Chapter Text
March 1273
Ciri rolled over, coming groggily to consciousness as whoever was in her bed slipped carefully out from under the sheets. “Mm?” she inquired, prying an eye open. Nilfgaard, her bedroom there-- oh! Luliana!
It was Luliana standing beside her bed, her gauzy white chemise showing a tantalizing hint of the dusky skin of her glorious breasts as she sorted out the waistband of her drawers and pulled them on. “Mmm,” Ciri sighed appreciatively.
“I told you I had to be up early today,” Luliana said, but leaned in to kiss her fondly. Ciri put her arm out and tried to pull Luliana back into the bed, to make love to her again. Luliana laughed, and kissed her, but wriggled free. “I don’t have time, darling,” and the endearment sounded so lovely in Nilfgaardian; this was a new way to experience the language. “I do have to go do work. But you could sleep another two hours, if you liked.”
“Mmm,” Ciri said again, a little wistfully. She managed to form some words. “Not the same without you here.”
Luliana’s laugh was a shimmer of pure beauty, husky with sleep and bright with affection. “No, but I still take my work seriously,” she said, “and that was the deal.”
“That is the deal,” Ciri agreed solemnly, remembering. She sighed, and yawned, and sat up, noting with satisfaction that Luliana could not help but look at her naked torso as she stretched her arms. “But later, perhaps.”
“Mm, we do not both have free time until this evening,” Luliana said, “but there is some then. You, beloved, are visiting your family again today, squeezed in between the various Trade Corporation meetings, so you have that to look forward to. But I advise you to get a little more sleep now while you can.”
Ciri yawned. “Maybe,” she said, and watched Luliana dress herself efficiently, and then leave, pausing to blow a kiss back from the doorway.
Absolutely as soon as she was able, Ciri would get Kalia to order Luliana some more lingerie from the shop that had made the silk stockings. Some cute little camisoles, in colors to set off Lu’s lovely coloring-- maybe some bright jewel tones, silk would be vibrant and bright like that, and some matching drawers with lace, maybe. If Lu wasn’t comfortable being naked with the lights on, she should at least have some cute and ever-briefer garments to wear instead.
But first… Ciri stretched again and cracked her neck, rolling over the side of the bed. First, she would visit the stables. She had been spending too much of her free time away, on distant adventures. But Nilfgaard was to be her home, and she should have some fun here.
So she brushed her hair enough that it wasn’t obvious she’d been rolling around in bed with someone, threw on her disreputable, utilitarian riding leathers for the comfort and scandal of it, and drank enough strong tea to get her out the door and down to the stables.
The usual stablemaster wasn’t there, but one of the stablehands ran eagerly over to help her.
“M’lady! You have blanket permission to use any of Voorhis’s string, yeah?” the girl said, clearly excited at the prospect. It was likely Voorhis owned most of the best horses in this stable, Ciri had marked it before.
“Do I?” Ciri asked, a bit surprised by this information. Well, it stood to reason, but. Most of the times she’d been on horseback here, it had just been the same lovely, very well-mannered gray charger she’d ridden the whole way from Temeria, which she did know belonged to Voorhis. She’d ridden horses of Emhyr’s a time or two, as well, and had rather expected to do the same now.
The girl nodded. “You’re the Crown Princess, yeah?” As if there was any doubt.
It struck Ciri then with great force that she had so rarely heard a lower-class Nilfgaardian accent, but this surely was one. Charmed by the girl’s utter lack of manners, she said, “Yeah!”
“Then I know you always ride Rheydin but I really think you should try Orfeio,” the girl said.
“Why do you think that?” Ciri asked. Rheydin was the gray charger’s name. She quite liked him; he was a lot of horse, but unassumingly so. Wouldn’t do as a mount for a Witcher, he was too big and needed too much food, but he was so earnest and athletically-gifted it was hard to dislike him. He didn’t have a great deal of sense, but that was sort of key to a war-horse-- he’d run off a cliff if you asked him to, or into a wall of pikes, and it was sad but true that this was what mounted warfare often required. And if you pointed him at a fence by the Gods he would jump it, even if he ought to refuse it.
