Chapter 10: Enid an Gleanna

"Artoria!" Zeilin slammed the door open, his golden Witcher eyes already raking the room, hunting for the girl. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, ready for anything, from any direction. One hand shoved the door, the other was already reaching for the silver on his back. Mages were one thing, but silver bit hard into any magic-slinging monster, even those walking piles of rock they called golems. He wasn't about to let anyone under his protection get jumped, not this close. Didn't matter what the pay was. A peasant could offer him ten crowns, and if a bloody she-troll showed up before the job was done, a Witcher didn't cut and run. It wasn't about the coin. It was about the Path. About the damn code. And the girl… the information she had on the Wild Hunt? You couldn't put a price on that. Besides, even without the Hunt sniffing around, Zeilin wouldn't let a promising talent like her get snuffed out. Her knack for Gwent? That was Witcher material, plain and simple. He wasn't going to stand by and watch that go to waste.

His eyes swept the room. Looked normal enough. No rime of frost, no unnatural chill that usually came with the Hunt. Fire in the hearth was burning steady, giving off a decent warmth. Half-eaten scraps of food on a tray. Through a faded purple curtain, he saw her silhouette, dressing. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. But the medallion on his chest was still buzzing like an angry hornet. Zeilin didn't drop his guard. She must have heard him barge in. Her movements stopped. A hand reached out, pulled back a corner of the curtain. She peeked out, saw him. Confusion in her eyes. "Zeilin? What is it? What's happened?"

"Nothing." He dragged his gaze away from her bare arm, looked towards the window on the left. If someone had come in, it wasn't through the door. He'd have known. Windows. That was the usual way for sneaks and cutthroats. More than once, on a murder investigation, his Witcher senses had picked up a killer's tracks right under a window ledge. But this one was latched tight. No sign it had been opened. "Get your clothes on and come out. Something's not right here."

"Oh. Alright." She nodded, vanished back behind the curtain. Rustle of fabric. She'd barely gone when Amon, the innkeeper, wheezed his way to the doorway, his voice a flustered squawk. Zeilin turned. Amon stood there, panting like a bellows, face flushed. The stairs had clearly been a trial for the fat bastard; his jowls quivered with the effort. His little piggy eyes darted around the room, looking for damage, no doubt. Innkeepers. If a guest so much as scuffed the paint, they’d be quoting Redanian law at you – double damages. Supposedly to protect honest tradesmen. More often, it was a way for greedy shits to fleece travelers.

"Guest! What was all that commotion?" Amon gasped, his fear apparently forgotten in his outrage. He sounded like he was accusing Zeilin of starting a riot, not just opening a door. "First, a blast of cold air nearly snuffs out the fire in the common room! Then I hear shouting up here! Hah! Great Eternal Fire, if a pack of bandits kicked in my door right now, I wouldn't be surprised! You got a thief in here, Witcher?"

"Nothing to worry about," Zeilin said, shaking his head. "Just saw the storm, came back to make sure the window was shut." Witchers didn't drag common folk into monster business. It was our mess to clean up. Outsiders just got in the way. Tell them the truth? Usually just caused a panic. If you could deal with a problem quiet-like, in the shadows, why make a song and dance about it? Witchers took trophies – a head, a claw, something to prove the kill. Shared the stories with other Witchers, sometimes. But we didn't parade them in front of peasants. We were hunters, not bloody circus clowns.

"You're not telling me true, guest." A crafty glint in the innkeeper’s eye. He jabbed a fat finger at the floor by the window. "If that window was open in this downpour, there'd be water all over the boards. I see naught but a bit of spilled bathwater. Come now. You wouldn't want me to fetch the witch hunters, would you? A little something for the trouble, eh? We can settle this nice and quiet. No fuss for your journey, no bother for me."

"Witch hunters don't give a damn about Witchers, innkeeper. They're too busy sniffing after sorcerers," Zeilin said, crossing his arms. He looked Amon up and down, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. So that was it. The fat bastard was trying to shake him down. Takes a special kind of stupid to try and extort a Witcher. "No mages or sorceresses here. Has the sound of crowns rattling in your purse made you deaf and blind? You think a few witch hunters are going to tangle with a Witcher over your say-so?"

"Don't be like that, guest. That girl with you… so young, but acts older than her years. Everyone knows sorceresses use their glamours to stay young. And a Witcher with a sorceress for a lover… well…" Amon gave him a greasy, knowing wink. "It's late, eh? Wouldn't want the witch hunters disturbing your… fun. Fifty crowns. That's all. And for a bit extra, I can even find you a nice, stuffed unicorn. For… atmosphere."

It took Zeilin a good five seconds to register what the blighter meant by "unicorn." He sighed, rubbing his forehead. This was getting tedious. The innkeeper must have seen him win at Gwent downstairs. Got greedy. The fool had no idea what kind of fire he was playing with. Zeilin raised his other hand, fingers starting to trace the Axii sign in the air. If he wanted to avoid breaking the man’s nose, this was the quickest way. Couldn't very well tell him, "There's a victim of the Wild Hunt in your inn, you greasy oaf, so piss off before you get us all killed." He wouldn't believe it. Or worse, he might.

Before Zeilin could finish the sign, the innkeeper’s eyes went blank. His jaw dropped, a wet, gurgling sound escaping his throat. The whites of his eyes rolled up. He started to tremble, a violent, uncontrolled shaking. His body twisted, then his legs shuffled towards the stairs like a puppet with cut strings. He looked like he was having a fit, twitching and jerking as he stumbled his way down. The serving staff in the common room stared, mouths agape. But none of them moved to help. Boss in a bad mood? Best keep your head down, lest he dock your pay.

