There's imprisonment and there's imprisonment. What she experienced was somewhere between "rotting in a jail cell" and having the run of Emhyr's court, on condition she doesn't leave.
There's imprisonment and there's imprisonment. What she experienced was somewhere between "rotting in a jail cell" and having the run of Emhyr's court, on condition she doesn't leave.
She is on court when war started and when Ciri appear, but we don`t find out what happen with her jail time before war, and how they interrogate her, did they torture her or something else.
From her post-Skellige conversations with Geralt, it appears she was instantly elevated from high-value prisoner to Emhyr's court sorceress after accepting his offer regarding finding Ciri.
I too would be curious to know what happened during her time in jail. Idle days of solitary confinement or invasive interrogation, even though we know from the books that she's one very tough cookie who doesn't break easily.
Well to a degree she was broke when she was brought to Emhyr so getting her to see the light from his standards wouldn't be to hard . This was the point I was trying to make in other thread her motivations aren't completely her own as the game progresses though I think she is starting to be able to break this hold through Geralt .
https://instagram.com/p/6u0GKZpB9Z/
In the game I find her face too sweet.
In the game I find her face too sweet.
True, but the relationship between Yen/Geralt and Emhyr leaves much to be besired in TW3 after the events of TLotL imo. Emhyr knows and recognized in TLotL that Geralt and Yen are Ciri's step-parents and that hurting them would only hurt Ciri. And that's one of the few things he is imo very reluctant to do. So I don't think he would hurt them anymore. The whole "prison time" in Nilfgaard for Yennefer makes actually pretty little sense for me based on the relationship between them at the end of TLotL. It's like their last encounter and the whole "moment of truth" of TLotL never happened and that makes me quite sad. Of course it's almost inevitable to have such situations since CDPR wanted to continue a deep and rich and multi-layered story in a modern video game that is quite limited in terms of narrative expression and depth. So naturally, relationships between (even major) side characters like the relationship between Yen/Geralt and Emhyr get hurt and imo get "perverted" to a certain degree. And even without that the time between the books and TW1 is the one big open plot hole that still exists in the continuation of the games. There are many questions unanswered.
It's just that she would be quickly recognized as a high-value prisoner, not someone to be shackled to the wall until she conveniently dies. People like her end up as a sort of involuntary houseguest. Kind of like Mary Queen of Scots' long imprisonment at the hands of the Earl of Shrewsbury: she had the run of the Earl's properties, her own servants, lavishly appointed rooms, and enough fine cuisine to make you sick. Even if it does violence to the late chapters of LotL, Yen would not be badly treated under the circumstances the game writers placed her.
Given the speedy ascension i take the view that even her confinement was probably less harsh and any questioning less invasive.
Was it ever explained why she was imprisoned in the first place? I know Letho said that she was always getting them in some trouble, but they wouldn't get into Emhyr's prison for something something trivial.
No all information about prision is from Letho, all she say about Emhyr is that she know who he is and that she dind`t forget he killed her friends and that is all. And Letho say they got information about lodge from her, maybe she is captured cuz of that so they can interrogate her not because of something she did.
Last edited:
Letho believes that, true, but I think they got something from Cantarella first. We see that she spies for Nilfgaard now, and Assire was captured (and killed) way before Fringilla, so it's likely that either her cover was blown or she sold Assire out to Vattier willingly. Only then imo they decided to investigate Yennefer's knowledge about the Lodge.
Sure it`s only Letho opinion, it`s it would be nice to hear her side of story from her in W3 and what is happened in prision and how they got captured and what happened with her in those two years.
And even Letho in W2 say i believe they got that information from Yennefer, not that it is he sure about that.
Last edited:
Yennifer had lost her mind when Geralt had exchanged himself for her . She had the amnesia and was hysterical when Letho was bringing her back to Nilfgard . No information about the imprisonment but you can imagine that Emhyr had his mages find a way to get information out of her while she being healed .
Yes, I know all that, I was just wondering if I missed some dialogue where it was explained what she did to get into Emhyr's hands in the first place. It seems there's none.
Last edited by a moderator:
@ooodrin No this was all explained in Witcher 2 the only mention of this in Witcher3 is Yen saying she got her memories of the Hunt back . This could have been handled better because it is assuming that you have knowledge of Witcher 2 reveal .
---------- Updated at 05:44 AM ----------
Yennifer is truly one of the most complex characters in the game . On one hand she is dealing with the Lodge, Emhyr , and Wild Hunt all who want something from Ciri . Two of those involved Yen has direct contact with and has to keep them hat bay by giving them updates on Ciri while keeping her own desires for Ciri in check . On the other hand she has Geralt who shares the same ideals together of what they want for Ciri instead of from . This is not an easy task Geralt could be more than a handful himself . I think Yen has it the hardest of any character in game she is spread awful thin.
---------- Updated at 05:44 AM ----------
Yennifer is truly one of the most complex characters in the game . On one hand she is dealing with the Lodge, Emhyr , and Wild Hunt all who want something from Ciri . Two of those involved Yen has direct contact with and has to keep them hat bay by giving them updates on Ciri while keeping her own desires for Ciri in check . On the other hand she has Geralt who shares the same ideals together of what they want for Ciri instead of from . This is not an easy task Geralt could be more than a handful himself . I think Yen has it the hardest of any character in game she is spread awful thin.
Corrected...
:sofa:
Well, she has her moments in the game. But seriously, many of her previously complex relationships are quite underdeveloped (or even "perverted") and leave much to be desired, including her relationships to Ciri, Triss, Geralt (especially in case they break up), Emhyr and the lodge (in that order imo). Sure, it's still a video game and not a book and there has to be compromises if only for the amount of VOs, but anyway, Yennefer and especially her relationships to other characters is one of the biggest character writing disappointments of TW3 for me (right after Blinky). The only relationship of hers that more or less hits the nail is with Geralt when they stay together - this relationship has some great moments in the game indeed.
The wiki has it right, they attempted to recruit her, but she never was one of them. I think at the end of the books she would have joined them though, because why not? Who knows what would have happened with the Lodge, if two more women would have joined them, Yeah, two, Yennefer and Ciri, as she was quite tempted to join at the end, too.
The Lodge made her the same offer as in the game, to be a full-fledged member and with Yennefer at her side, I don't think the Lodge would have been able to control her as Philippa might wanted to, especially with Yennefer around.
The whole Lodge might have gone a totally other way with Yennefer as another capable player just like Philippa, most other members just went on with what Philippa said, but with Yennefer (+ Ciri), Fringilla (+ Assire), Francesca (+ Ida), Rita and Triss they could have formed quite an opposition to Philippa.
I would assume that most of her time she would have been just in jail, just like Fringilla was after a while or he wanted to use her like he did with Assire var Anahid. As you might remember Fringilla didn't look like she was in prison at all and so did Yennefer.
Why in jail at all? The better question is why not?
Emhyr knows who Yennefer is, but she didn't know who she was at first. As Letho said, she was still confused and hysterical, when Nilfgaard found them.
Emhyr knew he could maybe use her in one way or another, just like he did with Letho. He just needed an occasion for it and Ciri coming back was that one. Or maybe he just wanted to help her, because (he is such a good person and) wanted to know where Ciri is, since he left Ciri in their custody.
I could imagine that just after learning that Ciri is back, he would have helped Yennefer regaining her memories as soon as possible again, so she can actually help finding her for his own sake as we know later and only as everyone else just couldn't find her. At the same time I could imagine that he forbid her to contact anyone until all of her methods failed.
