“Fifteen years ago,” he announced loudly, “your husband King Roegner lost his way while hunting in Erlenwald. Wandering around the pathless tracts, he fell from his horse into a ravine and sprained his leg. He lay at the bottom of the gully and called for help but the only answer he got was the hiss of vipers and the howling of approaching werewolves. He would have died without the help he received.”
“I know what happened,” the queen affirmed. “If you know it, too, then I guess you are the one who helped him.”
“Yes. It is only because of me he returned to you in one piece, and well.”
“I am grateful to you, then, Urcheon of Erlenwald. That gratitude is none the lesser for the fact that Roegner, gentleman of my heart and bed, has left this world. Tell me, if the implication that your aid was not disinterested does not offend another of your knightly vows, how I can express my gratitude.”
“You well know my aid was not disinterested. You know, too, that I have come to collect the promised reward for saving the king's life.”
“Oh yes?” Calanthe smiled but green sparks lit up her eyes. “So you found a man at the bottom of a ravine, defenseless, wounded, at the mercy of vipers and monsters. And only when he promised you a reward did you help? And if he didn't want to or couldn't promise you something, you'd have left him there, and, to this day, I wouldn't know where his bones lay? How noble. No doubt your actions were guided by a particularly chivalrous vow at the time.”
The murmur around the hall grew louder.
“And today you come for your reward, Urcheon?” continued the queen, smiling even more ominously. “After fifteen years? No doubt you are counting the interest accrued over this period? This isn't the dwarves’ bank, Urcheon. You say Roegner promised you a reward? Ah, well, it will be difficult to get him to pay you. It would be simpler to send you to him, into the other world, to reach an agreement over who owes what. I loved my husband too dearly, Urcheon, to forget that I could have lost him then, fifteen years ago, if he hadn't chosen to bargain with you. The thought of it arouses rather-ill feeling toward you. Masked newcomer, do you know that here in Cintra, in my castle and in my power, you are just as helpless and close to death as Roegner was then, at the bottom of the ravine? What will you propose, what price, what reward will you offer, if I promise you will leave here alive?”
The medallion on Geralt's neck twitched. The witcher caught Mousesack's clearly uneasy gaze. He shook his head a little and raised his eyebrows questioningly. The druid also shook his head and, with a barely perceptible move of his curly beard, indicated Urcheon. Geralt wasn't sure.
“Your words, your Majesty,” called Urcheon, “are calculated to frighten me, to kindle the anger of the honorable gentlemen gathered here, and the contempt of your pretty daughter, Pavetta. But above all, your words are untrue. And you know it!”
“You accuse me of lying like a dog.” An ugly grimace crept across Calanthe's lips.
“You know very well, your Majesty,” the newcomer continued adamantly, “what happened then in Erlenwald. You know Roegner, once saved, vowed of his own will to give me whatever I asked for. I call upon every one to witness my words! When the king, rescued from his misadventure, reached his retinue, he asked me what I demanded and I answered. I asked him to promise me whatever he had left at home without knowing or expecting it. The king swore it would be so, and on his return to the castle he found you, Calanthe, in labor. Yes, your Majesty, I waited for fifteen years and the interest on my reward has grown. Today I look at the beautiful Pavetta and see that the wait has been worth it! Gentlemen and knights! Some of you have come to Cintra to ask for the princess's hand. You have come in vain. From the day of her birth, by the power of the royal oath, the beautiful Pavetta has belonged to me!”
An uproar burst forth among the guests. Some shouted, someone swore, someone else thumped his fist on the table and knocked the dishes over. Wieldhill of Strept pulled a knife out of the roast lamb and waved it about. Crach an Craite, bent over, was clearly trying to break a plank from the table trestle.
“That's unheard of!” yelled Vissegerd. “What proof do you have? Proof?”
“The queen's face,” exclaimed Urcheon, extending his hand, “is the best proof!”
Pavetta sat motionless, not raising her head. The air was growing thick with something very strange. The witcher's medallion was tearing at its chain under the tunic. He saw the queen summon a page and whisper a short command. Geralt couldn't hear it, but he was puzzled by the surprise on the boy's face and the fact that the command had to be repeated. The page ran toward the exit.
