‘Like a mother?’ Geralt asked through clenched teeth.
‘Effectively. That's right. And as you fell asleep…’
‘Yes, Yurga?’
‘White as a sheet, she was barely on her feet. But she came to ask us if the rest of us needed her help. The tar-maker, who had his hand crushed by a tree, was cured by her. She didn't take a cent., and she even left the medicine. No, sir Geralt, people can say what they want about witchers and sorceresses. But not here. We, the people of Upper Sodden, of Transriver, we know better. We owe sorcerers too much, even though we don’t know who they really are. Their memories are not passed on through rumors, but etched in stone. You can see for yourself in the end of the grove. Besides, you certainly know better than I do. The whole world knows about the battle that was fought here less than a year ago. You must have heard about it.’
‘I wasn’t here,’ muttered the witcher. ‘That year. I was in the North. But I’ve heard about the Second battle of Sodden…’
‘Exactly. You will see the hill and the rock. In the past, we simply call it ‘Kite Hill' but now the whole world knows it as the ‘Mage Hill’ or ‘Hill of the Fourteen’. Because twenty-two sorcerers were on this hill, twenty-two sorcerers stood there in the battle, and fourteen perished. It was a terrible battle, sir Geralt. The ground rose up, fire rained down from the sky, thunder rumbled. Corpses littered the ground. But the sorcerers at last overcame the Black Ones and broke the Might of those who led them. Fourteen of them died in this battle. Fourteen of them gave their lives… What's wrong, sir? What is it?’
‘Nothing. Continue, Yurga.’
‘It was a terrible battle, oh, were it not for the sorcerers on the hill, we surely would not be able to talk like this today, you and I, on the tranquil road to my house, because my house wouldn't exist anymore, and neither would I nor perhaps you … Yes, we are indebted to the sorcerers. Fourteen of them were killed defending us, the people of Sodden and Transriver. Of course there were others who fought as well: warriors and noblemen, and even peasants who took up their pitchfork and axe, or even a stake… All fought valiantly and many were killed. But the sorcerers… No doubt soldiers die, because it’s their job after all, and life is short anyway… But sorcerers can live as long as they wish. Even so, they did not hesitate.’
‘They did not hesitate,’ repeated the witcher, rubbing his forehead. ‘They did not hesitate. And me, I was in the North…’
‘What's wrong, sir?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes… All of us around this area leave flowers on that hill and in the season of May, on Belleteyn, there is always a fire burning. It will burn forever and ever. These fourteen will live forever in the memory of the people. To live yet in the memory of others… This… is something more! More, sir Geralt!’
‘You're right, Yurga.’
‘Every child knows the names of the fourteen, carved on a stone on top of the hill. You don't believe me? Listen: Axel Raby, Triss Merigold, Atlan Kerk, Vanielle of Brugge, Dagobert of Vole…’
‘Stop, Yurga.’
‘What's wrong, my lord? You're pale as death.’
‘Nothing.’
VII
He climbed the hill very slowly, carefully, listening intently to the working of his magically healed tendons and muscle. Although it seemed completely healed, he still took care not to put his full weight on the previously wounded leg. It was hot. He was intoxicated with the smell of grass, but intoxicated in a good way.
The obelisk was not placed in the center of the plateau at the top of the hill, but further down, outside a circle of angular stones. If Geralt had come here before sunset, the shadow cast by the standing stone onto the circle would designate its precise diameter, and would indicate the direction in which the sorcerers’ face was turned during the battle. He looked in that direction, toward the endless, rolling fields. If there were still bones – he was certain – they would be hidden underneath the lush grass. A hawk circled in the distance, hovering serenely with outstretched wings outstretched - the only movement among the stillness of the landscape in the heat.
The base of the obelisk was large. It would require at least four or five people with joined hands to encircle it. It was obvious that it would have been impossible to transport onto the hill without the help of magic. The surface of the menhir facing the circle of stones was smoothly hewn, and runic characters could be seen on it - the names of the fourteen who died.
