Chapter Text
Jaskier knows these walls well. He can trace every groove and every crack with his eyes closed. Knows how many stones make up the floor, the ceiling, the walls themselves. Has counted them countless times for as long as he can remember. He knows the exact measurements of the door, the weathered ironwood unforgiving as the first time Jaskier found himself in here.
It’s a wonder, sometimes, that his mind isn’t an isometric conjuration of this well-known prison. But Jaskier is as stubborn as the stone, unbreakable and weathered. Of course, stone can break — but not without extraordinary force.
Meditation is all he can do in this room. There is no distraction, no chair for him to sit on or even a window for him to look out of. His mind, then, becomes the centre stage of his sanity where he examines the past events in excruciating detail. It’s useless, he knows this as well as he knows these stones, but it’s all he has when he’s here.
He fucking hates meditation.
The thing is, Jaskier should know better than to tempt fate. The leash around his neck shortens with every year he spends away from the family estate, with every whipping he takes in backwater towns, with every assignment that crosses his path. The rules are clearly defined, as they always have been. But Jaskier has an awful knack for breaking rules and tugging on his shackles. Even when he doesn’t mean to.
It’s always duty that calls him back to Lettenhove. A letter from his father with a pressed yellow carnation always finds its way to him, no matter how far from Redania he is. One summer, he was deep in the heart of Toussaint and a courtier had somehow found him, the petals in the letter still sweet. Jaskier had had no other choice but to go back to the place he would never call home. He’d probably pissed off the wrong man again, and his tongue did get away from him more often than not. Even if he completes his assignments, none of it seems to matter.
It’s a well-worn ritual by now. He bears it with his head held high and his fists balled. It’s like putting on an old tunic, that hateful one that scratches too much yet fits like a silk glove. He returns to Lettenhove, his father yanks on the not-so-metaphorical chain around his neck, and he’s left to stew (meditate) in the bare stone room. It’s unoriginal, and he could probably write many songs full of torture and heroics that would make his father’s treatment of him seem very lame indeed.
But now he’s almost twenty-five. Well past the age for wanderlust. He graduated from Oxenfurt Academy nearly three years ago with summa cum laude in the seven liberal arts, and a mandatory detour in the Faculty of Contemporary History. In his last yellow carnation-stuffed letter, his father had given him two options moving forward: take his place in the Redanian court, or fulfil his true purpose.
Jaskier taps his strumming fingers against his thigh, filling the suffocating silence with a ditty he’s been working on.
He fucking hates meditation.
Four days after he’s arrived in Lettenhove and been thrown into his personal prison, his father pulls open the heavy door. Jaskier is barely coherent, but his body remembers. He staggers to his feet, head swimming and knees trembling, and follows his father to the rooms that have been his every time he’s visited. The halls, with the portrait-covered walls and soft, woven carpets that irritate his bare feet, are interminable.
He’s panting by the time they reach the rooms, but his father slips a finger underneath the inconspicuous leather band around his throat — stopping Jaskier from seeking comfort in the steaming bath right there—
“Julian,” his father says sternly, tugging on the band. “I hope you’ve made your choice while you were… recovering.”
Jaskier would scoff, but he’s so thirsty, he’s afraid he would puke bile out instead of air. He grunts, averting his father’s eyes. His childhood lessons are always closer to the surface after he’s been forced into recovery. His father lets go and shoves a goblet of water in Jaskier’s face. Blind with thirst, he tilts his head back and gulps down the cool water greedily. It sloshes over his lips and chin, but he doesn’t care.
It works quickly; soon he’s coherent enough to step away from his father and stumbles towards the bath. It smells faintly of patchouli. Jaskier hates patchouli. But he’s filthy and sore and the bathwater is steaming...
Jaskier steps into the tub and sinks down to his ears. The count of Lettenhove sits behind Jaskier’s desk, looking bored.
“Let us hope that now that you’re done with traipsing all over the Continent, you’ll give your scars enough time to fade properly.” He tuts and glances away from Jaskier’s horribly scarred back. “Layering them on like this…”
Jaskier ignores his father and closes his eyes. Mentally, he calculates how long he has. The harvest festival — Apple Feast Day — will be upon them in two weeks, and he knows it’s tradition for Gifts to be exchanged between allied kingdoms during that period of time. Redania’s specialty, to no one’s surprise, are graduates from the Academy: bards, historians, medics, tutors, alchemists.
And this year, it’s his cohort’s turn. He’s known this would happen, it’s what he’s been preparing for all his life. Graduates are given a limited number of years to travel, experience different cultures, build a reputation, win bardic competitions or some such. Jaskier knew what he was signing himself up for when he applied to the Academy, even if he ultimately had no real choice in it. For a thing such as him, it would always be the best he could hope for.
It is only luck that he loves music and loves performing.
“We leave for Tretogor in three days.” His father shuffles some papers on his desk. “Pack everything you’ll need.”
Pack all your belongings, is what Jaskier truly hears. Whatever his decision is, he’s never coming back to Lettenhove. He’s always been a sentimental fool; he’s kept every pressed yellow carnation, saved them all in his composing journals. They’re little reminders of what his real life is. Sometimes, when he’s having a really good season, it’s the only thing that keeps his heart anchored to reality.
