Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher]

by The Sword of Destiny (fan translation) (epub)

  Geralt turned his head in astonishment.

  ‘How do you know that it's Venzlav who sent me?’

  ‘It's all too evident,’ replied the dryad, smiling. ‘Ekkehard is too foolish. Ervyll and Viraxas hate me too much. I see no other surrounding areas.’

  ‘You know a lot about what is happening outside Brokilone, Eithné.’

  ‘I know many things, White Wolf. It is the privilege of my age. Now, if you would, I would like to resolve a matter. The man who looks like a bear…’ the dryad stopped smiling and looked at Freixenet, ‘is your friend?’

  ‘We know each other. I once delivered him from a spell.’

  ‘The problem is that I do not know what to do with him. I can't order his execution after allowing him to be cared for, even if he is a threat. He doesn't have the air of a fanatic, perhaps of a scalp-hunter. I know that Ervyll pays for every dryad scalp. I can't remember how much. The price increases along with everything else from inflation.’

  ‘You are mistaken. He is not a scalp-hunter.’

  ‘Why then did he enter Brokilone?’

  ‘To look for the little girl for whom he was responsible. He risked his life to find her.’

  ‘That's absurd,’ she said coldly. ‘He took more than a risk. He went to certain death. He owes his life to having the constitution and strength of a horse. Regarding the child, she also owes her life to chance. My daughters did not fire, believing her to be a pixie or a leprechaun.’

  Her gaze rested once more on Freixenet. Geralt noticed that her lips were losing their unpleasant harshness.

  ‘Well then. Celebrate this day.’

  Eithné approached the bed of branches. The two dryads who accompanied her did the same. Freixenet paled and curled up in the hope of disappearing.

  She watched for a moment, blinking her eyes slightly.

  ‘Do you have children?’ she asked at last. ‘I am speaking to you, blockhead.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I spoke clearly.’ ‘I'm not…’ Freixenet cleared his throat, coughing. ‘I'm not married.’

  ‘Your family is not important. I want to know if your fat loins are able to kindle fires. By the Great Tree! Have you ever knocked up a woman?’

  ‘Eh, well! Yes… yes, madame, but…’

  Eithné gave a careless wave of her hand and then turned to Geralt.

  ‘He will remain in Brokilone,’ she said, ‘until he is completely healed and then for some time longer. Then… he will go wherever he pleases.’

  ‘Thank you, Eithné.’ The witcher bowed. ‘And the little girl… What is your decision?’

  ‘Why do you ask me that?’ The dryad's silver eyes fixed coldly on him. ‘You know that well.’

  ‘She isn't an ordinary child, she is not from a village. She is a princess.’

  ‘This does not impress me. It makes no difference.’

  ‘Listen…’

  ‘Not another word, Gwynbleidd.’

  Geralt paused, pursing his lips.

  ‘What about my mission?’

  ‘I am listening,’ murmured the dryad. ‘Not out of curiosity. As a personal favor to you: you can testify to Venzlav that his request was made and collect the money that he certainly promised you for your visit to my kingdom. But not now. I am busy. Pay me a visit tonight in my Tree.’

  Freixenet rose onto his elbows after the dryad was gone. He groaned, coughed, and spat in his hand.

  ‘What does this mean, Geralt? Why am I supposed to stay? What does she want with these children? What story are we beginning, eh?’

  ‘You will keep your head, Freixenet,’ replied the witcher in a tired voice. ‘You will become one of the privileged few who have left Brokilone alive. Lately, in any case. And then, you will become the father of a little dryad, perhaps several.’

  ‘How? I must become… a breeding stallion?’

  ‘You can call it what you like. Your choice is limited.’

  ‘I understand,’ groaned the baron, with a vulgar smile. ‘I've seen prisoners of war working in the mines or digging canals. Of the two evils, I prefer… I simply hope that I have the strength. There are quite a few here…’

  ‘Stop that stupid smiling, thinking your dreams are coming true,’ Geralt said, scowling. ‘Here there is no honor, no music, no wine, no fans, let alone hordes of amorous dryads. You will meet one, perhaps two. There will be no sentiment. They will treat the matter and even more so yourself very pragmatically.’

