‘I thought the most important were rank and madness.’
‘Qualities of the mind should go hand in hand with qualities of the body. This gives perfection.’
‘Nobody is perfect.’
‘This is not an argument. You have to try them. You know what. I will have that hazel grouse.’
He cut the bird on her plate so fast and suddenly that the witch trembled.
‘Do not leave here so fast,’ she said again. ‘First, because you do not have too. And you are not in danger…’
‘Of course not,’ he burst out. ‘Nilfgaard will be frightened of a protest note from the Duchess. And if they did risk coming here, they’d be expelled by knights with sashes binding their eyes and vows made to herons.’
‘Nothing threatens you here,’ she said, ignoring his sarcasm. ‘Toussaint is considered the land of fairy tales, silly, clueless and thanks to it sustained economic focus in a state of constant drinking and recklessness. As such, it is not taken seriously by anyone, but is permitted to enjoy certain privileges. In the end we are the most prominent producer of wine and as we know, life without wine would be very unstable. In Toussaint there are no spies, agents or secret service. Toussaint doesn’t need an army, just wandering knights wearing blindfolds because Toussaint is never attacked. By the look of you, I guess I have not convinced you.’
‘Not at all.’
‘A pity,’ Fringilla squinted. ‘I hate half-measures or half-promises. Neither of these things should be done by half. So I’ll tell you – Fulko Artevelde, the prefect of Riedbrune, thinks you are dead, some fugitives told him that the druids burned you alive. Fulko is doing his best to cover up the matter. If the case came to light, it could trigger an investigation that could cost Fulko his career at best. And when he sees you alive it will be too late – what he said in the reports will be binding.’
‘You know a lot.’
‘I do not deny it. So the argument about the persecution from the Nilfgaardians disappears. And now nothing forces your rapid departure.’
‘Interesting.’
‘But true. From Toussaint you can leave by four passes that lead to four different parts of the world. The Druids did not tell you anything and refused to cooperate. The mountain elf has disappeared…’
‘You really do know a lot.’
‘You already said that.’
‘And you want to help.’
‘And you refuse my help. You do not believe in the sincerity of my intentions. You don’t trust me.’
‘Listen, I…’
‘Do not explain yourself. Eat some more artichokes.’
Again someone made a vow to the heron. Cahir spoke to the baronesses giving them compliments. Angouleme, tipsy, could be heard throughout the whole room. The pockmarked and flushed baron, mesmerized by discussions about archery and hunting, even started flirting with Milva.
‘Please, my lady, try the wild boar ham. So to speak… They are from my manor forest, where a whole herd of them reside.’
‘Oh.’
‘There are among them some outstanding boars to hunt… Maybe sometime… you could come and we can, so to speak, go hunting together…’
‘But we will not be staying here long,’ Milva looked pleadingly at Geralt. ‘More important tasks than hunting lie ahead.’
But when she saw how disappointed the Baron looked, she hastily added, ‘Under other circumstances, I would be happy to go hunting boars.’
The Baron immediately cheered up.
‘If not for hunting,’ he said elated, ‘at least for a visit. I would honestly like to invite you all to my manor. I can show you, so to speak, my collection of hunting trophies, bows and sword…’
Milva looked down at the tablecloth. The Baron grabbed a tray of fowl and served her then filled her cup.
‘Excuse me, graceful maiden,’ he said. “I’m not, so to speak, an entertaining companion. I do not control courtly manners and smooth words are foreign to me…’
‘I,’ Milva shyly confessed, ‘I was raised in the woods. I can appreciate peace and silence.’
Fringilla found Geralt’s hand under the table and held it tightly. Geralt looked into her eyes. He could not guess what was hidden in them.
‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘I believe in the sincerity of your purpose.’
‘You do not lie?’
‘I vow by the heron.’
The City guard must have had the chance to celebrate Yule because he walked unsteadily, banging his halberd into signs and through a slurred proclamation announced that it was the tenth of the clock, when in fact it was well after midnight.
