Chapter 39: THE CHILD OF DESTINY — Part 1
Ciri walked like prey.
I noticed it within the first hour of travel—the way her eyes swept constantly across the landscape, the flinch at sudden sounds, the tension in her shoulders that never quite released. She'd learned survival reflexes in weeks that should have taken years, and the lessons had carved themselves into her posture.
"You can relax a little," I said gently. "I'll know if danger approaches."
"How?"
"I have a gift. My... senses extend further than normal. If anyone gets close, I'll feel it." True enough, if incomplete.
She studied me with those too-old green eyes. "You're not just a bard, are you?"
"I'm a bard. I'm also other things." I adjusted my lute strap. "Right now, I'm the man who's going to get you to safety."
We walked in silence for a while. The road was empty—most traffic had fled the Nilfgaardian advance, leaving behind only ghosts and memories.
I started telling stories.
Not fairy tales—true stories, about Geralt's adventures. The Striga of Temeria, cursed princess transformed into monster, and how he'd broken the curse through patience rather than violence. The elves of Posada, starving in their last refuge, spared by a Witcher who saw people instead of enemies.
"You were there for all of these?" Ciri asked, surprise breaking through her wariness.
"Most of them. I wrote songs about the ones I witnessed."
"The songs people sing about the White Wolf. Those are yours?"
"'Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.'" I hummed a few bars. "Heard it played terribly in six different countries. It's gratifying and horrifying in equal measure."
She almost smiled. It was the first time I'd seen anything but fear on her face.
The Nilfgaardian scouts appeared around midday.
Evasion Instinct screamed warning before I saw them—two riders on the road behind us, maybe half a mile back. Their black armor caught sunlight even at this distance.
"Off the road." I grabbed Ciri's arm and pulled her toward the treeline. "Don't run—walking attracts less attention."
We made it to cover just as the scouts crested the nearest hill. From the shadows of the forest, I watched them pause, study the road ahead, then continue at a trot.
They're not certain we're here. Just patrolling.
But they'd circle back. And there would be more behind them.
"We need to move deeper." I kept my voice low. "Stay close."
The forest was old and thick, the kind of growth that predated human settlement. Roots caught at our feet; branches scratched at our faces. Ciri moved well despite her exhaustion—whatever training Calanthe had given her granddaughter included forest navigation.
When we'd gone far enough that road sounds disappeared, I stopped.
"We'll wait here until dark. The scouts will assume we're ahead of them and keep moving."
Ciri nodded, then slid down against a tree trunk. The energy that had carried her this far was fading—I could see it in the slump of her shoulders, the trembling of her hands.
"When did you last sleep properly?" I asked.
"I don't remember." Her voice was flat. "Every time I close my eyes, I see Cintra burning."
I sat down beside her, close enough to offer comfort but not so close as to crowd. "I know something about nightmares. Had them myself, years ago, when I first... arrived in this life."
She looked at me. "Arrived?"
"It's complicated." I pulled out my lute. "But I learned that music helps. Not to make the memories go away—nothing does that—but to give you something else to hold onto while they hurt."
I played softly. A melody I'd composed during those first confused months at Oxenfurt, when I'd been trying to understand a world that shouldn't exist. It wasn't supernatural—just gentle sound, human comfort offered through strings and voice.
Ciri's eyes drifted closed. Her breathing steadied.
Boots on fallen leaves.
The sound jerked me from the half-doze I'd fallen into. Ciri was still asleep against my shoulder, and I held perfectly still as I extended my awareness.
Three men. Armed. Moving in a search pattern.
They weren't on us yet, but they would be soon. The forest wasn't large enough to hide in forever, and Nilfgaardian scouts were trained trackers.
I had seconds to decide.
Wake Ciri and run—risk making noise that drew them directly to us. Or trust my abilities to drive them off.
The Terror Ballad required sound. Would alert them to our position. But it would also break their nerve, maybe scatter them long enough for us to escape.
No good options. Pick the least bad one.
I started singing.
The melody cut through the forest quiet like a blade. I pushed power into it—fear, primal terror, the instinct that makes prey freeze and predators reconsider. The song reached toward the approaching scouts and pressed.
I heard cursing. A horse's whinny of panic. The crash of someone stumbling through undergrowth.
"What—" Ciri jerked awake.
"Run. Now. South."
She didn't argue. Didn't ask questions. Just bolted, and I followed, Terror Ballad trailing behind us like a ward against pursuit.
The scouts' horses wouldn't calm. Their own nerves were shattered by supernatural fear they couldn't explain. By the time they recovered enough to follow, we were half a mile away and still moving.
We didn't stop until the forest opened onto farmland and the sun touched the horizon.
"You're not just a bard." Ciri's voice was steady despite the run. "That song. It did something to them."
"Yes."
"What are you?"
I considered lying. Considered deflection, the same half-truths I'd given Geralt and Yennefer. But this child had lost everything. She deserved honesty, or as much of it as I could give.
"Something new," I said. "My songs carry power—not magic exactly, but something similar. I can calm crowds, heal wounds, inspire fear. I've been developing these abilities for twelve years."
"Since before I was born."
"Since before you were born."
She processed this, face unreadable. "And you came to protect me."
"You're family." The word surprised me as I said it, but it was true. "I've never met you before yesterday, but I've been waiting for you since your mother's betrothal feast. Preparing for the moment when you'd need me."
"Why?"
How to answer that? Because I remembered a story? Because destiny had given me the chance to change things? Because twelve years of this life had turned a confused transmigrator into someone capable of caring about a child he'd never met?
"Because some things matter more than reasons," I said finally. "You matter. Geralt matters. Whatever we build together matters. That's enough for me."
Ciri was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she reached out and took my hand.
"The rendezvous point," she said. "How far?"
"Half a day's walk. We'll make it by dawn if we keep moving."
She didn't let go of my hand.
We walked through the darkness together, toward the man waiting at the crossroads, toward the family we were becoming.
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