The dryad muttered something between her teeth and removed the arrow from her bowstring.
‘Let's go,’ she said. She adjusted the scarf in her hair. ‘We have lost too much time.’
‘Oh!’ the little girl wailed after a step.
‘What is it?’
‘I have something… in my leg.’
‘Wait, Braenn! Come on, little girl, I'll carry you on my shoulders.’
From the heat of her body emanated a smell of wet feathers.
‘What is your name, Princess? I forgot.’
‘Ciri.’
‘Where is your kingdom, if I may be permitted to ask?’
‘I will not say,’ she replied. ‘I will not say, that's all.’
‘It wouldn't kill you. Stop squirming and don't sniffle in my ear. What explains your presence in Brokilone? You got lost? You took a wrong turn?’
‘Actually, I never get lost.’
‘Stop fidgeting. You ran away from Kistrin? Castle Nastrog? Before or after marriage?’
‘How do you know?’ she asked, sniffing with a preoccupied air.
‘I am incredibly intelligent. Why exactly flee into Brokilone? There were no directions less dangerous?’
‘It's my stupid horse.’
‘You're lying, Princess. At your size, you could only ride a cat. And even then, it would have to be very sweet-tempered.’
‘Marck was leading it. The squire of the knight Voymir. In the forest, the horse stumbled and broke a leg. Then we got lost.’
‘You say that this never happens to you.’
‘He got lost, not me. There was fog. We got lost.’
You're lost, thought Geralt. Poor little squire of knight Voymir: he had the misfortune to meet Braenn and her companions. The boy – who had probably never been with a woman – had made up his mind to help a little girl with green eyes after hearing tales of knights and the virgins they are required to marry. He had then helped her only to fall to the arrow of a motley dryad who herself has probably never been with a man, but already knew how to kill.
‘I asked you: you fled before or after the marriage?’
‘I ran away, that's all. What does it matter to you?’ she said, frowning. ‘Grandmother told me I had to go to the castle and get to know this Kistrin. Only to get to know him. Then, his father, the big king…’
‘Ervyll.’
‘For him, right away, he only had marriage in mind. But me, I don't want this Kistrin. Grandmother told me…’
‘He displeases you so much, the prince Kistrin?’
‘I don't want him,’ Ciri declared haughtily, sniffing loudly. ‘He's big, stupid, and ugly. He has bad breath. Before I left, I saw one of his portraits where he wasn't so big. I don't want a husband like him. I don't want to marry.’
‘Ciri,’ the witcher replied hesitantly. ‘Kistrin is still a child, just like you. In a few years, he could become a nice, very attractive young man.’
‘Then they can send me another portrait in a few years!’ she snorted. ‘And to him too. He told me that I was a lot prettier than the portrait he received. He told me that he loved Alvina, a lady of the court, and that he wants to become a knight. You see? He doesn't want me and I don't want him. What good is that marriage?’
‘Ciri,’ murmured the witcher, ‘he is a prince, and you are a princess. Princes and princesses are made to unite. Such is the custom, that's how it is.’
‘You talk like all the others. You think you can lie to me because I'm still small.’
‘I'm not lying to you.’
‘You're lying.’
Geralt fell silent. Ahead of them, Braenn, astonished by the silence, turned around before resuming the walk with a shrug.
‘Where are we going?’ Ciri asked sadly. ‘I want to know!’
Geralt kept quiet.
‘Answer when I ask you a question!’ she threatened, underscoring her order with a loud sniff. ‘Don't you know… who is on you?’
He did not react.
‘I'll bite your ear!’
The witcher had had enough. He took the girl down from his shoulders and set her on the ground.
‘Listen, kid,’ he said sternly, gripping the buckle of his belt. ‘I'll put you over my knee and give you a good thrashing. No-one will prevent me here: this is not the royal court and I am neither a courtier nor a servant. You will regret not staying at Nastrog. You'll understand very shortly that it is better to be a married princess than a brat lost in the forest. Married princesses have the right to be intolerable, it is a fact. Married princesses are never even spanked, except perhaps personally by the prince, her husband.’
