Chapter 28: THE CINTRA INVITATION
The messenger rode like a man who expected to be obeyed.
He found us on the road south of Brugge, Geralt examining tracks near a riverbed where something unnatural had been killing livestock. I was practicing chord progressions on a fallen log, fingers still tender from yesterday's experiments with elemental manipulation.
"Geralt of Rivia?" The messenger didn't dismount. His livery was Cintran—gold lion on green field—and his expression suggested he'd never been told 'no' in his life. "And the bard Jackier?"
"Who's asking?"
"Queen Calanthe of Cintra." He produced a sealed scroll with the flourish of someone delivering sacred texts. "Her Majesty requests your presence at the betrothal celebration of Princess Pavetta. The famous bard and his Witcher companion are to perform and attend as honored guests."
Geralt's jaw tightened. I could read the refusal forming on his lips.
"We'd be honored," I said quickly. "When is the celebration?"
"One week hence. You'll need to travel quickly." The messenger's eyes swept over our road-worn appearance. "Appropriate attire will be expected."
He handed me the scroll, turned his horse, and rode away before Geralt could argue.
"Courts are trouble." Geralt's voice was flat. "Politics, intrigue, people playing games with lives."
"The payment is generous." I unrolled the scroll, scanning the formal language. "And refusing the Lioness of Cintra seems... unwise."
"I've refused queens before."
"Have you refused Calanthe?"
His silence was answer enough. Even Witchers knew better than to offend certain rulers.
I stared at the invitation, my heart pounding against my ribs. This was it. The moment I'd been preparing for since I first woke in Julian's body, four years ago. The betrothal feast. Duny and his curse. The Law of Surprise that would bind Geralt to Ciri.
That would bind both of us to Ciri, if I could manage it.
"The publicity alone would be valuable," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Performing for Cintran royalty—that's the kind of reputation that opens doors everywhere. And you'd have direct access to a kingdom that might need your services. Cintra has monsters like everywhere else."
Geralt studied me with those unsettling eyes. "You want to go."
"I think we should go."
"Why?"
Because I've dreamed about this moment. Because everything I've worked for leads here. Because there's a child who needs both of us, even though she hasn't been born yet.
"Because turning down an invitation from Calanthe is the kind of decision that follows you," I said instead. "And because I've never performed for a queen. Call it professional ambition."
He made that sound—the one that meant he knew I wasn't being entirely honest but couldn't prove it. "Fine. But we leave as soon as the celebration ends. No lingering in courts."
"Agreed."
We turned south, toward Cintra.
The next town had a tailor who specialized in court fashion. I spent an hour examining doublets, trying to decide what impression I wanted to make.
Something too fine would mark me as presumptuous—a road bard reaching above his station. Something too plain would be disrespectful. I needed the middle ground: quality without ostentation, professional without pretentious.
I selected a deep blue doublet with silver embroidery. Simple but well-made. Then I changed my mind and chose something more modest—dark green, minimal decoration. Less memorable.
I'm not trying to impress anyone. I'm trying to be ready.
Ready for what, exactly? The plan had seemed clear when I was rehearsing it alone at night, practicing the words I'd need to speak. But now, with Cintra's towers visible on the horizon, doubt crept in.
What if my timing was wrong? What if speaking alongside Geralt invalidated the claim entirely? What if the dual Law of Surprise created some magical complication I hadn't anticipated?
The texts I'd read at the Temple of Melitele had been vague about the mechanics. The Law was ancient, bound by intentions more than precise wording. If both of us claimed sincerely, with genuine belief...
It has to work. I didn't spend four years preparing for failure.
I caught myself humming nervously and forced my hands to still on the lute strings. Geralt was watching.
"You're wound tight," he observed. "More than usual."
"Court performances require different skills than tavern work. Higher stakes, more critical audience." True enough, if incomplete.
"You've performed for nobles before. Baron Vetter, according to your stories."
I thought of that night—the song duel with Valdo Marx, the sabotaged carriage wheel, the anonymous warning note. "Vetter was a minor lord. Calanthe is a queen who earned the name Lioness by cutting down men on battlefields. The comparison isn't really apt."
Geralt grunted acknowledgment. He understood military reputation, if nothing else.
We made camp that night within sight of Cintra's walls. I couldn't sleep. Instead, I sat by the fire, running through every variation of the moment I'd been planning for years.
Duny will claim Pavetta. Guards will try to stop him. Pavetta's power will manifest. Geralt will help subdue it. Duny will offer reward. Geralt will speak the Law of Surprise.
And I will speak it with him.
The words had to be simultaneous. Not close—exact. The same syllables at the same instant, binding both our fates to whatever Duny and Pavetta didn't yet know they had.
Their unborn daughter. Cirilla. The Lion Cub of Cintra.
I watched the fire burn low and rehearsed my timing until dawn.
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