Chapter Text
Geralt would be so disappointed in me.
It had been three years since the last serious assassination attempt; seven since her official ascension to the throne. Emhyr -- it was still difficult to think of him as her father, even if time and familiarity had worn away a little of his intimidating imperial mien -- had been thorough, even before his abdication, in eliminating his enemies. Even now he kept his hand in, had ears and eyes in every corner of the empire. And Cirilla -- remembering the fate of her mother, the death of her grandmother and the sacking of Cintra -- had, in turn, not hesitated to channel a little of his ruthlessness as circumstances required.
As a result, she hadn’t needed to unweave any new plots as of late. She’d even agreed to an Imperial Progress through the Northern Kingdoms, in order to solidify old allegiances and negotiate new ones, perhaps even to see a few old friends. A stag hunt with a few local Kaedweni nobles had seemed a harmless thing, in comparison to the constant scheming and backbiting of court politics. Considering her own abilities, and the ever-watchful attendance of the Imperial Guard, what had she to fear? And the chance to wear leathers rather than imperial robes, to ride into the forest, to see the Blue Mountains in the distance and remember simpler times … it had been too tempting to pass up.
Geralt is going to kill me for this, she couldn’t help but think, even as the forktail’s shriek echoed in her ears. Her horse -- not her faithful Kelpie, but a lesser, albeit more imperial beast -- screamed, rearing as the female of the pair swooped low overhead, claws extended. Kicking free of the stirrups, Cirilla rolled off the mare’s back as it bolted. The entire party had dissolved instantly into chaos, horses and nobles both frantic to escape, guardsmen shouting and blundering into each other as they brandished sword and halberd at the circling draconids. Or at least lecture me *again* about expecting the unexpected. How could she have missed the signs? Forktails were not subtle about marking their territory. She should have seen, should have realized long before now that the stag they had come to hunt had already been pulled down by a nesting pair of the draconids, even if the overbred nobles that made up the rest of their hunting party had not.
The male landed, hissing as it laid about with razor teeth and claws. Eggs in the nest, have to be, for this kind of aggression. An entire squad of her Imperial Guard, hampered by armor far too heavy for this kind of fight, were knocked off their feet by a sweep of its barbed tail. Those that remained formed up around her, a testament to their training. “Protect the Empress!”
One of the nobles screamed, a gurgling, terrified sound, as he fell under the creature’s talons. The forktail didn’t bother to finish the kill; instead it swung around, wings mantled as crossbow quarrels flew past its muzzle, rebounding off of thick scales. Aard, she couldn’t help but think. She could almost hear Vesemir’s voice, gravelly and rough, in her ear. For forktails, use draconid oil and aard. Failing that, grapeshot bombs. None of which she had.
“Retreat! Get the Empress out of here!” her guard captain shouted, even as the female forktail dove again, snatching up another of the local guardsmen in her claws. Blood rained down as he screamed, the wet crunching of his bones audible even over the din. Most of the nobles shrieked and ran, while a few of the braver members of the retinue managed to rally their personal guard. Some had landed blows of their own, opening up thin red lines in the male’s flanks. The wounds were far from crippling, however, and instead only served to infuriate the beast more. Screeching in fury, it charged, that deadly tail lashing outward, impaling men on either side.
Mingled irritation and shame forced her to action. Drawing her sword, Cirilla darted forward, ignoring the alarmed shouts of her guards. Her faithful Zireal wasn’t silver, but had killed far greater beasts. She just needed to get in range. One step, two, and she *reached*--
--and blinked between one moment and the next, to appear right on the forktail’s flank. Perfect. She lunged, stabbing deep into vulnerable soft spot behind one foreleg. Zirael sliced through scales and sinewy muscle like butter, and the forktail’s enraged screech was bitten off as blood frothed its muzzle. It whipped around, but Cirilla was already moving. Diving low as that deadly tail swung, she came up next to the creature’s swivelling head. Seizing the opportunity, she turned, letting her arm flow loose into a series of slashing strikes. Once, then twice more, directly across the meat of the forktail’s neck, severing windpipe and arteries alike. She stepped between moments once again, the draconid frozen in the fraction of time before the mortal wounds could even begin to bleed--and with a heavy, double-handed blow, finished the creature off, the final strike coming down on the other side the neck, partially severing the spine.
There was no time to revel in her victory, as the forktail’s mate screamed in rage from above. Folding her wings, the beast dove with talons out, ignoring the flurry of crossbow bolts that rose to meet her. Behind, distantly, Cirilla heard shouts, frantic orders, but her focus had narrowed. She ran forward to meet the forktail’s stoop, pulling forth the magic within her to step again across time and space. Only this time, there was a rising prickle of magic ... from *behind* her.