It seems like most of her methods were locating spells or similar methods, methods she could also do in a prison cell. She didn't need to be free to do that, just when everything else failed, she was given the approval to contact other people like Fringilla or The Lodge. At this point she maybe heard for the first time where Geralt actually is and what he is doing and with whom...
But what if Emhyr just forbid her to contact him directly? She could have easily teleport to him, but she didn't or maybe because she couldn't due dimeritium shackles. I mean seriously, who could have stopped Yennefer, if she really wanted to escape from Emhyr?
The only way to control her was to put her in dimeritium shackles and as we know from the books, this really limits the actions of a sorcerer.
Only when everything and everyone failed to find Ciri, she was allowed to contact Geralt directly and act freely, granted by allmighty Emhyr.
When exactly was that? Can't say, but Geralt and Vesemir were already quite long on their journey to meet Yennefer, months if I remember correctly, so in the end I could imagine that it were maybe 2 years for Geralt, but maybe just barely months for Yennefer, when she could freely act.
It's a shame that the game doesn't really go in details about that, that fanfiction from 2014 did a far better job about this. It even showed how exactly Yennefer got her memories back, what Emhyr did to her and how she escaped him:
http://a-d-aether.deviantart.com/gallery/49321926/The-Witcher?offset=24
This is just chapter 8 and 9, when the story starts with Yennefer
Chapter 8
“Why is this thing still in my house?”
“Don’t call my child a thing!”
“Damn right, your child. My children are normal, whole.”
“Stop it. She’s your child too!”
“Ah, shuttup, woman! Stop pretending I don’t know about that elf! Come here, thing. I said come here! Closer, goddammit!”
“Leave her alone!”
“D’you wanna beah sorceress, girl? Hmm? You’ll go to that school and you’ll never come back here, or I’ll make you sorry.”
“I said leave her alone!”
“M-Mommy!”
“Get out of my house you son-of-a-bitch!”
“Why’d he hit m-me . . . I didn’t do anything . . . Mommy . . .”
Adepts. Adepts laughing at her at the academy.
A knife to her wrist. Blood.
“These cuts are serious.” Tissaia de Vries’ voice. “You cut yourself deeply, accurately.”
She stared at the ceiling, numb.
“I’ll take care of you.” Tissaia patted her hair gently. “It will not be easy, but we will flatten the hump and straighten the spine, and your wrists will be cared for. We are alone, and I shall tell no one. So cry. Let it all go. Because this is the last time you will ever cry, girl. There’s nothing more pathetic than a sorceress in tears.”
The woman awoke abruptly, her violet eyes snapping open behind tumbling black curls. The oneiromancy had worked. Using pictures of cities in Aedirn and Thanedd Island from volumes on the areas, she was able to dream about her experiences in those places. She had once been a hunchback and her abusive father was not her father and someone named Tissaia had loved her . . .
She slowly sat up, blinking as her black nightgown fell smooth around her. Through the bay windows came the bright light of midmorning. She was going to be late for her meeting with the emperor.
“You’re late,” the emperor said when the woman’s high heels clicked up the stairs of the gazebo. He and the empress were taking tea at a small round table, while nearby, a man played the violin. Birds sang as the garden pressed in all around, and in the shade of the gazebo, the emperor and empress looked like an oil painting, reclined and content as they were.
The empress nodded her head in polite greeting and the emperor waved his hand dismissively, as if to say etiquette was not worth the bother with a prisoner. He squeezed a lemon slice into the brown swirl of his tea, then he took a sip and his dark eyes gazed off, apparently not interested in the woman in the slightest.
The woman stood there uncertain of what to do. She knew to sit down without being invited was foolish, but she also knew the emperor was purposely leaving her to stand. To punish her for being late? What childishness was this! But she stood patiently as the emperor sipped his tea and the empress arranged her napkin. Eventually, she noticed the various sketches lying on the table, among the plates of crumb cakes and bowls of sugar cubes.
The emperor waved the violinist away. The man stopped playing at once, bowed, and retreated down the gazebo steps.
Emhyr waved an idle hand at the only seat available: a small, squat stool that was near his boot. The woman’s lip curled. So she was to sit on a low stool like a bootblack? But she knew better than to argue. She concealed her fury with a cold smile, and gathering her skirts, she perched on the stool and waited.
The woman was surprised when the emperor leaned over to his wife and whispered in her ear. The empress smiled faintly, her pale lashes lowered.
The woman was suddenly grateful her seat was so low: the green eyes of the empress were so familiar it was driving her slightly mad. Why were they familiar? Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon . . .
The empress rose from her seat, and curtsying deeply to the woman, she also disappeared down the gazebo steps, moving at a slow and regal pace. The woman knew without a doubt the girl had practiced many hours with a book on her head.
The emperor took another sip of tea and for a long time did not speak.
The wind picked up, lifting the woman’s black curls over her shoulder. She held them down as the breeze battered insistently against the back of her black dress. White flower petals swept past her in a flurry, and unable to resist, she reached out her hands, watching as the petals danced about them like snow.
The emperor laughed softly. “Sometimes . . . you have the innocence of a child. Is this what amnesia has reduced the great sorceress to?”
The woman frowned, catching one of the petals in her slender fingers. She twirled it. “Will you tell me my name today?”
“Perhaps. But you have to do something for me.”
“I’m listening . . . Imperial Majesty.”
She didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling.
“No doubt you noticed these sketches on the table.”
“Yes.”
“They are sketches of several sorceresses who are now notorious across the land. A lodge of devious cats plotting and scheming to use my child like a puppet.”
“Who are they?” Tossing the petal away, the woman turned to him, and he began handing her the sketches as he stated each name.
“Philippa Eilhart,” the emperor sneered, tapping his finger on a colored sketch of a smirking woman with black hair, “formerly the court sorceress of the Redanian king, probably behind the assassination of King Vizimir, recently blinded by a venegeful King Radovid.” He handed her another and another. “Sile de Tancarville, gone missing after the calamity at Loc Muinne, former court sorceress of Kovir, reportedly the main one behind the machinations to put my child on the Kovir throne. Of course, when Assire var Anahid was questioned, it was only natural she would point a finger of blame at Miss de Tancarvile. . . .” He passed her another colored sketch, one of a beautiful elf with long, flowing, blonde hair. “Francesca Findabair, ‘queen’ of Dol Blathanna, but I shall deal appropriately with her and her little sidekick Ida. . . . Ah, but these two will interest you greatly . . .”
The woman accepted two final sketches, fully colored like the rest, and so brilliantly done that the women leapt out at her from the parchment. The first sketch was of a woman with a mass of curly red hair and large, innocent, blue eyes. The second sketch was of a woman with short, neatly cropped black hair and haughty green eyes. For some reason, both pictures inspired the deepest sense of bitter loathing in the pit of her stomach.
The woman lifted her face. The emperor was smiling. “Who are they?” she asked him.
“Triss Merigold,” he said, tapping the picture of the redhead, “your longtime friend and colleague, a woman who stabbed you in the back so many times, you should have reverted to a hunchback by now.”
The woman narrowed her violet eyes on the emperor’s smirking face but kept the anger from her voice, “And this other?” She lightly tossed the colored sketch of the black-haired woman on the table.
“Fringilla Vigo,” answered the emperor and lazily waved a ladybug from his tea. “She blinded you during the battle of Sodden Hill.”
The woman frowned. “Blinded me?”
“And much like Miss Merigold there, she seduced and slept with your lover.” Sitting back in his chair again, Emhyr smiled slowly and sardonically before sipping from his tea.
