‘A remarkable act of gratitude,’ Yennefer snorted. ‘And they say it was sorcerers that seated Viraxas on the throne. That they organised and financed his return. And helped him take power.’
‘Spoken truly. Viraxas generously paid for this capital, for that, he raised the fees and also confiscated the property of non-humans. The decree is for me personally, as no other magician owns a home in Kerack. This is Ildiko Brackley’s revenge. And also it deprives the local women of health care, which Viraxas’s advisers consider immoral. The Chapter could exert pressure for my case, but they will not. The money received from Viraxas and is trading privileges is insufficient. He continues to negotiate and is not intending to weaken his position. So I am declared a persona non grata, and will have to emigrate in search of new pastures.’
‘That, I suppose, you will do without much regret. I think that Kerack under the current regime does not have many chance of winning the completion of most pleasant place in the sun. Sell this villa, buy another. Move to Lyria in the mountains. The Lyrian mountains are now in vogue. Many magicians have moved there, because there are good and reasonable taxes.’
‘I don’t like the mountains. I prefer the sea. Don’t worry, I’ll find myself some marina without problems, with my specialty. Women are everywhere and they need me. Drink, Yennefer. To your health.’
‘You’ve poured for me, but you have barely touched yours. Are you unwell? You look peaked.’
Lytta sighed dramatically.
‘The last few days have been difficult. The palace coup, the terrible storm, ah… the morning sickness… I know, after the first three months it will pass. But that is still two months…’
In the silence, you could hear the buzzing of wasps circling the apples.
‘Ha, ha,’ Coral broke the silence. ‘I was joking. It is a pity that you cannot see your face. Gotcha! Ha ha.’
Yennefer looked at the top of the wall overgrown with ivy. Then stared back.
‘I got you,’ Lytta said maliciously, ‘and I bet your imagination started immediately. Admit it, your imagination just tied my blessed state with… But don’t make me say it. The news must have reached you before you got here, rumours spread like ripples on water. But be calm, there is no grain of truth in those rumours. The chances of me getting pregnant are the same as yours, nothing in this respect has changed. And with your witcher, I only had business relations. Professional questions. Nothing more.’
‘Oh.’
‘People are people; they like to gossip. If you see a woman with a man, it immediately turns into a love story. The witcher, I admit, have been together often. And seen together in the city. But it was, I repeat, in association with business interests.’
Yennefer put down her glass, placed her elbows on the table, joined her fingertips, and folder her hands. She looked into the eyes of the red-haired sorceress.
‘First,’ Lytta coughed slightly, but did not lower her eyes. ‘I would never do anything like that. Second, your witcher had absolutely no interest in me.’
‘No interest?’ Yennefer raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed? How do you explain this?’
‘Maybe,’ Coral smiled slightly, ‘he no longer had interest in older women? Regardless of their current appearance? Maybe he wanted someone young? Mozaïk! Come here. Just look at her Yennefer. Blooming with youth. And until most recently – innocent.’
‘Was he?’ Yennefer pouted. ‘Was he with her? Your apprentice?’
‘Well, Mozaïk. Please. Tell us about your love affair. It is very interesting to listen to. Love stories are my favourite. Stories of unrequited love. The more wretched – the better.’
‘Mistress Lytta…’ The girl went deathly pale. ‘Please… You’ve already punished me for it… How many times can I be punished for the same offence? Do not make me…’
‘Tell us!’
‘Leave off, Coral,’ Yennefer interjected. ‘Don’t torture her. Besides, it’s not very interesting.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ Lytta Neyd grinned. ‘Well, I forgive the woman, in fact, I have already punished her guilt, forgiven her and allowed her to continue her studies. And it is no longer amusing to hear her mumble her confessions. In short: she fell in love with the witcher and ran away with him. And he, when he grew tired of her, threw her away. One morning she woke up alone. The place in their lovers bed had cooled down, and he left without a trace. He left because he had to. Like smoke. Blown away.’