  ‘They don't feel pleasure? At the least, I hope that it doesn't hurt them.’

  ‘Stop acting like a child. In this respect, they are no different from ordinary women. At least physically.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It is up to you whether the dryad enjoys herself or not. This does not change the fact that only the outcome will be important. Your person in this case is secondary. Expect no recognition. Ah! And never take the initiative, under any circumstances.’

  ‘The initiative?’

  ‘If you meet her in the morning,’ the witcher continued patiently, ‘bow down, and by all the devils, don't smile or wink. This is for dryads a gravely serious subject. If she's smiling or approaches you, you can then start the conversation. It is best to talk about trees. If you don't know about those, you can still talk about the weather. If, on the other hand, she pretends not to see you, keep your distance. And keep your distance from the other dryads. And your hands in your pockets. A dryad unprepared for this exchange wouldn't understand what you were doing. You risk a knife-slash for wanting to touch her: she would not understand the intent.’ ‘Have you already tasted the joys of dryad marriage?’ joked Freixenet. ‘This has happened to you?’

  The witcher did not respond. He had before his eyes the beautiful and svelte dryad, the insolence of her smile. Vatt'ghern, bloede caérme. A witcher: a sorrry fate. What do you have to report, Braenn? What can he give us? There is nothing to be gained from a witcher…

  ‘Geralt?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What will happen with Princess Ciri?’

  ‘You can depend on it. She will soon become a dryad. In two or three years, she'll put an arrow through her own brother's eye if he tries to enter Brokilone.’

  ‘Damn,’ shouted Freixenet, blanching. ‘Ervyll will be furious. Geralt? It wouldn't be possible to…’

  ‘No,’ interrupted the witcher. ‘Don't even try. You will not get out of Duén Canell alive.’

  ‘That means the little one is lost.’

  ‘For you, yes.’

  VI

  The Tree of Eithné was, it went without saying, an oak, or rather three oaks that melded with each other as they grew, still green and betraying no symptoms of desiccation despite the there hundred years, at least, that Geralt attributed to them. The trunks were hollow. The cavity they formed was the size of a large room with high ceilings tapering into a cone. The interior, lit by a feeble lantern, had been transformed into a comfortable home where modesty prevailed over hardiness.

  Eithné waited, kneeling on a woven carpet. Ciri, washed and cured of her cold, sat cross-legged before her, straight as a ramrod and motionless, her almond eyes wide open. The witcher saw a beautiful face where no trace of dirt or evil grin appeared now.

  The dryad was carefully and slowly combing the girl's long hair.

  ‘Enter, Geralt, sit down.’

  He sat formally, bending first on one knee.

  ‘Are you rested?’ she asked, without looking to the witcher and continuing to comb Ciri's hair. ‘When do you think you will take the path back? What do you say to tomorrow morning?’

  ‘As you wish, sovereign of Brokilone,’ he responded coldly. ‘A single word from you is enough to be rid of my indecent presence in Duén Canell.’

  ‘Geralt…’ Eithné slowly turned her head. ‘Understand me well. I know you and respect you. I know that you have never harmed a dryad, naiad, sylph or nymph, rather the contrary: you often come to their defense, save their lives. But that change
s nothing in this matter. Too many things separate us. Our worlds are different. I neither wish to nor am able to make exceptions. For anyone. I am not asking if you understand this, because I know that you do. I ask if you accept it.’

  ‘What difference does it make?’

  ‘None. But I want to know.’

  ‘I accept it,’ he confirmed. ‘What will happen to the girl? She doesn't belong in this world either.’

  Ciri gave him a fierce look and then glanced up toward the dryad. Eithné smiled.

  ‘Not for long,’ she replied.

