In Ebbing stories began to circulate about the three demons.
* * *
The trio of riders appeared suddenly, out of nowhere, as if by magic, catching by surprise The Lame, who had no opportunity to escape. Neither did he have time to turn for help. More than five hundred paces separated the cripple from the first row of house of the village. Even if it were closer, the cripple would receive no help from the residents of Jealousy. It was siesta time, which in this sleepy hamlet usually lasted from late morning to early evening.
Aristotle Bobeck, nicknamed the Lame, a local beggar and philosopher knew that during siesta time the villagers would not respond anything.
The riders were three. Two women and a man. The man had white hair and a sword lying across his back. One of the women was dressed in black and white and had inky black, curly hair. The youngest, had ashen hair and a disfiguring scar on her cheek. She rode a beautiful black mare. The Lame had a sense of seeing the horse before.
The youngest girl spoke first.
‘Are you from here?’
‘I did nothing,’ said the Lame, his teeth chattering. ‘I collect morels here. Have pity, do not hurt a cripple.’
‘Are you from here?’ she repeated, her green eyes flashing with warning.
The Lame started to cringe.
‘Yes, my lady,’ he said. ‘I come from here, from Brika. I mean, Jealousy. I was born here and here I will surely die …’
‘Were you here last summer and fall?’
‘Where else would I be?’
‘Do not answer me with questions!’
‘I was here, my lady.’
The black mare shook its head and pricked up its ears. The cripple felt the glares from the white haired and the black haired woman sting like thorns. He feared the white haired man the most.
‘Last year,’ the girl with the scar told the cripple, ‘in September, more specifically September ninth, during the first quarter of the moon, six young people were murdered here. Four boys … And two girls. Do you remember this?’
The Lame swallowed. He suspected for some time, now he was sure.
The girl had changed. It was not just the scar on her face. She was not the same now as she was back then when she was tied to the pole and Bonhart forced her to watch as he cut the heads off of the Rats. Not the same as when she was forced to undress in the Chimera’s Head Inn and the Bounty Hunter beat her. Those eyes … Those eyes had changed.
‘Speak!’ snapped the woman with the black hair. ‘Tell us what we ask!’
‘I remember, my lady,’ said the Lame. ‘I remember the six kids being killed. Last year it was. In September.’
The girl was silent for a while. Not looking at him but at some point in the distance, above his shoulder.
‘So, you most likely know …’ she said at last, with effort, ‘where the young ones where buried. At the bottom of which stockade … under which dumpster or what dunghill … Or if the bodies were burned … If they were taken to the forest and left for the foxes and wolves … Take me there. Do you understand?’
‘I understand, my lady. Follow me, it is a short walk.’
He limped forward and felt the hot breath of the horses on the nape of his neck. He never looked up. Something told him that he should not.
‘Here we are,’ he pointed after a while. ‘This is our village cemetery. And here are the ones that you asked about, Lady Falka.’
She took a deep breath. The Lame look at her to see the expression on her face. Black-hair and white-hair were silent, their faces like stone. She stared at the long low mound of the common grave, neat, tidy and topped with sandstone slabs. The spruce that had adorned the mound was discoloured and the flowers that someone had placed here long ago were now dry and yellowish.
The girl jumped down from her horse.
‘Who?’ the girl asked quietly, still staring at the mound.
‘Well,’ the Lame cleared his throat, ‘a lot of the locals from Jealousy contributed. But mostly it was the widow Goulue and young Nycklar. The widow has always been a good and kind woman. And Nycklar … he was haunted by terrible dreams. Until he gave the dead a proper burial.’
‘Where can I find the widow and Nycklar?’
The Lame was silent for a long moment.
‘The widow is here buried behind that twisted birch,’ he said finally, looking fearlessly into the green eyes of the girl. ‘She was taken by pneumonia this winter. And Nycklar was drafted into the army. We heard that he supposedly died in the war.’