“Well, everyone knows you’re a great rider,” the girl said, as if this were a frequent and self-evident topic of conversation. “And Orfeio’s got a lot of energy, and Voorhis was complaining he hasn’t had time to really devote to working with him. And I bet you could really give him a run.”
“What’s Voorhis doing instead of working with him?” Ciri asked, though she knew-- he was too busy running meetings and getting tortured, obviously. “Well, I suppose he’s not here.”
“Oh, he’s here this morning,” the girl said brightly. “It’s been ages, but he said he’d run mad if he didn’t get some horse time. But he’s working with that destrier of the Emperor’s, the one that threw the Witcher. He threw one of us, too, Borie, and broke his arm, and Flitter says none of us are to ride him until Voorhis says so. So Voorhis is working with him this morning.”
“I want to ride that one,” Ciri said.
“Well,” the girl said, with a flash of amusement, “you can’t, unless you can go knock Voorhis off him.”
“Maybe I will,” Ciri said, and took the girl’s direction to the east ring, where apparently Voorhis was working with this creature.
She followed the sunrise, which was just starting to really adorn the eastern horizon, and sure enough found the east ring occupied. The stablemaster was leaning on the fence there, which explained why he hadn’t been there to greet her when she’d come in. He was watching the rider in the ring. The rider was on a large horse, swinging around the far end of the ring’s sandy expanse at a measured canter. Several other stablehands were leaning on the railing in a few places, all watching raptly. She came up behind the stablemaster-- Flitter, she thought his name was; a strange nickname but she’d never heard him called by any other name, and the girl had used it just now-- and leaned on the fence.
“Is that the horse that threw Geralt?” she asked.
Flitter started slightly, not having heard her approach, and swore with an oath she’d never heard before but from the root word could guess was obscene rather than profane. He caught himself. “Pardon,” he said, and she waved that off. “Yeah, that’s-- I’ll have you know this one came to us as a bit of a disaster, we didn’t train him up in-house.”
“Beautiful animal,” Ciri said, and she could recognize Morvran now, easy in the saddle, hands low, seat perfect, heels down, head turned gracefully as he guided the creature around the corner. He was in shirtsleeves despite the morning’s chill, and as the horse passed she noted that the glossy bay coat was thoroughly damp with sweat. They’d both been working hard for a while.
“Insane animal,” Flitter said. He flipped over a piece of fabric that was draped over the fence. It was a black jacket, simple in cut, coated in dirt-- recognizably the sand of this ring. “Threw Voorhis twice this morning, which let me tell you is no mean feat, I don’t think a horse has thrown him in years except maybe on the battlefield.”
“Wow,” Ciri said, frowning. She was a good rider, it was true, but she’d be the first to admit that most of her skill was based in her mastery of her own balance, rather than from any deep understanding of horsemanship. She knew how to handle an animal, but wasn’t sure she’d look so collected riding a horse that had just thrown her twice. But Voorhis didn’t even look frustrated; his jaw wasn’t tight and he was moving fluidly, attentive to the horse’s stride.
“What makes Voorhis very good,” Flitter said, “is that he understands horses. He knows why he was thrown and he knows how to teach the horse not to do that again.”
“So he trains the horses,” Ciri said. She’d heard some discussion of that, but hadn’t truly paid enough attention. It stood to reason-- she had noted he’d begun their ride down from Temeria on a half-trained scrap of a filly who by the time they’d arrived in Nilfgaard some weeks later had been mannerly as an old saddle-pony, but she hadn’t devoted a great deal of thought to the matter.
“Oh yeah,” Flitter said. Morvran had completed the circuit of the ring, and had drawn the horse to a stop, fairly near to them. The creature did not stop smoothly, but shook its neck, tossed its head back, then dropped its head sharply and crow-hopped sideways. Morvran kept his seat effortlessly and wrestled the horse back under control by what must have been brute force but managed to look like a fairly light touch.
“None of that,” Morvran said calmly but firmly, jaw tight. “None of that.”
