‘And what were you called before?’
She glanced at him and suddenly grimaced; he thought she would become annoyed or order him to be silent. She did not.
‘I don’t remember,’ she said reluctantly. He did not think it was true.
She did not look older than sixteen and she could not have been in Brokilon for more than six or seven years. Had she come earlier, as a very young child or simply a baby, he would not now be able to see the human in her. Blue eyes and naturally fair hair did occur among dryads. Dryad children, conceived in ritual mating with elves or humans, inherited organic traits exclusively from their mothers, and were always girls. Extremely infrequently, as a rule, in a subsequent generation a child would nonetheless occasionally be born with the eyes or hair of its anonymous male progenitor. But Geralt was certain that Braenn did not have a single drop of dryad blood. And anyway, it was not especially important. Blood or not, she was now a dryad.
‘And what,’ she looked askance at him, ‘do they call you?’
‘Gwynbleidd.’
She nodded.
‘Then we shall go . . . Gwynbleidd.’
They walked more slowly than before, but still briskly. Braenn, of course, knew Brokilon; had he been alone, Geralt would have been unable to maintain the pace or the right direction. Braenn stole through the barricade of dense forest using winding, concealed paths, clearing gorges, running nimbly across fallen trees as though they were bridges, confidently splashing through glistening stretches of swamp, green from duckweed, which the Witcher would not have dared to tread on. He would have lost hours, if not days, skirting around.
Braenn’s presence did not only protect him from the savagery of the forest; there were places where the dryad slowed down, walking extremely cautiously, feeling the path with her foot and holding him by the hand. He knew the reason. Brokilon’s traps were legendary; people talked about pits full of sharpened stakes, about booby-trapped bows, about falling trees, about the terrible urchin – a spiked ball on a rope, which, falling suddenly, swept the path clear. There were also places where Braenn would stop and whistle melodiously, and answering whistles would come from the undergrowth. There were other places where she would stop with her hand on the arrows in her quiver, signalling for him to be silent, and wait, tense, until whatever was rustling in the thicket moved away.
In spite of their fast pace, they had to stop for the night. Braenn chose an excellent spot; a hill onto which thermal updrafts carried gusts of warm air. They slept on dried bracken, very close to one another, in dryad custom. In the middle of the night Braenn hugged him close. And nothing more. He hugged her back. And nothing more. She was a dryad. The point was to keep warm.
They set off again at daybreak, while it was still almost dark.
II They passed through a belt of sparsely forested hills, creeping cautiously across small valleys full of mist, moving through broad, grassy glades, and across clearings of wind-felled trees.
Braenn stopped once again and looked around. She had apparently lost her way, but Geralt knew that was impossible. Taking advantage of a break in the march, however, he sat down on a fallen tree.
And then he heard a scream. Shrill. High-pitched. Desperate.
Braenn knelt down in a flash, at once drawing two arrows from her quiver. She seized one in her teeth and nocked the other, bent her bow, taking aim blindly through the bushes towards the sound of the voice.
‘Don’t shoot!’ he cried.
He leaped over the tree trunk and forced his way through the brush.
A small creature in a short grey jacket was standing in a small clearing, at the foot of a rocky cliff, with its back pressed against the trunk of a withered hornbeam. Something was moving slowly about five paces in front of it, parting the grass. That thing was about twelve feet long and was dark brown. At first Geralt thought it was a snake. But then he noticed the wriggling, yellow, hooked limbs and flat segments of the long thorax and realised it was not a snake. It was something much more sinister.
The creature hugging the tree cried out shrilly. The immense myriapod raised above the grass long, twitching feelers with which it sensed odours and warmth.
‘Don’t move!’ The Witcher yelled and stamped to attract the scolopendromorph’s attention. But the myriapod did not react, for its feelers had already caught the scent of the nearer victim. The monster wriggled its limbs, coiled itself up like an ‘S’ and moved forward. Its bright yellow limbs rippled through grass, evenly, like the oars of a galley.
‘Yghern!’ Braenn yelled.
