Scoia'tael — Flotsam Forests Free Camp.
On the third day after the humans moved into the camp, Toruviel finally woke up. Her mind was clear, and her injuries had healed well—well enough that she could get out of bed and walk around right away. When Iorveth heard the news, he immediately hurried to her tent.
"Oh! You're here." In front of a mirror, Toruviel held a silk scarf and carefully wiped her face while avoiding the swollen bruise. Anger sat openly on her features. "I heard the two bastards who beat me are in the camp."
Iorveth sat down with a heavy, uncompromising ease on one of the only two chairs in the tent. He waved for the female elf who'd been tending Toruviel to leave, then said, "They're my guests now. Show the bare minimum of respect."
"After they beat me into this?"
"I hit back… and you don't have any aftereffects."
Toruviel let out a scornful laugh. "Ha! Did I hear that right? You're defending humans. I really only blacked out for three days? Are you still the Iorveth I know?"
Iorveth replied evenly, "Two humans. The woman's a muscle-brained fool with strength and nothing else. As for the boy—setting aside the fact he's a witcher apprentice—he claims he's from Bell Town, east of Zerrikania. That means our hatred toward humans has nothing to do with him."
Toruviel strapped two short swords to her hips. "Bell Town, east of Zerrikania!? You actually believe that load of crap?"
"Experience, speech, and subconscious habits don't lie. That boy is absolutely not one of the local apes. For one thing, he bathes every day. I've lived a long time, and I've never seen a witcher—an apprentice—so obsessed with being clean." A smile tugged at his mouth as he said it.
Irritation flashing, Toruviel impatiently tossed on a necklace of carved golden birch beads. Her tone sharpened. "Regardless, you gave my people to him to command without even asking me. I reserve the right to hold you accountable."
Still seated, Iorveth dipped his head in a small apology. "I understand your displeasure, my lady. But only the elves you brought can identify the herbs correctly. For our kin to recover sooner, I ask for your understanding."
Toruviel reached out and squeezed Iorveth's arm twice, then headed for the tent flap. The squirrel tails hanging at her belt bounced with each step. "We'll see what he's done to my herb camp first!"
…
If Victor had one regret about moving into the Scoia'tael camp, it was this: he'd only made Iorveth promise he'd be as safe as at home—he hadn't made him promise it would be as comfortable.
In truth, the Scoia'tael's quality of life could only be described as appalling in his eyes: old, dim tents; crude, low-grade tools; rough, natural food that felt like it had never met salt, let alone comfort. Even the already run-down Kaer Morhen looked better by comparison. At least it was summer, so they didn't need much warmth.
An apprentice alchemist wasn't a physician. When it came to treating injuries, Victor's go-to approach was crude bandaging plus potions—and that required all kinds of herbs and an exhausting set of preparation steps.
He clearly couldn't do it alone. So Iorveth assigned him more than a dozen helpers: elves who, at the very least, had some basic familiarity with herbs.
On the first day, Victor crushed their stubborn resistance with overwhelming knowledge of identification and remarkably effective concoctions. On the second day, he earned their respect by openly sharing formulas and teaching them how to compound and dose properly.
And then, on the third day—after he'd assigned the day's work, clapped his hands to send the elves off to their posts, and started tinkering with a new recipe—his tent flap was yanked open.
Framed in the opening was a sight he wouldn't forget—
Toruviel's swollen bruise… and her smooth, high forehead.
…
He invited her to sit across from him at the low table, then brewed a pot of rose tea to receive her.
Her eyes were striking. The carved, patterned eyebrows made her black irises shine like polished onyx. Paired with a refined nose and thin lips, she looked like the kind of person who never went down easy, Victor thought.
Toruviel placed her right palm up against her chest and greeted him with a graceful, composed salute. "From Dol Blathanna—Toruviel aep Sihiel."
Victor gave a slight bow in return. "From Bell Town, east of Zerrikania—Victor Corion."
She lifted the cup, inhaled the fragrance, and took a slow sip. Then she set it down, black eyes fixed on blue, and said—sweet as poison—"Where's the bitch who hit me?"
Victor raised an eyebrow and, for a brief second, found his mind drifting: clearly, his looks weren't good enough to smooth this over. Then he said, "It was a terrible misunderstanding. Angoulême has paid for it—and she's also Iorveth's guest now. She's as free as the wind."
Which was another way of saying: I don't know, and it's none of your business where she goes.
In this age, a guest must not harm the host—and the host must protect the guest. It was an unquestioned custom, and its moral weight sometimes even outranked the law. Even the most despicable criminal rarely attacked while under someone's roof as a guest.
Toruviel gave Victor a sideways look, clearly not interested in pressing the point. She shifted topics naturally. "Do you realize the ones you've been ordering around these past few days are my people?"
"I do. I've talked with them a lot—about many things. Including why you chose to leave Dol Blathanna, and the duty you took on: teaching elves outside the valley about herbs and agriculture."
Warmth entered her voice. "For that, I should thank you. I asked after the wounded, and I've looked at the formulas you taught them. The results are hard to believe—they're that good."
Victor waved it off. "Don't mention it. I'm just returning what was already yours. Those were elven formulas to begin with—you simply lost them."
"That you can admit it so naturally…" Toruviel's gaze sharpened with satisfaction. "You really aren't one of the local apes. Those humans would love nothing more than to erase every trace elves ever left behind, then proclaim it all as their own civilization's achievement!"
Victor couldn't exactly answer that—no matter what, he was still human.
Perhaps sensing his discomfort, Toruviel asked bluntly, "You know what the humans on this land have done to the elves, don't you?"
"I do. A lot of books still record it. Humans haven't advanced far enough to start rewriting history wholesale. The difficulty is… whether elf or human, it's hard to read those events without taking a side—without bias."
As for Victor, deep down he could understand—even sympathize with—the elves. Because what happened to them had happened on the other side of the world, too.
Native Americans welcomed the "civilized" people who crossed the sea. Once those newcomers had a foothold, they used both sword and gun to declare ownership of the land—then enthusiastically "helped" the natives become enlightened, easing their "population burden." It was barbaric work done with a smiling face.
In the Witcher's world, humans were outsiders brought by the Conjunction of the Spheres. The native elves accepted them, taught them magic, helped them gain their footing on the Continent—and then humans stole the nest, slaughtering the elves until their civilization fractured and they survived only by clinging on.
Hearing the pity in Victor's voice, Toruviel gave a bitter smile. "No matter what… I should thank you, Victor Corion—the outsider from east of Zerrikania. These mixtures have helped immensely. Fewer of my kin will be left crippled because of it."
"And those healthy elves might one day shoot my kin," Victor said blandly, ignoring the expression that suggested she wanted to explain. "Honestly, the best choice for your people would be to lay down hatred and retreat somewhere far away—where humans have no desire to tread—and rebuild in peace.
"You've already lost this contest for survival. More struggle will only spill more blood. Even if it's probably too late to say that now—because the blood already spilled won't allow you to let go easily."
Silence sat between them for a long while.
Then Toruviel said softly, "Victor Corion—an outsider from east of Zerrikania. I've heard something similar to what you're saying, a long time ago. And I still don't agree.
"I don't agree with a single word you said—so please don't speak to me again about laying down hatred."