On the Path
Chapter 12
Kaer Morhen - 1193
Geralt was meditating on his platform in the rafters of the stables when he heard Bessie sound her distress. He headed down to her stall and stood at the gate, looking in on her. As he had expected, she was lying on her side in the hay, and her breathing was slightly labored. Both he and Yastic had assumed that she was going to foal that evening. Geralt was surprised, in fact, that the groundskeeper wasn't already there, observing the birth. Well, observing it as much as the half-blind, old man could.
While Geralt hadn't been Yastic's stable boy and servant in about five years, he'd still help the old man from time to time when it came to the horses. He actually enjoyed feeding them, brushing them, and letting them out into the corral for their exercise. He recognized that, in his normal day-to-day state, he was hyper-focused with a fiery anger ever present just below the surface. However, he was also aware that he seemed to be a little more tranquil whenever he was around the horses – just like how petting Marmalade used to soothe his soul. He wasn't sure if animals had that effect on everyone, or if it was just him, but simply watching the majestic horses somehow calmed the normally intense velpe.
But there was a second reason that he enjoyed spending time with the horses, especially the foals. It reminded him of the only friend that he'd ever had. All these years later, he could still remember Eugene's goofy smile whenever he was around the foals, and that memory was so bittersweet. Geralt didn't understand how something could make him want to smile and cry at the same time, but the memory of Eugene somehow did. Even more so than his memories of his mother. When he thought of her, he felt very little of the 'sweet.' Those memories – of Visenna - were almost all heartache and guilt, and they overwhelmed him.
He was brought out of his thoughts by more sounds of distress coming from the broodmare.
"You got this, Bessie," he encouraged. "You've done this a dozen times. You can do it, girl."
Later in the night, Yastic showed up with a lantern in hand and asked Geralt if he'd give him some more light.
"You already missed it," Geralt said as he walked into the stall, using his Igni Sign to light up a lantern that was hanging on one of the walls.
"How long ago?"
"An hour maybe."
Yastic grunted and then went into the stall to check on the mother and her foal. Satisfied that they both were breathing fine, he walked back out of the stall and rested on the short door next to Geralt.
While Yastic had never been cruel to Geralt, he had also never been remotely friendly, and the two of them had rarely – if ever - engaged in small talk over the years. So, they both remained relatively silent as they watched Bessie and her foal over the next couple of hours. During that time, Bessie eventually stood and began eating some hay from the floor. The foal, however, was another matter.
It was a gray colored female with black points – tips of the ears, mane, tail, and the stockings of all four legs – and no matter how much she tried, she simply could not stand. Over and over, the little horse struggled to rise – her skinny legs trembling with the effort - only to fall back down onto her side every time. So far, she hadn't even made it all the way up onto her hooves even once. This wasn't particularly strange, though. Geralt had seen over twenty foals born, and they all struggled to stand and walk in those first few hours. He could remember seeing his first newborn foal as a five-year-old and wanting to rush over to the horse and help it to balance. But, of course, Yastic hadn't let him. And, now, a decade later, Geralt knew that to help the foal would actually only hinder it. She had to learn to stand and balance on her own. She had to face the struggle if she was going to overcome it. He knew that the little horse falling down wasn't going to hurt her and that it was just part of the natural development process. However, as the night wore on and she still hadn't stood, the teen started to become concerned.
Eventually, Yastic became concerned, too.
"Hell. She looked healthy at first glance," the old man said. "Let's go in and check on her."
The two of them entered the stall and, upon Yastic's instruction, Geralt lifted the foal in the air while the groundskeeper ran his hands over its body.
"Hell and thunder! Look at these legs. Windswept."
"Yeah, so? We've had a couple of windswept foals before. They eventually grew out of it."
"They weren't like this! This has gotta be the worst case I've ever seen. And those other foals, they could at least stand and walk. But, this one? Hell…okay, put her down."
Geralt gently laid the little horse back down in the hay, and then he frowned as he slowly rubbed his hands along her severely curved legs.
"Worthless! The little shit is absolutely worthless!" cursed Yastic. "A whole year feeding and looking after Bessie, and we get this ploughin' defect."
Geralt suddenly felt a surge of anger course through him. His eyes bore into Yastic, and he clenched his jaws.
"What's the plan?" he growled slowly. "How are we gonna help her?"
"There ain't no helpin' her. She's either gonna stand on her own or she won't. I'll give her another day, but if she ain't standing by tomorrow, then I'll put her down. I won't have her wastin' -"
But he didn't get the rest of the sentence out because Geralt had picked him by his arms and slammed him into the nearest wall, making Bessie whinny in fear.
"Oh, hell! Oh, hell!" Yastic cried out. "I think you broke my arm."
Yastic's boots were a foot off the ground bringing the twisted and hunched man eye-level with the much taller teenager. Geralt brought his face an inch from Yastic's.
"Listen close, you piece of shit. A broken arm is the least of your worries. If you come anywhere near that foal, I will kill you. Do you understand me?"
"My arm! I think you broke it!"
Geralt squeezed his hands tighter, making Yastic scream louder. After a few seconds, he eased up.
"I asked if you understand me, you bitter old man."
"Yes, yes! I won't go near it. Just put me down."
Geralt released Yastic, and he crumpled to the ground. The velpe gave one last glare and then turned and walked toward the foal.
"You're wastin' your damn time! She's gonna die anyway. You'll just be prolongin' her sufferin'. If she can't stand, then she can't nurse, and if she can't nurse, she's gonna starve. And even if she could nurse, hell, look at her legs! She can't walk. What good is horse like that? Nothin'. She's good for nothin.'"
"I'll worry about that," said Geralt, his eyes still on the foal, not even bothering to turn around to look at Yastic.
"Oh…my arm. I think you really did break it. Elgar's gonna hear about this," moaned Yastic, finally getting to his feet and stumbling toward the door of the stall.
Upon hearing that threat, Geralt stood and strode toward Yastic, who immediately cowed down and covered his head with his uninjured arm.
"Go ahead. Tell him. All he cares about is money. So, who do you think he values more – a soon-to-be witcher who will bring him coin or decrepit, old piece of shit like you? So, go ahead and tell him. But, Yastic, I'm warning you - don't let me ever catch you near this horse again."
