Chapter Text
Mirthe was on fire.
Heavy black smoke overshadowed the sun. Dying mages raised their hands to the sky, pleading to gods they renounced for ages. Outside the city gates, the Chapter gazed upon the mutilated remains of Raffard the White. Guts and bile oozing from a deep wound on his abdomen. The entire place of execution was soaked in blood.
An unmatched massacre.
Brutal.
Martial.
And historically incorrect.
The woman standing in front of the scene rolled her proud eyes in annoyance and turned away from the huge painting to continue walking through the room.
With a lady's leisurely, elegant movements, she crossed the coat of arms of the Borsody brothers, cast on the floor by the sun shining through the stained-glass windows. Wood cracked under her steps. High heels dug into the boards, leaving wounds. Dark scars never to fade, marking the floor forever. Announcing that she had been here.
None of the three auction house employees dared to point this out to her. Silently, they huddled in a corner, unable to look the woman in the eye, as if they feared her immediate execution for a wrong word. Reverently, as one would only meet a king, they eyed the black and white robed woman as she made her rounds. Indeed, her beauty and demeanour rivalled that of a queen.
"That's her!"
"The sorceress..."
"King Virfuril..."
Muffled voices filled the air. A steady murmur, lowered to a low, fearful whisper.
They stared at her curiously. A precious foreign exhibit, the kind that abounded here in Novigrad's most prestigious auction house.
Of extraordinary beauty, inherent with immeasurable danger.
A statue, a criminal, a weapon, all in one.
Yennefer of Vengerberg did not care.
She smiled icily and tossed her long, raven-black hair while examining the exhibits with bored eyes. Every now and then she paused and listened for the voices coming from one of the rooms on the upper floor.
Her lips twisted into a pointed smile. Borsody's whining that he usually didn't check the origin of his goods was interrupted by Gregoire de Viferas' rage-filled rumbling. Geralt remained silent. Viferas seemed to be able to speak for himself, the witcher was only an ornamental accessory. A solid pillar against which leaned the small, skinny man in the slightly torn clothes, who had barely dared to raise his voice to address Geralt the night before. She had to remember to pay him a compliment. She hadn't expected that.
As soon as the voices died down again, she turned to the auction goods around her. Lilac eyes roamed disinterestedly over fake jewels from the supposed treasure of a faded nilfgaardian noblewoman.
"A very special rarity indeed. You have an excellent eye, my lady. Where else can one obtain such an elaborately stuffed unicorn?"
One of the three shadows had detached itself from its nook and wafted noiselessly to her side.
Apparently he had decided that he might as well make a deal as hide anxiously in his little corner. If the auction house was already opening its exclusive doors to the Butcher of Blaviken and company, they might as well try to sell her unnecessary trinkets. She smiled her pointed smile again, almost pitifully. An employee of such a big auction house should have more brains!
There might be ladies who listened quietly, trying to remember what they were told about the origin, taxidermy, and transport of the animal. But only a fool approached Yennefer von Vengerberg and took her for one of them.
The sound of a fist on hard, solid wood, jolted through the air. Creaking, breaking. She even thought she heard Viferas' startled squeal. He tended to sound like a pig when he was excited or frightened. Which, according to Yennefer's experience last night, was his basic personality.
A small, ravenous pig crying out for its mother.
Like a piglet.
Piglet.
Yennefer shook her head.
Tried to get rid of everything in one movement. The thoughts of last night.
The conversation with Geralt that had degenerated into an argument that everyone in the inn must have overheard, no matter how loudly Dandelion had played his song.
Her accusations.
Her outburst of anger when his only response had been icy silence and sickeningly sweet understanding.
The name she had hurled at him in argument years ago, spoken over and over again the previous evening.
Wasn't it pathetic?
Yennefer of Vengerberg, impresario of the most passionate orgies Rinde had ever seen.
For decades she had been sorceress at the court of King Virfuril of Aedirn, his advisor, responsible for the fate of a kingdom.
And now she could not bring herself to say in front of Geralt why she didn't love him.
Could not love him.
