The Druids, everyone told Geralt, would not run away.
‘Although it is pure coincidence,’ said the vampire Regis with a strange smile, ‘Our team is definitely on the right track and absolutely headed in the right direction. Therefore, it is apparent that we are inevitably destined to encounter the Druids. A delay of a day or two will play no role.’
‘Haste, however,’ he remarked philosophically, ‘gives the impression that time is terribly short. It should usually imply an alarm signal that suggests that one should slow down and consider their path reasonably.’
Geralt did not argue or contradict the philosophy of the vampire, although the nightmares that haunted him at night reminded to hurry. Even though he was unable to remember the content of these dreams after waking.
It was the seventeenth of September, the full moon. Six days before the autumn equinox.
Milva, Regis, and Cahir were in charge of making purchases and replenishing their equipment. Geralt and Dandelion, in contrast, went out to get more news from the residents of Riedbrune.
Riedbrune was situated in a bend of the Newi River. It was a small town if you only counted the brick and wooden buildings that were within the ring of palisade-crowned earthworks. But no more than one-tenth of the population lived in the city centre, in the buildings that were enclosed by the ramparts. Meanwhile, nine-tenths lived in the noisy sea of huts, cottages, booths, sheds, tents, and caravans outside of the city.
Cicerone, the bee keeper’s relative, guided the witcher and the poet. He was a young, grated, and arrogant man – a typical specimen of an urban street rat, who was born in the gutter, bathed in the gutter, and had satisfied his thirst in the gutter many times. He was like a trout in a crystal clear mountain stream as he led them through the noise, crowds, dirt, and stench of the city. The opportunity to guide someone through his repulsive city clearly pleased him. Ignoring the fact that no one asked him, he enthusiastically passed on his street boy’s knowledge. He explained that Riedbrune was an important milestone for the Nilfgaardian settlers who moved north to get to the promised land-lots from the Emperor: four hides, or about fifty acres. And a ten year tax exemption. This was because Riedbrune lay at the mouth of the Dol Newi Valley, along the Theodula Pass that cut through the North Case of the Amell Mountains, and next to Transriver, which associated with countries that had long been Nilfgaardian subjects – Mag Turga, Geso, Metinna, and Maecht. The town of Riedbrune, he explained, was the last city in which the settlers could still rely on something more than themselves, their wives and whatever they had in their wagons. That was why the majority of the settlers camped before the city quite a long time, catching their breath before that last leg of the journey – the Yaruga and beyond. And many of them, he said with gutter-patriotism and pride, settled permanently in the city, because the city, oho, was cultured and was not some kind of a fetid backwater that smelled of manure.
The town of Riedbrune stank vigorously of many things, including manure.
Geralt had been here once, years ago, but he didn’t recognize it now. Too much had changed. Previously there were not as many troopers in black coats and armor, with silver emblems on their epaulets. Previously the Nilfgaardian language was not always heard. Previously there had been no quarry in the city, filled with ragged, dirty, emaciated, and bloodstained men who pounded on rectangular stone blocks and were whipped by black clothed guards.
Their guide told them that there were many Nilfgaardian soldiers stationed here, but not for long – they were only taking a break before they marched out to hunt the guerrillas of the organization called the ‘Free North Case’. The Nilfgaardians needed more workers because they planned to replace the old, wooden mounting with a large, brick fortress made from the great stones of the quarry. And those stones were mined by prisoners of war. From Lyria and Aedirn, from the areas formerly known as Sodden, Bruges, and Angren, and from Temeria. There were about four hundred prisoners at work here in Riedbrune. A good five hundred worked in the mines and surface mines in the area of Belhaven, and over a thousand built bridges and a smooth road through the Theodula Pass.
There had been a scaffold in the town’s marketplace last time Geralt had been here, but it had been much more modest. It had not aroused disgusting associations and had not had so many devices as the new gallows – stakes, forks and bars. It had not been hung with so many stinking, disgusting, and rotting decorations.