Mozaïk, although it seemed impossible, paled even more. Her hand were shaking.
‘He left you flowers,’ Yennefer said softly. ‘A bouquet of flowers. True?’
Mozaïk lifted her head. But she did not answer.
‘Flowers and a letter,’ repeated Yennefer.
Mozaïk was silent. But colour slowly returned to her face.
‘A letter,’ said Lytta Neyd, looking at her searchingly. ‘You did not mention a letter to me.’
Mozaïk pursed her lips together.
‘So that’s why,’ Lytta said with outward calm. ‘that’s why you came back, although you could expect a punishment more severe, much more severe that the one that you received from him as a result. It was he who told you to come back. If not for that, then you would not have returned.’
Mozaïk did not answer. Yennefer was also silent, twirling a black curl around her finger. Suddenly she raised her head and looked into the girl’s eyes. And smiled.
‘He told you to come back to me,’ said Lytta Neyd. ‘He told you to come back, even though, he could imagine what you could expect from me. He surprised me, I must confess, I did not expect that.’
The fountain smelled like wet stone. The air smelled of flowers and ivy.
‘Then he surprised me,’ repeated Lytta. ‘I did not expect that from him.’
‘Because you don’t know him, Coral, ‘Yennefer calmly replied. ‘You don’t know him’
What you are I can not say:
Only this I know full well –
When I touched your face today
Drifts of blossoms flushed and fell.
Siefried Sassoon
Chapter Twenty
A boy groom who had already received half a crown evening before, had their horses saddled and waiting. Dandelion yawned and scratched his head.
‘Oh, gods, Geralt… Do we really need to leave so early? It is still dark…’
‘It’s not dark. It’s just right. The sun will rise in an hour.’
‘An hour,’ Dandelion climbed into the saddle of his gelding. ‘I’d rather sleep for an hour…’
Geralt jumped into the saddle, and gave the groom another half crown.
‘In August,’ he said. ‘From sunrise to sunset is about fourteen hours. I would like in this time to go as far as possible.’
Dandelion yawned. And as if only now noticing the bareback mare eating apples, standing in the stall behind the partition. The mare shook her head, as if to remind him.
‘Wait,’ the poet roused himself, ‘Where is she? Where’s Mozaïk?’
‘She goes with us no further. We are parting.’
‘Why? I don’t understand… Can you explain…’
‘I can’t. Not now. To the road, Dandelion.’
‘You sure you know what you are doing? And you fully aware?’
‘No. Not completely. Not a word more, I don’t want to talk about it now. Let’s go.’
Dandelion sighed. He sent his gelding forward. He looked around and sighed again. He was a poet. Therefore, he had the right to sigh, whenever he wanted.
The inn the “Mystery Whisper” looked quite nice with dawn in the background, in the misty predawn glow. It seemed to be drowned in mallow, an entangled in bindweed and ivy palace of fairies, a forest temple of secret love. The poet mused.
Once again he sighed, yawned, coughed, spat, wrapped himself in his cloak and rode his horse. After a few minutes of thinking, he’d been left behind. Geralt was barely visible in
the fog. The witcher was riding fast. And did not look back.
***
‘I hope this wine pleases,’ the innkeeper said as he put a porcelain pitcher on the table. ‘A vintage from Rivia that you may like. And my wife has asked to see how you are finding the fowl?’
‘I’m finding it,’ said Dandelion. ‘But not as often as I would like.’
The inn to which they had arrived at the end of the day, was called, as the colourful sign outside proclaim. “At the Boar and Deer”. However, it was the only wild game that was offered by the inn, that appeared on the menu. The local specialty was porridge with chunks of fatty pork and thick onion sauce. Dandelion, probably due to his principles, found this a little to plebeian to his understanding of food and turned his nose up at it. Geralt did not complain. The pork was thick and plentiful and the sauce was complex – much like the porridge in every roadside inn. It could be worse, especially since the selection was limited. Geralt insisted that that day they should ride as far as possible, so they had not stopped at any restaurants.
