The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘That’s why I brought her here.’

  ‘Which class shall I put her in? Does she know the basics?’

  ‘She does, but she can start at the beginning like everyone else. It won’t do her any harm.’

  ‘That would be wise,’ said Tissaia de Vries, busily correcting the arrangement of cups on the marble tabletop, which was covered in a thin layer of condensation. ‘That would be wise indeed, Yennefer. The girl will find it easier if she begins with the other novices.’

  Ciri hauled herself out of the pool and sat on the edge, wringing her hair out and splashing her feet in the water. Yennefer and Margarita gossiped lazily, wiping their faces from time to time with cloths soaked in cold water. Tissaia, modestly swathed in a sheet, didn’t join in the conversation, and gave the impression of being utterly absorbed in tidying the objects on the table.

  ‘My humble apologies, noble ladies,’ called the innkeeper suddenly, unseen, from above. ‘Please forgive my daring to disturb, but . . . an officer wishes to talk to Madam de Vries urgently. Apparently the matter will brook no delay!’

  Margarita Laux-Antille giggled and winked at Yennefer, upon which they pulled the towels from their hips and assumed exotic and extremely provocative poses.

  ‘Let the officer enter,’ shouted Margarita, trying not to laugh. ‘Welcome. We’re ready.’

  ‘Children,’ sighed Tissaia de Vries, shaking her head. ‘Cover yourself, Ciri.’

  The officer came in, but the enchantresses’ prank misfired. The officer wasn’t embarrassed at the sight of them, and didn’t blush, gape or goggle, because the officer was a woman. A tall, slender woman with a thick, black plait and a sword at her side.

  ‘Madam,’ said the woman stiffly, her hauberk clanking as she gave Tissaia de Vries a slight bow, ‘I report the execution of your instructions. I would like to ask for permission to return to the garrison.’

  ‘You may,’ replied Tissaia curtly. ‘Thank you for the escort and your help. Have a safe journey.’

  Yennefer sat up on her lounger, looking at the black, gold and red rosette on the soldier’s shoulder.

  ‘Do I know you?’

  The warrior bowed stiffly and wiped her sweat-covered face. It was hot in the bathhouse, and she was wearing a hauberk and leather tunic.

  ‘I often used to visit Vengerberg, Madam Yennefer,’ she said. ‘My name is Rayla.’

  ‘Judging by the rosette, you serve in King Demavend’s special units.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Your rank?’

  ‘Captain.’

  ‘Very good.’ Margarita Laux-Antille laughed. ‘I note with pleasure that Demavend’s army has finally begun to award commissions to soldiers with balls.’

  ‘May I withdraw?’ said the soldier, standing up straight and resting her hand on the hilt of her sword.

  ‘You may.’

  ‘I sensed hostility in your voice, Yenna,’ said Margarita a moment later. ‘What do you have against the captain?’

  Yennefer stood up and took two goblets from the table.

  ‘Did you see the posts by the crossroads?’ she asked. ‘You must have seen them, must have smelled the stench of rotting corpses. Those posts are their idea and their work. She and her subordinates from the special units. They’re a gang of sadists!’

  ‘There’s a war on, Yennefer. Rayla must have seen her comrades-in-arms falling, alive, into the Squirrels’ clutches many times. Then hung by their arms from trees as target practice. Blinded, castrated, with their feet burnt in campfires. Falka herself wouldn’t have been ashamed of the atrocities committed by the Scoia’tael.’

  ‘The methods of the special units are remarkably similar to those of Falka. But that’s not the point, Rita. I’m not getting sentimental about the fate of elves and I know what war is. I know how wars are won, too. They’re won by soldiers who fight for their countries and homes with conviction and sacrifice. Not by soldiers like her, by mercenaries fighting for money who are unable and unwilling to sacrifice themselves. They don’t even know what sacrifice is. And if they do, they despise it.’

  ‘To hell with her, her dedication and her contempt. What does it matter to us? Ciri, throw something decent on, pop upstairs and fetch us another carafe. I feel like getting drunk today.’

  Tissaia de Vries sighed, shaking her head. It didn’t escape Margarita’s attention.

  ‘Fortunately,’ she giggled, ‘we aren’t at school any longer, mistress dear. We can do what we want now.’

