Chapter 86: An Impossible Alliance
POV: Adam
The journey back to Mahakam took two days of careful travel through mountain passes that Yarpen's scouts had secured against Nilfgaardian stragglers.
Two days to process what we'd done. Two days to question whether saving lives through deception made the deception acceptable.
The dwarven hold's gates opened at our approach, guards who'd been suspicious strangers a month ago now nodding with something approaching warmth. Word had traveled fast through the underground messenger networks—the humans who'd sheltered among them had eliminated the Nilfgaardian threat without bringing war to dwarven doorsteps.
"Council's waiting." Yarpen fell into step beside me as we entered the main thoroughfare. "They want full report. Everything that happened, how you managed it, what it means for their security."
"They'll get it."
"They'll also want to celebrate." His grin showed teeth filed sharp in traditional fashion. "Dwarves love a good victory feast, and 'the False Death' is already becoming legend among the clans. You've given them a story they'll tell for generations."
The phrase landed wrong. The False Death. We'd killed Ciri on paper, burned a transformed corpse in her name, and sent a desperate man home with news that would break an empire's obsession.
Victory, yes. But it tasted like ash.
—Scene Break—
POV: Ciri
The council chamber felt different this time.
A month ago, she'd stood here as a desperate refugee begging for sanctuary, maintaining a disguise that fooled no one who looked closely. Now the dwarven elders regarded her with something between respect and curiosity—the girl who'd died and lived, who'd transformed an enemy into an ally through courage rather than bloodshed.
"Your report, Stone-Sense." Brouver Hoog's rumbling voice carried the weight of centuries. "We've heard fragments. We want the full account."
Adam stepped forward, and Ciri felt their bond pulse with the complex emotions he was processing—pride in what they'd accomplished, guilt about how they'd accomplished it, uncertainty about what came next.
"Cahir aep Ceallach's army engaged us in the valley you identified as optimal for ambush." Adam's voice carried clearly through the carved chamber. "Fifty soldiers, two battle-mages, professional forces expecting to capture a fleeing princess. Instead, they found earthen walls dividing their formation, dwarven warriors emerging from tunnel positions, and elemental attacks they had no training to counter."
"Casualties?" Elder Morvran's question came sharp.
"Eighteen Nilfgaardian dead, mostly during the initial engagement. Thirty-two captured, later released with their commander. Both mages subdued non-lethally."
"And on our side?"
"Three dwarven warriors injured, none critically. No fatalities."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled clan leaders. Ciri understood their reaction—an ambush that destroyed an army while losing no defenders represented tactical perfection that most commanders dreamed about but never achieved.
"The interesting part," Yarpen interjected, "is what happened after the fighting stopped."
Adam's account continued: the duel with Cahir, the revelation about hostage families, the impossible choice between killing a man following orders and letting him continue his hunt. And finally, the solution that satisfied no one completely but saved everyone possible.
"You faked her death." Brouver's statement carried neither approval nor condemnation. "Created a false body, staged a scene, sent an enemy home with lies that will reach an Emperor's ears."
"We gave Cahir something he could report honestly—a body, evidence, closure. His family's safe because of that deception. And Nilfgaard's stopped hunting someone who, as far as they know, no longer exists."
"Until they discover the truth."
"Which buys us months. Maybe years. Time we desperately needed."
The elders conferred in low dwarven dialect that Ciri couldn't follow. When Brouver spoke again, his voice had softened slightly.
"Deception sits poorly with dwarven tradition. We prefer honest steel to clever words." He paused. "But we also recognize that different enemies require different weapons. You used the tools available to solve an impossible problem. That deserves acknowledgment."
"Sanctuary remains," Morvran added. "For as long as you need it. You've proven yourselves friends of Mahakam."
Ciri felt relief wash through Adam's side of their bond—and something else. The weight of what "friend of Mahakam" meant when they couldn't stay. When leaving was inevitable.
When the Hunt was still coming.
—Scene Break—
POV: Adam
The celebration lasted until midnight.
Dwarven ale flowed freely, each toast more elaborate than the last. "To the False Death!" became a recurring cry, tankards raised in honor of a deception that had somehow become heroic in the retelling.
I sat apart from the main festivities, nursing a drink I hadn't touched, watching Ciri charm a group of dwarven children with stories about the surface world.
"You're brooding." Lambert dropped onto the bench beside me. "That's supposed to be Geralt's job."
"Not brooding. Thinking."
"Same thing with you." He grabbed my untouched ale, drained half in one pull. "What's eating you? We won. Decisively. Nobody died who didn't have to."
"We lied."
"We survived."
"By lying."
Lambert set the tankard down with more force than necessary. "Kid, let me explain something about the world. Every witcher who ever lived has lied to save lives. Every soldier, every diplomat, every mother protecting her children. Truth is a luxury for people who aren't being hunted."
"That doesn't make it right."
"Right?" His laugh held no humor. "Right is a word philosophers use to feel superior. The rest of us just do what we have to and live with the consequences." He met my eyes. "You saved Cahir's family. Saved his soldiers. Saved Ciri from endless running. That's what matters. The how is just details."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to find the flaw in his reasoning that would prove my discomfort justified.
But he was right. And I hated that he was right.
"When did you become wise?"
"When did you become naive?" But his tone had gentled. "Finish mourning your innocence, then move on. We've got bigger problems than your conscience."
—Scene Break—
POV: Ciri
The nightmare came without warning.
One moment she was walking through Mahakam's forges, admiring the craft of dwarven smiths. The next, ice crept across the stone floor, freezing everything it touched. Workers became statues. Flames sputtered and died. And through the crystalline silence, they rode.
