The Sword of Destiny

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘What meaning do a hundred years have for Brokilone? And a hundred winters?’

  Geralt was silent.

  The dryad gave him an indifferent glance, then caressed Ciri's ashen hair.

  ‘Accept Venzlav's proposal, Eithné.’

  The dryad gave him an indifferent glance.

  ‘What will that give us, we the children of Brokilone?’

  ‘The possibility of survival. No, Eithné, don't interrupt me. I know what you mean. I understand your pride in an independent Brokilone. But the world changes. An era is coming to an end. Whether you like it or not, the humans' mastery of the world is a fact. Only those who assimilate into their society survive. The others disappear. Eithné, there exist forests where dryads, water sprites and elves live peacefully in accord with the humans. We are so close to each other. Humans can become the fathers of your children. What does this war you are waging give you? The potential fathers of your children fall one by one to your arrows. What is the cost? How many dryads by blood are there in Brokilone? How many girls are abducted and educated? You even need a Freixenet. You have no choice. I only see her: a little human girl terrorized and stultified by drugs, paralyzed with fear…’

  ‘I'm not afraid at all!’ Ciri cried then, taking up for an instant her devilish expression. ‘And I'm not stultified! That's not true! Nothing can happen to me here. That's the truth! I'm not afraid! Grandmother said that dryads aren't evil, and my grandmother is the most intelligent woman in the world! My grandmother… my grandmother said that there must be forests like this…’

  She stopped and bowed her head. Eithné burst into laughter:

  ‘Child of Old Blood,’ she said. ‘Yes, Geralt, the Children of Old Blood of which you speak continue to be born throughout the world. And you, you tell me about the end of an era… You ask me if we will survive…’

  ‘The brat was to be married to Kistrin of Verden,’ cut in Geralt. ‘It's a shame that union must now be impossible. Kistrin will one day succeed Ervyll: under the influence of a wife with such opinions, the expeditions against Brokilone would quickly end.’

  ‘I don't want Kistrin!’ the little girl protested softly. A light appeared in her green eyes. ‘What Kistrin is looking for is a pretty and stupid material. I am not a material that is available! I will not become a royal princess!’

  ‘Silence, Child of Old Blood.’ the dryad pressed Ciri to her breast. ‘Do not cry. You will never become a royal princess, of course…’

  ‘Of course,’ interrupted the witcher. ‘And you and I, Eithné, know very well what Ciri will become. I see that this fate is already decided. Too bad. What response shall I report to King Venzlav, Sovereign of Brokilone?’

  ‘None.’ ‘What do you mean, none?’

  ‘None. He will understand. Once, long ago, before Venzlav was in the world, heralds were sent to the border of Brokilone. Horns and trumpets sounded; armor shone; standards and pennants flapped in the wind. They proclaimed, ‘Give back Brokilone! King Capradonte, sovereign of the Bald Mountain and the Flooded Prairie, requires that you abdicate Brokilone!’ The response of Brokilone was always the same. When you leave my forest, Gwynbleidd, turn around and listen. In the whisper of leaves, you will hear the response of Brokilone. Send it to Venzlav and add that as sure as the oaks of Duén Canell, he will never hear any other. To the last tree, to the last dryad.’

  Geralt remained silent.

  ‘You say that an era is ending,’ Eithné continued slowly. ‘You're wrong. There are things that will never end. You speak of survival? Well, I fight for my survival. Brokilone remains thanks to my fighting: the trees live longer than humans, but they must be protected from axes. You speak to me of kings and princes. Who are they? They are what I know as the skeletons of bleached bones that lie in the depths of the forest, in the necropolis of Craag An, in the marble tombs, on the heaps of yellow metal and shining stones. Meanwhile, Brokilone remains; the trees sing over the ruins of palaces; their roots crack the marble. Your Venzlav recalls those kings? Yourself, do you remember, Gwynbleidd? If not, how can you say that an era ends? What can you know of extermination or of eternity? What right do you have to speak of destiny? Do you have the least sense of destiny?’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I don't. But…’

  ‘If you do not know,’ she interrupted, ‘no 'but' can apply. You do not know. It's as simple as that.’

