Magic or carrier pigeons?

He walked unhurriedly towards her. He smelled of the sea, of salt, tar and exhaustion. She looked into his bright eyes and immediately the war cries of the berserkers, the banging of shields and the clanging of swords and battle-axes resounded in her ears. The screaming of men being killed. The screaming of men jumping into the sea from the burning Daria.

‘Yennefer of Vengerberg.’

‘Crach an Craite, Yarl of Skellige.’ She bowed slightly before him.

He didn’t return the bow. Not good, she thought.

He immediately saw the bruise, a souvenir of a blow with an oar. His face hardened again and his lips twitched, revealing his teeth for a second.

‘Whoever struck you will answer for it.’

‘No one struck me. I tripped on the stairs.’

He considered her intently and then shrugged.

‘If you don’t want to tell tales that’s your business. I have no time to launch an inquiry. Now listen. Carefully, because these will be the only words I shall utter to you.’

‘Very well.’

‘Tomorrow you will be put on a longship and shipped to Novigrad. You will be handed over to the town authorities there and afterwards to the Temerian or Redanian authorities; whichever comes forward first. And I know that both desire you just as ardently.’

‘Is that everything?’

‘Almost. Just one more clarification, which you, in truth, deserve. Skellige has quite often given refuge to people being hunted by the law. There is no shortage of opportunities and occasions on the Isles to atone for one’s guilt through hard work, fortitude, sacrifice and blood. But not in your case, Yennefer. I shall not give you refuge. If you counted on it, then you miscalculated. I detest people like you. I detest people who stir up trouble in order to gain power, who are driven by self-interest, who plot with the enemy and betray those to whom they owe not only obedience but also gratitude. I detest you, Yennefer. At the very moment you and your rebel comrades began inciting the rebellion on Thanedd at the instigation of Nilfgaard, my longships were fighting in Attre; my boys were coming to the aid of the insurrectionists there. Three hundred of my boys squared up to two thousand Black Cloaks! Valour and fidelity must rewarded, just as wickedness and treachery must be punished! How am I to reward those who fell? With cenotaphs? With inscriptions carved into obelisks? No! I shall reward and honour the fallen differently. Your blood, Yennefer, will trickle between the planks of the scaffold. In exchange for their blood, which soaked into the dunes of Attre.’

‘I’m not guilty. I didn’t participate in Vilgefortz’s plot.’

‘You will present proof of that to the judges. I will not judge you.’

‘You already have. You’ve even pronounced sentence.’

‘Enough talk! I’ve spoken: tomorrow at dawn you’ll sail in manacles to Novigrad to stand before the royal court. To receive a just punishment. And now, give me your word you won’t try to use magic.’