Chapter Twenty-Eight: Under the Gaze of the Goddess Meritel (Part One)

The guest room in the Temple of Melitele was spacious, bathed in sunlight streaming through the opened blinds, and warmed by the gentle breeze. On the third morning of his stay, Victor sat at the desk by the window, lost in thought as he held the letter Catherine had sent him. Several key phrases echoed in his mind: Knight Taylors, Prince Seward, Mother Nannick, and Geralt of Livia.

The widespread discrimination against witchers in this world was a tangled web of many factors, but Victor was certain of one thing: the wiser a person, the more likely they were to understand and appreciate the value of witchers. It was the ignorant masses, swayed by rumor and wild exaggerations, who indulged their malicious thoughts without restraint.

The events of the past were, in truth, not complicated. Angoulême had pieced together the answer in short order: the matter boiled down to a prejudiced fool abusing his authority and suffering humiliation as a result. The trouble lay in the abuse of power, which brought into question the legal jurisdiction between the local rulers and the temple.

But there was no need for haste. Victor knew he had plenty of time to consider a strategy; as long as he remained within the temple, he would be safe. The most likely course for Knight Taylors would be to probe for Victor’s departure, then set a trap in the forest, just as he had done years before.

The situation was vexing, but Angoulême’s suggestion had to be rejected. Assassination was not the optimal solution. If a White Rose knight, an official member, were to be murdered—and all his men knew he had been seeking trouble with a witcher apprentice—it would be sheer folly to resort to such drastic measures at this moment.

With this in mind, Victor added a line beneath his rejection in the reply: “Double the reading time this afternoon, focus on history first.”

He rolled the finished letter into the ankle band, then gently shook the silver ring. Clever Catherine, like a queen allowing her attendant to slip on her shoe, raised her paw slightly so Victor could fasten the band. He watched as she spread her wings and soared away.

…

Leaving the room and descending the stone steps, Victor nodded politely to the priestess students who had come for training, but never stopped to chat. After three days, he had come to understand them somewhat.

Though still very young—some even younger than Victor—most were far more mature than he’d expected. Some bold girls even pointed out Victor’s still-growing, healthy, well-proportioned physique.

When he voiced his concerns to Mother Nannick about whether his presence as a young man might cause trouble, the priestess replied calmly, “This is the Temple of Melitele! Not a hermitage, nor a common convent. Our goddess does not punish priestesses for anything. Anything.

If you’re not interested, just remember to lock your door before bed each night.”

Victor was not here seeking excitement, so he dutifully locked his door every night. Now, maintaining a polite but distant smile, he slipped through the gaze of the students and headed toward the “greenhouse” in the rear gardens, where Mother Nannick tended to the plants at this hour each day.

…

Sweating slightly, Victor unbuttoned a few buttons of his linen shirt. Sunlight filtered through the crystal panels atop the cave, making the space warm—almost oppressively hot. Breathing the sticky, humid air, Victor moved among giant flowerpots, cabinets, and water troughs with growing familiarity.

He’d loved this place from his first visit, finding it utterly remarkable—a “cave greenhouse,” ingeniously transformed under medieval constraints. Here grew many herbs he’d only read about in books, thought extinct.

Among these lost plants he recognized the five-star-leaved woodruff, the dense clusters of shaggy fungus in the pots, and goosegrass hung with blood-red berries on its tender branches.

He circled the cave’s center, passing large barrels filled with saprotic algae and turtleweed, and saw Mother Nannick with sleeves rolled up, tending these precious plants with scissors and a bone wand.

“Mother, I’m here,” Victor said with a smile, picking up his set of tools. He exchanged labor for the privilege of learning from her as she worked.

Mother Nannick’s voice was warm: “Child, you could sleep a little longer, you know!”

“It’s alright, you know how it is—witcher apprentices are in good health. And working alongside you, I learn so much!”

“Your humility and eagerness to learn are truly endearing—not at all like that little rascal from years ago. Are you really the brother Ciri claims?”

Mother Nannick was a worthy elder. Two days before, in conversation after a rest, Victor had been surprised to learn that Ciri had studied here herself, enjoying a youth much like the other students.

Yennefer had originally come at Geralt’s request to teach Ciri how to master her primal magic, but the two—equally sensitive, proud, and stubborn—unexpectedly forged a bond as deep as that between mother and daughter through their emotional clashes.

Through these talks, once Mother Nannick confirmed Victor’s close connection to Ciri, he felt the temple’s doors truly open to him.

He could now work with her in the greenhouse and read from the temple’s vast library; after demonstrating his alchemical skills, Mother Nannick even granted him free use of the alchemy chamber.

He’d felt such loving trust before, from Vesemir. So, when faced with Mother Nannick’s questions, he answered truthfully and without concealment.

“As for that relationship, it’s really just her unilateral decision.”

“Oh… so you have a different perspective?”

“I’ve spent far more time caring for her than she has for me… Honestly, I doubt she could care for anyone—she can’t even keep a turtle alive.”

“Oh, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“I know, but I never meant it that way either—at least not before she left.”

“What a pity; I had a good impression of you, child.”

Between their idle chatter, she snipped away some trailing leaves. After considering, Victor decided to bring up Knight Taylors’ matter ahead of time.

“Mother, there’s something I think I should tell you.”

Mother Nannick cast a gentle sideways glance at Victor’s earnest face. “Speak freely—no need to be so serious, it’s frightening.”

Victor rubbed his nose and said, “Before I came here, I went to Ellrand to collect a bounty for a demon… The clerk at the town hall warned me that a certain Knight Taylors in the city was extremely hostile to witchers, urging me to leave quickly.”

He paused, hoping for a reaction, but Mother Nannick continued her work without interruption, so Victor pressed on.

“I’m worried this might bring trouble to the temple…”

“Ha!” She stabbed the bone wand into a pot, pulling out some rotten, dried roots and tossing them into the basket for decayed plants.

Her voice carried an authority not to be challenged: “There is no trouble! In this temple, I am the one who gives orders. You may stay as long as you wish.”