Chapter Text
Pipe loosely held in one hand, Tissaia’s cerulean eyes were distant as she stared blankly over her desk. Ignoring the slow upward creep of silvery smoke tendrils from the bowl, the Rectoress’s sharp mind struggled to find purchase.
The ascension ball had concluded mere candlemarks before. Aside from the heavy weight a pointed absence settled across the Rectoress’s shoulders, it had gone as smoothly as could be expected. Nilfgaard would grumble about being jilted, yes. However, Sabrina had readily charmed Kaedwen’s monarch and, while Virfuril had not seemed especially enthused by Fringilla, Aedirn’s king had still accepted to take her to his court.
The Rectoress had returned to her chambers wearily. Having felt an unmistakable chaos signature accessing the space during the ball, she anticipated a headache-inducing confrontation with her wayward charge.
It had been shocking, then, to enter and find her chambers absent of other life. Her heart had dropped, stomach swooping, when she saw what was there. Sitting all too innocuously on her desk was a folded parchment bearing her name in a familiar hand and four marks.
The blood had drained from her face as she rushed to the desk. With her hands faintly shaking, Tissaia swiftly opened the letter. As the churning turquoise and teal of her gaze raced through the contents, Tissaia slowly sank into her chair.
Even now, having absently taken up her pipe and changed into her eveningwear, Tissaia had not quelled her shock. She resisted the urge to shake her head.
How had this happened?
The tumultuous phthalo ocean of her gaze dipped again to the too-short parchment resting before her. The four marks sitting, untouched, by its side. Her free hand unconsciously reached for the letter, tipping the paper up so she could reread it. It was hardly necessary. The words had seared into her mind the first time she read them.
Rectoress Tissaia,
I suppose I should address you as such. You’re no longer my Rectoress nor, after this, would you ever dine to be again.
This is... not something I ever expected to write. Even to the last candlemark, I had intended to leave with no trace. Yet. Despite everything – perhaps because of it – I can’t do that. Not to you.
I should apologize, I suppose, for how I have deceived you all these years. You accused me of it once. Lying to you. With this singular exception, I even learned better than to try. Still, a deception remains. And, whatever else lay between us, you, of all people, deserve to hear it from me first.
The truth is this: I am no more a sorceress than I was a piglet. Cursed as my wretched body was? Every part of me was incorrect, from flesh to marrow.
I am a boy man, Tissaia. My heart? My soul? They have always been a man’s. No matter the efforts I have taken to quash it, that has always been the truth.
In the face of the Brotherhood’s bullshit condemnation? Now, I am in truth. Against all odds, the genocidal bigotry of your contemporaries precipitated my freedom. I had wanted more from life than I started with, but that was taken from me too. If I was going to be shunted off to some shithole like Nilfgaard anyway? I would sooner have my freedom in squalor than be chained in truth.
It matters little, in the end. It is time to untangle myself completely from a world I never belonged in. We both know that I would only suffer a worse fate if I stayed. Whatever regard you had for me – real or my frivolous imaginings – wouldn’t save me. Not from this.
Either way, you have done enough – more than I ever – where I am concerned. If anything, Rectoress, I am in your debt. I needn’t tell you I am too proud to bear it. To that end, you will find with this note the pittance you paid for me. A reimbursement, if you will, for the poor investment you made in me. I’m sorry
Still, I should leave you with my thanks. For all the many lessons you have taught me over the years, and the suffering you spared me. But now, dear Rectoress, it is time for farewell. Let the flower of the girl the world thought I was do as it should and die.
Goodbye, dear Tissaia. Though it was assuredly all in my naïve fantasies, your faith meant everything to me. I survived this far because of it and shall endure more because of the same. For what very little it is worth, I have faith in you just the same. The Brotherhood may be full of shits, but your girls need you. Take care of them, and let them take care of you as well.
Yours, for the first and last time,
Yenson of Vengerberg
‘Yenson’, Tissaia thought for the hundredth time since returning to her chambers.
A boy.
