Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher]

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

  ‘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.

  ‘Yes, it's nothing new to you,’ she repeated, knocking together her glass tools. ‘I have seen some of your scars… But I managed. I am, you see, a sorceress… and a healer. That's my specialty.’

  Yes, I was right, he thought. He did not respond.

  ‘Going back to your injury,’ she continued calmly, ‘you must know that your heart rate, four times slower than that of an ordinary man, saved your life. Otherwise you wouldn't have surv
ived, I can say that with certainly. I saw the bandage that you had on your leg, it was a poor imitation of a dressing.’

  Geralt remained silent.

  ‘Later,’ she continued, lifting his shirt up to his neck, ‘the wound became infected, which is normal with bites. The infection was finally stopped. Of course, your witcher elixir helped significantly. Still, I don't understand why you took hallucinogens at the same time. I heard your ravings, Geralt of Rivia.’

  She can, he thought, she can read thoughts. Perhaps Yurga told her my name. Perhaps I blurted it out while I was under the effects of ‘black gull.’ Devil only knows… But the fact that she knows my name means nothing. Nothing. She doesn't know who I am. She is completely unaware of who I am.

  He felt her apply to his back a cool and soothing ointment that smelled strongly of camphor. Her hands were small and very soft.

  ‘I'm sorry for using conventional methods,’ she said. ‘I could remove your bedsore by magic, but I have overexerted myself a little when I treated your wound, and I'm not feeling too well. I bandaged your leg and healed it as much as I could. You're no longer in danger. Don't get up for two days. Even veins repaired by magic can rupture and cause terrible bleeding. The scar will remain, of course. One more addition to your collection.’

  ‘Thank you…’ He pressed his cheek against the skin to distort his voice and conceal his unnatural tone: ‘Might I know to whom I owe my thanks?’

  She will not tell me, he thought, or she will prefer to lie.

  ‘My name is Visenna.’

  I know, he thought.

  ‘I am glad,’ he said slowly, his cheek still pressed against the skin, ‘I am glad that our paths have crossed, Visenna.’

  ‘Well, by chance,’ she replied coolly, replacing his shirt on his back and covering him with sheepskins. ‘The customs officials informed me that someone is in need of my services. When I am needed, I go - it's a strange habit of mine. Listen: I gave the ointment to the merchant. Ask him to apply it in the morning and in the evening. Since he claims that you saved his life, he can repay you thus.’

  ‘And me, Visenna? How can I repay you, Visenna?’

  ‘Don't talk about that. I never take money from witchers. Call it solidarity, if you want, professional solidarity. And sympathy. As part of this sympathy, I would like to offer you a piece of advice, or if you prefer, a recommendation from a healer: stop taking hallucinogens, Geralt. Hallucinogens don't heal; they do nothing.’

  ‘Thank you, Visenna, for your help and your advice. I am grateful to you… for everything.’

  He moved his hand from under the sheepskin and touched her knee. She trembled. She took his hand and squeezed it lightly. Geralt carefully freed his fingers out of her hands and touched her forearm.

  Of course. The smooth skin of a young girl. She trembled even more, but he did not withdraw his hand. He found her hand and grasped it.

  The medallion around his neck vibrated in agitation.

  ‘Thank you, Visenna,’ he repeated, controlling the tremor in his voice. ‘I'm glad that we have crossed paths.’

  ‘It was chance…’ she answered again, but this time without coldness in her voice.

  ‘Perhaps it was destiny?’ he suggested, surprised that his excitement and nervousness had disappeared without a trace. ‘Do you believe in destiny, Visenna?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, after some time. ‘I believe in it.’

  ‘Do you believe that people bound by fate,’ he continued, ‘are always destined to meet one another?’

  ‘I believe in that too… What are you doing? Don't turn around.’

  ‘I want to look at your face… Visenna. I want to look into your eyes. And you… you can look into mine.’

  She made a movement as if she would fall to her knees, but she remained at his side. Geralt turned slowly, wincing in pain. The light was bright: someone had thrown more wood on the fire.

  She did not move. She turned her face to one side, showing only her profile. But he could all the more clearly see that her lips were trembling. She squeezed his hand hard.

  Geralt watched her carefully.

  There was no resemblance. Her profile was completely different. A small nose. A narrow chin. She said nothing. She finally leaned over and looked him straight in the eye. Up close. Without saying a word.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked calmly. ‘My enhanced eyes? These… are unusual. Do you know, Visenna, what is done to the witchers to get these eyes? Do you know that it is not always successful?’

  ‘Stop,’ she said softly. ‘Stop it, Geralt.’

  ‘Geralt…’ He felt suddenly something torn up in him. ‘This name was given to me by Vesemir. Geralt of Rivia! I even learned to imitate the Rivian accent. Perhaps to fill an inner yearning to belong to somewhere, even if it was fictitious. Vesemir… gave me this name. He also revealed your identity to me. Not without reluctance.’

