Book 3: The Wolf Dies

Chapter 5

The Sansretour Valley; Fall 1273

Barnabas-Basil Foulty stirred from his sleep in the middle of the night, but that wasn't unusual for the steward of Corvo Bianco. He had known restless nights since first becoming a majordomo for the Kniebihly family over two decades before. His father, who too had been a majordomo, instilled into Barnabas-Basil the belief that being the steward of an estate was of the highest honor, and B.B. always felt the weight of that responsibility. That weight was what drove him to oversee every aspect of the vineyard in meticulous detail. It's what motivated him to keep long hours. And given that his current employer – one Geralt of Rivia – was quite clueless in the intricate day-to-day operations of being a land owner, then Barnabas-Basil felt an even greater responsibility than he'd had at any of his previous places of employment, for the witcher clearly needed his expertise more than any of the others had.

Compounding the matter was the fact that the witcher hadn't been at Corvo Bianco in over six months. Geralt's last words to the majordomo before mounting his horse and heading out onto the Path had been, "You're in charge, B.B., so just do whatever you think's best. I trust you." Of course, that left every decision – both big and small – to B.B.'s discretion. Thus, the success or failure of the vineyard rested entirely upon him. He wasn't sure when Geralt would return, but when the witcher finally did, B.B. wanted him to see that he'd left his property in highly capable hands. He didn't fear Geralt's anger – for he knew the witcher to actually be a very laid-back and understanding employer - but rather, he feared being the cause of disappointment. More than anything else, from his very first day of becoming a majordomo, he wanted to hear the master of the estate say, "Well done, B.B. You're a good and faithful steward. I'm grateful for your diligence."

However, on this night, the majordomo was not brought out of his slumber by anxiety over some undone detail dealing with the estate. This night, he was awakened by his worries for his boss' well-being. By the same worry that he'd had for the last two weeks – ever since that bearded, Nazairene carpenter had showed up on the back of a donkey, talking of strange and disturbing visions.

B.B. threw off his bedcovers, quickly dressed, and then walked purposefully out into the night air, and he knew instantly that something was different. He suddenly stopped and began slowly turning in a circle – using all of his senses, almost like a witcher - to take in his surroundings. In the last six months, he had formed a relationship with the lands of Corvo Bianco. He knew how the estate sounded; how it smelled; what kind of energy it had at the different times of the day. He couldn't put his finger on it, but in some primitive part of his brain, he registered that the estate was slightly different than normal. Maybe it was an almost-imperceptible odor in the air. Maybe it was the unusual way that the estate's cat skulked in the shadows. He wasn't sure, but he knew something had changed. And then he heard it.

A noise carried in the still, night air – a noise coming from the northern side of the property. Suddenly, the majordomo's heart began to beat quickly, and sweat broke out under his arms. While Barnabas-Basil would never consider himself a brave man, he knew that, as the steward of Corvo Bianco, he had a duty to perform so he quickly headed to the stables and grabbed a pitchfork that was resting against the wall. He never noticed a little burro laying down, sleeping in one of the previously-empty stalls. Now armed, but not feeling any more confident, B.B. quietly headed in the direction of the noise.

In the light of the full moon, the steward tip-toed across the small, wooden bridge that spanned the fresh-water spring that ran through the estate, and then he made his way along the wall of the arboretum which housed a variety of flowers and plants. He stopped at the corner of the planthouse and carefully poked his head out to get a glimpse of the person or animal trespassing on the estate. As his eyes scanned the grounds, he suddenly realized that all was quiet. Had he scared off the intruder? He certainly hoped so. But, then, his eyes picked up something large and dark in the clearing ahead. From where he stood, it looked like a large, black bear lying on the ground. If that was the case, then he knew that he needed to turn right back around and head indoors for safety.

Not knowing what else to do, the majordomo bent down and picked up a small rock. He slung it as hard as he could at the bear, and he heard it made contact. But the bear didn't move at all. That was strange. Maybe it wasn't an animal after all. So, he very slowly began to approach the mysterious entity in the meadow. As he got closer, he sighed as he realized that what he thought had been a bear was nothing but a large mound of dirt.

Suddenly, a white, ghostly apparition appeared, rising up from the ground just next to the mound of soil.

"Ahhh!" Barnabas-Basil let out of frightened gasp and brandished his weapon in front of him.