She had only the barest fraction of a moment to think--of course. What better chance to kill an empress?--and then the spell smashed into the forktail, into her, twisting her power from her grasp. Caught outside of time, Cirilla couldn’t even hear her own scream as the spell warped, feeding on her magic, twisting reality itself. It burned, an icy pain that cored through her, like tendon and sinew strung tighter and tighter until something *snapped*--
--and she fell.
The world swung dizzyingly before her eyes, stars and dark shadowed forest giving her no chance to figure out up from down. The drop lasted only moments--then unforgiving stone slammed into ribs and shoulders and the back of her head, driving out what little breath remained. Darkness threatened to drag her under--she fought against unconsciousness desperately, mustering every scrap of willpower she had. She felt hollowed out, empty--but she had to stay awake, to *move* or the forktail would … wait.
Why couldn’t she hear anything?
The silence was eerie, devoid of screams and shrieks and the sounds of battle, broken only by the hollow sound of the wind. Where are the trees? It was cold, wherever she was, the wind cutting through her hunting leathers. The biting chill helped clear her head a bit. It had been midsummer in Kaedwen; this place was cold, but not the killing kind--I must have jumped to another world. That last spell--who knows how far it threw me? At least she didn’t have to worry about imminent death-by-draconid, then. However, her current position was no less precarious--there were a great many worlds out there that were far from safe.
Cirilla sucked in a breath, and immediately regretted it as her ribs protested. Stifling a groan, she pushed herself up on one arm, shaking with the effort it took. The movement gave rise to a nauseating wash of pain, so intense she couldn’t for a moment determine where it was coming from. Broken leg? She paused, panting, head hanging low as she mustered her strength. Her fingers curled against the stone, weathered gray granite, finely fitted and mortared together. Had she landed in another elven tower?
Nearby, she heard the faintest breath of sound, the scuff of leather on stone. Her head came up, her free hand snapping out for Zirael’s hilt.
It was a boy. A normal human boy, no older than eight, if Ciri were any judge. He scrambled backwards, eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she said hastily, letting go of the sword. “I mean you no harm. You startled me.”
The boy regarded her warily from well outside sword’s reach. Cirilla stayed where she was, doing her best to appear harmless and unthreatening. The last thing she needed right now was for the child to panic and run off to this world’s version of witch hunters.
“... are you a succubus?” the boy asked, in perfectly understandable, albeit thickly-accented, northern common. Ciri did a double-take. Of all the questions she had been expecting, *that* had not been one of them.
“What? No--I’m not a succubus. I’m just a regular person.”
“No you’re not,” the boy said stubbornly, crossing arms over his chest. “Regular people don’t fall out of the air.”
Which was a valid point, she had to admit. “Ok, I’m a little bit different than most people,” she told him, amused in spite of herself. What an odd little boy. Too bad his question didn’t narrow things down any -- succubi were nearly as common across the worlds she’d visited as humans. Or at least, they were part of almost every culture’s mythos. “But why ever would you think I’m a succubus?”
“‘Cause Master Badrick says they look like girls. And you’re a girl. And there was a big flash of light, and you fell out of the air,” the boy stated proudly, as if that constituted irrefutable proof. “Normal girls don’t do that.”
“Well, you’ve got me there,” Cirilla admitted. She pushed herself upward, gritting her teeth. There was a nearby wall, crenelations shouldering up against the night sky--she put her back to it, letting it prop her up as she tried to maneuver her uncooperative leg. “But I’m still not a succubus.” The boy was definitely no foundling -- he seemed well-fed enough, and his tunic and trousers, while patched and made of rough linen, were relatively clean. A servant’s child, perhaps? “What’s your name?” she asked, grimacing as she propped her broken leg in front of her. There was nothing nearby she could use for a splint, save her scabbard. Damn it.
“I’m--” the boy stopped short, and when she looked over, she found his gaze had fixed on her … waist? No, Vesemir’s medallion, still securely fastened to her belt.
“A wolf.” the boy breathed, taking a step backwards. “But … ”
The child had obviously recognized it as a witcher medallion. Cirilla had heard more than a few of the horror stories the peasantry liked to tell about witchers, and she’d seen firsthand what that fear and prejudice had done to Geralt, when the citizenry of Rivia had exploded into violence. “Hey, it’s all right,” she said, trying to reassure him. “It’s not what you think. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The boy hesitated--then darted for the stairs. He disappeared down them in a flash, and Cirilla could hear him calling out, the stone muffling the words.
