Lady of the Lake

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘I,’ she said into the silence that reigned after her introduction, ‘cast the last vote. I will take into account one more thing. An element that without balancing anything, balances everything.’

  Following her gaze, everyone looked at the wall, to a mosaic of many multicolor tiles depicted the snake Uroboros, biting its own tail.

  ‘That thing,’ she continued, staring with her dark eyes at Ciri, ‘is destiny in which I, Philippa Eilhart have only begun to believe in recently, which I have only recently begun to understand. Destiny is not the way to providence or comfortable fatalism. Destiny is hope. I am full of hope that it will become what we want to happen, so I give my vote to Ciri - Child of Destiny, Child of Hope’

  In the pillared hall of Montecalvo the was silence for a long time. from outside of the window came the hunting cry from a sea eagle.

  ‘Lady Yennefer,’ Ciri whispered. ‘It means...’

  ‘Come, my daughter,’ Yennefer whispered back. ‘Geralt is waiting for is and it is a long road ahead.’

  Geralt awoke suddenly and sat up. He heard the echoing cry of a sea eagle.

  Then the witcher and the sorceress were married at a glorious wedding. They stayed for a long time and ate honey and drank wine.

  They lived happily ever after, but very briefly. He died of a heart attack. She died soon after, of what the story does not mention. They say that it was with regret and longing, but who would believe in such fairy tales.

  Flourens Delannoy

  Fairytales and Stories

  Chapter Twelve

  It was the sixth day after the new moon of June when they reach Rivia.

  The emerged from the woods and appeared on the side of a hill. At the foot of the hill, suddenly, without warning, flashed the mirror surface of the lake of Loc Eskalott, which the valley took its name from. In its waters were reflected the shapes of Mahakam massif, fir trees, and the larch-covered hills of Craag Ros. At the lake's peninsula was Castle Rivia, the winter residence of the kings of Lyria and at the southern tip of Loc Eskalott was situated the city.

  'So here we are,' Dandelion confirm the obvious fact. 'Destiny has brought us here again, the circle has closed. I don't see the blue and white banner on the castle towers, so Queen Meve must not be present. I don't think that she has forgiven your desertion...'

  'Believe me, Dandelion,' Geralt interrupted him, guiding his horse down the slope. 'I do not care if she has forgiven me or wont forgive me...'

  Next to the city, near the entrance gate, stood a colorful tent reminiscent of a cake. In front of the tent, on a pole, hung a white shield with a red chevron. Under the raised part of the tent stood a king in full armor and a white tabard the same as the shield. The knight, with a penetrating and challenging look, stared at the women passing by before him with sacks of coal, charcoal, deadwood and barrels of pitch. Upon seeing Geralt and Dandelion approach on horseback, his eyes lit up with hope.

  'The Lady of your heart,' Geralt thwarted the hopes of the knight with a chilling voice, 'whoever she is, is the most beautiful and virtuous of all women from the Yaruga to the Buina.'

  'On my honor,' the knight reluctantly answered. 'You speak the truth, sir.'

  A blond girl in a silver studded, leather jacket vomited in the middle of the street, bent in half, holding the stirrup of a grey mare. Two colleagues of the girl, in identical clothing, with swords on their backs and headbands holding back their hair, vulgarly insulted passerbys with their slurred speech. both were more than drunk, weaving on their feet and clutching to the sides of horses tied to a pole set in front of the inn.

  'Do we really need to go in there?' asked Dandelion. 'Inside there is bound to be more like them.'

  'The meeting is arranged here, remember? This is the Cock and Bull inn, which was written on the tablet.'

  The blond girl again leaned forward in her next spasm of vomiting. The mare snorted and shied, so the girl fell to the ground landing in her own vomit.

  'What are you staring at, asshole?' yelled one of the colleagues. 'White hair!'

  'Geralt,' whispered Dandelion. 'Please don't do anything stupid.'

  'Don't worry.'

  They tied their horses to the berth at the front of the inn. The young men were ignoring them, busy shouting at a townswoman passing down the road with a child. They did not like what they saw.

  The first thing that drew the eye when they entered the inn was the inscription - CHEF WANTED. The second was the large painting on the wall showing a bearded monster with an axe dripping blood. The sign underneath it read - Mahakam Dwarf - vile traitor.

