(Warning: Ok, shit is going to get horrific in this chapter. Scenes of torture, injury and recounted degradation. Also, contains some extremely negative comments about women. These things are spoken by bad people and couldn’t be further from the opinions of the author.

As always, thanks for reading )

I must laugh or I will cry.

I write these words now by the grace of Queen Adda of the joint Kingdoms of Temeria and Redania. Some more titles go with both of those crowns but, as I don’t have access to my reference library, I cannot immediately remember them all and in the grand scheme of things, I am not sure that it entirely matters.

Nor do I care.

I also write these words at the behest of those that are leading this rebellion of the North against the Southern invader. They aim to throw off the arms of the tyrant and to allow the North to be a free-thinking and self-governing realm once again.

I have to write that. A man is standing over me with an iron bar that he strikes me with every time I step out of line. They have this entire system set up where if I write something in my little shorthand, then my clerk reads it aloud for them. If they don’t like it or don’t agree with what I am writing or if I write anything that they don’t like, they strike me and then flog him.

I must laugh or I will cry.

They found the lad a couple of days ago, or so they tell me. I call him lad but he’s only a little younger than me…

Flame…

Flame curse me for a fool but how could I have got it all so wrong?

I know of course. I was blinded by love and affection and I didn’t properly look and so I didn’t see the rising tide before it drowned me.

So I write these words by the grace of Queen Adda of the joint Kingdoms of Temeria and Redania.

I am told that my diary has been published as I had wished it but at the same time, I do not know if that publishing made as much difference as I had hoped it would. There is no way of telling.

I write these words by the…

Damn it.

It’s not that I don’t believe that Queen Adda is capable of raising a banner of rebellion but… I just don’t think she’s that… I can absolutely believe that she has the ambition for it. There are enough records of that ambition to… Her ambition and her hatred of those that she would say was holding her back.

But whether she is involved in this madness?

I can, however, believe that she would play both sides. If she is in contact with this rebellion at all, I can easily believe that the contact is carried between proxies that she would be able to throw away when the full weight of the Imperial wrath, which is still bound to be coming, falls upon their heads. I would be willing to bet that similar letters are on their way to the Imperial court, wherever that is, that tell the Imperial court that she had nothing to do with what is happening and protest her innocence. That way, if the rebellion is successful then she can claim that she was on the rebellion’s side but if it fails, as I don’t see how it could not, then she can also claim that she was trapped by it.

Nevertheless. I have been told so much about what to write and so….

I write these words by the grace of Queen Adda of the joint Kingdoms of Temeria and Redania.

I must laugh or I will weep.

One of the problems with having a critic so close to hand is that… I am completely unable to tell this story the way that I want to tell it. I have been informed that I must tell the tale in a chronological format. Everything in me is rebelling at this. I want to give the context that comes from my writing these words by the grace of Queen Adda. But I cannot. Trying to do so earns another blow about the shoulders for me and a lash for my clerk who whimpers between words, as he reads what I am writing for the waiting captors.

I am, however, allowed to give a little context for the “historical purpose” of the thing. I at least got that much professional allowance for the thing. My argument is that context is vital for historical records but my comments fell on deaf ears.

I do not know how long it has been since the Autumn Equinox that was supposed to be my wedding day. No clue. I think that they are distorting my idea of time passing by bringing meals at odd times and not allowing me to see the sun as well. So my estimates range from a few days to maybe ten days but I doubt that upper estimate. I am exhausted as my sleep pattern has been disrupted, I am not eating properly and… as I say, I have been unable to see the sun.

I am kept in a basement cell in Coulthard castle. I am still allowed to call it that it, would seem. I spent a lot of time there while things proceeded and then I was cleaned, fed and well…

My critic has just reminded me about what I am allowed to say and not allowed to say.

I am kept in a cell in Coulthard castle. I spend my time in my cell or, as it would now appear, in my new office which is far less auspicious than the last one. My cell… I’m pretty sure, used to be a wine cellar that they have converted for the purpose. I sleep chained to the bed with a mask on my face and earplugs in my ear.

This does not obscure the screaming.

The cell is not dirty as it has not had the proper amount of time to become so, although it does now smell sharply of me, my vomit and my own stale urine.

My clothes are clean by virtue of a recent bath but otherwise…

I was taken from my cell this “morning” and brought here to my office. I am pretty sure that it used to be a servant’s room. I have no idea where it is in the castle as I was carried, blindfolded and with pads over my ears.

There are no windows.

It was not a poor room but at the same time…

There is a fire in the hearth that gives the place a sweaty kind of feeling. In the room is my writing desk….

Not “mine” but a writing desk that was provided for me.

I am chained to that desk with the only free movement being with my arms. I am already missing two fingers from my left hand from an earlier attempt to coerce me into doing what they want, but that was more of a confirmation thing than anything else. A warning maybe. They were aware of my past experiences with pain and as such…

It was the torturer's equivalent of a handshake.

I must laugh or I will weep.

I write these words by the Grace of Her Majesty, Queen Adda.

Fuck…

I was describing the room.

The chair that I am tied to has a hole in the bottom that I relieve myself through. There is a conflict somewhere between the people that want me to be clean, healthy and presentable and those people that don’t care about my well-being. But I piss and shit on the floor. I try and hold it in for as long as I can in the hope that I can convince people to take me to the garderobe or at least provide me with a chamber pot. But someone has ordered that I am not allowed to do these things.

I think I am being tortured and I think that the degradation is part of it. I think that they are going to degrade me at length and to the point of sickness and death before some benevolent soul is going to arrive to try and get me to do what they want. They needn’t bother.

They already know my weakness. And I hate them too much for it.

The floor is plain stone. That doesn’t help me identify where in the castle it is. I can tell that the rugs that would have covered the floor have been removed and the tapestries have likewise been taken down. It is hot in the room. The fire and the presence of large people and the lack of proper ventilation are plain in these matters and although my shirt was clean when I was brought in here, it was not long before it came away from my skin with difficulty. I can feel the sweaty slimy, sticky itchiness in my armpits.

I hope it makes someone angry.

I have just been struck again. I can skirt close to the line but not go too far over it.

They are aware that I and the other captive are going to soil themselves and probably bleed a bit in this room. Not to mention the sweat that is condensing on the cold stone walls before it runs down in small rivulets. There is straw on the floor and although it looks fresh at the moment, I wonder at what point someone will decide that the straw is filthy enough that it needs to be replaced.

Let’s see… What else?

I am shivering in the heat. That is not a good sign.

In the room with me is my clerk. He is tied to a stool next to me. I finish writing on the small pieces of paper they have given me and then he reads what is written. If they are pleased with what he says then we go another minute or so without extra pain. If they are displeased then…

I get struck and he gets whipped.

He is weeping openly, the sobs echoing in my ears.

I came into the room all but clean, but he is filthy. He is naked and one of the things… One of the many things that I regret and hate myself for is that I chose this person.

He is only five years younger than me. His name is Johann and I would have someone remember that name for me as I think he is already sick. I cannot tell for sure in this firelight but he seems unhealthily pale and he is sweating.

Unfortunately, the thing that made him an excellent clerk and transcriber for an academic myself, makes him a poor ally when it comes to resisting our captors. His utter lack of imagination.

Lack of imagination, which we have both commented on, means that he is unable to come up with subterfuge. In academia, this means that he transcribes exactly what is written.

Exactly, without deviation.

But that also means that I can’t send him messages in my shorthand as he just reads them out faithfully.

I tried early in our work this morning.

He was halfway through reading it aloud when he realised what he was saying.

They didn’t beat me that time, they just flogged him with three strikes of the whip.

That lack of imagination is perfect for a historian or a clerk. It means that you recount what you see or hear exactly and without an attempt at subterfuge.

I don’t know how they caught him. But catch him they did and given that he must have been working with Dorthan to get my diary transcribed, I have to assume that Dorthan has been caught too.

Johann cannot, or will not, tell me. Not that we have had time to talk to each other. He is clearly not allowed to speak other than that which he reads to me.

His left foot is swelling with a bruise and I wonder if his foot is broken. I can’t tell. I have not seen him moving yet.

He is staring at me, his huge eyes shining in the reflected firelight.

Another man… Another boy that I might as well have killed myself.

I can see dirt smeared up his sweaty legs and an unidentifiable reddish-brown substance squishing between his toes. They flex every time he is struck and I can see it squeezing between them like mud.

I would be sick if I had anything to digest.

There are two critics. I am calling them that because it amuses me and I must laugh or I will weep. It amuses me because they hate it but given that they haven’t beaten me for it yet, I must assume that this falls in the nebulous rules that I am allowed to follow and that they must enforce.

They are huge men.

Ridiculously huge. Heavily muscled and glowering. They too are shirtless and like Johann and myself, they are sweating freely. Their muscles fairly gleam in the firelight, looking almost too big for the skin to contain. The light is not perfect for this kind of thing and although I have protested that all this firelight is not good to write by, let alone to see by, or the danger if the fire catches to any of the paper. But even in this dim light, I can see the droplets of sweat running over the muscles. I wonder if I am imagining the stretch marks that I can see on the chest of the man leaning on the wall.

