Chapter Seventy: How a Musician Is Made

The next morning, Victor resumed his interrupted habit of jogging at dawn. Yesterday, intoxicated by a delightful evening of drinking with Dandelion, he had given himself a day off. That so-called “instant rapport” was perfectly embodied in the relationship between the apprentice and the poet; they naturally got along from the start. After a few too many drinks, they’d spar with words, flaunt their knowledge of allusions, share gossip, and discuss the kings of the continent. According to them, west of the Blue Mountains, not a single monarch was free from ridicule.

Even Angoulême’s peculiar and often cryptic remarks, typically dismissed as nonsensical, never failed to amuse Dandelion. For instance, when she said, “Please begin your performance,” coupled with an outstretched arm and upturned palm, the poet praised it as “a sharp and brilliant satire on this absurd world.”

Jogging along his familiar route, Victor noticed that several roadblocks had been dismantled. As the plague receded with the cold, just as the burly innkeeper Gryffin had predicted, Vizima was returning to its old self—one of the most bustling, sleepless cities in the North.

When he returned home, Victor heard voices inside—Dandelion’s among them. Succumbing to a universal human curiosity, he didn’t enter immediately but edged closer to the window to eavesdrop.

“I still find it unbelievable. How could they do such a thing? How can people be so ungrateful? Just the day before, Geralt had helped them deal with the drowners by the river, and the next day, they came at us with swords, hoes, and pitchforks.” Dandelion’s tone was a touch exaggerated, as if recounting the infamous massacre at Blaviken.

“Yes, I always thought the old man was too soft-hearted. One day, it would cost him dearly. Shani, did you know? The one who stabbed him had been on his knees the moment before, begging Geralt to spare his life. The instant Geralt lowered his sword from the man’s neck, that wild-haired youth rammed a pitchfork right into his belly. I was so furious I drew my sword and chopped off his hand on the spot,” Angoulême added, her story growing ever wilder.

“Dandelion, don’t dwell on it. Geralt wouldn’t want you to be so upset. And you too, Angoulême—don’t go over those details again,” Shani gently chided the poet and scolded the wild girl.

…After listening for a while, Victor sensed the conversation drawing to a close. As he was about to open the door, a vague feeling flickered through his mind—something seemed off in the exchange, not anything serious, just a faint discordance.

If he had to describe it, it was like gazing at a distant nude beach: you might not make out every face, but you would certainly notice the person in a bikini. Then, as swiftly as it had come, the feeling vanished—like seeing the person remove their swimsuit, and no matter how hard you looked, you could no longer spot what had drawn your attention, for they looked no different from anyone else.

With a helpless shake of his head, Victor entered the dining room. Shani, Dandelion, and Angoulême were enjoying the breakfast he’d specially prepared before his run.

When Angoulême saw him, she grinned and slid out a chair for him. After Victor politely greeted the three at the table and sat down, he smiled, “Good morning. Sorry I got back late from my run. What were you all discussing? Anything amusing?”

Shani glanced at Victor. “I was just berating Dandelion for getting a child drunk. His excuse was that you two are kindred spirits in music, so he couldn’t help but overindulge. Do you have anything to add to that?” With that, she speared a small piece of bacon and slipped it between her lips.

Seeing the doctor’s half-smiling expression and the poet’s sheepish attempt to avoid his gaze, Victor felt as if he’d just sat down to face a trap.

Of course, Victor’s principles wouldn’t allow him to shift the blame entirely, so he nodded. “Yes, it’s been a long time since I met someone I could truly connect with musically, so we did have a few more drinks than usual.”

“Here you go,” Shani said, breaking her bread in two—one half for herself, the other she dropped into Victor’s soup bowl. “After all this time, I never knew you could play the lute. When did you start learning?”

That was a well-placed question. Angoulême’s round eyes lit with curiosity—she, too, had no idea about the history of the captain’s musical education. She’d first learned of his talent during a spontaneous performance at a dwarven tavern in Vergen, which promptly got both of them thrown out by the dwarves.

Even Victor’s newest confidant, Dandelion, paused mid-bite and leaned forward, palms up, inviting the story. “Tell us your tale—begin your performance!”

Victor burst out laughing at the poet’s jest; to him, it was as if Dandelion had said, “Please begin your tall tale!” The two women, of course, couldn’t see what was so funny.

After a good laugh, Victor saw the three awaiting his answer with eager faces. He tilted his head, considering, then cleared his throat and decided to tell the truth.

“In my hometown of Bellville, I always felt I was somehow different, but for the longest time, I couldn’t figure out what set me apart. So I thought, perhaps my destiny lay in music and poetry, that I was meant to pursue an artistic life. I started learning to read music and play the lute at four. At five, I composed my first piece, ‘Two Tigers.’ That same year, I wrote my second and third pieces, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ and ‘The Clay Doll’… At six…”

The three listened intently, as if they were witnessing the birth of a musical prodigy. Many people are born with confidence; few truly display extraordinary talent.

“Then, when I was nine, my grandmother handed me a stirring rod and a great cauldron to try my hand at alchemy. I learned quickly, and it turned out I didn’t need music or song to distinguish myself—I was already unique.”

At this, Dandelion shook his head, interrupting, “I must disagree. The way you put it, it’s as if mastering alchemy made art and song less important. That’s not right. There are too many so-called alchemists—any charlatan can perform a few simple tricks. But just based on your performance of ‘With You’ yesterday—the innovative rhythm, the graceful melody, the emotion in every note—I believe, if you keep at it, your name will be etched in history—as a great musician.”

Victor only shook his head in response to Dandelion’s exaggerated praise. The title of musician was a jest; he knew himself well—he was, at best, a gifted courier of great works. Those pieces of cultural heritage were his most treasured memories, a part of his ability. He would never be so arrogant or hypocritical as to discard them, nor so brazen as to claim them as his own and lose sight of who he was.

Shani picked up the thread, “That means I’m the only one at this table who’s never heard you play! Victor, don’t you feel ashamed?”

Facing her stern, expectant gaze, the apprentice alchemist made a face. “I’m deeply sorry, Shani. I promise, the next chance I get, I’ll perform just for you.”

Angoulême jumped in at just the right moment, “A solo isn’t enough—you should compose a new piece for my dear sister Shani!”

The bard at once applauded the idea. Speaking from experience, his own greatest bursts of inspiration always came when he was with his muse. Since Victor clearly had such talent, he should make the most of it while he was young.

Very well, Angoulême—your allowance will be capped for the next year, and there may even be grounds for a reduction.

Victor smiled brightly. “No problem! I’ll write a song for Shani.” He’d simply borrow a beautiful tune and make his friends happy—what could be easier?

Dandelion raised his cup with a cheerful grin. “If you ask me, becoming a musician is far better than becoming a witcher.”

He realized his mistake the moment the words left his mouth and, not wishing to darken the mood, hurried to add, “No, I didn’t mean it like that!”

The witcher apprentice only smiled and waved off the apology, making it clear there was no need to worry.