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A sword so sharp, her lips so sweet
“Do you swear that I am your true and lawful liege?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to serve me for all your days, until I depart the throne or death shall take you?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to serve with honor and chivalry, to protect the weak and defenseless, and to never undermine the kingdom, honor, or virtue of your queen?”
A small smirk, visible only to one. “I so swear.”
“Then with my sword,” Triss said, voice solemn as she lowered the shining blade to her lover’s shoulders, “I dub you Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg, Knight of Kovir.”
“I receive such blessings with honor,” Yennefer said, face almost glowing in the warm light of the hall. “And with the utmost gladness.”
And the newly dubbed Lady Yennefer took her lady’s other hand, the one holding the rose, and laid a kiss upon her ring of office.
If the kiss brushed the soft skin of the fingers the ring adorned, if it lingered perhaps a second too long…well. Triss was the queen, and no one else was close enough to see.
--
Five Years Earlier
Yennefer of Vengerberg had arrived at Triss’s court late one autumn evening and demanded an audience with the captain of arms to declare her intention to become a knight.
She was not dissuaded by the chamberlain’s repeated insistence that that was not how anything worked.
Luckily for her, as the argument rose in volume (as sparks began to twitch ever so subtly at Yennefer’s fingers), the captain of arms walked into the training yard (which Yennefer had plowed straight toward, forcing the chamberlain to follow behind her) and heard the commotion.
“I am a skilled fighter,” Yennefer said, back straight even as her muscles ached with the newness of their configuration. “I wish to become a knight.”
“I see,” the captain of arms drawled, brow cocked. “Are you from a noble family?”
Yennefer looked the woman straight in the eye and answered, “No.”
“Do you have the sponsorship of a noble?”
“No.”
“Have you arrived with an introduction, seal, or other endorsement from a member of the nobility?”
“No.” Each time Yennefer answered, the single syllable got sharper.
“Do you have, anywhere, in any kingdom, any noble or member of the gentry who can speak to your skills and your character?”
“ No .”
“Then why, exactly,” the captain drawled, “should you be granted an audience of any kind, much less the chance to become a knight.”
Yennefer’s eyes darted to the side, but no, only the most ignorant fool would’ve mistaken it for a sign of shame.
The next second, her arm whipped out.
Her dagger flew—struck a target. One all the way across the training field.
The captain of arms nodded. “Fair enough,” she said, eyebrows raised. Then she turned the full weight of her attention on Yennefer, a smirk tugging across her warm brown skin. “Then let’s see what you’ve got.”
--
That evening, Yennefer became Kovir’s newest squire. This was how it happened:
“Your Majesty,” the captain of arms said, sweeping into a bow as they entered the throne room.
“Announcing Captain Mara Petrovic and…company...” called the steward.
“Captain,” the queen acknowledged. Her voice and bearing were regal, but softer than those of many other rulers Yennefer had seen. Less aloof, less superior. Curious and even genial—the captain in particular, she greeted with a smile. She was wearing a beautiful dark red dress, heavy winter brocade gleaming under a fur-trimmed cloak in the softest ecru. Her crown was simple but elegant, its single glimmering stone hanging pendant-like on her forehead, an exquisite contrast to the lush, dark curls of her hair.
“Your Majesty,” Yennefer echoed. Her own bow was as elegant as she could make it, muscle memory less useful when her muscles themselves were so different from what they were mere weeks ago, when the motion of bowing no longer caused the pain she still instinctively braced for.
“Your Majesty,” Captain Petrovic said, “I present Yennefer of Vengerberg—your next squire.”
Yennefer’s eyebrows shot up before she could stop them— that was quite the claim to make to one’s liege.
But Queen Triss Merigold just laughed. (It was a very nice laugh.) “Is she, now?”
“She should be. Best fighter I’ve seen outside an army in years, and sworn to no one.”
“Indeed. And at whose recommendation does she come?”
Captain Petrovic cocked her head. “No one’s.”
Queen Triss did, in fact, blink. “You’re telling me you’ve brought me a complete unknown who just so happens to want to serve at my court—and who, unlike so many others who do, just so happens to have received sufficient training to do so?”
“Yes,” Yennefer cut in. Perhaps not the most politic move, but she’d never liked being talked over. “That’s exactly what she’s telling you.”
“Hmm. And why do you have such training, exactly?”
“Hunting.”
“You hunted with a sword?”
“My father served in Aedirn’s military,” Yennefer said, the words bitter on her tongue. “A common footsoldier, but skilled. He was worried about what might befall me, so he taught me all he knew.”
“And yet you do not approach Aedirn’s king?”
