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“Amaranth,” Eskel’s voice says from one of Amaranth’s packs, “does this thing actually work? Please let this thing actually work.”
Amaranth rolls out of the joined bedrolls and pulls her pack open, rooting through it hastily and emerging with a little metal box, maybe as large as her fist. Geralt sits up. That’s the thing she called a xenovox - one of the many changes they’ve made in the years since the winter Geralt almost died. Eskel has the counterpart, and Amaranth promised when she gave it to him that it would let him call on her in an emergency.
She opens the lid, kneeling naked in the light of the dying fire, and says, “We hear you, Eskel. What’s toward?”
“I have a child,” Eskel says frantically.
“What?” Geralt says, tossing the blankets away and moving to kneel beside Amaranth. “How? We’re sterile.”
“It’s not my get,” Eskel says, “it’s - oh, fuck it, you know those stories Vesemir used to tell about the Law of Surprise?”
“Yes,” Geralt says, looping an arm around Amaranth’s waist so she can lean against him.
“I saved the prince of Caingorn’s life about six months ago, and he offered me half his kingdom, and I panicked and asked for the Law of Surprise instead,” Eskel says. “And it turns out his wife was pregnant, but he didn’t know, and then she was born on the night of the eclipse and everyone says she’s terrible luck, and now I have a child and I don’t know what to do!”
“Breathe,” Geralt says, because hyperventilating isn’t good for anyone.
“Oh dear,” says Amaranth, sounding like she’s suppressing giggles. “Congratulations, you’re a father?”
“What the fuck do I do with a child?” Eskel wails.
“Keep breathing,” Amaranth says. “What do you mean, everyone says she’s terrible luck?”
“There’s this rumor that sixty princesses born under the Black Sun will bring about the end of the world, or something absurd like that,” Eskel says.
“Oh,” Amaranth says. “Old Eltibald’s prophecy. Bunch of balderdash. There aren’t enough kingdoms in the world - there’s no way anyone could actually assemble sixty princesses born under the eclipse. Does she have any magical potential, do you know?”
“There’s a sorceress who says she does, and wants to dissect her,” Eskel says. “I can’t tell.”
“Hm,” Amaranth says, and glances up at Geralt. “We’re down near Oxenfurt, but we could get up to Caingorn in a month or so, maybe two? Do you think you can keep the child safe that long, or do I need to portal us?”
Geralt arches an eyebrow at her. Amaranth shrugs eloquently. Geralt considers briefly, then shrugs back. A child of Eskel’s is his child too, after all, and no one’s dissecting an infant on his watch.
“If I stick around and make it clear she is mine by the Law, I can keep her safe,” Eskel says reluctantly. “But what are we going to do even if you do come up?”
“I don’t know,” Amaranth says bluntly. “But…”
“This is important,” Geralt says. All witchers have a sort of sixth sense, a warning of danger or important moments; his is better at danger than anything else, but there’s a sort of distant twinge. “Can’t you feel it?”
Eskel hesitates for a long moment. His sense of magic and important moments is a lot stronger than Geralt’s. “Yeah,” he says at last. “Alright. I’ll stay here and keep her safe until you get here.”
“Then we’ll see you when we get to Caingorn,” Amaranth says. “Keep your hair on, packmate; we’ll figure this out.”
“Thank you,” Eskel sighs. “I’ll see you in a month or so.”
“Keep safe,” Geralt rasps. “Politics are dangerous. Watch your back.”
“I will,” Eskel promises. “You watch yours, too, White Wolf. Packmate.”
“Be safe,” Amaranth says, and closes the xenovox. “Well. I guess we know where we’re going next.”
“Guess so,” Geralt says, and pulls her back into the heap of blankets and bedrolls. If they’re traveling north in the morning, they’ll need their sleep.
*
It’s a relatively quick trip up to Caingorn - only three detours for particularly large and unpleasant monsters - and they get there about a month and a half after Eskel’s panicked summons. The palace is lightly guarded - well, there’s not a war on at the moment - and when Amaranth tells the guards, “Geralt of Rivia and Amaranth, to see the witcher Eskel,” they’re ushered right in.
Eskel is in a nursery, pacing up and down with a baby in his arms, looking exhausted and frazzled. “Oh thank Melitele,” he says when he sees them. “Please tell me you can figure out why she screams every time I get more than a hundred paces away!”
“She what now?” Amaranth says, and Eskel grimaces and puts the baby down in a crib - the child fusses a little but doesn’t wake - and walks out the door. Geralt pokes his head out to watch Eskel walk slowly and deliberately down the hallway, counting his steps. It’s a fairly long hallway. Geralt gets to a hundred -
And behind him, the infant wakes up and begins to scream so shrilly that Geralt has an instant headache. Eskel drops his head into his hands and comes trudging back. The baby doesn’t stop screaming until he picks her up.