Heh, he has just twisted himself to try and examine himself as that last line was read aloud. Odd that that did not cause them to strike us.

All of that sweat means that the air is fairly pulsing with the smell of human. They say that if you live long enough in the stench, you get used to it. I wonder when that time will come and if it could hurry up and get here.

They stand there, glaring down at us. The one with the bar is spinning it in his hands so that it whistles in the air. Spinning it back and forward as though he is showing off how much skill and control he has over it.

Kerrass would say that any man that must rely on tricks is not a great fighter.

Poor Kerrass.

.

It turns out that if I stop writing for any length of time then the critics get upset,

The other critic is leaning against a wall looking bored. I cannot properly see either of them but they really do seem huge. Gregoire-sized huge. It is hard to tell but they appear to be well over seven feet tall each. Huge Pectoral and bicep muscles with veins standing out on their arms. There are other huge muscles as well, but I can’t remember what they are all called.

Their heads look… big for their necks. Huge jawbones, brows and cheek muscles. The cheek skin seems stretched in some way and their brows shadow beady little eyes.

There are also three, smaller, pale clerks. Sitting at desks and wearing robes. They are visibly uncomfortable with what is going on nearby and they don’t look at either Johann or me. They keep looking away but I can tell that they are sweating and one of them keeps licking his lips nervously.

How did I not see this? How could I not see this coming?

But I have my orders. I am to write. I am to make an account of what happened on the Night of the Equinox for that account to be added to the record. I am allowed to add in as much personal bias as I like. I can express my hatred and anger for what I have seen and done.

But I MUST tell things in the proper order and I am not allowed to make up events.

Her majesty needn’t worry about that. There is enough horror in my account that I don’t need to make things up.

I write these words by the grace of Her Majesty Adda, Queen of Temeria and Redania.

May the God save her soul.

It was my wedding day.

.

I have just had to stop because every time I think those words, I start to weep. Huge, wracking sobs shake my body and for a moment, I cannot see. The critic is upset. Because no amount of beating me, or flogging Johann can get me to come out of those moments any the quicker.

They have tried.

But it was my wedding day. It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life before an accident of nature, the largest storm in recent records, meant that it was delayed, although I wonder just how accidental that delay was.

I am certainly left wondering how things might have shaken out if the attempt at rebellion had begun with everyone there. I imagine that it would all have been over much quicker.

One way or another.

But it was my wedding day.

I am getting better at that, saying it and writing it. I am trying to fuel myself with rage. I have spent months trying to banish that feeling but now, I welcome it back like a warm blanket because if I shrug that blanket off, then all I am left with is pain, horror and a feeling of sorrow so large that it threatens to engulf me.

One of the critics has just laughed at that. I wonder if they are fanning my hate and my rage deliberately to keep me stable. I wonder if they are doing it to keep me writing. I don’t know that they are clever enough for that. But I wonder if whoever sent them is clever enough.

It was my wedding day. I am told that the last thing that the public knows about that day from my pen, is that I had spent the day walking and talking with Ariadne. That was true.

So many coincidences.

We had spent the day together, enjoying the time spent in each other’s company. Now, I think about those hours that we spent together in the same way that I think regarding the last few times that I saw Francesca. I want to dissect them in the cold darkness of the night while I question if there was something, anything that I could have seen or done to turn aside the calamity that has befallen us.

But there is a lesson that I have learned over the years which is that there is no setting aside the actions of madmen. And madmen were certainly involved in the planning of this.

There was going to be a dinner that night. Closest friends and family, the guests that were staying in, or working at the castle that night. There were various reasons for this. A bit of an outlet for the frustration that everyone was feeling. The sense of hanging tension was pervasive and the urge to blow off a bit of steam was strong. So Emma declared that we were going to have a dinner.

I wonder if someone suggested that to her. I will ask her if I ever get to see her again and if she is capable of answering.

My mind is wandering. I need to focus. Better to get the chore done quicker.

There was going to be a dinner and it was going to be a semi-formal occasion which is family noble speak for “it’s a formal occasion Freddie, dress smartly.”

However, I also knew that these things do not happen quickly. After leaving Ariadne by the corridors leading to the guest wing where she has rooms, I departed for my room where I ordered my bath and the presence of a servant to come and shave me.

I can do this chore myself with a good enough mirror and a sharp enough knife. But I never get quite as close as I do when someone professional does it.

.

Poor Kerrass.

While I waited for all of that to happen I worked on my diary. I read past entries and wrote down some other thoughts. Nothing too solid. Believe it or not, I have several diaries. One is the personal diary that was sent out to the publisher, but I also have other diaries and notebooks. One was to do with future academic work and the other is, essentially, a chore notebook where I write down the things that I need to remember or to remember to do.

The barber came and shaved me although we saved the haircut that needed and still needs doing until the wedding date was a little bit closer in certainty.

I bathed and dressed but I left out the stockings and the bonnet.

I knew what would happen next. The life of a nobleman in this situation is a lot like a soldier in that the entire directive is a “hurry up and wait” kind of situation.

So I was fully prepared for a long wait. I had been told to get ready, but the ladies of the castle were still going to take a small age to prepare themselves.

As I left my room, there is a moment, always a moment, but given the formality of the occasion, I could not take my more obvious weapons with me. I normally carry them everywhere, admittedly, my spear is in its broken-down state and stuffed in a bag while my dagger sits in its sheath across my belly.

I have tried adjusting my dagger harness so that I could carry it at my side and lend myself a more martial air. But it never works and sits awkwardly on my hip, getting in the way and needing more manipulation than if I just wore a sword. I have kept meaning to have a leatherworker make me a new harness for these occasions so that it could hang on my hip properly, much the same way that Lord Helfdan wears his hatchet. But there were always other things that needed doing.

I bitterly regret that small laziness now.

-

My mind is wandering again.

My missing fingers itch. My little finger and my ring finger on my left hand. It was agony at the time, but a surprisingly manageable one. Oddly, Sansum pulling my fingernails out was worse.

But there is a symbology in missing the ring finger on my left hand that I find distressing.

But I can feel them itching. I have known about “Phantom limb syndrome” as Shani once called it. But I did not know that I would be able to feel the sticky warmth that happens when your hands start to sweat.

.

The critics have just reminded me that I need to keep my mind on the job.

-

So, as I always do. I looked at my weapons for a moment as I propped my spear next to the door and hung the dagger harness on the back of the door.

I was still wearing my boots though and I had absolutely no guilt about putting my boot knife down the left-hand boot. In all truth, it would feel wrong if I didn’t do that.

And with the eating knife at my back, I was armed for the feast.

I carried my diary with me along with a small pot of ink and a pre-trimmed quill. If it needed trimming again, my eating knife would do the job. I keep it much sharper than it strictly needs to be and since the cult in the north, I have worn out two eating knives with too much sharpening. Emma teases me about it and claims that my eating knife is…

-

Fuck you. You try and keep your mind on the… So Fuck you

.

I say it in writing as well as with my mouth so that you can know exactly how I feel you piece of filth.

Anyway.

-

So I left my room. I did not doubt that I could commandeer a little table in one of the waiting rooms while all of the guests assembled before dinner. And while we waited, I would be able to work on the diary which would have the bonus of distracting the people that might want to talk to me. Including Aunt Meredith and Aunt Claudette who were old cronies of Mothers who had been invited for reasons that I couldn’t understand.

But they came with Uncles Alain and Wilhelm and those two men made no secret of their disdain for the written word and as such would avoid me.

It was not the first time that I have used this subterfuge against people that I don’t like.

I knew that Sam would be at dinner, as would Rickard and Kerrass. So I was not without allies on the male side of things. But I have found that, even as the man getting married, it does not stop people who have long held positions of authority over you, from thinking that they still do.

So any excuse to ignore these people that I didn’t like and didn’t understand why they were there?

Emma invited them because she had to. I had asked her why they were invited and she didn’t have more of an answer for me other than to say that.

She had to invite them.

I went, found an out-of-the-way table to sit at and got to work. Kerrass was one of the first ones down. He was looking forward to cutting a swathe through some of the various cousins and things and so was disappointed that these people did not seem particularly friendly towards him. I had told him that he might have better luck on the wedding day when people might be more receptive to all of the romance, but he had not reacted.

So he came and sat nearby, dressed in the tunic that he had made for him. It was cut to remind everyone who he was but still expensive and posh enough that he could get away with wearing it on semi-formal occasions. He too was not wearing any weapons given the circumstance and like me, he had developed a survival habit of carrying a book with him wherever he went so that he could sit, read the book and therefore pretend that he hadn’t seen whoever it was that wanted to talk to him.

And his words were that “by talk to him, they meant to low-key insult him through their ignorance”

Poor Kerrass

It was supposed to be my wedding day.

.

So we waited, and Mark came down. He seemed to be doing fairly well all things considered but he is learning to conserve his strength. He recently told me,

“I only have so much social and intellectual capital left. I must invest it where it will do the most good.”