The horse turned in a circle, prevented from any greater movement by the way Morvran was holding its head. It took a moment, but the horse ran out of options and finally stopped and stood, blowing awkwardly, eyes rolling a little.
“Better,” Flitter said.
“Ha,” Morvran answered humorlessly, not looking at him. “Easy now, friend,” he went on, his voice low and steady. “I’m letting go now. Be easy.” He released the reins slowly, and the horse shook its head at the freedom, but stayed still. He nudged it with one leg, pulling the same rein to make it turn, and it obeyed readily enough, setting out at a walk where he steered. They walked around the ring for a moment, half a lap, and then Morvran steered the horse to go diagonally across the ring. There were obstacles in the center, long straight beams placed perpendicular to the path in a regular pattern. Morvran’s posture didn’t betray any particular effort but she could see mostly by the tension in his jaw and across the backs of his shoulders that he was exerting some pressure on the horse to guide him.
The horse was clearly meant to step over the beams; they were set at a reasonable stride length. Equally clearly, the horse did not want to do this. He tried to veer around them, abortively, but Morvran’s pressure somehow deepened, and after less than a breath of hesitation the horse walked over the beams, easily matching his strides to step between them without knocking them with his hooves. On the far side, Morvran visibly eased up on his tension and patted the horse effusively on the shoulder. “Good boy,” he said, warm and enthusiastic. “Oh, such a good boy. I know that was hard and you did it, you clever fellow. Good, good boy.”
“Very nice,” Flitter called out appreciatively, and a couple of the stablehands applauded, a little smattering of noise that did not startle the horse. At least the animal seemed accustomed to an audience. To Ciri Flitter said, lower, “That was one of the places he threw Morvran just a bit ago.”
“Now, again,” Morvran said, briskly, and nudged the horse up to a trot. He sat the bouncy gait easily, of course, rising in the stirrups on alternate strides. He had his stirrups shorter with this light hack saddle than one would in a proper war saddle on an armored horse, and clearly spent more time risen in them than one would while armored. The horse very clearly wanted to speed up, but Morvran held him back, firm but gentle. “We’ll be all right,” he said to the horse. “Easy now, patience.”
He came around past them and the sun had cleared the roof of the nearby outbuilding, so it caught the edge of his face, bright over his cheekbone, catching unexpected red highlights in his dark gold hair, which was rather more disheveled than she normally saw it. He had dirt across his face on one side. She’d seen him in shirt sleeves before, taking his exercise in the practice rings where the soldiers sparred and drilled, but she was so used to seeing him in the lightly-padded, shaped fashions of court that it was strange to notice the natural breadth of his shoulders, the wiry strength of his arms, the slenderness of his torso…
Well, she was clearly in a bit of a mood from last night; she shook it off as he passed, and did not let herself admire the fit of his trousers over his long thighs.
He did not glance at them as he passed, his attention keenly focused on the horse as they came up to the corner and he turned it to take the other diagonal across the ring. The horse did not want to turn, he wanted to follow the fence, and trotted sideways in resistance as Morvran cued him, but he did not haul at the reins, did not saw at the horse’s mouth, he just somehow sank deeper into the saddle and just-- exerted force, somehow, palpably but not visibly, except perhaps in the way the muscles bunched in his back where his shirt was stuck to him with sweat and mud.
The horse’s path wavered and straightened, and they made it to the beams, and again there was a gliding breath of hesitation, and then the horse’s hooves landed, safely, evenly, between the beams, one after another, strides altering only slightly in length and doing so smoothly to allow for the obstacles.
He struck the last beam with a hind hoof and bolted forward, but before he could get more than a stride Morvran had him pulled up, under control, settled.
“Easy, boy,” he said, low and firm, “easy,” and let him out, and the trot resumed, the horse tossing his head but continuing. Morvran let up the tension on the reins and patted the shoulder again. “Good, very good,” he said.
“That is a beautiful animal,” Ciri said admiringly, as Morvran cued the horse up to a canter again. The horse was tall, beautifully-proportioned, and so dark a bay as to be almost black, his body long and graceful, his limbs sturdy but not thick. There was a delicate arch to his neck, and a lovely smooth tapering line to his face, and his quarters were promisingly thick with lean muscle.