Yenson was a boy – a young man now, she supposed. If Giltine had a hand in it, and Yenson had all but outright stated he had, it would be no mere boy who had left Aretuza.
How had she missed it?
Grimacing as she drew a new breath from her pipe, Tissaia conceded that it was unlikely she ever would have found the truth. Yenson’s mind had been utterly unguarded as a novice, of course. However, he had hated so much of his body, Tissaia had never delved deeper.
There had seemed no point.
Of all the things the Rectoress leveraged against her charges, their physical appearance was rarely among them. She would, of course, deliver a scathing barb if they dared present themselves unkempt or filthy. But their pre-enchantment bodies? Those were of little concern.
With Yenson there had been no doubt of his soul-deep loathing of his body. Tissaia could hardly fault him for it, even without knowing its depth. Yenson had suffered immensely for the body he was born into, and more still for the pain it caused him to inhabit it. For Melitele, his deepest fear had been that no change to his body could make him loved.
The gnawing guilt of having mocked him for it scraped along the back of her ribs anew. Its worn grooves were dug fresh by the agonized awareness of how close she’d come to the truth. More the fool to her that she’d inferred the thought to mean he envisioned being a beauty. Not that he wouldn’t be – Giltine would have made him so, regardless of gender.
Never before had Tissaia failed to discern something so integral to one of her students. Least of all one she had been so acutely aware of.
Tissaia’s stomach twisted at the thought of Yenson’s enchantment – gods. He all but spelled it out. If his appointment to Aedirn hadn’t been removed, he had planned to let himself undergo enchantment into a woman’s body. To go on suffering in silence longer than he already had for centuries to come.
It broke her heart to even think of it.
Beneath the ache, incredulity warred for her attention. Over and over, the question turned over in her mind: Why hadn’t Yenson said anything?
Had he thought she would harm him for it? Or deny his experience? The very thought made her guts twist in regret. Cruel as she had been to him in her role as Rectoress, Tissaia couldn’t blame him if he had.
It made her chest ache all the same.
Though it was exceedingly rare, there had been a small scattering of novices over the centuries in similar situations to Yenson’s. Tissaia had never missed one. She brought each one to her office for an appropriate discussion before sending them off to continue their education with the other sorcerers at Ban Ard. Likewise, Stregobor had sent a handful of girls to her over the years.
The Rectoress taught them all the same as she did any other novice.
A few had even ascended.
Tissaia closed her eyes and grimaced. She would never forgive herself for having missed Yenson. How much more had he suffered under her care without her knowing? Many lessons he attended were geared toward teaching the students about the more feminine aspects expected of them at court. Learning to dance, charm, seduce and manipulate the ways sorceresses did. Moreover, surrounded by only women as he was, how much harder had it been for Yenson to relate to his peers than even Tissaia had known?
Gods, why hadn’t he told her?
Tissaia would be the first to admit that, in her role as Rectoress, she was anything but warm. Yet, of all her students, she had always thought Yenson had best realized that front did not encompass all that laid beneath. The boy had trusted her with his blood status, after all.
It still hadn’t been enough.
He hadn’t trusted her. Not with this.
Given her own mockery and disparagement over the years? Tissaia found she couldn’t blame him.
Drawing another pull from her pipe, Tissaia let the habitual gesture soothe her. The taste of cloves and jasmine lingered on her tongue as she turned her turbulent gaze to the darkened sky out the window.
She hadn’t felt him portal out.
Wherever Yenson had gone, he had left Aretuza without using chaos. It was a wise, if arduous, choice. It would be far harder to put any sizable distance between himself and Aretuza. However, it was also much less easily traced. Not least because – with one glaring exception – no mage knew what Yenson looked like now.
Already, Tissaia’s mind attempted to conjure the faces and bodies that might now be his likeness. Under Giltine’s skilled hand, there was no limit to what he might have changed. Pragmatism aside, Tissaia could not help but wonder what features – if any – Yenson had kept. They would be few, she was sure.