He came down wearing some reduced version of his cardinal’s robes. Just enough to remind everyone of his authority but not enough to make the entire dinner about him.

I wonder how he is doing now. I have a dreadful feeling that if he is still alive, then they will have kept his medicine from him.

He was doing quite well that night. Old intelligence and pride were flashing in his eyes and he spent that part of the evening skewering people that thought they knew more about scripture and philosophy than he did.

Sometimes that is fun to watch, but that night. I just wanted to get drunk and maybe weep myself to sleep. But I was not yet at the stage where it would be acceptable to start drinking and as such, I just needed to bide my time.

I am also left wondering if my friends stationed themselves around me in the same way that they would station themselves to protect me on the battlefield.

Certainly, I cannot remember anyone, particularly coming and talking to me. Rickard arrived and spoke to a couple of people that he remembered from his war days. I think he served with the sons of a couple of the guests during the war and had the occasion to save someone from bandits before he worked for us.

There was a similar feast happening outside with all of the workers and those servants that weren’t taking part in the preparation of the meal.

I remember, distinctly, at one point that evening hearing someone whoop with laughter and a strain of music coming through the open shutters towards me. I remember looking up, smelling the roasting pork on the fresh air that drifted towards me and I remember wishing that I was out there enjoying myself rather than in here. I suddenly had a sense of claustrophobia in the room with all of these well-meaning relatives and old family friends. Many of whom I don’t like and I wanted to be outside dancing a jig and wiping pork grease from my chin.

Or preferably to be drawing close to the moment where I should have been taking Ariadne’s hand in mine as we moved to the marital suite.

That was what that day was like. I was constantly looking at the movement of the sun. By this point, with the sun sinking towards the horizon. I should have been enjoying the feast, stealing glances at the most beautiful woman in the world while doing my best not to insult people given that I was so distracted by the beauty of the woman next to me.

That was what should have happened.

It was supposed to be my wedding day.

-

They have just fed us. Johann and I. Not only that, but they seem encouraging of me to record the fact that they fed us. I was given a form of thick, salty porridge. There are lumps of things that I hope are bacon in them but…

I just hope that it’s bacon. I’m eating them anyway, my body would rebel if I did not.

I at least was given a spoon to eat my food with. A spoon and a bowl but the critic was standing over me, spinning his metal rod around and around in his hands to remind me that he was there should I decide to try any mischief.

He needn’t have bothered.

I am horrified to discover that my body is hungry. I didn’t want the food, and I don’t feel particularly hungry, but the moment that they put it there in front of me and suddenly… I was wolfing the stuff down. As though the decision to eat wasn’t made by my conscious brain but was rather made by my body instead.

Also, what was I going to do with a thin wooden spoon? I am still tied to my chair, one of my hands is useless and even if I did try to use the spoon as some kind of club, dagger or another lever to pry my bonds off, then it would be more likely to snap rather than actually achieve anything.

But at least I was given a spoon.

Johann was brought a cup of thin, grey liquid. In the same way that I hope that the lumps of salty meat in my porridge were bits of bacon, I hope that what he was fed was some form of gruel or broth. Something that was going to do him some good.

Another critic walked up to Johann and then held the cup to the boy's lips. Johann opened his mouth in desperation as the third, the newer critic just started to tip the stuff into Johann’s waiting mouth. Poor Johann. The liquid was steaming hot. I could see it, even from where I was sitting. It must have burned on the way down.

-

So I went to dinner on the night that I should have been married.

I took my diary with me in the vain hope that I would either be able to use it to fend off well-wishers who would be bound to be wondering why I wasn’t more cheerful. Or to use as a prop when I explain why I wasn’t more cheerful.

I mean, I would have thought that the answer was self-evident. I was supposed to be getting married that day, surrounded by friends and people that I love rather than being surrounded by distant relations. Distant both in terms of emotional intimacy and physical distance. Also, although I called them relations, there was more than one person there that Emma spoke with familiarly that I had absolutely no idea who they were.

So I was sat next to a woman called Aunt Coryn who I understand was some cousin or so of Fathers. I have no idea to what degree that she was removed. I remember looking over at where Ariadne was sitting and feeling a sense of longing. I ached to be next to that woman and I did not doubt that the coming meal was going to be excruciating.

I hadn’t noticed who was missing from the table. I recriminate myself for that now in the same way that I…

I’ve said that before. One of the critics has just reminded me that I have previously likened this to Francesca’s disappearance.

But I didn’t see it.

So I sat at my assigned place and tucked my journal inside my doublet where it acted as a shield over my heart. I fixed the best smile on my face and spent some time speaking to Aunt Coryn about the state of things. I remember lying profusely and without pause for extended periods. I can’t entirely remember what I said, just one of those times when I just let my mouth speak and assumed that it knew what it was doing.

I was trying to decide when it would be acceptable for me to start drinking heavily.

I have no idea who was sitting on the other side of me. Some lawyer I think. The man that had taken up the role of one of Father’s solicitors after that man retired. I think we had met at some point before he realised that I had no interest in his profession and that my future lay elsewhere and I was therefore not going to be a client of his. I seem to remember him talking to the person on the other side of him with considerable animation.

I remember looking around at who was there. I was looking for some kind of escape from the horror that was a continuing discussion about my education with Aunt Coryn who was telling me, at the same time, that education was important but also that I should get out into the real world before I decided what I was going to do with my future.

I mean, it’s not as if I’ve made a secret of my plans but… Some people won’t take the message if you write that message on the side of a sledgehammer and insert it into their skull.

One of the critics found that funny. Flame but I hate critics.

I remember looking around. I saw Emma sitting at the head of the table. There was not supposed to be any kind of formality about who was sitting where but I took that as a kind of formal declaration of who was in charge here. She did well doing it as well. Reminding everyone, including Mother and those people that were flocking around Mark, exactly who was in charge. She seemed happy, relaxed and was doing well I thought.

Ariadne was sitting somewhere down the table. We were in the part of our game where we had to keep our distance from each other in case we both gave into the temptation to have Ariadne teleport us to a distant part of the Empire and fuck all of this nonsense.

She looked radiant in a blue dress. Long-sleeved, long skirt and a neckline that I understand is described as “Scoop-cut” whatever that means. She had a yellow sash around her middle and periodically she would catch my gaze and wink at me. I know her, or thought that I knew her well enough to know that…

Dammit

I thought that she was trying to cheer me up. I knew that she was…

Fuck…

I…

I thought that she was as miserable as I was. Of course, there is no way to know now. But I thought she was as miserable as I was and we were both trying to be there for the other. There was a danger that we were going to drag down the mood of the other person but if we could just keep the other person’s mood up a bit, then we might be able to stave off the horror of permanent depression.

She reminded me of how she had looked at the Empress's coronation.

.

Dammit.

.

Anyway. I remember looking for Kerrass. He was…

This is not getting any easier.

Poor Kerrass

He was sitting amongst a group of ageing ladies. I am pretty confident that he just sat down and these women congregated around him. Attracted to the danger, the fact that he knew what they were talking about or some kind of combination of all of those things. He had one on either side of him and they were all but playing with his clothes.

He… He seemed to be taking that in good grace and was behaving gallantly in response but I wondered if I was imagining the kind of fixed stare expression that was on his face. Those women can get intense if you aren’t careful around them.

I saw Rickard, he was having a similar kind of situation but people were looking at him and talking to him differently. They were sizing him up as potential material as a potential son-in-law. Not for the first time, I felt as though these things are often treated in the same way that others of us would treat buying a horse. They were all but examining his teeth and asking about his pedigree.

No matter how many times he tried to tell them that he was spoken for, engaged to be married and that he was happy with the choice, they didn’t seem to be perturbed. He was a dashing, military man and to a certain kind of person, that is like catnip to a cat. One of them produced a pocket portrait of her daughter to show Rickard. I wondered what the portrait looked like. Rickard himself tried to show polite interest but he is not as good at hiding his feelings as others.

He tried to get firmer with the women as I watched to inform them that he was off the market but still.

I hope Rickard is alright. I have no idea what…

Fucking critics.

Rickard was wearing an outfit that I call “feast armour”. It was the kind of armour that you wear to remind everyone that you are a military man and that you are a man of duty. It’s little more than a shiny breastplate and a pair of greaves. He had to leave his sword behind as there were so many people there.

Mark was holding a bit of a court at another end of the room. Surrounded, again, by slightly older folk that wanted to prove that they knew what they knew and that they had not got it wrong. They were trying to disprove Mark’s declaration that every person must dismiss the monster from their lives. And then his further declaration that Monsters are those that would extinguish the light. That being a monster is not a matter of a person’s race. He pointed at Ariadne’s baptism and confirmation in the worship of the Eternal Flame as evidence of his point.

He was enjoying himself.

Sir Froggart was, like Rickard, wearing some party armour and was talking with someone. Froggart treated this kind of thing as a kind of necessary evil. He hated getting all dressed up and would regularly claim that he was wasting time when he could have been doing something useful. Judging by his expression, his opinion of such matters had not changed since his retirement.