“Yes, father.”
“Good.” More papers shuffling around. “Tell me about your last assignment.”
He grinds his teeth; he hasn’t eaten in five days, and only had one goblet of water. He’s somewhat more alert, but in no way is he comfortable. Jaskier scrubs himself gently, cleaning the dirt under his fingernails.
“Everything went according to plan,” he states blandly. Oh, he’s a fantastic storyteller — for stories worth telling. “Lady de Maribor particularly enjoyed the love ballads, and her oldest son asked for adventure songs. Lord de Maribor, predictably, asked for the dirtiest Skelliger shanties.”
“Did you see him, Julian?” his father sighs, annoyance bleeding into his tone. “You were not there to chase the chambermaid’s skirts, nevermind Lady de Maribor herself.”
Jaskier huffs and waves a hand dismissively. “She practically threw herself at me.” The job of a bard is often similar to that of a whore, Jaskier finds. Usually he doesn’t mind it — oh, not at all. He loves chasing skirts and trousers and everything in-between. But he does prefer not to chase married people, thank you very much. Alas, he has little say in that when he’s on assignment. “I saw one of them, to answer your question. Pupils slit like a cat’s, eyes a reddish amber. His amulet was that of a snake, or a viper, as they are called.”
His father hums and the scratch of a quill on paper fills the silence briefly. “I’ll expect your full report before nightfall.”
“Yes, father.”
Biting back a sigh, Jaskier finishes bathing and steps out of the now lukewarm tub. He has no clothes unpacked, because of course it would be too fucking courteous of his father to make sure he’s decent. Jaskier wraps a towel around himself and glances back at the man who raised him.
They look nothing alike. It’s just as well. Jaskier isn’t sure he’d be able to cope at all if they were truly blood relatives.
He doesn’t encounter anyone on his way to the room where he’d left his packs. It’s just as well. Jaskier knows, with the certainty of experience, that the scars on his back would elicit gasps of horror.
In the end, all his belongings fit into two chests and a pack. All his clothes, his favourite books, his composition journals, his instruments — he’s learned to live a sparse life these past few years, though his spare instruments he’d always leave at the estate. That it all fits into two chests impresses even the guards accompanying him to Tretogor. Most graduates — referred to as Gifts this time of year — of noble birth would have at least half a dozen chests, filled to the brim with fancy clothing and fancier instruments or other tools of their trade.
But Jaskier’s father had already told him where they would to Gift him to. Who they were expecting after the most recent peace treaty of the Northern Kingdoms. He would have no use for summer frills and silks. Jaskier isn’t supposed to know; Gifts are supposed to be indiscriminately given. But of course, this one wouldn’t be offered the same courtesy as every other sovereign, and they wouldn’t waste Jaskier on a backwater court.
He should be grateful — boredom doesn’t suit him. He should be grateful. He should.
It only takes a few days to ride from Lettenhove to Tretogor, and Jaskier spends most of it in some corner of his mind. Not meditation, but silent composition. His fingers tap his thigh while his lips and tongue form soundless lyrics. He’ll be expected to perform for the main reception, after all, and he intends to make a good impression on his new… lords.
Of course, he’s heard all about Witchers. Too curious for his own good, he read everything he could find in the Academy’s library. It wasn’t much — someone had either expunged their records of them, or there had never been anything known about the mutants this whole time. Jaskier likes to think of them as mysterious warriors, and he amused himself trying to find at least one Witcher during his travels. A free Witcher.
It isn’t as amusing now that he knows he’ll belong to their warlord before the summer is over.
The Continent has been at peace for fifteen years. Jaskier has never really known war, not the same way his parents and their generation have. This is the supposed era of prosperity, of peace, of non-aggression treaties. There’s a population boom, new art movements, new settlements building on the edges of every nation. It shouldn’t be a big deal to be given as a Gift.
It shouldn’t. He reminds himself of that every day.
But it is, because nothing is ever simple for the royal courts and their nobility.
During his education, it was hammered into Jaskier that he was Redanian. His official performance outfits require the Redanian livery. Patriotism should be the lifeblood of his art, of his songs. Many students from Oxenfurt Academy aren’t actually Redanian, but they are made to swear to never use their academic knowledge against the Redanian crown. Jaskier doesn’t know the exact details of that; his friends never shared.
And now, as they approach Tretogor and Jaskier’s looming future, he has to ask himself just how his new lords will deal with a bard whose loyalty may always be questioned. Oh, he knows how other monarchs would deal with it. But these Witchers, would they understand the true meaning of Jaskier’s profession? It isn’t against the rules, per say, to reveal everything to them.
It’s not like he has much to lose.
The royal palace is as gaudy as Jaskier remembers it. He hasn’t been here since he graduated from the Academy, when King Vizimir had hosted a ball for the graduates as was custom. They’d all performed before getting royally pissed, and that had been the beginning of his adventures. He’s not particularly excited to be back, given the circumstances, but he’ll certainly take advantage of all the luxury and comfort a royal palace has to offer before he’s shipped off to the wild lands ruled by the Warlord. Who knows if they even have proper plumbing?
