Time of Contempt (The Witcher) (34 page)

‘Yes,’ replied Geralt. His face and voice were changed and unfamiliar. ‘The mare belongs to the elves. But she will be serving me for the moment. And when I have the chance,
I’ll exchange her for a horse that knows how to carry a wounded rider and, when its rider falls, remains by him. It’s clear this mare wasn’t taught to do that.’

‘Are we leaving?’

‘You’re leaving,’ said the Witcher, throwing the poet Pegasus’s reins. ‘Farewell, Dandelion. The dryads will escort you a couple of miles upstream so you
won’t fall into the hands of the soldiers from Brugge, who are probably still hanging around on the far bank.’

‘What about you? Are you staying here?’

‘No. I’m not.’

‘You’ve learned something. From the Squirrels. You know something about Ciri, don’t you?’

‘Farewell, Dandelion.’

‘Geralt . . . Listen to me—’

‘Listen to what?’ shouted the Witcher, before his voice suddenly faltered. ‘I can’t leave— I can’t just leave her to her fate. She’s completely alone .
. . She cannot be left alone, Dandelion. You’ll never understand that. No one will ever understand that, but I know. If she remains alone, the same thing will happen to her as once happened
to me . . . You’ll never understand that . . .’

‘I do understand. Which is why I’m coming with you.’

‘You’re insane. Do you know where I’m headed?’

‘Yes, I do. Geralt, I— I haven’t told you everything. I’m . . . I feel guilty. I didn’t do anything; I didn’t know what to do. But now I know. I want to go
with you. I want to be by your side. I never told you . . . about Ciri and the rumours that are circulating. I met some acquaintances from Kovir, and they in turn had heard the reports of some
envoys who had returned from Nilfgaard . . . I imagine those rumours may even have reached the Squirrels’ ears. That you’ve already heard everything from those elves who crossed the
Ribbon. But let . . . let me tell you . . .’

The Witcher stood thinking for a long time, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

‘Get on your horse,’ he finally said, his voice sounding different. ‘You can tell me on the way.’

That morning there was an unusual commotion in Loc Grim Palace, the imperator’s summer residence. All the more unusual since commotions, emotions or excitement were not
at all customary for the Nilfgaardian nobility and demonstrating anxiety or excitement was regarded as a sign of immaturity. Behaviour of that kind was treated by the Nilfgaardian noblemen as
highly reprehensible and contemptible, to such an extent that even callow youths, from whom few would have demanded greater maturity, were expected to refrain from any displays of animation.

That morning, though, there were no young men in Loc Grim. Young men wouldn’t have had any reason to be in Loc Grim. Stern, austere aristocrats, knights and courtiers were filling the
palace’s enormous throne room, every one of them dressed in ceremonial courtly black, enlivened only by white ruffs and cuffs. The men were accompanied by a small number of equally stern,
austere ladies, whom custom permitted to brighten the black of their costume with a little modest jewellery. They all pretended to be dignified, stern and austere. But they were all extremely
excited.

‘They say she’s ugly. Skinny and ugly.’

‘But she allegedly has royal blood.’

‘Illegitimate?’

‘Not a bit of it. Legitimate.’

‘Will she ascend to the throne?’

‘Should the imperator so decide . . .’

‘By thunder, just look at Ardal aep Dahy and Count de Wett . . . Look at their faces; as though they’d drunk vinegar . . .’

‘Be quiet, Your Excellency . . . Do their expressions surprise you? If the rumours are true, Emhyr will be giving the ancient houses a slap in the face. He will humiliate
them—’

‘The rumours won’t be true. The imperator won’t wed that foundling! He couldn’t possibly . . .’

‘Emhyr will do whatever he wants. Heed your words, Your Excellency. Be careful of what you say. There have been people who said Emhyr couldn’t do this or that. And they all ended up
on the scaffold.’

‘They say he has already signed a decree concerning an endowment for her. Three hundred marks annually, can you imagine?’

‘And the title of princess. Have any of you seen her yet?’

‘She was placed under the care of Countess Liddertal on her arrival and her house was cordoned off by the guard.’

‘They have entrusted her to the countess, in order that she may instil some idea of manners in the little chit. They say your princess behaves like a farm girl . . .’