Just like the eternal life, the beauty that Giltine had given her, the Djinn hadn't been a blessing either. Just another curse. With Geralt's desire to bind her to him, in eternal love, a skunk had been bound to a perfumer. Most unpleasant for both concerned. Nights of passion in Rinde repeated in their minds.
They had followed the encounter with the Djinn. Had left her suspended in ecstasy for a few weeks, believing that she meant something to him.
That he could be enough to make her happy for the rest of her life.
Feelings that every woman, even the most naïve peasant girl, felt with a new lover. Coupled with desires, hopes, expectations soon dashed by fate.
They had quarreled, gone their separate ways and Yennefer would have been content never to see him again.
But the bond that magic had forged between her and the witcher did not show them even that tiny bit of mercy.
Geralt had left a strange urge in her.
A desire to be with him, not knowing what to do with him once she was. Certainly, he was a passionate lover.
Of that, she had convinced herself often enough.
As soon as he had come back, the bard Dandelion following him like a puppy trotting after its master in drooling admiration, he had proved it. But it was as it often was.
For a few days, a flower opened inside her, withering away as soon as the first passion had faded. Their search for the golden dragon had brought them certainty.
She would never bear a child; he would lose her.
Bitter as fate was, they had both regretted their own fate and been relieved at that of the other. The news of his child of surprise had added nothing to her desire to leave the witcher and everything connected with him behind forever. Only to find out that it was impossible for her to do so.
Almost eight years had passed without her having succeeded in breaking the spell.
She had expected it to be difficult.
Djinns were powerful creatures, not without reason she had hoped for a child through one of them. A bond like that could not be torn, like a delicate silken scarf, even if foolishness had woven it. By now she knew it was impossible for her to part with Geralt, to leave him behind in strife, just like she always did with her lovers as soon as they bored her, were no longer enough for her.
When she realised that they could never have been enough in the first place.
Geralt had thrown that at her. In their shared lodgings in one of Novigrad's better taverns.
Where they slept on decent mattresses and feather beds and the rooms had bronze wash tubs for which hot water was brought.
She had insisted on it. It would probably have been enough for Geralt if the beer wasn't watered down and rats didn't run over his face. As long as the barmaid was pretty and receptive to advances, and a stage for Dandelion and a lukewarm bath could be found, Geralt would be satisfied. Anything more comfortable brought a frown to his face at the thought of being asked to shave.
As if it was natural for a sorceress to sleep in the filth of the street. Witchers didn't mind. But she had no intention to give up her amenities just because he had chained her to him by a thoughtless wish.
It wasn't even love she felt. Not the kind of love the bards and troubadours sang about.
In the beginning, passion had flared up inside her, a strange conglomeration of desire, greed, lust and desperation that had held them together. Affection from his side she could never return. Like oil and water, repelling each other, too different to ever come together.
She didn't want to think about who could be less different, even though Geralt had mentioned the name half a dozen times the night before.
For the umpteenth time, she cursed the tantrum in which she had told him about Rinde.
Silently she tried to remember all the names Geralt could have listed instead.
And found not even one.
The friendship she felt for Triss was warm and comforting, without a trace of passion.
The love for Istredd had been gentle, sweet and naïve. A poison she had taken freely. A sweet poison, deadly nonetheless.
And then there was the all-encompassing warmth that made a gentle tug go through her whole body. The kind of love that brought admiration, adoration.
Like mortals who threw themselves on their knees before marble statues. They cursed their gods and the next day bowed down in gratitude.
And above it all, the belief that someone was watching over them.
With the knowledge, the wisdom, the power to make happen what they dreamed of in every single moment of their poor, miserable lives.
"This is a wonderful piece as well, my lady. Let me see if I can show it to you a little closer, yes?"
A nod. For a moment Yennefer had forgotten where she was and what it meant to eye one of the works of art or auction goods for too long.
Even if she preferred to listen to a lecture on taxidermy rather than continue that thought.
There were sects growing out of the ground in Novigrad that would put her at the stake for such blasphemy. At least it would be one more reason to burn her, if it wasn't enough that she was a sorceress and had a few drops of elven blood flowing through her veins. Besides, if it wasn't death by fire, she didn't want to lay herself on a rack, torturing herself with memories of faces, voices, touches of someone she planned to never see again.
