Archive of Our Own ^beta

Geralt’s birthday begun like any other ordinary day at Corvo Bianco – as long as one remembered that in Corvo Bianco, the ordinary day included a retired witcher owning a vineyard, everything being perfect and sun shining like a gentle mistress. Of course, Geralt could not be sure of the weather conditions as he was only slowly opening his eyes in his bed, but he would have wagered at least some of his fortunes on the chance that once he opened the front door, he would see a fabulously clear sky and feel the warmth of sunbeam on his face.

Regis had once said that the reason Toussaint was so accomplished in terms of wine production was the duchy’s unique climate that contained an ideal amount of sun and rain in relation to each other. However, Geralt strongly felt that for every rainy day he had experienced in Corvo Bianco he recalled at least a whole week of cloudless, turquoise sky and stars glistening like heaps of diamonds at night.

Yennefer had already left the room by the time Geralt woke up, well after noon as he nowadays used to do. Once they had learned of his new sleeping schedule, Lambert and Eskel had teased him about how quickly even a witcher could become comfortable and get used to the life of nonchalance, but that wasn’t exactly true. That was to say, every time Geralt woke up, he still had to remind himself that no, he really did not have to get up right away and rush somewhere, and that no, there was no contract that needed to be fulfilled, no monster waiting to be slaughtered and no mortal danger expecting him to throw himself at it. There was no one to save, no new adventure in the horizon and no continuous tension in his daily schedule.

Even now, that felt more exciting than slaughtering any monster or breaking any curse. At least one could learn those things from books.

There was no piece of work called How to live a nice, normal and quiet life in their bookshelf – even though Yennefer, now enthusiastic about pleasure reading, would have probably bought such a book right away if only it existed. Instead she leafed through such titles as Widower for half a year and When succubus stole her man, smirking at them over and over again, and to Geralt’s mind, thus far they had succeeded in their sluggish and conflict-free cohabitation surprisingly well without any education or experience.

Besides books, Yennefer had only brought a very moderate amount of her possessions to Corvo Bianco. It was clear she had been serious about leaving her previous life of political chicanery, continuous research, spells and enchantments behind. Naturally, the stuffed unicorn had emerged in the bedroom right away, but other than that, Yennefer had brought mostly clothes. Geralt had taken some of his less impressive armors off display and given their racks for Yennefer’s finest dresses. And even though most of them were still stubbornly black – despite Yennefer herself complaining about suffocating in Toussaint’s unending sunshine – Geralt could have not helped noticing that after a few days, one of the racks had contained a new dress. This surreptitiously appeared dress was white and pea-green in color, and therefore it was precisely the kind Geralt had half-jokingly suggested Yennefer would replace her dusky style with.

Once Geralt had gotten up and dressed up it started to become increasingly apparent today was indeed his birthday. He had breakfast at the end of the long table in the dining room, as always, but could not help noticing Marlene had made even more of an effort than usual. The juice had been squeezed from both the apples and oranges and the table was overflowing with nut bread, baked apples, liver pate, fried mushrooms, variety of cheeses and jars of honey.

As Marlene was coming from the kitchen to bring a steaming hot omelette with herbs and pieces of bacon to add to Geralt’s already full plate, Barnabas-Basil Faulty hustled behind him at the aft wall and the armor stands there, sweeping the dust balls that were nonexistent but nevertheless bothering the majordomo’s practiced eye off their shiny surfaces.

“Sir, if you are sticking with your decision of abandoning the idea of a traditional dinner party with seating plans and table service, and still wish to leave the dining table free for nothing but conversation…”

Geralt smiled to himself when Barnabas-Basil stopped his cleaning for a hopeful pause, like waiting for Geralt to change his mind about wanting everything on offer placed on side tables so that the guests could get food and drink whenever and how much and often they wished. Geralt’s decision was, of course, unchanged, as were the reasons behind it – he himself despised parties following official formats, and his guests varied so much in preferences and eating habits that it would have been practically impossible to design a menu that pleased everyone equally. Sure, Barnabas-Basil had declared such technicalities were but an uplifting challenge, but it was a fact that Eskel had reportedly been on the road for weeks on a meager diet and would therefore eat the equivalent of the weight of his horse, whereas Triss still cherished her 22-inch waist and would find anything but light finger food distressing. Besides, Geralt had a strong suspicion that certain unnamed individuals, like Zoltan, would laugh in his face should someone at his birthday party point them to a nameplate on a dinner table covered with a white tablecloth – and then they would throw said nameplate straight onto the floor to make room for Gwent.

“…then I recommend we move at least some of these armors temporarily aside, as breathtakingly impressive as they may be. It would make space for an extra table, on which, if I dare to make a suggestion, we could place the excellent products of Toussaint’s vineyards for your guests to taste.”

“A drink table, you mean?” Geralt said with an entire fleshy mushroom dripping with butter in his mouth, “Good idea. My buddies can put their own beverages there too.”

“Yes…” Barnabas-Basil said slowly and coughed, “I do strongly believe that the best of parties require nothing but one or two carefully and expertly selected wines. And the best wines in the world can be found in Toussaint! But certainly, should the dear guests wish to add their own favorites to the selection…”

Geralt smiled to himself once more as the image of Regis’ homemade mandrake moonshine flashed in his mind. The vampire had not implied anything of the sort, but Geralt would be very surprised if he did not have at least a couple of bottles of his own concoctions with him come evening. Roche, in turn, would not be likely to drink anything but Temerian ales, and Zoltan probably had never made it through a single party in his life without vodka as strong as possible.

“Let’s move the racks out of the way, then”, Geralt stated and turned around on his chair, although he had a feeling Barnabas-Basil would not allow him to partake in anything that could be interpreted as work in his own house, “Do we need to move all, or can we leave some?”

Barnabas-Basil stared at the aft wall closely and for a long time.

“If you put weight on my opinion, sir, I’d say it’s best to move two of them aside and leave one in position. We’d make room for a wide enough table, and we could leave the finest of these armors on display. Which of these armorer’s masterpieces would you preferably allow your guests to admire, sir?”

Geralt leisurely eyed the three armors in front of him. They were indeed masterpieces. He had had them done by Beauclair’s Grandmaster, who was far above the level of any other blacksmith or armorer Geralt had ever met, and whose inside information had helped him to find the long-lost diagrams needed for this legendary equipment of different Witcher Schools.

First, Geralt had made the armor, trousers, gauntlets, boots and steal and silver swords of his own brethren, School of the Wolf, and not only had they served him excellently till the end of his career as a witcher, but they had also caused fierce admiration amongst his friends, especially other witchers. Even Lambert, who still claimed to take a bitterly toxic attitude towards anything associated with being a witcher, almost dropped on his knees when Geralt first appeared in front of him in a sleek creation made even more stylish with red and black armor dye.

Geralt had since had the armors from other Witcher Schools crafted as well – for the first time in his life just for his own pleasure, as he had explained to Yennefer, surprised by his own observation – and now Corvo Bianco was adorned with the legendary equipment of the Cat, Griffin, Bear and Manticore. Geralt understood, however, that not all of them should be left in the hall to take room from the guests, especially since well over a dozen people were expected to arrive during the day. If he experienced the urge to boast with his collection at some point, it would probably be fairly easy to start a conversation about armor and then take Ciri, Eskel and Lambert to the guest room to take a look at it. Those three had the best understanding on quality craftmanship and the distinctive features of different Schools, so it would make much more sense to show off the collection to them than to people like Dandelion, who did not understand a single thing outside the holy trinity of music, women and wine.

In the end, Geralt decided to leave his own wolf armor in the hall and then tried in vain to get up from his chair to help Barnabas-Basil to carry out the rest. His intent was prevented by both the majordomo’s practically indignant prohibition and Marlene, who just then emerged from the kitchen to ask if master Geralt was absolutely sure he had eaten enough or if he still craved for something. Once Geralt had assured five times that he was sated and that the food had been as excellent as always, Marlene began collecting the dishes from the table. As usual, the old woman’s skin resembled very old paper in shreds and her hair was sparse, frail and white as ash, but the smile that invariably garnished her lips remained unchanged. In fact, today it was, if possible, even wider than usual, and Geralt knew why. Marlene, who in her youth had adored hosting parties above all else, had not been able to entertain a large group of people for centuries, and had therefore looked forward to Geralt’s birthday party even more anxiously than the witcher himself. Unlike Barnabas-Basil, she had also been delighted by the informal dining arrangements, for it would give her a chance to astound the attendants with as many kinds of culinary creations as possible.

Geralt knew nothing more about the intended servings for the evening because he had been prohibited from “snooping around” in the kitchen for the past week. Yennefer had, however, sneaked in and out a few times to get more cold drinks that she considered the only – or at least the best – way to survive through the hot days of summer, and every time she had been shaking her head and muttering something about how she had thought the dining tables at the Lodge’s meetings or at the Nilfgaard court’s feasts were exaggerated.     

Just when Geralt’s thoughts shifted to Yennefer, she entered the house with a book in one hand and an empty carafe in another. The violet eyes located Geralt, a smile spread on the dark lips and stayed there during the consequent, long and deep kiss.

“Happy birthday”, Yennefer purred in a low voice as they eventually parted.

“It looks to be, indeed”, Geralt smirked and leaned in again, but this time, instead of her lips, Yennefer pressed her finger on his mouth.

“I just wanted to make good use of the short moment I still have you all to myself”, she sighed and nodded towards the door with her raven hair fluttering, “Lambert just rode in. He’s putting his horse in the stable right now.”

“Hmmh”, Geralt growled and kept squeezing Yennefer against him, even though the smell of lilac and gooseberries filling up his nostrils did not at all help accepting the fact they did not have enough private time, “Then again, if he didn’t come back soon, I would have had to start worrying something had gone wrong.”

“True. It clearly was no straightforward contract. That was to be expected, of course, given how much time you used entreatingly getting ready for it.”

Yennefer wrinkled up her lips, but Geralt knew her well enough to hear there was no genuine prickliness in her voice. He was once again relieved to notice that Yennefer really did not seem to mind that ever since they settled down in Corvo Bianco, Eskel and especially Lambert had continually found jobs from the nearby areas and lodged at Geralt’s house while attending to them. Geralt enjoyed helping the boys out with their contracts from time to time and keeping his own knowhow up to date in the process. Lambert’s latest assignment, for example, had been very interesting, a complicated curse possessing a large vineyard, and breaking it had required plenty of data analysis and brewing potions in the laboratory located in the cellar of Corvo Bianco.

Judging by the even-more-self-satisfied-than-usual smile on Lambert’s face as he pranced in a moment later, the careful preparations had paid off and the curse was but a distant memory. As an unnecessary confirmation, Lambert was shaking a pretty heavy-looking pouch in his hand, making the golden coins clink loudly against each other. Apparently, he had once again managed to demand a higher prize for his services than the contract originally stated. Lambert had always been better at haggling than Geralt. The younger witcher had the necessary arrogance in abundance, and also the kind of negligence that implied he would be more than happy to leave his clients to deal with their monster problems alone if his requirements were not met. Geralt, on the other hand, had too many experiences with peasants getting annoyed with his unreasonable requests and refusing to keep negotiating at all. He had usually settled for adding a few crowns to his reward and going with that.

“A shitty job – quite literally – but at least I got it done just in time”, Lambert smirked and stretched out to shake Geralt’s hand, “Congratulations, oldster.”

“It turned out to be even harder than expected?”

“The wight had a couple of dirty tricks – again, literally – up its sleeve, which required a bit of improvisation. Wait till you hear it. And Eskel. I bet he hasn’t got anything to tell that can even be compared – “

“That’s easy to believe, not least because of your choice words and the way you smell”, Yennefer interrupted, “And for that same reason I beg you, if you intend to delight a larger audience with your story tonight, do so before we start eating. My wild guess is that the details won’t be good for the appetite.”

