Chapter 18: THE LONG WAIT
Four months was an eternity when you knew what was coming.
I filled the time with preparation. Every morning, I ran the paths around Posada until my lungs burned and my legs ached. Every afternoon, I practiced—not just music, but the combination of powers that had saved my life before.
The split-focus training from Vizima had been crude, desperate. Now I refined it.
In the empty barn Farmer Borys let me use, I sang while dodging imaginary threats. I maintained Evasion awareness while pushing emotional influence into my voice. The two powers fought for attention, each demanding focus that the other needed.
But gradually, they learned to coexist.
By the second month, I could hold a Terror Ballad while moving evasively. The effectiveness dropped perhaps thirty percent instead of the fifty I'd experienced at the Silver Heron years ago. Not perfect, but workable.
If I ever have to fight alongside Geralt, I need to contribute without being a liability.
The thought of actual combat made my stomach clench. I remembered the drowners at the temple, Torque's unnatural speed, the bandits on the road to Vizima. Each encounter had taught me the same lesson: I was not a warrior. My powers kept me alive, but they didn't make me dangerous.
That's fine. Geralt's the sword. I'm the song.
The village accepted me completely now. Children called me "Master Jackier" and begged for stories. The elders consulted me on matters of ceremony and celebration. Elsa still brought bread every morning, and I still savored each loaf like it might be my last.
Travelers passed through with news from the wider world. Nilfgaard was expanding—the refugees I'd met near Oxenfurt had been among the first wave, but more followed. Political marriages and border skirmishes painted a picture of approaching war.
Cintra will fall. Ciri will run. I need to be ready for that, too.
But first, Geralt.
A merchant mentioned seeing a Witcher on the road two weeks north. White hair, yellow eyes, riding alone with two swords on his back. The description sent my heart racing.
He's coming. He's finally coming.
I spent the following days in restless anticipation. Every time the tavern door opened, I looked up expecting to see him. Every footstep on the stairs made me catch my breath.
Three years of preparation. Three years of building power, learning limits, positioning myself exactly where I needed to be. And now the moment approached, relentless as sunrise.
On what felt like the hundredth false alarm, I forced myself to take a bath.
The tub was copper, the water heated by servants who charged extra for the luxury. I sank into the warmth and tried to remember the last time I'd felt truly clean.
The Dancing Mare in Vizima. After Henryk's training yard beat me black and blue.
That felt like a different lifetime. The confused young bard who'd collapsed after thirty minutes of dodging—I barely recognized him anymore. The body I inhabited now was lean and travel-hardened, conditioned by three years of roads and dangers.
But it's still the same body. Still Julian's face in the mirror. Still pretending to be someone I'm not.
The transmigration had never stopped feeling strange. Sometimes I forgot entirely—became Jackier so completely that the memories of another world seemed like half-remembered dreams. Other times, in quiet moments like this, the displacement crashed over me.
A man from a world of cars and computers, bathing in a copper tub, waiting to meet a monster hunter from a fantasy story.
I laughed. The sound echoed off the water's surface, hollow and slightly manic.
If I'd told anyone back home about this, they'd have committed me. And they'd have been right.
The water had cooled by the time I climbed out. I dressed in my best traveling clothes—not the noble finery from Baron Vetter's estate, but clean and well-maintained garments suitable for the road. The kind of outfit a bard might wear when hoping to impress.
Tomorrow. Or the day after. Or next week. But soon.
I checked my lute, restrung two weeks ago and carefully maintained since. The instrument had been with me since the beginning, since that first morning in Oxenfurt when I'd discovered power flowing through music. It knew my hands now, responded to my touch like an extension of my body.
My pack was ready. Travel rations, spare clothes, the notebook of magical theory from the Temple of Melitele. Everything I might need for life on the road with a Witcher.
Assuming he lets me come along. Assuming I can convince him I'm worth the trouble.
The show made it look easy—Jaskier pestering Geralt until the Witcher gave in. But the real Geralt wouldn't accept a useless tagalong. I needed to prove my value quickly, demonstrate that I could contribute something beyond annoyance.
The Sylvan contract. That's my opening. I know things about Torque, about Filavandrel, about what's really happening in those hills. Information Geralt will need.
I took my place at my usual table in the tavern that evening. The regular crowd filled the room—farmers and merchants, the healer having a quiet drink, Elsa's husband complaining about the weather. Normal life, unremarkable and precious.
Any day now.
I settled the lute across my lap and began to play.
Not a performance for the crowd—something softer, more personal. A melody I'd composed during the long wait, about journeys ending and new ones beginning. About the hope and terror of meeting someone who might change everything.
The door opened.
I looked up, ready for another false alarm, another traveler who wasn't the one I was waiting for.
White hair caught the firelight. Yellow eyes swept the room with predatory assessment. Two swords crossed his back, silver and steel, the weapons of a Witcher.
Geralt of Rivia walked into the tavern.
My fingers froze on the strings.
He's here. He's finally here.
The Witcher moved to the bar without looking at me. Ordered something. Sat with his back to a wall, positioned to see all entrances.
My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Three years of waiting. Three years of preparation.
I took a breath, steadied my hands, and began composing an introduction in my head.
The White Wolf had arrived.
Time to make my move.
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