Chapter Text
Aleksander follows Livi through an absolutely dizzying array of oddly bare stone corridors - no tapestries or statuary to be seen - and up several sets of stairs to a hall lined with wooden doors, one of which she pushes open to reveal a suite of rooms. The furniture in the front room is simple and sturdy, chairs and a couch and a low table made of heavy wood polished to a fine sheen and padded where appropriate with plain woolen fabric, and there’s a thick rug on the floor; through a door standing ajar, Aleksander can see a bed in the same simple style, piled high with furs and blankets, its heavy curtains drawn back invitingly. There’s a fire laid ready in the hearth that spans the wall between the rooms, which Aleksander is rather painfully glad to see. It was quite warm in Redania; here in Kaer Morhen, it’s frankly chilly.
“May we come in?” Milena asks, and Aleksander realizes his companions have all paused on the threshold. Which...why? He is a guest here - but these are apparently going to be his rooms, so...perhaps this is a Kaer Morhen custom, to be so punctilious about not intruding upon another's space. He nods hastily.
“Please do.”
Aiden flicks a hand at the fireplace, and the fire springs to life; Aleksander flinches, hard, and takes a too-long moment to get himself back under control. It’s nothing like what Master Gustavus did, he tells himself sternly. Fire is much less terrifying than the spell which stopped Aleksander’s tongue. He covers his unfortunate lapse by going over to put his little bag of clothing and toiletries just inside the door to the bedroom, then turns back to find his guests are making themselves comfortable.
Aiden sprawls out onto the bearskin hearth-rug, looking very like his School’s namesake animal. Livi settles onto a couch, patting the seat beside her to urge Aleksander to join her, and Lambert sits down in an armchair, tugging Milena onto his lap. She curls against him easily, as though this is perfectly normal, so Aleksander does his best not to stare. No one would ever be so openly affectionate with a lover or even a spouse in Tretogor - but she greeted Lambert in the hall with such a kiss as Aleksander has never seen before, so this sort of informality must be quite usual here.
“So,” Livi says, patting Aleksander’s knee comfortingly, “I thought perhaps we should give you a very quick overview of some of the more startling aspects of living in Kaer Morhen, before we go down for supper.”
“That would be very kind of you,” Aleksander says, meaning it wholeheartedly. “Are they more startling than the hot springs?”
“A bit, yes,” Milena says, rather ruefully. “The hot springs, I find, one grows used to rather quickly; after a little while, it gets easier to ignore the fact that there are ever so many very naked people around. It does help that nothing untoward happens, except after midnight.”
“Oh,” Aleksander says. On the one hand, that’s quite reassuring; he had begun to worry that ‘bathing’ might be a euphemism for ‘orgy.’ He is glad to know that he should avoid bathing after midnight. But on the other hand, what people in Kaer Morhen consider untoward - given that Milena is currently cuddling her lover, in public - might well be substantially more shocking than anything Aleksander has ever encountered before. “That is good to know, and I would welcome any other advice; I do not wish to give offense in any way.”
“Witchers are hard to offend,” Aiden says, grinning up at him from his lazy sprawl.
“Nevertheless,” Aleksander says, rubbing his thumb against the little scar on his finger where Master Gustavus bound him to silence. He would rather avoid even the possibility. He does not know how tenuous his sanctuary here might be, and does not wish to find out.
“Well then,” Livi says, and tugs a bit of parchment out of her trouser pocket. Milena giggles.
“Livi, sweetheart, did you make a list?”
“Of course I did!” Livi grins. “It seemed the best way to avoid forgetting anything. So, first of all - and I still have not forgiven you for not warning me, Milena my dear - you should know that Witchers can smell lies, so you shouldn’t bother telling any, and they can also smell emotions, most especially including fear and lust.”
Aleksander can feel his face heating with horrified embarrassment. Can smell emotions? So Lambert and Aiden - and all the other Witchers he’s met thus far - can smell how terrified he is? And Aiden - Aiden could tell that he was -
“Hey,” Lambert says, frowning. “Stop panicking. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”
Aleksander swallows hard and tries to calm his racing heart. “I apologize for my discourtesy.”
“None of that,” Aiden says gently. “You can’t control what you feel, pup. Nobody’ll give you any shit for your emotions.”
Milena giggles and her cheeks go slightly pink. “No one gave me any trouble, even though I know everyone could smell how I felt about Lambert for quite some time - and I had to practically trip him into bed, too.” Lambert snickers and kisses her cheek.