The uproar at the table continued as Eist Tuirseach turned to the queen.
“Calanthe,” he said calmly, “is what he says true?”
“And if it is,” the queen muttered through her teeth, biting her lips and picking at the green sash on her shoulder, “so what?”
“If what he says is true”—Eist frowned—“then the promise will have to be kept.”
“Is that so?”
“Or am I to understand,” the islander asked grimly, “that you treat all promises this lightly, including those which have etched themselves so deeply in my memory?”
Geralt, who had never expected to see Calanthe blush deeply, with tears in her eyes and trembling lips, was surprised.
“Eist,” whispered the queen, “this is different—”
“Is it, really?”
“Oh, you son of a bitch!” Crach an Craite yelled unexpectedly, jumping up. “The last fool who said I’d acted in vain was pinched apart by crabs at the bottom of Allenker bay! I didn't sail here from Skellig to return empty-handed! A suitor has turned up, some son of a trollop! Someone bring me a sword and give that idiot some iron! We'll soon see who—”
“Maybe you could just shut up, Crach?” Eist snapped scathingly, resting both fists on the table. “Draig Bon-Dhu! I render you responsible for his future behavior!”
“And are you going to silence me, too, Tuirseach?” shouted Rainfarn of Attre, standing up. “Who is going to stop me from washing the insult thrown at my prince away with blood? And his son, Windhalm, the only man worthy of Pavetta's hand and bed! Bring the swords! I’ll show that Urcheon, or whatever he's called, how we of Attre take revenge for such abuse! I wonder whether anybody or anything can hold me back?”
“Yes. Regard for good manners,” said Eist Tuirseach calmly. “It is not proper to start a fight here or challenge anyone without permission from the lady of the house. What is this? Is the throne room of Cintra an inn where you can punch each other's heads and stab each other with knives as the fancy takes you?”
Everybody started to shout again, to curse and swear and wave their arms about. But the uproar suddenly stopped, as if cut by a knife, at the short, furious roar of an enraged bison.
“Yes,” said Coodcoodak, clearing his throat and rising from his chair. “Eist has it wrong. This doesn't even look like an inn anymore. It's more like a zoo, so a bison should be at home here. Honorable Calanthe, allow me to offer my opinion.”
“A great many people, I see,” said Calanthe in a drawling voice, “have an opinion on this problem and are offering it even without my permission. Strange that you aren't interested in mine? And in my opinion, this bloody castle will sooner collapse on my head than I give my Pavetta to this crank. I haven't the least intention—”
“Roegner's oath—” Urcheon began, but the queen silenced him, banging her golden goblet on the table.
“Roegner's oath means about as much to me as last year's snows! And as for you, Urcheon, I haven't decided whether to allow Crach or Rainfarn to meet you outside, or to simply hang you. You're greatly influencing my decision with your interruption!”
Geralt, still disturbed by the way his medallion was quivering, looked around the hall. Suddenly he saw Pavetta's eyes, emerald green like her mother's. The princess was no longer hiding them beneath her long lashes—she swept them from Mousesack to the witcher, ignoring the others. Mousesa
ck, bent over, was wriggling and muttering something.
Coodcoodak, still standing, cleared his throat meaningfully.
“Speak.” The queen nodded. “But be brief.”
“As you command, your Majesty. Noble Calanthe and you, knights! Indeed, Urcheon of Erlenwald made a strange request of King Roegner, a strange reward to demand when the king offered him his wish. But let us not pretend we've never heard of such requests, of the Law of Surprise, as old as humanity itself. Of the price a man who saves another can demand, of the granting of a seemingly impossible wish. ‘You will give me the first thing that comes to greet you.’ It might be a dog, you'll say, a halberdier at the gate, even a mother-in-law impatient to holler at her son-in-law when he returns home. Or: ‘You'll give me what you find at home yet don't expect.’ After a long journey, honorable gentlemen, and an unexpected return, this could be a lover in the wife's bed. But sometimes it's a child. A child marked out by destiny.”
“Briefly, Coodcoodak.” Calanthe frowned.
