She gasped loudly, letting go of the witcher’s hair and throwing her hands out, grasping both hands into the surrounding books, he left hand hold a book on geometry and her right hold a book about reptiles and amphibians. Geralt, who held her by the hips, unwittingly knocked over another pile of books, he was too preoccupied to worry about the pages that rained down on them.
Fringilla moaned uncontrollably, her head buried into the book Reflections on Inevitable Death.
Fringilla moaned again. The witcher did not hear it because her thighs were tightly squeezing his ears. He knocked over The History of Wars and Sciences Needed for a Happy Life. He fought with the buttons and hooks of her dress, inadvertently reading the inscriptions on covers and spines of books. At the level of Fringilla’s waist lay Breeding Animals, in close proximity to her lovely breasts was a hard critical publication about useless and corrupt civil servants, and below that an economic study called Economics and Science – How to create, distribute and consume wealth.
Shelves swayed and columns of books collapsed like rocks in a strong earthquake. With a thud, from the shelf fell a first edition copy of De Larvis Scenicis et figuris comicis, followed by a conventional and well-known book about inventory release and commands of training troops and a book on the Heraldry of Jan de Attire adorned with the beautiful engravings.
The witcher moaned, dropping more volumes to the floor with a kick from his leg. Fringilla leaned back and cried out, hitting with her heel a pile of books. A copy of Reflections and Meditations for Every Day of the Year, an anonymous and interesting work, somehow appeared on Geralt’s back.
Geralt read over her shoulder, finding out whether he wanted to or not, notes that had been written by a doctor named Albertus Rivus, in a book called Academia Cintensis, printed by the master typographer Johann Froben Junior in the second year of the reign of His Majesty King Corbett.
Suddenly there was a silence in which only the faint sound of rustling pages could be heard.
What should I do, Fringilla wondered, lightly touching the hard edges of Geralt’s side and a copy of the Reflections on the Nature of Things. Make a suggestion? Or wait for him to make a suggestion? What would he think of me? But what if he doesn’t make a suggestion?
‘Let’s find a bed,’ the witcher solved her dilemma. ‘It’s not right to treat books this way.’
We found a bed, Geralt remembered, he rode straight into an alley and with a kick spurred into a gallop. We found the bed in her chambers in the alcove. We made love to each other as if obsessed, eagerly, greedily, as if after years of celibacy and as if celibacy was threatening again.
We talked of many things. We told about ourselves very trivial truths. We told ourselves very beautiful lies. But those lies, even though they were lies, were not meant to be calculate or to deceive.
With a strong kick, he forced Roach into a gallop directly towards a clump of roses covered by snow and forced her to jump.
We made love. And we talked. And our lies were becoming more beautiful and increasingly false.
Two months. From October to Yule.
Two months of furious, greedy, violent love.
Roach’s horseshoes clattered on the palace courtyard of Beauclair.
Quickly and quietly he walked through the corridors. No one saw him or heard him. Neither the Guardsmen quenching their boredom with chatter or the tired butlers. He did not even make the candle flames waver as he passed by them.
He walked around the castle kitchens. But he did not stop or go in to join his companions, who at this late hour, had developed a taste for a jug of wine and something to eat. He stood in the darkness and listened.
Angouleme was speaking.
‘This city is under a spell, all of Toussaint. A charm that hangs over the whole valley. And now on this particular palace. I wondered about Dandelion, I wondered about Geralt, but now it makes me kind of dizzy to be here and I feel a strange tingling… I’ve even found myself… Fuck, what did I tell you! We have to get out of here as quickly as possible!’
‘We must talk to Geralt,’ muttered Milva. ‘We must talk to him.’
‘Yes, talk to him,’ Cahir said sarcastically, ‘in one of those rare moments, where he is available. Hunting witches and monsters are the only activities that he has performed in the last two months.’
‘And you,’ Angouleme snorted,’ can only be caught while walking in the park playing with the baronesses. This is what happens in spellbound, Toussaint. Regis vanishes at night; my aunty had her Baron…’
‘Shut up, brat! And don’t call me your aunty!’
