A cream pie is a delicious pastry made with milk, cream, sugar, wheat flour, and eggs, filled with rich custard or pudding.
It comes in many different varieties, including vanilla, lemon, peanut butter, key lime, banana, coconut, and chocolate.
The one indispensable feature they all share is a filling of whipped cream, which bursts out in a thick gush when you take a bite.
The Complete Compendium of World-Famous Desserts, compiled by Hugh Hefner
...
Late at night, Victor donned his spare leather armor and left the sleeping Ves behind. She was completely stuffed, so she needed the rest.
Dodging the patrolling soldiers along the way, he followed the route Roche had described, taking a narrow path on the eastern side of the camp straight to the riverbank. He passed through the mess hall and slipped into the Nilfgaardian camp.
A thin mist hung over the river. The southerners had arranged their tents with considerable precision, their black-and-gold sun emblems gleaming brightly.
Although Victor had never received proper training in the School of the Viper's arts like Angoulême, he still knew a thing or two about stealth and infiltration. His superhuman senses were even more useful in the silent night, allowing him to approach the large tent at the center of the camp with ease.
Just as he drew close, however, he noticed that the interior was unnaturally silent. Not even the crackling of a fire could be heard.
The situation felt familiar. Remembering the last time he had stumbled across Philippa and Cynthia enjoying themselves, the witcher immediately realized that a mage had erected a soundproofing ward.
Such wards were usually linked to alarm spells, meaning he would be discovered the instant he stepped through. Fortunately, after his thorough experience with one last time, something like this could no longer stop him.
Sensing the flow of magical power, Victor drew a deep breath and gently placed his palm against the barrier. With the aid of his extraordinary Magic Sense, the instant he touched it, his entire being merged with the alarm ward.
He stepped forward the next second. It felt like plunging through the surface of a pool, and the witcher emerged behind the tent, where a familiar voice reached his ears.
Nilfgaardian ambassador Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen.
Victor was surprised, though not particularly surprised. It might have sounded like superstition, but after their previous two chance encounters, he had always felt that he would eventually meet this man again.
He carefully opened a narrow slit in the canvas and caught sight of Ambassador Shilard's profile. The man was holding his staff and praying before a sun totem.
"Gloir Aen Ard Feain! Glory to the Great Sun!"
Or, alternatively, "Praise the Sun!"
His legs were pressed together and held straight. Both arms were fully extended, pointing symmetrically upward at an angle from his shoulders. His fingers were held together, palms facing outward and fingertips pointing toward the sky.
"Metnerva vnyuat, sitmi... Asrishala, washami... Bandebedibudobiruweng... Kuntukutatakatikaotesuwa..."
The slow, deep chant echoed through the tent. Victor had no idea what the ambassador was reciting, but the witcher knew it was a prayer ritual of the Cult of the Great Sun.
The Cult of the Great Sun was Nilfgaard's state religion. It taught that all living creatures received the Sun's protection. The Sun was the giver of life and the protector of humanity, but it was also cruel and immensely destructive.
Against that background, the cult's leader and high priest was none other than the Nilfgaardian emperor, Emhyr var Emreis.
Beginning with his father, Fergus, the imperial family had used religion to strengthen centralized authority. In exchange, members of the clergy served as important officials within the state administration, so there was nothing unusual about Ambassador Shilard's actions.
Amid the ambassador's chanting, Victor's superhuman hearing detected another person's breathing inside the tent. He adjusted the angle of the opening slightly and saw a mage who had previously been hidden from view.
The man had a long, horse-shaped face, a receding widow's peak, protruding ears, and a thick beard. His nose was unusually tall and prominent. He wore half-plate armor and carried a staff, so he was probably the one who had erected the soundproofing ward.
After some time, Shilard finished his prayers and turned toward the mage.
"Vanhemar, Tavek has returned to the Sun's embrace. Do not grieve over his death. Take pride in it. He fulfilled his mission and crossed the mist to bring the object from the south. His contribution will make the Empire even more glorious."
"I understand, Your Excellency. Thank you for taking the time to pray for him."
"Think nothing of it. Cynthia performed admirably in this matter. Congratulate her for me. She will be richly rewarded."
Cynthia!?
Victor froze briefly in the corner of the tent. The moment he heard the name, he thought of Philippa's apprentice.
What had she done so well?
Or was it merely someone else with the same name?
While he was still considering the possibilities, the mage suddenly stared in the witcher's direction. At the same instant, Victor heard the sudden rush of air behind his head.
Someone was attacking him from behind.
Caught completely off guard, Victor could only throw himself into a violent roll and crash through the side of the tent.
Armor plates clattered loudly. In the blink of an eye, the arriving Nilfgaardian soldiers had surrounded him on all sides, while Shilard and Vanhemar remained behind them, watching the intruder.