  Dandelion lacked no reason to be scared. The only customers in the establishment, apart from some winos who drank with dignity and a couple of prostitutes, were people wearing leather garments and with swords hanging from their backs.

  There were eight of them in total, of both sexes, but they made enough fuss to be eighteen. They constantly shouted insults and blasphemes.

  'I recognize you, gentlemen. I know who you are,' said the innkeeper. 'I have a message for you. You have to go to the tavern called Wirsing's.'

  'That's good tavern,' Dandelion rejoiced.

  'Well then, go and take advantage of their establishment,' the innkeeper said, drying glasses with his apron. 'If you don't like my place, take your business elsewhere. But I tell you that the Elms quarter only dwarves and non-humans inhabit there.'

  'So what?' Geralt blinked.

  'Well, you probably know this,' the innkeeper shrugged, 'but the one who left the message for you was a dwarf. If it pleases you t be dealing with such people... that is your business. You, gentlemen, know whose company you prefer.'

  'We are very picky when it comes to company,' said Dandelion, nodding his head towards the table with the men and women in leather jackets and headbands holding back their hair. 'But it is not kind to point out something under someone's nose.'

  The innkeeper placed a freshly dried glass on the counter and looked at them scowling.

  'You have to be more understanding,' he said in an emphatic tone. 'The young people need to let off steam. It is well know that young people should let off steam. The war has mistreated them. Their fathers died...'

  'And their mothers are whoring,' finished Geralt, his voice as cold as an icy mountain stream. 'I understand. I embody tolerance. At least I try. Come on, Dandelion.'

  'Go ahead then, with all due respect,' said the innkeeper without any respect. 'Just don't complain that I didn't warn you. In these times it is easy to get fleeced in the dwarven quarter. Just...'

  'Just what?'

  'Just nothing. This is not my thing.'

  'Come on, Geralt,' said Dandelion to the witcher, he had started to notice the war orphans, those not completely drunk, eyes begin to glitter with the use of fisstech.

  'Goodbye, innkeeper. Who knows, maybe someday I'll visit your business. When you take down the sign in the entrance.'

  'And which one of the signs does not please you, gentlemen?' the innkeeper frowned and glared at them. 'Huh? The one with the dwarf?'

  'No, the one about the chef.'

  Three young people got up from the table, swaying on their feet, evidently with the intention of intercepting them. Two boys and a girl in black leather jackets. With swords on their backs.

  Geralt did not slow, he walked towards them, his face and eye were cold and completely indifferent.

  The young people at the very last moment, parted and retreated. Dandelion noticed the stench of beer. Sweat. And fear.

  'They have to get used to it,' the witcher said as they entered the street. 'They have to adapt.'

  'Sometimes it is difficult.'

  'This is not an argument, Dandelion.'

  The air was hot, stick and as thick as soup.

  Outside, in front of the inn, two young men in black jackets helped the blond girl wash in the horse trough. The girl, spat, snorted and stammered trying to explain that she felt better and that she needed a drink. That they would def
initely go the market stalls for entertainment, but not before a drink.

  Her name was Nadia Esposito. The name has been recorded in the annals. And went down in history.

  But Geralt and Dandelion did not know this yet. Nor did the girl.

  The streets of Rivia were alive with a great buzz and what appeared to be locals completely absorbed visiting traders. It seemed that everyone there traded everything, trying to change one thing for something else. From everywhere came the cacophony of sound of products being advertised, fierce haggling and from both sides the sounds of people being accused of fraud, theft, chicanery and other sins which had nothing to do with trade.

  Before coming to the Elms district, Geralt and Dandelion received many intrusting proposals. Offered to them was, among other things - a astrolabes, a tin trumpet and decorative cutlery adorned with the Frangipani family crest, shares in a copper mine, a jar of leeches. a tattered tome entitled The Miracle or Head of Medusa, a pair of breeding ferrets, an elixir to increase potency and even - for a negotiated price - a not too young, not too thin, and not very clean bride.

  A black-bearded dwarf with an unprecedented brazenness was trying to convince them to buy a cheap mirror in a frame, which he claim to be one of the magical Cambuscan mirrors. At that moment a stone was thrown which knocked the goods from his hand.