He sighs quietly. He doesn’t really care about plumbing, though he can (and has) wax poetic about the Academy’s elven plumbing.
“Julian,” Jorvas, the captain of his escort, calls, “we’re here.”
Jaskier blinks away his mauldin thoughts and looks around.
“Astute observation, Jorvas.” He fixes his hat and finger-combs his hair out of his face. “My arse looks forward to sitting on the plush seats of King Vizimir’s guest rooms.”
Jorvas snorts and turns around to order his men to do whatever it is guards do when they enter the capitol. There’s a flurry of movement around him as one of their riders rides ahead to inform the castellan of their arrival.
After they lead their horses to the stables, they’re greeted by the king himself, his lady wife, and their assorted entourage.
“Sir Julian Alfred Pancratz, viscount de Lettenhove, Oxenfurt Academy graduate of Imbolc 1251!” the herald calls. He continues on to list off every titled guard with Jaskier.
“Welcome, Julian de Lettenhove,” King Vizimir says, eyeing him with that knowing glint in his eye. He gestures to the servants holding platters off to the side. “We offer you and yours bread and salt.”
Jaskier smiles his best smile and bows with the appropriate depth for his station. “We thank you for your sincere hospitality, King Vizimir of Redania, the Just.” The customary greeting falls from his lips effortlessly.
The king inclines his head. “You’ve met my son, Prince Radovid.” A young lad, about Jaskier’s age, straightens his posture and offers a very shallow bow. “These are my daughters, Princesses Dalimira and Milena.” The two young ladies curtsy, their sweeping gowns of the very latest fashion in court. Vizimir joins both hands at the front and beams at Jaskier. “Will you join us with the other graduates for supper?”
“Of course,” Jaskier immediately agrees. He’s very curious about other attendants — are the dignitaries from the other kingdoms already here? It wouldn’t be polite to ask, though, so he refrains. Contrary to popular belief, he does know when to keep his mouth shut. “It would be our pleasure. My father, mother, and brother should arrive in time for the festivities.”
It’s custom to send the Gift ahead of time as a show of goodwill, much to Jaskier’s annoyance.
They part and a servant leads Jaskier and his escort to their guest rooms. Jorvas does a quick sweep of Jaskier’s room, and only once he’s checked for traps or some other nonsense does he make the other guards bring in Jaskier’s belongings.
“Don’t leave without us,” Jorvas warns him before they leave him to his own devices, levelling Jaskier with a good-natured glare. “I’ve placed Damu outside your door. I know you, Julian — don’t try to charm your way out of it.”
Jaskier sighs dramatically, one hand on his forehead. “Jorvas dearest, I would never!” He does, indeed, know better than to use his gifts against his own guards. It only takes one time to learn this sort of lesson.
Jorvas narrows his eyes and hums dubiously, clearly not believing a word out of Jaskier’s mouth, but he leaves without a backward glance.
Finally — some time for himself. He has just enough time for a long bath.
In the formal dining hall, where they’ll likely be taking all their meals until the end of the harvest festival, is buzzing with activity. The Apple Feast Day is in five days, and it’s usually polite to leave two days afterwards. Will his new lords bother with politeness? Jaskier sighs as he sits down at the Academy graduates’ table. That blasted Valdo Marx is sitting all the way at the end of the table, dressed in the finest silks from Aedirn that coin can buy. Jaskier lifts his nose in the air and purposely looks in the other direction.
“Jaskier!”
His lips stretch into a wide smile before he can help himself.
“Oczko! My sweet poppet!” He stands from his seat just in time to catch his dear friend’s tackling hug.
“Truth be told,” she says, pulling away and grinning, “I thought you’d give this whole thing a skip. Settle down in some fancy noblewoman’s estate…” Essi grins lasciviously.
“Gods, I do not want my little sister hinting at my favoured proclivities!” He groans even as he laughs and holds her tightly against his chest. Lowering his voice into a more serious tone without losing his smile, he whispers into her bushy hair, “Fear not, my sweet poppet, I would not leave this duty for others to take upon them. Well, except perhaps Valdo…”
Essi pulls away with an amused frown. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ll see.” He brushes her hair out of her face. “Who else has arrived?”
“Priscilla should be here tomorrow, and Shani has been here for a while it seems.”
It’s Jaskier’s turn to frown. “Shani? But I thought—”
“I know,” Essi interrupts, “but apparently her father received very enticing marriage offers after she impressed some lord or another during a hunt gone wrong. In Skellige.”
“I see.” Of course, it explains why Shani would have sought refuge at the palace. Once she'd declared her intent to be Gifted, King Vizimir would not have let her out of his sight. Jaskier sighs but manages to keep a casual smile on his face. “Will she be joining us for the eve, then?”
“Like she’d miss a chance to get pissed with us.” Essi shoves him lightly and takes a seat next to him. “She even got me to promise her a gwent match.”
“Gwent!” Jaskier flops onto his own chair, blindly reaching for his wine goblet. “Mercy from the gods, she’ll trounce us. Only Priscilla has ever beaten her, and she wouldn’t even take all the gold Shani had stolen from us!”