  Eithné lapsed into silence and turned her head, touching her forehead.

  ‘When you came here for the first time, all those years ago, you did not already know. And Morenn… my daughter… Geralt, Morenn is dead. She perished on the border of Ruban in defense of Brokilone. I could not recognize her, what she was reduced to. Her face had been trampled by the hooves of your horses. Destiny? Today, witcher, you who were unable to give descendants to Morenn, you bring me a Child of Old Blood. A little girl who knows what destiny is. No, it is not likely that you will be able to accept and agree with such sensitive knowledge. Repeat for me, Ciri, repeat what you told me before White Wolf, the witcher Geralt of Rivia, entered the room. Again, Child of Old Blood.’ ‘Your majes… Noble lady,’ began Ciri in a broken voice. ‘Don't force me to stay here. I can't… I want… to go. I want to go with Geralt. I must… with him…’

  ‘Why with him?’

  ‘Because it is my destiny.’

  Eithné turned. Her face was extremely pale.

  ‘What do you think, Geralt?’

  The witcher did not answer. Eithné snapped her fingers. Braenn burst into the interior of the oak like a phantom appearing from the night. She held in both her hands a silver chalice. The medallion Geralt wore around his neck began to shake rapidly.

  ‘What do you think?’ repeated the silver-haired dryad, rising. ‘She will not stay in Brokilone! She does not want to be a dryad! She will not replace Morenn for me! She wants to go, go, follow her destiny! Is that so, Child of Old Blood? Is that really what you want?’

  Ciri affirmed this with a nod of her head. Her shoulders shook. The witcher had had enough.

  ‘Why do you badger this child, Eithné, since you have already decided to give her the Water of Brokilone? Her will then ceases to have any importance. Why would you behave like this? Why give me this spectacle?’

  ‘I want to show you what destiny is. I want to prove that nothing ends. That everything is always just beginning.’

  ‘No, Eithné,’ he said, rising. ‘Sorry to spoil this performance, but I have no intention of continuing to be the privileged spectator. You have crossed the line, Sovereign of Brokilone, presenting in this manner the gulf that separates us. You, the elder races, you love to repeat that hatred is a stranger to you, that the sentiment remains a human specialty. That is not true. You also know hate, you know what hatred is. You only dress it up differently: with more wisdom, less violence. And so perhaps with more cruelty. I accept your hatred, Eithné, in the name of all human beings. I deserve it, even though I am sorry for Morenn.’

  The dryad did not respond.

  ‘Here then is the response from Brokilone that I am supposed to bring to Venzlav of Brugge, isn't it? Warning and defiance? Living proof of the hatred and power that slumber among these trees: a child will receive from the hands of another human child, whose mind and memory were also destroyed, a poison to erase her past. And this response must be conveyed to Venzlav by a witcher who, moreover, knows and has grown fond of these children? A witcher, responsible for the death of your daughter? Well, Eithné, so be it, in accordance with your will. Venzlav will hear your answer. My voice and my eyes are messengers for the king to decipher. But I do not have to watch the spectacle being prepared. I refuse.’

  Eithné was still silent.

  ‘Goodbye, Ciri.’ Geralt knelt and pulled the little girl to him; Ciri's shoulders never stopped shaking. ‘Don't cry. You know that nothing bad can happen to you.’

  Ciri sniffled. The witcher rose.

  ‘Goodbye, Braenn,’ he said to the young dryad. ‘Go in peace and
take care of yourself. May your life be as long as that of the trees of Brokilone. And one more thing…’

  ‘Yes, Gwynbleidd?’

  Braenn had lifted her head: her eyes were moist.

  ‘It is easy to kill with a bow, girl. It is easy to let go of the string and think: This isn't me, it's the arrow. My hands do not bear the blood of this boy, it's the arrow that killed him, not me. But the arrow does not dream at night. I wish for you not to dream either, little blue-eyed dryad. Farewell, Braenn.’

  ‘Mona!’ Braenn murmured indistinctly.