‘I had forgotten,’ she whispered. ‘Forgotten that their fate had been linked to mine.’
She approached the mound and knelt, or rather fell to the ground. She bent low, almost touching her face to the sandstone slabs. The Lame noticed that the white haired man made a motion as if to dismount, but the dark-haired lady caught him by the arm and held him with a gesture and a gaze.
The horses snorted, tossing their heads and rattling their bridles.
For a long time the girl knelt over the graves, he lips moving in a silent litany. She rose, faltered. The Lame inadvertently caught her elbow. She started strongly, and yanked her arm away. She looked at him angrily through her tears. But did not say a word. She even nodded with thanks when he held her stirrup.
‘Well, my lady Falka,’ he dared. ‘The strange wheel of destiny is turning. You were at that time in a dreadful position. Few of us here in Jealousy thought that you’d escape with your life. And here you are today, alive and well, while Goulue and Nycklar are in the other world. Who can you express your gratitude to for the grave …’
‘My name is not Falka,’ she said sharply. ‘My name is Ciri. And in regards to my gratitude …’
‘You can feel honoured because of her,’ the dark-haired one spoke chillingly, making the Lame shiver. ‘For her grace, for humanity has come to you all, to your entire village, and that is your reward. And you do not know how big that is.’
* * *
On the ninth of April, shortly after midnight, the first inhabitants of Claremont awakened to a bright red glow flickering through the widows of their homes. The rest of the inhabitants of the town rushed out of bed to screaming, a commotion and the ringing of an alarm bell.
Only one of the buildings were on fire. A large wooden building of the former temple, once dedicated to a deity, whose name was not even remembered by the oldest of old women. The temple, had now converted into a amphitheatre, which occasionally held circus spectacles, fighting and other diversions used to pull the Claremont villagers out of boredom, melancholy and lethargy.
The amphitheatre was now in flames and shaking with explosions. From all the windows shot tongues of flames.
‘Put it out! Roared the owner of the amphitheatre, a merchant named Houvenaghel, running about and waving his hands, his powerful paunch shaking. He was in a nightcap and a heavy fur-lined coat which he had thrown on over his dressing gown. He ran barefoot through the mud in the streets.
‘Put it out! Men! Get water!’
‘This is the punishment of the gods,’ said one old lady. ‘For the grievances that took place in their former abode.’
‘Aye, aunt. It certainly is.’
From the burning building radiated heat which evaporated puddles of stinking horse urine, with hissing sparks. Suddenly a wind sprang up.
‘Put it out! Houvenaghel screamed wildly, seeing the fire spread to the brewery and granary. ‘Men! Get buckets for the water!’
There was no shortage of volunteers. Claremont even had its own fire department, equipped and maintained by Houvenaghel. They did everything in their power to put out the fire. But it was useless.
‘We cannot handle it,’ the fire brigade commander groaned, rubbing his soot smeared face. ‘This is no ordinary fire … It is a fire from hell.’
‘Black magic …’ coughed another fireman.
From the burning building they head an ominous creaking and the sound of rafters and beams cracking. There was a thunder
ous rumble and sparks and flames shot high into the sky. The roof broke and fell into the arena. The whole building bent as if bowing to an audience. Then the walls collapsed.
With effort the fire-fighters and volunteers managed to save part of the granary and about a quarter of the brewery.
Dawn came smelly and pungent.
Houvenaghel sat in the mud and ashes, his nightcap and gown sooty and dirty. He cried bitterly, pouting like a child. Naturally he had insured the theatre, the brewery and the granary. The problem was that the insurance company was owned by Houvenaghel. Nothing, not even tax fraud, could compensate for his losses.
* * *
‘Now where?’ Geralt asked, looking at the column of smoke that clouded the rosy morning sky. ‘Where else do you want to visit, Ciri?’