“That’s true,” Livi agrees. “Nobody even teased me a little, not even when Eskel had to tell me that Witchers can smell lust because I’d started thinking about Dragonfly while doing paperwork in his office.” She grins sheepishly as Milena goes off in a peal of laughter. Lambert muffles a snort against Milena’s shoulder, and Aiden puts a hand over his eyes and shakes with silent mirth. Aleksander tries not to gawp like a yokel, but - the Livi he knew in Tretogor would never have dreamed of saying such a thing.
She also would never have dreamed of having a female lover, for that matter. Or even wearing trousers. So Kaer Morhen has definitely precipitated some substantial changes.
“Honestly,” Livi says, ignoring their laughing companions with great dignity, “the lack of lying is far more startling. It’s so very different from Tretogor.”
Aleksander tries to imagine a court where no one lies, and fails utterly. He’ll have to see it to believe it, and even then…it’s going to take him a while to really trust that no one is so much as shading the truth.
“I shall not attempt to tell any lies,” he assures Livi. It will be rather refreshing, really, to not have to spend time and effort deciding which flattering lie is more appropriate to the moment - though choosing which truth is appropriate may be just as difficult. Actually, it may be wisest to speak as little as possible, at least until he truly gets his bearings.
Livi nods approval. “The next thing on my list is going to shock you - I nearly fainted when I found out - so brace yourself.” Aleksander takes a deep breath and a firm grip on the arm of the couch. “Jaskier, Eskel, and the White Wolf are all lovers, and do not conceal it, at least within Kaer Morhen’s walls.”
Aleksander sits there staring blankly at the stone wall for a while, feeling as though his brain is fizzing gently. It is one thing, after all, for the Warlord of the North to take a male consort - a choice generally assumed, in Tretogor, to be a sign of the inherent barbarity, savagery, and folly of the Warlord and his mockery of a court - but for him and his second-in-command and his consort to all be lovers is simply…bizarre.
It does, however, explain why Consort Jaskier was sitting on Lord Eskel’s lap.
“Thank you for telling me,” Aleksander says at last. “I…was a little worried, to be quite honest.” Worried that the Warlord and his second-in-command would have a falling out, or that Consort Jaskier would be caught with Lord Eskel and - what is the punishment for cuckolding the Warlord himself? Death? Worse? But evidently that will not become an issue, so he can lay down that worry, at least.
Livi pats his knee again. “They’re rather sweet, honestly. And that leads in to the third thing: Witchers truly do not care who you take as a lover, so long as everyone involved is happy with the arrangement.” She smiles rather dreamily, looking suddenly as young as she was in Tretogor before everything went wrong, lost in the romance of a bard’s tale of gallant knights and true love overcoming all. “No one’s even batted an eye at me and Dragonfly.”
“That’s because the two of you are painfully adorable,” Aiden says, smirking.
“I dare you to say that to Dragonfly’s face,” Lambert says.
“No, thank you, I should like to keep all of my fingers attached,” Aiden says with great dignity - or at least, as much dignity as anyone can have while sprawled on a bearskin rug.
Livi giggles. “She wouldn’t do more than lightly stab you,” she assures him. “Anyhow, Sasha, it really doesn’t matter here. And you’ll probably be able to tell who is in a relationship without too much confusion. Witchers tend to be very…tactile.” She glances pointedly over at Lambert, who is curling a loose lock of Milena’s hair around one finger and looking very contented indeed.
Aleksander frowns. “What of…more discreet relationships?”
“There aren’t any,” Lambert says bluntly. “There’s some as don’t flaunt it as much - you won’t see Gweld and Serrit kissing in corners - but we can all smell who’s fucking who, so why bother trying to hide it?”
“Ah,” Aleksander says, boggled again. An entire court without any secret relationships - without hidden assignations and illicit flirtations and entire conversations held in the language of fans and eyebrows, without people slipping away to ‘walk in the gardens’ or ‘admire the portrait gallery’ - what would that even be like?
Apparently he is going to find out.
“That seems very straightforward,” he says at last.
“Straightforward is definitely the right word for it,” Livi agrees. “Witchers are very straightforward. Which brings me to the fourth item on my list: except for Griffins, every Witcher I’ve encountered so far seems to be absolutely allergic to honorifics. I have no idea why. Calling them ‘my lord’ makes them twitch and get very disgruntled. So it’s best to use people’s names, or ‘Master Witcher’ if you don’t know them. And if you can’t call the Warlord by name - I can’t, yet - he doesn’t mind being called White Wolf, or just the Wolf.”
