Chapter 22: TOSS A COIN
The melody wouldn't leave me alone.
It had started as a hum during the walk back from the elven ruins—fragments of rhythm, scraps of words that felt right without forming sentences. By the time we reached the main road, I had a chorus. By midday, I had verses.
Geralt walked ahead, leading Roach by the reins. He hadn't spoken in hours, which I was learning meant either deep thought or profound irritation. Possibly both.
I didn't let the silence stop me.
"Toss a coin to your Witcher," I sang softly, testing the words against the melody. "O Valley of Plenty, o Valley of Plenty..."
The rhythm matched our walking pace. The words told a story—not the complex truth of what had happened in those ruins, but something simpler. A hero unjustly maligned. A coin tossed in gratitude. The kind of narrative people could grasp in three minutes and remember for years.
"Stop that." Geralt's voice cut through my concentration.
"Stop what?"
"That song. It's not finished."
"How do you know it's not finished?"
He turned to look at me, those golden eyes catching afternoon sunlight. "Because you've changed the third verse four times in the last mile."
I grinned despite myself. "So you're listening."
"Hard not to. You've been humming for three hours."
"It's for you, you know. The song." I caught up to walk beside him rather than behind. "Your reputation needs work. 'Butcher of Blaviken' doesn't exactly inspire confidence in potential clients."
"What I did in Blaviken—"
"Was complicated and nuanced and involved impossible choices. I know." I waved a hand dismissively. "But nuance doesn't sell in taverns. People want heroes and villains, simple stories with clear emotions. I'm giving them a hero."
Geralt made that sound—the one that might be disagreement or might be acceptance depending on how you chose to interpret it.
"I didn't ask you to fix my reputation."
"No. But you also didn't tell me to stop." I strummed a chord on my lute, letting it ring in the afternoon air. "The elves could have killed us. They didn't, because you talked to them like people instead of enemies. That's worth singing about."
He didn't respond. But he didn't argue either.
The crossroads inn was called the Hungry Hound—a practical name for a practical establishment. The common room held perhaps thirty people: merchants, farmers, a handful of travelers heading north or south. They fell quiet when Geralt entered, the way every room fell quiet around a Witcher.
Time to change that.
I found the innkeeper—a tired-looking woman with flour on her apron—and negotiated a performance slot. Room and board for both of us in exchange for an evening's entertainment. She agreed, though her eyes kept drifting nervously toward Geralt.
When the dinner crowd had gathered and the ale had loosened tongues, I took my position near the fire.
"Good evening, travelers." I let my voice carry without shouting, the performer's projection I'd practiced for years. "Who wants to hear about adventure? About monsters and the man who hunts them? About a hero the world has wrongly named a butcher?"
Murmurs. Interested looks. Eyes flickering toward Geralt, who sat in a corner booth pretending to ignore everything.
I began to play.
The melody was bright, infectious—the kind of tune that burrowed into your brain and refused to leave. I'd crafted it deliberately, drawing on everything Julian's Academy training had taught about memorable compositions. But it wasn't just craft.
I pushed.
Stage 2 Bardic Resonance flowed through my voice and fingers, embedding the song into my listeners' memories. Not controlling them—never that—but making the experience stick. Making them feel what I wanted them to feel: admiration, gratitude, the warm glow of encountering a genuine hero.
"Toss a coin to your Witcher, o Valley of Plenty..."
The chorus caught immediately. By the second time through, half the room was singing along. By the third, nearly everyone had joined.
Coins rained onto the floor at my feet. But more importantly, the innkeeper was looking at Geralt with something other than fear. Curiosity, maybe. Or gratitude, as if the Witcher's presence had brought her this unexpected gift of entertainment.
When I finished, the applause was thunderous for a room this size. I bowed, collected my coins, and made my way to Geralt's table.
"Well?"
He was staring at me with an expression I couldn't read. "That song. It's not accurate."
"It's emotionally accurate." I sat down across from him. "You're not a butcher. You're not even a killer, not really—you're a problem solver who occasionally has to use violence. Let me show people that."
"By lying about what happened?"
"By emphasizing the truth that matters." I met his gaze. "You saved my life in those hills. You could have let Filavandrel kill me and walked away with fewer complications. You didn't. That's worth a song."
His jaw tightened. The muscles in his forearms flexed as if he wanted to hit something. But when he spoke, his voice was quiet.
"Do what you want. I can't stop you."
From Geralt, that was practically an endorsement.
I used some of my new coins to buy him a proper meal—roasted chicken, fresh bread, vegetables that had actually been seasoned. He ate it silently, but he ate all of it. Every bite.
Small victories.
We left the Hungry Hound before dawn, while the innkeeper was still pressing leftover bread into my hands and thanking me for the best night of business she'd had in months.
The road stretched east, toward Geralt's next contract. I adjusted my lute strap and fell into step beside him without being told.
"Where are we going?"
"Temeria. There's something wrong near the capital. Something that's been killing for years."
He didn't elaborate. Geralt never elaborated unless forced.
But I knew. I'd known since before I met him, since those nights in Oxenfurt reading about the Witcher's adventures in stories from another world.
The Striga of Temeria. Princess Adda, cursed to become a monster. One of the most dangerous contracts Geralt would ever take.
I checked my knife—still in my boot, still sharp—and kept walking.
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