Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Goddess Meritelia Above (Part Two)

The day after the conversation in the greenhouse, Victor was busy in the alchemy chamber, slicing the camouflaged mushroom. This fungus, harvested from the dark corners of the greenhouse, had a gray cap that easily fooled one into thinking it was a slab of rock. According to ancient records, it could alleviate chest pain.

A knocking sound echoed—Priestess Aurora stood at the door. She gestured several signs, seemingly trying to convey something more complex, but Victor couldn’t decipher them. All he knew was to set aside his work and follow her.

He entered the side hall he’d visited just days before. Granny Nannick sat upon her throne-like oak armchair, beckoning him kindly to approach. Victor also noticed a discordant presence in the hall—approximately one and a quarter armored knights.

“Come now, child, meet these two ‘noble’ gentlemen who serve the magnanimous Duke Seward. They claim to have important matters to discuss with you.” The priestess spoke with an air of indifference, and her emphasis on ‘noble’ was anything but.

Victor bowed casually, sizing up the visitors. The first, tall and imposing, had a long scar across his face and wore a helmet, full armor, and a blood-red cloak. White rose insignia adorned his pauldrons. He stood slightly forward, clearly the spokesman.

The second, a sturdy, bearded dwarf, wore a fox-fur trimmed coat over a chainmail shirt and stood to the side, arms crossed. Though he’d come with the knight, he retained a distinct position of his own.

“Victor of Bell Town, east of Thurekania—may I learn your names, gentlemen? Is there anything I can do for you?”

The White Rose Knight ignored Victor’s bow. “I am Taylor, Knight of the White Rose from Dornedale Fortress, in service to Prince Seward.” He spoke without so much as glancing at Victor, eyes fixed instead on the priestess, making special note of the word ‘prince.’

A slavish follower of authority, obsessed with titles, eager to latch onto the upper class—a progressive, perhaps the son of a moneylender or a tailor?

Perhaps Victor’s biting internal commentary was somehow communicated to the knight, for Taylor then turned his cold blue eyes, filled with undisguised hatred, toward the witcher’s apprentice. He continued, “And beside me is—”

“Hold on,” the dwarf stepped forward, interrupting Taylor. His voice was hoarse and cold. “Allow me to introduce myself! Witcher, I am Dennis Kramer, Captain of the Guard to Prince Seward.” Beneath bushy brows, his ash-gray eyes regarded Victor—not friendly, but without malice.

Having spoken, Kramer returned to his previous position, yawning openly and maintaining his arms-crossed stance.

“It’s an honor to meet you both,” Victor offered another perfunctory bow.

“There’s nothing honorable about it,” Granny Nannick said calmly. “They’re not here to show respect. In fact, they’re here to demand you leave, to drive you out. I’d say it’s an insult. What do you think?”

“I don’t believe the knight need worry,” Victor shrugged. “I have no intention of settling here. No need to hurry me—I’ll leave on my own accord soon enough.”

How long I remain depends entirely on the gracious High Priestess of Melitele, Lady Nannick, and how long she allows me to stay.

Upon hearing Victor’s words, Taylor shouted, “Leave immediately! I—Taylor, Knight—on behalf of the Lord of Eirland City, Prince Seward, command you to vacate his lands at once—”

With a sharp smack, an iron paperweight was flung at Taylor’s face, leaving a vivid red mark. Nannick’s voice was icy and authoritative: “In this temple, only I give orders. Who gave you the nerve to bark here, whelp?”

Taylor’s features twisted with rage, but he kept silent, refusing to argue with Nannick. Instead, he glared at the witcher’s apprentice, and seeing his expression, Victor resolved to consider Angoulême’s advice—he disliked the feeling that someone wished to torment him.

“Forgive me, Lady Nannick,” the knight turned to address the priestess, each word forced through gritted teeth, “but Prince Seward cannot allow a witcher to remain on his land, whether for personal matters or monster hunting.”

“Well done. After all these years, you’ve finally learned to suppress your anger and utter lies no one believes. I’m glad the child I delivered has grown so; your mother would be proud of you.

Now listen carefully: this isn’t Eirland!” The priestess’s voice carried authority. “This is the Temple of Melitele! And I, Nannick, High Priestess of Melitele, allow him to stay as long as he wishes, with no limit.”

Upon her declaration, Taylor instinctively gripped his sword hilt, but Kramer, the dwarf captain, stepped forward and pressed his hand down first.

“What are you doing? Have you forgotten the prince’s orders?” The knight, unwilling to confront the priestess directly, turned his rage on the dwarf.

Kramer responded coolly, “You need not teach me. I was loyal to the prince long before you knew where to find milk. I follow his orders, word for word.

The prince sent me to accompany you, to keep you from harm. So I’ll stop you from doing anything that might bring you injury.”

He made no attempt to parley with the priestess, but instead turned to Victor. “Listen, witcher. Hiding beneath a woman’s skirts for protection—do you feel no shame? Why not do us all a favor and leave? End this pointless squabble, and spare this esteemed lady further trouble?”

“Your suggestion is truly tempting, Captain, even intoxicating,” Victor mocked. “You seek to provoke me—with knightly honor—a witcher’s apprentice, to lure a youth into your woodland trap, beat him, and exile him—if I understand correctly.”

Kramer’s steel-gray eyes showed no sympathy. “No one will die from it…”

His reply made Victor’s face blossom into a radiant smile. “Tsk, tsk! Well then, Captain Kramer, let’s end this dispute. I don’t wish to cause trouble, but you don’t really care either.”

At this, Granny Nannick furrowed her brow, about to speak.

“No, Lady Nannick, please say nothing. I’ve made my decision. Thank you for your promise, for allowing me to stay as long as I wish, but I cannot abuse your generosity.” Victor bowed respectfully to the priestess.

“I will leave within thirty days! Thirty days—I ask for nothing more.” He then uttered something that disgusted Taylor enough to make the High Priestess laugh aloud, while the dwarf captain pondered deeply.

Clearly, this young man cared little for the so-called authority draped about Taylor’s shoulders.

“You all heard him.” Before the visitors could respond, the priestess spoke. “Gentlemen, you heard it. The witcher’s apprentice will remain here for thirty more days—that is his wish.

And I, priestess of the great Melitele, will host him for thirty more days—that is mine. You may convey this to Seward himself.

No, never mind—I’ll write to the ‘noble’ Amellia myself, remind her that her husband ought to keep an eye on his rabid dogs, lest they begin biting senselessly.”

With a wave of her hand, Granny Nannick dismissed them like swatting flies. “Now that everything’s been said, you may leave. My temple does not welcome you.”

…

Furious, Taylor finally bowed to the priestess, armor clattering as he departed.

For in this temple, he could do nothing; if he tried, before dusk, he and his soldiers would be strung up by angry townsfolk on the row of locust trees lining the city gate.

By the grace of the goddess Melitele.