Chapter Text
“Remind me again why I allowed you to talk me into this folly,” Calanthe growls, staring at the portal in the courtyard balefully.
“Because you know as well as I do that the Warlord would not have asked this without very good reason,” Eist says patiently. “He has promised we will come to no harm. He keeps his word.”
“Lying fuck,” Calanthe grumbles. “Eric of the Wolf School, my ass.”
“And a very fine ass it is, too,” Eist says, grinning.
“I will toss you in the dungeon,” Calanthe says grimly, and stalks through the portal. Eist shrugs at Mousesack and follows her.
The portal spits them out in an antechamber, where Consort Jaskier and Lady Yennefer are waiting for them. Consort Jaskier bows gracefully. “Your majesties.”
“Consort,” Calanthe says. “Let’s get this over with, whatever it is.”
“Right this way,” Consort Jaskier says, apparently deciding not to rise to Calanthe’s baiting. As they follow him out of the room, a big Witcher steps away from the wall and falls in beside him, giving Calanthe and Eist a polite little nod.
“My brother Aubry of the Wolves,” Consort Jaskier introduces him, tone very fond. “He makes sure I don’t get stabbed.”
“Again,” Aubry rumbles.
“Again?” Eist inquires. He hadn’t been aware there had been a first stabbing.
“Oh, back during that absolute debacle with the husband-hunters - my compliments on the good sense of your countrywoman, by the way, who did not force herself to remain in a place she found distasteful. Anyway, Agata of Temeria stabbed me. It wasn’t the most enjoyable interlude I’ve ever had, and it gave my poor Wolves conniptions.”
“Being stabbed is fucking unpleasant,” Calanthe says, seeming a little warmer towards him. Eist grins to himself. Consort Jaskier has a gift for being charming, it seems.
He leads them through the long hall which was all Eist saw of Kaer Morhen this summer, to a nondescript door in the shadows at the back of the hall, which he opens and bows them through. The White Wolf and Eskel Amber-Eyed are waiting, standing beside a long table, with old Vesemir the Grey seated off to one side, ostensibly looking through paperwork. Eist suspects he’s paying far more attention to them than the parchments.
“Eric,” Calanthe spits, before anyone can start with any courtly greetings.
The White Wolf looks just a little rueful. “Yes.”
“How did you dye your hair for that?” Eist asks as Consort Jaskier lets Lady Yennefer in and then closes the door behind himself.
“Oak galls,” the White Wolf says.
Calanthe glares harder. “You were spying.”
The White Wolf grimaces and shrugs a little. “Needed to know what was happening outside Kaedwen. And needed to just...be a Witcher again, for a little while.”
Calanthe frowns for another long moment, then sighs and slumps down into one of the chairs around the table, letting go of at least some of her ire. Everyone else sits, too, relaxing visibly. “I guess I understand that. There’s a simplicity to nice straightforward enemies, no courtly double-talk or hidden motivations.”
The White Wolf nods. “Monsters are even simpler.”
Calanthe heaves another great sigh. “Fine. I don’t like it, but I understand it. So. Why summon us here? I don’t think you mean to assassinate us.”
Everyone chuckles, and Eskel Amber-Eyed says, “No. Not really our style. Though if you want to spar with any of us, I think you’d have a fair few takers.”
“I might take you up on that,” Calanthe says, looking intrigued. “But that’s not why we’re here.”
“No,” the White Wolf says. “Got two things to tell you. Probably both going to piss you off and make you happy. One of ‘em you’re going to have to swear never to tell. The other one…”
“We’d appreciate discretion, for now,” Consort Jaskier finishes for him. “But it’s going to become relatively common knowledge soon enough.”
“Why here? Why not come to Cintra and tell me?” Calanthe demands.
“Because this secret needs to be kept most especially from Emhyr var Emreis, who undoubtedly has spies in your court,” Consort Jaskier says, shrugging. “We can guarantee the safety of Kaer Morhen. There are no spies or traitors here.”
“How can you guarantee that?” Eist asks, genuinely curious.