“Won, not stolen!” Comes the husky voice of their friend. Shani sits across from Essi, a win goblet already in hand. “I’ve never stolen anything in my entire life.”
There’s a beat of silence before just about everyone at the table guffaws.
“Right, right,” Essi retorts, grinning widely, “medics are above reproach always. Theft is so below them!”
Shani sniffs imperiously and lifts her nose in the air, ignoring the giggles coming from all sides. “Anyway,” she pauses to take a sip of wine, “glad to see you here with us at the scaffold, Julek. I thought you’d have found yourself a—”
“A pretty noblewoman to cosy up to, yes, yes I know.” He rolls his eyes and sits back when the servants arrive to place platters of food at their table. “Alas, looking and acting like a pretty songbird is not my calling.”
He doesn’t say more, and perhaps if they were in the privacy of their rooms, he would tell them about his assignment. About who he is to be Gifted to. But he isn’t cruel; he doesn’t want to shatter the illusion that all of this has been left up to Destiny.
“I hear there’s a new dignitary this year,” Essi says after they’ve filled their plates. “The king of Kaedwen—”
“Warlord. He’s a warlord, not a king.” Jaskier ignores the curious looks he gets, eyes glued to his plate. “You’ve heard right, darling poppet.”
“So it’s true, then?” Essi breathes. “The warlord of Kaedwen, he’s really going to be here?”
“He is,” Shani confirms. “I’ve heard the servants gossiping about it. They wondered if these Witchers slept in beds at all, or bales of hay.” She scoffs, and Jaskier very much agrees with that sentiment. “They may be barbarians, it doesn’t mean they don’t know what a bed is, for Melitele’s sake.”
“Hear, hear.” Jaskier ponders asking her more about that gossip she might have heard. Curiosity killed the bard and all that. “What else did they say?”
“There’s to be five of them in attendance, including a mage. Didn’t get any names, but you can assume any mage willingly associating with a barbarian warlord is bound to be a bit crazier than most.” Shani shrugs and picks at her food. “Logically, we can assume the warlord himself will be here. Maybe the rest are his council.”
“A council of Witchers?” Jaskier asks, more rhetorical than truly seeking an answer. “Well, that’s bound to be interesting.” He lowers his voice and leans closer to his two friends. “In all my travels across the Continent, and believe me — I’ve travelled from Kovir to Toussaint — I’ve not met a single Witcher.”
He doesn’t mention the one Witcher he met in a Temerian court recently. That… that hadn’t… No, not the time. He chases the thought away into the darkest corner of his mind, where all his sordid secrets lie.
“Really?” Essi says, pausing with a bite of food in her mouth. “I figured they’d be everywhere. They’ve got free reign over most of the Northern Kingdoms, do they not?”
“They do,” Jaskier agrees, “but that doesn’t mean they want to be seen. But as I’ve not come across many monsters, even in the most uncivilised villages between Cintra and Nazair, I assume they’re doing their job.”
“Witchering. I wonder what that’s like.” Shani leans back against her chair, wine goblet topped up. “I mean, fighting monsters, surely they’ve got a medic with them? Or an alchemist, or a herbalist. Something!”
Huh. Jaskier hasn’t considered that angle before. Indeed — wouldn’t they prefer someone like Shani, who’d graduated the Academy with top marks and recommendations from all her professors? Why Gift Jaskier, a bard?
If not for his stint in the Contemporary History faculty, he’s unsure if he would have ever found himself Gifted to the warlord and his barbarians. Witchers.
Jaskier shakes his head and gestures theatrically to their table, where other graduates are chatting and eating. “Perhaps they’ve never heard music! Perhaps they need a little enlightenment on the way of the world! A scholar, an intellectual, a poet! Your talents would be wasted with them, my dearest friend.” He winks as Shani sighs fondly.
“Let’s hope they don’t get Gifted Valdo, then,” she retorts, deadpan and smirking, “or all we’ll have are rhymes about muscles and lack of manners.”
Essi sniggers and nods. “Oh yes. No one will ever forget that performance, I wager.”
“And if they do,” Jaskier adds, loud enough for Valdo to hear all the way on the other end of the table, “I’ll make sure to remind everyone why Valdo Marx should never be trusted to write poetry again!”
“Jealous, Julian?” Valdo’s nasally voice is still as unpleasant as Jaskier remembers it. “Maybe if you hadn’t spent all your daddy’s coin on cheap Redanian wine, you would have arrived on time for the competition. Alas… Or perhaps, thank the gods.” Valdo sneers down the table at him. “We were all saved from having to listen to your fillingless pie of a song.”
“You—!” Jaskier jumps to his feet, sending his chair skidding back loudly.
Suddenly, the dining hall is silent, and everyone is watching them. Most days, Jaskier doesn’t mind a little theatricality and drama. He’s gotten into his fair share of bar fights and he knows how to hold his own, especially against a gangly git like Valdo Marx. But, well… These aren’t humble villagers and farmers watching him. With a table full of bards, he’d be reminded of this stupid fight for the rest of his life!
So he swallows his indignation and sits back down, smiling pleasantly at the arsehole of the hour. Nay — of the decade.