“Huh,” says Amaranth. “Fascinating!”
“Not helpful, packmate,” Eskel grits out between clenched teeth. “I haven’t been able to go hunting in two months. I have been spit up on every fucking day, and I would rather bathe with a drowner than even think about the sort of disgusting messes that come out of this child’s ass! Do something! Fix it!”
Amaranth grimaces and holds out her arms. “Here, give her to me -” she says, and as Eskel hands her the child, goes utterly still. “Holy -”
“What?” Geralt asks, as Amaranth’s scent spikes shock so strongly it even cuts through the scents of baby spit-up and shit and general babyness, which is a peculiarly penetrating set of smells.
“Melitele preserve me,” Amaranth whispers, staring down at the baby. Geralt and Eskel glance at each other and shrug. It looks like a baby, as far as Geralt can tell: sort of pink and floppy, with a mop of dark hair and incredibly tiny fingers and toes, and a very nice white dress, since she is a princess.
“Geralt,” Amaranth says slowly, “please take this child and then cast Quen.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow, but he cradles the infant gingerly in one arm and gestures sharply with his other hand.
Nothing happens. No glowing golden shield, not even a sputtering spark. Geralt’s eyes go wide, and Eskel rears back in shock.
“Eskel,” Amaranth says, “you try it.”
Eskel eyes her dubiously, but he takes the child - she fusses, clearly not liking being passed around like a supper dish - and casts Quen. He’s always been stronger magically than Geralt; Geralt expects a shield to form, golden and beautiful.
Nothing happens.
“Geralt, cast Quen,” Amaranth orders. Geralt does, and is rather relieved to see a shimmering golden shield form just as it’s supposed to. Amaranth nods.
“Eskel, touch the child to the shield.”
Eskel gives her a very strange look, but he steps forward and holds the baby out. The baby flails a tiny hand, and when it hits the Quen shield -
The shield vanishes.
“I will burn incense to the gods of fools and witchers,” Amaranth whispers.
“What is going on?” Eskel demands. He’s starting to look a little wild around the eyes.
“She’s not a source - a young mage,” Amaranth explains hastily. “She’s an - an anti-source. She negates magic.”
“Not so useful,” Geralt grunts, grimacing.
Amaranth shakes her head. “No, very useful. Don’t you see? She’s what Kaer Morhen needs - or will be, if she can use that when she grows up a bit, if it gets stronger as she ages.”
Eskel’s eyes go wide. “Kaer Morhen fell to mages,” he says. “If we had an anti-mage -”
“Then it would take a very large army and some decent siege equipment to bring the walls of Kaer Morhen down, and frankly I do not think anyone is going to bother bringing siege equipment up that damned goat-track you call a trail,” Amaranth says.
Eskel looks at the baby in his arms with new appreciation. “So she could - she could be the saving of Kaer Morhen,” he says, and traces a gentle hand down the baby’s cheek. The baby coos and slips deeper into slumber.
“She’s the answer we’ve been looking for,” Amaranth says. “Although - well, I suspect the hundred-paces thing is because she’s your Surprise Child. She’s got some sort of bond with you - I can sense it on you, if not on her. I think you’re on childcare duty until she’s a little older, packmate.”
“Fuck,” says Eskel, feelingly.
Geralt hums. “She’s in danger here?” he asks Eskel.
“Yeah,” Eskel says, sitting down heavily in an armchair and letting his head fall back with a thud. “Court sorceress wants to dissect her. Half the servants think she’s cursed. Don’t think her mother’s looked at her since she was born - they’ve been through three wet-nurses, too.”
Geralt leans against the wall and thinks the whole thing over, turning it around and around and considering every angle, like he’s planning a fight against a particularly wary and wily monster. Amaranth crouches next to Eskel’s chair and watches the baby like it’s a particularly fascinating puzzle. Finally Geralt says, “It’s autumn. No wet-nurses in Kaer Morhen. Tell the prince we’ll stay the winter here, get the babe weaned, take her with us next spring.”
“Makes sense,” Amaranth agrees softly. “If she’s in Kaer Morhen, that takes the ‘curse’ away from the kingdom, and takes her away from the idiot who wants to dissect her.” She laughs softly. “And Vesemir actually knows something about child-rearing, which, frankly, I don’t.”
“You don’t?” Eskel asks in confusion.
“The youngest apprentice I ever took on was eight,” Amaranth says. “I have no idea what a child this young needs, besides the obvious food and shelter. And…” she trails off and winces. “Even if I did know something about childcare, I wouldn’t be much use,” she finishes quietly.
“Why?” Geralt asks.
“Witcher magic is unnatural,” Amaranth says. “Imposed on you by the mutagens. Having it taken away is just sort of...annoying, I should think.”
Geralt nods. Eskel’s eyebrows go up. “Your magic is innate,” he says.