‘You’ll have to go to Beauclair alone,’ Reynart de Bois-Fresnes said soon after they left the tavern. ‘I shall stay in the city. Good night, Geralt.’
The Witcher knew that his friend had a love affair with a certain lady. Whose husband is often on the road for business. He never talked about it because men do not talk of such things.
‘Good night, Reynart. Take care of the skoffin. Don’t let it spoil.’
‘It’s freezing.’
It was freezing. The streets were empty and dark. The moon shone on the roofs, shining like diamonds on the ice that hung from the eaves. Roach’s horseshoes rang against the pavement.
Roach, thought the witcher as he headed towards the palace of Beauclair, a graceful grey mare, a gift from Anna Henrietta. And Dandelion.
He urged his horse forwards. Hurrying up.
The next day after the banquet they all met for breakfast, they became accustomed to going straight to the castle kitchen. For some reason, they were always welcome and always found something for them in the pots, pans or grills, usually bread, bacon, cheese or maybe pickled mushrooms. They never missed a jar or two of red or white from the famous local vineyards.
They went there every morning for the two weeks they spent in Beauclair – Geralt, Regis, Cahir, Milva and Angouleme. Only Dandelion had breakfast elsewhere.
‘He,’ Angouleme slathered some bread with butter, ‘has his bacon brought to him in bed! With everyone bowing to him!’
Geralt was willing to believe that the girl was right. And this morning decided to check it out.
He found Dandelion in the Knights Hall. The poet wore a crimson beret as big as a loaf of bread and was wearing a doublet of the same color richly embroidered with gold thread. He
was sitting on a stool with his lute on his knees and his head was nodding carelessly in answer to the flattery of the courtiers and ladies who circled around him.
Anna Henrietta was thankfully not in sight, so Geralt unhesitatingly violated etiquette and headed straight for him friend. Dandelion saw him coming, swelled and with an imperious gesture said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please leave us in private. Also the servants are allow to leave.’
He clapped his hands and before the echo of his clap returned from the vaulted ceiling of the hall, only the two of them stood there – and the smell of perfume, which hovered in the air after the ladies left.
‘Pretty fun.’ Geralt said without exaggeration, ‘this is the chase, huh? It must be a nice feeling to give orders or clap or a monarchical frown. See how they retreat, like crabs, bending before you in reverence. Pretty fun, right? Sir Favorite?’
Dandelion scowled.
‘Are you here for something specific,’ he said gruffly, ‘or just this crap?’
‘About something very specific.’
‘Speak, I’m listening.’
‘I need three riding horses. For me, Cahir and Angouleme. And two wagons, loaded with rations and feed. Can you ask for them from your Duchess? You have served long enough, I hope?’
‘No problem,’ Dandelion tuned his lute not looking at the witcher. ‘But I’m surprised by your haste. I would say it surprises me as much as your silly sarcasm.’
‘My urgency surprises you?’
‘Just so you know. October is over and the weather deteriorates noticeably. Snow will be falling in the passes any day now.�
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‘And you wonder at my hurry,’ the witcher nodded. ‘But that reminds me, get more warm clothing. Fur.’
‘I thought,’ Dandelion said slowly, ‘that we would wait out the winter here. That we would be here…’
‘I you like,’ Geralt said without thinking, ‘you can stay.’
‘Yes,’ Dandelion put his lute aside and stood up. ‘I think I will stay.’
The witcher gasped audibly. He was silent. He looked at the tapestry, which depicted an imaginary fight between a titan and a dragon. The titan was standing on two left feet, trying to break the dragon’s jaw, and the dragon did not look too thrilled.
‘I’m staying,’ Dandelion repeated. ‘I love Anarietta. And she loves me.’
Geralt remained silent.
‘I will arrange the horses,’ Dandelion promised. ‘For you, I’ll prepare a thoroughbred mare named Roach, of course. For the journey you will also get food, equipment and warm clothing. But honestly, I advise you to wait until spring. Anarietta…’
‘Do I hear you correctly?’ the Witcher finally regained his voice. ‘Are my ears deceiving me?’
