And beautiful.
All of a sudden she leant over and looked him in the eyes. He caught the scent of lilac and gooseberries.
‘You’re not saying anything,’ she hissed. ‘So what is it you desire, witcher? What is your most hidden dream? Is it that you don’t know or you can’t decide? Look for it within yourself, look deeply and carefully because, I swear by the Force, you won’t get another chance like this!’
But he suddenly knew the truth. He knew it. He knew what she used to be. What she remembered, what she couldn’t forget, what she lived with. Who she really was before she had become a sorceress.
Her cold, penetrating, angry and wise eyes were those of a hunchback.
He was horrified. No, not of the truth. He was horrified that she would read his thoughts, find out what he had guessed. That she would never forgive him for it. He deadened that thought within himself, killed it, threw it from his memory forever, without trace, feeling, as he did so, enormous relief. Feeling that—
The ceiling cracked open. The djinn, entangled in the net of the now fading rays, tumbled right on top of them, roaring, and in that roar were triumph and murder lust. Yennefer leapt to meet him. Light beamed from her hands. Very feeble light.
The djinn opened his mouth and stretched his paws towards her.
The witcher suddenly understood what it was he wanted.
And he made his wish.
XV
The house exploded. Bricks, beams and planks flew up in a cloud of smoke and sparks. The djinn spurted from the dust-storm, as huge as a barn. Roaring and choking with triumphant laughter the Air genie, free now, not tied to anyone’s will, traced three circles above the town, tore the spire from the town hall, soared into the sky and vanished.
‘It’s escaped! It’s escaped!’ called Krepp. ‘The witcher’s had his way! The genie has flown away! It won’t be a threat to anyone anymore!’
‘Ah,’ said Errdil with genuine rapture, ‘what a wonderful ruin!’
‘Dammit, dammit!’ hollered Dandilion, huddled behind the wall. ‘It’s shattered the entire house! Nobody could survive that! Nobody, I tell you!’
‘The witcher, Geralt of Rivia, has sacrificed himself for the town,’ mayor Neville said ceremoniously. ‘We won’t forget him. We’ll revere him. We’ll think of a statue . . .’
Dandilion shook a piece of wicker matting bound with clay from his shoulder, brushed his jerkin free of lumps of rain-dampened plaster, looked at the mayor and, in a few well-chosen words, expressed his opinion about sacrifice, reverence, memory and all the statues in the world.
XVI
Geralt looked around. Water was slowly dripping from the hole in the ceiling. There were heaps of rubble and stacks of timber all around. By a strange coincidence, the place where they lay was completely clear. Not one plank or one brick had fallen on them. It was as if they were being protected by an invisible shield.
Yennefer, slightly flushed, knelt by him, resting her hands on her knees.
‘Witcher.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Are you dead?’
‘No.’ Geralt wiped the dust from his face and hissed.
Slowly, Yennefer touched his wrist and delicately ran her fingers along his palm. ‘I burnt you—’
‘It’s nothing. A few blisters—’
‘I’m sorry. You know, the djinn’s escaped. For good.’
‘Do you regret it?’
‘Not much.’
‘Good. Help me up, please.’
‘Wait,’ she whispered. ‘That wish of yours . . . I heard what you wished for. I was astounded, simply astounded. I’d have expected anything but to . . . What made you do it, Geralt? Why . . . Why me?’
‘Don’t you know?’
She leant over him, touched him. He felt her hair, smelling of lilac and gooseberries, brush his face and he suddenly knew that he’d never forget that scent, that soft touch, knew that he’d never be able to compare it to any other scent or touch. Yennefer kissed him and he understood that he’d never desire any lips other than hers, so soft and moist, sweet with lipstick. He knew that, from that moment, only she would exist, her neck, shoulders and breasts freed from her black dress, her delicate, cool skin, which couldn’t be compared to any other he had ever touched. He gazed into her violet eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world, eyes which he feared would become . . .
Everything. He knew.
‘Your wish,’ she whispered, her lips very near his ear. ‘I don’t know whether such a wish can ever be fulfilled. I don’t know whether there’s such a Force in Nature that could fulfil such a wish. But if there is, then you’ve condemned yourself. Condemned yourself to me.’
