Chapter 16: POSADA BEFORE GERALT
The Edge of the World tavern lived up to its name.
It sat at the boundary between human farmland and the wild hills that marked elven territory—or what had once been elven territory, before humans pushed the Aen Seidhe back into fewer and fewer valleys. The building itself was weathered, practical, the kind of place that served travelers and locals alike without pretension.
I took a room on the second floor, paid a week in advance, and began the work of becoming known.
Six months. That was my best estimate for when Geralt would arrive. Six months to transform myself from wandering stranger into local fixture, the bard everyone recognized and nobody questioned.
The first night, I played simple songs. Folk melodies everyone knew, drinking anthems that encouraged coin from cup to cup. No power, no supernatural influence—just craft. The crowd appreciated competence without being moved to tears or terror.
Start small. Build naturally.
Posada itself was a farming community scraped together at the edge of cultivated land. Beyond the fields stretched hills and forests that humans rarely entered. The village had maybe three hundred souls: farmers, a blacksmith, a healer, a handful of merchants who came and went. Enough people to sustain a bard, not enough to hide among.
"You're not from around here." The innkeeper—a broad woman named Marta, which made me think of Oxenfurt and simpler times—set an ale in front of me the second morning. "Where'd you learn to play like that?"
"Oxenfurt Academy, for a while. Then the road taught me the rest."
"Academy boy." She didn't sound impressed or dismissive—just filing the information away. "What brings you to Posada?"
"Heard good things about the harvest festivals. Thought I'd see if the reputation was earned."
Her expression softened slightly. "Festival's not for another three months. You planning to stay that long?"
"If you'll have me."
The first week established patterns. I performed every other night, giving the tavern reason to keep me and the locals time to grow accustomed to my presence. I helped with minor tasks when asked—carrying supplies, entertaining children while their parents worked, singing for a wedding that had been otherwise unmusical.
By the second week, a farmwife named Elsa started bringing me bread every morning.
"You're too thin," she said, pressing a warm loaf into my hands. "Traveling bards never eat enough. My grandmother was the same way—all art, no appetite."
The bread was excellent. Crusty outside, soft within, still warm from her oven. I ate it slowly, savoring each bite in a way I hadn't savored food since leaving Oxenfurt. Small pleasures. Sister Agata at the temple had fed me the same way, with the same maternal concern.
Some things are constant across worlds. Generosity. Warmth. People who feed strays.
The villagers talked, as villagers everywhere did. Over ale and during daylight tasks, they shared their concerns:
Crops failing in strange patterns. Livestock gone missing, though no blood or carcasses were ever found. A neighbor's child claimed to have seen "the devil" dancing in the moonlight—horned and hooved and laughing at human prayers.
Some blamed elves. The Aen Seidhe had been pushed from these lands, but everyone knew they still lurked in the hills. Raids happened, though less often than stories claimed. The elves were desperate, dying, clinging to what little remained of their heritage.
Others whispered of older things. Spirits of the land itself, angry at human encroachment. Sylvans and dryads and creatures from grandmother's tales.
I listened and said nothing. I knew exactly what was causing the trouble—or rather, who. Torque the Sylvan, working with Filavandrel's band of exiled elves. The "devil" of Posada, terrorizing farmers to keep humans from spreading further.
But knowing was one thing. Interfering was another.
Geralt needs to handle this. The meeting, the contract, the confrontation with Filavandrel—it's all connected. If I change too much, I lose the path I've planned.
So I built my reputation instead.
The harvest festival approached, and the village had no traditional songs specifically celebrating Posada. Other communities had their anthems; this one had borrowed melodies and adapted lyrics. I offered to compose something original.
The village elders accepted with cautious enthusiasm. For three days, I gathered stories: the founding family's journey, the first hard winters, the children who grew up and stayed rather than seeking fortunes elsewhere. I wove it into a song that praised persistence, community, the stubborn human trait of making home wherever they landed.
No supernatural influence. No power pushed into the music. Just good composition, honest craft, truth about people I was coming to genuinely respect.
When I performed "The Heart of Posada" at the next gathering, the tavern went silent. Not the moved-to-tears silence of Stage 2 emotional influence—the simpler silence of recognition, of hearing your own story sung back to you.
The cheers afterward were earned, not manufactured.
Within a week, children hummed the melody while doing chores. Farmers whistled it in the fields. Travelers passing through asked about "that song everyone's singing."
Foundation laid. Now I wait.
I stood at my window that night, looking toward the hills where elves hid and a Sylvan played his tricks. Somewhere out there, in a direction I couldn't quite calculate, Geralt of Rivia was hunting monsters. Moving through the world alone, convinced he didn't need anyone, didn't want anyone.
Six more months. Maybe less. I'll be here when you arrive.
The hills sat dark and silent, keeping their secrets.
I turned from the window and began preparing for tomorrow's performance.
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