I stood in front of a portrait of my mother. I knew it was her because I recognised some of the body language of it, in that it was extremely similar to how she had stood when Sam, Mark, Emma and I had stood in judgement of her.

She looked ashamed, her body language was hunched over, shoulders together with one arm coming across her midriff to hold onto the other one. Her head was bowed and she was looking out of frame to her left out of the corners of her eyes, as though she was watching someone carefully, or as if there was some kind of wild and untamed animal sat, glaring at her and she didn't know when it was going to leap up and rip her throat out. But at the same time, she knew that this was going to happen eventually, whether she was careful or not.

I guessed that she had been about fourteen when this painting had been commissioned. If it hadn't have been my mother in the frame then I would also have said that it was a beautiful painting. A real tour de force, one of the best examples of modern oil painting techniques that I have seen. If it had been hung in the galleries of Oxenfurt then the title would have been something like “A girl in fear.”

But it wasn't anonymous in that it wasn't some unknown person that it depicted. It didn't display some nameless person dreamed up out of the imaginings of a painters fevered brain. It was my mother. I guessed that the painting showed how she had looked at the age of fourteen. She was certainly young and lacked some of the self-assuredness that she had gained in later life, her figure was not yet fully developed and her hair was not quite as long.

There was an extra, insidious side to the painting as well.

There is another portrait of my mother that I have described before. It hangs in my father's chambers still as Emma has not yet taken the step of moving into the master bedroom of Castle Couthard and a lot of Father's belongings and character are still imprinted on the place. Over the hearth there is a large portrait of my mother. It depicts a young woman, maybe a couple of years older than the one that I was looking at.

In my father's painting, my mother looks happy, smiling and confident. She is sat for the portrait with several pots of flowers nearby that the artist has expanded to compliment the colours of mothers dress and ornaments, to properly “set off her complexion” as my artist friends would say.

She looks as though she has just been startled by a joke, her smile genuine and her eyes shining in amusement. Her hands are resting demurely in her lap as she sits for the portrait.

But here's the insidious part. Now that I have seen the original. It's plain to me that my father's version of the portrait was copied from this one.

I don't know how I know this but somehow....I just know.

I know very little about art, even less of that part of the art-form which is how to get a subject to sit still for long periods of time and display the required characteristics that people want for their portraits. I remember little things about art, small observations and comments, like the fact that you will very rarely find a picture of a pastoral scene where there isn't a farmer somewhere, toiling away whilst wearing a red shirt.

I know that a painting has to have a subject, something to draw the eye and that everything else serves that subject. Landscapes need to have a central animal or a landscape feature that catches the viewers eye.

I also remember certain tricks although I couldn't tell you where I obtained this information. I know that whenever you see a portrait of a person and he is fiddling with a ring then this serves two purposes. The man in question is displaying his signet ring and therefore displaying how powerful he is, how important he is. But it's also a way for the artist to convey a certain amount of energy. To suggest that the subject of the painting would rather be somewhere else, anywhere else, doing more important things than sitting for the production of a portrait.

I also know that the majority of a picture is completely made up in the artists head. I've seen paintings that depict loving couples where I know for a fact that the two people in question were forced together through a political marriage of convenience and famously hated each other. I've also seen portraits of men who are standing up, looking vigorous, active and powerful in their old age. Commanding the room with their stature and their presence. All this when I know for a FACT that those men were old, could barely walk due to the excessive gout and were also, corpulently fat and half blind from the pox.

Warrior Kings have been painted on rearing horses while in real life, they disliked riding and preferred to command their armies from the tent up on the hill.

This is pronounced in the case of portrait paintings. My understanding of the process in these large scale, detailed presentations, is that they sit with their subjects a couple of times. Nothing grand or lengthy and the artist might make a couple of sketches and take some notes on things that they have seen. About the way that the subject carried themselves and the proper placement of beauty marks and the like.

I dreaded to think what the artist had seen when they had first sat down to paint my mother. How bad must she have been if, the best that the artist could draw forth from her was this image of fear and self-consciousness.

I wondered who the artist was and whether they were still alive.

I wondered at the skill of the man who had painted that other portrait. The one that still hangs in my father's room today. The one that I now know to be a “courting portrait” where pictures of prospective spouses are sent out to eligible bachelors in an effort to snare a suitor.

I wondered if Sam would let me burn this painting.

I found it upsetting in a deep and powerful way but at the same time, I found that I couldn't look away from it.

The castle was full of them. Portraits I mean. I also got the feeling that the position and location of the portrait and where it was hung denoted some kind of....pecking order. The most important men (obviously, in this castle, the women weren't important enough) were hung in the banqueting hall whereas the lesser people were hung in back corridors, in the drawing rooms and the private studies, in the armouries and what was laughably referred to as “The Library”

The Women were consigned to a separate room. The former lady of the castle and her immediate daughters were in a room that was literally referred to as “The Ladies room”. Sam had found a couple of old Castle Servants in some of the lower villages and had managed to convince them to come back and work for him. In this case they were acting as guides to tell the people going up to the castle where everything was and they were the ones that would tell us what all these rooms referred to. Apparently, this was the room where the ladies were expected to spend their days when the men folk hadn't given them anything to do. When there wasn't some kind of social event, or there weren't any chores to do.

There were more books in this room than the library.

I found it really odd. My father wasn't particularly a collector of art. We didn't have pictures covering the walls like they did here. What few pictures and tapestries there were, depicted the castle and it's immediate environments. He liked pictures of people at work, whether that was people, noble and commoner alike, working on the castle being built, farmers working in the fields or the industry of a forge, he seemed to like it. He also liked hunting scenes and pictures of horses being ridden. He wasn't really a man for battle scenes or martial displays. You wouldn't have found the famous “standing suits of armour,” in Castle Coulthard, nor will you find sword racks or other ways of displaying weaponry and tools of war.

He also had a habit of occasionally buying pictures that he simply “liked the look of” or reminded him of important events.

On one of the rare occasions where the two of us had talked on the matter, he told me about one of the pictures that was hung in the corridors outside the family chapel. The picture is a fairly simple, still life that shows a basket of fruit. It's a very unusual painting in that it's unlike many of the other paintings that were around the place.

I should say that Mother's taste mostly seemed to follow father's in this regard. Now that I had seen her home castle and her families traditional take on the subject, I could kind of see why.

But I remember asking Father about the basket of fruit. He told me that it reminded me of the day of my baptism in Novigrad. He told me that we had gone to Novigrad for me to be baptised by the Hierarch. I was one of many noblemen's sons that was going to be baptised in the same go as it was a duty that the then Hierarch of Novigrad hated so he liked to get them done in batches. The then Hierarch (not to be confused with the Head of the church for our southern readers. That would be the Hierophant. The same word that druids use to describe the “Head druid”. Never let it be said that the cult of the Eternal Fire only stole elements of their religion from Kreve and Melitele) would often do these kinds of mass baptisms and it was one of the many ways that people could claim to be slightly better than the person next to them by saying that they were baptised by the Hierarch rather than by the local priest.

There was, at the time, a small art shop on the way from where our lodgings were at the time and the Cathedral. As we were walking past it, this picture just caught Father's eye. He thought nothing about it at the time and we simply carried on to the service. Later, it transpired that he was in Novigrad on other business and happened to be walking past the same shop when he had seen that same picture in the window and was suddenly reminded of that, rare, happy family occasion and had gone in to buy the picture.

Because it meant something to him. That was the kind of thing that father liked.

Not this sad procession of portraits that looked down on the people walking through the corridors, galleries and rooms.

These were the real ghosts of the castle. Not the lost spirits and the frightened, angry spectres that roamed the place. These were the real ghosts, standing on high and looking down on you. As though you were being judged or, in the case of those portraits like my mothers portrait. You were being asked for help. Begged for help.

I hated this place.

Sam had expressed a certain amount of indecision as to what he should do with it all. He was torn because, on the one hand, the castle was a symbol of the domination of the Kalayn family over this part of the world. A lot of awful, evil things had been done here and to keep it standing was a constant reminder to the world about what had happened. But on the other hand, as I should know, history is history and we need to remember it. We should take the lessons from it and move on.

I was also well aware that I was having a strong emotional reaction to it all. The atmosphere of the place wasn't helping.

When Lord Kalayn had left to go and see if he could prevent the execution of his son, he had ordered the castle closed. What that meant was that the drapes and shutters had been drawn and bolted against the potential attacks of outsiders. He seemed to live in fear of thieves and other things that would take advantage of the empty and unguarded state of the castle despite the fact that his wife would still have been in residence.

The poor woman had removed herself to the dower-house elsewhere in the province when she had learned of her husband's and son's death. Sam had found it but had kept finding reasons to not go to visit.

We were in our second day after our arrival in Kalayn lands and I still didn't really know how I felt about the entire thing.

In an almost mirrored scene to every other client meeting that I have ever sat in on with Kerrass. Sam sat us down, over a table with a jug of beer between us. He looked tired and a little lost.

“This would be so much easier,” he had said, “if I had inherited a fully functioning and working realm. You know, a place where things were already ticking along nicely but that would be too easy wouldn't it?”

Kerrass and I smiled in sympathy.

“In short,” Sam went on, “The place is fucked. Nothing works. No taxes come in, we have no exports, nothing being imported. We are barely self sufficient and barely anything gets done. The roads are in a state, fences are falling down all over the place and I can't see any kinds of signs of modern industry. It's like these people are living a good, couple of hundred years in the past.

“But that's not the worst of it. The worst of it, by far, is the people here. I feel for them, I really do and I really want to help them but I can't help them if they don't tell me what the problem is. I can live without servants, I can live without luxuries although I won't lie, a hot bath and some properly cooked food is something that I'm really beginning to look forward to, but what I can't do, is make these people's lives better if they won't help me to do that.”

“What makes you think that there is a problem?” Kerrass asked, “more than what you already expected there to be I mean.”

Sam blew some breath out ins exasperation.

“Don't get me wrong,” Kerrass said. “You were already fighting an uphill challenge as it was. These people have been victimised by their masters for so long. You knew that it was going to be difficult to earn their trust.”

“And if that was the only problem here then I would agree.” He told us. “I knew that that was the case. I knew that the Kalayn family were not going to be loved by the common folk. I knew that they might even be hated but....this is different. I don't know why. They're not just afraid of me, but..... I don't know, this is going to sound weird.”

“Believe me, at this point, if you even manage to crack the top ten of weird things that I have seen or have been told by people that try to hire me, then you will be doing well.”

Sam nodded and took a deep drink from his ale.

“Then here it is.” He said. “It's not just that the people fear me, but they pity me too. They kind of look up at me and shake their heads sadly when they see me leaving. I swear I've heard some of them saying things like. “Shame really,” and “Pity....Seems like a good sort as far as Kalayn's go.”

“They recognise your family then.”

“Oh yes. One of the few people that came forward was a steward that had lived in the castle for a long time. He told me that he would have known me anyway if I hadn't announced myself and that was echoed by his mother when I met her. But it's not just that. It's this place....It feels like that place in stories where innocent travellers get caught up in the traps and schemes of dark creatures. I tell you this Kerrass, Frederick, I am a soldier and a knight. I have fought in wars and against men who should have beaten me but I am still here. I am afraid and I am not alone.”

Kerrass grunted before staring off into space.

“Look,” he said after a while. “I'm not saying that this is the case, but have you considered that you might just be overly affected by what has happened with you and your family over the last few months. You were there when we fought Laughing Jack. You've lost your sister as well. Have you thought that you might just need a break and that it's the fatigue and things that might be getting to you.”

