Chapter Text
Cullen swung the giant spider’s head a third time, the ropes finally catching onto the saddle’s pommel. Third time’s the charm, he grumbled, shaking his hands and arms. He was covered in greasy spider blood, an excess of webbing and other viscera. His hair was plastered with some kind of viscous fluid, it dripped and pattered against his armor. Very little of the filth dislodged with his effort. “Wonderful,” he added with a heavy sigh.
Shade snorted.
“Don’t start. Had you even an ounce of fortitude, I wouldn’t be covered in all this,” he paused giving his right hand a more violent shake, “I blame you, my friend.” Shade had nearly thrown Cullen from the saddle when the giant spider had crawled from a large burrow near the road. Without time to pull his sword from its scabbard, Cullen had to fight the arachnid with his bare hands until he was able to find Shade’s hiding spot. “What kind of a horse hides away? You’ve got speed and agility, not to mention a deadly kick from those back legs. Use your head next time.”
Another snort answered Cullen’s admonition and Shade side stepped from him.
“Oh no. I am not walking to the inn like this.” He reached for the reins, but Shade pulled away again. “I earned this ride—saving you from that creature. No more ridiculous behavior.” Cullen tried to put on a stern voice, but he really wasn’t angry with Shade. “Compromise then? I admit I missed the spider’s advance and you concede you could have used a bit more bravery.” He approached Shade with slow, even steps. “I’ll even spend the coin for a thorough bath and brushing when we get to the inn, and you can eat your fill, too. Is it a deal?”
It had taken a few more promises and a minor struggle for Cullen to seat himself once more and continue toward the inn. I hope Felix wasn’t waiting for my arrival, he thought. I’m only a few days late.
The ride from Alexius’ villa to the inn along the Imperial highway should have taken no more than a few hours. For Cullen, it took days.
There was the lost traveler, who turned out to be a lure for bandits. Cullen had to take a detour with four men bound, walking behind his horse. Nearly an entire day had fallen before he reached an outpost of Imperial soldiers. Unsure of his own safety, Cullen had waited until dark to leave the bandit crew with a note.
The second day, he’d happened upon a farmstead. Nearly barren and the livestock so sickly, the farmer wondered if the land had been cursed. He’d won it in a card game and promptly moved his family from a nearby village, knowing little of how to work the land or provide for his family or the animals.
Cullen searched the property for signs of curses and hexes; finding none, he instead employed his knowledge to find the farm’s source of water. It was the only thing that made sense, finding nothing that suggested magic as the cause for the farmer’s woes.
The culprit was indeed a clogged and poorly maintained well. It had taken Cullen the better part of the day to clean out the debris and dig a deeper to reach the much needed water. The exertion had been nothing for Cullen, and in truth, he found the labor a welcome change from all he had done recently.
His brief reflections on the delays were nothing in comparison to the heavy discomfort caused by the scuffle with the giant spider. Cullen wondered if the innkeeper might refuse him entry. Thankfully, the remaining journey proved uneventful, and the sight of rows of torches leading to the inn and stables was a relief to both rider and horse.
As Cullen approached, two stable hands stood dumbfounded, mouths agape and eyes widening. Cullen couldn’t be sure what they gawked at. It’s either me, the spider’s head, or me coated in gunk lugging a dead spider’s head. He chuckled to himself, near to certain the sight of a spider guts and webbing covered witcher must be quite the sight.
The two were younger men, short of stature, with similarly mussed and unruly sandy brown hair. Their clothes hung loosely about their thin frames. There was a wary reluctance to venture closer, but Cullen shook his coin pouch to gain their full attention. The sound of coins shifting and clinking together had the desired result; the stable hands drew closer and reached for the reins. “Evenin’ Ser,” said one the men.
“Nice night,” Cullen replied, climbing from the saddle. He dug in his coin pouch and pulled out twice what he expected the cost for a thorough cleaning and care might cost. “From ear tip to tail, if you please. This should cover it and make sure Shade here is well fed.”
A trembling hand reached out tentatively to catch the coins. “Yes,” the man stammered. “Beggin’ your pardon, Ser. Be you the witcher?”