When they came into view of the scaffold, the street boy told them that the recently appointed military governor, Lord Fulko Artevelde, was responsible for the fragments of human anatomy that adorned it. Because Lord Fulko relied heavily on the executioner. Lord Fulko was not to be trifled with, he added. He was a stern Lord.
They found the street boy’s friend, the diamond hunter, in a tavern. He made a poor impression on Geralt. He was in the pale, trembling, half-sober, half-drunk, half real, half dream state that a man reaches when he drinks for several days and nights without interruption. The witcher’s hopes fell. At first, it seemed that the sensational news of the Druids nearby location had originated from an ordinary delirium.
However, the hung-over diamond hunter answered their questions consciously and meaningfully. He jokingly parried Dandelion’s accusation that he did not look like a diamond hunter by saying that, even if he ever had found a diamond, he would still look like this. He described the whereabouts of the Druids at the Lake Monduirn concretely and precisely, without picturesque decorations and overblown fuss. He allowed himself the question of what the travelers wanted with the Druids, and was honored with contemptuous silence. He warned them that to go to the oaks of the Druids was certain death, as the Druids tended to catch intruders, lock them away in wicker cages, and then pray and chant incantations while they burnt them alive. This baseless rumor and sinister superstition, as it turned out, had migrated with the Druids.
Their conversation was interrupted by nine armed soldiers, dressed in black uniforms with epaulets that carried the sign of the sun.
‘Are you,’ said the sergeant commanding the troops, while he tapped an oak stick against his calf, ‘the witcher named Geralt?’
‘Yes,’ Geralt replied after a moment's hesitation, ‘I am.’
‘Then you want to follow us.’
‘How certain are you that I want that? Am I under arrest?’
The soldier stared at him for a seemingly endless moment, without any respect. There was no doubt that his eight-man escort gave him the audacity to do so.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘You are not under arrest. It has not been commanded to arrest you. If it had been commanded, sir, I would have asked you differently. Quite differently.’
Geralt adjusted his sword belt rather pointedly. ‘And I,’ he said coldly, ‘would have responded differently.’
‘Come, come, gentlemen.’ Dandelion decided to intervene, and he put something on his face that resembled a politician’s smile. ‘Why this tone? We are decent people, we should not have to fear the government. And yes, we are willing to help the authorities. To the extent that the opportunity presents itself, of course. And for this the government owes us, does not it, Mr. Military? At least such a little thing as an explanation, or the reason for which it intends to restrict our civil freedoms.’
‘It is war, sir,’ replied the soldier, not impressed by the flowing speech. ‘Freedom, as the name suggests, is something for peace. But as for the reason, that will be explained to you by the governor. I carry out commands, not discussions.’
‘Where he’s right, he's right,’ conceded the witcher and winked easily at the troubadour. ‘So lead me to the governor, honorable soldier. You, Dandelion, go back to the others and tell them what happened. Do what needs to be done. Regis will know.’
‘What does a witcher want on the North Case? What is he doing here?’
The question was asked by a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man with a scarred face and a leather patch over his left eye socket. The sight of this cyclopean
face in a dark alley would have elicited horror in many. Quite mistakenly, considering that it was the face of Lord Fulko Artevelde, the governor of Riedbrune and the senior keeper of law and order throughout the region.
‘What is a witcher looking for on the North Case?’ repeated the highest-ranking upholder of the law throughout the region.
Geralt sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and faked indifference. ‘You know the answer to your question, sir. I'm a witcher, hired by the bee keeper from the river country to protect them on their march here. And as a witcher, I’m looking to earn money on the North Case, or anywhere else. I wander in any direction that I may have clients.’
‘Naturally.’ Fulko Artevelde nodded. ‘At least according to your story. But you separated from the bee keeper two days ago and you are preparing to march further south, in some strange company. For what purpose?’