Yastic – as quickly as he could – left the stables, and Geralt walked back to the foal and knelt by her side. He reached out and began to gently rub her nose. He then brought his other hand up and touched the wooden, fish-shaped pendant that was resting under his shirt.
"You're not good-for-nothing," he said as gently as he could. "Do you hear me, girl? You're not worthless…and you're gonna make it out of here. You're gonna make it."
oOo
"You may be getting used to this already," said Geralt, looking over his shoulder at Bessie, who had her head turned and was staring at him with her big dark eyes, "but it's still a little awkward for me."
He then faced towards her hind-end again, put a pail underneath the broodmare's udder, and grabbed ahold of her teats – one in each hand. He gently began to massage and pull until her milk began to flow. A few minutes later, having finished the task, he poured the dam's milk into a special jug that he'd crafted. The day before, after his sword training was over, he'd spent several hours in the alchemy lab experimenting with a variety of different containers and lids. With the help of some wire, resin, water-proof animal hide, rubber tubing, and a few other components, he'd finally engineered a bottle that the little foal could use to 'nurse' since she still couldn't stand and nurse on her own.
Geralt poured a green potion into the nursing bottle, screwed the lid on tight, and knelt down next to the foal. After putting her head in the crook of his arm, he placed the rubber tube into her mouth, and then quickly raised the bottle upside down. She immediately began sucking on the tube, gulping down her mother's milk.
"That's right, girl," he encouraged her. "Just like you did this morning and last night. This'll get you strong. And don't worry about your legs. We're gonna get those fixed, too…somehow."
He was just finishing up feeding the foal when he heard footsteps coming his way. He looked up, and a moment later, Vesemir came into view, stopping in the doorway of the stall. The sword instructor took in the scene in front of him and shook his head.
"Heard you were playing nursemaid to a foal. At first, I didn't believe it, but then I thought, no, that fits. I guess we need to start training you harder if you got so much extra time to spare on crippled horses."
Geralt didn't bother to say anything. He just remained sitting, petting the foal on her neck.
Vesemir then noticed the empty potion bottle on the ground and bent down to pick it up. He looked into the bottle and then sniffed it. He furrowed his brow at Geralt.
"What is this? It's not a witcher potion."
"Special elixir for animals. Supposed to strengthen their bones and muscles."
"Master Frisu help you with this?"
"No. Found the recipe in an old book in the library. It dealt with treating animals. Kind of a cross between an alchemy and zoology text."
Vesemir nodded.
"I can believe it. There's no telling what else we got on those shelves. It'd take a lifetime to read all the books we have up there. So, it is a colt or filly?" he asked, pointing his chin at the foal.
"A filly."
"What's her name?"
Geralt paused for just a second before answering. "Haven't named her yet."
Vesemir nodded, a look of understanding on his face.
"Think she'll actually make it?"
"We'll see."
After several moments of silence, the old witcher continued.
"Also heard you broke Yastic's arm."
"Don't know. Might have. Wasn't trying to."
"Not the way I heard it."
Geralt suddenly stood up and faced his instructor. He could feel his blood starting to run a bit faster.
"Really? So, let me guess - you decided to come down and lecture me about it. Of all the…hypocritical sanctimony! Neither you – nor anyone else in this hellhole – has the right to condemn me about being violent. You people breed it here."
"Settle down! And no, I'm not here because you roughed up Yastic. That's not my point."
"Yeah, then what is?"
"My point is this, Geralt - he's a weak, pathetic old man, and you broke two of his bones…over a crippled horse? A horse that you're now having to take care of."
"Well, he's lucky he didn't pull his knife, or he'd be a dead, pathetic old man."
Vesemir sighed and shook his head.
"Geralt, most likely, before the year is up, you're gonna be on the Path. A fully qualified witcher. What are you gonna do out there when you come across the frail and the helpless? Because, trust me, they're everywhere out there. The world's full of them. Starving animals, homeless kids, abused women, the blind and the deaf. You gonna be a nursemaid to all of them?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Geralt. "I'm just helping this one horse, and you're acting like I've turned into…some priestess for Mother Melitele."
"It's not just one horse, Geralt. It's a pattern with you. First, you befriend a boy that was border-line retarded. Hell, why Elgar even accepted him, I'll never know. And then, in the past few years, on numerous occasions, you've kicked the shit out any fodder who you caught picking on someone smaller."
Geralt dropped his gaze.
"Oh, didn't think I knew about that, did ya?"
Suddenly, the velpe raised his head and glared at his instructor.
"You know what – so what? So what if I like to help the weak? Does that make me a bad person?"
Vesemir stared at Geralt for a moment and then slowly shook his head.
"No, Geralt, it doesn't. But it'll make you a bad witcher. It's gonna complicate your life and end up biting you in the ass."
"But…but why?" he asked, shaking his head with a furrowed brow. "My mom, she…she said that kindness was one of the most important qualities anyone could have. So, how can it be bad – even for a witcher?"
"Was your mother a witcher?"
"What? No, of course, not. She was healer."
Vesemir nodded, raised his eyebrows, and turned his hands palms-up - as if to say, 'There you go. There's your answer.'
Geralt suddenly clenched his jaw and shook his head.
"So, you're telling me," growled Vesemir, "that you can't see that maybe – just maybe – healers and witchers could be viewed and treated quite differently by the folks living outside these walls…and that, therefore, her profession and ours might – just might – require slightly different perspectives and temperaments towards the world at large? Is that what you're really saying?"
"You're wrong…you're wrong."
"Yeah, what the hell do I know? I was only out on the Path for…a hundred and fifty years. But I'm sure you're right. I'm sure it's very different out there now. I'm sure you'll be treated much differently than every other witcher that's come before you."
oOo
Geralt was in one of the stalls with the foal when he heard footsteps coming his way. He sighed and rolled his eyes. He figured it had to be Vesemir again, returning for a second lecture, scolding him about how naïve and gullible he was. It was either him or Yastic, and frankly, he didn't want to deal with either old man at the moment. A few seconds later, he heard the footsteps come to a stop behind him, but he didn't even bother to turn around.
