The deer again raised its head, took a step, went behind the trunk – advancing slightly. Milva, maintaining the bow at full stretch, cursed silently. A shot from the front might fail: instead of planting in the lung, the tip could pierce the stomach. She waited, holding her breath, feeling the salty taste of the chord at the corners of her lips. This was one, almost inestimable advantage of her bow - a heavier weapon or one less perfect, she could not have held for so long in suspense, without the risk of hand fatigue and poor accuracy in her shot.
Fortunately, the deer lowered his head, nibbling a few blades of grass that sprang from the moss, turning sideways. Milva breathed calmly, aimed for the chest, and gently released the bowstring with her fingers.
But she did not hear the snap that was expected of the ribs pierced by the arrow. The deer jumped up, kicked and disappeared to the sound of dry branches and trampled leaves.
For a few heartbeats Milva stood motionless, like a marble statue of a petrified goddess in the forest. Only when all the noises had subsided, she removed her right hand from her left cheek, lowering the bow. Noting the escape route of the animal in the corner of her memory, she sat quietly, propping her back against the trunk. She was an experienced hunter, she had trotted in from the woods since childhood, having shot her first deer at eleven, and a fourteen-horns stag - an extremely happy hunting omen - on her fourteenth birthday. But experience had taught her that pursuit of a wounded animal was pointless. If you hit well, the deer had fallen no more than two hundred paces from the escape route. If you had hit badly - in fact she could not rule out such a possibility - rushing could only make matters worse. After a flight in panic, a badly injured animal, undisturbed will slow its pace. A hunted animal will race at breakneck speed and not slow down for quite some time.
She had half an hour at least. She stuck between her teeth a blade of grass she had pulled from the ground and plunged back into her memories.
When, after twelve days, she returned to Brokilon, the witcher was already walking. He limped slightly and imperceptibly dragged his leg, but still walked. Milva was not surprised - she knew about the miraculous healing properties of the water and the forest weed, Conynhaela. She knew also of Aglaïs' skills, more than once she had witnessed the rapid healing of wounded Dryads. And, obviously, the rumors about the robustness and the extraordinary resistance of witchers were not fabricated.
Upon her arrival, she did not go to the Col Serrai though the dryads knew Gwynbleidd eagerly awaited her return. She delayed the meeting deliberately, she was still not happy that she had been given the mission and wanted to express her displeasure. She escorted the Squirrel commandos to the camp, and gave a lengthy account of the events that had passed, warning the dryads against the blockade on the border by the Ribbon, organized by the humans. Only when she was reminded for the third time, Milva took a bath, changed and went to the witcher.
He waited for her on the edge of a clearing, where cedars grew. He walked around from time to time, sat down, then straightened himself elastically. It was clear Aglaïs had recommended some exercises.
“What news?” He asked immediately after their greeting. The coldness in his voice did not deceive her.
“The war draws to an end, probably,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Nilfgaard, they say, practically destroyed Lyria and Aedirn. Verden surrendered and the king of Temeria arranged a pact with Nilfgaard. The elves in the Valley of Flowers have established their own kingdom. But the Scoia'tael of Temeria and Redania have not settled there. They continue to fight...”
“That's not what I was looking for.”
“No?” she said feigning surprise. “It's true... yes. I went through Dorian, as you asked me to, although it extended my journey. And the roads right now, are not safe ...”
She paused, stretched. This time he urged her to continue.
“This Codringher, ”she finally asked “Whom you made me visit, he was your friend?”
The witcher's face did not move, but Milva knew that he had understood.
“No. He was not.”
“That's good” she continued freely. “Because he is no longer among the living. He burned together with his work, all that remains is a chimney and part of the wall. The whole of Dorian is full of gossip. Some talk that this Codringher practiced witchcraft and upon brewing his potions he entered into a pact with the devil, so he was consumed by the fires of hell. Others say that he had stuck his nose where it should not be as usual, and of course this would not please some, so they simply murdered him and made a fire to cover their tracks. What about you, what do you think?”