Geralt did not look away – he focused his scorching gaze on the governor’s single eye. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No. For now, you are not.’
‘Then I suppose my purpose is to march towards my goal and my private affairs.’
‘I would, however, recommend honesty and openness. If only to prove to that you are not guilty of any wrongdoing and the government does not have to fear for its safety from you. I will try to repeat the question: What is the goal of your journey, witcher?’
Geralt hesitated. ‘I’m trying to get to the Druids that formerly lived in Angren, but have now moved to this area. You could have learned this easily from the bee keeper that I have escorted.’
‘Who hired you against the Druids? Did the conservationists perhaps burn one person too many in their wicker cages?’
‘Fairy tales, rumors, and superstition, started by strange people. I’m looking for information from the Druids, not their blood. But really, Lord Governor, it seems to me that I have certainly been open enough to prove I’m not guilty of any wrongdoing.’
‘It's not about your guilt. At least, not just yet. It would, however, please me greatly if our conversation were dominated by the sounds of mutual accommodation. Contrary to appearances, the purpose of this discussion is to preserve your life and the life of your companions, among other things.’
Geralt did not reply immediately. ‘You’ve made me very curious, sir. Among other things. I will certainly listen to your explanations with great interest.’
‘Without a doubt. We will come to these explanations, but gradually. In stages. Have you ever, Mr. Witcher, heard of the establishment a witness? Do you know what that is?’
‘I know. Someone who wants to evade their responsibility after squealing on the miners.’
‘An over-simplification,’ Fulko Artevelde said without a smile, ‘in the typical way of the Nordlings. You often cover gaps in your education with sarcastic caricature and simplification, which you find funny. The law of the Empire applies here on the North Case, Mr. Witcher. More precisely, the law of the Empire applies here until the prevailing lawlessness is eradicated – root and branch. The best way to stamp out lawlessness and banditry is the scaffold, which you've certainly seen in the marketplace. But sometimes, it is also the establishment of witnesses.’
He paused for effect. Geralt did not interrupt.
‘Not long ago,’ said the governor, ‘we managed to lure a gang of young criminals into an ambush. The bandits resisted and were killed...’
‘But not all?’ guessed Geralt without further ado, becoming a little bored with all the eloquence. ‘You've taken one alive. He was promised a pardon if he will testify as a witness. That is, if he accuses someone. And he accused me.’
‘What makes you say that? Have you had any contact with the local criminal underworld? Now or earlier?’
‘No. I have not. Neither now nor earlier. Therefore forgive me, Lord Governor, but this whole affair is either a total misunderstanding or a fraud. Or a provocation directed against me. In the latter case, I would suggest not wasting any time, but to get to the point.’
‘So you think this is a provocation directed against you,’ said the governor as he rubbed his brow, which was disfigured by a scar. ‘Perhaps, contrary to your earlier claims, you do have a reason to fear the law?’
‘No. Instead, I begin to fear that soon the fight against crime here will run rampant, without requiring details, and without a lengthy test of whether someone is guilty or innocent. But maybe that's just a caricature and simplification, typical for a stupid Nordling. Which would explain why said Nordling still does not understand how the governor of Riedbrune is going to save his life.’
Fulko Artevelde studied him for a while in silence. Then he clapped his hands. ‘Bring her in.’ he called to the soldiers.
Geralt calmed himself down with a couple of breaths, because all of the sudden he had a certain idea that caused heart palpitations and increased adrenaline. Shortly afterwards he had to take another few breaths, he even had to run his hand under the table and cast a sign to calm himself – an unprecedented event. The effect – this was also unprecedented – was zero. He was hot. And cold.
Because the guards had just brought Ciri into the room.
‘Oh, look here,’ said Ciri, immediately after being placed in the chair with her hands tied behind her back. ‘Look what the wind blew in!’
Artevelde made a brief gesture. One of the guards, a tall guy with the face of a not particularly bright lad, casually slapped Ciri so hard that the chair shook.
