She returned to the Chameleon to find Dandelion arguing with Zoltan. They fell silent as soon as she walked through the door and Dandelion took on a honeyed smile and a mollifying tone as if he meant to soothe a child before it would try to throw a tantrum.
"Criss! Thank the gods you've returned! I couldn't believe this knucklehead let you go off alone!" He shot a disapproving glance at Zoltan, who was looking guilt-ridden. Clearly, the bard had scolded him thoroughly before her arrival.
"He didn't need to come along. I'm perfectly fine and he had other matters to tend to." She removed the coin purse from under her cloak and approached him with sure steps. "Since Geralt left so abruptly, I needed some coin for basic expenses. This should last me a while." She lifted the purse, and the contents jingled softly. "How much for room and board? I wish to pay you, now that I have the means."
"You'll do no such thing!" He looked appalled at her suggestion. "You are Geralt's guest and I could never take your coin. You're welcome to stay here until you decide on what you want to do next."
"Until I decide what I want to do next?" she repeated his words with a frown. "Your words imply I would think of leaving." Dandelion looked abashed, so she softened her tone. "I won't go anywhere until Geralt and Ciri come back. I came here to help Ciri, but that doesn't mean I'll be a freeloader while I wait. So let me pay you what is fair."
"It may be a long time before they return. You know that, right?"
She nodded. "Yes, and that's why I must insist I repay you for your hospitality."
"And I must refuse you again. I have no need for your coin." An odd look flashed across his face, then dissolved into his jovial smile. "I'm happy to be your host and you are welcome to stay as long as you want."
"You have no need for my coin, but perhaps you need something else from me," she shrewdly inferred.
The bard turned pink and looked at the floorboards.
They were miles away from Novigrad when he woke up with a raging headache and deep hate for the sun. He vaguely remembered agreeing to something Ciri asked, then setting off in a rush and riding Roach into the ground before making camp.
As he looked around, he found they were beyond the border post, camped among a sea of tents.
"Damn! Poor Roach, a day's worth of ride in one night. Can't even remember what the fucking rush was about," he thought, struggling to stand. A metal ball sloshed around his head from one temple to another, trying to break through his skull.
"I'm never ever drinking so much again..." he promised himself, cradling the side of his head.
"Look who's awake!" Ciri's voice rang out, chipper and bright.
"Damn, the girl can be loud," he thought as she approached. He squinted at her, the sun was still painfully bright despite his pupils adjusting to the increase in light.
"By all the gods, Ciri! Keep it down! My brain is trying to escape through my ears and your voice is only chasing it out faster..."
"Then perhaps you should have shared those bottles of spirit instead of hogging them all to yourself."
"If only I'd have at least gained the pleasant memory of drinking them... I remember fuck all," he said with a sigh. "Mind refreshing me on what we're doing here?"
"We're going to the Crones' Sabbath on Bald Mountain."
"Are we now?" he asked, frowning.
She just nodded and handed him a water canteen.
"And why are we going there in such a hurry?" He put the canteen to his lips and guzzled the water down.
"We're going to kill Imlerith."
He almost choked on a large gulp of water and coughed profusely as she recounted her plan.
"Avallac'h said he attends the feast alone every year without fault. I plan to attack him while he's caught up in the revelries. We're never going to get a better chance of crippling Eredin by depriving him of one of his generals."
"And I suppose this has nothing to do with Vesemir's death?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"And if it does, are you going to chide me for it?" She crossed her arms and frowned, preparing to defend her decision against him.
"Not at all. Drunk or sober, I see the reasoning behind your plan. Only thing I don't understand is why we had to leave in the middle of the night without telling anyone and why we almost rode the horses into the ground in the process."
"The Sabbath is in a week. We're barely going to make it as it is. I didn't want to waste any time, and I didn't want to risk being stopped by Yen or... anyone else."
"You mean Criss?"
Her eyes narrowed at the simple mention of her name, and there was disdain in them.
"You wanted to put as much distance as you could between us while I was too drunk to know any better." He shook his head and looked at the ground. "You shouldn't worry about her getting in your way. She came here to help, not hinder. She came for you."
