Chapter 8: THE COURT INVITATION
The messenger wore livery that cost more than my entire wardrobe.
"For the bard Jaskier." He held out a sealed envelope like it might bite him. "From Baron Vetter of the Temerian court."
I took the envelope, examined the wax seal—a stag rampant, if my heraldry was correct—and broke it open. The parchment inside was thick, expensive, covered in flowing script.
The honorable Baron Aldric Vetter requests the pleasure of the celebrated bard Jaskier's company at the nameday celebration of his daughter, Lady Vera. A carriage shall arrive in three days' time to convey...
I read it twice. Then a third time.
"Is there a reply?" the messenger asked, voice carefully neutral.
"Tell the Baron I am honored to accept."
After he left, I sat on my bed and stared at the invitation for a long moment.
This was what I'd been building toward. Fourteen months of traveling, performing, collecting true stories and singing them with supernatural weight. My songs had spread from taverns to trade routes to, apparently, noble courts.
But nobles were a different kind of danger than bandits or jealous rivals.
I thought about what I knew of Temerian politics. King Foltest ruled in Vizima, famously entangled with his own sister, father to a child who would become—
The Striga.
The memory hit me like cold water. Princess Adda, cursed to become a monster. Geralt would lift that curse eventually, years from now. It was one of his most famous contracts.
Was that still going to happen? Had my presence changed anything?
I couldn't know. The meta-knowledge I carried was a map drawn from a story that might or might not match this reality. Useful, but not reliable.
Focus on what's in front of you.
Baron Vetter was a minor lord with ambition—that much I remembered from Julian's education. The kind of noble who invited artists and thinkers to his estate to project culture and sophistication. Exactly the sort of patron a rising bard should cultivate.
But courts had dangers that roads didn't. Poison in wine goblets. Political games with lives as stakes. A wrong word to the wrong person could be more deadly than a bandit's blade.
I needed to prepare.
The next three days blurred together. I purchased new clothes—nothing too ostentatious, but fine enough to avoid embarrassing myself among nobility. I practiced songs appropriate for court: witty rather than bawdy, subtle rather than obvious.
And I bought a knife.
It was a small thing, barely longer than my hand, designed to fit in a boot. The merchant who sold it gave me a knowing look. "Traveling performer, eh? Smart. Roads are dangerous."
"Very dangerous," I agreed.
The knife wasn't for fighting. I had no illusions about my combat abilities. But its weight against my ankle was reassuring, a reminder that I had something besides music and dodging.
When the carriage arrived—actual carriage, with horses and a driver in Vetter livery—I felt a strange mix of anticipation and dread.
My first noble performance. My first real test among the powerful.
The carriage interior was more comfortable than any bed I'd slept in since leaving Oxenfurt. Padded seats, curtained windows, even a small compartment with bread and cheese for the journey.
I ate the cheese because nerves had killed my appetite for anything heavier. The bread I pocketed for later.
The road wound through countryside I'd sung about but never seen. Rolling hills dotted with farms. A river glittering in the afternoon sun. Forests that looked peaceful but probably held the same dangers as any other stretch of wilderness.
I practiced compositions in my head. Songs of beauty and wit, praise that didn't cross into sycophancy, observations that showed intelligence without threatening egos. Noble entertainment was a tightrope, and I'd never walked it before.
My fingers found the knife in my boot. Touched it. Withdrew. Touched it again.
Stop fidgeting. You'll look like a nervous peasant.
I was a nervous peasant, more or less. Julian's memories included social training, the basics of noble etiquette, but nothing had prepared me for actually using it.
You survived bandits. You survived Valdo Marx. You can survive a party.
As the sun began to set, I saw the estate.
Baron Vetter's home sat on a hill overlooking the river—a fortified manor house that split the difference between castle and comfortable residence. Torches lined the approach. Servants bustled in the courtyard.
The carriage rolled through the gates, and I took a deep breath.
Here we go.
Servants rushed to greet me as I stepped out. They took my bag, offered refreshments, led me to a guest chamber that was larger than my room at the Dancing Mare.
"The Baron requests your presence at the evening meal," one servant said. "In two hours. A bath has been drawn if you wish to refresh yourself."
A hot bath. An actual hot bath, not tepid water in a copper tub.
Small pleasures.
I soaked until the water cooled, scrubbing road dust from places I hadn't realized were dirty. Then I dressed in my new clothes—the finest I'd ever owned, which still probably marked me as a commoner among true nobility—and checked my reflection in the mirror.
Cornflower blue eyes looked back at me. Julian's face, sharpened by travel and experience. Not a boy anymore. Not quite a man.
You can do this.
I touched the knife in my boot one last time.
Then I went to meet the Baron.
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