The reason the witcher had been discovered was that the soundproofing ward worked in both directions. It had prevented him from hearing the patrol approaching from behind.
Without the power of Lightning Reflexes, that heavy blow would have put him flat on the ground.
"Wait!" Ambassador Shilard called out, stopping his men just as they were about to swarm Victor.
The elderly man with the hooked nose held his staff in one hand and stroked his chin with the other.
"The Dragonborn Bard, Sir Victor Corion... I thought we would never meet again!
"I recall that in Toussaint, you told me you were a witcher who gave no thought to the distant future and focused only on the life before him.
"When we met again at La Valette Castle, you claimed that fate had guided you there and that you had been passively swept into the kingslaying affair.
"So this time, may I ask what reason has brought Your Noble Lordship sneaking into the imperial camp like a contemptible thief?
"You should know that if you had visited openly, I would have been quite happy to receive you."
Victor slid the King's Guardian back into its sheath and bowed slightly, easing the tension.
"It has been some time, Ambassador Shilard. Triss Merigold has been abducted, and I have been searching everywhere for any trace of her."
In the firelight, the witcher noticed the ambassador's eyes shift slightly when he mentioned the sorceress.
Of course, he might have imagined it.
Or the old fox might have deliberately wanted him to notice.
Shilard's voice remained gentle.
"Foltest's adviser? I heard she had reached Vergen. I had hoped to meet her myself. But what does her abduction have to do with you? Is she not Geralt's lover?
"Ah! Now I understand. I see why you cannot simply stand aside. Young men are always so vigorous. Energetic young men, yes, I understand perfectly."
The man's tolerant, kindly expression and smile of sudden understanding made Victor want to drive a fist straight into his hooked nose.
"No, Your Excellency. You misunderstand. It is not what you think. Ours is nothing more than a pure and innocent friendship."
"Perhaps. In any case, the reason is unimportant.
"Listen, Victor Corion. You are a viscount of the Duchy of Toussaint, and you once proclaimed the prophecy of The Burning Bra. At La Valette Castle, you also witnessed the course of history and played a part in it.
"For those reasons, I will forgive your recklessness this time. You may leave now."
Shilard waved his hand, ordering the soldiers surrounding Victor to open a path. Vanhemar merely gave the witcher a sinister grin and patted his breastplate.
Victor had assumed that an open confrontation was unavoidable, but his opponent had proven unexpectedly magnanimous.
A moment later, the witcher understood why.
It was probably because of the soundproofing and alarm wards. They mistakenly believed that none of their secrets had been overheard.
After all, even a true mage would have been incapable of replicating Victor's Channeling Fusion, a technique that allowed him to pass through a magical barrier silently and without triggering it.
His thoughts raced as he assessed the situation.
"Ambassador, your generosity puts me to shame. Could you give me an opportunity to make amends? I would like to visit you formally and ask for your assistance. I believe I possess something capable of catching your interest."
When Victor spoke, he was considering the use of Megatron diplomacy.
He only needed to leave the public setting and obtain an opportunity for a private meeting. Considering Shilard's age, the ambassador would surely appreciate the gift Victor had in mind.
Unfortunately, the white-haired old man immediately waved away the proposal.
"Heh, heh, heh. Victor, many things interest me. Art, for example.
"A fascinating figurine was delivered to me today. It is a very unusual work, elusive yet deeply sensual. It forces a man to think. The beauty contained within it would surely appeal even to a witcher.
"But I am afraid I have no more time to converse with you. I must now depart for Loc Muinne. The council of mages and the kings are waiting for me.
"As for Triss Merigold, whom you are so concerned about, I am confident that a sorceress with such a love of power will appear at the most critical moment."
Shilard gave Victor no further opportunity to speak. With another wave of his hand, he ordered the Nilfgaardian guards in great-eagle helmets to surge forward and escort the witcher out of the camp.
A cuckoo cried in the night. Thin mist drifted above the river, and the sound of rushing water filled Victor's ears.
His instincts told him that Shilard might know something about Triss. However, the business in Vergen still had to be completed first.
He could only stand helplessly on the riverbank, watching the Nilfgaardian ship recede into the distance.
They were heading for Loc Muinne, the elven city situated farther upstream on the Pontar, hidden among the peaks of the Blue Mountains.
Having obtained no valuable information, Victor felt as though he had let a fortune slip through his fingers. Disappointed, the witcher retraced his steps toward the Kaedweni camp.
As he walked, however, something began pounding at the back of his mind, faintly reminding him that he had forgotten something.
It had evidently not been very important before, but as time passed, the matter was becoming increasingly serious.
What exactly had he forgotten?
Still racking his brain, he returned to the quarters assigned by the duty officer.
From within the pitch-black tent came Dethmold's gloomy voice.
"Mr. Victor, would you mind telling me where you have been?"
