‘As usual,’ he said, smiling sadly, ‘you are correct in your deductions, Calanthe. You guessed right, of course. What you’re suggesting is impossible for me.’
‘Forgive me,’ she said, and the smile vanished from her face. ‘Oh, well, it’s a human thing.’
‘It isn’t human.’
‘Ah . . . So, no witcher can—’
‘No, none. The Trial of the Grasses, Calanthe, is dreadful. And what is done to boys during the time of the Changes is even worse. And irreversible.’
‘Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself,’ she muttered. ‘Because it ill behooves you. It doesn’t matter what was done to you. I can see the results. Quite satisfactory, if you ask me. If I could assume that Pavetta’s child would one day be similar to you I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment.’
‘The risks are too great,’ he said quickly. ‘As you said. At most, four out of ten survive.’
‘Dammit, is only the Trial of the Grasses hazardous? Do only potential witchers take risks? Life is full of hazards, selection also occurs in life, Geralt. Misfortune, sicknesses and wars also select. Defying destiny may be just as hazardous as succumbing to it. Geralt . . . I would give you the child. But . . . I’m afraid, too.’
‘I wouldn’t take the child. I couldn’t assume the responsibility. I wouldn’t agree to burden you with it. I wouldn’t want the child to tell you one day . . . As I’m telling you—’
‘Do you hate that woman, Geralt?’
‘My mother? No, Calanthe. I presume she had a choice . . . Or perhaps she didn’t? No, but she did; a suitable spell or elixir would have been sufficient . . . A choice. A choice which should be respected, for it is the holy and irrefutable right of every woman. Emotions are unimportant here. She had the irrefutable right to her decision and she took it. But I think that an encounter with her, the face she would make then . . . Would give me something of a perverse pleasure, if you know what I mean.’
‘I know perfectly well what you mean,’ she smiled. ‘But you have slim chances of enjoying such a pleasure. I cannot judge your age, Witcher, but I suppose you’re much, much older than your appearance would indicate. So, that woman—’
‘That woman,’ he interrupted coldly, ‘probably looks much, much younger than I do now.’
‘A sorceress?’
‘Yes.’
‘Interesting. I thought sorceresses couldn’t . . . ?’
‘She probably thought so too.’
‘Yes. But you’re right, let’s not discuss a woman’s right to this decision, because it is a matter beyond debate. Let us return to our problem. You will not take the child? Definitely?’
‘Definitely.’
‘And if . . . If destiny is not merely a myth? If it really exists, doesn’t a fear arise that it may backfire?’
‘If it backfires, it’ll backfire on me,’ he answered placidly. ‘For I am the one acting against it. You, after all, have carried out your side of the bargain. For if destiny isn’t a myth, I would have to choose the appropriate child among the ones you have shown me. But is Pavetta’s child among those children?’
‘Yes,’ Calanthe slowly nodded her head. ‘Would you like to see it? Would you like to gaze into the eyes of destiny?’
‘No. No, I don’t. I quit, I renounce it. I renounce my right to the boy. I don’t want to look destiny in the eyes, because I don’t believe in it. Because I know that in order to unite two people, destiny is insufficient. Something more is necessary than destiny. I sneer at such destiny; I won’t follow it like a blind man being led by the hand, uncomprehending and naive. This is my irrevocable decision, O Calanthe of Cintra.’
The queen stood up. She smiled. He was unable to guess what lay behind her smile.
‘Let it be thus, Geralt of Rivia. Perhaps your destiny was precisely to renounce it and quit? I think that’s exactly what it was. For you should know that if you had chosen, chosen correctly, you would see that the destiny you mock has been sneering at you.’
He looked into her glaring green eyes. She smiled. He could not decipher the smile.
There was a rosebush growing beside the summerhouse. He broke a stem and picked a flower, kneeled down, and proffered it to her, holding it in both hands, head bowed.
‘Pity I didn’t meet you earlier, White Hair,’ she murmured, taking the rose from his hands. ‘Rise.’
He stood up.
‘Should you change your mind,’ she said, lifting the rose up to her face. ‘Should you decide . . . Come back to Cintra. I shall be waiting. And your destiny will also be waiting. Perhaps not forever, but certainly for some time longer.’