Ciri frowned, sobbing and sniffing a few more times. Braenn, leaning against a tree, watched without blinking.
‘So?’ asked the witcher, wrapping his belt around his wrist. ‘Are we going to behave decently and kindly? Or will I have to tan your royal hide? Well?’
The little girl sniffed again and then shook her head quickly.
‘You will be sensible, Princess?’
‘Yes,’ she growled.
‘It's nearly the brown hour,’ said the dryad. ‘Let's continue on our journey, Gwynbleidd.’
The forest became more sparse. They crossed young sandy woods, fields of heather, misty prairies where herds of deer grazed. The temperature fell.
‘Venerable lord,’ said Ciri, breaking a very long silence.
‘My name is Geralt. What is it?’
‘I'm terribly hungry.’
‘We'll stop soon. It's almost nightfall.’
‘I can't stand it,’ she continued, sobbing. ‘I haven't eaten anything since…’
‘Don't cry.’ He reached into his wallet and took out a piece of fat bacon, a small slice of cheese and two apples. ‘Here.’
‘What is that yellow thing?’
‘Bacon fat.’
‘That, I don't want,’ she growled.
‘It goes down well,’ he said, swallowing the piece of animal fat. ‘Eat the cheese. And an apple. Just one.’
‘Why just one?’
‘Don't fidget. Eat both.’
‘Geralt?’
‘Hum?’
‘Thank you.’
‘It's nothing. Eat heartily.’
‘No… not for this. For this too, but… You saved my life before, from the centipede… Brr… I almost died of fear…’
‘There are many things that can kill you that way,’ he confirmed seriously. There are many things that can kill you in even more horrible and tragic ways, he thought. ‘You can thank Braenn.’
‘Who is she?’
‘A dryad.’
‘An evil fairy of the forest?’
‘Yes.’
‘They're the ones that we… They steal children! She abducted us? Except you're not small. Why does she speak so strangely?’
‘She speaks as she speaks, it's not important. The important thing is how she shoots. Don't forget to thank her when we stop.’
‘I will not forget,’ she replied, sniffling.
‘Don't squirm, princess, future wife of the prince of Verden.’
‘I will never be the wife of some prince,’ she grumbled.
‘Well, well, you won't marry anyone. You will become a hamster and take refuge in a burrow.’
‘That's not true! You don't know anything at all!’
‘Don't scream in my ear. Don't forget about my belt.’
‘I will not be the wife of any prince. I will be…’
‘Yes? What?’
‘It's a secret.’
‘Ah! A secret. Great.’ He lifted his head. ‘What's going on, Braenn?’
The dryad had stopped.
She shrugged, looking at the sky.
‘I am breaking,’ she replied sadly. ‘All because of what you picked up. Here we make camp: it's vespers.’
III
‘Ciri?’
‘Hum?’
The little girl sniffled, rustling the branches on which she rested.
‘You're not cold?’
‘No,’ she sighed. ‘Today, it's good. Yesterday… Yesterday I was horribly frozen… Oh, by the gods!’
‘Strange,’ said Braenn, untying the laces of her long and supple boots. ‘While skinny, she has traveled a vast distance despite the sentinels, the swamps and the thickets. Strong, healthy, courageous. She will be useful to us, indeed… most useful.’
Geralt cast an eye quickly over the dryad and her eyes shining in the darkness. Braenn leaned her back against the tree and untied her scarf, freeing her hair with a brisk shake of her head.
‘She was found in Brokilone,’ she murmured, anticipating his comment. ‘She is ours, Gwynbleidd. We go to Duén Canell.’
‘Madame Eithné will decide,’ he replied bitterly.
But he knew that Braenn was right.
Pity, he thought, watching the little girl squirm on her cushion of greenery. A girl so resolute. Where have I seen her before? No matter. It's a real pity. The world is so large and so beautiful. Until the end of her life, her world will be limited to Brokilone. That end might even be soon: until the day she sinks into the ferns, with a cry and the hiss of an arrow, fighting an absurd war for mastery of the forest on the side of those who are to blame for her loss. For those who… yes, sooner or later.
