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As he walked away from the pretty table that sat inside the pretty openwork summerhouse, in turn built in the pretty garden, behind the pretty, protective stone walls of the castle, at the top of the hill above the barren moat, Geralt frowned. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose. Yes, it is all pretty, he thought dismissively. All pretty, and all entirely lacking in substance. And for that reason, it is all plain— except for its monarch. Calanthe is pretty and poisonous... There was nothing empty or plain about her. She truly lived up to her nickname, The Lioness of Cintra. And how.
Geralt felt his fists trembling again, and his breathing quickened. Despite Calanthe’s less hostile— if no less ominous— farewell, he still felt as if he’d been scratched by the large claws of some wild beast. Drawing nearer to the moat, the children’s playful shrieks floated hauntingly through the air, sending an icy chill down the witcher’s spine. Geralt swallowed and shook his head, realizing he’d come to a stop and had been staring witlessly at the castle wall before him.
He resumed motion, eager to depart, as if the reason for his shaking fists would disappear as soon as he and Roach had crossed the Cintrian border. But it would not. He could not escape such a thing because, like the Lioness’s scratches, these wounds were not physical. Yet they still left Geralt extremely shaken. One thought especially bothered him: How in the hell did Calanthe learn about the Trial, the Changes?
Not only would such information be exorbitantly expensive, even for a queen, but it would also be difficult, vastly difficult— even for experts— to obtain. There were few surviving witchers these days, fewer every season. Relatedly, none of these would willingly reveal their guild’s secrets; out of pride or regret, if not a Code. And those lingering tomes, libraries, other collections of Witcher lore, were slowly moldering and turning to dust in near-unreachable, distance places such as Kaer Morhen. So how in the hell did she know—
“Geralt?”
‘What difference does it make, in the end, Geralt, which child dies or goes insane, stuffed full of narcotics?’
“Geralt!”
‘What difference does it make whose brain bursts from hallucinations, whose eyes rupture and gush forth, instead of becoming cats’ eyes?’
“Hey!”
‘What difference does it make whether the child destiny chose or an utterly chance one dies in its own blood and puke?’
“Witcher, can you hear me?” He blinked, disoriented, finding that he’d somehow covered quite a bit of ground without realizing it. Somewhere nearby, the witcher heard the sound of booted feet striding quickly— almost at a run— towards him. Then a familiar voice called, “Geralt! Geralt, my friend, cease your insufferable haste and allow me to catch up.”
He stopped abruptly. Not because of the Druid’s request, however. “Mousesack.”
The sorcerer reached him a few moments later, one eyebrow arched questioningly. “You remain both childless and in possession of that ghastly, grim countenance. What happened?”
Geralt swallowed, jaw muscles twitching. A great many things, he thought grimly. “Your queen and I had… a discussion. We concluded, mutually, that it’d be best for her to remain the sole guardian of Duny and Pavetta’s child. Whoever they are.”
Mousesack gaped, actually taking a step back. “But I thought—”
Geralt smiled coldly. “You thought wrong, my friend. However, you were right in one regard: Calanthe is certainly a woman of iron.” He swallowed, recalling the Queen’s prying words: ‘And you, when you are not certain… you begin to fear. Yes, Geralt. What leads you is fear. You are afraid. Deny that.’ He had not denied it. He had not because it was fear he felt, undoubtedly, down to his very bones.
Fear, and resentment, that he was expected to take this child— take this child, and live up to Calanthe’s distorted, monstrous expectations. That he, one of those three-in-ten, or maybe four, was expected to— expected to— but it was not just this fear which had caused Geralt to ultimately reject his Surprise. His supposed Destiny. For what would it mean if he had been wrong, terribly and grievously wrong, all these years?
What would it mean if Destiny were real?
Would it mean that those other boys’ deaths, their suffering, had been intended? That their flesh and bones had been mere scrap, the bloody fodder required to feed history’s greater occurrences? Would it likewise mean that his own monstrous appearance, painful transformation— the years he’d spent being feared and hated and cursed— were not caused by ignorance? Would it mean that choice, free will, kindness, were ultimately worthless? Would it mean that his own mother—
“Speak, Geralt, please. Tell me what Calanthe said to put such a dire look on your face?”
He sighed, and shook his head again to clear it of such desperate thoughts. Inappropriately, the witcher almost felt like laughing. He did not. After forcibly relaxing his expression, Geralt met Mousesack’s gaze, and sighed. “No, my friend, I shan’t. Let’s just say that it’ll be a long time before I dare return to fair Cintra.”
Mousesack’s returning smile was small, sad, and somewhat bitter. “Ah, I see. Well then, I bid you a fond farewell and wish you good luck. May the Path be kind to you, Geralt of Rivia.”
The Druid reached forward, and pulled him into a brief, firm embrace which the witcher returned. “Thanks. I hope your Court position remains stable, and that you won’t be forced to contemplate nighttime escapes anytime soon,” Geralt said dryly.
A laugh. “Thank you, my friend. Farewell.”
“Goodbye, Mousesack.” He turned away and followed the path out of the castle.