"Uh…excu…excuse me," came a young voice.
Geralt furrowed his brow, stood and turned around. There was short, brown-haired fodder in the doorway of the stall, and he was holding a lantern in his hand.
"What is it?" he asked, towering over the boy. Of course, that wasn't shocking any longer. He towered over all the fodder. A year past, he'd started an incredible growth spurt, and he was now only an inch or two shorter than Master Vesemir.
"I…I was told to come down to the stables…to help. Is there a…Mister Yastic around?"
"I haven't seen him yet. What are you supposed to be helping him with?"
"I…I don't know. Master Kalen just said that he was hurt and needed help. So, I'm supposed to help him this morning and then again tonight after dinner."
"Well, don't worry. The chores down here are simple. Boring but simple."
"Oh…okay."
Geralt was just turning back around to his foal when the boy spoke again.
"Do you…do you remember me?"
The velpe narrowed his eyes, looking closely at the boy. He then shook his head.
"Not really, but to be honest, over the years, all you fodder have started to look alike."
"Oh…okay," said the boy, his chin falling slightly.
"Am I supposed to remember you?"
"Well, about four months ago, I was…well, you beat up a few boys that were, you know, beating me up. So, I just thought that…maybe, you know…"
Geralt nodded.
"I remember that, sure."
He did remember the incident, but he honestly didn't remember this boy's face. Since he never befriended fodder and was rarely even around them, he never concerned himself with remembering what any of them looked like. But he always stepped in if he ever saw what he thought was an unfair situation, and a small boy surrounded and being pummeled by a group of fodder certainly qualified as unfair in his mind. He'd seen that particular scenario one night as he was walking past the barracks on his way to the stables.
"Have they messed with you at all since then?"
"No. Oh, they'll still say mean things now and then, but they haven't touched me since. I wanted to thank you…back then, I mean, but I…well. Anyway…thank you."
"You're welcome. Glad I could help."
"Your name's Geralt, right?"
The velpe gave a nod.
The boy smiled and extended his hand. "My name is -"
"Wait!" interrupted Geralt, with his hand raised up. "I don't want to know your name."
A look of confusion suddenly crossed the boy's face, and a moment later, it was replaced with hurt as he dropped his hand to his side.
"Oh…okay, I just thought because…"
"Well, no offense, but you thought wrong, kid."
"Okay. I'll…I'll leave you alone, then."
Geralt watched the fodder – chin on chest and shoulders slumped – turn around. Just as the little boy was about to leave the stall, Geralt sighed.
"Kid…do you like horses?"
The boy turned around and gave a tentative nod.
"You want to see the cutest horse ever?"
"Yeah. Sure."
"Then come in here. Bring your lantern."
The boy entered the stall and approached the foal. Geralt saw a big grin on the boy's face, but it quickly turned into a frown.
"What's wrong with her? What's on her legs?"
Geralt had all four of her legs splinted.
"She was born incredibly windswept. You know what that means?"
"Yeah…my family has a couple of horses. I used to have a pony."
Geralt then bent down, picked the little foal up and placed her on her hooves. He then very slowly removed his hands from her sides as she struggled to maintain her balance. She lasted about three seconds before falling onto to her side into the hay.
"She's getting better every time I work with her. I'm hoping by the end of the week that she'll be able to stand – and then nurse – on her own."
The boy knelt down and softly rubbed his hand along the foal's neck and side.
"She is pretty," he said with a smile. "What's her name?"
"I haven't named her yet."
That wasn't actually true. He already knew what he was going to call her if she survived, and he had even accidentally referred to her by that name in his head several times already. He just refused to say the name out loud.
"Do you…why does no one around here like using names?"
Geralt looked into the little boy's confused eyes. He remembered the same feeling when he was a fodder. The not understanding.
"Tell you what, kid – once you survive the Trial of Grasses, then you can tell me your name. Deal?"
The boy continued to look at Geralt for a moment, and then the velpe saw something change in the little boy's eyes. He could tell that the fodder suddenly understood. A moment later, with pursed lips, he gave Geralt a small nod.
"And…if you want, you can come down here whenever you like and help me with the horses. Okay?"
The boy gave another nod and then smiled.
"That'd be great. Thanks, Geralt."
oOo
Geralt had his sword drawn and held in the defensive position in front of him. Sweat was trickling down his face, and he was doing his best to breathe slow and steady, trying to keep his thoughts calm.
'A witcher no knows fear,' he said to himself.
He was turning in a slow circle, just waiting for his next target to appear, but at the moment, all he could see was a giant ring of gray smoke encircling him. He suddenly heard a whooshing sound, and, a second later, the smoke instantly disappeared.
Geralt's eyes widened slightly as he saw a half-a-dozen nekkers surrounding him and coming his way. His mind flashed back a decade past, to a little boy running towards his mother, being chased by nekkers that looked just like the ones that were now before him. But the memory only lasted a micro-second – gone as fast as it had arrived. He took his left hand off the hilt of his sword, quickly cast a Quen Sign, and immediately ducked and rolled under the first nekker's attack. He came up onto the balls of his feet and swung his sword true, bisecting the nekker through the midsection. And from that point on, he simply allowed his years of training to take over. He dodged and pirouetted through the attacking nekkers, never showing his back to one of the little beasts for longer than a blink of the eye. At the same time, his sword was a blur – slicing through legs and arms and piercing chests and necks. Less than a minute later, it was all over – nekker corpses and body parts laying on the ground around him. He was breathing fast, but he was also pleased – thinking that he had avoided all their attacks. However, it was then that he noticed that his Quen shield was no longer active, meaning that they must have made contact after all. He shook his head, realizing that he'd been so 'in the moment' during the battle that he hadn't even noticed it.
The velpe was just about to sheath his sword when he heard another whooshing sound. Instantly, he was surrounded by the thick smoke again. A second later, the darkness disappeared, and he looked to his left to see a snorting chort charging right at him.