Again, Geralt was pleased to notice that Yennefer’s voice was not nearly as sharp-edged as it had used to be whenever she was having a conversation with Lambert, and that Lambert, likewise, did not seem to get provoked with the same kind of intensity as before. Besides, out of all the people in the house, Yennefer was by no means the one most bothered by Lambert’s thoroughly shabby, messy and smelly appearance. This became quickly apparent when Barnabas-Basil hurtled back in the hall, sniffing the air. Once he had pinpointed the source of the smell, the surface of his dark glasses seemed to blacken even more out of sheer determination.

“The gentleman shall take a bath!” he announced with a tone that made even Lambert, who usually argued against everything just for the hell of it, skip over any objections, “Immediately! I’ll heat up the water at once. The gentleman must spruce up thoroughly, he cannot appear at the master’s birthday party in that kind of state. And the gentleman is so good as to take off his muddy boots before following me. I have spent the entire morning cleaning up and I hope it doesn’t turn out to be time wasted.”

“And please, when you get dressed for the evening, do choose something… less insulting to anyone with a sense of style”, Yennefer added when the resigned Lambert kicked his shoes on to the doorstep.

Lambert raised his eyebrows and gave Geralt a meaningful look, but he just gave a laugh, because this time he had no reason to disagree with Yennefer even silently. Geralt had introduced Lambert to a specialty he had found in Toussaint, dyes fit for witcher gear. Geralt had taken a liking to them because they enabled covering up the scuffs on the armor’s surface and made blending into different kind of environments more effective. Lambert, however, had apparently bought the dyes to make himself look as much like a jester as possible. It was just like Lambert to express his scorn for the witcher’s profession by turning it into a joke whenever possible, but his experiments with the pink and orange armor dyes especially had borne such ghastly results Geralt could barely stomach looking at Lambert in his armor.

Barnabas-Basil stood in the guest room’s doorway, looking stern and expecting Lambert to follow him. Majordomo had told Geralt several stories about the vineyard’s previous owners and especially the legendary feasts thrown by Master Bolius and his wife. Barnabas-Basil was determined not to see Corvo Bianco’s reputation tarnish in that regard, and there was no way in hell he’d allow the first sensational party under the rule of the new master to be spoiled by a regular resident of the guest room being dirty and fetid.

Lambert went to get washed and tidied up without a murmur, but Geralt had a strong suspicion he was by no means motivated by an urge to look presentable in the honor of Geralt’s birthday. More likely he was inspired by a certain blond sorceress who had also been included in the guest list.

Marlene returned to get more dishes and declared energetically that the man of the hour absolutely had to get out of the way – even though the matter was expressed with the most discreet of euphemisms – so that everyone else could get properly started with the party preparations. So, Geralt found himself sitting in one of his favorite spots, on the patio of his house, where the landscape manifesting itself from every direction gave a great framework to admire the new splendor Corvo Bianco had risen to after being assigned to his possession.

When Anna Henrietta gave him the keys and title deeds to the vineyard as a down payment for the contract on the Beast of Beauclair, Geralt had mainly thought about having a place to conserve all his extra stuff in for once, and maybe spend an occasional night with a roof over his head. Corvo Bianco had, however, drawn him in from the first moment he laid his eyes on it – despite being anything but well-kept at the time.

According to Barnabas-Basil, Corvo Bianco had fallen into disrepair after ending up into the possession of a negligent owner, baron Rossell, who had shrunk all of his property and preoccupation to gambling. The neglection had continued until the gambling debts forced Rossell to sell the estate to the Ducal chancellery, and from there it had been handed over to Geralt. Geralt had not skimped on gold while reconstructing the inner and outer surfaces of the house and putting the lands into good use, and now on his left stood the gardens and greenhouses gushing with herbs needed for potions and witcher oils, while in the front yard was a neat, renewed stable, in which Roach was currently consuming hay. Further onward were the grapevines and the olive trees which, as Barnabas-Basil had anticipated with his voice trembling with excitement, would soon be producing their first harvest of Geralt’s era.

Geralt had mentioned this in a letter to Ciri, and she had replied by expressing an amused bewilderment on how he truly seemed to have settled down and become a proper vineyard owner.

“And don’t get the wrong impression or anything, I think it’s wonderful that you’re happy. I just never would’ve thought that you out of all the people that I know could stay still for this long.”

Ciri’s statement hit home, and if Geralt would’ve had to answer to it immediately, he would’ve not known how to express himself. They had been reading Ciri’s letter together with Yennefer, and Geralt had told her that giving up the life on the Path had been surprisingly easy.

“I have no explanation for it, other than… things are good here”, he said, “I just… feel good being here, you know?”

Yennefer had smiled in a way that made verbal answers unnecessary, and the smile only deepened when the postscript on the other side of the paper had confirmed that Ciri would be arriving to Geralt’s birthday party.

To Geralt’s great relief Ciri announced she would be making the journey to Toussaint alone, without her future husband. Geralt had met Morvran Voorhis several times, even attended horse races with him, and therefore knew well he was nowhere near the most obnoxious person to ever come out of Nilfgaard. Nonetheless, the knowledge that Ciri was predetermined to become Morvran’s wife had been like getting punched straight to the stones. Above all Geralt wondered how he had not been able to calculate one plus one, until the state of affairs was spelled at him like he was a complete moron. He had discussed the very thing with Morvran long before he even found Ciri – that Morvran’s father was very close to the emperor, and that his son, who had already become a general in Emhyr’s army, was considered to be the strongest candidate once Emhyr would need a successor for the throne. And still Geralt had been unable to connect the dots in any way when Ciri accepted her father’s proposal and returned back to Nilfgaard.

Barnabas-Basil exited the house time and again to go to the wine cellar, and always returned with several new bottles. Occasionally he stopped next to Geralt to ask for his token consent for the varieties he had chosen to be served, while in a roundabout way giving the impression that he intended to get his way regardless of what Geralt thought. Geralt did not have a single reason to argue – Barnabas-Basil had every reason to assume there was no one else who knew the wines stored in Corvo Bianco’s cellar better than he, and Geralt was yet to be disappointed by the majordomo’s recommendations.

“Of course, we absolutely have to serve Sangreal’s 1269 vintage”, Barnabas-Basil pondered out loud, the lenses on his glasses practically misting up with excitement and seemingly not at all minding that Geralt sat just there, enjoying the light breeze on his face with his eyes half closed and not paying even that much attention, “Since Her Enlightened Highness so gracefully bestowed her exclusive wine to you, it would be pure madness not to utilize it on this most significant of days… especially since the duchess herself will be gracing the party with her presence.”

Geralt just nodded. He had not opened a single one of those 12 barrels that the always effusive Anna Henrietta gifted him as a thank-you for slaying the Beast of Beauclair. The idea that he, a retired witcher, would sit on his patio and sample a wine that, besides him, had ever been tasted by the Ducal family and their most intimate circles was simply too absurd. He also hoped that Barnabas-Basil would be able to make it clear to the other guests what an immense and rare honor tasting the Sangreal on one’s lips was – he had heard enough rumors to know what sort of fate fell upon those unfortunate fools who did not express their admiration of the famous vintage with sufficiently ecstatic choice of words.

Geralt tried very hard not to imagine what would happen if Zoltan or Lambert gulped down an entire goblet of Sangreal with one swig, shrugged and announced they’d had better. But he also knew it would be even more difficult to explain to Anna Henrietta why he was not serving this most shining crown jewel of wines at his birthday party at all.

“Liam de Coronata and Matilda Vermentino sent their compliments with a delicacy basket and ten more bottles of White Wolf”, Barnabas-Basil continued, “You’ll probably want that to be served tonight as well? It’s not every man who can say he’s offered their guests wine that has been named after him and made in his honor.”

Geralt had not intended to say anything about it but understood immediately that if Barnabas-Basil revealed the wine’s name, someone would probably ask about it. Then he’d have to tell the story about solving the problems of two vineyards struggling with sabotage and simultaneously semi-accidentally helping the quarrelling owners to understand both the benefits of co-operation and their mutual romantic feelings towards one another. He could already imagine Dandelion enthusing over the narrative and using it as a basis for a new ballad – The witcher as an envoy of love or something even worse than that.

Geralt still nodded again, this time simply because he liked the White Wolf. The wine was brisk but sufficiently strong, with a brave and wild aftertaste. In other words, his nickname had fitted like a glove when Liam and Matilda asked him to choose a name for the new creation they had developed as a thank-you for his help. (Geralt had briefly considered the Butcher of Blaviken, but that felt a bit overwhelming of a title for white wine – maybe someday, someone would make him his own personal vodka…)

In addition to wine cellar, Barnabas-Basil spent a lot of time near the well, which had Geralt raising his eyebrows in silence. He remembered the majordomo wishfully telling him about the biggest showpiece of master Bolius’ parties, a desiccated well filled with wine. It had never occurred to him until now the tradition might be brought back to life.

Geralt had no time to ask what other definitely unreasonable and lavish things Barnabas-Basil was planning. He was busy sipping whatever cold drink Marlene came to put in his hand, her apron covered with different colors of spatters each time, and occasionally exchanging a few words with either Lambert or Yennefer as they popped out of the house, Lamber to ask if he could borrow Geralt’s razor and Yennefer to inquire what Geralt intended to do with his own stubble.

Geralt, who felt his facial hair was fine the way it was, stayed on the couch on the patio and once again began to think back to all of the setbacks he had had to go through, and above all, all of the people who had assisted him during said getting-through, so that he was now able to sit there without urgencies or a care in the world.

There were a lot of preconceptions about witchers, like how lonely and thankless their work and life were. Geralt had found this to be a lie in his case, when during one of their long, lazy afternoons Yennefer had asked him who he would like to invite to celebrate his birthday, and after initial struggling, more and more names had simply flown from his lips.

At that point, Geralt had taken a carefree attitude towards the lengthy guest list he had created, because the conversation felt purely theoretical, not least because back then his birthday was more than six months away. Besides, he had never hosted a party in honor of his birthday before – not counting the times during his witcher training in Kaer Morhen when they had secretly gotten even more soused than usual and received even more rebuke from Vesemir the next morning.

He had pointed this out (not mentioning the bit about getting drunk in Kaer Morhen, because that still was not a subject Yennefer could see the funny side of) and added he only had a rough estimation of his own age and therefore no knowledge of what sort of number they even would be celebrating. Yennefer had replied this would be the first year of the life in which Geralt had his own place and an opportunity to invite friends over to stay there, and that was a milestone worthy of celebration in itself.

“Birthday is just a suitable pretext to do so”, she said, and the thought had lingered on.

Later it had turned out six months was by no means too long of a time for planning. There had been a lot of people to invite, and reaching them all had required plenty of searching, numerous letters, tuning Yennefer’s megascope back to serviceability, and in one case, asking a favor from a helpful raven. Geralt had felt immensely stupid, standing in the courtyard next to an olive tree and talking to a bird sitting on the branch, but once said bird returned a few days later with a tiny note tied on its leg, the feeling was immediately and multiply replaced with delight.

In the end, they managed to send a word to everyone, and almost all (surprisingly to Geralt and not at all surprisingly to Yennefer) had also answered in the affirmative. Even from those who lived far away, only a few had said they regrettably would not be attending. From Skellige, both Cerys and Hjalmar, as well as druid Ermion were all skipping the party, which made Geralt suspect something important was currently happening in the isles. Dudu, in turn, was still living his double life as Whoreson Junior in Novigrad and could not leave his businesses unattended for a time it would take to travel to Toussaint and back.

After an extremely long consideration Geralt had decided to invite Fringilla Vigo as well, mostly because he knew that thanks to her contacts in Toussaint, she would find out about the party sooner or later anyway. He had feared Fringilla would take offense if she was not even asked to come, and to his relief Yennefer accepted the explanation comparatively calmly when Geralt presented it to her stuttering only ever so slightly. It was an even greater relief when Fringilla turned down the invitation rather unambiguously.