“I have thought about that.”

Sam stared into space. “I know that it's not just the hire that brings you here. Clearing a castle out of ghosts is not exactly a large scale job and I imagine that you could be done with it in an afternoons work if you were so inclined.”

“Probably true.”

“You're here to see about Francesca and to see if there's anything here that could tell you how she was taken as well as who might have been responsible for it.”

“The thought had crossed our minds yes.”

Sam nodded. “I want those answers too. I need to know if there's anything here, but I also need to look after these people. I didn't want them, they sure as shit don't want me, but at the same time, they're mine now and I need to do something about this. If there is a problem here and it doesn't just exist in my own little brain. Then I won't be able to leave them to it until we get it sorted out. I won't desert them in the face of whatever it is that has got them so afraid.”

Kerrass nodded.

“There is something here.” He said after along while. “Something on the edge of thought, just crawling around at the edge of my vision and I don't know what it is. It's not Jack. Nothing like that but it is something. There is a strong magical aura here. A strong background....thing that I can't put my finger on.

“My medallion has been twitching since we crossed the border and came up through the trees. Not the same as it does in the presence of magic users, nor in the way that it does when it's near monsters. But enough to let me know that.....”

He shook his head.

“That's worrying.” He told us both. “The cult back near Oxenfurt were using rights that was channelling the magical fields in the local area. The rituals that they performed were powerful. We should all, every so often, remember to get down on our knees and pray to whatever powers we prefer, that there wasn't someone in that little group that was actually magically trained otherwise we would be in a lot more trouble right now. A lot more trouble.”

“So,” Sam seemed to shake himself away from the dire warnings that Kerrass seemed to talk about. “The job here is threefold. The first part of that is to clear out the castle. To lay to rest any spirits that are still up there and making the place look untidy. Second?”

“Second is to see if there are any remnants of the cult that Cousin Raynard was part of up here.” I said. “We know that his father is dead but we also think, from his account, that there might be some other people up here that are still following those traditions. Neighbours and other nobles for instance. We need to find them and destroy them. We need to make sure that the cult is properly torn out to the roots. Finally....”

“If we do find any remnants of this cult, we need to find out whether they were responsible, to any degree, for the disappearance of Francesca.” Sammy finished.

“Ok.” Kerrass smiled. “That's not a short order there. Lot going on. How do you want to set about doing this?”

“You're asking us that?” I laughed. “You're the one with the theories and the expertise.”

“I meant,” he gave me a withering look. “What order. The ghosts or the cult first?”

“I think the ghosts need to be done first.” Sam said. “Tempting though it is to just turn two Inquisitors and a Knight Father of Kreve loose on the populace, I think it needs a softer touch. So if you could start here, Master Witcher?” he smiled as he said that last.

Kerrass nodded. “I had already decided to go up tomorrow and have a look around by myself. I don't think, unless we're very lucky, that we're going to find anything about the cult up at the castle. The former Lord Kalayn must have known that the noose was closing in around him and wouldn't have wanted to risk it by leaving anything out in the open.”

“No, but he might have left clues. That's what Father Hacha's for.”

“I had wondered.”

“What can we be doing in the meantime?” I asked Kerrass.

Kerrass took a deep breath.

“We need more information.”

“But the people aren't talking.”

“I suspect that that's what Father Danzig can do for you. Or that other Inquisitor, you know, whatsisname. The one that isn't Father Hacha. Send those two down and out and see if they can scare something up. We need local stories, folk lore, rumours.....That kind of thing.”

“Will that work?”

“It's a start.”

Sam nodded and we began.

I slept badly that night and woke up feeling more exhausted than I had when I first went to bed. I dreamed that I was on an island in the middle of a lake. The water was moving gently, lapping at the edges of the island but it seemed strange and insubstantial. I could hear the sounds of thunder in the distance but I remember that I wasn't alone on the island. I heard harp music playing but it was discordant and there other sounds too. Like people yelling at each other.

I was scared, desperate and so badly wanted to get away but what I wanted to get away from? I couldn't tell you.

I shivered as I woke up. The air was much cooler up here. We were heading into summer now but although the days were getting hotter, the evenings were cool and fresh. I remember thinking that if it wasn't for all of the other factors that made this place a problem....then I could live here.

Of course, that was a day before I visited the castle.

When Kerrass had allowed us to come up to the castle, it was a day later. It had been quickly established that the main body of the castle was safe. No ghosts or spirits in there that needed to be appeased. Father Hacha was rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect of going through the place with a fine toothed comb to see if he could find any evidence of heresy. I wasn't convinced that he was going to find anything as I was pretty sure that any proof or correspondence would be hidden elsewhere. It would take a very particular kind of heretic to hold their dark and sinister meetings in the library, or the dining room where the heretic would also have to entertain tax collectors.

In short, I didn't expect us to find any sinister robes with arcane runes and blood spatter up the front behind the evening best in the back of the masters wardrobe.

So I was given permission to wander the place on the understanding that I would need to keep my spear with me and that said spear would be coated with spectre oil in case of attack.

I was accompanied by a servant. An old woman who had been in the castle since she was a young girl and simply couldn't imagine another life. It was plain to see that she expected to be taken off and burned at any moment now that the church really had arrived but Father Dempsey had already questioned her and was of the opinion that she was as much a victim of the rest of the family as anyone else. He had spent a bunch of time listening to her confession before deciding that her penance would be to act as a guide for us. To show us where the places were and to tell us what she had seen.

She had already done a lot of the “telling” part of her penance with Father Dempsey and her testimony had already been noted down and set aside before Kerrass and I had arrived.

She told us that there had been other servants but that many of them had fled in fear when they had heard of the death of Lord Kalayn. They too had guessed what the results would be and had taken the necessary steps. Sam, much to the dismay of both Father Dempsey and Father Hacha, had tried to tell anyone who would listen that he would guarantee the safety of anyone that came forward. Especially if they could provide us with any information that we might need to contribute towards the investigation.

He had not succeeded.

The only person that had remained was Old mother Anne who, even she, had had to retreat to making a home in the gatehouse to avoid the Ghosts and spirits in the castle itself. Real or imagined.

It was true that the place was oppressive. Like the weather which was damp and came with a chill wind off the mountains, but it felt as though it pushed down on you. Like a library where the Librarian resents the presence of any visitors and thinks that books should be left on the shelves where they belong.

Anne led me through the various rooms of the castle. I asked to see my mother's old room but I was disappointed. It had long since been converted into some kind of guest room and there was no trace of my mother there.

I looked into the other bedrooms. Father Hacha was in the master bedroom with a scribe. He was carefully and meticulously searching the room, speaking his observations aloud to the scribe who dutifully noted them down. I had not gotten over my initial dislike of the man but I will admit to being impressed with his diligence and work ethic. I had expected him to throw himself into things, tearing rooms and furniture apart like the proverbial bull in a pottery shop. Instead, he reminded me more of a man performing an autopsy. He removed things in slow measured steps, not moving on to the next problem until the previous thing had been dealt with. I stood there and watched him for a while, him oblivious to my presence.

As I watched he was working through a drinks cabinet. There were a series of bottles that he was removing from the cupboard.

He would take one out, read the label aloud before carefully, peeling the label off. Then he would examine the seal and comment on the state of it, as to whether it was open or not, if it was open, how regularly did it look as though it had been used. Then he would examine the state of the glass, the colour of it, any bubbles in the glass, was there a manufacturers mark? And so on.

The bottle would then be placed into a straw lined crate. I had expected him to open the bottles, to have a look, sniff or even a taste but I would later find out that Father Hacha was also a bit of a chemist and would take the liquids off to experiment on later to see what they contained.

He was slow, methodical and very, very thorough.

I moved on.

As I said, the library wasn't really a library as the collection of books and scrolls there was laughable. In my travels, I can honestly say that I've seen more books on the shelves of farmers and villagers. It might be true that the farmers were just keeping the books for something to wipe their arse with but even so. Instead, the walls were lined with hunting trophies. So many little glass eyes stared down at me from the walls that, even more so than with the other portraits, I felt as though I was being watched.

That was where the portrait of the former Count Kalayn was. Standing proudly, playing with his riding crop. He looked every inch the noble man, tall, slim, lean and well dressed. He looked as though he was staring off into the distance while in the background of the painting, you could see horses being ridden across fields and jumping over hedges. I spent a bit more time looking at this painting, looking for some kind of family resemblance to my mother, seeing as how this man must have been her brother.

I was, by no means, entirely objective in this regard but I could see no similarities other than, maybe, the hair colour. It is true that this was a more modern portrait. It's also true that it'[s entirely possible, even likely that the artist would have adjusted the appearance of the man standing in the painting to better suit his customers requirements and ego. But I was looking at a handsome man. Energetic, strong and upright of posture. The picture suggested a strength of character and a desire for greatness. It was a lot like the kind of picture that would, occasionally, be painted of my father.

Father didn't go into portraits very much. Each of his children had had a portrait done at the age of fourteen in order to be sent to prospective suitors and I also know that he had a portrait done of himself and any child that was living at home, once every five years or so. You can find them around the castle if you know where to look. The only main ones are the portraits of mother and Father that hang above the hearth in the drawing room and another one of Father in his ceremonial armour which hangs in the great hall above my fathers seat where he sat on those occasions where he had to keep court.

The great hall only gets used rarely as Father used to like people to come and talk to him regardless of whether or not he was “holding court” or not. His only requirement was that he should not be interrupted while he was eating, nor while he was sleeping. According to castle legend, if news was brought to the castle that was urgent, the sort of thing where father needed to be woken up for the purposes of dealing with the news, then first the news needs to be run past Father's squire. Then and only then, if the squire agrees, is the news taken to wake father up.

Also according to legend, the only times this has EVER been the case, was at the birth of any one of his children, in which case he was already awake waiting for news, and then again when we received word that Nilfgaard had crossed the Yaruga for the third time.

Every other time, the squire had listened to the news carefully before telling the messenger that the message could wait until morning and not once, not once did father ever punish one of his scribes for getting it wrong.

I was being reminded of my father keenly here, wandering around the hallways, looking at the faces of relatives that I had barely even heard of, let alone met and interacted with. I was struggling to keep my objectivity and was fighting off an instinctive dislike to everyone that I saw looking down at me from the huge canvasses.

This wasn't helped by the fact that yesterday, while Kerrass was having his scouting expedition into the castle Sam and I had ridden off with Knight Father Danzig and his men, to go and see Aunt Kalayn.

Ok. Again, I need to explain a couple of things for our more Southern readership. On a castle's estate, when the Lord of the estate dies and is survived by the lady of the estate, the lady is required to step aside for the wife of whoever is taking over so that the new lady can put her own stamp on things and isn't overshadowed by the presence of the older, more experienced and well known lady. There seems to be some kind of assumption that the older lady might want to still be in charge and boss everyone around but I'm not going to get involved in that debate.

Nor am I going to get involved in the debate of the correctness, or the incorrectness of the practice.

But anyway.

The place where the lady goes during this retirement is referred to as “The Dower house.” Which is often a smaller house, still on the Lord's lands, often close to the castle, if not part of the castle itself in times of war. The lady, who might have been a countess or a Baroness or Duchess, would now attach the extra title of “Dowager,” to the front of a title, so the widow of a Duke would be referred to as “The Dowager Duchess,” so that everyone knows who she is. She is given her own servants, often those who she was closest to in her original residence. Again so that the new lady of the manor can establish herself.

