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Ciri stood at the tower window and stared into the darkness. She could make out the individual spikes of the evergreens clustered close to the castle walls, but then everything melted into shadow until the lake. Mists had gathered on the surface as a warm front swept in from the east. The banks had thawed, leaving behind treacherous marshland that would swallow an entire horse and cart if it strayed off the path. Usually, the only source of light was the moon reflecting off the water, but tonight, on All Hallow's Eve, Ciri could see orange embers floating in the fog...
“What'ya looking at, princess?” A big hand slapped down on her shoulder and Ciri yelped. Lambert. She elbowed him in the ribs with a soft growl.
“You're such an ass.”
“Ee-or, answer the question.”
“I think there are people by the lake. They're holding lanterns.” She pointed, her fingertip resting on the cool glass of the windowpane.
Lambert whistled through his teeth, patting her on the shoulder. “They're not people. Haven't been for a long time.” His voice darkened.
“No?”
“No,” Lambert guided her towards the fire and pointed at the hot mug of watered down mead he'd brought up from the kitchens. The temperature in the castle dropped quickly at night and the witchers worried she would catch pneumonia unless they clucked around her like mother hens. “It's Samhain, which means the veil between this world and others is at its thinnest.”
“Grandmamma always said it was superstitious nonsense, and that peasants liked to spook themselves.” That had never stopped Ciri from escaping the palace to play with the other children though. She had spent many a glorious All Hallow's Eve dancing between the houses and taverns with a hollowed turnip lit by a candle. With her gaggle of street urchins, bakers’ boys and weavers’ daughters, she pretended she was an evil spirit haunting the streets. The adults rolled their eyes and the more benevolent gifted them with toffees and hot mead. Best to encourage practices that actually warded off evil, after all.
“Your grandmamma was an idiot,” Lambert replied tartly, and Ciri gave an indignant snot. “All stories have an anchor in fact, princess. It's what makes them so scary. But if you're not interested in hearing my peasant nonsense then...”
“No!” Ciri leaned forward. “Tell me. I want to hear.”
Lambert grinned toothily. If there was one thing he had learned about Ciri in their few months together, it was her weakness for stories. Fairytales, mostly. Worlds where everything ended well and no one was left desolate. This wasn't one of those stories, but she'd probably love it nonetheless. It still had the magic and mystery she adored.
“Legend says that those lights are the spirit of Stingy Jack,” he began. “He was a deceitful, manipulative bastard; drunk and malicious. Outwitted the devil twice when he came to collect his soul.”
“You mean the Man of Mirrors was tricked?” she squeaked.
“Oh yeah. So, Mister Mirror hears of Jack's blackened soul and grows jealous. There's only room for one nefarious trickster in the world. He poses as a dead body on the path, and Jack stumbles over him. Realising it's the devil come to reap him, Jack asks for a final round in the local to wet his whistle.”
As if on cue, Lambert took a swig of ale. “Devil says yes, takes him in, and when Jack has finished drinking, he can't pay. He asks the devil to turn himself into a silver coin to pay the barkeep, and then they can both walk out and head to the pit.”
“Clever Jack,” Ciri whispered.
“Right? So, the devil does. Idiot. Jack pockets the coin, and he happens to have an ankh of Melitele in there. Devil's fucked. Jack makes the devil promise to give him ten more years and he does.”
“But the dev—”
“Can never go back on his word. When he makes a deal, it's cast-iron.”
“Okay... what happens ten years later?”
“Devil comes back, doesn't he? And this time Jack asks for an apple to feed his starving belly. One more bite before an eternity of damnation. Because he thinks he’s won and a bite of a sweet apple would make the torture all the better, the devil manifests a tree and climbs up it... Jack surrounds the bottom of the tree with ankhs.”
Ciri clapped her hands together in delight. “He was ready!”
“Course he was. Most malicious bastards tend to be the most cunning, especially when it's their own skin on the line.”
“Is that why you're so clever?”
“You can have that one,” Lambert growled back, and she preened a little. He cleared his throat before he continued. “So, this time, Jack makes the devil promise never to collect his soul, or else he’ll leave the Ankhs under the tree forever. Enraged but defeated, the devil agrees. It’s a deal. Jack removes the barrier, and the devil, well... he claps his hands and smirks as he disappears into the darkness.”
“He claps... and smirks? But Jack won?”
“Nah, you see. Here's the thing. The devil's deals are iron-clad, right? So he only makes ones that work in his favour. Ten more years of being a cunt would've made Jack's soul blacker, and—.”
“But now he doesn't get it at all!”
“Princess, shut your flapper, and let me explain.”
Ciri harrumphed, but conceded, her arms folded across her chest. Lambert continued. “Eventually, the drinking? It caught up with Jack. The devil knew this would happen, and really, he’s only interested in just desserts. Jack dies, but the gods don't want him. He'd led a shitty life, so they turn him away from the shinier side of the afterlife. And the Devil? Well, he always keeps his promises, like I said. Jack's left halfway between, with nothing. He hollows out a turnip and stuffs his last candle inside. Doomed to roam the earth between good and evil, because neither wants him.”
“Well. That makes him a wraith then, right? So, we're going to put him to rest now.”
“We can't.”
“Why not?” she asked, indignant.
“Because,” came a soft voice from the open door, “it's a made-up fable to warn against the perils of drunkenness and making deals with the devil. Good evening, Princess, Wolf.” Coën stepped inside, dressed in a long nightshirt and woollen trews, a tray with a candle in one hand.