“Wonderful.” She let her aching head thunk--gently--back against the stone. Angry mob, here we come. Perhaps if she was lucky, it would only be angry parents. Cirilla pulled Zirael closer to her side, ready to hand. This was not good. She still felt as wrung out as an old rag--she doubted she’d be able to teleport to safety even if she needed to. Even if she knew where safety was.
Voices began echoing back up the stairs, the boy’s higher-pitched, excited words tumbling over a second voice--the laconic baritone of an older man, accompanied by the thud of booted feet.
“--don’t know what you’re playing at, boy.” The voice rolled the consonants oddly, just as the boy had. “There’s no way anyone could get--” The man came into view as he climbed up the stairs, and what Ciri saw was not reassuring. Wearing reinforced leathers, the man was bearded, with shaggy hair tied back at the nape of his neck and carrying an unsheathed blade in a practiced grip that bespoke an easy kind of strength. There was still moonlight enough to see and nowhere to hide, even had she the opportunity. The man’s narrowed eyes swept the open space, then widened as they landed on her.
“See! I told you--a girl witcher! And she fell out of the sky!” the boy said triumphantly from the stairs, clambering up with more haste than grace.
“Stay back,” the man ordered him, his gaze never leaving Cirilla, sword tip steady. “Who are you? How did you get here?”
Cirilla sucked in a breath as the man advanced. For those eyes were all too familiar, even if the face was not--the eerie, slit-pupiled golden gaze of a witcher. And at the man’s neck, hanging over his leathers, was a medallion twin to her own. The School of the Wolf.
“How … who are you?” she said disbelievingly. A bounty hunter might have scooped up the medallion as a trophy, but no normal man had those eyes.
“Answer the question, woman,” the man said roughly, moving to put himself between her and the boy, like it was instinctive. Her fingers tightened over Zirael’s hilt, and that golden gaze caught the movement. “Who are you? And how exactly did you come by that medallion, thief?”
“I’m no thief!” Cirilla snapped, the accusation laying bare an old scar. Vesemir … if she had only been faster, or stronger … Even now the memory of his death ached. “It was bequeathed to me.” In spirit, if not in words. After it was all over, after she and Geralt had gone after the last Crone, to put an end to that rank and boggy evil and recover what had been stolen, Geralt had given the medallion to her again, and told her to keep it close. She had, ever since.
The man snorted. “A liar as well as a thief. There’s no way you could have made it up here by ordinary means. Not in this castle. You a sorceress, thief? Or just working for one?” He around her, obviously scanning for any other betraying signs of magic, while always keeping her in the periphery of his sight.
Cirilla sighed. “I’m not a thief, nor a sorceress. What kind of magic could I possibly work that you couldn’t sense, anyway?” She nodded at his witcher medallion, with its snarling wolf’s head. “Besides, have you ever seen a thief dressed like this?” She gestured down at her leathers. She might not be wearing full court gear, but her leathers were still of the finest quality, far better than even most aristocrats could afford. A mastercrafted leather jerkin, reinforced with silvered chain, wyvern-hide trousers embroidered finely in gold and scarlet thread … her belt alone would feed an entire village for a year, for Melitele’s sake!
The man growled under his breath, but didn’t reply. “You stink of forktail, as well,” he said abruptly, staring narrowly at her.
“Yes, well, that does tend to happen when you kill one,” she snapped, lifting Zirael into the moonlight, just enough to illustrate the black blood, still wet, slicking the blade.
“Hunh.” The man inspected her a moment longer, then sheathed his own sword, sliding it into the scabbard on his back in one smooth motion. “Go get Master Sebastian, boy. And Jacek as well. It appears we have a mystery on our hands.”
The boy nodded, ducking back down the stairs without argument. The man considered her, arms crossed, and Cirilla sighed again. “No offense, but if we’re just going to stare at each other, could we do it somewhere warmer?” The pain from her leg was getting harder to ignore as the adrenaline from the fight wore off. She tried to adjust her seat slightly, only to bite back a gasp as the movement jarred her awkwardly turned foot.
“Perhaps. You’re going to have to give that up first, though.” The man nodded at her sword.
Cirilla’s fingers tightened reflexively around Zirael’s hilt. Then, hating the necessity of it, she reversed the blade and set it down, hilt pointing away from her. “Take it.”
The man took up the elvish blade, hefting it without ever looking away. Then he set it aside, out of her reach, and knelt down. “Let me see that leg. And if you’re thinking of some kind of trickery, a word of advice -- don’t.”
“Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’m all out of tricks at the moment,” Cirilla said dryly. As close as the man now was, she could see finely threaded scars -- they spiderwebbed one side of his neck and throat, starting just above a stubbled jawline and disappearing down into his leathers. A constellation of other scars marked his face as well; evidence of a life spent hunting the kinds of foes that wielded poison or acid, not swords. “What’s your name?”