"Easy with that pitchfork, B.B.," spoke the ghost in a gravelly voice. "You could kill someone with that. Believe me, I know."

"Sir? Is that you?" the steward asked in between deep breaths.

The witcher, his white hair and pale skin reflecting in the moonlight, reached down and grabbed his crutches off the ground and then took a couple of steps closer to his majordomo.

"Yeah, it's me. Sorry I frightened you."

At first, B.B. said nothing. He just stared at the crutches that were holding up the master of the estate. Finally, his eyes drifted up to look at the witcher.

"Sir…I…I don't believe it. You're injured."

"Yeah, I am. But no need to sound that surprised. You know how dangerous my life is."

B.B. shook his head. "No…it's not that, Sir. It's…well…a man came to Corvo Bianco recently. Said that he'd had strange visions…visions about a bloody, injured albino wolf. And he claimed that he was led here by a white crow. He admitted that he didn't know what it was all about, but…he said that he felt called to come here. It all sounded like…the ramblings of a mad-man or…some charlatan so…at first, I was going to send him away."

"At first?"

"Yes, Sir, until I found out who he was."

"Yeah? And just who was he?"

"Yeshua, sir. The famous master-craftsman carpenter from Nazair. When I found that out, I knew he was no charlatan. So, I made a deal with him."

"What deal?"

"That he could stay. I would provide him lodging and meals in exchange for his services around the estate…for as long as he wanted."

Upon hearing that, the witcher just grunted.

"I must say, sir, the tales of his skills and expertise are not exaggerated. His work has been quite exceptional."

Geralt nodded his head. "An expert in wood-working, huh? Well, let me finish what I'm doing here, then, afterwards…we'll go see this Nazairene carpenter."

"Sir? If I may be so bold to ask - for what purpose are you digging here in the middle of the night?"

The witcher paused and then let out a short sigh. "It's my wife's grave, B.B."

The steward gasped. "Sir? Your wife? Her grave?"

"Yeah…I got married since you saw me last."

"And she's…oh, sir…I'm so…terribly sorry. Please, let me assist you."

Geralt shook his head. "No, B.B. This is something I need to do alone. Go on back to bed. I'll wake you when I'm done."

"Of course, sir. I…I certainly can't return to sleep now, but I shall leave you to yourself. I'll have breakfast ready when you are finished here," he said with a slight bow. "Good day, sir. And may I say that it's good to have you back – regardless of the circumstances."

"Thanks, B.B. It's…it's good to be back."

After watching the majordomo walk back towards the main house of the estate, Geralt picked up his shovel, hopped back down into the grave, and returned to digging. He'd been at it for several hours already so he didn't have much left to do.

Finally, two hours later, just as the eastern sky was starting to lighten, Geralt stood with the aid of his crutches at the foot of Evie's grave. He'd picked a clearing on the northern side of the property, on a small, elevated hill from where one could look down across his estate and towards the Sansretour River below. As he stared down at the mound of dirt at his feet, his mind drifted back over the events of the past few months. Finally, he lifted his head and then his eyes upward to look at the stars still visible in the west.

"I promised you once that I'd bring you here when this was all over." He then inhaled and exhaled deeply. "I brought your body…but it's not even close to being the same thing." He lowered his head and gave it a slight shake.

Geralt stood there, silent and motionless for the longest time. "I'm sorry I failed you, Evie," he whispered. "I'm sorry…we never got the chance to make this our home."

After a bit, he looked back up towards the heavens.

"Essea, if I'm honest…then I'd rather you just take me home right now. But if I gotta stay…then I'm gonna need your help to do what you want me to do. A lot of help."

He gazed up at the night sky, his eyes searching, hoping for some kind of sign that he'd been heard. But he saw nothing except the stars twinkling back at him. After waiting for several minutes, he eventually turned and crutched his way towards the main house.

