Introducing the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘The girl has magical abilities, and that can’t be neglected. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Uncontrolled powers are an ominous thing. For both the Source and those in their vicinity. The Source can threaten those around them in many ways. But they threaten themselves in only one. Mental illness. Usually catatonia.’

  ‘Devil take it,’ said Lambert after a long silence. ‘I am listening to you half-convinced that someone here has already lost their marbles and will, any moment now, present a threat to the rest of us. Destiny, sources, spells, hocus-pocus . . . Aren’t you exaggerating, Merigold? Is this the first child to be brought to the Keep? Geralt didn’t find destiny; he found another homeless, orphaned child. We’ll teach the girl the sword and let her out into the world like the others. True, I admit we’ve never trained a girl in Kaer Morhen before. We’ve had some problems with Ciri, made mistakes, and it’s a good thing you’ve pointed them out to us. But don’t let us exaggerate. She is not so remarkable as to make us fall on our knees and raise our eyes to the heavens. Is there a lack of female warriors roaming the world? I assure you, Merigold, Ciri will leave here skilful and healthy, strong and able to face life. And, I warrant, without catatonia or any other epilepsy. Unless you delude her into believing she has some such disease.’

  ‘Vesemir,’ Triss turned in her chair, ‘tell him to keep quiet, he’s getting in the way.’

  ‘You think you know it all,’ said Lambert calmly, ‘but you don’t. Not yet. Look.’

  He stretched his hand towards the hearth, arranging his fingers together in a strange way. The chimney roared and howled, the flames burst out violently, the glowing embers grew brighter and rained sparks. Geralt, Vesemir and Eskel glanced at Ciri anxiously but the girl paid no attention to the spectacular fireworks.

  Triss folded her arms and looked at Lambert defiantly.

  ‘The Sign of Aard,’ she stated calmly. ‘Did you think to impress me? With the use of the same sign, strengthened through concentration, willpower and a spell, I can blow the logs from the chimney in a moment and blast them so high you will think they are stars.’

  ‘You can,’ he agreed. ‘But Ciri can’t. She can’t form the Sign of Aard. Or any other sign. She has tried hundreds of times, to no effect. And you know our Signs require minimal power. Ciri does not even have that. She is an absolutely normal child. She has not the least magical power – she has, in fact, a comprehensive lack of ability. And here you are telling us she’s a Source, trying to threaten us—’

  ‘A Source,’ she explained coldly, ‘has no control over their skills, no command over them. They are a medium, something like a transmitter. Unknowingly they get in touch with energy, unknowingly they convert it. And when they try to control it, when they strain trying to form the Signs perhaps, nothing comes of it. And nothing will come of it, not just after hundreds of attempts but after thousands. It is one characteristic of a Source. Then, one day, a moment comes when the Source does not exert itself, does not strain, is daydreaming or thinking about cabbage and sausages, playing dice, enjoying themselves in bed with a partner, picking their nose . . . and suddenly something happens. A house might goes up in flames. Or sometimes, half a town goes up.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating, Merigold.’

  ‘Lambert.’ Geralt released his medallion and rested his hands on the table. ‘First, stop calling Triss “Merigold”. She has asked you a number of times not to. Second, Triss is not exaggerating. I saw Ciri’s mother, Princess Pavetta, in action with my own eyes. I tell you, it was really something. I don’t know if she was a Source or not, but no one suspected she had any power at all until, save by a hair’s breadth, she almost reduced the royal castle of Cintra to ashes.’

  ‘We should assume, therefore,’ said Eskel, lighting the candles in yet another candle-stick, ‘that Ciri could, indeed, be genetically burdened.’

  ‘Not only could,’ said Vesemir, ‘she is so burdened. On the one hand Lambert is right. Ciri is not capable of forming Signs. On the other . . . We have all seen . . .’

  He fell silent and looked at Ciri who, with a joyful squeal, acknowledged that she had the upper hand in the game. Triss spied a small smile on Coën’s face and was sure he had allowed her to win.

  ‘Precisely,’ she sneered. ‘You have all seen. What have you seen? Under what circumstances did you see it? Don’t you think, boys, that the time has come for more truthful confessions? Hell, I repeat, I will keep your secret. You have my word.’