“You’d know all about fillingless pies and meaningless songs, wouldn’t you?” Jaskier straightens his doublet and brushes off invisible lint from his shoulder, not even gracing that arshole with a look.
Essi snorts into her goblet and spills wine onto the table. It’s enough of a distraction for most supper attendees to return to their own business, but Jaskier continues to feel that odd pressure that comes from knowing someone is observing him. He keeps his shoulders square and offers his handkerchief to Essi.
“Now, now, little sister. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you can’t handle your wine.” He tuts but still refills her goblet.
“Shut up, Julek,” she says, elbowing him. “We went to the same Academy, did we not? We’ve built our tolerance together.”
“One casket of awful wine at a time, I know, dearest.” He smirks at her self-satisfied nod but drops the matter all the same. Her cheeks are quite flushed and there’s some perspiration along her hairline, but Jaskier is twice her size. Low tolerance is easily forgiven in those circumstances. “So then!” He claps his hands together. “Have we been assigned our timetables yet?”
“Tomorrow, I think.” Shani shrugs. “Most of you bards like to arrive fashionably late.”
Essi giggles and Jaskier gasps loudly, hand on his chest in mock offence. “Why, I never! A bard arrives when they are meant to!”
“So either when the bar tab has already been paid, or after attendance has been taken.” Shani shakes her head, failing to hide her smile behind her goblet. “I know, Julek.”
“Still,” Essi says once her giggles are under control, “timetables will be out tomorrow. I hope I’m not first or last. Those always make for the most nerve-wracking performances!”
“Hmm, yes,” he hums in agreement, “I don’t fancy remaining here until the very end of the harvest festival. I am hoping my new lords will only be polite enough to remain a day or two after the Apple Feast Day.”
“Redanian apples,” Essi sighs, “how I’ve missed them. My last two harvest festivals were spent in Temeria and Cidaris.”
“Oh?” Jaskier turns to focus his attention on her. Had she seen the—
“Yes, though not in any major courts. I spent last summer at my family’s estate by the coast—” ah, not Temeria then “—in Vole.” She sighs again. “Skellige sailors, Julek, are another breed of men. Sweet Melitele I don’t know what they feed them there, but by gods I wish they would import it here.”
“I’ve seen them too,” Shani adds. “I spent time in Skellige earlier this year, for winter.” There’s a conflicted look on her face, though. “I suppose I made enough of an impression on one of the Jarls. He asked my father for my hand. As if I was nothing more than a prize bride!”
Jaskier winces in sympathy. “Yes, Essi mentioned as much. You don’t think they’d Gift you to one of the Skelliger Jarls?”
“No.” Shani takes a healthy drink from her goblet. “Only the king there gets a Gift.”
“How did I not know that?” Jaskier shakes his head, and raises his goblet. “Well, in any case my darlings, here’s to a fruitful harvest! May we be Gifted to the most benevolent lordlings who’ll never take offence to our best ditties!”
His friends laugh, but still raise their goblets to toast with him. He dearly wishes to confide in them, and tell them about his situation. The only solace he has, Jaskier supposes, is the knowledge that none of his precious friends will find themselves at the mercy of the warlord and his barbarian Witchers. They’re safe from the unknown — this deep, unsettling unknown, one that is not unlike the creatures that roam the bottom-most parts of the sea. They all know what to expect from a Temerian duke, or a Koviri lord.
But Witchers? No, none of them know what to expect. But it’s Jaskier’s duty, now, and he’s never shied away from things that ought to terrify him. He’s not ever sure he really knows what fear is.
Ẅ
Geralt hates portals.
It doesn’t matter if he portals a few miles or across the Continent. It doesn’t matter if he’s done it a thousand times. It doesn’t matter if he eats beforehand, drinks water, drinks White Gull. None of it matters, because every bloody time, he’s left retching on the other side and cursing bloody mages and their bloody fucking portals.
“Alright there, Wolf?” Eskel asks, with too much humour for someone about to get clocked.
Geralt grunts and wipes his chin. “Shut up.” And he punches Eskel, because that’s how they do things.
Eskel only laughs at him, heedless of the bruise forming on his jaw. It’ll be gone in an hour, anyway.
“Geralt, dear, keep up.” Yennefer closes the portal once they’ve all gone through and dusts off her hands. “Kings don’t just retch everywhere they please, no matter how kingly they may be.”
“Shut up,” he says again, because it clearly bears repeating. “You know I hate portals. And I’m not a king.”
Her predatory smile answers that well enough.
They arrived just outside the city gates of Tretogor. The sky is overcast and the air heavy with promised rain, and the heat this far south is unlike the chilly summers Geralt has become used to at Kaer Morhen. It reminds him of his days on the Path, before all this nonsense began. Well — it’s no use fantasising about the past. What’s done is done, and now he has a duty to his people.
It’s a heavy mantle he would never wish upon anyone.
