At noon, under a blazing sun, at the Old Bad-Knee Tavern on the outskirts of Vizima.
Faced with Angoulême's energetic nonstop chatter and all sorts of plans for what came next, Geralt's answer, after finishing the roast chicken and red wine, was simple.
"I plan to travel alone for a while."
Her eyes widened. "Why!?" The girl stared at him in disbelief.
He knew she did not understand, but he did not really know how to explain it either, so all he could do was repeat himself in a low voice. "I want to be on my own for a time."
"I can't just leave you, old man! You've got amnesia right now, you can't manage alone! Fine then, tell me, how are you planning to get into the city?" Angoulême's tone was rough and irritable.
Even if her words were far from gentle, Geralt had come to understand over these past few days that she only spoke like that because she truly treated him like family.
So the White Wolf smiled and reached out to ruffle her straw-colored blond hair. "There will be a way. Didn't the innkeeper just mention a few options? I'm Geralt of Rivia. I'll manage."
She slapped away Geralt's fatherly hand and puffed up in anger. "Don't treat me like a kid. You haven't explained anything, and I can't accept that answer!"
She still looked like a child no matter how he saw it. Geralt thought that if it were Victor, he would have known when to stop. In the world of adults, not everything had to be dug up to the roots.
But somehow, her attitude made the corners of Geralt's mouth lift from the heart. "Then let's do this. I may have stepped down as leader, but I was still a member of the hanse once. So we'll settle this the hanse way."
At those words, Angoulême froze. "Uh... but the way disputes inside the hanse get settled is...!"
"That's right. Beat me, and I'll do what you say." As he spoke, that mature, cold face of his suddenly broke into a deeply punchable smile.
It had to be said, that sort of smile was no ordinary thing. It was standard issue for friends of Dandelion and members of the Smug Swordsmen Club. Known members of that club currently included, but were not limited to, Victor, Geralt, Lambert, and Dandelion.
That curve of a smile looked infuriatingly familiar, and it sent her blood pressure rising on the spot, even though these past two days it really ought to have been low.
There was no need to think any harder. Angoulême slapped the table with a bang. "Fine! Whoever wins decides! No taking it back!"
She felt she had every advantage. Over the past year, not only had her physique improved, she now also had hawk-eye vision. Power was on her side.
And her opponent was just an amnesiac old man. Just look at him, all his hair was white, and his knees were bad too. How could he possibly be a match for her?
Times had changed. She was no longer the little mercenary she used to be.
She was Angoulême Corion, the Phantom Troupe's chief, and only, enforcer, the future strongest on the Continent!
Taking the lead out of the Old Bad-Knee Tavern, the girl was in soaring spirits, determined to show the old man how much she had grown since they parted.
Under Catherine's watchful gaze high in the sky, they made their way to the bank of the moat.
The water murmured past, late spring flowers were in bloom, and the moment of decisive battle had arrived.
The girl swept her hair back, overflowing with swagger.
The white-haired witcher remained calm.
...
The times had changed?
The old master was still the old master.
...
That afternoon, Angoulême arrived alone at Vizima's gate and coldly produced her pass for the guards to inspect. She looked fine, but in truth she was very much not fine. Her pride had taken a heavy blow.
She had once thought she was a king.
Turns out she was bronze.
"Ah! Miss Angoulême, you're back in Vizima."
The voice sounded a little familiar. Turning her head, she saw that it was Jethro, one of Vincent's men, and a fisstech enthusiast.
Last year, Victor and Angoulême had burst onto the scene and made quite a name for themselves in Vizima. With titles like Drowner Slayer and Archespore Bane, and Angoulême herself being a rare female warrior, of course Jethro remembered her well.
As for Thaler's opinion, well, now that he had fallen from power, his views no longer meant a thing. Jethro and Captain Vincent stood on the same side, they both recognized the Phantom Troupe as a spotless band of high-quality mercenaries.
Angoulême knew all that already. Victor had analyzed it for her in detail, so she handled herself with ease.
"That's right. I've been through a lot of cities, but Vizima is still the most comfortable place to live. It'd be even better without the plague."
"Bah!" Jethro turned his head and spat to the side, then took the pass from the guard and handed it back to her. "Damn plague! There've been plenty of new bounties lately, you can come take a look anytime. Mr. Victor didn't come back with you?"
"He's got a few things to deal with. He'll arrive a few days later."
"Ah... better late than never. Summer will be here soon. The master's new piece, The Arrogant Bat and Miss Prejudice, is fantastic! I'm really looking forward to the Dragonborn Bard's next work."