“Don’t fret if that one takes a while,” Milena puts in. “It took me nearly a year to be comfortable enough to call him Geralt. It turns out he’s surprisingly sweet, but it does take a little while to learn to see through the whole…” she waves a hand in the air. “Warlord of the North mystique.”
Lambert snickers. “I’m telling him you said he has mystique.”
“Oh, don’t!” Milena says, ears going a delicate pink as she laughs. And then she smirks a little and adds, “I should like to save it up to tease him about myself.”
Lambert and Aiden both go off in gales of laughter; Aiden rolls over and hides his face against the rug, and Lambert puts his forehead against Milena’s shoulder and shakes with mirth.
Aleksander genuinely cannot imagine calling the Warlord of the North by his bare name, much less teasing him. ‘White Wolf,’ though, he might be able to manage. It could be taken as a title of sorts, if a very strange one.
“The fifth thing on my list is related to the fourth, I think,” Livi says briskly, continuing to ignore the laughing Witchers with great dignity. “Just as Witchers dislike being given the honors due their rank, so it is considered extremely offensive to speak to or treat the servants as any less than equals.”
“They make our lives easier,” Aiden says, recovering his composure and rolling back over to give Aleksander a serious look. “We value that highly. So we give them the respect they’re due.”
Aleksander nods, committing that firmly to memory. That alone is going to be such a difference from Tretogor that he isn’t entirely sure he can wrap his mind around it. Treating servants as equals - how does that even work?
He’ll be as polite to servants as he is to Witchers, he resolves, and that way hopefully he will not give offense.
“The last two things on my list are more about safety than anything else,” Livi says. “Do not, for any reason, drink the same alcohol the Witchers do. They all drink this absolutely horrid stuff called White Gull, and it is not safe for humans.”
“And the Manticores add poisons to it,” Milena says.
Aleksander swallows hard. Poisonous drinks - that is something he’s used to being wary of, at least. But - “Is there human-safe alcohol?” After today, he’d rather like a drink.
“Oh, a gracious plenty,” Milena assures him. “Jan - Steward Kelner - keeps very good cellars. It’s in the pitchers with the blue handles, rather than the plain ones.”
Livi nods. “And the last thing, at least for now, since you’re starting to look a bit overwhelmed, is that sometimes, after supper, the Witchers will decide to have a brawl. It looks dreadful, but they’re actually quite careful not to maim each other. And they don’t let any humans join, so you needn’t worry about that.”
“We won’t have one tonight, though,” Aiden says.
“Nah, we’re all good on hitting things for the day,” Lambert agrees.
“Oh good,” Aleksander says weakly. Brawls as appropriate after-supper entertainment. How…barbaric. But then again, is it truly any stranger than tournaments - or dog-fighting, which was quite popular in Tretogor? At least all the Witchers presumably want to be participating, unlike the unfortunate dogs.
“That’s all of the really urgent items, I think,” Livi says, tucking the list away again.
Milena slides out of Lambert’s lap to stand, offering him her hand. “You should write that up as a pamphlet. We could give it to newcomers - that and a pair of good warm slippers.”
“How many more wayward nobles do you think we’re going to get, Kitten?” Aiden drawls, rolling to his feet in a distressingly graceful motion. Aleksander tries very hard not to pay too much attention to the way Aiden’s grace makes him feel.
“Plenty,” Milena says. “Or at least, that’s the hope. You did hear Geralt’s going on Progress next year?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Lambert asks as he rises, twining his fingers with Milena’s.
“Jaskier wants to see if we can find a fair number of noble ladies - and noblemen, I suppose - who can come to Kaer Morhen and be helpful.” Milena frowns. “Actually, remind me to speak to him on the matter - we should be looking for common folk, too. We don’t need more servants, Jan has the household quite well staffed, but we could use more craftspeople, and merchants and scribes and accountants - all the people who can form the bureaucracy that Kaer Morhen doesn’t have and frankly does need.”
“Ugh,” Lambert says. “Better them than me.”
“Or me,” Aiden agrees, sidling over as Aleksander stands and slinging his arm around Aleksander’s shoulders easily - he’s most of a head taller than Aleksander, though slightly leaner. Aleksander tenses for a moment, and then decides that the warmth of Aiden’s arm and the odd comfort of having him near, of being so obviously under Aiden’s protection, is worth the slight uncertainty of wondering what this means, and relaxes again. “Trust me, pup, you don’t want me anywhere near paperwork.”
“If you come anywhere near my ledgers, I shall stab you with a pen,” Livi says. “Eskel found me a very nice glass one with a metal nib, and I think I could do some proper damage with it.”
