Geralt, distracted by the Mage's little trick, had yet to notice the old man standing at the door. He Shenyan gave Vesemir a slight bow as a simple greeting. A faint smile appeared on the old man's face. It was stiff; clearly, the muscles on that face meant for smiling were not used often. Still, his goodwill could be felt—though he was far less friendly toward Geralt.
"Geralt."
Vesemir's powerful voice rang through the hall. He had no time to wonder why the ruined Kaer Morhen had become as glorious as it had been in his memories. Right now, he only wanted to know what Geralt had done to his treasured wine.
The Witcher posing before the mirror—I was not sure whether that was the right word—went rigid. He immediately turned around. His expressionless face might have been intimidating to strangers, but to Vesemir, who had watched him grow up, his guilty conscience was obvious. The old man walked over and jabbed him in the chest. "So this is how you treat me? You don't come back for years, then the moment you do, you drink all my reserve wine? You even went after that bottle of Est Est! I couldn't even bear to drink it!"
Geralt staggered back under the pokes and shot the Mage a pleading look. He Shenyan answered with a helpless smile, then looked away. He had only drunk that one small cup of Est Est. Geralt had finished all the rest himself. Besides, he had restored the castle. No matter how he looked at it, he should not have had to take the blame alongside Geralt.
"Vesemir."
"What? Has that clever tongue of yours finally figured out how to fool this old man?"
"No."
"What do you mean, no? You think you can brush me