‘My name is Tiziano Frevi,’ she introduced herself, taking Geralt’s hand and shaking it. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘I am very pleased.’
‘It was a little bit nervous, right? Evenings at roadside inns are usually boring, but today was interesting. At one point I was even a little bit afraid. But I think these are men game, yes? Duel of testosterone? Comparisons to see who’s is longer. No real threat.’
‘It was not,’ he lied. ‘Mainly because of the swords that were returned. Thank you for them. Only I can’t understand how you got them.’
‘That is supposed to remain a secret,’ she explained easily. ‘I was instructed to quietly and secretly return these swords and then disappear. But the conditions changed suddenly. I had to, because the conditions required it, to return the weapons openly. Abandoning an explanation now would simply be indecent. Therefore, by not giving an explanation, I take full responsibility for the disclosure of the secrets. The swords were giving to me by Yennefer of Vengerberg. This happened in Novigrad, two weeks ago. There by chance I met Yennefer after I had just finished my internship. When she learned I was heading south, Yennefer entrusted me with this mission. And she gave me a letter of recommendation for a magician in Maribor, with whom I intend to train.’
‘How is…’ Geralt swallowed. ‘How is she? Yennefer? Is she all right?’
‘In perfect order, I think,’ Tiziano Frevi looked at him from beneath her lashes. ‘She’s fine, I even envy her looks to be honest.’
Geralt stood and walked over to the innkeeper, who almost fainted in fear.
‘Well, you shouldn’t have…’ Tiziano Frevi said modestly, when a minute later, the innkeeper returned with a bottle of Est Est, the most expensive wine from Tousaint. And a few extra candles stuck in the necks of empty bottles.
‘Right, this is becoming uncomfortable,’ she added, when in a moment there were dishes on the table with slices of dried ham, and one a second – smoked trout, and on a third – different cheeses. ‘You’re needlessly wasting money, witcher.’
‘There is a reason. You are great company.’
She thanked him with a nod. And a smile. A cute smile.
After graduating from a School of Magic every sorceress was given a choice. She could stay as an assistant teacher. Or she could seek out independent masters to take them on as permanent interns. Or choose the way of dvimveandry.
The system had been borrowed from the crafts. Many of them to receive the title of apprentice must make a journey, during which they take temporary jobs in various workshops and with different masters, here and there, and finally after a few years they return to take an examination for the title of master. The difference, however, were Those forced to wander and find no work as apprentices too often looked into the eyes of hunger and their journey often turned into vagrancy. Dvimveandrami followed their own will and desires, and the Chapter of Wizards had established a special magical scholarship fund – which Geralt heard was quite significant.
‘That man was terrible,’ the poet joined the conversation, ‘he wore a medallion similar to yours. It was one of the cats, right?’
‘True. I don’t want to talk about it, Dandelion.’
‘The notorious cats,’ the poet turned to the sorceress, ‘are Witchers, but failed. Unsucessful mutation. Mad men, psychopaths and sadist. The Cats they call themselves, because they really are like cats: aggressive, violent, unpredictable and capricious. Geralt, as usual, is playing it down to appease us. Because there was a threat, a great one. It is a miracle that there was no bloodshed, or corpses. There was a massacre in Lello four years ago. At any moment I expect…’
‘Geralt asked you not to talk about it,’ Tiziano Frevi interrupted politely but firmly. ‘Respect his wishes.’
He looked at her with liking. She seemed to him pleasant. And attractive. Very attractive.
Sorceresses he knew, could have their beauty correct, the prestige of their profession demanded that magic-users be admired. But the embellishment was never perfect, there was always something left behind. Tiziano Frevi was no exception. On her forehead, just below the hairline, there were a few faint, barely noticeable traces of smallpox, contracted, probably in childhood, when she had not been immune. The line of her beautiful mouth was spoiled a little by a small wavy scar on her upper lip. Geralt knew that she would feel anger, anger at his gaze, his eyes noticing such insignificant details, small details that in the end, was nothing compared to the that Tiziano Frevi was sitting with him at a table, drinking Est Est, eating smoked trout and smiling at him. The witcher, in fact, knew very few women, whose beauty could be considered perfect and the chances that they would smile at him were zero.
