“Thank you.” Nodded Síle de Tansarville. “If the ladies will allow me, I will begin. My first question, Philippa; why me? Why was I invited? Repeatedly, I rejected my candidacy for the Chapter, and I refused a chair on the Council. Firstly, my work consumes me. Secondly, I thought then and still think that there are, in Kovir, Hengfors and Poviss others, more deserving of these honors. I ask, why I was invited here and not Carduin? Not Istredd of Aedd Gynvael, Tugdual or Zangenis?”
“Because they are men.” said Philippa. “The organization, which I have mentioned should be composed exclusively of women. And you Assire?”
“I withdraw my question.” The Nilfgaardian sorceress smiled. “It was the same as Lady de Tansarville's. The answer satisfied me.”
“This smacks of feminist chauvinism.” sneered Sabrina Glevissig. “Especially from your mouth, Philippa, after your change of ... sexual orientation. I have nothing against men. In fact, I love men, and life without them I cannot imagine. But ... After a moment's thought ... I believe this to be a wise concept. Men are mentally unstable, too sensitive to their emotions and you cannot count on them in times of crisis.”
“It is true.” admitted Margarita Laux-Antille calmly. “We constantly compare the results of the of the Aretuza adepts to those boys from the school in Ban Ard and the comparison falls invariably in favor of the girls. Magic requires patience, delicacy, intelligence, common sense and tenacity. It needs one to bear calmly and humbly their setbacks and failures. Men lose to ambition. They always want what they know is impossible and unattainable, and they do not notice what is possible.”
“Enough, enough, enough.” Síle pouted, though not hiding her smile. “There is nothing worse than scientifically manufactured chauvinism, shame on you, Rita! Although ... I agree also with the unisex structure of the proposed convention... or, if preferred, Lodge. As we understand this is for the future of magic, and magic is too serious a matter to entrust its fate to men.”
“If I may,” Francesca Findabair said in her melodious voice, “I would like us to stop the rambling speculation about the nature of the domination of our gender, this harbors no discussion. Let us instead focus on matters relating to the proposed initiative, the purpose of which is still not entirely clear to me. The timing is not accidental, and is clearly related to the war. Nilfgaard has invaded and forced the Northern Kingdoms to the wall. So behind the vague slogans that I have heard, is hidden understandably, the desire to reverse the situation and defeat Nilfgaard? And then to skin the audacious elves? If so, Philippa, we do not find common ground.”
“Is this the reason why I have been invited here?” Asked Assire var Anahid. “I do not devote much attention to politics, but I know that the Imperial army has the advantage over your troops. Aside from Lady Francesca and Madame de Tansarville coming from a neutral kingdom, all the ladies represent kingdoms which are hostile to the Nilfgaardian Empire. Do you expect me to see this magic word of solidarity, as an incentive for treason? I'm sorry, but I do not see myself in that role.”
Having finished her speech, Assire leant, as if to lay her hand on something that was not in the projection. Triss thought she heard meowing.
“She has a cat!” whispered Keira Metz. “I bet he's black ...”
“Not so loud.” Philippa hissed. “Dear Francesca, dear Assire. Our initiative should be absolutely apolitical, that is its basic premise. We will not be guided by the interests of races, kingdoms, kings and emperors, but the good magic and its future.”
“Driven by the good magic,” Sabrina Glevissig smiled mockingly, “but still forgetting to ensure the welfare of witches? And yet we know how our fellow sorcerers are treated in Nilfgaard. We talk of being apolitical, but when Nilfgaard wins and we find ourselves under Imperial power, we will all look like ...”
Triss moved uneasily, Philippa let out a barely audible sigh. Keira looked down, Síle pretended to adjust her boa. Francesca bit her lip. Assire var Anahid's face did not flinch, but was covered with a slight blush.
“I just wanted to say... It's a sad fate that awaits us all.” Sabrina finished quickly. “Philippa, Triss and I, all three of us were at Sodden Hill. Emhyr will make us pay, as we will pay for Thanedd, and for the entirety of our involvement. But this is just one of the reservations that stops me from agreeing to the declared political neutrality of the convention. Does participation in it mean the immediate resignation of the active and political, after all, service that we act in now with our kings? Or will we remain in this service and serve two masters at once: magic and power?”
“When someone tells me that he is apolitical, "Francesca smiled, “I always ask which of the policies he is referring to.”
“And you know for certain he does not mean the one that he follows.” said Assire var Anahid, looking at Philippa.
“I am apolitical,” Margarita Laux-Antille raised her head. “And my school is apolitical. I mean all political types that exist!”
“Dear ladies,” Síle spoke. She had remained silent for a long time. “Remember that you are the superior sex. So do not behave like girls who are fighting over bowl of sweet treats on the table. The principal proposed by Philippa is clear. At least to me, and I still don't have enough reason to consider you to be less keen of mind than I am. Outside of this room, be who you want, and serve whom you want and for whatever reason you choose to, as faithfully as you wish. But when the convention is gathered, we will deal exclusively with magic and its future.”