Angoulême let out a dry laugh. She had not expected a fisstech enthusiast to have an interest in poetry.
Then again, The Arrogant Bat and Miss Prejudice was basically a filthy, heavy-handed bawdy tune. That Dandelion...
"Uh! Wait... Dandelion's in the city?"
...
After entering the city without trouble and passing the headquarters of the Order of the Flaming Rose, Angoulême hesitated briefly. In the end, she did not go in to look for Siegfried, and instead headed first to her old home in the Temple Quarter.
Standing before the door, she could not help feeling emotional. She remembered when the Bond Seven Plan had been set in motion last year, she had fled like a stray dog with no time to pack up anything at all. Who knew what kind of mess the place must be in now.
She slid the key into the lock, turned it smoothly, and pushed the door open, then froze in the doorway.
The sitting room had been tidied from top to bottom. There was not even a trace of dust. Someone was obviously living here.
The law officers certainly would not have cleaned it, and the only person who could unlock the door and stay here long-term flashed through her mind at once, a bright and beautiful figure.
She slammed the door shut and rushed upstairs in delight, calling out a young woman's name the whole way.
"Shani! Shani!"
...
Outside the city, after parting ways with Angoulême and returning to being alone, Geralt resumed the life of a witcher.
He accepted a preacher's commission to light five bonfires at night in reverence to the Eternal Fire.
After that, he had to help two villagers who were supposedly "worthy of respect" by removing the drowner and archespore troubles plaguing them. Only after earning their approval would the witcher receive proof that would let him enter the city.
The whole process was troublesome and full of petty errands. Of course he knew Angoulême had meant well, and traveling with her would have solved every problem easily, but that money-is-no-object way she did things was completely different from the past he was trying to recover.
The reason Geralt chose to travel alone was because he wanted to reclaim the old way of life of a monster hunter. He hoped that being thrust back into that familiar world of poverty might stimulate his lost memories and help them return.
So that was how it went, the white-haired old man with the bad knee worked hard through the night, successfully lit the bonfires, and safely escorted a woman heading home after dark, earning her heartfelt gratitude.
After presenting her with a rose, the two of them arranged to meet the following evening for some exercise at the mill outside the city.
And from that point on, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, began writing a new chapter in his heroic legend.
...
North of the Pontar.
Tretogor, the capital of the Kingdom of Redania, had been built atop elven ruins, but for a capital it had very little that stood out.
In terms of prosperity, it did not even compare to the academic city of Oxenfurt, though its excellent location still made it easy to attract travelers passing through.
Victor was one such traveler.
After a long journey across the Kestrel Mountains, he planned to ease his accumulated fatigue by spending one night on the soft bed of an inn, then turn south toward La Valette the next day.
After passing the routine inspection and paying the road toll, the young man entered Tretogor and strolled leisurely toward the central square to do a little shopping.
Under the blazing noon sun, the market was full of life, and walking through the crowd felt like strolling through a hawthorn thicket.
From time to time, abandoned children tugged at the alchemist's sleeves and trouser legs. Every now and then, he could feel eyes on him from the watchtowers, perhaps the gaze of Redania's famed royal spies.
He stopped in front of a peddler selling invisibility caps, aphrodisiacs, and erotic prints carved into cedar boards.
After using his School of the Wolf medallion to prove that the invisibility caps were useless, he bought a fair number of aphrodisiacs and erotic prints for purely academic and research purposes.
Then he heard the sound of a lute. It was the familiar melody of With You. Looking off into the distance, he saw the street performer, a cute young blond woman, and she was singing quite nicely too, so Victor decided not to go over there and ruin her moment.
Instead, with her song in the background, he found the inn called the Limping Porter, rented a room, and prepared to enjoy a proper midday nap.
What Victor had not expected before going to sleep was that even though he had no desire to look for trouble, trouble had already come looking for him.
He had not even managed two full hours of sleep before polite knocking sounded at the door.
...
Before the Thanedd Island incident, Aretuza's rectoress, Tissaia de Vries, had once said:
"In Redania, royal authority is controlled by Philippa Eilhart, a woman worthy to succeed Raffard the White, and one willing to sacrifice tens of thousands of lives in exchange for absolute power."
...
Redania's intelligence apparatus did its job well. A warrior, bard, and suspected prophet like Victor Corion ought to attract attention wherever he went.
Even though the young man had made no effort to hide his identity when entering the city, the speed and smoothness with which the information traveled still spoke highly of the royal intelligence agents.