oOo

Redania

Lydial looked over at the large man riding next to her. Malek was sitting atop his horse, but his hands were tied behind his back. A long rope ran from his horse's halter to a covered wagon directly in front of them. There were at least fifty Redanian soldiers ahead – with Barcain and King Radovid somewhere in their midst – and another fifty behind them. Malek hadn't said hardly a word all morning. She wasn't sure if he was so sullen because of the death of his friends – which was something she could completely empathize with – or if his mood was due to Barcain's betrayal – which she also completely understood, having felt the same back in the Tir Torchair Mountains. Though a part of her wanted to tell him, "So, betrayal doesn't feel so good, does it?" she ultimately refrained from doing so. Her compassion won out. Reveling in his sorrow – even if he was the person responsible for Evangeline's death – just didn't seem like the kind thing to do. Besides, she realized that, as strange as it may have sounded, Malek might be the closest "friend" she had left in the world. Certainly, he was the closest friend she had left in that particular caravan. She no longer trusted Barcain at all, and she wasn't sure which one of them – the Nilfgaardian spy or the Aen Seidhe elf - the Redanian soldiers looked at with more disgust. She knew that the two of them needed to watch out for one another just for that reason alone.

"I'm sorry about your friends," she said softy, trying her best to keep any of the Redanians around from overhearing.

Malek looked at her and gave her a short nod.

"We always figured that it'd happen to one of us, sooner or later," he whispered back. "Not too many folk in our line of work are actually ever able to retire. But, for it to happen the way it did…that's what's so tough to swallow."

Lydial nodded her understanding in return.

"Have you ever seen those little boxes that they showed us?" she asked. "What did they call them?"

"A xenovox – and no, never," he answered. "I have to admit. They are amazing devices. Incredible for spy-work."

"I feel so stupid, now."

"Why's that?"

"When we were traveling all throughout Redania this past summer, we couldn't figure out how Radovid and his men even knew who Evangeline was, much less knew where she'd be. I've been thinking about it all morning - his soldiers ambushed us on the Nimnar River, then again near Claude's house in Novigrad, and a third time in the caverns below the Tretogor palace."

"They also had an ambush set up for you above the southern pass of the Kestral Mountains."

"Is that right?"

He nodded back.

"Now…it seems so obvious that it was Barcain. The clues were so clear."

"Hey, don't beat yourself up too much," Malek said. "I didn't expect it, either."

"Yeah, you're supposed to be able to trust your family. They're the last ones that you'd ever think would betray you."

He nodded and then sighed deeply.

"I guess that's why it's so easy to be fooled."

oOo

Corvo Bianco

The witcher downed a potion to alleviate the pain in his throbbing stump, and then he unsheathed his sword. He twirled it around his torso before taking a short step and thrusting the blade forward. His right boot hit the ground, and then he awkwardly twisted into a spin. His body turned in the air but only about a quarter of the way instead of the full turn to which he was accustomed. As he came down gracefully on his left foot, he immediately twisted his body again. When his full rotation was complete, he slashed his sword through an imaginary foe and then landed on both feet – though clearly favoring his left one. Geralt continued practicing for another fifteen minutes before he finally stopped, sweat dripping from his face and his shirt clinging to his back and chest.

"It looks like you're getting used to it," said Yeshua, sitting in the shade of a nearby tree. "You didn't fall once that time. So, it's staying in place?"

"Well, I've had to make some serious adjustments to my technique, and I'll clearly never have the skill I used to," answered the witcher, "but, yeah, it feels really secure on my leg. Much better than the first one."

The two of them were in the same clearing where Evie's body was buried. Geralt had been there all morning, getting used to the wooden prosthesis, while Yeshua would show up about once an hour to receive any feedback from the witcher. This had been their routine for almost a week, ever since the carpenter had first starting making the wooden legs for the witcher.

Yeshua was actually quite proud of his work, especially considering that he'd never made a fake appendage before. It wasn't just a simple "peg leg." He'd carefully crafted it to actually look like Geralt's foot and lower calf so that the witcher could place his boot over it, and fortunately, there at Corvo Bianco, Geralt had a couple of spare sets of witcher armor – boots included – from which to choose. Thus, while dressed and while standing still, no one would ever be able to tell that the witcher was missing his lower leg. Of course, as soon as he took a step, the severe limp was a dead give-away.

The carpenter from Nazair had crafted the prosthesis from the trunk of a Kaybracha tree – also known as "the axe breaker." It was the hardest wood that could be found in the Toussaint duchy. To help keep the leg secure, Yeshua had designed it so that the top part acted like a glove. The entire wooden leg was about thirty inches from top to bottom. The foot and calf portion were solid, but the top portion was hollowed out so that Geralt had to slide his leg into the prosthesis. While this kept him from being able to bend his knee, this aspect – along with some leather straps securing it to his thigh – helped to keep the prosthesis in place. Yeshua's first prototype, which had stopped below the knee, had been adequate when Geralt was simply walking, but it never stayed in place whenever he began twisting and putting excess torque on it while practicing with his sword. It would eventually slip or twist, causing the witcher to wind up on his back every time. So, after a lengthy discussion, Geralt decided he'd sacrifice a little mobility in exchange for the extra stability. And as his last practice session had just shown, it'd been the right choice.