In the case of the Kalayn lands. The Dowager Countess, (the matter of my brothers title was still up in the air. People were arguing over it, saying that the Coulthard family were becoming too large for our own good. Soon, upon my marriage to Ariadne, I would be called the Count of Angral which is now a “real” title rather than just a reduction because of the realm of Angraal. Sammy was about to inherit the title of Count from our Uncle and the “Barony” of Coulthard is one of, if not “the” by now given my sisters open management of the lands, richest barony's in the north. Easily richer than what my lands and Sam's lands are put together. But the thing that sticks in their craw most of all is the fact that Sam is inheriting the title of “Count”. Not the land, or the money, it's the title that upsets these people.

I got nothing.

But anyway)

The Dowager Countess lives in a small house, maybe an hours ride away from the castle and we resolved to ride out in the morning. There was a little bit of an uproar that Kerrass had refused to allow anyone to accompany him on his first foray into the castle with Father Hacha loudly declaring that it was simply “outrageous that good and decent churchmen should be dictated to by a Witcher,” and that went about as well as you could expect.

But in the end it was agreed that I would ride to the Dower-house with Sam and Father Danzig. Not that Father Danzig particularly needed to come on this family expedition but we thought it might do the common folk some good to see soldiers of a “good” God patrolling the roads that weren't going to just burn them on sight on the assumption of heresy. Rickard's Bastards were off patrolling the woods to “see what's out there,” and do some hunting.

The Dowager Countess, Aunt Kalayn, reminded me of my Grandmother. I don't know why given that she was actually nothing like my own Grandmother. It was a clash of opposites. This woman was substantially older than mother was as my uncle had married her for the money rather than for any physical attractiveness or age. She had already been a widow when she had married into the Kalayn family from one of the other older families of the North. She was about the same age as my father's mother had been when her husband, my Grandfather, had died. Which is why, I assume, I found myself comparing the two. It was a useless comparison really as they were nothing alike. Absolutely nothing alike.

You can find old women like my paternal Grandmother all over the north. Tiny little old women that are built like a barrel and look as though they're going to go on forever. At her tallest, she came up to my shoulder, a shock of white hair on top of her head which she cut short on the grounds that the long whispy threads kept getting into her eyes. She had been a farmer's wife before she had risen to the gentry and she ruled her manor house in the same way that she had ruled her farm house which meant that she ruled it with a smile made from steel.

No-one crossed my Grandmother when she put her mind to it, least of all my father and Grandfather. She had survived to see us moving into what is now Castle Coulthard and would admit that she struggled with the fact that she wasn't allowed to cook any more. She used to get a real kick out of making cakes and other treats that she would insist, much to Father's annoyance, on feeding to her Grandchildren.

She died when I was eleven. Only slowing down in her last month before she died. This was before the “dower house” had been properly renovated and so she had still lived in the castle itself. She was still up and out of bed long before the rest of us and drove the rest of the castle's occupants to distraction by insisting on being involved in every aspect of castle life. She used to tell the grooms how to care for the horses before they would turn around to find my Grandmother, in all of her finery, shovelling manure with the rest of them. She would go into the kitchens and be helping peeling vegetables having to have the peel picked out of her dresses.

But, and here's the important part of it, the way she did it would put the rest of the castle's occupants at their ease. She wasn't nobly born and she knew it, as did everyone else and she never pretended to be anything other than what she was. The castle-folk loved her for that.

Another slight proof against Sir Rickard's theory of the common folk liking to keep the classes separate. He would argue that the exceptions are so marked as to almost prove the rule.

She was absolutely indomitable. Father would try to talk to her about the “proper conduct of a lady”. Grandma would listen carefully, ask a few questions and then, just as carefully, ignore everything that Father would say. When Father would call her on this she would come back with this piece of effortless wisdom.

“You're never too old for me to give you a clip round the ear my lad,” before wandering off and making some kind of fruit pie that would be served to guests with glee.

It was uncanny. To the young child in me it seemed as though she was immune to any kind of reprisals. Instead of getting angry, Father would laugh.

To the young child in me, it was like being told that “the eternal frost” meant that the world would get a bit chilly. She was just this small, iron haired old lady that seemed as though she was indestructible. I honestly believed, as a child, that if she decided to walk across a battle field when she was in one of her “stomping moods” which meant that she was cross about something and had decided that “something needed to be done about it”. I honestly believed that armies would get out of her way.

The other thing about her was that she didn't seem to age. She was roughly the same size and shape in my earliest memories of her as she was the day she died. The only sign of her ageing was the fact that her hair changed from steel geay to white over the course of years.

She was also fascinated by everything that happened. When Emma was still a little too young to be interested in my school work it was my Grandmother that I went to. The things that Father would tell her about the proper behaviour of a noble-women, it wasn't that she wasn't listening. She was fascinated by the subject. She had questions and one memorable time, she turned up to the dinner table with a scroll full of questions that she had jotted down on the subject. As I say, she listened carefully and asked searching questions until Father was done at which time she looked down at her notes and declared in a proud and happy voice that “all of that sounded a bit silly really,” and that “she would be having none of it.”

I miss my Grandmother. I would love for her to have met Ariadne.

This woman though, this Aunt Kalayn was so starkly different that it was....honestly....remarkable. Same age. If anything, Aunt Kalayn was younger than Grandmother was when we moved into the castle.

But if I hadn't known that fact, then I would have guessed that Aunt Kalayn was ancient.

Something to be said about that I suppose.

The dower house wasn't really that much to look at. The nicest thing that could really be said about it was that it had a nice view attached to the gardens which we could see as we rode up. It was not a good first impression as it looked rather overgrown to my eyes and sorely in need of some care. The house itself was fairly large, the same kind of thing that you could expect to find in a more upmarket district of Novigrad and you reached it by going down a long avenue of fir trees. I found it an odd decoration as the entire countryside was covered in Fir trees so that if you really wanted to display your wealth you would put out Oak or Elm trees.

But still.

When we arrived, there was little sign of any activity. One of the church soldiers dismounted and knocked on the door to inform the lady of the house that we wished to visit. There didn't seem to be any stables so, again, a couple of the soldiers acted as squires and grooms to take our horses off us. Sam ordered that they remain saddled. He didn't look happy about the entire thing and my guess was that he didn't intend to stay very long which was absolutely fine by me.

In the end, Father Danzig, Sam and I were shown into a small room with a few chairs by an elven woman. She looked a little thin to me, even for the fact that she was an elf and she glared at us all suspiciously. Despite the Kalayn colours that she wore. She informed us that the Lady of the house was still getting dressed and that she would be with us shortly.

We were not offered tea while we waited.

The lady that was helped into the room by the Elven woman was old. I mean really old. This is one of those things where age isn't a measurement of the passing of the time. I mean this in the way of.... She was walking with a cane and still needed to be supported by the servant. It was one of those situations where Father Danzig and I immediately leapt to our feet. Not out of respect but so that we could help her into her seat and to see whether we could do anything to help her.

Sam was by the window and was coming over but then he saw Aunt Kalayn brandish her cane in a threatening manner towards us both and beat a strategic withdrawal.

Sensible man my brother.

It was just going through my head, over and over, that this woman was the same age that my Grandmother had been when I was ten.

She was frail, almost skeleton like in her appearance. It was painful to look at. Her hair was immaculate however and her dress was precisely worn. In fact, that was a good way to describe her. She was precise about everything. She was missing several teeth and her eyes would wander about the place as though she was looking for something to talk about.

She walked over to the chair where Father Danzig had been sat and glared at the fact that his travelling cloak had been laid over the back of the chair.

In his defence, there wasn't anyone there who had offered to take our cloaks so we had just taken them with us.

Father Danzig quickly scurried over and rescued his cloak from the old woman's ire.

I say again, I wouldn't normally describe someone using only their age but in this case, the age was a relevant factor. She looked old, she sounded and behaved old. The entire atmosphere felt old as if we were in an old woman's company.

She sat down and sort of glanced around the room as though she was trying to remember what she was doing there, or reminding herself that she was exactly where she was supposed to be and that this was indeed, her house.

Eventually her eyes settled on Father Danzig.

“And who might you be?” She asked.

“Umm,” his eyes slid sideways to the two of us. “My name is Knight Father Danzig of the church of Kreve and I have the honour of presenting....”

“Has anyone offered you tea?”

“My Lords Samue...er....what?”

She bridled. “Does the priesthood have no manners in the modern world?”

“Uh...” His face lit as he hit upon a way that he could get himself out of this. “I was endeavouring to introduce my companions.”

“Mmm,” she stared into space for a while before a thought visibly struck her. “So have you been offered tea.”

“Uh...no, no we haven't.”

She sighed. “Oh dear. Well I'm so sorry, I shall see to it directly while you get on with your business.”

She started to struggle to her feet, using the cane as leverage which of course meant that we all had to leap to our feet to assist her.

“My husband will be right with you I'm sure.” She said as she almost got to her feet. Fortunately we were saved from the disaster by the Elven Maid who was at the old lady's elbow whispering in her ear. I didn't catch much but it sounded like she was reassuring the old woman that she would call the servants to get the tea and that the lady should stay seated. She tried to remind Aunt Kalayn that her husband had died which Aunt Kalayn seemed to have absorbed as she sat back down.

“Ah yes, of course.” She laughed and the sound surprised me by being remarkably musical. “How silly of me to forget.”

She bestowed her most benign look on the three of us. “You'll have to forgive me,” she said. “Memory like a sieve these days.”

We nodded sympathetically.

The Elven maid glared at us as she left on her mission to fetch the tea. I don't entirely know what she was trying to tell us but we all nodded acceptance of the message.

We all sat in silence for a few moments as we waited for the next part of the conversation to start. It wasn't helped by the fact that Aunt Kalayn was looking at each of us with just as much confusion as we were feeling looking at her.

“So?” she said after a while. “Who are you?”

“Well,” Knight Father Danzig rose to the occasion, feeling as though he finally had proper permission to speak. “My name is knight Father Danzig of the church of Kreve and it is my honour to present your nephews. Lord Samuel von Coulthard and new Lord Kalayn, who has been named as heir to your late husband on the unhappy event of his death.”

We had had several conversations about this given that Sam's title hadn't been ratified yet and so we had decided on the non-committal title of “Lord” Kalayn.

“And his brother Lord Frederick von Coulthard.” Danzig's voice began to falter as he came to the end of this statement. The old woman was glaring at Sam with a hatred that looked as though it would scorch the grassland.

“You,” she hissed. “You dare to show your face here.”

Sam swallowed. We had briefly discussed the possibility of Aunt Kalayn not being happy to see one of us but we had thought that she would be forced, by good manners if nothing else, to tolerate our presence. But it seems that the manners and societal rules that govern us all are not as prevelant in the older generation.

I was shocked. If there had been anyone that we expected to make her angry, we had rather assumed that it would be me, given that I had been the one responsible for the deaths of her son and husband.

“After everything that has happened,” she went on. “After everything that I have seen and you come here as though you own the place. As though you have some kind of hold over me.”

Sam carefully rose from where he had sat down.

“With all due respect, Aunt. I rather think that I do own the place and I would thank you to....”

“You own nothing.” The old woman snapped. “Everything you have, we gave you. Everything you rule, you rule on our sufferance. You have no rights here. No authority.”

Her eyes blazed and I began to see a shadow of what she must have been like when she had been younger.

