Chapter Fifteen: This Is the Miracle of Destiny

The ceiling of the cave dwelling was remarkably high—a signature trait of dwarven architecture. Though dwarves themselves were only half the height of humans, their architectural style was the exact opposite; one could see this in all the grand and magnificent structures that remained—if not elven ruins, then certainly dwarf-built.

Candlelight cast shifting shadows across Lambert’s face, half in light, half in darkness. “After you fainted, there was nothing I could do but wait for dawn to cross the river. As I got you into the city, I ran into Zoltan—the dwarf with the mohawk you met yesterday, Zoltan Chivay.”

Hearing the name, Victor’s expression turned odd. “You knew him before?”

“No, I didn’t know him. He recognized my badge, saw me with you, and came over saying he was Geralt’s friend. He asked if I needed help. I told him you were Ciri’s brother and asked him to find a doctor and a place to stay—you ended up here because of that.” At this, Lambert scratched the back of his head. “It only occurred to me later—Zoltan was there during the Massacre of Rivia, fighting alongside Geralt against the mob. Dandelion mentioned his name in his account, but since I didn’t know him, I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s quite a coincidence, running into him like that.”

“Indeed. After bringing you here, at first we weren’t sure what was wrong with you—until you started arching like a spider. Even a child would know that means lockjaw…”

“Lockjaw?”

“They don’t have that in Bell Town? It’s an infection caused by wounds. Before it sets in, it’s easy to treat—pour strong liquor over the cut, then drink a bitter tonic to prevent it. Once it’s active, you can only rely on your constitution to pull through. You’ve been staying at Angoulême’s house these days, and she’s the one who’s been caring for you. You owe her your thanks.”

Sounds like tetanus…

The boy reflexively quipped back at Lambert, “Thanks for what? Offering myself in gratitude?”

“No need for that. She thinks you look pretty ordinary, nothing special. If you want to thank her, join her Hansa.”

“Tch! Fine, so what’s this White Wolf Hansa about?”

“To explain that, I have to start with her background. Previously, Geralt gathered some friends to help him search for Ciri. She was one of them. According to her, Geralt saved her from the gallows—a debt of life she believes can never be repaid, so she considers him her Hansa leader.”

Lambert paused, took a swig of vodka from a small flask, and continued, “During the Battle of Stygga Castle, all the members of the search party but her died. With no family left, she wandered with Geralt for months until what happened to him in Rivia. Zoltan saw her alone and brought her here.”

“Now, with you appearing, for Angoulême, the first successor after the White Wolf’s death would naturally be Ciri. And since both she and Ciri are missing, as Ciri’s acknowledged brother, you’re now the leader of her Hansa.”

“So… this organization is just her own imaginary construct? I doubt Geralt ever acknowledged himself as the leader of any White Wolf Hansa!” Lucid, Victor came to his conclusion quickly.

“Come on, don’t be so heartless. Just play along with her—she’s had a hard time, and this Hansa is her only emotional anchor. Anyway, that’s as much as I can say; Zoltan told me some of it. You’ll have a chance to ask her yourself later.”

“With the way you describe it, I can already imagine it’s all small miseries and tragedies—nothing anyone would want to hear, or that would only leave you depressed.”

“If you want to hear about something big, there’s actually one thing,” Lambert’s face took on an apologetic look. “I have to leave you for a while.”

“What’s going on?” Victor’s expression remained calm, knowing Lambert wouldn’t leave without good reason.

“I have a good friend named Aiden—a Cat School witcher. We get along like brothers. I received a message he left for me; he seems to be in some trouble, and I have to go help him.”

“Witchers have no fixed abode. How did he leave you a message? Is there anything I can do?”

“Not for this—it’s work. He didn’t send the message, just left it for me, like how you have Brass in Ban Ard. I have some local friends here in Vergen too.”

Victor understood. In this era of poor communication, wanderers like witchers naturally developed their own ways of staying in contact. And, of course, Wolf School witchers had Kaer Morhen as a base for wintering.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay and look after you!”

Victor raised an eyebrow and grinned, “You know I can take care of myself, especially in a city—Zoltan’s introductions mean I’ll be living well. As they say in Bell Town, ‘Where there are people, there’s always a market for virility tonics.’”

Who would ever worry about selling aphrodisiacs? Impossible!

Lambert suspected Victor was making up sayings, but he had no proof. After all, if the Kaedweni proverb “A man without money is like a bow without arrows” counted, then Bell Town’s sayings weren’t so bad—there was truth in them.

“So, will your journey continue? Or are you waiting here for me?”

“There’s no telling how long you’ll be gone. Once I’ve recovered and made a little money, I’ll set out on my own. Don’t worry, the rest of the journey is all by river—I doubt anything will go wrong on a boat.”

Lambert considered for a moment. “True enough. If something happens to you on the Pontar, you really would have the worst luck!”

—

The next morning, stepping out of Vergen after eight days, the boy finally saw sunlight again, as well as the massive iron gates forged by dwarven craft. With these impregnable defenses, they had twice repelled the powerful armies of Kaedwen.

As he watched Lambert mount his horse and ride away, Victor was suddenly seized by a powerful feeling—this might be the last time in his life he ever saw Lambert alive.

“Hey! Don’t go narrating from the sidelines! Do you dislike him that much?” Victor, still watching Lambert’s retreating figure, turned to glare at Angoulême, both annoyed and amused.

Her bright brown eyes showed not a hint of embarrassment, and she replied with perfect self-assurance, “I don’t like him. He’s always making fun of people in every way possible, so I just curse him a little—it’s only fair!”

“What does he tease you about?”

She puffed up in indignation. “That bald head calls my hair dry straw, says I have flat hips, a flat chest, a thick waist, and that I’m a stumpy little thing…”

Victor was at a loss—clearly, Lambert was rather fond of this girl. “Alright, enough, enough. I agree, it’s only fair for you to curse him a bit. Anyway, he’ll live a long life—I genuinely have that feeling.”

“Enough, you say? Well, you can boss me around, you saved my life, and you’re Ciri’s brother. That makes you the leader of my Hansa!” the girl declared earnestly.

Being Hansa leader was understandable, but “life savior” was a new one. “You say I saved your life? How’s that? We only met for the first time eight days ago.”

The girl produced an empty bottle. Victor started—he recognized it at once; it was his grandmother’s special vial. Could it be—? “You gave Ciri the healing potion! Back at Stygga Castle, I was stabbed in the thigh…” She hiked up her skirt high, revealing a completely healed wound at the top of her leg. Though the scar was old, it was clear how deep the injury had once been. “I bled nearly to death. Ciri gave me this to drink and it saved my life!”

Victor politely averted his gaze and gestured for her to lower her skirt—this was the wilds, but a girl should still be modest, though this wild child clearly understood everything, just couldn’t be bothered with modesty.

Looking into the distance, he saw Lambert’s figure already swallowed by grass and trees. Sunshine flooded the land, a gentle breeze rustling the forest, bringing fresh air.

Well, so be it—one more helper, then.

When she produced the bottle, Victor truly felt a strange joy—a sense that his actions had altered this world. His grandmother’s healing potion, together with his own generosity, had saved a life that should have been lost. Now, that life stood before him—a miracle of fate.

“No matter what kind of person she used to be, since I played a part in snatching her from death, she owes me a share,” Victor mused to himself. “My people… my Hansa?”