POV Aiden I sighed, exhausted, taking in the vast fields of golden stubble stretching out to the horizon.
It had been nearly three months since I’d left Kaer Morhen with Nocturne.
I’d made it through the roads fairly peacefully aside from a bandit gang or two, nothing too complicated.
I’d also made a point of not lingering in Kaedwen, given its well-known reputation for despising non-humans honestly, I didn’t feel like spending my time justifying myself to villagers, especially if I also needed to pick up a contract there.
Speaking of contracts… I’d figured finding one would be simple.
It wasn’t.
Just like Geralt had taught me, I stopped in every village, checked the posted notices but aside from announcements about a lord raising taxes or needing help in the fields, there was nothing concrete.
Hence the sigh.
I’d gone back and forth between heading to Aedirn or Redania, and ended up choosing the latter.
Honestly, riding through the Redanian roads, I’d been genuinely impressed by the overall stability of the kingdom.
Even though, deep down, I still carried some anger toward the northern rulers who hadn’t lifted a finger for Cintra, that didn’t change the fact: Redania remained impressive.
Whenever I asked the locals, they’d often praise their king, kind and wise they even called him the Just.
But honestly, thanks to bits and pieces Triss had shared during our training, I already knew that king didn’t act entirely alone.
Philippa Eilhart, for instance, held the position of court sorceress under King Vizimir.
The little Triss had told me about her was that she was a formidable sorceress, someone she genuinely admired but I could tell, behind her hesitation, that there was more to it.
Even without her saying it outright, I could easily guess as much.
— Flashback POV Aiden We’d just wrapped up a magic training session.
Behind me, a massive ice statue, something like a golem, collapsed onto the ground with a dull thud that shook the earth.
Triss laughed.
“Honestly, I’ve rarely seen talent this impressive with magic.” I shrugged, smiling.
“Maybe it’s thanks to the old magic.
Hey, since we’re on the subject of magical talent, I’m curious about the other sorceresses besides you, Mousesack, and Yennefer, I don’t really know anyone.” She looked surprised, then nodded slowly and sat down on a log.
“Let’s start with me, then.
I’m the court sorceress for King Foltest, in Temeria.
I’m not big on politics, but you get used to it after a while and Temeria’s a pretty unique place.
I’ll have to take you there someday.” I smiled.
“I’d like that, Triss.” She went on, still smiling.
“Yennefer serves as sorceress at King Demavend III’s court, in Aedirn though she barely shows up.
As you’d expect, she’s proud, independent, and hates court politics, so she skips most gatherings, no matter how much the Council of Mages insists.
Let’s just say she’s never really cared what they think.” She continued: “In Kaedwen, it’s Sabrina Glevissig, at King Henselt’s court though I’ll admit her behavior is pretty… let’s say ‘intense,’ to put it kindly.
You probably won’t like how she acts.
Not that I think you’d like most sorceresses, honestly a lot of them tend to feel a bit superior.” Then her smile turned wistful.
“And for Redania, that’s Philippa Eilhart.
Let’s just say she’s ambitious, and pretty cold.
Sorry, Aiden, I’m going to stop there, on that one.” I nodded I could tell there was more behind that silence, but I didn’t push it.
She clapped her hands together, as if to restart the lesson.
“All right, let’s get back to it.
This time, I want two golems.” End of flashback — POV Aiden Naturally, seeing Triss so wistful that day, I’d gone to ask Geralt about it, who’d shaken his head, explaining he couldn’t tell me anything without Triss’s permission.
I’d then tried my luck with Yennefer, who hadn’t hidden her hostility toward Philippa at all she’d simply said she was “a manipulative bitch” who’d deeply hurt Triss, both intimately and otherwise.
She hadn’t told me much more than that, but I could easily piece it together: something must have happened between Triss and Philippa, probably before Geralt and maybe Philippa had manipulated Triss somehow?
Either way, it was all just guesswork on my part.
Arriving at the gates of Roggeven, I already caught the smell of the sea a scent I’d almost forgotten and the distant cry of gulls.
The city, fortified, rose up ahead of me.
I joined the line of travelers being checked by the guards at the gate, taking the chance to look around: we were in the thick of autumn, the orange leaves putting on quite a show, and the Redanian banners hanging on the ramparts paired nicely with the scenery.
What snapped me out of my thoughts was a guard walking up.
“A witcher?
Rare, around here.” I answered: “Yeah.
I’m here for contracts got any around?” He jotted something down in his notebook, shrugging.
“You’d have to check with the steward, he’s the one who handles that.” Curious about something else, I noticed the unusually large number of guards posted at the entrance, well beyond normal, and asked: “Something going on?” He looked at me, a little confused, before following my gaze toward the extra security, then answered, weary: “Yeah.
Apparently the court sorceress is here, and ever since she showed up, the town lord’s been bending over backward for her, like some kind of dog.” Another guard elbowed him to shut him up, but he just shrugged.
“Everyone knows the lord’s head over heels for the sorceress.” Then, turning to me: “Witcher, everything’s in order, you can go in.” I nodded and stepped into the city.
