The clerk at the town hall didn't give Victor any trouble. He only accepted the nekker ears with open disgust and paid out orens.
As he took the gold coins, Victor studied the designs with particular care—the Temerian lily on the reverse wasn't important. What he wanted to see was King Foltest's profile, that supposedly noble, handsome side-face.
Victor's interest was simple: the king's scandals were endless. This was a ruler who could say something as idiotic as, "A man loving his sister is a natural and beautiful thing," and then, rather than bow to the dowager queen and the entire realm's nobility by taking a queen, stubbornly carried the pressure and put his "sibling love" into practice.
And what made it worse was that he'd won. Court intrigue or battlefield decisions—Foltest was a king of constant victories, never defeated. Aside from his sister "Adda of Temeria" dying in childbirth, and her posthumous daughter "Adda the White" being cursed for a time into a striga, his life had been a march from one triumph to the next.
Private life aside, he was powerful and competent—far more so than Kaedwen's greedy, shortsighted Henselt, Aedirn's mediocre Demavend III, or Redania's young Radovid V. Among the Northern kings, he was the undisputed leader, and Temeria under his rule was also the main force holding back Nilfgaard's invasions.
Just as Victor was about to leave, the clerk unexpectedly called out to him. "Wait… hey, stop. Don't come any closer."
Pinching his nose, face twisted like he was looking at trash, the man said, "You're a witcher, aren't you? For your own good, get out of this city. There's no place for the likes of you to live here."
Victor frowned, about to press him for a reason—but the clerk just waved him off, said no more, and slammed the service window shut.
With the main source of the stench—those nekker ears—sold off, Victor did what he'd already done before entering the city: he'd rinsed himself a bit by the river. Now he wiped away the nose-blocking salve under his philtrum, took out the antidote, warmed it between his palms, and drew in a deep breath.
He took a few more breaths to confirm his sense of taste and smell had returned, and that his own odor was still within an acceptable range. Then Victor set off, asking for directions to the Temple of Melitele.
What the boy didn't know was that not long after he left, a group of heavily armored knights bearing a white rose crest arrived at the town hall.
The leader knocked on the service window and spoke coldly. "Did a mutant freak come here today to claim a bounty?" He wore a crimson cloak, his whole body sheathed in armor, only his helmet left off. He looked to be in his early thirties, and would probably have been quite handsome—if not for the long scar that cut across his face.
The clerk answered without expression. "Yes. Eleven nekker ears, honored sir."
"Do you know which direction he went?"
"I don't, sir. He took the money and left."
…
A poplar-lined avenue led from the main gate toward the sanctuary-side buildings. The main temple complex was built against the hillside, with a garden and several outer structures around it.
Victor hadn't expected the Temple of Melitele to be outside the city at all—built in the forest beyond the walls. And the scale of it… you could almost call it a small castle. Even compared to Kaer Morhen, it didn't feel inferior in size.
"This is an offering to Melitele—one hundred and ten orens." Victor placed the still-cool bounty into the hands of the priestess at reception. Her eyes were blue, her hair faintly reddish. Around thirty, her features were still soft and youthful, with a light scattering of freckles across her cheeks.
She accepted the pouch, nodded, and offered a gentle smile.
Victor continued, "I am a Wolf School witcher apprentice—Victor of Bell Town, from east of Zerrikania. In accordance with the ancient covenant, I seek the temple's aid. I wish to meet the archpriestess, Lady Nenneke."
The abruptness of it clearly flustered the priestess. Her pale face flushed bright red, as though she didn't know how to respond. Then she patted Victor's arm and gestured for him to follow her into the temple's inner halls.
…
At the same time—
In a second-floor room at The Limping Anton, Angoulême sat on the bed, bored out of her mind. She had no one to talk to—Catherine was out in the forest beyond the city, flying free, and the captain had gone off to the Temple of Melitele.
Angoulême didn't like temples, but that didn't stop her from understanding—and, in her own way, feeling close to—Melitele. The goddess was depicted in three aspects: a carefree maiden, a mature pregnant woman, and a bent, hunched old crone. They symbolized humanity's oldest faith in fertility, love, the plow and fields, the hearth at home, and the safety of mothers with child—gathered into countless female forms.
They were believed to rule over birth and reproduction, to watch over farmers and gardeners, and to bless lovers and spouses. Over time, these different beliefs accumulated, merged, and blended together until all those goddesses became one—the mother of all: Melitele.
Her clergy refused to involve themselves in politics. They preached love and peace, and built many hospitals, shelters, and orphanages. In the Skellige Isles, the goddess was called Freya; among elves, she was known as Dana Méadbh. She was the patron of all women.
Suddenly, the everyday clamor outside fell into silence, drawing Angoulême's attention.
She opened the window and leaned out. Her eyesight was sharp—she clearly saw knights grabbing a roadside vendor and interrogating him, their armor marked with the white rose crest.
Her hearing was sharp, too.
"You said a witcher asked you for the Temple of Melitele's location?"
"Y-yes… sir."
The knight tossed the vendor aside, two orens clinking down onto the ground. His voice was hoarse. "Ah… the Temple of Melitele again!"
He didn't swear, but the hatred in his tone was so deep even Angoulême could hear it plainly.
Then he led his men away, and the street slowly returned to its usual bustle.
After a few seconds of thought, Angoulême dressed quickly. The captain had told her not to wander, but she was confident that a simple bit of information-gathering wouldn't cause trouble.
…
The priestess who'd been guiding Victor bowed, signed a few quick gestures, and then slowly withdrew from the side chapel. Victor watched her leave, mild confusion lingering.
"Don't mind it, child. Priestess Iola has chosen to offer a vow of silence to Melitele," Lady Nenneke said, her voice warm and kind.
From her appearance alone, the archpriestess was at least over sixty. She looked exactly like what most people imagined when they thought the word grandmother—short and plump yet nimble, gentle yet commanding, her eyes carrying the settled wisdom of years.
Victor bowed deeply, all the way down. In this era, most clergy still had real skill and real compassion. And someone like the archpriestess of the Temple of Melitele—devoting herself day after day for decades—might truly have received divine guidance. Victor understood and respected the existence of people like that.
"Lady Nenneke, Wolf School witcher apprentice, Victor of Bell Town—east of Zerrikania—pays you respect."
"Bell Town, east of Zerrikania? Wolf School?"
"Yes." Victor took out the Wolf School medallion and offered it to her with both hands.
She accepted it and inspected it briefly. "And how is Vizimir's health?" she asked casually, shifting in her throne-like armchair to find a more comfortable position.
Victor was puzzled, but he still replied respectfully. "Master Vesemir is in very good health. This spring, he even went to Redania."
The moment the words left his mouth, a suspicion struck him. He looked up sharply and met her gaze—but in her gentle, deep eyes, he couldn't read anything at all.
In the quiet, the archpriestess pondered for a moment.
Then she rose and walked slowly to Victor. The boy immediately half-kneeled so he could be closer to eye level.
She reached out and touched his young face, studying his still-unmutated pupils. Like any old grandmother fussing over a grandchild, she kneaded and pinched his cheeks for a good while—then said kindly, "Young apprentice, from now on you may call me Grandmother Nenneke. Back when Geralt was still alive, he always wanted to call me that—even though I'm actually younger than he was."
Letting go of Victor's cheeks, Grandmother Nenneke walked toward the door.
"Come with me, child. By the ancient covenant—and more importantly, by personal ties—I should first find you a place to stay, so you can wash properly and rest a while. At the very least, we'll get rid of this nekker stink all over you. Then we'll talk about the help you've come to request."