Caroline Helstone was just eighteen years old, and at eighteen the true narrative of life is yet to be commenced. Before that time we sit listening to a tale, a marvellous fiction, delightful sometimes and sad sometimes, almost always unreal. Before that time our world is heroic, its inhabitants half-divine or semi-demon; its scenes are dream-scenes; darker woods and stranger hills, brighter skies, more dangerous waters...

At that time, at eighteen, drawing near the confines of illusive, void dreams, Elf-land lies behind us, the shores of Reality rise in front. These shores are yet distant; they look so blue, soft, gentle, we long to reach them. In sunshine we see a greenness beneath the azure, as of spring meadows; we catch glimpses of silver lines, and imagine the roll of living waters. Could we but reach this land, we think to hunger and thirst no more...

Charlotte Bronte, from Shirley.

Reader, I have a revelation to impart and I fear it will be quite a shocking one. If you stand, now is the time to seat yourself; find a sturdy chair and place yourself squarely upon it, and look and see that you do not position yourself precariously close to the edge.

If, by some chance, you read this in public – I am told that the newfound popularity of the coffee bean has occasioned the constructions of houses dedicated solely to its consumption, and that much of today's youth pass their days in indolence within such places – then, I beg you, put these pages aside. Return to them only when you are in the quietness and comfort of your own abode, preferably after a filling meal fortified with a little sherry. A glass or two should suffice.

Reader, ghosts aren't real.

Becalm yourself, reader, hold your tongue. I am no fool; I do not dispute that some ghosts are, indeed, just what they present themselves to be, the spirits of the recently deceased come to torment and plague the living. I merely maintain that, in nine cases out of ten, tales of otherworldly hauntings are mere figments of the imagination.

The peasant who tells you of sightings of children playing in the fields, the same children who perished during a bad harvest – the knight who regales you with tales of underground treasure, guarded by a barghest or a nightwraith or some other ethereal beast – the widow who insists she is in contact with her departed husband, many years in the grave – almost certainly, they lie or fool themselves. More likely, they give voice to their hopes and anxieties and imaginations. Only in the rarest of cases do their tales contain a kernel of truth within them.

And so it was somewhat anti-climactic for Thyssen, having grasped his sword and lunged at the wraith, to discover he was swinging at the empty air. He stared blankly until the cause of his vision was made plain. The tavern was built on a hill and the cellar had a small window through which the moon was visible. Reflected off the mirrors on the wall and seemingly hanging in the dust-filled air, at a casual glance it did look a bit like a wraith.

And the screams of which the innkeep had told him, and which he himself had heard as he descended down the stairs? Thyssen saw that a loose board in the wall, letting in the cool autumn gale, was responsible. As the wind blew through the opening, it made a sound not unlike the bellow of a badly-tuned horn. In retrospect, it did not at all sound like a scream of "no."

It now occurred to him that his witcher's medallion, which vibrated in the presence of magic and would have alerted him to the presence of ghosts, remained conspicuously still.

For a few moments he was overcome with happiness. Though his upbringing was not a religious one, he felt a strong urge to get down on his knees and thank some higher power for his good fortune. It was only uncertainty about which power he should be thanking that stopped him.

Instead he broke into a bout of giggles. He was alive, and was there anything more wonderful? He breathed in the air and, though it was mossy and damp and would have seemed revolting any other time, at that moment it felt light and sweet, almost like honey.

He was already sprinting up the stairs when a sudden thought brought him to a halt. How would the brothers react when he told them what he had (or, rather, hadn't) found? Certainly they would be happy at first, but what of afterwards?

They might demand their money back. That he was a witcher might give them some pause, but people tested themselves against witchers all the time, especially soldiers like Gregor who could likely rely on support from the village guard.

Fine, then; it was hardly fair but he would return their coin. But even that might not be enough. Gregor seemed like a dangerous man; would he want it known that he was scared into hiring a witcher by nothing more than a loose floorboard? Besides, the brothers had entrusted him with a dark secret, one that could very well ruin them. How much trust did people really have in the confidentiality of witchers?

