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Ves had never met a woman like Ciri. She’d met women who were warriors, mercenaries, women in the army, but none of that could quite describe the kind of woman Ciri was. Ves had never seen her fighting style before. It reminded her of when she’d fought Geralt in the arena of the Kaedweni camp, but there was so much more to it than her upbringing as a witcher. It was as if she had stitched her technique together from odds and ends, and somehow created the most stunning piece of patchwork imaginable.
“Ves,” Roche said, and her head snapped away from where it had been fixed to the battlements, where Ciri and Geralt stood, talking amongst themselves. She found him holding out a wooden sword to her.
“Sharps,” she said and drew her blade. Roche frowned. “What? We’re at a witchers’ keep, aren’t we? We’ll do as the witchers do.”
Grunting, he returned the wooden weapons and exchanged them for his own. “You’ll hammer out the nicks afterwards.”
“What, maintenance too good for a commander?”
He matched her grin. “No,” he said and teased her with a feint. “But you need to learn responsibility for your actions.”
“I’ve done that already,” Ves said and gave her sword a spin. She felt as if she was being watched, but when she peered at the battlement, Geralt and Ciri were focussed only on each other.
“Then you’ll learn some more.”
And with that, Roche struck. A predictable blow to test her resolve. Ves parried and countered it easily, easing her blade into a jab. It veered too far right, and Roche evaded it with a single step.
The air thrummed with the sound of clashing metal and crunching dirt under their boots as they traded blows. Roche’s neck was damp with sweat, and Ves felt clammy herself, but at least the exercise banished the chill of the mountains.
A peal of laughter, clear as the sound of ringing bells, echoed from the walls. It went right through Ves, and her head turned of its own accord, locking on Ciri’s face crinkled with joy. Her heart skipped a beat, and she stumbled.
Sharp pain tore through her arm, and she flinched, hand flying to cover the wound. It came away wet with blood.
“Shit— Ves!” Roche hissed. In just a few steps, he was by her side. “What the fuck are you doing? Let me see.”
Ves twisted out of his grasp when he reached for her, and dashed past, towards the safety of the keep. The silence of everyone around her was heavy, and made her hurried steps ring in her ears. Her cheeks burned with shame.
Inside, she found the corner where she and Roche had deposited their bags, and rummaged through them for their medical supplies. She felt sorry for brushing him off like that, but much more than that she couldn’t stand the thought of Ciri having seen her blunder. What an idiot she had been to suggest sharps. She wasn’t a witcher, and neither was Roche. He’d been right. These were the consequences to her actions, and now she got to deal with them.
When she found the supplies she was looking for, she dashed into the wash room. The air was damp and warm, and there was a basin on the dresser by the wall. She undid the buckles of her gambeson and shrugged it off, trying not to let the sleeve wipe up the blood that ran down her arm.
While she struggled to get a good look at and clean her wound with a damp rag, the door opened slowly. Ashen hair and a dark leather tunic appeared in Ves’ peripheral vision, and she stilled abruptly. Suddenly, she felt naked, even though she was still wearing a linen shirt.
“Ves, right?” Ciri asked. Her eyes were kind, if filled with a mixture of pity and insecurity.
Ves hesitated for a moment too long. “You know my name?”
“Of course I do.” A chuckle fell from Ciri’s lips, and Ves swallowed. “I saw Roche nick you in the courtyard.”
“It was my fault,” Ves said, turning away and giving her wound an unkind swipe with the rag clutched in her fingers. It burned. “I got distracted.”
“Yes, I saw that too… Mind if I take a look?”
The cobbles seemed to vibrate under Ciri’s determined steps. She was close, her chest just short of brushing Ves’ arm.
“Uh… Sure,” Ves croaked. Belatedly, she realised Ciri was waiting for her to turn, and so she did, almost knocking into her in the process.
Ciri laughed quietly, and their eyes met for a brief moment as hers swept down to Ves’ wound. Her hands were hot against Ves’ skin, leaving a burning sensation wherever she touched, but not unpleasantly so. She plucked the rag from where it was clutched in Ves’ hand and rinsed it before wiping off all the excess blood.
“It’s shallow,” she said once the cut was merely an angry red line streaking Ves’ skin. For a moment, her touch abandoned Ves as she rummaged in the medical supplies. She laid out everything she needed on the dresser, and when she went to dab the wound with an alcohol solution, her eyes were fixed on Ves’ face.
Ves squared her jaw against the sting. She’d experienced much worse, and she wouldn’t make Ciri believe her to be a whiny brat.
Her efforts seemed to satisfy Ciri, as she quickly moved on to bandaging the wound. Once she tied off the strips of gauze, her fingers trailed lower and hooked around Ves’, as if to keep them from falling to her side.
“Would you train with me sometime soon?”
Ves’ eyebrows rose, and she stared at Ciri, blue eyes boring into green. “You’d like to?”
“Of course! Geralt told me you’re amazing at throwing knives. And archery. And with a crossbow. I’d love to learn to shoot a crossbow.”
Happiness crept up Ves’ throat and spilled over, painting a grin on her lips. “I’ll gladly teach you.”