She received no response, and could not read the witchers face, which was dull of emotion. She continued therefore, and without losing the malicious and arrogant tone.
“It's strange that the fire and the death of that Codringher took place during the first moon of July, at exactly the same time as the riots on the island of Thanedd. As if someone had guessed that Codringher knew something precisely about the disorder and would be questioned about the details. As if they had wanted to shut him up for eternity, before he made any revelations. What do you say? Ha, I see, you say nothing. Since you care so little, then I'll tell you: I will inform you that your little shenanigans, your questionings and spying activities are dangerous. They might want to close the mouths and cut off the ears of others such as Codringher. Well, that's how I see it.”
“Forgive me.” he said after a moment. “You're right. I exposed you. It was too dangerous a job for ...”
“For a woman, yes?” She tossed her head, and threw back her hair which was still damp. “That's what you wanted to say? My word, I came across a gentleman! Are you stupid? Although I have to squat to pee, my hood is made of wolf fur, not rabbit hair! Do not pass me off as a coward, you do not know me!”
“I know” he said quietly and calmly, seeming oblivious to her wrath, “You Milva, help the Squirrels to escape death and accompany them to Brokilon. I know of your courage. But foolishly and selfishly I exposed you ...”
“You idiot!” she interrupted sharply. “You should not be worrying about me, but for yourself. The sooner the better!”
She smiled mockingly, because this time, his face changed. She deliberately remained silent, waiting for the questions he was about to ask.
“What do you know? “ He asked finally. “And from whom?”
“You had your Codringher” she snorted, proudly raising her head “I have my contacts. Those who have keen eyes and ears.”
“Speak. Please, Milva.”
“Following the riots on Thanedd” she began after a short silence, “Things started to heat up everywhere. The hunt for traitors began. Particularly for those sorcerers, who had sided with Nilfgaard, and also some other mercenaries. Some were caught. Others disappeared, like rocks dropped in water. It doesn't take a great mind to guess where they escaped to, under whose wings they took shelter. But it isn't just witches and traitors who are hunted. The rebellion of renegade wizards was aided by a group of Squirrels, whose commander was the famous Faoiltiarna. He is wanted. An order was issued that each elf caught must be tortured and interrogated about the commando Faoiltiarna.”
“Who is this Faoiltiarna?”
“An elf, a Scoia'tael. He made life difficult for many people. There is a high price on his head. And that is not the only head sought. They are also looking for some Nilfgaardian knight, who was on Thanedd. And yet ...”
“Speak.”
“The an'givare inquires about a witcher named Geralt of Rivia and a little girl named Cirilla. They were ordered to take those two alive. Under order of execution: it is forbidden to touch a hair on their heads or a button on their clothes. Ha! You must be dear to their hearts as they seem remarkably concerned for your health...”
She paused, seeing the expression on his face, which suddenly appeared inhumanly calm. She realized that despite her attempts, she had failed to scare him. At least not about his own skin. Suddenly, she felt asha
med.
“Well, their hunt will be futile.” she said in gentler tone, but still with a slightly mocking smile on her lips. “You're safe in Brokilon. And they won't take the girl alive. When they searched the rubble on Thanedd, the magical tower, the one which collapsed ... Hey there! What's up?”
The witcher staggered, leaning against a cedar, then sat down heavily on a tree stump. Milva jumped, frightened by the pallor that had suddenly covered his face.
“Aglaïs! Sirssa! Fauve! To me, quickly! Damn, death has come for him! Hurry!”
“Do not call them ... I'm all right - Speak. I want to know ...”
Milva suddenly understood.
“They found nothing in the rubble!” She cried, feeling herself now turn pale. “Nothing! They turned every stone and cast spells, but they could not find ...”
She wiped the sweat from her brow, and gestured at the dryads who came. She seized the witcher, who was still seated, by the shoulders and leaned over him so that her long blond hair fell on his pale face.
“You misunderstood,” she repeated quickly, clumsily, having difficulty finding the right thing to say in the rush of words that seemed to be crowding her mouth. “I just wanted to say that ... you understood me wrong. Because I ... How could I have known that you are so ... No ... I did it on purpose. I just said that the girl ... That they will not find her, because she vanished without a trace, like the sorcerers. Forgive me.”