Geralt limped over to the carpenter and looked down at the smaller man. He then extended his hand, and the two men shook hands.

"I want to thank you again," he said. "Your work is amazing, and…I really am grateful."

"Well, it's truly my pleasure. I'm glad that I could help," Yeshua replied. "And I made this for you, as well," he said as he handed Geralt a simple yet incredibly well-crafted cane. "Maybe it'll be useful."

Geralt grabbed the cane with his left hand and looked down at it, the mid-day sun reflecting brightly off the wood's fine finish. He then put the end of the cane on the ground, partially rested his weight on it, and then walked in a small circle, testing out the supportive device.

After about ten steps, he stopped right back in front of the carpenter. The witcher looked at him and nodded his head several times.

"It's the perfect height."

Yeshua smiled and shrugged. "Yes, well, attention to detail is one of my strong suits."

"I'll definitely need this for now – at least, until I get more used to walking with this leg. Thanks again, I appreciate everything you've done."

Yeshua nodded and then paused for a second, looking at the witcher with some uncertainty. "I…I hope that you don't take this the wrong way, but…you're nothing like I thought you'd be."

"Is that right? And just how'd you think I'd be?"

"Well…I didn't know you, obviously, but I had heard of you – I mean, who hasn't heard of the famous White Wolf – the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, right? I just pictured this tough, silent loner who'd never show any weakness. So…I was just surprised that you were so willing to accept my assistance. That you seem so…humble."

The witcher gave a slight nod of his head.

"Yeah, well, the guy you just described was me for most of my life. Didn't ask for help because…well, for a lot of reasons. Frankly, I rarely needed to. And, on the Path, there's hardly anyone who would've offered me help anyway. But, mostly, it was because I was too proud. Didn't want to ever be indebted to anyone. Plus…I always believed that wanting a crutch when you didn't need it made you a lazy, weak fool. Not something I ever wanted to be."

"So, what happened that changed you?"

Geralt took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly before he spoke. "A lot happened…not least of which - losing a leg. That'll certainly humble you."

Yeshua nodded.

"That, and I met an old woman recently. She made me see that…refusing a crutch when I do need it would make me a mule-headed fool. Didn't particularly want to be that type of fool either. So, there you go."

"Makes sense," Yeshua said with a smile. "Sounds like a wise woman."

The witcher smirked. "Yeah, she's…a lot of things. I suppose 'wise' is certainly in the mix somewhere."

Yeshua smiled back and said, "You know, as much as I'm glad that I could help you, it's also a relief to just finally know what those seizures and visions were about."

The witcher nodded his head. "And you haven't had any since you got here?"

"No. None at all. That's how I knew I was in the right place."

"You know – I never asked you – when exactly did those visions start?"

Yeshua paused for a moment. "Oh, about two months ago, I guess."

He noticed that Geralt's eyes moved away, and then the witcher nodded his head a couple of times, as if lost in thought.

"And when exactly did you lose your leg?"

The question brought Geralt back to the present, and he looked at Yeshua. "Little over a month ago."

"Seems pretty unlikely that it's all a coincidence, huh?"

The witcher nodded. "Yeah. Pretty unlikely."

"So, how do you explain it?" asked Yeshua.

A small smile came to Geralt's face.

"Let's go have a seat on the front porch, and then I'll tell you all about who I think sent you those visions."

oOo

The Dragon Mountains, 101 Years Post-Conjunction

"And what happened next?" asked the excited adolescent.

"We heard this loud rumbling sound, turned around and saw an avalanche come down, right on top of the rest of our party," answered an Aen Seidhe with a slight slur, before drinking down the remainder of his ale.

The drunk elf was one of four sitting in the small inn of the village of Chiava. They'd been there for the last four days, waiting out what the locals said was the heaviest snow storm in decades. It had only been that morning that the worst of the storm had seemed to pass.

"What happened to them?" the teenager asked.