I sympathised.

I didn’t see who was missing until he made his entrance.

We were all sitting down and having a relatively nice time. Although I was utterly miserable I was putting a brave face on it and it is sometimes true, not always, but sometimes true that if you fake a better mood than the one you are feeling, then a better mood will arrive when you are not looking.

Some good pre-dinner drinks were being served and the serving staff were coming round with the soup which was a delicious kind of parsnip soup with a creamy and spicy edge to it that just managed to tickle the tongue and had the added bonus that it distracted the other people that wanted to talk to me.

But it was halfway through that that Sam made his entrance.

.

Fuck.

.

I should have seen it. People have been trying to tell me about it for years now that I think about it. But I was blind, I was blind.

.

Sam walked in and the way he walked, he did so with a purpose.

He looked pale, I remember that.

I had no clue what was happening. A combination of everything that had happened and was not happening and that still might happen had fogged my mind and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I suspect that if I survive all of this, I will hate myself for not thinking clearly.

I will tell myself that I had plenty of reasons not to be thinking clearly but deep down I will know that I should have seen it coming and that I should have done something about it.

Sam walked in, looking pale. He was sweating.

I was looking at him as he moved in and I registered movement. Everyone had turned to look at Sam as he made such an entrance that it drew everyone’s eyes to him.

Everyone was looking at him. If anyone was doing something different. If Kerrass was looking because his medallion had jerked or if someone had seen something then…

I was certainly looking at Sam.

He was wearing all of his armour. Plate and Chain mail with a helmet in his hands and a sword on his hip. His surcoat was that of the Redanian military. The red was more subdued than the older flags. A deeper crimson rather than the bright and shiny red that Redania used to fly.

He left the main doors open. The door to the servant's area was already open and there were other doors there that were open as well. We could easily hear the revelry that was going on outside.

I was glad to see him. That’s what I remember. I was glad to see him.

“There’s my brother.” I thought. “There’s my friend. He will help to keep me safe in the middle of all of this. Another ally in the midst of… all of this.

Yes, he was armoured but I didn’t see why that was strange. In the same way that I was carrying my journal as armour. The same way that Kerrass wore a tunic that was almost, but not quite like a Witcher’s armour. And the way that Emma sat at the head of the table.

“He’s telling us all who and what he is.” I thought. “He’s a soldier and he’s telling us that he’s a soldier and that we should treat him with respect because of it.”

I was glad to see him.

In the time since all of this had happened. I have wondered at his behaviour. He came in alone and by himself but since then…

He was armoured and at the most, we had eating knives. He was wearing plate and chain and our best weapons were eating implements. He could walk through our attacks and not notice what was happening.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He walked to his place, holding his hands up high to respond to those people that shouted his name. He smiled and shouted greetings back before he stood at his place and raised his hands to ward off the jeering at his tardiness.

He had everyone’s attention. Including mine.

I remember leaning back in my chair. I had a cup in my hand. The entire feeling of the place was that my brother was about to make some kind of speech and I was looking forward to what he was going to say.

He had all of our attention.

“Yes, I am late,” he told us all. I wonder if I will ever forget those words.

Normally when I recount words, I am writing from notes made hurriedly in the aftermath or…

Well. But this time, I will never forget it. I looked at him and he took a drink from a goblet to wet his throat, his other hand holding up to beg for patience and also to hold attention.

I remember wondering when my brother had gotten so good at this.

He lowered his hand and stood there, sweating a little and he wiped his forehead on the back of his wrist.

I thought he was sweating in the heat.

“I wish I have more to say.” He told us as he stood there for a long moment. “But when the time comes, there is nothing that can really conjure up the feeling of the moment is there.”

There was some general laughter.

He nodded to everyone and then I wonder if I imagined that he looked me in the eyes.

“Sorry Freddie,” He whispered.

Well… He mouthed it.

“On this night,” he began formally. “I raise my standard in rebellion against the tyrannous South, against the hated Black Ones. I will not rest until the yoke of their tyranny has been thrown from our shoulders. I do so at the behest and with the knowledge and blessing of Queen Adda of Redania and Temeria.”

His proclamation was met with silence.

Then he turned.

“It is time.” He shouted before bringing his voice down to a quieter level. “Break that damn fool Witcher’s neck.”

There is much about that moment that I wonder if I imagined it. I wonder if I imagined the spittle that sprayed from my brother’s lips as he said the word “fool”. I wonder if I imagine the humming vibration that seemed to echo from my ears down into the hollow of my chest. I wonder if I imagined the rising laughter of panic in my throat.

I am confident I had my eyes on Sam as the laughter bubbled up. I remember thinking that this might be some kind of joke.

But I still imagine Ariadne rising to her feet with an expressionless face although I cannot swear that I actually saw it, I think I saw it. Or I register it on some underlying level that I cannot understand.

I once wrote that I had never seen a Vampire move when she meant it. I still have not seen a Vampire move. Not when she means it anyway.

She was on the other side of the room. Literally the other side of the room where she had been seated. Near the top of the tables given her rank as a Countess, a rank that she held in her own right.

And Kerrass is just a Witcher and a friend of the family.

Was…

Dammit.

But then she was there, standing next to Kerrass. She looked as though she was doing an annoying chore. No expression on her face. Nothing.

Her hands enveloped Kerrass’ head. One hand cupped around his chin, covering his mouth while the other was cupping the back of his skull. Then she jerked and the snap was audible.

Or maybe I imagined that as well.

Kerrass fell. It is a lie that a broken neck kills instantly. He fell, his throat seemed to move, his mouth seemed to churn as he tried to say something. He must have bitten something when Ariadne grabbed his mouth because a small amount of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. It seemed to me that I saw the glow in his eyes fade as he died.

I don’t know who screamed first but a signal had been given. Armed men were rushing into the room then. Huge, muscled and armoured with great weapons that stood by the door.

Sam wasn’t done.

“Collar the bitch.” He ordered and Ariadne moved again.

It took me a moment to find her. I would like to flatter Laurelen that she was in shock at everything that had happened and was still happening. She hadn’t even gotten out of her chair when Ariadne appeared next to her. As it was, I had to look for Ariadne.

Part of me had fled. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was just a man with two arms and legs. I still wanted to laugh. It was a joke. It had to be a joke.

Ariadne was fastening some kind of collar around Laurelen’s throat. It was made out of a strange metal that had a rainbow sheen running over the surface.

It actually looked quite pretty but she screamed as the metal closed around her neck.

“TAKE THEM ALIVE,” Sam screamed over the din.

It all went echoey. I had no idea what was happening.

I do not know who screamed first but that was the first breach in the damn.

I looked to my right and I saw the lawyer to the right of me gaping, his mouth working like a fish does when it is tossed onto the ground. He was pale and for some reason, he was tugging at the collar of his tunic while he stared at me, as though he was struggling to breathe. A black line had appeared on the top of his head and as his mouth worked, the line seemed to open and blood poured forth, horrible, thick, red blood that ran down his brow and dripped off his nose before he fell to his knees.

It was all happening so slowly but at the same time. I could not move.

I saw the armoured man who I take to be some form of early…

Fuck.

He looked the same size as the men guarding me as I write. He was huge and made huger by the armour that he was wearing. He had a heavy truncheon in his hand, the type that watchmen break up riots with. It looked like a toothpick in his hands and he had just slammed it onto the top of the head of the lawyer.

I find that I detest lawyers on principle but at the same time, I cannot remember ever meeting one that I dislike, practised charm and all that, but I wonder if that man had deserved to be struck like that.

The woman to the left screamed and I had time to turn my head and I saw another one of these huge…. Monsters of men as he grabbed her by the hair on her head. Her hands came up and tried to grab hold of her hands but the armoured man was far too strong for her.

He slammed her face first into the table and she stopped screaming.

I remember wanting to shout at the soldier that Sam had demanded that they take us all alive.

I looked for Kerrass. An automatic response. I always look for Kerrass in the middle of the violence. Like a drowning man looking for something to… to hang on to.

He was still dead, staring off to one side, still twitching in death.

I couldn’t see Emma. I thought I saw Froggart being bundled to the floor.

Rickard was trying to get to me I think. He, at least, was trying to fight. He looked at me, his mouth was open and I think he was shouting as he swung the remains of his wooden chair at the nearest armoured man.

I remembered wondering why I couldn’t hear him but all I could hear were the sounds of whooshing water.

The man that had clubbed the lawyer clapped his hand on my shoulder.

Kerrass was dead.

It felt like I was watching from behind my own eyes as I moved and acted.

I grabbed the bowl of soup that was half full and threw it in the face of the man attacking me. I think he screamed in reflex as his hand, the one that was reaching towards me, lifted to fend off the hot liquid.

I realised that I was still sitting which meant that my boot knife was closer to hand. I bent, which must have meant that a grasping hand missed me as it went over my head and I grabbed the dagger and drew it, standing at the same time.

Out of reflex, I looked for Kerrass and remembered again that he was dead.

He was dead and Ariadne had killed him.

