‘I could reduce you to ashes with a spell,’ he said. ‘Or I could melt you into a glassy mass, as I did with that monster. But you, witcher, you deserve a different death. In combat. Maybe not a fair fight, but still.’
Geralt did not believe he could stand up. But he did. He spat blood from his cut lip. He gripped his sword tighter.
‘In Thanedd,’ said Vilgefortz, approaching him, twirling the rod, ‘I settled for giving you a beating, in moderation, to serve as a lesson. But I can see that you have not learned anything, this time the beating with be thorough and I will not leave a healthy bone in your body. Nobody will be able to put you back together again.’
He attacked. Geralt did not try to escape. He accepted the fight.
The rod flashed and whirled, spinning around the sorcerer. Both opponents dodged around each other in a deadly dance. The rod flicked like lightning. Geralt managed to parry the hammering blow. Vilgefortz skillfully deflected. Each time steel meet steel it groaned pitifully.
The wizard was quick and nimble like a demon.
Geralt was fooled by a swing at his torso and a mock punch from the left – the opposite end of the stick hit him n the ribs. Before the witcher could get his wind back, he received a strong blow to the hip that almost knocked him down. He dodged a blow to the top of his head, but did not escape the stab at his stomach. He was thrown against the wall. He had enough presence of mind to fall to the floor. Just at the moment, the iron rod brushed his hair and it slammed into the wall raising sparks.
Geralt rolled; the rod drew sparks from the ground right next to his head. A second blow came and hit his shoulder. The shock sent numbing pain and weakness down his legs. The wizard raised the rod. His eyes burned in triumph.
Geralt clenched his fist around Fringilla’s medallion.
The rod fell. It struck the floor, a few inches from the witcher’s head. Geralt rolled to the side and quickly got up on one knee. Vilgefortz jumped after him and swung again. Again he missed by inches.
He shook his head unable to believe his eyes. He hesitated a moment. Then sighed, realizing what was happening. His eyes twinkled and he leapt and swung his magical weapon. But it was too late.
Geralt quickly slashed him across the stomach. Vilgefortz screamed, dropped the rod and took a few steps backwards. The witcher followed. Kicked him between the stumps of two columns and slashed his sword in a wide arc diagonally across the wizard’s torso to his collarbone. Drawing blood.
The wizard screamed and fell to his knees. He lowered his head and look at his chest and abdomen. For a long time he could not look away from what he saw.
Geralt calmly waited with Sihil raised, ready to strike.
Vilgefortz lifted his head and wailed shrilly.
‘Geraaaaaalt...!’
The witcher did not let him finish.
For a long time there was silence.
‘I didn’t know...’ Yennefer said, at last rising from the pile of rubble.
She looked pitiful. Blood smeared her chin and chest.
‘I didn’t know,’ she repeated, meeting Geralt’s puzzled gaze, ‘that you knew how to cast spells of illusion. And you were able to confuse Vilgefortz...’
‘It was my medallion.’
‘Oh,’ she said suspiciously. ‘An interesting thing. But even so, we live thanks to Ciri.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘His eye. He did not regain full coordination. And often missed. Although I mainly owe my life...’
She fell silent, looking at the remains of the melted column in which she could recognize the outline of a person.
‘Who was that, Geralt?’
‘A friend. I’ll miss him very much.’
‘Was he human?’
‘He was an incarnation of humanity. How are you, Yen?’
‘Some broken ribs, a concussion, a bumped hip and a bruised spine. Otherwise, I’m great. What about you?’
‘I’m more or less the same.’
Without emotion he eyed Vilgefortz head, lying exactly in the middle of the floor of mosaics. The sorcerer’s little glassy eye watched them with mute reproach.
‘Nice view,’ she said.
‘Nice,’ he said. ‘But it’s not the first I’ve seen.’ Can you walk?’
‘With your help, yes.’
They met in a place where the corridors came together to form and arch. They met under the dead eyes of the statues.
‘Ciri,’ the witcher said, rubbing his eyes.
‘Ciri,’ Yennefer said, supported by the witcher.
