The Voice Of Reason 3

THE VOICE OF REASON 3

“I’m Falwick, Count of Moën. And this knight is Tailles, from Dorndal.”

Geralt bowed cursorily, looking at the knights. Both wore armor and crimson cloaks with the emblem of the White Rose on their left shoulder. He was somewhat surprised as, so far as he knew, there was no Commandery of that Order in the neighborhood.

Nenneke, to all appearances smiling lightheartedly and at ease, noticed his surprise.

“These nobly born gentlemen,” she said casually, settling herself more comfortably in her throne-like armchair, “are in the service of Duke Hereward, who governs these lands most mercifully.” “Prince.” Tailles, the younger of the knights, corrected her emphatically, fixing his hostile pale blue eyes on the priestess. “Prince Hereward.” “Let’s not waste time with details and titles.” Nenneke smiled mockingly. “In my day, only those with royal blood were addressed as princes, but now, it seems, titles don’t mean so much. Let’s get back to our introductions, and why the Knights of the White Rose are visiting my humble temple. You know, Geralt, that the Chapter is requesting investitures for the Order from Hereward, which is why so many Knights of the Rose have entered his service. And a number of locals, like Tailles here, have taken vows and assumed the red cloak which becomes him so well.” “My honor.” The witcher bowed once more, just as cursorily as before.

“I doubt it,” the priestess remarked coldly. “They haven’t come here to honor you. Quite the opposite. They’ve arrived demanding that you leave as soon as possible. In short, they’re here to chase you out. You consider that an honor? I don’t. I consider it an insult.” “The noble knights have troubled themselves for no reason.” Geralt shrugged. “I don’t intend to settle here. I’m leaving of my own accord without any additional incentives, and soon at that.” “Immediately,” growled Tailles. “With not a moment’s delay. The prince orders—”

“In this temple, I give the orders,” interrupted Nenneke in a cold, authoritative voice. “I usually try to ensure my orders don’t conflict too much with Hereward’s politics, as far as those politics are logical and understandable. In this case they are irrational, so I won’t treat them any more seriously than they deserve. Geralt, witcher of Rivia, is my guest. His stay is a pleasure to me. So he will stay in my temple for as long as he wishes.” “You have the audacity to contradict the prince, woman?” Tailles shouted, then threw his cloak back over his shoulder to reveal his grooved, brass-edged breastplate in all its splendor. “You dare to question our ruler’s authority?” “Quiet,” Nenneke snapped, and narrowed her eyes. “Lower your voice. Have a care who you speak to like that.” “I know who I’m talking to!” The knight advanced a step. Falwick, the older knight, grabbed him firmly by the elbow and squeezed until the armor-plated gauntlet grated. Tailles yanked furiously. “And my words express the prince’s will, the lord of this estate! We have got soldiers in the yard, woman—” Nenneke reached into the purse at her belt and took out a small porcelain jar. “I really don’t know,” she said calmly, “what will happen if I smash this container at your feet, Tailles. Maybe your lungs will burst. Maybe you’ll grow fur. Or maybe both, who knows? Only merciful Melitele.” “Don’t dare threaten me with your spells, priestess! Our soldiers—”

“If any one of your soldiers touches one of Melitele’s priestesses, they will hang, before dusk, from the acacias along the road to town. And they know that very well. As do you, Tailles, so stop acting like a fool. I delivered you, you shitty brat, and I pity your mother, but don’t tempt fate. And don’t force me to teach you manners!” “All right, all right,” the witcher butted in, growing bored. “It looks as though I’m becoming the cause of a serious conflict and I don’t see why I should. Sir Falwick, you look more levelheaded than your companion who, I see, is beside himself with youthful enthusiasm. Listen, Falwick, I assure you that I will leave in a few days. I also assure you that I have no intention to work here, to undertake any commissions or orders. I’m not here as a witcher, but on personal business.” Count Falwick met his eyes and Geralt realized his mistake. There was pure, unwavering hatred in the White Rose knight’s eyes. The witcher was sure that it was not Duke Hereward who was chasing him out, but Falwick and his like.