Well. That explained the loathing and disgust in the pit of her stomach. She resisted the urge to crumple the sketches in frustration. Didn’t she have any friends? Any? She gazed off a moment and swallowed hard as she reminded herself: beautiful women like her never had any friends. She had to wonder if anyone even knew where she was, if anyone was coming for her, if anyone cared. The woman from the dream, Tissaia . . . Tissaia had cared. But somehow or other, she knew the woman in her dream was now dead.
“What is it his Imperial Majesty asks of me?” the woman said quietly.
“Come now, why so glum? I’m giving you the opportunity to get back at every woman who ever did you wrong, to bring to justice the same women who tried to manipulate Cirilla.”
The woman looked off, wondering why any of it mattered. She couldn’t even remember who these people were! But somehow, listening to the emperor’s voice, she knew he was the only one who ever called Cirilla “Cirilla.”
“You’ve been practicing oneiromancy since you’ve been here,” the emperor went on slowly. “Which, I will admit, was quite clever on your part. With dreams you unlock your memories, and slowly, the pieces come into place for you. If you use these sketches to remember these women, I guarantee all the pieces will come into place.”
She looked at him quickly. “Was I a member of this Lodge?”
The emperor almost snorted into his tea. He looked at her witheringly. “Hardly. According to Assire var Anahid, as Shilard closed his hands around her pretty throat, you were forced to attend a Lodge meeting by Francesca Findabair, who kept you compressed in the form of a statue. In a box. For a month. You escaped the Lodge and attempted to rescue my Cirilla.”
“So I was their enemy? I’m not in danger of prosecution?”
“No,” the emperor said, not looking at her. He stirred his tea idly and gazed off at the garden. “Sorceresses of the Northern Kingdoms are burning at the stake as we speak, but you are safe here. You did something for my Cirilla I never could. And for that, I owe you my protection.”
“You want me to dream of these women . . . and remember them . . . so you can find them?”
“Find them and kill them,” he confirmed with a sigh. “Those witchers who brought you here, they were to have set off the events that would have sewn chaos in the Northern Realms. I meant for the Lodge to die for their schemes – not just concerning my daughter but concerning the empire as well. It was their goal that Cirilla would be the queen of an empire of sorceresses the likes of which would rival Nilfgaard.” He snorted. “They asked for this war with their meddling. Now they will burn for it.”
There was something razor sharp in his voice. Something dark and menacing.
“Many have already been sentenced to death,” went on the emperor softly, as if he was lost in some reverie. He held the teacup to his lips but did not drink. His eyes were on some distant tree. “And many more will burn. To ensure that a similar scheme never unfolds, I must finally conquer the north.” He set down his tea and looked at the woman. “And you will help me.”
“Why is this thing still in my house?”
“Don’t call my child a thing!”
“Damn right, your child. My children are normal, whole.”
“Stop it. She’s your child too!”
“Ah, shuttup, woman! Stop pretending I don’t know about that elf! Come here, thing. I said come here! Closer, goddammit!”
“Leave her alone!”
“D’you wanna beah sorceress, girl? Hmm? You’ll go to that school and you’ll never come back here, or I’ll make you sorry.”
“I said leave her alone!”
“M-Mommy!”
“Get out of my house you son-of-a-bitch!”
“Why’d he hit m-me . . . I didn’t do anything . . . Mommy . . .”
Adepts. Adepts laughing at her at the academy.
A knife to her wrist. Blood.
“These cuts are serious.” Tissaia de Vries’ voice. “You cut yourself deeply, accurately.”
She stared at the ceiling, numb.
“I’ll take care of you.” Tissaia patted her hair gently. “It will not be easy, but we will flatten the hump and straighten the spine, and your wrists will be cared for. We are alone, and I shall tell no one. So cry. Let it all go. Because this is the last time you will ever cry, girl. There’s nothing more pathetic than a sorceress in tears.”
The woman awoke abruptly, her violet eyes snapping open behind tumbling black curls. The oneiromancy had worked. Using pictures of cities in Aedirn and Thanedd Island from volumes on the areas, she was able to dream about her experiences in those places. She had once been a hunchback and her abusive father was not her father and someone named Tissaia had loved her . . .
She slowly sat up, blinking as her black nightgown fell smooth around her. Through the bay windows came the bright light of midmorning. She was going to be late for her meeting with the emperor.
“You’re late,” the emperor said when the woman’s high heels clicked up the stairs of the gazebo. He and the empress were taking tea at a small round table, while nearby, a man played the violin. Birds sang as the garden pressed in all around, and in the shade of the gazebo, the emperor and empress looked like an oil painting, reclined and content as they were.
The empress nodded her head in polite greeting and the emperor waved his hand dismissively, as if to say etiquette was not worth the bother with a prisoner. He squeezed a lemon slice into the brown swirl of his tea, then he took a sip and his dark eyes gazed off, apparently not interested in the woman in the slightest.
The woman stood there uncertain of what to do. She knew to sit down without being invited was foolish, but she also knew the emperor was purposely leaving her to stand. To punish her for being late? What childishness was this! But she stood patiently as the emperor sipped his tea and the empress arranged her napkin. Eventually, she noticed the various sketches lying on the table, among the plates of crumb cakes and bowls of sugar cubes.
The emperor waved the violinist away. The man stopped playing at once, bowed, and retreated down the gazebo steps.
Emhyr waved an idle hand at the only seat available: a small, squat stool that was near his boot. The woman’s lip curled. So she was to sit on a low stool like a bootblack? But she knew better than to argue. She concealed her fury with a cold smile, and gathering her skirts, she perched on the stool and waited.
The woman was surprised when the emperor leaned over to his wife and whispered in her ear. The empress smiled faintly, her pale lashes lowered.
The woman was suddenly grateful her seat was so low: the green eyes of the empress were so familiar it was driving her slightly mad. Why were they familiar? Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon . . .
The empress rose from her seat, and curtsying deeply to the woman, she also disappeared down the gazebo steps, moving at a slow and regal pace. The woman knew without a doubt the girl had practiced many hours with a book on her head.
The emperor took another sip of tea and for a long time did not speak.
The wind picked up, lifting the woman’s black curls over her shoulder. She held them down as the breeze battered insistently against the back of her black dress. White flower petals swept past her in a flurry, and unable to resist, she reached out her hands, watching as the petals danced about them like snow.
The emperor laughed softly. “Sometimes . . . you have the innocence of a child. Is this what amnesia has reduced the great sorceress to?”
The woman frowned, catching one of the petals in her slender fingers. She twirled it. “Will you tell me my name today?”
“Perhaps. But you have to do something for me.”
“I’m listening . . . Imperial Majesty.”
She didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling.
“No doubt you noticed these sketches on the table.”
“Yes.”
“They are sketches of several sorceresses who are now notorious across the land. A lodge of devious cats plotting and scheming to use my child like a puppet.”
“Who are they?” Tossing the petal away, the woman turned to him, and he began handing her the sketches as he stated each name.
“Philippa Eilhart,” the emperor sneered, tapping his finger on a colored sketch of a smirking woman with black hair, “formerly the court sorceress of the Redanian king, probably behind the assassination of King Vizimir, recently blinded by a venegeful King Radovid.” He handed her another and another. “Sile de Tancarville, gone missing after the calamity at Loc Muinne, former court sorceress of Kovir, reportedly the main one behind the machinations to put my child on the Kovir throne. Of course, when Assire var Anahid was questioned, it was only natural she would point a finger of blame at Miss de Tancarvile. . . .” He passed her another colored sketch, one of a beautiful elf with long, flowing, blonde hair. “Francesca Findabair, ‘queen’ of Dol Blathanna, but I shall deal appropriately with her and her little sidekick Ida. . . . Ah, but these two will interest you greatly . . .”