He dove to his right, just missing getting trampled, and then, as he scrambled to his feet, he grasped a bomb from his belt and tossed it at the back of the beast. The bomb exploded, catching the chort on fire, and the monster immediately dropped onto its side and began rolling around on the ground. A few seconds later, the fire was out, and the monster was back on its feet. But those few seconds were just long enough for Geralt to compose himself. He signed another Quen and scanned through his memory – recalling the chort's bestiary entry – remembering its strengths, weaknesses, and fighting tendencies. He tossed another bomb at the monster, and before the explosive had even detonated, he was already sprinting directly at the chort.
As with the first incendiary device, the chort caught on fire when the second bomb exploded, and as it was doing its best to extinguish the flames, Geralt skipped close, wielding his sword. However, as opposed to the fast – and sometimes one-handed – attacks he'd used with the nekkers, he was striking the big monster with powerful, two-handed blows. He kept the large beast at bay with a short blast of Igni fire and then, immediately, hopped forward with a follow-up sword strike. He then quickly hopped backwards, out of range of its horns and claws. He repeated this routine several times.
As with the nekkers, this battle lasted only a minute. Eventually, the chort succumbed to the dozens of injuries to its body. The beast's legs gave out, and as soon as it fell to the ground, Geralt sprinted forward and plunged his blade through its head.
The teen was breathing heavy and sweat was running down his face. He was thinking, 'That wasn't so bad,' when he was suddenly hit from behind. Fortunately, he was able to stay on his feet. Unfortunately, a nekker was on his back, screaming in his ear, and doing its best to claw and bite him to death. It helped Geralt immensely that the nekker was missing its right arm. The velpe immediately reached up with his left hand and grabbed the nekker by the neck while at the same time twisting his body. He slammed the badly wounded nekker to the ground and then skewered the beast's heart with his sword. He instantly looked up, scanning the area around him, seeing if there were any other of the monsters that he hadn't finished off.
Just then, he heard another whooshing sound.
'Another one?' he thought.
But instead of another monster appearing, the illusion around him disappeared, revealing all of the Kaer Morhen cadre perched atop a raised platform, staring down at him. Standing in the middle of the training grounds, the velpe glanced up at them, scanning their faces, and he didn't see a single smile. He quickly found Vesemir's face, and he grimaced a bit inside when he saw that old man wasn't smiling either. Of course, that meant nothing. His sword instructor rarely – if ever – smiled and certainly not when sword training was involved. But the dour looks on everyone's face didn't faze him. That's what he was used to, and he didn't need their smiles to know that he'd done well enough. The Trial of the Medallion would be next, and then, after that, he'd never have to see this shithole or anyone in it ever again.
A minute later, Vesemir was down on the grounds, standing next to him.
"You're lucky. Had that been a real nekker, you'd be cut up right now."
Geralt nodded. He knew that the old witcher was right. The golems that Hieronymus created for the penultimate trial – the Trial of Golems - were incredibly life-like, but the mage did craft the monsters with severely dulled teeth, horns, and claws. No one wanted a velpe to die so close to 'graduating.'
"So, instead of standing around after the nekker battle looking pleased with yourself, what could you have done instead?"
"Removed their heads, Master Vesemir. Ensure they were dead."
The instructor nodded.
"The rest of it…you could improve a few things, but…not bad."
Geralt furrowed his brows at his instructor. He couldn't believe it. That was as close to a compliment as he'd ever heard from the old man. He hated to admit it – and he'd certainly never let Vesemir know – but he suddenly felt really good inside.
oOo
Geralt was glaring at everyone – at Fedun, at Vesemir, at Master Elgar and every other cadre member who was standing in a line, and especially at Kalen. For the past decade, every summer, he'd watched at least one velpe – standing in their brand new witcher's armor - go through their 'graduation' ceremony. After Master Elgar placed their activated medallion around their neck, the new witcher would shake hands with his Wolf School brethren – all the cadre - and then he'd hop on his horse and hit the Path. Every time, Geralt would imagine just what the new witcher must be feeling as he exited Kaer Morhen's gates. The relief…the joy of finally having their freedom, of finally having control over their own lives. Because he'd arrived at Kaer Morhen at such a young age, he was sure that no velpe had ever spent as much time training for his graduation day as he had, and this summer was supposed to finally be his year – to finally know that feeling of liberation. But then he'd received the news – that one of the cadre members had deemed him unready to face the Trial of the Medallion.
He hadn't been told which cadre member had 'blackballed' him, but, as he continued to glare at Master Kalen, he thought he had a very good idea of just who it was. It was the only thing that made sense. He was sure that none of his actual instructors had been the one to deny him for there wasn't a single discipline that he wasn't at least proficient in. So, it was only logical that Kalen was the one. The ugly, scarred bastard had been the bane of Geralt's existence from the first day that he'd stepped foot inside the keep. But in the last five years – since Geralt had passed the Trial of Grasses – Kalen had lost a great degree of control over the velpe. Geralt knew that that must have aggravated the miserable prick. But, now, after five years, Kalen finally got the chance to stick it to him again. As Geralt continued to stare at black-haired witcher, he knew that the whoreson must be laughing on the inside, and Geralt wanted to kill him.
As soon as Fedun mounted his horse and headed to the front gates, Geralt turned and strode for the stables. He knew that he needed to be alone. He didn't know what he might do if he was around anyone. And he certainly didn't want to be anywhere near Kalen.
A minute later, he walked into the barn and headed to a stall on the right. He stopped a few steps from the door and tried to control his breathing. He knew horses were very sensitive to humans' moods, and he didn't want to upset her. Eventually, he exhaled deeply, put a fake smile on his face, and entered the stall.
"Hello, girl. You doing okay?" he said as he rubbed his horse along her nose and neck. "Come on, Roach. Let's go for a walk. That sound good?"
He then placed a halter on the foal and led her out to the corral where he had her walk around him in circles. Her gait was still a bit awkward and he never let her go faster than a walk, but it was progress, he thought. Three of the legs looked to be straightening out, but the front, right leg still concerned him. It was bent much more than the rest. If it didn't improve, he doubted that she'd ever be able to go faster than a trot. And who knew if the leg would ever be strong enough to hold up under the additional weight of a rider.
"But that's still a long way off, girl," he said out loud. "We probably got at least a year or so before you start hauling me around."
Geralt worked her for a little while longer and then took her back to the stall where he gave her some food and drink and, then, rubbed her down.
