Geralt of Rivia

Gretka stood in front of her, holding a thick old pharmacopoeia that could have served as a shield in both hands, her mouth firing off questions without pause.

"Can this soup really make people fly? Why can dragonflies fly without drinking potions?

"The uncle who delivered a letter last time said someone ate poisonous mushrooms and saw little blue people dancing. Can poisonous mushrooms be made into medicine too? Please, teach me that one!!"

She pointed at the spot where Keira had just cast her spell, rose onto her tiptoes, and raised the pharmacopoeia over her head. "I'll give you my doll, okay!"

Keira set her teacup back on the table and said in a calm tone on the verge of collapse,

"Gretka, if you ask another question, the next green bubble will come out of your nose. And that wasn't soup. It was for a certain brainless little snot..."

Then she looked up and saw the two people standing in the doorway. Her gaze fell on Ron, and she was about to speak when she saw the white-haired witcher behind him.

Her hand froze above the teacup. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Taking advantage of the pause, Gretka put the pharmacopoeia back on the table and ran behind Ron's legs to hide, poking half her head out to curiously study the stranger.

"His hair is white," she whispered to Ron, though she was not actually quiet.

Keira pressed a hand to her forehead and forced out through clenched teeth, "Gretka!"

Geralt rubbed his brow, glanced at Gretka clinging to Ron's thigh, then looked at Keira. His voice was dry. "Keira, what are you doing here?"

Keira lifted her teacup and took a sip, hiding most of the embarrassment on her face as she returned to her usual lazy, cutting tone.

"Isn't it obvious? A certain sergeant major lured me here with sturdy walls and a bedroom far from the pyres. Oh, and a little snot came as a bonus."

She jerked her chin toward the little girl hiding beside Ron's leg. "Sergeant major, before you show people how a sorceress raises children, could you kindly knock first?"

Leaning against the doorframe, Ron did not answer that. Instead, he turned to Geralt. "Keira Metz, special consultant to Calrad Manor."

Then he turned to Keira and briefly added the rest. "Geralt is looking for Ciri. You mentioned clues about elven ruins before. We need them."

Keira set down her teacup, crossed her legs, and resumed her usual lazy, biting tone. "Oh, so now it's my turn to provide free intelligence? My laboratory hasn't even been open a month, and it's already becoming your information hub?"

She turned to Geralt. The mockery in her eyes faded somewhat, replaced by the shrewdness peculiar to a sorceress. "You're looking for Ciri? An elven mage in a mask asked about her whereabouts before."

She paused, looked at Geralt, and lightly tapped the tabletop with a fingertip. "But even if you're looking for someone, could you stop interrupting my lessons? My apprentice is already enough of a headache."

The corner of Ron's mouth seemed to twitch upward, but the expression vanished in an instant. Gretka, still pressed against Ron's leg, had been staring curiously at Geralt the whole time. Suddenly, she blurted out, "White-haired mister, your eyes are so strange!"

Geralt looked down at her without explaining. Seeing his expression, Keira knew he had caught the remark she had just thrown out.

She rummaged through a pile of odds and ends on the table, found a tiny cloth pouch, and placed it in Gretka's hand.

Inside lay a hand-carved wooden top and a green stone, their edges polished bright from being handled again and again. "Ciri left these for her before she went away."

Gretka clutched the top in both hands as if it were some priceless treasure, then raised her other hand and gently tugged at the hem of Ron's clothes.

That night, Geralt did not return to Crow's Nest. Ron had a guest room near the courtyard arranged for him.

At dinner, Geralt sat at the long table in the courtyard. Karl sat across from him, with several soldiers fresh off drill beside him. No one gave his cat eyes a second glance, and a young soldier handed him a bowl of porridge.

After dinner, several lamps still burned by the training grounds. The shouted commands had stopped, replaced by the sharp snap of Fiona's bowstring as she continued training.

The hammering from the smithy had stopped as well. Only the waterwheel still turned, its deep grinding transmission echoing through the night.

At dawn, Geralt was awakened by the commands from the training grounds. When he pushed open the wooden door to his guest room, the stone floor of the courtyard still held the chill of the night. Several soldiers who had just finished night watch sat by the wall, talking in low voices.

Ron rose from beside a low table, already dressed in his light brigandine. He did not ask Geralt whether he had slept well, merely tilted his head toward the training grounds.

Geralt followed. The two crossed the courtyard side by side, and before they reached the training grounds, a woman's forceful shouting came from the sword practice area.

"Your wrist! Don't stiffen your wrist! Are you chopping firewood or swinging a sword?"

Ves was mercilessly laying into a young recruit. The recruit held his sword out in front of him, barely managing to block, his shoulders hunched nearly to his ears. She reached out and smacked him on the head.

"Relax!" The recruit shrank back, his sword tip dipping before he hastily raised it again.

Ves was about to continue when she turned and saw the witcher beside Ron. The rest of her sentence died in her throat, and her movements visibly paused. Clearly, she had not expected to see Geralt here.

She lowered her hand from her waist and nodded to Geralt, her tone caught between surprise and concern. "White Wolf? How the fuck did you find this place?"

Geralt drew his gaze away from the recruit's still-trembling sword and looked at Ves. "Passing through. Thought I'd see whether you'd been locked in a cage."

"A cage?" Ves snorted. "No one here would dare cage me." Her gaze passed over Geralt, swept across Ron, then returned to Geralt. She jabbed her thumb toward the sparring enclosure.

"Geralt of Rivia, famed witcher and master swordsman. A rare opportunity. Anyone want to challenge him?"

Ron stood outside the sword practice area and did not join the reunion. Several Blue Stripes spotted Geralt and stopped what they were doing, lowering their voices. Someone nudged a companion's shoulder armor. "The White Wolf? What's he doing here..."

The regular troops nearby, who had been practicing thrusts, noticed the commotion too. Their eyes turned toward the white-haired stranger as word spread from the sword practice area.

Someone ran a few steps toward the arena, only to be shouted back by Karl. "Get back here! The formation hasn't been dismissed!"

More and more soldiers gathered at the edge of the training grounds, but no one crossed the fence. Then a bodyguard who had just finished a sparring bout rested his sword on his shoulder and opened the gate.

Everyone around the training grounds turned to look. The bodyguard had already stepped into the enclosure, tested the weight of his sword, then raised his eyes to Geralt. His gaze was calm, without provocation. He was assessing his opponent.

Geralt removed the silver sword from his back and leaned it against the fence, then went to the weapon rack to choose a sword. Ves leaned against the fence, a faint curve of anticipation at the corner of her mouth.

The others present exchanged looks. Several Blue Stripes elbowed their companions. "That's Geralt of Rivia."

The soldiers outside the fence whispered among themselves. "The commander's bodyguards—no one has ever beaten them."

They noticed the bodyguard's stance was more cautious than usual, and the hand gripping his sword subtly adjusted its position. He had clearly entered a combat state.