‘Your reason has certainly failed,’ snapped the troubadour, ‘How are you other senses, I don’t know. But to be safe I will repeat – Anarietta and I love you. Abide in Toussaint. With her.’
‘Like what? A lover? A favorite? Or maybe the Prince Consort?’
‘Formal and legal status doesn’t mean anything to me,’ Dandelion admitted frankly. ‘But you can’t rule out anything. Marriage or not.’
Geralt was silent again, contemplating the titan’s battle against the dragon.
‘Dandelion,’ he said finally. ‘If you’ve been drinking, sober up quickly. If you haven’t been drinking, then let’s have a drink. Then we’ll talk.’
‘I don’t quite understand,’ Dandelion said frowning. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Think a minute.’
‘Are you embarrassed about my relationship with Anarietta? Are you asking me to reconsider it? Don’t worry, I’ve thought about it. Anarietta loves me…’
‘Have you ever heard a saying,’ said Geralt, ‘that princesses leap after love like hares? Even if Anarietta is not so frivolous, forgive my candor, it seems to me, that…’
‘What?’
‘That it is only in fairy tales that Duchesses marry musicians.’
‘First of all,’ snapped Dandelion, ‘Even such an ignoramus like you should have heard of morganatic marriages. Do I have to get out some examples from ancient and recent history? Secondly, it may surprise you, but I am not of an insignificances. My family, de Lettenhove, are derived from…’
‘I’m listening to you,’ Geralt cut him off again, ‘and I don’t believe my own ears. Is this really my friend Dandelion, who is speaking such crap? If it is indeed my friend, Dandelion, has he lost all shred of reason? Is it really Dandelion, whom I had known to be a realist, who is now living in a sphere of illusion? Open your eyes, you idiot!’
‘Oh,’ the troubadour said slowly, clenching his lips. ‘The roles are reversed. I am blind, but you have become a sober and factual observer. It used to be the opposite. And what is this curious thing that I cannot see? Huh? What have I, according to you, closed my eyes too?’
‘Most of all,’ said the witcher, ‘that your chosen duchess is arrogant and ridiculous and spoiled. She is a big child for whom you are nothing but a toy, which she will discard without reproach as soon as a new musician appears with a fascinating new repertoire.’
‘What you say is low and vulgar. I hope you realize?’
‘I realize that you have gone completely mad, Dandelion.’
The poet was silent, stroking the neck of his lute. It took some time before he spoke again.
‘We came out of Brokilon on a joy expedition. Without the slightest chance of success, we followed a mirage, a dream, a desire, an unattainable ideal. We set off in pursuit like crazy fools. But I, Geralt, I did not say a word of complaint. I did not call you crazy or ridicule you. Because you were filled with hope and love. They guided you on this insane mission. And me too. But I have caught up with a mirage, and I was lucky enough that the dream came true. My mission has ended. I have found what is hard to find. And I cannot give it up. Is that supposed to be madness? I’d be a fool if I left.’
Geralt was silent as long as Dandelion had been before.
‘Poetry,’ he said. ‘In that you have no equal. I do not have anything to say, you have convinced me with your arguments. Farewell, Dandelion.’
‘Farewell, Geralt.’
The library of the palace was indeed huge. The room which housed it was at least twice the size of the Knights Hall, where he had left Dandelion. The library had a glass ceiling, through which sunlight poured. Geralt imagined, however, that in summer it would heat up like hell.
The passages between the shelves were so narrow that they had to walk very carefully to avoid knocking over stacks of books.
‘Here I am,’ he heard a call.
The center of the library disappeared among piles of books. Many lay completely disordered, one by one or in clusters.
‘Here, Geralt.’
He found here between the bookish canyons and gorges. She was kneeling among scattered books, fanning them and sorting. She wore a modest grey dress pulled up slightly for comfort. Geralt saw that the view was very attractive.
‘Do not be scared of this mess,’ she said wiping her forehead with her forearm, because her hands were covered in thin silk gloves, dirty from dust. ‘They are performing inventory and cataloguing. But they have stopped at my request. I wanted to be alone in the library. I cannot work when a stranger is gazing at the back of my neck.’