“Clearly not.”
The queen’s raised eyebrow was…eloquent.
“I have heard rumors of King Virfuril’s court. Of what might befall a young woman there.”
The queen grimaced. “Fair enough. But still, your circumstances are far from usual. Why should I believe that you are not a spy?”
“If I were a spy,” Yennefer drawled, “I’d have a recommendation.”
“Hmm.” Triss’s eyes darted over her, appraising. Assessing. “Fair enough.”
--
Yennefer’s induction into the rank of squire was quick and to the point, just like the captain of arms. Mara Petrovic, she came to learn, was also known for her martial skill, her full-bodied laughter, her overwhelming fondness for strawberries, and her strict enforcement of dueling protocol. She was a middle-aged woman, silver running through her hair and scars running across her face, and she was the best fighter that Yennefer had ever faced.
(Sorceresses, after all, were hardly supposed to specialize in blades.)
Soon, her life had become an endless cycle of mornings and sword drills and duties and rest. The meals were hearty, but hardly the luxuries she had once been promised. The work was hard, and often painful, but it made her feel powerful in a way that even magic couldn’t match. To hit something and watch it fall. To slice someone and watch them bleed. To move her body and feel its strength where once there had been so much strain.
(She’d wanted to keep her old body, her old face. She’d changed them for power, in a last-second bid to reverse her fortunes and win the seat at Aedirn.
But it had been too last-second, in the end, and the position had gone to Fringilla.)
Even the pain made her body sing now, because this time it was her choice . It was such a cheap price to pay for strength—pain was nothing new to her.
Under Captain Petrovic, she took to the blade in a way she never had under the tutors at Aretuza (not that she’d told the captain anything but bullshit about her oh-so-caring father). Her blade sang through the air and her soul sang along with it. At this castle, no one locked her in her room at night, no one’s hand was withered for a lesson, no one’s friends were taken and pushed into a pool of shimmering water, never to be seen again.
(No one called her piglet . No one called her stupid or weak or crooked girl , and no one at all knew her past.)
As for Queen Triss, she took to her too—albeit in a very different fashion.
--
The first night Yennefer spent at Caer Rhedyn, she was seated with the other squires in the main dining hall. Such a placement wasn’t quite as annoying as Yennefer had expected; she had always had the images of squires as young boys, twelve or fourteen, scurrying after their masters and cleaning up after the horses. But of course, a knighting took virtue, mastery, and maturity (or so they claimed), so Yennefer, a few months past eighteen, wasn’t even the oldest squire. She wasn’t the only woman, either, and there were even a couple squires whose styling was androgynous in a way that suggested a pronouncement was being made.
The part of her seat that was most annoying? Her view of the queen.
Queen Triss was gorgeous. Her dark eyes gleamed in the torchlight, and her curls bounced gently as she laughed. And she did laugh, not in the spiteful or superior way Yennefer had heard from the nobles who passed through Aretuza, but genuinely. Bright. And loud in a way that Yennefer had spent so long unable to be herself.
It was infuriating, was what it was. Every time the queen let slip even the slightest giggle, Yennefer could feel her ears pricking up. Every time her eyes happened to catch the queen’s, Yennefer had to bite down a blush.
A blush! Her!
It was insulting, was what it was, even as the sage-hued satin of the queen’s dress made her freckles look like stars.
Yennefer very carefully did not stab her roasted mutton. She’d spent the whole afternoon stabbing things—that urge should have subsided.
It didn’t matter, anyway. She was there to become powerful in a way that wouldn’t send the Brotherhood looking for her, and to earn a knighthood and all the status that entailed. And really, she would probably rarely see the queen—aside from Calanthe, most royals held themselves far above their militaries, much less their squires.
So she’d occasionally see Queen Triss from afar and be stuck sighing, but really, that was all it would ever come to.
(More the fool she.)
--
Triss Merigold, Queen of Kovir, the Marigold, the Healer-Queen, was seldom one to stand on ceremony. Her family had ruled Kovir for generations upon generations, most of them from the court of Caer Rhedyn, but for all the tradition and protocol and courtly hierarchies she had grown up steeped in, she preferred to think of herself as closer to her people than most monarchs were to theirs. After all, Kovir was a harsh country, mountainous and snow-peaked and storming, and it engendered in its rulers—and its subjects—a stalwart practicality.
Surviving the brutal winters often required listening to those around her, and she saw no logic in pretending otherwise—neither had her parents, the late king and queen. So when her captain of arms marched into her throne room one day and announced that she was going to have a new squire, Triss knew that was probably what would happen. Unless she found something particularly objectionable, she trusted her captain of arms’s expertise.
