Chapter 49: TWO KINDS OF LESSONS
"Again."
Yennefer's voice cut through the training chamber like a blade. Ciri stood in the center of the room, hands trembling, sweat beading on her forehead.
"I can't—"
"You can. You're choosing not to." The sorceress circled her student, violet eyes assessing. "Power is not about wanting. It's about will. Control is not suppression—it's direction. Try again."
Ciri's face twisted with frustration. Energy built around her—visible now that she'd learned to see it, a shimmer in the air that I'd come to recognize as dangerous.
From my position near the wall, I watched and waited.
The explosion came without warning. Not outward this time—Ciri had learned that much—but upward, a column of force that shattered the chandelier above and sent crystal shards raining down.
Yennefer gestured. The shards froze mid-fall, suspended in chaos magic, then reformed into a perfect chandelier that floated back to its mounting.
"Better," she said. "You directed it. Now direct it somewhere useful."
"That's what I'm trying to do!"
"No. You're trying not to lose control. That's different." Yennefer crouched to meet Ciri's eyes. "Stop fighting your power. Start using it. When the surge comes, ride it—don't resist it."
Ciri's jaw tightened. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, and I saw her posture shift from resistance to... something else. Acceptance, maybe. Or surrender.
The shimmer built again. This time, when it released, Ciri's hand thrust toward a practice dummy in the corner.
The dummy exploded—intentionally, precisely, where she'd aimed.
"Better." Yennefer's voice held something that might have been approval. "Again."
Between Ciri's lessons, Yennefer conducted her other investigation.
"Play something," she said, settling into a chair in the library. Magical sensors surrounded me—invisible to normal eyes, but I felt them as pressure against my skin. "The healing song you use on Ciri."
I played the Healing Melody. The familiar power flowed through me, reaching outward without a target.
Yennefer's eyes narrowed in concentration. Her fingers moved through gestures I didn't recognize, analyzing, measuring, cataloguing.
"Stop. Now the fear one."
I shifted to the Terror Ballad—restrained, directed at nothing. The song echoed off stone walls, and even without a target, I felt the wrongness of it, the primal terror leaking into the air.
"Interesting." Yennefer leaned forward. "The signatures are completely different. The healing song resonates with life energy, but the fear song—it's touching something deeper. Primal psychology. The parts of the mind that existed before language."
"Is that useful information?"
"Not yet." She dismissed the sensors with a wave. "You don't use chaos. You don't have a source—no elemental connection, no Elder Blood, no demonic pact. It's like you're drawing power from nothing. From everywhere." Her violet eyes fixed on mine. "What are you?"
The question hung in the air between us.
I could lie. But lies weakened my power, and Yennefer was perceptive enough that she might notice. Half-truths, then. Careful arrangements of fact.
"I'm a bard whose songs have power." Each word chosen precisely. "The more people believe in my music, the stronger I become. When 'Toss a Coin' spread across the Continent, my abilities grew. When my reputation expanded, so did my reach."
Yennefer considered this for a long moment.
"Belief as a power source," she said slowly. "That's... unprecedented. The chaos mages draw from elemental forces. Druids channel nature. Even the Elder Blood connects to the Conjunction's residual energy. But belief?"
"I don't claim to understand it fully. I just know it works."
"And you discovered this—when? How?"
"About twelve years ago. Gradually, at first. Songs that moved people more than they should. Then healing. Then fear. It built over time, as my fame grew."
Her eyes searched my face for deception. I kept my expression open, honest—because everything I'd said was true. Just not complete.
"I'll accept that explanation," she said finally. "For now. But there's more you're not telling me."
"There's always more." I set down my lute. "We all have secrets, Yennefer. I'm entitled to mine."
Something flickered in her expression—respect, maybe. Or recognition.
"Fair enough. For now."
I found Ciri crying in the stables that evening.
She'd curled up in an empty stall, arms wrapped around her knees, tears tracking through the dust on her face. The horses shifted nervously nearby, sensing her distress.
I didn't speak. Didn't ask what was wrong. Just sat down beside her in the hay and waited.
Minutes passed. The horses calmed.
Eventually, Ciri leaned against my shoulder.
"I'm never going to be good enough," she whispered. "Yennefer expects so much, and Geralt wants me to be strong, and everyone keeps telling me I'm special, but I just feel broken."
"You're not broken." I kept my voice soft. "You're twelve years old and carrying the weight of kingdoms. Anyone would struggle."
"You don't struggle. Geralt doesn't. Yennefer definitely doesn't."
"We all struggle. We're just better at hiding it." I put an arm around her shoulders. "When I first discovered my powers, I was terrified. I thought I was going crazy, or cursed, or worse. I made mistakes that nearly got me killed. It took years—years—before I felt anything like confident."
"Really?"
"Really. And I didn't have a burning city in my memories, or an empire hunting me, or Elder Blood trying to tear me apart from the inside." I kissed the top of her head. "You're stronger than you know, Ciri. Give yourself time."
She was quiet for a while. Then: "Will you stay? Tonight? I don't want to be alone."
"Always," I said. "Whenever you need me."
Later, Yennefer found me in the great hall, playing soft melodies for no one.
"You're good with her." Her voice was thoughtful rather than accusing. "The child. You know how to reach her in ways I can't."
"Different approaches work for different things. You teach her control. I give her comfort." I set down my lute. "She needs both."
"Yes." Yennefer moved to stand beside me, watching through a window as stars emerged over the mountains. "Geralt chose well, when he claimed her. And when you did too, apparently."
"That wasn't choosing. That was destiny."
"Is there a difference?"
I didn't have an answer.
We stood in silence as I watched Yennefer watch Ciri—finally asleep in her bed, nightmares held at bay by songs I'd sung until my voice grew rough.
Something softened in the sorceress's expression. Almost against her will.
"She loves you," Yennefer said quietly. "Like a father."
"I love her too. Like a daughter."
"That kind of love is dangerous. It makes you vulnerable."
"Maybe. But it also makes life worth living."
Yennefer didn't answer. But she didn't leave, either.
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