Chapter Text
Winter in Toussaint was a tease of a season. The sky was as blue as ever and the sun beat down on golden fields, but there was sometimes an occasional breeze that if one fooled themself, one could imagine carried the ghost of far-off snows.
That occasional breeze was currently the only thing keeping Geralt sane. He loved Eskel and Lambert down to his very bones, but he also thought that if things didn’t improve soon, he thought he also might quite like to stab them. He had wandered out to the stream on the edge of the east field and when he reached it, he knelt to splash cool water across his face.
He hadn’t quite stormed off after breaking up Lambert and Eskel, their sparring having descended into bad-tempered scuffling, but the fact that they hadn’t followed him meant that he wasn’t the only one on edge. Maybe he should have let them knock some sense into each other, but the outraged shouting and snarled threats had been starting to worry the servants.
Geralt swallowed an annoyed growl even as he sympathised with his brothers’ hot tempers. They spent months each year snowed in behind Kaer Morhen’s walls and passed the time perfectly happily, blowing off steam by training or fucking or, in some cases that were entirely Lambert’s fault, a confusing mix of both that left them all sated and short a couple of training dummies. Yet somehow, not four weeks after Eskel had joined them at Corvo Bianco, the three of them finally falling together after too many seasons apart, they were snapping and snarling at each other like caged bears.
Idleness didn’t suit any of them and Geralt hadn’t quite realised how much work they did each winter in Kaer Morhen; training, making repairs, and venturing out to bring down deer or try their luck at ice fishing. The respite from the Path had fooled them all into thinking of winters as relaxing and indolent - each naturally spent their time wandering the Path dwelling on hoarded memories of sleeping curled around warm bodies in clean beds, nights spent drinking and playing cards in the easy confidence that no innkeeper would be turning them out with a hissed mutant scum. None of them spent their nights on the Path thinking fondly of pickling beets and airing linens when they could be thinking of sleep-mussed hair and drowsy murmurs in shared beds.
The sound of hoofbeats dragged Geralt from his glum contemplation of the water and he rose to his feet, brushing dirt off the knees of his loose linen breeches. Hoofbeats usually meant a ducal courier, and it was equally likely that either he was to be summoned to the palace for an evening of too much wine and not enough food, or that Anna Henrietta had a monster that needed killing. Either way, the duchess would be seen to have a witcher at her beck and call. At least if it was to be a hunt Geralt wouldn’t have to wear a doublet. With a last longing glance at the cool water, he made his way to meet the courier in the courtyard ***d.
Archespores. Geralt tried not to look too pleased at the thought, nodding solemnly to the young man in Anna Henrietta’s colours and promising that he would give the matter his fullest attention as he folded the ducal summons.
The messenger saluted and left with a polite, ‘Thank you, ser’. Geralt still hadn’t quite worked out whether he liked that or not - a lifetime of hauling back grisly trophies as proof of job completion left him wary of the way Anna Henrietta blithely assumed he would obediently and efficiently clear monsters from her lands in much the same manner as she assumed her other subjects would clear the weeds from her vineyards.
He ignored the niggling annoyance in favour of heading back towards Eskel and Lambert, who had clearly heard the courier as well and were attempting to look casual as they sprawled in the shade of the house. Geralt bit back a smile as he took them in, Eskel sitting just a little bit too straight, Lambert not bothering to hide the restless drumming of his fingers on his knee. Their eyes tracked the letter in his hand and he let them stew for a few heartbeats before finally relenting.
“Archespores.”
Eskel’s face lit up in a broad grin, teeth white against tan skin. Geralt suddenly felt like his heart might burst with happiness, his earlier dark mood forgotten at the sight of Eskel here and healthy and smiling without a care for how it pulled at his scars.
“Ah, fuck,” groaned Lambert. “It isn’t even the season for them.”
“That’s ten orens you owe me, Lambert,” said Eskel, who to his credit was trying not to look too smug about it.
“Double or nothing the next one’s a griffin. It’s the middle of mating season, we should be drowning in the fuckers.”
“Done. Scorpion could do with some new tack anyway.”
“Fuck off, Eskel,” groused Lambert, before visibly brightening. “Although I can test the improved formula for Dancing Star now. Might as well make it interesting.”
“I think that’s what you said the last time. Remind me, was it so very interesting given that you also lost ten orens?”
Geralt rolled his eyes and caught Lambert by the back of his shirt as he launched himself at Eskel. “Every day I feel sorrier for Vesemir. Get your gear, we can ride out and camp tonight, then clear them out tomorrow at dawn when they’re active. Just to keep things interesting.”
*****
The hunt, easy though it was, let them all burn off some of their pent up energy - particularly when Lambert’s improved Dancing Stars had set fire to the archespores and then also set fire to the field the archespores were living in. Despite the streaks of soot in his hair, Geralt’s mood was lighter than it had been in days as they approached home with the sun setting at their backs. They dismounted in the small but well-appointed stables of Corvo Bianco, letting the stablehands take their mounts while all three witchers headed to the house, where baths awaited and the rich scent of a slow simmering stew enticed them home.