Ciri snorted spitefully. "Don't kid yourself about her noble instincts. She's here for you, not me."
"I know her well enough to be sure that even if we weren't involved, she'd still help."
"Really? Then let me ask you this. When did she decide to help? Was it before or after you fucked her?"
"Can you stop being crass? I thought we raised you better than that." She scoffed. "If Yen heard you speak like that..."
Her features softened, and for a moment she looked ashamed. The mention of her adoptive mother always had that effect on her. After all, she had been the one to instil good manners into Ciri.
He weighed his options for a moment, but it wasn't like he had much of a choice. They had come too far to turn around. He only regretted not having the convenience of a working telephone to let Criss know to wait for him. Finding someone trustworthy enough to send back with a message was a tough thing in a time of war.
"Let's saddle the horses and get going. Imlerith is unlikely to kill himself out of boredom while we twiddle our thumbs."
"You're still coming? You're not going back to her?" she asked sceptically.
"And let you go off alone? Then both she and Yen would kill me for sure. No, we're going and I'll just have to hope that she'll add this to the long list of shit she's forgiven me for."
He sighed. That list kept getting longer, and he only hoped that she wouldn't run out of patience waiting for him.
Ciri's face brightened as she tacked the horse and gathered her bedroll.
"I think we can make it to Mulbrydale come evening, then tomorrow we'll head for Lindenvale. See if we can find a boat there. If not, we might have to ride all the way to Drudge," she cheerfully planned out loud.
"Mulbrydale... Hmm, I know a swordsmith there. Helped him out of a pinch. We might find lodgings with his help."
"Since when do you care about lodgings?"
"I don't. Give me a soft patch of grass and a bit of shade and it's enough for me. But there's no need to condemn ourselves to that if there are better options available."
He mounted his horse with a swift, practised movement. No matter how much time had passed, some habits were never forgotten. A gentle nudge and Roach moved at a slow trot up the path leading out of the camp and into the wilderness.
They passed eager traders who wanted to enter the city and were smooth-talking their way around the need for papers, paving their path with compliments and promises. And a little hooch to sweeten the deal. The Redanian soldier barring their advance was already beginning to fold under their insistence. So much for honour and duty.
A little further up the path, the remnants of a battle could still be seen. It was lucky that autumn was upon them and the stench hadn't wafted far due to the colder temperatures, but Geralt's fine nose could still feel it, the smell of rot, piss, shit and dried blood. He spurred Roach on, wanting to put some distance between himself and the offending smells. After a night of heavy drinking, his tolerance for foul smells had considerably decreased.
"If they're not going to clean up those corpses, this place will soon be overrun with ghouls," Ciri commented looking at the decomposing bodies dressed in Nilfgaardian armour.
The way she spoke was the result of Vesemir's teachings, as Geralt well knew. She was thinking like a witcher, and he was proud of it. Though they weren't blood-related, some considered her affinity for witcher-work an inherited trait, although it was a conscious choice she made when she could have been a princess or a mage or anything else she wanted. Out of all the possibilities, she chose to walk in his footsteps. And although that made him proud, it also reminded him of the Emperor, her real father. As despicable as Emhyr had been, Geralt had a duty to offer her the option to at least meet the man and hear what he wanted to offer her.
"Ciri, did Yen tell you how we came to know you were back?"
"Wasn't Dandelion the one who pointed you in the right direction?"
"He did, but that was much later. Before him, we scoured Velen and Skellige in search of you. But the one who set us on our path was actually Emhyr, your..."
"Father," she interrupted him. "Yes, I'm well aware of who he is."
"He wants to meet with you, make you an offer."
"You think it's worth listening to what he has to say? After all he's done?"
"That's for you to decide. It's your choice if you want to hear him out or not, but I couldn't keep it from you. It's your right to know there is another option out there."
"And your opinion? Will you offer that as well?"
"Only if you ask for it."
"I am. What do you think I should do?"
He sighed. "I think there's no harm in hearing what he has to say. I can go with you to Vizma if you like. Just to support you, nothing else. And whatever you choose, I'll stand by you."