Then, of course, “And at whose recommendation does she come?”
Captain Petrovic cocked her head. “No one’s.”
Well. That was at least somewhat objectionable. Especially when presenting oneself to be a squire—and, in time, to be a knight and enter the gentry. The lower gentry, yes, but still the gentry. Even an alderman or town headwoman would have been something .
Then again, it wasn’t as if Triss knew any of the aldermen in Vengerberg.
“Hmm. And why do you have such training, exactly?”
“Hunting.”
That, at least, was a bold-faced lie, but Triss was willing to accept the answer that came after: “My father served in Aedirn’s military. A common footsoldier, but skilled. He was worried about what might befall me, so he taught me all he knew.”
That, at least, was plausible enough, and would make her father better than many. And yes, hunting could have taught this Yennefer of Vengerberg archery and honed her familiarity with blades, if not her swordwork.
But something about the young woman’s demeanor still rubbed Triss the wrong way.
“Why should I believe that you are not a spy?”
“If I were a spy,” Yennefer of Vengerberg drawled, “I’d have a recommendation.”
“Hmm.” That was quite probably true. Any spy sent by another kingdom—enemy or ally—would have been far more prepared. “Fair enough.”
Captain Petrovic saw potential in this girl. And Triss had never known a keener swordsmaster.
“Very well,” she said, mouth drawing into a well-practiced and regal smile—but welcoming, too. “The chamberlain will see you equipped and housed. Swear your oath, and join my court.”
Yennefer of Vengerberg bowed, elegant, and her hair poured down in a waterfall of the darkest brown. “Whatever oath you wish me to take, Your Majesty, I so swear it.”
--
Not long after that, Triss Merigold, Queen of Kovir, the Marigold, the Healer-Queen, found herself with a problem: she liked Yennefer of Vengerberg entirely too much.
Frankly, she still found that something sat wrong with Yennefer’s story, but quiet inquiries would take some time if they could be managed at all, and anyway, perhaps she simply had an unpleasant past and did not want to dwell on it.
Yennefer herself could not be further from unpleasant.
Or, well, no, that was completely untrue, but Triss found even Yennefer’s darker moods and cutting words charming, sometimes against her will.
There was a strength to Yennefer that Triss admired. A determination.
And if Triss had thought Yennefer of Vengerberg beautiful when they’d first met, the other woman dashing in a simple black tunic and well-trimmed trousers, that was nothing— nothing —compared to the first time Triss saw her fight.
It was the week before midwinter—some months since Yennefer had arrived, but Triss had been kept busy preparing Kovir for the winter—when the knights of her court organized a tournament. A way to beat back the winter chill and icy boredom, for a very physical definition of beat back.
Besides, Captain Petrovic, for all her skill as a soldier, loved few things better than watching duels.
Triss was in attendance, of course, both for morale and because she knew very well that she needed to take her entertainment where she could find it. Kovir was far north, after all, and even her winter palace was nestled deep within the snow and pine forests of the midlands. Her court was not exactly well-traveled this time of year.
She had settled herself into the throne at the edge of the indoor tourney hall—after all, it wasn’t as if they could conduct a tournament in twelve feet of snow—a half-empty glass of mead sparkling at her side, when the squires paraded in.
Triss would never again complain of winter boredom so long as Yennefer kept fighting while looking like that . Her armor was her own—not the old pieces they set aside for the squires—plate at the shoulders and chest shadowing the chain mail over her stomach. The metal gleamed in the light, protected her shoulders, her hands, her heart. Her golden-brown tunic highlighted the armor without drawing too much attention to itself. Her trousers were ink black, her graves shining, her boots supple leather.
Her long, raven-dark hair had been pulled back into a careless braid, and Triss’s fingers itched to touch it.
Yennefer, as the newest squire, would be the first to fight and would fight the second newest, a young man by the name of Stjepan. The center of the floor cleared quickly as the two strode toward it, and the hall buzzed with the excitement of a hundred stir-crazy, snow-crazy people finally having something to do —and even better, a fight to watch.
“Salute!” Captain Petrovic called—her grin was maybe the widest in the room.
Yennefer and Stjepan saluted with well-drilled precision, then swiped their swords down and slid into their stances.
Triss leaned forward in her seat; the anticipation in the room was almost audible as Captain Petrovic raised her hand higher, higher, then called out: “Fight!”
It was beautiful. And it was over quickly. Yennefer’s sword danced through the air with clear skill as she swept in, forward, around, circled Stjepan’s blade with her own—and forced it out of his hands.