Geralt hurtled into the clearing in two bounds, jerking his sword from its scabbard on his back as he ran, and in full flight struck the petrified creature beneath the tree with his hip, shoving it aside into some brambles. The scolopendromorph rustled the grass, wriggled its legs and attacked, raising its anterior segments, its venom-dripping pincers chattering. Geralt danced, leaped over the flat body and slashed it with his sword from a half-turn, aiming at a vulnerable spot between the armoured plates on its body.
The monster was too swift, however, and the sword struck the chitinous shell, without cutting through it; the thick carpet of moss absorbed the blow. Geralt dodged, but not deftly enough. The scolopendromorph wound the posterior part of its body around his legs with enormous strength. The Witcher fell, rolled over and tried to pull himself free. In vain.
The myriapod flexed and turned around to reach him with its pincers, and at the same time fiercely dug its claws into the tree and wrapped itself around it. Right then an arrow hissed above Geralt’s head, penetrating the armour with a crack, pinning the creature to the trunk. The scolopendromorph writhed, broke the arrow and freed itself, but was struck at once by two more. The Witcher kicked the thrashing abdomen off and rolled away to the side.
Braenn, kneeling, was shooting at an astonishing rate, sending arrow after arrow into the scolopendromorph. The myriapod was breaking the shafts to free itself, but each successive arrow would pin it to the trunk again. The creature snapped its flat, shiny, dark-red maw and clanged its pincers by the places which had been pierced by the arrows, instinctively trying to reach the enemy which was wounding it.
Geralt leaped at it from the side, took a big swing and hacked with his sword, ending the fight with one blow. The tree acted like an executioner’s block.
Braenn approached slowly, an arrow nocked, kicked the body writhing in the grass, its limbs thrashing around, and spat on it.
‘Thanks,’ the Witcher said, crushing the beast’s severed head with blows of his heel.
‘Eh?’
‘You saved my life.’
The dryad looked at him. There was neither understanding nor emotion in her expression.
‘Yghern,’ she said, nudging the writhing body with a boot. ‘It broke my arrows.’
‘You saved my life and that little dryad’s,’ Geralt repeated. ‘Where the bloody hell is she?’
Braenn deftly brushed aside the bramble thicket and plunged an arm among the thorny shoots.
‘As I thought,’ she said, pulling the little creature in the grey jacket from the thicket. ‘See for yourself, Gwynbleidd.’
It was not a dryad. Neither was it an elf, sylph, puck or halfling. It was a quite ordinary little human girl. In the centre of Brokilon, it was the most extraordinary place to come across an ordinary, human little girl.
She had fair, mousy hair and huge, glaringly green eyes. She could not have been more than ten years old.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘How did you get here?’
She did not reply. Where have I seen her before? he wondered. I’ve seen her before somewhere. Either her or someone very similar to her.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, hesitantly.
‘I’m not afraid,’ she mumbled indistinctly. She clearly had a cold.
‘Let us get out of here,’ Braenn suddenly said, looking all around. ‘Where there is one yghern, you can usually expect another. And I have few arrows now.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Geralt asked again, leaning forward. ‘What are you doing . . . in this forest? How did you get here?’
The girl lowered her head and sniffed loudly.
‘Cat got your tongue? Who are you, I said? What’s your name?’
‘Ciri,’ she said, sniffing.
Geralt turned around. Braenn, examining her bow, glanced at him.
‘Listen, Braenn . . .’
‘What?’
‘Is it possible . . . Is it possible she . . . has escaped from Duén Canell?’
‘Eh?’
‘Don’t play dumb,’ he said, annoyed. ‘I know you abduct little girls. And you? What, did you fall from the sky into Brokilon? I’m asking if it’s possible . . .’
‘No,’ the dryad cut him off. ‘I have never seen her before.’
Geralt looked at the little girl. Her ashen-grey hair was dishevelled, full of pine needles and small leaves, but smelled of cleanliness, not smoke, nor the cowshed, nor tallow. Her hands, although incredibly dirty, were small and delicate, without scars or calluses. The boy’s clothes, the jacket with a red hood she had on, did not indicate anything, but her high boots were made of soft, expensive calfskin. No, she was certainly not a village child. Frexinet, the Witcher suddenly thought. This was the one that Frexinet was looking for. He’d followed her into Brokilon.
