“Gladly.”
Will offered a gentle, harmless smile, looking every bit the pious youth devoted to charitable works.
“Will, we owe this dog no demonstrations!” Nenneke stepped forward, clamping a firm hand onto his shoulder as her glare bored into Tailles.
The impudent wretch!
She should never have acted as mid-wife the day his mother whelped him into the world.
Will patted the back of her weathered hand, signaling for her to ease her temper; he had this business well in hand.
Behind them, Tris leaned against a stone pillar, a crooked smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
He recognized that particular, mocking curve of Will’s lips.
The boy had never possessed a docile bone in his body.
“Sister Tomira, would you fetch a looking glass from the dormitory?”
Will caught the eye of a familiar novice standing near the back.
Her hair was bound in a sensible knot, stray wisps brushing her brow.
She wore the plain gray homespun of an initiate, carrying the faint, clean fragrance of drying chamomile on her skirts.
Tomira started, pointing a hesitant finger toward her own apron.
Seeing Will nod, she turned and hurried toward the inner cloisters.
Years from now, that same shy novice would make her way to White Orchard, becoming the herbalist travelers remembered for her quiet compassion and steady hands.
“By the way, Mother, how did word of my waking reach the garrison so quickly? I thought we kept the matter behind closed doors.”
Nenneke let out an exasperated scoff, her eyes narrowing.
“That loud-mouthed parasite, Dandelion. Who else?”
“I should have known better than to let him take his meals at our refectory board. He gave his solemn word he would keep quiet, but put three pints of cider in him and his tongue rattles loose in every taproom between here and Vizima.”
Will gave an understanding nod.
It mattered little now.
Tomira returned out of breath, offering a small silvered mirror with downcast eyes.
Will took the glass with a polite murmur of thanks.
As their fingers brushed across the frame, a sudden flush climbed the girl’s throat, coloring her cheeks a delicate pink.
Flustered, she dipped her chin and retreated into the second rank of novices.
“Sir Tailles, do you swear upon your order that once this scar is lifted, your company departs our grounds?”
“I gave my word as an anointed knight,” Tailles declared, chin held high.
“Very well. Let us be rid of it.”
Will drew upon the Fountain of Life, letting a warm, emerald vapor gather across his right fingertips before brushing his hand across the knight’s ruined cheek.
A faint prickle stirred across Tailles’s skin, followed by a tight, itching crawl that set his heart racing with sudden doubt.
Behind his saddle, the mounted brothers leaned forward, their eyes widening in open disbelief.
The jagged, purplish seam of scar tissue was smoothing out before their very eyes, the pitted flesh filling, the color softening from angry red to the pale cream of untouched skin.
A miracle.
The thought echoed through the ranks of the White Rose.
Will watched the gaping men with quiet amusement.
Geralt had shared the truth of that old duel: Tailles had panicked under a parry, his own buckler deflecting the witcher’s steel straight into his cheek.
The fool had simply been too vain to admit he had carved himself up.
Tailles trembled with anticipation.
It was gone.
The ordinary skin he had once taken for granted now seemed beyond price.
Without the disfiguring track, his jaw sat straight and whole once more.
For ten long years, even after rising to the rank of banner captain, gossips in the ducal court had snickered behind their goblets about the ‘Centipede of Dorndal.’
Ha!
Geralt, you mutant mongrel, our reckoning is still to come, Tailles sneered behind his teeth, vanity running wild.
I will have a dung-smeared dagger across that pale throat before the year is out.
Clang.
A sharp scrape of iron drew his eyes upward.
The glare of polished steel struck his pupils.
Swish!
Will moved with blinding speed, the Skellige blade drawing a thin, singing arc through the chill air.
The honed edge parted skin and muscle from Tailles’s brow straight down along his left cheek.
Not a single knight moved to intercept the strike.
“Aaargh!”
Tailles tumbled from his saddle, hitting the dirt on his knees, both hands clamped over his face as a strangled shriek tore through his teeth.
Bright scarlet pumped between his fingers, spattering the weeds below.
“Cut him down!” Tailles howled, his voice cracking into madness.
“Kill him! Put the mutant to the sword!”
The mounted knights exchanged uncertain glances, their hands resting frozen upon their pommels.
Nobody drew an inch of steel.
Their eyes shifted toward the tall, broad-shouldered knight riding beside the fallen captain, the true backbone of the chapter.
The young commander seemed to gather himself, stepping his horse half a pace forward, his voice level and cold.