‘Geralt,’ Ciri said.
‘Ciri,’ he answered, with a lump in his throat. ‘I’m glad to see you again.’
‘Lady Yennefer.’
The sorceress released herself from the witcher’s arms and straightened with a tremendous effort.
‘What a sight you are, girl,’ she said sternly. ‘Look at yourself and how you look. Fix your hair! Don’t slouch. Come to me.’
Ciri walked, stiffly over to Yennefer. Yennefer smoothed her collar and tried to wipe the dried blood from her sleeve. She fixed her hair, revealing the scar on her cheek. She hugged her tightly. Very tightly. Geralt saw the sorceress’s hands on Ciri’s back. He saw the deformed fingers. He did not feel anger, grief or hatred. He felt only fatigue. And a great desire to be done with it all.
‘Mummy.’
‘My daughter.’
‘Let’s go,’ Geralt decided to interrupt, but only after a long time.
Ciri sniffed noisily and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Yennefer scolded her with a look and rubbed one of her eyes. Surely she had gotten a speck of powder in them. The witcher watched the corridor from which Ciri emerged, as if expecting someone else to come from there. Ciri shook her head. He understood.
‘Let’s go,’ he repeated.
‘Yes,’ said Yennefer. ‘I want to see the sky.’
‘I’ll never leave you again,’ Ciri said dully. ‘Never again.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Geralt. ‘Ciri help Yen.’
‘I don’t need help!’
‘Let me help you, mother.’
Before them was a staircase. Bathed in smoke and at the bottom flaming torches and braziers with fire. Ciri shivered. She knew those stairs. They had appeared in her dreams and visions.
Below armed men were waiting.
‘I’m tired,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ said Geralt as he drew Sihil.
‘I’m tired of killing.’
‘Me too.’
‘Is there no other way?’
‘No, there is no other way. Only those stairs. We have no choice, girl. Yen wants to see the sky. And I want to see the sky, Yen and you.’
Ciri looked at Yennefer, who if not for the railing she was leaning against, would have fallen down. She pulled out the medallions she took from Bonhart. The cat she hung around her neck, the wolf she gave to Geralt.
‘I hope you know,’ the witcher said, ‘it’s just a symbol.’
‘Everything is just symbols.’
She drew Swallow from its sheath.
‘Come on, Geralt.’
‘Let’s go. Stay close to me.’
At the foot of the stairs Skellen’s mercenaries were waiting for them, clutching weapons in sweaty palms. The Owl with a quick gesture sent the first wave of attackers. The stair thundered with the sound of heavy boots.
‘Slowly, Ciri, don’t rush. Stay close to me.’
‘I know, Geralt.’
‘And calmly, girl, quietly. Remember, no anger, no hated. We have to get out of here to see the sky. And those who stand in our way, they die. Do not hesitate.’
‘I will not hesitate. I want to see the sky.’
They reached the first landing without obstacles. The mercenaries fell back before them, amazed and surprised by their icy calm. But after a moment, three men leapt forward, waving their swords. They died instantly.
‘Attack all at once,’ the Owl shouted from below. ‘Kill them!’
Three more attacked. Geralt stepped forward, feinted at one, and cut another’s throat. He spun and Ciri dashed under his right arm. The girl slashed a second mercenary under his arm. The third tried to escape by jumping over the railing. He did not make it.
Geralt wiped a few drops of blood from his face.
‘Calmly, Ciri.’
‘I am calm.’
Three more approached. A flash of swords, screaming, death.
Thick blood trickled down the smooth stone stairs.
A mercenary with a jacket with brass rivets rushed them with a spear. His eyes shone with narcotics use. Ciri, with a quick step, deflected the spear and Geralt slashed at the man. He wiped his face. They continued to walk, without looking back.
The second landing was close.
‘Kill them!’ Skellen shouted. ‘Kiillllll!’
Heave footsteps on the stairs. The bright flashing of a blade, a shout, death.
‘Excellent, Ciri. But calmly. Less excitement. And stay close to me.’
‘I’ll never leave you.’