‘He spoke about a reward…’ Dandelion said, when on a topic was difficult to move aside. ‘Do any of you know what he meant? Geralt?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘I know,’ boasted Tiziano Frevi. ‘I’m surprised that you still have not heard, because it is an important matter. Foltest, King of Temeria, has posted this reward. For the removal of a curse from his daughter, who was enchanted. Pricked her finger on a spindle and has been forced into eternal sleep, poor thing, according to the rumours, she lies in a coffin in the castle, overgrown with hawthorn. According to other rumours, the coffin is made of glass and has been placed atop a mountain. They also say that she was turned into a swan. But others say a terrible monster, a Striga. As a result of a curse, because the princess was the result of incest. This gossip was supposedly invented by King Vizimir of Redania who is in territorial conflicts with Foltest and has quarrelled with him.’
‘It all sounds like fiction,’ Geralt said. ‘Based on fairy tales or legends. Enchanted and turned into a monster, a princess cursed as a punishment for incest, the reward to someone who can lift it. Classic and banal. Whoever invented it, didn’t strain very hard.’
‘The case,’ the dvimveandra added, ‘has obvious political overtones, so the Chapter has banned any wizards from participating in it.’
‘Fairy tale or not, the cat believe in it,’ reasoned Dandelion. ‘It was obvious he was in a hurry to get to Vizima to the enchanted princess to break her curse and get the promised reward from King Foltest. And he suspected the Geralt was going there too, and wanted to beat him.’
‘He was wrong,’ Geralt said dryly. ‘I’m not going to Vizima. I do not intend to pry into a political cauldron. This work is just right for someone like Brehen, who, he himself said, is in need of it. I don’t need it. I’ve found my swords, and a new order is not nesseccary. I have my livelihood. Thanks to the Wizards of Rissberg…’
‘The Witcher, Geralt of Rivia?’
‘Yes,’ Geralt stared up at the officer standing next to his with a sullen look on his face. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘That is immaterial,’ the officer looked up and puffed out his cheeks, trying to sound important. ‘You are essential to the lawsuit. A witness. In accordance with the law.’
The officer gave the witcher a paper scroll. As he left, Tiziano Frevi did not fail to bestow upon him a look of contempt.
Geralt broke the seal, and unrolled the scroll.
‘Datum ex Castello Rissberg, day 20 mens, Jul. anno 1245 post Ressurectionem,’ he read. ‘The City court of Gors Velen. Plantiff: Independent Board of Research, Rissberg. Defendant: Geralt of Rivia, Witcher. Subject matter: The refund of the amount of one thousand Novigrad crowns. We ask, primo, the defendant Geralt of Rivia to repay one thousand Novigrad crowns together with appropriate interest. Secundo, we impose on the defendant to pay court costs in favour of the bearer of the claim in accordance with the pravilami. Tertio, Immediate execution of these orders. Justification: the defendant tricked the plantiff, the indipendant Board of Research of Rissberg worth a thousand Novigrad crowns. Proof: a copy of bank transfers. Payment was issued as an advance on work that the defendant has failed to fulfil and carry out, and his intent was that he never intended to… Witnesses, Biruta
Anna Marquette Icarti, Axel Esparza, Tarvix Sandoval… Bastards.’
‘I return your swords,’ Tiziano Frevi looked down. ‘And then the court places more problems on your head. This official tracked me down. This morning, he overheard me asking about you at the ferry dock. And immediately after that he has clung to me like a burr to a dog’s tail. Now I know why. This suit – it is my fault.’
‘You need a lawyer,’ Dandelion said. ‘But I don’t advise you to take the defender in Kerack. She is suitable only outside the courtroom.’
‘You can forget about a lawyer. Did you note the date on the claim? I bet that they have already held a hearing and the sentence has been passed down in absentia. And that they have seized my accounts.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Tiziano Frevi said. ‘It’s all my fault. Forgive me.’