‘I’m sorry. Do you want me to leave?’
‘You’re not a stranger,’ she narrowed her green eyes. ‘Your gaze does not bother me… On the contrary, it makes me happy. Don’t just stand there. Sit down her on the books.’
He sat down on a hardcover encyclopedia.
‘This is a mess,’ Fringilla made a sweeping gesture around her, ‘is going to make my job easier. I can get to the volumes that would normally lie at the bottom of a pile and would be impossible to move. The court librarians moved mountains of papers and parchments, so some of the real jewels of literature can see the light of day, some true rarities. Look. Have you ever see this?’
‘Speculum Aureum? I’ve seen it.’
‘I forgot, sorry. You’ve seen a lot. That was a compliment, not sarcasm. But look at this one, Gesta Regum. From this we begin to understand who your Ciri really is and what blood flows in her veins… You know, you look even more sour than usual. What is the reason?’
‘Dandelion.’
‘Will you tell me about it?’
He spoke. Fringilla listened, sitting with her legs crossed on the pile of books.
‘Hmmm,’ she said when he had finished. ‘I admit that I expected something similar. I have noticed Anarietta showing unmistakable signs of falling in love.’
‘Falling in love?’ he raised his eyebrows. ‘Or a noble whim?’
‘Do you not believe,’ she looked at him sharply, ‘of a pure and sincere love?’
‘My belief or disbelief,’ he said, ‘has nothing to do with it. It is Dandelion and his obsessive…’
He suddenly lost confidence and did not finish.
‘With love,’ Fringilla said, ‘it is like nervous cramps. You cannot even be effect until they attack, and you cannot even imagine something like that. And when you describe it, nobody would believe it.’
‘Some part does,’ agreed the witcher. ‘But there are also differences. Against nervous cramps common sense won’t protect you. And there is no cure.’
‘Love mocks sense. That is part of its charm and beauty.’
‘Stupidity rather.’
She got up and approached him while taking off her gloves. Her eyes gave the feeling of being deep and dark behind the curtain of her lashes. She smelled of amber, roses,
the dust from the library, aging paper and printing ink. Those smells had nothing to do with aphrodisiacs – and yet for him they worked.
‘You do not believe,’ her voice changed, ‘in love at first sight? Fatal attraction? The collision of celestial bodies?’
She reached out and put her hands on his shoulders. He grabbed her around the waist. Her face approached reluctantly, wary, as if afraid to frighten some very timid creature.
And then the celestial bodies collided and the earth moved.
They fell in a pile of parchment that scattered everywhere under their weight. Geralt stuck his nose into Fringilla’s neckline. He hugged her and grabbed her knee. He rolled up her skirt to her waist knocking over several books, including Lives of the Prophets, full of mysterious illustrations, as well as De Haemorrhoidibus, an interesting, though controversial medical
treatise. The witcher pushed aside volumes and pulled at the dress impatiently. Fringilla eagerly raised her hips.
Something pushed against her shoulder. She turned her head. Learning the Art of Midwifery. Quickly, so as not to tempt the devil, she looked in the other direction. The Sulfurous Hot Springs. In fact it was getting warmer. From the corner of her eye she saw an open book which rested by her head. Reflections on Inevitable Death. Even better, she thought.
The witcher struggled with her panties. She raised her hips, but this time only slightly, so that it look like a random movement and not defiant help. She did not know him and did not know to respond. Whether he prefers that a woman knows what she wants, or does he like a woman who pretends she doesn’t know. And if he would be discouraged by panties that offered resistance.
The witcher, however, seemed to show no signs of discouragement. You could say the contrary. Seeing that it was time, Fringilla eagerly spread her legs, bringing down books and pamphlets stacked in piles, which poured over them like an avalanche. A heavy, leather bound copy of Mortgage Law painfully struck her in the ribs and the Codex Diphmaticus, adorned with brass fittings, fell on Geralt’s wrist. Geralt assessed and took advantage of the situation – placing the large tome where it was necessary. Fringilla squeaked because the fittings were cold. But only for a moment.
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