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“I think everyone is here,” said Philippa, smoothing her skirts as she took her seat. “Is the telescope stable enough, Queen Enid? Good. I didn’t expect we would ever gather like this again.” She looked around. After the atrocities committed by Radovid V, even Philippa had not expected so many sorceresses to survive—including herself. Not that she lacked confidence; the situation back then had simply been too dire. Had she missed that narrow chance, she might still be hanging from some pyre in Tretogor. She had no doubt Radovid would have done it.
Philippa surveyed the room. Of the full Twelve, four seats now stood empty. Those present bore more or less the marks of panic and disgrace. A few, however, were in relatively better condition—Yennefer of Vengerberg, most notably. As the Emperor’s advisor, Yennefer had evaded much of the persecution aimed at sorceresses and nonhumans. She was now leisurely tending her nails. Francesca Findabair, the elven queen, showed not the relief of a survivor, but only the weariness of constant statecraft. Beside her sat Ida Emean, the elven sage—another fortunate one to escape the Eternal Fire's grasp. As for the rest, most sorceresses carried visible trauma. Others, less fortunate, had perished forever in the dungeons of the witch hunters. Margarita still bore the bruises of torture on her face. Clearly, there had not been enough time for even magic to restore her to her former grace.
“You must have all noticed—I moved the meeting to this elven ruin at the last minute. The matter was urgent. Once we reclaim the sorceresses’ lodge in Montecalvo, our gatherings will resume there,” Philippa said. She felt a faint sting behind her eyes, a sign that she had used her magical vision too much today. But she didn’t care. In a month, her new eyes would have grown, and she would no longer need magical enhancements. The materials were ready, reacting inside a vial, awaiting the shaping spells that would give them final form. In short, Philippa felt everything was back under her control. “Since the last meeting, we have lost three valued members. Sabina Glevissig, burned at the stake by the King of Kovir.”
“Sheala de Tancarville, slain during the witch hunts, by the hands of witch hunters themselves. What a shame—I recall it was she who first proposed the name Lodge of Sorceresses.”
“Assire var Anahid, cause of death unknown, though it was likely a secret order from the Emperor of Nilfgaard.”
“Also, Ciri declined to attend. She’s busy hunting... a striped fiend,” Philippa wrinkled her nose in clear disapproval. The fact that Ciri would delay the Lodge’s operations for what Philippa considered lowly witcher business was beyond her comprehension—and quite frustrating. “That leaves eight of us able to attend. The witch hunters have caused us tremendous trouble, as have the so-called ‘clever’ kings and their violence. That brings us to the first proposal of today’s meeting, which I shall make.”
“I propose we expand the Lodge. At present, I have four potential candidates we could approach. The first is Leticia Charbonneau…”
“Headmistress Charbonneau,” Margarita corrected.
“Yes, yes, of course. We all remember the old headmistress. She hasn’t been active on the Continent lately, but I’ve received word she still lives in seclusion near the Bay of Práxeda in Povis. I suggest we reach out to her under the Lodge’s name. Who’s in favor, who’s opposed?”
“In favor.” “No objections.” “In favor.” The sorceresses voiced their support in turn. Only Yennefer seemed distracted. Once everyone else had spoken, eyes turned to her. She finally looked up lazily and expressed her abstention. Philippa understood. Leticia was never one for politics. She was more an educator—a quality that aligned with Yennefer’s own ambivalent political stance. She did not want to drag her once-admired teacher into the maelstrom of political intrigue. Even so, Philippa had every reason—indeed, the development of magic itself was justification enough.
Neutrality is still a stance, Philippa thought as she studied the sorceresses present. Nearly half had studied under that legendary headmistress. Margarita had even inherited Aretuza from Leticia. That posture of neutrality had captivated many of the Lodge's members from the beginning—but neutrality, Philippa maintained, was still a political choice. She hoped her foolish colleagues could truly understand that.
“Radovid V and the witch hunters have cost us many gifted female students. I believe Margarita feels this loss most deeply,” Philippa said, turning—or pretending to turn—toward her. Margarita nodded at the round table. “We’ve also lost brilliant magical scholars,” added Triss, nodding as well. Clearly, her time hiding in Novigrad had left her with deep impressions. Yes, Philippa thought, watching the sorceresses fall one by one—I almost became one of them. What a disgrace that would have been. “They destroyed magical texts and records, persecuted elves—” (Francesca’s playful expression disappeared) “—dwarves, and halflings. They’ve severely hindered—perhaps even reversed—the progress of magical scholarship. That is one of the reasons I’ve reinstated the Lodge. At this point, we must gather every force we can. Just as workers repair a ruined castle, we must restore our tomes. I don’t know how long it will take. And yes, we will need some political capital…”
“Does this mean the Lodge must reassess its political alignment?” Fringilla Vigo interjected. “Forgive my bluntness, but I have no intention of opposing Nilfgaard.” Several others, including Francesca, straightened in their seats.