The woman accepted two final sketches, fully colored like the rest, and so brilliantly done that the women leapt out at her from the parchment. The first sketch was of a woman with a mass of curly red hair and large, innocent, blue eyes. The second sketch was of a woman with short, neatly cropped black hair and haughty green eyes. For some reason, both pictures inspired the deepest sense of bitter loathing in the pit of her stomach.
The woman lifted her face. The emperor was smiling. “Who are they?” she asked him.
“Triss Merigold,” he said, tapping the picture of the redhead, “your longtime friend and colleague, a woman who stabbed you in the back so many times, you should have reverted to a hunchback by now.”
The woman narrowed her violet eyes on the emperor’s smirking face but kept the anger from her voice, “And this other?” She lightly tossed the colored sketch of the black-haired woman on the table.
“Fringilla Vigo,” answered the emperor and lazily waved a ladybug from his tea. “She blinded you during the battle of Sodden Hill.”
The woman frowned. “Blinded me?”
“And much like Miss Merigold there, she seduced and slept with your lover.” Sitting back in his chair again, Emhyr smiled slowly and sardonically before sipping from his tea.
Well. That explained the loathing and disgust in the pit of her stomach. She resisted the urge to crumple the sketches in frustration. Didn’t she have any friends? Any? She gazed off a moment and swallowed hard as she reminded herself: beautiful women like her never had any friends. She had to wonder if anyone even knew where she was, if anyone was coming for her, if anyone cared. The woman from the dream, Tissaia . . . Tissaia had cared. But somehow or other, she knew the woman in her dream was now dead.
“What is it his Imperial Majesty asks of me?” the woman said quietly.
“Come now, why so glum? I’m giving you the opportunity to get back at every woman who ever did you wrong, to bring to justice the same women who tried to manipulate Cirilla.”
The woman looked off, wondering why any of it mattered. She couldn’t even remember who these people were! But somehow, listening to the emperor’s voice, she knew he was the only one who ever called Cirilla “Cirilla.”
“You’ve been practicing oneiromancy since you’ve been here,” the emperor went on slowly. “Which, I will admit, was quite clever on your part. With dreams you unlock your memories, and slowly, the pieces come into place for you. If you use these sketches to remember these women, I guarantee all the pieces will come into place.”
She looked at him quickly. “Was I a member of this Lodge?”
The emperor almost snorted into his tea. He looked at her witheringly. “Hardly. According to Assire var Anahid, as Shilard closed his hands around her pretty throat, you were forced to attend a Lodge meeting by Francesca Findabair, who kept you compressed in the form of a statue. In a box. For a month. You escaped the Lodge and attempted to rescue my Cirilla.”
“So I was their enemy? I’m not in danger of prosecution?”
“No,” the emperor said, not looking at her. He stirred his tea idly and gazed off at the garden. “Sorceresses of the Northern Kingdoms are burning at the stake as we speak, but you are safe here. You did something for my Cirilla I never could. And for that, I owe you my protection.”
“You want me to dream of these women . . . and remember them . . . so you can find them?”
“Find them and kill them,” he confirmed with a sigh. “Those witchers who brought you here, they were to have set off the events that would have sewn chaos in the Northern Realms. I meant for the Lodge to die for their schemes – not just concerning my daughter but concerning the empire as well. It was their goal that Cirilla would be the queen of an empire of sorceresses the likes of which would rival Nilfgaard.” He snorted. “They asked for this war with their meddling. Now they will burn for it.”
There was something razor sharp in his voice. Something dark and menacing.
“Many have already been sentenced to death,” went on the emperor softly, as if he was lost in some reverie. He held the teacup to his lips but did not drink. His eyes were on some distant tree. “And many more will burn. To ensure that a similar scheme never unfolds, I must finally conquer the north.” He set down his tea and looked at the woman. “And you will help me.”
Chapter 9
The next morning, the woman and the emperor played chess. She won in twelve moves.
“Will you tell me my name today?” she asked, sitting back and crossing one leg over the other. She wore yet another black dress, this one with a white bow at the small of her back. The bow wasn’t to her taste but was all the rave in Nilfgaard at the moment: the maids had insisted. Around her throat was a black velvet choker with a cameo featuring the white silhouettes of Cupid and Psyche, the two lovers wrapped in a passionate embrace. She still wore the dimeritium bracelets, but had spent the last few days quietly picking them at each meal with her fork.
“I have done what you asked,” she went on, watching as the emperor swept the chess pieces off the checkered board and into the wooden pockets on the sides of the table.
Emhyr started replacing the chess pieces carefully, the whites on one side and the blacks on the other. His many rings glinted in the sunlight and his black hair swept forward, almost obscuring his bowed head. They were outside, in the gardens, and in the nearby artificial pond, a carp swam, silently lurking beneath the yellow water lilies.
“You’re the first person to beat me,” he said at length, “in twenty odd years.”
The woman cocked an eyebrow. “I’m the first person who didn’t simply let you win.”
The emperor laughed softly. “You aren’t afraid of me. How precious,” he said sarcastically. “Though I must admit, it’s a breath of fresh air. It is also one of the things I treasure in my wife.” He waved a gracious hand at the empress, who was walking amongst the flowers across the way, her ladies-in-waiting close behind. She smiled and waved graciously in turn before bending to sniff a cluster of yellow flowers. She was radiant.
“Yes,” said the woman slowly, violet eyes dull with disgust, “the happy marriage, born of incestuous desire.”
The emperor’s eyes flashed. “Don’t be vulgar. I never intended to marry Cirilla because I desired her flesh. I simply desired power, even if it meant doing something so detestable as conceiving with my child.” He glared across the chessboard at her, his black eyes glinting with a menacing light. “As it is, I finally realized where she belonged and who with. Be grateful I married her double and not her. Because otherwise, I would have executed you. You and your precious witcher.”
“Who I can’t even remember,” the woman said, unimpressed by his anger. She smiled coldly. “You can’t effectively threaten a person who doesn’t remember, Imperial Majesty. What, exactly, are you threatening me with? I can’t remember what it is I’m supposed to have. As far as I know, I have nothing.”
“You have your life,” he returned, sitting back and regarding her coldly. “But that is debatable at the moment.”
The woman’s violet eyes hardened. “I am not afraid of death,” she said, remembering the slit wrists in her dreams, remembering how fearlessly she had faced Vilgefortz to save Cirilla. To save . . . Ciri.
“I know,” the emperor conceded, “that’s the worst part of you.” His elbow was on the armrest, and his finger thoughtfully brushed the tip of his nose as he regarded her coolly. “But you have been useful thus far. You know this. So you flap your impertinent tongue about things you can not remember and do not understand. I do not have to justify myself to you. I once thought to marry my daughter and I changed my mind. That is enough.”
“My name,” the woman said, almost miserably.
The emperor laughed and went back to arranging the chess pieces. “Why is this so important? I was rather comfortable calling you ‘woman.’”
“I’m not comfortable.”
He didn’t respond.
“And until I am comfortable, I will help you no further.”
That got his attention. He froze, his lashes snapping angrily. Finally, he sat back and folded his arms. He was smiling, and she knew it was the cold smile that meant they had just reached a stalemate.