Eskel Amber-Eyed chuckles softly. “We can smell lies.”
Eist’s eyebrows go up. “Now that is a useful skill. So you interrogate everyone who comes to Kaer Morhen?”
“Essentially, yes,” Eskel Amber-Eyed agrees. “It’s worked reasonably well so far.”
Calanthe glowers. “Yes, and my spymaster is frankly furious about it. And I’d rather keep as much information as possible from that deceitful fuck var Emreis. Fine. Tell me the less secretive one first, I suppose.” She doesn’t bother to even try to conceal the fact that they have spies in the Wolf’s lands - what sensible monarch wouldn’t?
The White Wolf nods to Consort Jaskier, who gets up and goes over to the door, opening it slightly and murmuring something to whoever is waiting outside. The White Wolf watches his consort for a long moment and then nods.“You were told,” he says to Calanthe, “that your daughter’s child was stillborn.”
Calanthe goes very, very still. “Yes,” she says tensely, hand closing slowly into a fist.
“Pavetta learned who Duny was before Belletyn,” the White Wolf says, seeming to measure each word before he speaks.
“That lying bastard,” Calanthe snarls. “Duny of Erlenwald, my ass. I should have killed him the night of Pavetta’s betrothal.”
The White Wolf inclines his head a little in agreement, or possibly sympathy, Eist can’t quite tell. “Pavetta wanted her child to be safe from Nilfgaard.”
Calanthe is pale as bone. “Her child,” she croaks.
Consort Jaskier opens the door.
Eist stares in shock at the young woman as she crosses the room to stand beside the White Wolf. She’s tall for a girl of thirteen - thirteen and a half, it must be - with ash-blonde hair in an intricate braid and big green eyes glittering like emeralds. She’s wearing an elaborately embroidered tunic and trousers - wolves and lions play about the hems - and a sword belted around her waist. Not a decorative weapon, either, but a plain-hilted warrior’s blade, and her hand rests on its hilt like she knows how to use it. She’s graceful and clearly strong, her gaze bold but not arrogant, proud but without the edge of brittleness that always marked Pavetta.
She is otherwise the very mirror of Pavetta.
Calanthe opens her mouth, but no sound emerges.
“I am Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, daughter of the White Wolf,” the girl says, clear and proud. “Hello, grandmother.”
Eist reaches over to lay his hand atop Calanthe’s, hoping to either give comfort or keep her from trying to stab the White Wolf through the heart - not that he thinks she necessarily could, but the attempt would not do good things for Cintra’s continued independence.
Calanthe is silent for a long moment, and then she turns her glare on the White Wolf. If looks could kill, Eist thinks irreverently, the White Wolf would be a small steaming pile of ashes. Calanthe is angrier than he has seen her since the day their spies brought back a sketch of the new Emperor var Emreis and Calanthe spent four hours cursing the lying fuck, never once repeating herself. “Thief.”
“I did as Pavetta asked.”
“And I have only the word of a liar for that,” Calanthe spits.
Eskel Amber-Eyed sighs a little. “Maybe we should have done this the other way around,” he says, which makes absolutely no sense to Eist. Unless - but no. How could the White Wolf have learned that secret, of all secrets?
“Grandmother,” Cirilla says, “I am Papa’s Child of Surprise; he has more right to me than my blood father would. For which I think we are all grateful.”
Calanthe hesitates; Eist can almost see her realizing that if Cirilla is Pavetta’s daughter, she is also the daughter of Emhyr var Emreis.
“If I had been raised in Cintra, do you think the emperor would have hesitated to come for me?” Cirilla asks. “Everyone knows he is greedy to claim anything he thinks of as his by right. Do you think he would have left Cintra in peace?”
Calanthe snarls a little, and gets up to pace, glaring at the White Wolf on each pass and clenching her hand on the hilt of her sword. Finally she stops beside Eist’s chair and sighs, letting her hand fall loose at her side. “You’re right,” she tells Cirilla through gritted teeth. “I hate it, but you’re right.” She glares at the White Wolf again. “Still. You might have told me.”