“Almeric.” He tilted his head, just a slight turn to the side and down, a subtle and familiar gesture. Eskel had once said he could hear better, that way. Ciri held her breath reflexively as the -- witcher? -- studied her. “Broken,” he said at last.
Was it even possible for other worlds to have witchers? She’d never seen another world so similar to her own, but--what else could it be? Ciri let her breath out, wincing at the hitching flex of her ribcage. “Managed to deduce that much on my own.”
Almeric gave her a look that he might well have learned at Vesemir’s feet. “Fibula. Torn anterior retinaculum. Bruised costal cartilage.”
No, Almeric was definitely a witcher, or something so close as to make very little difference. Which… wasn't impossible, clearly. She’d assumed that the mutations were unique to her world, and couldn't be replicated elsewhere without a precise combinations of mutagens. She certainly hadn’t come across any people with abilities quite like the witchers of her plane, let alone ones that spoke a language she understood.
Or perhaps there was a simpler explanation. Witchers sometimes disappeared, never to be seen again. If one hadn’t died in some forgotten crypt, but rather been shipwrecked on foreign shores…. Could Almeric be one of those? “What continent is this?” she asked.
Almeric didn't answer right away. Instead he settled back on his heels in that easy crouch, and studied her.
Despite everything, Ciri couldn’t help the excitement that seemed to bubble up from within. How long had Almeric been here, concealed from the wider world? Geralt -- he’d been able to count his brothers on the fingers of one hand now for decades; had more stories of coming across slain witchers than living ones. She knew of only fifty three from all the schools combined that still travelled the empire; even accounting for the difficulty of tracking a witcher, there were probably fewer than a hundred left in all the known world. Unicorns were more common, nowadays. To find another witcher, alive and safe, it was… “Have you sent word to Kaer Morhen?” Ciri found herself blurting. Almeric’s expression barely twitched. “It’s safe now. Imperial protectorate. The walls have been rebuilt. And--”
“Must have missed the head wound,” said another voice. This one, too, bore that accent she couldn’t quite place. Ciri blinked, reached up to rub her eyes in disbelief at what she was seeing, then hesitated, reminded of the forktail gore that still coated her hands.
“Mn. This look like a concussion to you?” Almeric said flatly.
“If she hit the ground -- here, by the scuff and spatter marks -- from a height? Then very likely, yes.” The second man wore all black, was dark himself, even moreso than a Zerrikanian. But his eyes gleamed the same gold as Almeric’s, and he moved with the same liquid grace as he pushed himself off the crenulated wall stones behind the other witcher. “Good roll to break your fall, by the way. Couldn’t have asked a boy for better.”
“You’re still training new -- wait. The School of the Wolf... lives?” Fold straight in and forward as you fall. No, keep your wrists tucked, they’re the easiest bones to break. Wrong. Closer; you want to be able to hold a sword tomorrow? Maybe she had hit her head, after all. Two -- and boys? Could there be a branch school somewhere, hidden away, that was still training new witchers? But if so, why were they still in hiding? News had to reach this place, if either of these witchers walked the Path at all. Perhaps she should not have spoken so freely.
The pair -- pair! -- of witchers exchanged glances. “Right about the mystery, though,” said the dark one, a little wryly.
Almeric blew out a breath. “Let’s take this inside. I’m going to give you a boost up--it’ll hurt. You ready?”
Shivering, Ciri nodded. Shifting to one side, Almeric put his shoulder beneath hers, trusting her to hold on, and boosted her upward. The resulting spike of nauseating agony from head and ribs and leg all at once blurred her vision, threatening to suck her under.
Almeric didn’t drag her off right away, thankfully. Instead he stood steady, a solid support. “You good?”
“Y-yes. I think.” She hated showing weakness in front of them, but there was no help for it. For all her power, she was no witcher, able to withstand injuries and drink down potions that would slay a dozen ordinary men. At least Almeric hadn’t tried to carry her.
“All right.” Taking Cirilla at her word, Almeric headed for the stairs, supporting most of her weight. Even so, it was an awkward, painful journey down the narrow, twisting stair. The dark witcher followed them down, and didn’t seem inclined to commentary. Which was just as well--each hop downward jarred her bruised ribs anew, and by the time they reached the bottom, she was sweating with the effort it took to stay on her feet, teeth clenched tight against the pain. Head swimming, she caught only fleeting impressions of faces as Almeric half-dragged her into a nearby room. Suddenly there was a fireplace, and a chair, and she sagged in relief even as Almeric lowered her ungently into it, too happy to finally be *warm* again to care.