They ride into the city proper at a trot, the godsawful stench that can only be found in densely populated areas permeating the air. Behind him, he knows Coën is politely pulling a cotton ascot over his nose while Vesemir is staring ahead, stone-faced as ever. Eskel has a pinched look on his face, but Yennefer simply looks bored as always. Geralt wishes he’d thought of wearing an ascot too, but he didn’t know what else he should wear but his armour. Maybe Eskel’s packed one in his saddlebag…
Worse than the stink of unwashed bodies and rotting food is the smell of fear. It lingers on the back of his tongue and between his teeth. Breathing through his mouth would make this ordeal easier, but he can’t unclench his jaw. He bears too many scars caused by terrified humans to ever be able to relax when it’s everywhere around him. None of them are comfortable, and it’s why they always avoid imposing on the human festivals.
But, as Yennefer had pointed out, this time was too good an opportunity to refuse.
While Witchers are no longer persecuted in most Northern Kingdoms, they aren’t exactly a welcomed sight either. They’re seen as part of the White Wolf’s army now. It’s both a blessing and a malediction — they’re safer together, but they are less likely to get the commonfolk to trust them with their monster problems.
They should have been safer together. Geralt grinds his teeth and lowers his head to avoid scowling at random passersby. He’s been told often enough that he always looks murderous; this would only make things worse.
When they arrive at the palace, the guards rush to find the king and his entourage. The herald scrambles into the reception courtyard, out of breath and his doublet badly buttoned up. When Geralt inhales deeply, he immediately knows where the man has just been.
“Tsk,” Yennefer tuts quietly enough that only Witcher ears can hear, “could’ve taken his time to clean up.”
“Can’t fault a lad for having some fun, Yen,” Eskel says with a chuckle. “At least this one doesn’t stink of terror.”
“Hmm.” Geralt hopes this is a good omen for the next few days. The Apple Feast Day is in three days, after all, and they can’t leave for at least two days after that. Bloody stupid noble etiquette. He’d much prefer spending the next five days without smelling fear at every corner.
They’re left to wait just about ten minutes before King Vizimir shows up with who is surely his son. The queen is a few steps behind, her ladies-in-waiting hurrying to keep pace. While the king, prince, and queen don’t immediately stink of fear, the ladies do. Geralt instantly avoids looking in their direction; he doesn’t want to aggravate them. Next to him, Eskel shifts on his feet until the heavily scarred side of his face is out of view from them too.
“Sir Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf of Kaer Morhen, Warlord of Kaedwen,” the herald proclaims as soon as everyone is in position.
Geralt sighs. He hates all those titles.
“Sir Eskel of the Wolf School, right hand to the White Wolf, member of…” the herald hesitates briefly. “Of the warlord’s council.”
Eskel bows. They’d debated introducing Eskel as the White Wolf’s consort, because it’s what Eskel is — but Yennefer had insisted that his position as a council member would hold more weight than that of consort. Geralt doesn’t really care about that title shit, but since everyone else on the Continent does, he has to make do.
The herald continues to introduce them, then retreats once he finishes with Coën.
“Welcome, White Wolf of Kaedwen,” the king says, not bowing at all. While he doesn’t smell of fear, there’s something about his scent that puts Geralt immediately on edge. The other three Witchers react similarly, and Yennefer continues to look bored but Geralt knows how to read her invisible tells. She’s insulted. “We offer you and yours bread and salt.”
There’s a lie in there somewhere.
“We thank you for your… hospitality, King Vizimir of Redania.” Geralt knows he’s managed to return the polite insult when the queen’s lips tighten in displeasure. Well, poke the wolf and teeth marks you shall earn.
“Yes, very well,” Vizimir clears his throat, ushering his wife and son back inside the palace. “The servants will show you to your guest quarters. Supper will be served at the end of the hour.”
Geralt doesn’t grace that with a response and takes the saddlebags off Roach. He prefers to stable her himself, brush her down and make sure she’s comfortable, but the stableboys here don’t smell odd. The one who approaches Roach focuses solely on the horse and doesn’t glance even once at Geralt. Well, if that’s what it takes to make sure their horses are well taken care of, he doesn’t mind.
Bags shouldered, they follow the servants inside the palace and to their guest rooms. The palace, which is not a keep at all and would surely be a nightmare to defend in the event of an attack, is nothing more than a display of wealth. The tapestries, carpets, paintings, sculptures — all of it is ostentatious and Geralt doesn’t trust any of it. He knows Kaer Morhen’s walls are bare and they could do with a bit of muted colours, but he’ll be dead when he lets anyone hang this sort of gaudy decor in their home.
Their rooms are smaller than what Geralt expected, but that’s a good thing. It takes less time to scour through them to make sure there are no listening spells or traps, or peepholes, or anything else that would piss him off. There are doors joining all their rooms. The only room they don’t care to look through is Eskel’s — they all know he’ll be sharing Geralt’s.
“Less than an hour before supper,” Yennefer comments, “I’m quite sure Redanians typically eat at sundown.”
“Sundown’s not for another two hours.” Eskel scratches his scars and shakes his head. “So, they’re doing it on purpose. Hardly gives us any time to freshen up. It’s a good thing we came here by portal instead of riding, like how we’d originally intended.”
Geralt and Vesemir both grunt.
“They’re keen on those insults, for whatever reason,” Coën adds. “But what’s new, really?”
“Signing a peace treaty doesn’t entitle us to respect, it appears.” Geralt places his swords against the wall closest to the door. “Nothing new.”
