Tarquin had concluded his meeting with Constable John Natalis, commander-in-chief of the united northern forces at the Battle of Brenna. Currently, the Constable served as regent, playing the interrex until Foltest’s heir would come of age. In spite of his capacities, accumulated prestige and official appointment as protector of Temeria, Natalis did not enjoy the support of all the nobles, thus making his rule a fractured one. Tarquin attempted to lend his voice to the Constable’s cause, but was unwilling to devote his entire attention to Temeria’s problems.

“It was a madhouse at Loc Muinne, bedlam,” he said. John Natalis was one of the finest soldiers in Temeria, in the north even, but he blanched at the memory of what transpired in that ancient elven ruin. “After the negotiations went sour all hell broke loose. We were duped by Philippa, by Síle.” The Constable pounded an armoured fist on the table. “Blasted sorceresses... Trying to tame a dragon.”

There had been more smoke and mirrors at that summit of mages and monarchs than in a whorehouse. Everyone was pulling strings and taking gambles, regardless of the stakes. Well, the chickens had come home to roost. Or… a dragon had.

The male wizard simply nodded, grinning behind his hand. It seemed, at last, that he could count on Natalis’ support in the final execution of his plans. Old Natalis might not speak for the whole of Temeria, but he did possess the national seal to sign official documents with. If at some point the Brotherhood was reinstated –a thing those witches failed to do at Loc Muinne-, that seal would lend weight to the charter.

In spite of urging the Constable, he had been unwilling to discuss the Nilfgaardian invasion and shifting fronts. He did, however, disclose the latest intelligence on troop movements. Tarquin had to swallow another disappointment as Natalis did not know who else had survived the debacle at Loc Muinne; at least, not of those with magical abilities. Apparently Radovid and Henselt had both endured and ran home with their tail between their legs. Not surprising, really, for last time Nilfgaar invaded it had taken them just over two weeks to reach the Defne and Upper Aedirn. The sorcerer wondered if with Demavend, and his son Stennis, out of the way the Black Ones would be even faster.

He had bid farewell to Constable Natalis, wishing him the best in fighting his battles interiorly as well as exteriorly. The nobles had to be restrained, appeasement was out of the question, after which Temeria would hopefully be ready to face the Nilfgaardian threat. Fighting had already broken out in Brugge and Sodden.

Using crystals, amulets and a trio of the purest diamonds supported by one of sapphires, Tarquin opened a portal in the courtyard of the manse he had rented in Vizima. It took some concentration due to the difficulty of triangulating an exact position in the jagged and moody country surrounding the dwarven town of Vergen, recently proclaimed the capital of a free Upper-Aedirn.

Upper-Aedirn, the Vergen Free State… A freak of nations. Tarquin compared it to Dol Blathanna, the land of the supposedly Free Elves led by that treacherous bitch Francesca Findabhair. She too, was a subject of Tarquin’s grudges due to the manner of her betrayal of the Brotherhood. The elven sorceress had donned a crown and ruled a valley in the east of Aedirn, hidden in the mountains. It did not concern her, seemingly, that her subjects were starving and turned out to be little more than bandits and degenerate rejects. The supposedly Free Elves were vassals of Emhyr var Emreis to boot! It would not surprise Tarquin if the elves of Dol Blathanna once again took up arms and reformed their packs of commandos. Perhaps Iorveth could sway some of them to go against Findabhair’s wishes… Food for thought.

The portal opened neatly and calmly –an elongated disk of black and orange with a crackling corona of magical current. The sorcerer stepped on through and ended up amid the scorched ruins of what appeared to have been a village. Tarquin dusted off his doublet, ran a hand through his crimson hair and marched off towards Vergen, nestled between the rocks, once his sense of direction returned.

He was not far before he sensed the tips of arrows trailing him. “Hold still, dh’oine.”

“Squass’me,” Tarquin replied in the Elder Speech, the words rolling off his tongue fluently, tasting like honey. It had been so long. “I am Tarquin Brantimokem Kleist, sorcerer. I wish to enter Vergen and speak with whomever rules.”

“What’s he saying?” A rude dwarf interjected, not accustomed to the old tongue of the Ain Seidhe. The elves in the meantime had lowered their bows, their emblems marking them as commandos loyal to Iorveth. Perhaps the elf was still in Vergen and Selward had been misinformed.

“We’ll take you to Vergen. But I do not know if Saskia wishes to see you.” The elf replied.