As she exhaled another smoke-laden breath, the questions swirled in Tissaia’s mind. Had he kept his raven hair? His violet eyes? Would he swap them for a less elven colour? What of his nose? Overlooking its obvious crookedness, he had assuredly changed the round edge of his jaw for a more squared one. Was it still smooth? Or had he opted to present himself with facial hair?
Even with his curved spine, Yenson was taller than her slight stature. Would he have made himself taller still? What of his stature? Was he lean and wiry? Or stocky and broad-shouldered? Despite herself, Tissaia couldn’t help but imagine Yenson hadn’t gone to such extremes. Though his loathing of his body was beyond what she realized, Tissaia could not picture him choosing a brutish form better suited for a witcher than a mage. No matter his assertion that he was leaving them all behind.
Something deep in her chest panged sharply as Tissaia realized that, as it stood, she would not know Yenson if she saw him. Nor did she know where to start looking for him.
Before tonight? Tissaia had thought herself an expert on the boy. She knew him to his core. Yet, having missed something so fundamental? The immovable Rectoress could not help the uncertainty that crept around the coil of her ribs, tapping a distracting rhythm that disrupted the steady beat of her heart.
‘My dear boy,’ Tissaia mused sadly. ‘What else did I miss?’
Her cerulean gaze turned to stare blankly again at his note. If he sought to liberate himself from the Brotherhood’s grasp, it would stand to reason that he would avoid Aedirn. That would be the first place any would look for him. Yet, if not there, then where?
Assuredly not Nilfgaard. Yet, for all that the rest of the Continent was vast, it was largely unknown to Yenson.
Would he have a destination in mind? She wondered. Yenson had only been to a handful of locations in his short life – Vengerberg and Aretuza were the only two he would have any true familiarity with. Tissaia ultimately dismissed both. Yenson had wanted to go to Aedirn’s court, yes. But she could not imagine he would be similarly inclined toward the pittance Vengerberg itself offered.
No, if Yenson had a destination in mind? It was somewhere else entirely.
If he had left on foot, as she suspected, Yenson would likely have gotten little farther than Gors Velen. However, it was also likely he intended to acquire passage from the town elsewhere whether by horse, wagon or ship – though Tissaia gave little credence to the latter.
Yenson had spent little time in the water in his life. If he was already undergoing such tumultuousness? Seafaring seemed an impractical choice.
Tissaia silently cursed that, thoroughly off-balanced by the situation, she could no longer be certain that Yenson wouldn’t take it anyway. Her free hand lightly touching her brow as her eyes shut, Tissaia idly wondered if it wouldn’t be worth discretely inquiring with Coral about any new arrivals to Skellig.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock. Exhaling sharply, Tissaia opened her eyes and extended her chaos to open the door. She was unsurprised to see Giltine at the threshold. Undoubtedly he had known she would call for him if he did not arrive himself.
It did nothing to soothe the storm of outrage, guilt and gratitude that warred in the cage of her ribs. A war the man could clearly sense if his unsubtle flinch at the sudden drop of temperature her chaos caused was any indication.
Nevertheless, Giltine stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him. As he felt the Rectoress’s wards raised behind him, the artist stood before Tissaia’s desk. To his credit, he met her gaze evenly. “I assume you received Master Yenson’s note,” Giltine greeted too casually.
Jaw clenching, Tissaia’s nostrils flared as she exhaled sharply and looked forbiddingly back at him. “Yes,” She replied curtly. Her feline gaze narrowed on his carefully passive expression. “I needn’t tell you, I’m sure, that you will answer for your unsanctioned actions.”
Giltine inclined his head affably. “Quite so.” A beat. “Though I suspect the answer you undoubtedly seek is not of the same tone.”
Silence stretched between them as a slow curl of smoke drifted from the mouth of Tissaia’s pipe. “No,” Tissaia admitted finally. Had she known how Yenson had been suffering? She would have told Giltine to act as he had herself – they both knew it.
“Then do share, dear Rectoress,” Giltine prompted. “What query would you have of me?”