“All right, time to answer questions,” Almeric said, stepping back. Cirilla forced herself to focus, taking the measure of their little group. One was obviously a mage of some kind; judging from the way his robes were discolored about the sleeves and hem, one that dabbled more than a little in alchemical experimentation. But the other new arrivals--she slowly pushed herself upright, hardly believing the evidence of her eyes. They were both men, one stocky, layered with compact muscle, while the other was leaner, with dark hair and a narrow, aquiline face--and like Almeric, they both had golden, slit-pupiled witcher eyes.
Her gaze swung in astonishment from one face to the next. *Four* witchers of the School of the Wolf, alive? It wasn’t possible. One or even two, perhaps, but surely Vesemir or Geralt would have known. Surely Geralt would have told her. Even if he didn’t trust the empire, he had to know she would keep his secrets.
“How did you find this place? What are you after, woman?” the lanky witcher asked, moving forward, scowling in suspicion. The movement separated him from his fellows, revealing that his right arm ended just above the elbow.
“I didn’t find anything,” she told him, trying not to stare. A witcher who’d suffered that kind of injury and still managed to survive had to be a rare thing indeed. “I landed here by accident, in the middle of a fight with a forktail -- I have no idea where I am.” This room seemed vaguely familiar, in that way that old castles often were, if old-fashioned in its appointments. But regardless of where she was, Cirilla knew she had to choose her words carefully. Far too many others had thought to use her power or her bloodline, or both, once they had discovered her heritage. And if these men knew they held the empress of all Nilfgaard--well, ransom might be the kindest outcome she could probably expect.
She needed to play for time. Time enough for her power to recover; then it wouldn’t matter what their intentions were, witchers or not -- no shackle or prison would be able to hold her. Of course, being able to actually walk would help some.
The one-armed witcher snorted. “You’re a bad liar, woman. You might at least *try* to make up something we would believe.”
“I’m not lying,” Ciri said calmly, refusing to be stung by the insult. A memory floated past, Geralt’s voice in her ear--Don’t believe everything Eskel tells you, Ciri. Witchers can’t actually tell when someone’s lying, provided they're good enough at it. She remembered him smiling wryly as he added, If we could, it’d save us a lot of aggravation--not to mention coin. “Also, my name is Falka, not ‘woman’, if you don’t mind. I’m not after anything. Except maybe a splint and someplace with no forktails.”
The stockier witcher snorted softly. “Came to the wrong place for that last bit,” he said under his breath.
“Some manner of reflexive teleportation?” The mage asked curiously. Compared with the group of witchers, he seemed animated, expressive, although that might have been largely due to his stony company. “Tell me, has this happened before? Are you wearing any unusual devices that might be enchanted, perhaps a ring recently acquired, or a new weapon, or--”
Ciri shook her head, more against the fog that was creeping into it than in negation. “Zir... my sword, it shouldn’t be left outside--” Forktail blood would pit the blade, and the humidity -- I don’t care if you’re vomiting from the exhaustion, girl. You take care of your sword before you close your eyes.
“Hasn’t been,” Almeric said, uninflected. Behind him, through the open door, the worn stones of the tight staircase were just visible in the flaring light of the hearthfire. The boy was back there, Ciri realized belatedly, crouched on the stairs and peeping in, his arms hugged tight around Zireal’s familiar shape, almost as long as he was tall. She wasn’t sure when he’d scurried up after it. Ciri nodded, exhaling hard through her nose against another wash of pain.
“--or perhaps seven-league boots; are those new boots? Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary, or otherwise uncanny, about them? Or --” the sorcerer continued, oblivious. He, like everyone else here, spoke with that same odd accent.
“Mn. I think those particular questions can wait. Smells like your kettle of celandine tea is hot, Sebastian,” the dark-skinned witcher said, perhaps a little pointedly.
“Oh, why -- yes, I think it is. Let me see here--” the sorcerer stepped back, the quebirth-stained hem of his robe dusting the floor.
That left Ciri the sole focus of four pairs of slitted, golden eyes. Most people, she imagined, would have cringed under the weight of those gazes. For Ciri, it just felt like memories of those few precious winters at Kaer Morhen, long and happy despite the effort of hard training. She was too tired to play at being intimidated, and rather doubted she’d do a good job of it, at any rate. “I’ve met Almeric; who are the rest of you?”
The witchers exchanged glances, obviously debating what to tell her. After a few moments, the dark-skinned witcher snorted. “Even if she was a sorceress, she can’t do much with only a name, can she?” he told the others. Turning to her, he tapped his chest. “I’m Jacek. That’s Tjold of Carreas,” indicating the stocky witcher, “-and Rennes du Pont Vanis is the grumpy one in front of you. Where do you hail from?”