“Fierce little Livi,” Aiden says, evidently approving of threats of violence against his person. “Don’t ruin your pen; borrow a dagger from Dragonfly, should I ever be so foolish.”
Livi giggles and leads the way out of the room. Aleksander falls into step with Aiden, mind reeling. Kaer Morhen is going to take quite a while to grow accustomed to.
On the other hand, strange and wild and barbaric as the Warlord’s court seems to be, it also seems…friendlier than Tretogor ever was, in an odd way. Less prone to backstabbing, at least; Aleksander has gotten the distinct impression that if anyone in Kaer Morhen wants to stab him, they’ll at least be polite enough to do it from the front.
*
The great hall is much louder now than it was when Aleksander arrived, and much more crowded, too: several hundred Witchers fill the seven long tables, with humans interspersed among them here and there, and servants walking to and fro from another set of doors, carrying heavy-laden trays and baskets to each table.
Up at the center of the head table, a great double chair stands empty. Consort Jaskier is sitting on Lord Eskel - no, not lord, Livi said they dislike honorifics - Eskel Amber-Eyed, then - sitting on Eskel Amber-Eyed’s lap in the seat beside the great chair. On the other side of the double chair, a young woman with white-blonde hair has just taken her place. Aleksander assumes she is the Warlord’s daughter and heir, Milena’s liege-lady. He can’t recall her name at the moment, which is most definitely a sign that he’s more shaken than he wants to let himself acknowledge.
He rather wants to find someplace small and dark and quiet, and just not think for a while, but that is clearly not going to be an option.
“I am not entirely sure where to seat you,” Milena says thoughtfully. “Either with me or with Livi would probably be best -”
She’s interrupted by the approach of a short, stocky, dark-skinned Witcher with a shaven head, who Aleksander recognizes as the one who freed Aren from that dreadful table this morning. Was it only this morning? The day seems like it has gone on for quite a long time, with so many events packed into it that Aleksander can barely believe it has been so little time in truth.
“Hullo, Merten,” Aiden says, grinning at the newcomer.
“Aiden,” the other Witcher replies, nodding solemnly. “Aleksander.”
“Master Merten,” Aleksander says warily, rubbing his thumb on his scarred finger again and hoping it’s the right form of address. Livi did say that ‘Master Witcher’ was acceptable, and Aleksander doesn’t think he can quite bring himself to call any Witcher but Aiden and Lambert by their bare names just now.
“Come and sit with us tonight,” Master Merten says, which is not quite what Aleksander was expecting.
“I am honored by the invitation,” Aleksander replies, trying desperately to figure out if he’s supposed to accept or decline and how to do either politely.
Aiden sighs dramatically and lets his arm slip from Aleksander’s shoulders. Aleksander immediately misses the warmth and comfort of it, and tries just as quickly to quash that feeling before any of the Witchers can notice. “I suppose you’ve got a claim, but remember he’s new - don’t you poison him by accident,” he says to Master Merten.
A claim? Why does Master Merten have a claim on him? And accidental poisoning is a possibility?
Livi pats Aleksander’s arm. “Master Merten is the Head of the Manticore School,” she says, which actually does explain a great many things. Aren is a Manticore, and Milena mentioned specifically that the Manticores liked to put poison in their drinks.
“Then I will gladly join you, Master Merten,” Aleksander says, as steadily as he can.
Master Merten nods in satisfaction, and gestures for Aleksander to follow him. Somewhat to Aleksander’s relief, he leads the way to a table next to the one where Livi and Aiden take their seats, though they are down at the foot of their table while he is near the head of his, and Milena and Lambert both settle into chairs up at the head table and give him encouraging little smiles, or at least what Aleksander decides is probably meant to be a comforting scowl in Lambert's case.
Aleksander takes the empty seat to Master Merten’s right, eyeing the Witchers already at the table a little warily. Many of them are dark-skinned like Master Merten, and they all have the same symbol on the silver medallions strung around their necks, which, now that Aleksander thinks of it, is a different symbol than those on Aiden’s or Lambert’s or the smaller one Milena wears. Master Merten and his companions have a sort of stylized lion’s face with a scorpion’s tail -
Oh, of course. It’s a manticore. The medallions must indicate the School. And Milena wears a wolf medallion to show that she is allied specifically to a member of that School. That will be very useful to take note of, Aleksander is quite sure.
Eskel Amber-Eyed rises, setting Consort Jaskier gently into the double chair, and whistles sharply. Silence falls across the hall.