“What does he look like?” she settled on finally. A soft question, perhaps, but one she could not shake.
Predictably, Gilitine lit up at the opportunity to boast of his prowess. “A fine young man! One of my greatest works,” he extolled, delighted. “We kept his dark locks – though they are shorter now, and lack the unseemly fringe he bore – and his entrancing eyes, of course.”
Tissaia felt something settle in her chest, warm and steady: Yenson had kept his eyes.
If nothing else, his piercing gaze would be the same.
“He’s of lean build,” Giltine continued. “Broad-shouldered with squared hips – a rather trapezoidal physique – and stands at mine height.” His cornflower gaze twinkled with amusement, the edge of his lip tugging into a smirk as he added, “And, naturally, I gifted him cock enough to satisfy any lover.”
The Rectoress’s unamused expression did uncharacteristically little to stifle the man’s enthusiasm. To the contrary, he chuckled, delighted to have managed to ruffle the usually unflable mage.
Tissaia’s gaze sharpened when his glib expression smoothed into a serious one. Giltine continued quietly, “Master Yenson was also quite insistent at keeping a set of scars at his wrists.” Tissaia stilled, the air stilling in her lungs. Giltine’s expression was entirely too knowing.
She would be shocked if Yenson had told the artist anything. However, Tissaia did not doubt Giltine had made his own inferences. The great artist had seen far too many bodies to not have acute intuition for such things.
Something that felt terribly like grief welled in the chambers of Tissaia’s heart. Oh Yenson.
Still, for all his skill, Tissaia couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t more Giltine wasn’t saying. Eyeing the man speculatively, she quietly observed, “He said something to you.”
Lips curling into a small smile, Giltine inclined his head, “Not in so many words, no. Nevertheless, it was my impression that, while Master Yenson kept himself hidden for many reasons, the main one was a fear of being separated from you.”
Tissaia froze. Why would– surely Yenson must have wanted to live as himself? So why?
Her answer came as Giltine’s expression twisted into a rueful grin. “Given our dear Rector’s actions of late? I cannot say Master Yenson was wrong to fear what would become of him if he was made a charge of Ban Ard.”
Tissaia grimaced. Yes, there was that to consider too, wasn’t there? Yenson ending up in Stregobor’s care would have been disastrous if not outright deadly. Quarter, half – it would matter little to the Rector how small a fraction of Yenson’s blood was elven. A single drop would be enough to earn the older mage’s revilement.
Yes, that would certainly explain Yenson seeking to stay at Aretuza.
Still, Tissaia’s heart broke for him. Guilt clambered up the ladder of her ribs to rest its burdensome weight across her shoulders. It was true that Yenson’s elven blood rather kept the usual procedure for such students from reach. However, his time at Aretuza could still have been infinitely better had the Rectoress realized his situation.
Though she could not have let him present himself openly at Aretuza without being forced to send him to Ban Ard, there were other options. Unusual as it was, Tissaia could have arranged for Yenson to be taught privately as an apprentice – Margarita, at least, would have taken him on if asked. Although Tissaia dreaded to think of the headaches that might have ensued from their acquaintanceship.
Gods, even Coral might have offered if only because she knew it would irritate Stregobor.
Even if none of those options had materialized, and Yenson had to stay at Aretuza? Tissaia could have at least allowed him the reprieve to be himself when alone in her office. Melitele knew that he had spent an inordinate amount of time there as it was. Moreover, they could have planned around his eventual enchantment into the correct body. Amended his lessons to teach him the etiquette he would need as a young sorcerer at court.
Yes, she mused forlornly. Things could have been so much different had she only known the truth.
Dread’s chilled hand palmed her heart as an insidious fear filled her mind: Had Yenson thought her so cruel that he believed she would force him to Ban Ard even knowing his heritage and her counterpart’s genocidal tendencies?
Her heart shuddered at the very thought. Did he not know her better than that? Not once in her tenure had Tissaia ever sought the harm or death of a student. Had never raised her chaos against them. Was it still not enough?