There was reddish-black smoke in the room now that seemed to be sealing off the doors. I saw a woman run into one before she screamed and fell. I rose to my feet and the armoured man snarled as he went to grab me. I got his arm and pulled him into my dagger which reached for the gap under his helmet.

I think I killed him.

Another armoured gauntlet fell on my shoulders and I turned. I was angry now. I wanted to fight. I wanted to kill. I spun to attack but the attacker seemed calmer and just twisted his body so that my knife skittered off his armour. He reached for me before a blade hammered down onto the arm knocking it down.

“Go, Freddie,” Rickard screamed at me. I had to read the words off his lips. He had cut through to get to me but he was not clear. Blood ran down his face. I could see his eyes staring, one was larger than the other and they were boggling at me.

He had a sword in one hand that I assume….

Assuming. Damn me.

I thought he had taken it from one of the attackers but he was holding it in one hand. It was a blade, far too heavy for one hand. The other hung limply and I could see blood running down the arm.

He spat more blood.

He turned me with the same arm that was holding the sword and pushed me towards the window.

I went.

Another attacker got in our way but Rickard moved past me and although he couldn’t control his sword with enough fine care to kill a man in full armour, he battered him aside with rage.

I made it to the window. Little more than an opening that looked out over the courtyard.

It was quite a long way down. A window that was little more than a port for people to shoot out of in the event of an attack.

I was still unhurt and I tried, through some reflex to get Rickard to jump first.

He physically heaved me into place and pushed me. Using his shoulder to force me through.

My clothing ripped and I lost my dagger.

I screamed his name as I fell. No more than fifteen, twenty feet and as I landed I heard Rickard’s voice screaming out the window.

“CARYS.” He screamed. “CARYS.”

I had landed badly. The shock and the inability to jump properly meant that I had twisted as I fell, the impact driving the air from my body. I turned on the ground and tried to get my legs under me.

Kerrass was dead and the woman that I loved had killed him.

I tried to find something, anything that would help me get my feet under me. I wanted to find a weapon. Anything. Something that I could use. I wanted to cut, bash and hurt. I wanted to kill.

But I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe.

Carys appeared because of course she did.

Carys would have been one of the revellers out in the courtyard. She and her husband were there and if they weren’t on duty, they would have been drinking and having fun. How she heard Rickard I don’t know. There has never been a study that I have trusted that has adequately addressed the difference between human senses and Elves. Some say that human hearing is better and others claim the other way round.

But hear she did and it was no time before thin hands were pulling at me as she heaved me to my feet.

I couldn’t breathe.

“GET HIM AWAY,” Rickard screamed from above us.

Padraig, the Skelligan fighter that has been Rickard’s shadow since the battlefields of Temeria was there, his broadsword was dripping.

“WE HAVE HIM, SIR.” He bellowed, his broad Skelligan brogue. There were tears in his voice. He almost never calls Rickard ‘sir’.

I finally sucked down air.

“No.” I managed to protest and I struggled in Carys’ grip.

She slapped me.

We could hear Rickard scream. It sounded like he screamed in agony. Pain, rage and horror. There was triumph in that scream as well.

An armoured man was coming towards us now and Padraig stepped forward and swatted the huge man aside.

The big Skelligan was weeping as he killed.

Carys was hauling me.

We made it a few paces before Sam’s voice came down.

“COME BACK FREDDIE.” He called. “YOU ARE SAFE.”

I didn’t have the words to answer that and just…

The horror of it all overwhelmed me for a moment then.

Carys had to let go of me for a moment. Three armoured men were coming towards us. Padraig stepped towards them, tears streaming down his huge face. Carys drew her daggers and her lips peeled back from her teeth in the silent snarl that she has when there is hate in her eyes. As she joined her husband.

I would have joined them but I had lost my boot knife somewhere during the fall.

“TAKE MY BROTHER ALIVE,” Sam ordered, his voice ringing out.

The order startled those armoured men and Padraig and Carys killed them for their hesitance.

And I stood in the courtyard of my family castle. Not only had I lost my boot knife, but my clothing was torn and one of my boots had come away in the window. I looked around and it was like looking upon the face of hell.

Armoured men were everywhere, running this way and that. Grappling with workers and servants. They had clubs and truncheons that they used to batter people into unconsciousness. But that didn’t stop the blood from flowing.

People had knocked over fires and that fire was spreading. I saw that the gates were closed and everywhere, people were screaming.

I watched as a servant whose name I had never known, got his head kicked in. I am sure that the blow must have killed him. One of the eyes popped out of his skull, his nose impacted in and his cheekbone shattered.

And then the armoured warrior kicked him again.

I looked for Kerrass. Kerrass was always next to me in times like this. He would know what to do. He would be able to lead me to safety and refuge.

But Kerrass was dead. The woman I loved had killed him.

Today was supposed to be my wedding day.

-

I don’t know who is reading this, or indeed if anyone is reading this, whether it’s you Sam you unspeakable…

Fuck

Or whether it’s one of your subordinate lackeys or whatever else might be happening.

But after writing those words, I am afraid to say that I went a bit mad and it is now, possibly a day later.

For just that moment, I could see Kerrass’ face as the light left his eyes, the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. I could hear women screaming and I would be prepared to swear on holy texts that I could pick out my sister's and my mother’s voice in the middle of all that screaming.

Other images came back to me that I didn’t have time to see at the time. I saw a very brave man who I did not recognise leap at Ariadne with an eating knife. I saw that blade shatter against her neck.

She was standing over Laurelen at the time who was still pawing at the collar that I can only assume was Dimertium. I saw Ariadne turn to look at her attacker, her face impassive and she did nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I saw many things. I remember almost slipping on something that I could only hope was the butter. I saw a candle being knocked over into the hair that a woman had tied up into an ornate construction and saw that flame begin to consume it.

I also remember the absurd parts of my brain that try to defend me from all of the horrors with humorous little pieces of nonsense.

As I say, the candles and things around the place were being knocked over and just for a flash…. And I don’t know if this thought was something that occurred to me on the night itself or whether or not it happened in my dreams, but the thought that occurred was that Mother would get really angry if that caused the tablecloths to be damaged.

Let alone the food stains from where it went everywhere.

Or the blood.

Dear Flame, the blood. You never really get rid of the smell, not really. That smell that you want to describe but when it comes down to it, there is no real description other than to say that it smells like blood. And when it’s all flying around with all of the violence, sooner or later it is inevitable that some of it gets in your mouth and that is also a taste that you will never forget.

So I went to pieces. I fell apart. I was sitting in my bonds at my desk and I started weeping. The critics… Our guards were not the most imaginative and as a result, they kind of lost their temper. They struck me to get me to carry on writing. When that didn’t work, they flogged Johann. But now I was screaming at them. They were replaced in my mind by my various tormentors over the years.

Oddly, Sam was not one of them.

But I was screaming, hurling myself into my bonds and trying to get at them. Johann was having the skin flayed from his back. One of us had soiled ourselves and the smell of sharp urine and…

The sheer amount of filth on the floor was awful.

At some point, I blacked out. Whether from a blow to the head or from the emotional…

I could still hear the people screaming and smell the smoke of that night. The night that my home burned. Literally and figuratively, my home had been on fire and the smell of that was in my nose.

So I lost consciousness.

I woke in my cell to find Laurelen standing over me and as my eyes opened, two more critics were locking the collar back around her neck.

She seemed resigned, very tired. She looked like a person that has passed through pain and grief to whatever comes on the other side of that. Battlefield surgeons and plague doctors have that expression. I have seen Shani wear that expression on more than one occasion.

Her eyes were sunken under black shadows and what I could see was bloodshot. She was still wearing the gown that she had worn that night. It was filthy, stained with soot, ash, food…

And blood.

She looked… She looked broken.

“You are fine,” She told me. She had seen the question in my eyes and had guessed at the response. Incorrectly as it happens.

“They broke your jaw and cracked your ribs. You have also suffered from a severe concussion which might have led to brain damage if I hadn’t been here. You have lost blood and there is an infection in your body from where you lost those fingers. ”

She gestured at my left hand. I checked, and I still had all of the others.

“They need to do something about your infection otherwise it will spread and kill you.” She wasn’t just talking to me now, but to our guards. “But I am under orders and I daren’t…”

Tears formed in her eyes and in her voice.

She took a deep breath and her expression went neutral.

“I cannot do more.” She said.

“Johann?” I formed the words through my dry and raspy throat.

“He’s in a bad way.” She told me.

“Finish your work and he will be healed.” One of the guards lied. Astonishing how badly he did it as well.

I saw the knowledge of the lie on Laurelen’s face.

I looked back at Laurelen.

“Emma?” I asked

“She’s…”

She didn’t get a chance to say any more before a gauntleted hand slapped her on the side of the head. Her eyes went glassy for a moment but then she collapsed. She staggered and caught herself on the wall as her legs went rubbery. She looked back at me for a moment and I could see that as Rickard’s had been, one of her eye pupils was larger than the other.

She looked… defeated.

