Chapter 41: ROAD TO THE MOUNTAINS
Ciri asked questions constantly.
"How did you two meet?"
"He barged into a tavern and demanded to follow me into danger." Geralt's voice was dry.
"He was grumpy and covered in monster blood. I thought he could use some positive publicity."
"And that worked?"
"'Toss a Coin' is sung in six kingdoms. You tell me."
The journey north required careful navigation—main roads were too dangerous, Nilfgaardian patrols too frequent. We traveled through forests, along game trails, camping in hidden clearings where fire could be shielded from distant eyes.
Ciri learned quickly.
Geralt taught her survival basics—how to read tracks, identify edible plants, hide her trail from pursuers. She absorbed the lessons with fierce concentration, driven by the understanding that these skills meant life or death.
I offered different lessons.
"You're a princess," I told her one evening, while Geralt scouted ahead. "That's not just a title—it's a story. People will try to use that story against you. Nilfgaard wants to control you because of what your blood represents. Others will want to rescue you for political advantage."
"What should I do?"
"Learn to tell your own story." I plucked a few chords on my lute. "Names have power. Reputations shape how people treat you. Right now, you're 'the lost princess of Cintra'—helpless, valuable, a prize to be claimed. But you could become something else. Something that makes enemies hesitate."
She considered this with the serious attention of someone who'd already learned too much about the world's cruelty. "Like how Geralt was 'the Butcher of Blaviken' until you changed his story?"
"Exactly." I smiled. "You're smart. That'll help."
Around campfires, I taught her simpler things.
A song, first—a traveling melody that didn't require supernatural ability, just rhythm and memory. Her voice was untrained but pure, finding notes more easily than I'd expected.
"You have talent," I said.
"Grandmother said I had too much energy for courtly singing." The memory brought pain to her face, but also a flicker of warmth. "She wanted me to learn swordwork instead."
"We can teach you both." Geralt had returned silently, listening from the treeline. "Kaer Morhen has training grounds for the sword. Jackier can teach you the other weapons."
"The other weapons?"
"Words. Music. Reputation." I met her eyes. "Sometimes those are more powerful than steel."
We traveled for eight more days. Through forests and over streams, avoiding villages where we could, trading carefully when supplies ran low. Ciri grew stronger with each mile—physically, emotionally, in ways that transformed her from refugee to something else.
She stopped flinching at sudden sounds.
She started asking questions that weren't about survival—curious questions, the kind children should ask about the world and its wonders.
She laughed, once, at a story I told about Geralt and a particularly stubborn goat. The sound was rusty from disuse, but real.
She's healing. We're helping her heal.
The Blue Mountains appeared on the horizon on the ninth day.
Ancient peaks, snow-capped and forbidding, rising from the earth like the spine of some slumbering giant. Beyond them—hidden in valleys that only Witchers knew—lay Kaer Morhen.
Ciri stared with wide eyes. "It's enormous."
"Wait until you see the fortress." Geralt's voice held something rare—fondness. "I was younger than you when I first climbed these paths."
"This is where Witchers are made?" She couldn't hide her nervousness. "Where they... change people?"
"Where we train. Where we live between contracts." He glanced at her. "The changes—the mutations—they don't make Witchers anymore. Haven't for decades. You'll learn to fight, not transform."
Relief crossed her face, quickly hidden. But I'd seen it. The fear of becoming something other than human, something monstrous.
She doesn't know about my changes. About what I've become over twelve years. Maybe that's for the best.
We camped at the mountain's foot that night, final rest before the climb. In the morning, Geralt led us onto a hidden path—stones worn smooth by centuries of Witcher boots, invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look.
Kaer Morhen emerged from the mist as we crested the final ridge.
Ciri gasped. I understood why.
The fortress rose from the mountainside like a stone fist raised against the sky. Massive walls, partially crumbled but still formidable. Towers that had withstood sieges and centuries. The last refuge of a dying order, preserved through sheer stubbornness.
"Welcome home," Geralt said quietly.
I looked at the ancient stones and wondered what welcome awaited me—the bard who'd attached himself to Witcher destiny.
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