The guest rooms at the Temple of Melitele were spacious and well lit. Once the shutters were drawn back, sunlight spilled across the floor, and a warm breeze made the air pleasantly drowsy.
On the morning of his third day there, Victor sat at the desk by the window, frowning at a letter Catherine had brought him, turning a few key words over and over in his mind… Sir Tailles… Duke Hereward… Grandmother Nenneke… and Geralt of Rivia.
This world's widespread prejudice against witchers was the result of many factors tangled together, but one thing was certain: the more intelligent a person was, the more they could understand—and value—what witchers were. Meanwhile, the ignorant masses, fed by rumors and exaggerations, could indulge every cruel impulse they carried.
What had happened wasn't actually complicated. Angoulême hadn't needed much time to piece it together. In short, it was the story of a biased idiot abusing public authority, then humiliating himself. The troublesome part was that, since he'd abused official power, it dragged in the question of legal jurisdiction between the local ruler and the temple.
Still, there was no need to panic. Victor had time to think through his options. As long as he remained inside the temple, he wouldn't be in danger. The most likely move from Sir Tailles was simply to come and probe when Victor planned to leave, then set an encirclement in the forest—just like they'd done back then.
The situation was irritating, but Angoulême's proposed solution had to be rejected outright. Assassination was not the optimal answer here. A knight of the Order of the White Rose being murdered—when all his men knew that, right before his death, he'd been trying to cause trouble for a witcher apprentice… how stupid would you have to be to choose an extreme method at exactly that moment?
Thinking that through, Victor added one more line beneath his rejection in the reply:
"Afternoon reading time doubled. Prioritize history."
He rolled the finished page and slipped it into the leg ring, then gently rocked the silver band in his fingers. Clever Catherine lifted one claw ever so slightly—like a queen letting an attendant fit her shoe—so Victor could fasten it in place. He watched her beat her wings and vanish into the distance.
…
Leaving his room and heading down the stone steps, Victor politely nodded to the priestess students who came here for training, but he never stopped to chat. After three days, he'd learned enough about them.
They were all very young—some even younger than Victor—yet most were far more mature than he'd expected. A few bold ones even pointed and whispered at Victor's not-yet-fully-grown, healthy, well-proportioned physique.
When he brought it up to Grandmother Nenneke—asking whether a young man staying here might cause problems—the priestess had replied blandly:
"This is the Temple of Melitele. Not some hidden retreat, and not a common convent. Our goddess will not punish priestesses for anything. Anything.
"If you don't want it, then remember to lock your door before you sleep."
Victor, of course, hadn't come here seeking thrills, so he locked his door properly every night. Now he kept a polite, distant smile as he walked through the gauntlet of their gazes and headed toward the "greenhouse" in the rear hills, where Grandmother Nenneke always tended the plants at this hour.
…
A light sheen of sweat on his skin, Victor loosened a few buttons of his linen shirt. Sunlight poured through crystal panels set into the cave roof, making the interior pleasantly warm—almost hot. Breathing the sticky, humid air, Victor moved among enormous pots, cabinets, and basins with a familiarity that was beginning to show.
He'd loved this place from the first visit. It was incredible—something that truly widened his horizons: a "cavern greenhouse," carved and adapted under medieval limitations, cultivating countless herbs he'd only ever read about, plants he'd assumed were long extinct.
Among these "lost" plants, he recognized several: melilot with five-lobed leaves; shaggy fungi growing thickly in a pot like a tangled mat; and a herb whose tender branches hung heavy with blood-red berries.
He circled past the center of the cavern, where several large barrels floated full of decaying algae and patterned duckweed, and then he saw Grandmother Nenneke with her sleeves rolled up, using shears and a bone rod to care for these precious plants.
"Grandmother, I'm here," Victor said with a smile, picking up his own set of tools. This was, in a way, him trading labor for the explanations she offered so casually while she worked.
Nenneke said kindly, "Child, you could sleep a little longer, you know!"
"It's all right. You know it—when we're healthy, witcher apprentices have plenty of stamina. And working with you benefits me greatly!"
"Your modesty and eagerness to learn are so likable. Nothing like that little rascal from back then. Are you really the 'younger brother' Ciri claims?"
Grandmother Nenneke was someone worth respecting. Two days ago, after Victor had rested and they spoke again, he learned—astonished—that Ciri had studied here years before, and had once had the same bright youth as those priestess students.
Yennefer had originally come at Geralt's request, specifically to teach Ciri how to control raw magic. Yet the two—equally sensitive, proud, and stubborn—had, through fierce emotional clashes, unexpectedly forged a bond as deep as mother and daughter.
And through those conversations, once Grandmother Nenneke confirmed Victor's closeness with Ciri, Victor could clearly feel it: only then did the temple's gates truly open to him.
From then on, he could work with Grandmother Nenneke in the greenhouse. He could read the temple's accumulated library. And after verifying his skill in alchemy, Nenneke even permitted him to use the temple's laboratory freely…
He'd felt this kind of loving trust from Vesemir before. So when Nenneke asked him something directly, he didn't intend to hide the truth.
"As for that relationship… it's really something she decided on her own."
"Oh… so you have a different view?"
"I've spent far more time looking after her than she's spent looking after me. Honestly, I'm not sure she can look after anyone. She can't even keep a turtle alive."
"You know that's not what I meant."
"I know. But I didn't mean it that way. At least not before she left."
"What a shame. I had a good impression of you, child."
As they spoke, the shears clipped away a few creeping vines. Running it through his mind, Victor decided he should tell Nenneke about Sir Tailles sooner rather than later.
"Grandmother, there's something I think I have to tell you."
Nenneke glanced sideways at Victor's serious face and smiled warmly. "If you want to say it, then say it. No need to be so solemn—you'll scare people."
Rubbing his nose, Victor said, "Before I came here, I went to Ellander to collect a bounty on nekkers… The town hall clerk warned me that there's a knight in the city—Sir Tailles—who is extremely hostile toward witchers, and told me to leave as soon as possible."
Victor paused there, wanting to gauge her reaction—but Nenneke's hands never slowed in their work, so he had no choice but to continue.
"I'm worried this will bring trouble to the temple…"
"Pff." The bone rod plunged into the soil, hooked up some rotten, withered roots, and Nenneke tossed them into a basket for decayed plant waste.
Her voice carried an authority that permitted no argument.
"There is no trouble. In this temple, the one who gives orders is me. You can stay as long as you wish."