“You are nothing but a little weasel that scurries around under the tables and behind the walls, stealing the scraps from the dogs as though you have a right to them. You are nothing.”

She was breathing heavily and I started to grow concerned.

“After everything you've done.” She continued, spitting the words at Sam as though she was driving daggers into his chest. “After everything you've seen and every, awful act that you have perpetrated. You dare to show your face here. You dare?”

Sam had gone pale. Fortunately, just as he was opening his mouth to speak, the door opened and the Elf came in with a tray of drinks which she laid out on a small table which seemed intended for the purpose.

Instantly, the old woman subsided. It was as though she had placed a mask back over her face and she was instantly the slightly doddery old woman. I tried to search the slightly watery eyes to see if I could identify any remnants of the angry, bitter old woman that I had just seen a moment before.

But there was nothing. Nothing at all. If it wasn't for the rattling of the cup and saucer that betrayed Sam's agitation as he accepted a drink from the servant, I wouldn't have believed that anything had happened. Father Danzig was peering at Aunt Kalayn intently. When I asked him later he was doing the same as I was, trying to ascertain whether this entire old woman thing was an act.

But it couldn't have been. No-one's that good an actress.

“Milady,” I began tentatively after taking a small sip of my herbal tea. “May I ask a question?”

“Mmm?” She absolutely sounded as though she hadn't realised that I had spoken.

“Who do you think this man is?” I gestured at Sam.

“Why, he's Lord Kalayn, my husband's heir.” She began to show signs of some distress, confusion and wonderment crossed her face. The maid, after depositing and serving the tea had sat on a stool at her mistresses right hand. At the sound of the confusion in Aunt Kalayn's voice, she leant forward so that she could see into the old woman's eyes.

“Remember,” The Elf said, firmly and forcefully. “These are your nephews. Your sister in law's sons.”

“Ah yes, of course they are. I forget you see. I remember you now.”

I wasn't in the least bit convinced that she had remembered us at all.

“Now what were your names again?” She asked.

“I think I'd better go.” Sam stood. Still pale and shaking a little. “Forgive me Aunt Kalayn, but matters require my attention. May I borrow your maid for a moment to discuss the dispensation of the household, number of servants and the like?”

Aunt Kalayn nodded absently and the maid rose. Father Danzig rose as well, he was eyeing Sam with some concern and he caught my eye. Non-verbal communication is difficult at best, even when you know the person well but I tried to convey my concern, that he should keep his eye on Sam but that I was going to stay for a little while.

I thought that he told me that he would do so and that they would wait around until I emerged.

“So then, Aunt Kalayn.” I began. “How are you?”

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” she began, flinching away from me. “Please don't hurt me?”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“I'm not going to hurt you. Of course I'm not going to hurt you.”

“Oh good.” She perked up instantly. “Then, who are you again?”

“I'm Frederick remember? Your nephew?”

“Ah yes of course. I remember.”

I wasn't entirely convinced that she did.

“You've grown a lot since I last saw you. When was that?”

“When I was five remember? We came to visit?”

“Ah yes, I remember.” It seemed that that was a common phrase. A small shadow crossed her face. I assumed that it was a memory but she ignored it with the ease of what looked like much practise. “So how are you?” she asked.

“I'm good thank you.” I told her. “I'm getting married next year. As I understand it they're looking to combine it with the harvest festival.”

“Oh well that'll be lovely. Who's the lucky lady.”

“Well....” I smiled and she giggled with me, the very picture of the kindly elderly relative. This at least was something that she shared with Grandmother. “I would rather say that I am the lucky man.”

“Oh really, what's her name.”

“Her name is Ariadne?”

“And how is she.....situated?”

For those people that don't speak “noble” she was asking what Ariadne's rank was and how much of a dowry she would be bringing to the family.

Occasionally I am proud of my diplomatic skills as I gave her this speech.

“Well she belongs to a very old family (true) with a lot of power in their branch of.....society (also true). For herself, she is a lady of power and influence (true although you'll notice that I left out the fact that I was referring to “magical” power as that might have gone down badly), and she comes with the rank of Countess which she holds in her own right due to an inheritance (technically true although my wording is somewhat circumspect. She did indeed inherit the land and title from the man that we had arranged to have killed). So in a little while, they will be naming me “Count Frederick”. The land is not large but we have some ideas as to how to improve it.”

“Good, good.” She nodded approval. “Moving up in the world then?”

“I am.”

Notice that she didn't ask whether or not we liked each other or not. Such matters are beneath nobles of her social strata.

“And how are you Aunt Kalayn?” I asked. The real reason that I had remained behind.

“I'm alright I suppose.” She lied. She wasn't being malicious with it, it was just that there is a certain kind of person who won't complain if they were being tortured and bleeding from every orifice. However, there were also tears streaming down her cheeks which kind of gave me a hint.

I'm being flippant I know. I found this meeting incredibly tough so please don't hold it against me.

“I just....I miss my home.”

“Back at the castle?”

She nodded. “The green fields and the windmills off in the distance. The sounds of people working drifting up to my bedroom window.”

I guessed that she was talking about her home before she married Uncle Kalayn. There aren't any fields around Castle Kalayn and certainly not any windmills.

“I suppose you miss your husband as well.” I tried to plant the suggestion in the hope that it might steer her towards a topic that I wanted to ask about. I was worried that this woman knew the answers to the questions that I had, but at the same time, I was also becoming increasingly concerned that she could no longer give us that information. Simply because she could remember none of it. Or if she did, her memories were not dependable. I found myself looking at the door with a sense of longing. I wanted to go and I wanted to go now. That same feeling that I've talked about before. My legs wanted to move. They wanted to get up and run away. Run, with all of the pain and heartbreak behind them.

But, there was also a slim chance that she could give me a clue about Francesca's whereabouts.

I firmly forced my legs to stay where they were.

“Oh he was so handsome.” She told me. “So very handsome. He was like a God out of the old stories.”

There are some times when I can hear my mouth speaking and I just want to shut it down.

“You mean, demanding child sacrifice and worship?”

Fortunately for me though she was lost on a raft of her own memories.

“He came for me in the spring you know.”

“Did he?”

“He came and we just sat and talked for hours. My first husband had died a year earlier and I was only just out of my mourning garb.

“I wonder if it still fits, I must make a note and ask my Lilla to get it out.”

“Get what out.”

“My mourning garb.” She snapped. No sooner had she said it than I was clearly forgiven though.

“He looked so handsome as we sat in the castle grounds, talking. Just talking. He had such grand plans for the future, we were going to have children so that we could continue a grand legacy that had been set out for us. We were going to be Lords of a new domain. Where people would work together for a common purpose in order to make our lands great.”

I nodded. You hear stories like this all the time. The man courts the woman with flowery words so that she will agree to marry him and bring in the huge expected dowries. It was almost always false but I didn't want to tell this old woman that.

I felt sorry for her.

“May I ask a question though?”

“Mm? What?”

“Why do you hate Sam and not me?”

“Sam?”

“My brother. He was in here just a moment ago and you got upset.”

Her forehead creased in concentration. “I don't remember that.”

“Then why don't you hate me.”

“Why would I hate you?”

I took a deep breath.

“Because I was the one that caught your son in the heresy for which he was killed.”

She looked at me for a long time.

“My son is dead?” She asked with a straight face.

“Yes.”

Another frown.

“I thought it was my husband that had died.”

“They both died. Your son was executed for heresy and your husband ended his own life either in grief or in protest.”

The woman sat there for a long time, staring off into space.

“May the Gods forgive me.” She said after so long a time that I thought I had lost her again. “May all of the Gods forgive me but....” She shook her head. “I'm glad. He was a....He was a wretch.” She said it as though it was the worst possible thing that she could think of. I would have been amused but then she dropped the other clanger. “I almost hated his father for that.”

“His father?”

“Yes his father. I tried to hate him for a long time but oh.... I couldn't stay angry with him for long. He was so handsome you see and so....”

She had drifted off into another memory before shaking herself.

“Sorry, but who are you again?”

“I....” My brain fought the change of subject. “I'm your nephew.”

“But I don't have any nephews. My husband was an only child.”

She shook her head and climbed to her feet. This time she seemed to do it confidently and with energy.

“I will thank you to leave before I call the guard.”

She leaned back into a chair and was asleep faster than I could believe.

“Aunt Kalayn?” I called gently, then again with a little more force.

“It's no good.”

The Elven servant had re-entered the room quietly. “She'll sleep now for a few hours.”

I nodded.

“Would you mind if I ask you a few questions.”

She looked uncomfortable for a moment.

“Just a few.”

I nodded.

“Who are you?” I asked her. “I, to my occasional shame, know servants and you are no servant. I've made the mistake before of assuming that someone who looks like, dresses like and behaves like a servant, actually is a servant but I was watching more closely this time.”

“I....I.”

Then she realised that she had lost, she tensed, eyes darting around as she looked at the doors. I could almost feel her dismiss the door that was immediately behind her with the presence of Sam and Danzig on the other side, but also realised that she would have to get past me to reach another exit.

A knife appeared in her hand.

“Wait,” I told her, raising my hands. “I mean you no harm,”

She moved slightly. Not being foolish, I mirrored the movement to keep the furniture between us. She wasn't holding the knife as though she meant to throw it.

“That's what they all say,” she snarled, her eyes flashing with hatred. “You, fucking d'Hoine.”

“They might,” I countered, still keeping the couch between us. “But on the other hand, I could call for help and I have not.”

“Your overconfidence will be your death.”

I sighed.

“You look tired.” I told her, largely because it was true. “How long have you been running now, how long have you been hiding from everyone, including people like me. When was the last time you had an honest nights sleep or a decent meal that you weren't testing for poison in advance?”

She sighed.

“It's been a long time.” She admitted and I nodded acceptance of the fact.

“Trust is tricky.” I told her. “I know this. Although I cannot claim to have lived longer than you, or have known even a fraction of the pain that you have felt, I do know that trust is hard. Especially when you have been hurt.”

Carefully, I sat down. Still keeping my hands away from my body. I still had my boot knife but my spear and dagger had been left by the door.

“How can you possibly....” She closed her mouth like a trap.

“Well,” I said. “Sit down and I will tell you.”

She moved and sat in the chair closest to the other door in the room. She still had the knife in her hand though.

“I'm getting married to a vampire.” I told her. “An elder vampire at that.”

Her eyes widened.

“I'm not lying when I say that she scares the shit out of me. Still, even though I've agreed that the marriage can go ahead.”

“Why?”

“Why? Is it not obvious. Her species used to use mine for sport.”

“No, not why are you afraid, but why did you agree to the marriage?”

I shrugged. “Because I love her. Oh don't get me wrong, there are times when I question my own sanity for doing this but.... From the moment I met her, she has done nothing to hurt me. She could overpower me in an instant. She could control my brain, cast magics that could swallow me whole or make me her slave. But she asked me.”

I sighed as I thought about it. I hadn't taken these feelings out to examine for a while.

“She could have taken me if she wanted. She could have re-written my very being if she had decided to but she hasn't. Instead, she came to me and asked me.

“That's not to say that we haven't hurt each other.” I winced at the memories. “There are several differences between human society and Vampire society and they sometimes clash as we make mistakes with how that works. Also, I was a Jackass towards her a little while ago. There were reasons but.... heh....sorry, it's becoming a family saying. Those reasons are explanations, not excuses for how I behaved.”