Just when Geralt’s thoughts drifted from Fringilla and Yennefer to sorceresses in general, in front of his eyes an opal-shaped portal flashed open in the yard. The sight made Roach rock her head and give a nervous neigh, and Geralt also felt cold shivers go down his neck, even though it had been ages since the last time he had had to resort to that traveling method he so deeply despised. Portal, however, vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and in its place was now standing a blond woman, standing in the middle of the yard and smoothing down the hems of her red-and-gold-colored dress.

Geralt stood up as Keira Metz straightened out and as an unnecessary precaution grazed her flawlessly settled hair before moving her attention from her clothes to her surroundings. By the time Geralt walked down the stairs, Keira had curiously looked through every brick, pillar and bale, and gave the witcher a radiating smile.

“Well, well”, she said in a voice that was every bit as purring and honeyed as Geralt remembered. There had been a time Geralt thought Keira’s tone was carefully calculated, for in every conversation, especially in those involving male interlocutors, she had the habit of hunting for ways to gain advantages. Later, however, Geralt had discovered that seductiveness glazed with sweet words was simply in Keira’s nature, even in those occasional moments she had no ulterior motive. “I must admit that after I heard Geralt of Rivia had settled down for good, I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”

“You thought that an uncivilized savage like me would settle for a cloth stretched over some sticks and a mattress on earthen floor?”

“You said it, not me”, Keira said with a mischievous smile, “Though I should’ve known Yennefer wouldn’t permanently move into any old hole. I mean, it’s no Royal Palace of Vizima, but still, an actual house and large grounds! And everything is so… you, nothing too lavish or pompous, it’s all done showing good taste, and… Is there any particular reason why there is a statuette of a naked man on that pedestal?”

“Yes”, Geralt replied, glancing at the figurine of Reginald d’Aubry, which was standing next to the door to the wine cellar, a sword proudly on his shoulder and private parts covered with fig leaves.

“I guessed as much”, Keira said, “I assume there is some side-splitting story behind it, one that involves witchery adventures and poor, helpless souls that practically squealed with gratitude afterwards?”

“You could say that”, Geralt admitted.

“Is this the kind of story that sounds much more entertaining if it’s served with couple of glasses of rosé?”

“Absolutely”, Geralt said and decided silently that he himself would be needing something much stronger than rosé before agreeing to talk about the time he had run around Beauclair searching for testicles stolen from a statue.

“I shall be patient, then”, Keira said and looked past Geralt towards the terrace, “Yenna!”

“I though I sensed a magical aura coming from this direction”, said Yennefer, who had arrived in the yard and was now walking down the stairs towards them. She smiled, and the smile was genuine. “Hello, Keira!”

Keira and Yennefer embraced each other instead of using cheek kisses which were the traditional method of greeting for sorceress’ – supposedly the manner was meant to embody intimacy and mutual sincerity, and to Geralt it had always appeared as extremely pretentious. There had never been as much tension between Yennefer and Keira as there had been between Yennefer and most of the members of the Lodge to begin with, probably partly because Keira, in general, took things like jewelry, hairdos and makeup much more seriously than holding a grudge, pointing fingers and planning revenges. And once Keira had taken part in protecting Ciri in the Battle of Kaer Morhen at the risk of her life and without any apparent personal motives, Yennefer’s attitude towards her became downright benign.

“We did not expect anyone to arrive this early”, she said, nonetheless, when they let go of each other.

“Ah, I know”, Keira smirked, “But since you have once again kept something belonging to me to yourselves for a very long time, I considered it my privilege to be the exception to the rule.”

“Yes, indeed”, Yennefer said and rolled her violet eyes in a painfully meaningful manner, “I don’t want to sound too hopeful but… do you by any chance intend to take him away from here? Maybe even keep him away?”

“I don’t decide how he comes and goes”, Keira replied nonchalantly, “If he wants to be here all the time, no can do.”

“But should you indicate you wish he spent a bit more time with you…”

“I can’t say something like that. He’d make a mistake of thinking I give a damn about him. Now, then”, Keira gave a laugh and turned to Geralt, “I recall you not being a fan of neither officiality nor formality, so let’s just get these necessities out of the way right away. Happy birthday, Geralt. I hope you’ll like this modest gift I brought you.”

Geralt rasped uncomfortably as Keira dug out a small package.

“The invitation stated you don’t need to – “

“Oh, Geralt”, Keira smiled almost pityingly, “If you dared to show up at my party without a present after I told you not to bring one, I would conjure you to fly through the window. Well, open it, don’t be shy!”

Yennefer did not look the least bit surprised Keira had brought a present, but she leaned closer curiously to see what exactly it was.

“Do you recognize it?” Keira asked, when the box revealed two even smaller boxes, their iron gray, skillfully engraved surface flickering in the sunlight.

“I remember seeing something similar in your possession once”, Geralt said, “Xen… something. Xeno – “

“Xenovox”, Keira helped, which made Yennefer gasp and lean even closer, “An instrument that two people can use to communicate with one another over long distances. This, mind you, is a more advanced version than the one we used back in Velen. Communication is now two-way. I thought it would be a handy way for you two to keep track on each other’s carry-ons. Or, if you truly are as irreversibly settled down and comfortable as the rumor has it, you can give the other piece to Cirilla to take with her to Nilfgaard to keep in touch with her that way…”

Geralt did not even bother to ask where Keira had heard the rumors about him getting too comfortable, and how unflattering light they had presented him in. Yennefer studied the Xenovox closely and Geralt knew she was far more eager to examine its features in terms of magic than the actual usability.

“I can’t accept this”, he protested, despite knowing before it even happened that these words would make both sorceresses roll their eyes. He was right. “Keira, these devices are extremely rare and complicated to build, you said so yourself back in Velen. I don’t want to – “

“Geralt, as endearing as your perpetual nobility and modesty admittedly are, they don’t impress me”, Keira said calmly, “Besides, I might have… hmm, let’s say, miscalculated slightly when I said these devices would remain as rare as they were back then. By no means are they available in every village merchant’s stand, but… I assume they will become somewhat more common.”

Geralt had no time to ask whether Keira was certain of this or if she just cooked up the whole story to ease his discomfort regarding receiving expensive gifts. Just then their attention was turned to Lambert, who had stepped out from the house, so thoroughly preened, groomed, clean-shaved and dressed up in his most sleek leather jacket that Geralt had to work hard not to laugh openly.

“Oh, clam the fuck up”, Lambert retorted, as Geralt apparently did not succeed as well as he thought. Then he looked at Keira with an expression that was probably a closest thing to a genuine smile Lambert was ever going to have on his face. “Hey. Long time no see.”

“To put it mildly”, Keira snorted, “Hopefully you have at least been busy with all those generously paying jobs you always claim are plentiful around here. So far, I have yet to see a glimpse of the gemstones and dinners in the finest restaurants in town that I’ve so often been promised.”

Geralt, who had some experience in the finest restaurants in towns, knew what kind of places those were, and he immediately foresaw at least six inevitable disasters that would take place if Lambert attempted to get in them as himself.

“Nice to see you too”, Lambert huffed, but then pulled Keira against himself and seemed to shove his tongue summarily in her mouth.

“Ugh”, Yennefer groaned and Geralt was more than happy to turn to face her inquiring gaze, “Have I simply gotten old, or have I always found that kind of behavior completely inappropriate?”

“Is this one of those questions of yours where the satisfying answer does not exist, so the best I can do is smile and tell you you’re perfect just the way you are?”

“Maybe”, Yennefer admitted, “You have learned a lot.”

Finally Keira, though clearly holding back a smile, pushed Lambert away and made sure her hair had not been messed up too badly.

“Mediocre”, she evaluated Lambert’s performance, which, judging by the short snicker, he took as a challenge, “But if you really wish to impress me, lead me to those Toussaint’s world-famous wines that I hope you have enough of here for me to bathe in them.”

Instinctively, Geralt glanced at the well Barnabas-Basil had surrounded so suspiciously eagerly earlier and could not help wondering what kind of spectacle his birthday party would yet turn into.

Ves was not sure at which point did their surroundings alter, but the change had happened, and it was as conspicuous and perplexing as a sunrise in the middle of the night.

Sure, Temeria still carried in her skin the scars of the war and exploitation that had continued for too long, and compared to those ruins waiting to be rebuilt, almost anything would have looked magnificent and idyllic. But now, as she was looking at the duchy of Toussaint from the back of her horse, Ves realized that the landscapes she admired during their journey had been rugged, stunted and somehow very grayscale until now.

Ves could not explain it any better even to herself, but in Toussaint, the colors simply looked brighter. The sky was deep blue like a sapphire, and the few clouds sliding across it pearl white. The grass was greener than anything Ves had seen before and continued as far as the eye could see except for those places where the view was cut off by hundreds and hundreds of ranks of grapevines. The water flowing in rivers was clear as refined crystal, and even the paths trampled flat and bare by horses, carriages and other travelers looked lighter that anywhere else, even though it made absolutely no sense.

“Hey, Roche”, Ves raised her voice to the man riding in front of her, whose head was, as always, covered with a chaperon laced up in a complicated manner, “This place is like straight out of a fairytale or something. Peacocks, knights-errant with lances and shields…”

She fell silent for a moment when two of the latter passed them by along another path lower in the slope, both of them with colorful feathers in their helmets and visors on their eyes.

“…how much you want to bet, they’re off to find a princess waiting to be rescued from a tower guarded by a dragon.”

“That’s nonsense”, Roche said succinctly, “Talking rubbish doesn’t suit you.”

Ves tossed her head. “I think it’s beautiful here.”

“And neither does glorifying external qualities”, Roche continued grumblingly, “Hopefully you won’t take too much inspiration from this alleged wonderland. A pretty, decorative façade usually conceals even more weakness.”

Ves rolled her eyes and considered reminding Roche once again that, for now, the war had ended and he no longer needed to demonstrate with his every breath how much he was ready to die for his beloved, unyielding and proud Temeria. They both agreed that before long, a new war would come, because that’s what wars did, and then they would once again throw themselves into the fires of hell for the white lilies – but Ves saw this inevitable fact as a good reason to enjoy the freedom as long as it lasted, whereas to Roche, it was a motif not to soften an ounce during the time of peace.

“Those ones over there”, Roche said, pointing at the receding knights in their shining armors, that probably would not have had major scratches in them, even if one was to take a closer look, “They’ve grown so accustomed with their illusions of honorable battles. You could shoot one dead from here if you decided to, and he would never see it coming, because you didn’t verbally challenge him to a duel first. Then you would have time to recharge your bow and shoot the other one while he was still in the middle of a declaration about all the things he swears on to avenge his fallen comrade. Flamboyant, gaudy and showy, but not terribly effective.”

Ves was not about to argue. Roche was rarely in the mood where he could be argued with in a way that would actually go somewhere, and this moment was definitely not an exception. Besides, in her mind Ves agreed that the knights of Toussaint looked like they were more about the shining surface than anything else – they had already seen several men in their luxurious armors sauntering around the meadows, but not a single one that Ves would not have confidently faced in a fight one-on-one, whether it be spontaneous or prearranged. They had not, however, encountered a woman carrying a weapon or bearing a crest yet, and Ves took note of that.

“I don’t intend to shoot anyone today”, she said simply, yanking the reins as her steed, bored with their sluggish pace, was about to get distracted by the tufts of grass on the side of the road, “I want to attend Geralt’s party without having to evade the local guards. I’m interested to see how someone like him has adapted to a place of this sort.”

Roche just grunted, but Ves knew he was at least equally curious. During their journey, Roche had repeatedly expressed his surprise about Geralt settling down in a vineyard of all places, and just as often he had also expressed his concern over the possibility that the new habitat would have left its mark on the witcher himself. He had repeated, until saturation, that he expected a proper, unfeigned and unrepentant feast, not “a snobbish social meeting or a stiff wine tasting ceremony”.

Ves was much more confident. After all, she had firsthand experience about all the things drinking with Geralt could lead to. And even though she did not think they would end up competing in arm wrestling and knife throwing this time around, or that Geralt and Roche would have a fistfight in front of everybody, or that they would try to cross a river on top of prostitutes or have tattoos, none of these options was completely out of the question either. Not with the amount of Viziman Champion they had packed in their saddlebags.

