Chapter Sixty: Reaching the End of the Temple District

For Shani, today was a rare day of ease and laughter, a day of happiness she had not experienced in a long time. A young man without prejudice, an honest and amusing girl, delicious beef stewed in red wine, brioche with creamy butter, and onion soup seasoned with bay leaves and thyme—she felt she could not have asked for more.

But fate clearly had more surprises in store. “My goodness! ‘Fundamentals of Pathological Morphology’ and ‘Forensic Medicine’... How did you come by these books?”

The simple explanation was that, out of a small personal interest in anatomy, she had bought them from a banker.

To satisfy her curiosity, their host provided the doctor with a comfortable reading chair in his alchemy chamber, along with a pot of rose tea, then picked up a notebook and began to study on his own.

...

Night—Temple Quarter of Vizima—

Before visiting, Shani had not expected to remain at Victor’s house until the verge of curfew, nor that the young man would go out of his way to escort her home.

The crescent moon hung above as their steps fell in an unhurried rhythm. Shani brushed aside the red hair that drifted before her eyes. “I hope I wasn’t too much of a bother today. Isn’t this usually the time you two head out for work?”

The evening breeze was gentle, their pace unhurried. Victor adjusted the clasp at his leather belt. “It’s no trouble. The tools I commissioned from the blacksmith aren’t ready yet, so even if we left town, we’d just be at the lake, helping the lass practice swimming.”

She laughed. “The relationship between you two is so amusing. She’s older, but when you’re together, the roles seem completely reversed—you’re like her older brother.”

She hesitated, then smiled mischievously. “Though I don’t quite get it, try not to be too strict with her. She’s still a child—well, you’re ‘still sort of’ one too.” At this, the doctor began to chuckle wickedly.

“Oh, come on, Shani. You’re only two years older than Angoulême, and seven years older than me. Doesn’t it feel odd to keep calling us kids?” As he spoke, Victor couldn’t help grinning himself.

For it suddenly struck him: if one took it seriously, the doctor was only three years older than Ciri. By that measure, White Wolf Geralt was truly outrageous—he didn’t even spare girls his daughter’s age. Wasn’t that just the story of a centenarian grandfather and a blossoming young maiden?

Naturally, Shani had no idea the young man was entertaining such “impertinent” thoughts. She continued, “Though in years there’s not much difference, I suppose it’s the environment—Angoulême seems so immature in some ways, and yet in others, almost too grown up.

“And honestly, working at the hospital ages you fast! I mean in spirit—and in ‘skin’.” She pointed playfully at her cheek, where traces of a rash lingered from wearing a raven mask for long hours.

Victor smiled gently. “You’re too modest, Doctor. Trust me, you’re in your prime. I’ve traveled from east of Serekania, through Kaedwen, Aedirn, and Temeria—five cities in two years—and I’ve not met a woman more charming than you.” He spoke with sincere conviction.

“And don’t worry about those rashes—I know an excellent cooling ointment for them. I’ll prepare some tomorrow morning and bring it to the hospital for you.”

Shani’s dimples showed through her smile. “Isn’t that too much trouble? I already seem to be taking so much from you.”

Victor shrugged. “It’s nothing. Disinfectant isn’t hard to make, and helping the hospital is an honor. You’re the most admirable people I know.”

That morning, after coming downstairs to open the door, Angoulême had naturally handed Shani some of Victor’s distilled spirits for hand sanitation. People in medieval times might not get the concentration perfectly, but they certainly knew which spirits worked best for disinfection.

Hearing the doctor’s praise, the young girl, generous with what was not her own, gave away three large casks on the spot.

When Victor heard about it later, he didn’t mind. He may have lacked initiative for giving, but he respected and supported healers wholeheartedly.

After seeing Shani safely home, and receiving a curious once-over from her elderly landlady, Victor hurried back before the city’s curfew bell.

...

Walking with me through Vizima’s streets,
Even when all the lights are out, we keep on walking.
—Anonymous, “Vizima”

...

The next afternoon—Swamp Forest—

The elven commander eyed with curiosity the new device the Phantom Brigade had brought for the burrow. “Vick, did you design this unusual trap yourself?”

Layered mechanisms interlocked in tubes, with razor-sharp, jagged silvered teeth—at a glance, it resembled a multi-tiered bear trap.

“Yes. I call it the Tree-catcher. It will be the nemesis of the Thorned Demon Tree.”

Victor’s every move was steady and composed. Again he lured the monster from a specific spot, again deflected its acidic spray with an iron umbrella. This time, however, when the creature emerged, it was instantly ensnared by the steel jaws of the trap.

Every tooth was silver-plated and coated with a Witcher’s special oil for cursed monsters. Yaevinn observed—the moment the plant was caught, it writhed in agony far beyond that of burning in flames. The pain must have been truly excruciating.

Shielded by the iron umbrella, Victor thrust his silver sword deep into the monster’s core, ending its strange struggle. The rest was simple: collect its sap, hack off its tendrils, and break it down for alchemical materials.

The commander quickly saw that the umbrella could be replaced by other items, and with such a trap, even a farmer could, in no time, rid himself of these bloodthirsty plants. The day it became common would be the day the “cursed flower buds” vanished forever.

Alas, that day would never come. The trap was costly, nearly single-use; several parts, including the silvered sawteeth, were bent and broken by the plant’s death throes.

After witnessing the Witcher apprentice’s latest weapon, Victor sensed that Yaevinn regarded him with newfound respect, as one expert to another.

He demonstrated the procedure, then let the girl squad members continue harvesting tendrils and sap. The young leader walked aside with the elven commander for a more confidential conversation.

From his herb pouch, he drew out the banker’s reply and handed it to Yaevinn, who opened Golan Vivaldi’s letter right there without ceremony, read it, and quickly put it away.

“Are you heading back to the city soon?”

“After collecting these materials, I’ll finish off the remaining demon trees near the logging area with ‘Dancing Star’ powder—should be back in three hours, before dark, in time to claim my bounty at the city watch post.”

“That’s fine. I’ll have someone bring another letter before you leave the forest. There’s another, less important question, but I’d like your answer.” The elf paused, his slanted eyes fixed on the blue of the young man’s. “Tell me—four hundred orens for the bounty, but the trap alone costs a hundred. You risk your life in these woods, lose fire powder, build iron umbrellas, pay for living expenses... is it really worth it?”

Victor rubbed his nose and replied, “The trap doesn’t count—it’s for my own material gathering. And though the orens aren’t much, I gain much more: monster parts, hunting experience, and a good reputation.”

His face, marked by four scars, looked wholly content as he spoke.