Cullen nodded.
The young man stammered heavily as he tried to speak, and Cullen held up his hand.
“Take a breath,” he said gently. “Hold it, then breathe out. Then talk.” It was a trick he remembered from childhood; something his mother had told him when excitement would set his head racing faster than his speech could match.
The man did as instructed and started talking. “You’re expected, Ser.” The surprise of speaking without interruption brought a smile to the young man’s face, brightening his eyes. He repeated the breathing exercise and continued. “I think I’ve got it.”
The other stable hand joined them. “Don’t you worry none about the horse, master witcher. We’ll have ‘im cleaned, shining like morning he’ll be. Full belly and good rest, too.”
Cullen turned and started toward the inn. Blast, he cursed silently, can’t leave the head. He pivoted on his heel and returned to Shade, lifting the heavy rope and taking the spider’s head with him. Both of the men yelped at the action, and Cullen tried to reassure them. “Can’t hurt you,” he started, and then realized the possibility remained the spider’s venom sacs in its pincer like jaws and fangs might pose a problem for the overly curious. “Or, it won’t hurt you now. Carry on.”
As he departed, Cullen heard the excited whispers and chatter between them. As he neared the inn’s front door, Cullen hoped whoever waited for him would give him the courtesy of a short respite to wash away the filth he carried on his person. Music and laughter grew in volume, and when Cullen opened the door and stepped within, everything stopped.
Pay no attention to the guts-covered witcher and mind your drinks, he thought silently with lips pressed into a hard line. His eyes scanned the crowded tables for a sign of familiarity, seeing none he sighed. The sigh grew to a low grumble and Cullen trudged toward the side bar to his left.
“I have a room reserved. I need a bath, no need to bother with hot water. Just a bath and right now.”
The innkeeper nodded, but Cullen couldn’t be sure which of his remarks the man agreed to. He slapped a key attached to a wood slat on the bar top and pointed toward the stairs. “Bag, Ser?”
Cullen assumed the man asked if he had belongings, and with a jerk of his free hand, Cullen indicated his bag waited outside with his horse.
From behind the counter, the innkeeper shook his head and pointed excitedly toward the dead beast in Cullen’s right hand. “For the. . .the. . .”
“Oh, right,” Cullen said. “Sorry for the mess. Didn’t want the boys to injure themselves.” He looked at the spider head dangling from a rope. “If you’ve got an empty feed bag or potato sack, it will do.” The man raised his index finger, hopefully a sign he had something in mind. It was then Cullen realized all eyes remained on him, many appeared frozen; mugs were half raised to gaping mouths and eyes locked on him.
There was no escaping the scrutiny of the patrons. Cullen would have to wait for the innkeeper to return or carry the gruesome trophy through the throng.
A group of men whispered amongst themselves, prodding and pushing one of their number to stand: a man of middle age, dressed well enough for the area. He had the look of someone at the fringes of the nobility, or possibly some local authority in his embroidered long jacket and white tunic. His boots were free of mud and dirt, and on his approach, Cullen caught the scent of wood oils and herbs.
“You there,” the man gripped the lapels of his jacket. “Witcher.”
A simple nod from Cullen urged the man forward, even emboldened him, as he lifted his chin and straightened his posture.
“Where came you by the,” he jerked his head in the direction of the carcass, “was it nearby?”
Cullen glanced at the spider’s head. “It came upon us on the road, several miles back. I had little choice.”
The man chuckled at first and then coughed, regaining his composure. “No, of course not. The beast had attacked nearly every unwary traveler,” he said. “Those who survived were ill for days. No, you’ve done us a service.” He lifted his hand and covered his mouth to cough. “I’d shake your hand, master witcher, but for obvious reasons. That,” he pointed toward the head, “should be disposed of and burned I think.”
“Mmm,” Cullen hummed in response. If Dorian were present, he’d insist upon a finder’s fee or bounty for Cullen’s work, but what he really wanted was to stop the conversation and sink into a bath, before he’d need a knife’s edge to scrape the remains from his person.