  The cup that she held in her hands began to tremble. Its clear liquid covered them in rivulets.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mona!’ she cried. ‘My name is Mona! Madame Eithné, I…’

  ‘Enough,’ Eithné interrupted harshly. ‘That is enough, control yourself, Braenn.’

  Geralt laughed.

  ‘Here is your destiny, Dame of the Forest. I respect your resistance and your struggle, but I know that soon you will be alone: the last dryad in Brokilone will send young girls to their deaths remembering their real names. I wish you good luck even so, Eithné. Goodbye.’

  ‘Geralt,’ murmured Ciri, still standing motionless, her back bent. ‘Don't leave me alone…’

  ‘White Wolf,’ said Eithné, taking Ciri's bent back in her arms, ‘what must she ask of you? Have you decided to abandon her despite this? Are you afraid not to stay with her to the end? Why do you leave her at such a time, leave her alone? Where do you flee, Gwynbleidd? What do you flee?’

  Ciri bowed her head even more, but did not start to cry.

  ‘Until the end,’ agreed the witcher. ‘Well, Ciri. You will not be alone. I will stay with you. Don't be afraid of anything.’

  Eithne took the chalice from Braenn's trembling hands and lifted it.

  ‘Can you decipher the ancient runes, White Wolf?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Read what is engraved. This is the chalice of Craag An. All the kings now forgotten have wet their lips from it.’

  ‘Duettaeán aef cirrán Cáerme Gleddyv. Yn esseth.’

  ‘Do you know what that means?’

  ‘The sword of destiny has two edges… You are one of them.’

  ‘Arise, Child of Old Blood.’ The dryad's voice intimated an unconditional order, an implacable will: ‘Drink. It is the Water of Brokilone.’

  Geralt bit his lip, searching the silver eyes of Eithné. His gaze avoided Ciri, who placed her mouth at the rim of the chalice. He had seen it already, before, an identical scene: the convulsions, the hiccups, a terrible cry, unheard, which was extinguished at last little by little. Then the void, the torpor and apathy in the eyes that opened slowly. He had seen it all.

  Ciri drank the liquid. On Braenn's motionless face, a tear formed.

  ‘That's enough.’

  Eithné took the cup from her and placed it on the ground. With both hands, she stroked the ashen hair that fell upon the shoulders of the little girl.

  ‘Child of Old Blood,’ she continued, ‘choose. Do you prefer to stay in Brokilone or follow the path of destiny?’

  The witcher's head turned incredulously. Ciri breathed more rapidly. Her cheeks took on color. But nothing more. Nothing.

  ‘I want to follow the path of destiny,’ said the little girl, looking the dryad straight in the eye.

  ‘Let it be so, then,’ replied Eithné, her voice cold and dry.

  Braenn sighed heavily.

  ‘I want to be alone,’ concluded Eithné, turning her back on them. ‘I ask you to leave.’

  Braenn took Ciri and touched Geralt's shoulder, but he rejected the young dryad's hand.

  ‘Thank you, Eithné,’ he said.

  The dryad turned slowly.

  ‘Why are you thanking me?’

  ‘For the providence,’ he joked. ‘For your decision. Because it wasn't the Water of Brokilone, was it? Destiny wanted Ciri to return home and it's you, Eithné, who played the role of providence. I thank you.’

  ‘You know almost nothing of providence,’ she replied bitterly. ‘You know very little, witcher. Very little really. You don't understand the larger picture. You thank me? You thank me for the role I played? For the bargain? For the artifice, deceit, deception? You thank me because the sword of destiny is, you think, made of wood plated with gold? So pursue your logic to its conclusion: do not thank me, but expose me. Expose your arguments, prove to me your reasons, show me your true face. Show me how the human truth triumphs, the common sense by the grace of which, you believe, you control the world. Here is the Water of Brokilone, there remains a little. Will you allow yourself to try it, conqueror of the world?’

  Geralt, troubled by her words, hesitated only a moment. The Water of Brokilone, even if authentic, would have no effect on him. The witcher was in effect completely resistant to toxic tannins and hallucinogenic liquids. Had it been possible that it was the Water of Brokilone? Ciri had drunk it and nothing had happened. He took the chalice in both hands and fixed his eyes with the dryad's.

