astonished. Although Cahir had clearly not completed his mission, there was nothing to suggest he was guilty of treachery. But I did not ponder over it for long, judging that it was your business and that you ought to clear it up. Cahir put up no resistance to being tied up, he was calm and resigned. I ordered him to be placed in a coffin and with the help of a hawker acquaintance delivered to the location designated in the letter. I was not, I admit, inclined to further deplete my commando by providing an escort. I don’t know who murdered your men at the rendezvous point. But only I knew where it was. So if this version of the totally random extermination of your unit doesn’t suit you, search for traitors among your own, because only you and I knew the time and place.’
Faoiltiarna stood up.
‘That is all. All the information I have given here is true. I would not supply you with anything more in the dungeons of Nastrog. The lies and confabulations with which I might try to satisfy the investigating officer and his torturers would actually do more harm than good. I do not know anything more. In particular I don’t know Vilgefortz and Rience’s whereabouts, and neither do I know if your suspicions of betrayal are justified. I also emphatically declare that I know nothing about the princess from Cintra, the genuine or the sham one. I have told you everything I know. I trust that neither Lord de Rideaux nor Stephan Skellen will want to set any more traps for me. The Dh’oine have been trying to capture and kill me for a long, long time, so I have adopted the custom of ruthless extermination of all trap setters. I shall not, in the future, investigate to check if one of the trap setters is, by chance, a subordinate of Vattier or Skellen. I do not have the time nor the desire to make such an investigation. Do I make myself clear?’
Struycken nodded and swallowed.
‘Now take a horse, spy, and get the hell out of my forest.’
‘You mean they were delivering you to the gallows?’ Milva mumbled. ‘Now I understand some of it, but not everything. Why, instead of holing up somewhere, are you following the Witcher? He’s really got it in for you . . . And he’s spared your life twice . . .’
‘Three times.’
‘I saw two of them. Though you weren’t the one who beat the shit out of the Witcher on Thanedd, as I first thought, I don’t think you ought to get in the way of his sword again. There’s a lot about your feud I don’t understand, but you saved me and you’ve got an honest face . . . So I’ll tell you, Cahir, bluntly: when the Witcher talks about the men who took his Ciri to Nilfgaard, he grinds his teeth until sparks fly. And if you spat on him, he would steam.’
‘Ciri,’ he repeated. ‘Sounds nice.’
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘No. My people always called her Cirilla or the Lion Cub of Cintra . . . And when she was with me – for she was once . . . she didn’t say a single word. Even though I saved her life.’
‘Only the devil himself could grasp all this,’ Milva said, exasperated. ‘Your fates are all entangled, Cahir, knotted and mixed up. It’s too much for my head.’
‘And what’s your name?’ he suddenly asked.
‘Milva . . . Maria Barring. But call me Milva.’
‘The Witcher’s heading the wrong way, Milva,’ he offered a moment later. ‘Ciri isn’t in Nilfgaard. The kidnappers didn’t take her to Nilfgaard. If it was a kidnap at all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘By the Great Sun,’ Fringilla said, standing in the doorway, tilting her head and looking in astonishment at her friend. ‘What have you done to your hair, Assire?’
‘I washed it,’ Assire var Anahid replied coldly. ‘And styled
it. Come in and sit down. Get out of that chair, Merlin. Shoo!’
The sorceress sat down in the chair the black cat had reluctantly vacated, her eyes still fixed on her friend’s coiffure.
‘Stop staring,’ Assire said, touching her bouffant and glistening curls. ‘I decided to make a few changes. Why, I just took your lead.’
‘I was always taken as an oddball and a rebel,’ Fringilla Vigo chuckled. ‘But when they see you in the academy or at court . . .’
‘I’m seldom at court,’ Assire cut her off, ‘and the academy will have to get used to it. This is the thirteenth century. It’s high time we challenged the superstition that dressing up is proof of an enchantress’s flightiness and the superficiality of her mind.’
‘Fingernails too,’ Fringilla said, slightly narrowing her green eyes, which never, ever, missed anything. ‘Whatever next, darling? I hardly recognise you.’
