Chapter Text
“Master Keldar,” Coën said, a gaggle of trainees following along behind him, “your assistance would be appreciated.”
Keldar looked up from the game of Gwent he was playing with Merten and Leocadie, “What be the problem?”
“The trainees,” Coën said, gesturing to the children behind him, “have never been told of Sant y Kaerath.”
Keldar hummed.
“All trainees of our schools get told of him,” Merten said, “it’s tradition. ”
“I’ve not told the story since we came to Kaer Morhen,” Keldar said slowly, “have you?”
Merten opened his mouth, then stopped. “No,” he said, frowning, “no I haven’t.”
“Stefan!” Keldar called, attracting the attention of both Stefan and half the people in the room, “have you told any of your chicks about Sant y Kaerath since arriving at Kaer Morhen?”
Stefan cursed loudly after a moment’s thought and signalled to one of his Cranes. “Celmo, go round up all the Cranes, Manticores, and Griffins you can find, especially those that were trained at Kaer Morhen.”
“You go and find the trainees for those schools too, though others can come if they wish,” Merten instructed Zenon.
The witcher and trainee both nodded and left the hall, and Jaskier walked over.
“What’s going on?”
“They fucked up,” Leocadie snickered. “Our three schools all share stories about Sant y Kaerath, and they haven’t told anyone since arriving at Kaer Morhen, so there’s 20 years’ worth of witchers and trainees that we need to catch up to speed.”
Jaskier blinked. “All three? I thought you were all separated before Geralt happened.”
“We were,” Stefan said, dropping heavily into a chair by Keldar, “The mages used to meet up with each other every so often, and they’d take a few of us with them to show off their successes.”
“The more I hear about these mages, the happier I am that I never met them,” Jaskier said, shivering. “Do you mind if I listen to the story?”
“Not at all,” Keldar said. “Though I’d ask that any songs about it be kept to Kaer Morhen.”
Merten and Stefan both nodded in agreement, and Jaskier smiled. “Of course, I won’t play them for anyone but you, should I write them.”
The great hall wasn’t full, but having most of three schools, several handfuls from other schools, and a surprising number of servants’ children did create a certain level of noise.
Keldar was sitting on the edge of the dais that held Geralt’s throne. Stefan, Merten, and Leocadie were sitting near him, and Jaskier was sitting on the floor opposite them, pencil and notebook in hand.
“Alright, children,” Keldar began, gaining everyone’s attention. The chatter quieted, and his audience settled themselves more comfortably on the floors, some even having dragged down furs from their beds. “These are the true stories of Sant y Kaerath, or The Saint of the Kaers,” he said seriously, deep voice settling into a smooth rhythm. “The first part of this story takes place in Kaer Seren, the old home of the Griffins.”
“On the cliffs of Poviss!” Someone said excitedly.
“Yes. It was a stormy winter night, and the wind and rain scratched and screeched at the windows of the Kaer,” Keldar said, several of the older Griffins making atmospheric whooshing and hissing noises.
Jaskier’s eyes went wide, not expecting such serious theatrics.
“Three Griffin trainees were up past curfew, studying by lanternlight in the warm library.”
“Probably trying to memorise the Liber Tenebrarum for you,” one of the Griffin trainees muttered. Coën snickered, and whacked him lightly on the shoulder in amused reproach.
Keldar very carefully didn’t respond, and continued, “One of the trainees heard something and looked up from his work, worried that they were going to get in trouble.”
Those in the room that knew what was coming grinned, and those that didn’t waited with bated breath.
“There was a figure in the doorway, not one he recognised,” Keldar declared, voice taking on a near-conspiratorial tone. “The figure was tall and thin, the light too dim to see much else. It whistled sharply — drawing the attention of the other boys — and vanished.”
Jaskier gasped in delighted surprise, and whispers travelled throughout the hall.
From the corner of his eye, Keldar saw Vesemir come through the door, dragging Eskel and Geralt behind him.
“The trainees all agreed, after a brief discussion, to investigate. So up they got, creeping between the tables, and peeking past the doorway.” Keldar made his eyes go wide, like those of a scared child. “The figure was there, in the corridor! When it saw them, it vanished; reappearing further down the corridor. The trainees all looked at each other, silently agreeing to follow the figure, since that seemed to be what it wanted.”
The entire room was quiet, wanting to see what happened next.
“The figure led them deeper and deeper into the Kaer, through corridors and spiral stairways and eventually into caves with rough steps carved right into the rock, barely visible in the damp dimness.”
“How did they see, if they were just trainees?” Ciri asked from where she was sitting near Jaskier.
“We were grassed, but only barely,” Tobias said, drawing eyes to him. “Yes, I was one of them, pay attention to Master Keldar now.”
“Thank you, lad,” Keldar said, nodding to Tobias. “The trainees made their way down through the Kaer and the caves, getting more and more apprehensive as they descended. Who was the figure? What did it want with them? How did it get in? So many questions, and no clear way to get answers.” He cleared his throat and sipped his ale. “Eventually, after some ten minutes of chasing the mysterious figure, it led them to an opening, revealing a beach none of them had known about. The wind roared in their ears and lightning struck, flashing the world into bright illumination. In that moment, clear as day, the three boys saw a ship wrecked on the beach, and bodies spilling over the sand.”