"Look, my lady. A true L'Enfer-Lautré, and a magnificent specimen at that." The man pointed reverently at a single page of parchment lying on display in the case, Yennefer stared at the price tag, which read the proud price of 3,000 crowns.
3,000 crowns for a piece of paper barely larger than one of the pamphlets with which bounties were regularly placed on her head.
At least it was clearly better drawn, the sorceress had to concede that to the creator.
"Hard to believe it's over 300 years old," the man continued. His voice became stronger, more confident.
Every now and then he even allowed himself a hesitant smile in her direction, which Yennefer returned with a closed expression. She wasn't in the mood for compliments and even if she had been, his would have been tiresome. The kind that small-minded men made to her every day, only to brag later to their drinking companions about seducing a sorceress.
"Look, the parchment is still almost completely intact. Neatly torn from the sketchbook. Revian de L'Enfer-Lautré was known for this, you must know. All his known sketches came from a sketchbook and were made on parchment. He is said to have later transferred the outlines from the book onto canvas, I think, and created some unique paintings that..."
"Who is that woman?" Yennefer had not wanted to speak aloud. It had been a thought, not meant for the ears of this man who was as pleased as a schoolboy at her interruption.
"Oh, my lady, this is a great mystery," he explained to her with a broad smile. "Look... it is one of the later sketches, an illustration for his second novel. Numerous speculations surround who she is. Certainly a noblewoman from Toussaint, where he spent his entire life. Although the way her hair is braided might suggest a more northern origin. On the other hand, the context of its creation must also be taken into account. This sketch, as I mentioned earlier, was part of the creative process of his second and last novel 'The King and the Sorceress'. It is entitled 'The Sorceress' and was probably initially intended as a kind of illustration. Assuming, however, that the sorceress in his story is from the northern kingdoms, any noblewoman from Toussaint and beyond is again eligible. The then Duke's wife would probably be the most obvious…”
"Show me!" Without waiting for his reaction, Yennefer pushed past him, so impetuously that she shoved him aside. But that shouldn't bother him if he wanted to sell her something.
The sorceress, it echoed in her head. Was it possible?
Silently, she let her gaze wander over the depicted woman. Long, black hair that fell to her hips, a pastel-coloured dress, decorated all over with precious jewellery. But the profile, the face. The slight hint of shimmering blue eyes....
That could not be true!
"We received the sketch together with a first edition of his first novel, also called 'The King and the Sorceress', which he himself annotated afterwards. The book was sold at the last auction, along with a number of individual items from the Toussaint - L'Enfer-Lautré collection. For example, the special edition of a novel by the L'Enfer - Lautré publishing house and various pieces of jewellery. But if you are interested in L'Enfer-Lautré's paintings; there are some perfected landscape paintings in another collection which I am sure will delight your taste..."
"The book," Yennefer explained to him in a firm, penetrating voice that finally silenced him. Instead, under her gaze, he returned to being the young animal, eager to huddle in a corner with his siblings until the storm called Yennefer of Vengerberg had passed.
Excitement flashed in her lilac eyes. Thrill, tension, anger. Things that should tell him that a woman like her was not to be kept waiting.
"I'm afraid there's nothing more I can do for you. A lady bought it at auction, but you don't need a first edition to enjoy the writings of the great author..."
"And what lady was that?"
She was growing impatient while her eyes still rested on the drawing, unable to detach herself from it. She didn't want to hear any excuses that the lady relied on him for discretion and his silence could not be broken by anything. It was only a matter of time before he would talk and she was all too eager to skip those agonising minutes. To her, it was nothing but a waste of time.
But the drawing... The rough sketch was a lot finer than she had believed at the beginning. Soft curls flowed around the face of the crowned woman. A pale, delicate hand rested on the gold-woven brocade fabric above the protruding swell of her belly. Her gaze fixed on the pages of the book laying beside her, but Yennefer could unmistakably see a blue flicker in them.
A slightly upturned tip of her nose, narrow lips that didn't seem quite so narrow when there was a blissful smile on them.
Something pricked Yennefer's heart, momentarily taking away her breath, her throat tightening.