“Brother Will, the Order of the White Rose requires an accounting for this.”
Will flicked the blood from his fuller with casual indifference, wholly unconcerned by the bristling lances.
“Rest easy, Sir Knight. Captain Tailles gave his oath to quit our threshold once his scar was healed. That matter is concluded.”
His tone flattened, iron creeping into his voice.
“However, one debt does not cancel another. The Sanctuary of Melitele does not suffer insolence on its own stones. Tailles’s threats against our Mother and the sisters demand chastisement. This fresh line stands as a reminder. Prince Hereward is a reasonable lord; when he looks upon his captain’s face, he will understand the message well enough.”
He made a dismissive gesture with his left hand, shooing them like flies from a pantry.
“Take him and go.”
Will held no high regard for the Order ever since learning that any merchant’s son with heavy purses could buy an anointed mantle.
Melitele held deeper roots in the soil than Hereward’s court; even the balms Duchess Amelia used for her private ailments were blended by Nenneke’s own hands.
The young commander stepped down from his stirrups, leaning close to Will’s shoulder.
Before Will could step back, the man murmured under his breath:
“Lady Marie was greatly concerned for the sanctuary’s peace. She sent me along to ensure no harm came to your gates.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and barked orders for the retinue to hoist the weeping Tailles onto a spare baggage horse.
Will watched them ride down the path, his eyebrows arching in mild surprise.
So the commander was one of Marie’s retainers.
Marie, you greedy woman…
do you covet my heart along with my hide?
Next time Nenneke looks the other way, I’ll have to ride out to the manor and question you thoroughly.
A crooked grin slipped across his lips. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Smack.
A heavy palm struck the back of his crown, knocking him half a step forward.
“Wipe that indecent smirk off your mouth!” Nenneke snapped, adjusting her linen wimple.
“Grinning like a hedge brigand in the forecourt. Mind your conduct before the novices!”
She pointed an ink-stained finger at his nose.
“And another thing: never threaten the goddess’s harvest again. Speak of blighting grain in her name, and the Mother may well take you at your word.”
Will cleared his throat, tucking his humor away behind a sober expression.
“Understood, Mother. I avoided open bloodshed and delivered an instructive lesson, just as you taught. I thought I handled it rather well.”
Nenneke let out a long breath, studying his frame from boots to collar.
Seeing that he looked slightly leaner after his days on the road, a faint moisture touched the corners of her eyes.
Will felt a sudden tug of panic.
“Come now, not a scratch on me. Look, I brought some old friends back with me.”
He raised an arm toward the timber line, whistling once.
Three riders galloped through the poplars, their traveling cloaks pulled tight against the autumn chill.
Reaching the gates, Geralt dropped down from his saddle, tossed back his wool cowl, and stepped forward to wrap Nenneke in a quiet embrace.
“It has been too long, Nenneke.”
The high priestess studied the white-haired mutant, a rare softness crossing her stern face.
The decades slipped by without marking his features, yet seeing him stand beside Yennefer brought a genuine smile to her lips.
“Too long indeed, Geralt. It seems you have finally learned that understanding a woman requires looking deeper than her cheekbones.”
Her eyes shifted toward the smaller figure lingering beside the mare.
“And this little fledgling must be Cirilla?”
“It is a long road, Nenneke,” Yennefer interrupted gently, resting a hand over Ciri’s hood to guide her through the arch.
“Let us take the girl inside where the stones are warm.”
Will stood by the parapet, watching the company disappear down the corridor toward the inner chambers, a quiet warmth settling behind his ribs.
Then he blinked, looking around the empty courtyard.
Wait.
They just walked off?
Nobody is going to ask about my journey?
He turned toward the stables, thinking to slip away into town for an ale.
“Where do you think you’re sneaking off to, little Will? Back to Lady Marie’s parlor?”
Tris stepped out from behind an ancient oak, a training blade resting across his broad shoulder, his eyes glinting with mischief.
Will’s face fell instantly.
“Old Cui, I just rode through half of Sodden. You wouldn’t let a man rest for a single afternoon?”
“Rest? Real men rest beneath six feet of dirt. Draw your iron, lad. Let us see what you learned while playing in the brush.”
Will sighed, drawing his Skellige steel to meet the stance.
A biting gust whipped down from the Mahakam peaks, raising goosebumps along his forearms.
Winter was rolling into the valley.
His first new year in this strange world was fast approaching, though there would be no spring festival crackers to welcome it.