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It was in a tavern a little South of Spalla that Gaetan first heard of it. A manor in Toussaint where witchers were welcomed. A light shining in the window to guide them home.
The mere thought of it had Gaetan’s skin crawling. He’d never heard of a more obvious trap in his life, and he’d be damned if he was going to fall for it. A home for witchers, he scoffed to himself. There were none of those left. Even the damn Wolf keep had fallen, he’d heard, and they were the last ones to have any kind of haven left.
He left the tavern with an empty coin purse and an only slightly less empty stomach, then turned West, putting Toussaint out of his mind. Dwelling on a dream would do him no good, and it certainly wouldn’t keep him fed.
Avoiding Velen at all costs, Gaetan scrounged for whatever contracts he could get, though they were few and far between. He took up with a mercenary company for a time near Sodden, but it quickly fell apart when a pay dispute turned violent. Gaetan was used to being cheated out of his fair pay, was the thing. He expected it, at this point, but he needed to eat, and he needed to repair his gear, and he needed coin for that to happen. He refused to starve so that someone else could play out their power fantasy at his expense.
At least he was able to keep his temper this time, he thought, nursing his wounds. It had hurt his pride to run, but he was alive, and he hadn’t given in to his baser urges and slaughtered everyone around him. He wouldn’t have yet another price on his head.
Out of options, Gaetan turned Northward. There was a tiny inn in Valenfort where the innkeeper never overcharged Gaetan, provided he didn’t overstay his welcome, after Gaetan had put the innkeeper’s mother's ghost to rest when he was young. Valenfort was uncomfortably close to Velen, but Gaetan had nowhere else to turn. All he could do was pray that his description hadn’t made it out of Velen with the news of what he’d done in Honorton.
“I can spare a room for the night,” Michal told him, sighing. “But only the one night, and I’ll have to ask that you take your supper up there. Don’t know if you heard about the massacre a year or two back over in Velen, but people are twitchy about your kind these days because of it.”
Gaetan could hardly argue, given the circumstances. He’d take a single night of shelter over being unceremoniously kicked out on his ass.
Michal’s son brought him his supper that night, and advice along with it.
“You should go to Toussaint,” the boy said, almost painfully earnestly. “There was a merchant came through a month or two back who’d come up from Toussaint, said he’d been to watch a tourney down there, and there was a witcher fighting in the tourney! The merchant says there’s stories down there that the witcher has a vineyard with a manor house, and other witchers come to stay with him there.”
Even if it was true, and wasn’t a horrible trap, there was no way Gaetan would be welcome in such a place, so there was no point in risking his life going down there. But Aleks was so sure, and truly, what other options did Gaetan have now? Valenfort had been his last hope. At least if Toussaint was a trap, he could go out fighting, rather than slowly fading away like he was now.
“How do all these witchers even know how to find this place?” Gaetan asked, eyeing Aleks over his plate.
The boy just shrugged. “The merchant says they all look for the house with the light in the window. Says it’s an old witcher tradition or something.”
It sure as fuck wasn’t a Cat tradition to advertise their position so openly, but Gaetan supposed that the other schools all had rather more fixed positions, so a light was no more likely to give them away than anything else.
“Maybe I will go see what this witcher manor is all about,” he said, poking at his food.
The journey South was not an easy one, but nothing in Gaetan’s life had ever been easy.
A small group of bandits tried to rob him on the road to Brenna, and crossing into Sodden saw him facing off against the mercenary company he’d travelled with for a time. He wasn’t able to escape them a second time without bloodshed, but he wouldn’t cry over men who’d tried twice now to kill him.
By the time he limped over the border into Toussaint, Gaetan was well and truly exhausted. He was down to the very last of his rations, and there was a hole in one of his boots, but he had made it this far at least.
The closer he’d gotten to Toussaint, the more rumours he’d heard of the witcher’s vineyard there. It seemed the White Wolf had managed to land himself quite the cushy retirement somehow, and was in good with the duchess. Gaetan had considered turning back when he’d heard that Geralt of fucking Rivia was the witcher he was heading toward, but pity and shared misfortune had won the White Wolf over once before, and Gaetan hadn’t even killed anyone who didn’t deserve it this time. He wasn’t so proud now that he was above begging Geralt for shelter. A lesson he’d learned young was that you did what you needed to survive.
The vineyard, when he found it, was a respectable size, and very well tended, from what Gaetan could gather.
It was dark as he approached, and the vineyard lay silent. Gaetan felt much like a thief, creeping up to the looming manor in the night.
As promised, a light shone from one of the upper windows, and Gaetan could see the lantern hanging there like a beacon. Something deep in his chest ached at the sight of it, and he felt drawn towards it.
Still, he hesitated. All that he had to do was go to the door and knock. Geralt was a soft touch, and surely wouldn’t send him away so late. He would be allowed at least to rest for the night, he was sure. And yet stepping away from the scant cover the vines provided was proving suddenly beyond him.
What if he was wrong? What if it was some other witcher who had settled here? One who would be less forgiving of Gaetan’s intrusion? What if he had come all this way, only to be refused entry?
He stood frozen by his indecision until all the other lights in the house had gone out. The only one that remained was the one in the upper window that called out to him and beckoned him closer.
The sound of a door opening startled him, and, with his heart racing and his mind whirling, Gaetan fled, racing silently back through the rows of vines, afraid to have been caught.
That night was spent sleeping under the cover of some trees. Curled into his ragged bedroll, Gaetan dreamed of the cheerfully painted caravan he’d shared with Joël.
He waited until darkness fell again the following evening to return to Corvo Bianco. The light in the window washed the scene in warmth once again as Gaetan picked his way carefully through the vines, sneaking ever closer to the house.
To his surprise, a small table had been set near the door, a silver cloche sitting atop it. Gaetan could smell what might have been a pie, though he couldn’t quite be sure. He waited once more until only the beacon light remained, and then crept closer, listening intently for any signs he was being watched. As he approached the table, he spotted a small note pinned under the edge of the cloche.
The food may be a little cold, but you are welcome to it all the same. If you need more, or would like a bed to rest in, please pull the bell, and we will be happy to accommodate you. Alternatively, there is a cot in the stables that you are welcome to.
The note was not signed, but as promised, the cloche hid a meal. A small pie, a few cuts of cold meat, and a bread roll, along with a pitcher of water.
Gaetan, in the face of far too many days eating only trail rations, abandoned all decorum and devoured the meal in as few bites as possible, taking massive, gulping swallows of the water to wash it all down.
The food gone, Gaetan retreated from the door, eyeing it with consideration. He could quite easily pull the bell and have a room for the night, but something in him didn’t dare. He slept in the stables instead, grateful for the cot to keep him off the straw, and slipped away again before the first light of dawn.
The pattern repeated for three more nights, Gaetan eating the meal that was left for him near the door, then bedding down on the cot in the stables, eyes fixed on the warm glow of the light in the window until he drifted off to sleep.
The fourth night, however, the pattern was broken. He waited as always for all the lights but one to be snuffed out, then crept over to see what food had been left for him. Halfway through eating, the door creaked open. Gaetan froze, his heart jumping.
“You’re welcome to come inside.”
Gaetan could never forget that voice if he lived a thousand years.
He turned to see Geralt standing in the doorway, dressed only in linen pants and a loose sleep shirt. His feet were bare. For a wild moment, Gaetan considered that, were he to flee, Geralt could not chase him easily.
He didn’t want to run.
As he laid down to sleep that night, the light out in the hall seeped in under the door. Gaetan kept his eyes fixed on that warm glow until he drifted off to sleep, safe and warm.