‘Farewell, Calanthe.’
‘Farewell, Witcher. Look after yourself. I have . . . A moment ago I had a foreboding . . . A curious foreboding . . . that this is the last time I shall see you.’
‘Farewell, O Queen.’
V
He awoke and discovered to his astonishment that the pain gnawing at his thigh had vanished. It also seemed that the throbbing swelling which was stretching the skin had stopped troubling him. He tried to reach it, touch it, but could not move. Before he realised that he was being held fast solely by the weight of the skins covering him, a cold, hideous dread ran down to his belly and dug into his guts like a hawk’s talons. He clenched and relaxed his fingers, rhythmically, repeating in his head, no, no, I’m not . . .
Paralysed.
‘You have woken.’
A statement, not a question. A quiet, but distinct, soft voice. A woman. Probably young. He turned his head and groaned, trying to raise himself up.
‘Don’t move. At least not so vigorously. Are you in pain?’
‘Nnnn . . .’ the coating sticking his lips together broke. ‘Nnno. The wound isn’t . . . My back . . .’
‘Bedsores.’ An unemotional, cool statement, which did not suit the soft alto voice. ‘I shall remedy it. Here, drink this. Slowly, in small sips.’
The scent and taste of juniper dominated the liquid. An old method, he thought. Juniper or mint; both insignificant additives, only there to disguise the real ingredients. In spite of that he recognised sewant mushrooms, and possibly burdock. Yes, certainly burdock, burdock neutralises toxins, it purifies blood contaminated by gangrene or infection.
‘Drink. Drink it all up. Not so fast or you’ll choke.’
The medallion around his neck began to vibrate very gently. So there was also magic in the draught. He widened his pupils with difficulty. Now that she had raised his head he could examine her more precisely. She was dainty. She was wearing men’s clothing. Her face was small and pale in the darkness.
‘Where are we?’
‘In a tar makers’ clearing.’
Indeed, resin could be smelled in the air. He heard voices coming from the campfire. Someone had just thrown on some brushwood, and flames shot upwards with a crackle. He looked again, making the most of the light. Her hair was tied back with a snakeskin band. Her hair . . .
A suffocating pain in his throat and sternum. Hands tightly clenched into fists.
Her hair was red, flame-red, and when lit by the glow of the bonfire seemed as red as vermilion.
‘Are you in pain?’ she asked, interpreting the emotion, but wrongly. ‘Now . . . Just a moment . . .’
He sensed a sudden impact of warmth emanating from her hands, spreading over his back, flowing downwards to his buttocks.
‘We will turn you over,’ she said. ‘Don’t try by yourself. You are very debilitated. Hey, can someone help me?’
Steps from the bonfire, shadows, shapes. Somebody leaned over. It was Yurga.
‘How are you feeling, sir? Any better?’
‘Help me turn him over on his belly,’ said the woman. ‘Gently, slowly. That’s right . . . Good. Thank you.’
He did not have to look at her anymore. Lying on his belly, he did not have to risk looking her in the eyes. He calmed down and overcame the shaking of his hands. She could sense it. He heard the clasps of her bag clinki
ng, flacons and small porcelain jars knocking against each other. He heard her breath, felt the warmth of her thigh. She was kneeling just beside him.
‘Was my wound,’ he asked, unable to endure the silence, ‘troublesome?’
‘It was, a little,’ and there was coldness in her voice. ‘It can happen with bites. The nastiest kinds of wound. But you must be familiar with it, Witcher.’
She knows. She’s digging around in my thoughts. Is she reading them? Probably not. And I know why. She’s afraid.
‘Yes, you must be familiar with it,’ she repeated, clinking the glass vessels again. ‘I saw a few scars on you . . . But I coped with them. I am, as you see, a sorceress. And a healer at the same time. It’s my specialisation.’
That adds up, he thought. He did not say a word.
‘To return to the wound,’ she continued calmly, ‘you ought to know that you were saved by your pulse; fourfold slower than a normal man’s. Otherwise you wouldn’t have survived, I can say with complete honesty. I saw what had been tied around your leg. It was meant to be a dressing, but it was a poor attempt.’