The question was slipped into the introduction, as effortlessly as an Ofieri blade between the ribs. It was fortunate that Ciri had been expecting it. “Attre. But I was in Kaedwen when this happened--on a hunt.”
“No huntsman in their right mind would go after a forktail,” Rennes said, obviously not willing to take anything she said at face value. “Much less bring a woman along.”
“We weren’t *after* forktail,” Ciri said, mustering patience. It had been years since anyone had dared to be openly rude to her face--it was both refreshing and frustrating. When I get home, I’m going to make sure I encourage Lambert to visit more often. “We were hunting stag. But we were stupid--didn’t realize there was a nesting pair of forktails in the area until it was too late. We weren’t prepared for anything like that.”
“Surprised you’re still alive,” Tjold said neutrally.
Ciri shrugged one shoulder, careful not to jostle aching ribs. “Forktails are dangerous, but predictable. I’d taken one down, but the mate wasn’t about to let it go. I was trying to get under her stoop, someone threw the wrong spell in the middle of the fight, and the next thing I know, I’m here. Falling.”
“You. Killed a forktail.” Rennes expression was eloquent in its disbelief. The others were also showing varying degrees of skepticism. Except for Almeric, who tipped his head to one side.
“Fresh forktail blood on her hands,” he reminded them. “And her blade.”
“Could be bottled. What would a woman know about hunting monsters?” Rennes said sourly.
“Quite a bit, actually,” Ciri shot back, thinking fast. She knew far too much about the School of the Wolf to pretend to be ordinary in front of these men. Hell, given the observational abilities of witchers, even her walk or habits or the make of her sword sheath might give her away, even if she *hadn’t* babbled on about Kaer Morhen in front of Almeric. But she couldn’t mention Geralt. He was too famous--or notorious, depending on who you asked--for them not to put the pieces together and figure out who she truly was. So she needed to use the truth, albeit one salted liberally with misdirection. She squared her shoulders, facing down Rennes’ scorn. “I’m a child by the law of surprise. My … foster-father taught me.”
*That* set them back on their heels. The small group of witchers regarded her with new interest.
“Impossible,” Rennes snapped. “You’re no--”
“Witcher? Obviously not. Not a boy, as you may have noticed,” Ciri said dryly, waving a hand down at her … assets. Jacek chuckled. “He didn’t need a girl; wasn’t even going to claim me. But … my family was dead. I had nowhere else to go, so he took me in. He taught me what he knew best--how to fight, how to hunt. How to survive.”
“He was School of the Wolf?” Almeric asked, glancing down at the medallion that still hung from her belt. Ciri nodded. “What was his name?”
“Thomas,” Ciri said. Sorry, Geralt. A name as common as Thomas--if she was lucky, there would be at least a couple of witchers that had gone by that name. And even if not--well, it was obvious that this cadre of witchers had been cut off from the world for some time. “Thomas of Gwendeith--that’s how I knew him, at least.”
“Aah, here we are,” interrupted the alchemist, Sebastian, as he approached with a heavy pottery mug, its rim chipped in places. Steam rose from the surface, and Ciri accepted the warm, unpainted ceramic eagerly. The heat felt good, seeping into the palms of her hands. Flecks of yellow celandine floated in the liquid, releasing the painkilling plant’s slightly bitter scent. Ciri sipped cautiously, more from the heat than from fear of being drugged. Oh, it was possible, she supposed -- verbena and white myrtle could make an imbiber more talkative -- but she didn’t smell anything but celandine, and besides, her leg *hurt* now, an insistent and constant throbbing.
“Thank you,” she said, giving him a grateful smile. To her surprise, he actually looked a bit flustered at the thanks, cheeks turning a bit red from more than just the fire.
“This witcher you say taught you,” Tjold said. “He’s dead?” He nodded at the medallion.
“Yes.” Ciri replied. It wasn’t hard to summon enough grief to make the answer convincing. All she had to do was think of Vesemir.
“You honestly expect us to swallow this ridiculous story?” Rennes said. Ciri’s fingers tightened around the mug, and she resisted the temptation to throw it at his sneering face. “That some apostate witcher decided to train you, then conveniently died? And that it was only due to chance and not design that you somehow end up here, of all places? Do you think us fools?”
“Well, that wasn’t my first assumption, no,” Ciri said sweetly, biting off the words. “But I’m starting to reconsider, given that your alternate theory seems to be that I somehow managed to steal a medallion, decided to sneak *into* a castle full of witchers, and then dumped forktail blood all over myself and broke my leg, all in the hopes of making myself ...what? Less suspicious? Harder to catch?” It was stupid to antagonize these men, she knew. But it was hard to look at those faces and not be reminded of the easy joking and camaraderie she’d given up when she ascended the throne. Geralt, Eskel … I wish you were here.
