Elf Brewer

The road to Oxenfurt stretched northward beneath the sunlight.

Ron kept the horses at an unhurried pace. Behind him was a detachment of regular soldiers led by Miko, their formation loose but their hoofbeats orderly.

They had just come from the quarry, escorting stone back to the estate, and had joined Ron along the way.

Geralt rode beside him, carrying a pass and a letter in his coat. He had barely spoken along the way. After they had ridden side by side for a while, Ron spoke up.

"Tamara. Are you sure she's in Oxenfurt?"

Geralt did not answer immediately. His hand tightened slightly around the reins before relaxing again. "Mm. I found some leads, but they might not be the kind you want to hear. Anyway, when I went back, the baron was drunk. He'd even set the castle stables on fire. Uh... I spent some time helping him sober up, and he told me some things he'd hidden before."

He considered his words for a moment before continuing. "The baron had buried a stillborn child. No funeral, no graveyard—just buried it in the wasteland around Crow's Nest. The baron gave the botchling a name and buried it properly again.

"After returning to the castle, I performed a ritual for it and turned it into a lubberkin. Later, I summoned it at midnight. I followed her and found Anna's bracelet, as well as Tamara's whereabouts."

Ron did not press for details. He could hear the parts Geralt had deliberately avoided, and he knew the witcher did not wish to discuss them. He merely caught the last thing Geralt had said. "So you came to find her."

"And give her this while I'm at it." Geralt took a faded cloth doll from his coat. It was made of old linen, with two yarn braids for hair. It had only one button eye; the other had fallen off, leaving a loose thread behind.

"The baron made it himself. Its name is Clara." He turned the doll over for a look, then put it back into his coat.

Ron nodded, and the group continued onward. The roadside reeds had barely faded from view when Miko raised his left hand. Everyone stopped at once.

Not far ahead, black smoke poured from a low wooden house. Flames had just begun licking at its thatched roof. Seven or eight desperadoes gathered outside the door.

Their weapons were a mess—mud-stained axes, rusty longswords, all sorts of things. A one-eyed man was pouring something over the door, and the smell was pungent.

Geralt dismounted and headed forward. Ron remained in the saddle, his horse stamping in place as the plates of his armor gave off a fine metallic scrape.

The one-eyed man was the first to turn around. At first, he saw Geralt: white hair, catlike eyes, two swords.

Then he looked behind Geralt and saw a warhorse taller at the shoulder than an ordinary man's head, a massive knight seated atop it, gleaming cold-iron brigandine, a greatsword at the horse's side with its tip nearly touching the ground, and behind them, a group of soldiers in standard breastplates armed with spears and crossbows, watching them with cold, indifferent eyes.

The jar of grease slipped from the one-eyed man's hand and shattered on the ground. Grease splashed onto his bare feet. One of his companions stumbled back, caught his heel on his own foot, then scrambled up and bolted into the brush.

In the space of a few breaths, all seven or eight men had scattered completely. Some even threw away their broken axes as they ran.

Miko was about to lead the men after them when Ron raised a hand to stop him. "Save the people first."

Several soldiers kicked open the wooden door, already half burned away. Thick smoke billowed out. Two soldiers carried an elf woman with short, ear-length hair from the house. Bent over, she coughed violently for a long while, her eyes red from the smoke.

The first thing she did upon raising her head was neither cry nor curse. She swept her gaze across the clearing outside, saw the fleeing backs of the bandits racing into the woods, then looked away and asked in a trembling voice, "Those bastards... they won't come back, will they?"

"They won't," Ron said.

"Are you the leader of these soldiers?"

"Yes."

She nodded, took several deep breaths, and began to explain. She was a brewer. The wild fruits and raspberries in these woods were excellent ingredients for brewing, and she had run a workshop here alone.

That gang of bandits had set their sights on her, trying to force her to reveal where she had hidden her savings. When she refused, they decided to burn both her and her home, hoping to make her submit that way.

Ron glanced at the smoking ruins. Several cracked barrels lay toppled in a corner, liquor spilling across the ground, filling the air with the strong smell of mash.

"My estate has a brewery, and it happens to need an expert like you. I can provide lodging, wages, and security. The army patrols the area. If your skills are good enough, you can receive a share of the workshop's technical profits."

The elf looked at him, rapidly considering and assessing. A warlord who looked like trouble, soldiers under his command equipped to the teeth, bandits who had just fled at the sight of them, an estate with workshops and patrol guards.

Any refugee in Velen could calculate that bargain quickly. "All right. It's not like I have anywhere else to go," she said.

Ron nodded to Miko. "Take her back to the estate with the others. Hand her over to Erwin for arrangements." Miko acknowledged the order and led the group onward. A short-haired elf now joined the rear of the column.

Ron and Geralt did not linger. They turned their horses toward Oxenfurt and continued on their way.

That afternoon, Oxenfurt's stone bridge appeared at the end of the road. The Pontar River flowed slowly beneath it. Across the river, wooden rooftops crowded together like mushrooms bursting from the earth, while narrow streets crisscrossed between the houses.

Ron rode toward the city walls. At the checkpoint by the bridge, the guard glanced at the pass in Geralt's hand. The neatly prepared documents and seals were stacked together. The guard asked no questions and waved them through.

As they passed the town hall, where banners bearing all kinds of heraldic crests hung, they saw crudely printed notices pasted across the street walls. At the bottom were conscription orders signed by Radovid V.

Tamara's residence was a two-story stone apartment in an inner district of Oxenfurt. A bakery occupied the ground floor, its oven burning hot, the toasted fragrance of bread spilling through the wooden door.

When Ron and Geralt knocked, hurried footsteps sounded from within. The door opened, and Tamara stood in the doorway wearing brown leather half-armor, the iron clasp at her gorget still unfastened in her hand.

Her brown hair was shorter than it had been at Crow's Nest. The childishness had vanished from her face, and her eyes were sharper than before. When she saw Ron, the clasp in her hand froze in midair.

"It's you." Her voice was lower and raspier than it had been at Crow's Nest, as though she had not spoken gently to anyone in a long time. "Did my father send you?"

"No. He has already hired a witcher to look for you. I only wanted to know whether you're safe now." Ron's voice was steady.

Tamara looked at him, her lips tightening into a thin line. "I'm not a child. I don't need anyone to save me."

Geralt took the faded cloth doll from his coat and handed it to her. "Your father asked me to bring this to you," he said.

Tamara's hand paused in midair before she accepted the doll. "Since I can remember, that man has only known how to drink and beat my mother. He never knew how to be a father. This doll... it changes nothing."

"What's past is past. He isn't asking for your forgiveness. He only hopes you'll be safe." Geralt gave a slight nod.

Tamara lowered her head and looked at the doll with its one remaining eye, then placed it at the corner of the table.

"Safe? Our home is gone. My mother's life and death are still unknown. All of this happened because of him. And you call that safe?"

Her voice was low, as though she had been holding those words down in her throat for a very long time.

"Go back and tell him... I don't need his protection. I've joined the witch hunters. They'll help me find my mother. I will never return to Crow's Nest again."

Ron did not argue. He turned to Geralt. "You can ask for the information you need now."

Geralt stepped forward half a pace and calmly asked for the details of Anna's disappearance. Tamara leaned lightly against the doorframe and answered each question, her tone clear and direct, without the slightest evasion. She told them every clue connected to her mother.