The innkeeper returned with a large empty burlap sack, and Cullen deposited the lot into it. “Thanks,” he said, pointing toward the stairs, “which room and where is the bath?”
“Right. A pleasure. The bath is nearly ready, water is not quite hot, but will do you well. There are towels and linens for your use, and an extra tub for the armor. I could have someone clean it for you, for a few copper—“
The self-important man dropped a small hide pouch on the counter. “On me. Whatever the witcher needs, and his night stay as well,” he turned to Cullen. “It’s the very least I can do as thanks for ridding our roads of that damnable beast.”
l-l-l
Culled dragged himself up the stairs, carrying the burlap sack. Reaching the door to his room, he tossed the bag in the room, closed the door, and locked it. “Bath first,” he said, turning his attention to the only open door in the long hall. Firelight from torches illuminated the room at the end of the hall, and within Cullen noted a large tub in the middle of the room.
He entered. A loud gasp caught his attention. “Who’s there?”
A young woman stepped from behind a tall divider wall. “I’m the attendant, ser. The water is hot and I’m here to help.”
Cullen waved her away. “No need. You can go.”
She wrung her hands with a small white towel. “I’m supposed to remain.”
The longer they carried on the discussion the cooler the water would grow. “Please. You may stand guard outside the door, and leave me be.”
“But Ser,” she protested.
He didn’t want to be rude, but Cullen had no intention of stripping his armor and bathing with an audience. “I have been covered in spider webbing and venom among other things. It would be safer for you to wait outside. If you would leave a pile of older linens and towels, I will take responsibility for anything that must be replaced.”
It wasn’t a total lie. The venom and entrails were no longer a danger to any, but it served. She hurried behind the divider and grabbed a pile of linens and towels. The fabrics had grayed a bit from constant washing and use, and the visible edges appeared frayed.
“They’ll do,” Cullen said, instructing the attendant to leave the pile and vacate the room. When the door closed with a satisfying click, he stripped from his armor and lowered himself into the water. Much of the heat had dissipated, but it mattered little. Cullen grabbed a small towel and began the task of scrubbing away the leavings of his earlier battle.
Asking the attendant to leave had little to do with modesty. Cullen had been bathed in Alexius estate from the very beginning of his time there. Only after he’d been left alone, had Cullen put an end to it. “I can bloody well bathe myself,” he grumbled, scrubbing his face and hair. A nagging thought scratched its way to the forefront of his thoughts. Yes, I’ll leave the proper coins for the young woman.
He stopped, sighing loudly. “I know what the real issue is,” he said to no one, sliding further into the water until his head was submerged. Am I really going to go back to Kinloch?
Cullen still hadn’t truly decided on a destination, but the one place his mind would wander often fueled a frustration that never quite vanished.
He slid his frame backward, rising from the bathwater and stood. “I could go to Rivain,” he said, stepping from the tub. I would find steady work there, he considered. Ana would certainly have plenty for him to do, and he might be able to find Sogan and his crew or another band of mercs and lend them his swords and skills.
As he dried his limbs and torso, Cullen dismissed the idea; Ana’s vision suggested Ferelden was his destination. A witcher will answer a king’s call, she had said. There is no land with a king at present, except for Ferelden. Cullen believed a Theirin still ruled, but how would Ferelden’s king know of him at all?
Wrapping his naked frame of a large linen sheet, Cullen turned his attention to his soiled armor. Submersing it in the water, he scrubbed one piece at a time. I could go to Denerim. He quickly dismissed the thought. If Dorian’s lessons were correct, anyone in authority would assume Cullen served the Imperium. Witchers were seen as instruments of the Archon. They’d either try to kill him or imprison him. To avoid unpleasant entanglements, he’d need an introduction to assure his allegiances.
By the time Cullen had scrubbed every piece of his armor, he’d run through almost every possibility: elves, dwarves, Templars and even the Wardens. Each new idea met with obstacles and dismissals. Especially the Wardens. He couldn’t risk exposure to their tainted blood. It was one lesson he remembered among many.
Dorian slammed a heavy book atop the worktable. “Are you even listening to me?”