“You impudent--!” Rennes started forward, only to be stopped by Tjold’s hand on his shoulder.
“Enough. It’s late, and the woman has injuries that need to be tended to,” he told the other man. “We’re not going to chase this down in a single night.”
“She has made extraordinary claims,” Jacek put in, glancing between them both. “But it should be easy enough to test her and see what she truly knows. In the meantime, we can keep her under guard. Master Sebastian can put up wards as well--if she did use a portal to arrive, we can at least ensure she won’t be able to use one to escape.”
Rennes scowled for a moment, obviously torn between listening to his fellow witchers and continuing the interrogation. Then he brushed Tjold’s hand off his shoulder, abruptly turning away. “Very well. Splint her leg, and ensure that she doesn’t die of chill before we get some answers out of her. Master Sebastian, you will set the wards when it is done. Almeric, arrange for a guard rotation.” Drawing his woolen mantle closer about his shoulders, he stalked out of the room.
Tjold clicked his tongue, shaking his head at Rennes’ dramatic exit. “Very well. You heard him. Boy!” The boy in question untucked himself from his corner and trotted forward, still holding her sword awkwardly. “I’ll take that, I think,” Tjold said, reaching down and taking Zirael. He looked the elven blade over with a professional eye. “Beautiful piece of work,” he remarked. “Not sure I’ve seen better.”
“It was a gift,” Ciri said tiredly. It was hard to see her sword in the hands of another. She wanted to demand it back, but knew it would be pointless to even try.
“Hm.” Tjold looked from it to her for a moment, but didn’t comment further. Instead he left, taking Zirael with him.
“Go get some splints and winding cloth,” Jacek told the boy, who nodded eagerly and took off again. “Don’t worry,” he said, not unkindly. “If what you’ve told us is true, then you need not fear. Tjold is our weapons-master. He’ll keep your sword safe.”
“Thank you,” Ciri said, grateful for the reassurance, even if she suspected there were ulterior motives behind it. Emhyr had taught her, after all, how easy it was to gain the trust of a confused and wounded man by virtue of a few kind gestures. She took another sip, distracting herself with the tea as Almeric and Jacek moved off to confer out of earshot. The celandine was beginning to take the edge off the pain, which she was grateful for, but that also made it harder for her to stay alert.
Sebastian bustled about, inscribing unfamiliar and glowing runes on the walls at each of the cardinal directions. Several times he began to say something to her, only to stop short as Almeric cleared his throat pointedly.
The boy returned with bandages and sanded lengths of wood soon enough. The bandages were good quality, a thick roll of linen woven so it would not stick to flesh -- not the torn strips of various other fabrics that she’d winced to see Geralt use on himself. Army medics, dealing with large numbers of wounded, had rolls like this amidst their supplies. Either people in this part of the world got hurt a very great deal, or this little enclave of witchers was getting bandages specially made for them. It was a good sign, probably; hinted at ongoing trade with at least some weavers in nearby villages.
Ciri finished off the last of the tea, swallowing the celandine flakes that’d settled to the bottom, and gingerly set the mug on the flagstones. She had to push on the armrest to lever herself upright again, but at least it didn’t feel like she was being stabbed in the lung anymore. The sorcerer sidled a little closer, and Ciri eyed him. “Could I get you something stronger? Perhaps some monkshood resin, or I have a vial of ether--”
“Thank you, but no. I’ve had bones reset before.” Ciri said, and watched as the alchemist backed up under Almeric’s level glare. She couldn’t help but smile a bit at the interaction. She’d never quite been able to figure out the relationship between mages and witchers; Geralt and the others all had been forced to kill sorcerers, often several, and always seemed distrusting of the power they wielded. Yet Triss and Yen had been accepted without question -- so far as she knew -- into Kaer Morhen itself, where the witchers simply refused to be overawed. Perhaps it was only because those two were Geralt’s allies, and yet… Ciri couldn’t help but feel that they fit there, somehow.
Almeric settled into an easy crouch in front of her, looking over the problem once more. Beside him, the boy jittered impatiently, shifting weight leg to leg, arms overflowing with supplies. “You want to keep the boot intact? Or the trousers?” Almeric said.
Ciri weighed her options. “Yes to the boots,” she said, finally, and Almeric started unlacing the left one. The laces were already pulled too tight from the swelling around the break, and each jerk made her wince and curl her fingers tight around the chair’s armrests. It was even worse when he pulled the loosened boot entirely off, but at least she didn’t faint, so there was that.