“Geralt’s still in Redania,” he says, voice a little rough but clear enough - a battlefield voice, Aleksander thinks, rather than a courtier’s practiced intonations. “If he were here, he’d say ‘Well done.’ Redania is the Wolf’s now, and we’ve gotten back a brother we thought lost, and four sisters we didn’t know we had. They’ve been through pure hell, so take care with them.” He turns and looks at the Manticore table - straight at Aleksander - and gestures for Aleksander to rise. Aleksander does so, and braces himself against the table as he becomes the focus of every eye in the hall. It’s more than a little intimidating, and his knees feel shaky. “This is Aleksander, from Redania. He told us about Aren and the girls - found a loophole in a nasty fucking spell to do it, too. He’s under the Wolf’s protection, and the Manticores’, too, I expect. Make him welcome.”
“Yes, Eskel,” comes a low rumble from every Witcher in the hall. Eskel - no, it will have to be Lord Eskel, at least in Aleksander’s mind, he can’t call the Warlord’s Right Hand by his bare name, even with an epithet appended - nods and takes his seat again, Consort Jaskier immediately moving back into his lap. Aleksander collapses back onto the bench, feeling rather as if he’s just run up every stair in the keep while being pursued by an enormous wolf which, upon catching him, licked his hand like a friendly dog.
A tall, lean, extremely dark-skinned Witcher with hair in many dozens of tiny braids grins, teeth very white, and holds a hand out across the table. “I’m Leocadie.”
Aleksander shakes hands carefully, grateful that the Witcher doesn’t squeeze the way too many nobles in Tretogor are wont to do. “It is an honor, Master Leocadie.”
That earns him a friendly chuckle. “It’s just Leocadie, lad. I’m one of the alchemy trainers, for those who show a talent for the craft.”
“They’re the finest alchemist in the keep,” Merten says, grinning fondly at Leocadie. “Bar none.”
“Oh, Lambert’s quite good too, and Ivar is entirely my equal,” Leocadie says cheerfully. “But it’s true that Manticores tend to be the best at alchemy,” they (they? - but that is what Master Merten said, and he would hardly have misspoken, surely) tell Aleksander. “Each School has a specialty, you see, and that is ours.”
Well, that’s a useful opening. “May I ask,” Aleksander says carefully, thumb pressed against his scarred finger, “what the other Schools’ specialties are?” Getting people to talk about themselves or their…rivals? Companions? Kinsmen? - in any case, getting other people to talk is the best way Aleksander knows to not risk opening his own mouth and saying something foolish.
“Of course,” Leocadie says warmly, and then looks up as a serving girl reaches past Aleksander's shoulder to place a platter of sliced venison on the table.
Master Merten also looks up and nods a greeting. “Thank you, Karolina.”
“You’re welcome,” the girl - a woman, really, probably in her thirties if Aleksander is judging correctly, dark-haired and pretty in a quiet sort of way, and wearing a medallion that has seven symbols on it instead of just one - says amiably. “Hullo, new lad; welcome to the keep!”
“Thank you, Miss Karolina,” Aleksander says, sending mental thanks also to Livi and Milena for warning him about how servants are treated in Kaer Morhen. A serving girl in Tretogor who spoke so familiarly to a noble would be sacked on the instant - but Karolina clearly has no fear of any reprisals from the Witchers, nor from Aleksander himself.
Karolina grins and pats him on the shoulder before hastening away, and Aleksander tries very hard not to react to that. Gods, he doesn’t have any scripts for this. He feels as though he’s floundering like a fish on land, and gods help him when he makes a misstep. He may be under the Wolf’s protection, but how far does that extend?
“In answer to your question,” Leocadie says as Master Merten forks venison slices onto his own plate and Leocadie’s, then pushes the platter over to where Aleksander can reach it, “let me think how best to describe our cousin Schools.”
Aleksander takes a slice of venison and passes the heavy platter onward with an effort; the Witcher beside him, a broad-shouldered man with a shaven head, a scar across the bridge of his nose, and the fairest skin Aleksander has ever seen, a startling true white, takes it with one hand as easily as if it were a mere feather.
“Cats are good at acrobatics, and with knives,” Leocadie says, in the cadences of a born teacher. “They tend to be more mercurial than the other Schools in their tempers, and some are prone to what they call the Cat-madness, a sort of berserker fit.” Aleksander swallows hard, trying to squash a wave of apprehension. The pale Witcher hands him a basket of bread-rolls and pats him on the shoulder.
“None of ‘em have gone off in a couple years,” he says reassuringly. “Our theory is that since we don’t end up half-starved and treated like shit anymore, it just doesn’t come up so often, y’know?”