He interrupted her with a kiss, an embrace, a touch, caresses and then with everything, his whole being, his every thought, his only thought, everything, everything, everything. They broke the silence with sighs and the rustle of clothing strewn on the floor. They broke the silence very gently, lazily, and they were considerate and very thorough. They were caring and tender and, although neither quite knew what caring and tenderness were, they succeeded because they very much wanted to. And they were in no hurry whatsoever. The whole world had ceased to exist for a brief moment, but to them, it seemed like a whole eternity.
And then the world started to exist again; but it existed very differently.
‘Geralt?’
‘Mmm?’
‘What now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Nor do I. Because, you see, I . . . I don’t know whether it was worth condemning yourself to me. I don’t know how—Wait, what are you doing . . .? I wanted to tell you—’
‘Yennefer . . . Yen.’
‘Yen,’ she repeated, giving in to him completely. ‘Nobody’s ever called me that. Say it again.’
‘Yen.’
‘Geralt.’
XVII
It had stopped raining. A rainbow appeared over Rinde and cut the sky with a broken, coloured arc. It looked as if it grew straight from the tavern’s ruined roof.
‘By all the gods,’ muttered Dandilion, ‘what silence . . . They’re dead, I tell you. Either they’ve killed each other or my djinn’s finished them off.’
‘We should go and see,’ said Vratimir, wiping his brow with his crumpled hat. ‘They might be wounded. Should I call a doctor ?’
‘An undertaker, more like it,’ said Krepp. ‘I know that witch, and that witcher’s got the devil in his eyes too. There’s no two ways about it, we’ve got to start digging two pits in the cemetery. I’d advise sticking an aspen stake into that Yennefer before burying her.’
‘What silence,’ repeated Dandilion. ‘Beams were flying all over the place a moment ago and now it’s as quiet as a grave.’
They approached the tavern ruins very cautiously and slowly.
‘Let the carpenter get the coffins ready,’ said Krepp. ‘Tell the carpenter—’
‘Quiet,’ interrupted Errdil. ‘I heard something. What was it, Chireadan?’
The elf brushed the hair off his pointed ear and tilted his head.
‘I’m not sure . . . Let’s get closer.’
‘Yennefer’s alive,’ said Dandilion suddenly, straining his musical ear. ‘I heard her moan. There, she moaned again!’
‘Uhuh,’ confirmed Errdil. ‘I heard it, too. She moaned. She must really be suffering. Chireadan, where are you going? Careful!’
The elf backed away from the shattered window through which he had carefully peeped.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s not disturb them.’
‘They’re both alive? Chireadan? What are they doing?’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ repeated the elf. ‘Let’s leave them alone for a bit. Let them stay there, Yennefer, Geralt and his last wish. Let’s wait in a tavern; they’ll join us before long. Both of them.’
‘What are they doing?’ Dandilion was curious. ‘Tell me, dammit!’
The elf smiled. Very, very sadly. ‘I don’t like grand words,’ he said.
‘And it’s impossible to give it a name without using grand words.’
THE VOICE OF REASON 7
Falwick, in full armour, without a helmet and with the crimson coat of the Order flung over his shoulder, stood in the glade. Next to him, with his arms across his chest, was a stocky, bearded dwarf in an overcoat lined with fox-fur over, a chain-mail shirt of iron rings. Tailles, wearing no armour but a short, quilted doublet, paced slowly, brandishing his unsheathed sword from time to time.
The witcher looked about, restraining his horse. All around glinted the cuirasses and flat helmets of soldiers armed with lances.
‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Geralt. ‘I might have expected this.’
Dandilion turned his horse and quietly cursed at the sight of the lances cutting off their retreat.
‘What’s this about, Geralt?’
‘Nothing. Keep your mouth shut and don’t butt in. I’ll try to lie my way out of it somehow.’
‘What’s it about, I ask you? More trouble?’
‘Shut up.’
‘It was a stupid idea after all, to ride into town,’ groaned the troubadour, glancing towards the nearby towers of the temple visible above the forest. ‘We should have stayed at Nenneke’s and not stirred beyond the walls—’
‘Shut up. It’ll all become clear, you’ll see.’
