“I’m listening.”
“After the third crowing of the cock, there will be no striga, if I understand correctly. What will there be?”
“If all goes well, a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“With red eyes? Crocodile's teeth?”
“A normal fourteen-year-old. Except that…”
“Well?”
“Physically.”
“I see. And mentally? Every day, a bucket of blood for breakfast? A little girl's thigh?”
“No. Mentally…There is no telling. On the level, I think, of a three- or four-year-old child. She'll require loving care for a long while.”
“That's obvious. Witcher?”
“I’m listening.”
“Can it happen to her again? Later on?”
Geralt was silent.
“Aha,” said the king. “It can. And what then?”
“Should she die after a long swoon lasting several days, her body will have to be burned. Quickly.”
Foltest grew gloomy.
“I do not think it will come to that,” added Geralt. “Just to be sure, I will give you some instructions, your Majesty, to lessen the danger.”
“Right now? Is it not too soon, master witcher? And if—”
“Right now,” interrupted the Rivian. “Many things may happen, your Majesty. It could be that you'll find a princess in the morning, the spell already broken, and my corpse.”
“Even so? Despite my permission to defend yourself? Which, it seems, wasn't that important to you.”
“This is a serious matter, your Majesty. The risk is great. That is why you must listen: the princess should always wear a sapphire around her neck, or better, an inclusion, on a silver chain. Day and night.”
“What is an inclusion?”
“A sapphire with a pocket of air trapped within the stone. Aside from that, every now and then you should burn juniper, broom and aspen in the fireplace of her chamber.”
Foltest grew pensive. “I thank you for your advice, witcher. I will pay heed if—And now listen to me carefully. If you find the case is hopeless, kill her. If you undo the spell but the girl is not…normal. If you have a shadow of a doubt as to whether you have been entirely successful, kill her. Do not worry, you have nothing to fear from me. I’ll shout at you in front of others, banish you from the palace and the town, nothing more, Of course I won't give you the reward, but maybe you'll manage to negotiate something from you know who.”
They were both quiet for a while.
“Geralt.” For the first time Foltest called the witcher by his name.
“Yes.”
“How much truth is there in the rumor that the child is as she is because Adda was my sister?”
“Not much. A spell has to be cast, they don't cast themselves. But I think your congress with your sister was the reason the spell was cast, and this is the result.”
“As I thought. That is what some of the Knowing Ones said, although not all of them. Geralt? Where do such things come from? Spells, magic?”
“I don't know, your Majesty. Knowing Ones study the causes of such phenomena. For us witchers the knowledge that concentrated will can cause such phenomena is enough. That and the knowledge to fight them.”
“And kill them?”
“Usually. Besides, that is what we're usually paid for. Only a few demand the reversal of spells, your Majesty. As a rule, people simply want to defend themselves from danger. If the monster has men on its conscience then revenge can also come into play.”
The king got up, took a few paces across the chamber, and stopped in front of the witcher's sword hanging on the wall.
“With this?” he asked, not looking at Geralt.
“No. That is for men.”
“So I heard. Do you know what, Geralt? I’m going to the crypt with you.”
“Out of the question.”
Foltest turned, his eyes glinted. “Do you know, sorcerer, that I have not seen her? Neither after she was born, nor later. I was afraid. I may never see her, am I not right? At least I have the right to see my daughter while you're murdering her.”
“I repeat, it's out of the question. It is certain death. For me as well as you. If my attention, my will falters—No, your Majesty.”
Foltest turned away, started toward the door. For a moment Geralt thought he would leave without a word, without a parting gesture, but the king stopped and looked at him.
“You inspire trust,” he said, “although I know what a rogue you are. I was told what happened at the tavern. I’m sure you killed those thugs solely for word to spread, to shock people, to shock me. It's obvious that you could have dealt with them without killing. I’m afraid I’ll never know whether you are going there to save my daughter, or to kill her. But I agree to it. I have to agree. Do you know why?”
Geralt did not reply.
“Because I think,” said the king, “I think that she is suffering. Am I not right?”