The knight turned to Nenneke, bowed with respect and began to speak. He spoke calmly and politely. He spoke logically. But Geralt knew Falwick was lying through his teeth.

“Venerable Nenneke, I ask your forgiveness, but Prince Hereward will not tolerate the presence of this witcher on his lands. It is of no importance if he is hunting monsters or claims to be here on personal business—the prince knows that witchers do not undertake personal business. But they do attract trouble like a magnet filings. The wizards are rebelling and writing petitions, the druids are threatening—” “I don’t see why Geralt should bear the consequences of the unruliness of local wizards and druids,” interrupted the priestess. “Since when has Hereward been interested in either’s opinion?” “Enough of this discussion.” Falwick stiffened. “Have I not made myself sufficiently clear, venerable Nenneke? I will make it so clear as can’t be clearer: neither the prince nor the Chapter of the Order will tolerate the presence of this witcher, Geralt, the Butcher of Blaviken, in Ellander for one more day.” “This isn’t Ellander!” The priestess sprang from her chair. “This is the temple of Melitele! And I, Nenneke, the high priestess of Melitele, will not tolerate your presence on temple grounds a minute longer, sirs!” “Sir Falwick,” the witcher said quietly, “listen to the voice of reason. I don’t want any trouble, nor do I believe that you particularly care for it. I’ll leave this neighborhood within three days. No, Nenneke, don’t say anything, please. It’s time for me to be on my way. Three days. I don’t ask for more.” “And you’re right not to ask.” The priestess spoke before Falwick could react. “Did you hear, boys? The witcher will remain here for three days because that’s his fancy. And I, priestess of Great Melitele, will for those three days be his host, for that is my fancy. Tell that to Hereward. No, not Hereward. Tell that to his wife, the noble Ermellia, adding that if she wants to continue receiving an uninterrupted supply of aphrodisiacs from my pharmacy, she’d better calm her duke down. Let her curb his humors and whims, which look ever more like symptoms of idiocy.” “Enough!” Tailles shouted so shrilly his voice broke into a falsetto. “I don’t intend to stand by and listen as some charlatan insults my lord and his wife! I will not let such an insult pass unnoticed! It is the Order of the White Rose which will rule here, now; it’s the end of your nests of darkness and superstitions. And I, a Knight of the White Rose—” “Shut up, you brat,” interrupted Geralt, smiling nastily. “Halt your uncontrolled little tongue. You speak to a lady who deserves respect, especially from a Knight of the White Rose. Admittedly, to become one it’s enough, lately, to pay a thousand Novigrad crowns into the Chapter’s treasury, so the Order’s full of sons of moneylenders and tailors—but surely some manners have survived? But maybe I’m mistaken?” Tailles grew pale and reached to his side.

“Sir Falwick,” said Geralt, not ceasing to smile. “If he draws his sword, I’ll take it from him and beat the snotty-nosed little brat’s arse with the flat of his blade. And then I’ll batter the door down with him.” Tailles, his hands shaking, pulled an iron gauntlet from his belt and, with a crash, threw it to the ground at the witcher’s feet.

“I’ll wash away the insult to the Order with your blood, mutant!” he yelled. “On beaten ground! Go into the yard!” “You’ve dropped something, son,” Nenneke said calmly. “So pick it up; we don’t leave rubbish here. This is a temple. Falwick, take that fool from here or this will end in grief. You know what you’re to tell Hereward. And I’ll write a personal letter to him; you don’t look like trustworthy messengers to me. Get out of here. You can find your way out, I hope?” Falwick, restraining the enraged Tailles with an iron grip, bowed, his armor clattering. Then he looked the witcher in the eyes. The witcher didn’t smile. Falwick threw his crimson cloak over his shoulders.

“This wasn’t our last visit, venerable Nenneke,” he said. “We’ll be back.”

“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” replied the priestess coldly. “The displeasure’s mine.”