‘Ciri?’
‘Yes?’
‘Where do your parents live?’
‘I have no parents,’ she said, sniffling. ‘They drowned in the sea when I was little.
Yes, he thought, that would explain no small number of things. A child of a dead prince. Who knows, maybe the third daughter in a family with four boys already. Graced with a noble title that is in fact less important than that of a chamberlain or squire. A little thing with ashen hair and green eyes who meanders through the court and therefore must be disposed of as soon as possible by finding a husband. As soon as possible, before she becomes a little woman, a threat of scandal, of a misalliance or of the incest that the promiscuity of a communal bedroom in the castle can only favor…
The flight of the little girl did not surprise the witcher. He had already met a number of young princesses, even of royal blood, taken in by traveling theater troupes and happy to have escaped from a king who, though decrepit, was always eager for descendants. He had encountered the sons of kings, preferring the uncertain life of a mercenary rather than marriage to a lame and syphilitic princess chosen by his father for an inheritance as questionable as it was miserable, but guaranteeing an alliance and the sustainability of the dynasty.
He lay down next to the girl and covered her with his cloak.
‘Go to sleep,’ he murmured. ‘Go to sleep, little orphan.’
‘Oh, yes?’ she muttered. ‘I am a princess, and not an orphan. I have a grandmother. She is queen, what do you think? When I tell her that you wanted to hit me with a belt, my grandmother will order your head chopped off, you'll see.’
‘But that's monstrous, Ciri! Have mercy.’
‘You'll see!’
‘You are such a nice little girl. Chopping off heads, this is terribly wrong. You won't say anything, will you?’
‘I'll tell her everything.’
‘Ciri…’
‘I'll tell everything, everything, everything. You're afraid, huh?’
‘Yes, very. You know, Ciri, that when you cut off someone's head, he can die?’
‘Are you mocking me?’
‘How could I dare?’
‘You will see for yourself, then! My grandmother does not joke. When she puts her foot down, the greatest warriors and knights kneel before her. I saw it myself. And if one of them disobeys, squeak, he's beheaded.’
‘That's awful, Ciri.’
‘How?’
‘It's surely your head that they'll take off.’
‘My head?’
‘Of course. It's your grandmother, the queen, who arranged your marriage with Kistrin and sent you to Verden, to the castle of Nastrog. You have disobeyed. When you come back… Squeak! No more head.’
The little girl remained silent. She had even stopped fidgeting. He heard the click of her tongue while she bit her lower lip. She sniffled:
‘It's not true! Grandmother wouldn't let anyone cut off my head, because… she's my grandmother, isn't she? At most, I would get…’
‘Oh, yes?’ Geralt laughed. ‘Your grandmother doesn't joke around, isn't that right? You have already had beatings?’
Ciri fixed him with an expression full of anger.
‘You know what?’ he said. ‘We'll tell your grandmother that I have already beaten you. No-one can be punished twice for the same offense. What do you think?’
‘That you're stupid.’ Ciri rose up on her elbows, rustling the branches. ‘When grandmother learns that you've beaten me, she'll cut off your head, as simple as that!’
‘Even though, as you say, there's so little in my head?’
The little girl didn't respond. She sniffed once more.
‘Geralt…’ ‘What is it, Ciri?’
‘Grandma knows that I'm obligated to come back. I don't have to be a princess or even the wife of that idiot Kistrin. I must come back, that's all.’
You are obligated, he thought. Unfortunately, this depends on neither you nor your grandmother. It will depend on the mood of old Eithné and on my ability to convince her.
‘Grandmother knows,’ continued Ciri. ‘Because I… Geralt, swear to me that you won't repeat this to anyone. It's a horrible secret. Terrible, I tell you. Swear.’
‘I swear.’
‘I'll tell you. My mama was a sorceress, you know. And my papa was cursed. That's what one of my nannies told me, and when grandmother learned, it was a terrible scene. Because I'm predestined, you know?’
‘For what?’