The witcher fixed his penetrating eyes on the king. He didn't confirm it, didn't nod, didn't make the slightest gesture, but Foltest knew. He knew the answer.
V
Geralt looked out of the palace window for the last time. Dusk was falling rapidly. Beyond the lake the distant lights of Wyzim twinkled. There was a wilderness around the old palace—a strip of no-man's land with which, over seven years, the town had cut itself off from this dangerous place, leaving nothing but a few ruins, rotten beams and the remains of a gap-toothed palisade which had obviously not been worth dismantling and moving. As far away as possible—at the opposite end of the settlement—the king had built his new residence. The stout tower of his new palace loomed black in the distance, against the darkening blue of the sky.
In one of the empty, plundered chambers, the witcher returned to the dusty table at which he was preparing, calmly and meticulously. He knew he had plenty of time. The striga would not leave her crypt before midnight.
On the table in front of him he had a small chest with metal fittings. He opened it. Inside, packed tightly in compartments lined with dried grass, stood small vials of dark glass. The witcher removed three.
From the floor, he picked up an oblong packet thickly wrapped in sheep's skins and fastened with a leather strap. He unwrapped it and pulled out a sword with an elaborate hilt, in a black, shiny scabbard covered with rows of runic signs and symbols. He drew the blade, which lit up with a pure shine of mirror-like brightness. It was pure silver.
Geralt whispered an incantation and drank, one after the other, the contents of two vials, placing his left hand on the blade of the sword after each sip. Then, wrapping himself tightly in his black coat, he sat down on the floor. There were no chairs in the chamber, or in the rest of the palace.
He sat motionless, his eyes closed. His breathing, at first even, suddenly quickened, became rasping and tense. And then stopped completely. The mixture which helped the witcher gain full control of his body was chiefly made up of veratrum, stramonium, hawthorn and spurge. The other ingredients had no name in any human language. For anyone who was not, like Geralt, inured to it from childhood, it would have been lethal poison.
The witcher turned his head abruptly. In the silence his hearing, sharpened beyond measure, easily picked out a rustle of footsteps through the courtyard overgrown with stinging nettles. It could not be the striga. The steps were too light. Geralt threw his sword across his back, hid his bundle in the hearth of the ruined chimney-place and, silent as a bat, ran downstairs.
It was still light enough in the courtyard for the approaching man to see the witcher's face. The man, Ostrit, backed away abruptly; an involuntary grimace of terror and repulsion contorted his lips. The witcher smiled wryly—he knew what he looked like. After drinking a mixture of banewart, monk's hood and eyebright the face takes on the color of chalk, and the pupils fill the entire iris. But the mixture enables one to see in the deepest darkness, and this is what Geralt wanted.
Ostrit quickly regained control.
The witcher did not reply.
“Don't you hear what I say, you Rivian charlatan? You're saved. And rich.” Ostrit hefted a sizeable purse in his hand and threw it at Geralt's feet. “A thousand orens. Take it, get on your horse and get out of here!”
The Rivian still said nothing.
“Don't gawp at me!” Ostrit raised his voice. “And don't waste my time. I have no intention of standing here until midnight. Don't you understand? I do not wish you to undo the spell. No, you haven't guessed. I am not in league with Velerad and Segelin. I don't want you to kill her. You are simply to leave. Everything is to stay as it is.”
The witcher did not move. He did not want the magnate to realize how fast his movements and reactions now were. It was quickly growing dark. A relief, as even the semi-darkness of dusk was too bright for his dilated pupils.
“And why, sir, is everything to remain as it is?” he asked, trying to enunciate each word slowly.
“Now, that”—Ostrit raised his head proudly—“should really be of damn little concern to you.”
“And what if I already know?”
“Go on.”
“It will be easier to remove Foltest from the throne if the striga frightens the people even more? If the royal madness completely disgusts both magnates and common folk, am I right? I came here by way of Redania and Novigrad. There is much talk there that there are those in Wyzim who look to King Vizimir as their savior and true monarch. But I, Lord Ostrit, do not care about politics, or the successions to thrones, or revolutions in palaces. I am here to accomplish my task. Have you never heard of a sense of responsibility and plain honesty? About professional ethics?”
