When Geralt awoke, Triss was gone. Early morning light crept into the dim bedroom and he lay unmoving for a while, waiting for the remains of the magically induced sleep to fade away. He was groggy, but beyond that, he felt surprisingly well. His headache had decreased into a slight discomfort barely worth mentioning and it stayed like that even when he pushed himself up a little to lean back against the headrest. His hand seemed better too. Gingerly he removed the bandage and found the cut completely healed. The scar was barely visible.
The wound on his side seemed to be a different matter though. It had been troublesome to begin with and it was still painful, if maybe a little less than before. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed to inspect it and tightened his lips when he found his suspicion confirmed. Even though the injury had finally scabbed over, there was still some swelling and it was warm to the touch. He knew from experience that puncture wounds to the abdomen could take longer to heal but he had hoped that Triss's healing magic would do the trick. Well, there was a little improvement at least. He would have to move more carefully for the next couple of days. He applied some salve from his supplies and redressed the wound, then reached for his shirt.
Only now he took the time to look around the room and he noticed that the remains of the wardrobe were still there, wood splintered and cracked. It clearly was beyond repair. He made a mental note to pay the innkeeper for the damage.
The small table by the window looked tidy now. Triss's collection of flasks and jars had been replaced by three similar vials with contents of the same color. Medicine, he assumed. The letter next to them would probably instruct him on when to take it.
Geralt noted that the washing bowl had been cleaned and put back in its old place on the nightstand. Beside it lay the amulet and he reached to trace his finger over the engraved rune, then slipped it over his head. First, he didn't notice any difference except for a trembling of his medallion, but when he closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind, his thoughts faded almost by themselves, like clouds blown from the sky, until all that was left was a brilliant blue. For the first time, he could sense the extent of the spell that laced his mind, detected the strings of chaos, and where they had hooked into him. His eyes snapped open in surprise. This was more powerful than he had hoped. Maybe, just maybe Triss was right and he would stand a chance against his captor.
He got to his feet and opened the window, allowed some air in. The street was already busy with carts and pedestrians, and the noise was almost as overwhelming as the smell. Every place in Vizima smelled to some degree of smoke, animals and excrements, but it was especially true for this part of the city. Hooves clattered on the cobblestones, scraps of conversations wafted up. A barker from the nearby market advertised his fruit. From his room on the second floor, Geralt had a fairly nice view and his gaze traveled across the rooftops to the harbor in the distance. The water looked like molten gold in the light of the rising sun.
He yawned, stretched his abused muscles and then attended to the note from the table. He found his first instinct to be right. Three vials, medicine for three days. Pain relief and a magical agent that would accelerate his body's healing response. It would ensure that the effects of the healing sleep lasted. He was to drink one every morning before breakfast.
It wasn't the first time he relied on the healing potions of another and he trusted Triss in this matter. Magic wafted up as he uncorked a vial and sniffed it, grimacing at the foul smell. He drained it in one go. It tasted bitter, like woundwort and some kind of mold, but he was used to worse, which included most of the potions he made for himself. Nevertheless, he rinsed the bad aftertaste away with a mouthful of water before sitting down to read the rest of her letter.
...I have returned to my laboratory to try and locate Celaena. It might take a while, if it works at all. Until then, I advise you to take it easy and rest as much as you can. Get yourself acquainted with the focus I made for you and meditate. Right now, it's your best bet. I'll let you know as soon as I have something new.
All the best,
Triss
Meditation sounded alright, but he'd want to wash up before that and answer a call of nature. After that, a warm meal was in order. After all, this place served good food, and he was hungry.
He frowned as agitated voices drifted up from the street below and looked out of the window to check what was going on. Two city guards stood in front of the building, talking to a chunky man with an apron who emphasized his words with expansive gestures. The innkeeper, Geralt realized. It seemed like he wanted to convince the guards of something.
"It's him, I'm telling you."
"Are you sure?" the older guard inquired. His beard was streaked with gray and he was apparently in command. His comrade looked a lot younger, sixteen at the most. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as if he looked forward to using it.
"Of course I'm sure!" The innkeeper looked over his shoulder as if he expected a monster to turn up behind him every moment. He lowered his voice as he noticed that some bypassers were turning their heads. "My cousin Rendrick owns the tavern where it happened. Saw it with his own eyes! That bastard slew poor Barnabas like a dog, in front of his best friends."
"So you didn't see it yourself." The guard seemed doubtful. "How can you be so sure it's really him?"
The innkeeper leaned in closer. "Because he was wearing a witcher medallion. And there aren't so many white-haired witchers around."
Geralt had heard enough. He stepped away from the window and grabbed the vials from the table, tossing them into his bag along with Triss's letter. Worked on his boots, all the while keeping an ear out for the conversation in the street below, which seemed to be coming to an ending. He was just reaching for his swords when he heard the front door, and a brief glance out of the window confirmed his suspicion. They were on his way up to him.