“I suppose it’s only fair,” he said at length. “You told me what you dreamt about Philippa Eilhart, who is now hiding in the forests of the Blue Mountains in the shape of an owl . . . and let’s not forget Sile, who you dreamt had run back to Kovir, tail between legs. Kovir will pay for her treachery, make no mistake.” His black eyes narrowed and he gazed off, lost in thought. “But you didn’t give me Fringilla Vigo,” he said, looking at her with mild surprise, “or Triss Merigold. These are the women who have hurt you personally, deeply, and yet . . . I was certain you would hand them to me, but you have not.”
The woman was silent. No, she hadn’t. She knew exactly where Triss Merigold and Fringilla Vigo were, and she had no intention of handing them to the emperor. Instead, she looked the emperor directly in the eye and lied, “I never dreamt of them, Imperial Majesty.”
He stared back at her, unflinching. They both knew that he knew she was lying. Finally, he sighed and lowered his gaze to the chessboard. “What are your reasons, might I ask? Personal revenge? Would you rather deliver the killing blow yourself?”
“Revenge for things I can not fully remember?” returned the woman, sitting very stiff and straight. “No.”
“Then what then?” the emperor demanded in disgust and did not look up. He tossed a hand at her as his other hand continued arranging and placing the chess pieces. “You gave the other women to me without hesitation.”
“Because somehow . . . I know the other women deserve it.”
The emperor looked at her in amazement. “And these other women do not? Fringilla Vigo blinded you, I tell you. You were blind, in agony for a very long time.”
“She also helped me escape Montecalvo and the Lodge of Sorceresses. We’re even.”
“Ha, you remember that? She also slept with your witcher after this occurrence.” He moved a chess piece in place with the tips of his fingers. “Some say she loved him. One day, she quietly left the Lodge and never returned. What do you say to that?”
The woman shrugged, her black curls tumbling in the sudden breeze. She narrowed her violet eyes and gazed off across the garden as tendrils of black hair licked at them. “I can’t even remember this witcher. Geralt. It’s just a name.”
“I see. Perhaps that’s the problem.” The emperor sat back and regarded her thoughtfully. “Perhaps if you remembered the witcher, you’d realize exactly what’s at stake.”
“And then do exactly what you tell me?”
“Exactly. You catch on quickly. I should have recruited you instead of Vilgefortz.”
Her lip curled. “Was that a compliment, Imperial Majesty?”
“Yes. Savor it. Because it will never happen again.” He flashed her one of his handsome, sardonic smiles. “I will help you remember your witcher,” he said slowly, “and once you realize what is at stake, you will help me, woman. You will give me Triss Merigold and Fringilla Vigo. Or you will lose it all. I guarantee it.”
***
The woman was surprised when she was brought to the emperor’s wing of the palace, where his private bedchambers were. In an adjoining parlour stood a small round table and several cushioned chairs, a fireplace, and a large ornate rug that spread across the wood paneled floor. The bay windows and the window seat were framed by white curtains, and in poured the white light of the afternoon sun.
Without hesitating, the emperor led the woman into the parlour and to a small chest sitting on a shelf. From the chest he pulled a small rag doll, its button eyes winking in the light. He handed it to the woman.
“It belonged to the girl,” the woman correctly guessed. “To this . . . Cirilla.”
“Yes,” the emperor said hoarsely. He gestured to the divan that sat on one side of the parlour, covered in white pillows with flora designs. “You will stay here and mediate on the doll. When you are finished, you will put it back in the chest,” he said a little aggressively, “and Ciren aep Awren will escort you back to your own chambers.”
The woman glanced at the smiling and patient little man who had accompanied them. The man bowed to her politely from the waist. Like all the Nilfgaardians, he wore a great deal of black. She was starting to wonder if she wasn’t a Nilfgaardian herself, given her taste.
The woman looked at the small, filthy doll in her hands. “And this will give me dreams of the witcher? It’s not even his . . . Imperial Majesty,” she added grudgingly when Ciren aep Awren gave her a reproachful glance.
“It will,” the emperor assured her and moved toward the door.
The woman sat absently on the divan. “But where are you going?”
The emperor stopped in the doorway and smiled at her. “I must escort Her Imperial Majesty back to Cintra. She came all the way here, posthaste, at my request, to meet you.”
“. . . oh.”
“I thought perhaps seeing her would have awakened some memories. But it didn’t work. And then you started using dream divination and I thought of the doll.” His black eyes hardened. “Be careful with it. Don’t tear it. Be sure to put it back.”
“Of course, Imperial Majesty,” the woman said, trying not to laugh at his concern for an old bit of rag and fluff.
“Duny -- the doll may seem like nothing to you,” he said curtly, “but it’s all I have of my daughter. It’s all I have.” With that, he turned abruptly and left.
***
“Be still now, Ciri,” the woman heard herself scold. “You’ve gone and tangled it again.”
The sixteen-year-old girl grudgingly fell still as behind her, the black-haired sorceress combed her hair. Her eyes were large and green, and the one on the left had been disfigured by a long, hideous scar. She wore men’s clothing, the girl: tight-fitting leather trousers and a somewhat baggy jerkin with puffy sleeves. A scabbard lay on the ground nearby, in which was thrust an exquisite sword.
The woman recognized herself as she combed the girl’s hair. She was seeing herself in this dream. She, the sorceress, was clad in a black dress, simply made, that appeared to have been recently purchased for travel. She sat on the edge of a bed as she combed the girl’s ashen gray hair, while the girl sat on the floor, munching an apple.
“Don’t make such a fuss, Yen,” moaned a man’s voice.
The woman drifted through the dream and stiffened. A man was lying on the bed, on his side, gazing thoughtfully out the window. He was handsome, even while he was brooding – perhaps because he was brooding. His long white hair cascaded around the pillow and his back was to the sorceress as she combed the girl’s hair. His eyes were yellow as a cat’s and the pupils were narrowed against the fading light of dusk that poured through the window. He was unshaven and looked very tired.
“If I don’t make a fuss, who will?” the woman saw herself – the sorceress – say. “And don’t think you aren’t next. Your stubble has cut me in places that would make Ciri here blush.”
The girl did blush. The witcher moaned, embarrassed.
“Ugh!” complained the girl and her face screwed up. “Don’t say such things . . . ugh.”
Standing on the edge of the dream, the woman saw the fond look that hooded the eyes of the sorceress. She lovingly pulled the comb through the girl’s gray hair, smoothing her hand after each stroke. “Stop eating that apple,” she scolded, “you’re ruining your supper. And don’t wipe your nose with your wrist, Ciri, it’s unladylike.”
The girl laughed when the witcher reached past the sorceress, and snatching the apple into his fist, he reclined on the bed as he ate it.
“There, it looks suitable for now,” the sorceress said and she set the comb on the nightstand.
“You don’t even like apples, Geralt,” Ciri cried and bounced up from the floor.
The witcher closed his eyes, one arm behind his head as he reclined. “Sure, I do.”
The sorceress pressed some coins in the girl’s hand. “Go downstairs and eat something. And come right back.”
Ciri brightened as she counted the coin. She eagerly and clumsily strapped on her scabbard and sword, and the woman saw the worried looks in the eyes of the witcher and the sorceress: they were hoping she wouldn’t have to use that sword.
The girl practically bounced out the door, ashen hair streaming behind her.
“And don’t let me hear that you ordered vodka and rum again!” the sorceress called after her. She moved to stand but almost squealed when the witcher caught her by the waist and pulled her down on the bed with him.
“No, I have to shave your face before --” the sorceress protested.
“Stop fidgeting and lay here with me for a moment,” the witcher whispered.
