The Sword of Destiny

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  The witcher folded his hands across his chest to control their trembling.

  ‘To what end?’ he asked. ‘Do you expect an answer?’

  ‘No, I don't expect that.’ The queen smiled again. ‘As always, you remain infallible in your conclusions. Who knows whether I, maybe not expecting answers, might graciously deign to devote a little of my attention to your voluntary and sincere words? The words that, who knows, discarded willingly, takes along with them what burdens your soul. If not, it is difficult. Let's get to work, you must provide the material for the storytellers. Choose a child, witcher.’

  ‘Calanthe,’ he responded, fixing his eyes on the queen. ‘Why do the storytellers matter to us? If they don't get any material, then they will invent something. And even if they have access to some authentic source, you know perfectly well that they will distort it. As you yourself rightly remarked, this is not a fairy tale, but life, rotten and vile. So, through hell and plague, let us live life as decently as possible, and keep to a minimum the amount of harm we inflict on others. In the fable, the queen must beg the witcher and he responds by stamping his foot. In real life, the queen could simply say, 'Do not take this child, please.' The witcher would answer, 'Since you insist, my queen, so be it.' He would then leave in the direction of the setting sun. Such is life. The storyteller would not get a cent from his audience if he told such nonsense. At most, a kick in the rear. Because it's boring.’

  Calanthe stopped smiling. He saw something else shining in her eyes.

  ‘And so?’ she growled.

  ‘Don't beat about the bush, Calanthe. You know what I mean. I will leave just as I arrived. Choose a child? What do you take me for? You think that this is so important to me? That I came to Cintra, driven by an obsession to taking your grandchild from you? No, Calanthe. I simply wanted to see the child, to look into the eyes of destiny… Myself, I don't know… Don't be afraid. I will not take him, you just have to ask…’

  Calanthe jumped up violently from the swing. A green fire burned in her eyes.

  ‘Ask?’ she growled, furious. ‘Of you? Me, afraid? Afraid of you, cursed sorcerer? You dare to fling contemptuous pity in my face? You dare to insult me with your sympathy? To accuse me of cowardice, and to question my will? My kindness to you has unleashed your insolence! Beware!’

  The witcher decided not to shrug, it was safer to kneel and prostrate himself. He was not mistaken.

  ‘Well,’ Calanthe hissed, standing over him. Her arms were lowered, fists clenched, adorned with many rings. ‘Finally. This is a more appropriate position. It is in this position that one answers to a queen when she requires a response. And if instead of a question, it's an order that I give you, you will bow down even lower and hasten without delay to obey it. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, my queen.’

  ‘Perfect. Get up.’

  He stood up. She looked at him, biting her lips.

  ‘My outburst of anger has not offended you? I speak of its form, not of its content.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I will try not to burst again. As I told you, ten children are playing in the ditch. Choose the one you deem most suitable. Take him with you and by the gods make him a witcher, because that is the will of destiny. And if not of destiny, know that it is my will.’

  He looked her in the eye and bowed very low.

  ‘My queen,’ he said, ‘six years ago, I showed you that there exist things more powerful than the royal will. By the gods, if such things really exist, I will prove it once more. Don't force me to make a choice I don't want to make. I apologize for the form, not for the content.’

  ‘I have deep dungeons under my castle. Be warned: one more moment, one more word, and you will rot in them.’

  ‘None of the children playing in the ditch is suited to become a witcher,’ he said slowly. ‘Pavetta's son is not among them.’

  Calanthe blinked, but did not waver.

  ‘Come,’ she said finally, turning on her heel.

  He followed her through the flowering bushes, the clumps and hedges. The queen entered a sunlit gazebo. Four rattan chairs surrounded a malachite table. On the engraved tabletop supported by four griffons, there sat a pitcher and two silver cups.

  ‘Have a seat and pour.’

  She drank, without pretension, heavily, like a man. He did the same, but remained standing.

  ‘Sit down,’ she repeated. ‘I want to talk.’

  ‘I'm listening.’

  ‘How did you know that Pavetta's wasn't found among those children?’

  ‘I didn't know.’ Geralt opted for honesty. ‘I said it at random.’

  ‘Aha. I could have guessed. And none of them is suited to become a witcher? Is that the truth? How can you tell? By using magic?’

  ‘Calanthe,’ he answered in a soft voice, ‘I could neither confirm nor deny it. What you said earlier was the simple truth: any child will work. The trials decide. Later.’

  ‘By the gods of the sea, in the words of my late husband,’ she declared, laughing, ‘it's all false! This is the Law of Surprise? The legend about the children whom one doesn't expect, and for those who first came to greet. As I suspected! It's a game! A game of chance and fate! But it is a diabolically dangerous game, Geralt.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘A game that causes harm. Why, tell me, do you force the parents or guardians to make such difficult promises? Why take their children? There are so many, everywhere, there is no need to take them. The roads swarm with orphans and vagabonds. In any village, it is easy to buy an infant on the cheap. During the drought before the harvest, any serf will sell his children willingly. What does he care? A new one is already on the way. Why demand an oath of Duny, of Pavetta and of myself? Why appear six years after the child's birth? And why the hell don't you want it now? Why tell me that you won't take it?’