When he was almost through, he heard a sound behind him. He sighed and rolled his eyes. He just wanted to be left alone. All he wanted was to hang out by himself with his horse, but no, he wasn't even allowed to do that. For his entire life, people had been constantly pestering him, picking at him. Why couldn't everyone just leave him be, he thought.
After a long moment of silence, he finally asked, "So, how long are you gonna just stand there not saying anything?"
"She's coming along fine," said Vesemir, standing just outside the door of the stall.
Geralt turned around and faced his teacher.
"Yeah, she is. She's gonna make it after all."
Vesemir looked at her front leg.
"Think so? Sure that leg will be able to hold a rider?"
"It's irrelevant."
Vesemir grunted, which Geralt knew to be his version of a laugh.
"Maybe to her. But not to anyone who – you know, actually wants to ride her. Or, are you saying you're not planning to ride her?"
The teenager shrugged.
"We'll see. If I can't, then no big deal. I'll just find a nice meadow and release her."
Vesemir just shook his head.
"You are a piece of work, kid. A piece of work."
"I know that you didn't come down here just to talk about horses. So…are you here to give me another lecture? I think I've heard them all by now."
"No. No lecture. Thought you just might want a drink."
Vesemir then held up his hand, showing a jug.
Geralt sighed and shook his head. "Why not?"
Five minutes later the two were sitting on a bench in the corral resting their backs against the side of the barn. Vesemir took a swig and then offered the jug to Geralt. The velpe sniffed at the opening and looked at his instructor.
"Vodka?"
He knew the smell of virtually every alcohol ever made due to his alchemy training. He'd been taught – among other things – which ones were the best to use as a base for witcher potions and decoctions.
Vesemir nodded, and Geralt took a pull.
"Do velpen still swipe drinks of alcohol in alchemy class?"
Geralt nodded as he gazed over the top of the outer wall at the mountains off in the distance.
"Sometimes. Master Frisu knows – he sees everything that goes on his lab - but yeah, sometimes. It's typically just the younger ones, and once they discover that a nip here or there doesn't actually affect them at all, they stop. They'd need the whole bottle to feel anything, and Master Frisu certainly wouldn't let them get away with that."
"I guess some things never change. I can remember sneaking sips in alchemy class back when I was a young velpe."
Geralt shook his head. "I can't even imagine that."
"What – me stealing a swig?"
"No…that you were ever young."
Vesemir let out his half grunt, half laugh. "Yeah, well, I was. And I was a lot like you, in fact."
"Please," scoffed the teen.
"I was."
"Yeah, how so?"
Vesemir took another drink and handed the jug back to Geralt.
"Do you remember me telling you the story of my brother, Laramir? I may have been drunk that night, but not so drunk that I don't remember our conversation."
Geralt suddenly felt a little awkward at the mention of that night and quickly looked away from the old man, back towards the mountains. But he did nod his head.
"Yeah, I remember."
"Well, Geralt, there are two kinds of witchers that leave Kaer Morhen. The majority – I'd say most – take all of our training and teachings to heart, and they go straight to the Path and they stick to it. Year in, year out until fate finally catches up to them. Until one night, they're too slow with their sword or they miscalculate the speed of the monster's attack…or they just get careless.
"But the other kind doesn't stick to the Path. They leave here and think back to their loving families – their ma or their pa – it's usually their mother. They say, 'To hell with being a witcher. I'm going back home.' Or, at the very least, they think they can straddle the two worlds - be a witcher and have a home at the same time. Believe it or not…that's what I did."
Geralt immediately turned his head toward the witcher, his brow deeply furrowed. The truth was that he couldn't believe it.
"Not straight away, mind you. I waited a few years, but eventually, I couldn't stop thinking of Laramir – and the rest of my family, but mostly Laramir.
"So, I headed back home, hoping for warm family reunion. When I finally made it there, there was a new family living in our old house. Turns out both Ma and Pa had died from some kind of epidemic, and Laramir had to move away. I eventually found him, though."
Geralt couldn't take his eyes off of Vesemir, and at that point, he saw the old man actually smile…well, it was kind of a smile. The velpe thought he could probably count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Vesemir with anything other than a scowl on his face. And here he was, actually smiling.
"That was a great day – well, at first. We hugged and laughed and talked. He didn't care that my eyes looked different…or that I carried swords on my back and killed monsters for a living. And for just a second there, I thought I might just get my brother back. That I might just get to have a family again. That was, until I met his wife. He was just a teenager, but he was already married with a kid on the way. And I…I made the wife 'uncomfortable,' he said. Truth was – I terrified her. Too many rumors about heartless witchers stealing babies and other such nonsense, and with her being pregnant, well…there you go. Absolute foolishness. As if we'd know how the hell to raise babies. Hell, we nearly killed you and you were already five when you got here.
"So, she gave him an ultimatum, and, of course, he picked her over me. And I can't say I blame him. Man's supposed to put his wife and kid first, right? But I learned a valuable lesson that day, Geralt. You can never go home. Witchers…we can never go home. I've lost count – over the centuries – of witchers who told me they'd tried. And it's never worked out. Not once. Not once. The fates…they just won't allow it."
The gray haired witcher then took another drink.
"Why…why are you telling me this?" asked Geralt.
"To spare you the pain. Whatever fond memories you may have of your family, leave them be. Keep them inside. Protect them. Because if you try to go back, you're gonna spoil them."
"I…I still don't know why you think this applies to me – why you think I'd try to go back home."
Vesemir sighed as he looked Geralt in the eyes.
"Geralt, I was there when Hieronymus put you under that second time. I'd come by every day. And when you weren't screaming out in pain, you were only doing one other thing - calling out for your Mama."
The teen quickly dropped his gaze, unable to look at the witcher.
"I don't know if she's alive or dead, but trust me, Geralt, leave it alone."
Geralt suddenly stood up from the bench and walked a few yards into the corral. He stood there in silence for a few moments, and when he turned around, his jaws were clenched.
"You know what – just because something happened to you two hundred years ago, doesn't mean it's gonna happen to me. And, hell, apparently it doesn't matter anyway since I may never leave this bloody prison. I swear – that bloody Kalen – I'm gonna kill him. If anyone should have ridden out of those gates today, it should have been me. I'm twice the swordsman that Fedun is. It's not bloody fair!"