  Lambert glanced at Geralt; Geralt nodded in assent. The younger witcher stood and took a large rectangular crystal carafe and a smaller phial from a high shelf. He poured the contents of the phial into the carafe, shook it several times and poured the transparent liquid into the chalices on the table.

  ‘Have a drink with us, Triss.’

  ‘Is the truth so terrible,’ she mocked, ‘that we can’t talk about it soberly? Do I have to get drunk in order to hear it?’

  ‘Don’t be such a know-all. Take a sip. You will find it easier to understand.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘White Seagull.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A mild remedy,’ Eskel smiled, ‘for pleasant dreams.’

  ‘Damn it! A witcher hallucinogenic? That’s why your eyes shine like that in the evenings!’

  ‘White Seagull is very gentle. It’s Black Seagull that is hallucinogenic.’

  ‘If there’s magic in this liquid I’m not allowed to take it!’

  ‘Exclusively natural ingredients,’ Geralt reassured her but he looked, she noticed, disconcerted. He was clearly afraid she would question them about the elixir’s ingredients. ‘And diluted with a great deal of water. We would not offer you anything that could harm you.’

  The sparkling liquid, with its strange taste, struck her throat with its chill and then dispersed warmth throughout her body. The magician ran her tongue over her gums and palate. She was unable to recognise any of the ingredients.

  ‘You gave Ciri some of this . . . Seagull to drink,’ she surmised. ‘And then—’

  ‘It was an accident,’ Geralt interrupted quickly. ‘That first evening, just after we arrived . . . she was thirsty, and the Seagull stood on the table. Before we had time to react, she had drunk it all in one go. And fallen into a trance.’

  ‘We had such a fright,’ Vesemir admitted, and sighed. ‘Oh, that we did, child. More than we could take.’

  ‘She started speaking with another voice,’ the magician stated calmly, looking at the witchers’ eyes gleaming in the candlelight. ‘She started talking about events and matters of which she could have no knowledge. She started . . . to prophesy. Right? What did she say?’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Lambert dryly. ‘Senseless drivel.’

  ‘Then I have no doubt’ – she looked straight at him – ‘that you understood each other perfectly well. Drivel is your speciality – and I am further convinced of it every time you open your mouth. Do me a great favour and don’t open it for a while, all right?’

  ‘This once,’ said Eskel gravely, rubbing the scar across his cheek, ‘Lambert is right, Triss. After drinking Seagull Ciri really was incomprehensible. That first time it was gibberish. Only after—’

  He broke off. Triss shook her head.

  ‘It was only the second time that she started talking sense,’ she guessed. ‘So there was a second time, too. Also after she drank a drug because of your carelessness?’

  ‘Triss.’ Geralt raised his head. ‘This is not the time for your childish spitefulness. It doesn’t amuse us. It worries and upsets us. Yes, there was a second time, too, and a third. Ciri fell, quite by accident, during an exercise. She lost consciousness. When she regained it, she had fallen into another trance. And once again she spoke nonsense. Again it was not her voice. And again it was incomprehensible. But I have heard similar voices before, heard a similar way of speaking. It’s how those poor, sick, demented women known as oracles speak. You see wh
at I’m thinking?’

  ‘Clearly. That was the second time, get to the third.’

  Geralt wiped his brow, suddenly beaded with sweat, on his forearm. ‘Ciri often wakes up at night,’ he continued. ‘Shouting. She has been through a lot. She does not want to talk about it but it is clear that she saw things no child should see in Cintra and Angren. I even fear that . . . that someone harmed her. It comes back to her in dreams. Usually she is easy to reassure and she falls asleep without any problem . . . But once, after waking . . . she was in a trance again. She again spoke with someone else’s, unpleasant, menacing voice. She spoke clearly and made sense. She prophesied. Foresaw the future. And what she foretold . . .’

  ‘What? What, Geralt?’

  ‘Death,’ Vesemir said gently. ‘Death, child.’

  Triss glanced at Ciri, who was shrilly accusing Coën of cheating. Coën put his arms around her and burst out laughing. The magician suddenly realised that she had never, up until now, heard any of the witchers laugh.

  ‘For whom?’ she asked briefly, still gazing at Coën.

  ‘Him,’ said Vesemir.

  ‘And me,’ Geralt added. And smiled.

