It was pretty obvious that Lambert's fragrant little "grand entrance" the night before hadn't impressed the innkeeper—who, for the record, was neither limping nor named Kate. So the next day, the witcher and the boy cleanly packed up and left the Limping Kate. After stopping by a smithy to patch Lambert's armor up a bit, they rode out of the city and continued on toward Ban Ard.
Ard Carraigh and Ban Ard were both among Kaedwen's greatest cities, so the road connecting them was naturally in good condition. Even Faithful seemed to run lighter on it, ears pricked and proud, as if he were some pedigreed warhorse strutting for an audience.
…
Night fell.
As usual, they camped by the roadside. After finishing their daily sparring, the two sat around the fire. Dinner was a limited "chef's special," courtesy of Victor: rabbit stew with wild vegetables.
"Have I told you I really like your new hairstyle?" Lambert licked the last drop of broth from his bowl and smacked his lips, clearly wanting more.
Victor had finished eating ages ago. He was crushing plants he'd gathered along the way, mixing them into a simple salve. Without even looking up, he replied sourly, "If you're about to make fun of me, I suggest you think again. A receding hairline doesn't get to laugh at anyone else's haircut."
"Bullshit," Lambert snapped. "Vic, you can't go through life like a hedgehog, bristling at everything and assuming the worst. Your old bowl cut wasn't bad, but this new style is obviously better.
Same side part, and yours looks ten times better than Eskel's. It actually suits you. I'm serious—I mean it!" His voice was indignant, like he'd just been accused of a crime he didn't commit.
Victor shot him a skeptical look, then shook his head. "Fine. I apologize—you haven't started mocking me yet. That was preventative self-defense. And as for 'bristling at everything'… right back at you."
Getting the apology, Lambert looked pleased. "Yeah. Shame your face is so painfully average, though. Doesn't deserve a hairstyle that good."
The boy's calm expression said: of course. "One day, that mouth of yours is going to get you hanged."
Lambert only shrugged, utterly unconcerned.
"So what's that salve for?"
"Secret."
…
"What's this salve for?" Victor asked curiously, taking the little tin that had been handed to him.
"For lubrication," Vesemir said kindly. "Rub it on your inner thighs. Works wonders."
That conversation had happened in the stables the day before they left Kaer Morhen.
The experienced old man had given him not only the salve, but the recipe—mostly common roadside herbs, with no strict requirement for the fat or oil. For a first-time long-distance rider, Victor had been genuinely grateful.
He could easily imagine what would happen if his skin got chafed raw and Lambert found out. Lambert would grin like a Cheshire cat. He was the type who showed concern by being rude about it—an awkward, backwards personality, like a grade-school boy pestering a girl because he didn't know how else to be kind.
…
After wiping down his steel sword with a soft, dry cloth and applying a thin layer of blade oil, the witcher lay back with his head on a bundled pack. Stars glittered above, and the Winter Maiden hung high in the sky.
"Hey, Vic," Lambert said. "Tell old Lambert—why do you want to be a mage?"
"What, after all your nonsense, now it's time for a heartfelt talk between men?" Victor had finished making the salve long ago and was already lying down, wrapped tightly in his warm cloak.
"I just want to know. If you don't want to say, that's fine."
"…Isn't it natural for a man to want power?" Victor said. "Mages are the strongest."
"..."
"What about you?" Victor asked. "Why don't you like mages?"
The witcher was silent for a few seconds.
"…Because mages are evil," he said at last.
"Evil?"
"A lot of people claim witchers lose their feelings because of mutations, but some mages are the ones who truly don't have feelings. Like…" Lambert paused. "Have you ever heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?"
"I've read about it," Victor said. "The prophecy of Mad Eltibald. The blood of sixty girls born during a solar eclipse will awaken the goddess Lilit, and her coming will destroy the world."
Victor said it like it didn't matter. It was hard for him to take messy prophecies seriously—except Ithlinne's Prophecy, which was basically the world's main plot written in advance.