She looked at him and he soon regretted asking. Suddenly he wanted to hug her, he dreamed of holding her in his arms, cuddling her and caressing her hair. To protect her. And never allow her to be alone. To not suffer any more evil. And that nothing would happen to her that would make him crave revenge.
Yennefer was silent. Yennefer was often silent lately.
‘Now,’ Ciri said quietly, ‘we go to a village call Unicorn. The name comes from the straw unicorn that protects the town. A poor and ridiculous puppet. I would like that, as a reminder of what happened there, the inhabitants have … if not valuable, at least a more dignified idol. I would like to ask for your help, Yennefer, because without magic …’
‘Sure, Ciri. What next?’
‘The Pereplut Swamps. I am confident that I will be able to … find a cabin in the middle of the swamp. I will find the remains of a man. I want those remains to rest in a decent tomb.’
Geralt said nothing. But didn’t look away.
‘After,’ continued Ciri, without the slightest difficulty withstanding his look, ‘the village of Dun Dare. The local tavern has probably been burned and it is possible that the innkeeper has been murdered. It is my fault; I was blinded by hatred and revenge. If he had a family, I’ll try and make it up to the survivors.’
‘You cannot make it up,’ Geralt said, still looking at her.
‘I know,’ she said sharply, almost angrily. ‘But I will stand in front of them with humility. I will remember the look in their eyes. I hope that the memory of those eyes will protect me from similar mistakes. Do you understand, Geralt?’
‘I understand, Ciri,’ Yennefer said. ‘Both of us, we understand you very well, my dear. Let’s go.’
* * *
The horses ran as if carried by the wind of a magic storm. Alarmed by the trio of riders, a pilgrim on the road lifted his head. A merchant with a wagonload of goods, a felon fleeing the law, a settler who had been thrown out of his land. A bum looked up, a deserter and a wander with a staff. They raised their heads, astonished and frightened. Not believing their eyes.
In Geso in Ebbing, stories began to circulate. About the Wild Hunt. About three ghostly riders. Rumours were invented and spun in the evenings, in smoky pubs that smelled of fried onions and butter and in meeting rooms and huts. Rumours were invented, told and exaggerated. A great war of heroism and chivalry, of honour and friendship as well as meaningless treachery. With sincere and faithful love, which always wins out in the end, about crime and punishment of criminals that are always struck by justice.
The truth, as always rises up, like oil on water.
They invented lies and enjoyed these fables. They revelled in pure fantasy. Because out in the real world, everything worked out the opposite.
The legend grew. People listened as if in a trance, captivated by the emphatic words of the storyteller who told the story of the witcher and the sorceress. The story of the Tower of the Swallow. Of Ciri, the witcheress with the scarred face. Of Kelpie, the magical black mare. Of the Lady of the Lake. That came many years later.
But for now, like a seed soaked by rain, the legend sprouted and grew among the people.
* * *
They did not realise when May came. They first noticed at night time, when they saw the bright, distance fires of Belleteyn. When Ciri, with strange excitement jumped onto Kelpie’s back and galloped towards the fires, Geralt and Yennefer took advantage of the intimate moment.
After removing the necessary clothes, they made love on a sheepskin on the ground. They made love urgently, in silence, without words. They made love quickly, however.
And then along came the climax and fulfilment, trembling and kissing each other’s tears, amazed at that fate had given them time to express their love.
* * *
‘Geralt?’
‘I’m listening, Yen.’
‘When we … When we were not together, where you with other women?’
‘No.’
‘Not once?’
‘Not once.’
‘Your voice did not tremble. So I do not know why I don’t believe you.’
‘I am only for you, Yen.’
‘Now I do.’
* * *
Without realising it, May had arrived. Dandelions grew in the meadows and the trees were white and fluffy and thick with flowers. The oak, too noble to rush, remained dark, but on the edges, green leaves were beginning to show.
