The Witcher: The Alchemist Who Walked the Witcher’s Road

After passing the gate guards, the first person they saw was Birna, King Bran's widow. She and her son, Svanrige an Tuirseach, were standing by the entrance speaking with the arriving guests.

Once she had seen off the people she was talking to, Birna noticed the Phantom Troupe and gave Victor a faint nod.

The boy stepped forward and bowed in return. "My condolences, Your Grace," he said, then inclined his head to the silent Svanrige as well.

Dabbing lightly at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief, Birna replied softly, "Not Your Grace. I am the Queen Mother now. It is good to see you again, Victor. Sadly, on an occasion like this, I cannot chat with you all at leisure as I usually would. Please forgive me."

Victor raised a brow. "As far as I know, being Queen Mother means your son is king. Svanrige has not taken the throne yet, has he? So please allow me to keep calling you Queen, or King Bran's widow."

A gust of cold wind swept across the bridge to Kaer Trolde.

She looked at the boy with deep, unreadable eyes. He returned her gaze with a courteous smile, and after a moment she calmly gestured inward.

"Please, go in."

Victor bowed once more and entered the castle.

He did not care about Birna's subtle hostility. Right now she was focused on pushing Svanrige onto the throne, and until she succeeded, she definitely would not have time to bother with him.

That was a spoiler from the previous life of the prophet Corion.

…

Nothing in this world feared comparison more than anything else. Kaer Trolde Castle was grander and more splendid than the palace of Clan Tuirseach, and even compared with Vizima it did not come up short. Meanwhile, the jarls of Clan Dimun and the Clan Heymaey were still living in longhouses.

Overseas trade really did corrupt people. In this corridor alone, there were no fewer than thirty decorative suits of full plate armor standing in symmetrical pairs along the walls. Clan an Craite was truly luxurious and decadent, not austere in the slightest.

When they entered the vast feast hall, the brightly lit chamber was large enough to hold several hundred people for socializing. Exquisite food and drink flowed without end, a perfect testament to the prosperity and brilliance of Clan an Craite in this generation.

A neatly dressed man with a well-groomed beard, around fifty years old, stepped forward to greet them. "Good afternoon, Master Victor, Lady Angoulême, and Vigi. I am Arnvald, steward of Clan an Craite. I have been looking forward to your arrival for a long time. It is an honor to meet the young Dovahkiin."

"I'm pleased to meet you too, Arnvald. Looking around, quite a few people have come."

"They have all come to bid farewell to the king, and to see who intends to contend for the throne."

"…You know I have an appointment with Crach."

"The jarl will be here shortly. He has reserved you a place by the high table, right beside his daughter Cerys. Please follow me." Arnvald bowed as he answered.

Victor turned slightly and waved a hand, signaling Vigi that he was free to do as he pleased. Grinning, Vigi nodded and immediately went off to find friends he knew and start drinking with them.

Very soon, Victor was led to a table already filled with the younger generation. Aside from Svanrige and Hjalmar, who were absent, everyone else was there: Svani and Otrygg of the Clan Heymaey, Halbjorn of Clan Dimun, Blueboy Lugos of Clan Drummond, and Cerys of Clan an Craite.

The moment she saw Sparrowhawk and Svani, Angoulême happily sat down beside her two good friends, throwing an arm around each of them and thoroughly enjoying the blessing of having both beauties at once.

With his seat taken, Victor did not mind in the least. He casually patted Blueboy on the shoulder. Lugos looked up, and the moment he saw who it was, he cheerfully shoved Halbjorn farther down the bench and welcomed the Dovahkiin to sit beside him.

Although Victor had already learned after the funeral that everyone at this table knew him, Cerys still frowned ever so slightly when she noticed how naturally he mingled with the others.

She took the initiative and steered the conversation. "Welcome, Vic. Before you came, we were talking about ideals. Do you know what everyone at this table dreams of?"

When Victor shook his head, she continued, "To sit where Bran once sat. Just look at them. They are all the same, their heads full of glory and heroic deeds."

Halbjorn raised his cup to the Dovahkiin. "Cerys is jealous, because the most outstanding among us will inherit the throne."

"Everyone knows those feats are just for show. Our fathers will decide who inherits the throne. Otherwise, what do you think they were discussing with Crach just now?" Sparrowhawk shot back unhappily.

Blueboy Lugos yawned. "You only say that because your strength and skill are inferior. Remember when Hjalmar challenged everyone to see who could charge to the top of the mountain the fastest? You did not even join in. By the time he buried his axe in the stump at the summit and declared victory, you were still sitting by the fire warming those skinny bones of yours."

