The Time of Contempt

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  The witcher was silent. The sorceress coughed softly.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said at last. He raised himself on his elbow, leaned over and kissed her. She moved to rapidly embrace him. In silence.

  ‘Say something.’

  ‘I do not want to lose you, Yen’

  ‘After all I have.’

  ‘This night is over.’

  ‘Everything ends.’

  No, he thought. I do not want it to be so. I’m tired. Too tired to accept the prospect of principals, after which you have to start all over again. I wish…

  ‘Do not talk.’ With a quick movement Yennefer laid a finger on his lips. ‘Do not tell me what you want or what you crave. Because I might not be able to fulfil your wishes and that would cause me pain.’

  ‘And what do you want, Yen? What do you dream?

  ‘Only about things that can be achieved.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘I already have you.’

  He was silent for a long time. And waited for the moment she broke the silence.

  ‘Geralt?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Make love to me, please.’

  At first, they filled each other, both were full of fantasy and imagination, ideas, discoveries and new desires. As usual, it soon proved that it was both too much and too little. They understood at once and again proved their love.

  When Geralt came to, the moon was still in place. Cicadas chirped loudly as if they would also like to fight fear and unrest on the basis of madness and passion. From a nearby window on the left wing of Arethusa someone hungry for sleep screamed and fumed bitterly, demanding silence. From the window across someone, apparently gifted with an artistic soul, enthusiastically applauded and shouted congratulations.

  ‘Oh, Yen…’ Whispered the witcher in shame.

  ‘I had a reason…’ she kissed him and them nestled her cheek into the pillow. ‘I had a reason to scream, so I screamed. That should not be suppressed, it is unhealthy and unnatural. Hold me, if you can.’

  Teleporter of Lara, also known as, after the name of its discoverer Benavent’s Portal. Located on the island of Thanedd on the top floor of the Tower of Gulls. Standing, periodically active. Principles of operation: not known.

  Destination: unknown, probably distorted as a result of spontaneous decay, possibly many branches and forks.

  Note: The teleporter is chaotic and deadly. Experiments absolutely prohibited. Do not allow the use of magic in the Tower of Gulls and the immediate area in particular, teleportation magic. The Chapter reviews all exceptional applications for permission to enter Tor Lara in order to visit the teleporter. The request must be justified by research work and specialization in this field.

  Bibliography: Geoffrey Monck, “The Magic of the Elder Folk”, Immanuel Benavent, “Portal of Tor Lara”, Nina Fioravanti “The Theory and Practice of Teleportation”, Ransant Alvaro, “The Secret Gates.”

  Prohibit (index of forbidden artefacts), Ars Magica, Ed. LVIII

  CHAPTER FOUR

  At first there was only chaos pulsing, sparkling, a cascade of images, a vortex, a spiral full of sounds and voices. Ciri saw a tower reaching to the heavens, on whose roof lightning danced. She heard the cry of a bird of prey and she was this bird. She flew with great speed, below her was a raging sea. She saw a small doll made from rags, and suddenly she was the doll wrapped a darkness that vibrated with the song of cicadas. She saw a large black and white cat, and suddenly she was the cat, around her was a dark house, with dark wood panelling, it smelled of candles and old books. She heard someone repeatedly say her name, summoning her. She saw a silver salmon leaping in a waterfall, heard the patter of rain hitting the leaves. And then she heard the strange, prolonged scream of Yennefer. And this cry awoke her, snatching her from the depths of timelessness and disorder.

  Now, unsuccessfully trying to remember a dream, she heard the quiet sounds of a lute and flute, the jingle of a tambourine, singing and laughter. Dandelion and a group of vagrants who had accidently met were still having fun in the room down the hall.

  Through the window, fell a ray of moonlight, brightening the darkness and giving the room in Loxia the appearance of a dream. Ciri threw the sheets aside. She was sweaty, her hair stuck to her forehead. In the evening she had trouble getting to sleep, a shortness of breath, even with the window open. She knew what the reason was. Before leaving with Geralt, Yennefer had isolated the room with a spell of protection. Although it was supposed to prevent anyone from entering, Ciri actually suspected that it was to keep her from leaving. She was a prisoner. Yennefer, though pleased with the meeting with Geralt, had not forgotten or forgiven her wild Hirundum getaway, thanks to which this meeting took place.