The sorceress said something back. Their words were becoming so soft and intimate, the woman had to drift closer to the bed to hear what her dream-self and the witcher were saying.
The witcher kissed the sorceress on the head, somewhere above her eye, and pulled her close as he whispered, “I wish we could stay like this forever, you, me, and Ciri.”
“I know. But I have to go to the Lodge.”
“Or . . . you could ignore those bitches.”
The sorceress laughed softly. “Geralt. You know we can’t ignore them.”
“You’re right. Not any more than we could ignore Vilgefortz.”
They fell silent and both seemed to brood for a moment.
“Let’s never say his name again,” the sorceress said after a pause.
“Agreed.”
Another pause, and then . . .
“Yen?”
“Mm?”
He was kissing her neck, pushing back her mass of curls to get at it. She clung to him breathlessly, her soft protests ignored.
“Help me get your dress off.”
“Geralt, no -- Ciri is going to come back.”
He kissed her lips. “Help me.”
She helped him.
Standing on the edge of the dream, the woman watched with her heart pounding as her dream-self and the witcher made love. The stubble on his cheeks did indeed scratch the sorceress, but he hardly seemed able to distinguish her moans between cries of ecstasy and cries of pain: for a long time, his ears were hugged by her thighs.
The woman couldn’t take her eyes away, and even though the dream was actually her memory, she felt as if she was a peeping intruder. The tight muscles of the witcher’s back moving between the thighs of the sorceress made her knees grow weak and she fumbled, sitting absently on a chair in the corner.
Panting and disheveled, the witcher and sorceress eventually lie spent. The sun had completely set and the room had grown dark. Geralt pulled the sheet back and pulled the sorceress under with him. The woman watched as he showered the sorceress with lazy kisses on her neck, on her collarbone. He planted another kiss above her eye. That seemed to be a favorite spot.
“Yen,” he whispered, pulling her close under the sheets, “let’s stay like this. Don’t go to the Lodge.”
“Why?” she moaned. “We’ve been through this. This is what has to be done. If we want to beat them at their game, we have to find out what their game is.”
The witcher grunted, clearly not content. This changed when the sorceress kissed him on the cheek. He smiled and snuggled down with her.
“We can’t stay like this, you know,” the sorceress said after a while.
“I know.”
“No, I mean naked. Let’s get dressed before she comes back.”
They did. And sitting in a chair in the corner, the woman watched with a warm heart as the witcher helped her dream-self lace up her dress. He playfully tossed her hair in her face when it got in the way of the laces, and as she was helping him lace up his shirt, he kissed her fondly on the forehead, letting his lips linger. She closed her eyes and smiled. He held her. And for a moment, they just stood holding each other. Happy.
Then the girl came back, and they were even happier. She teased them about kissing and seemed to guess with her quick, clever eyes that sex had happened, but she made no comment about it. Instead, she went on and on about the strange characters in the tavern below. The witcher stood listening and watching the girl fondly as the sorceress unbuckled the girl’s scabbard and set her sword aside.
“Bedtime,” the sorceress said firmly and gave the girl a fond caress on the cheek.
“I call middle,” the girl said at once. She crawled up the center of the bed and flopped, ashen hair tossing.
“I thought you wanted the window,” Geralt said, climbing in after her. “If not, I’ll take it.” He stretched out on top of the sheets and turned his back. Watching from her chair, the woman saw the witcher’s cheek bulge up in a smile when Ciri pecked it.
“Goodnight, Geralt,” the girl sang, climbing under the sheets. “Aren’t you going to sleep, Mother?”
The sorceress was sitting on the edge of the bed, thighs together under her skirts, hands in her lap, watching the other two fondly from her cloud of black curls. She stroked Ciri’s hair down and tucked her in tightly. “I love you, my daughter. Do you know that?” she said.
Ciri frowned. “I know. What’s the matter? You look sad.”
“I’m not sad,” the sorceress assured her. “Now go to sleep.”
Ciri wasn’t convinced but she didn’t argue. She closed her eyes, scowled, and wriggled, and the woman heard the witcher laugh softly, his back still to the room.
“Geralt is doing that thing again,” Ciri complained, “where he holds the sheets down so I can’t move . . .”
“Geralt, for heaven’s sake,” complained the sorceress.
“Alright,” said the witcher and moved the boot that was mischievously pinning Ciri, “my apologies. Goodnight, Ciri.”
Ciri smiled, eyes still closed. “Night, Geralt.”
The sorceress climbed under the sheets with the girl, and now they were all three in bed, with Geralt lying on top of the sheets, his sword standing in its scabbard against the nearby wall.
“Goodnight, Yennefer,” Geralt added. “We love you.”
***
The woman awoke with a start. She had dozed off on the emperor’s divan, still clutching the rag doll. Ciren aep Awren was seated at the little round table, reading a book with spectacles perched on his nose. She stared at him without really seeing him, her violet eyes large and wet with unshed tears.
The emperor was right. Now she knew what she had. Now she couldn’t lose it. Not for the world.
Ciren aep Awren closed the book and regarded her with a triumphant little smile. “Remember anything?”
“My n-name.” The woman looked at the doll in her hand. “It’s Yennefer.”
The next morning, the woman and the emperor played chess. She won in twelve moves.
“Will you tell me my name today?” she asked, sitting back and crossing one leg over the other. She wore yet another black dress, this one with a white bow at the small of her back. The bow wasn’t to her taste but was all the rave in Nilfgaard at the moment: the maids had insisted. Around her throat was a black velvet choker with a cameo featuring the white silhouettes of Cupid and Psyche, the two lovers wrapped in a passionate embrace. She still wore the dimeritium bracelets, but had spent the last few days quietly picking them at each meal with her fork.
“I have done what you asked,” she went on, watching as the emperor swept the chess pieces off the checkered board and into the wooden pockets on the sides of the table.
Emhyr started replacing the chess pieces carefully, the whites on one side and the blacks on the other. His many rings glinted in the sunlight and his black hair swept forward, almost obscuring his bowed head. They were outside, in the gardens, and in the nearby artificial pond, a carp swam, silently lurking beneath the yellow water lilies.
“You’re the first person to beat me,” he said at length, “in twenty odd years.”
The woman cocked an eyebrow. “I’m the first person who didn’t simply let you win.”
The emperor laughed softly. “You aren’t afraid of me. How precious,” he said sarcastically. “Though I must admit, it’s a breath of fresh air. It is also one of the things I treasure in my wife.” He waved a gracious hand at the empress, who was walking amongst the flowers across the way, her ladies-in-waiting close behind. She smiled and waved graciously in turn before bending to sniff a cluster of yellow flowers. She was radiant.
“Yes,” said the woman slowly, violet eyes dull with disgust, “the happy marriage, born of incestuous desire.”
The emperor’s eyes flashed. “Don’t be vulgar. I never intended to marry Cirilla because I desired her flesh. I simply desired power, even if it meant doing something so detestable as conceiving with my child.” He glared across the chessboard at her, his black eyes glinting with a menacing light. “As it is, I finally realized where she belonged and who with. Be grateful I married her double and not her. Because otherwise, I would have executed you. You and your precious witcher.”
“Who I can’t even remember,” the woman said, unimpressed by his anger. She smiled coldly. “You can’t effectively threaten a person who doesn’t remember, Imperial Majesty. What, exactly, are you threatening me with? I can’t remember what it is I’m supposed to have. As far as I know, I have nothing.”
“You have your life,” he returned, sitting back and regarding her coldly. “But that is debatable at the moment.”