Aleksander nods slowly. “That makes a great deal of sense, sir.” And is remarkably comforting, too.
“Just Dilan,” the Witcher says cheerfully, and grabs one of the blue-handled pitchers to fill Aleksander’s tankard before filling his own from a different jug. Aleksander gets a tiny whiff of whatever is in there, and has to stop himself from reeling back at the smell of extremely strong alcohol, sharp and stinging. The blue-handled pitcher, however, has small beer in it - quite good small beer, he discovers when he takes a wary sip. And the food all smells amazing, too, and is still hot, which meals in Tretogor often weren’t, given the distance between the kitchens and the dining hall.
“Here, Bricriu, pass that butter over,” Dilan adds, and the Witcher next to Leocadie, a short, dark fellow with his hair braided in gloriously intricate patterns against his scalp, obligingly pushes a bowl of butter across the table. Dilan takes a scoop and passes it on to Aleksander.
“So that is the Cats,” Leocadie says. “The Cranes are inventors, as we are, but they specialize in weapons; they are very fond of crossbows especially, and explosive bolts, and bombs.” They frown slightly. “They have gotten better in recent years about testing their inventions outside the keep, but do be wary should they be lighting anything on fire in the courtyard or the training fields.”
Aleksander nods. Staying away from people who are lighting things on fire seems like a good piece of advice in any case.
“The Griffins have stronger connections to Chaos than most of us,” Leocadie continues.
“Most of us except Eskel,” Dilan puts in.
“Just so,” Leocadie agrees, chuckling. “Aside from Eskel, however, the Griffins have the strongest Signs among our cousins - the Signs are the magic we can do,” they add, obviously having spotted Aleksander’s confusion. Aleksander hadn’t realized it was so obvious -
Oh. They smelled it, of course.
That is…that is going to make being polite much more difficult. What if they take offense at his emotions?
Aleksander takes a bite of venison and tries very hard not to panic. Aiden said Witchers are hard to offend. Surely mere emotions will not be enough, if he makes an effort to be polite in word and deed. “Magic?” he asks. “Like - ah - like the fire Lord Eskel used to burn down the manor?”
“Exactly like,” Master Merten says, looking immensely satisfied.
Aleksander nods and doesn’t ask what other magic they can do. That sort of information might well be kept secret for any number of reasons.
“The Griffins also all think they’re knights,” Dilan says. “Daft birdies.”
“Are you not all knights?” Aleksander blurts, and then winces at the incredulous looks they all give him, digging his fingers into his leg under cover of the table.
“Why would you think we’re knights?” Bricriu asks, sounding honestly confused.
Aleksander swallows. “You…you are the White Wolf’s personal troops; you speak as equals to great lords, and give commands to high and low alike. In Tretogor, it was assumed that you must all be knights at the very least, and those of you who are known to hold high rank in his service must therefore be great lords in your own rights.”
“Huh!” Master Merten says. “That explains a lot, actually.”
Leocadie grins at Master Merten, looking very mischievous. “I wonder what rank a Head of School holds?” They raise an eyebrow at Aleksander, as if inviting comment.
Aleksander does some swift mental calculations. The Warlord is an emperor, roughly speaking, for he has kings as his vassals; Lord Eskel, then, would be a prince or perhaps an archduke; and then the other members of the Warlord’s council and the Heads of the Schools would be… “I think you would be accounted a duke, Master Merten,” he concludes.
“Lebioda preserve me,” Master Merten mutters.
Leocadie laughs. “Does that make me a duchess?”
“It makes you a menace,” Master Merten sighs.
Aleksander assumes that that means Master Merten and Leocadie are lovers - and also, since they joke of it so easily, that as Livi and Milena insisted, it is no sort of secret, nor a scandal.
“Anyway,” Leocadie says. “That is the Cats and the Cranes and the Griffins. The Bears are the quietest of us all, and the least emotional; they do not bother with any inventive weapons or Signs, but rely on their great strength to strike down their enemies.”
“They like puzzles,” Dilan says, frowning at Aleksander’s plate - he has finished the small serving of venison and bread he took initially - and reaching further down the table for a tray of little egg pies, setting one on Aleksander’s plate and taking three for himself.
“So they do,” Leocadie agrees. “Let me see. Vipers are even fonder of knives than Cats are, and colder in temperament; they do not tend towards sentiment. I would have called them heartless, once, but that is quite obviously untrue; they are only ruthless when they find it necessary.”
Aleksander has no idea what proof Leocadie has that Vipers are not heartless, but it’s rather reassuring to hear all the same.