‘Don’t apologise, you aren’t to blame. Let those at Rissberg choke on the courts. Dear innkeeper! Another bottle of Est Est, if you can!’
***
Soon they were the only guests left in the hall. The innkeeper’s demonstrative yawns, gave them to understand that it was time to finish. The first to leave was Tiziano Frevi. Followed by Dandelion.
Geralt did not go to his room, which he shared with the poet. Instead, he gently knocked on Tiziano Frevi door. She opened it immediately.
‘I’ve been waiting,’ she murmured, pulling him inside. ‘I knew you’d come. And if you had not come, then I would have gone looking for you.’
***
She must have magically put him to sleep, otherwise he would have certainly woken up when she left. She had left, most likely before dawn, or even in the dark. All that was left was her smell. A delicate aroma of bergamot and iris. And something else. Roses?
On the table, next to his swords was a flower. A rose flower. One of the roses that grew in a flowerpot in front of the inn.
***
No one could remember what was in that place, who built it, for whom and for what purpose did it serve. For in that valley, there were only ruined buildings, once a large and probably rich architectural ensemble. Of the building there remained almost nothing but the remains of the foundation, a swampy pit, with stone blocks scattered here and there. The rest was dismantled and looted. Building material was expensive, and nothing should go to waste.
They walked under the remains of a destroyed portal, once with impressive archways, now it looked like a gallows: the impression came from the ivy hanging down from it in loops. They walked down an alley which lay under trees. The trees were withered, crippled and ugly, as if the weight hanging over this place was a curse. The alley lead to a garden. Or rather, what was once a garden. Banberry bushes, gorse and climbing roses, probably at one time decoratively trimmed, where now thorny vies with stalks. Because of this mess they almost missed seeing the remains of statues. The remains were so small that it was impossible to determine even approximately what the statue represented. Not that it had any meaning. Ste statues were in the past. They did not survive and had ceased to exist. These were ruins, and they seemed to have been here a long time, and eternal ruin.
Ruins A monument to a destroyed world.
‘Dandelion.’
‘Yes?’
‘In recent times, everything that could go bad, went bad. And it seems to me that I blew it. Everything that I have touched, has gone worng.’
‘You think so?’
‘It seems to me so.’
‘But that is not at all the case. Explanations will have to wait. I’m tired of explaining. Now feel sorry for yourself in silence. Don’t let thy lamentations distract me.’
Dandelion sat down on a collapsed tower, pushed his hat back on his head, crossed his legs and twisted his lute pegs.
The candle flickers and our fire extinguishes
Suddenly we feel the touch of cool breeze…
Indeed, the wind blew sudden and strong. Dandelion stopped playing. And sighed loudly.
The Witcher turned.
She stood at the end of the alley, between the broken statue and a plinth of unrecognisable tangle of dogwood shrubs. Tall, wearing a slinky dress. With greyish spots on her head, more typical for vixens than black foxes. With pointed ears and an elongated muzzle.
Geralt did not move.
‘I promised I’d come,’ in the jaws of the fox, there flashed rows of fangs. ‘Someday. That day is come.’
Geralt did not move. On his back he felt the familiar weight of both of his swords, the severity of which he missed a month ago. They used to give him peace of mind. Today, at this moment, the weight was just a burden.
‘I’ve come…’ the vixen flashed her fangs. ‘I do not know why I have come. Maybe to say goodbye. Maybe, to allow her to say goodbye to you.’
Next to the fox appeared a slim girl in a slinky dress. Her pale and unnaturally motionless face was still half human. But perhaps more fox than human. The change occurs quickly.
The witcher shook his head.
‘You’ve save her… revived her? No, it is impossible. She was alive on the ship? Alive. And pretended to be dead.’
The vixen barked loudly. It took him a while to realise that I was a laugh. A foxes laugh.