‘I don't know,’ she responded, preoccupied. ‘But I'm predestined. That's what my nanny told me. And grandmother said that she will not allow it, that she'd rather all the cas… the castles fall in ruin. You understand? And my nanny said that nothing could counter predestination. Ah! And then my nanny started crying and grandmother started screaming. You see? I'm predestined. I'll never be married to that idiot Kistrin. Geralt?’
‘Sleep,’ Geralt said, his jaw dropping in a yawn. ‘Sleep, Ciri.’
‘Won't you tell me a story?’
‘What?’
‘Tell me a story,’ she grumbled. ‘Am I expected to go to sleep without hearing a story? It's impossible.’
‘I don't know, damn it, I don't know any stories. Sleep.’
‘Don't lie. You know. When you were small, no-one told you any stories? What are you laughing about?’
‘Nothing. I was just reminded of something.’
‘Ah! You see! Go on, tell it.’
‘What?’
‘A children's story.’
He smiled again and placed his hands beneath his neck, looking at the stars that twinkled between the branches just above their heads.
‘Once there was… a cat,’ he began. ‘An ordinary cat, with stripes, who was hunting mice. One day, the cat went alone on a long walk through a dark, terrible forest. He walked and walked and walked…’
‘Don't think that I'll fall asleep before he arrives,’ she murmured, pressing against him.’
‘Quiet, little pest. He walks and walks and meets a fox. A red fox.’
Braenn sighed, lying down on the other side of the witcher. She hugged him too, gently.
‘And then?’ Ciri sniffed. ‘Tell the rest.’
‘The fox looks at the cat. He asks: 'Who are you?' The cat replies: 'I am a cat.' The fox retorts: 'Ah! And you are not afraid, you cat, to walk alone in the forest? What if the king decides to go hunting? What will you do with the dogs and hunters on their horses? I tell you, cat, the hunt is a terrible thing for the likes of you and I. You have a fur coat, I have one too. The hunters are without pity for us, because they have fiancees and mistresses whose hands and necks shiver: they turn us into stoles and muffs for those whores.’
‘What are those, muffs?’ asked Ciri.
‘Don't interrupt my story.
‘The fox then continues: 'I, dear cat, know how to escape them. I have a thousand and two hundred eighty-six methods: I am cunning. And you, dear cat, how many tricks do you possess against the hunters?’
‘Oh! What a pretty story,’ Ciri enthused, snuggling even closer against the witcher. ‘Tell me… How did the cat respond?’
‘Yes,’ Braenn murmured from the other side. ‘How did he respond?’
The witcher turned his head. The dryad's eyes sparkled. Her tongue was slightly parting her lips. Evidently, he thought, young dryads are fond of stories. Just like young witchers: they are rarely told fictional stories. Young dryads fall asleep to the rustling trees; young witchers to the ache of their muscles. Our eyes shone, like Braenn's, when we listened to Vesemir's stories, there at Kaer Morhen. It was a long time ago… so long…
‘And then?’ Ciri prompted impatiently. ‘What happened next?’
‘The cat replies: 'I, dear fox, do not have multiple ways, but only one: Hop! I climb up a tree. This should be sufficient, I believe?' The fox smiles: 'Well then! Dear cat, you're nothing but a fool. Turn tail and run from here, because you will perish if the hunters track you.'
‘Suddenly, without warning, with neither transition nor delay, the hunters emerge from the bushes: on top of the cat and the fox!’
‘Oh!’ Ciri whimpered.
The dryad shook violently.
‘Quiet!’
‘They throw themselves upon them then, shouting: 'Forward! Skin their hides! For the muffs, the muffs!' They unleash the dogs upon the cat and the fox. And the cat, hop! climbs up the tree as cats do. Right to the top. And the dogs, snap! seize the fox. Even before the red-furred one could make use of one of his cunning routes, he was transformed into a lady's stole. The cat meows from the top of the tree, defying the hunters. They cannot reach him, because the tree is too high. They wait at the bottom, swearing against the gods of the earth, but leave empty-handed. The cat then descends the tree and goes quietly home.’
‘And then?’
‘Nothing. The story is over.’
‘And the moral? Stories always have a moral, don't they?’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher] Page 27