“This is exactly how I imagine it.” Philippa Eilhart confirmed. “I know that there are many problems, as well as doubts and ambiguities. We will discuss them at the next meeting in which all will take part, not as a projection or illusion, but in their own person. Your presence will be regarded not as a formal act of accession to the convention, but as a goodwill gesture. We will decide together whether such a convention should be created. All of us. Fairly.”
“All of us?” Síle repeated. “I see empty chairs, I assume they are not there by chance?”
“The agreement should have twelve sorceresses. I would like Lady Assire to propose a candidate who should be present at our next meeting. Surely the Empire of Nilfgaard has another worthy sorceress. The second place I leave to you to cast, Francesca, because as the only pure-blood elf you should not feel isolated. The third ...”
Enid an Gleanna raised her head.
“Please, I ask that you give me two places. I have two candidates.”
“Are any of the Ladies opposed to this request? No? Neither do I object. Today is the fifth day of August, the fifth day after the new moon. We will meet again on the second day after the full moon, dear sisters, in fourteen days.”
“One moment,” interrupted Síle de Tansarville. “One seat remains empty. Who will be the twelfth sorceress?”
“This will be the first problem that will face the Lodge.” Philippa smiled mysteriously. “In two weeks I will tell you who should sit on the twelfth chair. And then together we will work out how to bring that person here. The identity of this candidate may surprise you. For this is no ordinary person, my dear sisters. It is Life or Death, Destruction or Rebirth, Order or Chaos. It depends on how you look at it.”
The entire village came out en masse to the fence to watch the passage of the gang. Tuzik went along with the others. He had work to do, but he could not resist. Recently, there had been much news of the rats. Even a rumor circulated that they had all been captured and hanged, but the rumor was false, as the evidence demonstrated. There they paraded right now, ostensibly, unhurried, before the whole village.
“Insolent rogues.” Someone whispered in awe behind Tuzik. “They strut right through the village ...”
“Dressed as if for a wedding ...”
“And what horses! You will see no horses like that in Nilfgaard!”
“Bah, they were stolen! The Rats steal everyone's horses. Today it is easy to sell a nag anywhere. But they keep the best for themse ...”
“This one
at the front, look at him, he's Giselher ... Sort of their leader.”
“And the one on the chestnut next to him is an elf... Spark's her name ...”
A mongrel emerged from behind the fence and began to bark, he bounced around the front hooves of Spark's mare. The elf shook her lush mane of dark hair, turned her horse, leaned heavily and lashed the dog with her whip. The mutt yelped in pain and turned three times on the spot. Spark spat at him. Tuzik muttered a curse between his teeth.
The villagers around him whispered continuously, discreetly pointing to the next Rat riding through the village. Tuzik listened, he couldn't help it. He knew the gossip and hearsay no worse than others. He easily guessed that the one with the straw-colored hair down to his shoulders, biting an apple, was Kayleigh, the one with the broad-shoulders was Asse, and the one in the embroidered sheepskin was Reef.
Two girls followed at the end of the parade, riding side by side holding hands. The tallest one, sitting on a bay horse, had a shaved head like a typhus victim, her unbuttoned jacket revealed her pristine white lace blouse, her necklace, bracelets and earrings threw dazzling reflections.
“The shaved one is Mistle...” Tuzik heard. “She's hung with baubles like a Christmas tree at Yule.”
“They say that she has slaughtered more people than she has seen springs...”
“And the other? The one with a sword on her back?”
“Falka's her name. She's ridden with The Rats since the summer. She's the newcomer ...”
The newcomer, assessed Tuzik, was not much older than his daughter, Milenka. The ash-blond hair of the young rogue fell in wisps from under her red velvet beret, topped with a bouquet of pheasant feathers that protruded arrogantly. Around her neck she wore a silk scarf of burning poppy color, tied in a fancy bow.
Among the villagers who had come out of their cottages, commotion suddenly erupted. Giselher, had stopped his horse, and condescendingly tossed a tinkling pouch of coins at the foot of Grandmother Mykitka, who was leaning on her cane.
“May the gods keep you, my little darling!” Grandmother Mykitka wailed. “May you be healthy, our guardians, that ...”
The noise of Sparks laughter drowned out the old woman's voice.
The elf rakishly supporting her right foot in the stirrup, reached for a bag and poured a handful of coins headlong into the crowd. Asse and Reef followed her example. A shower of silver fell onto the sandy road. Kayleigh, chortling, launched his half-eaten apple into the swirling crowd.
“Benefactors!”
“Little hawks!”
“May fate be kind to you!”
Tuzik did not run like the others, he would not fall on his knees to dig coins out of the sand and chicken shit. He stood still by the fence, looking at the two girls passing slowly.
The younger girl, with the ashen hair, caught his eye and saw his facial expression. She let go of the hand of the girl with the shaven head, urged her horse and rushed at him, driving him against the fence and almost touching him with her stirrup. He saw her green eyes and shuddered. They were cold, full of evil and hatred.
“Leave him Falka,” called the shaven headed girl. “It is pointless.”
The green-eyed bandit was content to take one last look at Tuzik, then followed the Rats without even turning her head.