One of the guards caught her under the armpits and dragged her off. I could see one of her legs trying to get under her, scuffing through the straw.

She was barefoot and like I was and like Johann was, her feet were filthy.

By the time she was in the corridor outside my cell, I could see through the bars that she could probably walk by this point, but the guard didn’t have the patience to let her and just dragged her away.

A huge man loomed over me.

He was dressed the same way that Sam had been on the night that…

That night. He had the surcoat of Redania on his tunic.

I used to say that Gregoire was the largest man that I have ever seen. Some kind of freak of genetics that says that his bones are stronger and his muscles bigger than just about anyone and everyone else that was in the rest of the world.

But this man was bigger. He lacked the oversized jaw and brows of the critics. That sense of disproportion was missing but he was still taller and broader and stronger than your average person.

Something was different.

“I should apologise.” He told me, his voice was formal. “Your guards went too far. I have been briefed by your brother that you are susceptible to battlefield shock and we should have briefed your guards that this might cause a problem.”

Not only was his voice formal, but it was also trained and educated.

“We have replaced your guards and we require you to get back to work.” He told me as he turned to go.

“Who are you?” I asked but he ignored me.

“Why should I do this for you?” I demanded. “Why don’t I stop?”

He paused and came back and stared down at me. I felt like I was looking at a Golem or some other kind of elemental construct. But then he sighed and scratched the side of his head.

“My understanding,” he began, “is that you are aware of the penalties that will be imposed if you fail to carry out those tasks that are assigned to you.”

I felt a sullen, pointless and empty rage as I remembered.

“Fuck you,” I said.

He sighed.

“Further to this, your clerk is also injured. Although the guards are being punished for going too far, that does not change the fact that failure to work is only going to prolong his suffering.”

I nodded.

“So you are going to heal him after this is done?”

“Yes.” He told me.

He was not a good liar, but I could not do other than believe him.

So now I am back, tied to my chair and strapped to my desk. My missing fingers itch and it is made worse by the fact that I know that the injuries are infected. Men have died from less when the infection kicks in.

I remember Jack and I remember some of the visions that he gave me. I remember one of the dying people just wishing death would hurry up and take him so that he could stop being afraid.

The room feels a bit cleaner, there is fresh straw on the floor and there is no damp, or squishiness between my toes. Just crusted on filth.

That isn’t going to be helping the infection.

Johann is opposite me, he looks at me with dead eyes even while I can see the sweat running down his face and see his chest moving.

-

The three of us fled the castle. I was… all but incoherent. I wanted to go back and get my spear. I wanted to carry that spear against my enemies but I also knew that to go back was to ensure my death and that Rickard’s determination to get me out would have been in vain. I didn’t know that he was dead and I still don’t know…

I mean I’ve…

These new guards are just as hot on letting me know when I am heading towards forbidden topics.

I wanted to fight but I had nothing to fight with. I tried to lift one of the swords that the guards were carrying that Carys and Padraig had killed but I could barely lift the thing let alone be able to wield it properly.

Carys tugged me away and I went with her, the jerk on my arm causing me to drop the weapon.

Probably for the best.

We went surprisingly cautiously. I would have thought we would have been better off with some kind of headlong exodus. But we kept to what shadows there were. One of the benefits of the pavilions and tents and temporary structures was that there were plenty of ways to hide.

Carys and Padraig swapped. She led and Padraig stayed close to me. The two of them moved well and talked to each other with simple hand gestures. Twice she stopped us before heading out and returning with fresh blood on her daggers. She didn’t need to be too quiet as people were shouting and screaming.

Some of those shouts were people calling my name.

Others were being ordered to find me quickly.

Various and imaginative punishments were suggested if I wasn’t found.

We came up with two long coils of rope before we climbed up some stairs that led to the walls. Padraig led again and killed another.

The rope carried us over the wall and to the bottom. And that was how we escaped. The walls are all interconnected so that should an enemy take the courtyards, then defenders can still hold the walls, or vice versa and so we were able to make our way to the outside of the castle quite easily after that. Our enemy was still trying to contain everyone and it seemed that we had slipped through that net. I don’t know if we did that at the point of Carys’ daggers or by the edge of Padraig’s sword.

I did nothing. I was, essentially senseless.

By this point, I had this feeling of being outside my body. I watched it walking, running, crouching and hiding from behind my own eyes. I was expressionless and I could just about hear what was going on around me as though it was coming through a tunnel.

I felt immensely tired and there was a sense of unreality. There was a part of me that was hoping that this was some kind of nightmare. As though I had eaten something that had gone rotten and I was now delirious.

We landed outside of the castle walls. There were horse patrols that were moving around the countryside, but they didn’t know the landscape like the three of us and we were able to get to the tree line fairly easily.

I felt like I was walking through a Kingdom on fire.

The staggering thing for me was that it was almost exactly like the cult in the North and their visitations on the people nearby. Riders were running through the smoke and the flames and the darkness. They seemed to be calling out to me. Various people were screaming.

It was so alike that I wanted to laugh as we ran from tree trunk to tree trunk. I kept looking around for Kerrass with his broken arms tied to his chest and then I would remember that he was dead.

The differences though…

My vision did not swim. The screams that I could hear were perfectly ordinary human screams issued by perfectly normal human throats. The riders that went this way and that way calling my name were wearing proper armour and were riding proper, healthy, well-trained horses.

This was the worst nightmare. This was the way that everything went wrong. This had been what I was most afraid of when I ran through the woodland in the North. I could not have told you that at the time. But this fear, the fear that it would visit my homeland. The fear that Ariadne would turn against me and that I could not love her. It was the fulfilment of all of that and I was so terrified that I was essentially shut down.

Carys and Padraig, between them, had to move me around. They gave me orders and told me when to do things and what to do. I was entirely in my head at that point, watching my body move without having any real control over it, even as I told it to run, to stand and then to move on.

They steered me well. Carys had to shake me a couple of times to get me to listen to them and once I slumped against a tree trunk and had to be shaken into an attitude of usefulness.

I was astonished when it happened. It was as though I had fallen asleep and then Carys had to cover my mouth while I laughed at the absurdity of it.

The group of horsemen that we had been hiding to avoid moved on and we left with all the speed that stealth was allowing.

I didn’t know where we were going, nor do I know what route we were taking to get there. However, when we got there, I saw a building on fire and I saw Carys beginning to despair.

It was a large building with a sign on the front and the glow from the flames illuminated a bright circle around it. We were in a village, not one of those hovels from the depths of Velen, but this place was well-built and well-made. People were looking out of windows and looking out of doorways to see what all of the fuss was about and to watch their tavern burn.

A squad of horsemen thundered through the town and all of those faces disappeared from view before, in ones and twos, they started to reappear.

We were in the tree line and the small part of me that was still able to think realised where we were.

This was one of the small towns around the place that serviced the many trade caravans that came through Coulthard lands. As such, there will be a smithy, a cooper and a wheel-wright somewhere around the place, as well as all of the other shops that provide the other things that a wagon train might need.

And it was the tavern that was burning. The place where people could get a good flagon of ale and a hunk of meat to chew on. Truly extravagant guests might be able to get a bath there and I know that there were a few rooms that could be hired should anyone want them.

The owner didn’t make his bar staff sleep with any of the customers although if they did, he was alright with it and didn’t take the money that they made.

This was Chireadean’s tavern. He likes to joke that no matter what happens, he always likes the idea of having a little tavern of his own. A tavern with a buxom woman to keep him warm at night and a comfortable chair that he could sit in while he watches the world go by. When we were running through the undergrowth in the North, he would tick things off his fingers as to what he would do with such an inn. He would say that attractive women would drink at half price before giving the secret that all women are attractive to a randy old elf like him.

I have no idea how old Chireadean is or whether or not he is old for an elf.

It would seem that these new critics are more agreeable to the matter when I go off on tangents.

I know that he had multiple chess sets behind the bar. Spare, but incomplete Gwent decks and boards, Domino boxes and several lawn games that could be borrowed to take out and play on the green. His bow was somewhere in the corner and his Glaive had been fastened above the hearth.

He had found himself a buxom woman that liked her men thin and the pair had found enough affection with each other to call it love and had been married a couple of months after Chireadean had arrived in the local area. Survivors of that run from the North drank in his tavern for free.

Carys wept when she saw that it was on fire and Padraig was not doing much better. A lot of wounds had been healed in that tavern over the time since we got back from the North.

Carys asked a question but I didn’t hear it. From the context, I suspect that she was wondering what we were supposed to do now. She repeated the question before Padraig shook his head and we pulled back from our vantage point. We waited for a moment and the two of them started to get into the thick of a discussion.

Then Carys heard something. I have no idea what she could hear over the fire consuming the tavern. Or the distant screams or the thunder of hooves going this way or that but she did.

She put her hands to her mouth to make some kind of trumpet and a birdcall came out.

One of those tricks that people seem to be able to do so easily that I have never been able to get the hang of.

Like whistling.

She listened again for a moment, waving Padraig into silence at one moment before she heard something else. She seized Padraig’s hand and led us off into the darkness and led us to the first good news of the night.

