TEMERIA - VIZIMA
The roads of Temeria were rivers of mud, and the peasants who trudged them pulled their collars high and spoke in whispers of war, of Nilfgaard's unnatural quiet, of omens they could not name.
Vizima, the old capital squatted on the shores of Lake Vizima, its spires black with soot and the Temple Quarter was quieter than it should have been at this hour, the hour when honest men sought their beds and dishonest men sought their opportunities. But even dishonesty had grown cautious. Foltest's spies had long arms, and Foltest's paranoia had grown longer.
The tavern was called The Laughing Bruxa a name that had once been darkly amusing and was now simply dark. It sat in a crooked alley behind the Merchants' Guild hall, avoided by the city watch and patronized by those who preferred their conversations unwitnessed. Geralt of Rivia sat in the farthest corner, his back to the wall, his hood pulled low, a tankard of mediocre ale cooling between his gloved hands.
He had been waiting for an hour. He did not mind. Waiting gave him time to think, and thinking gave him time to worry, which he also did not mind.
The door of the tavern opened and she slipped in quietly, graceful, and utterly out of place. Triss Merigold wore a simple woolen cloak the color of chestnuts, her red hair spilled loose, and her eyes swept the room cataloguing every face, every shadow, every possible threat. Old habits, court habits. The habits of a woman who had survived Sodden and come out the other side with scars.
She spotted him and a small smile tugged at her lips, genuine and warm.
She crossed the room and slid onto the bench across from him. The barkeep, a one-eyed man named Dobrel recognized her, but he knew better than to ask questions, pretended to polish a tankard that was already polished.
"Geralt," Triss said quietly. She reached across the table and touched his hand briefly a gesture of affection.
"Triss." He nodded. "Thanks for coming. I know you're busy."
She snorted softly and pulled off her gloves, setting them on the table. "Busy. That's one word for it. Foltest has me reviewing ward schematics from three different court mages, all of whom hated each other, all of whom are dead, and all of whom wrote their notes in ciphers that died with them." She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "But of course, Geralt, anything you want, I'm happy to help. You know that. Besides..." she gestured vaguely at the tavern, at the night outside. "Other than what I've mentioned, I'm not doing much lately. Not really."
Geralt's yellow eyes held hers. "You're the court mage of Temeria, Foltest's advisor, that's not nothing."
"It is when the king won't listen.." Her voice dropped. "Foltest is paranoid lately. He calls it 'Nilfgaard's strange silence.' The second war ended last year, we won, if you can call surviving a victory. The North held, just barely. But now? Nothing. There is no diplomatic overtures, no trade negotiations and surprisingly no border skirmishes. Just... silence. From both sides."
She picked up his tankard without asking and took a sip. Made a face and set it down.
"I understand his fear," she continued. "Truly, I do. Emhyr var Emreis is not stupid. If he's silent, it's because he's listening, or preparing. He won't march north again until he's certain of victory. He learned that lesson at Brenna. The question is what he's doing in the meantime."
Geralt said nothing, he knew Emhyr. He knew the cold mathematics behind those imperial eyes.
Triss leaned forward, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "I told Foltest the truth... or as much of it as matters. I told him the Emperor married a false Ciri. That Cintra is still not truly part of the Nilfgaardian Empire, no matter what the maps say. That the blood of the Lion Cub does not flow through the that fake Empress's veins, and apparently the noble families of Nilfgaard know it, especially those close to the Emperor."
"And?" Geralt asked.
Triss laughed a short, bitter sound. "He said, and I quote, 'And yet everyone else thinks otherwise.'" She shook her head. "That's Foltest for you. He sees the game, but he's not sure he has the pieces to play it. So he waits. And he pays me to wait with him."
She caught herself. Her eyes softened. She reached across the table again, this time wrapping her fingers around his wrist.
"Sorry," she said. "Enough about politics. I'm sure you didn't come all the way to Vizima, just to hear me complain about my job." She paused looking deeper at him. "So. How's Ciri?"
Geralt was silent.
The fire crackled, and in the corner, a drunk snored with his head on the table.
Triss's expression shifted slowly "Wait," she said. Her fingers tightened on his wrist. "This is about her.."
Geralt exhaled through his nose. A long, slow breath that carried everything he had not said.
"On our way here," he began, and his voice was lower now and rougher, "we got separated."
"Separated how?"
"An Elven sage." He said the words flatly, with a cold fury, carefully leashed. "He appeared out of nowhere. He used magic, obviously. Old magic, he attack us, tried to take us by surprise but we fought back, He didn't go for the kill with Ciri, he just... took her. And then he was gone. I couldn't follow, couldn't track him. Whatever he used, it left no trail."
Triss stared at him. Her hand had gone still on his wrist.
"He had a chance to kill me," Geralt added. "But he didn't take it. He looked at me like I was... irrelevant, like I wasn't even an obstacle. And he looked at her like she was something he'd been waiting for his whole life."
Triss's mouth opened. Closed, then opened again.
"An Elven sage," she repeated slowly. "That's... Geralt, that's not nothing. That's not even close to nothing. That's.." She stopped. Her eyes widened. "Wait a minute."
Geralt watched her put the pieces together. He had already put them together himself, days ago, on the cold road north. The conclusions had not been comforting.
"He knows about her powers," Triss whispered. And it was not a question.
"Yeah." Geralt's jaw tightened. "This one in particular seems to know far more than that."
Triss pulled her hand back. She pressed her fingers to her temples, thinking, calculating, the court mage reasserting herself over the worried friend.
"An Elven sage who knows about Ciri's Elder Blood. Who didn't kill you. Who took her alive, deliberately, with magic old enough that you couldn't trace it." She looked up at him. Her eyes were sharp now, focused. "Geralt, that sounds like someone who's been waiting for her.. Someone who knew she was coming, he is possibly very old even by elven standards, I'm afraid I don't know someone like that."
"Yeah," Geralt said again. "That's what I'm afraid of, elves are unpredictable and I don't know his true intentions, even though he claimed that he is trying to help her."
Triss was quiet for a long moment. Then she straightened her shoulders, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I can't promise you anything, Geralt," she said. "But I'll try. I have contacts, mages who deal in old lore, scholars who've made careers out of Elven ruins and Elder Blood genealogies, though they didn't learn much, they might be able to help. If this sage has left any trace in any archive, any library, any secret hoard of forbidden knowledge, I'll find it."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." She hesitated. Then: "Have you contacted Yennefer about this?"
Geralt's expression did not change. That, in itself, was an answer.
"Honestly?" he said. "Not yet. And I don't think I will. For my sake."
Triss studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then she nodded slowly. A sad smile flickered across her lips.
"Good call," she said. "She'll be pissed."
/-\
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