"Don't know," said another elf. "Couldn't see anything up on that mountain. We're lucky we even made it down."

"They're dead. Even if the fall didn't kill them, they could never survive out there in that blizzard," said the drunk, nodding his head towards the frost-covered windows.

The young half-man/half-elf was furiously scribbling down notes on some parchment. He then looked up and asked, "And you said that you were carrying a powerful weapon?"

Suddenly, a third elf reached over and slammed his hand down on the parchment.

"What's with all the writing, half-breed?"

The teenager looked up, startled. Even though his human, genetic characteristics dominated their elven counterparts, the youngster displayed enough Aen Seidhe physical features that his mixed heritage was obvious.

"I'm sorry…I just like to write," he stammered. "Living in this town, nothing exciting ever happens. So…sometimes I like to make up stories."

The Aen Seidhe looked at the lad and then slowly moved his hand away.

"Well, you're not the only one. Narriel here likes to make up stories, too. He has quite the imagination, especially when he drinks," he said nodding his head at the inebriated elf. "There was no weapon. Right, Narriel?"

Narriel looked at the glaring face of his compatriot. "Yeah…um, right, Siohban," he mumbled.

Just then, a large woman, wearing a dirty apron, hustled into the dining area of the inn, carrying a mug of ale, which she placed in front of Narriel.

"Lan! Go back to the kitchen! Quit annoying the customers with all your questions," she said, swatting the teenager in the back of the head with a rag. "And your father needs help cutting the firewood."

Lan ducked his head down and quickly gathered up his notes.

"Yes, Ma."

It was at that moment that the front door to the inn blew open, the frigid, winter winds slamming it hard against the wall. Everyone inside the inn immediately swiveled their heads towards the noise. A stranger – of indeterminate race and gender – quickly stepped into the small, warm room, shutting the door behind him before more snow flurries could sneak their way inside. The stranger was covered from head to toe in several, thick layers of clothing. Even the stranger's face was hidden by a heavy, wool scarf.

"I have no idea what could bring you out in weather like this," stated Ma, "but we've got some stew and ale to warm you up, if you'd like."

The stranger didn't say anything for several moments. The only thing visible was the newcomer's eyes – eyes that were staring hard at the four Aen Seidhe elves.

"Soup sounds great. Thank you," the stranger eventually rasped out. "I'll skip the ale, though. I'll have some cider if you got it…please."

With a nod of her head, Ma quickly rushed back towards the kitchen.

The stranger then walked very slowly over to the table where the four elves were sitting and removed the saddle bags from his shoulder, carefully resting them on the floor. He, then, eased himself into the now-vacant chair that Lan had been occupying and pulled his scarf down below his chin, revealing his face.

The jaws of each of the Aen Seidhe dropped at seeing Maccarreg alive and, mostly, well.

"We thought you were dead," finally stated one of the four.

Before he could answer, Lan came out of the back kitchen carrying a bowl of steaming stew and a mug of cider. The southern elf gave a nod of gratitude to the teenager as he placed the order on the table, and then he watched the youngster walk away. As soon as the lad had disappeared around the corner, he took a large spoonful of food into his mouth, swallowed it down with a smile, and then looked up at the four.

"Just wasn't my time. Essea's not done with me yet," he said with a half-smirk, half-sneer. He knew that the four were not worshippers of the God of the Aen Seidhe.

"And the others?" asked Narriel.

"Don't know," answered Maccarreg with a shrug as he continued to shovel the stew down his throat. "If they're not here, I figure they're dead."

"And the Sword?' asked Siohban.

The master-swordsman looked up, his spoon paused halfway between the bowl and his mouth. He looked hard at Siohban for a moment, gulped down the next spoonful, and then shook his head.

"Lost. The avalanche took me and my horse right over the edge. Never saw my horse…or the box after that."

Narriel blew out a deep breath. "Unbelievable," he said, mostly to himself. "After a century of wreaking havoc…we finally get our hands on the most powerful weapon on the Continent, and now…it's just lost somewhere in the mountains."

"How is it you're even still alive?" asked Siohban.

"Essea led me to a cave. Stayed there till the storm died down."

"What are we going to do now?" asked one of the others.

Maccarreg sighed. "Can't speak for you…but I'm going home."

"What?" said Siohban with a tone of disbelief. "You're not going to wait things out here and then go back into the mountains - try to find it?"