Mocked like that, Cerys's face immediately flushed red, blue veins standing out on her forehead as she argued back, "I wasn't feeling well that time… women… when a woman isn't feeling well, does that count as losing? How about we do it again! I'm willing to challenge every single one of you, including the Dovahkiin. If I reach the summit before him, that would absolutely count as an accomplishment. Well? Do you dare?"

Blueboy Lugos shrugged. "Knew you wouldn't let it go. Fine. If the Dovahkiin takes part, then I will too."

Glancing at the fuming Cerys, Victor, with the confidence of a champion of the Vizima road race, rubbed his nose. "Better not. I'm not feeling very well today, and there isn't much meaning in competing with me in mountain climbing."

Having been politely refused, she shot him a fierce glare.

Rapping her knuckles on the table, Svani cut in to smooth things over. "Sparrowhawk, don't be like that. He's going easy on you. He crossed the Path of Warriors, none of us would have an easy time beating him. Enough idle talk, let's keep drinking."

Victor smiled and lifted his cup, going around the table in a round of drinks.

Otrygg was particularly delighted. He had long wanted to have a proper chat with the Dovahkiin, but until now he had never had the chance.

…

After a brief stretch of pleasant conversation, Victor left Angoulême behind to keep socializing and decided to find Ermion first. He had a feeling that if King Bran had not died of heart disease, then the archdruid definitely knew the truth.

But after weaving through the crowd, the first people he ran into were Donar an Hindar and Madman Lugos. The two jarls seemed to be in the middle of a quarrel.

Noticing that Lugos was drunk enough for his eyes to be bloodshot, and that the onlookers around them did not seem to have enough status to step in, Victor thought it over. Since he knew both jarls, he went forward to try to calm them down.

"Hey, Jarl an Hindar, don't get so worked up. There's no point arguing with the Madman."

"Hah. Calling Lugos mad is an insult to real madmen. He's just an ordinary bastard."

"Listen to the shit pouring out of your mouth. Call me a bastard one more time and I'll cut off your head, stick it on a pole, then piss straight down the hole in your neck."

"Good. Let's settle this right now!" Donar might have been old, but he had already rolled up his sleeves and was cracking his knuckles.

Lugos sneered back, "Ha! I'm so scared I nearly shit myself. Best not push yourself too hard, old man. I'd hate to see you fall over and break a bone."

"Gentlemen, enough. At a time like this, why not stay calm? Besides, you are both under Clan an Craite's roof and ought to show your host some respect."

"Of course I know those sacred traditions. But Lugos should know I cannot simply ignore his threats to raid my Hindarsfjall."

"Donar, you don't scare anyone. Soon enough I'll bed your priestess, drink all your ale, then take a dump on your table. Remember to light a candle for me!"

Victor pressed a hand to his forehead. The Madman really would say absolutely anything once he got going. "I'm sure the Emperor of Nilfgaard would be very pleased to hear the two of you aren't getting along."

The effect was immediate. The two men who had been shouting at each other a moment ago turned their attention to Victor at once at the mention of the Black Ones.

"I'll welcome His Imperial Majesty any time he likes," Lugos growled.

Donar lifted his chin as well. "Let him come. We're not afraid of the Black Ones."

"Raiding coastal provinces is one thing. Going to full-scale war with the Empire is another. No matter what, I'm glad both of you still remember what really matters."

Giving the onlookers a meaningful look and prompting them to hurry up and separate the two jarls, Victor bowed and took his leave. He had already noticed that Ermion was standing not far away. It was obvious that if Victor had failed to calm them down, the archdruid would have stepped in himself.

Victor raised his left hand and made an inviting gesture.

…

Following Ermion through several corridors and into his chamber, Victor curiously took in the furnishings. The druid's strange magic had already shown a glimpse of itself in the raven guarding the door.

Inside the room stood a stuffed reindeer, eerie statues, an ouroboros mask whose purpose was impossible to guess, and a druidic circle, Victor had seen that pattern in books before.

A cup of hot milk was handed to him, and Victor accepted it with a smile.

"So then, child, what did you want to speak to me about?" Ermion was calm in bearing and gentle in attitude.

Having long since arranged his thoughts, Victor spoke with a solemn expression. "…Forgive my bluntness, but King Bran should not have had heart disease." He noticed the druid's smile fade a little. "Based on what I observed the last time we parted, I can guarantee as an alchemist that he did not have heart disease. In fact, he should have remained vigorous for many years yet."

After saying that, Victor stopped there and did not continue. Given how close Ermion was to him, and given everything the Dovahkiin had done in Skellige, unless it was an absolute secret, the archdruid had no reason to hide it from him.

