System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 105
The first day of 1261, the morning of January 1st.
Warm morning light spilled over the outskirts north of Ellander. Clad in leather, Letho and Roy walked beside the main road leading to the cluster of temples; those temples hid among towering slabs of stone and could not be seen clearly.
“Faith in Melitele is one of the Continent’s oldest beliefs, its origins long since lost to history,” the Witcher said slowly, “In fact, long ago every human people and primitive tribe had its own harvest goddess, a guardian of the farm and yard, a witness to love and marriage. The worship of those goddesses eventually gathered around Melitele, and her temples properly perform those functions.”
They stepped into the temple gardens. Many priestesses in gray gowns bustled about; they were harvesting Turnip and tending the chickens.
Most of the priestesses were young, some barely grown. A few lively ones smiled and nodded at the two of them; even toward a mutated Witcher their looks held no worldly strangeness, only simple curiosity and goodwill, which put one at ease and warmed the chest.
Those bright, youthful faces made Roy stare for a moment, and the Witcher, rare as it was, showed his teeth in a smile.
“The Temple of Melitele has never lacked lovely priestesses. Every year girls come from all directions; students graduate from the Temple School and go on to serve in other temples as seers, midwives, physicians for women and children, wandering missionaries, teachers, or as country herbalists.”
“Their lives are so fortunate...” Roy said sincerely; in an age when a girl from an ordinary family could farm in peace, learn to read and write, and master a trade, it felt almost perfect.
The Temple’s High Priestess Nenneke was truly an extraordinary woman.
“Melitele’s shelter for the vulnerable is beyond most people’s imagining. Whether in the North or across the isles, the great majority of states treat the Temple of Melitele with a certain respect.”
“And the South?”
“In recent years, after the new emperor took the throne, in Nilfgaard the cult of the sun became inseparable from imperial authority; other sects have only limited influence.”
“Letho, Roy?” a voice interrupted the Witcher’s account. A slender, round-faced priestess freckled with tiny spots, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four, had come out to meet them from the temple; her eyes scanned their faces and finally fixed on Roy.
“Mother Nenneke awaits you two, please come with me.”
“Good morning, Priestess Iola.” Roy stepped past the Witcher and walked to the priestess’s side. A faint scent of Chamomile drifted from her long hair; he smiled as if to an acquaintance.
“Have we met before?” she halted and looked at him with a puzzled expression; her eyes shone like gems and made Roy think of a creature from legend, a nymph, in posture and bearing.
Years earlier, after Geralt lifted the Ekhidna’s curse in Vizima, he had gone to the Temple of Melitele to heal and, without meaning to, had slept in the same bed as this girl.
A true stallion, leaving a trail of favors and taking no responsibility!
Roy rolled that remark through his head and, curious, asked, “Do you remember the spring when Geralt came in from the outskirts of Vizima and persuaded you to break your vow of quietude?”
“Geralt from the outskirts of Vizima?” The priestess froze for an instant; a flash of memory, of sorrow, and a faint fear passed through her bright eyes. She seemed to recall those days dominated by the contradictory white-haired Witcher.
...
A ring of white candles circled the temple’s inner sanctum. Ahead stood the sacred statue of the goddess; several devout worshippers murmured prayers to themselves.
“You must be Roy...” An older, plump woman with gray hair, wearing a loose russet robe, stepped out from a side chapel; she looked fifty or sixty, yet Roy knew her true age was over a hundred, and that the White Wolf had even taken to calling her mother.
Her gaze was kindly and gentle; one felt the involuntary desire to be close to such an elder.
“Mother Nenneke, greetings. I am Roy from Lower Aedirn.” The boy bowed deeply; he had always regarded her as a venerated “holy mother” figure.
“You naughty child...” Nenneke patted Roy’s shoulder with a mild hand, “What on earth did you say to Iola just now to make her upset?”
“Actually, I only told her she was pretty.”
“If you don’t want to say, that’s fine. But child, the Temple of Melitele has healed many patients, yet it has never accepted Witcher apprentices to undergo the cruel, painful, and inhuman Trial of the Grasses.”
Never? Then what had Letho paid? Was it really just a favor returned?
“I need to be certain,” she said, her stern gaze sweeping Letho’s face, “are you completely volunteering to abandon an ordinary life, to relinquish your ability to bear children, and to willingly endure great suffering to take part in the Witcher trials? Or did this man force you into apprenticeship, into following his path?”
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