“They’d look so lovely as slugs.” Yennefer’s chaos cackles between her fingers, like miniature lightning. “Alas, this is not enough insult to cause a diplomatic incident.”
“We need to focus,” Vesemir interjects. “We’re here for one reason, and one reason only.”
“I know.” Geralt walks to the window and looks outside. Tretogor isn’t a beautiful city, and the vision before him already makes him feel a bit homesick for the Blue Mountains. “Get a Gift, eat their apples, and go hunting.”
“Exactly.” Vesemir joins him at the window, placing a comforting hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Exactly, Wolf. We’ll find him.”
“What if we don’t?” What if it’s like all the others? Geralt doesn’t dare get his hopes up. It’s been two years. It’s only the absence of a body, of his brother’s medallion, that keeps even this little kernel of delusional hope alive. “What if we find pieces of him across the kingdom?”
“Then we’ll know with certainty.” Vesemir drops his hand.
It’s the right thing to do, they all know that. They have to find their lost brother, even if it’s only so they can bring his medallion back home. It’s a near-hopeless quest, but it’s their duty.
Eskel slips an arm around his waist, pulling him away from the window and away from his gloomy thoughts.
“Come, wolf. We’ve a feast to attend. I hear there’s a pretty songbird that’ll be singing afterwards.” Eskel runs his nose along Geralt’s temple, then adds in a voice low enough that only Geralt will hear. “We’ll find our brother. Lambert’s coming home with us before winter is upon us.”
Squeezing Eskel’s hip, Geralt gives a small nod. He’s not sure they’ll find Lambert alive, but no matter what, they’ll bring him home.
As expected, the dining hall is fucking loud. It’s only years of practice that prevents Geralt from wincing upon entering the room. Sure, they’re far from a quiet bunch in the main hall back home, but it’s a different sort of noise. Here, each voice is laced with the scent of duplicity or perhaps hypocrisy; a procession of nervous peacocks showing painted feathers. The laughter isn’t good-natured, and their cutlery screech against the porcelain plates. Geralt wishes he could be anywhere else on the Continent right now.
They’re led to their table by a servant. All but two tables are circular instead of long and rectangular. When he looks closer, he sees that each table is for a different group of dignitaries, and the two rectangular tables are for the royalty and the Academy graduates respectively. Some round tables have a dozen seats, others have as few as four. He doesn’t really know if the placement of their own table is meant to be yet another subtle insult, in the far back corner here, but he’s sure it is. Of course it is. He sighs again.
“The Gifts,” Yennefer says with disdain, pointing with her chin towards the largest table.
There are two dozen people seated there, and they’re by far the flashiest in the room. All of them have a signature colour, it seems. One is dressed in eye-cursing yellow, another in shades of red. There’s a sturdy woman wearing plainer clothes than the rest, but it’s still flashy in Geralt’s eyes. They’re all loud, laughing and bantering. Contrary to the rest of the assembled nobles, however, there appears to be a more sincere amount of camaraderie amongst them. It makes sense — they’d all have gone to Oxenfurt Academy together. They’re as comfortable together as his brothers back home are.
“One of them will be ours,” Coën observes. “I see some bards, a medic, and a few alchemists.”
“How can you tell?” Geralt asks him, because he sure as hell can’t tell the difference from here.
“The livery.” Coën gestures to one of the louder graduates, dressed in a bright turquoise outfit. “Bards from the Academy have to wear the Redanian livery.”
“Which means we can’t trust our Gift if they’re a bard,” Yennefer adds. Eskel turns towards her, mouth open to most likely ask what she means, but she shushes him with a wave of her hand. “Boys, really, you should have studied up on the Academy before this.”
Her disapproving voice makes Geralt shrink in on himself a little. She’s not wrong, but, well… They have better things to do.
Yennefer knows them, however, and indulges their silent questions. Her voice is barely just loud enough for Witchers to hear over the noise of the dining hall.
“Oxenfurt Academy is the pinnacle of higher education in the Northern Kingdoms, the crown jewels of Redania, really. Non-Redanian students are made to sign a magical contract that prevents them from actively betraying the Academy. It used to include the Redanian monarchy, but that was revised a century or so ago.”
Coën whistles. “Goodness gracious. I knew they had a tight hold on their graduates, but I had not realised it was to this extent.”
Geralt doesn’t like that at all. What is the point of those Gifts, then? He hates the idea of trading human lives like bartering chips, but he knows he can’t change centuries of tradition in a country that isn’t even his own.
“So what, Redania Gifts young people who are brainwashed into being perfect little patriots?”
It’s Eskel who huffs in amusement at that. “You clearly have never been to their campus.”
“You have?” Geralt asks his lover, surprised he didn’t know this.
“A few times for some literature lectures.” Eskel shrugs. “Before the whole warlord business, and before the last war with Nilfgaard.” He sniffs his wine goblet before taking a sip. “They’re wild things, these students. Sure, some are just looking for an easy life, but most of them have a mind as sharp as our swords.”