‘What’s so strange about that? She comes from the north, from barbaric Cintra—’

‘Which makes the rumours about a marriage to Emhyr all the more unlikely. No, no, it’s utterly beyond the pale. The imperator is to marry de Wett’s youngest daughter, as
planned. He will not marry that usurper!’

‘It is high time he finally married somebody. For the sake of the dynasty . . . It is high time we had a little archduke . . .’

‘Then let him be wed, but not to that stray!’

‘Quiet, don’t gush. I give you my word, noble lords, that that marriage will not happen. What purpose could such a match serve?’

‘It’s politics, Countess. We are waging a war. That bond would have political and strategic significance . . . The dynasty of which the princess is a member has legal titles and
confirmed feudatory rights to the lands on the Lower Yarra. Were she to become the imperator’s spouse . . . Ha, it would be an excellent move. Just look over there, at King Esterad’s
envoys; how they whisper . . .’

‘So you support this outlandish relationship, Duke? Or you’ve simply been counselling Emhyr, is that it?’

‘It’s my business, Margrave, what I do or don’t support. And I would advise you not to question the imperator’s decisions.’

‘Has he already made his decision then?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘You are in error then, to doubt it.’

‘What do you mean by that, madam?’

‘Emhyr has sent Baroness Tarnhann away from the court. He has ordered her to return to her husband.’

‘He’s broken off with Dervla Tryffin Broinne? It cannot be! Dervla has been his favourite for three years . . .’

‘Now she has been expelled from the court.’

‘It’s true. They say the golden-haired Dervla kicked up an awful fuss. Four royal guardsmen had to manhandle her into the carriage . . .’

‘Her husband will be overjoyed . . .’

‘I doubt that.’

‘By the Great Sun! Emhyr has broken off with Dervla? He’s broken off with her for that foundling? For that savage from the North?’

‘Quiet . . . Quiet, for heaven’s sake!’

‘Who supports this? Which faction supports this?’

‘Be quiet, I said. They’re looking at us—’

‘That wench – I mean princess – is said to be ugly . . . When the imperator sees her . . .’

‘Are you trying to say he hasn’t seen her yet?’

‘He hasn’t had time. He only returned from Darn Ruach an hour ago.’

‘Emhyr never had a liking for ugly women. Aine Dermott, Clara aep Gwydolyn Gor . . . And Dervla Tryffin Broinne was a true beauty.’

‘Perhaps the foundling will grow pretty with time . . .’

‘After she’s been given a good scrubbing? They say princesses from the north seldom wash—’

‘Heed your words. You may be speaking about the imperator’s spouse!’

‘She is still a child. She is no more than fourteen.’

‘I say again, it would be a political union . . . Purely formal . . .’

‘Were that the case, the golden-haired Dervla would remain at court. The foundling from Cintra would politically and formally ascend the throne beside Emhyr . . . But in the evening Emhyr
would give her a tiara and the crown jewels to play with and would visit Dervla’s bedchamber . . . At least until the chit attained an age when she could safely bear him a child.’

‘Hmm . . . Yes, you may have something there. What is the name of the . . . princess?’

‘Xerella, or something of the kind.’

‘Not a bit of it. She is called . . . Zirilla. Yes, I think it’s Zirilla.’

‘A barbarous name.’

‘Be quiet, damn it . . .’

‘And show a little dignity. You’re squabbling like unruly children!’

‘Heed your words! Be careful that I do not treat them as an affront!’

‘If you’re demanding satisfaction, you know where to find me, Margrave!’

‘Silence! Be quiet! The imperator . . .’

The herald did not have to make a special effort. One blow of his staff on the floor was sufficient for the black-bereted heads of the aristocrats and knights to bow down like ears of corn blown
in the wind. The silence in the throne room was so complete that the herald did not have to raise his voice especially, either.

‘Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Monrudd!’

The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Foes. He marched down the double file of noblemen with his usual brisk step, vigorously waving his right hand. His black costume was identical to
that of the courtiers, aside from the lack of a ruff. The imperator’s dark hair – largely unkempt as usual – was kept reasonably neat by a narrow gold band, and the imperial chain
of office glistened on his neck.

