Chapter Fifty-Five: Fairy Tales Are Not All Lies

“My eyes are so large, so I can see you more clearly,” the wolf pledged solemnly. “My hands are big, so I can embrace you more warmly! Every part of me is large—you’ll soon discover I speak nothing but the truth.
Why are you looking at me with such a strange expression, little girl? Why don’t you answer me?”
The sorceress smiled faintly. “Because I have a surprise for you.”
—"Surprise," from Fairy Tales and Folk Stories by Florence Delannoy

...

She was a petite, slender sorceress with long, straw-colored hair falling straight down her back. Her blue lace blouse was cut low at the neckline, covered only by a sheer white veil—so thin that even the tiny mole below her collarbone was clearly visible.
She had a straight nose, pale cherry-colored lips, and a swan-like neck, slender and delicate, her skin even whiter than the gauze she wore—smooth and youthful as a young girl’s. Around her neck hung a silver ankh set with zircon.
The only thing at odds with her overall girlish air were her eyes—clear and bright as crystal, yet reflecting a pride that scorned all things. When her cold gaze swept the room, not a single knight dared meet her eyes directly.
As the sorceress advanced toward Siegfried, her bearing was that of a fierce lioness. Victor, standing at the knight’s side, could feel the prickling sensation of magical energy on his very skin.
She held out her right hand to Siegfried, allowing the Rose Knight to bow and perform a flawless hand-kiss.
According to Eskal the witcher’s useful tidbit for the young, nearly all sorceresses enjoy being greeted with a hand-kiss. Politely put, it allows them to enjoy the same courtesy as a princess; more bluntly, it simply makes them feel respected.
—Eskal: “They are always feared, but rarely respected.”
Her earrings swayed and tinkled. Her movements were gentle, yet somehow both flamboyant and audacious.
“Speak then, Siegfried of Denso. Keira Metz, court advisor of Temeria, is questioning you. What was the disturbance in the Temple Quarter tonight? I heard it involved a wandering mage. His Majesty Foltest—your king—wishes to know the full story.”
As she spoke, she tilted her white neck back, so slender it seemed it could be snapped with ease.
Victor, head bowed, could see only her calves, her dragon-leather slippers, and a glimpse of her exquisitely shaped toes.
Ever since she approached Siegfried, he had maintained this posture—perfectly displaying the bashfulness of a young man unable to withstand her beauty.
—Eskal: “It is dangerous to get too close to a sorceress, for her beauty may easily bewitch you. And if you are not bewitched—or at least do not act as if you are—she may give you a ‘surprise’ you’ll never forget!”
A sorceress’s capriciousness is as renowned as her beauty. Victor harbored no illusions that his looks would ever be enough for Keira Metz to forgive even the slightest unintentional offense.

Confronted by her inquiry, the Rose Knight handed the freshly signed statement to the sorceress.
Flipping through the scribe’s record, Keira’s disdain grew with every line she read. Her pale lips parted: “Foolish country bumpkins…” Her brown eyes flicked to Victor. “And a pitiful little nobody, putting on this worthless farce together, making me leave my warm bath in the dead of night, abandon my blueberries and nuts, and my Fiorano rosé, ah, damn it all…”
Nobody present in the lounge had the standing to interrupt her displeasure. Even Siegfried, who appeared to be the very soul of honesty, kept his eyes down, not daring to meet her gaze, quietly enduring her tirade.
Until, from afar, the steady, unhurried clang of iron boots on stone—“Clack…! Clack…! Clack…! Clack…!”—cut through the room, exuding a forceful presence that instantly silenced her complaints.
The door opened, and in strode a man with a long, stern face and a bristling beard, exuding authority.
“The sky thundered and Jacques made his dazzling entrance!” Victor’s mind flashed to this ancient phrase, for the man’s arrival was breathtakingly impressive. All the knights bowed deeply; Angouleme and Victor followed suit, and even the haughty sorceress inclined her head in greeting.
As he entered and drew closer, the contrast with Keira’s earlier magical aura was stark—where her power had prickled the skin, Jacques’s presence seemed to thicken the very air.
To put it more graphically: if the Wolf School medallion was a vibrating massager, Keira could manage a mild third setting, while Jacques’s arrival was full-blast at level five.

...

In the lounge, as they finally began to speak face to face, the others became mere bystanders.
Jacques of Aldersburg: “Lady Keira Metz, royal adviser—what brings you to the headquarters of the Order?”
His tone was calm, but not exactly respectful; her smile was present, but no trace of joy.
“Master Jacques, our king wishes to know the facts behind tonight’s disturbance in the Temple Quarter.”
Taking the statement from Keira, he read it swiftly, then ignored the sorceress and turned first to Siegfried: “My knight, I’d like your opinion. Does this record deserve our trust?”
Siegfried bowed his head and pressed a hand to his chest. “Master, I trust my friend’s character. In fact, just days ago, we fought together to bring down a drowners’ nest.”
The master knight smiled, looking Victor up and down. Then he spoke: “Scribe, make another copy of this statement and send it to Farwick of Moen. Tell him I would value his perspective.”
Only then did he turn to Keira Metz, waving the report in his hand. “Madam, that’s the whole story. Please convey my respects to the king.”
Dismissed so lightly, the sorceress’s eyes turned to ice as she glared at Jacques. His gaze, forged of iron and steel, was equally cold and unyielding.

The fierce clash of their eyes did not last long. The sorceress inclined her head, signaling the matter was settled. As she bent, the sway of her snowy-white figure was enough to turn hearts—yet none of the four before her were moved.
The knight master’s will was like iron, the Rose Knight was committed to his cause, Angouleme was a girl, and Victor, for his part, saw nothing at all—he kept his eyes fixed dutifully on the sorceress’s calves, intent on preserving his fawn-like shyness.
With a flick of her hand, the sorceress conjured a copy of the statement, opened a portal with effortless grace, and vanished—leaving behind only a lingering trace of rosemary in the air.

...

Her departure evidently set everyone at ease. The knights and scribe who had witnessed the statement saluted the head of the Order and departed, leaving just four people in the room.
“Witcher apprentice, Victor of Bell Town, east of Zerrikania, recognized by the goddess Melitele as ‘the pure one’,” Jacques’s voice was rich and warm. “You needn’t worry anymore—Farwick will cease his attacks on you, unless he wishes to face the king’s wrath and my own punishment.”
At these words, the boy lifted his head, meeting the master knight’s gaze at close range.
“Thank you for your help, Master Jacques.”
“It was nothing. Which school are you from, young man?”
“I’m of the Cat School.”
“And your mentor? I saw nothing of him in the statement.”
“He was killed last winter in the Chuchimo nest…” At this, Victor lowered his head in sorrow. Angouleme followed suit, silent.
“A pity…” Jacques patted the boy’s shoulder in consolation.
“Listen, you did well with the drowners. I admire young men committed to slaying monsters. But, having lost your mentor, I don’t think you must become a witcher. If you change your mind, let Siegfried know—the Order always welcomes new companions in humanity’s cause.”
Having offered both comfort and encouragement, the master knight prepared to leave. He clasped the Rose Knight’s arm in support, smiled and nodded at Angouleme, then strode from the lounge with the gait of a lion.