“None of us wants to witness another massacre like the one on Thanedd Island,” Triss added, though her tone lacked the firmness of her words.
“Ladies, ladies, sisters…” Philippa quickly intervened. “The North has already become a vassal of Nilfgaard. I’m not trying to revive outdated schemes—do you think I’m still planning to seize power over some duchy? What would be the point? What I’m proposing is simply to secure basic political resources for the Lodge—just as we used to. This is to ensure that our research into magic doesn’t regress under external pressure, like it did during the final years of Radovid V’s reign. Imagine if we had forces at our command—subordinates who could influence lords’ decisions. All we want is a stable environment for the development of magic. As long as the Emperor doesn’t continue suppressing sorcerers, that’s enough.”
“It was under such interference that Radovid empowered the Eternal Fire and the witch hunters,” said Margarita listlessly, Philippa’s words reminding her of the students she lost in the dungeons. “On the contrary, I believe it was sorcerers’ overinvolvement in politics that led to the disastrous hunts of the past year. We ourselves cultivated the hatred toward sorcerers. We gave Emhyr, His Imperial Majesty, the perfect excuse. If we hadn’t plotted the assassination of the King of Aedirn, if we hadn’t indulged Letho out of arrogance…”
“Oh, please,” Philippa scoffed. “Margarita, I once had such high hopes for you. Do you truly believe that without Letho there would have been no other assassin? Emhyr needed a moving target, and the Lodge simply made the most convenient one.”
“And without Letho’s twisted testimony, do you think common folk would have adored sorcerers? Surely you’re not that naïve.”
“Your actions on Thanedd Island and the assassination attempt on Vattier de Rideaux must have won the people’s hearts,” Margarita retorted sarcastically.
No one else spoke. Philippa thought of Sheala, of the late Assire—of the sorceress kingdom they once thought was within reach. She pressed her lips together. “We can discuss political stances later. Let’s return to the list of candidates.”
“Kassia van Canting—I believe most of you have at least heard of her. She was once a student of Assire, and there’s a strong chance she aligns with us ideologically. I propose the Lodge make tentative contact with her. Any objections?”
This time, even Yennefer voiced agreement. The Lodge passed the motion unanimously. The next name was Biruta Anna Marquett Irkati.
“I recall she taught at Aretuza—a staunch supporter of sorcerer supremacy,” said Philippa.
“Biruta and I lost contact after Aretuza fell. Her last message warned me that Redanian soldiers had already set the school ablaze,” Margarita said, closing her eyes tightly for a moment before regaining her composure. “After she left, it was as if she vanished from the world. Neither telescopic vision nor magical letters could reach her... I try not to dwell on the possibility that she was tortured to death by the Redanians. She once mentioned considering exile in Ofir, you know—she was always fascinated by their runic techniques. I can’t say for sure if she ever made it there. No word has come from the Ofieri mages either.”
“How interesting. Does anyone here have any contact with Biruta Irkati? Even just a hint of her whereabouts?” Philippa asked.
But the meeting room fell into silence. Clearly, no one had any information about the sorceress. War had cost them too many sisters.
“Perhaps there’s still something of hers left at Aretuza,” Triss suggested. “I could try tracking her with hydromancy or divination.”
“Aretuza is already gone,” Margarita countered immediately. “Biruta’s final message said the pillars at the entrance had shattered into two, and that Redanians set the library on fire. There’s nothing left.”
The hall fell into silence once more. The others were quietly chewing over the sense of shared misfortune—like hares mourning a dead fox. Keira looked around; all she saw were somber, even bitter, faces of sorceresses. Triss’s eyebrows were so tightly knit they looked like they might fuse into her temples. Amid this silence, Keira gave a deliberately theatrical cough or two to draw everyone's attention.
"Maybe I have some of Biruta’s hair. I’ll need to return to my old place and sort through things."
"You? How would you have that?"
Everyone clearly understood what it meant to have another sorceress’s hair at home, as even Fringilla blurted out a surprised, "What?" The elven sage scoffed and muttered, “dh’oinne.” Facing the stunned stares and scrutinizing looks, Keira feigned calm.