“And, of course, last but by no means least, there are the Wolves.” Leocadie glances up at the high table with a fond little smile. “Who will do what they consider to be the right thing, regardless of the cost. They are possibly the most balanced School: more agile than the Bears, less mercurial than the Cats, not so rigid as the Griffins, less prone to flights of fancy than Cranes or Manticores, and kinder than the Vipers.” Leocadie’s smile widens into a grin. “Not that I’d be a Wolf for a sack of gold and all the alchemical ingredients I could ever dream of!”
“Fuck no,” Dilan agrees. “Catch me being that sort of honorable fool.”
Aleksander really hopes he doesn’t smell as shocked as he is feeling. That is an insult to the Warlord - one which in Tretogor, had anyone spoken of the king’s kinsmen in such a disrespectful fashion, would have resulted in the speaker being expelled from court at the very least. And yet none of the Manticores even seem to think it worth batting an eye!
“I’d not be a Wolf either, given the choice,” Master Merten says solemnly. “Yet there’s more than temperament that makes a School.” The other Manticores go quiet - the whole table of them, silence rippling down like a wave at some signal Aleksander doesn’t see. “Brothers, we owe young Aleksander a debt. He has brought our lost brother back to us, and four sisters we did not know we had.”
Aleksander tries not to shrink under the weight of dozens of yellow eyes suddenly fixed on him. “You owe me nothing for that,” he says.
Master Merten shakes his head. “It would have been very, very easy for you to turn away. Easier and safer than daring to contact the Wolf, especially if you had magic binding you. We have all seen many humans turn a blind eye to similar horrors, with far fewer excuses than you had ready to your hand.”
Leocadie nods. “Many and many. It is easy to turn away, especially when the victims are not…important. Not noble, nor of your own country, nor of your own kin. We have lost many brothers on the Path, not to monsters, but to human cruelty. It is still very odd, even now, for us to be given kindness by…” Leocadie trails off, clearly trying to find the right words, and Bricriu snorts.
“By anyone,” he says bluntly. “Anyone outside Kaer Morhen, anyhow. Especially anyone human.”
Dilan nods. “We still aren’t entirely used to the servants liking us - nor to having servants, for that matter. Having a complete stranger help one of ours, at no little cost to himself? A man not even from the Wolflands, who went against his own king and a mage’s work to do it? Hell, lad, at this point we’d adopt you if you wanted.”
“Aleksander of the Manticores,” Bricriu says thoughtfully. “That has a ring to it. I think we’ve only got one other Aleksander to mix you up with, too, and he goes by Aleks mostly.” He gestures down the table, and a lanky, dark-skinned witcher with his short hair shaved in runic patterns waves up at Aleksander, grinning broadly.
Aleksander takes a drink of small beer, trying frantically to figure out what to say. He’s not sure how to deal with this. No one has ever offered to adopt him into their…clan? Pride? School? Family? He’s got his own kin, his mother and his younger brother, but he may not see them again for many years, and he would honestly be just as glad to set aside the name of Velen forever, and all the horrid memories that go with it.
He has not got so many friends that he can afford to offend these, and it is…
It is rather pleasant, actually, to have people want to keep him around, not for his name or his wealth or his power, but because of his actions. Because they seem to approve of him as…just a person. Just Aleksander.
He sets his tankard back down carefully. “I would be honored beyond words to be accounted an…an ally of your School.” He’s not quite ready to be adopted, but an ally he most certainly is, and has no qualms about remaining.
“Aleksander, kinsman to the Manticores,” Master Merten declares, nodding firmly. “Let it be so.”
“Aleksander!” chorus the Manticores, all the way down to the foot of the table, and several of them thump their mugs or fists against the table in punctuation. Leocadie chuckles at whatever expression Aleksander is wearing - or, possibly, at his scent, which he presumes is filled with the shock that he is trying so hard to keep off his face.
“Eh, little cousin, you’ll get used to us,” Leocadie says warmly, as the rest of the Manticores go back to their own conversations.
“I shall do my utmost,” Aleksander promises.
Dilan claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t fret, little cousin,” he says gently. “We’ll look out for you, as you did our brother. It’s only fair.”
“Thank you,” Aleksander says, and then is immensely grateful when Dilan turns to Master Merten.
“So young Aren and the girls - they’re in your old suite?”
“They are,” Master Merten confirms. “And our new sisters are as feral as wildcats, so give them space until they come to you, brothers.”
“How is Aren?” Bricriu asks, frowning.