He did not answer. He looked to the side. Milva bit her lip, clenched her fists.
“In three days I leave Brokilon.” she announced softly after a long, very long silence. “By the time the full moon disappears, when the nights darken a bit. After ten days I will return, perhaps sooner. Just after Lammas, the first days of August. Do not be upset. If I must move heaven and earth, I will discover everything. If anyone knows anything about this girl, you'll know too.”
“Thanks, Milva.”
“In ten days ... Gwynbleidd.”
“I'm Geralt. “ he said, holding out his hand.
She pressed it firmly, without hesitation.
“I'm Maria Barring.”
With a nod and a shadow of a smile on his face, he thanked her for her honesty. She knew he had appreciated it.
“Be careful, please. Be mindful of who you speak to before asking questions.”
“Have no worries for me.”
“Your informants ... You trust them?”
“I do not trust anyone.”
“The witcher is in Brokilon. Among the Dryads.”
“Yes that's what I thought.” Dijkstra folded his arms over his chest. “But it's good to have confirmation.”
He was silent for a moment. Lennep licked his lips. He waited.
“Well, it's good to have confirmation.” repeated the chief of intelligence of the kingdom Redania, pensively, as if speaking to himself. “It is always better to be certain. Eh, even if it turned out that Yennefer is with him ... There is no sorceress with him, Lennep?”
“What?” the agent started. “No, sir. There is no sorceress. What are the orders? If you want him to live, I will lure him from Brokilon. But if however he fetches a higher price dead ...”
“Lennep,” Dijkstra looked upon his agent's cold, shiny eyes. “Do not be overzealous. In our profession overzealousness never pays. And always seems suspicious.”
“But sir,” Lennep paled slightly. “I just wanted ...”
“I know. You were just asking what my command is. My command is: leave the witcher alone.”
“At your command. And what about Milva?”
“Leave her alone too now. For the time being...”
“At your command. May I withdraw?”
“You may.”
The agent left the room, cautiously and quietly closing the oak door. Dijkstra was silent for a long time, staring at the piles of paper on the table, maps, letters, denunciations, minutes of hearings and death sentences.
“Ori!”
The secretary raised his head and coughed, clearing his throat, but remained silent.
“The witcher is in Brokilon.”
Ori Reuven coughed again, instinctively glancing at the table, and leveling his eyes on the feet under it. Dijkstra followed his gaze.
“That's right. I do not forgive him.” he growled. “For two weeks I could not walk. I lost face to Philippa - I had to whine like a dog and ask for her bloody witchcraft, otherwise I'd still be limping. Well, I myself should not have underestimated him. The worst part is, I can't even get my revenge and kick his ass, I personally do not have the time, and I can't even use any of my people to settle a private matter! I can't, Ori, can I?”
“Ahem, ahem ...”
“No need to grunt. I know. Ah, hell, how that power is tempting! I am itching to use it. It is easy to forget it is there, but if you use it, there are no limits ... Is Philippa Eilhart still holed up in Montecalvo?”
“Yes.”
“Take a pen and inkwell. I'll dictate a letter for her. Write ... Damn it, I can't concentrate. What are those bloody screams, Ori? What's going on in the square?”
“Students are throwing stones at the Nilfgaardian ambassador's residence. We paid them for it, hem, hem, I think.”
“Aha. All right. Close the window. Tomorrow they will go bombard the bank of the dwarf Giancardi. He refused to disclose to me who has accounts there.”
“Giancardi, hem, hem, gave a substantial sum to fund the war.”
“Ha. Then let the students go bomb the banks who gave sod all.”
“All of them gave something.”
“Ah, you're boring, Ori. Write, I say. “My dear beloved Phil, the sun of my ...” Damn, I always get confused. Take a new sheet. Ready?”
“Yes, ahem, ahem.”