  ‘When she woke up—’

  ‘She remembered nothing. And we didn’t ask her any questions.’

  ‘Quite so. As to the prophecy . . . Was it specific? Detailed?’

  ‘No.’ Geralt looked her straight in the eyes. ‘Confused. Don’t ask about it, Triss. We are not worried by the contents of Ciri’s prophecies and ravings but about what happens to her. We’re not afraid for ourselves but—’

  ‘Careful,’ warned Vesemir. ‘Don’t talk about it in front of her.’

  Coën approached the table carrying the girl piggy-back.

  ‘Wish everybody goodnight, Ciri,’ he said. ‘Say goodnight to those night owls. We’re going to sleep. It’s nearly midnight. In a minute it’ll be the end of Midinváerne. As of tomorrow, every day brings spring closer!’

  ‘I’m thirsty.’ Ciri slipped off his back and reached for Eskel’s chalice. Eskel deftly moved the vessel beyond her reach and grabbed a jug of water. Triss stood quickly.

  ‘Here you are.’ She gave her half-full chalice to the girl while meaningfully squeezing Geralt’s arm and looking Vesemir in the eye. ‘Drink.’

  ‘Triss,’ whispered Eskel, watching Ciri drink greedily, ‘what are you doing? It’s—’

  ‘Not a word, please.’

  They did not have to wait long for it to take effect. Ciri suddenly grew rigid, cried out, and smiled a broad, happy smile. She squeezed her eyelids shut and stretched out her arms. She laughed, spun a pirouette and danced on tiptoes. Lambert moved the stool away in a flash, leaving Coën standing between the dancing girl and the hearth.

  Triss jumped up and tore an amulet from her pouch – a sapphire set in silver on a thin chain. She squeezed it tightly in her hand.

  ‘Child . . .’ groaned Vesemir. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ she said sharply. ‘Ciri has fallen into a trance and I am going to contact her psychically. I am going to enter her. I told you, she is something like a magical transmitter – I’ve got to know what she is transmitting, how, and from where she is drawing the aura, how she is transforming it. It’s Midinváerne, a favourable night for such an undertaking . . .’

  ‘I don’t like it.’ Geralt frowned. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

  ‘Should either of us suffer an epileptic fit,’ the magician said ignoring his words, ‘you know what to do. A stick between our teeth, hold us down, wait for it to pass. Chin up, boys. I’ve done this before.’

  Ciri ceased dancing, sank to her knees, extended her arms and rested her head on her lap. Triss pressed the now warm amulet to her temple and murmured the formula of a spell. She closed her eyes, concentrated her willpower and gave out a burst of magic.

  The sea roared, waves thundered against the rocky shore and exploded in high geysers amidst the boulders. She flapped her wings, chasing the salty wind. Indescribably happy, she dived, caught up with a flock of her companions, brushed the crests of the waves with her claws, soared into the sky again, shedding water droplets, and glided, tossed by the gale whistling through her pinfeathers. Force of suggestion, she thought soberly. It is only force of suggestion. Seagull!

  Triiiss! Triiss!

  Ciri? Where are you?

  Triiiss!

  The cry of the seagulls ceased. The magician still felt the wet splash of the breakers but the sea was no longer below her. Or it was – but it was a sea of grass, an endless plateau stretching as far as the horizon. Triss, with horror, realised she was looking at the view from the top of Sodden Hill. But it was not the Hill. It could not be the Hill.

  The sky suddenly grew dark, shadows swirled around her. She saw a long column of indistinct figures slowly climbing down the mountainside. She heard murmurs superimposed over each other, mingling into an uncanny, incomprehensible chorus.

  Ciri was standing nearby with her back turned to her. The wind was blowing her ashen hair about.

  The indistinct, hazy figures continued past in a long, unending column. Passing her, they turned their heads. Triss suppressed a cry, watching the listless, peaceful faces and their dead, unseeing eyes. She did not know all of the faces, did not recognise them. But some of them she did know.

  Coral. Vanielle. Yoël. Pox-marked Axel . . .

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ she whispered. ‘Why?’

  Ciri turned. She raised her arm and the magician saw a trickle of blood run down her life-line, across her palm and onto her wrist.

  ‘It is the rose,’ the girl said calmly. ‘The rose of Shaerrawedd. I pricked myself. It is nothing. It is only blood. The blood of elves . . .’