“Careful to whom you speak, you vagabond!” Ostrit yelled furiously, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I have had enough of this. I am not accustomed to hold such discussions! Look at you—ethics, codes of practice, morality?! Who are you to talk? A brigand who's barely arrived before he starts murdering men? Who bends double to Foltest and behind his back bargains with Velerad like a hired thug? And you dare to turn your nose up at me, you serf? Play at being a Knowing One? A Magician? You scheming witcher! Be gone before I run the flat of my sword across your gob!”
The witcher did not stir. He stood calmly.
“You'd better leave, Lord Ostrit,” he said. “It's growing dark.”
Ostrit took a step back, drew his sword in a flash.
“You asked for this, you sorcerer. I’ll kill you. Your tricks won't help you. I carry a turtle-stone.”
Geralt smiled. The reputation of turtle-stone was as mistaken as it was popular. But the witcher was not going to lose his strength on spells, much less expose his silver sword to contact with Ostrit's blade. He dived under the whirling blade and, with the heel of his hand and his silver-studded cuff, hit him in the temple.
VI
Ostrit quickly regained consciousness and looked around in the total darkness. He noticed that he was tied up. He did not see Geralt standing right beside him. But he realized where he was and let out a prolonged, terrifying howl.
“Keep quiet,” said the witcher. “Otherwise you'll lure her out before her time.”
“You damned murderer! Where are you? Untie me immediately, you louse! You'll hang for this, you son of a bitch!”
“Quiet.”
Ostrit panted heavily.
“You're leaving me here to be devoured by her! Tied up?” he asked, quieter now, whispering a vile invective.
“No,” said the witcher. “I’ll let you go. But not now.”
“You scoundrel,” hissed Ostrit. “To distract the striga?”
“Yes.”
Ostrit didn't say anything. He stopped wriggling and lay quietly.
“Witcher?”
“Yes.”
“It's true that I wanted to overthrow Foltest. I’m not the only one. But I am the only one who wanted him dead. I wanted him to die in agony, to go mad, to rot alive. Do you know why?”
Geralt remained silent.
“I loved Adda. The king's sister. The king's mistress. The king's trollop. I loved her—Witcher, are you there?”
“I am.”
“I know what you're thinking. But it wasn't like that. Believe me, I didn't cast any spells. I don't know anything about magic. Only once in anger did I say…Only once. Witcher? Are you listening?”
“I am.”
“It's his mother, the old queen. It must be her. She couldn't watch him and Adda—It wasn't me. I only once, you know, tried to persuade them but Adda—Witcher! I was besotted, and said…Witcher? Was it me? Me?”
“It doesn't matter anymore.”
“Witcher? Is it nearly midnight?”
“It's close.”
“Let me go. Give me more time.”
“No.”
Ostrit did not hear the scrape of the tomb lid being moved aside, but the witcher did. He leaned over and, with his dagger, cut the magnate's bonds. Ostrit did not wait, for the word. He jumped up, numb, hobbled clumsily, and ran. His eyes had grown accustomed enough to the darkness for him to see his way from the main hall to the exit.
The slab blocking the entrance to the crypt opened and fell to the floor with a thud. Geralt, prudently behind the staircase balustrade, saw the misshapen figure of the striga speeding swiftly and unerringly in the direction of Ostrit's receeding footsteps. Not the slightest sound issued from the striga.
A terrible, quivering, frenzied scream tore the night, shook the old walls, continued rising and falling, vibrating. The witcher couldn't make out exactly how far away it was—his sharpened hearing deceived him—but he knew that the striga had caught up with Ostrit quickly. Too quickly.
He stepped into the middle of the hall, stood right at the entrance to the crypt. He threw down his coat, twitched his shoulders, adjusted the position of his sword, pulled on his gauntlets. He still had some time. He knew that the striga, although well fed after the last full moon, would not readily abandon Ostrit's corpse. The heart and liver were, for her, valuable reserves of nutrition for the long periods spent in lethargic sleep.