““Dear Philippa. Miss Triss Merigold is definitely concerned about the fate of the witcher, whom she teleported from Thanedd to Brokilon. Making this fact a profound secret even from me, hurt me terribly. But you can reassure her. The witcher is fine now. He's even started sending a Brokilon emissary with the task of finding traces of the princess Cirilla, the young one who has so interested you all. Our friend Geralt apparently does not know that Cirilla is in Nilfgaard where she is being prepared for her marriage to Emperor Emhyr. The witcher must be anxious as he sits quietly in Brokilon, so I will try to send him this news.” You finished writing yet?”
“ahem, ahem, “...send him this news.””
“New paragraph. “I wonder ...” Ori, wipe the pen, damn it! We are writing to Philippa, not to the royal council, the letter has to look aesthetically pleasing! New paragraph. “I wonder why the witcher is not seeking contact with Yennefer. I find it hard to believe that his affection bordering on obsession just suddenly evaporated, regardless of his political ideals. On the other hand, if Yennefer was the one who led Cirilla to Emhyr and if I were to find evidence of this, it would make me very glad to inform the witcher as well. The problem would solve itself, I am sure that treacherous black-haired beauty would not anticipate the day nor the hour. The Witcher does not like it when someone touches his little girl, Artaud Terranova conclusively found that out on Thanedd. I would like to believe, Phil, that you do not withhold evidence of Yennefer's treason and do not know where she is hiding. I would be very sorry if it turned out, that there is another secret kept from me. I have no secrets from you ...” What are you laughing, Ori?”
“Nothing! ahem, ahem.”
“Write! “I have no secrets from you, Phil, and I hope that the same is true for you. With my deepest regards, et cetera, et cetera.” Here, let me sign.”
Ori Reuven sprinkled the letter with sand. Dijkstra sat comfortably, with his hands clasped on his stomach, and began twiddling his thumbs.
“This Milva, the one who spies for the witcher,” Dijkstra asked, “What can you tell me about her?”
“She is, hem, hem,” grunted the Secretary “Responsible for taking the survivors of Scoia'tael groups broken by the Temerian army to Brokilon. She he
lps the elves to escape, allowing them to rest and re-form into their commando units ...”
“Spare me the information that's already known publicly,” interrupted Dijkstra. “I am aware of Milva's activity, and I intend to gather more evidence on it. Were it not for that I would have thrown her to the Temerians a long time ago. What else can you tell me about her? About her personal life?”
“Originally, I believe, she is from some godforsaken village in Upper Sodden. Her real name is Maria Barring. Milva is a nickname, which was given to her by the dryads. In the Elder Speech it means ...”
“Kite.” Dijkstra interrupted.“I know.”
“She came from a family of hunters and foresters. The family trade was passed down from father to son. When the eldest son was crushed in an accident, the old Barring decided to teach the art of the forest to his daughter. When he died, her mother remarried. ahem, ahem ... Maria did not get along with her stepfather and ran away from home. She was, I believe, sixteen years old. She travelled north, living from hunting, but she did not have an easy life in the baron forests, all alone and hunting like a beast. So she started to poach in Brokilon and there, hem, hem, the dryads caught her.”
“And instead of killing her, the let her go,” Dijkstra muttered. “having recognized her as one of them. As for Milva ... she returned the favor. She made a deal with the Witch of Brokilon, with the old Lady Eithné Eyes of Silver. Maria Barring is dead, long live Milva ... How many expeditions did she arrange before you in Verden and Kerack discovered the truth about it? Three?”
“Ahem, ahem ... Four, I believe ...” although he had an infallible memory, Ori Reuven was still afraid of making mistakes, “A total of around a hundred people, among the fiercest of the lot, the scalps of Mamune, were killed. For a long time we could not work it out because sometimes Milva would take it upon herself to prevent a massacre, and by the heavens, the survivors praised her bravery. It was only the fourth time, in Verden, I believe, someone finally slapped himself on the forehead. “How is it,” they so suddenly exclaimed, hem, hem, “that the guide that so often is attacked, each time is left alive?”And that's how she came to be discovered, the tour guide leads, but to a hunters trap, directly under the arrows of the Dryads waiting in ambush ...”