  Meeting with Geralt alone had filled her with sadness and disappointment. The Witcher was taciturn, tense, anxious and clearly lying. Their conversations occurred at a fast pace and involved fragmented, broken and unfinished statements and questions. The Witcher’s eyes and thoughts fled and disappeared into the distance. Ciri knew where.

  The room down the hall became quieter and the sound of Dandelion singing and the lute strings where like a murmuring of a brook over stones. She recognised the melody, which the bard had been composing for several days. The ballad, Dandelion had boasted of several times, was entitled “Elusive” and would bring triumph to the poet at the annual tournament held for bards in the late autumn at the castle of Vartburg. Ciri listened attentively to the words.

  Above wet rooftops flying,

  Yellow water lilies swim,

  But I at the end understand you,

  If you would let me…

  The sound of hooves, horsemen galloped in the night and the horizon glows with fires. A bird of prey screeches, spreading its wings and leaping into flight. Ciri again plunged into sleep, hearing someone repeatedly call her name. Once it was Geralt, once Yennefer, once Triss Merigold and finally a few times, a girl she did not know, thin, blonde and sad, looked at her from a the corner bound in brass miniatures.

  The she saw the black and white cat, after a while she was the cat and watched with its eyes. All around her was a strange, dark house. She could see shelves full of large books, some candles illuminated the desktop, in front of it two men were bent over parchments. One of the men coughed and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. The second, a dwarf with an enormous head, sat in a chair with wheels. He was missing both legs.

  * * *

  ‘Incredible…’ Fenn sighed, running his eyes over the mouldy parchment. ‘It’s hard to believe… Where did you get these documents?’

  ‘You would not believe me if I told you.’ Codringher coughed. ‘Do you now understand who Cirilla, Princess of Cintra, really is? A girl of the Old Blood… The last offshoot from that damn tree of hatred! The last branch and on it a poisonous apple…’

  ‘The Old Blood… As far back as… Pavetta, Calanthe, Adalia, Elen, Fiona…’

  ‘And Falka.’

  ‘The gods, that’s impossible! First, Falka did not have any children! Secondly, Fiona was the legitimate daughter of…’

  ‘First, about Falka’s youth, we know nothing. Second, do not make me laugh, Fenn. You know very well that the sound of the word “legal” causes me spasms of mirth. I believe in this document, because in my opinion it is authentic and speaks the truth. Fiona, Pavetta’s great-grandmother was the daughter of Falka, this monster in human skin. Hell, I do not believe in those crazy divinations, prophecies and other crap, but when I remember Ithlinne’s predictions…’

  ‘Stained Blood?’

  ‘Stained, tainted, cursed, it can be understood differently. And according to legend, if you remember, it was Falka who was cursed, because Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal cast a curse on her mother.’

  ‘These are fairy tales, Codringher.’

  ‘You’re right, this is a fairy tale. But do you know when they are fairy tales no longer? The moment when someone starts to believe in them. And someone believed in the story of the Old
Blood. Especially in the passage which says that an avenger will be born of Falka’s blood that will destroy the old world, and on its ruins build a new one.’

  ‘And this avenger would be Cirilla?’

  ‘No. Not Cirilla. Her son.’

  ‘And searching for Cirilla is…’

  ‘Emhyr van Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard.’ Ended Codringher in a cold tone. ‘Do you understand now? Cirilla, regardless of her will, is to be mother to the heir to the throne. The Archduke will become the Archduke of Darkness, successor and avenger that devil Falka. The Holocaust, and the later reconstruction of the world is, I believe, to be run in a controlled and monitored manner.’

  The cripple was silent a long time.

  ‘Do you not think,’ he said at last ‘that we should tell Geralt about this?