“Precisely.” Amaranth folds down to sit on the floor, sighing. “Touching her hurts. It’s like - like having your arm temporarily taken away.”
Geralt and Eskel both wince. Then Eskel chuckles. “I suppose that’s a good excuse to get out of changing her diapers,” he says.
Amaranth giggles. “Definitely a silver lining,” she agrees.
*
Spending the winter in Caingorn is...not the most pleasant four months Geralt’s ever had. The prince seems glad enough when Eskel explains that they’ll take the child away as soon as she’s weaned, but apparently having two witchers and a storyteller on hand to look after her and make sure she isn’t dissected means that all the servants except the wet-nurse abdicate all responsibility. Geralt learns how to change a diaper. He does not enjoy it. A witcher’s enhanced sense of smell does not go well with the sheer volume of stink a baby can apparently produce.
Amaranth arranges to tell stories at four different inns in the city, as well as the palace, so she has something to do as the weeks wear on, and Geralt - rather guiltily - takes a contract every couple of weeks, for monsters close enough to the city that it’s barely a day or two out and back even in the thick snow, but Eskel can’t leave the nursery unless he’s carrying the baby. Eventually, he rigs a sort of sling out of a blanket, tucks the baby in against his chest, and starts doing laps around the palace. The baby apparently thinks this is delightful, and either coos with happiness or falls asleep. It’s sort of adorable, except for the expression of immense grumpiness on Eskel’s face.
Geralt hunts through the city until he finds a woodworker and pays for a sort of moveable cradle-thing that’s fairly easy to carry, and if they tuck the baby into that and are careful about their distance, he and Eskel can get some sparring in, down in one of the lesser-used halls. Once they figure that out, Eskel calms down a little. He still can’t go out hunting, but at least Geralt can wear him out most days, enough that he starts actually smiling again.
They’re given a room off the nursery for their bedchamber, and it’s big enough that they can all three pile into it and Geralt can sleep tucked between his lovers, surrounded by their scents, in a way he normally only does in Kaer Morhen - but it’s not Kaer Morhen, and none of them really relax, really let down their guards, for the whole fucking winter. It doesn’t help that the court sorceress keeps visiting and eyeing the child like she’s already laid out the scalpels, and only goes away when Eskel or Geralt glares at her for ten minutes straight; nor does it help that the servants still mutter about the child being bad luck, the more so for being attended on by a pair of uncanny, cat-eyed witchers.
It’s frankly a relief when the snow finally starts to melt, and the wet-nurse announces that the baby can be weaned, and they can be on their way. The prince, apparently feeling a little guilty about giving his daughter away, gives them a large purse of gold and an extra horse, which Amaranth thanks him for very prettily, and they get the hell out of the palace before anything else can go wrong.
The first night they’re on the road, well away from any towns or people, and Amaranth wards the camp so they can sleep, Eskel flops down onto his back with the baby on his chest and says, “Oh thank the gods. You may be the saving of Kaer Morhen when you’re older, cub, but you’re a hell of a lot of trouble right now.”
The baby looks at him with big blue eyes and says, quite clearly, “Papa!”
There’s a long pause. Geralt starts laughing first. Amaranth has to sit down, she’s giggling so hard. Eskel puts a hand over his eyes and sighs.
“Papa Wolf!” Amaranth says once she’s caught her breath, which sets her off again. Geralt comes over and takes the child so Eskel can roll over and bury his face in his hands. The child squirms around, looking up at Geralt and grabbing for his hair - a source of constant attraction for her, and also the most entertaining chew-toy around, much to Geralt’s dismay - and giggles.
“I am blaming the fucking wet-nurse for this,” Eskel groans. “I’m a witcher! I am not meant to be anyone’s papa!”
Amaranth pats Eskel on the shoulder, still giggling. “Think of it this way,” she suggests. “If any of the Wolf School had to end up with a Surprise Child, it’s really just as well it’s you. Imagine how Lambert or Clovis would deal with this!”
Geralt grimaces at the thought. Eskel barks a surprised laugh. “Oh fuck, they’d be miserable,” he says. “And imagine how fucked up the child would be!”
“Precisely,” Amaranth says.
*
By the time they reach Kaer Morhen - which takes almost four months; traveling with an infant is not easy - Eskel is most firmly Papa. He has his revenge, though: Geralt is PapaGee, with heavy emphasis on the g, and Amaranth, to her bemusement, is Amma. She still can’t touch the baby comfortably, but she is happy to tell stories or play peekaboo, and takes on a lot of the camp chores to give Eskel and Geralt a bit of a break.