They rode in silence for a while and bypassed something that looked like a ruined windmill, after which Roche stopped at a crossroads.

“The estate is called Corvo Bianco”, he said, “To my understanding, we should be very near now. Let’s ask a local, just in case.”

“An inn”, Ves said, nodding at a white-bricked building standing at the edge of a bridge further down the road, its front filled with both people and horses.

“Good idea”, Roche said, “We can take a little break. Our mounts must’ve gotten thirsty from all this sunshine.”

“Just the mounts, huh?” Ves smirked, not getting a reply.

Undeniably, Toussaint’s climate was exceptionally warming, but Ves’ clothing was light enough for it (or, as Roche put it, showed an unnecessary amount of bare skin). Roche himself rather complained about the suffocating heat than, for instance, gave up his trademark headgear and a robe reaching all the way down to his ankles. They tied up their horses on a pole in front of the water trough and entered the tavern called Cockatrice Inn, where Roche marched straight to the counter.

“Welcome, travelers”, the innkeeper, a scarf-headed man with a black beard, said before they could even open their mouths, “May I recommend the specialty of the house, the famous crayfish chowder. Its delicious flavor and rich aroma make both peasants and nobles return to the Cockatrice Inn time and time again. If seafood is not to your liking, another fail-safe specialty of ours is the hare pate, which – “

“Just something to drink. Thank you”, Roche interrupted.

“Naturally. What would the gentleman and the young lady fancy? Erveluce, Est Est, Fiorano, Pomino?”

Ves did not need to see Roche’s pained expression to understand that none of the mentioned were beer, but she received this silent confirmation anyway.

“Do you have anything… other than wine?”

As one might have guessed, the innkeeper looked at Roche as if completely lacking the understanding of what he was on about.

“Goat’s milk?” he suggested eventually, “Cranberry juice? Orange juice?”

“I’ll have a glass of that Erve… thing”, Ves said hurriedly, anticipating that otherwise Roche would say something else altogether, “The one you first mentioned.”

“Erveluce!” the innkeeper seemed delighted and swung his hand bombastically, “Among Toussaint’s most well-known wines, a treasure maturing in the cellars of Castel Ravello, that is popular amidst many significant noble families such as the Vegelbud’s of Redania and the La Valette’s of Temeria – “

“I’ll have the same”, Roche interrupted again, probably mainly to cut off the innkeeper’s chatter. He clearly longed to be back in the North where the proprietors in taverns took their client’s orders with a one-word inquiry, or even better, a simple questioning grunt.

Either this publican did not understand, or he did not wish to understand, that the voluble storytelling was not needed. While digging out two goblets and a golden bottle he swimmingly switched from the wine’s attributes to the name of his inn. Apparently it originated from a bloodthirsty cockatrice the first owner defeated, which had later turned out to be a phony rigged up from the parts of pheasant, weasel and pig. Ves had plenty of time to look around the inn during the story, and she saw that most of the customers were sitting around the tables and almost all of them indeed had a bowl of thick, creamy soup in front of them.

She noticed the two of them started to arouse curiosity. The innkeeper was clearly not the only one who had no trouble recognizing they were from elsewhere, and Ves guessed why – even though both of them were quite obviously dressed in Temeria’s colors and badges, most glances were directed at the crossbow on her back and the sword on her waist.

Roche tossed a couple of crowns they had stopped in Novigrad to exchange orens into along the way on the counter as the innkeeper was pouring the wine.

“Fascinating”, he commented on the innkeeper’s story that, Ves was willing to bet, he could not reiterate a single detail about after a minute, “We are on our way to Corvo Bianco. Would you be able to direct – “

“Ah, Corvo Bianco! There is a place that has experienced the most dramatic turns, ups and downs throughout its history, not least in the last few years! At one moment it goes to rack and ruin to the point of being uninhabitable as a result of baron Rossell’s neglect, the next thing you know, there is a blunder, and it gets turned into a morgue and bears witness to a most gruesome massacre in its cellar, until – “

Ves eyed Roche’s expression, which was getting more tense by the second, and begun second-guessing if they would even have to wait till the evening for the first fistfight to happen. This time the innkeeper’s monologue was interrupted by another unfamiliar voice, however, one belonging to a young, curly haired knight sitting in a nearby table.

“Did I hear right? You are on your way to Corvo Bianco?”

“Yes, we are”, Roche said, immediately turning around, “Hopefully you can also tell us where it is located, in addition to knowing its entire colorful history.”

“No one knows the entire history, the vineyard’s origin is a mystery lost in the fog of time, with only legends – “

Roche and Ves had already moved away from the counter in the middle of the innkeeper’s last sentence and walked closer to the table the blond knight was sitting at, accompanied by an equally golden-haired, beautiful woman.

“Corvo Bianco is close by. If you cross the bridge and keep going straight down the road, you’ll arrive in no time”, the knight advised, “Based on your destination I assume you are friends of the master witcher Geralt and on your way to celebrate his birthday?”

“Yes. Vernon Roche. This is Ves”, Roche said, instantly looking a bit more auspicious after receiving a direct answer to a direct question.

The knight stood up and they shook hands.

“My name is Guillaume de Launfal. Allow me to introduce my fiancée Vivienne de Tabris – “

The golden-haired woman nodded with a mellow smile. “We also know the witcher Geralt very well”, she said, “He has been a greater help to us than you can ever imagine.”

“Apparently some things never change”, Ves mumbled in her wine glass while taking a sip. The fact that Roche had heard her comment was manifested by a single solitary tweak in the corner of his mouth.

“We were also invited to the birthday party, but unfortunately we are unable to attend”, Guillaume continued, giving Vivienne a doting glance that was possibly meant to be surreptitious but could have brightened up an entire dungeon on its own, “We quite simply have to take to the road today, so we don’t miss our boat to Skellige departing from the harbor of Novigrad…”

“You also have obviously come from afar”, Vivienne said, and her voice altered, as if a curious trembling infiltrated the moderate tone when she looked at them, “Women do not normally carry weapons here.”

“Is that why people are staring at us?” Roche grunted, looking around. It seemed that unlike Ves, he had not drawn said conclusion until now.

“Probably”, Guillaume admitted, “You see, the tradition is sacred in Toussaint, and according to the tradition the order is maintained by knights errant, not by armies and soldiers. I mean… I assume that you are…  we find it interesting… we’re curious, you understand…”

“I am a soldier”, Ves confirmed, to save the knight from stuttering himself any deeper into the perplexity.

“She’s my lieutenant, actually”, Roche added, “The best I’ve ever had.”

Ves lowered her gaze to the floor for a moment even though Roche was not even looking at her direction. She did not want to reveal how happy it made her that Roche still referred to her as his officer, even though their former special force unit regressed into a guerrilla group had become needless after the war ended and practically left them with nothing. Not a single word had been exchanged between them about why they still wore the Blue Stripes uniforms and why was Ves still following Roche with endless loyalty wherever he would go – the arrangement was so immutable for both of them that it was not necessary or even possible to question it.

“How exciting!” Vivienne said completely sincerely, “This is exactly what I’ve been dreaming of: seeing new places, meeting different kind of people and getting to know their ways and customs. I wonder if we’ll meet many female warriors during our trip?”

“It’s somewhat rare on the Continent”, Ves said, “But if you’re really going to the Isles, I’d say certainly. It’s by no means exceptional there.”

“So no one would give me strange looks if I bought my own sword!” Vivienne sounded enthusiastic, “I could defend myself in a battle!”

It was easy to see this suggestion made Guillaume’s face go pale.

“Darling, this is our honeymoon”, he spluttered, “How many battles do you assume we shall get into?”

“A honeymoon in Skellige?” Ves could not help but comment, since Roche seemed to silently accept the fact they would make small talk for the short while it took them to empty their goblets, “A rare choice.”

Of course, she had no experience or opinions about typical romantic destinations for couples, but she would have guessed that the cold, stony and rainy island state was not exactly on top of the list. But it seemed that despite her expensive dress and showy jewelry, Vivienne was not your average fan-waving noblewoman either.

“I’ve always wanted to visit the Isles!” Vivienne said rapturously, “I’ve heard wonderous stories – of mountains reaching all the way up to the sky, of iron-grey sea raging against the rocks, of beautiful, flying sirens…”

Ves could not help wondering where Vivienne had heard stories like this, because Skellige and Toussaint were wide apart not just geographically but also in terms of world view. It was hard to believe the newlyweds from Beauclair were going to the Isles for their honeymoon, but even more far-fetched was the idea of any islanders arriving in Toussaint without immediately vomiting on their shoes. One would have also thought that, as a vassal of Nilfgaard, Toussaint somewhat mirrored thought patterns of the empire – and the Isles were considered a backwater barely worth mentioning there.

Guillaume seemed to take a far more hesitant attitude towards Vivienne’s island-enthusiasm. Maybe he was aware of the beautiful siren’s true nature or the locals’ habit of fighting bears with their bare hands, or he had simply had different kind of aspirations regarding the course of their honeymoon than his betrothed.

“My dear, Novigrad had plenty to offer as well. The latest play of Irina Renard’s theater has been vastly praised. And didn’t baroness de Cordelle request our attendance at her ball since we so conveniently happen to be in town…”

Vivienne did not reject Guillaume’s suggestions straight away, instead smiling downright blissfully, and sighed:

“So much to see.”

Ves hurriedly gulped the rest of her wine down because she assumed their interest in the conversation would not cover finding out whether or not the knight was able to persuade his future wife to choose a more traditional and certainly more romantic itinerary. Approximately a second after this thought had formed in her head, Roche knocked his empty goblet on the table, thanked the couple for the directions and walked out of the inn, gesturing Ves to follow.

Geralt and Lambert were playing Gwent, because immediately after getting a glass of bubbly in their hands, Yennefer and Keira immersed themselves in a conversation about the latter’s ongoing research and had seemingly forgotten all about the witchers’ existence.

Lambert did not seem to give two hoots about the discussion – either because he had already heard everything there was to hear about it, or because most of it went utterly over his head – and was absorbed in staring at the cards he had just drawn. Geralt, on the other hand, was listening to Keira’s report casually, even though the greater part of it was way too complicated for him too. He was more than happy to focus on several subjects simultaneously since Lambert was not the most challenging opponent in Gwent. He was an impatient person who wanted everything instantly, and this made him attack overly aggressive and put way too much value on winning the first round, often recklessly wasting his best cards as a result.

“And you truly feel you might find a cure for the Catriona plague?” Yennefer asked.

Geralt knew that when the rare occurrence of Yennefer sounding genuinely impressed happened, the matter was definitely worthy of attention. He turned his gaze from the playing field to Keira just in time to see her taking a sip from her goblet and trying to keep her smile somewhat modest – or at least Geralt assumed that’s what she was trying to do, because Keira and modesty went together so badly the emotion was by no means recognizable.

“Let’s not get carried away just yet. I admit the preliminary results were so promising they exceeded my wildest expectations, but only the follow-up tests will show whether – “

Keira had already been interested in the Catriona plague back in Velen, when she was hiding from the witch hunts, and Geralt remembered well how she had used him to get her hands on the notes of mage Alexander, who had also studied the subject. Geralt also felt he and Keira agreed that in their present company, said story was better left untold for several reasons.

Back then Keira had wanted information about the plague to use it as a trump card while bargaining for her amnesty with Radovid. Negotiations with a lunatic who hated everything related to magic with a burning passion would undoubtedly have ended extremely badly for Keira, and luckily Geralt had managed to convince her to abandon her plan. Now it seemed Keira’s research was progressing splendidly without Alexander’s observations achieved by experimenting on humans, and this time, instead of vested interest, she was motivated by a sincere desire to help people.

Well, Keira would not be Keira if self-centeredness did not play even a little part in it. As Yennefer soon pointed out, should Keira manage to find the cure, it would be one of the biggest epidemiological discoveries of its time and guarantee her fame and worldly goods for the rest of her days.

