Chapter 19: THE WHITE WOLF
The Witcher moved like nothing human.
I'd watched warriors, trained with soldiers at Henryk's yard, even seen monsters up close. None of them prepared me for Geralt of Rivia. Every step was controlled, balanced, ready to shift into violence at a heartbeat's notice. The tavern fell quiet as he crossed to the bar—not the respectful silence of admiration, but the held-breath stillness of prey hoping the predator wouldn't notice.
Three years of waiting. Three years of imagining this moment.
Television hadn't done him justice.
His white hair was tied back, revealing angular features weathered by decades of combat. Cat-like eyes swept the room with the efficiency of someone cataloging threats and escape routes simultaneously. Two swords crossed his back—silver for monsters, steel for men, though the distinction was often academic.
He's beautiful. In the way a drawn blade is beautiful.
The thought surprised me. I pushed it aside and kept playing.
My fingers had frozen on the strings for half a heartbeat when he entered, but I'd recovered. The song continued—a gentle ballad about travelers finding rest—and I let a whisper of Stage 2 power flow into the music. Not enough to influence anyone strongly, just enough to ease the room's tension. Fear that sharp could turn ugly fast.
The patrons relaxed fractionally. Conversations resumed at lower volumes. Someone laughed nervously. The normal sounds of a tavern returned, if somewhat muted.
Geralt noticed.
His head turned toward me, those golden eyes finding my face with unsettling precision. I met his gaze and didn't look away. He held the contact for three heartbeats, then turned back to the bar and ordered something.
He felt the change. He doesn't know what caused it, but he noticed.
I finished my song to scattered applause and set my lute aside. My hands wanted to shake; I didn't let them. Three years of preparation, and now everything came down to the next few minutes.
Don't be a pest. Don't be a sycophant. Be interesting.
I bought two ales from the bar and carried them to Geralt's corner table.
"You look like you could use a drink that isn't watered down." I set one mug in front of him, kept the other for myself. "Mind if I join you? I've always wanted to meet a real Witcher. The stories make your kind sound fascinating."
Those cat eyes studied me with an intensity that felt like being pinned to a board.
"Hmm."
The famous non-response. In the show, it had seemed dismissive. In person, it was a wall—complete, unscalable, designed to make conversation impossible.
I sat down anyway.
"I'm Jackier. I've been performing here for a few months. The locals are friendly, but they're not exactly brimming with original material." I sipped my ale, maintaining eye contact. "You, on the other hand, probably have enough stories for a hundred songs."
"I don't tell stories."
"Then I'll make them up. Artistic license." I smiled. "Though I've found that truth makes better songs than fiction. There's a weight to real events that invented drama can't match."
Something flickered in his expression. Interest, maybe, or just reassessment of the strange bard who'd sat down uninvited. He drank from the mug I'd provided, which I took as a good sign.
"You're not afraid." It wasn't a question.
"Should I be?"
"Most people are."
I thought about drowners lunging from dark water, about Torque's yellow eyes in a moonlit field, about Baron Vetter's assassins and Redanian spies and all the dangers I'd survived to reach this moment.
"I've met worse things than a man doing a difficult job." Not entirely true—Geralt could kill me without breaking a sweat—but true enough in spirit. "Besides, I've found that fear usually makes situations worse, not better."
He made that sound again. "Hmm." But this time it carried a different weight. Assessment rather than dismissal.
The tavern door opened. A farmer stumbled in, face pale, words tumbling out in a rush: "The devil—the devil in my fields again—it destroyed everything—someone has to do something—"
The room erupted in overlapping voices. I watched Geralt's attention shift, his body language changing from weary traveler to professional hunter.
"A contract," I said quietly. "The locals have been complaining about something in the hills for months. They call it a devil, but I suspect it's something more interesting."
"You know about this?"
"I've been here four months. I listen." I leaned forward slightly. "I even have some theories about what it might be. Useful information for someone planning to investigate."
Geralt's eyes narrowed. "You want to come along."
"I want to write songs about adventures. Can't do that from a tavern." I held his gaze steadily. "Your reputation precedes you, but not always favorably. 'Butcher of Blaviken' doesn't make people inclined to trust. I could help with that. Give people a reason to see you as something other than a monster."
"By following me into danger."
"By witnessing what you actually do. The truth, remember? It makes better songs."
He considered this for a long moment. I could see the calculation behind his eyes—whether I'd be useful or just a liability, whether my presence would help or hinder.
"You'll slow me down."
"I'll keep up."
"You'll probably die."
"Then you'll have a very quiet journey." I smiled. "But I'm harder to kill than I look."
The farmer was still pleading with anyone who'd listen. Geralt stood, finished his ale in one long swallow, and dropped coins on the table.
"If you fall behind, I'm not coming back for you."
He walked toward the farmer. I grabbed my lute case and followed.
Three years of waiting. And it starts now.
We left Posada within the hour.
Geralt moved at a pace designed to lose tagalongs—not running, but a ground-eating stride that most people couldn't maintain. I matched it without complaint, though my calves burned and my pack straps dug into my shoulders.
"You mentioned theories," Geralt said without looking at me. "About what's in those hills."
"The locals call it a devil. Horns, hooves, plays tricks rather than kills." I kept my breathing steady despite the pace. "Based on the damage patterns—mocking faces in crops, livestock scattered but not eaten—I'd guess something intelligent. A Sylvan, maybe."
Geralt's stride didn't falter, but something in his posture shifted. Attention, sharpening.
"You know about Sylvans?"
"I read. I travel. I listen to monster hunters when they'll talk to me." I'd learned about Sylvans from the show, of course, but Julian's education had included enough folklore to make the knowledge plausible. "They're tricksters, not predators. Territorial, but rarely lethal."
"Rarely."
"Nothing's absolute."
He made that sound again—"Hmm"—and I was starting to understand its variations. This one meant something like acceptable answer.
We walked in silence for a while. The hills rose ahead, covered in scrub brush and scattered trees. Perfect terrain for ambushes.
"The song in the tavern," Geralt said. "The room calmed down after you started playing."
My heart rate jumped. "People often relax when there's music. It's a tavern. They expect entertainment."
"That wasn't normal relaxation."
He noticed. Of course he noticed. He's a Witcher—enhanced senses, magical training, decades of experience.
"I'm a good performer. It's kind of my whole profession."
Geralt didn't respond, but I could feel his attention like a weight on my shoulders. He was filing the observation away, adding it to whatever assessment he was building of the strange bard who'd attached himself to a Witcher.
Careful. He's not stupid, and he won't forget.
The path narrowed as we entered the hills proper. I kept my Evasion awareness active, scanning for threats, maintaining the split focus I'd practiced through months of training. The effectiveness dropped, but I could still sense the general shape of my surroundings—branches that might conceal watchers, ground that might hide traps.
"For someone who claims to be just a bard," Geralt said quietly, "you move like you're expecting an attack."
"I've been attacked before. On roads exactly like this one." I thought of the bandits near Vizima, the way my body had moved without permission to save my life. "You learn to pay attention, or you don't survive long enough to learn anything."
He looked at me directly for the first time since we'd left the tavern. Those golden eyes saw too much.
"What are you really?"
A dead man from another world, wearing someone else's body, waiting to change destiny.
"A bard with ambition." I smiled. "And possibly a death wish. Ask me again after we survive whatever's in those hills."
We walked on, deeper into territory where Torque waited with friends who wanted us dead.
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