  The sky grew even darker, then, a moment later, flared with the sharp, blinding glare of lightning. Everything froze in the silence and stillness. Triss took a step, wanting to make sure she could. She stopped next to Ciri and saw that both of them stood on the edge of a bottomless chasm where reddish smoke, glowing as though it was lit from behind, was swirling. The flash of another soundless bolt of lightning suddenly revealed a long, marble staircase leading into the depths of the abyss.

  ‘It has to be this way,’ Ciri said in a shaky voice. ‘There is no other. Only this. Down the stairs. It has to be this way because . . . Va’esse deireádh aep eigean . . .’

  ‘Speak,’ whispered the magician. ‘Speak, child.’

  ‘The Child of Elder Blood . . . Feainnewedd . . . Luned aep Hen Ichaer . . . Deithwen . . . The White Flame . . . No, no . . . No!’

  ‘Ciri !’

  ‘The black knight . . . with feathers in his helmet . . . What did he do to me? What happened ? I was frightened . . . I’m still frightened. It’s not ended, it will never end. The lion cub must die . . . Reasons of state . . . No . . . No . . .’

  ‘Ciri !’

  ‘No!’ The girl turned rigid and squeezed her eyelids shut. ‘No, no, I don’t want to! Don’t touch me!’

  Ciri’s face suddenly changed, hardened; her voice became metallic, cold and hostile, resounding with threatening, cruel mockery.

  ‘You have come all this way with her, Triss Merigold? All the way here? You have come too far, Fourteenth One. I warned you.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Triss shuddered but she kept her voice under control.

  ‘You will know when the time comes.’

  ‘I will know now!’

  The magician raised her arms, extended them abruptly, putting all her strength into a Spell of Identification. The magic curtain burst but behind it was a second . . . A third . . . A fourth . . .

  Triss sank to her knees with a groan. But reality continued to burst, more doors opened, a long, endless row leading to nowhere. To emptiness.

  ‘You are wrong, Fourteenth One,’ the metallic, inhuman voice sneered. ‘You’ve mistaken the stars reflected on the surface of the lake at night for the heavens.’

  ‘Do not touch—Do
not touch that child!’

  ‘She is not a child.’

  Ciri’s lips moved but Triss saw that the girl’s eyes were dead, glazed and vacant.

  ‘She is not a child,’ the voice repeated. ‘She is the Flame, the White Flame which will set light to the world. She is the Elder Blood, Hen Ichaer. The blood of elves. The seed which will not sprout but burst into flame. The blood which will be defiled . . . When Tedd Deireádh arrives, the Time of End. Va’esse deireádh aep eigean!’

  ‘Are you foretelling death?’ shouted Triss. ‘Is that all you can do, foretell death? For everyone? Them, her . . . Me?’

  ‘You? You are already dead, Fourteenth One. Everything in you has already died.’

  ‘By the power of the spheres,’ moaned the magician, activating what little remained of her strength and drawing her hand through the air, ‘I throw a spell on you by water, fire, earth and air. I conjure you in thought, in dream and in death, by all that was, by what is and by what will be. I cast my spell on you. Who are you? Speak!’

  Ciri turned her head away. The vision of the staircase leading down into the depths of the abyss disappeared, dissolved, and in its place appeared a grey, leaden sea, foaming, crests of waves breaking. And the seagull’s cries burst through the silence once more.

  ‘Fly,’ said the voice, through the girl’s lips. ‘It is time. Go back to where you came from, Fourteenth of the Hill. Fly on the wings of a gull and listen to the cry of other seagulls. Listen carefully!’

  ‘I conjure you—’

  ‘You cannot. Fly, seagull!’

  And suddenly the wet salty air was there again, roaring with the gale, and there was the flight, a flight with no beginning and no end. Seagulls cried wildly, cried and commanded.

  Triss?

  Ciri ?

  Forget about him! Don’t torture him! Forget! Forget, Triss! Forget!

  Triss! Triss! Trisss!

  ‘Triss!’

  She opened her eyes, tossed her head on the pillow and moved her numb hands.

  ‘Geralt?’

  ‘I’m here. How are you feeling?’

  She cast her eyes around. She was in her chamber, lying on the bed. On the best bed in the whole of Kaer Morhen.