Vesemir sighed.
"And this -" and he pointed at Geralt "- is why you're not ready."
"What?"
"This, right here. 'It's not fair, it's not fair.' No shit. Life's not fair. The world out there isn't fair. And the fact that you get so worked-up when it isn't just proves you're not ready to face it. Geralt, listen to me – you're right – you're much more skilled than Fedun. Hell, you handle a sword better than any velpe I've ever trained. But there's more to being a witcher than just being good with a sword. You have to be able to control your emotions – all of them…otherwise, they're gonna control you. If you're too kind, too trusting, you'll let yourself get taken advantage of. If you're too full of anger, then you'll end up slaughtering anyone and everyone who ever does you wrong. And neither of those outcomes is good – not for a professional. To be a good witcher – a professional witcher - you need to be able to view the world and yourself in a certain way. To have a certain…emotional detachment…a cold logic. And right now, you don't got it."
"Is that right? You don't think I can be cold and detached?"
Vesemir stared Geralt down and then took another drink. He then slowly wiped his mustache.
"Asks the kid who's gonna find a pretty meadow so his crippled pony can have a home."
Geralt's eyes bore into Vesemir's, and he gripped his hands so tightly that they started to tremble.
"I'm going out," he growled.
He walked as calmly as he could to the bench, picked up his swords that he'd rested against the wall, and then exited the corral. As soon as he was out of Vesemir's sight, he took off at a sprint toward the front gates, but he didn't stop there. He kept running right down the narrow, dirt road, past the river crossing and then straight up into the mountains. He ran for hours, trying to put as much distance between himself and Kaer Morhen as he could. Between himself and everything that the run-down fortress represented. Between himself and all the words that Vesemir had spoken.
'Screw that old man,' thought the teen after he'd finally stopped and stood atop a ridge, high in the mountains.
A full moon was overhead, and there was a deep valley below him. His eyes scanned the valley and then gazed at the mountain range on the other side. Even though it was the summer months, he could see that the highest peaks were still capped with snow. And no matter which direction he looked, Kaer Morhen was nowhere to be seen. That realization made him nod his head.
'He's just a bitter old man, pissed off because he's stuck in that hellhole for the rest of his life,' he thought. 'And he doesn't know shit about me. He's just trying keep me down – keep me under his thumb. Just like they've all done. Kalen, Elgar, Reisel, Miro, all of them. He's no different.'
As the teen's breathing began to slow, he looked up at the full moon. And, he suddenly felt warmth inside, thinking that the same moon that was shining down on him might be shining down on her, too.
"I don't care what he says," he spoke out loud. "I'm gonna find you, Mom."
He gave another nod of his head at that declaration and then looked around him. He realized that he'd never been on that particular ridge before, but he wasn't worried. He'd been out in the mountains by himself countless times over the past year. The older and bigger that he got – and the more skilled at sword-wielding that he became – the more that he ventured out into the mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen. He relished the freedom that he felt being away from the oppression of the keep. And though he had been forced in his various sojourns to kill a few dangerous beasts – a small pack of wolves, an aggressive bear, and even a few drowners – he knew that the mountains weren't as dangerous as the cadre implied. And even if they were, so what, he thought. He was very confident in his witcher skills.
And it was at that point that he wondered why he just didn't leave. In fact, if it weren't for that bloody whoreson – Kalen – he'd be on the Path at that very moment. He didn't think that there was anything else his instructors could teach him, so then why shouldn't he leave? Would the cadre even care? Would they track him down and try to force him to come back? If they tried, would he draw his sword on them?
The teenager stood still and in silence for the longest time, pondering those questions. He didn't know the answers, but, suddenly, he furrowed his brow at a fleeting thought that had crossed his mind. And the thought had been – 'I want that medallion.' But that confused him. Why should he want the damn thing? He loathed Kaer Morhen and everything it stood for. Why should he want something that represented years of torturous abuse?
"Because I've earned the damn thing," he said out loud through clenched jaws. "Even if I never wear it…I've earned it. If anyone ever has, it's me."
But there was a second answer as well. An answer that was much more unpalatable than the first. An answer that he didn't want to voice out loud. The truth was that part of the reason that he didn't just up and leave was that he was scared. He was scared because he honestly didn't know what the world was going to be like. The only clear memories he had of the world before Kaer Morhen were those with his mother. But what if she was dead and he was left alone? What would he do then? And what if the world was just as harsh as Vesemir warned him it was? As much as he hated Kaer Morhen, at least it was a known entity, but the world outside…he just didn't know. Sure, as part of his education, he'd been forced to read books on the various aspects of society – the numerous kingdoms, how economies worked, the different social classes, the countless religions – but he knew that reading about something and actually experiencing it couldn't even compare. It was like the difference between reading about a monster in the bestiary versus actually facing it on your own.
So, was that it? Was that the real reason he didn't leave – because of fear? He hated to admit it, but maybe Vesemir was right. Maybe he was too full of emotions – empathy, sadness, anger, and fear. He felt them all.
But, 'A witcher knows no fear,' came a voice in his head.
The teen then looked back up at the moon and sighed.
"Then, I'm not meant to be a witcher," he said out loud. "Because I've been scared my whole life."
Geralt stood there for a while longer, and then, eventually, he looked to his right, up to a summit that wasn't very far way. Without even thinking, he turned and began walking up the ridge towards it, his mind still going over all the thoughts he'd just had. A few minutes later, he reached the summit, and he was suddenly pulled out of his thoughts as his senses kicked in. He stood frozen in place – for right in from of him were several enormous nests, filled with at least two dozen, giant harpies.
His breath was caught in his throat, and his eyes were rapidly scanning back and forth. He then swallowed and began to breathe softly when he realized that all the harpies seemed to be sleeping, their heads tucked underneath their wings. He took a small step backward, hoping to leave the area and the monsters undisturbed. As he was taking his second step backward, he suddenly heard a horrific shriek. He immediately looked up to see one of the harpies staring directly at him and spreading her wings wide – at least ten feet across from tip to tip. Instantly, all of the other harpies woke, and the air filled with their sharp cries.