Master Merten grimaces. “Alive,” he says. “And I do not think there is another Witcher living who has been through anything like what he has. He is…” he shakes his head. “If they yet lived, I would give the Grasses to the mages who tortured him, aye, and the duke and the king who bade them do it, too, and I would count their screams sweeter music than the bard could ever play.”
Aleksander shudders, horrified at the vicious rage in Master Merten’s tone. It’s not that he thinks the mages and his grandfather and King Vizimir wouldn’t have deserved such a fate, but hearing it said so bluntly is…terrifying, actually.
“No you wouldn’t,” Leocadie says evenly. “Not under the Wolf’s law. And not before, either.”
Master Merten sighs and rubs a hand wearily over his face. “No, I wouldn’t. But they would deserve it.”
“That I’ll not argue,” Leocadie agrees.
Which is…slightly reassuring, at least. But all of a sudden, the whole day’s chaos seems far too heavy for Aleksander’s shoulders, and he very much needs to be elsewhere. In Tretogor, leaving the dining hall before the king finished his supper was not allowed, but the Warlord isn’t here and surely having a fit of hysterics would be ruder than leaving early. And Aleksander is very tired from a long and terrifying day. “Your pardon,” he says softly, into a brief lull in the conversation around him. “I am very weary. Is it allowed to depart before the meal is done?”
“Oh, certainly, little cousin,” Leocadie says, giving Aleksander a surprisingly compassionate look. “No one minds that. We shall see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, cousin,” Aleksander says, hoping Leocadie can smell the genuine gratitude in the words. “Goodnight, cousins all.”
“Goodnight!” the nearby Manticores chorus, and Aleksander stands and follows one of the servants out of the hall, grateful that no one seems to notice him leaving.
Then, of course, he realizes that he has no idea how to get back to his rooms. He stops in the corridor, taking a deep breath and trying not to let himself panic. He can figure this out. Perhaps if he stops a servant who does not seem to be carrying anything -
“Aleksander!” someone calls behind him, and he turns to see Aiden trotting out of the hall, looking rather worried. “Are you alright?”
“I am very tired,” Aleksander says carefully. He knows he’s close to tears of exhaustion and stored-up terror, and can’t tell if he’s relieved to see a familiar face - insofar as any of the Witchers are familiar - or miserable at having to continue pretending he is fine.
“Oh, right, yeah, that makes sense,” Aiden says, visibly relaxing. “Want me to walk you back up to your rooms? I know this place is a maze for humans for the first little while.”
“Thank you,” Aleksander sighs with relief. “I would appreciate that a great deal.”
Aiden grins and drapes his arm over Aleksander’s shoulders. “This way, pup,” he says cheerfully, urging Aleksander down the corridor. He’s quiet for a moment as they walk, watching Aleksander with some unreadable expression in his sunshine-yellow eyes, and then he says, gently, “I’d ask how supper with the Manticores went, but pup, you smell wiped. Let’s get you back to your rooms, and I shall pester you tomorrow instead.”
“Oh gods, thank you,” Aleksander breathes. He’s not sure he could manage any further conversation tonight. Even just climbing the stairs is almost more than he has energy to do. Aiden’s forbearance feels like a drink of cool water, a gift he’s offering Aleksander without even knowing how precious it truly is.
“You’re welcome,” Aiden says, and then doesn’t speak again until they reach a door Aleksander vaguely recognizes. Aiden pulls it open to reveal the rooms Aleksander has been given, and lets his arm fall from Aleksander’s shoulders. Aleksander doesn’t let himself miss the warm weight of it, the comfort of having Aiden so near. It makes no sense to find the Witcher’s presence so comforting, after all.
“Goodnight, Aleksander,” Aiden says, not making any move to follow Aleksander in.
Aleksander turns and offers him a slight bow. “Goodnight, Aiden, and thank you for your escort.”
“It was my pleasure,” Aiden says, smiling softly. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen, wolf-hearted Aleksander.” And he bows, just a little, and pushes the door closed again.
Aleksander sighs, drooping as the tension of being in public falls from him, and stumbles into his bedroom, kicking his boots off into a corner and falling into the bed with a thump, just barely awake enough to pull the curtains closed around him. Gods, what a day.
This morning he had a dukedom, one brother in a different city, five tortured prisoners in the basement, and a spell keeping him from telling anyone about his king’s treachery. Tonight he has no dukedom, nor any title at all, one brother even further away from his new home in this cold keep, more than fifty new kinsmen, an uncertain place at a court so unlike Tretogor as to be nearly incomprehensible, and no spells binding him at all. He cannot really complain about the change, but his last thought before he falls asleep is a plaintive prayer:
Please, gods, let tomorrow be a little less dramatic.