The witcher turned his head. He heard the cries of children playing in the drained ditch next to the castle gardens. There were about ten of them. The kids made a devil of a racket, shouting to each other in their little falsettos, shrill and excited. They ran back and forth at the bottom of the ditch, resembling a school of small fish - changing direction rapidly and abruptly but always staying together. As is always the case in these situations, following the older boys who were thin as scarecrow, a smaller one ran, out of breath, unable to keep up.
‘There are a lot of them,’ the witcher remarked.
Mousesack gave him a forced smile, pulling on his beard and shrugging.
‘Yes, a lot.’
‘And which one of them… Which of these boys is the famous Surprise?’
‘I musn't, Geralt…’
‘Calanthe?’
‘Of course. You don't believe, I hope, that she would give you a child so easily? After all you did meet her. She is a woman of iron. I'll tell you something that I shouldn't admit in the hope that you understand. I'm also counting on you not to betray me before her.’
‘Speak.’
‘When the child was born six years ago, she called for me and ordered me to find you. To kill you.’
‘You refused.’
‘No one refuses Calanthe,’ Mousesack replied seriously, looking him right in the eye. ‘I was ready to set out before she called me back. She revoked the order without any comment. Be careful when you talk to her.’
‘I will. Mousesack, tell me: what happened to Duny and Pavetta?’
‘They were sailing to Skellige from Cintra when a storm hit them. The ship was not found, not even the wooden boards. Geralt… the fact that the child was not on-board with them is very strange. Incomprehensible. They took the child with them on the ship, but they changed their minds at the last moment. No one knows why. Pavetta had never parted with…’
‘How did Calanthe handle this misfortune?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I see.’
Noisy like a bunch of goblins, the boys broke up and slipped past them. Geralt noticed a little girl, just as thin and noisy as the boys, but with a plait of fair hair, running near the head of the group. With a savage cry, the little band slipped down the steep slope of the ditch again. At least half of them, the girl included, fell on their backsides. The youngest, still unable to catch up to the others, rolled down and fell to the bottom where he began to cry, clutching his broken knee. The other boys surrounded him, taunting and laughing before resuming their course. The little girl knelt next to the boy, took him in her arms and dried his eyes, wiping the dust and dirt from his contorted mouth.
‘Come on, Geralt. The queen awaits.’
‘So be it, Mousesack.’
Calanthe was sitting on a wooden bench with a backrest, which was suspended by chains from one of the main branches of an enormous linden tree. It seemed that she was napping, save for the small kick of her foot from time to time to set the swing in motion. Three young women were at her side. One was sitting on the grass near the swing. Her dress fanned over the grass and formed a white spot on the green, like a patch of snow. The other two were trimming the branches of the raspberry bushes not far away.
‘Lady,’ said Mousesack, bowing.
The queen lifted her head. Geralt knelt.
‘Witcher,’ she responded drily.
As before, the queen wore emeralds and green dress matching the colour of her eyes. As before, a thin gold crown encircled her ashen-gray hair. But her hands, which he remembered as thin and white, were not as thin as before. Calanthe had put on weight.
‘Hail, Calanthe of Cintra.’
‘I bid you welcome, Geralt of Rivia. Rise. I was waiting. Mousesack, please lead the girls to the castle.’
‘At your service, my queen.’
They were left alone.
‘Six years,’ Calanthe said without smiling. ‘You are terribly punctual, witcher.’
He made no comment.
‘There were times, as I say, there were years when I deluded myself that you might forget. Or other reasons preventing you from coming. No, I didn't wish you any misfortune, but I had to take into account the dangerous nature of your profession. It is said that death follows in your footsteps, Geralt of Rivia, but that you never look back. Then… when Pavetta… Do you already know?’
‘I know,’ Geralt said, inclining his head. ‘My sincere condolences…’
‘No,’ she interrupted, ‘it was a long time ago. I no longer wear mourning clothes, as you can see. I wore them for long enough. Pavetta and Duny… were destined for each other to the end. How can you not believe in the power of destiny?’
They fell silent. Calanthe, with a kick, once again set the swing in motion.
‘And so it is that the witcher returned after the agreed-upon period,’ she said slowly. A strange smile bloomed on her lips. ‘He returned, demanding fulfillment of the vow. What do you think, Geralt? This is probably how the storytellers will recount our meeting in a hundred years from now. I think so. Except that they will embellish the story, strike a chord and play with emotions. Yes, they are capable of that. I can imagine it. Listen, if you would:
‘And the cruel witcher said at last: 'Fulfill your promise, Queen, or my curse will be upon you.' The queen, in tears, fell at the feet of the witcher, crying, 'Mercy! Do not take this child away from me! He is all I have!'’
‘Calanthe…’
‘Don't interrupt me, please,’ she replied drily. ‘Haven't you noticed that I am telling a story? Listen further:
‘The cruel and vicious witcher stamped his foot and waved his arms, shouting: 'Beware, perjurer. You will not escape your punishment if you do not fulfill your vows.' The queen responded: 'So be it, witcher. Let it be as fate would choose it. Look over there: ten children are playing. You will recognize the one destined for you. Take that one and leave me with a broken heart.'’ The witcher was silent.
‘In this fairy tale,’ Calanthe's smile grew more and more unpleasant. ‘the queen, I imagine, offers three chances to the witcher. But we do not live in the world of fairy tales, Geralt. We are indeed real, you, me, and our problem. And so is our destiny. This is not a fable, this is life - Sickening, cruel, arduous, sparing no mistakes. No one is spared from injustice, sorrow, disappointments and misfortunes, neither witchers nor queens. That is why, Geralt of Rivia, you will be granted only one attempt.’
The witcher remained silent.
‘Only once,’ repeated Calanthe. ‘I said before: we are not characters in a fable, this is real life, where we must find our own moments of happiness, because, you know, we can't count on fate for happiness. That is why, regardless of your choice, you will not leave empty-handed. You will take a child. As to which child, it depends on your choice. A child that you will turn into a witcher… provided that he passes the Trial of the Grasses, that is.’
Geralt lifted his head abruptly. The queen was smiling. He knew that smile, terrible, vicious, and contemptuous, concealing none of her artifice.
‘I've surprised you,’ she said. ‘Well, I gave the matter some thought. Since there is a chance that Pavetta's child might become a witcher, I put myself to this task. However, my sources did not inform me of how many out of ten children survives the Trial of the Grasses. Would you please satisfy my curiosity in this regard?’
‘My queen,’ Geralt began, clearing his throat. ‘Without a doubt you must have taken sufficient pains in your studies to know that my code and my witcher's oath forbid me to utter the word, let alone to discuss it.’
Calanthe forcefully stopped the movement of the swing, planting her heels in the ground.
‘Three, at most four out of ten,’ she explained, feigning concentration with a nod of her head. ‘A difficult selection, very difficult, I would say, and that at each stage. First, the choice, then comes the test. And finally the changes. How many youths ultimately receive the medallion and the silver sword? One out of
ten? One out of twenty?’
The witcher remained silent.
‘I have thought about this for a long time,’ Calanthe went on, no longer smiling. ‘I came to the conclusion that the selection of the children at the stage of the choice has little meaning. What difference does it make, Geralt, that one child and not another will die or go mad from a massive dose of drugs? What difference does it make if the mind is rent asunder from the ravings, or the eyes burst out instead of becoming the eyes of a cat? What difference does it make whether one child will die in his own blood and vomit if the child truly destined by providence is completely random? Answer me.’
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 laughte
r.
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.’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher] Page 34