"Right," Lambert said. "Of course Victor from Bell Town doesn't believe that. But plenty of people were happy to believe it. Just to 'prevent' the curse from coming true, some mages preached that any girl born under an eclipse should be killed immediately.
"Others went around capturing girls born under an eclipse, killing them for dissection—some were even dissected alive—just to study 'mutations' that were never proven in the first place." By the end, Lambert's voice had gained a sharp edge, a faint killing intent tucked under the words.
"You… saw that yourself?"
"The preaching," Lambert said, "was popular in the Northern Kingdoms for a long time. Lots of people believed it and acted on it—there's still poison left from it in the countryside even now.
"As for the dissections… Geralt told me. Years ago in Blaviken, a mage was being hunted by enemies and wanted Geralt's help. While trying to persuade him, the mage mentioned he'd once gone to watch a dissection."
"…Every group has its rotten ones," Victor sighed quietly.
Lambert's voice turned cold. "They sit above everyone, like they're always right. But when their irresponsible prophecies bring tragedy down on the world, nobody ever pays for it.
"You know what? Witchers get a lot of strange contracts. Some people even think we're assassins. They say the two swords on a witcher's back—silver is for monsters, steel is for humans."
"Uh…" Victor said. "Isn't that exactly how it works?" Even now he could still hum that Velen swamp tune—Steel for Humans.
"Damn it, no," Lambert snapped. "Some monsters can only be brought down with silver. Others are better dealt with using steel.
"…Anyway… there were times I got approached by fools—peasants and even knights—who believed the Black Sun curse and wanted me to 'deal with' the so-called 'source of the curse.' Those poor girls… some were imprisoned in towers, some were beaten and tormented until they were barely human anymore—just because they were born at the wrong time." His voice sank lower and lower as he spoke.
Victor asked softly, "And what did you do with those requests?"
Silence hung in the air for a while.
"I left," Lambert said finally.
"I couldn't do anything…
"That wasn't my job.
"Killing them or saving them—neither one was."
Victor stared up at the sky. To the left of the Winter Maiden was the constellation of Pegasus. No matter what world you lived in, horses were close companions to humans—so people always left space for them in the heavens.
Victor said quietly, "There are still good mages out there."
"Yeah…" Lambert said. "Like Yen—no… even if she's gone, I'm not saying anything nice about her.
"Like Triss Merigold. At least she genuinely helped look after Ciri. She treats Geralt well, and she's willing to get along with us. When she talks, she actually looks you in the eye.
"But most mages are like Yennefer—nose so high she looks down on the world by default, acting like everyone else is an idiot and only she's smart, so everyone should do what she says.
"And only Geralt, that idiot, lets her run circles around him!"
"Triss really is a good woman," Victor agreed—casually, like he knew her personally.
That made Lambert frown. "You know Merigold?"
"Triss Merigold—the Fourteenth of the Hill. You mentioned she was there when Geralt 'died.' I asked Vesemir about her afterward." Victor had asked—back when he'd still been at Kaer Morhen. Getting answers before you needed them was a useful habit.
"Yeah," Lambert said. "She's alright in most ways. But she's obsessed with politics, and that's infuriating. Schemes, conspiracies, filthy games. But that's mages for you—they always think the world won't turn without them."
"Alright," Victor said. "I'll never become that kind of arrogant mage—if I can become a mage at all."
"If you ever turn into that," Lambert said, "old Lambert will kick your ass."
"Don't worry," Victor said. "The odds aren't good anyway. Like the medallion says—there isn't a shred of magic in me."
"Try again?" Lambert yanked off his witcher medallion—shaped like a wolf's head—and tossed it onto Victor.
It stayed completely still, calm as stone. Not even the faintest tremor.
Victor chuckled twice and tossed it back.
"Alright. I'm really going to sleep."
Lambert rubbed his nose. "Don't despair. People still need dreams. Maybe you're just so absurdly gifted you can't sense it—lots of stories write it that way."