For the sake of his own safety, he would need to project the image of a fearsome warrior, someone they would not dare challenge. Thyssen sighed. A solution presented itself, but it required a little bit of delicacy...

"You must follow my instructions to the letter," Thyssen declared as he emerged from the cellar. "Bring me the blood of a hen, slaughtered on the stroke of midnight; a scoop of black earth from your grandmother's grave; a full head of hair from each of you; four eyes of newt, a bed of nails, and the tears of a virgin."

"You want our hair!?"

"How do you expect us to find a virgin?"

"Yes, and figure it out yourselves," the witcher said carelessly. "Oh and I'll need all these by tomorrow."

"What do you intend to do with all that?"

Thyssen gave the brothers a broad stare. "It's best if you do not know."

They ended up spending the better part of a day fetching the items. The hen, taken from Krzyzstof's kitchen, was slaughtered that same night. A passing merchant happened to have quite a few nails for sale. They visited a barber on the next morning and emerged looking quite the worse for it, but with two hairpieces in tow.

They were forced to make a few alterations; minor things, really, but they worried Krzyzstof. His brother persuaded him to say nothing to the witcher. The newt was nothing more than an ordinary frog. The hen had indeed been slaughtered on the stroke of midnight, but Krzyzstof's watch, a cheap trinket he once obtained from a passing soldier in exchange for three chickens, always seemed to be a few minutes or hours off from the proper time. It was certainly dark outside when the hen was slaughtered but beyond that Krzyzstof could not guarantee anything.

The most difficult thing was the tears, for virgins seemed to be in very short supply. Gregor had insisted on using his daughter but, some days ago, Krzyzstof heard one of the lads in his kitchen boasting of having made some headway with the girl after the last solstice festival. What exactly was the definition of a virgin? Was virginity lost only in those acts which could sire a child or did other, perhaps lesser, actions suffice? He hesitated to go back to the witcher with follow-up questions of this nature.

In the end, he was able to forestall an awkward conversation by finding a vial of tears on his own. The witcher did not specify the sex, and so the virgin could presumably be male? He thus resolved the problem by forcing his stable boy to cut an onion. The lad smelled of horse droppings through and through and Krzyzstof was certain no girl had as much as touched him.

They presented the items to the witcher the following afternoon. He inspected them slowly, shaking the vial of blood and sniffing the tears. He declared most of the items adequate, though the earth was apparently not black enough and the eyes of newt were also wanting. Thus Krzyzstof was forced to trudge once again to the grave while Gregor lost some hours chasing amphibians in a nearby bog.

Finally, once all the items were deemed satisfactory, the witcher mounted the hairpieces on two broomsticks and sprinkled the virgin tears all over them. Apparently happy with the result, he glued a pair of newt's eyes to each broomstick and, holding these rather revolting contraptions in his hands, descended into the cellar once more, ordering that this time the door be bolted shut behind him.

For over an hour the brothers stood nervously as a horrid clamor was heard coming from below. They could make out the clang of metal upon metal, the sort you might hear in a battle of swords; piercing screams, mixed with the sound of wailing; and a strange bellowing which was unlike any sound they had heard and whose origins must have been otherwordly. But most of the time the sounds mixed together into some fantastical concoction, and they desired nothing so much as to plug their ears. Worst of all, their bare scalps itched terribly. Krzyzstof tried hard to stop scratching himself behind the ears, without much success.

Eventually the clamor stopped and not long afterwards they heard they witcher's voice on the other side of the door. When the bolts were dismantled, the witcher appeared looking battered but smiling nonetheless. His clothes were torn and he had a few minor cuts on his arms but was otherwise unscathed. Declaring their problem solved, he took them down into the cellar.