Cullen nodded, his nose firmly planted in a book discussing the finer details of mythical creatures in Thedas. “Mmm-hmm. Grey Wardens bad. Got it.” Cullen’s medallion hummed against his chest—Dorian planned to throw some sort of magic at him. With his right hand, Cullen called upon the quen sign, and his shielding covered Cullen just as Dorian released a bolt of lightning toward him.
A frustrated sigh from Dorian lifted Cullen’s attention for a moment before his eyes returned to the page he was reading.
“A bit weak there, Dorian. Bad day?” Cullen turned the page and kept reading.
Dorian leaned on the work table. “I am attempting to instruct you on the dangers you will face, and you are instead focused on what?” He attempted to yank the book from Cullen’s grasp.
Rather than fight to keep hold, Cullen released the book. “I heard every word. I am capable of listening to you and reading at the same time without missing crucial information.” Cullen cleared his throat. “Quote: what is most interesting to this researcher is the reaction of the altered of both parties to the presence of the other. The alchemical creature’s skin burned with the slightest touch of the turned. One might consider the blood to be the cause, a reaction for which there is no remedy, save the pearlescent liquid ingested by the victim of the burn.”
Dorian scoffed, but it did not deter Cullen’s recitation.
“It should be noted for future tests that the two should not commiserate in any capacity. Distance is best. Even a simple handshake resulted in extreme pain and blind fury, the turned did not survive the effects of the innocent contact.”
With arms crossed, Dorian said nothing, he simply glared.
“I heard you. I listened. I cannot touch a warden. To do so might result in grievous injury. I will remember it.”
Cullen pulled the last piece of armor from the smaller tub, placing his boot near the other. Task completed, he searched the tub for its drain. Most inns kept their baths in such a way that the water would drain through a spout into a trough in the floor that discarded the water. It took him only a moment to find the drain plug and pull it free, and repeated the same with the larger of the two tubs. He dug out several coins and left them near the hearth.
Seeking the wardens was definitely a bad idea. That left him with one choice—he would return to Kinloch. Perhaps the First Enchanter would be more accepting of an offer of aid. He doubted the Knight Commander would let Cullen set foot inside, regardless of who he once was.
His armor gathered, Cullen paused at the door. Would anyone still remember? It’s been nearly five years.
Cullen exited the room, thanking the attendant. She offered news regarding his belongings, pointing in the direction of his room. “No one came near, Ser.” Cullen spotted the saddle bags and his swords leaning against the door. He thanked her, making a mental note to leave a few more coins for her kindness.
His arms were overburdened with armor, weapons, coin pouch, and the key to the room. He’d have to put a few things down to actually fit the key into the door. As Cullen approached, he heard the floorboards creak in front of him. There’s someone inside my room.
Quietly he placed the pieces of the armor on the floor and drew his sword. The bath attendant stepped toward him, her hand raised as if a question would follow. Cullen shook his head and gestured for her to stay clear. He wouldn’t risk injury to an innocent.
Cullen’s thoughts raced. Felix would have waited in the tavern, not in Cullen’s room. He’d tossed the burlap sack within, surely had someone been inside, they would have spoken then. No, whoever waited within needed to be hidden. A passing thought to his state of undress was discarded. He tried the handle, surprised to find the door still locked.
Digging the key from his boot, slow moves allowed him to unlock the door and open it cautiously. To the average eye, the room would be too dark to see, but no so for Cullen. Against the far wall, the little moonlight there was cast a glow that only enhanced his vision. Against the far wall, a figure sat in a large wingback chair, legs crossed.
Cullen allowed his senses to take in the rest of the room. Fresh linens had been laid for the bed, no musty or stale odors from the bed’s location. There was something lingering in the air—a hint of green, mixed with light floral and something more—familiar and at the same time unknown.
A spark of magic flitted across his skin; Cullen gripped the sword hilt tighter. “Show yourself,” he said, putting in as much command as he could without alarming the tavern patrons.
“With pleasure,” a woman replied. With another small flicker of magic a candleflame illuminated the far wall, and with it a familiar face. Yennelyn.