He appproached it slowly. Yurga was right. Flowers laid at the foot of the obelisk, common wild flowers - poppies, lupines, ślazy, and forget-me-nots.
Names of the fourteen.
He read slowly from the top, and the faces of those he knew appeared before his eye.
Chestnut-haired Triss Merigold, cheerful, giggling over nothing, looking like a child. He liked her. The feeling was mutual.
Lawdbor of Murivel, whom Geralt almost fought in the Vizima, when he caught the sorcerer manipulating the dice in a game with telekinesis.
Lytta Neyd, also known as Coral because of the colour of the lipstick she used. She had once spoken ill of Geralt to the King Belohun, so that he spent a week in the dungeon. When he was released, he went to find her to ask for her reasons. Without realizing how, he ended up on her bed and spent the second week there.
Gorazd the Old, who wanted to pay him 100 gold for the opportunity to examine his eyes, and offered 1,000 for the opportunity to dissect him, ‘not today,’ he had clarified at that time.
There were three names.
Geralt heard a slight rustle behind him and turned.
She was barefoot, dressed in a simple linen dress. She wore a braided wreath of daisy on the long, blond hair falling freely on her arms and shoulder.
‘Greetings,’ he said.
Without answering, she looked at him with cold, blue eyes.
Geralt noticed that she was not tanned. It was strange, because it was the end of summer, when the skin of the country girls usually turned brown from the sun. Her face and bare shoulders were slightly golden.
‘You've brought flowers?’
She smiled and lowered her eyelids. He felt a chill. She passed by him without a word and knelt at the foot of the menhir, touching the stone with her hand.
‘I don't bring flowers,’ she said, lifting her head. ‘But the ones that lie here are for me.’
He looked at her. She knelt in a way such that her body obscured the view of the last name engraved on the stone. The girl was bright, unnaturally bright against the dark background of the rock.
‘Who are you?’ he asked slowly.
‘Don’t you know?’
I know, he thought, looking at the icy blue of her eyes. Yes, I think I know.
Geralt felt calm. He could not be otherwise. Not now.
‘I have always been curious about how you look, madam.’
‘You don't have to give me such a title,’ she replied coldly. ‘We have known each other for years, haven't we?’
‘We know each other,’ he agreed. ‘They say that you follow in my steps.’
‘I do. But you had never looked back. Until today. Today you turned around for the first time.’
Geralt remained silent. Tired, he had nothing to say.
‘How… How will this happen?’ he asked her at last, coldly and without emotion.
‘I will take you by the hand,’ she replied, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I will take you by the hand and lead you across the meadow, through a cold and wet fog.’
‘And after? What is there beyond the fog?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied, smiling. ‘After that, there is nothing.’
‘You have followed me step by step,’ he said, ‘cutting down those who crossed paths with me. Why? So that I would be alone, isn't that right? So that I would finally begin to fear? I'll tell you the truth. I have always been afraid of you. I didn't turn back for fear of seeing you behind me. I was always afraid. I have lived my life in fear, until today…’
‘Yes, until today. We stand face to face, but I don't feel any anxiety. In taking everything from me, you have also stripped me of fear.’
‘Why are your eyes filled with terror, Geralt of Rivia? Your hands shake. You are pale. Why? Are you afraid to read the fourteenth name engraved on the obelisk? If you like, I can read you the name.’
‘No, you don't need to. I know whose name it is. The circle is complete, the serpent sinks its teeth in its own tail. So be it. You and your name. And flowers. For her and for you. The fourteenth name engraved at the base, the name that I uttered in the middle of the night, in the sunshine, in the frost, in the heat, and in the rain. No, I’m not afraid to say it now.’
‘Say it then.’
‘Yennefer… Yennefer of Vengerberg.’
‘And the flowers are for me.’
‘Let’s end this,’ he managed to say. ‘Take… take my hand.’
She stood up and approached him. Geralt felt a coldness radiating from her, sharp, penetrating coldness.
‘Not today,’ she replied. ‘Another day, yes. But not today.’