I leant forward and ignored the fact that she flinched. “She could rip my throat out at any second. But she hasn't. Instead she speaks of our future together, she talks of love and poetry and philosophy and history. The last time I saw her she helped nurse me back to health after I had been tortured at the hands of some religious fanatics. Fanatics of the same religion that I am a confirmed member of. She terrifies me because of what and who she is. But gradually I am learning to trust her.

“It's slow, and my body and my instincts still cause me to flinch whenever she makes sudden movements. I know the flinch it's coming and I know it's going to happen but the only way to stop it is to tense up and that's more hurtful to her than the flinch is. She knows it's involuntary and so.....

“All this after another supernatural creature tore the soul from my body in order to torture me. Which caused me, in the long run to fear her even more.”

“You've been tortured a lot.”

“Mmmm. How much is a lot?” I laughed. “Still, that's what you get when you travel around with a Witcher.”

“You travel with a Witcher.”

“Yep. It's no lie to say that he's my best friend. I wouldn't have met my fiancee without him and instead I would probably have been married off by my family to some woman where we would have ended up boring each other to death.”

“He's your friend?” She frowned in disbelief. “You, a d'hoine, friends with a Vatt'ghern.”

“Yes,” I answered in Elven. “Although I don't think he feels like he's getting the fair end of the deal at the moment. I'm trying to bully him into talking to the girl that he loves.”

She gave a little, involuntary bark of laughter before her hand shot up to her mouth and covered it.

“I would like to meet a Witcher.”

“I would be glad to arrange it.”

“How did you know?” She asked, after staring at me for a long time as though she was weighing me in some way. “That I wasn't a servant.”

“It was a guess, but a good one. A lady like Aunt Kalayn,” she flinched at the name, “would know that you offer tea to visitors upon arrival, even when they're waiting. Even if you are understaffed you would know that. The onus is then upon us to wait until refreshments are brought. Also, you served the lady before the guests and when Sam wanted to discuss the, what did he call it, the “dispensation of the household,” you went with him yourself rather than summoning a butler.”

“There isn't a butler.”

“Precisely my point. Aunt Kalayn is a noble lady of the “old school.” She would expect there to be a butler, as would any other visiting noble but you didn't even think it was a thing. The female staff always defer to the male staff. Even if you had to go and fetch the gardener to speak on those matters, then you would have fetched him. The female household deal with things like cleanliness, decorations and provisions. Not “number of servants and the like”. That is a man's job.”

She grunted. “I thought I had this all down.”

I laughed, as gently as I could. Kerrass calls it my “court laugh,” but I was gambling on her not knowing the difference.

“Believe me when I say, as someone who grew up with this kind of thing, that it will never make sense. You will never get it all down. You need to be brought up to it.”

“But,” her eyes became a little sly. “How would you know that your Aunt would see those kinds of things as important.”

“Because of her little finger.”

“I don't understand.”

“When you hold a cup of tea, one of these smaller ones here made from pottery,” I leant forward and demonstrated with Sam's abandoned cup. “You are supposed to hold it by the handle only yes? It's the height of bad manners to wrap your fingers round the pottery.”

She nodded.

“Most people know this and do so, but they automatically stick their little fingers out. Don't ask me why this happens, it's an involuntary thing. Apparently it helps with balance. It's also considered rude as it suggests that the little finger possessor is superior to the others as they are showing off the fact that they are only using a few fingers to eat their food rather than the five that “peasants” use. So a properly trained person, like I am or Sam is, holds their fingers in like so,”

I demonstrated. “That is the sign that you have been brought up in high society. Or that your parents have hired you a tutor to teach you such things.”

“That doesn't say why the lady would care about such things.”

“Didn't you notice how she frowned at Father Danzig when he stuck his little finger out. It was a momentary thing and it passed almost instantly but...”

She sighed. “Humans.” She took another breath. “Ask your questions.”

“I don't want to ask you questions.” I told her. “But perhaps we can talk for a while.”

A ghost of a smile crossed her face. “Then what would you like to talk about.” She said in the common tongue. “You're very good at Elven though, your accent is odd to me.”

“That is because it is the scholarly version that we learn to read the more ancient manuscripts. We learn to speak it so that we can feel superior to the other people that pass us on the street.”

She laughed allowed.

“You, a race that looks down on me and my kind, using our language as a method of looking down on each other.”

I think I surprised her by laughing with her.

“To be fair, some people look down on us for using the language so it's a kind of share of disapproval,”

She laughed some more but slowly her laughter turned to tears.

“Goddess,” she said after a while. “I have been so dreading someone spotting me.”

I nodded. The question of “why,” hung in the air between us but I guessed that she wasn't quite comfortable enough to answer me yet.

“Let me tell you what I know about Kalayn lands and my history with what I found out, how and why. Then you can join in when you know the words if you like,”

She nodded her agreement to this plan.

I spoke for a long time. Telling her about father's death. About my brother's involvement and about what we had found going on in the area around Oxenfurt.

“I met your brother,” she said suddenly in the middle of the conversation. It shocked me out of my narrative and I stared at her a little dumbstruck. “He visited the Kalayn's a few times. He was a snake.”

I sighed. “Yes.” I agreed. “Yes he was.”

There didn't seem to be any further comment coming though so after a while I carried on talking.

Then, slowly, she started talking. The comment about Edmund was the first in a stream of comments, one following after the other. Before she intended to, I think, she was part of the conversation.

In the end though, things became stuffy in the small room that we were sitting in and we went for a walk. I saw Sam, Danzig and the others were still at the entrance to the house waiting for us but the Elf, who finally introduced herself to me as Lillafaswen took me out into the gardens.

Once upon a time I suspect it was a rose garden judging by the walkways but whatever it had been, it was now a herb garden.

“I should bring Kerrass down here.” I told her. “He will want to talk shop with you about this.”

“Yes well,” She sighed looking out over the flowering plants, some of them, looking as though they were struggling in the damp mountain air. “I spent my life studying Chemistry, herbalism and the like. I'm hundreds of years old, most of that devoted to the study of plants. It was my passion, my drive my world....everything. But now.... I look at these plants and I no longer care.”

She looked at me. She looked as though she was under so much pain that she actively couldn't weep.

“The Kalayn's took everything from me. My life, my....sense of being, my passion. Do you know about Elven reproduction?”

“I know that they don't do it enough for the survival of the species.”

She snorted at that.

“You are right you know. Possibly more than you know. And all because of people like me.”

“You know I have to ask you about what you mean now.”

“I know. Elves are at their most fertile in their first couple of hundred years of life. Fertility after that is rare. But that's also the period of our lives where we are at our most passionate. That's where we choose what is to become our life's work. It takes passion to reproduce but what if we get distracted.

“That's what happened to me. I was so fixated about plants and their uses. Most elves are only interested in the plants for their beauty or for medicinal purposes. But that's hardly the point. What else can we learn from the plants. The flowers and the fruit of these things.”

She was staring at an odd purple flower. The base of the petals was bright yellow but as they grew out from the stem.

“But Goddess, I hate this place now. Come...”

She led me through a small stone doorway in the wall that surrounded the herb-garden and out into the fields behind the dower-house. I imagined that, in better days, there might have been people out playing games on the grass, children running around and playing hide and seek in the ever present trees.

The air smelt like it was going to rain.

“Why don't you leave?” I asked her. “We are not the old Lords Kalayn now. Sam's a different man, he won't mind you leaving.”

“I have considered it, but then....where would I go. Home? Home to the people I betrayed by simple virtue of pursuing my art rather than finding a husband and giving birth. Or human society where I would have to prove that I had served as apprentice to someone who's herbal expertise is but a fraction of mine. How about the villages where elves and other non-humans are looked down at and spat upon.”

“But that's not all is it?”

“No.”

“It's Aunt Kalayn isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Why? I thought you hated the Kalayns.”

“I do, but she? She saved my life several times. She sheltered me when they wanted to use me for their own sick amusement. She pointed out how useful I could be, even as they abused her too.”

I opened my mouth to ask the question.

“Oh yes,” she smiled grimly. “Lady Kalayn was no immune to their....depredations. The men, including her husband and father in law used to pass her round like some kind of “After dinner treat” to their special guests. That was my job you see. As a herbalist. I created the medicine and the drugs that would keep her docile and the men high. Her and your mother and any of the other women and boys that they would bring in.”

“They never used men?”

“No, never men. They seemed to think that that was somehow....filthier than everything else that they did. So I kept them in their drugs. Kept her high so that she didn't complain and I salved her injuries and the injuries of those people that they couldn't afford to leave marks on. Then, I could make some people forget what had happened. I'm that good at what I do, you see.”

She said the last with a self-loathing that hurt my ears.

“They could bring a girl up, rape her for days and then she would given to me. I would feed her one of my herbal potions and she would remember none of it. That's how they decided who should marry their son you see.”

She looked at me for the first time since our conversation. She had been avoiding my gaze “You did the world a favour when you killed that monster.”

I grunted something to the affirmative. There was a fire in her eyes that was hard to see.

“I did awful things to that woman,” she went on. “And she begged me to do them while at the same time saving my life. Or it would have been me tied to the rack and having specially forged implements shoved into me until I died screaming in agony.”

We stopped on the edge of the grass and stared back at the house.

“She's dying.” She said. “You can't tell it but her system is so tied into the herbs that I gave her over the years that she can't live without them now. But at the same time they're destroying her from the inside out. She's had a hell of a life that woman. You can map her injuries on her body, the badly healed scars and things and still I have to feed her the drugs or she will die all the quicker.”

She sighed and kicked at the ground.

“What I did to that woman was evil. I should go and ask your Witcher friend to end my life.”

I shook my head.

“The greatest evil that a man can commit, is to force another to do evil.” I told her. “You were just trying to survive. What would have happened if you had refused?”

“I would have died in agony.”

“Then you did what you needed to do. I can't condemn you and you may find that more than one person will agree with you. Especially Kerrass as he has more experience with evil being done to him and by his hand than most.”

“Kerrass?”

“My Witcher friend.”

“Ah.”

“In the meantime. If you want to stay here then I imagine that Sam will agree to it. I won't give away your secret if you don't want me to. (Freddie's notes: As it turns out, she didn't care that much) He, certainly, won't have noticed who you are. But when you feel that you have no more atonement to do here.”

“You mean, when she's died.”

“As you say. When you're done here. The Coulthard family would give you things you could do with your skills that would only benefit the world. If that doesn't appeal then I'm on the faculty of Oxenfurt university and I can easily arrange for you to give some lectures there. Or I can recommend you to members of the Imperial court who are currently looking into the creation of another Witcher school for which they need skilled alchemists and you surely qualify.”

“You are well connected.”

“Yes, it has been said. But what is the use of power if you don't use it to help people.”

“Some would say that you should use it to put down others.”

“Now those people are arguing for evil.”

She nodded.

“I am grateful, but I will see this out I think, for now at least.”

I nodded and we stood back together and looked at the house. “Shame really.” I heard myself say. “Otherwise it would have been a nice house.”

“Do not be seduced,” she told me. “This entire countryside is poison.”

“Why do you say that?”

She shook her head in response. “You cannot see the things that I have seen and not think that. You cannot do what I have done and not think that. This place is tainted. You should leave this place before it becomes angry and decides to take it's vengeance. Or it overcomes you.”

“Is that what's happening here?”

“What do you mean?”

“This place feels wrong. It's objectively beautiful. The climate is a bit damp but I could imagine it being truly beautiful. But there is an oppression here that I can't put my finger on. The world seems...I don't know. The villagers hide in their homes and won't talk to us. It's like they're afraid of us.”