The horses' steps were steady, the driver was highly skilled, and the suspension was excellent, certainly good enough to let passengers get active inside.
Taking a soft cushion, Victor shifted into a more comfortable position and leaned back. This luxurious carriage had been sent to fetch him by Redania's young king, Radovid V.
Radovid V was the son of King Vizimir II, and supposedly only sixteen this year, even younger than Victor.
From childhood, his parents had entrusted him to the court sorceress Philippa Eilhart to be raised.
No one doubted whether she was intelligent enough to serve as a tutor, but neither did anyone believe she was capable of giving a child warmth or affection. Still, it had to be said that her harsh education had been very successful.
It had produced a heart of iron, radical, merciless, and placing reason above all else.
In some possible futures, he would become king of the entire Continent.
Of course, other than the prophet Victor, no one yet knew that future.
At present, Radovid V was regarded as a young, immature, perhaps even short-lived king in name only. When he issued an order, his subjects first watched to see whether Philippa Eilhart gave a sign of approval.
Fortunately, even a ceremonial king still had the authority to invite a bard to perform at a banquet.
After a little thought, Victor had agreed to enter the palace and sing The Return of the Dragonborn. He had no special purpose in mind, he simply wanted to sightsee. Whatever methods the little bald king might use, he was unquestionably a remarkable figure.
Victor was lost in such wandering thoughts, doing his best to dredge up deeply buried memories, when the carriage suddenly jolted to a halt.
Then a soft female voice came from outside.
"May I ask if Victor Corion is inside?"
Someone had actually stopped the king's carriage.
Already guessing what this meant, the young man pulled aside the curtain. "Yes, I am Victor of Bell Town. May I ask who you are?"
Standing before him was a sorceress, a blond, blue-eyed woman holding a staff. She wore a fitted short skirt, thigh-high stockings, and towering boots. Her clothing covered ninety percent of her body, but the open design at the chest made it unmistakably sorceress attire.
She gave a small bow. "Cynthia, apprentice to Lady Philippa. Before you go in to meet His Majesty, she hopes to borrow a little of your time for a brief exchange of views."
"If the king has no objection, I would of course be delighted to oblige." Victor's answer was that of a perfectly innocent man, as though he knew nothing at all about Redania's internal situation.
Cynthia smiled sweetly. "As long as you agree, there won't be any problem with His Majesty waiting a little. He holds Lady Philippa in great respect."
Then she waved a hand, and the carriage immediately changed direction. Only slightly, but enough to shift off course while still heading toward the palace, where Philippa also resided.
Letting the curtain fall, Victor shook his head in speechless amusement. If even an apprentice was this overbearing, how miserable must the king feel inside?
Even if he was still only a boy, a king was still a king. The day he truly held power in his own hands, anyone who had looked down on him would face disaster.
And for Radovid to have hidden himself this well, with so many crafty nobles in the court and not one of them noticing anything wrong, that acting skill was worthy of admiration too.
Without warning, the carriage door opened, and Cynthia stepped inside with that same sweet smile, then sat down across from Victor. "You don't mind if I ride with you, do you?"
"The honor is mine." The young man touched a hand to his chest and nodded.
The carriage started moving again. On the surface, Victor remained calm and composed, but inwardly he felt a little unsteady. If Cynthia had simply sat across from him, that would have been one thing, but the moment she sat down she crossed her legs, and with the height and spacing inside the carriage, he could just barely glimpse the edge of a shadowed abyss.
Ahem, he could not actually see anything, yet somehow it still felt as though he could see something.
Thinking of the carriage's excellent performance, the young man could not help wondering whether the sorceress's way of sitting was some kind of signal.
And yet her sweet smile never changed, as though she had no idea at all that the pose carried any risk of exposure.
Victor could not help feeling slightly worried. If he ended up on Philippa's turf and got squeezed dry by a fierce and tyrannical sorceress, what exactly was he supposed to do?
Fortunately, the moment they arrived at the palace, that worry vanished without a trace.
The great hall was cool and quiet, lit by magical lamps.
There were no naked slaves beating drums here, no girls dancing in little more than sequins, and no smell of fisstech in the air.
The only one there to receive him was the palace's mistress, elegantly dressed, serious and dignified in expression, gracious in every gesture.
"Welcome, glorious Dovahkiin, Victor Corion. I believe we once crossed paths at the gates of Kaedwen, and I regret that I did not recognize you then, which is why only now do we have the chance to speak.
I am Philippa Eilhart."
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