She hummed in thought. "Perhaps after we return from the Sabbath."
After that, they rode in silence, following the path that led to Hanged Man's Tree. Had he not been hungover, he might have attempted to make more conversation, but as he was, he wanted to avoid any unduly expense of energy. It was enough that the jolts from riding aggravated his headache without pouring anything on top.
They had been riding through the calm wilderness for hours, not encountering a soul in their path. Soon they would reach the hill on top of which stood the infamous tree that gave the area its name. Then the spell would be broken and the world would show itself for what it really was - a cruel and spiteful place for the weak, an arena for the strong to duel to the death, the unmoving background for all the good and evil man was capable of.
But for now, the scenery was beautiful. Somehow, nature in this area had refused to be tainted by the war and suffering men inflicted on one another. Patches of trees guarded the road, their leaves filtering the mellow light of the afternoon sun, a calm sight, one Criss would have liked, he thought with a tinge of sadness and wondered what she was doing at that very moment.
The Vilmerius Hospital was a gloomy place, for all its name as a place for healing and mending of wounds, it seemed more like a purgatory for the soon to be dead. Under the smell of antiseptic and herbs, there was that ever-present heavy miasma that accompanied gangrene and infection. Waves of sorrow washed over her, but she suppressed any show of emotion. It was almost too much seeing the rows of beds filled with the sick indiscriminate of age, knowing that if she wanted, she could help them all. And would it really be so bad if she did?
"It's up the stairs," the bard's voice forced her to focus on the task at hand. Other moral qualms had to take a backseat until she dealt with his request to inspect his Calonetta, also known as the trobairitz Priscilla.
Dandelion had outright refused to take any coins or gems as payment from her. And since Geralt had drunkenly sung her praises - thankfully remembering to limit himself to speaking about her healing and nothing else - his single request was a consult for his beloved. Criss couldn't refuse. It was the least she could do for him.
She had been told the short of it, how a serial killer had prowled the city, preying on the ones he deemed heretics and blasphemers only to prove himself to be a vampire in the end. "How ironic," she thought, "a vampire with a penchant for the Eternal Fire." His only mistake was to attack the woman Dandelion loved, thus dragging Geralt into the chase for the murderer and her smart witcher made short work of the matter, quickly dismissing the false leads placed before him and honing in on the real perpetrator. As the story went, the grey-haired stoic looking man that greeted them at the hospital, Joachim Von Gratz, the resident medic, had also contributed to the witcher's success and considered himself a disinfectant of sorts. The kind that eliminates the disease before it even sets in. Prevention was always better than treatment, so she couldn't disagree with his approach.
She took a deep breath and walked into the room that acted as a private reserve. Before anything else, the first thing that hit her was the stuffy air inside the room. Sadly, they must have still been under the false impression that fresh air harms the recovery of the patients, for all the windows and shutters were firmly closed. At last, she saw the single bed standing against the far wall of the sparsely furnished room and on it a slim blonde woman who looked spent and utterly miserable. The bard went to the woman's side at once and occupied the single chair that rested near the bed.
His hand took hers and all his nonchalant playboy dandy air dispersed in the blink of an eye. Right before her eyes, he turned into a devout man who had nothing but care for the single most important person in his life. Although she had him pegged for a skirt chaser, perhaps she was taken in by the persona he had created for himself. It probably went over much better with the crowd to know him to be a charismatic single-minded hound dog sniffing around anything remotely looking female. Or maybe that side of him was just a vestige of the man he was before meeting his love.
She approached the bed with silent steps and removed her cloak, placing it over the end of the bed. The woman turned her head to look at her and there was no joy in her pale green eyes. She tried to speak, but her voice was hoarse and weak.
"All the best doctors in Novigrad said there is nothing to be done. She might never sing again and it breaks my heart," Dandelion spoke on her behalf. "Magic might be her only chance for recovery. But there aren't many mages specialized in healing, and right now, even if one was around, they wouldn't dare show their face for fear of getting caught by the witch hunters."
She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, I understand. I'll do whatever I can." She turned to the medic, who followed them in. "I trust no one will reveal my involvement in this matter. Ending up on a pyre is the last thing I want."