‘You've taken everything from me…’
‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘I did not take anything. I only take someone by the hand. So that no one would be alone. Alone in the fog… Farewell, Geralt of Rivia. Some other day.’
The witcher did not answer. She turned slowly and then walked away. Suddenly a mist enveloped the summit of the hill, the mist in which everything had disappeared; the obelisk, the flowers placed at its base and the fourteen names engraved on its surface vanished in a white, wet fog. Soon there was nothing left but the fog and the grass wet with brilliant droplets under his feet. The grass smelled great, hard, sweet, and the pain in his temple, forgetfulness, fatigue…
‘Sir Geralt! What is it? Were you asleep? I told you, you are still weak. Yet you still climbed to the summit?’
‘I fell asleep,’ he groaned, wiping his face with his hand. ‘I fell asleep, damn… It's nothing, Yurga, it's because of this heat…’
‘Yes, you have one hell of a fever… We must go, sir. Come, I'll help you down the slope.’
‘It’s nothing…’
‘Nothing, nothing. I wonder what prompted you. The plagues, why did you climb the hill in this heat? You wanted to read all their names? I can tell you all of them. ’
‘Nothing… Yurga… do you really remember all of the names?’
‘Of course.’
‘I'll test your memory… The last. The fourteenth. What’s the name?’
‘But you're a skeptic. You don’t believe in anything. You want to verify that I'm not lying? I told you that even children know the names. The last name, you say? Well, the last one is Yoel Grethen of Carreras. You know him, perhaps?’
Geralt wiped his eyelids with his wrist, and looked at the menhir for all the names.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I don't know him.’
VIII
‘Sir Geralt?’
‘Yes, Yurga?’
The merchant bowed his head and was quiet, wrapping his finger with the remains of a thin strap with which he had repaired the witcher's saddle. Finally, he rose and nudged the back of the valet who was driving the cart.
‘Let go of the reins, Profit. I'll drive. Sit on the seat next to me, sir Geralt. And you, Profit, what are you still doing here? Come on, jump to the front! We need to talk. No need for your ears here!’
Roach, tied behind the wagon, whinnied, and pulled at her reins, appeared to be envious of the little mare that Profit rode at a trot along the highway.
Yurga clicked his tongue, lightly striking the horse with the reins.
‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘this is the situation, sir. I promised you… then, on the bridge… I made a promise…’
‘You don’t have to,’ the witcher interrupted promptly. ‘You don’t have to, Yurga.’
‘I have to,’ the merchant responded bluntly, ‘my word is not the wind. That which I find at home yet don’t expect will be yours.’
‘Leave it be. I don't want anything from you. We’re even.’
‘No, sir. If I find such a thing at home, then it’s destiny. And if one mocks destiny, if one tries to deceive it, one will be severely punished.’
I know, thought the witcher. I know.
‘But… master Geralt…’
‘What, Yurga?’
‘I won't find anything at home that I don't expect to see. Not a thing, certainly not the one you were hoping for. Listen, master witcher: Złotolitka, my wife, will bear me no more children after the last one. No matter what, there will not be a new child at home. It seems to me you were wrong.’
Geralt did not respond.
Yurga remained quiet also. Roach snorted again, tossing her head.
‘But I have two sons,’ Yurga said very quickly, looking at the road ahead of him. ‘Two healthy sons, strong and not stupid. After all, I have to send them into apprenticeships. One of them will, I think, learn the trade with me. But the other…’
Geralt continued to be silent.
‘What say you?’ Yurga turned his head and looked at him. ‘You demanded an oath from me on the bridge. It was for you to find a child for a purpose none other than to become a witcher? Why does this child have to be unexpected? Can’t an expected child do? I have two sons: let one of them study under the witchers. And assume the profession. Not for the better. Not for the worse.’
‘You are sure,’ Geralt interrupted in a low voice, ‘that it’s not for the worse?’
Yurg’s eyes narrowed.
‘Defending people, saving their lives, in your opinion, is it a good or a bad thing? Those fourteen, on the hill? You, on the bridge? What you have done, is it good or bad?’