Chireadean and his wife, and another Elf that had come with us out of the North that had been working with Chireadean were there waiting while Chireadean drank from a bottle and watched his tavern burn.

He looked relatively calm about it.

He was expecting us and rose to his feet, pulling us into the little hollow before embracing Carys first, taking Padraig's hand and then trying to hug me.

He looked confused when I didn’t hug him back.

“He’s insensible,” Padraig told him. “We ain’t got any fockin’ idea what ‘appened in the ‘all tonight. But the Boss fair threw ‘is lordship out a window to get him to safety.”

Chireadean grunted and made me drink from his flask. It was strong, I can’t say much else about it.

Chireadean’s wife was weeping as she watched her home burn.

“They came through at nightfall.” He said. “They ordered that all of the non-human filth and anyone that supported the Non-humans or the Nilfgaardians out to be tried for treason.”

He chuckled.

“Not that anyone isn’t guilty of that nowadays.”

Then he spat.

“What happened to the tavern?” I asked in a small voice, Chireadean’s brandy was making a difference.

“Well,” Chireadean scratched his nose. “If I’m going to be turfed out of my tavern. Again. Then this time I’m going to be the one that burns the place down. Not some fascistic racist gob-shite of a soldier who just wants to watch the place burn.”

He laughed at his joke. He looked resigned.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” I told him, tears in my throat. “Kerrass is dead, Ariadne killed him.”

Chireadean’s face went still and his wife turned to us with a horrified expression.

“I think…” I tried. “I think it’s a rebellion. I think… I think that… Flame…”

The tears threatened and I had to take a moment to swallow the lump in my throat.

“Her ladyship?” Chireadean asked me gently, that’s what he calls Emma, or called I have no idea about the proper tense at the moment.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Nor Mark or Laurelen or Mother. I think Sam’s part of it in some way but I don’t know… I just…”

Chireadean’s face stiffened. I thought that he had forgiven Sam for the racism that the Elves encountered in the North but right then I wondered.

“Tonight was supposed to be my wedding night.”

Luckily for all of us, I didn’t wail it too loud.

That, and Carys was quick enough to cover my mouth with her hand.

They waited for a little while while I calmed down. I went catatonic for another little time after that. They did talk a bit about moving on but Chireadean, who seemed to be wise in this kind of thing said that they would have assumed that he fled with his wife and as such if anyone was looking for him then they would be tracking along the lines and the tracks that led away from the inn. They wouldn’t think of looking for him closer to home as it were. The other Elf left during this conversation.

Chireadean told us that he wanted to watch his work of the last year burn.

He seemed to be quite enjoying it.

I will never understand Chireadean’s humour. I hope he got away.

But still…

We were sitting just below the ridge line. Chireadean passed his bottle around for a while with his arm around his wife. She kept moaning at him about how she was sorry that everything had happened, about how she thought that they were safe and about how she had been certain that her neighbours were better than that.

Chreadean just held her and told her that neighbours will always be good people until the question of self-preservation presented itself. He tried telling her she should sell him out and see if she could get to safety with a vague promise that they could meet later. But she pointed out, correctly, that the horsemen were also demanding things from those that had consorted with traitors and non-humans.

Chireadean sniffed at that.

“Not that there are many people that could claim to not having consorted with Nilfgaard anymore.”

“That’s the point,” I said from nowhere. I don’t even remember formulating the thought. “They know that everyone has consorted with a Nilfgaardian by now so they also know that they can toss anyone they like to the wolves. Any person that speaks back to them, anyone they don’t like. They can get rid of because they had their pans fixed by a Nilfgaardian peddler, or brought a drink from an elf or had their knives sharpened by a dwarf.”

Chireadean grunted. Of course, he knew all that anyway.

We all watched as Chireadean’s tavern started to collapse. I have been rather drunk in that place several times since Chireadean took it over. I had enjoyed him living there

“So what do we do now?” Chireadean’s wife asked.

“I don’t know,” Chireadean said. “But personally speaking, I want to get you to safety and then I find, much to my astonishment, that I want some vengeance. I have been treated better by people when I have set up a home, but not often. If Lady Emma is alive then I cannot believe that she would be a party to this. I would see to her rescue and then if she’s dead? There’s some more vengeance to be had I think.”

Carys murmured an agreement to that. Tears were running down her face as well as she watched the inn burn. Something in Chireadean’s words seemed to have caught at her

“But what do we do?” Padraig was struggling a bit with, actually being in charge of it all.

“What happened Freddie?” Chireadean.

I told them mechanically. Both Chireadean and Padraig’s faces were bleak when I finished speaking.

“I can’t believe that Ariadne betrayed me.” I whimpered.

Chireadean shook his head.

“She didn’t Freddie.”

My head jerked up “What?”

“I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if all of this,” he waved his hands in the air, “is some form of political nonsense from the capitol, but Ariadne didn’t betray you. It was your brother who betrayed you.”

“What, but…”

Chireadean had gone back to looking at the fire of his home and when he turned back to me, the flames reflected off the skin of his nose and his cheekbones, making him look skeletal and spectral.

“I love you Freddie, You and… I love you and your sister is making the effort to be better, she really is. She still catches herself every so often but at least she cares. Mark’s a decent sort as well, misguided and arrogant as only the best kind of priests can be but his heart’s in the right place.

“Ariadne loves you. She might be an ancient… whatever, but she loves you and whatever else happened in that room. She didn’t kill Kerrass and she didn’t do… whatever that was with Laurelen. At best, she was forced to do something and that was what you saw. But your brother?”

His lips curled.

“Your brother is a fucking snake.”

“Chireadean.” His wife protested.

“I’m sorry love.” He told her before turning back to me. “Freddie, I’ve read your diaries too and how many women, powerful women have to tell you that they don’t trust your brother before you start to believe them rather than the face that he presents to you. You’re his brother and he loves you and he treats you accordingly. But for anyone else? Anyone… Oh I don’t know.”

He petered out as another group of horsemen rode into the little village. They stopped and one of them shouted out.

“FRIENDS.” He bellowed. “IT IS TO BE KNOWN THAT FREDERICK COULTHARD IS REQUIRED BY THE CASTLE. A REWARD IS TO BE OFFERED FOR HIS CAPTURE AND RETURN TO COULTHARD CASTLE ALIVE AND UNHURT. HIDING HIM OR HELPING HIM TO FLEE WILL BE SEEN AS TREASON AND PUNISHED ACCORDINGLY. IF HE CAN HEAR THIS, THEN COME HOME LORD COULTHARD. YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU HAVE SEEN AND YOUR SAFETY IS ASSURED.”

They finished up and rode on.

We sat there for a long time I think. I still felt distant from the entire thing. It felt, uncomfortably like… That moment after you’ve kind of woken up, you are warm and comfortable and you are just kind of waiting for the rest of you to join you in consciousness.

So we sat and watched Chireadean’s home burn. The ash from the fire and all of his belongings fell around us like a later autumn snowfall.

It was all strangely peaceful.

I watched as one of those snowflakes of ash fell onto my trousers. My stupid dark blue trousers with silver threading that will catch the firelight and glitter as I move. The ones with the leather inlay so that I can wear them and ride a horse without discomfort. Made that way to let people know that I am an active and healthy man. I am a noble that is not afraid to go from the courtroom to the stable at a moment’s notice.

Exactly like a snowflake, it settled on the surface of the fabric for a long moment. It just sat there, perfectly preserved and then, just as the temperature of my skin would make the snowflake dissolve, the ash flake crumbled into dust. A little stain on my thigh, just above my knee.

If I had my hands free I would touch that place on my leg now. I can feel it itching.

I wonder why I remember that so clearly. That flake, and not any of the others that were tumbling down out of the trees at the same time.

The things that we remember.

And then the crossbeam of the house, the one that holds the entire thing up seemed to collapse into the rest of the building with a huge crash that sent a fountain of sparks up into the heavens. The sound shocked me from my reverie and I don’t think I was alone in the sense of shock and surprise. I remember even being resentful that I had been startled out of that strange state of peace. And looking around at the other contemplative faces around me, I was not alone in that thinking.

Carys literally stretched as though she was waking up from a nap. Reminding me, not for the first time, of a cat.

If our enemy had come across us then, there and in that moment. They could have taken all of us without even thinking about it. They could possibly even have just asked and we would have gone with them.

The other thing that occurs now that I am… heh… safe, is that we had been lucky that we had had the torrential downpour of the previous times because otherwise, that fire could have spread and become dangerous.

“So what do we do?” Chireadean’s wife… I think her name is Rose. Maybe Tulip or Blossom. Some kind of flowery name. I am doing her a disservice by not being able to remember her name.

No one seemed to have an answer for her.

Abruptly, I felt myself arrive back in my body. I have no other way of describing it other than that. It was as though there was a strange kind of whistling in my ears and then I was… I was just there in a way that I hadn’t been.

“We do our duty,” I told her.

“Fuckin’ right,” Padraig said, looking a little relieved.

