Chapter 219

At night, in the House of the Queen, heady wine fumes mingled with the sweet, rustic voice of the organ, and men and women alike drowned themselves in that endless dizziness.

The tavern doors were suddenly pushed open, and several burly men filed in from the entrance.

This time, it was not the usual pair who had come to the Night Queen’s house for amusement, but five Witchers.

Alongside Roy and Letho were the Kael brothers and the swordsmith Berengar. The five of them took seats side by side at a table by the entrance.

The Kael brothers looked travel-worn. Because they had not bathed in a long while, their hair and beards were a greasy tangle full of dandruff. On their close-fitting black leather armor, there were faint patches of dried blood, and from them rose a strong sour, fishy smell.

“Four Bloody Marys, and one cider, please.”

“At once...” Shani, the shapely bartender behind the liquor cabinet, let three teeth show in a faint smile as she set out a row of richly scented drinks, then began showing off her skill at fancy mixing.

“You got back a full week earlier than expected.” Orin watched the bartender’s swaying figure with relish, one leg bouncing like a man with palsy. “All thanks to your horse, Roy. Vyrt is a fine lad. I’d wager he’s got some Mahakaman pony blood in him, stamina like iron. He kept up solid strength for the whole journey. Brave, too.” Under the lamplight, Orin’s face was slightly flushed and full of excitement. “Remember that royal Griffin on Amell?”

“Coral specifically warned me about it.” Roy accepted the mixed liquor from the bartender, the color of fresh blood, the scent thick and layered. He frowned and shoved the glass toward Orin.

Orin did not stand on courtesy. He took a gulp and narrowed his eyes in satisfaction. “That’s the proper bite. Roy, you really do understand us. I’ve been drinking nothing but Toussaint wines for too long. My mouth was starting to taste like a bird had died in it. I needed some fierce liquor to set my tongue right. And the place you picked ... mm ... a pleasant surprise.”

“You mentioned the royal Griffin...”

“Roy, can’t you give your elder brother a bit of patience? That beast must have grown used to throwing its weight around on Amell. It had no caution left. Vyrt lured it straight into the bear trap we’d laid in advance, and then Kael and I finished it together.”

“Vyrt wasn’t hurt, was he?” Roy’s heart tightened.

“You saw him yourself just now. Clever horse, that one. I don’t know what sort of training you use on him.”

He belched. “Once we got past Amell, the road ran easy enough. Except for one blind pack of bandits who kindly contributed some travel money. There were a few turns after we crossed into Toussaint proper, though. That Treasure Map...”

“The Treasure Map was wrong?” Roy’s heart gave a hard thump. Had he remembered it badly, or had history shifted?

“The main issue was your markings were too vague ... western border of Toussaint, prison, hidden chapel. With clues that hazy, the search range was enormous.”

“Sorry.” Roy took a sip of cider, then stuffed the little thing in his hood back down when it reached curiously toward the drink. “My premonitions aren’t under control, you know that. So you didn’t find the diagrams?”

“Stop listening to his nonsense.” Kael shot Orin a reproachful glare. “Idiot. Can’t you speak plainly and get to the point?”

“The road was winding, but the end was a good one.” Orin let out a helpless sigh. “I’ll keep it short then. Roy mentioned parts of Mordun’s past. This Witcher of the Manticore once sat knee to knee with one of Lebioda’s Cultists in a prison somewhere in Toussaint ... and only afterward did he complete his transformation, shed his old self, and begin a pilgrimage in Lebioda’s name.”