“Yeah,” Flitter said, “he’s pretty all right, but he was bred up and trained just to look good. Nobody taught him what to do with all that leg. He can’t get his feet under him for anything challenging, and he scrambles and panics and if you’re not a damned smart rider he’ll kill you and himself.”
“Is he a recent acquisition?” Ciri wondered. Morvran guided the horse gently around the outside of the ring, keeping the canter even and measured, speaking low and steady as the horse listened to him, looking more comfortable now. He circled the horse around the far end in a loop that avoided the beams in the middle and reversed the horse’s direction, and then cued a lead change. The horse refused at first, awkwardly running with his body curved toward the outside, but Morvran calmly repeated the cue, easing the weight of his body behind it, and the horse finally changed leads and settled into a smooth, beautiful canter the other direction.
Flitter wavered a hand, indicating neither yes nor no. “He came in while Voorhis was still away with the war stuff,” he said. “A gift, or tribute, or somesuch, I don’t recollect. But he’s young and wasn't well-broke to start with, and then whoever rode him all the way here didn’t teach him any good habits to say the least, and he just hasn’t ever learned anything useful.”
The horse and rider passed them, close enough that the wind of their movement stirred Ciri’s hair. Morvran was still absolutely focused on the horse, and she didn’t think he’d noticed her at all, or any of the watchers besides Flitter.
“So this is the one that threw Geralt on the steeplechase course,” she said.
“Yeah,” Flitter said, and grimaced. “Voorhis had ridden him over that course three days before and figured he was confident enough to do it, but-- it wasn’t the Witcher’s fault, Voorhis hadn’t realized how much the horse was relying on him knowing the jumps and cueing him. Geralt didn’t know the course so he couldn’t give him that kind of help, and they just weren’t a good match for it.”
“Good, good,” Morvran was saying as they completed another circuit, patting the horse’s shoulder. Ciri hadn’t caught what he’d made the horse do that he was giving out praise for, but the horse shook his mane and kept moving.
“Poor fellow has a lot of very bad habits,” Flitter said. “But he’s a beautiful animal, and very valuable, and his temperament’s not bad. Intact, too; it’d be a shame not to be able to use him for breeding, just because he hasn’t been taught how to behave. He just needs some firm knowledgeable handling.”
Morvran drew the horse gently to a halt, and this time the horse slowed, then stopped smoothly. The horse tossed his head, and came up short against the piece of harness connecting his chin to his breast-- a martingale like that was used for several purposes but one was to curb some horses’ terrible habit of smashing their head backward into their rider’s face, and Ciri wondered how many riders he had injured that way, if any. Morvran did not flinch, clearly trusting the harness. “Wait,” he said firmly. “Easy, now.”
“How is he around mares?” Ciri asked, knowing that was a common problem area for poorly-trained studs.
“He could have better manners in general, but he’s not unmanageable,” Flitter said. “As I said, he’s not bad from the ground, just awful to ride.”
“A damned shame,” Ciri said. “He’s so lovely!”
“Head-shy as anything, though,” Flitter said regretfully; “someone beat him, which never helps.”
Ciri clicked her tongue. “That’s no good,” she said. “The poor thing.”
“Well,” Flitter said, “he’s a salvage project now.”
“I’m glad he’s getting a chance,” Ciri said.
“If things don’t work out in politics for our Voorhis, he could just do this for a living,” Flitter said a little wistfully.
Ciri laughed. “I see that,” she said.
At her laugh, Morvran’s head twitched around, and he looked at them. “Oh,” he said, “good morning, Princess.”
The horse had pricked his ears at her laugh as well, and Morvran laughed and gave him his head. The horse came over to the fence, snuffling eagerly at her, reins slack so he could do as he pleased.
“He does like ladies,” Flitter said. “He’s less fond of adult men, but women and boys he likes.”
“Unfortunate, for me,” Morvran said. “But I flatter myself he’s coming around.”
“I want to ride him,” Ciri said, fondling the soft inquisitive nose and letting him investigate her face and chest with his whiskers.