  Geralt remained silent. Calanthe nodded her head.

  ‘You don't answer,’ she concluded, letting herself fall against the back of her chair. ‘Let us consider the cause of your silence. Logic being the mother of all knowledge, what does she suggest in this matter? What do we have at our disposal? Witchers on a quest for destiny hidden in a strange and dubious Law of Surprise. The witcher discovers that destiny and then abruptly renounces it, saying that he no longer wants the Child Surprise. His face remains utterly impassive and his voice resonates with the coolness of ice and metal. The witcher thinks that the queen - she being a woman after all - can be deceived and misled by the appearances of hard masculinity. No, Geralt, I won't spare you. I know why you renounce your chance to choose a child. You renounce it because you do not believe in destiny, because you are not certain. And when you're not sure… you start to become afraid. Yes, Geralt, fear is what drives you. You're afraid. Dare to say otherwise.’

  He slowly pushed the cup on the table so that the clink of silver on malachite would not betray the uncontrollable trembling of his arm.

  ‘You don't deny it?’

  ‘No.’

  She leaned quickly and seize his hand with a strong grip.

  ‘In my eyes I have won,’ she said. And smiled. It was a pretty smile.

  He replied, couldn't help but smiled,‘How did you guess, Calanthe?’

  ‘I did not guess.’ She did not release his hand. ‘I said it at random, that's all.’

  They broke out in laughter.

  They settled into silence among the greenery and the smell of the clusters of cherries, among the heat and the buzzing of bees.

  ‘Geralt?’

  ‘Yes, Calanthe?’

  ‘You don't believe in destiny?’

  ‘I don't know if I believe in anything. As for destiny… I think that it is not enough. You need something more.’

  ‘I have to ask you about something. What about you? After all you were supposedly a Child Surprise yourself. Mousesack said…’

  ‘No, Calanthe. Mousesack had something else in mind. Mousesack probably knows the truth… but he uses this myth when
it is more convenient for him. I was never what someone finds at home yet does not expect. It is untrue to say that was how I became a witcher. I was an ordinary orphan, Calanthe. An unwanted bastard of a woman whom I can't remember. But I know who she is.’

  The queen looked at him intently, but Geralt did not continue.

  ‘Are all the stories about the Law of Surprise a myth?’

  ‘All of them. Those events are hardly destined.’

  ‘Yet you witchers don't stop looking?’

  ‘We don't stop. But it makes no sense. Nothing makes sense.’

  ‘Do you believe that a Child of Destiny will safely pass the Trial?’

  ‘We believe that such a child wouldn't need to pass the Trial.’

  ‘One more question, Geralt, a personal one. Do you mind?’

  He nodded his acquiescence.

  ‘As you undoubtedly know, there is no better way to pass on hereditary traits than the natural method. You have passed the Trial and survived. If you seek a child with such qualities and resilience, why not look for a woman who… I am being insensitive, no? But it seems that I've guessed it.’

  ‘As always,’ he responded with a sad smile, ‘you are infallible in your judgment, Calanthe. You have guessed correctly. What you have suggested is impossible for me.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ Her smile disappeared. ‘Well, it's a human defect.’

  ‘It isn't just any ordinary human defect.’

  ‘Oh, so no witcher…’

  ‘None. The Trial of the Grasses, Calanthe, is horrible. What it does to the young boys during the changes is even more so. And irreversible.’

  ‘Don't get sentimental,’ she grumbled. ‘Because it doesn't you. Putting aside what you've been subjected to, I can see the result. I find it to my liking. If I knew that Pavetta's child would become someone like you, I wouldn't have hesitated for a moment.’

  ‘The risk is too great,’ he said quickly. ‘It's just as you said: at most four out of ten survive.’

  ‘Hell! Is the Trial of the Grasses the only thing that is risky? Only the future witchers take risks? Life is full of hazards, Geralt. Life, too, selects. Selects from accidents, diseases, wars. Opposing destiny is perhaps as dangerous as leaving everything in its hands. Geralt… I would voluntarily give you this child, but… I am also afraid.’

  ‘I will not take this child. I couldn't bear the responsibility. I will not agree to this burden. I don't want this child to speak of you the way… the way I…’

  ‘Do you hate that woman, Geralt?’

  ‘My mother? No, Calanthe. I presume that was her choice… or perhaps she had no choice? No, after all, she had to know a suitable spell or potion… Choice. The choice which much be respected, because it is a sacred and inalienable right of a woman. Emotions are of no importance here. She had the indisputable right to make such a choice. That's what she did. But I think of meeting her, the expression on her face then… it would give me a sort of perverse pleasure, if you understand what I mean.’

  ‘I understand what you say perfectly,’ she replied, smiling. ‘But the chances of this happening are slim. I can't judge your age, witcher, but I suspect that you're much older than your appearance would indicate. Thus this woman…’

  ‘This woman,’ he interrupted, ‘probably looks much younger than I do now.’

  ‘A sorceress?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Interesting. I thought that sorceresses could not…’

  ‘She probably thought so too.’