As it turned out the “At the Boar and Deer” was finally destination of their trip. A single shop along a wall occupied by merchant carriages. The merchants were modern, unlike the obdurate they did not disdain servants and did not consider it shameful to eat with them at the same table. Modernity and tolerance did, of course, have its limits – merchants occupied one end of the table, the servants – the other. The demarcation line was easy to spot. The was true of the dishes. Servants ate pork porridge, than the specialised local cuisine and washed it down with stale beer. The lord merchants ate chicken and drank wine.
At the table opposite, was a couple eating a dinner of stuffed boar’s head: a blonde girl and an older man. She was dressed richly, very strictly and not girlish. The man looked like a bureaucrat, but not one with a high rank. The pair ate dinner together, and were having quite an animated conversation, but it must have been a recent and most casual acquaintance, as could be inferred from the behaviour of the official, who persistently tried to curry favour with the girl in the explicit hope that he would receive something more from the girl than a look of courtesy and an ironic expression.
One of the short benches was occupied by four priestesses. Wandering healers, which were easily recognised by the grey clothes and the tight hoods that hide their hair. Their meal, Geralt noted, was more than modest, something like barley porridge without gravy. Priestesses never demanded payment for treatment, and healed all for free, and custom demanded that in exchange they are offered table and bed. The innkeeper of the “At the Boar and Deer” knew about the custom, but apparently at the lowest cost.
On a nearby bench, under a set of antlers, three local residents were hovering over a bottle of rye vodka which was clearly not their first. This more or less meet their basic needs, but they started looking for entertainment. And quickly found it. They watched the priestesses. The priestesses were already accustomed to such attention though.
The table in the corner of the room held only one guest. This table was also hidden in the shadows. The guest, Geralt noted, neither ate nor drank. He sat motionless leaning against the wall.
The three locals, jokes and ridicule aimed at the priestesses, became more brutal and obscene. The priestesses behaved stoically, ignoring them. The locals, apparently, had whet their appetite and went back to their vodka. Geralt ate faster. He decided to shut up the drunkard’s muzzles, but did not want his porridge to cool.
‘The Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.’
From the corner, in the shadows, a fire flashed suddenly.
The man sitting alone at the table, raised his hand. From his fingers shot wavering flames. The man put his hand to a candlestick on the table and lit all three candles by turn. They light was enough to illuminate him.
He had grey hair, like ash, at the temples mixed with white stands. An ashen face. A hooked nose. And bright yellow eyes with vertical pupils.
Around his neck, pulled out from his shirt, glistening in the candle light was a silver medallion. The head of a cat with bared teeth.
‘The Witcher, Geralt of Rivia,’ He echoed in the silence that followed. ‘On your way to Vizima, I suppose? For the reward offered by King Foltest? For two thousand orens? I’ve guessed right?’
Geralt did not answer. Did not even move.
‘You don’t ask. So you know who I am? Because I know you.’
‘There are few of you left,’ Geralt said calmly. ‘So it is easy to calculate. You’re Brehen. Also known as the Cat of Lello.’
‘I’m very pleased’ snorted the man with the cat medallion. ‘The famous White Wolf deigns to know my name. What a huge honour. The fact that you are also going to steal my reward, I should probably take as an honour as well? I must give primacy, bow and apologise? As in a wolf pack, move away from the kill and wait, wagging my tail and waiting till the leader is sated? And kindly deigns to leave some leftovers?’
Geralt was silent.
‘I won’t give you the prize,’ continued Brehen, nicknamed the Cat from Lello. ‘I won’t share. You’re not going to Vizima, White Wolf. You will not steal my wages. Vesemir has handed out a death sentence. You have the opportunity to fulfil it. Exit the tavern. Into the square.’
‘I won’t fight you.’
The man with the cat medallion jumped up from his table so fast he blurred in the eyes. With a flash he caught up his sword from the table. The man grabbed one of the priestesses with the hood, pulled her from the bench, dropped her to her knees and put the blade to her throat.