The mirrors were all cracked, the wine bottles broken, and the walls now had some large gashes. One of the boards at the side of the house was in pieces entirely. Nails littered the floor, many of them bent or partly melted. Their hair was spread all over the floor, some of it slowly drifting in the air, carried by the wind that was now coming through the hole in the side of the tavern. It was a little difficult to breathe.

But there were no ghosts around to be seen.

"To the tavern!" The three of them raised their glasses. It was some kind of Zerrikanian brew that miraculously remained untouched by the destruction in the cellar: strong, spicy, with notes of apricot and plum, though it did burn terribly going down.

"To the witcher!" Krzyzstof exclaimed as he poured the next round of drinks. "Well done, master, well-done!" They clinked their glasses and emptied their contents. "Yes, well-done, sir," Gregor added. "What would we do without witchers?"

Having examined the empty cellar and calmed their nerves, the brothers seemed positively giddy. What a contrast to their state a mere hour ago when they shivered listening to the sounds coming from below.

Another toast was made, this one to their grandmother. No longer was she the old hag; now she was their sweet nana and they wished her an easy passing to the next world. The brew was going down a lot easier and Thyssen wondered if he had burned off the pain receptors in his throat. For some reason, he found the thought of this strangely amusing.

"You look a wee bit like our cousin," Krzyzstof said, squinting at him. "Doesn't he?" He turned to Gregor. "He's got the same mould of face as Kaczimir!" Gregor said unenthusiastically that indeed that was the case.

Another toast was made, though Thyssen found he had no notion of what it was for. He tried to refuse, but the brothers had poured the fiery liquid into his glass and he had no choice but to drink up. Something was said and he started laughing. The brothers laughed with him but after a moment he realized that he had no idea what they were all laughing at.

The world turned wobbly. He found himself slumped on the floor. It was as if his body ceased to obey him. Images from his life swam over him.

One moment, he saw himself back at Kaer Morhen, walking out in anger as he watched Vesemir teaching the rest of the witchers to dominate a wolf with the Axii sign. His own Axii had allowed him to control mice or bees, nothing bigger, and he had wasted many hours trying to force a stray cat to look out the window. He was not usually so ham-handed with his emotions, having come to terms with his own deficiencies long ago. Still, seeing the other witchers learn to dominate the wolf in mere minutes made him suddenly emotional, and he felt the overwhelming urge to leave the room and go anywhere else.

The next moment he saw himself as a child, rushing out the door to throw his arms around his father, having heard the beating of horse hooves that announced his arrival. He saw himself as he was back then, or must have been, for he was too young to remember well: yelping, full of excitement, jumping at his father and hugging one of his legs, not understanding the look of pale shock on the man's face.

And then he saw himself, older and middle-aged, sitting out on a the balcony above a busy street. It felt almost as real as being there. He breathed in the night air and felt the coolness of it in his lungs. A fantasy or a prophecy? He did not recognize the city before him, it was a jungle of roofs and tiles of every color of the rainbow, with vines and greenery elegantly curled all around.

A woman with soft, light blue eyes sat by his side, reading from a letter. When he looked at her, she lifted her glance and smiled at him. He could feel the affection within her gaze and it was as if he melted within her smile. He felt lost in the pleasantness of the scene. It was almost as if he were immersing himself in a warm bath.

And then it had all blended into one, he was in Kaer Morhen and his father's village and that strange city simultaneously, a boy and middle aged at the same time, and there was no conflict, no contradiction behind it all, it made sense in a way that could not be explained in words...

It was quite a shock to find himself suddenly awake.

How much time had passed? Where was he? It felt as if he was sprawled out on a piece of furniture, maybe a chair. Something was awkwardly jabbing him in the rib. His joints were hurting and he felt too weak to move.

"Sure he won't wake?" the voice was unmistakably Krzyzstof's.

A grunt was heard in reply. "The dose I gave him would knock out a horse."

Thyssen tried to wiggle his toes. A jolt of pain rang through his body but the toes did move. His body, at least, was beginning to respond to his commands. He dared not open his eyes.