“I know. I certainly would not go through all this trouble for some unknown disease that has claimed the lives of a few, silly little peasants”, Keira mused, “One must earn a living somehow, after all.”

She gave a meaningful, condemnatory look to the table, where Geralt and Lambert had placed their decks and next to them, the bets, which in Lambert’s case covered a quarter of his earnings from that day.

“Don’t fly off the handle”, Lambert snorted, interpreting Keira’s sharp silence correctly, “Here I am, increasing my wealth as fast as I can.”

Geralt eyed the four Blue Stripes Commandos he was still holding and reckoned that unless Lambert had a Scorch or Biting Frost in his hand, it was rather unlikely he would be adding to his wealth after this match. Nevertheless, Keira’s stern expression did soften when she admitted:

“Well, my current situation is still notably more pleasant than the horrible period of time I was hiding in that piece of shit swamp helping yokels to milk their cows more efficiently. I sincerely hope that once I’m known as the conqueror of the Red Death and my picture garnishes the cover of every book handling the subject, no one will ever look at it and go ‘Wait a minute, wasn’t she working as a village witch in Midcopse that one time’”, Keira flinched, “Ugh. Luckily Velen is not exactly filled with people who can read.”

Geralt was just wondering when he would be able to introduce Keira to the Bloody Baron when his oversensitive ears picked up clatter of the hooves of horses arriving in the yard and a woman’s laughter. The Baron who, as far as Geralt knew, kept his originally self-taken title after the war as a reward for the support he had shown Nilfgaard, had announced he would be arriving alone, however, because even though his wife’s condition was improving slowly but clearly, Anna was by no means in a state required for such long journeys.

“You hear that?” asked Lambert, naturally having picked up the same sounds, “More guests.”

Geralt nodded and stood up after putting down his last Blue Stripes Commando, almost coincidentally grabbing the coin pouches from the table while doing so. Lambert gave him a sulky look.

“So, that’s that? Couple of wins and you run off? Deprive your pal of a rematch?”

“Barnabas-Basil”, Geralt said, and the majordomo appeared quickly as if he had just been squatting under the table, waiting to be called in, “Be so kind as to stand in for me while I pop outside? My friend would like to keep playing.”

“Of course, sir, with pleasure.”

Lambert snorted silently but did not protest since Geralt dropped one of the coin pouches back onto the table and told Barnabas-Basil to use it as he saw fit. Geralt did not worry about the fate of his money, more like he questioned whether he would even have time to greet the arrivals and return inside before Lambert was flat broke. He knew all too well how impressive collection of cards from all the Gwent-factions Barnabas-Basil had and how skillfully he used them. When Geralt opened the front door he heard the majordomo asking which faction master Lambert would most like to play against and if he wanted him to use his stronger or weaker decks.

“Geralt!”

Shani had already reached the upper plateau and threw her arms around Geralt’s neck immediately upon seeing him. Geralt was pleased to notice Shani did not seem to have a gift of any sort with her, and even more pleased to see how affluent she looked. Sure, Shani had been serving the Redanian army during the war, but Geralt had entrusted her to find her place in spite of the defeat. Shani had the habit of keeping her head above the water, and competent medics were in such high demand in the aftermath of war that not even Nilfgaard could afford to ostracize them.

Shani seemed to be getting by just fine – her clothes were of high-quality cloth, and she carried with her, probably out of instinctive habit more than anything else, a leathery medical bag embroidered with something that looked like a badge of a private clinic. To adorn her red hair, she had weaved a wreath out of flowers, similar to the one she wore at the wedding of her friend Aldona, and when they stepped away from each other, she smiled so brightly she was positively shining.

“A winegrower, who would’ve believed that? It’s wonderful to see you again!”

“You too”, Geralt said, “Even though I did not expect this pleasure so soon.”

“How come?”

“I heard two horses”, Geralt explained, “I was under the impression you would be coming by yourself.”

“Maybe I wanted to surprise you by bringing a tall, handsome companion”, Shani smirked and then snorted, “Yeah, as if. My mom would probably have a stroke if I found myself a man. But, to tell you the truth, I may have counted on you not being bothered by an unexpected guest. For you will never believe who I ran into on my way here.”

Shani was right in that Geralt would have never believed if she had just told him, but when he saw Olgierd von Everec approaching them along the stairs he did not exactly have any choice but to believe it.

“I found him by the roadside somewhere on the border of Toussaint”, Shani said, clearly immensely enjoying Geralt’s undisguised astonishment, “And decided to bring with me.”

Olgierd, who had probably stayed back to put the horses in the stable, stopped in front of them and nodded his head at Geralt with his typically cool, leisured manner, although with slightly more uncertainty than usual.

“Congratulations. I heard today’s your birthday.”

“More or less”, Geralt said, “What are you – or how did you two – “

He gestured questioningly at Shani and Olgierd gave a laugh.

“As the young lady expressed in her own way, we met on the road, and very soon it turned out we had the same destination. You see, I have been travelling without any particular plan for some time now, and when I met some knights errant who told me that a famous witcher had settled down in Toussaint after saving the entire duchy from the attack of bloodthirsty vampires, I decided to go see if the rumors held true.”

“Bloodthirsty vampires”, Shani laughed, shaking her head, “And here I thought that after you got that mark off your face you’d start to be a little bit more careful about what you get yourself into.”

“I was going to change my plans upon learning you had just invited your friends and close ones to celebrate with you, and come visit you some other time”, Olgierd continued, “But your friend assured me you would not mind an extra guest.”

“I figured that if he’s half as much fun at parties as his brother was, we simply must get him involved”, Shani said and stomped straight into the house without any further questions.

Geralt and Olgierd remained outside and stood silent for a moment, staring at the herb garden.

“Shani was there when I was implementing your request about Vlodimir”, Geralt explained.

“It came up”, Olgierd said and smiled, “Vlodimir was always very enthusiastic about the fairer sex, but it sounds like he was taken to Shani downright exceptionally. Luckily it would appear she did not find it uncomfortable.”

“She told me as much”, Geralt said before his face turned into a slight grimace, “I, in turn, cannot say the experience was purely enjoyable.”

“So it’s true you allowed my brother to control your body and mind?”

“Mm-h”, Geralt said emphatically, “And as a consequence, I ended up strolling around with ass ears on my head and chasing pigs in a muddy fence, among other things.”

Olgierd made an amused sound with both the warmth for the memory of his brother and abysmal grief glowing through, and Geralt understood him perfectly.

“Would it be reassuring for you to hear that I do not usually tend to overdo partying quite as badly as Vlodimir?”

“Is that so?” Geralt smirked, “I happen to remember one feast of yours that ended with me cutting your head off at the front of a fully ablaze manor house.”

“Yes, well… believe it or not, mortality has made me moderate my going quite a lot”, Olgierd said, and then turned to face Geralt fully, “Like I said, it truly was not my intention to invite myself over in this manner. I won’t take offense, if – “

“Stay”, Geralt urged and whole-heartedly meant it, “This was a surprise, I won’t deny it, but a nice one at that. I’m very interested to hear what you have been up to after you got your heart back.”

“I strongly suspect your stories about chasing vampires are much more interesting than any of my experiences”, Olgierd said, “I left Novigrad behind soon after our last encounter and headed towards the South. I joined a caravan of some merchants that had arrived from Ofier. They gave me a new saber and in return I used it to take care of any wild animals and bandits – “

The front door of Corvo Bianco was opened once more, and Lambert marched out with yet uncorked bottle in his hand.

“Did you know your majordomo’s Skellige-deck has a leader card that can be used to clear out the graveyards?” he grunted.

“Yes, I knew”, Geralt replied, “You have to be prepared for it by reviving all the cards you wish to bring back on the board early enough.”

From the way Lambert yanked the cork out of the bottle’s mouth and kicked it as far as he could with the tip of his shoe it was easy to deduce that he had not been prepared, but instead his victory in the third round had been specifically dependent on the strong cards waiting to be restored.

“This is Olgierd von Everec”, Geralt said as Lambert took a long swig out of the bottle and shuddered after swallowing, “This here is Lambert, my brother from the School of the Wolf.”

“You have that bloke’s portrait on your wall”, Lambert noted after sizing Olgierd up. He was right – Geralt had taken the painting of Olgierd and Iris from the von Everec Estate while fulfilling Olgierd’s third request. At first, he had intended to place it on Iris’ grave but after a moment of consideration used Iris’ sketchbook for that purpose instead, and now the portrait was hanging on the wall of Corvo Bianco above the weapon rack displaying the saber Olgierd had gifted him.

During one of the conversations that the painting prompted Geralt had also told Lambert the outlines of Olgierd’s story, which luckily ensured he did not blurt out any questions about where Olgierd had forgotten his wife, for example.

Olgierd stared at Geralt, looking confused, so Geralt explained briefly where the painting was from. Olgierd did not seem upset and shook his head lightly when Geralt said he could have the picture back if he wanted.

“At the moment, I don’t even have a house to hang it in. And I’m not sure if I even wanted to… maybe it’s better like this. But I am glad you took it away from… there.”

Geralt nodded. Lambert took another swig and then, probably because the atmosphere was getting a bit too sentimental for his taste, made a gesture back towards the house.

“That saucy redhead came in and immediately jumped into Keira ja Yen’s conversation. If you don’t watch out, your party will soon consist entirely of lectures on diarrhea.”

“Shani was treating the victims of Catriona plague at the St. Lebioda’s Hospital in Vizima. I’m not surprised she’s interested in the possibility of finding the cure”, Geralt said and answered Lambert’s snort with a dry smile, “I know you expected to be the center of Keira’s attention but let her have the moment when her research gets the admiration it deserves. I assume you never show any interest in it whatsoever, because thanks to your immunity the Catriona plague is no threat to you.”

Lambert shrugged his shoulders sourly.

“It is undeniably easy for man to become blind to the things that don’t trouble him personally”, Olgierd said, “I was so used to being immortal that I very nearly got killed at the hands of the first bandits I came across after leaving the temple of Lilvani. Utter riffraff, could barely hold their swords properly, but I started the fight as an arrogant certain winner like always, and almost got the rawest possible reminder that I was just an ordinary man once again…”

Lambert viewed Olgierd and seemed to decide he might be a fairly interesting guy to chat with after all. He took one more swig and handed the bottle over to Geralt.

“I meant to wait for Eskel to get here, but fuck it, have some of that. It’s time to get this party properly started.”

Lambert’s visible reactions when drinking had already led Geralt to believe the bottle contained some of his own mixtures, and indeed, he soon felt the White Gull and something else he did not quite recognize burning his throat and tried not to show how hard the drink kicked on its way down.

He gave Olgierd a meaningful look. “I would offer some of this for you too, but as you may have guessed, Lambert’s concoctions provide a challenge even for witcher’s liver. Plenty of more traditional beverages indoors, though.”

Before they even reached the doorway Lambert plucked the bottle back from Geralt’s hand and asked Olgierd if he played Gwent.

Time passed and more guests appeared at a steady pace. Roche and Ves arrived next, and since Roach’s stable was starting to get jammed, Barnabas-Basil guided them to take their horses to the temporary enclosure Geralt had farsightedly put up on the field next to the olive trees. Soon after that, Regis caused somewhat of a bewilderment by floating through the wall as a cloud of smoke and materializing straight in the middle of the dining room. After hugging Geralt warmly he, ever a gentleman, shook hands with every man present and kissed every woman’s palm lightly, and just as Geralt had expected, a very distinctive clinking of bottles could be heard from the vampire’s satchel.

To start with, Regis wanted to show Geralt his latest rare herbs that he could attempt to grow in his garden, and soon Yennefer had pulled Regis with her to the laboratory located in the wine cellar to take a look at some of her recent alchemy-related observations. Because of this, Lambert managed to direct Keira’s attention back to himself for about two minutes, after which it was stolen by Triss, who jumped out of a portal so opulently wrapped up in silk and gemstones, it remained unclear to no one whether or not the court sorceresses were getting paid enough in Kovir.

