Chapter 3: The Toussaint Arrival

The blizzard had finally relented, leaving Kaer Morhen buried under a fresh blanket of snow that muffled even Lambert’s grumbling. Yennefer stood at the window of what she had already designated the "morning room," a small chamber she’d cleared of rusted weapon racks and dusty wolf pelts. She watched the road, or rather the white smear where the road should be, with the satisfied air of a general awaiting reinforcements. "It’s late," Geralt said from the doorway, arms crossed. The wind had picked up again, rattling the ancient stone. "The courier from Toussaint knows his business," Yennefer replied without turning. "He survived the Griffin War. A little snow won’t stop him." "A little snow?" Lambert’s voice echoed from the hall. "We’re three feet deep and the valley pass is a death trap. But sure, let’s wait for wine." Vesemir shuffled past, carrying an armload of firewood. "Could use a good vintage. Stag’s Head is down to the dregs." "Stag’s Head is paint thinner," Yennefer said. "Which is generous, because paint thinner has at least minor industrial applications." Lambert appeared beside Geralt, still wearing the same stained tunic from three days ago. "I liked Stag’s Head." "That explains a lot about you," Yennefer said sweetly. An hour later, a muffled horn sounded from the outer gate. Eskel, who had been shoveling snow off the battlements, came running in. "Wagon! One horse, half-buried, but moving." Yennefer swept past them all, her violet cloak billowing as she strode into the courtyard. The wagon was a gaudy thing, painted in the gold and crimson of Toussaint, with a driver so bundled in furs he looked like a walking bear. He handed down a parchment manifest with frozen fingers. Yennefer signed it with a flourish, then directed the witchers to unload. "Careful with those," she said as Lambert hoisted a crate over his shoulder. "That’s the Beauclair Reserve. The cork is delicate." "Everything about you is delicate," Lambert muttered, but he set the crate down gently enough. The wine took over a corner of the great hall, filling it with the scent of oak and berries. Yennefer produced a corkscrew from her sleeve—Geralt later swore it hadn’t been there a moment before—and opened a bottle. The ruby liquid caught the firelight. She poured four glasses and thrust them into the hands of Geralt, Vesemir, and a reluctant Lambert. "To civilization," she said, raising her glass. Vesemir took a sip. His weathered face softened. "Well. That’s not paint thinner." Lambert downed his in one gulp, then immediately looked disappointed he hadn’t savored it. "Fine. It’s good. Happy?" "Ecstatic," Yennefer said. Geralt just watched her, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. That evening, Yennefer decided the keep needed a proper dining table. The one they had was a scarred oak slab used for everything from eating to sword sharpening. She conjured a heavy linen cloth, silver candlesticks, and proper porcelain plates. The witchers gathered awkwardly, uncertain where to put their elbows. "Sit," she commanded. "Geralt, you’re at the head. Vesemir, to my right. Lambert, stop slouching." "I’m not slouching, I’m leaning." "You’re slouching." Eskel, who had washed his hands without being told, sat with a bemused look. The meal was venison stew—Yennefer had added spices from her trunks, turning it into something far more than plain game. Conversation was stilted at first, then loosened as the Beauclair Reserve flowed. Lambert, halfway through his third glass, admitted the stew was "not terrible." Vesemir began telling a story about the first time he saw a dimeritium bomb misfire. Yennefer laughed, a genuine sound that made Geralt’s chest tighten. Later, when the candles burned low, Yennefer stood at the hall’s great fireplace, staring at the moth-eaten tapestry of a witcher fighting a wyvern. "This has to go," she said. "It’s been there for two hundred years," Geralt said. "It’s been there too long, then. I’ll have a new one made. Something with flowers. Or geometry." Lambert groaned from across the room. "She’s going to redecorate us into graves." Vesemir, polishing his boots by the fire, just smiled into his glass. As the snow began to fall again, blanketing the keep in silence, Yennefer caught Geralt’s eye. "They’re not so bad," she said quietly. "The witchers. Once you get past the grunting." "Don’t tell them that," Geralt replied. "They’ll get soft." "Impossible. They’re made of iron and bad manners." "And now good wine," he said, raising his glass. She clinked hers against his. "Small mercies." Outside, the wind howled, but inside Kaer Morhen, for the first time in decades, the fire burned in a proper candelabra, and the table was set for dinner.