Geralt has gotten used to the heavy warmth of a baby tucked into a sling across his chest; he and Eskel trade off carrying her, and take turns feeding her and changing her diapers. Geralt has gotten swallowed by monsters and had to cut his way out, and come out less messy than the baby gets after a single meal; he’s honestly not sure how she does it. Amaranth and Eskel seem just as disconcerted. They’ve all gotten pretty good at differentiating the ‘I’m hungry’ crying from the ‘I’m dirty’ crying from the ‘hold me’ crying from the ‘Eskel is too far away and I DON’T LIKE IT’ crying - that last being the most unpleasant sound Geralt has ever heard.
Traveling with a baby has been the most exhausting thing he’s ever done. At least fighting monsters ends after the monster is dead. The baby keeps being there, keeps needing food and diapering and rocking and entertainment, day after day after day. Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever been more relieved to see the walls of Kaer Morhen rising against the mountains. Let Vesemir take a turn looking after the child.
Vesemir greets them at the gates - long since rebuilt - with a deeply skeptical look. “Good to know you’re not dead,” he says gruffly. “Who had a child?”
“Eskel, arguably,” says Amaranth, grinning. Vesemir’s eyebrows go up.
“It’s a long story,” Eskel says.
Vesemir looks even more dubious, but he helps them get the animals untacked and out to pasture, and gets them settled in the kitchen with a bowl of stew and a chunk of brown bread each, and a bit of oat porridge for the baby to mash and play with and maybe even eat, before he demands explanations.
He listens to the whole story with his eyebrows climbing ever higher, but when it’s done, he takes the child onto his own lap and casts Quen, and as expected, nothing happens.
“You think this will grow stronger as she ages,” he asks Amaranth. Amaranth nods.
“Her aura is already growing,” Amaranth says, startling Geralt and Eskel both. “When I first met her, it was only when I touched her that I could feel it. Now,” she moves her hand very slowly forward, and stops it less than a hand’s-breadth from the child, “it extends to here. If it works anything like a mage’s power, it will grow more rapidly as she ages; and if it can be trained, honed like the weapon it is, she will be truly formidable. Already I suspect that any magic cast upon her would fail, and I would not attempt to bring her through a portal under any circumstances. But even if it cannot be trained, when she is full-grown, I expect this aura will extend easily large enough to cover the gates of Kaer Morhen, if not the entire keep.”
“Well then,” Vesemir says. “Any witcher’s child may find sanctuary in this keep, but this child, the hope of our School, is welcome and more than welcome.” He cups a hand atop her tiny head. “Hail and well met, Deidre of Kaer Morhen, daughter of Eskel.”
*
Geralt suspects that being raised by witchers is not really anything like the sort of life Deidre could have had if she had stayed in Caingorn to be a princess, but he doesn’t think it’s a bad life. Certainly Deidre is a cheerful child, doted on by two dozen witchers, taught anything she cares to learn, and given freedoms no princess ever is. She stops screaming every time Eskel leaves about the time she turns three, which is a great relief to everyone - especially Eskel. He and Geralt promptly institute a schedule so they can take turns going out on the Path and looking after their cub, and Eskel comes back from his first expedition looking far more relaxed and cheerful than he did when he left. He’s fond of Deidre - loves her, in fact, Geralt is fairly sure - but no witcher likes being pent up in Kaer Morhen longer than a winter. Two full years and more is far, far too long.
(Geralt has spent two years feeling very guilty when he goes out on the Path with Amaranth, even if he does only go out for a month or two at a time, but he can’t bear being pent up that long, either.)
Deidre’s strange anti-magic aura does respond to the sort of training young mages receive. The day she manages to rein in her powers enough to hug Amaranth, when she is twelve, is a very good day indeed, even if it does result in both Deidre and Amaranth bursting into tears. Amaranth may not have any idea what to do with a very small child, but she is quite a talented teacher for an older one, as it turns out, and endlessly patient with Deidre. Geralt himself gets delegated to teach Deidre to fight - he’s not quite sure how he was chosen - and after some trial and error ends up discovering that he kind of enjoys teaching, as long as the person he’s teaching isn’t treating him as the dreaded White Wolf. Deidre still calls him PapaGee and has no qualms about climbing all over him and demanding stories or cuddles; there’s no fear in her. It’s not like Geralt’s own lack of fear, mutagen-induced as it is; instead, it’s the confidence of a well-loved child, who knows that she can face down anything in the world, and if it’s too much for her, her many very dangerous fathers and uncles - and, if truly necessary, her even more dangerous Amma - will protect her.
Eskel teaches her to hunt - not monsters, but deer and rabbits and even boar - and to track, to brew potions and medicines, to read and write and do sums. He never quite stops looking at her in bafflement, but it changes over the years from confusion about how he ended up in this situation to confusion about how much he loves her.
So the White Wolf’s pack has four in it, now: Geralt, and Eskel, and Amaranth, and their cub.
It’s not quite the family Geralt ever imagined having - on the rare occasions he imagined having one - but it’s…
It’s good.