“They are afraid, they have every reason to be. You spoke about the horrible things that you saw your cousin and brother do, the rituals that they would perform. But here it was different.”

“In what way.”

“It was more ritualised. It took longer. I don't know but they had a good thing going here. They could have stayed up here for years without anyone finding out what was going on. Indeed they had stayed up here for years. So why did your cousin go south. It was so that the hunting pool was so much larger. Your cousins appetites were no longer sated here. Here they took their time. They would drug their targets which is where I would come in of course. But every part of what they did was wrapped up in ceremony. They would spend ages looking for, choosing and grooming a single victim.”

“So why are the villagers still afraid? They know that Lord Kalayn is dead. That was one of the first things that Sam did was to let people know that they don't have to be afraid.”

“Of course they have to be afraid. They are villagers. It's habit now.”

“No,” I said. “No, there is something more. I don't know why.”

“Humans,” she said with a strange combination of a sneer and a smile. “Always looking for it to be more complicated than it actually is. This land is so soaked in fear and pain and hate. It is doubtful that it will ever recover. Let alone the villagers that live here.”

She shook her head again. “I am tied to this place. There is a certain part of me that suggests that I should die here. I certainly deserve to die here after everything I've done but I am tied here. You should tell your brother to leave here. Keep the title if he has to for the foolish obsession that your people seem to have with the titles and land grants, but he should tear that castle down and leave here. Take the people with him and never look back.”

“Do you not think that we can heal it?”

She looked at me for a long time.

“What's to heal?” she said. “Let it die.”

I thought about her comments a lot as I wandered through the castle the following day. Those last three words seemed to stick in my brain.

“Let it die,” she said. As though the land was a living breathing thing. As though the horror that had been perpetrated in this place had somehow scorched the very air that we had been breathing, tainting the water that we drank and the ground that we walked upon. After some of the things that I had seen in the castle's basements, I could believe it too.

We've all heard about the implements of torture. Iron Maidens, racks, vats of oil for boiling or broiling alive. We know about hot pokers and thumbscrews, pliers and hammers. Various things to cause our fellow humans pain. I'd even had recent experience with such things myself although, thankfully, at a reduced rate. But what was here was different.

There were still implements of torture but everything, and I do mean everything, had a sexual twist to it. The Iron Maiden had holes at the groin and the face so that people could still stick themselves into the person trapped inside. The pokers weren't the normal, sharp edge, instead they had been shaped like phalluses. There were still whips and chains but they were focused on the binding of people rather than in the stretching.

There was dried blood everywhere as well as dried....other substances that I prefer not to think on their nature.

Sam was having it cleansed. A large bonfire had been built and anything that was wooden was being thrown into it after being smashed with one of the soldiers had applied the business end of their war-hammer to them. The other implements had been, likewise destroyed. Another of the soldiers had a background as the son of a blacksmith and he was supervising the melting down of the metal. A large furnace was being built to help with this process.

I am avoiding talking about some of the things that I saw that day when I went up to the castle because I am aware of the people that I'm talking to. I find that I don't want to tell you these things so that they don't disgust you or worse, for those people that might find these things...appealing. I don't want to give you ideas.

But just to give you a sense of how awful it was, the Inquisitors....The Inquisition declared that it was disgusting.

Nor was it the only thing we found.

We found the cults collection of skulls.

The upper stairs of the castle, where everyone lived and where the guest rooms were as well as the servants quarters, the living areas and the kitchens. Those appeared normal. There were some oddities but I dare-say that you could walk into any living castle and find something that would strike you as a bit weird or a bit....off. My family castle is overseen by my elder sister and her Sorceress lover for instance. I don't think that that's a bad thing but I have received, many, letters that tell me that others find it disgusting.

But, if you hadn't known that there was anything going on there, you would have gone into that castle and had a look round to find the residence of a fairly eccentric, but otherwise perfectly normal dwelling for an older noble family that had fallen on hard times.

But, there was a door at the end of a corridor on the ground floor. It was round a corner and out of sight but if you went through that door, then you would find where the cult lived. As you go through the door, on the right hand side there was a small, cupboard that contained a set of robes. Just a couple, one or two that looked as though they might have been tailored to meet specific sized people and then another couple, less ornate, that we guessed would be for visiting guests that didn't have their own robes.

Then there was a flight of stairs which you would descend to enter hell itself.

The contrast between the two kinds of rooms that we found down there was extreme. On the one hand were those rooms, those dungeons where the prisoners were kept in the most filthy, obnoxious, closed in, stifling rooms where the scent of excrement and human waste was overpowering. Not just the urine and the faeces but also the genuine waste, blood, entrails and skin, all of it could be seen and identified.

But on the other hand were the richly appointed guest rooms, the large beds with rich furnishings. Bottles of spirits on the side. We found a dining room with glasses and silverware resting on polished wooden surfaces.

But then there was the ritual hall. Same as back in that clearing outside of Oxenfurt. A strange pillar in the middle of it, next to an alter. Everything was carved with various jagged spiral patterns but the other reason that we knew that it was the right place was that we found a stone disk, with a silver ankh strapped to it, inverted so that the one cancelled the other out.

We found a bone room. The upper castle had a room dedicated to the trophies that the Kalayn family had collected over the years and it seemed that their upper castle habits were reflected downstairs as well. They had a room that was piled hard high with various bones of different sizes and shapes. I saw femurs and rib-cages. Bowls that were filled with toe and finger bones. And of course, there were the skulls. Some piled haphazardly but others mounted onto things, polished and obviously much handles by people over the years.

I found myself imagining cousin Kalayn showing people round and telling his guests things like. “Ah yes, I remember this one. A blonde boy, just coming into his teenage years but surprisingly tough and strong. He lasted for weeks and his screams were a music that lulled us to sleep in the afterglow of the rituals.

There was another drinks cabinet in the room. That told me all that I needed to know about the place.

As we were walking through the room, Kerrass gave this little, almost like a, chuckle.

“Heh,” he said.

“What?”

“Remember Amber's crossing?”

“Of course.”

“Just like that.”

I grunted my understanding but that didn't seem to satisfy Father Hacha that was still following us around suspiciously.

“What do you mean? You've seen this kind of thing before?”

“Not like this.” Kerrass said, holding his medallion next to a couple of the bones, especially the skulls and the rib-cages.

“There was a village that Kerrass tried to save.”

“And you as well Freddie. You were involved as well. It wasn't just me.” Kerrass added.

“Yes well. A village was being tormented by an ancient spirit of darkness. It seems that an ancestor left over from close to the villages founding had sold his village to this thing with the price that it could take whoever it wanted, whenever it wanted in return for the villages prosperity.”

“A common Heresy, unfortunately.”

“Yes,” I cleared my throat in discomfort. “But that man was long dead but the village itself was under this things spell. After we defeated it, it turned out that the spirit had kept the bodies of it's victims. It had a collection.”

“A lot like this one.” Kerrass said, he was peering at a particular skull, holding his medallion over the bones. The medallion was jumping slightly. “This skull needs properly seeing to.” he said to a couple of church soldiers that came to take it away.

Father Hacha surprised me again.

“Evil is evil,” he said. “Sometimes in humans, sometimes in creature. We should not be surprised that we find elements of it in both.”

Kerrass grunted.

“This is worse.” I told Father Hacha. “The deeds performed at Amber's crossing were performed by an entity according to it's nature. The people who did this, chose, to do this. One person can be sick. Maybe even a couple of them can find each other but this kind of torture on this kind of scale? They worked at this. They decided this.”

Father Hacha said nothing.

I couldn't stand it for long and decided that it was time to go and get some air, eventually stumbling into what must, once, have been my mother's rose garden.

Again, I was struck by the place. If it wasn't for the family and everything that had happened within these walls, this would have been a nice place. I could well imagine that I could have been happy here. The climate was to my taste, the scenery was breathtaking. I thought that I could have been happy here.

Now that I think about it a little clearer I suppose that I would have missed Oxenfurt. It's sometimes nice to be so far away from the university and the society that comes with it but I guess that I would miss it.

I found a bench and sat down.

The garden had been all but stripped bare. I guessed that some had gone with Lilla the elf woman when she had left to go with Lady Kalayn and the rest? Torn up by angry villagers? But at that point, I didn't really care. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

The problem with Big brothers though, is that they tend not to care about the wants and desires of their younger siblings.

“Still alive?” Sam asked, offering me a hip flask.

“Not gonna lie Sammy. Feeling pretty shitty.” I took a long drink.

“You and me both.” He took the flask back. He shook it to see how much was left and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“What are you gonna do Sammy?”

“Do?”

“With this. With all of this?”

“Let's be fair brother mine, it's far too early to be making big decisions like that.”

“True.”

“Just to say it formally though. We've found no signs of Francesca here. No signs of anything that would suggest that she's ever been here or that these people had anything to do with it.”

“I know,”

“The Kalayn family was destroyed long before she was taken.”

“I know that Sammy.” I felt a touch of asperity in my voice. “Sorry,”

“Don't worry about it. I'm the same. I just....” He shook his head. “I don't know what I can do about it.” He took a swig out of his own flask. “These last few years....I dunno, but it kind of feels like We're under attack.”

“That's kind of because we are. Francesca was taken.”

“Not just that. But before that and bigger than that. Dad and Edmund's death. Mother's exile,” He leant over to me. “I never thanked you for that by the way.”

“Thanked me?”

“Yeah, it would have broken my heart to see mum executed.”

“Mine too. But that's not why I did it.”

“I know. But that, Mark's illness, Francesca's disappearance. I just....” he stared off into the distance. “It all feels a lot to have happened in the next couple of years.”

“That's because it is Sam. It is a lot.”

“Now you're gonna move away to....where was it? Angrel?”

“Angral. Careful you don't get it wrong when you get there. There's Angral, Angrel and the Dukedom is called Angraal. I'm also told that there have been duels fought over people getting it wrong.”

“Then I shall look forward to visiting.”

“You should. We'll make a fuss of you.”

There was some silence for a while.

“You're going to go off.” Sam went on. “Emma and Laurelen are happy together and more power to them but...It feels like the family is shattering under outside stresses. We're all going off on our separate ways.”

“We're growing up.” I told him. “Getting older. That's what happens.”

“Maybe, but I don't have to like it.”

He sighed again looking at the castle walls. “It sounds crazy,” he told me. “But I kind of wanna stay here. I know there's a history and that the villagers don't trust me and possibly never will, but I wanna stay here. I want a place that I can make my own. Not father's or whatever.”

“What about Coulthard castle?”

“That's Emma's castle and we both know it. When Mark dies, long may he live yet, I know that I inherit but let's be honest with each other. I would be a fool to try and live there all the time. It's the centre of a business empire and Emma runs that. The first rule of leadership is to never try and do someone's job when they are better at it than you are.”

I considered this.

“I should point out.” I began carefully, “That that's about the seventh “First rule of Leadership” that I've ever heard.”

Sam sniggered. “You're probably right, but that doesn't change the fact that Emma runs the business stuff. I would be lost if I tried to take charge, so she needs to be at the centre of it which means Castle Coulthard. So I kind of want somewhere else that I can call my own. A land that I can make mine and put my own stamp on. You will always have your books but me? Sooner or later I'm not going to be good at this swordwork stuff. I'm twenty two now and I'm already....