* * *
One night they spent under the open sky, they witcher awakened from a nightmare. It seemed as if he was paralysed and helpless, a great grey owl was clawing at his face and with its sharp hooked beak, trying to peck his eyes out. He awoke. But he was not sure if he had moved from one nightmare to another.
Over their encampment poured bright light that startled the horses. In the midst of the brightness a room was visible – a columned hall in a castle. Around a table sat ten figures. Ten women.
He could hear words. Snippets of sentences.
‘ …Bring her to us, Yennefer. We command you.’
‘You cannot give me orders. You cannot give orders to her. You don’t have any power over her!’
‘I’m not afraid of them, mother. They cannot do anything. If they wish, I will stand before them.
‘We will meet on June first. At the new moon. We command you both to appear. We warn you, we’ll punish any disobedience.’
‘I will come now, Philippa. Let her stay with him. Don’t leave him alone. Just a couple of days. I will come immediately. As a show of good faith. I have vowed, Philippa. Please.’
The light began to throb. The horses snorted , crazed and kicked at the ground.
The witcher awoke. This time for real.
* * *
The next day Yennefer confirmed his fears. After a long meeting, which they excluded Ciri from.
‘I’m leaving,’ she said dryly. ‘I have to. Ciri will stay with you. For a time. Then it will come time for her to leave as well. And then we’ll all meet again.’
Ne nodded. Reluctantly. He’d had enough of nodding silently, agreeing with every decision. But he nodded. One way or another, he loved her.
‘It is imperative,’ she said mildly, ‘that you not resist. Nor can you postpone it. It is necessary to comply. I’m doing this for your own good. And especially for the good of Ciri.’
He nodded.
‘Until we meet again,’ she said almost tenderly, ‘I’ll make it up to you, Geralt. There has been too much silence between us. Now instead of nodding, give me a hug and kiss.’
He obeyed. One way or another, he loved her.
* * *
‘Now where?’ Ciri asked, she had barely spoken since Yennefer had disappeared with a flash through her portal.
‘The river …’ Geralt coughed, conquering the pain under his breast bone. ‘The river in front of us is called the Sansretour. We are going upstream. To a place that I want to show you. It is a land of fairytales.’
Ciri frowned. Her saw her clench her fists.
‘All fairytales,’ she said, end badly. There does not exist a fairytale land.’
‘There does. You’ll see.’
* * *
It was t
he day after the full moon, when they saw Toussaint, bathed in green and the sunlight. When they saw the hills, slopes and vineyards. The roofs of towers and castles, shining in the morning sun.
The view did not disappoint. It was impressive. As it always was.
‘This is beautiful,’ Ciri said with delight. ‘Wow! Those castles are like toys … Like glazed decorations on a cake3 … It is tempting to lick!’
‘The architecture is by Faramond,’ Geralt wisely instructed. ‘Wait until you seen up close the palaces and gardens of Beauclair.’
‘Palace? We’re going to the palace? You know the local king?’
‘Duchess.’
‘The Duchess,’ she said wryly, watching him intently from beneath her fringe, ‘doesn’t have green eyes? Short black hair?’
‘No,’ he snapped, looking away. ‘She look completely different. I don’t know where you got that idea …’
‘Let’s not talk about it Geralt, all right? How do you know the local Duchess?’
‘As I said, I know her. A little bit. Not very well, if you’re interested. But, I know the local prince consort or candidate for consort. You also know him, Ciri.’
Ciri kicked Kelpie in the sides, making her dance in the road.
‘Don’t make me suffer!’
‘Dandelion.’
Dandelion? With the Duchess? How is that possible?’
‘It’s a long story. We left him here, alongside his beloved. We promised him to visit on our return visit, when …’
He paused and became serious.
‘There was nothing you could do,’ Ciri said quietly. ‘Do not torture yourself, Geralt. It’s not your fault.’
Yes it is my fault, he thought. Mine. Dandelion will ask. And I’ll have to answer. Milva. Cahir. Regis. Angouleme.
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 06] Page 46