“Oh yeah? What do you know?” Lambert shot back.
“A lot more than you,” Coën answered blithely, closing the door a little to block out the chill. "The veil between this world and—.”
“I've done that bit,” Lambert cut in, and then took a petulant sip of ale. “Old news.” As Coën settled on the rug with Lambert, he bonked their foreheads together. Lambert flapped his hands in mock irritation, but Ciri could see the hints of a soft smile tugging the corners of his lips.
Coën sighed, leaning back on his palm. “From where I originate, the aos sí often travel to this world from their own, which runs parallel to ours. It has many names, but it's the aos sí that are important. A book called the Lebor Gabála Érenn talks about a tribe of supernatural beings called the Tuath Dé, tribe of the gods. Their lights can be spotted in the sky, in the mists and the fog, and my people called them the will o' the wisps. We used to carve turnips and mangelwurzels with twisted faces, light them with wax and animal fat, to ward the spirits away.” Coën nudged the Wolf triumphantly as awe blossomed over Ciri's face. “There now, a tale of drunks and devils is not fit for a princess. But mystical beings from another world?”
Lambert scoffed, but Ciri looked thoughtful. “Why are there two different stories? I've heard of the part about the evil spirits. That’s true of every tale, but...”
“Stories are a cobbling together of the morals, myths and realities of the people that tell 'em,” Lambert said, scratching idly at his beard. “In my village, we had drunks a'plenty, malicious fucks, so their tales of evil all warn against it.”
“And in mine, we suffered a lot of inexplicable sickness and poor luck,” Coën added, and Lambert rubbed a hand on his back. An oddly gentle gesture that Ciri only ever saw them exchange in private. She was certain they exchanged a lot more in private too, but she had no desire to see that. “Lambert is correct. You learn a lot about a community, a society, from the stories they tell.”
“Do you think Geralt and Eskel have stories like yours?” She had been eager to learn more of what it meant to be a witcher since her arrival, gobbling up every tiny morsel of information she could about the Kaer Morhen of before. When the halls had been filled with initiates and instructors; the Golden Age of the Witchers. But many of her new family had been somewhat reticent. Like they were wary of picking open old wounds or revealing too many sordid secrets. It couldn’t be that bad, Ciri thought. Not compared to what she had already seen since Cintra...
“Yeah,” Lambert said, his eyes rolling. “Witcher’s tales. You've probably read about them in one of Vesemir's dusty old journals. Yawn.”
Ciri groaned, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Oh, no, I can't look at another one of his journals ever again. I think my brain is shrivelling in boredom.”
“Knowledge is as important to a witcher as his sword,” Coën chastised gently.
“What about the book you talked about? That sounds interesting! Full of spirit folk and other worlds. Can I read that?” Ciri bounced eagerly, but her enthusiasm petered out when she saw the hurt and regret flash over Coën's face. It happened so rarely; he was always smiling, laughing. Not as dour as all the others. It made the glimmers of pain all the harsher to witness.
“They're lost,” Coën said softly. “The last copy was housed in Kaer Seren.”
“I'm sorry,” Ciri whispered, reaching out to grasp his rough fingers for a light squeeze, but Coën only smiled.
“Never apologise for curiosity. It is evidence of a willingness to grow.”
“You sure you didn't absorb the spirit of one of your instructors? You sound like you’re reading the Liber half the time,” Lambert piped up. Coën thumped him, Lambert lurched forward for a headlock, and Ciri rolled her eyes with a chuckle as the two scuffled on the rug. Their tussle was good-natured and boyish, and Ciri was reminded of the street boys from her home squabbling over nothing of import. It didn't last long.
“Lambert! Coën! Get your swords. Hurry, you useless layabouts. Those little bastards are at my turnips again.” Vesemir's voice reverberated through the halls; the booming bark of a cantankerous old wolf. The two witchers before Ciri looked at each other in confusion, but luckily Eskel popped his head around the door to shed a little more light.
“Foglets are messing around with the vegetables, or it might be—” Eskel trailed off, and Ciri watched a complex rush of emotion pass over his usually stoic face. When she had first met Eskel, she had screamed. Because only a monster could be so grievously scarred. But Eskel was no monster, he had a big heart and a level head to keep it safe, so to see him look wounded unsettled her greatly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Lambert sighed, pulling Coën from the floor as he stood. “I know who it might be. Stay here, princess.”
“No! I'm coming. I'll get my sword.”
Coën ruffled a hand through her hair. “Not this time, young one,” he said. “This is not a story we wish to share with you yet.”
Ciri looked at Lambert, whose face had drawn tight in pain, and Eskel's scarred visage, anxious and sad. It was only Coën who could offer her a reassuring smile. She nibbled her lower lip and glanced out the misty window to the embers dancing in the fog. She remembered the street children with their hollowed turnips and her heart skipped a beat. “Those aren't the aos sí or Jack, are they?”
“No,” Coën said softly. “Get some sleep. We'll be back in a few hours.”
The witchers left and Ciri huddled beneath the heaps of threadbare blankets on her bed. She scrunched her eyes closed and tried not to think about the will o' the wisps by the lake, but they were burned onto the backs of her eyelids.
She covered her ears with her hands, for if she listened too carefully, she was certain she could hear the giggles of lost children beneath the mournful howl of the winds.