The woman’s violet eyes hardened. “I am not afraid of death,” she said, remembering the slit wrists in her dreams, remembering how fearlessly she had faced Vilgefortz to save Cirilla. To save . . . Ciri.
“I know,” the emperor conceded, “that’s the worst part of you.” His elbow was on the armrest, and his finger thoughtfully brushed the tip of his nose as he regarded her coolly. “But you have been useful thus far. You know this. So you flap your impertinent tongue about things you can not remember and do not understand. I do not have to justify myself to you. I once thought to marry my daughter and I changed my mind. That is enough.”
“My name,” the woman said, almost miserably.
The emperor laughed and went back to arranging the chess pieces. “Why is this so important? I was rather comfortable calling you ‘woman.’”
“I’m not comfortable.”
He didn’t respond.
“And until I am comfortable, I will help you no further.”
That got his attention. He froze, his lashes snapping angrily. Finally, he sat back and folded his arms. He was smiling, and she knew it was the cold smile that meant they had just reached a stalemate.
“I suppose it’s only fair,” he said at length. “You told me what you dreamt about Philippa Eilhart, who is now hiding in the forests of the Blue Mountains in the shape of an owl . . . and let’s not forget Sile, who you dreamt had run back to Kovir, tail between legs. Kovir will pay for her treachery, make no mistake.” His black eyes narrowed and he gazed off, lost in thought. “But you didn’t give me Fringilla Vigo,” he said, looking at her with mild surprise, “or Triss Merigold. These are the women who have hurt you personally, deeply, and yet . . . I was certain you would hand them to me, but you have not.”
The woman was silent. No, she hadn’t. She knew exactly where Triss Merigold and Fringilla Vigo were, and she had no intention of handing them to the emperor. Instead, she looked the emperor directly in the eye and lied, “I never dreamt of them, Imperial Majesty.”
He stared back at her, unflinching. They both knew that he knew she was lying. Finally, he sighed and lowered his gaze to the chessboard. “What are your reasons, might I ask? Personal revenge? Would you rather deliver the killing blow yourself?”
“Revenge for things I can not fully remember?” returned the woman, sitting very stiff and straight. “No.”
“Then what then?” the emperor demanded in disgust and did not look up. He tossed a hand at her as his other hand continued arranging and placing the chess pieces. “You gave the other women to me without hesitation.”
“Because somehow . . . I know the other women deserve it.”
The emperor looked at her in amazement. “And these other women do not? Fringilla Vigo blinded you, I tell you. You were blind, in agony for a very long time.”
“She also helped me escape Montecalvo and the Lodge of Sorceresses. We’re even.”
“Ha, you remember that? She also slept with your witcher after this occurrence.” He moved a chess piece in place with the tips of his fingers. “Some say she loved him. One day, she quietly left the Lodge and never returned. What do you say to that?”
The woman shrugged, her black curls tumbling in the sudden breeze. She narrowed her violet eyes and gazed off across the garden as tendrils of black hair licked at them. “I can’t even remember this witcher. Geralt. It’s just a name.”
“I see. Perhaps that’s the problem.” The emperor sat back and regarded her thoughtfully. “Perhaps if you remembered the witcher, you’d realize exactly what’s at stake.”
“And then do exactly what you tell me?”
“Exactly. You catch on quickly. I should have recruited you instead of Vilgefortz.”
Her lip curled. “Was that a compliment, Imperial Majesty?”
“Yes. Savor it. Because it will never happen again.” He flashed her one of his handsome, sardonic smiles. “I will help you remember your witcher,” he said slowly, “and once you realize what is at stake, you will help me, woman. You will give me Triss Merigold and Fringilla Vigo. Or you will lose it all. I guarantee it.”
***
The woman was surprised when she was brought to the emperor’s wing of the palace, where his private bedchambers were. In an adjoining parlour stood a small round table and several cushioned chairs, a fireplace, and a large ornate rug that spread across the wood paneled floor. The bay windows and the window seat were framed by white curtains, and in poured the white light of the afternoon sun.
Without hesitating, the emperor led the woman into the parlour and to a small chest sitting on a shelf. From the chest he pulled a small rag doll, its button eyes winking in the light. He handed it to the woman.
“It belonged to the girl,” the woman correctly guessed. “To this . . . Cirilla.”
“Yes,” the emperor said hoarsely. He gestured to the divan that sat on one side of the parlour, covered in white pillows with flora designs. “You will stay here and mediate on the doll. When you are finished, you will put it back in the chest,” he said a little aggressively, “and Ciren aep Awren will escort you back to your own chambers.”
The woman glanced at the smiling and patient little man who had accompanied them. The man bowed to her politely from the waist. Like all the Nilfgaardians, he wore a great deal of black. She was starting to wonder if she wasn’t a Nilfgaardian herself, given her taste.
The woman looked at the small, filthy doll in her hands. “And this will give me dreams of the witcher? It’s not even his . . . Imperial Majesty,” she added grudgingly when Ciren aep Awren gave her a reproachful glance.
“It will,” the emperor assured her and moved toward the door.
The woman sat absently on the divan. “But where are you going?”
The emperor stopped in the doorway and smiled at her. “I must escort Her Imperial Majesty back to Cintra. She came all the way here, posthaste, at my request, to meet you.”
“. . . oh.”
“I thought perhaps seeing her would have awakened some memories. But it didn’t work. And then you started using dream divination and I thought of the doll.” His black eyes hardened. “Be careful with it. Don’t tear it. Be sure to put it back.”
“Of course, Imperial Majesty,” the woman said, trying not to laugh at his concern for an old bit of rag and fluff.
“Duny -- the doll may seem like nothing to you,” he said curtly, “but it’s all I have of my daughter. It’s all I have.” With that, he turned abruptly and left.
***
“Be still now, Ciri,” the woman heard herself scold. “You’ve gone and tangled it again.”
The sixteen-year-old girl grudgingly fell still as behind her, the black-haired sorceress combed her hair. Her eyes were large and green, and the one on the left had been disfigured by a long, hideous scar. She wore men’s clothing, the girl: tight-fitting leather trousers and a somewhat baggy jerkin with puffy sleeves. A scabbard lay on the ground nearby, in which was thrust an exquisite sword.
The woman recognized herself as she combed the girl’s hair. She was seeing herself in this dream. She, the sorceress, was clad in a black dress, simply made, that appeared to have been recently purchased for travel. She sat on the edge of a bed as she combed the girl’s ashen gray hair, while the girl sat on the floor, munching an apple.
“Don’t make such a fuss, Yen,” moaned a man’s voice.
The woman drifted through the dream and stiffened. A man was lying on the bed, on his side, gazing thoughtfully out the window. He was handsome, even while he was brooding – perhaps because he was brooding. His long white hair cascaded around the pillow and his back was to the sorceress as she combed the girl’s hair. His eyes were yellow as a cat’s and the pupils were narrowed against the fading light of dusk that poured through the window. He was unshaven and looked very tired.
“If I don’t make a fuss, who will?” the woman saw herself – the sorceress – say. “And don’t think you aren’t next. Your stubble has cut me in places that would make Ciri here blush.”
The girl did blush. The witcher moaned, embarrassed.
“Ugh!” complained the girl and her face screwed up. “Don’t say such things . . . ugh.”
Standing on the edge of the dream, the woman saw the fond look that hooded the eyes of the sorceress. She lovingly pulled the comb through the girl’s gray hair, smoothing her hand after each stroke. “Stop eating that apple,” she scolded, “you’re ruining your supper. And don’t wipe your nose with your wrist, Ciri, it’s unladylike.”
