The Last Wish

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  He leaned against the wall of the cave and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “You're not answering,” stated Nenneke, smiling faintly. “I’m not surprised. It's not easy to speak with the voice of reason. You're sick, Geralt. You're not fully fit. You react to elixirs badly. You've got a rapid pulse rate, the dilation of your eyes is slow, your reactions are delayed. You can't get the simplest Signs right. And you want to hit the trail? You have to be treated. You need therapy. And before that, a trance.”

  “Is that why you sent Iola to me? As part of the therapy? To make the trance easier?”

  “You're a fool!”

  “But not to such an extent.”

  Nenneke turned away and slipped her hands among the meaty stalks of creepers which the witcher didn't recognize.

  “Well, have it your way,” she said easily. “Yes, I sent her to you. As part of the therapy. And let me tell you, it worked. Your reactions were much better the following day. You were calmer. And Iola needed some therapy, too. Don't be angry.”

  “I’m not angry because of the therapy, or because of Iola.”

  “But at the voice of reason you're hearing?”

  He didn't answer.

  “A trance is necessary,” repeated Nenneke, glancing around at her cave garden. “Iola's ready. She's made both physical and psychic contact with you. If you want to leave, let's do it tonight.”

  “No. I don't want to. Look, Nenneke, Iola might start to prophesy during the trance. To predict, read the future.”

  “That's just it.”

  “Exactly. And I don't want to know the future. How could I do what I’m doing if I knew it? Besides, I know it anyway.”

  “Are you sure?” He didn't answer. “Oh, well, all right,” she sighed. “Let's go. Oh, and, Geralt? I don't mean to pry but tell me…How did you meet? You and Yennefer? How did it all start?”

  The witcher smiled. “It started with me and Dandilion not having anything for breakfast and deciding to catch some fish.”

  “Am I to understand that instead of fish you caught Yennefer?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened. But maybe after supper. I’m hungry.”

  “Let's go, then. I’ve got everything I need.”

  The witcher made a move toward the exit and once more looked around the cave hothouse.

  “Nenneke?”

  “Aha?”

  “Half of the plants you've got here don't grow anywhere else anymore. Am I right?”

  “Yes. More than half.”

  “How come?”

  “If I said it was through the goddess Melitele's grace, I daresay that wouldn't be enough for you, would it?”

  “I daresay it wouldn't.”

  “That's what I thought.” Nenneke smiled. “You see, Geralt, this bright sun of ours is still shining, but not quite the way it used to. Read the great books if you like. But if you don't want to waste time on it, maybe you'll be happy with the explanation that the crystal roof acts like a filter. It eliminates the lethal rays which are increasingly found in sunlight. That's why plants which you can't see growing wild anywhere in the world grow here.”

  “I understand.” The witcher nodded. “And us, Nenneke? What about us? The sun shines on us, too. Shouldn't we shelter under a roof like that?”

  “In principle, yes,” sighed the priestess. “But…”

  “But what?”

  “It's too late.”

  THE LAST WISH

  I

  The catfish stuck its barbelled head above the surface, tugged with force, splashed, stirred the water and flashed its white belly.

  “Careful, Dandilion!” shouted the witcher, digging his heels into the wet sand. “Hold him, damn it!”

  “I am holding him…” groaned the poet. “Heavens, what a monster! It's a leviathan, not a fish! There'll be some good eating on that, dear gods!”

  “Loosen it. Loosen it or the line will snap!”

  The catfish clung to the bed and threw itself against the current toward the bend in the river. The line hissed as Dandilion's and Geralt's gloves smoldered.

  “Pull, Geralt, pull! Don't loosen it or it'll get tangled up in the roots!”

  “The line will snap!”

  “No, it won't. Pull!”

  They hunched up and pulled. The line cut the water with a hiss, vibrated and scattered droplets which glistened like mercury in the rising sun. The catfish suddenly surfaced, set the water seething just below the surface, and the tension of the line eased. They quickly started to gather up the slack.

  “We'll smoke it,” panted Dandilion. “We'll take it to the village and get it smoked. And we'll use the head for soup!”