The Emhyr sat down on the throne quite carelessly, placing an elbow on the armrest and his chin in his hand. He did not throw a leg over the other armrest, signifying that etiquette still
applied. None of the bowed heads rose by even an inch.

The imperator cleared his throat loudly without changing his position. The courtiers breathed again and straightened up. The herald struck his staff on the floor once again.

‘Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Queen of Cintra, the Princess of Brugge and Duchess of Sodden, heiress of Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, and suzerain of Attre and Abb
Yarra!’

All eyes turned towards the doors, where the tall and dignified Stella Congreve, Countess of Liddertal, was standing. Alongside the countess walked the holder of all those impressive titles.
Skinny, fair-haired, extremely pale, somewhat stooped, in a long, blue dress. A dress in which she very clearly felt awkward and uncomfortable.

Emhyr Deithwen sat up on his throne, and the courtiers immediately bowed low again. Stella Congreve nudged the fair-haired girl very gently, and the two of them filed between the double row of
bowing aristocrats, all members of the leading houses of Nilfgaard. The girl walked stiffly and hesitantly.
She’ll stumble
, thought the countess.

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon stumbled.

Ugly, scrawny little thing
, thought the countess, as she neared the throne.
Clumsy and, what’s more, rather bovine. But I shall make her a beauty. I shall make her a queen,
Emhyr, just as you ordered.

The White Flame of Nilfgaard watched them from his position on the throne. As usual, his eyes were somewhat narrowed and the hint of a sneer played on his lips.

The Queen of Cintra stumbled a second time. The imperator placed an elbow on the armrest of the throne and touched his cheek with his hand. He was smiling. Stella Congreve was close enough to
recognise that smile. She froze in horror.
Something is not right,
she thought,
something is not right. Heads will fall. By the Great Sun, heads will fall
. . .

She regained her presence of mind and curtseyed, making the girl follow suit.

Emhyr var Emreis did not rise from the throne. But he bowed his head slightly. The courtiers held their breath.

‘Your Majesty,’ said Emhyr. The girl cowered. The imperator was not looking at her. He was looking at the noblemen gathered in the hall.

‘Your Majesty,’ he repeated. ‘I’m glad to be able to welcome you to my palace and my country. I give you my imperial word that the day is close when all the titles
belonging to you will return to you, along with the lands which are your legal inheritance, which legally and incontrovertibly belong to you. The usurpers, who lord it over your estates, have
declared war on me. They attacked me, stating that they were defending your just rights. May the entire world know that you are turning to me – not to them – for help. May the entire
world know that here, in my land, you enjoy the reverence and royal name deserving of a queen, while among my enemies you were merely an outcast. May the entire world know that in my country you
are safe, while my enemies not only denied you your crown, but even made attempts on your life.’

The Emperor of Nilfgaard fixed his gaze on the envoys of Esterad Thyssen, the King of Kovir, and on the ambassador of Niedamir, the King of the Hengfors League.

‘May the entire world know the truth, and among them also the kings who pretended not to know where rightness and justice lay. And may the entire world know that help will be given to you.
Your enemies and mine will be defeated. Peace will reign once again in Cintra, in Sodden and Brugge, in Attre, on the Isles of Skellige and at the mouth of the Yarra Delta, and you will ascend the
throne to the joy of your countrymen and every one to whom justice is dear.’

The girl in the blue dress lowered her head even further.

‘Before that happens,’ said Emhyr, ‘you will be treated with the respect due to you, by me and by all of my subjects. And since the flame of war still blazes in your kingdom,
as evidence of the honour, respect and friendship of Nilfgaard, I endow you with the title of Duchess of Rowan and Ymlac, lady of the castle of Darn Rowan, where you will now travel, in order to
await the arrival of more peaceful, happier times.’

Stella Congreve struggled to control herself, not allowing even a trace of astonishment to appear on her face.
He’s not going to keep her with him
, she thought,
but is sending
her to Darn Rowan, to the end of the world; somewhere he never goes. He has no intention of courting this girl. He isn’t considering a quick marriage. He doesn’t even want to see her.
Why, then, has he got rid of Dervla? What is this all about?

She recovered and quickly took the princess by the hand. The audience was over. The emperor didn’t look at them as they were leaving the hall. The courtiers bowed.

Once they had left Emhyr var Emreis slung a leg over the armrest of his throne.