“As you command. Sirs! Have you not heard of children marked out by destiny? Was not the legendary hero, Zatret Voruta, given to the dwarves as a child because he was the first person his father met on his return? And Mad Dei, who demanded a traveler give him what he left at home without knowing it? That surprise was the famous Supree, who later liberated Mad Dei” from the curse which weighed him down. Remember Zivelena, who became the Queen of Metinna with the help of the gnome Rumplestelt, and in return promised him her firstborn? Zivelena didn't keep her promise when Rumplestelt came for his reward and, by using spells, she forced him to run away. Not long after that, both she and the child died of the plague. You do not dice with Destiny with impunity!”
“Don't threaten me, Coodcoodak.” Calanthe grimaced. “Midnight is close, the time for ghosts. Can you remember any more legends from your undoubtedly difficult childhood? If not, then sit down.”
“I ask your Grace”—the baron turned up his long whiskers—“to allow me to remain standing. I’d like to remind everybody of another legend. It's an old, forgotten legend—we've all probably heard it in our difficult childhoods. In this legend, the kings kept their promises. And we, poor vassals, are only bound to kings by the royal word: treaties, alliances, our privileges and fiefs all rely on it. And now? Are we to doubt all this? Doubt the inviolability of the king's word? Wait until it is worth as much as yesteryear's snow? If this is how things are to be, then a difficult old age awaits us after our difficult childhoods!”
“Whose side are you on, Coodcoodak?” hollered Rainfarn of Attre.
“Silence! Let him speak!”
“This cackler, full of hot air, insults her Majesty!”
“The Baron of Tigg is right!”
“Silence,” Calanthe said suddenly, getting up. “Let him finish.”
“I thank you graciously.” Coodcoodak bowed. “But I have just finished.”
Silence fell, strange after the commotion his words had caused. Calanthe was still standing. Geralt didn't think anyone else had noticed her hand shake as she wiped her brow.
“My lords,” she said finally, “you deserve an explanation. Yes, this…Urcheon…speaks the truth. Roegner did swear to give him that which he did not expect. It looks as if our lamented king was an oaf as far as a woman's affairs are concerned, and couldn't be trusted to count to nine. He confessed the truth on his deathbed, because he knew what I’d do to him if he'd admitted it earlier. He knew what a mother, whose child is disposed of so recklessly, is capable of.”
The knights and magnates remained silent. Urcheon stood motionless, like a spiked, iron statue.
“And Coodcoodak,” continued Calanthe, “well, Coodcoodak has reminded me that I am not a mother but a queen. Very well, then. As queen, I shall convene a council tomorrow. Cintra is not a tyranny. The council will decide whether a dead king's oath is to decide the fate of the successor to the throne. It will decide whether Pavetta and the throne of Cintra are to be given to a stranger, or to act according to the kingdom's interest.” Calanthe was silent for a moment, looking askance at Geralt. “And as for the noble knights who have come to Cintra in the hope of the princess's hand…It only remains for me to express my deep regret at the cruel disrespect and dishonor they have experienced here, at the ridicule poured on them. I am not to blame.”
Amid the hum of voices which rumbled through the guests, the witcher managed to pick out Eist Tuirseach's whisper.
“On all the gods of the sea,” sighed the islander. “This isn't befitting. This is open incitement to bloodshed. Calanthe, you're simply setting them against each other—”
“Be quiet, Eist,” hissed the queen furiously, “because I’ll get angry.”
Mousesack's black eyes flashed as—with a glance—the druid indicated Rainfarn of Attre who, with a gloomy, grimacing face, was preparing to stand. Geralt reacted immediately, standing up first and banging the chair noisily.
“Maybe it will prove unnecessary to convene the council,” he said in ringing tones.
Everyone grew silent, watching him with astonishment. Geralt felt Pavetta's emerald eyes on him, he felt Urcheon's gaze fall on him from behind the lattice of his black visor, and he felt the Force surging like a flood-wave and solidifying in the air. He saw how, under the influence of this Force, the smoke from the torches and oil lamps was taking on fantastic forms. He knew that Mousesack saw it too. He also knew that nobody else saw it.
“I said,” he repeated calmly, “that convening the council may not prove necessary. You understand what I have in mind, Urcheon of Erlenwald?”
The spiked knight took two grating steps forward.