‘Do not strike from the shoulder; you can do it from the elbow. Be careful.’
‘I’m careful.’
The brightness of a sword, a cry, blood, death.
‘Excellent, Ciri.’
‘I want to see the sky.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’
‘Watch out. It’s getting slippery.’
The flash of blades, screaming. They walked, overtaking the blood pouring down the steps. They continued down the stairs of castle Stygga.
One of the mercenaries slipped on the bloody stairs and fell straight beneath their feet. He wailed for mercy and covered his head with both hands. They walked around him without looking.
They reached the third and lowest landing and no one dared cross their path.
‘Bows!’ Stefan Skellen shouted from below. ‘Bows and crossbows! Boreas Mun was supposed to bring crossbows! Where is he?’
Boreas Mun – the Owl could not know – was already quite far away. He rode straight to the east, with his forehead to the mane of his horse, galloping as fast as he could.
Of the other men who were sent to get crossbows, only one had returned. When he fired, his hands shook and his eyes watered from fisstech. The first bolt hit the railing. The second one did not even hit the stairs.
‘Higher!’ the Owl ordered. ‘Get closer, you idiot! Shoot up closer!’
The crossbowman pretended not to hear. Skellen swore, grabbed the crossbow, jumped up the stairs, knelt and aimed. Geralt immediately covered Ciri with his body, but the girl slipped past him and as the rope from the crossbow twanged, she was already in position. She twisted her sword into the upper quarter and the bolt hit it so hard it hung in the air a long time before falling to the ground.
‘Very good,’ Geralt muttered. ‘Very good, Ciri. But if you ever do something like that again, you’ll get a spanking.’
Skellen threw the crossbow aside. He suddenly realized he was alone.
All of his men huddled at the bottom of the stairs and none were in a hurry to climb. There even seemed to be less of them. Some had probably run off. For crossbows – no doubt.
The witcher and witcheress, calmly, without hurrying, walked down the blood slicked stairs of castle Stygga. The stood close to each other, shoulder to shoulder, beguiling the fast movements of their swords.
Skellen stepped back. And did not stop retreating until he reached the bottom. When he was surrounded by his men, he realized how far he had come. He cursed helplessly.
‘Men!’ he shouted, but his voice broke. ‘Forward! At them at once! Follow me!’
‘Get them yourself,’ growled one of them and raised his hand covered in fisstech to his nose. The Owl swung at his and he sprinkled white powered all over his face, sleeve and coat lapels.
The witcher and witcheress passed another platform.
‘When they get down here, they will be easier to surround,’ Skellen encouraged. ‘Men, to arms!’
Geralt looked at Cir and almost screamed with rage when he noticed silver threads among her grey hair. He restrained himself. This was not the time for anger.
‘Be careful,’ he said flatly. ‘Stay close to me.’
‘I’ll always be close to you.’
‘Down there it is going to be tricky.’
‘I know, but we’ll be together.’
‘We are together.’
‘I’m here with you,’ said Yennefer, walking down behind them on the slippery stairs.
‘Together! All together!’ shouted the Owl.
The men who had run for the crossbows, quickly returned. Without the crossbows, but with horror in their eyes.
From the three corridors leading away from the stairs came the roar and banging of doors being broken down with axes. And the sound of heavy boots marching. All of a sudden from the three corridors flowed soldiers with black helmets, shields and the silver salamander on their coats. Skellen’s mercenaries, intimidated by their shouts and threats, threw down their weapons. Those who hesitated were threatened with crossbows and pikes. After a thundering call to drop all weapons, everyone listened, because they could see the black soldiers were burning for an excuse to do something. The Owl stood on a step and crossed his arms.
‘The miraculous rescue,’ Ciri said in a whisper.
Geralt shook his head.
The crossbows and spears were turned in their direction as well.
‘Glaeddyvan Vort!’
Resisting was pointless.
Soldiers swarmed out of the mouth of the corridors like an army of black ants and both the witcher and the witcheress were very, very tired. But they did not throw down their swords. They carefully placed them on the steps. Geralt felt the warmth from Ciri’s arm and could hear her breathing.
