Chapter 47: THE WAIT
Lambert's body hit the wall with a crack that made my stomach drop.
Ciri stood frozen in the training yard, hands outstretched, face pale with horror. The burst of force had been invisible, uncontrolled—one moment they'd been sparring, the next he was flying.
"Lambert!" Eskel reached him first, checking for injuries.
The younger Witcher groaned, pushed himself up. "I'm fine. I'm—" He winced, touching his ribs. "Nothing's broken. I think."
Ciri was shaking. "I didn't mean to. I felt it building and I tried to stop it, but—"
"Hey." I crossed the yard, singing softly—Calming Melody, pushing stability into her chaotic aura. "Breathe. You're okay. Lambert's okay."
"It's getting worse." Her voice cracked. "Every few days, sometimes more. I can't control it."
Where is Yennefer? It's been weeks.
The message had gone out. The bird had flown. But the Continent was vast, and finding one rogue sorceress who preferred to stay unfound wasn't a simple task.
Meanwhile, Ciri's power grew less stable by the day.
I proposed the solution that evening.
"Combine my abilities with her training." I addressed the gathered Witchers—Geralt, Vesemir, even Lambert, still favoring his bruised ribs. "When she feels a surge building, she signals me. I play Calming Melody while she channels the energy into movement. A punch, a leap, a sword strike. Give the power somewhere to go."
"You think it'll work?" Geralt's voice was skeptical but hopeful.
"I think it's better than watching her destroy training dummies—or Witchers—at random."
Lambert made a sound that might have been agreement. Progress.
We started the next morning.
The rhythm took days to develop.
Ciri would train as usual—swordsmanship, agility, endurance. I watched from nearby, lute in hand, reading her body language for signs of building power.
There. The slight tension in her shoulders. The way her breathing changed.
I began playing—not the full Calming Melody, but a lighter version. Enough to take the edge off the surge without suppressing it entirely.
Ciri felt the music and channeled the energy into her next movement. A strike that sent the practice dummy spinning. A leap that cleared an obstacle course by twice the usual margin.
"Better." Vesemir's voice carried approval. "Again."
We repeated the exercise. Again. Again. Each repetition refined the connection between my music and her power.
It wasn't control. Not really. But it was management—a way to direct the chaos instead of being consumed by it.
"You're dancing with her power," Eskel observed one afternoon, watching us work. "Guiding it without constraining it."
"Exactly." I adjusted a chord. "Her magic wants expression. I just... give it a better channel than random explosions."
"Impressive." He paused. "For a bard."
Coming from Eskel, that was high praise.
The weeks stretched on.
I checked my appearance three times before remembering that I wasn't expecting visitors. Then I did it again anyway.
Ridiculous. You're not a lovesick boy. You're a grown man who's survived monsters and wars and the fall of kingdoms.
A grown man who hasn't been able to stop thinking about violet eyes and lilac perfume.
I splashed cold water on my face—the hot springs had ruined me for mountain temperatures—and tried to focus on practical matters.
Ciri's training. The ongoing exhaustion of nightmare watch. The songs I'd composed for various contingencies.
Not on the way Yennefer's hand had felt brushing against mine at that Rinde inn.
Get it together.
The wards pulsed at dawn.
I felt it as a wrongness in the air—a pressure that hadn't been there before. The Witchers felt it too; I could see them responding, bodies tensing, hands moving toward weapons.
Vesemir emerged from his study, expression grim. "Someone approaches. Strong magical signature. Not hostile."
Geralt's jaw tightened. "She's here."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I found Ciri in her quarters, helped her into cleaner clothes—first impressions mattered, even with sorceresses.
Especially with sorceresses.
"How do I look?" she asked.
"Like a princess. A slightly dusty princess, but still."
She almost smiled. "And you?"
I glanced at my reflection in her window. Road-worn clothes. Dark circles under my eyes from weeks of nightmare watch. Hair that could use a proper wash.
"Like exactly what I am. Someone who's been working hard to help you."
"Is that good?"
I hope so.
"We'll find out."
The gates of Kaer Morhen opened.
Yennefer of Vengerberg rode through on a black horse, dressed in black that cut the grey morning like a knife. Her hair was immaculate. Her posture was perfect. She looked like she'd stepped out of a painting rather than ridden for weeks through mountain passes.
Of course she does. She's a sorceress. Looking effortless is part of the job description.
Her violet eyes swept the courtyard. Found Geralt first—complicated emotions flickering across her face before she controlled them. Then Ciri—assessment, calculation, something that might have been concern.
Then me.
Her gaze lingered. Studied. Catalogued.
And smiled.
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