Without noticing, Triss gasped—the whole fight had taken maybe two seconds. She’d known that Yennefer must have had some prior training, for Captain Petrovic to want to take her on without a single reference, but this was far and away better than the usual standards of their newest squires.
Yennefer’s smirk was as sharp as her blade, and as the next match started, Triss leaned back into the cushions of her throne with a smile—it seemed she was in for a treat.
And a treat, Triss received. There had been skeptics when Captain Petrovic had taken Yennefer on—one noble-born squire had even had the gall to complain directly to Triss, as if he had forgotten that the queen was the one who made the decisions—but Triss felt confident those murmurs would soon cease. Fight after fight, Yennefer was a wonder to watch, and her presence made the squires’ fights far more interesting than they had been in years.
Many rounds later, Yennefer still reigned triumphant when the last squire match was about to begin—this one, her against the other undefeated squire, a young man named Luka who had served at Triss’s court for about five years. With the kind of training a peasant soldier could have mustered, Yennefer should have been easily outmatched—but that was clearly not expected to be the case, given the amount of money exchanging hands.
“Fight!” Captain Petrovic called, and they were on each other in a second. The first clash was loud and quick before both drew back in almost the same instant.
Yennefer dove in again, her blade a sweeping steel, as Luka did the same. Clash, then disengage—it quickly became a pattern, both of them testing each other’s skill. Yennefer darted in between the wide arcs of Luka’s sword.
And then—she doesn’t.
“Point to Luka!” Captain Petrovic shouted as Yennefer missed a feint and parried a second too late, taking a glancing stroke to the arm. Yennefer’s eyes flashed with annoyance, visible even from Triss’s throne.
And they flashed more and more as Luka built on his success. Feinting was clearly a strength of his, and he did so again and again. It was elegant and skillful—the feints were clean —and since he was the senior-most squire, Triss probably should’ve been rooting for him, but she absolutely was not.
Which was increasingly rough, frankly, as Luka gained the upper hand, steadily pushing Yennefer backward.
She fought back, regained ground but not steadily, and then—
Luka feinted again, and Yennefer didn’t spot it in time. She threw her sword against thin air while Luka’s twisted around hers, down toward the glittering mail of her stomach—
Only for Yennefer to kick out, fast as lightning—she hit Luka in the stomach and his sword went wide as he stumbled back and out of the dueling ring.
“What the hell kind of a dueling move was that supposed to be?” Captain Petrovic demanded.
It was probably stupid for Triss to be this impressed, and yet.
Captain Petrovic’s voice cut over the scandalized chatter of the spectators “Did I get press-ganged into a band of thieves when I wasn’t looking, or is this still a royal court?”
“Both excellent questions,” Luka muttered. His eyes were sharp and narrow, his voice low, but he was clearly not making an effort to go unheard.
For a second, it almost looked like Yennefer’s mouth had pulled into a sneer, but then—
Yennefer bowed almost to the correct depth. “My apologies. Reflexes.”
Captain Petrovic snorted. “Sure it was.” Then, turning to the crowd: “Luka wins for the squires!" Cheers went up and money exchanged hands.
But Triss was just close enough to hear the captain’s next words through the commotion: “A knight who can’t even stay controlled in a duel will only be a danger to their comrades. In the field or otherwise.”
“As you say, Captain,” Yennefer said. Carefully leashed defiance shone in her eyes.
Fuck . Triss was in so much trouble.
--
It was easy to keep falling, after that. Triss cursed her soft, crushing heart even as she kept finding chances to ogle Yennefer—and especially to watch her fight.
But Yennefer was one of her subjects. Yennefer had sworn to serve her, to follow her commands—to die for her, if necessary. When she became a knight—and it was beyond clear that Yennefer would become a knight soon enough—her oath of service would only be stronger and more binding.
And that was to say nothing of the idea of debt—of the fact that, ultimately, Triss would be the one who had allowed her to be elevated to the gentry, that Yennefer seemed to have no noble or noteworthy connections outside of Triss’s court. A word from Triss could ruin her even more easily than most of the squires.
Fuck .
But what else was Triss supposed to do, when Yennefer came to one of the rare balls squires could attend in a cloud of silver-shot black, looking like the most beautiful woman Triss had ever seen? Was she supposed to not fall further for Yennefer? Impossible.
And it became even more impossible when she was almost, almost sure that Yennefer was interested too. The way her eyes caught on Yennefer’s far too often for mere chance; the way Yennefer had smirked at her in that silver-shot dress, coy and inviting; the way Yennefer’s hand so carefully took her hand when Triss finally got up the courage to ask her for a dance.