“What? What’s the problem? We just wanted to confirm neither of us was actually into women. It lasted only a few days. Biruta was in Temeria on a short research visit. Then she left. Exchanging locks of hair was her idea. We never contacted each other again after that.”
“It’s true,” Keira quickly emphasized. But it was clear that everyone was forming their own thoughts. At the very least, Philippa’s gaze had grown quite loaded in meaning.
“Later I realized I still preferred sweaty, farting men. There’s just no reason to give up such a rich pool of choices in favor of sniffing sorceress perfume. Oh…” Keira gave up trying to explain. “Anyway, will the hair work? Can it help locate Biruta?” she asked Triss.
Triss nodded. “Of course it can.”
And thus, the third candidate was approved with the added bonus of a rising bit of gossip. Next came the fourth nominee: Mindy Ingrid Willick, a rising star from Nilfgaard, specialized in meteorology, a radical feminist, and a member of the sorcerers’ rights movement. Philippa introduced her. Naturally, no one raised any objections. In fact, nearly half the room hadn’t even heard of her before. She was very young—barely half the age of the average sorceress present—likely born around the time of the Battle of Fox Hollow. Her nomination was accepted as well.
All things considered, Radovid V’s tireless campaign had left the Lodge with very limited choices.
Next, Philippa announced, “I have a more important topic we need to discuss.”
“The Lodge’s future stance on humankind.”
“After last year’s hunt, I trust all of you now understand how humans view sorcerers. We’ve lost many friends.” Philippa paused, hoping someone would add to her point. But the others were clearly waiting for her to continue. So she did.
“This is my second—and final—proposal for this session: I propose that we begin surveillance of the human race as a whole. To prevent another year of terror, to stop hidden schemes that may one day destroy the future of magic, we must unite. While securing political status, we must also monitor—manage—your kings, using potions and spells.”
“I know it won’t be easy. Monarchs—cowards that they are—are surrounded by anti-magic detectors, magical wards. But where there are people, there are gaps. We can control them through subtler, more roundabout means. If we can’t influence a reigning king, we prepare a successor who will accept our implants.”
“Sisters, all we need is resolve.”
Philippa’s ambitious proposal caused an uproar. Yennefer was the first to object.
“I don’t believe the monarchs are the real problem,” she said, waving her hand elegantly in the air. “The witch hunts rose from the bottom up. Radovid merely gave the order—it was like opening a gate. Most of the actions against sorcerers and non-humans came from the common folk—from serfs and townspeople, from war itself. Our own past actions bore consequences. The mage community is now shunned.” Margarita nodded in agreement.
Philippa leaned back in her high-backed chair and looked at her. “Think about it. How many times were our sisters’ hiding places exposed by citizens? Serfs and freemen forcing sorceresses to the pyre with pitchforks—do you think all that came from just one royal decree?”
“You didn’t go through any of it. You hid in Nilfgaard’s palaces. You hid in Vizima,” said Keira. It was her first time speaking up against a proposal during the session.
Yennefer glared at her. “While we were on the run, you were in Emhyr’s palace, working for the Emperor. It feels like history repeating itself. Everything sorcerers did to resist Nilfgaard’s invasion was undone—undone by the very serfs and citizens you’re defending. They supplied Nilfgaard with crowns and provisions.”
“Watch your words, Keira Metz! You are speaking to Yennefer of Vengerberg, who fought in the Battle of Sodden!” Vigga interjected sternly.
“Iawn, iawn, I apologize, aen m’squaess,” Keira said, spreading her hands. But it was too late—Yennefer was clearly displeased, having felt insulted by the sorceress’s remark. She rose to her feet, her voice cold:
“Ladies, please excuse me. I’ll take my leave. I probably shouldn’t have attended this meeting of the Lodge to begin with. I’m now just an ordinary person planning to live a quiet life with Geralt, and even in the past, my political views clashed with many of yours. You enjoy meddling with the world—that’s your business. I do appreciate your help during the Wild Hunt incident. If there’s anything apolitical you need, feel free to come to me or Geralt. But beyond that... I’m not prepared to devote myself to any subversive endeavors.”
Having clearly stated her complete lack of alignment, the black-haired sorceress left the stone table. She stepped back a dozen paces past her chair, retreating outside the magical barrier. A portal shimmered open. She gave a courteous nod to the attendees—just enough to maintain the bare minimum of politeness—then stepped through and vanished. On the other side, assuming Philippa had guessed right, the Witcher was waiting for her.