To Geralt’s annoyance, there had been enough of Triss’ new riches left even after the beautification to acquire a birthday present, and as an addition to a quick kiss on the cheek she shoved an entire dinnerware made out of Kovir’s famous glass into the witcher’s arms. It soon turned out, however, that Triss had brought a lot of presents, not all of which were meant for the birthday boy, and when she began to pull earrings, perfumes and jars of glamour out of her bag Keira cut loose from Lambert’s arm faster than thought to cherry-pick to best. But Eskel turned up almost at the same instant as Triss to keep Lambert company, and they exchanged news from the Path while Geralt gave a tour around the house for those who had not visited there before.

Shani wanted to know the story behind the portrait of Geralt reposing on top of a griffin carcass without any clothes on and stayed behind to listen to Barnabas-Basil’s narration on the subject while the others moved on. Geralt had explicitly given the majordomo the task of explaining the origin of the painting to anyone who happened to ask in order to avoid having to do it himself fifteen times during the evening, at the fewest. Shani’s laughter carried clear from the bedroom the entire time Geralt explained the attributes of some of the most impressive swords hanging from his walls to Olgierd, Roche and Ves.

At this point, Marlene had brought the first food trays out from the kitchen and the tables were filled with blocks of chicken liver pâté, wheels of camembert glazed with honey and nuts, duck confits fried in their own grease, small raspberry tarts and smoked salmon with lemon sauce and sour cream. Just as Geralt had hoped for, the sweet, savory, cold and warm food were served all at once, and Lambert and Eskel were leading by example on how little need there was to be refrained, seemingly attempting to clear the plates at the same pace they were brought in front of them. But it soon became clear that not even the appetite of witchers fresh off the road could match the tempo of Marlene at the role of  a hostess.

“So you’re saying she was cursed?” Olgierd asked, intrigued, as he, Geralt, Roche and Eskel were sitting on the veranda. Moments earlier Marlene had brought them olives marinated in oil and rosemary and a bowl of crushed ice Geralt strongly suspected Yennefer helped to prepare. A bottle of White Wolf was resting in the ice in front of them and they were all sipping it from Geralt’s brand-new glass cups, except for Roche who had cracked open his own Viziman Champion.

Geralt nodded. “She had been transformed into a spotted wight, which was why she sheltered in her abandoned family estate for centuries. I needed her saliva for a concoction.”

“A spotted wight?” Eskel repeated, “That’s impossible. They have been extinct since forever.”

“I said the same thing. And that’s why it was easy to deduce it was some kind of a curse”, Geralt said, “Luckily Marlene had tried to lift it obsessively and left behind enough clues while doing so. After I collected the saliva I needed from the wight’s brew, I tried lifting the curse, and well, it worked. But Marlene was fragile and in poor condition, understandably so, so I brought her here since I couldn’t think of anyplace else. I’ve told her she can leave whenever she wishes, but so far she has not shown any signs of wanting to do so.”

“So, you’re still not able to turn your back to a single person in need you happen to stumble upon”, Roche noted, smirking.

“And why should you, if you can get a cook that makes food this ploughing good for your trouble?” Eskel said, “Good thing you didn’t take Lambert’s approach, Geralt. He probably would have cut off the wight’s salivary glands and that’s that. But still… turning a human into a wight, that takes some serious magical abilities. Did you find the culprit?”

Geralt hesitated for a moment and then answered sluggishly: “Like I said, it had all happened hundreds of years ago. All I know is that it was an ordinary looking beggar who sold mirrors.”

Both Eskel and Roche gave a laugh that seemed to say that wasn’t much of a lead to go on from, but Geralt was not surprised to see Olgierd shuddering a bit and turning to look him directly in the eyes. The conversation ended, however, when a carriage pulled by two horses and steered by a bearded dwarf appeared. The sound of hooves clattering on the cobblestones was accompanied by a lute and the last verse of a ballad Geralt recognized immediately.

“You flee my dreams come the morning

Your scent – berries tart, lilac sweet

To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy

Of violet eyes, glistening as you weep.”

Zoltan halted the horses, stood up, waved his arm and laughed rakishly.

“Put your hands together for the charming, delightful, exceedingly talented Callonetta!”

It did not even matter if anyone else was applauding or not, for Dandelion clapped his hands so loudly it probably carried all the way to Novigrad, before jumping out of the carriage and helping Priscilla down. As Dandelion had said, Priscilla’s voice was now deeper than before and actually sounded even better this way. When he walked closer, Geralt tried his damnest not to stare at Priscilla’s neck that was covered with long, red scars.

“Hey”, he still smiled once Priscilla had hung her lute on her back from a leather strap running over her shoulder and turned to face him, “It’s great to hear you’re singing again.”

“Ha!” Zoltan said, jumping down from the driver’s seat and reaching out to shake Geralt’s hand, “I, meself, have had to listen for two weeks how these two lovebirds practiced the song they rigged up for your birthday party nonstop. Towards the end of the trip I had to ask them to yell out something else for a change, at least!”

“Zoltan! That ballad was meant to be a surprise!” complained Dandelion, who, like Priscilla, carried a lute on his back. He still had not given up on the mustache he had grown.

“It’s Geralt’s birthday and there is plenty of folk around. Everyone would be surprised if you weren’t going to sing!” Zoltan exclaimed and marched straight into the house, from which his voice could still be heard: “Oi, butler, where’s the vodka? And our horses must be thirsty too. Lambert, want to play Gwent?”

“Lately we’ve been performing almost exclusively as a duet”, Priscilla said, “But Be it ever so humble is the first ballad we’ve composed and wrote the lyrics for together from start to finish. It’s a depiction of all of the adventures you’ve been through and how all of them led you here, to the place where you finally found peace.”

“But don’t worry, we haven’t gotten too gloomy”, Dandelion assured, “We wanted the song to have a light, even jesting tone.”

Geralt had absolutely no idea what to say, so he just mumbled something indefinable. Dandelion’s side note was anything but reassuring, because even though listening to exaggerated, dramatized descriptions of his heroic exploits would have been excruciating, even more worrying was the possibility that the ballad was full of reminders of things like dressing up in Yennefer’s clothes blind drunk in Kaer Morhen or chatting with a horse while under the influence of narcotics. Geralt had been present when Dandelion tried to be funny enough times to know what it was like. And even though Priscilla usually had a positive, restraining effect on Dandelion, Geralt had also seen how effortlessly she wrote an entire comedy on one sitting. He was not at all sure that these two would not incite each other in the worst way possible in a situation like this.

Barnabas-Basil arrived at the carriage, seething silently.

“Sir’s guest kindly requested I see his vehicle somewhere aside”, he said.

“Wait!” Dandelion jumped closer and started to shuffle the suitcases and bags around, “I’ll need one more thing from here – where did it…”

“You brough a lot of stuff with you”, Geralt pointed out to Priscilla.

“We thought we’d stay in Beauclair for a while. It would be silly to make a trip this long and not seize the opportunity, would it not? The artist circles and their gatherings here are famous all around the Continent, though Dandelion naturally claims they are but self-satisfied prigs since he was never – “

Geralt was far from certain that Dandelion was, even know, officially allowed to hang around in Toussaint for longer than was necessary, but before he could express his doubts out loud, the bard withdrew from the carriage holding a giant wine bottle in his hands.

“Wine? Believe it or not, we already have that on offer in abundance.”

“The best varieties in all of the duchy, I assure the gentleman!” Barnabas-Basil added briskly.

“This is the kind with bubbles”, Dandelion said and tried in vain to pull out the cork that was stuck on tightly, “There is no splashier way to get a party started than to open a bottle of this thing.”

“That’s for damn certain, especially if said bottle has been on a shaking carriage from Novigrad to all the way here”, Geralt murmured.

“Age has not shaken off your everlasting optimism, I see.”

Geralt watched with great concern how Dandelion groaned and twisted into some kind of vertical wrestling match with the bottle, trying to remove the cork. Priscilla backed away several steps in completely unfeigned fear and looked ready to cover her face any second.

“Hello, Julian.”

The cork shot out from the bottleneck like a bolt from a crossbow and after it approximately half of the bottle’s contents exuded on Dandelion’s arms in the form of bubbles and foam. He spun around so rapidly he almost tripped over his own feet, still squeezing the bottle with both hands, and Anna Henrietta, who had been standing behind him, gave the scene a meaningful look.

“It is nice to see I still have a certain kind of effect on you.”

“Little wea- I mean – An-Anarietta”, Dandelion stuttered and tried to wipe his hands on the front of his shirt, only to realize it was at least just as wet, “It’s been a while. How are things? How are you doing? Have you met Pri – “

Dandelion glanced at his side and seemed genuinely surprised to learn Priscilla no longer stood next to him. Barnabas-Basil, in turn, left Zoltan’s horses right where they were standing and wedged in, bowing so deeply his glasses came dangerously close to dropping off.

“Your Enlightened Highness”, he purred, “It is my immense honor to warmly welcome you to Corvo Bianco, which, I am delighted to be able to say, is flourishing more beautifully and fruitfully than it has in years – “

“I can see that”, Anna Henrietta said, glancing benignly at the main building and its general appearance, which had improved greatly since the times of baron Rossell. Then she smiled at Geralt. “It pleases me to see you have performed your duty of maintaining one of Toussaint’s most famous vineyards so meritoriously. This place brings glory not only for you, but for the whole duchy as well.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Geralt, please. This is your celebration, no doubt informal, and we are here as your guests. I don’t expect or demand an official court protocol, so you can say – “

“Anarietta!” Dandelion interrupted nearly shouting, finding his missing voice with a rumble, “May I introduce Priscilla?”

Priscilla’s face had tensed up, although it was difficult to deduce what was the principal cause – looking at Anna Henrietta or the fact that Dandelion was gesturing at her so recklessly the rest of the contents of the bottle he still was holding were splattering on her shoes. After a prompt nod she turned around, blond hair fluttering and stomped into the house without saying a word. Dandelion looked extremely anguished.

Geralt had allowed his eyes to wonder in order to avoid watching the scene in front of him and already noticed Damien and Syanna approaching. Dandelion, however, was still staring after Priscilla and had quite a shock upon turning his head and seeing that Damien had appeared between him and Anna Henrietta. Syanna stayed on the background, biting her thumbnail and seemingly finding the whole act of being there obnoxious.

“I do not think you two have been introduced”, Anna Henrietta said with a voice that could almost be described as playful, “Julian, this is Damien de la Tour, captain of my Ducal Guard.”

“Viscount Julian”, Damien retorted, grabbing Dandelion’s hand and shaking it a bit more forcefully than was necessary, “I have heard a great deal about you.”

Usually this kind of statement was Dandelion’s favorite to hear from new acquaintances, but now it made him lose color. Dandelion, as it happened, knew certain things about Damien as well – Geralt had told him, among other things, that the captain was completely devoted to serving and protecting Anna Henrietta, and Dandelion had quickly drawn his own conclusions from this. Now Geralt saw him making more observations about Damien, including the fact the biceps on his arms were thicker than Dandelion’s neck, which caused him to lose even more color.

“For example that you have been exiled from Beauclair and therefore are not permitted to be here.”

“Damien, we went through this”, Anna Henrietta said, “It is Geralt’s birthday, so we’ll allow it. We shall set the hounds on him only if he comes too close to the Palace.”

Dandelion let out a jittery laugh and mumbled something about Anna Henrietta’s sense of humor being just as good as ever.

“Very well”, Damien growled, but would not remove his stern glare from Dandelion, “But I’ll expect you to treat Her Grace with utmost respect.”

“I assure you I’ve never been anything but respectful in her presence – “

“He used to call me his little weasel”, Anna Henrietta threw in.

Syanna made noise for the first time by having a cough attack that suspiciously resembled laughing. Damien’s shoulders tightened and there was a vessel visibly throbbing on his temple. And as if the situation was not flammable enough already, right at that moment a blue cloud of smoke curled out of the wine cellar and Regis appeared right next to Syanna, smiling so widely the fangs could not go unnoticed.