  ‘Eithné, please, think again.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Give her to me. Let her leave with me to her own world.’

  ‘No, White Wolf.’ The dryad once again thrust the comb deep in Ciri's ashen hair. ‘I will not give her to you. You should understand better than anyone.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. Brokilone is not closed to the world's news. Some of it concerns a certain witcher who, in payment for his services, sometimes extorts a very curious oath: 'Give me what your house holds without your knowledge,' 'Give me what you possess without knowing it.' Isn't this familiar to you? In this way, you have tried for some time to change the course of destiny. In search of the young boys that destiny offers you for your succession, you try to avert death and oblivion. You struggle against nothingness. Why then do you greet this consequence with astonishment? I care only about the destiny of dryads. Is that not justice? For each dryad assassinated by the humans, I take a young girl.’

  ‘In the taking, you stir up animosity and the desire for vengeance. You promote hatred.’

  ‘Human hatred… Nothing new under the sun. No, Geralt. I will not give her back. Especially since she is healthy. It's somewhat rare today.’

  ‘Somewhat rare?’

  The dryad directed her large silver eyes to him:

  ‘They abandon sick girls to me: diphtheria, scarlet fever, croup, and even smallpox lately. They think that we have no immunity and that an epidemic will destroy us, or at least decimate our ranks. We disappoint them, Geralt. We have something more than immunity. Brokilone takes care of its children.’

  Eithné fell silent. She leaned down and used her second hand to delicately untangle a stubborn knot.

  ‘May I divulge the content of the message sent to you by the king Venzlav?’

  ‘Isn't it a waste of time?’ asked the dryad, raising her head. ‘Why trouble yourself? I know perfectly well what King Venzlav intends to offer me. There is no need for the gift of clairvoyance to know that. He wants me to grant him a part of Brokilone's territory from, let's say, up to the Vda river which he considers or would like to consider a natural border between Brugge and Verden. In exchange, I suppose that he will offer me an enclave: a little piece of wild forest. I suppose also that his word and his royal prerogative guarantees that this little bit of wild land, this modest patch of primeval forest, will be ours for ever and ever, and that no-one will dare attack the dryads, that they will be able to live there in peace. What, Geralt? Venzlav wants to end a war with Brokilone that has lasted for two centuries? And for this, the dryads should offer that for which they have perished for two hundred years? Offer Brokilone? So easily?’

  Geralt kept silent. He had nothing to add. The dryad laughed.

  ‘The proposition of the king is like this, Gwynbleidd? Or perhaps it is less hypocritical: 'Come down from your complacency, old bogey of the woods, savage beast, relic of the past, and hear what we, King Venzlav, desire: cedar, oak and white hickory, and then mahogany, golden birch, yew for bows and pine for planks. Brokilone runs alongside us, but we import our wood from behind the mountains. We want the iron and copper that's hidden in your basement. We want the gold veins of Craag An. We want to attack, sawing and digging, without hearing the hiss of your arrows. And most importantly: we want to finally become master of all the kingdom has to offer. We do not want a Brokilone and a forest through which we cannot march. Such an entity hurts our pride, irritates us and keeps us awake, as we are, we humans, the owners of the world. We can tolerate in this world some elves, dryads or naiads, provided these creatures stay discreet. Accept our will, Sovereign of Brokilone, or perish.'’

  ‘Eithné, you have yourself agreed that Venzlav is neither so idiotic nor fanatical. You know without a doubt that he is a just king, venerating peace, saddened and worried when blood is shed…’

  ‘If he keeps his distance from Brokilone, not a drop of blood will spill.’ ‘You know very well,’ replied Geralt, lifting his head, ‘that the situation is somewhat different: humans have been killed at the Scorched Earth, at the Eighth League, in the hills of the Owl; and then too in Brugge, on the left bank of the Ruban. All these places are situated outside of Brokilone. The forest was cleared there a hundred years ago!’

  ‘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 arou
nd 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…’