Chapter Nine: An Age of Ignorance

It was obvious that Lambert’s dramatic and aromatic entrance last night was not at all appreciated by the proprietor, who was neither lame nor named Nat. So, the next day, the witcher and the boy simply left the Lame Nat Tavern, had their armor patched up at the blacksmith’s, and continued their journey toward Ban Ard.

Aedd Caelle and Ban Ard were two of the largest cities in Kaedwen, and the road connecting them was naturally well-kept. Even Loyal was prancing along with nimble steps, looking every bit the spirited thoroughbred as he tossed his head in the wind.

…

Night fell, and as usual, they camped beside the road. After their daily sword practice, the two sat by the campfire, sharing a dinner of rabbit stew with wild vegetables—a limited-edition delicacy courtesy of Chef Victor.

“Have I ever told you how much I appreciate your new hairstyle?” Lambert smacked his lips, savoring the last drop of meat broth from his bowl.

Victor, having finished earlier, was mashing up some foraged plants to make a simple salve. He glanced over, unimpressed. “If you’re planning to mock me, I suggest you think twice. A man with a receding hairline has no right to make fun of anyone’s hair.”

“Damn it, Wick, you don’t have to bristle like a hedgehog at every comment. The old mushroom cut was fine, but this new style is undeniably better. It’s parted the same way, but you wear it much better than Eskel. Honestly—you really suit it. I mean it!” Lambert sounded genuinely aggrieved by the accusation.

Victor shot him a suspicious look and shook his head. “All right, I apologize. You haven’t actually started mocking me. It was a preemptive defense. As for being ‘aggressive,’ I return the compliment in full.”

Satisfied with the apology, Lambert grinned. “Yeah, too bad your face is so average—it doesn’t do that excellent hairstyle any justice.”

The boy’s calm expression spoke volumes: he expected nothing less. “One day, that mouth of yours is going to land you on the gallows.”

The witcher just shrugged, unconcerned.

“So, what’s that salve you’re making?” Lambert asked.

“It’s a secret.”

…

“What does this salve do?” Victor asked, accepting the small tin handed to him.

“It’s for lubrication. Rub it on your inner thighs—it works wonders,” Vesemir replied kindly.

This conversation took place in the stables, the day before they left Kaer Morhen. The seasoned old man not only gave Victor the salve but also the recipe—all common roadside herbs, with no special requirements for the oil. For Victor, about to set out on his first long journey on horseback, it was a blessing.

He could easily imagine the ridicule if Lambert ever discovered chafed skin—he’d laugh as brightly as Yao Ming. Lambert was the type who expressed concern through rudeness, like a schoolboy bullying the girl he liked.

…

After rubbing his steel sword with a soft dry cloth and applying a thin layer of sword oil, the witcher lay back, using his bundle as a pillow. Above, the stars sparkled, and the Maiden of Winter hung high in the sky.

“Hey, Wick, tell old Lambert—why do you want to become a mage?”

“Why? After all your nonsense, now it’s time for some man-to-man heart-to-heart?” Victor had finished making his salve long ago and was already wrapped tightly in his warm cloak.

“I’m just curious. If you don’t want to say, that’s fine.”

“Isn’t it only natural for men to desire power?... Mages are the strongest.”

“…”

“And you? Why don’t you like mages?”

The witcher was silent for a few seconds.

“...Maybe because mages are evil,” he said at last.

“Evil!?”

“People say witchers lose all human emotion through mutation, but in truth, some mages are the ones truly lacking feelings. For example… are you familiar with the ‘Curse of the Black Sun’?”

“I’ve read about it—a prophecy from the mad mage Eltibald. It claimed that the blood of sixty girls born during eclipses would awaken the witch Lilith, whose coming would bring the world’s destruction.”

Victor spoke nonchalantly; he found such prophecies hard to take seriously. Aside from Ithlinne’s prophecy, which was basically the main storyline of a game…

“Right. Victor of Belltown doesn’t believe such things, but there are plenty who do. To prevent the curse from coming true, some mages advocated killing all girls born during eclipses on the spot. Others hunted these girls, killed and dissected them, and some even performed vivisections—all to study supposed mutations in their bodies.” As he spoke, a trace of menace crept into Lambert’s voice.

“You… saw these things yourself?”

“The calls for killing spread widely in the Northern Kingdoms. Many believed and acted on them. Even today, the poison lingers in the countryside. As for the dissections—Geralt told me about that. Over a decade ago, a mage in Blaviken, hunted by his enemies, asked Geralt for help. While trying to persuade Geralt, he mentioned having observed dissections himself.”

“Every group has its bad apples…” the boy sighed softly.

Lambert’s voice was cold. “They stand above us all, always right. Yet their irresponsible prophecies bring tragedy to the world, and no one is held accountable. You know, witchers often get some strange contracts. Some even think we’re assassins. They say the two swords on our backs—a silver one for monsters, and a steel one for humans.”

“Uh… But isn’t that true?” The boy still sometimes hummed that Velen song—Steel for Humans.

“Hell no! Some monsters can only be slain with silver, and some with steel. Anyway… there were a few times when fools or even nobles, believing in the Black Sun curse, asked me to ‘deal with’ the so-called source of the curse. Those poor girls—some were locked in towers, some beaten until they were unrecognizable—all just for being born at the wrong time!” By now, the witcher’s voice had grown subdued.

Victor asked, “So, what did you do with such contracts?”

Silence hung in the air.

“I walked away…

I could do nothing…

It wasn’t my job.

Neither killing them nor saving them was my place.”

Victor gazed up at the sky. To the left of the Maiden of Winter was the constellation Pegasus. In every world, horses were humanity’s companions, so people left their images among the stars.

He spoke softly, “There are still some good mages out there.”

“Yeah… Like Yenne… No, I won’t praise her even if she’s gone. Like Triss Merigold, at least she sincerely took care of Ciri, was good to Geralt, and treated us decently—she understood the importance of looking people in the eye when speaking. But most mages are like Yennefer—noses in the air, looking down at everyone, filled with a sense of superiority as if the world’s full of fools and only she’s clever enough to be obeyed. Only Geralt, that fool, lets himself be wrapped around her little finger!”

“Triss really is a good woman,” Victor replied, as if he knew her well.

Lambert looked at him, a bit perplexed. “You know Merigold?”

“Triss Merigold—the Fourteenth of the Hill. You mentioned she was there when Geralt died; I asked Vesemir about her afterward.” It was true—Victor believed in always asking questions.

“Yeah, she’s decent in most ways, but her enthusiasm for politics is annoying—full of schemes, intrigue, filth. But that’s mages for you, always convinced the world can’t run without them.”

“All right. I’ll never become that kind of arrogant mage—if I ever become a mage, that is.”

“If you ever do, old Lambert’ll kick your ass!”

“Don’t worry! It’s not likely anyway. Like the medallion said, I don’t have a scrap of magic in me.”

“Want to try again?” Lambert tossed the wolf-head witcher medallion onto Victor.

—It stayed still as a rock, not a hint of vibration.

The boy chuckled and tossed it back.

“All right, I really am going to sleep now.”

Lambert rubbed his nose. “Don’t give up hope. A man’s got to have dreams. Maybe you’re so gifted the medallion can’t detect it—plenty of stories start out that way.”