  The ground gave way under his feet without warning, as if the world had fallen on his back. The mighty oak spun and shook. Feeling around with difficulty using his numbed hands, he managed to open his eyes, but it was as difficult as moving the marble slab of a tomb. Eithné's eyes, shining like mercury. And other eyes, emerald green. No, not as clear. Like spring grass. The medallion suspended around his neck rang and vibrated.

  ‘Gwynbleidd,’ he heard, ‘look carefully. No, closing your eyes will help with nothing. Look, look at your destiny.

  ‘Do you remember?’

  He saw a sudden explosion of light piercing a curtain of smoke; large and massive candelabra dripping with wax; stone walls; steep stairs; a little girl with green eyes and ashen hair coming down the steps, wearing a tiara encrusted with artistically carved gems and dressed in a blue dress with a silver train that was supported by a page above, dressed in scarlet.

  ‘Do you remember?’

  His own voice that said… that said: ‘I will return in six years…’

  An arbor, the heat, the smell of flowers, the heavy and monotonous hum of bees. Himself, kneeling, offering a rose to a woman whose ashen curls were scattered beneath a narrow golden band. On the fingers on the hand that took the rose, rings of emeralds and large green cabochons.

  ‘Return,’ said the woman. ‘Return if you change your mind. Your destiny will be waiting for you.’

  I never went back, he thought. I never went back to… Where?

  Ashen hair. Green eyes.

  Again, his own voice in the darkness, into the uncertainty where everything disappears. There are only fires, fires on the horizon. A whirlwind of sparks and purple smoke. Belleteyn! Night of May. Through the clouds of smoke, violet eyes, dark, burning in a pale and triangular face veiled beneath a tangle of black curls, watching.

  Yennefer!

  ‘It is too little.’

  The thin lips appear to twist. A tear runs down her pale cheek. Very quickly, faster and faster, like a drop of paraffin along a candle.

  ‘It's too little. There must be something more.’

  ‘Yennefer!’

  ‘Nothingness against nothingness,’ announced the apparition, speaking with the voice of Eithné. ‘The nothingness and emptiness that exist in you, conqueror of the world, you who are not even capable of seducing the woman you love and who leaves and flees with destiny in the palm of his hand. The sword of destiny has two edges. You are one of them. But what is the other, White Wolf?’

  ‘There is no destiny.’ His own voice. ‘There is none. It does not exist. Only death is predestined for us.’

  ‘That's right,’ responds the woman with ashen hair and a mysterious smile. ‘That's right, Geralt.’

  The woman is wearing silver armor, bloody, twisted, punctured by the blows of halberds. A trickle of blood runs from the corner of her lips that smile horribly and without reason.

  ‘You make a mockery of destiny,’ she said. ‘You mock
her, you toy with her. The sword of destiny has two edges. You are one of them. The other… is it death? But it is we who die. We die because of you. Death cannot catch you. It is content with us. It follows you step by step, White Wolf, and it is others who are dying. Because of you. Do you remember me?’

  ‘Ca… Calanthe!’

  ‘You can save him.’ It's the voice of Eithné that pierces the spoke screen: ‘You can save him, Child of Old Blood. Before he disappears into the nothingness that he loves in the black forest that knows no borders.’

  Eyes, green as spring grass. A touch. Voices crying out in an incomprehensible chorus. Faces.

  He sees nothing more and then falls into the abyss, the void, darkness. The voice of Eithné is what he hears last:

  ‘Let it be so.’

  VII

  ‘Geralt, wake up! Wake up, please!’

  The witcher opened his eyes and saw the sun: a golden ducat outlined distinctly in the sky, perched above the crown of trees, beyond the curtain of morning mist. He was lying on wet, spongy moss. A root dug into his back.

  Ciri knelt beside him, tugging on the edge of his jacket.

  ‘Plague…’ he bellowed. He looked around. ‘Where am I? Where do I find myself?’

  ‘I don't know either,’ she replied. ‘I woke up a moment ago, here, next to you, horribly frozen. I don't remember… You know, eh? It's magic!’