Yennefer came and went as swiftly as ever—which, honestly, suited Philippa just fine. She had never expected Yennefer to support her ideas. In fact, now that she was gone, several previously unspoken topics could finally be brought to the table.
“Shall we continue?” Philippa asked, glossing over Triss’s disappointed expression. “At least Yennefer left us with some alternative perspectives,” she added, with a hint of irony.
“At least focusing on the common folk makes more sense than simply opposing Nilfgaard. I despise Emhyr, but my family lives in Bokler, in a Nilfgaardian duchy,” Fringilla offered.
But Triss countered, “Nilfgaard swallowing all the Northern lands in such a short time—I doubt it can reasonably govern such culturally diverse territories. When internal conflicts inevitably arise, we might be thrown out again, offered as a scapegoat to appease unrest. ‘It was the sorceresses who seduced the lords, not the lords who were weak.’ Gar’ean evellienn. The common folk march under the Emperor’s whip and candy alike. I don’t think they’re the Lodge’s enemies.”
“We must restrain ourselves,” Margarita insisted on her view. “Though I lost my finest student… there should still be some left from Ban Ard. And others—scattered astrologers in the countryside—perhaps some of them have daughters. The magical legacy won’t be severed so easily.”
“Oh, please,” Philippa rolled her eyes. “Before the 1230s, sorcerers weren’t restrained at all—they were revered. It was only after the Witcher Edicts and the execution of ‘the Pure White’ Rafał that we became glorified pets at kings’ courts. Even someone like Radovid managed to turn the tables on me. Come on.”
“Self-imposed limits didn’t earn us kindness in return. We should take back what was always ours—the right to lead and control the commoners.”
“M’aontaich co-chòrdail dh’oinne, uh’ey marw.” Queen Daisy of the Valley, speaking through the far scrying mirror, voiced a chilling sentiment. Ida Emean said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes—she clearly agreed.
“Cáelme, cáelme! Let’s all quiet down, no more shouting, ladies,” said Keira, knocking on the table. Her voice managed to restore some order to the increasingly chaotic meeting. “Since both monarchs and commoners are hostile toward sorcerers, why not deal with both?”
“I have a study on plague that’s nearing a crucial breakthrough. If we master plague control, neither kings nor peasants will have the time or energy to hound sorcerers. They’ll be begging us—begging sorcerers, druids, and hedge-witches—for cures. And we will hold the antidote.”
“No, Keira. That method is far too extreme,” the red-haired sorceress objected. “We can absolutely achieve our aims through more subtle, gentle means.”
“Margarita, please.” Philippa interrupted Triss, “Let Keira finish.” She gestured to Keira to continue. Keira brushed her hair back, raised a hand, and began:
“The Lodge's supply of antidotes can easily be controlled through concentration and dilution. We can adjust the formula so that effective cures are only distributed to regions friendly to sorcerers—places that contribute to magical research, for instance.”
“But that’s not all. We can also demand that they turn over imperfect Sources. We could attempt to use damaged Sources to create new students.”
“I refuse to teach such artificially produced students,” said Margarita, folding her arms. “It’s against nature, and man-made Sources pose a greater risk of losing control.”
“There’s nothing unnatural about it,” Keira countered. “In the countryside, flawed Sources are seen as lunatics—starving, shunned. If the Lodge uses them for experimentation, we can offer food and shelter in return—a much better life than they currently have. Their only duty would be to breed with ordinary people who have no magical talent. And with just a little coin, I believe their families would agree to hand them over to the Lodge.”
“Who would agree to such a betrayal of their own kin?” asked a stunned Fringilla Vigo.
Keira smiled slightly. “Ladies, how long has it been since any of you visited the countryside? The serfs are starving. Some would send their own children to feed wolves if it bought them another day of bread. A mad, troublesome family member? They’d make the trade—if only to ease their conscience. After all, we’d be giving the ‘madmen’ a better life, wouldn’t we?”
And so, with the great Keira’s proposal paving the way for sorcerers to reach the pinnacle of power, surely now they’d respect her? Keira straightened proudly at the thought, imagining golden light illuminating her path forward.
“But this is… this is…” Triss struggled for the right words, “this is a violation of everything the sorcerers’ code stands for. Once we break that moral boundary, who knows what comes next?”
“Cytuno, I support Keira’s idea,” said Ida Emean calmly.
“Qual?”