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
Dandilion was right. It didn’t. Tailles, brandishing his naked sword, continued pacing without looking in their direction. The soldiers, leaning on their spears, were watching gloomily and indifferently, with the expression of professionals for whom killing does not provoke much interest.
They dismounted. Falwick and the dwarf slowly approached.
‘You’ve insulted Tailles, a man of good birth, witcher,’ said the count without preamble or the customary courtesies. ‘And Tailles, as you no doubt remember, threw down the gauntlet. It was not fit to press you within the grounds of the temple, so we waited until you emerged from behind the priestess’s skirt. Tailles is waiting. You must fight.’
‘Must?’
‘Must.’
‘But do you not think, Falwick,’ Geralt smiled disapprovingly, ‘that Tailles, a man of good birth, does me too much honour ? I never attained the honour of being knighted, and it’s best not to mention the circumstances of my birth. I fear I’m not sufficiently worthy of . . . How does one say it, Dandilion?’
‘Unfit to give satisfaction and joust in the lists,’ recited the poet, pouting. ‘The code of chivalry proclaims—’
‘The Chapter of the Order is governed by its own code,’ interrupted Falwick. ‘If it were you who challenged a Knight of the Order, he could either refuse or grant you satisfaction, according to his will. But this is the reverse: it is the knight who challenges you and by this he raises you to his own level – but, of course, only for the time it takes to avenge the insult. You can’t refuse. The refusal of accepting the dignity would render you unworthy.’
‘How logical,’ said Dandilion with an ape-like expression. ‘I see you’ve studied the philosophers, sir Knight.’
‘Don’t butt in.’ Geralt raised his head and looked into Falwick’s eyes. ‘Go on, sir. I’d like to know where this is leading. What would happen if I turned out to be . . . unworthy?’
‘What would happen?’ Falwick gave a malicious smile. ‘I’d order you hung from a branch, you rat-catcher.’
‘Hold on,’ the dwarf said hoarsely. ‘Take it easy, sir. And no invective, all right?’
‘Don’t you teach me manners, Cranmer,’ hissed the knight. ‘And remember, the prince has given you orders which you’re to execute to the letter.’
‘It’s you who shouldn’t be teaching me, Count.’ The dwarf rested his hand on the double-headed axe thrust into his belt. ‘I know how to carry out orders, and I can do without your advice. Allow me, Geralt sir. I’m Dennis Cranmer, captain of Prince Hereward’s guards.’
The witcher bowed stiffly, looking into the dwarf’s eyes, light grey and steel-like beneath the bushy flaxen eyebrows.
‘Stand your ground with Tailles, sir,’ Dennis Cranmer continued calmly. ‘It’ll be better that way. It’s not a fight to the death, only until one of you is rendered helpless. So fight in the field and let him render you helpless.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sir Tailles is the prince’s favourite,’ said Falwick, smiling spitefully. ‘If you touch him with your sabre during the fight, you mutant, you will be punished. Captain Cranmer will arrest you and take you to face his Highness. To be punished. Those are his orders.’
The dwarf didn’t even glance at the knight; his cold, steel eyes did not leave Geralt.
The witcher smiled faintly but quite nastily. ‘If I understand correctly,’ he said, ‘I’m to fight the duel because, if I refuse, I’ll be hanged. If I fight I’m to allow my opponent to injure me because if I wound him I’ll be put to the rack. What charming alternatives. Maybe I should save you the bother? I’ll thump my head against the pine tree and render myself helpless. Will that grant you satisfaction?’
‘Don’t sneer,’ hissed Falwick. ‘Don’t make your situation any worse. You’ve insulted the Order, you vagabond, and you have to be punished for it, do you understand? And young Tailles needs the fame of defeating a witcher, so the Chapter wants to give it to him. Otherwise you’d be hanging already. You allow yourself to be defeated and you save your miserable life. We don’t care about your corpse, we want Tailles to nick your skin. And your mutant skin heals quickly. So, go ahead. Decide. You’ve got no choice.’