“I do,” he said, his words hollow beneath his helmet. “It would take a fool not to understand. I heard what the merciful and noble lady Calanthe said a moment ago. She has found an excellent way of getting rid of me. I accept your challenge, knight unknown to me!”
“I don't recall challenging you,” said Geralt. “I don't intend to duel you, Urcheon of Erlenwald.”
“Geralt!” called Calanthe, twisting her lips and forgetting to call the witcher Ravix, “don't overdo it! Don't put my patience to the test!”
“Or mine,” added Rainfarn ominously. Crach an Craite growled, and Eist Tuirseach meaningfully showed him a clenched fist. Crach growled even louder.
“Everyone heard,” spoke Geralt, “Baron Tigg tell us about the famous heroes taken from their parents on the strength of the same oath that Urcheon received from King Roegner. But why should anyone want such an oath? You know the answer, Urcheon of Erlenwald. It creates a powerful, indissoluble tie of destiny between the person demanding the oath and its object, the child-surprise. Such a child, marked by blind fate, can be destined for extraordinary things. It can play an incredibly important role in the life of the person to whom fate has tied it. That is why, Urcheon, you demanded the prize you claim today. You don't want the throne of Cintra. You want the princess.”
“It is exactly as you say, knight unknown to me.” Urcheon laughed out loud. “That is exactly what I claim! Give me the one who is my destiny!”
“That,” said Geralt, “will have to be proved.”
“You dare doubt it? After the queen confirmed the truth of my words? After what you've just said?”
“Yes. Because you didn't tell us everything. Roegner knew the power of the Law of Surprise and the gravity of the oath he took. And he took it because he knew law and custom have a power which protects such oaths, ensuring they are only fulfilled when the force of destiny confirms them. I declare, Urcheon, that you have no right to the princess as yet. You will win her only when—”
“When what?”
“When the princess herself agrees to leave with you. This is what the Law of Surprise states. It is the child's, not the parent's, consent which confirms the oath, which proves that the child was born under the shadow of destiny. That's why you returned after fifteen years, Urcheon, and that's the condition King Roegner stipulated in his oath.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Geralt of Rivia.”
“Who are you, Geralt of Rivia, to claim to be an oracle in matters of laws and customs?”
“He knows this law better than anyone else,” Mouse-sack said in a hoarse voice, “because it applied to him once. He was taken from his home because he was what his father hadn't expected to find on his return. Because he was destined for other things. And by the power of destiny he became what he is.”
“And what is he?”
“A witcher.”
In the silence that reigned, the guardhouse bell struck, announcing midnight in a dull tone. Everyone shuddered and raised their heads. Mousesack watched Geralt with surprise. But it was Urcheon who flinched most noticeably and moved uneasily. His hands, clad in their armor gauntlets, fell to his sides lifelessly, and the spiked helmet swayed unsteadily.
The strange, unknown Force suddenly grew thicker, filling the hall like a gray mist.
“It's true,” said Calanthe. “Geralt, present here, is a witcher. His trade is worthy of respect and esteem. He has sacrificed himself to protect us from monsters and nightmares born in the night, those sent by powers ominous and harmful to man. He kills the horrors and monsters that await us in the forests and ravines. And those which have the audacity to enter our dwellings.” Urcheon was silent. “And so,” continued the queen, raising her ringed hand, “let the law be fulfilled, let the oath which you, Urcheon of Erlenwald, insist should be satisfied, be satisfied. Midnight has struck. Your vow no longer binds you. Lift your visor. Before my daughter expresses her will, before she decides her destiny, let her see your face. We all wish to see your face.”
Urcheon of Erlenwald slowly raised his armored hand, pulled at the helmet's fastenings, grabbed it by the iron horn and threw it against the floor with a crash. Someone shouted, someone swore, someone sucked in their breath with a whistle. On the queen's face appeared a wicked, very wicked, smile. A cruel smile of triumph.
Above the wide, semi-circular breastplate, two bulbous, black, button eyes looked out. Eyes set to either side of a blunt, elongated muzzle covered in reddish bristles and full of sharp white fangs. Urcheon's head and neck bristled with a brush of short, gray, twitching prickles.
The Last Wish Page 15