She fell silent. The sorceress wiped her brow with a trembling hand.
‘I was wrong,’ she repeated. ‘But I'll fix my mistake. Emotions and feelings…’ she touched the black kestrel's head. The bird ruffled its feathers, opening its mute curved beak. ‘Emotions, whims and lies, fascinations and games. Feelings and the lack thereof… gifts that should not be accepted… lies and truth. What is right? To deny a lie? Or to state a fact? And if the fact is a lie, then what is truth? Who is so full of feelings that it tears them apart and who is a cold and empty shell of a skull? Who? What is right, Geralt? What is the truth?’
‘I don't know, Yen. You tell me.’
‘No,’ she said and lowered her eyes. It was the first time. He had never seen her do this before. Never.
‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I cannot, Geralt. I cannot tell you. It will be this bird, born from the touch of your hand, that will tell you. Bird, what is the truth?’
‘The truth,’ declared the kestrel, ‘is a shard of ice.’
VI
Although it seemed to him that he wandered the alleys aimlessly and with no destination in mind, he suddenly found himself near the south wall, at the excavation, amongst a network of trenches that wound chaotically and exposed parts of the ancient foundations, intersecting at the ruins of a stone wall.
Istredd was there. With rolled up shirt sleeves and tall boots, he shouted something to the servants who were using hoes to dig the wall of a trench striped with layers of different colours of earth, clay and charcoal. On some planks arranged to the side lay blackened bones, broken pieces of pots and other objects; unrecognisable, corroded and covered with rust.
The magician noticed him immediately. After he gave some muttered command to those digging, he jumped out of the trench and walked towards Geralt, wiping his hands on his trousers.
‘What do you want?’ he asked abruptly.
The witcher, standing motionless before him, did not reply. The men, pretending to work, watched them closely, whispering amongst themselves.
‘Hatred shines in your eyes,’ Istredd frowned. ‘What do you want, I ask you? Have you made a decision? Where is Yenna? I hope…’
‘Don't hold out too much hope, Istredd.’
‘Oh,’ said the magician. ‘What's this I hear in your voice? Do I understand you correctly?’
‘What is it that you understand?’
Istredd placed his hands on his hips and glared defiantly at the witcher.
‘Let's not deceive each other,’ he said. ‘You hate me and I hate you, too. You insulted me with what you said about Yennefer… you know what. I insulted you in a similar way. You offend me and I offend you. Let's settle this like men. I see no other solution. That's why you came here, right?’
‘Yes,’ Geralt said, rubbing his forehead. ‘You're right, Istredd. That's why I'm here. Without a doubt.’
‘Perfect. It cannot go on. Only today I learned that, for a few years, Yennefer has been back and forth between us like a rag ball. First she's with me, then she's with you. She'll run away from me to look for you and vice versa. The others that came in between don't count. Only the two of us matter. This can't go on. Out of the two of us, there must be only one.’
‘Yes,’ Geralt said, without removing his hand from his forehead. ‘Yes… you're right.’
‘In our arrogance,’ continued the magician, ‘we thought that Yenna wouldn't hesitate to choose the better of us. As for who was the better, neither of us had any doubt. We came to the point where, like a pair of urchins, we bragged about the regard she has shown us and, like inexperienced boys, we even divulged the nature of that regard and what it meant. I imagine that, like myself, you've been thinking about it and have realised just how wrong we were. Yenna doesn't want to choose between us, even if we were to accept that choice. Well, we'll have to decide for her. I'm not going to share Yenna with anyone, and the fact that you've come here says the same about you. We know this all too well. As long as there are two of us, neither of us can be sure of her feelings. There must be only one. You understand, right?’
‘True.’ the witcher said, barely moving his tense lips. ‘The truth is a shard of ice…’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What's wrong with you? Are you sick or drunk? Or maybe full of witcher's herbs?’
‘I'm fine. Something… I have something in my eye. Istredd, there must be only one. Yes, that's why I've come here. Without a doubt.’
‘I knew it,’ said the magician. ‘I knew that you'd come. Anyway, I'll be honest with you. You anticipated my intentions.’
‘A ball of lightning?’ the witcher smiled wanly.
Istredd frowned.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe a ball of lightning. But certainly not in the back. Honourably, face to face. You are a witcher, it evens things out. Well, let's decide where and when.’
Geralt thought about it. And made a decision.
‘The square…’ he indicated with his hand. ‘I passed through it…’
‘I know. There's a well there, called the Green Key.’
‘So, near to the well. Yes. At the well… tomorrow, two hours after sunrise.’
‘Okay. I'll be punctual.’
They stood motionless for a moment, not looking at each other. Finally, the magician muttered something under his breath. He kicked at a block of clay then crushed it with a blow from his heel.
‘Geralt?’
‘What?’
‘Don't you feel stupid?’
‘I feel stupid,’ the witcher admitted reluctantly.
‘I'm relieved,’ muttered Istredd, ‘because I feel like the ultimate idiot. I never imagined that one day I'd have a fight to the death with a witcher over a woman.’
‘I know how you feel Istredd.’
