“That's not a bad idea. Hey, Karelka, Borg, Carry-pebble! Any of you there?”
A town guard entered with a halberd on his shoulder, the blade catching the doorframe with a crash.
“Carrypebble,” said Caldemeyn. “Get somebody to help you and take the donkey with that muck wrapped up in the horse blanket, lead it past the pigsties and chuck the kikimora in the cesspool. Understood?”
“At your command. But…Alderman, sir—”
“What?”
“Maybe before we drown that hideous thing—”
“Well?”
“We could show it to Master Irion. It might be useful to him.”
Caldemeyn slapped his forehead with his open palm.
“You're not stupid, Carrypebble. Listen, Geralt, maybe our local wizard will spare you something for that carcass. The fishermen bring him the oddest of fish—octopedes, clabaters or herrongs—many have made some money on them. Come on, let's go to the tower.”
“You've got yourselves a wizard? Is he here for good or only passing?”
“For good. Master Irion. He's been living in Blaviken for a year. A powerful magus, Geralt, you'll see that from his very appearance.”
“I doubt whether a powerful magus will pay for a kikimora,” Geralt grimaced. “As far as I know, it's not needed for any elixirs. Your Irion will only insult me, no doubt. We witchers and wizards don't love each other.”
“I’ve never heard of Master Irion insulting anyone. I can't swear that he'll pay you but there's no harm in trying. There might be more kikimoras like that on the marshes and what then? Let the wizard look at the monster and cast some sort of spell on the marshlands or something, just in case.”
The witcher thought for a moment.
“Very well, Caldemeyn. What the heck, we'll risk a meeting with Master Irion. Shall we go?”
“We're off. Carrypebble, chase the kids away and bring the floppyears. Where's my hat?”
II
The tower, built from smoothly hewn blocks of granite and crowned by tooth-like battlements, was impressive, dominating the broken tiles of homesteads and dipping-roofed thatched cottages.
“He's renovated it, I see,” remarked Geralt. “With spells, or did he have you working at it?”
“Spells, chiefly.”
“What's he like, this Irion?”
“Decent. He helps people. But he's a recluse, doesn't say much. He rarely leaves the tower.”
On the door, which was adorned with a rosace inlaid with pale wood, hung a huge knocker in the shape of a flat bulging-eyed fish-head holding a brass ring in its toothed jaws. Caldemeyn, obviously well-versed with the workings of its mechanics, approached, cleared his throat and recited:
“Alderman Caldemeyn greets you with a case for Master Irion. With him greets you, Witcher Geralt, with respect to the same case.”
For a long moment nothing happened; then finally the fish-head moved its toothed mandibles and belched a cloud of steam.
“Master Irion is not receiving. Leave, my good people.”
Caldemeyn waddled on the spot and looked at Geralt. The witcher shrugged. Carrypebble picked his nose with serious concentration.
“Master Irion is not receiving,” the knocker repeated metallically. “Go, my good—”
“I’m not a good person,” Geralt broke in loudly. “I’m a witcher. That thing on the donkey is a kikimora, and I killed it not far from town. It is the duty of every resident wizard to look after the safety of the neighborhood. Master Irion does not have to honor me with conversation, does not have to receive me, if that is his will. But let him examine the kikimora and draw his own conclusions. Carrypebble, unstrap the kikimora and throw it down by the door.”
“Geralt,” the alderman said quietly. “You're going to leave but I’m going to have to—”
“Let's go, Caldemeyn. Carrypebble, take that finger out of your nose and do as I said.”
“One moment,” the knocker said in an entirely different tone. “Geralt, is that really you?”
The witcher swore quietly.
“I’m losing patience. Yes, it's really me. So what?”
“Come up to the door,” said the knocker, puffing out a small cloud of steam. “Alone. I’ll let you in.”
“What about the kikimora?”
“To hell with it. I want to talk to you, Geralt. Just you. Forgive me, Alderman.”
“What's it to me, Master Irion?” Caldemeyn waved the matter aside. “Take care, Geralt. We'll see each other later. Carrypebble! Into the cesspool with the monster!”