  “Careful!”

  Feeling the shallows under its belly, the catfish threw half of its twelve-foot-long body out of the water, tossed its head, whacked its flat tail and took a sharp dive into the depths. Their gloves smoldered anew.

  “Pull, pull! To the bank, the son of a bitch!”

  “The line is creaking! Loosen it, Dandilion!”

  “It'll hold, don't worry! We'll cook the head…for soup…”

  The catfish, dragged near to the bank again, surged and strained furiously against them as if to let them know he wasn't that easy to get into the pot. The spray flew six feet into the air.

  “We'll sell the skin…” Dandilion, red with effort, pulled the line with both hands. “And the barbels…We'll use the barbels to make—”

  Nobody ever found out what the poet was going to make from the catfish's barbels. The line snapped with a crack and both fishermen, losing their balance, fell onto the wet sand.

  “Bloody hell!” Dandilion yelled so loud that the echo resounded though the osiers. “So much grub escaped! I hope you die, you son-of-a-catfish.”

  “I told you.” Geralt shook his wet trousers. “I told you not to use force when you pull. You screwed up, my friend. You make as good a fisherman as a goat's arse makes a trumpet.”

  “That's not true.” The troubadour was outraged. “It's my doing that the monster took the bait in the first place.”

  “Oh really? You didn't lift a finger to help me set the line. You played the lute and hollered so the whole neighborhood could hear you, nothing more.”

  “You're wrong.” Dandilion bared his teeth. “When you fell asleep, you see, I took the grubs off the hook and attached a dead crow, which I’d found in the bushes. I wanted to see your face in the morning when you pulled the crow out. And the catfish took the crow. Your grubs would have caught shit-all.”

  “They would have, they would have.” The witcher spat into the water, winding the line on to a little wooden rake. “But it snapped because you tugged like an idiot. Wind up the rest of the lines instead of gabbling. The sun's already up; it's time to go. I’m going to pack up.”

  “Geralt!”

  “What?”

  “There's something on the other line, too…No, dammit, it only got caught. Hell, it's holding like a stone. I can't do it! Ah, that's it…Ha, ha, look what I’m bringing in. It must be the wreck of a barge from King Dezmod's time! What great stuff! Look, Geralt!”

  Dandilion was clearly exaggerating; the clump of rotted ropes, net and algae pulled out of the water was impressive but it was far from being the size of a barge dating from the days of the legendary king. The bard scattered the jumble over the bank and began to dig around in it with the tip of his shoe. The algae was alive with leeches, scuds and little crabs.

  “Ha! Look what I’ve found!”

  Geralt approached, curious. The find was a chipped stoneware jar, something like a two-handled amphora, tangled up in netting, black with rotten algae, colonies of caddis-larvae and snails, dripping with stinking slime.

  “Ha!” Dandilion exclaimed again, proudly. “Do you know what this is?”

  “It's an old pot.”

  “You're wrong,” declared the troubadour, scraping away shells and hardened, shiny clay. “This is a charmed jar. There's a djinn inside who'll fulfill
my three wishes.”

  The witcher snorted.

  “You can laugh.” Dandilion finished his scraping, bent over and rinsed the amphora. “But there's a seal on the spigot and a wizard's mark on the seal.”

  “What mark? Let's see.”

  “Oh, sure.” The poet hid the jar behind his back. “And what more do you want? I’m the one who found it and I need all the wishes.”

  “Don't touch that seal! Leave it alone!”

  “Let go, I tell you! It's mine!”

  “Dandilion, be careful!”

  “Sure!”

  “Don't touch it! Oh, bloody hell!”

  The jar fell to the sand during their scuffle, and luminous red smoke burst forth.

  The witcher jumped back and rushed toward the camp for his sword. Dandilion, folding his arms across his chest, didn't move.

  The smoke pulsated and collected in an irregular sphere level with Dandilion's eyes. The sphere formed a six-foot-wide distorted head with no nose, enormous eyes and a sort of beak.

