Chapter 12: THE TEMPLE OF MELITELE
The Temple of Melitele rose from the hills like a prayer made stone.
I'd traveled through worse weather to reach it—two weeks of autumn rain that turned roads to mud and made every mile feel like three. My boots were ruined. My clothes had dried and rewetted so many times they'd started to smell like mildewed hay. But the temple gates were open, warm light spilling into the gray afternoon, and a young priestess was already walking toward me.
"Traveler! You look half-drowned. Come inside, come inside."
I didn't argue.
The receiving hall was simple but comfortable—clean stone, warm hearth, the smell of bread baking somewhere nearby. The priestess—Sister Agata, she introduced herself—took my wet cloak and led me toward the fire.
"What brings you to us, friend?"
"I'm a bard. Looking for shelter and perhaps work. I can entertain in exchange for lodging."
Her eyes brightened. "A bard! We haven't had one since summer. The sisters grow weary of the same hymns. You're most welcome to stay." She paused, studying me more closely. "You look exhausted. When did you last eat properly?"
I tried to remember. The road had blurred into an endless slog of putting one foot in front of the other. "Yesterday? Maybe the day before."
"That won't do. Sit by the fire. I'll bring food."
The bread she returned with was fresh from the oven, still steaming when she broke it. The cheese was sharp and excellent. The soup was thick with vegetables and what might have been chicken.
I ate until my stomach ached from fullness, then ate a little more because I couldn't bring myself to stop.
When did I last enjoy food this much? When did I last feel safe enough to relax while eating?
Sister Agata watched me with the patient satisfaction of someone whose vocation involved feeding the hungry. "Better?"
"Much. Thank you."
"Mother Nenneke is away—she's attending a difficult birth in the village below—but she'll return within the week. Until then, you're welcome in our guest quarters. We ask only that you respect our devotions and perhaps share your music during evening meals."
Nenneke.
The name echoed from my meta-knowledge. Nenneke, High Priestess, friend to Geralt of Rivia. In the show's timeline, Geralt brought wounded companions here for healing. Ciri would eventually train within these walls.
A dangerous place to linger. But also exactly the place I needed.
"I would be honored to play for the sisters," I said. "And if there's any other way I can help—carrying, cleaning, whatever needs doing—I'm happy to work."
Sister Agata smiled. "We'll find something. Rest first. Tomorrow is soon enough for labor."
Three days later, a merchant caravan limped through the temple gates.
One of their men had taken an arrow in the leg during a bandit attack. The wound had festered on the road, and by the time they reached the temple, infection had spread. His fever ran so high he couldn't recognize his own name.
The sisters worked quickly—cleaning the wound, applying poultices, mixing herbal remedies. But the fever refused to break. By evening, the man's breathing had turned shallow and fast.
I found Sister Agata in the corridor outside the sickroom, worry creasing her face.
"How bad is it?"
"The infection is deep. We're doing everything we can, but..." She shook her head. "Sometimes wounds are simply too severe."
I can help. I have the power now.
But using it here, in a temple full of people who might recognize magic for what it was—the risk was enormous.
They protect unusual gifts. Mirena said as much. The temple accepts people with strange abilities.
I thought about the man in the sickroom. He had companions who loved him, people who'd brought him here hoping for salvation. He was dying because a bandit's arrow had carried filth into his flesh.
I became powerful to help people. What's the point if I'm too afraid to use it?
"Sister Agata. I might be able to assist."
She studied me for a long moment. Something shifted in her expression—not surprise, exactly, but recognition. "You have a gift."
"I'm not certain it will work. But I'd like to try."
She nodded slowly. "The Goddess teaches that healing comes in many forms. If you can help, we won't refuse."
The sickroom was small and warm, heavy with the smell of herbs and sickness. The merchant lay on a narrow bed, skin flushed, breath rattling. His companions had been sent away to rest.
I pulled a chair beside the bed and began to sing.
The healing melody came easier now than it had two months ago. I'd practiced in private, learning the feel of directing power toward injury rather than emotion. The song was simple—a lullaby my grandmother used to sing, or rather, Julian's grandmother, remade into something that carried more than sound.
Power flowed through my voice and into the wounded man. I felt it seeking out infection, fighting corruption, encouraging the body's own defenses to rally. The effort pulled at me—not painful, but demanding, like holding a heavy weight at arm's length.
The merchant's breathing steadied. The flush began to fade from his cheeks. When I touched his forehead, the fever had dropped from dangerous to merely warm.
Not cured. But given a chance.
I stopped singing. The exhaustion hit immediately—not the bone-deep depletion of Evasion Instinct, but a weariness that settled into my muscles and made me want to sleep for a week.
Sister Agata appeared in the doorway. She took in the merchant's improved condition, then looked at me.
"You sang him better."
"I helped his body fight. The sisters' medicines did most of the work."
"That's not what I saw." She crossed to the bedside, checking the man's pulse, his temperature. "His fever broke. His breathing cleared. In minutes, not hours." She turned to face me. "What are you?"
The question I'd been dreading. But something in her voice wasn't accusation—it was curiosity, and perhaps wonder.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I have abilities I don't understand. I came here hoping to find answers."
"You came to the right place." She gestured for me to follow. "We have a library. Small, but useful. And we have experience with people whose gifts don't fit neat categories."
The library was indeed small—a single room with perhaps two hundred books and scrolls. But what it contained made my heart pound.
Texts on magical theory. Treatises on the nature of chaos. Analyses of healing traditions from across the Continent. And in one corner, a section on "anomalous manifestations"—abilities that had appeared in individuals without training or apparent source.
"Read what you need," Sister Agata said. "The temple protects those who help."
I spent three days in that library, reading by candlelight until my eyes burned.
What I learned changed everything.
Chaos magic—the power used by sorceresses and sorcerers—drew from a specific source and left specific signatures. Detection spells looked for those signatures, that particular flavor of energy.
My abilities didn't use chaos. The texts called such powers "innate manifestations"—magic that arose from the soul itself rather than channeled from external sources. Rare, poorly understood, and crucially: often invisible to chaos-detection methods.
I might be able to hide from Yennefer after all.
Not guaranteed. Powerful mages could sometimes sense any magic, regardless of source. But the odds were better than I'd feared.
I copied key passages by candlelight, filling a small notebook with information I might need. Sister Agata checked on me periodically, bringing food I forgot to eat and gentle reminders to sleep.
On the fourth day, word came that Mother Nenneke would return by evening.
Time to leave.
I couldn't risk meeting her. Nenneke knew Geralt. If she remembered me when Geralt and I eventually met, questions would arise. Better to remain a nameless bard who passed through, helped a merchant, and moved on.
I packed my things and sought out Sister Agata.
"I need to leave before Mother Nenneke returns. Nothing against the temple—I simply prefer not to complicate things."
She nodded as if she'd expected this. "The merchant is recovering well. He'll live because of you."
"He'll live because your sisters knew how to treat infection. I just helped the medicine work faster."
"If that's what you need to believe." She pressed a small bundle into my hands—travel food, I realized, bread and cheese wrapped in cloth. "Walk safely, bard. And know that you're welcome here, whatever you are."
I thanked her and left through the side gate, heading north before the main road became visible from the temple.
Sixteen months until Posada. I understand my powers better now. I know what to fear and what might protect me.
The road stretched ahead, familiar and unknown at once. I had more questions than answers, but I had direction.
Geralt of Rivia was out there somewhere, hunting monsters in his lonely way. In sixteen months, I'd walk into a tavern in Posada and change both our lives forever.
When that moment came, I'd be ready.
I adjusted my pack and started walking. The road waited, and I had songs to write.
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