Will’s brow furrowed.
It was the elven captain who had cornered him along the woodland road outside Ellander.
Tailing my boots across the province?
“I am Dayne, commander of a Scoia’tael commando,” the elf said, taking the adjacent stool with easy grace.
“Crossing paths here was merely a stroke of fortune.”
Will glanced toward the counter.
Tore the barkeep continued rinsing wooden flagons, his face blank and indifferent.
An unpleasant suspicion clicked into place behind Will’s eyes.
“So this tavern is your front? Bold moves. I took you for woods runners who preferred hiding in the ditch.”
Dayne gave a slight nod.
“Our camp sits in the scrub outside the palisade, but a unit requires a listening post to gather intelligence and trade coin. A taproom serves that purpose better than the brush.”
“Cut the pleasantries,” Will said, setting his cup down with a dull clatter.
“What do you want with me? If you plan to recite another sermon about non-human brotherhood and elven suffering, you can pull your cowl up and walk right back out the door.”
Dayne choked on his words, his sharp mouth hanging open for half a beat before he recovered his composure.
“Fair enough. You likely know Vizima rests atop the stone foundations of an ancient elven city. The chronicles tell of several hidden sanctuaries sealed within those depths.”
Dayne leaned closer, his voice dropping.
“We suspect one of those vaults lies directly beneath Old Vizima.”
“So you breached the sewer walls and opened the floodgates to the marsh?”
Will stared at him, speech deserting him for a moment.
He had his own guesses about what relic these insurgents were chasing: countless elven scholars spent their entire lives obsessing over the legacy of Lara Dorren.
She was the foster daughter of the ancient Aen Elle king, hailing from the world of Tir ná Lia and standing as the distant ancestor to Ciri’s line.
The Conjunction had stranded her legacy upon this Continent.
Dayne’s posture remained unyielding, showing no regret over the civilians butchered in the dark.
“Had the White Rose not hounded our tracks without question, we would have put the beasts down and walled the breach weeks ago,” the elf said coolly.
Aye, and pigs might take wing over the Pontar.
Non-humans in human cities knew only four fates: betrayal, mockery, broken ribs, or empty pockets.
Expecting altruism from a Scoia’tael commander who ambushed regular patrols was absurd.
The man would swindle a water hag if it bought him a quiver of iron-tipped shafts.
“If you, the Son of the Goddess, will assist our company in unsealing the sanctuary, the Scoia’tael will compensate your hand generously,” Dayne pressed.
Will regarded him with genuine amusement.
This affair had nothing to do with him, and his bloodline held no kinship with the Elder Races.
“I fail to see the profit in it. Besides, your business is with Geralt of Rivia; he is the master monster hunter, not me. I know nothing of ancient vaults.”
“No,” Dayne countered, his tone earnest.
“Breaching an elven sanctuary demands a singular key: the presence of the Elder Blood, or a source carrying ancient resonance. You possess an unnatural gift, Will. Even if the seal refuses to give way, you will be compensated in solid gold.”
The elf held his gaze, words laced with venomous conviction. Find the original chapter at novelping.com.
“You carry the Mother’s favor. Your place is with our cause, not with mortal kings. To human lords, we are all aberrations. Ride with us to Dol Blathanna. Once our kingdom rises from the ash, you will look down upon mortal men from high halls!”
Dayne leaned in until his shadow fell over the bench.
“Do you truly believe humans will revere you for a goddess’s mark? Listen to how this plays out: first, they bow their heads out of superstitious dread. Then, they scheme to turn you into a royal levee. In the end, when they realize you cannot be bridled, they slit your throat in the dark.”
He tapped his own knuckle against the oak.
“Look to those who carry the Elder Blood. The sorcerers smile and offer fine silks, but behind their eyes, they see only livestock for their crucibles.”
Will turned the words over in his thoughts.
True enough, but he could work with greedy barons and ambitious mages well enough; everyone had an angle, and predictable greed was easy to manage.
Looking at the reality of the elven cause, the picture was grim: abysmal birth rates, stagnant craft, stubborn arrogance, and open contempt for their own half-elven kindred.
He felt no deep loyalty toward their banner.
Through the ceiling boards, he could feel Salat’s spark of vitality lingering in the room above.
A daring scheme flashed through his thoughts: high risk, but carrying staggering dividends.
A stroke of pure enterprise.
Will pinched his chin, feigning deep contemplation.
Five minutes dragged past before his features settled into a stern mask.
He locked his golden eyes onto the elf’s face, his voice low and deliberate.
