Realization struck Will like a douse of icy ditch water.
The man behind the bounty was that arrogant wretch, the renegade mage Rience.
The man was a wretched sorcerer and a worse human being, yet when it came to clandestine assassinations and gathering sewer intelligence, the rogue had few equals.
Cast out of Ban Ard for common thievery, he had wound up rotting in a Cintran debtor’s dungeon until Vilgefortz paid his bond.
On the surface, Rience operated as an asset within Nilfgaard’s intelligence bureaus, dispatched toward Sodden to sweep the brush for Cirilla.
Will had never heard of an undercover agent so breathtakingly foolish that he kept his true name while loudly shouting the target’s identity in every border tavern.
A sharp prickle of alarm coiled in Will’s gut.
What came next?
The tapestry of this world was far too tangled, spun with hundreds of competing ambitions and bloody tragedies.
He was no omniscient god; he held only the broad contours of history in his head.
In this moment, he found himself longing for the quiet hearths of Nenneke and Tris.
When he had first opened his eyes in this strange skin, full of confusion and half-formed memories, the two had answered his clumsy questions with endless patience, grounding him in the soil of this realm.
Now, as the whirlpool of destiny began to churn beneath his feet, the sheer weight of it left him off balance.
Ciri’s lineage was a powder keg.
Granddaughter to Queen Calanthe, daughter to Princess Pavetta, and sired by Duny, the cursed hedge knight who had fled into the shadows only to emerge as Emperor Emhyr var Emreis of Nilfgaard.
She was also the Child of Surprise bound to Geralt of Rivia, their fates knotted by an ancient decree that refused to break.
Above all else, the girl carried the Hen Iker, the Elder Blood that every court sorcerer and renegade scholar between the mountains and the sea dreamed of bottling.
A natural source of magic, a conduit capable of rending space and time, prophesied either to halt the end of the world or hasten its arrival.
The fragile, grieving princess had all the power in creation sleeping in her marrow, yet she remained an unblooded fledgling, needing time and shelter to grow.
She had no inkling of the tempests her name was about to unleash upon the North.
“Will!”
“Will, snap out of it!”
He blinked, pulling himself from the dark reverie as the forest snapped back into focus.
His golden pupils contracted sharply against the glare.
“You know that name,” Geralt said, his yellow cat eyes boring into the youth.
Both Yennefer and Ciri stood watching, their expressions tight with suspicion.
Will hesitated, choosing his words with care.
“It is complicated. Far too complicated for an open ditch. We need to reach the sanctuary first.”
Yennefer parted her lips to press the issue, but Geralt raised two gloved fingers, cutting her short with a firm shake of his head.
…
The Sanctuary of Melitele, Ellander.
Nenneke stood on the front terrace before the heavy oak gates, a phalanx of novices and senior priestesses gathered behind her skirts.
Their gazes were cold as river shale, fixed on the uninvited host crowding the courtyard.
Pinned over their left shoulders sat the silver badge of the Order of the White Rose, the chivalric arm of the northern temples.
At their head sat a bald knight, a jagged, curving scar gouged from his temple down across his right cheekbone.
The permanent sneer carved into his lower lip gave his face the sour look of curdled milk.
“Tailles, you miserable wretch,” Nenneke spat, her voice ringing across the masonry.
“Ten winters have come and gone, yet time has failed to pound a shred of sense into that thick skull of yours.”
Tailles kept his features rigid, resting his palms on the pommel of his saddle.
“These people are Cintrans, Mother Nenneke. They are not subjects of Temeria, nor do they fall under Duke Hereward’s tithes. I expect the high priestess of this house to understand the distinction.”
“Hold your tongue! You have no right to preach royal decrees beneath this roof. In the eyes of the Great Mother, they are simply people in misery.” The chill in her tone could have frosted glass.
“The truce at Sodden was signed in fresh ink,” Tailles countered, drawing his longsword three inches from the wood, leveling the square tip toward the frightened families huddled in the alcoves.
“Prince Hereward has no desire to hand the Black Ones an excuse to march across the river. These runaways fall under the custody of the White Rose.”
Nenneke let out a dry, venomous laugh.
She saw through his grand posturing in an instant; the man was hunting cheap slave labor and royal favor.
“Ten years ago, you dragged Count Falwick up this hill to run my friend Geralt out of the duchy, and you walked away with your cheek split open. Now you crawl back to butcher starving women and orphans. Mark my words, Tailles: this day will end no better for you than the last.”
She slipped several small herbal satchels from her apron pocket, letting the dried pods clatter with a dry rattle.
At the mention of the witcher’s name, Tailles’s jaw twitched violently.