The witcher's footsteps stopped.
"I could not sleep, so I went for a walk along the riverbank and stretched my legs," Victor answered with perfect calm.
Dethmold emerged from the darkness, his gloomy expression transforming into a smile.
"Come with me. King Henselt intends to meet you. I was beginning to think you had encountered a succubus nearby and gone off to enjoy yourself!"
It struck Victor like a bolt of lightning.
Eureka!
He had found it!
Saskia's sudden poisoning two days earlier, followed by one incident after another, had somehow caused him to completely forget about Dandelion.
If that bastard was still with the succubus Miruna, then more than forty-eight hours had already passed.
Even with the help of vitality broth, he was probably on the verge of complete exhaustion.
Lansi had reported that the murderer, Ele'yas, had already been brought to justice, but Dandelion did not know that.
If he had faithfully kept his promise and was still waiting for Victor to collect him, then their earlier joke might truly have become a prophecy.
The bard might actually be fucked to death by a succubus!
Then again, Dandelion could not possibly be that stupid.
A succubus was not truly a demon, either. Miruna would hardly tie Dandelion down and drain him alone without stopping.
Besides, Victor could not leave at the moment. Dethmold was already walking ahead of him.
Having considered every cause and consequence and cleared his thoughts, the witcher followed the mage up the hillside.
They passed through a gate decorated with unicorn designs and guarded by elite soldiers, approaching the king's tent.
At that same moment, Geralt was in Vergen's upper district catching up with old acquaintances. When discussing Henselt's appearance, he described the king to Angoulême as follows:
"You know, Angoulême, over the course of my career, I have encountered thieves who looked like councilors, councilors who looked like beggars, prostitutes who looked like princesses, princesses who looked like pregnant cows, and kings who looked like thieves.
"King Henselt is certainly no thief, but His Majesty, respected by tens of thousands, does not look far removed from one.
"He owes that impression to his bearded face, the sharp gaze in his tiny eyes, and that greedy smile."
Victor knew nothing of his senior's assessment when he entered the tent.
However, when he saw the burly and rough-looking king, wearing magnificent robes, a crown, and four thick gold chains around his neck, he immediately thought of a newly rich merchant, a mobster, and basketball star James Harden's beard.
Dethmold's voice rang out at precisely the right moment.
"Lower your head and bow! Witcher, you stand before the King of Kaedwen, heir to the Dynasty of the Unicorn, Lord of Ard Carraigh, and Archduke of Ban Ard!"
That is an absurdly long title!
Victor complained inwardly as he placed a hand over his chest and bowed.
Then another thought occurred to him.
It seemed that he had not updated his own titles in quite some time.
What would they look like now?
Henselt narrowed his eyes at him.
"So you are the Dragonborn Bard, the witcher, Victor of Kaer Trolde?"
No!
I am Victor, born east of Zerrikania, beyond the Korath Desert, Stormborn, Fate-Chosen, the Immaculate of Melitele, the Dragonborn Bard, the Eastern Dipper Fist, the Dragon of Bell Town, Dawnbreak, the Witcher Alchemist, Walker of the Path of Warriors, King of the Arena, Barehanded Bear-Slayer, Transcender of Nightmares, Slayer of a Hundred at the Draw of a Blade, Lord of the Phantom Troupe, Knight of Skellige, Giant's Bane, Champion of the Toussaint Knights' Tourney, Dragonslayer, Flotsam's Champion, the Last Dragonborn, Dovahkiin, Kayran Slayer, Viscount Victor Corion of Kaer Trolde!
Naturally, all of that remained inside his head.
Outwardly, he calmly raised his head.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I am Victor of Kaer Trolde, a witcher and Viscount of Toussaint."
Hearing him identify himself as a viscount, Henselt gave a low, disdainful chuckle and waved dismissively.
"Noble titles mean nothing here. Being a witcher is what matters.
"The reason I summoned you is simple. I want to hear your assessment of the spectral mist!
"I do not care who does it. Anyone capable of breaking this damned curse will receive a generous reward from me!"
Since the king had given an order, the young man obeyed.
Smiling, Victor repeated everything he had told Dethmold that evening. Most of it was almost identical to what Geralt had said, since their knowledge came from the same teachings at Kaer Morhen.
Despite his appearance as a coarse, newly rich brute, Henselt folded his arms across his chest and listened attentively.
That patience alone caused the witcher to regard him in a somewhat different light.
Dethmold and the guards stood around them like statues carved from clay and stone.
Victor continued explaining for some time.
Then, amid the wind and the nocturnal cry of a cuckoo, his hearing suddenly detected an extremely faint set of footsteps racing toward the king's tent from outside.
Definitely not one of the guards.
Then who could it be...
Shing!
Before he had time to consider the question, the witcher's steel sword flew from its sheath!
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