Lambert noticed something was wrong in the middle of the night. Victor's breathing had become visibly short and urgent.
He got up to check and found the boy deathly pale, forehead burning hot, jaw clenched tight, sweat soaking his whole body.
The slash across the bridge of his nose—where the dagger had grazed him—had already closed up. Poison? Or a slow-acting toxin?
Lambert didn't have time to wonder why some roadside brigand would coat a dagger with slow poison. Who knew where they'd gotten it.
He shook Victor awake. The boy's eyes opened, heavy and unfocused. "Hey! Vic, you've been poisoned. Find an antidote."
Lambert was anxious, but not panicked. He knew Victor—he never failed to prepare. There would definitely be some kind of antidote among his supplies.
Victor felt like his skull was splitting. He knew he'd been careless. Earlier, he'd been wallowing in self-reproach the whole ride, and worrying about that inexplicable chorus in his head screaming for blood—so he hadn't paid attention to the warnings his body was sending.
It's fine. I've got plenty of potions in the satchel…
But when he forced his hand into the herb satchel Lambert shoved into his arms, the sudden spike of pain in his muscles made it impossible to focus.
Victor's herb satchel was a storage space bound to his mind. The stronger his mental strength—the larger the space.
When he'd been healthy, it was roughly a cubic meter. But right now, he couldn't concentrate at all. The space might as well have been completely sealed.
A few seconds of fumbling passed. Victor could no longer suppress the worsening dizziness in his head and the convulsive agony ripping through his body. Lambert watched helplessly as the boy failed to pull out a single thing—then slumped into unconsciousness.
…
Vergen, inside Angoulême's home.
"Is there anything usable in his herb satchel?"
"Checked. It's all unmarked mystery liquids and common roadside herbs."
"It's plague!! This is the Catriona plague!! Throw him out of the city—now!!"
"Get lost. Don't spout nonsense. I've seen what plague looks like. This kid doesn't look like plague—he looks more like…"
As if the symptoms suddenly worsened, the boy on the bed jerked up violently. His spine arched backward into a half-circle, bent like a drawn bow. A strangled groan forced its way from his throat, while his face twisted into something bizarre—brows raised, teeth clenched, mouth pulled into a grimacing, pained smile.
"Lockjaw!" Everyone in the room recognized the symptom at once. The siege of Vergen had only just ended—many people had been wounded by arrows, and in the days before they died, this was exactly how it looked.
"He was injured yesterday evening? Then this is acute—coming on this fast is rare. This kid's luck is truly awful."
"…It doesn't spread. He can stay here. I'll get him medicine to ease the spasms. As for whether he lives—only prayers to Melitele can decide that."
"Thank you, doctor. Thank you. Zoltan—thank you. Angoulême—thank you."
"Don't mention it. The White Wolf drew steel for us—his friends are my friends."
…
A few days later… Angoulême's home.
"This kid's built like an ox. The most dangerous window's passed—he'll make it."
"Yeah… he's sturdy, I'll give him that. Shame he's so ordinary-looking. Not handsome at all."
"Angoulême, I'll have to trouble you to keep watching him from here."
"No problem. He's Ciri's brother—of course I'll look after him."
…
Time drifted by like surfacing from deep water. His breathing suddenly became smooth again. The searing agony in his muscles eased.
Finally, Victor opened his eyes.
Her eyes were a deep brown…
That was the first thing he saw.
Bright, straw-blonde hair. Two thick, wild eyebrows.
Second and third.
She waved a hand back and forth in front of his face to make sure he was really awake, then burst out of the room in giddy excitement.
Victor used the corner of his eye, struggling, to take in his surroundings.
This room looked like a cave chamber. From the furnishings, it was probably dwarven style. So this is Vergen?
My memory stops at Lambert yelling that I was poisoned—so after I passed out, they carried me into Vergen?
…I need my herb satchel. Now.
When Lambert stepped into the room, the sight he found was Victor forcing himself half upright, trying to get out of bed to retrieve something. Lambert wasn't alone—coming in with him was a dwarf with a punk haircut, along with the girl who'd just run out and back again.
…
When Victor opened his eyes again the next day, he was certain he was truly better. Every corner of his body still whispered with lingering pain—but it was the kind that came with relief.
Yesterday, once he got the herb satchel back, he'd seized the brief clarity and gulped down a few potions that might work. The symptoms had already been slowly fading, and today he was finally recovered. All that remained was rest and rebuilding his strength.
He took the warm water and white bread the blonde girl handed him. "Thank you, Angoulême."
"Don't mention it. We're a hanse—taking care of you is what we do!" Her tone was loud and casual, her manners bold, her friendliness immediate—so immediate it gave Victor a strange feeling.
If you don't know, ask. He tore into the bread and spoke around it. "What's a hanse? When did I become part of one?"
"Aen Hanse," Lambert said as he pushed the door open—clearly he'd caught the question from outside. "In Nilfgaardian, it means a small armed group held together by friendship."
"An armed group…?" That strange feeling sharpened into something almost prickly. Victor had no memory of joining anything—unless he'd half-deliriously left a thumbprint somewhere, or signed something while he was out of his mind.
"A hanse is a hanse," Angoulême added with a shrug. "You can say 'companions' or 'crew' if you like."
"…"
They'd both phrased it politely, but Victor understood in a flash: in Nilfgaardian, "hanse" was basically a band of outlaws or a street crew—just with a better-sounding name. The problem was… when had he joined?
"Heh, heh, heh." Lambert's grin turned wickedly pleased, overflowing with mischief. "First, congratulations on becoming the newest member—and the new leader—of the White Wolf's hanse. You know I don't even qualify to join."
Lambert's joke didn't even manage to stir Victor. Angoulême, on the other hand, bristled instantly.
"Hey! You bald old man—got a problem with the White Wolf's hanse?" She planted her hands on her hips and glared, brown eyes wide enough to be genuinely intimidating.
"No, no, no! I don't have a problem." Lambert stopped smiling and waved his hands in earnest. "But sorry, young lady—could you let me speak with him alone for a moment? Also, my forehead is just high, that's all."
Angoulême shot him one last glare, propped Victor's back up with extra padding, tugged the blanket over his legs, and left the room.
Now only the witcher and the witcher's apprentice remained.
In the quiet, Victor flexed his arms slowly, tapping at his biceps as if checking his own strength. "…How many days was I unconscious?"
Lambert's face went serious. He dragged a chair to the bedside and sat. "Seven."
Victor let out a breath. "All right. Then I must've missed a lot. Where do we start?"
"From the moment you passed out," Lambert said. "Let's start there."