‘A simple spell,’ the enchantress replied coolly, ‘ought to be enough to prove it’s me and no doppelgänger. Cast the spell, if you must. And then let’s move on to the matter in hand. I asked something of you . . .’
Fringilla Vigo stroked the cat, which was rubbing himself against her calf, purring and arching his back, pretending it was a gesture of friendship and not a veiled hint that the black-haired sorceress should get up from the armchair.
‘The same thing Seneschal Ceallach aep Gruffyd asked of you,’ she said, without raising her head.
‘Indeed,’ Assire confirmed in hushed tones, ‘Ceallach visited me, distraught, and asked me to intercede to save his son. Emhyr has ordered him to be captured, tortured and executed. Who else could he turn to except a relative? Mawr, Ceallach’s wife and Cahir’s mother, is my niece, my sister’s youngest daughter. In spite of all that I didn’t promise him anything. Because my hands are tied. Certain circumstances took place recently which do not permit me to draw attention to myself. I shall elucidate. But only after you’ve given me the information I asked you to gather.’
Fringilla Vigo furtively sighed with relief. She had been afraid her friend would want to get involved in the case of Cahir, son of Ceallach, which had ‘gallows’ written all over it. And equally afraid she would be asked for help she couldn’t refuse.
‘Around the middle of July,’ she began, ‘the entire court at Loc Grim had the opportunity to marvel at a fifteen-year-old girl, supposedly the Princess of Cintra, whom Emhyr insisted on referring to as “Your Majesty” during the audience and was treated so kindly there were even rumours of a quick marriage.’
‘So I heard,’ Assire said, stroking the cat, which had given up on Fringilla and was trying to occupy her own armchair instead. ‘This doubtlessly political marriage is still talked about.’
‘But more discreetly and not so often. For the Cintran was moved to Darn Rowan. Prisoners of state, as you know, are often kept in Darn Rowan. Potential imperatrices much less often.’
Assire didn’t comment. She waited patiently, examining her freshly filed and varnished fingernails.
‘You must remember,’ Fringilla Vigo continued, ‘how Emhyr summoned us all three years ago and ordered us to establish the whereabouts of a certain individual. Within the Northern Kingdoms. You must also recall how furious he became when we failed. Albrich – who explained it was impossible to detect anything from such a distance, never mind bypassing protective screens – was severely reprimanded. But that’s not all. A week after the aforementioned audience in Loc Grim, when victory at Aldersberg was being celebrated, Emhyr noticed myself and Albrich in the castle chamber. And graced us with his conversation. The gist of his speech, only somewhat trivialising it, was: “You’re all of you leeches, spongers and idlers. Your conjuring tricks cost me a fortune and there’s nothing to show for it. The task which your entire lamentable academy failed to achieve was carried out in four days by an ordinary astrologist.’
Assire var Anahid snorted disdainfully and continued to stroke the cat.
‘It was easy to discover,’ Fringilla Vigo went on, ‘that the miracle worker was none other than the infamous astrologist Xarthisius.’
‘I take it the subject of the search was the Cintran candidate for the position of Imperatrice. Xarthisius found her. And then what? Was he appointed Secretary of State? Head of the Department of Unfeasible Affairs?’
‘No. He was thrown into a dungeon the following week.’
‘I fear I fail to understand what this has to do with Cahir, son of Ceallach.’
‘Patience. Don’t make me get ahead of myself. This is crucial.’
‘I beg your pardon. Go on.’
‘Do you remember what Emhyr gave us when we began our search three years ago?’
‘A lock of hair.’
‘Precisely,’ Fringilla said, reaching for a small, leather purse. ‘And this is it. A few blonde hairs belonging to a six-year-old girl. I kept the remnants. And it’s worth your knowing that Stella Congreve, Countess of Liddertal, is looking after the Cintran princess who is being kept in isolation in Darn Rowan. Stella happens to be indebted to me for various reasons, so it was easy for me to come by a second lock of hair. And this is it. Somewhat darker, but hair darkens with age. Nonetheless, the locks belong to two totally different people. I’ve examined them and there is no doubt in this respect.’
