A few days ago, the elves who'd stepped into the traps were already mostly healed. The Phantom Troupe had also been allowed to leave freely. They only stayed a few extra days because Angoulême wanted to attend the summer festival—and because Victor, seeing the benefit of getting a pile of free helpers gathering herbs in exchange for a little instruction, decided it was worth it.
So, on the morning after the festival's second night, the troupe set off again on their journey to Vizima. They would take the road first to Ellander—a city east of Vizima. It had once been a duchy, and now stood as a Temerian vassal principality.
The ones who guided them out of the forest on foot were Flotsam's Scoia'tael deputy commander, Ciaran aep Easnillen, and the herb camp leader, Toruviel aep Sihiel.
As for why the troupe changed plans—skipping Flotsam by boat and taking the road instead—the reason was simple.
"Yesterday that bastard Loredo suddenly locked down the area around Flotsam," Ciaran explained with an apologetic look. "He even sent armed search parties into the woods. No one knows what he's after, but it's best not to approach Flotsam overland right now.
"Lord Iorveth rushed to the front overnight to handle it, so he couldn't come see you off. Sorry."
Bernard Loredo—commandant of Flotsam's garrison. Victor had heard that name constantly during his stay in the camp.
From the elves' mouths, Loredo was a hypocritical, contemptible racist: pretending to accept nonhumans while actually running a regime of exploitation.
"The road isn't as comfortable or as quick as the river," Toruviel added lightly as she walked, her steps swift and her posture composed, as if last night's "incident" had never happened at all. "But Ellander has the largest Temple of Melitele on the Continent. If I remember correctly, Mother Nenneke there has deep knowledge of herbs as well.
"You should go pay a visit. I've wanted to for a long time, but that city isn't friendly to nonhumans."
"Thanks. I'll go," Victor replied evenly, feet steady, stride calm—like the one who'd been subjected to a brutal, inhumane gauntlet last night hadn't been him. "But you two are officers. Is it really okay for you to escort us? Will Iorveth be fine on his own?"
"It's fine," Ciaran answered, a trace of pride on his refined face—absolute faith in Iorveth in every word. "Loredo has never gotten the better of us in the forest. I don't know why he's making such a spectacle this time, but it's guaranteed to end with nothing."
"I bet it's because of that giant tentacled beast!" Angoulême cut in out of nowhere. She'd been playing with her hawk the whole way, looking like she wasn't paying attention at all. "If something like that is showing up on the Pontar, Flotsam's trade is going to take a huge hit.
"Hey—how did you even get something that big to appear? Can you control it?"
Victor smiled faintly. He hadn't expected Angoulême to be useful for once, but she'd just asked the exact question he'd wanted to ask for ages. He'd been wondering how the Scoia'tael had "produced" that monster, but with Iorveth there, a certain unspoken understanding between clever people made it hard to bring up.
As a friendly guest, he wouldn't pry into Iorveth's secrets—just as Iorveth had never asked why his elves, supposedly experts at forest warfare, kept stumbling one after another into Victor's crudely placed bear traps.
With Angoulême asking outright, Ciaran's expression turned awkward and slightly embarrassed. He hesitated before answering.
"I'll tell you in private—the Kayran actually has nothing to do with us. We don't know where that thing came from.
"But its appearance very clearly intimidated Loredo, so we simply didn't correct the misunderstanding."
That answer was so unexpected Victor turned his head and looked at Toruviel.
She nodded, confirming it wasn't the elves, then smiled and slid into a teasing tone. "What? Our 'master witcher' is interested in going monster-hunting?"
Victor answered without hesitation. "I'm not, I don't, and don't put words in my mouth. Something that big? You'd need at least a high-ranking mage on standby, and a true master witcher to plan the whole thing. An apprentice like me would just die."
Ciaran gave a low, smug chuckle. "Sounds like great news. It won't be easy for that bastard Loredo to find a high-ranking mage and a master witcher willing to help him."
Victor didn't respond. In his judgment, if Loredo really was as vile as the elves claimed, then Flotsam's trade being crippled would be a disaster for the nonhumans living in the town.
So whether for humans or nonhumans, Victor didn't see this as "good news."
Some things just couldn't be explained cleanly.
…
Evening — a blazing sunset — the edge of the Flotsam forests
With farewell approaching, Ciaran aep Easnillen clearly had no intention of pretending anymore. After apologizing to Victor, he pulled Angoulême aside to whisper to her in private. But judging by the way she kept playing with her hawk while he talked, the "captain" suspected Ciaran's prospects were grim.
Victor was enjoying the little youthful drama when Toruviel tapped his shoulder from behind.
He turned.
Under her beautifully patterned brows, her smooth, high forehead framed those dark eyes—deep, alluring, without a trace of hesitation or shyness. Toruviel reached out as if it were the most natural thing in the world, casually explored Victor's face for a moment, and then smiled.
"Taking a closer look… I really did drink too much yesterday."
A warm breeze brushed their faces in the summer dusk, carrying a faint, drifting fragrance.
Victor had been half-expecting her to say something reluctant and tender.
Instead, he got that.
He burst out laughing, lighthearted and amused. "Do you have any idea some things just shouldn't be said?"
Toruviel's smile bloomed.
"Actually, after it was over, I didn't leave. I stayed outside your tent, planning to go in and chase everyone out and 'save' you once you couldn't take it anymore." Her voice was sweet and shameless.
Victor shook his head, laughing softly. "Then I'm sorry to disappoint you. No chance for you to show off."
Toruviel rested her left hand on her hip and touched her ear with the right, as if still incredulous. "I really was surprised. I'd heard witchers are strong—strong enough to satisfy even sorceresses. But I didn't think an apprentice like you could manage that much…"
The sun dipped lower. Something about the moment made Victor want to crack a joke, so he did.
"One of my seniors, Eskel, once told me: we train our bodies so that even in an unfavorable one-against-three situation, we can find a chance to turn it around—break the enemy in the struggle."
Toruviel snorted, catching the second meaning immediately, laughing so hard she swayed. "And one against five—when the other side is using 'equipment'?"
"To stay alive," Victor said smoothly, "and look for a chance to escape."
"And if escape is impossible?" she pressed, grinning.
Victor answered without missing a beat. "When well-rested, with potions and breathing techniques, a witcher can achieve astonishing results—though it can't guarantee the outcome is always victory."
Toruviel giggled. "You really are good at jokes. Looks like I shouldn't have covered your mouth last night."
That line was a little too precise.
Toruviel really didn't let up. Victor choked on it and started coughing hard. The violence of his coughing not only cut off whatever follow-up Toruviel might have launched, it also drew Angoulême and Ciaran's attention.
So.
It was time to say goodbye.