"Bloody shame," he heard Krzyzstof once again. "Fine lad he was."

Another groan was heard, this one of frustration. "Not the time, brother." It was clearly Gregor speaking, his voice a near-hiss. "Fine lad, you say. Want to gift him three-hundred orens?"

"No."

"Shoulda taken you with me to Brenna. That woulda toughened you up."

Thyssen considered his options. He could probably take on the plump innkeeper in a fight but Gregor would make short work of him. What could he do?

"Toughness isn't jus' slipping a knife between the ribs. Which one of us poured his ale?"

"Not to mention," Krzyzstof spit aside, continuing after a short pause. "It was me who explained to you what to do about the old hag. Me. Without me, you woulda jus' rolled over."

"All right, all right," Gregor said peaceably. "Lets drop it."

"Lets," was the curt reply.

After a short silence, Gregor sighed. "Don't fret brother. Those things, those mutants - they aren't human. He may look like you and me but he's nothing like us."

There was no reply and shortly afterward Thyssen heard the sound of coins jingling on a table. "Five ploughing orens," Gregor said. "Whose ever heard of a witcher with five orens in his purse?" A loud cling seemed to indicate one of the coins was thrown against a wall.

There was another silence, this time a very long one. Thyssen tried to breathe as evenly as possible.

Finally, one of the brothers spoke. "It's long after midnight. We've waited long enough."

Thyssen suddenly found himself pulled over someone's shoulder. He relaxed his body, willing every muscle to slump as best he could. The man lifting him - judging from the wheezing and grunts it must have been Krzyzstof - did not seem to notice anything amiss.

The door creaked and, a moment later, Thyssen felt the night air run over him. His steed neighed, likely sensing his presence from the stable. It was still raining, though the downpour had been reduced to a strong drizzle, and he could hear Krzyzstof walking through puddles, emitting many moans and curses as he did so.

"Wait here," Gregor said. "I'll see that the roads are empty."

This was his chance, the moment that fate had presented him. He would have no other like it.

Thyssen waited until Gregor's footsteps had receded into the distance. With all his might, he swung his right leg to hit Krzyzstof in the groin. Jumping to the ground, he hit the innkeeper once again, this time in the gut, as hard as he could; then he turned and sprinted to his horse.

Had Vesemir been there to witness this, I dare say he would have been pleased with his former charge. A hard blow to the stomach to knock the wind out of a foe; obvious as this may be, it turned out Thyssen had not completely ignored all there was to be learned at Kaer Morhen. Who knows what would have become of Thyssen had Krzyzstof been able to call to his brother for help?

As it was, the innkeeper lay on the ground helplessly for a few moments, then staggered to his feet and tried to yell something; but no sound to came from his lips. When he had finally regained his voice, when Gregor had run back and seen what had happened, Thyssen was already horseback and galloping out of sight.

He turned off the main road and into a thick jumble of woods as soon as he was out of the village. He could speed through the forest in spite of the darkness thanks to his mutated eyes while his pursuers would be reduced to a trot. So he rode through the woods all night, whipping his horse into a state of near frenzy.

It was well into morning when he finally stopped.

Muzzling his horse with his hands, he paused and stood for a few moments, listening. The forest was alive with a cacophony of sounds: the flowing of the brooks, the cheerful chirping of the birds, the uneven rustles of leaves in the wind. But there was no beating of horse hooves, no sound of dogs on the prowl. He was not being followed.

Relieved, angry, grateful, feeling himself to be an incoherent jumble of emotions, he collapsed on the ground in a state of nervous exhaustion, falling soon into a deep sleep that lasted all through the day.

In truth, he did not need to abuse his horse quite as much as he did. The darkness put him out of sight and the rain washed away his tracks. Had Thyssen bothered to think things through, he might have realized after an hour or two that his escape had been entirely successful. As it was, he only came to terms with that evening, when he finally rose from the forest floor.