“He didn’t even tell his council until two years ago,” Lady Yennefer says, in a tone that invites Calanthe to share her exasperation. “When our Wolf means to keep a secret, by the gods, he keeps it.”
“Then why tell me now?” Calanthe demands. “Why not just keep me in the dark like a fucking mushroom until I die?”
“There are several reasons,” Eskel Amber-Eyed says calmly. “The first is that as Ciri grows older, she will be leaving Kaer Morhen, going out into the Wolf’s lands to learn about them firsthand. Also, the Redanian delegation saw her, a few years ago, though I do not think any of them recognized her - and we did not then know that her heritage was so impressive.” He gives the White Wolf a look, and to Eist’s surprise the White Wolf’s ears go slightly pink and he looks away, refusing to meet Eskel’s eyes. “As such, her mere existence is no longer a secret. Your spies would have spotted her sooner or later.”
Calanthe nods, and Eist does too. Their spies will see young Cirilla, if she comes down out of Kaer Morhen at all. And though they can’t seem to tell the difference between Witchers, a girl the spitting image of Pavetta is definitely something they would notice - or at least they ought, if they’re worth their pay.
“The second reason,” Lady Yennefer says, “is that this is information you need to have, since we have heard that you are beginning to seriously consider choosing an heir to Cintra.”
Calanthe scowls. Eist winces. Calanthe has been thinking quite hard about which of the various high-ranking noble sons might be a vaguely acceptable heir to Cintra’s throne, but she hates it - hates knowing that her own blood has failed, her line has died. Except it hasn’t, which Eist knows and has never told her, since the chances of Pavetta ever returning to Cintra are approximately as good as those of Emhyr var Emreis resigning his throne and becoming a traveling jongleur. And now there’s a girl who could be Calanthe’s heir...and she’s the heir to the Warlord of the North.
The Warlord of the North and the emperor of Nilfgaard, Eist realizes, and has to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a deeply inappropriate laugh. If Cirilla inherits everything she technically has a claim to, she’ll end up ruling the whole damn continent!
“I’ve narrowed the field down to four,” Calanthe says reluctantly. “They’re all decent enough. Cirilla can choose between them; I’ve no strong preference. A year and a half is long enough to plan a wedding; you can marry on Belletyn, or perhaps the day after.”
The White Wolf goes very still, eyes darkening in anger at Calanthe’s presumption, and Eist braces himself for a really unpleasant shouting match -
“No,” Cirilla says, clear and unafraid. The White Wolf relaxes, sitting back in his chair and looking at the girl with obvious pride. “I will not be marrying until and unless I please, grandmother, and certainly not before I am twenty at least. If you wish to name one of the men you are considering heir to Cintra, I and my Papa will treat with him as we would with any other king; and if you wish to name me the heir to your throne, you may do so, and I will rule it in my own name, without a husband, when the time comes.”
Calanthe goes white with shock and - Eist is quite sure - growing rage. She is not often refused, much less so bluntly.
“You cannot rule alone,” she grits out. “No one will heed you. Men make the laws, girl, and men insist on having a man wearing the crown.”
“Men can be taught otherwise,” Cirilla says serenely.
“Do you think I haven’t tried that?” Calanthe demands, hands clenching on the back of the chair in front of her. “Thirty years I’ve spent beating my head against that folly! What do you think you can do that I cannot?”
Cirilla regards her grandmother thoughtfully for a long moment. “Well,” she says at last, “for one thing, if I become queen of Cintra, then Cintra becomes part of the Wolf’s lands, and Papa has strong opinions about stupid laws and customs.”
This is quite true. There are still differences in the law codes of, say, Kaedwen and Kovir, but Eist has studied the Wolf’s laws - they’re not exactly secrets, after all - and they are very clear on what will not be tolerated, either in law or in practice, across the Warlord’s lands.
(The Wolflaw and the Wolflands, he’s heard his kinfolk in Skellige call them, and he is quite sure that if this fledgling empire survives another generation, the old differences will begin to fade, until no one remembers when it was anything but the Wolflands, under an immortal Warlord-king. His Skelliger soul hates to think of such an empire, but he has to admit that the Wolflaw is...just. Very just. And oddly merciful, as well.)