“I can already feel that I've lost the hunger for it. When we were younger I was so hungry for it all. I wanted to be better at everything, better with the lance and spear, better with the sword and mace. Now, I just don't care as much. I no longer have that....that drive to compete, to get better than I am now. I am content. When I met Kerrass I wanted to test myself against him. Even though I knew that he would eat me alive, I wanted to see. I wanted to learn that lesson. I've lost that somewhere.

“I'm as fast, and as strong and as durable as I will ever be. Wearing all this armour is already heavier now than it was when I was nineteen. How heavy will it be when I'm twenty five, or even thirty should I live that long.”

“Of course you'll live that long, don't be silly.”

“Sometimes I wonder though. The luck our family has been having recently.” He shook his head. “That was a bit maudlin, sorry.”

“Don't be. It's this place. You know what they say about being in sunshine making you happier. Well it's been misty, damp and overcast since I got here. When the sun comes out, it's going to be something else entirely. That and the castle is so dark and miserable. Get some light in there, get some singing and dancing going on.”

“After Kerrass has cleared out the ghosts you mean.”

“After that yes.”

“But it's not just the castle is it?” It was a question that Sam asked me but at the same time, the way he said it felt more like a statement. “There's something else going on here isn't there?”

“I think so yes. These people are afraid and it's not just of you or us. There is something else that they're afraid of.”

“These “things” that that priest was talking about?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think they are?”

“I don't know, but I mean to find out.”

“Well, start with talking to that priest again would you?”

“That will, indeed, be my first port of call. I'm gonna try and see if I can talk to him without Father Danzig being present this time. Maybe he'll open up a bit more.”

“Good idea. Are the bastards gonna go with you?”

“They are, technically, my escort.”

“True.”

“But also, with a bit of luck. The locals might talk to one of the bastards before they talk to us, or one of the priests.”

Sam was nodding. “In the meantime, I think the Inquisition is going to be here for a while, burying bodies and going through evidence.”

“Are they still looking to see if the cult might be wider spread than just here?”

“Oh, we know it's wider spread, but it would be helpful if we had some ideas where to look. Papers and that kind of thing. Unfortunately, we're guessing that the remaining servants were well briefed and destroyed anything incriminating when Uncle Kalayn left here.”

I nodded.

“Well, we thought that might happen.” I agreed.

“Yes. If the boys come up with anything though. We'll send word.”

We'd found the priest that Sam was talking about on the way back from seeing Aunt Kalayn.

It had begun to rain as we left the dower house. Sam had been disguising his discomfort from his little confrontation with Aunt Kalayn by making an inspection of the dower house. As well as the Elven maid it turned out that there was also a grounds-keeper who seemed to do little else other than to smoke his home-grown tobacco and grow vegetables in a large patch of land that was noticeably separate from the herb-garden. He also kept the chickens and a pair of pigs. Sam also told me that there was a cook. All three servants, not just the maid were still there because they so obviously had nowhere to go.

Sam promised them that as soon as it could be arranged, the dower house would be fully staffed and maintained, he had taken notes about several small but important repairs that needed doing around the place and the maid and grounds-keeper nodded and smiled but it was plain that they didn't believe him. Not that they thought he was lying, it was more that they just thought that he would get distracted by other things that might be more important. They had been used to serial and repeated neglect by their Lords and saw no reason that such things would change now.

I sincerely hope that Sam is able to prove them wrong. On the way back he was conferring, or rather trying to confer, with me about how much help he could feasibly ask for from Emma. I told him that he needed to write to Emma directly as I'm ever more determined to keep my nose out of family business than ever. I can dimly feel, in the future, that there may come a time where I need to become involved and take an interest in the family business. But it is not this day and I remain forever grateful that Emma is the one who has taken charge of those matters. Out of all of us, she is the one that has the head for it.

We were on our way back to Castle Kalayn, or rather the camp at the base of Castle Kalayn when I saw it. A small church, some distance from the side of the road. If anything, calling it a church was actually a little ambitious really. A chapel would have been closer to the truth.

It was old, very old. Possibly even older than Castle Kalayn itself. Grey stone blocks piled up on top of each other in a way that suggested that it had been done with hands rather than any of the modern crane techniques. I imagined villagers climbing up and passing the stone, hand over hand to get to the upper parts of the building. It seemed to be made up of a short, stubby tower with a small hall attached to it. I suspect that, in total, my family chapel would possibly give it a run for it's money in terms of square footage. It was surrounded by a perimeter made from a drystone wall that was well covered in Ivy and other lichens. I saw the odd headstone peering over the top of the wall which was what gave it away to me.

It was well hidden amongst the trees and I wondered if it was actually the fact that it was raining that seemed to be beating down the trees that meant that I saw it. Or it just might have been kept out of sight due to the direction of travel on the way out to the dower house.

Knight Father Danzig was doing his best to keep a conversation going by himself. The man was terminally cheerful about everything. I had liked him upon first meeting him but there was something about his enforced cheerfulness that was beginning to grate on me. Sam was still grave, upset and hurt by his treatment at the hands of Aunt Kalayn. I was surprised but also thoughtful and I think that both Sam and I would have felt a lot better about everything if we had just been left to our own thoughts.

But Knight Father Danzig was determined.

Bless him.

His topic of conversation could have been better as well.

“There is something about this place.” He said. “I don't know what it is but there is something about this place.”

I sighed audibly, Sam was lost in a world of his own and I couldn't let that go. My scholar's thinking was that Danzig might have something to add that might shed light on the whole affair, but I was also thinking that it would be rude if we just ignored him.

“What is it that's bothering you?” I asked him.

He flashed me an almost puppy-dog like look of gratitude, despite his seniority of rank and age he sometimes seemed very young. “I don't know,” he said. “I feel as though I am being pushed down upon. I am on edge and feel the need to check that my sword is loose in my scabbard.”

“This place has known some horrible things in the past.” I told him, privately hoping that this would be the end of the conversation but, as I say, Dnazig was determined to keep things light and breezy.

“This is true but I feel that there is something more at work here. I feel....nervous but also I find that I am struggling to fight off an incredible melancholy. As though the land itself is saddened by what is happening here.”

I felt my interest pique. Almost reluctantly.

“Well, Kerrass did point out that there was a strong magical field in this area. That it started when we crossed the border into Kalayn lands.”

“Interesting. I wonder if he would be willing to map it out for us.”

I shook my head. “I can already tell you what he would say. He would tell you that you would be much better served by hiring a proper magic user. I can all but here him. “It will be quicker, easier and will waste less time,” he would say,”

My Kerrass impression is improving but not quite there.

Father Danzig took it with good grace.

“It is interesting to me,” he said with a smile, “ that for all that they seem to carp on about the dwindling monster population and the increasing difficulty in finding work, that the Witchers do tend to work remarkably hard in not taking on contracts.”

“He would say that it was a matter of ethics.” I replied. “He's right. To detect the magical field and to properly map it out, Kerrass would have to ride up and down these lands with a medallion out in front of him while making notes. Is the medallion dancing a bit, a lot, a fucking amazing amount? What's the difference on the scale. Whereas a mage could probably produce you a proper map of the currents and flow of the magic in relatively short order.”

“True, but that would mean that I would need to talk to a mage.” He made a face.

“I thought that the church of Kreve was moving towards relaxing their views on magic users.”

“We are. But there's a big difference in knowing that they're not all unnatural deviant monsters and believing it.”

“I remind you that I am marrying a Sorceress,”

“And I wish you well of the union.” He said it with an admirably straight face. “What we need to know is more of the history of this place. We need to know what happened here. Why this place? Ok, so there's a magical aura here. Why? What caused it? Is there a reason?”

“I don't know.” I said. “It's possible that there was an elven sanctuary here. Or, from what I remember my brother telling me, the constant rituals that the Kalayn's performed could have caused the magic to come here of it's own accord.”

“Mmm, I don't like that idea.”

“Unfortunately, the only way that we're going to hear about the history of this place is if we find someone willing to talk to us. Like, say, a priest. The villagers won't talk to us so who else are we going to find.”

Danzig made a face. “Without wanting to be funny, but it's almost certain that the people around these parts worship Dark and Pagan Gods.”

He made the sign of the Lightening bolt on his chest.

“Also,” he went on. “For there to be a proper priest, religion would have needed to be encouraged by the local nobility. I hardly think that the Kalayn family would have encouraged the worship of either the Eternal Flame or of Kreve.”

“I notice you left out Melitele there.”

Danzig shrugged.

“Melitele is all well and good and everything but, they also like to be seen to be doing good works.”

“Unlike the priesthood of Kreve?”

“Not an unfair comment,” he admitted. “But that doesn't make it any the less valid.”

“Well, why don't we find out.” I said, pointing at the small chapel some distance away. I had been trying to bring the conversation round to it for some time.

“Bugger me.” Danzig commented.

A quick conference was had between Sam, Danzig and I and it was agreed that Danzig and I, along with a few of the church knights that were accompanying Danzig, would go and investigate the chapel. The rest would ride on with Sam to the camp to check on Kerrass' progress. Sam was getting his energy back and seemed increasingly keen to get things started.

I don't know what I was expecting as our small party rode up to the chapel. All told, Danzig, myself and three church knights. The rest having gone with Sam.

When you think of these old churches in the middle of the countryside you kind of get these definite visions of what's going on in your head. You imagine a ruin, with maybe some birds flying out of the holes in the thatch. You imagine ruined and derelict land with neglect creeping over the gravestones. There was a bit of ivy creeping over things but otherwise the small yard was carefully kept, neat and tidy.

Also, when you imagine the priest of such a place, you kind of imagine this ancient man, bent under the weight of years. Maybe you go so far as to even imagine a hunch-back. Hood, and rotten teeth. Long, wispy droopy beard as well.

The priest that was there though, was the very opposite of this image.

Well, not quite though. He did indeed have a beard.

He was hugely muscled with a build that reminded me of the lumberjacks in Amber's crossing and down in Queen Dorn's kingdom. Very top heavy. With huge arms and massive shoulders. He was crouched over a vegetable patch as we rode up, wearing a pair of woollen trousers and a cotton shirt. His hair was more grey now than black but it was long and shaggy.

The chapel had a stone circle above the entranceway which depicted a simple thunderbolt symbol, declaring the chapel a church of Kreve. The symbol was reflected in the wooden disk that was hung around the man's neck with a bit of string.

He had a jagged scar across his face and one of his eyes was grey. He watched us without speaking as we rode up, straightening up from his work.

Suddenly he blinked, paled visibly and there was a deep inrush of breath. He almost flinched, as though he had stubbed his toe or hit his thumb with a hammer. He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose for a second, his face all screwed up before his face cleared. He turned and quickly strode into the chapel.

I went to move forwards but Danzig put his hand on my chest, holding me back.

“Wait,” he said. “I know this man.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, but I thought....I thought he'd died.”

The priest came back out. He'd pulled on a breastplate and was just finishing buckling it into place. Then with one hand he pulled on a helmet before pulling the largest battle-axe that I have ever seen into view. He stood in front of the church entranceway, his legs apart and with the axe ready.

“Come on then, cunts.” He bellowed. “Come on and die.”

“Wait, what?” I managed.

“Wait,” Danzig said carefully. He took a slow step forward and carefully lifted his own helmet off.

“What's it going to be then, fuck-pigs. One at a time or all together, it makes no difference to me.”

I don't mean to make fun of the poor man but it possibly bears mentioning that I am translating from his broad accent. What it actually sounded like was “Cum on thennnnn. Khunts. Cum on an' dyyyyeeeeee. Wha's I' gonna be den fuck-pigs? One a' a time or awlll togevver, it makes neow difference to meee.” He was wild eyed enough that we could see it from here, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a rictus smile and he licked his lips several times. Danzig handed his helmet off to one of the soldiers and stepped forwards.