Shock rippled through the accumulated witchers, and the trainees stared up at Keldar with wide eyes.
“One trainee braved the lashing rain, while the other two sprinted back up to gather the rest of the school,” Keldar intoned, leaning forwards. “By the time they’d all gotten down, the mysterious figure was gone, and Tobias was dragging a man from the wreckage by the armpits, screaming that there were survivors.”
“It’s me!” Ebert called, smirking, “I’m survivors!”
Stefan rolled his eyes, and Keldar sighed. “Yes, the three survivors recovered from the wreck were quickly revealed to be Crane witchers. They all survived with our help; you’ll be glad to hear.”
Kiyan let out a deeply overdramatic sigh of relief, swooning sideways into Aiden.
Aiden put his head in his hands and groaned.
Keldar gestured to Stefan with a smile, and Stefan cleared his throat. “The Crane tale starts on a ship,” he began grandly, then relaxed almost immediately. “We were on a training expedition, and got a little too close to some sirens.”
Several witchers winced or cursed in sympathy.
“We were too busy fighting them off to notice the trainees getting enchanted, but a mysterious man appeared — pulled ‘em back and knocked ‘em out before they could jump overboard again,” Stefan said, then grinned. “We only saw his back, but he had black hair.” He turned to Merten and Leocadie. “Aren’t I just the best storyteller?”
“Riveting,” Leocadie said drily, sending a ripple of snickers through the hall.
“Well, for our part it really wasn’t very similar,” Merten said, shrugging. “We started finding dead monsters with bits of parchment stuck to them, saying they were found near the keeps. It was a little weird, and very confusing, but we figured it was probably a repentant higher vampire or some shit,” he continued. “And then notes started showing up inside the keeps, about cave collapses and how certain places currently had really bad opinions of witchers. That was around the time we started to get concerned.” Merten scratched his beard. “Both keeps had been getting the notes and we couldn’t even smell the intruder, but they’d not done anything but be useful, so we weren’t overly worried.”
“How you managed to be so uncaring about being repeatedly invaded, I will never understand,” Ivar grumbled, crossing his arms.
Merten shrugged. “Anyway, eventually it came to a head when I woke up to frantic knocking on my room door, and when I opened it a witcher was lying propped against the opposite wall with most of a leg torn off. There was a note stuck to them that said they’d been attacked by a Frightener.”
“A Frightener?” Tobias blurted out, eyes wide. “Fucking hell, the man’s lucky to be alive!”
“Yes,” Leocadie said quietly, “yes I am.”
“Oh shit,” Ivar said, “it was Leocadie? ”
Merten smiled grimly, eyes hard as flint. “Yes, so excuse me for not hating Sant y Kaerath overly much, all things considered. ”
Ivar bowed his head slightly, though he’d never admit it if you asked him.
Leocadie weathered the stares, trying vainly to keep their mind off the silver-plated steel leg hidden under their trousers. The Wolf’s mages had, admittedly, helped a lot with the leg itself, but its existence still burned and ached in ways they couldn’t explain (not least of which was the physical pain itself).
“Anyway!” Stefan said brightly, forcibly dragging the focus back onto him. “We all met up a while ago because the mages wanted to talk, and ended up discovering that all of us had these things happen. I made a joke about their being a Saint up there looking out for all us poor witchers, and then, well…” He shrugged helplessly. “It stuck?”
“Whether or not they’re ‘up there’, I’m not sure,” Keldar rumbled, “but they’re certainly here, and that’s what matters.”
“I wanna hear about Leocadie’s fight with the monster!” one of the younger trainees piped up. “It sounds cool!”
Leocadie tensed, and Merten frowned.
Ivar stepped in quickly. “Oisin, when you asked Master Warrit about his eyes, do you remember what he said?"
Oisin shook his head vigorously.
“He said he didn't want to talk about it and then threw you in a horse trough,” one of the other trainees said, snickering.
"Oh, right," Oisin said, unrepentant.
"It's the same situation here," Ivar said, half praying for patience. "People often don't like talking about permanent losses."
Oisin frowned. “But I’m not asking about their leg, I’m asking about the monster.”
Ivar glared at a wall. "If Leocadie says they don't want to talk about it, don't ask."
"But Master Leocadie didn't say that," Oisin protested.
One of the other trainees pointed wordlessly at Merten, who had put his hands over Leocadie's ears and was singing quietly.
"Do you think maybe Master Leocadie can't say anything?" The other boy asked.
"Well then," Oisin looked frustrated, "then they should say that!"
Viktor leaned over and hit him as hard as he could in the shoulder, frowning.
"What? "
"Oisin!" Ivar snapped, fed up. "Stop talking or leave."
"But-"
"No. "
Oisin glared at him and Ivar glared right back, perfectly certain that he would win.
Viktor seemed to make the decision for him, standing and grabbing his wrist. "Library."
Oisin glared at Viktor too, for a moment, then stood up and followed him out.
Ivar dropped his head onto one palm. "Fucking children," he muttered.