“Guardians!”
“Little hawks!”
Tuzik spat.
By mid afternoon, the Blacks, the menacing cavalry from the fort at Fen Aspra descended upon the village. Their horseshoes rumbled, the horses whinnied, rattling their weapons. The mayor and the other villagers questioned, lied like madmen, and directed the soldiers in the pursuit of a false trail. Fortunately, no one questioned Tuzik.
When he returned home from the pasture and went to the garden, he heard voices. He recognized the chattering of the twins Stelmach and Zgarba, the broken falsetto of the neighbors' children. Then he heard the voice of Milenka. They must be playing, he thought. He came out from behind the woodshed. He froze.
“Milenka!”
Milenka, his only living daughter, the apple of his eye, hung a stick round her back by a string, posing as a sword. She had let her hair free, clinging to her woolly hat with a rooster feather sticking out, round her neck her mother's scarf... In a bizarre, fanciful bow.
Her eyes were green.
Tuzik had never beaten his daughter, he had never used the father's strap.
It was the first time.
On the horizon there was a flash of lightening, and a thunderous roar erupted. A gust of wind harrowed the surface of the Ribbon. There will be a storm, thought, Milva, and rain comes after a storm. The finches were not wrong. She spurred her horse on. If she wanted to catch up with the witcher before the storm, she had to hurry.
CHAPTER TWO
"I have known many soldiers in my life. Marshals, generals and voivods, winners of many campaigns and many battles. I listened to their stories and memories. I saw them, looking at their maps, drawing lines of different colors, making plans, developing strategies. In this war on paper, everything worked, everything was clear and took place in an ordered fashion. "It must be so,” explained the military. “The army is all about order and discipline. The army cannot exist without these two pillars."
It is all the more surprising then, that real war - and I have known more than one! - In terms of order and discipline, is not dissimilar to a brothel engulfed in fire.
Dandelion, Half a century of poetry
Ribbons of crystal clear water poured over the edge of the escarpment in a gentle arc, falling into a roaring and foaming cascade among the rocks, as black as onyx, before breaking onto them and disappearing among the white surf, which poured into an vast sheet of water so transparent that you could see every pebble, every braid of green seaweed waving in the current against a background of multicolored mosaic.
Both banks were lined in a carpet of knotweed, among which a dipper bustled, splashing and proudly exposing the white ruffles on her neck. Over the knotweed, bushes shimmered with green hues, looking brown and ocher on the background of spruce trees, which seemed to be sprinkled with silver powder.
“Truly,” Dandelion sighed. “It is beautiful here.”
A great dark trout tried to jump over the threshold of the waterfall. For a moment it hung, suspended in the air, waving its sweeping tail fins before falling heavily into the roaring foam.
The darkening sky was suddenly shattered with a streak of forked lightning in the South, a hollow echo of distant thunder rolled across the wall of the forest. The witcher's bay mare danced, pulled her head, and bared her teeth, trying to spit out the bit. Geralt firmly tightened his grip on the reins, and the mare snapped her hooves, her horseshoes ringing on the stones, and continued to prance backwards.
“Ho! Hooo! Did you see her, Dandelion? She is a dancer! Damn, I look forward to the first opportunity I have to get rid of this animal! May it die, I'd even exchange it for an ass!”
“And you consider that a possibility any time soon?” The poet scratched his neck, which was itchy from mosquito bites. “The wild landscape of this valley provides an unparalleled aesthetic, but for variety, I'd be happy with the aesthetics of any cozy tavern. Soon it will be one week that I have admired the romantic nature, landscapes and distant horizons. I miss the interiors. Especially those which give a hot meal and a cold beer.”
“Naturally, you will pine over this for some time.” The witcher turned in his saddle. “You can ease your pain knowing that I am a little homesick for civilization too. As you know, I was stuck in Brokilon for exactly thirty-six days. And as many nights, during which the romantic nature froze my ass, crawled down my back and settled its dew on my nose ... Hooo! Damn this mare! Will you finally cease your tantrum?”
“She was bitten by horseflies. The bugs have grown fierce and bloodthirsty, as often happens before a storm. The thunder and flashes in the South are more frequent.”
“I noticed.” The witcher looked at the sky, holding
his horse which was still dancing. “The wind has also changed, it smells of the sea. The weather will change, no doubt. We're going. Hurry your fat little gelding, Dandelion.”
“My horse is called Pegasus.”
“As if it could be anything else. You know what? We should also give my elvish mare a name. Hmmm ...”
“How about Roach?” Laughed the troubadour.
“Roach.” The witcher agreed. “Very nice.”
“Geralt?”
“Tell me.”
“Have you ever had a horse called Roach?”
“No.” The witcher said after a moment's thought. “I have not. Hurry your lazy Pegasus, Dandelion. We have a long road ahead of us.”
“Of course.” The poet growled. “ How many miles is Nilfgaard, according to you?”
“A lot.”
“Will we arrive before winter?”
“First we'll get to Verden. There we can discuss ... certain matters.”
“What? Do not try and get rid of me! I'll keep you company, that's what I decided!”