“As you command.”
The witcher approached the inlaid door, which opened a little bit—just enough for him to squeeze through—and then slammed shut, leaving him in complete darkness.
“Hey!” he shouted, not hiding his anger.
“Just a moment,” answered a strangely familiar voice.
The feeling was so unexpected that the witcher staggered and stretched out his hand, looking for support. He didn't find any.
The orchard was blossoming with white and pink, and smelled of rain. The sky was split by the many-colored arc of a rainbow, which bound the crowns of the trees to the distant, blue chain of mountains. The house nestled in the orchard, tiny and modest, was drowning in hollyhocks. Geralt looked down and discovered that he was up to his knees in thyme.
“Well, come on, Geralt,” said the voice. “I’m in front of the house.”
He entered the orchard, walking through the trees. He noticed a movement to his left and looked round. A fair-haired girl, entirely naked, was walking along a row of shrubs carrying a basket full of apples. The witcher solemnly promised himself that nothing would surprise him anymore.
“At last. Greetings, witcher.”
“Stregobor!” Geralt was surprised.
During his life, the witcher had met thieves who looked like town councilors, councilors who looked like beggars, harlots who looked like princesses, princesses who looked like calving cows and kings who looked like thieves. But Stregobor always looked as, according to every rule and notion, a wizard should look. He was tall, thin and stooping, with enormous bushy gray eyebrows and a long, crooked nose. To top it off, he wore a black, trailing robe with improbably wide sleeves, and wielded a long staff capped with a crystal knob. None of the wizards Geralt knew looked like Stregobor. Most surprising of all was that Stregobor was, indeed, a wizard.
They sat in wicker chairs at a white marble-topped table on a porch surrounded by hollyhocks. The naked blonde with the apple basket approached, smiled, turned and, swaying her hips, returned to the orchard.
“Is that an illusion, too?” asked Geralt, watching the sway.
“It is. Like everything here. But it is, my friend, a first-class illusion. The flowers smell, you can eat the apples, the bee can sting you, and she”—the wizard indicated the blonde—“you can—”
“Maybe later.”
“Quite right. What are you doing here, Geralt? Are you still toiling away, killing the last representatives of dying species for money? How much did you get for the kikimora? Nothing, I guess, or you wouldn't have come here. And to think that there are people who don't believe in destiny. Unless you knew about me. Did you?”
“No, I didn't. It's the last place I could have expected you. If my memory serves me correctly, you used to live in a similar tower in Kovir.”
“A great deal has changed since then.”
“Such as your name. Apparently, you're Master Irion now.”
“That's the name of the man who created this tower. He died about two hundred years ago, and I thought it right to honor him in some way since I occupied his abode. I’m living here. Most of the inhabitants live off the sea and, as you know, my speciality, apart from illusions, is weather. Sometimes I’ll calm a storm, sometimes conjure one up, sometimes drive schools of whiting and cod closer to the shores with the westerly wind. I can survive. That is,” he added, miserably, “I could.”
“How come ‘I
could’? Why the change of name?”
“Destiny has many faces. Mine is beautiful on the outside and hideous on the inside. She has stretched her bloody talons toward me—”
“You've not changed a bit, Stregobor.” Geralt grimaced. “You're talking nonsense while making wise and meaningful faces. Can't you speak normally?”
“I can,” sighed the wizard. “I can if that makes you happy. I made it all the way here, hiding and running from a monstrous being that wants to murder me. My escape proved in vain—it found me. In all probability, it's going to try to kill me tomorrow, or at the latest, the day after.”
“Aha,” said the witcher dispassionately. “Now I understand.”
“My facing death doesn't impress you much, does it?”
“Stregobor,” said Geralt, “that's the way of the world. One sees all sorts of things when one travels. Two peasants kill each other over a field which, the following day, will be trampled flat by two counts and their retinues trying to kill each other off. Men hang from trees at the roadside; brigands slash merchants’ throats. At every step in town you trip over corpses in the gutters. In palaces they stab each other with daggers, and somebody falls under the table at a banquet every minute, blue from poisoning. I’m used to it. So why should a death threat impress me, and one directed at you at that?”