‘Forgive her, your honor,’ the guard said apologetically, and surprisingly gently. ‘She's young, stupid. Reckless.’
‘Angouleme,’ Artevelde said slowly and clearly. ‘I promised that I would listen to you. But that means that I will listen to you answer to my questions. I remember your antics. If you do not listen to me, you will be penalized for it. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
A gesture. A slap. The chair wobbled.
‘She's young,’ muttered the guard as he rubbed his hand on his hip. ‘Reckless...’
Geralt already saw that it was not Ciri, and could only wonder at his confusion. A thin trail of blood ran from the girl's upturned nose. The girl pulled air hard through her nose and smiled predatorily.
‘Angouleme,’ repeated the governor. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Lord Fulko.’
‘Who is this, Angouleme?’
The girl drew another deep breath, bowed her head, and stared at Geralt with her wide eyes. Nut-brown, not green. Then she shook her straw-blond hair and a disheveled mop fell forward in streaks on her forehead.
‘I've never seen him before.’ She licked off the blood that had run onto her lip. ‘But I know who he is. I've already told you this, Lord Fulko, now you can see that I wasn't lying. He is Geralt. He is a witcher. Ten days ago he crossed the Yaruga and he is travelling towards Toussaint. Isn’t that right, Uncle White Hair?’
‘Young... reckless...,’ said the guard quickly and cast a worried look at the governor.
But Fulko Artevelde only furrowed his brow and shook his head. ‘You're going to make jokes on the scaffold, Angouleme. Which is fine with me. Who is Geralt travelling with?’
‘I have already told you this also! With a pretty boy named Dandelion, a troubadour who has a lute. With a young woman who has dark blond hair, worn in a braid that is cut at the neck. I do not know their names. And with a man without a description, his name likewise was not described. Altogether there are four.’
Geralt rested his chin on his fists, looking at the girl with interest.
Angouleme did not lower her gaze. ‘Your eyes,’ she said. ‘They are so weird!’
‘Go on, go on,’ urged the governor. Angouleme frowned. ‘Who else travels in the witcher’s company?’
‘No one. I told you, there are four. Have you no ears, uncle?’
A gesture, a slap, and the blood flowed again. The guard rubbed his hand on his hip and remarked on the recklessness of youth.
‘You're lying, Angouleme,’
said the governor. ‘I ask again, how many are there?’
‘As you wish, Lord Fulko. As you wish. As you like. There are two hundred. Three hundred! Six hundred!’
‘Lord Governor!’ Geralt yelled quickly and sharply before they could strike her. ‘It is possible. What she’s said is so precise that no one could call her liar, rather incompletely informed. But where did she get this information? She even admitted that this is the first time in her life that she’s seen me. And this is the first time in my life that I’ve seen her. I can assure you of that.’
‘Thank you’ – Artevelde looked at him askance -’for helping with the investigation. You are a valuable help. When I begin to question you, I hope you will be just as talkative. Angouleme, did you hear what the Lord Witcher said? Speak. And do not ask questions.’
‘It was said’ – the girl licked the blood away from her runny nose -’that if you notified the authorities of planned crime and revealed who was planning it, then you would be pardoned. Well, I'm talking, right? I know of a planned crime and I want to prevent it. Hear what I say: Nightingale and his Hanse are waiting in Belhaven to make cold this witcher and his company. The contract was given to them by a half-elf, a stranger – the devil knows from where, nobody knows him. All this half-elf told us was: who, how he looks, how he would arrive, where he would leave from, and in what kind of company. He warned that he was a witcher – not some wimp, but a clever fellow, that they should not play the hero, but stab him in the back, shoot him with a crossbow, or if possible poison him if he eats or drinks in Belhaven. The half-elf gave Nightingale money Nightingale. A lot of money. And he promised more after completion.’
‘After completion,’ said Fulko Artevelde. ‘So this half-elf is still in Belhaven? With Nightingale and his gang?’