Geralt hums and returns his attention to the graduates’ table. They all look happy enough, and from his very limited understanding — they’ve chosen to be here. None of them reek like the kind of terror associated with kidnapping. His eyes fall on the bard dressed in bright turquoise again. This one, in fact, keeps glancing at them. Geralt can’t pin down one person’s scent in a place this size and with so many other people, but there is something almost dangerous in that one’s eyes. A glimmer of knowing that puts Geralt on edge.
“It’s all randomised, Yen?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
“Yes, of course. It wouldn’t be proper for the king to decide who went with which duke or count. That’s the kind of stuff that starts wars.”
And yet. Geralt hums again, tearing his eyes away from the strange man.
Food is served just then, and the Witchers pile their plates high. The mead and wine are delicious, and Geralt would very much like to indulge in a whole carafe of it. But they all need their heads about themselves tonight. The first performances are tonight, and it’s the best time to gauge the unknown Gifts.
When the last plates are carried out and dessert is brought in, the bard dressed in bright turquoise saunters up and towards the little platform at the front of the dining hall. He carries a lute, and although Geralt doesn’t have enough knowledge about instruments to know its monetary value, the bard holds it like Geralt remembers holding Ciri when she was a child. Like something precious, like a lifeline.
He straightens in his seat and ignores the sweets on the table, choosing to focus all his attention on this strange bard. The man strums his lute, instantly summoning all attention to him. While nearly everyone Geralt knows would struggle under the weight of so many gazes, this bard seems to bloom beneath them. How intriguing.
“Wonderful guests and friends!” the bard calls, strumming a few pleasant chords in time with his words. “I am Jaskier the Bard, and I am honoured to be opening our harvest festival. Feel free to sing along, my good people!”
His smile is dazzling. But his voice — it’s nothing like Geralt has heard in a tavern before. It’s powerful and effortlessly loud. It projects throughout the dining hall and makes Geralt feel like he’s getting a private performance instead. The lute-playing is nice too, but it certainly is more of an accompaniment to Jaskier’s voice than the centrepiece of the act. The song begins slow and haunting, and picks up after he sings the chorus for the third time.
Geralt’s always enjoyed music — every Witcher does, so long as it’s performed by a good musician. But he’s never felt music like this. His silver medallion doesn’t vibrate, so there’s clearly no chaos in use — but magical is the most appropriate word for Jaskier the Bard.
Just as Geralt thinks there must be some manner of witchcraft or trickery involved, he meets Jaskier’s eyes. They’re bright and focused and full of something Geralt can’t quite name. There’s more life in the bard’s eyes than in everyone else at this feast combined. The bard prances around his little stage, clearly experienced at entertaining crowds. It’s the kind of show Geralt might have seen in popular taverns or inn, while on the Path. Not in the middle of a royal court.
As the bard sings what are sure to be the last few bars of his song, Geralt feels like he’s the one being sung to, that there is no one else in the room with them. It never happens — he’s always aware of his surroundings, his guard is never down when he’s outside Kaer Morhen. But this bloody bard, he sings right to Geralt’s soul and Geralt has no fucking idea what to do about that.
He can only pray to all the gods that watch over fools and Witchers that this bard isn’t the one Gifted to them, fucking hell.
The bard smoothly transitions into another song, more upbeat this time. Geralt forces himself to look away. Every hair on his body is raised and his cheeks are warm. Witchers don’t blush but it’s a near thing. Next to him, Eskel is tapping his foot to the beat and clearly enjoying himself. And hopefully — completely unaware of Geralt’s life-changing experience. Geralt isn’t sure how he would ever explain to his lover that he discovered how one could fall in love with a song.
No, no. It isn’t love — but perhaps, the potential of it. Gods, but this fucking festival needs to be over soon.
Even without watching the bard, Geralt feels his blue-eyed gaze on him. It tickles like a breath of air in his neck. He’s almost — yes, almost, he tries to convince himself — grateful when Jaskier the Bard thanks the crowd profusely and returns to his seat, where three women swoop at him from all sides. It doesn’t matter if he sang one song or a dozen; the energy he leaves behind is monumentous. Geralt certainly pities whoever has to play after him.
“This bard,” Yennefer says as the new (mediocre) bard begins to play. “Jaskier. He isn’t a mage.”
“No?” Coën tilts his head, yellow eyes fixed on the man in question. “No. No chaos. But there was something…”
“Personal. It felt personal.” Eskel scratches his scars, a pensive look on his face despite still tapping his foot to the beat of the mediocre bard’s song. “Like he was singing right into someone’s soul.”
Geralt hears what they’re not saying.
They felt it too — but not directed at them. Jaskier the Bard sang for Geralt.
He has no fucking idea what to do with this information, so he grunts noncommittally and sips generously from his wine goblet. If they’re (un)lucky, Jaskier the Bard won’t be their problem.
Fuck.
He wants the bard.
Geralt groans. Of fucking course. Even with the possibility of that bastard being a mole from King Vizimir, Geralt wants him. It’s madness, so he refills his goblet with more wine.
The rest of the evening is uneventful, the other bards never measuring up to their opening act. When they’re back in their guest rooms and Eskel is naked against his back — Geralt falls asleep with the image of bright blue eyes floating in his mind.
Fuck.