‘I don't know,’ Geralt responded with an effort. ‘I don't know, Yurga. Sometimes, I think that I know. But sometimes I have my doubts as well. Would you like for your son to have such scruples?’
‘And why not?’ the merchant replied seriously. ‘Let him have it. It's a human and good thing.’
‘What?’
‘Scruples. Only the evil, master Geralt, do not have it. And no one can escape his destiny.’
The witcher did not respond.
The main road ran along a high promontory and slanted birches that mysteriously managed to hold onto the steep slope. The trees had yellow leaves. Autumn, thought Geralt, it's autumn again. Below, a river shimmered. Guarded with a white new stockade, one could see the roofs of houses and the hewn stilts of the wharf.
A winch squeaked.
A ferry was heading toward the shore, fighting against a wave, splitting the waters with its blunt prow, and pushing aside the straws and leaves floating on the surface which formed an unmoving carpet of dust. The ropes, pulled by the ferrymen, groaned. The crowd assembled on the banks was raising a commotion: women shouting, men cursing, children crying, cattle bellowing, cows neighing, sheep bleating. It was a uniform music of fear.
‘Down! Down, stand back, bloody dogs!’ shouted a horseman, his head wrapped in a bloody rag.
His horse, submerged up to the abdomen, was annoyed, lifting its forelegs roughly and raising splashes. Screams and cries could be hear on the pier: Shieldbearers pushed the crowd back violently, striking wherever they could with the butt of their spears.
‘Stay away from the ferry!’ cried the horseman, brandishing his sword. ‘Just the army! Stay back, or I’ll be smashing heads!’
Geralt pulled on the reins to stop his horse, which danced on the edge of the ravine.
At the bottom of the ravine, in the clatter of weapons and armor, heavily armored riders galloped, raising a cloud of dust that obscured the shieldbearers running behind.
‘Geraaaalt!’
The witcher looked down. A thin man with a cherry-colored doublet and a hat with an egret-feather plume jumped up and waved at him from a cart loaded with wooden cages that had been abandoned at the side of the road. Hens and geese flapped and cackl
ed in the cages.
‘Geraaaalt, it's me!’
‘Dandelion! Come join me!’
‘Stay away from the ferry,’ the horseman with the bandaged head continued to screamed at the pier, ‘The ferry is only for the army! If you want to get to the other side, you pack of dogs, take your hatchets and get to work in the forest! Make yourselves a raft! The ferry is only for the army!’
‘By the gods, Geralt,’ panted the poet, climbing the side of the ravine. His cherry-colored doublet was covered with bird feathers like snow. ‘You see what's happening? Sodden must have lost the battle: they are beginning to retreat. What am I saying, what retreat? It's more of an escape… a panic-stricken flight! We need to get out of here, Geralt. To the other side of the Yaruga river…’
‘What are you doing here, Dandelion? Where did you come from?’
‘What am I doing here?’ shouted the bard. ‘You ask me that? I am running away like everyone else, bouncing all day on this cart! Some bastard stole my horse at night! Geralt, I beg you, pull me out of this hell! I tell you, those Nilfgaardians could be here anytime now! Anyone who doesn’t have the Yaruga river between himself and them will be go under the knife. Under the knife, you understand?’
‘Don't panic, Dandelion.’
Below, they heard the neighing of horses forced aboard the ferry and the clamor of their hooves striking the boards; Yelling. Chaos. With a splash, a cart stumbled into the water, the oxen bellowed, their snout appearing above the water. Geralt saw the crates and bundles from the cart turned in the river, hit against the hull of the ferry, and floated away. Yelling, cursing. A cloud of dust rose from the valley, sound of hooves could be heard.
‘Each in turn!’ yelled the horseman with the bandaged head, plunging with his horse into the crowd. ‘In order, you sons of bitches! One after the other!’
‘Geralt,’ moaned Dandelion, clinging to the stirrup, ‘You see what's happening? We'll never get aboard the ferry. They will carry as many soldiers as they can, then burn the ferry afterward so it can't be used by the Nilfgaardians. That's what they usually do, no?’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher] Page 36