Sure enough, after staring at the Dovahkiin in silence for a moment, Ermion let out a long sigh. He rose, walked to a cabinet, broke the seal on it with magic, and beckoned Victor over.

Victor stepped closer, saw clearly the item Ermion had taken out from behind the ward, and could hardly believe his own eyes.

That thing shook him to his core, so much that he could not help trembling slightly.

At his ear, it was as if he heard again the thunder and lightning outside the window on the day he had placed it in Mother Nenneke's hands, only for it to blend into the druid's deep, resonant voice.

"Judging from your reaction, you really do know what this is. That's right, Melitele's most closely guarded secret, the most powerful aphrodisiac on the Continent in the last hundred years."

Victor's voice came out dry, one word at a time.

"Meg… a… tron…"

…

When Victor left the room, he looked dazed. He had never imagined that the answer he had been seeking had been right in front of him the whole time, and that the one who had thrown the plot into chaos and undermined the prophet had been himself all along.

Indeed, back during their last conversation, Ermion had already hinted at the answer from the side. A druid had gone to the Temple of Melitele to request medicine, what potion could possibly compare to Megatron?

The matter was absurdly simple. King Bran had died in the act. Megatron had naturally passed inspection and was not the issue, but it would have sounded awful if that were said outright, so they had called it heart disease instead. At least it had happened while he was with Birna. Otherwise, that younger lover would have had to take the blame.

Then again, who could have imagined that a formula Victor had originally created only to deal with Tailles would eventually have such consequences? It really went to show that abusing potions was wrong.

His thoughts wandered wildly as he strolled onward, and then he saw Sparrowhawk standing not far away with her hands behind her back.

Their gazes met. She walked straight to him, step by step. There was no one else around. She came so close that Victor could see himself reflected in her pupils.

"Tell me, was the story you told me that day true?"

"Uh. The story? You mean Queen Victoria? It was true."

"…Good. I won't lose. I refuse to admit defeat!"

With that, Sparrowhawk turned and ran off, leaving Victor standing where he was, deep in thought.

…

When Victor returned to the great hall, the banquet had become strangely quiet. It turned out that Josta, a priestess of Freya whom he knew, was leading everyone in the final prayer. It was obvious she had been at it for a while already.

"…Heed my words. The most heroic deed in the world is to fight the wild beasts cursed by gods and men. There is no better way to serve the goddess than this."

After saying that, she gave a slight bow and drifted aside.

Then Crach an Craite strode into the center of the hall and declared with commanding force, "In accordance with the goddess's will, we offer our heartfelt thanks and will remember this well. Let us begin! We have already seen Bran off, now we must choose his heir!

"A king must possess wisdom, command respect, and be rich in courage, and we do not lack such men. Whoever believes himself worthy to inherit the throne of the Skellige Isles, step before me!"

It felt strangely familiar. Victor's heartbeat quickened. He drew a deep breath and suddenly understood that he was witnessing history. What stood before his eyes was the true struggle of the six claimants for succession, the King's Gambit.

Svanrige was the first to step forward. He walked to the long table before Crach and slammed down his steel sword with a bang. Victor noticed that when Svanrige returned to his place, Birna reached out and soothed him.

Next came Otrygg of the Clan Heymaey, Blueboy Lugos of Clan Drummond, and Halbjorn of Clan Dimun, each laying down his sword in turn. After that, Hjalmar, whom Victor had not seen during dinner, finally stepped forward and set his axe on the table.

Victor's eyes sharpened. Remembering the question Cerys had asked him earlier, he knew very clearly what would happen next. It was easy for him to find her in the crowd. She was gripping her dagger with both hands, with Svani and Angoulême standing beside her.

They looked at each other across the distance. He looked at her, and she looked at him. He clenched a fist and gave her silent encouragement.

"Go on, Sparrowhawk. Go meet your destiny!"

In the hall, seeing that everyone who was meant to step forward had already done so, Crach cleared his throat and prepared to speak. But just then, under the puzzled and bewildered eyes of the crowd, Cerys strode out to the long table and laid down her dagger.

Everyone knew that in Skellige's long history there had never once been a queen. Then again, no one had ever said that a woman could not participate in the choosing of a ruler. Hjalmar had originally been the strongest candidate for the throne, but now that Sparrowhawk had stepped out to compete, it had become a contest between brother and sister within Clan an Craite.

That fact left Crach looking somewhat awkward. But as a man who had weathered countless storms, after confirming that no one else intended to step out, he still raised his voice with full authority and announced:

"The claimants to the throne have all revealed themselves! May the strongest man, or woman, win!"

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