“I thought I heard the mellifluous voice of a certain bard friend of ours and reckoned he might want to – “

Regis fell silent and he and Syanna stared at each other. Syanna’s cough was long gone, and her left hand had slipped to hiding behind her back, whereas Regis’ smile turned into an expression he might have had on his face if someone forced him to smell a bucket of fresh blood he was not allowed to drink. Geralt saw Anna Henrietta twisting her hands.

Regis slowly raised his hand, pulled the cork out of the bottle he was holding and took several, long swigs, throat jolting. Then, probably more out of some courtesy that had grown into his spine than anything else, he tilted the bottle at Syanna’s direction.

“Mandrake hooch?”

“Thanks”, Syanna grabbed the bottle, emptied roughly a quarter of it into her mouth, shoved it back to Regis’ hands and walked in with her gaze firmly on the ground.

Anna Henrietta glanced at Regis and followed her sister. Barnabas-Basil, a professional of the service sector who had managed to become invisible for the time he was not needed, ran ahead to open the door and asked if he could have the pleasure of opening the first bottle of Sangreal’s 1269 vintage specifically for the duchess. Zoltan’s carriage was still exactly where it had been before.

“Did you invite her?” Regis asked.

Geralt shrugged. “Anna Henrietta asked if she could bring her along.”

“And you consented”, Regis shook his head and lifted the bottle on his lips again, “Ah, forget that. I say self-evident things that bring no added value to the conversation. That is the most futile waste of words.”

Geralt considered pointing out Anna Henrietta was not the easiest person to refuse, but that really wasn’t the whole truth. In all honesty, he had also been interested in meeting Syanna and finding out what her situation was like these days. Geralt went through a lot of trouble to guarantee Syanna a new chance and ensuring she also took it. He knew he had made a risky choice, deciding to believe in Syanna’s capability to forget, forgive and maybe even become a different person, and he needed some sort of confirmation that he chose right. But he was not about to tell Regis this.

He had not talked about it to anyone, not even Yennefer, but he had seen Syanna as some sort of second chance for himself as well. Helping Syanna cut loose from the self-feeding vicious circle of the Curse of the Black Sun had been Geralt’s way of slightly compensating for how badly things went wrong with Renfri. If Syanna proved to be worthy of trust in a long run, it could later help people who were in the same kind of situation.

“Does she even have a permission to move freely wherever she wants?” Regis asked.

“Not officially”, Damien said, “She’s sentenced to a house arrest at the moment and is not allowed outside the Palace without a guard. That’s why I am here today, keeping an eye on her.”

“You would have been on the guest list anyway”, Geralt assured.

Damien nodded his head rigidly like a man who has difficulties exchanging compliments.

“Thank you. I’m on duty, nonetheless, though frankly I doubt Sylvia Anna intends to cause trouble. If she planned to go on the rampage or try harming Her Grace again, she would have had plenty of more opportune moments to do so already. To put it bluntly, supervising Sylvia Anna when she’s outdoors, is not necessary because she’s a danger to other people, but the other way around.”

“Hard to imagine why”, Regis said so deadpan that everyone who was not completely aware of the situation would have missed the sarcasm.

Damien sighed to indicate he was not about to argue otherwise. Then he waved his hand. “So, there aren’t a lot of places where Sylvia Anna can be among other people, let us say, casually. That is probably why Her Grace insisted on bringing her here. She was convinced it would do Sylvia Anna good.”

“Well, even if it doesn’t, the worst-case scenario is Syanna sitting in the corner alone and drinking herself to unconsciousness”, Geralt noted and gave the vampire a serious look, “But are you going to be alright, Regis?”

Regis smiled briefly, for the first time since coming up from the cellar.

“Geralt, I would never ruin your special day by making a problem out of my own antipathies. There are more than enough pleasant, charming and interesting individuals here to spend time with for me not to mind the one I cannot stand. On top of that, I have so much mandrake hooch on my person I trust I’ll forget her presence completely in the following hours.”

Geralt had experienced some uncertainty about whether or not he was supposed to introduce the guests that had not met before to each other, but when they returned to the house, he noticed things were settling on their own without his involvement. Yennefer had stayed on the porch to have a chat with Eskel and Triss who had joined him at some point, while Olgierd and Roche delved into a conversation of their own. At the end of the long table in the dining room Keira and Ves had by some god’s miracle apparently found a common subject to talk about, and at the other end Zoltan and Lambert were organizing a small-scale Gwent-tournament with Shani watching their game and waiting her turn.

Regis, with his trademark eloquence, glided in Eskel, Triss and Yennefer’s company as if he had always been there. Dandelion, in turn, hurried to greet Shani in a manner that was effusive even for him, at least partly in order to buy himself more time to think what to do about the fact Priscilla had curled up in the chair next to Zoltan, hair covering her face and dramatically focusing on tuning her lute, ignoring her surroundings.

When Geralt arrived, Anna Henrietta and Syanna were standing side by side, viewing one of the paintings hanging on the wall. It was the housewarming gift Dandelion had brought on his first visit to Corvo Bianco, a rather flattering self-portrait depicting him standing on a recently slaughtered wyvern with a sword in his hands.

“I wonder how much he paid the artist to paint his muscles three times larger than in real life?” Anna Henrietta was just pondering out loud.

“We addressed the topic when he brought that eyesore into my house and hung it on my wall without asking”, Geralt told her, “The favor did not cost him a penny because the painter was his friend.”

“A woman, I presume.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything”, Dandelion said, having listened to their conversation partially and separating himself from Shani to come closer and admire the immortalized-in-frames version of himself, “Maybe she unintentionally made my shoulders a smidgen too wide. Though I think they do look like that in certain postures.”

“Postures utilized when killing dragons, you mean?” Anna Henrietta said, “How in the world would you know?”

“I do like the fact the wyvern is still small as shit”, Syanna added, measuring the painting, head tilted, “It gives that pretentious pose a nice, comical tinge.”

“A charming family”, Dandelion muttered into his goblet. Geralt smirked, because he too found it amusing that not even the artist glorifying Dandelion could claim he was able to defeat anything bigger than a shrimp of a lizard, even in an imaginary world.

“It’s still nowhere near as ridiculous as your portrait”, Syanna told Anna Henrietta.

“My portrait is an authentic Dorian Vilesse”, Anna Henrietta bridled, “It’s sensual and tasteful and this one is in no way comparable to it.”

“That sensual and tasteful painting fills up an entire wall and I have to walk past it every bloody day and watch you lie there, butt naked and nipples so erect you’d think – “

The rest of Syanna’s sentence was buried under the sound of Dandelion dropping his goblet on the floor. Within two seconds Barnabas-Basil had arrived with cleaning equipment and Priscilla gave them a venomous look from behind her hair.

“So, you’ve had a new portrait painted then?” Dandelion waffled, “Fascinating. I’ve always liked Dorian Vilesse’s… um, style. I could come and take a look at it one of these days if I happen to be in the neighborhood…”

“Dorian Vilesse paints solely nudes, as we have gone through several times”, Anna Henreitta said to Syanna, “It is the artist’s choice, his vision, his way of getting inspired, that must be respected – “

“Getting inspired? Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Syanna smirked and told Geralt: “I’ve never had as much fun in a court ceremony as when that painting was revealed. I counted at least seven people who burst their drink out of their nose the second the cover was pulled away. I’m pretty sure Damien jizzed his pants right away, or at least he scatted as fast as he could and colliding with every table on the way. He seemed to be very inspired as well.”

Anna Henrietta gave Syanna a shove, told her to keep her mouth shut and walked away with just about visible redness on her cheeks. Dandelion muttered he needed more wine and scampered towards the refreshment table.

Geralt was outside with Barnabas-Basil looking for a spot for Zoltan’s carriage, when another one but larger approached along the road. The Bloody Baron stepped down slowly and arduously, his beard even more grey and rampant than it used to be, but when he shook Geralt’s hand his smile was brighter than before and his eyes more filled with joy of life and less with the look of that broken man Geralt had gotten to know in Velen.

“You’re alone?” Geralt ensured, glancing around, “No convoy or anything, on such a long journey?”

The observation did not irk him in the slightest since he had not exactly gotten along with the Baron’s soldiers. Especially the arrogant and insolent sergeant, whom Geralt once had the pleasure to trash thoroughly, would not have had any business entering his home. The Baron may or may not have been aware of this, but he still laughed wholeheartedly.

“You’ve seen my men. They would’ve only been a nuisance. I probably would’ve had every nearby knight errant on my back, suspecting those whoresons to be bandits. And being right, mind you. But that’s not to say I had to travel by myself. You see, the Crow’s Perch had barely vanished from sight when I noticed I had a couple of stowaways with me.”

Geralt had been sure nothing could surprise him more than Olgierd’s arrival, but the two godlings, Johnny and Sarah, suddenly jumping out the Baron’s carriage, undeniably offered some strong competition.

“Surprise, witcher!” Johnny exclaimed, dropping on the ground and regaining his balance after a small lurch, “You surely weren’t expecting us, were you?”

“Did we frighten you?” Sarah asked with a voice that was an interesting mixture of concern and a certain kind of hopefulness.

Geralt was not frightened but he was unsure whether or not the same could be said about his majordomo. Although it was possible that Barnabas-Basil’s paralyzed, terrified stare was partially due to him having never seen this kind of bluish, big-eyed and child-like creatures before. Barnabas-Basil took pleasure in thinking his thorough experience helped him prepare for anything he could ever come across in a party, but Geralt hazarded a guess he had absolutely no idea what kind of food and drink one was supposed to offer godlings according to etiquette.

“I wasn’t frightened, but I was surprised”, Geralt admitted, “How did this happen?”

“I visited Gran one day at Crow’s Perch. She’s still in a pretty bad way, but she calms down in my company. I sing to her, and she listens”, Johnny said boastfully, “I eavesdropped… meaning, I happened to hear the Baron was planning to travel far to the South to see that witcher who helped him to search his wife and daughter, and to wish him happy birthday. So me and Sarah, we thought, the witcher helped us too, and we want to wish happy birthday as well. A blackbird told us when the Baron was about to leave, and we sneaked into his carriage.”

“You have a nice nest”, Sarah said approvingly, looking around, “Not as comfy as ours, of course, but yours is much bigger!”

“Bigger? Don’t know about that. We have an entire swamp”, Johnny pointed out, crossing his arms, “The witcher’s realm is confined within these fences humans build to prove their own mightiness and importance to each other.”

“That’s not true”, Geralt smiled, “There are plantations, grapevines, olive trees, garden and a greenhouse over there, all belonging to me.”

“What? I’m not buying that!” Johnny exclaimed, and before anyone could say anything more the godlings stormed off to the direction Geralt had pointed at, their feet slapping against the ground. They jumped on the grass and disappeared down the hill, giggling and cheering.

“Corvo Bianco warmly welcomes you, sir”, Barnabas-Basil said, turning to the Baron and slipping back into his natural role, “I’m sure you are both hungry and thirsty after your long journey. Most of the guests have arrived, so we have already started serving the food. It would be an honor to recommend a drink to the gentleman. Does the gentleman prefer red or white – “

“No alcohol”, the Baron said quickly, “At all. I can’t – “

“Completely understandable, sir”, Barnabas-Basil replied even more quickly and gave a tiny bow, “One of the previous masters of Corvo Bianco, master Bolius, also did not consume any alcohol for reasons of health but was still a soul of every party. I’ll fetch some juice from the kitchen right away. We squeezed it from fresh apples and raspberries this very morning.”

Geralt and the Baron were left standing next to the carriage as the majordomo hurried towards the house, the front door of which was permanently wide open by now since the guests had scattered inside and outside and were switching places ever and anon. Geralt’s oversensitive hearing picked up the loudest voice amongst the numerous conversations, Zoltan’s thundering declaration that you’d have to be a complete birdbrain to use bombs for fishing.

“It’s nice to see you’re doing well”, he told the Baron, “How are things in Velen? I heard you got to keep the post of the ruler after the war ended?”