“One directed at me at that,” Stregobor repeated with a sneer. “And I considered you a friend. Counted on your help.”
“Our last meeting,” said Geralt, “was in the court of King Idi of Kovir. I’d come to be paid for killing the amphisboena which had been terrorizing the neighborhood. You and your compatriot Zavist vied with each other to call me a charlatan, a thoughtless murdering machine and a scavenger. Consequently, not only didn't Idi pay me a penny, he gave me twelve hours to leave Kovir and, since his hourglass was broken, I barely made it. And now you say you're counting on my help. You say a monster's after you. What are you afraid of, Stregobor? If it catches up with you, tell it you like monsters, that you protect them and make sure no witcher scavenger ever troubles their peace. Indeed, if the monster disembowels and devours you, it'll prove terribly ungrateful.”
The wizard turned his head away silently. Geralt laughed. “Don't get all puffed up like a frog, magician. Tell me what's threatening you. We'll see what can be done.”
“Have you heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?”
“But of course. Except that it was called the Mania of Mad Eltibald after the wizard who started the lark and caused dozens of girls from good, even noble, families to be murdered or imprisoned in towers. They were supposed to have been possessed by demons, cursed, contaminated by the Black Sun, because that's what, in your pompous jargon, you called the most ordinary eclipse in the world.”
“Eltibald wasn't mad at all. He deciphered the writing on Dauk menhirs, on tombstones in the Wozgor necropolises, and examined the legends and traditions of weretots. All of them spoke of the eclipse in no uncertain terms. The Black Sun was to announce the imminent return of Lilit, still honored in the East under the name of Niya, and the extermination of the human race. Lilit's path was to be prepared by ‘sixty women wearing gold crowns, who would fill the river valleys with blood.’”
“Nonsense,” said the witcher. “And what's more, it doesn't rhyme. All decent predictions rhyme. Everyone knows what Eltibald and the Council of Wizards had in mind at the time. You took advantage of a madman's ravings to strengthen your own authority. To break up alliances, ruin marriage allegiances, stir up dynasties. In a word: to tangle the strings of crowned puppets even more. And here you are lecturing me about predictions, which any old storyteller at the marketplace would be ashamed of.”
“You can have your reservations about Eltibald's theories, about how the predictions were interpreted. But you can't challenge the fact that there have been horrendous mutations among girls born just after the eclipse.”
“And why not? I’ve heard quite the opposite.”
“I was present when they did an autopsy on one of them,” said the wizard. “Geralt, what we found inside the skull and marrow could not be described. Some sort of red sponge. The internal organs were all mixed up, some were missing completely. Everything was covered in moving cilia, bluish-pink shreds. The heart was six-chambered, with two chambers practically atrophied. What do you say to that?”
“I’ve seen people with eagles’ talons instead of hands, people with a wolf's fangs. People with additional joints, additional organs and additional senses. All of which were the effects of your messing about with magic.”
“You've seen all sorts of mutations, you say.” The magician raised his head. “And how many of them have you slaughtered for money, in keeping with your witcher's calling? Well? Because one can have a wolf's fangs and go no further than baring them at the trollops in taverns, or one can have a wolf's nature, too, and attack children. And that's just how it was with the girls who were born after the eclipse. Their outright insane tendency to cruelty, aggression, sudden bursts of anger and an unbridled temperament were noted.”
“You can say that about any woman,” sneered Geralt. “What are you driveling on about? You're asking me how many mutants I’ve killed. Why aren't you interested in how many I’ve extricated from spells, freed from curses? I, a witcher despised by you. And what have you done, you mighty magicians?”
“A higher magic was used. Ours and that of the priests, in various temples. All attempts ended in the girls’ deaths.”
“That speaks badly of you, not the girls. And so we've now got the first corpses. I take it the only autopsies were done on them?”
“No. Don't look at me like that; you know very well that there were more corpses, too. It was initially decided to eliminate all of them. We got rid of a few…autopsies were done on all of them. One of them was even vivisectioned.”