He was silent.
‘Later,’ she continued, pulling his shirt up as far as his neck, ‘infection set in, which is usual for bite wounds. It has been arrested. Of course, you took the witcher’s elixir? That helped a lot. Though I don’t understand why you took hallucinogens at the same time. I was listening to your ravings, Geralt of Rivia.’
She is reading my mind, he thought. Or perhaps Yurga told her my name? Perhaps I was talking in my sleep under the influence of the Black Gull? Damned if I know . . . But knowing my name gives her nothing. Nothing. She doesn’t know who I am. She has no idea who I am.
He felt her gently massage a cold, soothing ointment with the sharp smell of camphor into his back. Her hands were small and very soft.
‘Forgive me for doing it the old way,’ she said. ‘I could have removed the bedsores using magic, but I strained myself a little treating the wound on your leg and feel none too good. I’ve bandaged the wound on your leg, as much as I am able, so now you’re in no danger. But don’t get up for the next few days. Even magically sutured blood vessels tend to burst, and you’d have hideous effusions. A scar will remain, of course. One more for your collection.’
‘Thanks . . .’ He pressed his cheek against the skins in order to distort his voice, disguise its unnatural sound. ‘May I ask . . . Whom should I thank?’
She won’t say, he thought. Or she’ll lie.
‘My name is Visenna.’
I know, he thought.
‘I’m glad,’ he said slowly, with his cheek still against the skins. ‘I’m glad our paths have crossed, Visenna.’
‘Why, it’s chance,’ she said coolly, pulling his shirt down over his back and covering him with the sheepskins. ‘I received word from the customs officers that I was needed. If I’m needed, I come. It’s a curious habit I have. Listen, I’ll leave the ointment with the merchant; ask him to rub it on every morning and evening. He claims you saved his life, he can repay you like that.’
‘And me? How can I repay you, Visenna?’
‘Let’s not talk about that. I don’t take payment from witchers. Call it solidarity, if you will. Professional solidarity. And affection. As part of that affection some friendly advice or, if you wish, a healer’s instructions: stop taking hallucinogens, Geralt. They have no healing power. None at all.’
‘Thank you, Visenna. For your help and advice. Thank you . . . for everything.’
He dug his hand out from under the skins and found her knee. She shuddered, put her hand into his and squeezed it lightly. He cautiously released her fingers, and slid his down over her forearm.
Of course. The soft skin of a young woman. She shuddered even more strongly, but did not withdraw her arm. He brought his fingers back to her hand and joined his with hers.
The medallion on his neck vibrated and twitched.
‘Thank you, Visenna,’ he repeated, trying to control his voice. ‘I’m glad our paths crossed.’
‘Chance . . .’ she said, but this time there was no coolness in her voice.
‘Or perhaps destiny?’ he asked, astonished, for the excitement and nervousness had suddenly evaporated from him completely. ‘Do you believe in destiny, Visenna?’
‘Yes,’ she replied after a while. ‘I do.’
‘That people linked by destiny will always find each other?’ he continued.
‘Yes, I believe that too . . . What are you doing? Don’t turn over . . .’
‘I want to look into your face . . . Visenna. I want to look into your eyes. And you . . . You must look into mine.’
She made a movement as though about to spring up from her knees. But she remained beside him. He turned over slowly, lips twisting with pain. There was more light, someone had put some more wood on the fire.
She was not moving now. She simply moved her head to the side, offering her profile, but this time he clearly saw her mouth quivering. She tightened her fingers on his hand, powerfully.
He looked.
There was no similarity at all. She had an utterly different profile. A small nose. A narrow chin. She was silent. Then she suddenly leaned over him and looked him straight in the eye. From close up. Without a word.
‘How do you like my enhanced eyes?’ he asked calmly. ‘Unusual, aren’t they? Do you know, Visenna, what is done to witchers’ eyes to improve them? Do you know it doesn’t always work?’
‘Stop it,’ she said softly. ‘Stop it, Geralt.’