Three riders this time. Close enough that she could see the frost forming on their armor, the cold fire burning in their eyes, the skeletal horses whose hooves struck no sound against frozen ground.
"Child of Elder Blood." The voice scraped across her mind like broken glass. "Your mortal deceptions mean nothing to us. We see you. We will always see you."
"Stay away!" The scream tore from her throat, and with it came power—Elder Blood surging uncontrolled, reality bending around her.
"Your power calls to us across the spheres. Every time you use it, we come closer. Every time you dream, we see through your eyes."
The lead rider reached toward her. Gauntlet of black ice, fingers like frozen bone.
"We are patient. We have hunted across worlds, across ages. One hiding place more or less changes nothing. We will have you, Child of Elder Blood. It is only a matter of time."
She woke screaming.
—Scene Break—
POV: Adam
The scream brought me running.
Ciri sat rigid in her bed, objects floating around her in a chaotic orbit—cups, blankets, the iron knife I'd forged as practice piece. Dimensional energy crackled through the air, raising the hair on my arms, making my teeth ache with its wrongness.
"Ciri!" I grabbed her shoulders, pushed through our bond with everything I had. Anchor. Stability. Here. Real. Safe.
The floating objects crashed down. The energy dissipated in crackling sparks.
But her eyes—her eyes held terror that made my heart clench.
"They came again." Her voice was raw. "Three of them. They said—" She swallowed hard. "They said my deceptions mean nothing. They track Elder Blood across dimensions. Distance doesn't matter. Hiding doesn't matter. They'll always find me."
I pulled her close, felt her trembling against my chest. Through our bond, I caught fragments of the nightmare—ice and frost and voices that scraped like knives across consciousness.
"Three riders manifested." Geralt's voice came from the doorway. He'd arrived silently, as witchers did. "Outside the hold. I felt them through the stone—different vibrations than anything else. They tested the defenses, retreated when dwarven guards responded."
"How did you know?"
"Seismic Sense isn't unique to earthbenders. Witcher mutations include enhanced awareness of supernatural presences." His expression was grim. "They're getting bolder. A month ago, they manifested once every few weeks. Now it's twice in one night."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the stone isn't protecting us as well as we hoped. Or they're getting stronger. Or both." Geralt moved to the window, staring out at darkness that held enemies no wall could stop. "Solving Nilfgaard was necessary. But we've been so focused on the smaller threat that the larger one's been growing."
Ciri's grip tightened on my arm. "What do we do?"
"We leave." Geralt's answer came without hesitation. "Mahakam bought us time to train, but it can't protect against dimensional hunters. We need somewhere with stronger defenses. Somewhere with ley lines that might actually interfere with their manifestations."
"Where?"
"Skellige." He turned from the window. "Ciri's ancestral homeland through Eist. The islands sit on major ley line convergences—magical energy concentrated enough to potentially disrupt Hunt tracking. And Skellige warriors would fight to protect their own."
"I've never been there." Ciri's voice was small. "Grandmother never took me. Said the islands were too dangerous for children."
"They are." Geralt's expression softened slightly. "But you're not a child anymore. And dangerous might be exactly what we need."
—Scene Break—
POV: Lambert
The council meeting happened at dawn.
Lambert leaned against a pillar, watching the humans and dwarves discuss strategy with the detachment of someone who'd seen too many plans dissolve into chaos.
"Skellige makes sense." Yarpen's voice carried reluctant agreement. "Islands are isolated, defended, and the clans there owe debts to Cintra's old royal family. Ciri's bloodline carries weight."
"It also puts us on the other side of the continent." Geralt spread maps across the table. "Sea journey, then island-hopping until we reach Ard Skellig. Weeks of travel through territory we don't control."
"Better than waiting for the Hunt to punch through these walls." Adam's contribution was pragmatic. "We've solved Nilfgaard. We've trained as much as we can here. What's left?"
"Leaving." Lambert pushed off from his pillar. "Which means saying goodbye to the best ale I've had in years."
Yarpen snorted. "I'll have a barrel loaded for your journey. Consider it farewell gift."
"And the pickaxe." Thorek spoke for the first time. "Master-crafted, earthbending focus. Should help channel the stone-sense more precisely."
Adam accepted the gift with visible surprise. "I can't—"
"You can. Saved twelve lives in those tunnels. Worth more than any tool." Thorek's gruff voice held warmth beneath the roughness. "Use it well, Stone-Sense. Make us proud."
Lambert watched the exchange, noting how Adam's discomfort with praise hadn't diminished despite weeks of it. The kid genuinely didn't understand his own value—still saw himself as pretender rather than power.
"He'll learn. Or he'll die. That's how the world teaches everyone."
"One week," Brouver announced. "Rest, resupply, say proper farewells. Then we escort you to the western coast, put you on a ship bound for Skellige." His ancient eyes found Ciri. "May your ancestors watch over you, child. May you find the home you're seeking."
Ciri's response came quiet but steady. "Thank you. For everything."
The council dissolved into smaller conversations—logistics, supplies, timing. Lambert found himself beside Geralt, both witchers watching their charges navigate social obligations.
"Think Skellige will work?"
"Think it's better than staying here and waiting to die." Geralt's assessment carried its usual pragmatism. "The islands have power. Enough that the Hunt might hesitate."
"Might."
"It's the best we've got." Geralt turned from the crowd. "One week. Then we run again."
"Story of our lives."
"Story of everyone's life. We're just more honest about it."
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