What struck me first was the crowd massive.
Luckily, I was still up on Nocturne, so I wasn’t jostled much, but it was still impressive.
It reminded me a lot of Cintra.
Along the way, I could hear merchants shouting out their goods, or announcing discounts the place was alive, in short.
Arriving at an inn called The White Shark’s Teeth, I settled Nocturne calmly into the stables, dismounted while stroking her muzzle, gathered my gear, my swords at my waist, and my saddlebags.
I gave the stable hand five crowns to take good care of her, then walked into the inn.
The contrast between the cold outside and the warmth inside hit immediately.
But mostly, it was the atmosphere that struck me that tavern feel that always brings a faint smile, between the music, the strong smell of alcohol and food fighting it out with the less pleasant scent of sweat and unwashed bodies.
I settled onto a stool facing the innkeeper.
“I’d like a room, and some food, if that’s still possible.” He looked at me, surprised, then leaned in.
“A witcher, in my inn?
Now that’s rare.
I can offer you the last of the stew, if that works.
How long are you planning to stay?” I pulled out my purse.
“At least two weeks.
What do I owe you?” He thought it over.
“Five crowns a day, so for fourteen days, that comes to seventy crowns, witcher.” I nodded, handed him the sum, which he pocketed right away, then added two more crowns for a drink and the last of the stew.
As he walked off, I felt a tap on my shoulder a stranger, smiling.
“Witcher!
Fancy a game of gwent?
I’ll bet ten crowns.” I agreed.
I wiped the floor with him, to the laughter of his own friends sitting behind him, and the disgruntled grumble of the man himself, who handed over his ten crowns.
When my meal finally arrived, I asked the innkeeper, busy wiping down glasses: “When I got into town, I heard the court sorceress was here?” He nodded, sighing.
“Roggeven’s usually a peaceful town, no trouble at all.
But lately, strange things have been happening: dead sailors climbing back out of the sea.
The first night was a straight-up massacre lost a lot of sailors that night.
The lord tried posting guards, but a good number of them died too: those corpses don’t fear steel.
Even beheaded, they keep fighting.” He shivered.
“Now there’s a curfew at nine, and you can often hear those dead things wandering outside at night.
Even corpses from the graveyard have started joining in.
The lord called on King Vizimir, who sent the court sorceress along with some guards.
But rumor has it it’s actually another mage’s doing all anyone knows, from witnesses, is that it’s a man.” I frowned.
“Is the sorceress managing to fix it?” He shook his head.
“She’s been here for weeks now.
Her magic does stop the dead, but they keep multiplying night after night every time she takes down three, six more show up the next night.
Never-ending.” I nodded, running through the possibilities.
From what I remembered of the bestiary, no classic monster really fit this kind of behavior even among specters, aside from maybe the rare penitent, but that one usually only shows up near a lighthouse, and only raises the specters of its own victims.
I asked: “What do these dead look like, exactly?” He thought about it.
“Kind of like waterlogged corpses, skin falling off in chunks.
And the smell unbearable.
Like a body that’s been underwater for years.” I nodded, about to sink back into my thoughts, when the music suddenly cut off.
A man stepped up onto the small stage a silk bard’s outfit, a plum-colored felt hat, chestnut hair, a faint smile somewhere between arrogant and warm.
He spoke, his voice clear: “Ladies and gentlemen, I do hope your spirits find some comfort tonight, for I, the great Dandelion, have come specially to console the people of this terrible ordeal!” I choked slightly, spitting out a bit of foam, and stared at the man.
Had he really just said Dandelion?
The one Geralt always talked about in his stories the one he described as his insufferable best friend!
Dandelion went on: “I shall now perform my brand-new song: The White Wolf and the Fire of Love.” He began playing his lute.
(Author’s note: inspired by the song “Lilac and Gooseberries,” which always gives me chills.
I reinterpreted the story so it’s about Geralt and Triss instead hope it does it justice, I’m no musician, sniff.) From snowy peaks down to the golden plain, The weary White Wolf dragged his wounds along.
But by the hearth, a flame awaits him still, Chasing old bite marks with her gentle song.
She held no shadow of the darker arts, Just the soft warmth of a fireside night.
You blaze like fire beneath the moon, Scented with roses and a tender heat.
When the wolf goes astray and thunder roars, It’s in your embers he forgets defeat.
Auburn passion, and wild rose, A haven of peace amid the storm.
Her fire-red hair lights up your night, Where the wolf’s own eyes see only gray.
He’s made of steel, of potions, and of blood, She’s the tenderness of a setting sun’s ray.
The court and the king demand her voice, But her heart beats only for the wolf.
You blaze like fire beneath the moon.
Scented with roses and a tender heat.
When the wolf goes astray and thunder roars, It’s in your embers he forgets defeat.
Auburn passion, and wild rose, A haven of peace amid the storm.
(Hope you enjoyed my reinterpretation of that wonderful song, “Lilac and Gooseberries.”)