His horse, having rested and recovered, was calmly munching on grass nearby. Mounting it, he rode towards the flickers of light - the day was nearly over now and darkness was just beginning to descend - and after an hour or t wo, he was out of the forest. But he did not follow the pattern of lights to its source, doubtless some small hamlet beside the woods; after orienting himself, he set off in the direction of Oxenfurt once more

This time he avoided all roads and settlements, following instead one of the tributaries of the Pontar until it brought him to the gates of the city. He slept in the fields, ate berries and fruits, soon depleting the pouch of food Vesemir had given him. It was a monotonous trip but at the very least the fish that frolicked within the waters of the Pontar made no attempts to kill him.

Later he would remember those days as happy and carefree but this was not at all how they seemed at the time. With the sun at his back and only the gentle breeze to divert his thoughts, his mind jumped from subject to subject like lightning. His trip took almost a week, all time spent without hearing human speech, and the feeling of silence that came over him had grown to seem rich and cleansing.

As his journey continued, he found himself growing more and more uncertain about his plans. He recalled the verses of the poem he had composed only days ago and found himself wondering whether they would be of interest to anyone beside himself. Besides, he now felt his attempt at poetry produced lines that were a little too light, a little too cheerful. There was a hint of falseness about them.

Reader, I am sorry to report that Thyssen spent most of his trip brooding. The young do so love to brood, vainly imagining that it heightens their attractiveness. This belief is not wholly without foundation, for there are far too many featherbrained women who mistake misery for depth and think melancholy to be a sign of soulful intensity. As it was then, so it remains to this day, and so I suspect it always will be. Fortunately, Thyssen was quite alone on his trip and there were no members of the opposite sex to encourage him in this deplorable behavior.

Five days after his escape he arrived at the eastern gate of Oxenfurt and joined the queue of those who were seeking to enter the city. There was something strange about being next to humans again, about hearing their voices and seeing their gestures. A passing monk asked him for a donation to the almhouse of St. Lebioda and cursed him at length when he refused. An armored knight-errant cut in line in front of him, casting a withering look in his direction as he did so. One of the merchants behind him tried to sell him what was supposed to be a witcher's medallion, dismissing the one Thyssen had around his neck as a worthless trinket. Soon enough, he found himself missing the comfort of his solitary journey.

But it was there, as he waited in line, that he overheard a conversation that was to shape his life for years to come.

Two of the merchants in front of him were discussing a mutual acquaintance, a man who staked his entire fortune on a cargo of spices shipped from Kovir to one of the southern provinces of Nilfgaard. It was a risky gamble but it paid off handsomely, and after many trials and tribulations their acquaintance earned over a hundred-thousand orens. The lucky man retired and purchased a profitable vineyard in Toussaint, where he planned to live happily ever after.

There was an undertone of resentment to the conversation. The merchants traded stories that put their former colleague in an unflattering light, found fault with all the things he had said or done over the years, and happily concluded that fortune never bestows its luck upon the truly deserving. But it was what Thyssen overheard of the land of Toussaint that sent sparks down his soul.

Toussaint, apparently, was the land of wine and honey, where summer reigned almost year round; where the ground was soft as grass and the water that flowed in the rivers as sweet as ale; where the women were elegant and unassuming, the peasants lazy but good-natured. The castles were startlingly beautiful, the vineyards grand and always in bloom, and the dizzying array of shops sold the freshest breads and the most pungent cheeses, the latest silks and the most aromatic spices.

It was a place where valor and chivalry were held in high regard; where people held that your word was your bond and where everyone, from the lowliest peasant to the noblest born, followed a rigid code of kindness and courtesy. The land was ruled by a duchess renowned for her beauty and sense of justice.

Could such a place really exist? If only a tenth of what he had now heard was true, a life of leisure in Toussaint was infinitely preferable to whatever there was to be had in the other northern kingdoms. The only problem was that his available funds fell rather short of a hundred thousand orens. Indeed, when Thyssen finally stepped onto the streets of Oxenfurt, he didn't have a single oren to his name.