Chapter 4: The Spring Thaw

The snows began to melt in earnest by the third week of March. Icicles dripped from the eaves of Kaer Morhen like a thousand tiny hourglasses, and the stone walls—scrubbed, mended, and in one case repainted a deep, brooding plum—absorbed the pale sunlight with something resembling contentment. Yennefer stood on the battlements, her violet cloak snapping in the wind, watching the valley below turn from white to brown to the first tentative green. She had been at Kaer Morhen for three months. Three months of organizing, commanding, and—if she were honest with herself—growing rather fond of the crumbling fortress and its grumpy inhabitants. Geralt found her there, his boots crunching on the last patches of frost. “Spring’s early this year.” “So I see.” She didn’t turn. “I suppose I’ll be leaving soon.” He leaned on the parapet beside her. “You don’t have to. There’s room. Vesemir has started planning an herb garden where you cleared out the old armory.” A corner of her mouth lifted. “The old armory. Which is now a perfectly good library. Imagine that.” From below, a crash echoed through the courtyard. Lambert’s voice followed, colorful and loud: “Who put this vase here? It’s in the way!” “It’s not in the way,” Vesemir’s calm reply drifted up. “It’s decorative. You’re supposed to walk around it.” “We don’t do ‘decorative’ at Kaer Morhen!” “We do now.” Yennefer’s smile widened. “He’ll never admit it, but he likes the bed linens I bought.” Geralt snorted. “He complained for three days about the thread count.” “Exactly. He noticed.” She turned to face him fully. “I ordered more wine from Toussaint. It should arrive before the summer solstice. And I had a proper bathing chamber installed in the east tower. Heated by a small igni charm, keyed to Vesemir’s medallion so he can regulate the temperature.” Geralt blinked. “You did that while I was out hunting?” “I do have other talents besides looking magnificent.” He stepped closer. “You do.” A pause. “Thank you. For all of it. Kaer Morhen hasn’t felt this alive in decades.” “It was nearly dead,” she said softly. “You witchers would have let it rot around you, eating stale bread and grunting at each other until your bones turned to dust.” “Probably.” He took her hand. “But you came. And now we have a herb garden, a library, a wine cellar that isn’t a disgrace, and exactly one bathtub that works.” “One bathtub,” she repeated, with theatrical gravity. “Civilization must crawl before it can walk.” Lambert appeared at the base of the battlements, holding a quill and a ledger that Yennefer had introduced for keep inventory. “Yen! You said to mark down everything we’re low on. Do we need more of those fancy soaps, or can we use regular hog fat again?” “We need the soaps,” she called down. “And if I hear of anyone using hog fat on themselves, I will turn that person into a hog.” Lambert grumbled something but wrote in the ledger. He was learning. Slowly. That evening, they gathered in the great hall for the last supper before Yennefer’s departure. The long tables were covered in a cream cloth she’d ordered from Vizima. Candles flickered in iron sconces. A fire crackled in the newly repaired hearth. Eskel and Coën had returned from a hunt, and even Lambert had combed his hair. Vesemir stood and raised his glass—a proper crystal goblet, not a chipped tankard. “To winter at Kaer Morhen. Never the same twice. But this one…” He looked at Yennefer. “This one brought something we didn’t know we needed.” “Wine?” Lambert muttered. “Civilization,” Vesemir said firmly. “And a bit of chaos. The good kind.” Yennefer rose, her own goblet lifted. “And to the witchers of Kaer Morhen. Stubborn, ill-mannered, and hopelessly set in your ways. But you have good hearts, under all that dirt and grumbling. Try not to lose the new linens before next winter.” Geralt clinked his glass against hers. “Next winter?” “Did you think I’d let the bath go untended for a whole year?” Her eyes glittered. “I’ll be back when the first snow falls. Make sure the library stays organized.” Lambert groaned, but he was almost smiling. Later, as the fire burned low and the wine ran out, Yennefer stood on the battlements one last time. Geralt joined her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Civilization,” he murmured, looking out at the darkening valley. “Who knew it would smell like lilac and gooseberries.” She leaned into him. “You’ll survive without me for a few months.” “Barely.” The first stars appeared. Somewhere below, Lambert was trying to put a lampshade on Roach. Vesemir was laughing—actually laughing—and Eskel was recording the event in the ledger. Kaer Morhen had never been so alive. And that, Yennefer thought, was the best magic of all.