Chapter Eleven: When Dreams Illuminate Reality

Blas of Bernard bore two deep nasolabial folds on his face and always wore a wide-brimmed red hat adorned with tail feathers. His slim, lace-trimmed, corseted jacket gave him an air of respectability. Yet, anyone who knew him understood he was merely the proprietor of a modest shop in the city—Rafard’s Decoctions—specializing in "cheap, decent-quality" magical goods. Business was average at best, just enough to scrape by.

Though his current circumstances were nothing to boast of, Blas had once brimmed with dreams and youthful vigor—after all, he was a graduate of the Bernard Academy for Mages. Why, then, would a graduate of Bernard end up running a small shop? The answer was as straightforward as why some Harvard graduates become homeless while certain dropouts become the world’s richest.

Lately, though, Blas felt his luck was turning. Ten days prior, a young man had appeared at his door, bearing a letter of recommendation from the headmaster of the Academy, seeking to consign goods and purchase supplies. The letter, of course, was genuine; no one in Bernard would dare joke about such a thing. What astonished Blas was the prodigious skill of this alchemist, who seemed barely more than a boy.

The potions he brought not only met the shop’s "cheap and decent" standard, but, crucially, he delivered them in large quantities. He came daily, never with less than a dozen vials of invigorating draught, plus twenty-four bottles of hangover remedy. For an alchemist, balancing quality and quantity was rarely possible; yet, his products were remarkably consistent—he was, in effect, an expert in both tonics. In a city of over thirty thousand, half of them travelers, demand for these two potions far outstripped supply.

Just these two flagship products, sold on consignment, had already brought Rafard’s Decoctions both profit and reputation. What’s more, the boy seemed fascinated by magical trinkets, often settling his accounts with oddities from the shop—a habit that delighted Blas even more.

...

Knowing Blas was a balm to the soul. That day in the tower of the mage Dorregaray, after an awkward afternoon, the alchemy apprentice and the witcher slipped away from the grounds. Before leaving, however, Victor requested a letter of recommendation from the archmage—one addressed to the local Alchemist’s Guild. With it, he could purchase special ingredients—venom extracts, anesthetics, or the infamous Serekania powder, also known as blast powder. More importantly, he could legally sell alchemical potions in the city.

As for hangover cures and invigorating tonics—those everyday essentials—he had mastered their alchemical preparation at the age of ten. On the very day his potions hit the shelves, he earned the title of "master" among the town’s married couples over forty. In a peaceful village like Bell, aside from selling pesticides and fertilizers, there was little else to peddle. Within two months, his sales of these two new products surpassed his grandmother’s annual record.

"I won’t make such indecent potions!" his grandmother had declared. Thus, he became the family’s main breadwinner.

...

Victor was too practiced in making money from these concoctions. Even though the herbs of this world differed entirely from those he once knew, it hardly mattered to him—his peculiar brand of alchemy did not concern itself with reason, only with results. He simply selected whatever herbs were effective, disregarding toxicity, side effects, or any other considerations. In an hour, he could brew a cauldronful while reading a book and lazily stirring. The only rule: the effects mustn’t be too strong, and he must never forget to add impurities.

There was a reason Victor chose Rafard’s Decoctions as his agent for such affordable, desirable wares. Blas was a graduate of the mage academy, and his circumstances proved that joining such an academy was no guarantee of greatness. Even if Victor would never admit to the faint satisfaction he felt, this fact was oddly comforting.

In short, city life suited Victor perfectly. His days revolved around a simple circuit: a private room at the inn, the grand market, Rafard’s Decoctions, and the library.

...

Tonight, Lambert was feeling restless.

Ever since they’d left Dorregaray’s tower ten days ago, Victor had not spoken of dreams or ambitions. Instead, armed with his letter of recommendation, he had thrown himself wholly into the trade of potion-making, even renting his own room apart from Lambert. Their sword practice, morning and night, remained unshakable routine; but otherwise, Victor’s life was so regular it seemed he intended to grow old in this city. The city itself, guarded by mages, had little need of witchers; at this rate, Lambert felt he might just rust away.

So he kicked in the door to Victor’s room and bellowed, "Tell old Lambert your plans! What are you going to do, settle down here selling aphrodisiacs for life?"

The scene inside was perfectly ordinary: Victor was brewing something. But as Lambert drew near, he saw—Victor was boiling ducats.

The witcher was baffled. "Why are you cooking money?"

"Got dirty. Disinfecting it," the boy replied, unperturbed.

Lambert made a face. "Tch! Careless." He pulled up a chair and sat.

Victor calmly put away the cauldron, pulled out a chair for himself, and took a leisurely sip of milk.

"So, what are your plans?" Lambert repeated, having recollected himself after the interruption.

"I’m going to be a witcher..." The milk mustache on his upper lip could not obscure the steely resolve in his voice.

Lambert felt a jolt—almost leaping from his chair.

He genuinely hoped Victor might become a witcher, both for their camaraderie and the boy’s talent. Yet he dreaded the thought of Victor undergoing the Trial of Grasses; all his own peers had perished on the laboratory table—he alone had survived.

"...But not yet," Victor continued.

Now Lambert wanted to leap up and throttle him—was it fun, speaking in such suspenseful pauses?

"I’ll wait until I can make the Trial of Grasses safer. I won’t even consider it with the current seventy percent fatality rate." Victor wiped the milk from his lip, his expression earnest.

Lambert scratched his chin, processing this new information. If the mortality rate could truly be lowered, it would indeed be a boon. "So what are you doing now? I don’t know what you’re researching in the library, but you’re no novice at alchemy. Yet you spend all your time making potions to sell—isn’t that a huge drain on your time? And what about all those magical odds and ends you bring back—music boxes, glowing tubes, voodoo dolls, charms against thieves, fleas, indigestion, diarrhea—what’s the point of them? And why spend hours every day wandering the grand market?"

Having finished his tirade, Lambert found Victor gazing at him with an expression of royal disdain. "You don’t get it! I go to the market to gather intelligence. If you don’t care about the world, the world will abandon you. The information you can pick up at the market far exceeds even your wildest imaginings.

For example, did you know that mages are gradually losing their old authority?"

Lambert shook his head.

"The Cintra Island incident a year and a half ago proved that some mages secretly pledged loyalty to Nilfgaard in the south. The fallout wasn’t just the Brotherhood of Sorcerers breaking apart—the entire mage community lost the trust of the northern kings. Half a year ago, during the Second Battle of Upper Aedirn, King Henselt even had his longtime advisor—Sabina Glevissig, proud and unyielding—tied to a wheel and burned alive on the battlefield."

Lambert squinted. "I’ve heard Eskel mention that name. Geralt tangled with her once."

"That’s just the sort of thing you remember perfectly," Victor replied dryly. "In any case, the sorceress’s violent temper sealed her fate—not whether she’d be executed, but when. Did you know, during her tenure as royal advisor, she actually dared to bang the table and tell King Henselt to shut up and let her finish speaking? Bold, but not very wise."