Her hair was the wrong colour, the rose-coloured dress was about as fitting on her as a depiction of Raffard's death in front of the burning Mirthe, and never in her life would she take off the dull chain around her neck in exchange for a dazzling diamond necklace.
But one look into her face, straight into her eyes, and all doubts were forgotten.
The woman in the picture was no one less than Tissaia de Vries, Rectoress of Aretuza.
"Who?" she asked again. In a voice that could not be her own, for it sounded too soft, too delicate, too fragile, as if she were fighting tears. Which she didn't. There was nothing more pathetic than a sorceress weeping.
"A lady, I... she bought it at auction for six thousand crowns, a fortune... I... I don't know..."
There had to be something in her eyes. Despair? Anger? Whatever it was, it made the man hiccup, fix his gaze on his boots, unable to look her in the eye.
"During... during the auction, there was a... an éclat. As they bids rose higher and there was no end in sight... you must understand, even in an auction house like ours, a respectable place, people are still people, dwarves are still dwarves, elves are still..." He tried to cover his breaking voice with a soft cough. Something he failed to do and only made Yennefer more impatient.
More impatient for a truth that had been kept from her all these years. In many ways. Tissaia, of all people, who had preached to her that the search for a cure was hopeless. That she would never conceive. Whose Poisoned Source rested in her travelling bag, half tattered from the number of times she had opened it and thrown it across the room in frustration. All those years she had searched for writings that gave her hope. For accounts of sorceresses, secret fertility rituals that had not been performed since the conjunction of the spheres. She had climbed into the deepest abysses, had tortured herself through the dreariest treatises in order to make her wish come true. Only to now hold this picture of Tissaia in her hands, realising everything had been a lie. Every side note on a grease-stained page in the libraries of Aretuza, Oxenfurt and Novigrad she had clung to for dear life, while Archmistress de Vries had throned on her glass pedestal, the answer to all her prayers neatly and cleanly tucked away in her 'oh so brilliant' mind. If she had a shred of humanity in her body, she would have shown it to her.
"Well... it was a sorceress you must know, a very... very..." She startled out of her thoughts, raised her head in irritation. Blood rushed to the man's cheeks.
Yennefer already guessed what he was about to tell her, his furtive glance into her cleavage doing its bit.
But she didn't care.
The book... who cared about the book when she should in fact be in Aretuza right now, dragging the truth out of Tissaia?
'But if it is a drawing for the book, perhaps it is part of the story,' it occurred to her. Could it be that simple?
Yennefer tried to talk herself out of it, to fight down the rising hope. It was too trivial, too ridiculous.
To find such a powerful ritual in a book that could be bought for a crown on any street corner. Yet she couldn't help but admit that of course she hadn't looked in that kind of literature.
"Who was that lady?" she turned to the embarrassed man, louder, more excited. He took a step back.
"Know, my lady..." he lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned in Yennefer's direction. "The lady who bought the first edition of L'Enfer-Lautré at the auction that night was... blessed by nature and saw fit to offer that to all the gentlemen present..."
Fuck her!
"Yen!"
Geralt's voice snapped the sorceress out of her inward curse before he got any more creative. Regrettably.
For she hadn't had the pleasure of considering this particular person with one for a long time.
Too long.
"Miss Yennefer, we have the list! Uncroyable, all the purchasers are still in Novigrad and regarding 'Le Roi et la Sorcière'..."
"I know where to look," Yennefer replied calmly, lips twisted into a pointed smile, striding proudly towards the two men. In the corner of her eye, she could make out a discreet movement.
Apparently, the clerk finally understood that she wouldn't buy anything. She had everything she needed, and it had cost her nothing but a little bored listening and an intimidating look.
"Yen, are we meeting...?"
She waved it off, letting Geralt stand and talk or be silent, she didn't care. She knew the tavern where her belongings were stored, where Dandelion would be performing another of his ballads that evening. Furthermore, it was not difficult to ask one's way to the nearest tavern or whorehouse, so all the places Geralt usually frequented were easy to find.
Finding a woman, a sorceress at that, was much more challenging.
Nevertheless, she already had an idea of her book's whereabouts.