‘Come, come!’ Regis stepped between the two ladies. ‘Girls, be at peace. Milva, Angouleme, don’t argue. Hostility ruins, friendship builds. It is said that Her Ladyship the Duchess and likes Dandelion, her country, the palace, bread, and pickles. Would you like some wine?’
Milva released a heavy sigh.
‘We have been here too long! Too long, I tell you, sitting here in idleness. Fooling around.’
‘Nicely put,’ said Cahir. ‘Very nice.’
Geralt carefully moved away. As noiselessly as a bat.
Quickly and silently he walked down the corridors. No one saw or heard him. Neither the guards nor the valets. Not even the candle flames flickered as he passes the chandeliers. A rat heard him and poked out its bearded nose. But it was not scared. He was known here.
He went this way often.
The bedroom smelled of spells, amber, rose and a woman sleeping. But Fringilla was not asleep. She sat on the bed and tossed back the covers; the sight charmed him and made him lose control.
‘You’ve finally arrived,’ she said, stretching. ‘Undress and come here quickly. Very, very quickly.’
She went through the halls quickly and quietly. No one saw or heard her. Neither the soldiers who gossiped lazily with the guards or the footmen or the pages. Not even the candle flames flickered as she passed the chandeliers. A rat heard her and lifted up its hairy nose and followed her with its beady eyes. But it was not frightened. She was known here.
She passed this way often.
In the castle of Beauclair was a secret passage behind a door at the end of a chamber, which nobody knew about. Neither the current lady of the castle, the Duchess Anarietta, nor her ancestor, Ademarta, First Lady of the Castle. Neither the famous architect, Pierre Faramond who renovated the building from top to bottom, nor the master masons who worked on Faramond’s project. The existence of the passage was not even known by the Chamberlain Le Goff, who was thought to know everything about Beauclair.
The passage and the room, masked by a powerful illusion, were only known by the castles builders – Elves. Later, when the elves left the castle and were replaced by people, only a handful knew about the secret which was guarded closely by a small group of wizards from the princely family. Most knowledgeable of them all was Master of the Arcane, Artorius Vigo, a respected specialist in all kinds of illusion, whose young niece, Fringilla inherited her uncle’s talent and also became a witch.
Fringilla stopped in front of a bare wall between two columns decorated with a floral motif. With a whisper and a quick gesture, a false wall disappeared. Beyond was revealed a corridor which seemingly led to a dead end. At the end of the corridor, however, was another door masked by illusion. And behind this door was a dark room.
Fringilla entered and without wasting time, started the tele-communicator. Oval mirrors which had stood dark started to brighten up the dark room. Through the mirror was revealed a hall, in which sat a round table surrounded by women. Nine women.
‘We are listening, Fringilla,’ said Philippa Eilhart. ‘Do you have any news?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Fringilla. ‘Nothing since the last report. Nothing from any attempt at scanning.’
‘This is bad,’ said Philippa. ‘We expected you to find something. Tell us, has the witcher calmed down, at least? Can you keep him in Toussaint until May?’
Fringilla was silent for a
moment. She had not the slightest intention of telling the lodge that during the last two weeks the witcher had called her Yennefer twice – and at times, when she had every right to be called by her own name. However the lodge had a right to expect from her the truth. Sincerity. And some useful findings.
‘No,’ she said at last. ‘Probably not until May. But I will do everything in my power to keep him as long as possible.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Korr, a monster from the species-rich family of Strigiformes (qv), depending on the area, also called Kourican, Korreds, Rutterkin, Rumpelstiltskin, Whirlers, or Mesmers. You can say one thing about it - that it is a fiend beyond compare. Such devilishly filthy and abhorrent carrion is it that we will neither remember nor write of its customs or even its appearance, for verily we say unto you: Any word is too good for this son of a bitch.