‘We could do many things once. Create illusions of magical isles, show dragons dancing in the sky, bring forth the illusion of a huge army approaching the walls of a city… Once upon a time, long ago. Now the world has changed, our abilities have decreased… and we were crushed. We are already more fox than vixen. Yet even the smallest, even the youngest fox is able to fool your primitive human feelings with illusions.’
‘For the first time in my life,’ he said after a moment. ‘I was glad that I was deceived.’
‘It is not true that you did everything wrong. And as a reward you can touch my face.’
He cleared his throat, looking at the sharp teeth.
‘Hmm…’
‘Illusion – that is what you are thinking. What you are afraid of. And what you dream about.’
‘What?’
The fox barked softly. And changed.
Black hair, violet eyes burning in a pale, triangular face. Raven curls like waves in a storm, cascading over her shoulders, shining, reflecting light like peacock feathers, twisting and bouncing with every movement. Lips, wonderfully narrow and paly under lipstick. Around her neck a black velvet ribbon, a velvet ribbon with an obsidian star, sparkling with a thousand reflections. Yennefer smiled. The witcher touched her cheek. And then the dry dogwood flowered.
And then the wind blew, shook the bush. The world disappeared behind a curtain of whirling white petals.
‘Illusion,’ He heard the vixen say. ‘All an illusion.’
***
Dandelion finished signing. But he did not put down the lute. He sat on a fragment of felled column. He looked up at the sky.
Geralt sat nearby. He was thinking about different things. Laying out plans. Or rather, trying to lay out plans. Most were completely unrealistic. He made promises to himself. Promises he strongly doubted he would keep.
‘You,’ Dandelion said suddenly, ‘never praise my ballads. I sit here and sing them to you. And you never tell me, “That was great, I want you to play it again”. Not once have you said that.’
‘I agree. I do not say that to you. You want to know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want to.’
‘Is it such a sacrifice?’ the bard did not give up. ‘Can it be so difficult? Say, “Play it again, Dandelion. Play ‘Time is a river’”.’
‘Play it again, Dandelion. Play “Time is a river”.’
‘You said it quite disingenuous.’
‘So what? You’re still going to play it.’
‘Just so you know.’
The candle flickers and our fire extinguishes
Suddenly we feel the touch of cool breeze
So time is a river
As the days of succession
/> Silently, invisibly touch us.
Since we are still together, something binds us
Linked with thee, even by accident
After all, time is a river
As the days of succession
Sliently, invisibly bear with us.
We were given a memory of the past for an hour
The roads I keep in my heart forever
Though time is a river
Thought the days alternate
They were quite, invisibly hide from us.
Therefore, my dear, we have once again
Sing in unison triumphantly
Though time is a river
Let the days alternate
Silently, invisibly move beyond us.
Geralt stood.
‘It time for the road, Dandelion.’
‘Yes? And where too?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘I guess you’re right. Let’s go.’
Epilogue
On the hill gleamed the remains of buildings, in ruins for a long time so that it was completely overgrown. Ivy entangled the walls, and young trees broke through the broken foundation. It was – although Nimue could not know this – an ancient shrine, the abode of the priests of a forgotten deity. For Nimue it was just ruins. A pile of stones. And a signpost. A sign that she was going in the right direction.
Because immediately after the hillock and the ruins the road forked. One path led to the west, across the moorland. The second, leading to the north, was hiding in a dense dark forest. To delve into that black thicket, was to drown in dim twilight.
And that was the way she must go. To the north. Into the famous Jay’s forest. She had heard the tales from those in Ivalo who tried to scare her. But Nimue was not scared, during her trip she had encountered similar things many times; Each area had its scary folklore, local fears and horrors, designed to intimidate visitors. Nimue had heard of mermaids in lakes, to watch at the intersections for ghouls and ghosts in cemeteries. Under eery second bridge there dwelled a troll, every second group of willows – a vampire. Nimue finally got used to the everyday fears and was no longer scared. But she did not know how to get rid of the strange restlessness, covering her in front of the dark forest, or on a narrow path between the mounds in the mists or the fog-shrouded path among the bogs.
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