The trousers were easier; Almeric slit the threading holding the seam together, from knee to ankle, then rolled the loose leather carefully up and over her bent knee. “Ready?” he asked, looking up.
Ciri nodded. The witcher kept his touch careful, feeling out the exact position of the break, determining the set of the bones, while the boy watched with wide eyes. Satisfied, the witcher put a palm to her knee, wrapped a hand around her ankle, and pulled against the resistance of her cramping muscles to align the break.
It was quickly done, at least, although that was about the only good thing Ciri could say for the experience. By the time her vision had stopped swimming and she’d wrestled the nausea down to a manageable level, the boy was holding the splints in place while Almeric wrapped the leg, immobilizing it with easy expertise. He was apparently also using it as a teachable moment, giving commentary to the boy as he went.
“The bindings need to be tight, but not too tight.” Almeric’s hands were deft as he wound the bandages, letting the boy adjust his grip as needed. “If you can’t feel the limb afterwards, that’s bad. If the skin starts turning white or dark beneath the wrappings, that’s also bad--you will kill the flesh underneath and lose the arm or leg if you wrap something too tight for too long. See, here? This is too loose. You need to be able to slip a finger underneath easily, but not two.” The boy nodded seriously, reddish-brown hair flopping into his eyes.
Despite her fatigue, Ciri couldn’t help but smile down at that earnest little face. Smudged with dirt, with unremarkable features and wide hazel eyes, the boy obviously was well-trained, taking the impromptu lesson well. “You know, I never did get your name,” she said. “What should I call you?”
The boy glanced over at Almeric, who gave him a brief nod, granting permission. He let go as Almeric finished tying off the splint, puffing up under the attention. “I’m Geralt,” he said proudly. “Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde!”
Ciri froze. “Wh-what?”
The boy--Geralt--frowned, looking uncertain. “‘m Geralt. And you’re Falka. I heard you say so. Right?” He glanced at Almeric for confirmation. The older witcher was sitting back on his heels, regarding her intently.
“You seem surprised,” he said neutrally, making it a statement rather than a question.
“I--” Caught off-guard, Ciri floundered. It was impossible. There was no way--but Almeric was still expecting an answer, and she groped frantically for a plausible one. “I--It’s just such a… long and err, interesting name. For a boy. Here. I guess it surprised me.”
“Vesemir says it’s silly,” the boy confessed under his breath, looking very much aggrieved to find that Ciri had the same opinion of the name.
Almeric ignored the child. “Is that so.” It was pretty clear that Almeric wasn’t buying her explanation, but the laconic witcher didn’t call her on it. Instead he gathered up the extra materials, bundling them together, and stood up. “The pallet should be on its way. Sebastian, are the wards almost ready?”
“Yes, almost, I just--” Sebastian puttered around the room a few more times, adding fiddly little touches to the sigils. “Never hurts to be thorough--there. With this variation on the binding and dissolution runes, dispelling them from the inside will be almost impossible, and we can …”
“Yes, yes, very clever,” Jacek put in, obviously familiar with Sebastian’s tendency to ramble. “Let’s not bore our guest with all the details of how we’re locking her in, shall we? Time to go.” He waved the mage out from his position by the door.
“The garderobe is just through there, and perhaps I’d best go get a staff; had one quite like a crutch at one ti --” the mage’s words trailed off, voice echoing, swallowed by thick stone walls.
Ciri -- was trying very hard not to stare. Because the witchers would notice that, although damnation, they’ve probably already noticed her reaction. But he -- he was so *small,* just blinking up at her with a quizzical expression, eyes alert and interested. A disturbance at the door caught the boy’s -- Geralt’s -- attention, and he scurried to Almeric’s side as two lean and rangy youths jointly maneuvered a wooden cot through the narrow doorway, a thin mattress already laid atop the wooden slats. Both of them… both of them had golden eyes. Carrying a small wooden tray balanced atop a sloshing basin, another boy, smaller than even Geralt, trailed in behind. He peeped at her curiously, then caught sight of Jacek’s glower and hurried to set his burdens on a footstool and dart away, silverfish quick.
Almeric whistled sharply. Both of the teenagers jolted, and left off their own awestruck staring (on one boy’s part) and chest-puffed posing (on the other’s) to hurriedly set up the cot and file reluctantly back out. Almeric glanced down at her. “Jacek or another of us will be immediately outside that door. If you need something.” So don’t try anything, his tone heavily implied.
Ciri closed her mouth, back teeth clicking firmly. She nodded slowly. “Right. The morning, then,” she said, voice almost level.
This wasn’t another world, or another continent. This was Kaer Morhen.
Which meant only one thing: by morning, she had to be gone.