After the meal, full and content, they drowsed in the early evening heat, the scent of lavender and jasmine drifting in through the open windows. Eventually, Lambert groaned and shifted upright from where he had been comfortably slumped against Eskel.
“Gwent?” he suggested, nudging Geralt with his foot when Geralt looked like he might actually be asleep. “Wake up, old man, the sun is barely down.” He snickered when Geralt mock-snarled, shoving his foot away as he rolled to his feet.
Eskel grumbled but went willingly enough when Lambert dragged him to his feet and over to the card table in the corner, their decks already neatly stacked and ready. As they pulled over chairs, Barnabas-Basil entered, looking somehow both professionally expressionless while also apologetic at disturbing their evening.
“Ah, sir, a messenger from a Baron Amboise with a most urgent request.” With that, the majordomo bowed and stepped out of the room, gesturing the messenger inside.
The young man, barely out of his teens, looked nervous in ill-fitting livery but bowed politely, handing the sealed parchment to Geralt directly. Geralt took it, trying to look as unintimidating as he could, but the boy’s hand still trembled. Eskel snorted quietly and brushed past him, covering for Geralt’s weak spots as always. Geralt felt a rush of fondness flow through him as he moved away and towards the fire, ostensibly for more light but really to let Eskel calm the lad and at least attempt to get some useful information from him. Letters from nobility were often less informative than imperative.
Eskel thrust a cup of wine at the boy and smiled kindly. “Here, lad, drink this while he reads.”
“Take your time”, Lambert added helpfully. “He struggles with the longer words.”
The messenger took the wine gratefully, gaze nervously darting between Lambert and Geralt. Eskel smoothly interposed himself between the boy and the other two, somehow restraining himself from smacking Lambert. “Long ride, lad? What’s your name?”
The boy nodded as he gulped the wine, tension unknotting slightly when Eskel did nothing but smile encouragingly at him.
“Hugo, sir Witcher. And not overlong; I set out at noon.”
“Long enough. Barnabas-Basil will see about a meal and a bed for you for the night.”
The boy shook his head, draining the cup. “I’m grateful, but no. I would thank you for a fresh horse to get me to the first inn, however. The moon is full, the roads are good and I can’t be spared for much longer than I’ve already been away.”
Eskel carefully ignored the derisive noise Lambert made. It was too quiet for human ears and instead seized the opening.
“The roads may be good, but are they safe? If your lord needs a witcher then whatever beast needs killing isn’t one you should risk encountering alone.”
“Oh no, it’s no beast, sir. Not that we’ve seen, anyway . . .” He trailed off, distress clear in his face.
Eskel kept his tone gentle, even as he felt Lambert and Geralt shift minutely in sudden attentiveness.
“No? What troubles your lord then?”
“A curse, sir. Or something like it anyway. People are dying, nothing will grow, food spoils faster than it should, and people are abandoning the land.” He swallowed, staring into his empty cup. “At least, some are.”
Geralt stopped pretending to read the letter and moved closer to the boy, deliberately treading heavily enough for human ears but still staying far enough behind Eskel to not startle him. “And others?”
Hugo suppressed a flinch, although whether at being addressed by the White Wolf or at the thought of whatever curse stalked his home was not clear.
“Others . . .They say they’ve left but. . . Rooms are found empty, and their belongings are gone but no-one sees them leave.”
Hugo swallowed, before visibly throwing caution to the winds, taking a deep breath and looking within the vicinity of Geralt's torso. “People who have worked the same land all their lives, their great-grandparents were born on the estate, just leaving without even saying farewell to those they’ve known since birth?” By the end of his outburst, he had forgotten his fear enough to meet Geralt’s gaze, confused anger radiating from every inch of him. “The steward and the Baron say they’ve simply chosen to take their leave and seek a better life elsewhere but that can’t be the truth.”
“Alright lad,” Eskel said gently. “We’ll look into it, find out what’s been going on.”
Hugo flashed him a quick smile, the expression somehow awful when contrasted with the stark look of fear still in his eyes.“Please, don’t tell the Baron what I’ve said. I can’t risk being turned out. Lille, my sister - she couldn’t cope with ending up a beggar and I can’t leave her there alone.”
Geralt cleared his throat, trying to look comforting.
“Nothing you tell us will leave this room, I promise. Can you tell us about the deaths? Your baron gave little enough detail in this letter.”
Hugo paled, gaze falling to his empty cup like he regretted not keeping some wine in reserve.
“It started at the end of spring, with Étienne. She’d been the cook, but mostly she stayed in her rooms, she was - she was old, slowing down. We didn’t realise. Thought she’d passed in her sleep. Then some of the fieldhands died and we knew then something was wrong.”
He stopped, swallowed and wiped at the cold sweat beading on his upper lip before continuing. “Two strong and healthy men of barely thirty, we found them in the fields in broad daylight and we . . . Lebioda’s teeth, we only recognised them by their clothes. They looked like old men who’d been dead for months, not hours. Baron Amboise said he’d petitioned the Duchess for help but no-one came and then it happened again last month with two more - the dairymaid Aimee and Manon the gardener’s boy.” He paused again, and Lambert wordlessly refilled his wine.