‘You are going to fight me,’ He said coldly, looking at Geralt. ‘Get out into the square before I count to three. Otherwise, the blood of this priestess with splatter the walls, ceiling and furniture. And then I’ll slaughter the rest. Taking turns. Nobody move! Don’t anybody move!’
In the inn there was silence, the silence was deaf and complete. Everyone froze. And watched with mouths open.
‘I will not fight you,’ Geralt said quietly. ‘But if you hurt this woman, you will die.’
‘One of us will die, that’s for sure. There, in the square. But most likely it will not be me. They say that your famous swords have been stolen. And new ones, I can see, you have not bothered to buy. Truly you need to have a great arrogance to come to steal someone else’s reward, not even armed. Or, perhaps, the famous White Wolf is so good he does not even need steel?’
With the creak of a chair the blonde girl stood up. She took from the table an oblong parcel. She placed it in front of Geralt and retreated to her seat, sitting down next to the official.
He knew what it was. Before he had even undone the straps and spread the felt.
A sword of siderite steel, a total length of forty and a half inches, blade length – twenty-seven and a quarter. Weighing thirty-seven ounces. The hilt and guard simple, but elegant.
The second sword – the same length and weight – but silver. In part, of course. Pure silver is too soft, so it cannot be well sharpened. Down the length of the entire blade was runic symbols and characters.
The linguist Pyrall Pratt could not read them, thus showing the level of his knowledge. The ancient runes form the inscription: Dubhenn haern am glandeal, morch am fhean aiesin. My brilliance cuts the gloom, my light dispels the darkness.
Geralt snatched from its sheath the steel sword. With a free and continuous movement. He did not look at Brehen. He looked at the blade.
‘Let the woman go,’ he said quietly. ‘Now. Otherwise, you die.’
Brehen jerked his hand a little and from the priestess’s neck ran a trickle of blood. The priestess did not even groan.
‘I need the money,’ hiss the Cat of Lello. ‘The reward should be mine!’
‘Let the woman go, I said. Otherwise, I’ll kill you. Here, on the spot.’
Brehen hunched. He was breathing heavily. His eyes sparkled angrily, his lip curved disgustingly. The knuckles gripping the sword where white. Suddenly, h
e let go of the priestess, pushing her away. People in the inn shook as if awakened from a nightmare. There were sighs and deep breaths.
‘Winter is coming,’ Brehen said with anguish, ‘And I, unlike others, have no place to spend winter. Cozy and warm Kaer Morhen is not for me!’
‘No,’ said Geralt. ‘It’s not for you. And you know very well for what reasons.’
‘Kaer Morhen is just for you, the good, the just, the fair, right? Fucking hypocrites. You are the same killers, like us! You’re no different than us!’
‘Go,’ Geralt said. ‘Leave this place and be on your way.’
Brehen put away his sword. He straightened. As he walked across the room, his eyes changed. The pupils filled the entire iris.
‘It’s a lie,’ Geralt said as Brehen passed, ‘that Vesemir allegedly ordered a death sentence on you. Witcher’s do not fight or cross swords with each other. But if you ever repeat what happened in Lello, if I hear something like that… Then I’ll make an exception. I’ll find you and kill you. Consider it a serious prevention.’
The dead silence in the hall of the inn lasted for a few minutes after the door closed behind Brehen. Dandelion breathed a sigh of relief in the silence which sounded quite loud. Shortly thereafter, movement began. The local drunks gradually left, not even finishing the vodka. The merchants restrained, though quiet and pale, ordered their servants to leave the table, obviously giving orders and directions to carefully guard the carts and horses who were at risk from these shady characters.
The priestess, her neck bandaged by her colleagues, gave Geralt a silent bow and retired to rest, probably in the barn – it was doubtful the innkeeper had given them a bedroom.
Geralt bowed and gestured at the table with the blonde who had given him his swords. She took advantage of the invitation very willingly and without regret left her former companion, the official with a grim expression on his face.
Stephen Hulin Page 31