The southern elf shook his head. "The mission was never to possess the Sword. It was simply to stop others from using it. We've done that…so I'm going home." He then looked at the four elves with a very cold stare. "The only five souls in the world who know of its approximate location are sitting right here at this table, and I know that none of us would ever want it to be found again…right?" His eyes locked with those of Siohban.

The northern elf never flinched, but he eventually smiled. "Of course," he said.

Maccarreg then nodded. "Then, it's agreed. We can all go home."

Little did the five Aen Seidhe know, but Lan was hidden behind the open door to the kitchen, listening closely to the entire conversation. And for the first time in his life, he was grateful for his mixed heritage and that his father had taught him the Elder speech. While he didn't truly understand the details of their discussion, his imagination was running riot, and he couldn't wait to write everything down in his journal later that evening.

Suddenly, the boy heard yells and the unmistakable sound of wooden furniture being broken coming from the dining area. Too scared to investigate the commotion, he stayed hidden behind the kitchen door, but his mother, too, had heard the ruckus and charged into the other room. Seeing her leading the way, he followed right behind her, his curiosity getting the better of him.

What he saw made him pause. He'd seen dead bodies before, but they'd all died of natural causes. He'd never seen carnage like this. Three of the four northerners were lying on the floor, their clothes stained crimson from various wounds. The stranger was standing over the corpses, their blood dripping from his blade and onto the floor. Narriel, the drunken elf, was sitting on the floor with his hands in front of his face.

"Mercy, mercy!" he cried. "Don't kill me please!"

Maccarreg glared down at the elf.

"You'll live…cause you didn't draw your weapon. But you'd best remember what I said."

"Yes, yes," Narriel quickly agreed. "Of course, I…I know nothing."

It was then that Maccarreg noticed that he and Narriel had company.

"Sorry for the mess," said Maccarreg, looking at the tavern owner, her eyes wide at the scene in front of her. He then saw the writing utensil and parchment in Lan's hands, and he immediately thought back to the vision three days earlier in the cavern high in the mountains.

"Hey, boy."

Lan's head jerked in the elf's direction.

"You wouldn't happen to have an extra quill and parchment, would you? I've got something really important I need to write down."

The teenager was too in shock to say anything so he just looked at the very frightening elf and nodded his head.

oOo

Corvo Bianco; Fall 1273

"Sir? Your last will and testament?" asked Barnabas-Basil. His tone was a mixture of concern and confusion.

The witcher stared into the eyes of his majordomo and slowly nodded his head.

"I already told you what I've got in front of me. And…" he paused and shook his head. "I don't think I'll be coming back from it. So…" Geralt didn't finish his thought. "Just keep reading."

The witcher and his steward were sitting by themselves on the front porch of the estate's main house. The sun had already set, but there was a lantern on a nearby table, giving B.B. just enough light to read the document in his hand. Thirty seconds later, the majordomo gasped and looked over at Geralt.

"Sir…you can't be serious."

Geralt nodded at his steward again. "I am."

"But, I don't…Sir…you can't…what about your family?" stammered B.B.

Upon hearing the question, Geralt's eyes shifted away from his steward, and as he looked out over his estate, memories began to flash through his mind. He saw images of Vesemir – the only father-figure that he'd ever known. Despite it being over nine decades ago, he could still vividly recall the first time the old witcher had ever placed a training sword into his little hands and showed him how to properly grip the handle. Vesemir's teachings – given over the course of thousands of hours of instruction – were etched into the White Wolf's mind. To this day, the witcher still gripped his sword in the exact way that Vesemir had first taught him. But the gruff man hadn't just shared his knowledge of swordsmanship; over the years, he'd shown that he'd truly come to care for Geralt, freely dispensing his hard-earned lessons on life. "A wise man will use his words with restraint. Hell, even a fool is thought wise if he keeps his mouth shut," was one of his former teacher's favorite sayings. Sometimes, Geralt thought that, perhaps, the two of them – both Vesemir and himself - had taken that tenet too much to heart. But, regardless of the actual accuracy of the teachings, Geralt knew that the old, taciturn witcher's motivations for giving them came from a good place. Vesemir was, without a doubt, the first adult in the world that he could ever remember actually showing him any compassion or understanding – even if it was hidden under a rough exterior.