His leather-gloved fingers rose to trace the hideous seam on his cheek, the lingering brand of his deepest humiliation.
Yet he did not shout.
The brash, green squire who had challenged a mutant to single combat had been seasoned by ten years of court cruelty.
“Mind your place, priestess,” Tailles warned, his eyes flicking nervously to the satchels in her grip.
“Cast those alchemical powders against my men, and your sanctuary will answer with blood.”
Nenneke paid him no heed, raising her chin to address the ranks of mounted knights behind him.
“Before you draw iron on these flags, ask yourselves if your valiant commander warned you of the tithe! Lay hands on this house, and your wives will bar their bedchambers to you. Your daughters will spit upon your boots and flee your homes. Even the tavern wenches in Ellander will refuse to pour your ale.”
She took half a pace forward, her staff striking the flagstones like a thunderclap.
“Prince Hereward himself stayed in his keep because he knows the cobblestones in the market square would be hurled through his bedchamber windows if he marched on Melitele’s door!”
Pushed past his patience, Tailles bared his teeth in a snarl.
“Enough of your old crone’s curses! This is wartime, Nenneke! Yield the Cintrans, or else…”
“Or else what, exactly?”
A clear, steady voice carried over the courtyard wall from the lane.
“Stand your ground! Back off!” The outer sentries whipped around, drawing half a dozen blades to bar the path.
Will ignored the bristling steel completely, walking through the gap with measured, unhurried strides until he stood ten feet from Tailles’s stirrups. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
He kept his Skellige longsword snug in its scabbard, tilting his head with an easy smile.
“Or else what? I am genuinely curious. Pray finish the thought.”
Tailles looked down from the saddle, his brow furrowing as he studied the youth.
The pale golden light in the boy’s irises made him hesitate, though he saw no twin scabbards crossed over the back.
“A witcher? No… what manner of stray are you?”
“You sit on my doorstep and ask who I am?”
Will had spurred his mount ahead the moment the red cloaks came into view.
Geralt had recognized Tailles instantly, sharing the history of their past duel in three terse sentences.
To keep steel from clashing on holy ground, Will had volunteered to take the front line.
He had not expected to find the fool threatening Nenneke before the latch was even lifted.
Cold reason held his temper in check.
The novices gathered in the cloister were healers and scholars, not hardened line infantry.
If words could break the standoff, words came first.
“Ha! Nobody claims this monastery as their personal property, not even the old woman. Who do you think you are?” Tailles sneered, finding his swagger once more.
Will offered a reassuring nod toward the shadows of the colonnade, where Nenneke and Tris stood watching.
“Who am I? My name is Will. A monk of Melitele, and son to the goddess.”
His smile faded, his tone hardening into something flat and absolute.
“This is no idle threat, Sir Knight. If a single blade under your command draws blood from a priestess of this sanctuary, a blight will settle over your master’s barley fields. The lineage of the men responsible will wither without heirs. The midwives and physicians trained in these halls will pack their trunks and leave your boroughs to the rot, and the Mother’s blessing will depart this valley forever.”
He took another step, his golden eyes locking onto the scar across the knight’s cheek.
“And lastly, to keep matters simple: every man jack of you will die on these stones before sunset.”
The threat hung heavy in the mountain air.
Will held the iron to back every syllable: an archmage capable of leveling town squares, a master witcher, an old veteran with a quiver full of bolts, and his own uncanny, regenerative flesh.
“Sir Tailles… hold,” a knight from the second rank urged, leaning over his horse’s neck to whisper hurriedly.
“That is the boy. He mended my mother’s lungs two months back without taking a copper…”
Will’s eyebrow arched slightly.
Word traveled faster than he had realized; half the garrison in Ellander had family in the lower wards.
The Order of the White Rose drew tithes from crowns across the Northern Kingdoms, but Prince Hereward retained the legal authority to muster the chapter house garrisoned outside Ellander’s walls.
A flicker of recognition crossed Tailles’s scarred features, as if an old tavern stanza had finally clicked into place.
“The bards sang of an infant that fell from the clouds, sleeping upon the refectory table for ten winters. That was you?”
Even so, the knight recovered his composure, a sly, calculating gleam replacing his surprise.
“The Order honors the Great Mother, as does His Grace the Prince. However! If you truly walk with divine favor, show me a miracle. Cleanse the butcher’s mark from my cheek, boy. Do that, or neither I nor Prince Hereward will believe a single fable that spills from this house.”
Tailles leaned forward over his saddle horn, his crooked mouth stretching into a triumphant smirk.
The phantom ache of Geralt’s blade had gnawed at his vanity for a decade; if he could leverage this standoff to reclaim his face, the day would be a triumph.