It wasn’t improper. She’d danced with half the people at the ball. She took pride in the fact that, unlike so many lords, she got to know all of her squires and servants and retainers.
But none of the other people she’d danced with were Yennefer.
Fuck .
--
Yennefer grunted as she heaved her sword into position again, again, again—
Fuck forms and fuck stance practice, honestly. She’d hated them at fourteen, fresh to Aretuza, and she hated them at nineteen, a year into squirehood and far, far more experienced with them than she’d like to be.
Suffice to say, the shine had worn off somewhat, when it came to pain-free physical exercise.
But she only had another hour’s worth of drills to do, and then there would be a formal banquet. Normally, Yennefer found such affairs incredibly dull, but this time was different for two reasons: One, the guests were just a small retinue from Poviss, meaning the squires would be allowed to partake in the main festivities. And two…she’d seen the gown that Triss had ordered for the occasion.
It would be easier, Yennefer thought, swinging her sword more harshly, if only her feelings for Triss were mere aesthetic appreciation. But no, Triss had to go and be kind and humble and a skillful healer and a dry, smiling wit besides.
How dare she, really.
--
Yennefer hadn’t thought that her…feelings, ugh …for the queen would go anywhere. After all, she was the queen.
But as the months passed, they grew closer and closer. A sly, sweet smile here, a hand fixing her braid there, and it was so easy to let herself fall—even more so when the queen always had a moment for her, kept seeking her out even late into the night.
Which was how it happened. They were curled up in front of the hearth in the library, side by side as Triss explained the magical uses of healing herbs and Yennefer found the queen’s soft voice so sweet that she didn’t even mind that she already knew. And some of it she didn’t know, because Triss was a master of her craft. Even as the weight of her secrets pressed down on her, Yennefer leaned in closer, listening to the soft, gentle melody of Triss’s voice.
Then Triss’s hand brushed against hers, and Yennefer looked up to see that Triss had leaned in too and realized that she hadn’t heard anything about the properties of lavender, too absorbed in that beautiful voice, in the softness and deftness of the queen’s hands on the pages—
Their lips met.
Triss tasted like plum brandy and the candied pears they’d shared for dessert. They were the best thing Yennefer had ever tasted.
Then, as she leaned in to deepen the kiss—
Triss pulled away, her hands coming up to brace against Yennefer’s shoulders.
And before Yennefer could ask what was wrong—
The queen stood up and ran.
--
“We can’t, Yennefer. You’re sworn to my service. I’m your queen.”
“Everyone here is sworn to your service. You prefer the betrothal offer from Prince Philip of Redania? Taken a shine to Sir Mladen of Kerack?”
Yennefer knew very, very well that Triss had not. For reasons that only started with the fact that Prince Philip was sixty-three and Sir Mladen was an infamous lech.
“It is my duty to look at the potential of an alliance, whether I like a suitor or not.”
Yennefer snorted. “An alliance? You don’t need it. Your reign is strong, your peasants far too well-treated to revolt. And who would march around the mountains to invade? Poviss is one thing, yes, but we outnumber them three to one, and their king is hardly a strategic genius.”
Once again, Yennefer was proving her intelligence at a decidedly unhelpful time.
“My duty is to provide for my kingdom,” Triss said. She tried to stop her voice from wavering and failed.
“And you have! Better than any monarch I’ve ever seen!”
At last, a different topic— “And how many monarchs have you seen?”
“Than any monarch I’ve heard of, then.”
Triss didn’t call her out on the lie, even though it was yet another piece in the puzzle of Yennefer’s true past. “But Yennefer, even if we set the politics aside, our stations are too different. You’re not even a knight! I would be taking advantage—”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
With a snort, Triss said, “And how do you figure that, exactly? You swore to serve me so long as I sit on this throne, which I am planning to do for many, many years to come. At dinner, you cannot sit until I sit; in the halls, you must bow when I walk past; in training, you train to fight and die by my command. How, pray tell, is any of that equal?”
Yennefer’s chin rose, and somehow her violet eyes grew even more piercing. “I do not need to be your royal equal to know I love you.”
“I know that Yennefer, but—”
“I do not need a title. I need respect and I need autonomy and I need love—all three of which you have given me as a feast. You do not insult me, you do not condescend me, you do not force me to do anything I do not wish to do—bows included.”
“And you’re telling me that you— you —do not hate being forced into obeisance?”
“I would,” Yennefer agreed, and Triss could feel her breath catch in her throat—stupid, when it was her own question, but how could she not— “And I do. Luckily for us both, you have never forced me into obeisance. I bow because I respect you, and for no other reason.”
It wasn’t a rejection.