‘Geralt . . .’ he suddenly felt something tearing in him. ‘Vesemir gave me that name. Geralt of Rivia! I even learned to imitate a Rivian accent. Probably from an inner need to possess a homeland. Even if it was an invented one. Vesemir . . . gave me my name. Vesemir also revealed yours. Not very willingly.’
‘Be quiet, Geralt. Be quiet.’
‘You tell me today you believe in destiny. And back then . . . Did you believe back then? Oh, yes, you must have. You must have believed that destiny would bring us together. The fact you did nothing to quicken this encounter ought to be attributed to that.’
She was silent.
‘I always wanted . . . I have pondered over what I would say to you, when we finally met. I’ve thought about the question I would ask you. I thought it would give me some sort of perverse pleasure . . .’
What sparkled on her cheek was a tear. Undoubtedly. He felt his throat constrict until it hurt. He felt fatigue. Drowsiness. Weakness.
‘In the light of day . . .’ he groaned. ‘Tomorrow, in the sunshine, I’ll look into your eyes, Visenna . . . And I’ll ask you my question. Or perhaps I won’t ask you, because it’s too late. Destiny? Oh, yes, Yen was right. It’s not sufficient to be destined for each other. Something more is needed . . . But tomorrow I’ll look into your eyes . . . In the light of the sun . . .’
‘No,’ she said gently, quietly, velvety, in a voice which gnawed at, racked the layers of memory, memory which no longer existed. Which should never have existed, but had.
‘Yes!’ he protested. ‘Yes. I want to —’
‘No. Now you will fall asleep. And when you awake, you’ll stop wanting. Why should we look at each other in the sunlight? What will it change? Nothing can now be reversed, nothing changed. What’s the purpose of asking me questions, Geralt? Does knowing that I won’t be able to answer give you some kind of perverse pleasure? What will mutual hurt give us? No, we won’t look at each other in the daylight. Go to sleep, Geralt. And just between us, Vesemir did not give you that name. Although it doesn’t change or reverse anything either, I’d like you to know that. Farewell and look after yourself. And don’t try to look for me . . .’
‘Visenna—’
‘No, Geralt. Now you’ll fall asleep. And I . . . I was a dream. Farewell.’
‘No! Visenna!’
‘Sleep.’ There was a soft order in her velvety voice, breaking his will, tearing it like cloth. Warmth, suddenly emanating from her ha
nds.
‘Sleep.’
He slept.
VI
‘Are we in Riverdell yet, Yurga?’
‘Have been since yesterday, sir. Soon the River Yaruga and then my homeland. Look, even the horses are walking more jauntily, tossing their heads. They can sense home is near.’
‘Home . . . Do you live in the city?’
‘No, outside the walls.’
‘Interesting,’ the Witcher said, looking around. ‘There’s almost no trace of war damage. I had heard this land was devastated.’
‘Well,’ Yurga said. ‘One thing we’re not short of is ruins. Take a closer look – on almost every cottage, in every homestead, you can see the white timber of new joinery. And over there on the far bank, just look, it was even worse, everything was burned right down to the ground . . . Well, war’s war, but life must go on. We endured the greatest turmoil when the Black Forces marched through our land. True enough, it looked then as though they’d turn everything here into a wasteland. Many of those who fled then never returned. But fresh people have settled in their place. Life must go on.’
‘That’s a fact,’ Geralt muttered. ‘Life must go on. It doesn’t matter what happened. Life must go on . . .’
‘You’re right. Right, there you are, put them on. I’ve mended your britches, patched them up. They’ll be good as new. It’s just like this land, sir. It was rent by war, ploughed up as if by the iron of a harrow, ripped up, bloodied. But now it’ll be good as new. And it will be even more fertile. Even those who rotted in the ground will serve the good and fertilise the soil. Presently it is hard to plough, because the fields are full of bones and ironware, but the earth can cope with iron too.’
‘Are you afraid the Nilfgaardians, the Black Forces, will return? They found a way through the mountains once already . . .’
‘Well, we’re afeared. And what of it? Do we sit down and weep and tremble? Life must go on. And what will be, will be. What is destined can’t be avoided, in any case.’
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