‘I had expected a revelation of this kind,’ Assire var Anahid admitted, ‘when I heard that the Cintran had been shut up in Darn Rowan. The astrologer either fouled up completely or is implicated in a conspiracy that planned to supply Emhyr with a bogus individual. A conspiracy which will cost Cahir aep Ceallach his head. Thank you, Fringilla. Everything is clear.’
‘Not everything,’ the sorceress said and shook her head of black hair. ‘First of all, it wasn’t Xarthisius who found the Cintran or took her to Loc Grim. The astrologist started on his horoscopes and astromancy after Emhyr realised he had a bogus princess and begun an intensive search for the real one. And the old fool ended up in the dungeon because of a simple mistake in his art or fraud. For he had established the whereabouts of the person Emhyr sought with a radial tolerance of approximately one hundred miles. And that region turned out to be a desert, a savage wilderness somewhere beyond the Tir Tochair massif and the riverhead of the Velda. Stephan Skellen, who was sent there, found nothing but scorpions and vultures.’
‘I wouldn’t have expected much more from Xarthisius. But that won’t affect Cahir’s fate. Emhyr is quick-tempered, but he never sentences anyone to torture or death just like that, without evidence. Someone, as you said yourself, made sure the bogus princess was taken to Loc Grim in place of the real one. Someone came up with a double. So there was a conspiracy and Cahir became mixed up in it. Possibly unwittingly. Which means he was used.’
‘If that was the case, he would have been used until the goal was reached. He would personally have delivered the double to Emhyr. But Cahir has vanished without a trace. Why? His disappearance was sure to have aroused suspicions. Did he fear Emhyr would notice the deception at first glance? For he did. He couldn’t fail to, after all he had a—’
‘A lock of hair,’ Assire cut in. ‘A lock of hair from a six-year-old girl. Fringilla, Emhyr hasn’t been hunting for that girl for three years, but for much longer. It looks as though Cahir has become embroiled in something very nasty, something which began when he was still riding a stick horse and pretending to be a knight. Mmm . . . Leave me those strands of hair. I’d like to test them both thoroughly.’
Fringilla Vigo nodded slowly and narrowed her green eyes.
‘I will. But be cautious, Assire. Don’t get mixed up in any dirty business, because it might draw attention to you. And at the beginning of the conversation you hinted that attention would be inconvenient to you. And promised you’d reveal why.’
Assire var Anahid stood up, walked over to the window and stared at the spires and pinnacles of Nilfgaard – the capital of the Empire, called the City of the Golden Towers – shimmering in the setting sun.
‘You once told me and I remembered it,’ she said, without turning around, ‘that no borders should ever divide magic. That magic should have the highest values, be above all divisions. That what was needed was some kind of . . . secret organisation . . . Something like a convent or a lodge . . .’
‘I am ready,’ said Fringilla Vigo, Nilfgaardian sorceress, breaking the short silence. ‘My mind is made up and I am ready. Thank you for your trust and the distinction. When and where will this lodge meet, my mysterious and enigmatic friend?’
Assire var Anahid, Nilfgaardian sorceress, turned away. The hint of a smile played on her lips.
‘Soon,’ she said. ‘I’ll explain everything to you soon. But first, before I forget . . . Give me the address of your milliner, Fringilla.’
‘There isn’t a single fire,’ Milva whispered, staring at the dark bank beyond the river, gleaming in the moonlight, ‘or a living soul there, I reckon. There were two hundred refugees in the camp. Has no one got off scot-free?’
‘If the imperial troops won, they took them all captive,’ Cahir whispered back. ‘If your boys got the upper hand, they took the refugees with them when they moved on.’
They neared the riverbank and the reeds covering the marsh. Milva trod on something and sprang back, suppressing a scream, at the sight of a stiff arm, covered in leeches, sticking out of the mud.
‘It’s just a dead body,’ Cahir muttered, grabbing her hand. ‘One of ours. A Daerlanian.’
‘Who is he?’
‘One of the Seventh Daerlanian Cavalry Brigade. See the silver scorpion on his sleeve . . .’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 90