Physiologus
The smell in the great pillared hall of Castle Montecalvo was a mix of old tapestries, smoky candles, and ten different kinds of perfume - ten specially compiled types of perfume that were used by the ten women around the oak table, seated in chairs with arms carved in the shape of sphinxes.
Opposite Fringilla Vigo sat Triss Merigold in a bright blue, high-necked dress. Next to Triss sat Keira Metz, who remained in the shadows. Her large earrings held faceted citrines that flashed again and again with a thousand twinkles, attracting the eye.
"Please continue, Miss Vigo," urged Philippa Eilhart. "We are in a hurry to hear the end of your story. And to take urgent steps."
Philippa was - for once - not wearing any jewelry except a large cameo made of sardonyx that was fastened to her vermilion dress. Fringilla had heard the rumors already, she knew who had given her the cameo and whose profile it represented.
Seated next to Philippa was Síle de Tansarville, in a dress of all black that sparkled with little diamonds. Margarita Laux-Antille wore burgundy colored satin and thick gold, without stones. Sabrina Glevissig, on the other hand, displayed a necklace, earrings, and her beloved finger rings - the onyx color matched her eyes and clothing.
Closest to Fringilla were the two elves - Francesca Findabair and Ida Emean aep Sivney. The Daisy of the Valley usually looked regal, but today exceptionally so. Though neither her hair nor crimson gown displayed excessive pomp and her little tiara and necklace were made not of rubies, but modest, yet tasteful shells. Ida Emean, however, wore a dress of muslin and chiffon, which was decorated in autumnal shades and so fine and light that it waved around in the hardly noticeable breath of air the central heating produced like an anemone.
Assire var Anahid aroused admiration, as usual in recent times, with her modest but distinguished elegance. Over the small, narrow neckline of her dark-green dress, the Nilfgaardian sorceress wore a gold chain and a single, gold framed emerald cabochon. Her manicured nails, which were painted a very dark green, gave the composition a truly magical touch of extravagance.
"We are waiting, Miss Vigo," Síle de Tansarville said. "Time is short."
Fringilla cleared her throat. "December came," she continued. "Then Yule, then the New Year. The witcher calmed down to the point where Ciri’s name no longer showed up in every conversation. The monster hunting expeditions, which he regularly undertook, seemed to completely avail him. Well, maybe not completely ..."
She trailed off. She thought she had seen Triss Merigold’s blue eyes flash with hatred. But perhaps it had just been a reflection of the flickering candle flames. Philippa snorted and played with her cameo.
"Please, there is no need for so much modesty, Miss Vigo. Here, you are among us. Among women who know that sex acts have purposes other than pleasure. We all use these means, when necessary. Please continue."
"Even though he maintained the appearance of reticence, patience, and pride during the daytime," continued Fringilla, “at night he was completely under my power. He told me everything. He paid homage to my femininity, and extremely vigorously for his age, I must confess. And then he fell asleep. In my arms, with his lips on my breast. Looking for a replacement for the mother's love that he had never experienced."
This time, she was sure it was not a reflection of the candle flame. Very well. Envy me if you please, she thought. Envy me. You have every reason to do so.
"He was," she repeated, "completely under my power."
"Come back to bed, Geralt. It is not even properly bright, damn it! "
"I have an appointment. I have to ride to Pomerol."
"I do not want you to ride to Pomerol."
"I have an appointment. I've given my word. The steward of the estate will be waiting for me at the gate."
"Your monster hunts are foolish and pointless. What do you want to prove by killing another monster from some cave? Your manhood? I know a better way. Come on back to bed. Do not you ride to Pomerol. At least not so soon. The steward can wait, is that not what stewards do? I want to make love to you."
"Forgive me. I do not have time. I have given my word."
"I want to make love to you!"
"If you want to keep me company at breakfast, put something on."
"You probably don’t love me anymore, Geralt. Do you love me? Answer me!"
"Wear that pearl-gray dress with the mink trim. It suits you very well."
"He was completely under my spell, fulfilled my every wish," repeated Fringilla. "He did everything I asked of him. It was so."