“You have a point. I have no great love for how northern courts conduct their affairs. But how do you guarantee my hide? The drainage canals are crawling with horrors, and twelve archers won’t keep me whole if the stone collapses.”
Dayne’s eyes flashed with quiet triumph.
“My command will form a circle around you until the seal opens. Not a single beast will lay a talon on your coat.”
Will gave a slow shake of his head.
“A shared front is well and good, but I do not step into the dark blind. I bring my own guard: the squad of knights that walked the sluice with me last night.”
Dayne bristled, refusing on the spot.
“Out of the question! Not a single human blade enters the vault!”
“Dayne, ask yourself why I walk freely with the White Rose after cutting down their brothers in the field,” Will countered, leaning in with a razor smile.
“Because that squad belongs to my personal house. They answer to my coin, not the high chapter. Refuse the terms, and we part ways here. Forget you saw my face. I haven’t reported your cell to the town watch, have I?”
He pressed his advantage.
“Besides, my men count half your company’s strength.”
Will kept piling weight on the scale.
The reason he hadn’t sold the taproom to the municipal garrison was simple: the watch offered copper pennies, and the Squirrels were slippery as eels in an open city.
Dayne hesitated, eyes flicking toward the kitchen door.
“I will consult my kin. You will have an answer before sundown.”
Will watched the elf slip through the pantry curtain.
Turning back to the bar, Will tilted his head toward the silent tender.
“And you, Tore? You’re a man of Temerian blood. What drives an honest local to pour pints for forest rebels?”
Tore wiped a clay flagon with a damp rag, keeping his eyes on the shelf.
“We shared the same mud in the southern slums as boys. A man works for coin, stranger. If the coin spends, the employer’s ears mean nothing to me.”
Will gave an understanding nod, drained the dregs of his winter cider, and climbed the creaking timber stairs to his quarters.
His unit was off duty, and the other men had scattered to the market wards.
Seeing Will return so swiftly, the knight offered a puzzled frown.
Will smiled, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.
“Change of plans, Salat. How would you like to see yourself wearing a captain’s gorget before the month is out?”
Salat stared, his mouth parting in confusion.
The rank structure of the White Rose was rigid: Postulant, Knight Companion, Banner Captain, High Commander, and Grand Master.
A nobleman’s son could buy his spurs for three hundred crowns under the guise of an altar endowment, but climbing to a captaincy required royal warrants and ducal patronage.
…
The Temple Quarter, inside Salat’s private lodgings.
“Are you out of your mind?!” Salat’s voice broke into a terrified whisper as he stared at the faint, steady smile on Will’s face.
For the first time, a genuine chill crept up the knight’s spine.
“Losing your nerve?” Will asked, pouring two measures of rye into tin cups.
“How many winters did it take you to earn your spurs? Five long years, and that was with Lady Marie pulling levers at court.”
He slid a cup across the table.
“Play this hand true, and King Foltest will grant you a private audience before the snow thaws.”
Listening to that calm, calculated voice, the hunger for advancement roared back to life in Salat’s chest.
He carried a heavy commission from the Countess, and fulfilling her designs meant driving his kinsmen through fire.
He let out a ragged breath, rubbing his temples.
“The most I can requisition from the armory is plate harness, tower shields, and a crate of Zerrikanian Grapeshot petards.”
Will nodded with satisfaction.
The powder-masters of Zerrikania had done the world a tremendous service; their incendiary formulations fetched a king’s ransom on northern markets, strictly regulated by ducal decree, yet Salat’s network could secure three crates with a few forged stamps.
“Rest easy. It won’t be the abattoir you’re picturing. Your squad forms the rear guard. I need no shields; let the Squirrels break the first line of teeth.”
The parameters settled quickly.
By nightfall, Salat had slipped through the back alley to muster the gear.
Watching the door latch click shut, Will offered a cold, solitary smile.
This was how the Continent operated: useful men bartered one another’s blood.
Dayne sought to unseal the vault, intending to use the Son of the Goddess as a propaganda banner to bolster his rebel ranks.
Lady Marie’s full design remained hidden, but her instructions to Salat were clear: climb the chapter’s ranks by any means necessary.
Grand Master?
Burgomaster?
A landed lordship?
Will found the chaos thoroughly enjoyable.
Playing all sides was treacherous work, but the margins yielded staggering profit.
If an ancient elven vault truly lay beneath the muck, did it hold Lara Dorren’s original grimoires, or forgotten relics of the Elder Races?
Even if the stone chambers held only dust, the harvest waiting in those dark galleries would yield far more than a few sacks of silver crowns.