Chapter 56: THE THIRD GIFT
"Try again."
Vesemir's voice carried across the training yard. Lambert stood opposite me, arms crossed, smirking.
"This is ridiculous," the younger Witcher said. "He's not going to be able to—"
"Raise your left arm."
The command carried weight—not the desperate explosion of the courtyard, but controlled, directed. Lambert's left arm rose without his permission. His smirk faded.
"Shit."
"Let it go," Vesemir instructed.
I released the compulsion. Lambert's arm dropped to his side.
"How does it feel?" Vesemir asked him.
"Weird. Like my body decided to do something without asking my brain." Lambert flexed his fingers, checking for damage. "Not painful. Just... wrong."
"Try again. Stronger resistance this time."
Lambert set his jaw, clearly focusing. I gathered the power—easier now, after hours of practice—and spoke.
"Take three steps backward."
He resisted. I felt it as pressure, his will pushing against mine. For a moment, we were locked in silent battle.
Then he stepped back. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Dammit." Lambert shook his head. "I was really trying that time."
"Your resistance is stronger than average," Vesemir observed. "Witcher mutations may provide some protection. But the command still took hold."
"One per person per hour," I said, reciting what we'd learned. "Any more attempts just slide off. Strong wills resist partially—some commands don't work at all on determined targets."
"What happens if you try to command self-harm?"
"Doesn't work. I tested on myself—told myself to bite my tongue hard. Nothing happened." I shrugged. "There seem to be ethical limits built into the power. Or psychological ones."
Yennefer approached from the fortress, her expression thoughtful. "Voice of Command is linked to truthfulness in most accounts. The elves who wielded it couldn't use it for deception—only statements they believed were right."
"Which explains why it manifested when I was telling Geralt the truth about us." The pieces clicked together. "I needed him to hear me. Really hear me. And the power responded."
"Convenient." Vesemir's voice was dry. "A magical ability tied to personal conviction. What happens when your convictions change?"
"I don't know. This is all new."
Geralt found me in the library that evening.
He looked tired—the bone-deep exhaustion of someone who'd spent hours thinking about things they'd rather not think about. He sat across from me without invitation.
"I talked to Yennefer."
"And?"
"She loves you." The words came hard. "Or she's falling in love with you—she wasn't entirely clear. Either way, it's real. Not a spell, not manipulation. Just... feelings."
"I love her too. Or I'm falling." I set down the book I'd been failing to read. "Geralt, I didn't plan any of this."
"I know." He rubbed his face with one hand. "The wish bound us, but you're right—it didn't dictate what that binding means. I've spent years assuming Yennefer and I were... inevitable. That destiny made the choice for us."
"And now?"
"Now I'm realizing that destiny is just the starting point. What we do with it—that's choice." He met my eyes. "She chose you. I can accept that. Eventually."
The word "eventually" stung, but I understood.
"Don't use that power on me again," Geralt added. "Ever."
"Never deliberately. I swear on Ciri's life." The most binding oath I could think of. "I didn't even know I could do it until it happened."
"Where did it come from? All of your abilities—where do they originate?"
I offered the same partial truth I'd given before. "I woke up with powers I didn't ask for. They've grown over time, manifesting new aspects as I developed. The songs, the healing, the fear—and now this. Command through voice."
"You woke up with them. When?"
"About thirteen years ago. Before I met you."
Geralt processed this. "Something changed you. Transformed you into... whatever you are."
"Yes." True enough, if incomplete. "I don't fully understand it myself."
"But you're still you. Still the annoying bard who followed me into danger and sang songs that changed my life."
"Still me." I almost smiled. "The annoying part especially."
Silence stretched between us. Uncomfortable, but not hostile.
"Brothers," Geralt said finally. "That's what you called us in the courtyard."
"Because that's what we are. Blood doesn't make family, Geralt. Choice does. We chose each other years ago—you by tolerating me, me by refusing to leave. That hasn't changed."
He considered this. Then, slowly, he extended his hand.
I clasped it. Witcher grip—firm, honest, direct.
"Brothers," he agreed. "Even when I want to strangle you."
"Especially then."
Ciri brought me a hot drink later, when I'd retreated to a corner of the great hall. She sat beside me without asking permission.
"Everyone's been acting weird," she said. "Something happened while you were gone."
"Adults make things complicated. Try not to copy us."
"That's not a real answer."
"It's the best one I have right now." I sipped the drink—some kind of herbal tea, slightly too bitter. "Thank you for this."
"You looked like you needed it." She studied my face. "Are you okay?"
"Getting there. Some changes happened, and we're all adjusting."
"Changes." Her eyes narrowed. "Like the way you and Yennefer look at each other?"
Nothing got past this child.
"Yes. Like that."
"Good." Her response surprised me. "You make each other smile. That's rare around here."
I laughed despite everything. "You're too observant for your own good."
"It's a survival skill." She grinned. "Besides, Geralt will get over it. He always does."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're family. And family forgives." She stood, patting my shoulder with the confidence of someone twice her age. "Try to sleep tonight. You look terrible."
"Thanks. Really."
She left me alone with my terrible tea and my complicated feelings, and somehow, both seemed more manageable than before.
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