‘Where are you from? I’m asking you, you scamp.’
‘How dare you talk to me like that!’ The little girl lifted her head haughtily and stamped her foot. The soft moss completely spoiled the effect.
‘Ha,’ the Witcher said, and smiled. ‘A princess, indeed. At least in speech, for your appearance is wretched. You’re from Verden, aren’t you? Do you know you’re being looked for? Don’t worry, I’ll deliver you home. Listen, Braenn . . .’
The moment he looked away the girl turned very quickly on her heel and ran off through the forest, across the gentle hillside.
‘Bloede dungh!’ the dryad yelled, reaching for her quiver. ‘Caemm aere!’
The little girl, stumbling, rushed blindly through the forest, crunching over dry branches.
‘Stop!’ shouted Geralt. ‘Where are you bloody going!?’
Braenn bent her bow in a flash. The arrow hissed venomously, describing a flat parabola, and the arrowhead thudded into the tree trunk, almost brushing the little girl’s hair. The girl cringed and flattened herself to the ground.
‘You bloody fool,’ the Witcher hissed, hurrying over to the dryad. Braenn deftly drew another arrow from her quiver. ‘You might have killed her!’
‘This is Brokilon,’ she said proudly.
‘But she’s only a child!’
‘What of it?’
He looked at the arrow’s shaft. It had striped fletchings made from a pheasant’s flight feathers dyed yellow in a decoction of tree bark. He did not say a word. He turned around and went quickly into the forest. The little girl was lying beneath the tree, cowering, cautiously raising her head and looking at the arrow stuck into the tree. She heard his steps and leaped to her feet, but he reached her with a single bound and seized her by the red hood of her jacket. She turned her head and looked at him, then at his hand, holding her hood. He released her.
‘Why did you run away?’
‘None of your business,’ she sniffed. ‘Leave me alone, you, you—’
‘Foolish brat,’ he hissed furiously. ‘This is Brokilon. Wasn’t the myriapod enough? You wouldn’t last till morning in this forest. Haven’t you got it yet?’
‘Don’t touch me!’ she yelled. ‘You peasant! I am a princess, so you’d better be careful!’
‘You’re a foolish imp.’
‘I’m a princess!’
‘Princesses don’t roam through forests alone. Princesses have clean noses.’
‘I’ll have you beheaded! And her too!’ The girl wiped her nose with her hand and glared at the approaching dryad. Braenn snorted with laughter.
‘Alright, enough of this,’ the Witcher cut her off. ‘Why were you running away, Your Highness? And where to? What were you afraid of?’
She said nothing, and sniffed.
‘Very well, as you wish,’ he winked at the dryad. ‘We’re going. If you want to stay alone in the forest, that’s your choice. But the next time a yghern attacks you, don’t yell. It doesn’t befit a princess. A princess dies without even a squeal, having first wiped her snotty nose. Let’s go, Braenn. Farewell, Your Highness.’
‘W . . . wait.’
‘Aha?’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘We are greatly honoured. Aren’t we, Braenn?’
‘But you won’t take me to Kistrin again? Do you swear?’
‘Who is—?’ he began. ‘Oh, dammit. Kistrin. Prince Kistrin? The son of King Ervyll of Verden?’
The little girl pouted her little lips, sniffed and turned away.
‘Enough of these trifles,’ said Braenn grimly. ‘Let us march on.’
‘Hold on, hold on.’ The Witcher straightened up and looked down at the dryad. ‘Our plans are changing somewhat, my comely archer.’
‘Eh?’ Braenn said, raising her eyebrows.
‘Lady Eithné can wait. I have to take the little one home. To Verden.’
The dryad squinted and reached for her quiver.
‘You’re not going anywhere. Nor is she.’
The Witcher smiled hideously.
‘Be careful, Braenn,’ he said. ‘I’m not that pup whose eye you speared with an arrow from the undergrowth. I can look after myself.’
