Chapter 46

The Witcher booked a room at the inn first. He carried his gear upstairs, put his things down, then ran his notes on the Griffin for a quick check. After that he asked Roy about what had happened to him recently in Aldersberg. Roy focused on the House of Cardell, on the staghorn tree, on the thing they met there called a “Child-Hunter.”

“You were lucky,” Letho said in a low voice. “That thing fights and kills about like a drowner. It is dangerous, but not beyond a new hand’s skill. Avoid its fangs and claws, use fire and salt, and you can put it down without trouble. Using Dancing Star on it was a bit of overkill, but you came out alive and the thing died, so I’d call that worth it.”

“Kid, you handled House of Cardell very well.” Letho’s praise was sincere. He did not mean Roy’s moves in the hollow under the tree; he meant the way Roy had thought through the oddities, peeled back clues, followed a scent of suspicion. Witchers who used their heads lived longer than Witchers who only used their swords.

Roy then brought out, as if embarrassed, the yellow, cheese-like chunk of vomit he had accidentally carried out. He handed it to the Witcher.

The Witcher examined it by sight, by smell, by feel. He clicked his tongue, impressed. “Child-Hunters are rare. Of the people I know, only Orin and Kael hunted one, back over fifty years ago. They never managed to get fresh vomit like this, unfortunately.” He frowned. “I cannot name its exact composition, but I can feel it. If you take it, your magical flow stutters badly; you cannot even release a Sign.”

“Not enough of it, and it probably cannot do the full ‘peel’ trick it’s meant for; still, it acts like a ward against magic. In certain degrees it can restrain spellcasters and monsters that rely on sorcery. I would not be surprised if some mages would pay handsomely for this. It’s your spoil, keep it.” The Witcher handed it back, and added, “Better keep it in an earthenware jar, its potency drops once it loses freshness.”

Roy’s eyes brightened, then dimmed with regret. Why had he not been ruthless enough to take the whole pile of puke? He need not bother with clay pots; he had a better preserving method, he thought, storage space.

They traded small talk for a while, then the Witcher led him out beyond the town to a patch of empty ground. He ran Roy through his crossbow skills and his herbal knowledge.

Roy had unlocked Crossbow Mastery, Level One. He trained every night without fail. His posture, his aim, his reflexes were immaculate for someone with such a short formal training period. The Witcher was pleased.

As for herbs, besides the fifty-odd plants the Witcher had once carved into his mind with Signs, and the field lessons they’d taken along the road, Roy had widened his knowledge running a stall with the conman Tross at the market. He handled sage, celandine, belladonna, datura and other common plants every day; he had also seen rarities like beggar’s-tick flowers, blood moss, buckthorn herb, and four-leaf chonglou.