“Sometimes it’s easier for change to come from outside,” Cirilla continues, startling Eist a little with the insight. “That’s why Papa could kill the king of Kaedwen, when nobody else could - because he was an outsider, not beholden to anyone. If I come in as an outsider, with the Wolf’s laws behind me, I can change a lot of things you never could, just because I’m new.”
Calanthe seems to deflate a little. “Huh,” she says, frowning in thought now rather than rage. “There’s something to that. You’ll still need a husband, though.”
“Someday, perhaps, should I find a man who suits me,” Cirilla says evenly. “Or perhaps I’ll take Aunt Yen’s advice and have a harem.”
The last of Calanthe’s anger drains away, and she barks a sudden laugh, loud and unexpected. “That’d put the cat among those old roosters,” she says, shaking her head a little, and sits down again. She even accepts a mug of ale when Consort Jaskier offers it. Eist does the same, giving the consort a grateful little nod. “Alright. Fuck it. Everyone knows the Wolf’s going to conquer the whole fucking North sooner or later anyway. I’ll name you heir to Cintra in my will, and you can deal with the hidebound old bastards when I’m gone.”
Cirilla inclines her head. “Thank you, grandmother.”
Consort Jaskier bites his lip a little and glances at the White Wolf. “Well. I’m afraid that was the easier of today’s revelations. Though if it helps at all, the second one, none of us knew until early this summer; it was really quite a remarkable surprise.”
Calanthe drains half her ale in a single long swallow. “If that was the easier bit, what the fuck is the other half?”
Eist has a very, very bad feeling about this. Though if this is what he suspects, then...well, it is true that it’s better to do this here than in Cintra. And it will be nice not to have to keep this particular secret from his lioness any longer, too.
“This past summer,” Eskel Amber-Eyed says carefully as Consort Jaskier gets up to go to the door again, “a group of Witchers who had been sent to speak to Jarl Crach an Craite on the matter of our invasion of Temeria met his wife, Lady Elen.”
Eist sends a quick prayer up to Freya. This is going to make Calanthe’s reaction to Cirilla look like a candle flame beside a bonfire.
“I’d heard he married - seven years ago, I think it was,” Calanthe agrees warily.
Eskel Amber-Eyed sighs a little, like he’s not sure this is a good idea, and gestures for Consort Jaskier to open the door again.
Eist is incredibly glad that the first person who enters is his nephew. Crach is a good lad, and hopefully having him here as well will help keep this from going completely tits-up.
Because the second person is, of course, Pavetta.
Elen, rather - she hasn’t gone by Pavetta in almost a decade, as far as Eist is aware, and very few people even in Skellige know that she ever had another name. She looks well: hale and healthy, in a handsome green woollen dress equally appropriate to the brisk winds of Skellige and the chill of Kaer Morhen, with a shawl about her shoulders and her hair braided up into a sort of crown. She looks a woman grown, and grown into herself, in a way that Eist isn’t sure she ever would have become in Cintra, under her mother’s eye. Eist may love Calanthe dearly, but he is not blind to her faults, and one of them is definitely the sort of overbearing personality which might well have squashed young Pavetta in time.
She also looks a bit nervous, but Eist can’t blame her for that.
Calanthe makes a strangled sort of noise and stares, too shocked for words.
To Eist’s surprise, the White Wolf stands up, bows a little - to Elen, not Crach - and pulls out a chair for her, bowing her into it. Elen kisses the White Wolf on the cheek before she takes her seat, smiling at him fondly, clearly comforted by his attentions. Crach sits down beside her, and Lady Yennefer conjures a goblet of wine for Elen and another mug of good ale for Crach, and there’s a long silence. Finally Calanthe croaks, “How?”