Joachim Von Gratz nodded. "This is a place of healing. All help is welcome. We'll not betray you."
She sat on the bed next to Priscilla and looked her over with a careful eye. The injury was old, only a few faded and yellowed bruises remained as a visible testament except for the very painful scorched throat and scarred vocal cords. For a moment, she thought of Geralt's warning against using magic and feared that she might trigger some alarm. But then she remembered his witcher medallion. It hadn't sensed her healing magic, so perhaps the wards wouldn't either. As long as she limited herself to magic unrelated to Chaos, she had a chance to get by unnoticed.
Her fingers ghosted over the one side of her neck, then over the other. The scarring was extensive; the tissue had regrown thickened and, without help, she would never get her singing voice back. She would have to magically burn off the overgrown part, then sustain and direct the rapid cell division on the correct path. It was like needing to break a leg again to be able to set it in place correctly - painful but necessary if the patient was ever to regain full use of the limb. It was lucky for this patient that she could take her pain away.
"You'll soon be fine, Priscilla. This might feel like you're suffocating, but please don't panic. The feeling won't last long. Close your eyes and focus on something you love."
Priscilla tried to speak, but the sounds were strained and useless, so instead, she grabbed her hand and gave it a firm squeeze as if to let her know she was prepared. Criss pursed her lips and placed her hands around Priscilla's neck and braced herself for the pain. The trobairitz gasped and panicked when her air cut off for a moment. Criss added a pacifying spell to help her get through and the look of dread that flashed over Priscilla's face was washed away and replaced by a peaceful smile, but not before the panicked Dandelion grabbed her shoulder, trying to pull her off. The contact transferred some of the pain to him and he yelped and jumped back, shaking his hand as if he had just pulled it out of a raging fire. Fortunately, it didn't do any damage to either of them and, in a matter of minutes, it was all over.
She pulled her hands away and turned to Dandelion. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you not to touch me."
"Is she…"
"She'll be fine. Right now she's still in a daze, but it will fade soon enough and then she'll be able to speak and sing as if nothing happened."
Just as she ended her sentence, Priscilla grunted and moaned and, although she sounded weak, her voice was thinner and airier than before. She pressed her hands against the mattress and pushed herself up into a sitting position, looking from Criss, to Dandelion, to Von Gratz, then settling on the bard. Her mouth opened, and the bard mimicked the movement involuntarily.
"I... I can speak..." her voice was melodious and sweet just as Criss had imagined it to be. Her eyes opened wide and the next sound that came out of her was a high soprano note. It came out flawless and bright and brought a smile to everyone's lips. "I can sing!" she squeaked and giggled, looking invigorated.
"With a voice like that, I'm looking forward to seeing your first performance back," Criss said with a smile.
Priscilla thanked her with an unexpected hug before moving on to Dandelion. Words spilt out of her in torrents as she was chatting merrily, telling him all the things she held in while she was convalescing. Apparently, she had composed a few new ballads while lying in bed, thinking she would have to put them to paper and let the bard sing them on her behalf, but now she was dying to perform them herself.
Wanting to give them a bit of privacy, Criss stood up and, with a cursory glance and nod, walked out of the room with Von Gratz, leaving the two chirping lovebirds to their plans and merriment.
"You know, we could use your help here." Von Gratz put an arm on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. "There are plenty of sick and ailing men, women and children that cross our threshold and my medicine can only do so much. Your magic could do much more."
"It could, but it wouldn't be safe for me or the ones I'm staying with," she answered, looking at her feet. What she said was true, and yet she felt guilty for saying it. "News would travel fast and it wouldn't end well," she ended her words with a sigh. "No, I can't use magic on everyone, but I promise I'll think of something and come back soon."
A/N: Since I started the story at the battle for Kaer Morhen, there's a bunch of the game story left unresolved so I have to work some of it in, but not all of it. There'll be new things alongside the old, so I hope you'll stick around.
Coming up next, some Geralt-Ciri road trip bonding time, Criss sees Avallac'h after twenty years... what could go wrong?