  ‘Hush, Geralt, hush.’

  ‘You tell me today that you believe in destiny. At the time… did you believe it back then? Yes, you had to believe. You have already foreseen that destiny would ordain our meeting. This should be attributed to the lone fact never actively seek this meeting.’

  She still said nothing.

  ‘I've always wanted… I mulled over what I would tell you when we finally met. I thought about the question I would ask you. I believed that it would give me a perverse pleasure…’

  A tear glistened on her cheek. Geralt felt his throat tighten painfully. He was tired, drowsy, and weak.

  ‘In the light of day…’ he murmured, ‘tomorrow, in the sunlight, I will look into your eyes, Visenna… And I will ask you my question. Or perhaps I won't ask, because it's too late. Was it destiny? Yes, Yen was right. It is simply not enough for yourself to be bound by destiny. You need something more… But I will look into your eyes tomorrow… in the sunlight.’

  ‘No,’ she replied softly, in a velvetly voice that pierced through and tugged at layers of memory, memory long forgotten, which have never been and yet was present nonetheless.

  ‘Yes ,’ he protested. ‘Yes I would…’

  ‘No. Sleep now. When you wake up, you will stop wanting that. What good does it do if we lock eyes in the daylight? What will that change? There is nothing we can undo, nothing we can change. What sense is there in asking me that question, Geralt? Does the fact that I don't know how to answer it give you a perverse pleasure? That we will hurt each other? No, we will not look into each other's eyes in the daylight. Go to sleep, Geralt. And just between us, know that it wasn't Vesemir who gave you this name. Even though it won't change or undo anything, I still want you to know that. Farewell, take care of yourself. Don't try to find me…’

  ‘Visenna…’

  ‘No, Geralt. You're going to fall asleep. And me… I was your dream. Farewell.’

  ‘No, Visenna!’

  ‘Sleep!’ she commanded in a velvety voice that broke the witcher's will like a dry fabric. Heat suddenly emanated from her hand.

  ‘Sleep.’

  Geralt fell asleep.

  VI

  ‘Are we already in Transriver, Yurga?’

  ‘Since yesterday, sir Geralt. We will reach the Yarouga river soon. My home is on the other side. Look, even the horses walk more briskly and shake their head from side to side. They can feel that they are close to home.’

  ‘Home… You live within the castle's fortifications?’

  ‘No, in the suburb.’

  ‘Interesting.’ The witcher looked around. ‘Almost no visible traces of the war. It was said that the country was horribly destroyed.’

  ‘Well,’ Yurga replied, ‘we are short on a lot of things, but ruins is not one of them. Take a closer look: almost every house, every courtyard, everything is brand new, made through carpentry. Beyond the river, you’ll see, it's even worse, where the fire burned everything to the ground… War is war, but one must keep on living. We experienced the greatest turmoils when the Black Ones waged a war on our lan
ds. It seemed then that it would change this place into a desert. Many of those who fled then have never returned. In their place, newcomers have settled. Life goes on.’

  ‘That's right,’ murmured Geralt, ‘life must go on. No matter what happened… one must keep on living…’

  ‘Absolutely right. Here! Look at it this way. I sewed and patched your trousers. Now they are like new. Just like this land, sir Geralt. The war tore and trampled it under iron horseshoes; bruised and bloodied it; but now the land is as good as new, and even better than before. Even rotten things serve as good fertilizers for the soil. For now we have to plow hard, because there are bones and scraps of metal everywhere in the fields, but the Earth can cope with the iron.’

  ‘Don’t you fear that the Nilfgaardians… that the Black Ones will return? They have already found their way through the mountains once…’

  ‘Well of course, we fear them. So what? Should we sit down and cry, tremble? Life must go on. Come what may. After all, if these things are meant to be, then there is no avoiding it.’

  ‘You believe, then, in destiny?’

  ‘How can I not believe in it? After our meeting on the bridge in the wilderness where you saved my life! Oh, sir witcher, you'll see, my Złotolitka will fall at your feet…’

  ‘Come now. In truth, I am the one indebted to you. What I did on the bridge… it was my job, Yurga, my profession. I protect money in exchange for money, and not out of the kindness of my heart. Surely you have heard of what people say about witchers? That they don’t know which is worse - them, or the monsters that they kill.’

  ‘It’s not true, sir, I don't understand why you say so. You think that I can’t see with my own eyes? You are cut from the same cloth as that healer…’

  ‘Visenna…’

  ‘She didn't tell us her name. She came to us and offered her services without hesitation, knowing that we needed her help. She caught up with us in the evening, barely descended from her saddle when she hurried to take a look at you. Oh, sir, she struggled with treating your leg, the air crackled with magic and we were so terrified that we fled into the forest. And then blood came out from her nose. Magic is not easy, you see. Oh, she dressed your wound with such care, like…’