Morvran grinned at her. “You can,” he said, “but he’s tired now, I think you’d have more fun if he were fresh. Come back the day after tomorrow, and he’ll be all yours.”
“That’s a good offer,” Ciri said. “I like that offer.” Satisfied, the horse had presented his head, and she gave his forehead a good scratching under his sweaty forelock, and then set to work on one of his ears, which made him groan and lean into the fence to get to her.
“In the meantime,” Morvran said, “could I persuade you to try out one of my horses? Since you’re here.” Somehow, though this was the kind of tone he often adopted with her-- a bit sly and diffident-- it felt more genuine and much warmer than it normally did when she encountered it.
“The stable girl was very keen that I should ride Orfeio,” Ciri said.
“Yes,” Morvran said, brightening, “that’s the one I’d thought to see if you liked. I know you got along fine with Rheydin, but Orfeio’s a little smaller and a little, hmm. More daring, perhaps. And since you don’t need quite so much weight-bearing capacity, I thought you might enjoy going a little lighter and faster over the ground.”
Ciri scratched the horse’s ears for a moment, noting that Morvran was scratching the base of the mane too. “General Voorhis,” she said, “have you been observing me?”
He met her gaze, caught between alarm and amusement, and she grinned to let him know which side he should come down on. Hesitantly, he smiled. “It is my job, milady.”
Flitter made a faint noise of protest, and she laughed. “Just your job, hm?”
“I,” Morvran said, uncertain, “well.”
She grinned up at him. “Never mind that,” she said. “If I ride Orfeio, will you join me on a fresh mount, and let this poor fellow have a rest?”
Morvran rubbed some of the dirt off his face. “I’d be delighted,” he said, a cautious, hopeful little smile creeping across his expression.
“Stay on that fellow to cool him for a few minutes and I’ll get Dancer saddled for you,” Flitter said, pushing away from the fence. “Ride him back to the barn and hand him off to Alia, she started this and she can walk him the rest of the way cool.”
Geralt had told her that Morvran’s feet seemed injured, but he had danced the previous night. Not very much, not for very long, and not with her-- he’d danced with his mother, who had insisted. It had been very cute, Ciri had thought.
He wasn’t bad. She was warming up to him. For all he was a spymaster, he did seem to be surprisingly earnest, if you could catch him in a situation where he felt he could be. She’d need to observe him more, though, to be sure that he wasn’t putting this personality on as an act for her benefit, since she hadn’t liked the other ones he’d tried. This didn’t seem to be put on, this seemed-- to be really him.
She went back to the stable and found that indeed, Orfeio was a horse she could like very much-- a bit slighter and smaller, beautifully put-together, clean-limbed and bright-eyed and clever but not disagreeably so, he was a blood bay with black legs and muzzle, mane and tail, and just a tiny white star between his eyes; he was in gorgeous condition and bore no marks of ill-use, not even a rub-scar across his nose from a bridle. He was so well-groomed he fairly glowed, and he greeted her with pricked ears and great interest but no suspicion whatsoever. He had been well-treated all his life, and had excellent manners.
He wasn’t Kelpie, wasn’t the sort of horse Ciri could ride across worlds and through Hell itself, but he was a lovely animal, and eager to be put to hard work. He could be a Witcher’s mount, he was manageable in size and wouldn’t need so much feed. She helped the excited young stable lass get him saddled, and hopped up onto his back, and he fairly danced down the barn aisle, delighted at the prospect of a good run.
Outside, Morvran was somehow already waiting on a rangy blue-roan destrier with several scars down one shoulder and along her quarters on one side, clearly someone’s war-horse, but the scars were long-healed and she met Orfeio’s eagerness with energy of her own.
“Have you tried the steeplechase course here?” he asked, reining the horse about with one hand and a deft application of his heel; she wheeled obediently.
“Not yet,” Ciri said.
“I think you’re in for a treat,” he said, and his eyes were bright, his mouth curved in the most genuine smile she’d seen from him yet in their entire acquaintance.
“I think I am,” she said.