Carys nodded, wiping the tears from her face with an angry, determined expression on her face.

“That’s lovely and everything Freddie,” Chireadean said reasonably, “but what is our duty here? In theory, my duty is to get my wife out of here and even though I have no doubt at all that Carys here would dearly like to murder a few of the cretins that took her home away from her, I doubt that there is much that the three of you could do, even if I joined you. You, Freddie, are, with all due respect, a little drunk, in shock, unarmed and unarmoured and it would seem that…”

He gestured down to the village, “that people are looking for you in particular. Carys and Pad here are unarmoured and have also had a bit of a skinful if I’m any judge and my wife…”

He wrapped his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

“My wife is not a killer. It’s one of the reasons that I like her so much.”

“That’s fine.” I agreed, “And all those points are valid.”

I took a deep breath and tried to think.

“What we need to do is get the word out that this has happened… Whatever this is.”

“It looks like a rebellion to me,” Chireadean said, turning back to the road. “I thought we had gotten past all of this nonsense.”

“So we need to get word to our allies.” I carried on.

“Which is great,” Chireadean said. “Who are they then?”

I sighed, I wanted to punch the superior elf at the time. Looking back it is easy to see that he was just trying to protect his wife and deal with his anger and resentment.

“The Empress,” I said. “I don’t know what’s happening. I wish I did but I don’t. I don’t know who to blame or what’s going on. I saw Sam, or at least I think it was Sam, I…”

My hand rubbed my forehead before I shook my head violently.

“I can barely remember it now. I think it was Sam but… What I saw was someone that looked like Sam… but he didn’t look like Sam. He was different. He moved stronger, he was more assured. Calmer, even.

“And my brother would never betray me.”

Carys looked unhappy.

“And yet you think Ariadne would?” Chireadean challenged.

“No,” I said. “No, you are right there. Ariadne would never betray me. I love her and she loves me.”

Saying it aloud seemed to make it so. There was suddenly strength in my conviction about that. Ariadne had not betrayed me. I felt instantly better.

“But…” I went on. “I did see her kill Kerrass. She snapped his neck like it was nothing.”

“There's always rumour.” Padraig offered. “That she could be controlled or somethin’. Some kind of sick magic.”

“That’s true,” I said. “So whether she’s willing or not, she is an accomplice and a threat.”

Chireadean nodded. “I’m happier with that idea.” He seemed to realise what he had said. “Well… not happy but… Fuck…”

“I know what you meant,” I told him. “So we need to get that warning out there. Ariadne is a threat and everyone should remember that she commands and can speak to Spiders.”

I felt the urge to look around and see if there were any Spider webs around.

“So what do we do?” Carys prompted softly.

“We get the word out,” I replied taking a deep breath. I suddenly knew what had to be done.

“They are looking for me so…”

I took out my diary. It was not as though I had suddenly remembered that I had it, It had just never left my doublet and it occurred to me that it might be useful.

“I’ve been keeping this since I got back from the South. I don’t know, maybe there are clues in it.”

I looked at my army. Two soldiers, an ex-soldier and a bar-maid.

“Carys,” I said, handing my diary to her. “You remember Dorthan?”

She nodded.

“Take this to him and get him to make copies and send those copies to the winds, maybe there are clues or something in there that I missed or something. Tell him what happened…”

“He will never believe me.” She told him.

“He knows you,” I told her.

She made a noise of disagreement.

“Would you believe her?” Chireadean spoke up. “Lord Kalayn is committing treason, Countess Angral murdered a Witcher and helped them raise the banner of rebellion.”

“I might,” I said.

“It would take time,” Chireadean argued. “This has to happen quickly. By the time Oxenfurt knows there’s a rebellion on, they might be surrounded and the word can’t get out.”

“Fine.” I snapped and ran down to the inn.

Was it foolish? Absolutely but I was tired, angry, and heartsick and right then, I just didn’t think. I found a piece of wood that would act as charcoal and when I ran back I wrote a message inside the front of the diary while Carys raged at me.

I have no idea what the message said. I’m not even certain that I wrote anything but apparently, I did so…

I tried to put it into a few words as to what had happened and what the important threads were. And then I snapped the book closed and handed it to Carys.

“Once you’ve given him the book,” I told her. “Head over the river to Crow’s Perch. The Baroness there will give you horses and speed you on your way to Vizima where you can warn the Empress.”

Carys looked sceptical but she nodded.

“I’ll go with her,” Padraig said. I have never been close to the Skelligan but something in the way that he said meant that he wouldn’t be separated from his wife.

I wish I knew how he felt.

Sam once told me that you never give someone an order that you know is going to be disobeyed. So I nodded. It made sense anyway and I articulated that.

“The road to Oxenfurt is the most dangerous one anyway.” I agreed. “They will assume that that’s the road I will take so that area will be patrolled.

Carys nodded grimly.

“Chireadean? Circle round and head south I think?”

The Elf nodded.

“I will cross the river further south, steal a boat or something. I should be able to get behind the patrols that way. Will the Empress receive us though?”

“I mean, you were all getting drunk with her a little while ago at my party,” I told him, also including Carys and Padraig. “She’ll remember that.”

Chireadean’s wife looked at her husband a little wonderingly.

“What about you Freddie?” Chireadean said and as he looked at me, a dawning realisation seemed to come into his face. “You’re going to do something foolishly noble aren’t you.”

“You make it sound so dirty.” I was trying for a joke but I think it seemed more tired and desperate than all of that. “They are looking for me. So if I run, they will chase me and it will draw as many horsemen as I can manage away from the directions that you folk will be going. The closest way out of this is Oxenfurt. They know that I know that. So instead, I will head North towards Novigrad. I will go slowly and leave a nice big trail. I’m not in too much of a shape to do otherwise anyway.”

Chireadean shook his head. “You’re the one that people will believe. “You need to get out. This is like in the North when you…”

“No, it’s not,” I told him. “The Empress will believe the three of you.” I shrugged towards Chireadean’s wife. “I am not the only person who will be believed here. And these hunters are a massive difference from what we faced in the North. They will just run us down rather than falling for all of the tricks that we pulled in the North.”

Padraig was nodding his agreement to that.

“I’m also the one most likely to survive being captured,” I told them. “Two Elves and their well-known human spouses. If they’re banking on the non-human hating sentiment to help them gather popular support then the four of you will just be killed.”

Chireadean was unhappy.

Abruptly Carys stood up, nodding to herself. She walked up to me and gave me a fierce hug before she turned and jogged off into the night.

It took us all a moment to realise that she had gone.

Padraig quickly shook Chireadean’s and my hand before running after her, leaving me with Chireadean and his wife.

She was gathering her skirts together to get ready to run.

“Stay alive,” Chireadean told me. “You’re a good man as humans go and I’ve rarely been happier than when I’ve been running a tavern on your lands.”

“When this is all over,” I told him. “We’ll rebuild that tavern.”

“I hope so.” He told me. “It’s the first home in a while that I feel like fighting for.”

I gestured to his wife. “You have the best possible reason to do so.”

She heard and smiled through her tears at me.

“Stay alive for it,” Chireadean told me. “If you’re not there to drink the first ale that I pour in my next tavern, I will be really cross with you.”

I chuckled. “Call it the Scholar’s Quill or something would you?”

“Nah,” he chuckled. “I’ll call it the Scholar’s head. That way I can have a stylised head as the sign. And Punters always like taverns that are named after dismembered body parts.”

“Might be a bit close to the bone,” I commented. “If I don’t survive this I mean.”

He mused and lost his humour. “If you survive it will be the head. If not? It will be the Quill. Does that sound alright by you?”

I shook his hand. “I would be honoured Chireadean.”

He nodded as well before taking his wife’s hand, he headed into the night.

It wasn’t long before I couldn’t see him anymore.

The other bonus idea about allowing myself to be captured was that I would find out what was going on at the castle the quicker. One of those times when the need to know was stronger than the need to get things done. And my logic was correct despite all of that.

Not for the last time I checked for Kerrass to figure out which way to go. I knew he was dead but I still checked for him automatically. But of course, he was dead.

Sooner or later I would need to allow one of the patrols to spot me or find some other way to give the game away. I did wonder if I walked up to a spider’s web and talked to it, whether or not Ariadne would receive word. But then they would know that I was trying to give the game away. So I headed North. There was a road somewhere to the North as well as part of the spider’s web…

Heh.

… of roads that make up our lands. I felt sure that I would be able to see a patrol on the road at some point. As I moved, I felt the cold fury settle over my shoulders like an old warm blanket that you enjoy climbing under after a hard day.

By now, Ariadne and I should have been exploring that old question of ours. Just how close to humans were her erogenous zones and just how much practice would we have needed to learn how to pleasure each other? I was hoping that it would take a lot of practice. I wanted it to be one of those passtimes that is quick to learn but difficult to master. Something that requires constant practice to make sure that your skills don’t rust.

I was not so optimistic to assume that I would gain my vengeance, but I did rather hope that I would be able to find some way to make my enemies pay.

At the time, I still didn’t think it was Sam that was at the root of all of this.