Triss could have cursed Yennefer, deep in her heart, that it wasn’t a rejection. Because if Yennefer wasn’t rejecting her, then she had to reject Yennefer.
“Even if I could accept that”—and she wanted to, gods , she wanted to—“there are still politics to consider. Nilfgaard has spent years marching north, Skellige raids our ships far too often, Kaedwen’s king is foolish and hungry for power.” Marrying for love was only for the luckiest of monarchs, and the need to secure a kingdom should always come first—this, Triss had always known. “However much I wish it, I cannot court you.”
Yennefer scoffed. “Who said anything of courtship?”
With a long, slow breath, Triss summoned all the gravitas she had learned how to speak with, and looked straight into Yennefer’s eyes. “If I were to be with you, Yennefer of Vengerberg, you would be courted as well as you deserve.”
Emotions flashed across Yennefer’s face, but they vanished before Triss could pick them out in the dim light. After a long moment, Yennefer spoke: “What if I don’t want to be courted?”
Triss swallowed back her tears. “Then that works out, as I cannot afford to court you.”
She had been wrong. A mutual rejection wasn’t easier at all.
--
The months carried on. Triss saw less of Yennefer—half purposeful avoidance, half the receding of the snow and bitter frost. As the knights trained outside more and more, it became far easier to simply be elsewhere—to work on correspondence when the squires were sent for lunch, to stay far away from the halls where Yennefer tended to pass.
It was hard.
It was hard, but the hardest part by far turned out not to be that she had been rejected, as she had first thought.
The hardest part was that she had been the reluctant one, that she could’ve had everything she dreamed of, if only she hadn’t insisted on courting.
(If only she hadn’t been queen. If only there hadn’t been the politics of it to consider. If only, if only, if only.)
She had wanted to say yes, she had wanted to let Yennefer convince her, and yet the idea of a true relationship had made Yennefer change her mind.
But she couldn’t avoid Yennefer forever—couldn’t even avoid looking at her across the dining tables, black tunic hanging loose across her shoulders, black dresses shimmering in the warmth of the hall.
It would have been easier if Yennefer had stopped looking back.
--
Life went on. A year passed. Captain Petrovic told Triss that Yennefer should be among the next group of knights to earn her knighthood.
That would be in two years, or thereabouts. Two years before Yennefer’s station changed—two years before Triss had to wonder if her own logic had.
(Two years for Triss to spend wondering anyway.)
--
“Your Majesty,” Captain Petrovic said.
Triss looked up from the pile of records and accounts spread out across her desk. Captain Petrovic had come to find her in her personal study, and while that might have just been a coincidence of timing, Triss rather suspected not. “Captain.”
“Your senior military staff would like to respectfully request that you and Yennefer of Vengerberg do something about your endless fucking pining.”
At that, Triss sat up straighter. Captain Petrovic hadn’t cursed at her since she’d been a teenager running through sword lessons and calling the captain Mara. “And by ‘your senior military staff,’ I assume you mean yourself?”
Captain Petrovic shrugged.
Triss took a deep breath and steeled herself. “I would love to, Captain. But I am afraid that is not up to me.”
The captain’s chuckles were, at least, kind. “If you ask her, I can basically guarantee she’ll say yes.”
Something in Triss’s throat burned. She just couldn’t— “She said no.” As had Triss.
Captain Petrovic paused, stepped closer. Rested her hands on Triss’s desk—hands that had guided a young Triss through sword forms and toasted to her coronation and, once upon a time, held her when she’d cried. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe— Well. I’m so sorry.”
Triss could feel her face twisting into a grimace. It was— Well. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“Yeah.” Captain Petrovic sighed. “Anyway, out of respect for your adherence to the codes of morals and chivalry, I won’t pound her ass into the dirt for the next week—”
“ Good .”
“But I was planning to crack open this blackberry wine I’ve been saving and have a night in. Keep me company? You could do with some good old emotional purging.”
“I’m not going to cry on you,” Triss said.
“It’s okay if you do. Sometimes life sucks, and sometimes what you really need is to get drunk and cry over a girl, believe you me.”
Triss couldn’t help the huff that escaped her. “I’ve always liked blackberry wine.”
Captain Petrovic smiled down at her, and just for a moment, Triss was fourteen again, and the captain would make everything okay. “That’s my girl.”
--
No more was said of it that month, nor for many months after, until December came and with it, the darkest depths of winter.
Triss’s subjects were, of course, all used to the harsh cold and the long nights—already preparation was underway for the solstice celebration, for the returning of the light. The castle had been recaulked and remortared and restocked and altogether winterized, and as with every winter, there was little to do but carry out the small, day-to-day tasks that comprised the survival of such a settlement.