‘Well…’ the magician forced a smile. ‘The fact that this has occurred, that I have decided to do something so completely contrary to my nature, is testament to the fact that… it is necessary.’
‘I know, Istredd.’
‘Of course you also know, whichever of us survives will have to immediately flee to the ends of the earth to hide from Yenna?’
‘I know.’
‘And of course you are aware of the fact that, after her rage has cooled off, you will be able to return to her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, that's settled,’ the magician gestured as though he was about the turn away, but after a moment's hesitation he extended his hand. ‘Until tomorrow, Geralt.’
‘Until tomorrow,’ the witcher shook his proffered hand. ‘Until tomorrow, Istredd.’
VII
‘Hey, Witcher!’
Geralt lifted his head from surface of the table, upon which, while lost in his thoughts, he'd drawn fancy curlicues in the beer that had spilled.
‘It wasn't easy to find you.’ Alderman Herbolth sat down and pushed aside the jugs and tankards. ‘At the inn they said you had gone to the stables, but at the stables I found only your horse and packs. And now you're here… It's probably the foulest tavern in town. Only the worst rabble comes here. What are you doing here?’
‘Drinking.’
‘I see. I wanted to talk with you. Are you sober?’
‘As an infant.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘What do you want, Herbolth? I am, as you can see, busy.’ Geralt smiled at the girl who placed another jug on the table.
‘Rumour has it,’ frowned the alderman, ‘that you and the magician have decided to kill each other.’
‘That's our business. His and mine. Mind your own business.’
‘No, it's not just your business.’ Herbolth disagreed. ‘We need Istredd, we can't afford another magician.’
‘Then go to the temple and pray for his victory.’
‘Do not mock,’ barked the alderman. ‘And don't get clever with me, vagabond. By the gods, if I didn't know that the magician will never forgive me, I'd throw you in the hole, into the ve
ry bottom of the dungeons, or have you dragged out of the city walls by horses, or even order The Cicada to gut you like a pig. But unfortunately, Istredd is very enthusiastic about matters of honour and he'd never forgive me. I know that he wouldn't.’
‘That's fantastic.’ The witcher downed another pint and spat out under the table a blade of straw that had fallen into his tankard. ‘I'm getting off lightly. Is that all?’
‘No,’ said Herbolth, drawing from inside his coat a purse stuffed with silver. ‘Here's a hundred marks, witcher, take them and get out of Aedd Gynvael. Get out of here, preferably immediately, in any case before sunrise. I told you that we can't afford another magician and I will not allow him to risk his life in a duel with someone like you, for a reason as stupid as…’
He stopped short, even though the witcher hadn't moved.
‘Take your foul face away from this table, Herbolth.’ Geralt said. ‘And stick your one hundred marks up your arse. Go now, because your face is making me sick and if I have to look at it for much longer, I'm going to puke on you - from your hat to your boots.’
The alderman put away the purse and laid both hands on the table.
‘No, I won't,’ he said. ‘I wanted to do the right thing, but if it's not to be, it's not to be. Fight, flay, burn, hack each other to pieces for this whore who will spread her legs for anyone who wants her. I think that Istredd will be able to finish you off, you cutthroat for hire, and that only your boots will remain, but if not, I'll get you, even before his corpse cools, and break every bone in your body under torture. Not a single part of your body will be left intact, you…’
He didn't have enough time to remove his hands from the table; the witcher's movement was too fast as his hand flew out from under the table, blurred before the alderman's eyes; a dagger struck between his fingers with a dull thud.
‘Maybe.’ the witcher hissed, gripping the hilt of the dagger, staring into Herbolth's face, from which the blood had drained. ‘Maybe Istredd will kill me. But if not… I'm getting out of here and you, you little shit, don't try to stop me unless you want the filthy streets of this city to fill with blood. Get out of here.’
‘Mr. Alderman! What's going on here? Hey, you…’
‘Easy, Cicada,’ Herbolth said, slowly moving his hands across the table, as far away from the blade of the dagger as possible. ‘Nothing's going on. Nothing.’
The Cicada re-sheathed his half-drawn sword. Geralt didn't look at him. He didn't look at the alderman as he exited the tavern, under the protection of The Cicada who shielded him from staggering bargemen and coach drivers. He gazed at the little man with a rat-like race and black, piercing eyes sitting a few tables away.
I'm on edge, he thought, alarmed, My hands are shaking. My hands are actually shaking. This is impossible, what's happening to me… Does this mean that…
Yes, he thought, looking at the rat-faced man. I think so.
It's so cold…
He stood up.
He looked at the little man and smiled. Then he parted the flaps of his coat, and withdrew two gold coins from a pouch, tossing them onto the table. They clinked, one spinning and striking the blade of the dagger still stuck in the polished wood.
VIII
The blow fell unexpectedly, the club whistling softly through the dark, so fast that the witcher very nearly didn't have enough time to protect his head as he instinctively raised his arm to block the blow, deflecting it with a nimble twist of his body. He jumped back, dropped to one knee, rolled forwards and got to his feet. He felt a movement of air as the club fell again, evading the blow with a graceful pirouette, spinning between the two dark silhouettes that closed in on him in the darkness, reaching over his right shoulder for his sword.