The girl laughed when the witcher reached past the sorceress, and snatching the apple into his fist, he reclined on the bed as he ate it.
“There, it looks suitable for now,” the sorceress said and she set the comb on the nightstand.
“You don’t even like apples, Geralt,” Ciri cried and bounced up from the floor.
The witcher closed his eyes, one arm behind his head as he reclined. “Sure, I do.”
The sorceress pressed some coins in the girl’s hand. “Go downstairs and eat something. And come right back.”
Ciri brightened as she counted the coin. She eagerly and clumsily strapped on her scabbard and sword, and the woman saw the worried looks in the eyes of the witcher and the sorceress: they were hoping she wouldn’t have to use that sword.
The girl practically bounced out the door, ashen hair streaming behind her.
“And don’t let me hear that you ordered vodka and rum again!” the sorceress called after her. She moved to stand but almost squealed when the witcher caught her by the waist and pulled her down on the bed with him.
“No, I have to shave your face before --” the sorceress protested.
“Stop fidgeting and lay here with me for a moment,” the witcher whispered.
The sorceress said something back. Their words were becoming so soft and intimate, the woman had to drift closer to the bed to hear what her dream-self and the witcher were saying.
The witcher kissed the sorceress on the head, somewhere above her eye, and pulled her close as he whispered, “I wish we could stay like this forever, you, me, and Ciri.”
“I know. But I have to go to the Lodge.”
“Or . . . you could ignore those bitches.”
The sorceress laughed softly. “Geralt. You know we can’t ignore them.”
“You’re right. Not any more than we could ignore Vilgefortz.”
They fell silent and both seemed to brood for a moment.
“Let’s never say his name again,” the sorceress said after a pause.
“Agreed.”
Another pause, and then . . .
“Yen?”
“Mm?”
He was kissing her neck, pushing back her mass of curls to get at it. She clung to him breathlessly, her soft protests ignored.
“Help me get your dress off.”
“Geralt, no -- Ciri is going to come back.”
He kissed her lips. “Help me.”
She helped him.
Standing on the edge of the dream, the woman watched with her heart pounding as her dream-self and the witcher made love. The stubble on his cheeks did indeed scratch the sorceress, but he hardly seemed able to distinguish her moans between cries of ecstasy and cries of pain: for a long time, his ears were hugged by her thighs.
The woman couldn’t take her eyes away, and even though the dream was actually her memory, she felt as if she was a peeping intruder. The tight muscles of the witcher’s back moving between the thighs of the sorceress made her knees grow weak and she fumbled, sitting absently on a chair in the corner.
Panting and disheveled, the witcher and sorceress eventually lie spent. The sun had completely set and the room had grown dark. Geralt pulled the sheet back and pulled the sorceress under with him. The woman watched as he showered the sorceress with lazy kisses on her neck, on her collarbone. He planted another kiss above her eye. That seemed to be a favorite spot.
“Yen,” he whispered, pulling her close under the sheets, “let’s stay like this. Don’t go to the Lodge.”
“Why?” she moaned. “We’ve been through this. This is what has to be done. If we want to beat them at their game, we have to find out what their game is.”
The witcher grunted, clearly not content. This changed when the sorceress kissed him on the cheek. He smiled and snuggled down with her.
“We can’t stay like this, you know,” the sorceress said after a while.
“I know.”
“No, I mean naked. Let’s get dressed before she comes back.”
They did. And sitting in a chair in the corner, the woman watched with a warm heart as the witcher helped her dream-self lace up her dress. He playfully tossed her hair in her face when it got in the way of the laces, and as she was helping him lace up his shirt, he kissed her fondly on the forehead, letting his lips linger. She closed her eyes and smiled. He held her. And for a moment, they just stood holding each other. Happy.
Then the girl came back, and they were even happier. She teased them about kissing and seemed to guess with her quick, clever eyes that sex had happened, but she made no comment about it. Instead, she went on and on about the strange characters in the tavern below. The witcher stood listening and watching the girl fondly as the sorceress unbuckled the girl’s scabbard and set her sword aside.
“Bedtime,” the sorceress said firmly and gave the girl a fond caress on the cheek.
“I call middle,” the girl said at once. She crawled up the center of the bed and flopped, ashen hair tossing.
“I thought you wanted the window,” Geralt said, climbing in after her. “If not, I’ll take it.” He stretched out on top of the sheets and turned his back. Watching from her chair, the woman saw the witcher’s cheek bulge up in a smile when Ciri pecked it.
“Goodnight, Geralt,” the girl sang, climbing under the sheets. “Aren’t you going to sleep, Mother?”
The sorceress was sitting on the edge of the bed, thighs together under her skirts, hands in her lap, watching the other two fondly from her cloud of black curls. She stroked Ciri’s hair down and tucked her in tightly. “I love you, my daughter. Do you know that?” she said.
Ciri frowned. “I know. What’s the matter? You look sad.”
“I’m not sad,” the sorceress assured her. “Now go to sleep.”
Ciri wasn’t convinced but she didn’t argue. She closed her eyes, scowled, and wriggled, and the woman heard the witcher laugh softly, his back still to the room.
“Geralt is doing that thing again,” Ciri complained, “where he holds the sheets down so I can’t move . . .”
“Geralt, for heaven’s sake,” complained the sorceress.
“Alright,” said the witcher and moved the boot that was mischievously pinning Ciri, “my apologies. Goodnight, Ciri.”
Ciri smiled, eyes still closed. “Night, Geralt.”
The sorceress climbed under the sheets with the girl, and now they were all three in bed, with Geralt lying on top of the sheets, his sword standing in its scabbard against the nearby wall.
“Goodnight, Yennefer,” Geralt added. “We love you.”
***
The woman awoke with a start. She had dozed off on the emperor’s divan, still clutching the rag doll. Ciren aep Awren was seated at the little round table, reading a book with spectacles perched on his nose. She stared at him without really seeing him, her violet eyes large and wet with unshed tears.
The emperor was right. Now she knew what she had. Now she couldn’t lose it. Not for the world.
Ciren aep Awren closed the book and regarded her with a triumphant little smile. “Remember anything?”
“My n-name.” The woman looked at the doll in her hand. “It’s Yennefer.”
The fan-fiction isn't perfect either, but I liked that the author at least tried to explain it in a good way.
In the end we fans have to fill up those gaps and just assume things, but don't you think such a thread like this one here is predestinated for something like that?
That's one of the reasons I wanted it back.
Last edited:
I really don't think that would be what Sapko wants and how he wrote Yen. She really hates the lodge and many of its members hate her as well. Yen is practical but she doesn't forget either. She won't ever forgive Philippa and the others for what they did to her in the books. She has also no reason to do so. Hell, we don't even know if she at least partially forgives Triss. Certain events at the end of LOTL made that question obsolete of course...
If you ask me there is absolutely no chance for Yen being a member of the lodge EVER. So I would heavily oppose any form of "affiliation" tag of hers towards the lodge. I would even argue for the complete opposite. She might tolerate them and she kept their secret while it was one. But she always(!) opposed the lodge and I don't see why this should ever change. I mean, it might be that some of their goals are the same but that doesn't mean that they work together, at least not in some "official" way.
It still hurts in my heart how Triss and Rita betrayed and literally backstabbed Yen in the books - friends my ass. If your best "friend" in that group is the woman who once was your enemy on the battlefield, who once blinded you and whom you don't even really know you know that you don't have any real friends there left. Yen knows that. Time to move on. There is no space for her in the lodge.
Never forgive, never forget.
Last edited: