Julian Alfred Pankratz, master of the seven liberal arts
The seven liberal arts: seven subjects from classical antiquity believed to be the foundation of wisdom and moral excellence.
Grammar, or the structural constraints of language
âAnd so cried the witcher, he canât be bleat?â Geraltâs nose scrunches up. âWhat is that even supposed to mean?â
âItâs evocative,â Jaskier objects, pouting.
âItâs bloody nonsense,â Geralt grouses.
Jaskier scoffs. Geralt never did understand imagery.
Rhetoric, or the art of persuasion through words
âToss a coin to your witcher, o valley of plenty!â
Jaskier is bored to tears with this gods-forsaken song and Geralt has always hated it. All the same, Jaskier makes a point of singing it at every tavern he stops in because by the end of the chorus his lute case is always heavy with coin.
And gods know they could both use a hot bath and a good meal.
Logic, or reasoned argumentation between opposing viewpoints
The barkeepâs face pulls into a sneer the moment he catches sight of Geralt. âWe donât want your type in here,â he snarls.
âYour type?â Jaskierâs eyes narrow to angry slits. âWhat exactly is that supposed to mean?â
âYou know what I mean,â the barkeep spits. âHeâs barely human.â
âWhy donât you go fuck yourself?â Jaskier bellows, launching himself bodily over the bar.
Before his hands can close satisfyingly around the smug arseholeâs throat, however, he is brought up short by a firm grip around the back of his neck.
âNot now, Jaskier,â Geralt grumbles, hauling him away from the bar and out into the street.
Arithmetic, or the study of numbers
âWell.â Jaskier empties his coin purse onto the inn table. âIâve got five Orens, a lot of fluff and, for some reason, a single Mariborian crown.â
Geralt grimaces. âIâve got seven Orens from that drowner contract last week.â
âLooks like weâll be sharing a bed tonight then.â Jaskier shrugs. Itâs a simple matter of economy. And if he isnât exactly opposed to the idea, no one needs to know.
Geraltâs face does something which isnât strictly a smile. âFine. But if you get fidgety in the night, Iâm lying on you.â
Jaskier isnât exactly opposed to that, either.
Geometry, or the properties of shape, size, and distance
âLove is like a pear,â Jaskier muses, tapping his quill against his lips.
Geralt doesnât look up from sharpening his swords.
âA pear is sweet and has a distinct shape,â Jaskier expounds, warming up to his theme. And then the flourish of genius: âTry to define the shape of a pear.â
Geralt grunts. âItâs fucking pear shaped, Jaskier.â
Alas, the depths of Jaskierâs artistic musings are entirely lost on his current audience.
Music, or the arrangement of sounds into pleasing forms
Geralt twitches, his skin sickly white, his eyes blown wide and surrounded by black veins but seeing nothing. Jaskier has cleaned his wounds as best he can, and now there is nothing left for either of them to do but wait for the potionsâ effects to run their course.
Itâs always like this after a difficult hunt, and Jaskier has learned both how he can assist and the limitations of what help he can provide. He settles Geralt on a bedroll and draws a blanket over him, then grabs his lute and perches on a nearby tree stump.
He plays quietly, barely more than tapping against the strings, creating a gentle melody which undulates back and forth like the swell of waves onto a calm shore.
The lullaby drifts through the night, soft and soothing, and some of the tension seems to seep from Geraltâs jaw as he drifts off to sleep.
Astronomy, or the study of heavenly bodies
âThatâs the Hunter, right there.â Jaskier points to the seven-star constellation visible to the east. âAnd there,â he moves his hand across the sky toward the west, âthereâs his prey, the Stag.â
âAn endless pursuit,â Geralt says, voice softened by the impressive quantity of mead theyâd worked through. He shuffles closer, resting his head on Jaskierâs thigh as they stare up at the clear sky and its blanket of stars above. âAlways linked yet forever held at a distance.â
Jaskier unthinkingly cards his fingers through Geraltâs hair. It must be the warmth of the summer evening, or maybe all that mead, but Geralt doesnât pull away. Instead he hums, quiet and relaxed.
âI like to think theyâll meet one day,â Jaskier says, hovering perilously close to veracity. âTheyâll be together eventually.â Geraltâs hair weaves silver bands around his fingers. âWhen the stars align.â