Chapter 38: THE LOST PRINCESS
"Toss a Coin to Your Witcher" was playing when I entered the tavern.
A traveling musician—amateur, by the sound of it—had picked up my melody and was murdering it enthusiastically while locals clapped along. Under other circumstances, I might have been flattered. Instead, I used the distraction to slip to the bar and order ale.
"You look like you've traveled far." The innkeeper was a heavyset woman with kind eyes and suspicious hands—one stayed below the counter, probably near a weapon. "Refugee?"
"Messenger." A partial truth. "Looking for someone. A girl, twelve years old, ashen hair, green eyes. She might have passed through in the last few days."
The innkeeper's expression flickered. Fear, recognition, and protective instinct warring in a single moment.
She knows something.
"Haven't seen anyone like that." The lie was obvious. "Just families, soldiers, the usual."
I could have pushed. Used Bardic Resonance to lower her defenses, compel an honest answer. But that felt wrong—this woman was protecting someone, probably a child, and I wouldn't violate that instinct even for Ciri.
"If you do see her," I said quietly, "tell her that destiny is looking for her. That two men claimed her before she was born, and they mean her no harm." I set coins on the counter—more than the ale was worth. "Tell her that Jackier of the songs is searching for her. She might know the name."
I left before the innkeeper could respond.
The farmhouse was easy to find.
People talk when they think no one important is listening. A serving girl mentioned the Kovacs family, how they'd taken in a stray child despite the risk. A drunk farmer slurred about "that pale girl in the barn" before his friends hushed him.
I approached at dusk, when shadows made surveillance difficult and honest folk were eating dinner.
The family—father, mother, two young sons—sat around a table visible through their window. Normal. Peaceful. Not the body language of people harboring a fugitive princess.
Except for how the mother keeps glancing toward the barn.
I knocked on the door.
The father answered with a pitchfork in hand—not threatening, exactly, but ready. "We have nothing worth stealing, traveler."
"I'm not a thief. I'm looking for a girl. Twelve years old, ashen hair, green eyes. I've been told she might be here."
"You've been told wrong." His grip tightened on the pitchfork.
I could see the mother behind him, fear blanching her face. The boys had gone quiet, stopped eating, old enough to understand that something was wrong.
"Please," I said. "I'm not with Nilfgaard. I'm not her enemy. I'm—" How to explain? "I'm the bard who wrote 'Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.' I've been searching for her since Cintra fell. Her name is Cirilla, and she's destined to be in my protection."
"Destined." The father's voice dripped with skepticism. "People say a lot of things about that girl. Nilfgaard says she's a traitor. Refugees say she's cursed. Why should we believe you're different?"
"Because I can prove it."
I unslung my lute and began to play.
Not a compulsion—a calming melody, the same gentle magic I'd used to soothe Pavetta twelve years ago. The fear in the room ebbed. The mother's shoulders lowered. Even the father's grip on the pitchfork loosened.
"I mean her no harm," I said, letting the music carry truth with it. "I've traveled for weeks, searching every refugee column, following every rumor. Not because I want to hurt her—because I want to protect her. Because I promised, before she was born, that I would be there when she needed me."
The mother spoke for the first time. "She's been having nightmares. Screaming about fire and blood. She won't tell us what happened, but—" Her voice cracked. "She's just a child."
"I know. Let me help her."
The father and mother exchanged a look—the silent communication of a long marriage. Finally, he stepped aside.
"She's in the barn. But if you hurt her—"
"You'll never find my body. I understand."
The barn smelled of hay and horses and fear.
Ciri crouched in the shadows behind a stack of feed sacks, exactly where a frightened child would hide. I could barely see her—just the glint of eyes reflecting distant lantern light, the pale smudge of tangled hair.
I didn't approach. Didn't crowd her. I sat down on a hay bale ten feet away and waited.
"My name is Jackier," I said quietly. "I'm a bard. I've been looking for you because destiny bound us together before you were born. I'm here to help."
Silence.
"I know you have no reason to trust me. Everyone you've trusted has been taken from you—your grandmother, your home, your people. I can't give those back." I pulled an apple from my pack—my last one, saved for exactly this moment. "But I can offer you this. And I can offer you the truth."
I set the apple on the ground between us and waited.
Minutes passed. The barn creaked in the wind. Somewhere outside, a horse whickered.
Then movement. A small figure, filthy and trembling, crawled out of the shadows just far enough to snatch the apple. She retreated immediately, clutching the fruit like a weapon.
But she didn't run.
She ate while I watched, tearing into the apple with the desperate hunger of someone who hadn't felt safe enough to eat properly in weeks. Her hands shook. Her clothes were ruins. But her eyes—those bright green eyes—held intelligence and fierce determination that hadn't broken despite everything.
Calanthe's granddaughter. The Lion Cub of Cintra.
"The man in my dreams," she said, voice rough from disuse. "White hair, cat eyes. You know him?"
"I know him. His name is Geralt, and he's been searching for you too." I smiled gently. "He's grumpier than me, but he's good at killing things that want to hurt you. We've been partners for almost a decade."
"Partners." She chewed the word like the apple. "And you both... claimed me? Before I was born?"
"At your mother's betrothal feast. Your father offered us whatever we desired, and we both spoke the Law of Surprise at the same moment." I met her eyes. "We didn't know what we were claiming. Just that destiny had bound us together."
Ciri finished the apple, core and all, then wiped her hands on her ruined dress. "I don't want to be anyone's destiny."
"I don't blame you. Destiny has been cruel." I leaned forward slightly. "But I'm not here to own you, Ciri. I'm here to protect you until you're strong enough to protect yourself. And then I'll stay anyway, because that's what family does."
Something flickered in her expression. Hope, maybe. Or just exhaustion finding an anchor.
"Can we leave tonight?" she asked. "The soldiers were asking about me in the village."
"We leave at dawn. Let you get some real sleep first." I stood, extending a hand. "Come inside. The family that's been hiding you deserves to see you safe before we go."
She took my hand.
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