Chapter 14: THE SONG THAT SPREAD TOO FAR
"—and the White Wolf came riding, silver sword at his side—"
I stopped in the middle of the merchant camp, soup halfway to my mouth. That song. My song. Being sung by a complete stranger around a campfire I'd only just joined.
Four months of travel since the temple. Four months of moving east, performing when I needed coin, keeping my head down when I didn't. I'd almost convinced myself that the Redanian spy at Baron Vetter's estate had been an isolated incident.
The merchant singing didn't even notice me staring. He was a heavyset man from Novigrad, according to his accent, and he butchered the melody terribly. But the words were mine—the song about monster hunters and lonely roads I'd written back in Oxenfurt.
"You know 'The White Wolf's Road'?" I tried to sound casual.
"Everyone knows it." The merchant grinned. "Heard it first in Tretogor, at the Rosemary and Thyme. Then again in Oxenfurt, at the tavern near the Academy. They say the bard who wrote it has a voice that makes you feel things. Really feel them."
A voice that makes you feel things.
"I've heard similar claims."
"Name's Jaskier, supposedly. Some say he's the best bard in the Northern Kingdoms. Others say he's got fey blood, or made a deal with something unsavory." The merchant laughed. "Me, I just like the songs."
I finished my soup in silence, mind racing.
My songs had spread. Not just to a hundred people, or a few hundred—to Tretogor, to Oxenfurt, to parts of Nilfgaard according to other conversations I'd had that evening. Hundreds were becoming thousands.
That means more power. But also more attention.
The caravan had picked up passengers at the last village, strangers looking for safety in numbers on the road to the Dol Blathanna border. Most were ordinary travelers. One was not.
I noticed him the second day.
He introduced himself as a scholar, traveling to study elven ruins. He asked intelligent questions about bardic traditions, musical theory, the "psychological effects" of certain chord progressions. At first I thought he was genuinely curious.
Then he started asking about me specifically.
"Your style reminds me of someone. That bard everyone's talking about—Jaskier. Have you heard his work? Studied it, perhaps?"
"I've heard the songs." Not a lie. "Like everyone else."
"Fascinating compositions. There's something almost... magical about how they resonate with crowds." He smiled, and my Evasion awareness twitched. Something was off about that smile. Too sharp. Too focused. "Some believe he has genuine supernatural gifts. What do you think?"
"I think people like to exaggerate."
That night, I set a trap.
I left my pack slightly ajar, seemingly careless, and pretended to sleep by the fire. The scholar waited until the camp was quiet before creeping toward my belongings.
I caught him with his hands in my things.
"Looking for something?"
He bolted. Faster than a real scholar had any right to move, vanishing into the darkness beyond the firelight before I could react. I checked my pack—nothing taken, nothing disturbed except the position of my items.
But he'd left something behind.
A small metal disk, fallen from his belt during the scramble. Brass, inscribed with symbols I recognized from Julian's Academy education. A cipher disk. The kind used by intelligence services for encoding messages.
Redanian Intelligence. Dijkstra's people.
I stared at the disk for a long moment.
The spymaster of Redania was famous—or infamous, depending on who you asked. He ran an intelligence network that spanned the Continent, tracking threats to the kingdom. Unusual bards with unusual popularity would absolutely catch his attention.
They're not hunting me. Not yet. This was reconnaissance.
But if they confirmed what they suspected—that my songs carried genuine supernatural influence—the equation would change. A bard who could shape emotions on a continental scale was either an asset to be controlled or a threat to be eliminated.
Neither option appealed.
I threw the cipher disk into the fire and watched it melt.
My appetite vanished for the rest of the day. Every traveler became a potential spy. Every question felt like a probe. The merchant who'd sung my song—was he really just a fan? The elven traders who joined us—were they watching me?
Paranoia won't help. But neither will ignorance.
I needed to be more careful. Reduce my power use in public. Become harder to track.
The caravan continued east. I walked with them, but my mind was already elsewhere, planning a different kind of journey.
When we reached the next major crossroads, I said my farewells and took the road less traveled.
Time to become someone else for a while.
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