"Our esteemed Witcher, being shaken down by a common innkeeper. Truly astonishing." A voice, smooth and musical as a songbird, came from behind him. Zeilin lowered his hand, the half-formed sign dissipating. He let out another sigh, this one weary, and turned to face the uninvited guest. A woman, beautiful in that sharp, ageless way of her kind, was seated at their table, sipping his fruit wine. "Intriguing. Most intriguing." She wore a deep crimson robe, slit up the front to show a glimpse of a grey-green, lace-trimmed dress beneath. Gold stripes adorned the shoulders, puffed out in the Nilfgaardian fashion. The collar of the robe dipped elegantly, framing the pale skin of her throat and a delicate gold necklace. Her dark, voluminous hair was bound by a silver circlet, the rest falling in two thick bunches behind her, tied with red ribbons. But it wasn't her clothes or her beauty that told him who she was. It was the ears. Long, elegantly pointed. 

"And I didn't expect Francesca Findabair, one of the five pillars of the Grand Chapter of the Conclave of Mages, to come slumming it with a humble Witcher like myself." Zeilin shut the door, quietly this time. A Witcher in a backwater town was a curiosity. Francesca Findabair showing her face here? That was news. News that would be on the desks of King Vizimir and King Foltest before breakfast tomorrow. The only elven Archmage in the Conclave, the most powerful sorceress of her kind. In the North, where elves were about as popular as a dose of the plague, her every move was watched.

"You opened a portal in my room just now, didn't you?" Zeilin asked, sinking onto the chair opposite her. The elf-witch nodded, her gaze still lingering on the bowl of fruit on the table. He'd known her for years, Francesca. Enid an Gleanna, in the Elder Speech. "Daisy of the Valleys." Some called her the most beautiful woman in the world. Meant little to Zeilin. He’d met her at the last Conclave on Thanedd, done a few jobs for her since. That was the extent of it.

"No wonder my medallion was going crazy. Thought the Hunt was on our doorstep," Zeilin said, relief washing over him. That made sense. An Archmage tearing a hole between worlds? Yeah, that would make his medallion sing. He looked at the sorceress, who was now delicately nibbling a grape. He spread his hands. "You didn't come all this way just for a snack, did you? Don't tell me Dol Blathanna's run out of fruit."

Francesca smiled, a slow, enigmatic elven smile. "Master Zeilin. I sent a mage to find you some time ago. To direct you to the Mahakam mountains. You should have been there by now."

"Ran into a spot of bother. Horse got eaten," Zeilin explained, deadpan. "You didn't see fit to offer an advance. And I was a bit short on crowns for a new mount. Only got myself sorted with a ride this afternoon."

"I imagine that wasn't the only reason for your delay," Francesca said, her smile widening. She tilted her head, gestured with a perfectly manicured thumb towards the curtain. Right on cue, Artoria stepped out, dressed now. Not in her armor, but a simple pale blue dress. Looked less like a warrior queen and more like a… well, a girl. Her golden hair was still damp, clinging to her cheeks, the rest bundled in a towel. She saw Francesca, and her eyes widened. "Zeilin? You have a visitor?" she asked, her gaze flicking between them.

"Aye." Zeilin waved a dismissive hand at Artoria, trying to signal 'stay calm, don't say anything stupid.' He turned back to the sorceress, his voice flat. "She's a victim of the Wild Hunt. Found her out in the woods. That's why I brought her along. And the place she first appeared? Near Mahakam. Seemed like information worth having."

"Just a Witcher, and a damsel in distress he so gallantly rescued?" Francesca’s laugh was like wind chimes, but with an edge of mockery. "Is that all it is, Zeilin?"

"If it works out, I'm thinking of taking her on as an apprentice," Zeilin said, meeting Francesca's gaze head-on. "Been near a century. She's got more talent than anyone I've seen since." He wasn't just blowing smoke. The girl had something. He snorted. "You know the way of it. Witchers can't sire their own. Anything wrong with wanting to pass on the trade?"

"Tsk." Francesca pursed her lips, muttering just loud enough for him to hear, "A pretty face, a good figure… daughter, sister, apprentice… all just different words for 'lover' in your kind's book, aren't they?" 

A muscle twitched in Zeilin’s jaw. He gestured, none too politely, towards the door. "If you just came here to trade insults, Francesca, then I bid you goodnight. Don't let the door hit your arse on the way out."

"Very well. Business." Sensing she'd pushed him far enough, Francesca waved a hand, set down her wine. Her expression turned serious. "The Mahakam situation. The Conclave has a clearer picture now. Everyone else is in place. You're the last piece. Tissaia de Vries was all for starting the ritual without you, but… an extra sword arm is never a bad thing. We don't know precisely what we're walking into."

"Aye. An extra Witcher. Means an extra body to throw in front of the mages if things go sour," Zeilin said, his voice laced with old bitterness. "So, I'm the last one holding up the show? Fine. Open your damn portal. Let's get this over with."

"As you wish. Let me know when you are prepared," Francesca replied with a nod.

"Get your armor on, Artoria," Zeilin said, standing. He looked at the girl, who was staring at them both, completely lost. "We're heading to Mahakam. Now. If things go well, we might even get you home in a few days."