“Father Gardan.” He called, speaking the words carefully and clearly. “It's me. Foot soldier Danzig.”

The man swung the huge axe as though it was nothing.

“I don't care what your fucking name is,” he screamed. “I'm ready for you.”

“No,” Danzig called again. “No, we just want to talk. I'm a priest now, they made me a Knight Father. Remember, you taught me the strokes of the sword in Bann Gleann. You were my sword Father.”

The words seemed to hit the axeman in the face as though he had been slapped. He staggered backwards, blinking furiously. The axe lowered and he bent over, placed the axe on the ground flat and spent a bit of time sucking air in through his lungs with his hands on his knees.

Again I made to move forward, wondering if I could do anything to help. I'm not sure what I could do but it seemed as though the man needed something.

Danzig waved me back again, gesturing for quiet and for us to stay where we were.

The older man straightened. He looked at my companion.

“Danzig?” he asked in a small voice. He looked afraid, like a tiny child in the body of this powerfully strong man although his voice was a bit more clipped, losing the accent that had permeated it a moment ago.

“Yes Gardan, it's me.” In his place I would have stepped forward to comfort my friend and was surprised to see that Danzig didn't move.

The older man scooped the axe up from the ground, wiping the blades on his shirt as he turned away from us.

“You'd better come in then,” and abruptly, without looking back at us, walked inside the chapel.

“We will see to our horses first.” Danzig called after him but there was no response. He walked back to me.

“Melitele's sagging tits but I didn't think I'd find him out here,” Danzig was almost speaking to himself.

“Who is he?”

For a moment, Danzig looked at me as though I'd crawled out of his arse, before his face cleared.

“Sorry,” he said. “It's sometimes easy to forget that you're a Redanian Fire worshipper. Knight Father Gardan, the axeman of Kreve.”

The words sparked something.

“Oh wait, I have heard of him. That's the lightening slayer, the axe-captain?”

“The very one.” Danzig's face was troubled.

“I read stories about his adventures when I was younger.”

“We all did.” Danzig said and believe me he was just as formidable in his prime. He fought at Sodden and Brenna and led many missions to purge some of the monsters from the hills of Kaedwen, Redania, Aedirn and Lyria. As well as less savoury by more modern standards, adventures where he fought against the non-humans during the Scoia'tael raids in those parts. He was my hero when I was growing up as I came from the same quarter of the city of Ard Carriagh as he did and he is certainly the reason that I'm still alive today.”

“What happened to him?”

“Injured.”

“That is some scar.” I agreed.

“No, no. Not that, he got that early in his career and for some reason it even seemed to make him stronger. Also his eye going grey isn't because of that no.... It was more....Well....I'll let him tell you the story if he will first before I try and tell it. But in a brief overview it's like this. Just while we give him a moment or two to collect himself.

“I've read your works. You spent some time commenting about how ill you were after your adventure at Amber's crossing.”

I felt the hairs on my neck stiffen as he said it.

“Yes.” I said. “And how... ill I still get, sometimes.”

He nodded. “Please believe me when I say that I mean no offence when I say this but you were lucky. He was injured in a similar way. But he never recovered.”

I felt my mouth hang open in horror. I didn't know what to say to that, or even if there was anything that I could say.

“Please,” Danzig went on, “I beg of you. Be gentle with him.”

I nodded.

Danzig gestured to our remaining escort and they stayed outside the ring of stone walls and I followed him into the church.

It was definitely still chapel but it looked as though it had been adapted a little. There were no pews as I would understand them and instead there was a large fire-bowl in the middle of the floor where the smoke would feed up and leave the church through a hole in the rood. Now that I was inside I could see where there had been some efforts to make the chimney a little more permanent. There was an alter at one end of the room with a lectern nearby. I could also see stone steps which once may have led up to what might have been a pulpit but it looked as though the wooden pulpit had been torn down, along with the wooden prayer rail. It was definitely a place of worship though. It still had that feel about the place. As though there was still a reverence, a holiness, about it.

There were chairs though and in the back, somewhere near the alter I could see another door which led out to what would later turn out to be a living area for the priest. It didn't have much more than a bed though.

The axe that I had seen in the man's hands, rested in a sheath on the alter.

The priest, Gardan came out, he was wearing the blue robe of Kreve now. There was a dampness about his face and I guessed that he had taken some time to splash some water on his face.

“Well Danzig,” he said stomping up and grasping the other man by the wrist to wrist grip of warriors. “You've grown.”

“Only because of what you taught me Knight Father.”

“None of that,” Gardan waved him off. “If you really must insist on giving me a title then, at best, it should be Father.” he shuddered hugely. “I no longer deserve the title of knight.”

Danzig smiled, a little sadly. “Such things are not yours to decide however.”

I turned away, feeling, more than a little, as though I was intruding.

“No they are not.” Father Gardan boomed, his voice really was large and expressive. “If they were I would have been cast out, as I deserve.”

“I will not argue the point with you now.”

“No, I suppose not. Who's this?”

I took that as my cue. “Allow me to present myself. My name is Lord Frederick von Coulthard.”

The man took me in, inspecting me from head to foot. Appraising me in the same way that Kerrass or I would assess another warrior.

Then he started to shake.

“Forgive me.” He said. “Curse me for a fool.”

“It's quite alright.” I told him. “Take your time. I have some experience with injuries such as the one that Knight Father Danzig tells me that you received.”

Danzig was helping the poor man over to a chair.

“Injury?” He spat, bitterly. “There is no injury. It's damn cowardice is what it is.” His teeth were chattering.

“No sir,” I said. “I don't think so, but I will not argue the point.”

“Really?” He turned to Danzig. “There's some water in a rain catcher out back. Tea is in the copper pot, over there on the shelf.”

“Yes Father.” Danzig bowed and went off to do his chores.

Gardan turned back to me.

“Coulthard eh?”

“Yes Father Gardan.”

“Any relation to the Merchant Baron?”

“My father, sir.” It was easier to think of him as a soldier rather than a priest.

“I heard he died.”

“Yes sir. Just under....Flame, just under a year ago now. So much has happened since then that it seems longer.”

“Have I heard of you?”

“I doubt it sir, unless you get the Oxenfurt gazette up here.”

He gazed at me through his bushy eyebrows. “I do not.”

“Well sir, I'm a scholar of Oxenfurt university. I follow a Witcher around and take notes of his adventures while also taking part in them on occasion. I record what I see and publish it accordingly.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why that topic of study?”

“It began because no-one had done it before.”

“I seem to recall the tales of a bard of some kind.”

“Yes, the tales of Dandelion the Bard. But those are hardly historical records. I wanted to write something to record the Witchers themselves. So that they will be remembered.”

He gazed at me for a while.

“How long have you been following him around?”

“I dunno, two and a bit years.”

“But you still do it?”

“I do.”

“How much more is there to tell?”

“I do not know.”

He nodded.

“A Witcher eh?” He stroked his beard for a moment and I saw an odd kind of hunger in his eyes.

I have seen this kind of hunger before. I've mentioned that a friend of mine is a recovering drug addict. He gets that look sometimes. I saw the same look in Kerrass' eyes when we were going out to wake Princess Dorn and he was telling me about his past with that lady. I'd seen the same hunger in the eyes of starving men and women and the lust of a man when surveying the women in a decent whorehouse.

I strongly suspect that I've worn that expression more than a few times myself.

But Father Gardan got that look as he contemplated Kerrass' presence.

Then he started to shake again.

He gritted his teeth against the spasms, scrunching up his eyes against it and sweat stood out on his forehead. He looked as though he was in pain but that pain was not physical.

It was a few moments before the spasm passed and he gasped for air.

“Damn me.” He said. “Damn me.”

“I'm afraid.” I said carefully. “I'm not inclined to do so.”

A sudden smile split his bearded face.

“No, I suppose it's a bit to much to ask from a complete stranger.”

“What happened to you?” I asked carefully.

He waved it off.

“A life on campaign.” He said. “From the age of fourteen when I took up my Grandfather's axe to slay the witch that was terrorising our village. Through two wars with the south. Always I stood at the front of the line and no-one could stand before me.

“Then they sent me to clear out a shrine of the Lionhead.” He shook his head. “There wasn't even anyone there.”

“My understanding of such places is that that's when they're at their most dangerous.”

“You are probably right there. But it un-manned me. Me. A seasoned veteran and I couldn't move over the threshold. I was shivering, sobbing and pissing my pants with fear. Never been able to....”

A tear formed and ran down his cheek.

“Curse me for a cowardly fool.” He snarled but he brushed the tears away with the back of his hand.

Danzig brought us both a cup of tea over. It was brewed strong and sweet, the way that soldiers like it.

“So what brings you two fine gentlemen to my door. It's been a while since I've seen anyone of your....calibre.”

He sketched out a mocking imitation of a bow.

“We have questions.” Danzig said. “So many questions.”

“I bet,”

“You know that Lord Kalayn is dead?”

“Yes, and the puppy that was supposed to inherit.”

“Well my older brother stood to inherit but we have come across some problems and we can't get any straight answers.”

“You want to know if I knew about the cult that went on up there?”

“Yes, among other things.”

“I heard. But I could not investigate.” He spread his hands in an expression of helplessness. “We had heard that things were....going on up there.”

“Well it's over now. But at the same time. The villagers are afraid. Not just the villagers, too there is a palpable....fear and oppression to the countryside.”

Gardan nodded and leant forward. He took an iron poker out from a stand and poked the fire back into life.

“Yes.” He said. “Yes there is. There has been for a long time.”

“Do you know why?”

“Yes.” He sighed. “Look. Danzig can tell you my story and believe me it's a long story. There is more than a little bit of a suggestion that I might be utterly mad and it's something that I might have considered but there are clear signs that.....that something hangs over these people. That hangs over this place and the people that live in it.

“Including me.

“Danzig will tell you, but I left the official church of Kreve back before the third war with Nilfgaard and I wandered until I found this place. It's pretty much unchanged since then. I tried to convert the heathen people that live here as best as I could. They're good folk mostly despite their pagan ways but they won't come to me. They are so afraid but they daren't leave. They think they deserve this scourge you see.”

“What scourge?” I asked. The way that he was talking reminded me of people of Amber's crossing and I wondered if we were biting off more than we could chew here.

“I don't know what they are. They come in the mist, dawn or dusk. You won't see them for a week or a fortnight but then they come again.

“What... who come?” I asked but the poor man was lost.

“I've never seen them.”He said after a while, his eyes staring into the flames. “I keep a circle of salt around my bed and I sleep inside that circle from nightfall to daybreak. But I've heard them, howling like demons from my nightmares. I huddle in my bed when I hear them, the ground shaking with their passing as I just lay there whimpering.”

He snarled that last with a grimace of self-disgust.

“What are you talking about?” I asked him. “I travel with a Witcher and if there's a problem then maybe we can help.”

“I'm not sure you can.” He said. “The locals call them “The Hounds of Kreve”.”

(A/N: A number of people have been asking about an ending to a Scholar's travels. I am torn as on the one hand, I don't want to give the game away but likewise, I don't want to give people false expectations that I will end up disappointing so here is the answer. Yes, I am working towards an ending now. It is, however, some distance off so you have no need to worry about it yet, or indeed for some time. No, I'm not going to tell you what this means.

Thanks again for your continued support.)