Above, avoiding the corpses and spilled blood, came Yennefer. She showed the soldiers her empty hands and sat down heavily on the step next to Geralt and Ciri. The witcher could felt the heat on his other arm. It is a pity it we could not stay this way forever, he thought. And he knew he could not.
The Owl’s men were tied up and led away. Suddenly among the soldiers appeared the high ranking officers, recognizable by the white plumes and the silver trim on their breastplates, and by the respect that the other soldiers gave them.
The soldiers before one of those officers, whose helmet had more silver ornaments than any other, parted with exceptional respect. Almost bowing.
He stopped in front of Skellen. The Owl – it was clearly visible even in the flickering light of the torches and braziers – went pale as a sheet of paper.
‘Stefan Skellen,’ the officer said in a voice that rang metallically around the vaulted room. ‘I’ll see you in court. You’ll be sentence for treason.’
The Owl was led out, but his hands were not tied.
The officer turned around. Upstairs a burning tapestry tore itself from the wall, and floated down like a large fiery bird. The red flames gleamed on the silver ornaments on his helmet and his lowered visor, forged like all the helmets of the black soldiers into the monstrous form of a jagged mouth.
Now it’s our turn, thought Geralt. He was right. The officer stared at Ciri. His eyes shone through the opening in his visor, watching everything without missing a detail. Her paleness. The scar on her cheek. The blood on her sleeve and hands. The white streaks in her hair.
Then he turned his eyes to the witcher.
‘Vilgefortz?’ he asked in a sonorous voice.
Geralt shook his head.
‘Cahir aep Ceallach?’
Another shake of his head.
‘A slaughterhouse,’ said the officer, looking at the staircase. ‘A bloody slaughterhouse. We’ll he who lives by the sword... At least you spared the hangman some work. You have travelled a long way, witcher.’
Geralt did not respond. Ciri sniffed again and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Yennefer again scolded her with her eye
s. The Nilfgaardian noticed it and smiled.
‘You came from the other end of the world,’ he continued. ‘For her and her. If only for that, something should be done. Lord de Rideaux!’
‘At your service, Your Imperial Majesty!’
The witcher was not surprised.
‘Find us a discrete chamber, where I can rest and talk undisturbed with Geralt of Rivia. During that time, please provide all available services and convenience to both ladies. Obviously under the constant watch of guards.’
‘As you wish, Your Majesty!’
‘Geralt, follow me, please.’
The witcher rose. He looked at Ciri and Yennefer, wanting to calm them, wanting to warning them not to try any nonsense. But it was not needed – they were both extremely tired. And resigned.
‘You have come a long way,’ repeated Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, the White Flam Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies.
I don’t know,’ Geralt said calmly, ‘yours appears to have been longer, Duny.’
‘You’ve recognized me,’ the Emperor smiled. ‘A lack of beard and a change of behavior changed me completely. The people who had seen me at Cintra, and came to Nilfgaard to have audience with me, no longer recognized me. And you saw me only once, after all, sixteen years ago. I was so etched in your memory?’
‘I did not recognize you, you’ve actually change very much. I figured out who you are already, some time ago. Not without outside help and guidance, I guessed what role you were to play in family incest with Ciri. And in one of my nightmares I once dreamed of hideous incest. And here you are, in the flesh.’
‘You can hardly keep your feet,’ Emhyr said coldly. ‘And your impertinence is forcing you to be even weaker. I invite you to sit in the presence of the Emperor. I grant you the privilege of...life.’
Geralt, with relief, sat. Emhyr stood leaning against a carved cabinet.
‘You saved my daughter’s life,’ he said. ‘Several times. I thank you for that. On behalf of me and on behalf of my descendants.’
‘You leave me speechless.’
‘Cirilla,’ Emhyr said ignoring the sarcasm, ‘is going to Nilfgaard. In due time she will become the Empress. Like dozens of girls who become queens, without previously knowing her husband. Often times it without a good concept of the first encounter with their husband. Often they are disappointed by the first few days... and nights of marriage. Cirilla is not the first.’