‘That’s what you think, is it, sir?’ Geralt smiled even more nastily and looked around at the soldiers appraisingly. ‘But I think I do.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ admitted Dennis Cranmer. ‘You do. But then there’ll be bloodshed, great bloodshed. Like at Blaviken. Is that what you want? Do you want to burden your conscience with blood and death? Because the alternative you’re thinking of, Geralt, is blood and death.’
‘Your argument is charming, Captain, fascinating even,’ mocked Dandilion. ‘You’re trying to bait a man ambushed in the forest with humanitarianism, calling on his nobler feelings. You’re asking him, as I understand, to deign not to spill the blood of the brigands who attacked him. He’s to take pity on the thugs because the thugs are poor, have got wives, children and, who knows, maybe even mothers. But don’t you think, Captain Cranmer, that your worrying is premature? Because I look at your lancers and see that their knees are shaking at the very thought of fighting with Geralt of Rivia, the witcher who dealt with a striga alone, with his bare hands. There won’t be any bloodshed here; nobody will be harmed here – aside from those who might break their legs running away.’
‘I,’ said the dwarf calmly and pugnaciously, ‘have nothing to reproach my knees with. I’ve never run away from anyone and I’m not about to change my ways. I’m not married, don’t know anything about any children and I’d prefer not to bring my mother, a woman with whom I’m not very well acquainted, into this. But I will carry out the orders I’ve been given. To the letter, as always. Without calling on any feelings, I ask Geralt of Rivia to make a decision. I will accept whatever he decides and will behave accordingly.’
They looked each other in the eyes, the dwarf and the witcher.
‘Very well,’ Geralt said finally. ‘Let’s deal with it. It’s a pity to waste the day.’
‘You agree then.’ Falwick raised his head and his eyes glistened. ‘You’ll fight a duel with the high-born Tailles of Dorndal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Prepare yourself.’
‘I’m ready.’ Geralt pulled on his gauntlets. ‘Let’s not waste time. There’ll be hell if Nenneke finds out about this. So let’s sort it out quickly. Dandilion, keep calm. It’s got nothing to do with you. Am I right, Cranmer, sir?’
‘Absolutely,’ the dwarf stated firmly and looked at Falwick. ‘Absolutely, sir. Whatever happens, it only concerns you.’
; The witcher took the sword from his back.
‘No,’ said Falwick, drawing his. ‘You’re not going to fight with that razor of yours. Take my sword.’
Geralt shrugged. He took the count’s blade and swiped it to try it out.
‘Heavy,’ he said coldly. ‘We could just as easily use spades.’
‘Tailles has the same. Equal chances.’
‘You’re very funny, Falwick.’
The soldiers surrounded the glade, forming a loose circle. Tailles and the witcher stood facing each other.
‘Tailles? What do you say to an apology?’
The young knight screwed up his lips, folded his left arm behind his back and froze in a fencing position.
‘No?’ Geralt smiled. ‘You don’t want to listen to the voice of reason? Pity.’
Tailles squatted down, leapt and attacked without warning. The witcher didn’t even make an effort to parry and avoided the flat point with a swift half-turn. The knight swiped broadly. The blade cut through the air once more. Geralt dodged beneath it in an agile pirouette, jumped softly aside and, with a short, light feint, threw Tailles off his rhythm. Tailles cursed, cut broadly from the right, lost his balance for a moment and tried to regain it while, instinctively, clumsily, holding his sword high to defend himself. The witcher struck with the speed and force of a lightning bolt, extending his arm to its full length and slashing straight ahead. The heavy sword thundered against Tailles’ blade, deflecting it so hard it hit the knight in the face. Tailles howled, fell to his knees and touched the grass with his forehead.
Falwick ran up to him.
Geralt dug his sword into the ground and turned around.
‘Hey, guards!’ yelled Falwick, getting up. ‘Take him!’
‘Stand still! To your places!’ growled Dennis Cranmer, touching his axe. The soldiers froze.
‘No, Count,’ the dwarf said slowly. ‘I always execute orders to the letter. The witcher did not touch Tailles. The kid hit himself with his own iron. His hard luck.’
‘His face is destroyed! He’s disfigured for life!’
Introducing the Witcher Page 29