The Legacy Left Behind By That Person

The clerk at City Hall did not make things difficult for Victor. He merely took the nekker ears with obvious disgust and paid out the Orens.

As he accepted the coins, Victor carefully examined the designs stamped on them—the Temerian lily on the reverse did not matter. What he wanted to see was the supposedly noble and handsome profile of King Foltest.

The boy was interested mainly because this king had no shortage of scandalous gossip surrounding him. He was the sort of fool who could say, "It is natural and beautiful for a man to love his sister," then refuse to take a queen despite pressure from the queen mother and the entire nobility of the realm, putting "sibling love" into practice.

And he had won. Whether in courtly struggles or on the battlefield, he had been a king of constant victories and no defeats. Aside from his sister, Adda of Temeria, dying in childbirth and her posthumous daughter, Adda the White, once being cursed into a striga, his life had been a journey from one victory to the next.

Setting aside his private life, he was a powerful and capable king. Compared to Henselt of Kaedwen, who was greedy and shortsighted; Demavend III of Aedirn, who was mediocre; and the young Radovid V of Redania, he was unquestionably the leading figure among the Northern kings. Temeria under his leadership was also the main force resisting Nilfgaardian invasion...

Just as Victor was about to leave, the clerk unexpectedly called after him. "Wait... Hey, stop coming any closer."

Pinching his nose, the man spoke with a face full of revulsion, as though looking at trash. "You're a witcher, aren't you? For your own sake, get out of this city now! There's no place here for people like you."

Victor frowned, about to ask why, but the man waved him off without another word and slammed the service window shut.

With the nekker ears—the main source of the stench—gone, Victor was actually fairly clean. He had washed himself briefly by the river before entering the city. So he wiped away the ointment beneath his nose, took out the antidote, warmed it in his palm, and took a deep breath.

After breathing a few times to confirm that his sense of taste had returned and that his own scent remained within tolerable limits, Victor set off to ask someone for directions to the Temple of Melitele.

What the boy did not know was that shortly after he left, a group of heavily armored knights bearing white rose emblems arrived at City Hall.

The lead knight knocked open the service window and spoke in an icy tone. "Did some mutant freak come here to collect a bounty today?" He wore a red cloak and was clad head to toe in armor, save for his helmet, which he had not put on. He looked to be in his early thirties, and a long scar marred what should have been a rather handsome face.

The City Hall clerk remained expressionless. "Yes. Eleven nekker ears, honored sir."

"Do you know which way he went?"

"I don't know, sir. He left after taking the money."

A poplar-lined road led from the gate to the cluster of buildings beside the sanctuary. The main temple grounds had been built against the mountain, with a garden and several outer structures nearby.

Unexpectedly, the Temple of Melitele was not inside the city at all, but in the forest beyond it. Its scale was practically that of a small castle, and even compared with Kaer Morhen, it did not fall short in area.

"This is an offering to Melitele. One hundred and ten Orens." Victor handed over the bounty he had barely had time to warm to the female priestess receiving him. She had blue eyes and faintly reddish hair. Though around thirty, her skin was still soft and youthful, with a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks.

She accepted the pouch of coins, nodded, and offered a gentle smile.

The boy continued, "I am Victor of Bell Town, east of Zerrikania, an apprentice witcher of the School of the Wolf. In accordance with an ancient pact, I seek the Temple's assistance. I hope to meet with High Priestess Nenneke."

The sudden turn of events left a trace of panic on the priestess's face. Her fair face flushed red, as though she had no idea how to handle him. Then she reached out, patted Victor's arm, and gestured for him to follow her deeper into the temple.

At the same time, Angoulême sat in a room on the second floor of the Limping Anton Inn, staring blankly at ** out of boredom. She had no one to talk to. Catherine was freely soaring through the forest outside the city, while the captain had gone to the Temple of Melitele.

Though Angoulême did not like temples, that did not prevent the girl from knowing of and feeling close to Melitele. This deity had three forms: a carefree maiden, a mature pregnant woman, and a bent-backed old crone. They represented humanity's ancient beliefs concerning fertility, love, plowing, the hearth at home, and pregnant women—various feminine figures shaped from those beliefs.

They were believed to govern childbirth and reproduction, watch over farmers and gardeners, and bless lovers and married couples. These different faiths gradually gathered together and blended into one another until all those gods became one: the mother of all, Melitele.

The priests of the faith refused to involve themselves in politics and preached love and peace. They had founded many hospitals, shelters, and orphanages. The goddess was called Freya in the Skellige Isles and Dana Mida among the elves. She was the guardian goddess of all women...

As her thoughts wandered, the usual clamor outside the window abruptly fell silent, drawing Angoulême's attention.

The girl opened the window and leaned out to look. Her eyesight was excellent, and she clearly saw knights grabbing roadside vendors and questioning them, white rose emblems engraved on their armor.

Her hearing was good as well.

"You said the witcher asked you where the Temple of Melitele was?"

"Y-yes... sir."

The knight casually flung the peddler aside and tossed down two Orens. His voice was hoarse. "Ah... the Temple of Melitele again!"

There was no profanity in his words, but he made no effort to hide it. Even Angoulême could easily hear the deep hatred in his voice.

Then he led his men away, and the street gradually returned to its usual bustle.

After pondering for several seconds, Angoulême quickly dressed. Though the captain had told her not to run around, she was confident that such simple intelligence gathering would not cause any trouble.

The priestess who had guided him bowed, made a few simple gestures, and slowly withdrew from the side hall. Slightly puzzled, Victor turned his head and watched her leave.

"Do not mind it, child. Priestess Aurora has offered a vow of silence to Melitele." Nenneke's voice was kind and gentle.

From her appearance, the high priestess was at least sixty. She looked much like most people imagined a grandmother to be: short and plump, yet not lacking in agility; gentle, yet not lacking in dignity. Her gaze held the wisdom accumulated through the years.

Victor bowed deeply to the ground. Most clergy in this age truly possessed skill and compassion, and someone like the high priestess of the Temple of Melitele, who had devoted herself for decades without wavering, might even have received divine revelations. The boy understood and respected such people.

"Lady Nenneke, Victor of Bell Town, east of Zerrikania, apprentice witcher of the School of the Wolf, offers you his greetings."

"Bell Town east of Zerrikania? The School of the Wolf?"

"Yes." Victor took out his wolf-school medallion and presented it to Nenneke with both hands.

Taking the medallion and examining it briefly, she asked absentmindedly, "Is Vesemir in good health?" As she spoke, she shifted in the throne-like armchair, searching for a more comfortable position.

Though somewhat confused, the boy replied respectfully, "Master Vesemir is in good health. He only left for Redania this spring."

The moment the words left his mouth, a suspicion suddenly arose in his mind. He jerked his head up and met the woman's eyes, but he could read nothing in her gentle, profound gaze.

In the space that had fallen silent once more, the high priestess pondered for a moment.

Then she rose from her chair and slowly walked over to Victor. The boy hurriedly lowered himself into a half-crouch so that he could meet Nenneke at eye level.

She reached out and touched the young apprentice's cheek, studying his still-unmutated pupils. Like any grandmother fussing over her little grandson, she kneaded and rubbed his face for quite some time before saying kindly, "Young apprentice, you may call me Granny Nenneke from now on. When Geralt was still alive, he always wanted to call me that, even though I am actually younger than he was."

Releasing Victor's cheek, Granny Nenneke walked toward the door.

"Come with me, child! In accordance with the ancient pact—and more importantly, out of personal friendship—I must first find you somewhere to stay. You need a proper wash and some rest, if only to get rid of the nekker stench all over you. Then we can discuss the help you wish to request."