Of course, he could fight two armed men and an overweight innkeeper, even with the barely healed wound in his side, but he'd rather not. Resisting law enforcers was rarely a good idea. Right now he wasn't their top priority, but if he hurt one of the city guards or, god forbid, killed one, every guard in Vizima would be looking for him. Not to mention the damage it would do to the reputation of his trade.
He grabbed his swords, threw his bag across his shoulder and was just out of the door when he saw the younger guard appear at the end of the hallway.
"I got him!"
He charged at Geralt who turned and ran. The witcher made it down the hallway and around a corner as footsteps followed close behind him. He reached a passage that led to a balcony, found the door unlocked and fled outside, cursing his bad luck as he didn't see any stairs leading down. There was no tree to help his descent either. He'd have to jump. He hesitated for merely a second but it was enough for the guard to catch up.
Behind him, Geralt heard the scraping sound of a sword being drawn and whipped around, hand raised to form the sign Aard. A blast of magic ripped from his outstretched fingers and thrust the man back inside and a fair way into the corridor, where he lost his balance and splayed to the ground. The older guard appeared around the corner, stepped past his stunned comrade, sword at the ready.
Geralt stood frozen. Something whispered in the back of his head, and before he knew what was happening, all conscious thought was gone. It felt like he had been pushed into a dark well, light simmering far above him, as he watched himself pick up his steel sword and step back into the hallway, charging at his opponent who managed to parry the attack just in time. Not again, he thought desperately. Not now.
With a little practice, you'll be able to put up some resistance, Triss had said. Unfortunately, he hadn't had the time to practice. The panic he felt right now didn't help either. Like a captive rattling his cage, he vainly strained against the spell. All he could do was watch helplessly, as he backed the guard into a corner with a rapid succession of powerful strokes, forcing him into the defensive. He disarmed him with a violent blow to the wrist and rammed the sword into his throat. Blood spurted as the guard made a gurgling sound, slid down the wall and gave out. Somewhere down the corridor, the innkeeper screamed.
Meditate. He remembered the words from Triss's letter. Get yourself acquainted with the device.
He watched himself swirl around, sword raised against the young guard who had managed to get back to his feet and was staring at him with a mixture of surprise and shock. He couldn't have been in a lot of fights before. Geralt's sword came down on him and the young man barely managed to block the attack, swaying under the impact of the strike.
Meditate. He didn't even know if meditation was possible while being controlled. At least, this time he realized what was going on. He wasn't able to take a deep breath, didn't even have that much command over his body, but he knew how to calm his mind. Knew how to stop the surging panic and racing thoughts. He just had to focus and let go.
And he let go.
All conscious thought vanished as the ripples eased on the lake of his mind, and like before, he started to sense the cords of chaos that tied him. Each step he made, each strike had them tremble in accordance as he fulfilled his master's wishes, and slowly he began to understand. He felt them quake as his hands gripped his sword tighter to block a counter attack, felt the gentle tug as he unarmed his opponent. He could sense the direction where the impulse originated from and wrapped his mind around that cord, holding it still.
His sword tangled above the head of the young man on the ground, ready to fall. However, he didn't execute the strike. The guard looked at him, eyes wide.
"Run," Geralt ground out hoarsely, shaking from the effort.
Sweat started to collect on his forehead as he held the position, and the young guard scrambled to his feet, eyes fixed on Geralt. The guard's face wore an expression of shock and disbelief, and he hesitated for a split second. Then he turned tail and ran.
Geralt didn't know how long he stood like this, sword poised, the slain guard slumped behind him and the wails of the terrified innkeeper echoing down the hallway. It might have been just a few seconds but it felt like an eternity. He felt the voice in the back of his mind become impatient, felt the gentle tugging on the cords of chaos turn into a yanking, the whisper turn into yelling. It took all he had to stop himself from listening to that voice, to focus, but he knew now what to do and resisted.
Then, the voice was gone.
Slowly, he let his sword sink, letting out a shaky breath, unbelieving. He had won. Kind of.
His hands trembled as he sheathed his weapon, winced as he bent down and picked up his bag. He didn't have to look to know that the wound in his side was bleeding again. The guard's head had sunken to the side and he looked at Geralt with empty eyes, mouth slightly open, his throat smeared in glistening red. Blood still pooled on the floor beneath him. Geralt tightened his lips and felt sudden hatred for the mage who had done this to him. He would not only make her pay. He would make sure that she never laid hand on anyone else again.
He crouched down before the guard and brushed a hand over his eyelids to close them.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. He briefly laid a hand on the dead man's shoulder, then pushed to his feet.
The wails of the innkeeper had softened a bit, but he was clearly shaken to the bone, staring at the witcher with wide eyes. When Geralt approached, the man pressed himself flat against the wall to let the witcher pass. The latter reached into his bag and retrieved a small leather pouch, which he dropped into the bewildered man's hands.
"The wardrobe in my room needs to be replaced. I hope this is enough."
He didn't wait for a reply. It wouldn't take long until someone called the authorities on this, and Geralt needed to find a new place to hole up. There was no way to break the spell from inside a prison cell. He left the inn through the front door, ignoring the stares of the people and trying very much not to hate himself.