“And you sons of bitches have the nerve to criticize witchers? Oh, Stregobor, the day will come when people will learn, and get the better of you.”
“I don't think a day like that will come soon,” said the wizard caustically. “Don't forget that we were acting in the people's defense. The mutant girls would have drowned entire countries in blood.”
“So say you magicians, turning your noses up, so high and mighty with your auras of infallibility. While we're on the subject, surely you're not going to tell me that in your hunt for these so-called mutants you haven't once made a mistake?”
“All right,” said Stregobor after a long silence. “I’ll be honest, although for my own sake I shouldn't. We did make a mistake—more than one. Picking them out was extremely difficult. And that's why we stopped…getting rid of them, and started isolating them instead.”
“Your famous towers,” snorted the witcher.
“Our towers. But that was another mistake. We underestimated them. Many escaped. Then some mad fashion to free imprisoned beauties took hold of princes, especaily the younger ones, who didn't have much to do and still less to lose. Most of them, fortunately, twisted their necks—”
“As far as I know, those imprisoned in the towers died quickly. It's been said you must have helped them somewhat.”
“That's a lie. But it is true that they quickly fell into apathy, refused to eat…What is interesting is that shortly before they died, they showed signs of the gift of clairvoyance. Further proof of mutation.”
“Your proofs are becoming ever less convincing. Do you have any more?”
“I do. Silvena, the lady of Narok, whom we never managed to get close to because she gained power so quickly. Terrible things are happening in Narok now. Fialka, Evermir's daughter, escaped her tower using a homemade rope and is now terrorizing North Velhad. Bernika of Talgar was freed by an idiot prince. Now he's sitting in a dungeon, blinded, and the most common feature of the Talgar landscape is a set of gallows. There are other examples, too.”
“Of course there are,” said the witcher. “In Yamurlak, for instance, old man Abrad reigns. He's got scrofula, not a
single tooth in his head, was probably born some hundred years before this eclipse, and can't fall asleep unless someone's being tortured to death in his presence. He's wiped out all his relatives and emptied half of the country in crazy—how did you put it?—attacks of anger. There are also traces of a rampant temperament. Apparently he was nicknamed Abrad Jack-up-the-Skirt in his youth. Oh, Stregobor, it would be great if the cruelty of rulers could be explained away by mutations or curses.”
“Listen, Geralt—”
“No. You won't win me over with your reasons nor convince me that Eltibad wasn't a murdering madman, so let's get back to the monster threatening you. You'd better understand that, after the introduction you've given me, I don't like the story. But I’ll hear you out.”
“Without interrupting with spiteful comments?”
“That I can't promise.”
“Oh well”—Stregobor slipped his hands into the sleeves of his robe—“then it'll only take longer. Well, the story begins in Creyden, a small principality in the north. The wife of Fredefalk, the Prince of Creyden, was Aridea, a wise, educated woman. She had many exceptional adepts of the magical arts in her family and—through inheritance, no doubt—she came into possession of a rare and powerful artifact. One of Nehalenia's Mirrors. They're chiefly used by prophets and oracles because they predict the future accurately, albeit intricately. Aridea quite often turned to the Mirror—”
“With the usual question, I take it,” interrupted Geralt. “’Who is the fairest of them all?’ I know; all Nehalenia's Mirrors are either polite or broken.”
“You're wrong. Aridea was more interested in her country's fate. And the Mirror answered her questions by predicting a horrible death for her and for a great number of others by the hand, or fault, of Fredefalk's daughter from his first marriage. Aridea ensured this news reached the Council, and the Council sent me to Creyden. I don't have to add that Fredefalk's firstborn daughter was born shortly after the eclipse. I was quite discreet for a little while. She managed to torture a canary and two puppies during that time, and also gouged out a servant's eye with the handle of a comb. I carried out a few tests using curses, and most of them confirmed that the little one was a mutant. I went to Aridea with the news because Fredefalk's daughter meant the world to him. Aridea, as I said, wasn't stupid—”
The Last Wish: Introducing The Witcher Page 9