"We believe it was so," said Síle de Tansarville extremely dryly. "Please continue."
Fringilla coughed into her fist. "The problem," she continued, "was his companions. The strange band that he named his company. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, who had seen me before and tormented himself to remember where. But he could not remember, because when I was last in Darn Dyffra, the ancestral home of his family, he was six or seven years old. Milva, who seemed to be a daredevil and proud girl, but who I twice caught hiding in a corner of the stables and crying. Angoulême, a moody child. And Regis Terzieff-Godefroy. One type that I could not see through. The whole company had an influence on the witcher, one which I could not stop."
Well, well, she thought, Look at them draw up their eyebrows. Look at them twist their mouths. Just wait. This is not the end of my story. You will hear of my triumph.
"Every morning," she continued, "this whole company met in the kitchen, which was located in the basement of the palace of Beauclair. The chef liked them - who knows why. He always had something in store for them, so plentiful and so tasty that breakfast was usually two, sometimes even three hours long. I ate with them many times, alongside Geralt. So I know what kind of absurd conversations they used to hold."
Two chickens walked around the kitchen, one black and the other colorful, gently scratching the floor with their clawed feet. They blinked at the breakfast company and picked up crumbs from the floor.
Like every other morning, the company had gathered in the palace kitchen. The chef liked them, who knows why, and he always had something tasty for them. Today there were scrambled eggs, flour soup, stewed eggplant, rabbit pate, and veal sausages with red beets and goat cheese to top it all off. All of it was excellent and they ate quickly and quietly. Apart from Angoulême, who only whetted her tongue.
"I’m telling you, we should open a brothel here. After we’ve done what we need to do, we should come back here and set up a House of Pleasure. I've had a look around the city. They have everything. I counted nine barbers alone, and eight pharmacies. But they only have one whorehouse, and it’s so small and shitty that I wouldn’t even call it a whorehouse. No competition. We’ll make it a luxurious brothel. Buy a multi-storey house with garden ...”
"Angouleme, have mercy."
"... exclusively for wealthy customers. I will be the Madame. I’m telling you, we will make the big money and live like the great masters. In the end, I will eventually be elected to the council, and then I will certainly not forget about you, because if they elect me, they elect you, and before you can provide yourselves ...”
/> "Angouleme, please. Here, eat some bread with pate."
For a moment there was silence.
"What are you hunting today, Geralt? Hard work?"
"Eye witnesses" - the witcher looked at his plate - "give conflicting descriptions. So it depends on whether it is a Molding, which is pretty hard work, or a Delichon, which is moderate, or Dudel, which is easy. Perhaps the work will even be too easy, because the last time the monster was seen was last year’s Lammas. It may have absconded from Pomerol over the mountains."
"If so, I wish him all the best," said Fringilla while gnawing on a goose bone.
"What is up with Dandelion?" the witcher said suddenly, “I haven’t seen him for so long that I draw all my knowledge of his activities from the satirical songs they sing in the city.”
"We know no more than you." Regis smiled with his mouth closed. "All we know is that our poet is on such familiar terms with the Princess Anarietta that he grants her, even in the presence of witnesses, a fairly familiar cognomen. He calls her his Little Weasel."
"And he's right!" Angoulême said with her mouth full. "That princess woman actually does kind of have a weasel nose. Not to mention all those teeth."
Fringilla narrowed her eyes. "No one is perfect."
"Forsooth."
The chickens, one black and the other colorful, had become so bold that they began to peck at Milva’s boots. The Archer swore and knocked them away with a powerful kick.
Geralt watched her for a long time. Then he decided. "Maria," he said gravely, almost sternly. "I know that our conversations are not particularly serious and that jokes are not ordained. But you do not need to show us such a sour face. What is wrong?"
"It’s clear what’s wrong," said Angoulême. Geralt silenced her with a sharp look. Too late.
"What the hell do you know then, eh?" Milva stood up abruptly, almost overturning her chair. "Damn you! You can kiss my ass, all of you, you understand me?"