Geralt nodded encouragingly. “No injuries on the bodies? And no deaths between those two incidents?”
“No, ser, nothing that we could see. And no other deaths either. People talked about leaving after the first deaths, but the Baron promised help was coming and then the crops started failing and no-one had the coin to go. But now it’s happened again and people are scared. There was even talk of sending someone to petition the palace directly.” His brow scrunched in distaste, clearly showing his opinion of that scheme.
“Hm. That’s enough for now. We’ll ride out tomorrow at first light. Go with BB and he’ll find you a hot meal and bed for the night. You can travel back with us.”
“But - “
Eskel cut the protest off. “You need rest, lad. You won’t get back any faster by falling asleep in the saddle and breaking your neck. We’ll see you back before sun down tomorrow.”
Hugo nodded, reluctant but unwilling to argue. All three witchers could smell the burnt feather smell of exhaustion and fear from him - Geralt couldn’t in good conscience send him out into the night on a tired horse.
Geralt could sense Eskel and Lambert’s banked interest. Over the course of the time Hugo had spent speaking, the atmosphere in the room had almost palpably shifted from comfortable and lazy to alert and waiting. He could feel it in himself too, the instincts that had been honed by years of a life where intuition could mean the difference between life and death were prickling. He didn’t glance at his brothers, he didn’t need to. He nodded at Hugo then looked out into the hall, calling softly to BB that they were done for now.
“We’ll start out for Baron Amboise’s estate tomorrow.” BB nodded, and with a quiet, ‘yes sir,’ was already moving to guide Hugo towards the kitchen, where Geralt could smell that a stew had already been warmed.
After he’d ushered Hugo towards the kitchen though, Barnabas-Basil hesitated, slipping back into the room after Geralt. Geralt looked at him with raised brows, having learned at this point that any advice BB gave was usually worth listening to. “Yeah, BB?”
“Sir, the Baron Amboise. There may be a reason he sent a messenger directly to you rather than by way of the Palace.”
“Hm. Anything we should worry about?”
“Perhaps not. The baron’s crops have failed badly this year, but the estate had already been steadily declining over the past few years. He has been struggling to make good on debts and, one may assume, taxes. From what I hear, he is out of favour with Her Grace due to suspected mismanagement of the estate. He may not have wished to draw attention to himself by requesting aid through formal channels.”
Lambert snorted. “Fucking politics. Nothing to do with us if he wants to spend his own money rather than Anna Henrietta’s though, as long as he does have coin enough to pay.”
BB nodded politely. “Indeed.” He bowed slightly and slid off to be terrifyingly efficient at the servants until a bed was found, rations prepared for the trip, tack cleaned and prepared, and Melitile knew what else.
Behind Geralt, Eskel hummed thoughtfully as he moved to drain the last of the wine. “Politics aside, that’s no monster I’ve ever heard of. Kills without injury, ages victims overnight, causes crops to fail. Either of you ever come across anything like that?”
“Nah,” Lamber said. “Either he’s missing details or it’s something else. A curse?” He sounded annoyed and Geralt couldn’t blame him. Curses were notoriously messy and tended to be a pain in the arse to break, especially if you didn’t have a convenient and agreeable sorceress to hand.
Geralt hummed, staring at the letter again.
“What?” said Lambert. “Share with the group, wise one.”
“Hm. Could be nothing,” Geralt said. “Only curses are usually showy. If you go to the trouble of cursing someone, it's normally because you want to make a point.”
“Geralt’s right,” Eskel said slowly. “Usually if someone’s cursed they’ll know about it.”
“Huh,” said Lambert. “Well, guess we’ll find out one way or another. We can look around the place a bit, see if they’ve somehow overlooked a spurned lover wandering around shouting promises of dire revenge.”
The last of the thoughtful tension in the room broke as Geralt and Eskel both snorted soft laughs and Lambert hid his own smile, the other two pretending not to see him hide his quiet pride at making them laugh. Sometimes Lambert could be teased about it, would lean into gentle murmurs of little wolf, but it was late and they’d all had a long ride that afternoon, with the promise of another tomorrow. Instead, by silent consensus, all three withdrew to the master bedroom, kicking clothes off and piling onto the mattress, moonlight pouring through the open windows and the sweet fragrance of the dried herbs strewn through the stuffing drifting up around them.
Even with the windows open and the sheets kicked off it was warm, and Eskel and Geralt shuffled Lambert into the middle with the ease born of long practice. Lambert grumbled just for the look of the thing but acquiesced easily enough - he didn’t run as hot as the other two and for all his complaining he never hauled himself out from under the cuddle pile until the last possible moment.
Geralt huffed tiredly. It was too hot to curl up as they usually did in winter, but he threw one ankle over Lambert’s calf and sensed more than felt the movement as Eskel reached to tangle one hand in the light linen shirt the youngest wolf wore. Connected and content, all three drifted off, sleeping easy in the face of the hunt that lay ahead of them.