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“His name?”
“Geralt.”
The woman chewed at her bottom lip. The witcher couldn’t see her eyes, but the shift of her dark hood betrayed her. The infant, small, even for a newborn, slept on, unaware of his mother’s gaze.
“We don’t normally take them this young.”
Her shoulders tensed and finally she looked at him.
“I can’t take him back,” she stated, and Vesemir felt the shudder of magic about her, far too strong to be untrained.
Curious.
The infant squirmed in his sleep and the witcher looked to him, taking in the tuft of brilliant red hair atop his head. He’d seen the same red peeking out from beneath the woman’s cloak.
“He might not survive.”
The sorceress paused in the middle of mounting her horse.
“That…” As she pulled herself the rest of the way into the saddle, Vesemir caught a scent like wind swept through a prairie. And milk, a mother’s milk.
He wondered if she should be riding so soon after giving birth.
“That is no longer my concern,” she finished.
He could see her hands trembling, even as she gripped the reins too tightly. Her horse shifted beneath her, uneasy.
“Tell me your name, then.”
A harsh inhale and he could smell the salt of gathering tears.
“Why?”
“So that I might tell you if he perishes.”
She swallowed.
“You needn’t inform me.”
Vesemir frowned.
“Humor me, then. Tell me your name and I’ll leave you be.”
She needn’t fear revealing it. He wouldn’t hunt her down, nor would he allow the child to. But it was also true that she had no reason to tell him. And there was nothing keeping her from simply taking off on her horse. Vesemir could not follow with the child in his arms.
“I… Visenna,” she said, and spurred the horse into motion with a prod of her heels.
The witcher nodded.
He watched after her for a moment before glancing down at his new ward. Knowing that his journey had just been made longer, Vesemir mounted his own mare and turned northward, Geralt tucked up against his chest.