  ‘Geralt?’ Codringher curled his lip. ‘And who is he? Could it be by change that he naively told me that he is not working for profit? Oh, I think he is not working on his own behalf. He is acting for others. Unwittingly anyway. He pursues Rience, who is on a leash, but he doesn’t feel the collar around his own neck. Why should I inform him? To help those who want to take possession of the goose who lays the golden eggs to blackmail or gain favour with Emhyr? No, Fenn. I’m not that stupid.’

  ‘The Witcher is on a leash? Whose?’

  ‘Think.’

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘A well-chosen word. The only person who has influence over him. In whom he trusts. But I do not trust her. And I never did. I am too going to get into this game.’

  ‘It’s a dangerous game, Codringher.’

  ‘There are no safe games. There are only games that are worthwhile and others that are do not deserve it. Fenn, brother, do you not understand what has fallen into our hands? A goose that to us and nobody else will give us a huge egg, every last one of them gold…’

  Codringher burst into a fit of coughing. When he removed the handkerchief from his lips it was speckled with blood.

  ‘Gold will not cure you,’ Fenn said, looking at his companion’s handkerchief. ‘And it will not give me back my legs…’

  ‘Who knows?’

  Someone knocked at the door. Fenn shifted uneasily in his wheelchair.

  ‘Are you expecting someone, Codringher?’

  ‘Yes. For people I’m sending to Thanedd. After the golden goose.’

  * * *

  ‘Do not open,’ cried Ciri. ‘Do not open the door! Behind it is death! Do not open the door!’

  * * *

  'I’m opening, I’m opening.’ Codringher shouted, as he lifted the latch, after which he turned to the cat, who was merely meowing. ‘Shut up, damned beast…’

  He stopped. At the door were not those he was expecting. At the door were three people he did not know.

  ‘Are you Mr Codringher?’

  ‘The lord is gone on business.’ The lawyer changed the tone of his voice to a slight squeak. ‘I am the butler of my master, I am called Glomb, Mikael Glomb. What can I do for the noble lords?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said one of the individuals, a tall half-elf. ‘Since your master is not here, we’ll leave a letter and a message. Here’s the letter.’

  ‘I will deliver it reliably.’ Codringher, well into his role as a bumbling servant, bowed humbly and reached out to pick up a bundle of scrolls connected by a red rope. ‘And the message?’

  The rope that held the scrolls unfolded like a snake to attack, lashing forward to tightly entwine his wrist. Tall gave a strong pull. Codringher lost his balance, flew forward, so as not to collapse on the half-elf, he leaned left placing his hand on the half-elf’s chest. In this position he was not able to avoid the, which puncture him in the stomach. He shouted and pulled back, but the magic rope was still wrapped around his wrist. The half-elf wandered back towards him and stabbed him once again. This time Codringher hung onto the blade.

  ‘Here is the message and greeting from Rience,’ the tall half-elf hissed, tearing the dagger strongly upwards opening the lawyer like a fish. ‘Go to hell, Codringher. Straight to hell.’

  Codringher wheezed. He could feel the blade grinding and crunching his ribs and sternum. He fell to the ground, rolling into a ball. He wanted to scream, to warn Fenn, but only managed to screech and squawk which a immediately stifled by a wave of blood.

  The tall half-elf stepped over the body, followed behind by the other two. They were human.

  Fenn was not surprised.

  Ringing like a chord, one of the minions fell back, struck by a steel ball in the middle of the forehead. Fenn moved away from the desktop, trying in vain to reload the arbalest with trembling hands.

  Tall jumped towards him, with a strong kick, he overturned the chair. The dwarf rolled onto the papers scattered on the floor. Crawling helplessly with small arms and the stumps of his legs, resembling a spider that had had its legs torn off. The half-elf kicked the arbalest out of reach of Fenn. He quickly reviewed the documents that lay on the desktop without paying attention to the crippled man trying to crawl on the ground. His attention was caught by a small framed brass horn and miniature of a blonde girl. He picked it up and took it.

  The second thug who had been examining the man hit by the ball from the arbalest approached. The half-elf raised his eyebrow questioningly. The thug shook his head.

