❝ Do you know what wine is good for? Forgetting your troubles. ❞
Mousesack
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I had not entered the palace of Cintra without listening closely to Geralt's warning. During the Great Cleansing, Cintra had been one of many kingdoms to lead the massacre of the elves. Though six decades had passed since the Aen Seidhe had been driven from their homelands, Queen Calanthe had been raised on the stories of her father's conquest. She possessed the same hatred of elves and would have any who dared enter her kingdom hung, drawn and quartered on the palace walls.
I ran my fingers through my hair once more, ensuring the curling strands covered my butchered back and mutilated ears. I hoped my movements didn't appear as anxious as I felt. Jaskier escorted me down the long corridor that led to the throne room. I held onto his arm, already performing my role as the bard's lady, even though my fingers were digging furrows into his skin.
Geralt walked beside me with a void expression, his steps sure and steady as we walked through the halls. I could feel hard muscles brush against my arm as Jaskier continued to ramble about the desirable Princess Pavetta. The slightest touch managed to set my arm ablaze and my heart began to beat with something other than nerves.
"You're not alone, Ros," he reassured me, his low voice unnoticed by the bard.
"This is Cintra, Geralt. I'm Aen Seidhe." I spoke softly, knowing only those with the senses of a witcher could hear me. "Quor sal am mestar. (Here I am alone)."
Palace guards armoured in gold opened the grand doors as we approached. The thundering against my chest was overpowered by the roaring sound of laughter and song. Princes, lords and knights filled the throne room along with the entourages they brought along with them. Every seat was filled as they feasted on the fine dinner provided to them, laughing boisterously as they shared stories of battles and beauties. Apart from the far more pleasant smells and finer clothing, I could see no difference between these men and those down at the murky tavern in the village.
I ran my fingers through my hair once more as Jaskier halted, bringing Geralt and me to a stop beside him. "Right, so stick close to me, look mean and pretend you're mute," Jaskier advised Geralt quietly, adjusting his lute strapped to his back. "Can't have anyone finding out who you actually are."
"Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!" a voice bellowed out across the room.
Jaskier cursed under his breath as a man dressed in fine, bronze garb and a bushy beard approached us, tankard in hand. The throne room had stilled slightly and people watched us openly, murmurs spreading between them. My eyes turned to Geralt out of instinct. He remained calm and focused on the man now in front of us, only sparing me the briefest glance. The tenseness of my shoulders instantly eased.