He had no sword.
Nothing can take away my reflexes, he thought as he lightly leapt back, Routine? Cellular memory? I'm a mutant and I react like a mutant, he thought, again falling to one knee to dodge another blow, reaching towards his boot for his dagger. He had no dagger.
He gave a wry smile and was promptly struck on the head with the club. He saw stars as the pain shot right down to his fingertips. He fell to the ground, limp and still smiling.
Someone fell upon him, pressing him into the ground. Somebody else tore his pouch from his belt. His eye caught the flash of a blade and someone knelt on his chest, tearing the neck of his shirt and pulling out his medallion. They immediately let it fall from their fingers.
‘By Beelzebub,’ Geralt heard a gasp, ‘It's a witcher…’
The other cursed, wheezing.
‘He doesn't have a sword… By the gods… It's cursed… Stay away from it, Radgast! Don't touch it!’
The moon momentarily shone through the thinning cloud. Geralt glimpsed an emaciated face above him; male, rat-like, with shining black eyes. He heard footsteps disappearing down the alley that reeked of cats and burnt cooking oil.
The man with the rat face slowly withdrew his knee from Geralt's chest.
‘Next time…’ Geralt heard the clear whisper, ‘Next time, when you want to kill yourself, witcher, don't try to get others to do it for you. Just hang yourself by your reins in the stables.’
IX
It had rained during the night.
Geralt left the stables, rubbing his eyes and brushing the blades of straw from his hair. The rising sun shone on the wet roofs and glittered like gold in the puddles. The witcher had an unpleasant taste in his mouth and the bump on his head throbbed with a dull ache.
At the gate to the stables sat a black cat, fastidiously washing its paw.
‘Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,’ called the witcher.
The cat froze and glared at him angrily, folding back its ears and hissing, teeth bared.
‘I know,’ nodded Geralt, ‘I don't like you either. I'm just joking.’
He unhurriedly loosened the buckles and laces of his jacket, smoothing out the creases in his clothes and checking that nothing would hamper his freedom of movement. He sheathed his sword behind his back and straightened the hilt above his right shoulder, then he tied a leather bandana across his forehead, pushing his hair behind his ears. He pulled on long gauntlets, bristling with short silver studs.
Once again, he looked at the sun, pupils narrowed into vertical slits, and thought to himself, What a beautiful day. A beautiful day for a fight.
He sighed and spat, then walked slowly through the streets, lined with walls that emitted the sharp, piercing smell of wet plaster and lime.
‘Hey, freak!’
He looked around. The Cicada, accompanied by three suspicious-looking, armed individuals sat on a pile of logs arranged along the ditch. He got up, stretched, and went to stand in the middle of the street, carefully avoiding the puddles.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, placing his narrow hands on his weapons belt.
‘None of your business.’
‘Just to make things clear, I don't give a damn about the alderman, the magician or this whole shitty town,’ The Cicada said, slowly emphasising each word. ‘It's you I'm interested in, witcher. You're not going to reach the end of this street. Do you hear? I want to see how good you are in a fight. It's keeping me up at night. Halt, I say.’
‘Get out of my way.’
‘Stop!’ shouted The Cicada, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Didn't you understand what I said? We're going to fight! I challenged you! Soon we will see who's the best!’
Geralt shrugged his shoulders, not slowing his pace.
‘I challenge you to a fight! You hear me, weirdo?’ shouted The Cicada, again blocking his path. ‘What are you waiting for? Get out your iron! What's this, are you scared? Or maybe you're only bothered by those, like Istredd, who've screwed your sorceress?’
Geralt carried on walking, forcing The Cicada to awkwardly step backwards. The armed men accompanying The Cicada got up from the pile of logs and started to follow them, maintaining a certain distance. Geralt heard the mud squelching under their feet.
‘I challenge you!’ repeated The Cicada, reddening then going pallid in turn. ‘Do you hear, damned witcher? What more do you need? That I spit in your face?’
‘So spit.’
The Cicada stopped and took a deep breath, preparing to spit. He was staring into the witcher's eyes instead of paying attention to his hands. This was a mistake. Geralt, still not slowing down, swiftly punched him in the mouth with his studded fist. He struck without pausing, only using the momentum of his stride to follow through. The Cicada's lips cracked and burst like crushed cherries. The witcher hauled back and hit him again in the same place, this time stopping briefly, feeling his anger dissipate with the force and vigour the blow carried. The Cicada, spinning on one foot in the mud, the other in the air, vomited blood and fell backwards into a puddle. The witcher, hearing the chink of a blade being drawn behind him, stopped and turned fluidly, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘Come on, then,’ he said, his voice trembling with rage, ‘Try me.’
The one who drew his sword looked into Geralt's eyes. One second. And then he looked away. The rest began to withdraw; slowly at first, then with greater urgency. Gauging the situation, the man with the sword also fell back, his lips moving silently. The man furthest back turned and ran, splashing through the mud. The others froze in place, not attempting to advance.
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