  The half-elf placed the miniature and some of the documents he took from the desk and put them in his breast pocket. He then took a bunch of quills from and inkwell and lit it from the candlestick. Rotating them cause the bundle to be well lit, after which he let it fall onto the desk, among the stacks of scroll which instantly burst into flames.

  Fenn howled.

  The tall half-elf removed from the table that was already burning, a rum bottle used to remove ink, went to the dwarf and spilled its contents over him. Fenn gave a sharp cry. The second thug pulled from a shelf a sheaf of papers and threw them over the cripple. The desk stood roaring with fire all the way to the roof. Another bottle, smaller, exploded with a bang, the ashes sprinkled the shelves. Papers, bundles and folders began to blacked and twist and stoked the fire.

  Fenn screamed.

  The half-elf was beside him holding a burning scroll.

  Codringher’s black and white cat sat on a nearby wall. In his bright yellow eyes reflected the fire that turned a pleasant night into a terrible parody of day. The surrounding area was filled with screams. Fire! Fire! Water! People were running towards the house. The cat froze, staring in amazement and contempt. These idiots were going there, towards the fiery pit that he barely managed to escape.

  Turning around with indifference, the cat continued licking its paws stained with Codringher’s blood.

  * * *

  Ciri woke up covered in sweat, her hands painfully clutching the sheets. All around her was silence and the soft darkness was pierced by a dagger of moonlight.

  Fire. Fire. Blood. Nightmare… I do not remember anything, I do not remember…

  She inhaled deeply the crisp night air. The shortness of breath was gone. She knew why.

  The protection spells did not work.

  Something has happened, Ciri thought. She jumped out of bed and dressed quickly. She strapped a dagger. She had no sword; Yennefer had removed it and left it in the care of Dandelion. The poet was probably asleep already, Loxia was quiet. Ciri was wondering if she should go and wake him up when she suddenly felt in her ears heavy beats and the rhythm of blood.

  The bright beam of moonlight through the window became a road. At the end of the road, far away, there were doors. The doors opened and Yennefer appeared.

  Come here.

  Behind the sorceress opened another door. One after another, endlessly. In the gloom she could make out the black forms of columns. Or maybe they were statues… I’m dreaming, thought Ciri, I myself do not believe this. I’m dreaming. This is not a road, it is light, a streak of light. You cannot walk through the…

  Come here.

  She obeyed.

  * * *


  Were it not for the Witcher’s foolish scruples, if not for his impractical rules, many of the later events would have had a completely different course. Many events would probably never even taken place. And then the history of the world would be different.

  Bu the world’s history unfolded as it unfolded, and the sole reason for this was that the Witcher had scruples. When he awoke at dawn and felt the need, he did what anyone would have done. He walked onto the balcony and peed in the pot of nasturtiums. Scruples. He dressed quietly so as not to wake Yennefer, who was fast asleep, motionless and hardly without breath. He left the dwelling and went into the garden.

  The banquet was still going o, but judging by the sound, in a rudimentary form. The windows of the ballroom had a light still burning which filled the atrium and illuminated the clumps of peonies. The Witcher went a little further into the dense bushes and there stared at the shining sky, from the horizon appeared the first glowing purple streaks of dawn.

  When he returned slowly, reflecting on important issues, his medallion stared shaking vigorously. He grabbed it with his hand and felt the vibrations across his entire body. There was no doubt. Someone had cast a spell in Aretuza. Geralt pricked up his ears and heard muffled screams and a banging clatter coming from the gallery in the left wing of the palace.

  Any other would have turned around without hesitation and returned to their room pretending not to hear anything. And then, the history of the world would also have developed differently. But the Witcher had scruples and principles and was used to following foolish and unrealistic rules.

  When he came running through the gallery and into the hallway, there the struggled continued. Some soldiers dressed in gray jackets were restraining a sorcerer who was lying quietly on the floor. Directing the soldiers was Dijkstra, head of the secret services of Vizimir king of Redania. Before Geralt could take any action, he was also restrained. Two other soldiers in gray pushed him against the wall while a third person held an iron triton to his chest.