Of course, that was what there was for the adults to do. Adults, after all, knew the perils of Kovir’s mountains, how it felt to walk outside and feel your breath try to freeze in your lungs, how to be careful so that they could survive to see the next spring.
Children, however much they were lectured on safety…practiced it less.
“Your Majesty!” a woman’s voice shouted, bursting into the throne room. “Your Majesty, you must help, it’s Petra, she’s—”
“What’s happening here?” the steward demanded, but Triss waved for him to subside.
The woman who’d burst in was one of the chambermaids, Marina, visibly distraught, with tears pouring down her face. “Petra’s gone out! Into the woods!”
Into the storm , then.
Triss forced herself to keep her royal composure, but on the inside, she was horrified. The storm had blown in two nights before and pounded relentlessly at the castle since—its winds howled, echoing through the whole of the castle, as the sky dumped foot after foot of snow upon them.
To send someone out into the storm would almost certainly be to condemn someone else to death. But Petra was six, too young to know better, and on Imbolc she’d curtseyed cutely and presented Triss with the prettiest daisy she could find.
“How long has she been gone?” Triss forced herself to ask.
“I don’t know,” her mother cried, “I just turned around and she was gone, and then the kitchen door was open, and her— her—”
In times like these, Triss wished more than anything that she’d gone to Aretuza. Members of her family never did, only learned what their family had always learned and developed their own personal specialties—Triss could heal the girl if she was brought back, but what good did that do when there was no way to find her.
“I’ll go,” Yennefer’s voice rang out.
Triss looked up, startled—for once, she’d forgotten Yennefer was there, taking her turn at ceremonial guard duty in the throne room.
“You can’t—” Triss said before she’d decided to, “You’ll freeze—”
“I won’t,” Yennefer said.
“Yennefer,” Captain Petrovic started, “in this kind of storm—”
“My daughter —”
“Enough!” Yennefer shouted. Her voice boomed artificially, impossibly loud. It felt like the room itself was holding its breath. Then: “I know magic.”
Sharp intakes of breath—one of them from Triss. Yennefer had served in her court for three years, and yes, Triss had known that her history didn’t add up, but there had been no hint of something like this .
“I can make portals. Bring me something of Petra’s and I can make one.”
Petra’s mother sobbed with relief, and Triss wanted to as well—she couldn’t, but it didn’t matter, because if this saved her from having to consign a child to death, she would pay almost any price.
Speaking of— “Will you be safe?”
“Hmm?” Yennefer asked, looking up from where Marina was solemnly, carefully handing Yennefer her daughter’s hair ribbon. Then, processing, Yennefer scoffed. “Of course I will.”
Portals were advanced magic for most, but hardly for all. There was no telling how much training Yennefer actually had, and while experience had taught Triss that Yennefer’s confidence was usually backed up by her skill, she couldn’t—
She couldn’t lose Yennefer. She just couldn’t.
“I’ll be back,” Yennefer said, and twisted her hands as the air twisted around her—
And then she vanished.
--
Triss had assumed that a portal meant Yennefer would be back nigh instantaneously.
Yennefer was not back nigh instantaneously. A minute passed, and then another, and then more, each one agonizingly slow, the tension in the room increasing with every moment.
Marina’s face grew heavier as time stretched on, as did Triss’s heart.
“She’ll be okay,” Captain Petrovic was telling Marina. “She has magic, she said, and your daughter’s strong.”
The minutes passed and the wind howled harder than Triss had ever heard in her life, harder than the coldest, deadliest blizzard.
From Marina, there came a single sob. That brought Triss back to her senses.
“If”— If , gods —“If they come back, we’ll need to be ready. I need my supplies, and I need every single way to warm someone that we can reasonably acquire.”
The stewards and other ceremonial guards jumped to attention, racing off.
That was something done. But Yennefer and Petra still hadn’t arrived.
Another minute passed. Maybe longer. A person could only survive so long in such a storm, and Yennefer hadn’t even stopped to grab a cloak, just portaled away in her armor, all that metal so very ready to take in the cold and trap it close to her skin—
A hint of movement. The air stirred and Triss held her breath as it circled—
Snow poured into the middle of the room. Snow and a figure with dark, wet hair and shining armor, a small bundle in her arms—
“Petra!” Her mother shouted, racing toward her daughter as Triss did, pulling her own magic to flow around her hands.
With bated breath, she reached out to sense the child’s life force. If it was too late—
It wasn’t. Triss could feel it. Petra was cold and half-asleep in Yennefer’s arms, probably incoherent, but as Triss laid her hands down across that tiny forehead, she said, “You’re going to be okay, Petra. It’s all going to be okay.”