“He did not hide his identity because of you, Rectoress,” Giltine said quietly, unknowingly interrupting her self-flagellation. Ruefully, Tissaia wondered how far she had slipped if the fear was so plainly visible on her face. “But you must consider what he has done leaving as he did.”
Tissaia arched a challenging brow.
“Master Yenson has chosen his freedom,” Giltine said solemnly. “He is a mage ascended in his own right now. There is no compelling him to return and face whatever discipline he might receive for abandoning his perceived duty to the Brotherhood.”
And wasn’t that the truth. Yenson had never been anything but stubborn, and this? This was not a battle that would be easily one. Not after the way the Brotherhood had treated him in the end.
As powerful as she, uniquely, knew Yenson to be? Tissaia considered that they ought to feel fortunate that he had shown no interest in turning against them.
“You won’t find him again,” Giltine said gently, expression regretful. Though he lacked the details of the Rectoress’s relationship with the young man, it had been clear from the start that he was important to her. More than Giltine had seen in all his years working with the woman, this one had been special to her. “He is gone.”
Though Tissaia knew it already, the words hurt no less to hear. Every corner of her heart railed against the accusation. It did not take the subtle shiver of Giltine’s shoulders to know her chaos was reflecting her rejection all the same.
“Thank you, Giltine,” Tissaia said quietly, urging the man to take his leave. Seeming to sense her need for solitude, Giltine offered a short bow and made his departure. He had done what he came to do. Hopefully, it would be enough.
Alone once more, Tissaia stared again at the letter Yenson had left her. Gaze skimming the words anew, her ancient heart quaked. As they reached the end, tracing his signature, Tissaia looked at the damning coins beside the paper.
She could find him. Had always been able to find him since his conduit moment. Yet, to do so would be to condemn him. Would draw other mages to Yenson’s location and, as Giltine rightly pointed out, only bring him under fire from the Brotherhood.
It would bind him as surely as the mockery of an agreement as the one she’d brokered with his vile stepfather all those years ago. Knowing how acutely he valued his independence?
Tissaia would not make the same mistake again.
At the same time, if only to herself, Tissaia could admit that she could never let him go. Yenson had, against all odds, found a home in her heart. The most ardent corners of her possessive heart could never be made to let him go. Certainly not with something as laughable as coins to buy out the falsity of his acquisition.
No, the most she could offer him now was time.
It would take a few days – perhaps a week – at most before Yenson’s absence was noticed. That would allow him, with any luck, to put some distance between himself and Thanedd. If he was smart – and Tissaia had no doubt he would be; her clever boy – he might even make it as far as Cidaris or Kerack by then, should he choose such directions.
There would be consequences, of course, for his defiance. Tissaia would bear them. Gladly. She had been unable to protect him too many times now. This? This was a time to restore some much-needed balance to the scales.
For now, it would have to be enough.
If, as she suspected was his intent, Yenson persisted in forgoing the use of magic for a time? Even the likes of Stregobor would lose interest.
Throat bobbing, Tissaia swallowed and looked again at the note he had left. His farewell and faith. Yes, that much, she could give him.
Tapping the dottle from her pipe, Tissaia reached for the four marks. Their meagre weight felt impossibly heavy in her hand. She smiled sadly at them, ‘ I’m sorry, my dear, but you were never for sale. Not by me.’
Pulling her pendant forward from where it hung above her breast, Tissaia brushed her thumb over the smooth back. Expelling a small flare of her cold chaos, it popped open with a soft click. The carefully constructed expanded space within stared back at her.
Tucking the coins inside, Tissaia closed it again. Closing her hand fully around the familiar amulet, she raised it to her face. The side of her thumb pressed against her lips as her eyes slid shut.
‘Until we meet again, darling boy,’ Tissaia thought tenderly. ‘If it is my faith that you need? You have it. Go, find who you were meant to be, and when I see you again? I shall return these to you, for you belong in my heart as surely now as you did then. That has never been for sale.’