Elen takes a sip of wine and licks her lips a little nervously. “When Duny - Emhyr - and I went out sailing, there was a storm,” she says. “A conjured one, I believe. He meant to do just as he did, and fake his death, and go to Nilfgaard. But he wanted me to come with him. I would not give him that - would not let him claim Cintra by right of my hand. I had already given up my daughter to keep him from claiming Cintra through her - I could not let that sacrifice be made worthless.”
Calanthe nods jerkily.
“I threw myself from the ship,” Elen continues, and Calanthe makes another strangled noise of horror. “Somehow, I made a portal - I have never been able to do so again, and it drained me almost to the point of death. I wished only to go to a place of safety, and when I awoke, I found myself on the Craite lands, being tended by a kind old woman who had seen me fall from the air.” She shrugs slightly. “I recovered, but I did not dare allow anyone to know I had lived. I knew Emhyr would never rest until he could reclaim me, if he knew. When I was hale again, and had had a little time to grow acquainted with him, I married Crach. We have two sons.”
“Grandsons,” Calanthe says faintly.
“Ragnar and Loki!” Crach says, beaming. “Strong little lads, and as clever as their mother!”
Thank Freya for Crach’s ability to pretend that nothing is wrong and obviously this is a joyful occasion - Eist knows his nephew is not a fool, but he can play one quite convincingly when necessary.
Calanthe drains the rest of her ale and holds the mug out. Consort Jaskier refills it silently.
“Why never tell me?” she asks at last.
“Because you would have insisted I return to Cintra,” Elen says. “It’s not just Emhyr, Mother, though he’s a very large part of it; I never want him to know that I survived. It’s that I’m not suited to be queen. Lady of Skellige, that I can be - I can keep Crach’s household and raise our children and help add a little organization to the running of the isles - but I would not fare well as a reigning queen.”
Calanthe is silent for long, long moments. Eist drinks his ale slowly - it’s very good, might actually be better than what they usually have in Cintra - and waits to see how badly this is going to go.
“I want to be furious,” Calanthe says finally, in a surprisingly soft tone. “You should have told me. But you’re right. You and my granddaughter evidently share the very irritating habit of being right, in fact.” She puts her mug down and stands up, and Elen rises as well. Calanthe tugs her daughter into a hug, holding her tightly, and after a frozen moment, Elen wraps her arms around Calanthe and puts her head down on her mother’s shoulder.
Crach beams at Eist, who grins back, deeply relieved. All of the Witchers are also looking wholeheartedly grateful that this second revelation did not result in an explosion; Consort Jaskier looks almost dreamy, and is mouthing something to himself silently. Lady Yennefer glances over at him and rolls her eyes, seeming amused and exasperated in about equal measure, and elbows the consort gently; he startles and looks rather sheepish. Cirilla is watching her mother and grandmother embrace with a contented little smile.
Calanthe finally steps back and looks Elen up and down, then nods. “We’ll come to Skellige in the spring,” she says. “I want to meet my grandsons.”
“They’ll be glad to meet you,” Elen says, smiling. “And I will enjoy having you visit.”
Calanthe nods, and turns to the Witchers, giving the White Wolf a brief but not terribly fierce glare. “That offer of sparring still open?” she asks Eskel Amber-Eyed.
“Certainly,” he says, smiling, and rises. “Let me show you the training grounds.”
Somewhat to Eist’s surprise, Elen and Crach and Cirilla and the White Wolf also accompany them out through the big hall and down several smaller corridors to a door leading out onto a broad field lightly dusted with snow - Elen on the White Wolf’s arm, and seeming very happy to be so, while Crach escorts Cirilla with a broad and cheerful smile.
There are several dozen boys in little groups around the field, and also about a dozen Witchers beside the trainers, most of whom are running an obstacle course at speeds that startle Eist a little. Eskel Amber-Eyed whistles sharply, three crisp notes, and the Witchers all turn and come trotting over, some of them performing truly improbable vaults off of high obstacles or over trenches.
They cluster around, leaving a respectful distance, and Eskel Amber-Eyed says, “Queen Calanthe of Cintra would like to spar.”
One of the Witchers steps forward immediately, and Eist can feel his eyes going wide: it’s a woman, a lanky blonde who carries herself like a cat, all pride and grace.