--
Saving Petra’s life had not been a quick or easy task, but the castle had mustered every resource she could possibly need, and there was a reason that Triss was known as the Healer-Queen.
As soon as she finished, long into the night, she collapsed into her bed. Everything else could wait until morning.
--
In the morning, Triss was surprised—although, of course, she shouldn’t have been—to find Yennefer waiting inside her personal study. Yennefer, who seemed to have never avoided a confrontation in her life.
Triss stopped just inside the doorway and shut the door behind her. At this hour and in her personal study, they were alone.
“If you don’t stop me right this second,” Triss said, “then I am going to kiss you.”
Yennefer’s eyes widened, and something in Triss basked in the satisfaction of having for once caught her off guard.
And then she leaned in and made good on her promise.
Yennefer’s lips weren’t soft—they were chapped from last night, with the wind and storm, and the eternal cold of Kovir’s winters before that. They tasted of the beeswax balm Yennefer had used to treat them. And they were perfect.
By the time she pulled away, Triss was breathing heavily.
“Well,” Yennefer said. “That was quite a kiss.”
“If you don’t want to be courted,” Triss breathed, “then I won’t court you. But I was afraid you would die, and you didn’t, and so I will have you in whatever way you’ll let me.”
Yennefer, uncharacteristically, hesitated. “What about all of your moral qualms? Your marriage alliances?”
“I don’t care,” Triss said, and felt the truth of it rush through her. “You’re right, I was never going to marry any of those old men, I never wanted to. We’re both older, you’re established in my court, your position isn’t so weak. Anyone who tries to invade Kovir will die in our storms. But I will not lose you.”
Yennefer looks— Triss isn’t sure how Yennefer looks, but it must be an illusion, the moisture gathering at the edge of her eyes.
“Thank you,” Triss says from the bottom of her heart. “Thank you so, so much for saving her.”
With a swallow, Yennefer said, “Of course.”
Then, before Triss could speak, “You don’t need to marry for political power.”
Triss huffs out a shaky laugh, or maybe a sigh. “I know. I know, believe me.”
“No, listen— I’m Aretuza trained. I can bring you all the power you need.”
“What— No, you know what, we will talk about this later. Right now, Yennefer of Vengerberg, you need to kiss me again.”
A smile breaks across Yennefer’s lips. “If you’re very, very lucky, I might even let you court me.”
If Yennefer wasn’t going to stop smiling, then Triss would just have to do the kissing herself.
--
“Your Majesty,” Captain Petrovic said. “I, Mara Alianova Petrovic, do put forward the following candidates for knighthood: Luka Vidovic and Yennefer of Vengerberg.”
This is not a surprise, but nonetheless, Triss’s smile is radiant. Yennefer, behind the captain, looks so proud it borders on smug.
It’s an incredibly sexy look.
“I, Triss Merigold, Queen of Kovir, do accept your wisdom and your candidates. The knighthood ceremony shall occur at the midsummer feast.”
And then Yennefer will finally have the power, the respect, the status she craves. Once, Triss might have judged her for those desires, but with a childhood like that— No, Triss could never.
These days, she mourns what Yennefer had to go through—but she is so, so glad that Yennefer found her way to Kovir. To Triss.
“Rise, Luka Vivovic. Rise, Yennefer of Vengerberg. And ready yourselves to take your vows.”
--
“Do you swear to serve with honor and chivalry, to protect the weak and defenseless, and to never undermine the kingdom, honor, or virtue of your queen?”
A knowing little smirk crossed her face. “I so swear.”
“Then with my sword,” Triss said, raising it to anoint the woman she loved with all the honors that Yennefer deserved, “I dub you Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg, Knight of Kovir.”
“I receive such blessings with honor,” Yennefer said. She had never looked more beautiful. “And with the utmost gladness.”
Then Yennefer leaned in, and Triss’s whole arm tingled as Yennefer leaned in and oh so gently brushed her lips against the ring—Triss burned where those soft, soft lips touched her fingers, but this was not the time.
There would be plenty of other times. Soon she would be able to kiss Yennefer in front of the whole world.
Soon, Yennefer would declare her intention to court her queen. And soon, Triss would have the absolute honor of accepting.
But for the moment, Triss smiled down at Yennefer, at the woman she loved, a promise in her eyes: Later. Soon.
And as soon as the ceremony ended, as soon as they could justify disappearing—carefully separate—to their rooms, Yennefer found her way to her queen’s room, and Triss tasted her lips once more.