“I’ll speak plainly. At this point, there are only a few thousand Scoia’tael left, scattered and leaderless. Dol Blathanna is slowly gathering them in, and they may well be the last of the Aen Seidhe. Who caused this? Humans. Elves have only ever been subjected and ruled by humans. The massacres in Temeria and Redania crushed the Scoia’tael with bloody repression. Every kingdom in the Northern Realms has elven blood on its hands. Even Emhyr used them as cannon fodder.”
“My sisters, I see you as beings above the dh’oinne. Most of the time, you have been allies of the elves—fellow stewards of magical progress. But Nilfgaardians? No. Dol Blathanna has long grown disillusioned with Nilfgaard. The elves are dissatisfied with being ruled by humans. But Francesca and I can’t act openly. Aen Seidhe finally have a city of their own—we can’t let it bleed again. But the Lodge’s plan—bloodless control of human governments—could resolve the human-elf conflict without war. I support that vision. No matter what happens, the Lodge is far more benevolent toward elves than any human king.”
“If the Lodge gains control over a territory, Dol Blathanna would be the first to recognize its government.”
“And, yn gywir, ask yourselves—what have humans done to you? Do you really owe them kindness?”
“We ultimately come from humans, and we must choose our successors from among them.”
“Neén, dwimmer,” the elven sage continued, “With a new cultivation system in place, sorcerers can sever ties with human kingdoms entirely.”
“The Lodge can domesticate a group of commoners and select the paternal and maternal sources of Sources from among them. First, we control the kingdoms through plague, and then gradually cultivate the Sources/students the Lodge needs.”
“All right, all right, ladies,” Philippa stepped forward, “At the very least, we can all agree that sorcerers are superior to humans. I assume everyone here shares that sentiment?” As expected, no one objected. To be honest, that much was a given among sorcerers. Good. Philippa nodded. “Then we shall vote.” She wasn’t about to let this turn into another chaotic debate. There’s a saying that if left unchecked, the female mages will tear each other apart. Let’s try to avoid that.
“Vote: in favor of Keira Metz’s proposal to spread plague and control the antidote. With majority approval, Keira will proceed with the plague’s development.”
“I’ve already started, actually,” Keira interjected, “But I can decide whether or not to release it.”
Philippa Eilhart stood up. She removed her magical lens to reveal her empty eye sockets—the flesh long since gouged out by Radovid. “I vote in favor. As you can see, humans are dangerous,” she spread her hands to draw attention to her hollowed face. “My eyes were torn out on the orders of Radovid V. Two human executioners did it without a shred of mercy. Yes, I avenged myself on Saint Gregory’s Bridge—but that wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. I will not be satisfied with one petty act of revenge. I will not forget the fallen mages. Humans want war? Then I’ll give them war—until every last one of them is under the control of the Lodge.”
Triss sighed and rested her head in her hand. Francesca Findabair and Ida Emean both stepped forward. The Queen of the Valley spoke: “I approve.”
“Humans have caused the elves far too much trouble. Their movements must be restricted. I will secure the space my people deserve.”
“Iawn, Enid’s will is my will,” the elven sage added.
“I approve,” said Fringilla Vigo, rising to her feet. “On one condition: the plague must not touch Bokler. Other than that… do as you must. Humans are indeed foolish and vile. They need to be governed—they enjoy being governed.”
“Let Emhyr see what sorcerers can do—see the power he thought he could suppress.”
“I… approve,” said Margarita Laux-Antille, also rising. Philippa turned to her and fastened her magical lens. “Diddorol. I thought you might abstain or even oppose.”
“Don’t get me wrong. The only reason I approve is for my students. I want them to have a safe place to study—not to fall before graduation, not to die in Thanedd, not in front of me. Twenty-three girls—some of the North’s most promising young sorceresses. They should never have died in that place.”
“Avenge them. Please. Fire needs to be controlled. Only the flame set within the hearth is a good flame. I… hope what happened will never be repeated.”
Philippa raised an imaginary glass in a distant toast.
“I approve,” said Keira Metz, standing. “I’ve had enough of the swamps. There are lice on my skin. Everyone’s been living in paranoia for too long. I need new dresses, fine wine, and grand feasts. I can’t even remember the last time I attended a proper banquet. For that, I’ll do anything.”
“Triss, you’re the only one left now.” All eyes turned to the red-haired sorceress. “In favor or against?”
“If everyone truly believes this is what must be done… if all believe it necessary, and if all the evidence supports it…” Triss Merigold slowly stood. “Then I vote in favor.”
In the end, she said.