“Dragonfly,” Eskel Amber-Eyed says, nodding. “Will that suit you, your majesty?”
“Suits me fine,” Calanthe says, and Dragonfly nods and beckons her out onto the field.
“I should like to try my strength against a Witcher, too,” Crach says, and another Witcher steps forward to volunteer: a lean brown-haired man who looks almost small against Crach’s bulk, whom Eskel Amber-Eyed introduces as Ealdred.
Eist leans back against the wall and watches with great interest. Neither bout is fair, of course; the Witchers are stronger and faster than their merely human opponents. But they are both being kind enough to pull their blows and slow themselves a little, and Calanthe is starting to grin, exhilarated as always by a good battle, while Crach is laughing in delight.
Elen comes over to stand beside him. “Thank you,” she says, quietly, under the sound of Crach’s bellowing laughter. “For not telling her.”
“You were right,” Eist says, shrugging a little. “Though I may not tell her I knew before she did.”
Elen laughs. “That is probably wise, yes.”
“I must admit I wasn’t expecting Cirilla,” Eist says, glancing over at the girl, who is avidly watching Calanthe fight.
“She’s glorious,” Elen murmurs. “So much stronger than I was, when I was her age.”
“You have grown into your strength.” Eist glances over at the White Wolf. “There are not many people on the continent who would dare treat the Warlord as fondly as you do.”
Elen smiles. “It helps that I knew him first as Eric, I think. But truly, he is very sweet, beneath the stern facade - and I could never fear a man who adores my daughter so.”
Eist considers that. “Perhaps you’re right. But being able to see beneath that facade is more wisdom than most have, or more courage.”
“Thank you.” Elen giggles suddenly as Crach lunges at his opponent, who instead of whirling out of the way meets the lunge sword against sword, and despite his slighter stature, pushes Crach over backwards; Crach lands with a thump and a bellow of laughter. Ealdred offers him a hand back up, and Crach immediately begins asking questions about a certain parry he didn’t recognize. Cirilla goes darting over to join the conversation, bouncing eagerly on the balls of her feet as she imitates Ealdred’s demonstration.
“I did not dare tell anyone that she had lived,” Elen says softly. “I was not certain myself that she had lived this long - childhood is dangerous, after all - until this past summer.”
“And now we find her as fine a girl as could be imagined,” Eist says, marveling a little. “Well. You have chosen her second father very well.”
Elen smiles. “Oh yes. She is the Wolf’s cub, and he dotes on her. And she will not wed until she chooses. She will never be such a fool as I was.”
“Say rather, so backed into a corner,” Eist says gently. “You were young. Young people make mistakes. Gods know I did.”
“That’s true enough,” Elen agrees. “Still. Ciri will not make the same mistakes I did.”
“No, she’ll make new ones of her own,” Eist says, and Elen laughs. The White Wolf glances over at them, and Eist thinks he sees the man’s lips twitch in a tiny smile, like he’s heard Eist’s words and finds them amusing.
Calanthe steps back, panting heavily, and holds up a hand to end the bout. “My thanks. It’s hard to find anyone in Cintra who’s actually got the balls to fight me properly,” she says to Dragonfly, who grins.
“My pleasure,” she replies. “Figured if the Lioness of Cintra was offering a bout, a lioness of Kaer Morhen oughta take her up on it.”
Calanthe actually laughs, a clear clean sound that makes the last of Eist’s worries slough away. Calanthe never laughs like that except when she is genuinely in a good humor.
“We should return to Cintra,” he says quietly to Elen. “But I look forward to seeing you in Skellige in the spring.”
“And I you,” Elen says, and kisses his cheek. “Good luck with my mother.”
“Ah, she knows I’m more amusing in her bed than the dungeon,” Eist grins. “Though I suppose that’s a different sort of game…”
Elen’s laugh sounds very like Calanthe’s.
Today has gone far better than Eist could have dreamed, and though he knows that there will be a great many repercussions from the day’s revelations -
For now, he joins the laughter.