  ‘No doubt. But you're right… Let's not speak any more about the right of a woman to decide. This is not the subject at hand. Let us return to our problem. You will not take a child? Is this your final decision?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What if… destiny is not just a myth? If it truly exists, do you not fear that it will take revenge?’

  ‘If destiny takes vengeance, it will be on me,’ he replied calmly. ‘It is I who acted against it. You have fulfilled your part. If destiny does exist, I would have chosen the right child among those you have shown me. After all, is the child of Pavetta among them?’

  ‘Yes.’ Calanthe inclined her head slowly. ‘Would you like to look into the eyes of destiny?’

  ‘No. I don't want to. I hereby withdraw and renounce my claim on this child. I don't want to look into the eyes of destiny , because I don't believe in it. Because I know that sharing the same destiny alone is not enough to unite two individuals. It takes something more than fate. I have no respect for such destiny, and I will not follow it like a blind man guided by a hand, naïve and uncomprehending. This is my final decision, Calanthe of Cintra.’

  The queen rose, smiling. The witcher could not perceive the meaning of that smile.

  ‘So be it, Geralt of Rivia. Perhaps it is your destiny to give up your claim? I thought so. If you had chosen the right child, the destiny that you mock might have cruelly mocked you in return.’

  He looked at her harsh green eyes. She continued to smile in an indecipherable way.

  A rose bush grew next to the gazebo. Geralt plucked a flower, breaking its stem and then knelt, his head bowed, presenting her the flower with both his hands.

  ‘I regret that I did not meet you sooner, white-haired one,’ she said, accepting the offered rose. ‘Rise.’

  He rose.

  ‘If you change your mind,’ she went on, bringing the rose to her face, ‘If you decide… Return to Cintra. I'll wait. And your destiny will also be waiting. Perhaps not forever, but certainly for some time.’

  ‘Farewell, Calanthe.’

  ‘Farewell, witcher. Look after yourself. I… I have a feeling… a strange feeling… that this is the last time I'll see you.’

  ‘Farewell, my queen.’

  V

  Geralt awoke and discovered with astonishment that the stinging pain in his thigh had disappeared. It seemed that the swelling had also ceased to trouble him. He wanted to reach out his hands to touch them, but he was unable to move. Before he could understand that the weight of the fur blankets was prevent him from moving, a chilling anxiety seized his stomach like a hawk's talons. He stretched and relaxed his fingers rhythmically, and repeated in his mind, no, no, I'm not…

  Paralyzed.

  ‘You're awake.’

  It was a statement, not a question, made in a voice that was clear and sweet. Female. Young, probably. He turned his head, groaned, and tried to get up.

  ‘Don't move. At least not so roughly. Does it hurt?’

  ‘Nnn…’ The sticky lips tore. ‘Nnnooo. The wound does not. It's my back.’

  ‘A bedsore,’ the impassive, cold statement does not fit the soft alto. ‘Leave it to me. Come, drink this. Slowly, in slow sips.’

  The beverage was heavy with the smell and taste of juniper. An old trick, he thought. Juniper or mint, both additives serve no purpose but to mask the true composition of a concoction. He recognized sewant mushrooms and perhaps some reachcluster. Yes, definitely reachcluster. Reachcluster neutralizes the toxin and purify the blood poisoned by gangrene or infection.

  ‘Drink. All of it. Slower, or you'll choke.’

  The medallion he wore around his neck began to vibrate slightly. So there was magic in the potion. He dilated his pupils with some effort. Lifting his head, he could now take a closer look at her. She had a petite stature, and she wore men's clothing. Her face was small and pale in the darkness.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘In the tar-makers' clearing.’

  True, one could smell resin in the air. Geralt heard voices coming from the side of the hearth. Someone threw on some dead wood. The flame rose, sizzling. He took advantage of the light to look at her again. Her hair was held back by a snakeskin band. Her hair…

  He felt a suffocating pain in his throat and his chest, and forcefully clenched his fists.

  Her hair was fiery red, and resembled vermillion when illuminated by the red glow of the fire.

  ‘Are you in pain?’ She read his emotions
incorrectly. ‘Now… Wait…’

  He felt a sudden flow of heat emanating from her fingertips, pooling on his back and streaming down to his buttocks.

  ‘You're turning around,’ she said. ‘Don't try that. You're very weak. Hey, can someone help me?’

  Steps from the campfire, shadows, silhouettes. Someone leaned forward. It was Yurga.

  ‘How are you feeling, sir? Better?’

  ‘Help me turn him over,’ the woman said. ‘Carefully, slowly… Ah yes… Good. Thank you.’

  Lying on his stomach, he could no longer look into her eyes. He calmed and controlled the trembling of his hands. She could feel it. Geralt heard the rattling of the clasps on her bag, and the clink of porcelain flasks and jars. He heard her breathing and felt the warmth of her thighs. She knelt next to him.

  ‘My injury,’ he asked, unable to bear the silence, ‘was it difficult to treat?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. A little.’ There was a coldness in her voice. ‘It's often the case with bites. The worst kind of injury. But you are probably used to them, witcher.’

  She knows. She is probing my thoughts. Can she read them? Probably not. And I know why… She's afraid.