  'Mangy kobold!' cried the assailant, a dirty, barefoot urchin who was running away. 'Non-human! Bearded Goat!'

  'I hope your gut rots, human worm!' roared the dwarf in return. 'I hope it will rot and come out your ass!'

  People watched in grim silence.

  The district of the Elms was located on the shore of the lake in a cove where grew alders, weeping willows and of course, elms. Here everything was much quieter and calm, nobody was buying anything and nobody wanted to sell.

  From the lake a breeze was blowing which was especially nice for the two after escaping the suffocating stench and flies of the market streets.

  They soon found the Wirsing tavern. It was the first on the street and the saw it with ease.

  The porch was covered in climbing roses, and under the roof overgrown with moss, where a swallows nests hung, were two dwarves.

  'Geralt and Dandelion,' said one of the dwarves belching loudly. 'You, rogues have come as expected.'

  Geralt dismounted.

  'Hail, Yarpen Zigrin. Good to see you, Zoltan Chivay.'

  They were the only guests in the pub that smelled of garlic, spices and something indescribable, but pleasant. They sat at a heavy table overlooking the lake, which through the glass window next to the table, appeared mysterious, magical and romantic.

  'Where is Ciri?' Yarpen Zigrin asked bluntly. 'I hope nothing...'

  'No,' Geralt quickly interrupted him, 'she is on her way. You will see her soon. Well, bearded storyteller, tell me what is new.'

  'What did I tell you?' Yarpen said sarcastically. 'What did I tell you, Zoltan? He returns from the end of the world, where he, if you believe the rumors, waded through blood, killed dragons and overthrew an empire. And he asks, how we are going. The same witcher.'

  'What smells so good?' Dandelion said, sniffing.

  'Lunch,' Yarpen Zigrin said. 'Meat. Don't ask us, Dandelion, where we came by the meat.'

  'No I'm not asking, because I know the joke.'

  'Don't be a bore.'

  'Where did the meat come from?'

  'He came alone to find us.'

  'And now, seriously,' Yarpen said, wiping his eyes, though the joke was, in fact, very old. 'With regard to the food, we are in a critical situation, as always after a war. The meat is rarely seen, even poultry, fish is difficult to find as well... It is just as bad with flour, potatoes, and legumes... Farms were burned along with their stores, ponds were emptied, and the fields are fallow...'

  'Production has stagnated,' added Zoltan. 'There is no transport. The only thing that works is usury and barter. Have you seen the bazaar? The rich alongside the poor, selling and bartering the last remnants of his property and amassed fortunes...'

  'If we get a poor harvest before this winter then people will die of starvation.'

  'Is it really that bad?'

  'Coming from the south, you had to pass villages and settlements. Think of in how many you heard the barking of dogs.'

  'Bloody hell,' Dandelion slapped his forehead. 'I saw... I told you, Geralt, it was not normal! That something was missing! Ha! Now I realize! I did not hear any dogs! There was no...'

  He stopped suddenly, looked towards the kitchen where the smell of garlic and spices came from and terror came into his eyes.

  'Don't worry,' Yarpen grumbled. 'Our meat has never barked, meowed or cried for mercy. Our meat is nothing like that. It is fit for a king!'

  'Confess, dwarf!'

  'When we received your letter and it was clear that we would see you in Rivia, we were thinking, Zoltan and me, how we could entertain you. We were going round in circles until we felt like pissing. Then we approached the lake shore and saw that it was plagued by snails. Se we took a bag and filled it to the brim with those precious mollusks.'

  'We missed a few of them,' nodded Zoltan Chivay. 'But we were very drunk and they were very quick.'

  Both dwarves again burst out in laughter at the joke.

  'Wirsing,' Yarpen said pointing to the kitchen, 'can prepare snails well, as you must know that it requires a lot of science. The chef is well renown. Before becoming a widower, he and his woman owned an inn in Maribor, and he cooked so well that even the King himself was a guest there. And now let's drink, I say!'

  'But first,' Zoltan said, 'try some of the whitefish, freshly smoked and caught from the lake.'

  'And we are waiting for you story, gentlemen,' said Yarpen. 'We are curious to hear what you experienced.'