"Damn it!" exclaimed the velpe as he immediately drew his steel sword.
His mind instantly focused on the task at hand as he was suddenly swarmed. A Quen Sign was followed by an Aard. A pirouette and a slash of his sword, and then came Igni. He dodged and rolled, swung his blade, and cast one Sign after another. But there were just too many monsters for the unprepared velpe who had taken no potions nor crafted any blade-oils before the impromptu battle. He was thinning the pack – the large, flying beasts' blood and feathers exploding through the air – but he was also taking a lot of damage, their sharp claws and feet slicing through his thin shirt and trousers.
Geralt rolled away from a diving harpy, and as he came to his feet near the edge of the summit, his boot slipped. Suddenly, he was tumbling down a steep slope. As his body spun faster and faster and his frame repeatedly impacted the rocky ground, he only had one thought in his head – 'Hang on to your sword. Hang on to your sword.'
Halfway down the slope, his ankle smashed against something hard, and he heard a cracking sound, causing him to yell out - the pain shooting through his lower leg. Unfortunately, whatever he'd hit had not stopped his momentum because he was still rolling down the slope at a fast pace and totally out of control. Amazingly, through the chaos, his ears were still able to pick up the sounds of shrieking harpies. They were obviously flying down the mountain in pursuit.
Eventually, his body stopped spinning, and though he continued sliding down the mountain, it wasn't near as fast as before. He assumed that the steep slope must be leveling out and that he must be getting close to the bottom of the inclined cliff face. A moment later, he impacted a large boulder, jarring his body to a stop and knocking the wind from his lungs. Worse still, his sword flew from his grip. The velpe lay on his back, holding his side and gasping for breath, but none would come. His mind was frantic, knowing the harpies would arrive at any moment. From the sounds of their shrieking, he could hear them getting closer. He was up on one knee and trying to stand when a large shadow fell over him. He instantly looked up, and there before him was a giant troll. His eyes widened, and he swallowed for he had never seen one in real life. It towered over him, and, then, the enormous monster pounded his chest and let loose with a menacing roar.
'Not good,' thought Geralt. 'Not good at all.'
oOo
Day 4 – Dothan; February 1194
After his talk with the priest, Geralt rode back to Anisberg, arriving a little after noon. He headed straight to the palace, wanting to talk with King Travid. He hoped that he could get more information about Brother Johan's death, particularly the priest's last words. But as he was heading through the halls of the palace, he ran into Delyla.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"Out at the Lebioda temple, talking with Brother Kennit."
Delyla's brow furrowed.
"But why? Why would you go out there?"
"Come on, let's go to my room," he said grabbing her hand.
Once they were in his bedchamber, the witcher explained everything to his friend, including his suppositions about the curse.
"Oh, my gosh!" Delyla exclaimed. "All of that happened just a few months before I started working here, but I remember hearing about it. But, Geralt, how can this be a curse? You even admitted that Brother Kennit said that this other priest didn't know anything about magic."
"Well, it's true that the most powerful curses are typically invoked by magic users – mages and sorceresses - but it's possible for anyone to bring about a curse if the circumstances line up."
"Circumstances? Like what?"
"Well, a lot of things. What exact words did the person speak? That's why I want to talk to Travid, to find out. Also, was the speaker in a highly emotional state? The stronger the emotions, the greater the chance of invoking a curse. And I've got to believe that the priest's emotions were high if he knew he was about to be killed. And, finally, the night this occurred was Midinvaerne. Magic is incredibly powerful on that night. It infuses everything. I've even read of cases where common folk were able to accidentally tap into it."
"So, he could have said something as simple as, 'A curse on House Dothan,' before he died, and that would be enough?"
"Yeah, it's possible."
"And so, this monster is…what?"
"I still don't know, but I think it might be the priest's re-animated corpse – alive and transformed into one hell of a scary beast seeking revenge. That's also why I want to know what happened to his body."
"So, what now?"
"Now? I've got to talk with the king."
Unfortunately, his talk with Travid would have to wait. He was informed that the king was in his bedchambers indisposed. The witcher guessed that 'indisposed' meant that he was passed-out drunk. Travid had apparently been up all night with his military officers, discussing countless strategies on how to invade the Rivian and Lyrian embassies. And it was a safe bet – thought Geralt - that the monarch had been in his cups the entire time.
'So, who else might know what the priest's last words were?' the teen wondered.
And then it came to him – Sir Alyn.
The witcher eventually tracked the captain of the guards down in the palace grounds. He'd been walking the perimeter, checking the walls and gates for any possible breaches of security. Geralt told him his theory about the curse, and then asked him if he'd been present when the priest had died.
"Well, let me first say, Geralt, that I'm impressed with your professionalism and perseverance. When I first met you, I mistook your youthfulness and shabby appearance with irresponsibility and an undisciplined nature. I was clearly mistaken and…I hope that you will accept my humblest apologies."
Geralt stood there, not really knowing what to say. He wasn't sure that anyone had ever apologized to him before.
"Uh, yeah, sure, Sir Alyn. It's no problem."
"Thank you," said the knight with a small nod. "And while I admire your dogged determination and resourcefulness, I, unfortunately, have bad news for your theory. For, you see, I am capable of answering both of your queries. Firstly, the priest's body was cremated. So, I don't know for sure – you're the expert – but I would highly doubt that a curse could reanimate ashes."
Geralt sighed. "Damn it. Yeah, I've never heard of that happening before. It's still possible, but it'd have to be an incredibly strong curse."
"Secondly, I do know what Brother Johan's last words were…for it was my blade that ended his life."
"You? You killed the priest? But he was an innocent man. He hadn't really done anything…certainly not anything to deserve that."
The witcher saw Sir Alyn clench his jaws.
"Geralt, the king ordered it done. It was not for me to question why. Only to follow the king's commands. That is my duty as the captain of his royal guard. If I can't follow orders, then I should resign my post and renounce my knighthood."
Geralt stared at the knight for several seconds. While the man's face may have looked resolute, the teen thought that the captain's eyes betrayed him.
"So, what did he say, Sir Alyn? What were Brother Johan's last words?"
