Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Legacy Left Behind

The officials at the town hall did not give Viktor a hard time. They took the fiend’s ears with evident disgust and handed over the Orens. When he received the coins, Viktor paid special attention to the design—he cared little for the Temerian lilies on one side, but his eyes lingered on the profile of King Foltest, famed for his noble and handsome visage.

What intrigued the youth most was the king’s infamous reputation and endless rumors. This was a man who once declared, “It is natural and beautiful for a man to love his sister,” and, true to his words, bore the burden of the queen mother’s and the entire nobility’s reproach, refusing to wed, steadfastly embodying his own peculiar version of sibling love.

And he triumphed. In court intrigue and on the battlefield alike, he was undefeated, a monarch for whom life was a succession of victories—apart from his sister, “Adda of Temeria,” who died during childbirth, and her posthumous daughter, “Adda the White,” cursed to become a striga. Save for these tragedies, his journey was one of relentless conquest.

Leaving aside his personal affairs, Foltest was a powerful and competent king. Compared to the greedy and short-sighted Henselt of Kaedwen, Demavend III’s mediocrity in Aedirn, or the youthful Radovid V of Redania, Foltest stood as the undisputed leader of the Northern kings. Under his rule, Temeria was the bulwark against Nilfgaardian invasion.

Just as Viktor was about to leave, the receptionist called after him, unexpectedly. “Wait... Hey, stop right there, don’t come any closer.”

Pinching his nose with a look of utter contempt, as though regarding refuse, the official sneered, “You’re a witcher, aren’t you? For your own sake, get out of this city. There’s no place here for your kind.”

Viktor’s brow furrowed; he was about to ask why, but the man waved him off, slamming shut the speaking window.

Having rid himself of the main source of foul odor—the fiend’s ears—Viktor had actually washed up by the river before entering the city. So, he wiped away the ointment under his nose, took out the antidote, warmed it in his palms, and inhaled deeply.

After a few breaths, confirming his sense of smell had returned and that his scent was tolerable, Viktor set off to ask directions to the Temple of Melitele.

He did not know that, just after he left, a group of heavily armored knights bearing white rose crests arrived at the town hall. The lead knight knocked on the exchange window, his tone icy. “Has any mutant freak come here to claim a bounty today?” Draped in a red cloak and fully armored, though his faceplate was off, he seemed just over thirty, his otherwise handsome face marred by a long scar.

The official responded blankly, “Yes, sir. Eleven fiend ears, my lord.”

“Do you know which way he went?”

“I’m not sure, my lord. He took the money and left.”

…

The avenue of poplars stretched from the main gate toward the buildings beside the sanctuary. The main temple was set against the hillside, surrounded by a garden and various outbuildings.

Unexpectedly, the Temple of Melitele was not within the city at all but built in the nearby forest, and its size could almost be called a small fortress, rivaling even Kaer Morhen in scale.

…

“This is an offering for Melitele—one hundred and ten Orens.” Viktor handed over the still-warm bounty with both hands to the priestess at the reception. Her eyes were blue, her hair tinged with red, her face still smooth in her thirties, with faint freckles on her cheeks.

She accepted the pouch, nodded, and gave a gentle smile.

The boy continued, “I am an apprentice witcher of the School of the Wolf, from Bell Town east of Zerrikania—Viktor, following the ancient pact, seeking the temple’s assistance. I wish to see High Priestess Nenneke.”

The unexpected request made the priestess flush in confusion, her fair face turning red as though she did not know how to respond. After a moment, she patted Viktor’s arm and gestured for him to follow her into the temple.

…

At the same time, in an upstairs room at the Lame Anton Inn, Angoulême sat bored on her bed, lost in thought. With no one to talk to—Katherine soaring freely in the forest outside the city, the captain at the Temple of Melitele—she was left to her own devices.

Though not fond of temples, Angoulême nonetheless respected and drew close to Melitele, a goddess with three aspects: a carefree maiden, a mature pregnant woman, and a bent old crone—embodying humanity’s primal faith in fertility, love, farming, hearth, and motherhood.

She was believed to govern birth and growth, to care for farmers and gardeners, to bless lovers and spouses. Over time, these various beliefs merged, intermingled, and ultimately became one—Melitele, mother to all.

The clergy refused to meddle in politics, preaching love and peace. They established hospitals, shelters, and orphanages. On the Skellige Isles, she was called Freya; among elves, Dana Meadbh; she was the guardian of all women.

Lost in her musings, Angoulême was drawn to a sudden hush outside, the usual bustle falling silent.

She opened the window and looked out. Her eyesight was sharp—she clearly saw knights questioning a vendor by the roadside, their armor emblazoned with white rose insignias.

Her hearing was equally keen.

“You said the witcher asked you for directions to the Temple of Melitele?”

“Yes… yes, my lord.”

With a careless gesture, the knight tossed two Orens at the vendor, his voice harsh. “Ah… the Temple of Melitele again!”

He did not curse, but his unvarnished hatred was obvious—even Angoulême could easily sense the depth of his loathing.

He led his men away, and the street gradually returned to its usual clamor.

After a moment’s thought, Angoulême dressed quickly. The captain had told her not to wander, but she was confident that simple reconnaissance would cause no trouble.

…

The priestess who had led the way bowed, made a few ritual gestures, and quietly withdrew from the side chamber. Viktor, a little puzzled, turned to watch her go.

“Do not mind her, child. Priestess Aelorah has taken a vow of silence, dedicating it as an offering to Melitele,” came the gentle, kindly voice of Lady Nenneke.

She appeared to be over sixty, embodying the image of a grandmother—short and plump, yet agile, gentle yet dignified, her eyes reflecting wisdom distilled from years of experience.

Viktor bowed deeply. In this era, most clergy still possessed genuine skill and compassion; someone like the High Priestess of Melitele, who had devoted decades to her calling, might well have received the goddess’s oracle. The boy understood and respected such figures.

“Lady Nenneke, apprentice witcher of the School of the Wolf, Viktor from Bell Town east of Zerrikania, greets you.”

“Bell Town east of Zerrikania? The School of the Wolf?”

“Yes.” Viktor produced the wolf medallion, offering it to Lady Nenneke with both hands.

She took the medallion and examined it briefly. “How is Vesemir’s health?” she asked absently, shifting to find a more comfortable position in her throne-like armchair.

Viktor hesitated, then replied respectfully, “Master Vesemir is in good health—he traveled to Redania this spring.”

As soon as he finished, a sudden realization struck him. He looked up, meeting the priestess’s eyes, but in her gentle, profound gaze, he could read nothing.

Silence settled. The High Priestess pondered for a moment, then rose and walked unhurriedly to Viktor, who quickly half-knelt so they would be at eye level.

She reached out to touch the young apprentice’s cheek, examining his unmutated eyes, and, like all grandmothers, pinched and kneaded his face for a while before saying kindly, “Young apprentice, from now on you may call me Granny Nenneke. Geralt, when he was alive, always wished to address me so, even though I was actually younger than he.”

Letting go of Viktor’s face, Granny Nenneke walked to the door.

“Come with me, child. In accordance with the ancient pact—and perhaps more importantly, due to personal friendship—I must first find you a place to stay, let you wash and rest a while, at least rid you of that fiend stench. Then, we can discuss the help you seek.”