  The whitefish was still warm, oily and fragrant. The vodka was cold and her their teeth.

  Dandelion went first, with his flowery style, colorful language and embellishments on the story full of nonsense and lies. Then the witcher spoke. He told the pure truth, and spoke dry and monotonously. Dandelion could not stand it and interrupted again and again which earned him reprimands from the dwarves.

  And then the story was over and there was a long silence.

  'For the archer Milva!' Zoltan cleared his throat and raised his cup in a salute. 'For the Nilfgaardian. For Regis the herbalist, who entertained strangers in his hut, with moonshine made from mandrake. And for this Angouleme, with who I am not familiar. Let the earth rest light on them. Let them have there, in the afterlife, everything that they had scarce in this life. And let their names live on long in songs and stories. Let's drink.'

  'Let's drink,' echoed Dandelion and Yarpen.

  Let's drink, thought the witcher.

  Wirsing, a grey-haired man, pale and skin as a stick, a veritable denial of a stereotypical innkeeper and master of the culinary mysteries, deposited on the table a basket of white fragrant bread and a platter of snails, sizzling in garlic and spices on a bed of radish leaves.

  Dandelion, Geralt and the dwarves dug in quickly. The meal was exquisitely tasty and very funny at the same time, given the need for clumsy forceps and forks.

  They ate, smacking their lips, eating the bread and mincing words when referring to every second snail that slipped from the forceps. Two kittens also enjoyed the meal whenever a snail slipped from the clamps and rolled on the floor.

  The smell coming from the kitchen indicated that Wirsing was preparing another serving.

  Yarpen Zigrin reluctantly waved his hand, but realized the witcher was not going to give up.

  'For me there has been nothing new,' he said, spitting out a piece of snail shell. 'I was in the army... Then I was selected as a bailiff. I'll do a career in politics. There is too much competition in business. In politics any fool can hold the purse of a thief. It is easy to stand out.'

  'Well, I,' said Zoltan Chivay, gesturing with a snail, 'am not for politics. I'll go home to my forge, driven by wate
r and steam, accompanied by Figgis Merluzzo and Munro Bruys. You remember Figgis and Munro, witcher?'

  'Not just them.'

  'Yazon Varda was killed at the Yaruga,' Zoltan said dryly. 'Quite stupidly, in one of the last battles.'

  'A pity. And Percival Schuttenbach?'

  'The gnome? Ah, he's fine. That rogue escaped the recruitment claiming his religion forbids war. And he succeeded, even though everyone knows that the entire pantheon of gods and goddesses would go to war for a pickled herring. He has a jewellery shop in Novigrad. He bought my parrot, Field Marshal Duda, and made the bird a living advertisement. He taught him to say "Diamonds! Diamonds!' And it works, go figure. The gnome has clientele

  loaded with money. But it is Novigrad! And there is money in the streets. Therefore, we also want to establish a forge in Novigrad.'

  'Those people with scribble with shit on your door,' Yarpen said. 'Throw stones through your windows. They call you a damned dwarf. It doesn't matter that you are a veteran. In Novigrad you'll be nothing more than a pariah.'

  'I'll go anyway,' Zoltan said cheerfully. 'There is too much competition in Mahakam. And a lot of politicians. Let's drink for our friends. For Caleb Stratton. For Yazon Varda.'

  'For Regan Dahlberg,' Yarpen added, frowning. Geralt shook his head.

  'Regan also...'

  'Also. In Mayena. The old Dahlberg has been left alone in this world. Ah, hell, enough of this! Let's drink. and hurry up with those snail, because Wirsing is coming over with another pan.'

  The dwarves, with belts unbuckled, listened to Geralt's story of Dandelion's aristocratic romance, that ended on the gallows. The poet seemed offended and did not comment. Zoltan and Yarpen almost spilt apart with laughter.

  'Yes, yes,' Yarpen said finally, 'in the words of the old song - a man breaks down in tears and the woman smiles. pleased.' Some distinguish examples of that saying have joined with us around this table today. Look no further than Zoltan Chivay. With all the stories that have been told, he forgot to add that he is getting married. Soon, in September. The lucky woman is called Eudora Breckenriggs.'