  “Djinn!” said Dandilion, stamping his foot. “I freed thee and as of this day, I am thy lord. My wishes—”

  The head snapped its beak, which wasn't really a beak but something in the shape of drooping, deformed and ever-changing lips.

  “Run!” yelled the witcher. “Run, Dandilion!”

  “My wishes,” continued the poet, “are as follows. Firstly, may Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, die of apoplexy as soon as possible. Secondly, there's a count's daughter in Caelf called Virginia who refuses all advances. May she succumb to mine. Thirdly—”

  No one ever found out Dandilion's third wish.

  Two monstrous paws emerged from the horrible head and grabbed the bard by the throat. Dandilion screeched.

  Geralt reached the head in three leaps, swiped his silver sword and slashed it through the middle. The air howled, the head exhaled smoke and rapidly doubled in diameter. The monstrous jaw, now also much larger, flew open, snapped and whistled; the paws pulled the struggling Dandilion around and crushed him to the ground.

  The witcher crossed his fingers in the Sign of Aard and threw as much energy as he could muster at the head. The energy materialized in a blinding beam, sliced through the glow surrounding the head and hit its mark. The boom was so loud that it stabbed Geralt's ears, and the air sucked in by the implosion made the willows rustle. The roar of the monster was deafening as it grew even larger, but it released the poet, soared up, circled and, waving its paws, flew away over the water.

  The witcher rushed to pull Dandilion—who was lying motionless—away. At that moment, his fingers touched a round object buried in the sand.

  It was a brass seal decorated with the sign of a broken cross and a nine-pointed star.

  The head, suspended above the river, had become the size of a haystack, while the open, roaring jaws looked like the gates of an average-sized barn. Stretching out its paws, the monster attacked.

  Geralt, not having the least idea of what to do, squeezed the seal in his fist and, extending his hand toward the assailant, screamed out the words of an exorcism a priestess had once taught him. He had never used those words until now because, in principle, he didn't believe in superstitions.

  The effect surpassed his expectations.

  The seal hissed and grew hot, burning his hand. The gigantic head froze in the air, suspended, motionless above the river. It hung like that for a moment then, at last, it began to howl, roar, and dispersed into a pulsating bundle of smoke, into a huge, whirling cloud. The cloud whined shrilly and whisked upstream with incredible speed, leaving a trail of churned-up water on the surface. In a matter of seconds, it had disappeared into the distance; only a dwindling howl lingered across the water.

  The witcher rushed to the poet, cowering on the sand.

  “Dandilion? Are you dead? Dandilion, damn it! What's the matter with you?”

  The poet jerked his head, shook his hands and opened his mouth to scream. Geralt grimaced and narrowed his eyes—Dandilion had a trained—loud—tenor voice and, when frightened, could reach extraordinary registers. But what emerged from the bard's throat was a barely audible, hoarse croak.

  “Dandilion! What's the matter with you? Answer me!”

  “Hhhh…eeee…kheeeee…theeee whhhhorrrrrrre…”

  “Are you in pain? What's the matter? Dandilion!”

  “Hhhh…Whhhooo…”

  “Don't say anything. If everything's all right, nod.”

  Dandilion grimaced and, with great difficulty, nodded and then immediately turned on his side, curled up and—choking and coughing—vomited blood.

  Geralt cursed.

  II

  “By all the gods!” The guard stepped back and lowered the lantern. “What's the matter with him?”

  “Let us through, my good man,” said the witcher quietly, supporting Dandilion, who was huddled up in the saddle. “We're in great haste, as you see.”

  “I do.” The guard swallowed, looking at the poet's pale face and chin covered in black, dried blood. “Wounded? It looks terrible, sir.”

  “I’m in haste,” repeated Geralt. “We've been traveling since dawn. Let us through, please.”

  “We can't,” said the other guard. “You're only allowed through between sunrise and sunset. None may pass at night. That's the order. There's no way through for anyone unless they've got a letter of safe-conduct from the king or the mayor. Or they're nobility with a coat of arms.”

  Dandilion croaked, huddled up even more, resting his forehead on the horse's mane, shuddered, shook and retched dryly. Another stream of blood trickled down the branched, dried pattern on his mount's neck.