The witcher waited. By his count, there were about three hours left until dawn. The cock's crow could only mislead him. Besides, there were probably no cocks in the neighborhood.
He heard her. She was trudging slowly, shuffling along the floor. And then he saw her.
The description had been accurate. The disproportionately large head set on a short neck was surrounded by a tangled, curly halo of reddish hair. Her eyes shone in the darkness like an animal's. The striga stood motionless, her gaze fixed on Geralt. Suddenly she opened her jaws—as if proud of her rows of pointed white teeth—then snapped them shut with a crack like a chest being closed. And leapt, slashing at the witcher with her bloodied claws.
Geralt jumped to the side, spun a swift pirouette. The striga rubbed against him, also spun around, slicing through the air with her talons. She didn't lose her balance and attacked anew, mid-spin, gnashing her teeth fractions of an inch from Geralt's chest. The Rivian jumped away, changing the direction of his spin with a fluttering pirouette to confuse the striga. As he leapt away he dealt a hard blow to the side of her head with the silver spikes studding the knuckles of his gauntlet.
The striga roared horribly, filling the palace with a booming echo, fell to the ground, froze and started to howl hollowly and furiously.
The witcher smiled maliciously. His first attempt, as he had hoped, had gone well. Silver was fatal to the striga, as it was for most monsters brought into existence through magic. So there was a chance: the beast was like the others, and that boded well for lifting the spell, while the silver sword would, as a last resort, assure his life.
The striga was in no hurry with her next attack. She approached slowly, baring her fangs, dribbling repulsively. Geralt backed away and, carefully placing his feet, traced a sem
i-circle. By slowing and quickening his movements he distracted the striga, making it difficult for her to leap. As he walked, the witcher unwound a long, strong silver chain, weighted at the end.
The moment the striga tensed and leapt the chain whistled through the air and, coiling like a snake, twined itself around the monster's shoulders, neck and head. The striga's jump became a tumble, and she let out an ear-piercing whistle. She thrashed around on the floor, howling horribly with fury or from the burning pain inflicted by the despised metal. Geralt was content—if he wanted he could kill the striga without great difficulty. But the witcher did not draw his sword. Nothing in the striga's behavior had given him reason to think she might be an incurable case. Geralt moved to a safer distance and, without letting the writhing shape on the floor out of his sight, breathed deeply, focused himself.
The chain snapped. The silver links scattered like rain in all directions, ringing against the stone. The striga, blind with fury, tumbled to the attack, roaring. Geralt waited calmly and, with his raised right hand, traced the Sign of Aard in front of him.
The striga fell back as if hit by a mallet but kept her feet, extended her talons, bared her fangs. Her hair stood on end and fluttered as if she were walking against a fierce wind. With difficulty, one rasping step at a time, she slowly advanced. But she did advance.
Geralt grew uneasy. He did not expect such a simple Sign to paralyze the striga entirely but neither did he expect the beast to overcome it so easily. He could not hold the Sign for long, it was too exhausting, and the striga had no more than ten steps to go. He lowered the Sign suddenly, and sprung aside. The striga, taken by surprise, flew forward, lost her balance, fell, slid along the floor and tumbled down the stairs into the crypt's entrance, yawning in the floor.
Her infernal scream reverberated from below.
To gain time Geralt jumped on to the stairs leading to the gallery. He had not even climbed halfway up when the striga ran out of the crypt, speeding along like an enormous black spider. The witcher waited until she had run up the stairs after him, then leapt over the balustrade. The striga turned on the stairs, sprang and flew at him in an amazing ten-meter leap. She did not let herself be deceived by his pirouettes this time; twice her talons left their mark on the Rivian's leather tunic. But another desperately hard blow from the silver spiked gauntlet threw the striga aside, shook her. Geralt, feeling fury building inside him, swayed, bent backward and, with a mighty kick, knocked the beast off her legs.
The Last Wish Page 3