Birke glanced a way for a moment, as if lost in thought, and then brought his eyes back to Geralt's.
"I still remember it…vividly. He was on his knees, and he looked up at me with the most serene look on his face. And he told me that he forgave me. That doesn't sound like a curse to me."
Geralt sighed.
"No. No it doesn't."
oOo
The witcher was stumped – stumped and frustrated. Every time he thought he had the right thread to pull in order to unravel the mystery of the monster, either he'd found no evidence to support his theory or the evidence flat out refuted it. In Geralt's mind, the two strongest suspects had been, first, Rojet and then the Lebiodan priest, but both of those avenues had led to a dead end – both literally and figuratively. He thought that Prince Roope or either of the ambassadors could still be behind the killings, but so far, he didn't have any proof implicating any of them.
He finally decided to do something that he realized he should have done from the very beginning. He was going to search the castle – every room from bottom to top. And for the rest of the day, starting in the dungeons, that's exactly what he did. It was slow, monotonous work. He'd enter a room and, with his medallion in hand, he'd look through every drawer, armoire, desk, and shelf. He searched under beds and inside chimneys. He didn't truly know what he was looking for, but he hoped he'd know it when he found it. Several of the rooms were locked, so he eventually found a chambermaid and demanded a skeleton key. She balked at first, but once he showed her the scroll with the king's decree, she relented.
During his search, the teen found a lot of items hidden under clothes or mattresses – anisetz gems, objects that looked like they were of a sexual nature, cheap and worthless talismans to fight off evil spirits, and the like. But what he didn't find was any clue tied to the monster. That is, until he reached the penultimate floor.
The sun had already set – and he figured that he'd already searched close to a hundred rooms - by the time he came to a dark, and seemingly unused, hallway on the fourth story. He assumed that it was unoccupied due to the unlit lanterns hanging on wall hooks. Everywhere else in the palace – or at least everywhere that rooms were used – the hallways were illumined by lit lanterns. He quickly went through the first couple of rooms on the hallway but found nothing of significance. And the sheets covering the furniture and the small layer of dust on the floor confirmed his suspicions about the hallway. He came to the last door on the hallway and found it locked but quickly used his key to enter. He opened the door to see that is was nothing but a small supply closet, filled with brooms, mops, and buckets. But that's when the medallion in his hand vibrated.
The witcher immediately stepped back, put the medallion in his trousers' pocket, and then unsheathed his silver sword. He stood completely still as his senses went on full alert. He didn't see, hear, smell, or feel anything out of the ordinary, but there was no mistake – his wolf-head had twitched. After about a minute of not moving – barely even breathing – he took a small step forward toward the threshold of the closet, his eyes scanning in every direction. Slowly, he reached out with his sword and touched the various cleaning supplies stored within. They all felt solid against his blade. Finally, he took a second step forward and carefully stuck the tip of his blade into the back wall. His eyes widened slightly when the sword went straight through.
"An illusion," he whispered to himself.
He thrust the blade in deeper but still felt no resistance. Eventually, he withdrew his sword and took a final step forward. He was inside the closet, just inches away from its imaginary back wall. He lifted his hand, brought his fingertips up to the wall, and with a deep exhalation, pushed his hand forward. He let out a small sigh as his hand went straight through the wall with no negative effects.
"Okay. Let's see what we've got."
The witcher stepped through the illusion and then immediately stopped in his tracks.
"Holy hell," he whispered.
The last room on the hall wasn't a closet after all. It was bedchamber more or less like Geralt's. There was one big difference, though. All the furniture had been pushed towards the walls and in the middle of the room, on the floor, was an enormous pentagram. There were unlit – but half-burned - candles right where the points of the star met with the outer circle. Inside the pentagram, where the lines of the star crossed each other were various objects. The witcher stepped close, stopping just outside of the circle. He bent down and narrowed his eyes. Where two of the lines intersected was a bloody rag, but he could tell that the blood was old. He quickly scanned the other objects and saw a second bloody rag; a metal, alchemical saucer filled with a clump of hair; and a small, clear jar filled with…
'Is that semen?' asked the witcher, squinting his eyes at the thick, white fluid.
He moved his eyes to his right, and on the floor, just outside of the pentagram was a thick book. It was closed, and there was a title on the cover, 'Cladhaich Dorchadais.'
"Into the Darkness," he said aloud.
He'd never read the book – he hadn't even heard of it before – but he'd had enough lessons from Hieronymus back at Kaer Morhen to know that he was standing in the middle of some seriously black magic. Had he been right about Rojet, after all? Was he somehow involved in the killings? Because there were no other wielders of magic at the palace. He had specifically asked Sir Alyn that question on the first day, and the captain had assured him that there were no 'junior' mages in residence. So, if this dark shrine wasn't Rojet's, then whose was it?
Geralt was just about to reach for the book when he suddenly heard his name being shouted from somewhere far away. He quickly exited the room and, once in the hallway, he heard the shouting getting closer.
"I'm here!" he yelled out and began moving down the hallway. He turned the corner and saw Delyla running in his direction. Her face was flushed and she was breathing heavily.
"Thank the gods," she said between deep breaths. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
"What is it?"
"Alyn says that the monster is going to strike again tonight and that he knows where! He said that he looked for you for a while but couldn't find you. So, he told me to track you down and give you the message."
"What message? Where's the monster going to attack?"
"The Dothan country estate. He left with a company of men at least an hour ago."
"The country estate? That…that doesn't make any sense. Are you sure?"
Delyla shrugged. "That's what he said."
Why would the monster – whatever it was - go to the country estate? As far as the witcher knew, with Prince Mathias now dead, there was no longer any member of House Dothan at that residence. But, if there was one thing that the teen had learned over the last four days, it was that Captain Birke was a man of duty. He wouldn't do anything that would put the king or the rest of the royal family at risk. So, if he said that the monster would attack at the estate, then Geralt was going to trust him. The witcher was sure that the knight had informers and sources all over the city. Perhaps, one of them had heard something and passed it along.
Ten minutes later, with the full moon shining down, the witcher was riding a palace horse at a gallop through the streets of Anisberg. He hoped that he could get to the Dothan estate in time.