  “My good men,” Geralt said as calmly as he could, “you can see for yourselves how badly he fares. I have to find someone who can treat him. Let us through. Please.”

  “Don't ask.” The guard leaned on his halberd. “Orders are orders. I’ll go to the pillory if I let you through. They'll chase me from service, and then how will I feed my children? No, sir, I can't. Take your friend down from the horse and put him in the room in the barbican. We'll dress him and he'll last out until dawn, if that's his fate. It's not long now.”

  “A dressing's not enough.” The witcher ground his teeth. “We need a healer, a priest, a gifted doctor—”

  “You wouldn't be waking up anyone like that at night anyway,” said the second guard. “The most we can do is see that you don't have to camp out under the gate until dawn. It's warm in there and there's somewhere to put your friend; he'll fare better there than in the saddle. Come on, let us help you lower him from the horse.”

  It was warm, stuffy and cozy in the room within the barbican. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and behind it a cricket chirped fiercely.

  Three men sat at the heavy square table laid with jugs and plates.

  “Forgive us for disturbing you, squires…” said the guard, holding Dandilion up. “I trust you won't mind…This one here is a knight, hmm…And the other one is wounded, so I thought—”

  “You thought well.” One of the men turned his slender, sharp, expressive face toward them and got up. “Here lay him down on the pallet.”

  The man was an elf, like the other one sitting at the table. Both, judging by their clothes, which were a typical mixture of human and elven fashion, were elves who had settled and integrated. The third man, who looked the eldest, was human, a knight, judging by the way he was dressed and by his salt-and-pepper hair, cut to fit beneath a helmet.

  “I’m Chireadan,” the taller of the elves, with an expressive face, introduced himself. As was usual with representatives of the Old People, it was difficult to guess his age; he could have been twenty or one hundred and twenty. “This is my cousin Errdil. And this nobleman is the knight Vratimir.”

  “A nobleman,” muttered Geralt, but a closer look at the coat of arms embroidered on his tunic shattered his hopes: a shield divided per cross and bearing golden lilies was cut diagonally by a silver bar. Vrati
mir was not only illegitimate but came from a mixed, human-nonhuman union. As a result, although he was entitled to use a coat of arms, he couldn't consider himself a true nobleman, and the privilege of crossing the city gate after dusk most certainly wasn't extended to him.

  “Unfortunately”—the witcher's scrutiny did not escape the elf's attention—“we, too, have to remain here until dawn. The law knows no exceptions, at least not for the likes of us. We invite you to join our company, sir knight.”

  “Geralt, of Rivia” the witcher introduced himself. “A witcher, not a knight.”

  “What's the matter with him?” Chireadan indicated Dandilion, whom the guards had laid on a pallet in the meantime. “It looks like poisoning. If it is poisoning, then I can help. I’ve got some good medicine with me.”

  Geralt sat down, then quickly gave a guarded account of events at the river. The elves looked at each other, and the knight spat through his teeth and frowned.

  “Extraordinary,” Chireadan remarked. “What could it have been?”

  “A djinn in a bottle,” muttered Vratimir. “Like a fairy tale—”

  “Not quite.” Geralt indicated Dandilion, curled up on the pallet. “I don't know of any fairy tale that ends like this.”

  “That poor fellow's injuries,” said Chireadan, “are evidently of a magical nature. I fear that my medicine will not be of much use. But I can at least lessen his suffering. Have you already given him a remedy, Geralt?”

  “A painkilling elixir.”

  “Come and help me. You can hold his head up.”

  Dandilion greedily drank the medicine, diluted with wine, choked on his last sip, wheezed and covered the leather pillow with spittle.

  “I know him,” Errdil said. “He's Dandilion, the troubadour and poet. I saw him singing at the court of King Ethain in Cidaris once.”

  “A troubadour,” repeated Chireadan, looking at Geralt. “That's bad. Very bad. The muscles of his neck and throat are attacked. Changes in his vocal cords are starting to take place. The spell's action has to be halted as soon as possible otherwise…This might be irreversible.”