Memories of Ciri – his daughter in every way but blood – also flooded his mind. More times than not, he remembered her as a ten-year-old – the age she'd been when he'd first decided to take her in. She had been so small and so emotionally scarred from living through war, watching those closest to her die right in front of her. She had been so full of fear but had tried her hardest to cover it up with bravado and defiance. But, despite her best effort to put on a strong face, she'd still occasionally let him into her terrors and pain. His strongest memories were of her coming into his room at Kaer Morhen in the middle of the night. He could still see her face all scrunched up and red from crying. She'd sniffle, wipe the tears from her eyes, and ask, "Geralt, can I sleep in your bed tonight?" Just the tone in her voice had made his heart break. It had been strange for him at first – for he'd never really been around little girls - but he came to treasure those moments when it was just him and his ward. He'd hold her and reassure her and let her talk about whatever she wanted until she'd finally fall asleep. And he could still remember the smell of her ashen, little-girl hair. It had smelled like innocence.

And, of course, the mention of family brought forth memories of Evie – the woman he'd taken for his wife. The one woman to whom he'd finally and fully surrendered his heart. The woman who had taught him what it meant to truly love and to be loved in a completely unconditional way. Thinking of her caused his throat to constrict and a stab of pain pierced his chest. He clenched his jaws and swallowed hard and then turned his head to look back at his majordomo.

"B.B., my family's gone," he finally said, "and I can't think of a more perfect person to own this place if I don't come back. You've proven a hundred times over that you're the best at running an estate for others. So, it only makes sense that you should get a chance to run an estate of your own. I have no doubt that you'll turn Corvo Bianco into something special."

B.B. looked at Geralt and nodded. "I am honored, sir, and thank you. I don't rightly know what to say…other than, I promise that I will do you proud."

"I know you will," Geralt replied with a nod. "You always do."

At that, the witcher rose from where he was seated.

"Time to go," he said as he grabbed his cane. "I've been here too long already."

He then limped over towards his new mount – one of the estate's large and muscular horses – that was already saddled and carrying his saddle bags, expertly packed full of potions, oils, bombs, and various alchemical ingredients. The witcher had been quite busy in his week at Corvo Bianco and not just from getting used to walking and fighting with his new prosthesis.

Geralt grabbed ahold of the saddle, and while carefully balancing himself on his right, wooden leg, he lifted his left leg and placed his foot in the stirrup. He pulled himself upward and swung his right leg over. He'd already discovered that, because of the prosthesis, it would be impossible for him to use his right stirrup – which was going to make horse-back riding all the more difficult. It was just another reminder of how he'd previously taken so much in life for granted.

"Take care of Prickly Pete for me," the witcher said, looking down at B.B. "The little guy served me well."

"Of course, sir," the majordomo answered. "And please rest assured about that special request you asked of me. I have already written to Master Stephaneaux. He's the finest mason in all Toussaint."

A somber look crossed the witcher's face.

"I'm sure he'll do fine," Geralt answered with a nod. The witcher then gazed over B.B.'s head at his house - the house that he'd once thought would be both his and Evie's home. After letting his eyes linger over the façade, he turned his head and began to slowly take in the rest of his estate. Eventually, he exhaled deeply, looked back at his steward, and gave a small, sad smile.

"Farewell, B.B."

"Uh…Sir?"

"Yeah?"

"The…the god you told me about – what was his name?"

"Essea."

"Right…Essea. Well…are you sure he's real?"

Geralt looked at his steward for a moment and then gave a nod. "Yeah…I'm pretty convinced."

"Then…I will pray, sir, that he will protect you in your travels."

"Yeah, well…I guess only time will tell what he actually plans to do, but…thank you for the prayer, B.B. I'll take all I can get. And I pray that, one day, he'll reveal himself to you."

"Thank you, sir," replied the steward, with a small bow of his head.

"Good-bye, Barnabas-Basil."

And then the witcher surprised his steward by leaning down in the saddle and offering his hand. So caught off guard was B.B. that he just stared at the out-stretched hand for a moment, before finally stepping forward and taking Geralt's hand in his own.

"Good-bye, sir," he replied and then released the witcher's grip.

With that, Geralt nodded and lightly snapped his mount's reins. The majordomo of Corvo Bianco stood there, watching his boss – and, dare he say, friend – ride off into the darkness, and he wondered if he'd ever see the white-haired witcher again.