“Hmmh”, the Baron growled, “We are Nilfgaard’s vassal, so it’s indeed not much more than a post. But what can you do? Why fight when you know you can’t win? It could be worse. And after I heard Ciri will become the new empress I’ve not been all that worried anymore.”

It was Geralt’s turn to growl evasively. He would never even imagine determining Ciri’s choices and direction in life for her, but he definitely would have had more peace of mind if she followed his footsteps to become a witcher. It was a bit ironic, because in that case Ciri’s daily life would have consisted of battling monsters and curses to earn a living instead of dwelling in luxurious palaces, but at least Geralt would know he had prepared her for facing any potential dangers as best as he could. Political schemes could not be prevented with a silver sword, and therefore Geralt would be unable to help Ciri should she end up in the claws of such monster.

Once again, he kept reminding himself he simply had to trust Ciri to know what she was doing. And the Baron’s comment brought back to him the fact Ciri herself had emphasized at one time – as the empress of Nilfgaard she would be able to do much more for the world than she ever could as a witcher.

“There are a lot of similarities between you and that girl”, the Baron suddenly blurted out, “For instance, both of you seem to always struggle your way back to the surface, no matter how deep in shit you are – and to a rather glorious surface to boot! Ciri will rule the most powerful empire in the history of the world, and this vineyard is not too shabby either. By the way, Ciri will be here tonight, won’t she? I’ve been looking forward to seeing her again. I’ve heard Emhyr intends to take her on a tour around the empire’s most important provinces and cities, but there are so devilishly many of them and I somehow doubt Velen in all its glory will be on top of his priority list…”

“She’s yet to arrive, but should be coming any minute now”, Geralt said, “Actually, I think she’s the only one still missing. And how’s Anna? Has there been any improvement on her condition?”

“Steady. So fucking painfully slow you wouldn’t believe it, but at least it is steady”, the Baron sighed heavily, “The hermit of the Blue Mountains managed to get her somewhat attached to this world again, even though she’s still absent most of the time. The most important thing now, they say, is for her to spend as much time as possible in a familiar environment, recover and rest. Johnny comes to keep her company from time to time and that does seem to help. And Gretka’s also been eager to help tending to Anna. Even Emhyr himself has shown interest. Occasionally he sends a sorceress from his court to stay with us for a few days, to check on Anna, to cast some spells or make some potions or whatever it is that they do. I don’t like to feel gratitude for Nilfgaard, but…”

Geralt could imagine all too well what women like Fringilla and Philippa Eilhart thought about Velen’s swamps and morasses, and he suspected Emhyr had seen providing help for the Baron’s wife as a good opportunity to both strengthen the loyalty of his vassal and show the sorceresses their place and punish them despite granting them amnesty.

“And Tamara? Still in Oxenfurt?”

The Baron nodded. “That Eternal Fire nonsense has gone to her head, but, well, she could be even further away and at least they take care of her there… I took Anna to visit her the minute she was capable of travelling. I was going to wait outside in the carriage, but after making sure I was sober Tamara invited me inside… Anna did not say a word, but Tamara held her hand and chatted something about plums and garlands and blue dresses and at that point Anna seemed to wake up a bit and squeezed back… It was the first time I saw Tamara smile for I don’t know how long…”

The Baron swallowed the rest of his sentence.

“In any case, at the moment one just tries their best again and again every day and waits to see what that will be good enough for. But that’s that. I did not come here to ruin your big day with my sob stories. Let’s go inside. I can’t wait to see what the guest list is like at a party thrown by a fellow like yourself.”

And so they went.

Ciri arrived an hour later and it took even longer before Geralt could talk with her in private. When Ciri finally rode in, Zoltan had already organized a grand Gwent-tournament, been eliminated on its first round and immediately started arranging the next, even grander one. Meanwhile, Johnny and Sarah had run in and out of the house chasing each other approximately twelve times and Shani had been caught in another uncontrollable fit of laughter after examining Geralt’s décor a bit more and  happening on his trophy stand. (Geralt could not for his life understand what was so funny about it, or why Shani invited all the other guests to admire his golden joystick and the thing the medic herself referred to as “a fisting trophy”.)

When Ciri stepped into the hustle and gabble prevailing in Corvo Bianco, she could barely hand Barnabas-Basil the extremely expensive- and valuable-looking bottles she had reportedly snitched from Emhyr var Emreis’ private storage and “no one would miss in a million years” and give Geralt a light hug before she was impatiently pulled away. Many people, Dandelion, the Baron, Anna Henrietta and Lambert at the head, each wanted their own private moment with Ciri, some for political and others for less political reasons, but finally Ciri managed to grab Geralt’s arm and ostensibly order him to show her around the estate.

Geralt took Ciri to the shade of the nearest olive trees, where they could sit in the grass, lean against the twisted tree trunk, stare at the landscapes colored by the slow but still warming sunset and exchange the latest news. Ciri told that her days at Nilfgaard still consisted mainly of studying and that she was in no hurry to get on the throne and that the lack of pressure from constant warfare was starting to have some kind of rejuvenating effect on Emhyr who had also become calmer and more receptive than before. Geralt had great difficulties imagining the latter, but he believed Ciri would not sugar-coat the truth for his sake, especially since, just moments later, the girl admitted outright she still felt completely lost most of the time and constantly questioned whether or not she was cut out to be a ruler at all.

“I have seen all kinds of rulers in my lifetime. And of all kinds of quality”, Geralt pointed out, “And I cannot name any one individual thing that made all the good ones good and the bad ones bad. But what I do know is that not many of them would have been able to save the entire world.”

Ciri huffed. “I was only able to do so because I was born in the right family tree and had the support of right kind of people.”

“Maybe”, Geralt said, “And maybe that is a good groundwork for a ruler to build on as well.”

Ciri smiled. “Maybe.”

They fell silent for a moment and looked at Corvo Bianco’s front yard where some of the guests were moving around and enjoying the last of the sunbeams. The Bloody Baron, Syanna and Olgierd had withdrawn from the others to have a three-way conversation, and Yennefer, Triss and Keira were also standing with their heads together, negotiating in a lively manner, pointing at the house, the stable and the goods on the yard. Like portals, sorceresses plotting together still made Geralt feel instinctively restless. He was just pondering that at least Priscilla and Dandelion had not yet demanded to perform their latest masterpiece, when the former stepped out of the house, slammed the door behind her and started walking away. In a moment, Dandelion appeared as well and ran after her.

“Is he even allowed to be in Toussaint?” Ciri asked, keeping an eye on Dandelion, “If I recall correctly, last time we were all here, we narrowly got him off the scaffold before things turned properly sour.”

“That was a long time ago”, Geralt said vaguely, “And it looks like that’s not even his biggest problem right now.”

Dandelion caught up to Priscilla and the two of them seemed to start a heated exchange. Geralt probably could have focused his witcher senses to find out the exact contents of the conversation, but consciously decided not to, and they settled for watching how Priscilla waved her arms around waspishly and Dandelion shook his head agitatedly. Finally, a sulking Dandelion returned to the house while Priscilla remained standing alone near the grapevines, kicking the ground.

“How are you and – “ Geralt begun, and awkwardly stopped to search for the right, or rather, the least wrong words, “You and Voorhis? Is he – have you… gotten to know each other?”

Ciri raised her eyebrows and it looked like she struggled to decide whether to be surprised by Geralt’s question or amused by the clumsy manner he presented it. Then she shrugged.

“Morvran is… okay. Of course, we’ve only met a couple of times, so, yeah. I don’t know. It’s hard to say.”

They fell silent once more and observed how Anna Henrietta approached Priscilla slowly, sidled next to her and in turn, started a conversation.

Geralt thought about Ciri and Morvran Voorhis. He did not really want to, but he acknowledged he would have to, eventually. If there was any truth to Yennefer’s stories, Ciri had usually had the tendency to attract rather shy, nice and somewhat soft boys, but how charmed Ciri had been by them was a different thing altogether. Instead, her reaction when they found a foxy and obviously possessive she-elf in Avallac’h’s secret cave had spoken volumes. Geralt had refused to recognize it back then and had pushed the thought to the background, but now that Avallac’h was safely no longer in the picture, Geralt was able to objectively consider the possibility that Ciri found power, intelligence and a certain nonchalant dignity at least somewhat appealing.

“I feel like it might work out”, Ciri said suddenly, “Sometimes I get a feeling like that.”

Geralt mumbled an answer that welled from the depths of his throat, and it was an indefinable mixture of fret and discomfort, and Ciri laughed, probably because the reaction was so familiar to her, so safe and predictably Geralt-like, and for a moment it felt like they were once more having a snowball fight at Kaer Morhen or destroying Avallac’h’s laboratory in Skellige’s archipelago.

“But that’s enough about my affairs”, Ciri decided and stood up with such smooth and agile elasticity it was clear the witcherness forged in her backbone and preserved in her heart in childhood would never be entirely dampened by the court life of Nilfgaard, “I didn’t come here to gab about myself. This is your day, so I want to hear about you – about everything you have been up to since arriving in Toussaint.”

“I’ve already told you everything in my letters”, Geralt said, taken aback, and also stood up from the root of the tree – not quite as quickly and effortlessly as Ciri, which certainly did not pass her unnoticed, and Geralt knew he would hear about it later, “About the murdered knights, the stolen wine, the vampires’ attack, the illusion hidden in a storybook…”

“Yes, yes”, Ciri waved her hand with a wide smile on her face, “And I’m sure that was… hmm, how to put it, your principal mission while in here. But I can’t shake off the feeling that you’ve neglected to mention some of the more minor sidetracks you might have strayed onto while carrying out said mission.”

“What makes you think that?” Geralt asked and tried not to think about cows falling from the sky, sorting out a marital dispute of ghosts or his desperate battle against the bureaucracy of the bank.

“I went to Beauclair before I came here. I needed to inform the Nilfgaardian Embassy I had arrived safely”, Ciri rolled her eyes, but smirked immediately after as she continued: “There was more than one conversation going around the town about a sir Geralt of Rivia who apparently won this year’s Knightly Tourney. The young women talking about it made it very clear they were eager to bear the white-haired, scarred babies of this gorgeous, masculine hero.”

“Yes, well, I mean – “

“And I visited Cianfanelli to make a withdrawal”, Ciri continued, “There was a bard in front of the bank singing a ballad about some coiffeur saved from a certain doom by a witcher who castrates the bad guy with his sword. Are you honestly saying you have nothing to do with these things?”

“I guess I can’t say that”, Geralt admitted reluctantly, “But I have not castrated anyone.”

“I figured as much”, Ciri laughed, “And now I am ready to go back into your new, posh, reconstructed house, enjoy good food and drink and listen to your own versions of these events. And don’t you leave anything out.”

“Fine”, Geralt consented, “But I’m not sure one evening will be enough.”

As they walked side by side back towards Corvo Bianco, Barnabas-Basil hurried at them.

“Sir, one more gift delivery has just arrived.”

“Damn”, Geralt growled, “What is it this time?”

“We weren’t… I’m sorry to say we weren’t able to identify the object”, the majordomo admitted, “It came with a note from one count Beledal. He called it paresti… a parestisomach if I recall correctly. He said you would know what to do with it.”

“I see”, Geralt said, “Yes. Thank you, BB.”

“I assume this is also related to one of your adventures you’ll tell me about later?” Ciri guessed once Barnabas-Basil had turned around and rushed back to the forecourt of the house to serve a group of guests that Anna Henrietta and Priscilla had now rejoined as well, “And what in the world is a parestisomach?”

Geralt tried to explain the concept of a machine that captured likenesses, and Ciri understood and believed it much faster than Geralt originally had. She told him she saw something similar in one of the many worlds she had spent time in before returning to this one, where people no longer used horses and everyone had metal in their head.

“Come”, Geralt then said, “Let’s gather everyone inside. I want to put my new parestisomach into use by capturing a moment surrounded by the most important individuals of my life.”

“Great idea”, Ciri said, jumping down the hill and nodding towards the stables, “So I assume we’re bringing Roach along as well?”

“Hell yes.”