‘Bloede arss!’ she hissed, raising her bow. ‘You’re going to Duén Canell, and so is she! Not to Verden!’
‘No. Not to Verden!’ the mousy-haired girl said, throwing herself at the dryad and pressing herself against her slim thigh. ‘I’m going with you! And he can go to Verden by himself, to silly old Kistrin, if he wants!’
Braenn did not even look at her, did not take her eyes off Geralt. But she lowered her bow.
‘Ess dungh!’ she said, spitting at his feet. ‘Very well! Then go on your way! We’ll see how you fare. You’ll kiss an arrow before you leave Brokilon.’
She’s right, thought Geralt. I don’t have a chance. Without her I won’t get out of Brokilon nor reach Duén Canell. Too bad, we shall see. Perhaps I’ll manage to persuade Eithné . . .
‘Very well, Braenn,’ he said placatingly, and smiled. ‘Don’t be furious, fair one. Very well, have it your way. We shall all go to Duén Canell. To Lady Eithné.’
The dryad muttered something under her breath and unnocked the arrow.
‘To the road, then,’ she said, straightening her hairband. ‘We have tarried too long.’
‘Ooow . . .’ the little girl yelped as she took a step.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve done something . . . To my leg.’
‘Wait, Braenn! Come here, scamp, I’ll carry you pick-a-back.’
She was warm and smelt like a wet sparrow.
‘What’s your name, princess? I’ve forgotten.’
‘Ciri.’
‘And your estates, where do they lie, if I may ask?’
‘I won’t tell,’ she grunted. ‘I won’t tell, and that’s that.’
‘I’ll get by. Don’t wriggle or sniff right by my ear. What were you doing in Brokilon? Did you get lost? Did you lose your way?’
‘Not a chance! I never get lost.’
‘Don’t wriggle. Did you run away from Kistrin? From Nastrog Castle? Before or after the wedding?’
‘How did you know?’ She sniffed, intent.
‘I’m staggeringly intelligent. Why did you run away to Brokilon, of all places? Weren’t there any safer directions?’
‘I couldn’t control my stupid horse.’
‘You’re lying, princess. Looking at your size, the most you could ride is a cat. And a gentle on
e at that.’
‘I was riding with Marck. Sir Voymir’s esquire. But the horse fell in the forest and broke its leg. And we lost our way.’
‘You said that never happens to you.’
‘He got lost, not me. It was foggy. And we lost our way.’
You got lost, thought Geralt. Sir Voymir’s poor esquire, who had the misfortune to happen upon Braenn and her companions. A young stripling, who had probably never known a woman, helped the green-eyed scamp escape, because he’d heard a lot of knightly stories about virgins being forced to marry. He helped her escape, to fall to a dryad’s dyed arrow – one who probably hasn’t known a man herself. But already knows how to kill.
‘I asked you if you bolted from Nastrog Castle before or after the wedding?’
‘I just scarpered and it’s none of your business,’ she grunted. ‘Grandmamma told me I had to go there and meet him. That Kistrin. Just meet him. But that father of his, that big-bellied king . . .’
‘Ervyll.’
‘ . . . kept on: “the wedding, the wedding”. But I don’t want him. That Kistrin. Grandmamma said—’
‘Is Prince Kistrin so revolting?’
‘I don’t want him,’ Ciri proudly declared, sniffing loudly. ‘He’s fat, stupid and his breath smells. Before I went there they showed me a painting, but he wasn’t fat in the painting. I don’t want a husband like that. I don’t want a husband at all.’
‘Ciri,’ the Witcher said hesitantly. ‘Kistrin is still a child, like you. In a few years he might turn into a handsome young man.’
‘Then they can send me another painting, in a few years,’ she snorted. ‘And him too. Because he told me that I was much prettier in the painting they showed him. And he confessed that he loves Alvina, a lady-in-waiting and he wants to be a knight. See? He doesn’t want me and I don’t want him. So what use is a wedding?’
‘Ciri,’ the Witcher muttered, ‘he’s a prince and you’re a princess. Princes and princesses marry like that, that’s how it is. That’s the custom.’
Introducing the Witcher Page 56