  ‘Even in the presence of a future novice?’ asked Tissaia scathingly. ‘When I was rectoress at Aretuza—’

  ‘We remember, we remember,’ interrupted Yennefer with a smile, ‘and even if we’d prefer to forget, we never will. Go and fetch that carafe, Ciri.’

  Upstairs, waiting for the carafe, Ciri witnessed the officer depart with her squad of four soldiers. She watched their posture, expressions, clothing and arms in fascination and admiration. Right then Rayla, the captain with the black plait, was arguing with the innkeeper.

  ‘I’m not going to wait until daybreak! And I couldn’t give a damn if the gates are locked. I want to leave immediately. I know the inn has its own postern in the stables. I order it to be opened!’

  ‘But the regulations—’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about the regulations! I’m carrying out the orders of Arch-Mistress de Vries!’

  ‘All right, all right, captain. Don’t shout. I’ll open up . . .’

  The postern, it turned out, was in a narrow, securely gated passageway, leading straight beyond the city walls. Before Ciri took the carafe from the servant’s hands, she saw the postern being opened and Rayla and her unit riding out, into the night.

  Ciri was deep in thought.

  ‘Oh, at last,’ said Margarita cheerfully, though it was unclear whether she was referring to the sight of Ciri or the carafe she was carrying. Ciri put the carafe on the table – very clearly wrongly, because Tissaia de Vries repositioned it at once. When Yennefer poured, she spoiled the entire arrangement too, and Tissaia had to put it right again. Imagining Tissaia as a teacher filled Ciri with dread.

  Yennefer and Margarita returned to their interrupted conversation, not sparing the contents of the carafe. Ciri realised it wouldn’t be long before she would have to go and get a fresh one. She pondered, listening to the enchantresses’ discussion.

  ‘No, Yenna.’ Margarita shook her head. ‘You aren’t up to speed, I see. I’ve dumped Lars. That’s history. Elaine deireadh, as the elves would say.’

  ‘And that’s why you want to get drunk?’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons,’ confirmed Margarita Laux-Antille. ‘I’m sad. I can’t hide it. I was with him for four years, after all. But I had to dump him. It was hopeless . . .’

  ‘Particularly,’ snorted Tissaia de Vries, staring at the golden wine as she swilled it around her cup, ‘since Lars was married.’

  ‘I consider that of no importance,’ said the enchantress, shrugging. ‘All the attractive men of a certain age and who interest me are married. I can’t help that. Lars loved me and, I would add, loved me for quite some time . . . Ah, what can I say? He wanted too much. He jeopardised my freedom, and the thought of monogamy makes me sick. And after all, I was only following your example, Yenna. Do you remember that conversation in Vengerberg? When you decided to break up with that witcher of yours? I advised you then to think twice. I told you, you can’t find love in the street. But you were right. Love is love, and life is life. Love passes . . .’

  ‘Don’t listen to her, Yennefer,’ said Tissaia coldly. ‘She’s bitter and full of regrets. Do you know why she’s not going to the banquet at Aretuza? Because she’s ashamed to show up alone, without the man she’s been involved with for four years. The man people envied her for. Who she lost because she was unable to value his love.’

  ‘Perhaps we could talk about something else,’ suggested Yennefer in an apparently carefree but slightly altered voice. ‘Ciri, pour us s
ome wine. Oh hell, that carafe’s small. Be so kind as to bring us another.’

  ‘Bring two,’ laughed Margarita, ‘and as a reward you’ll get a sip and be able to sit with us; you won’t have to strain your ears from a distance. Your education can begin here, right now, before you join me at Aretuza.’

  ‘Education!’ Tissaia raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘By the gods!’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, beloved mistress,’ said Margarita, slapping a hand against her wet thigh, pretending to be angry. ‘I’m the rectoress of the school now! You didn’t manage to flunk me during the final exams!’

  ‘I regret that.’

  ‘I do, too! Just imagine, I’d have a private practice now, like Yenna. I wouldn’t have to sweat with novices. I wouldn’t have to wipe the noses of the blubbering ones or lock horns with the cheeky ones. Ciri, listen to me and learn. An enchantress always takes action. Wrongly or rightly; that is revealed later. But you should act, be brave, seize life by the scruff of the neck. Believe me, little one, you should only regret inactivity, indecisiveness, hesitation. You shouldn’t regret actions or decisions, even if they occasionally end in sadness and regret. Look at that serious lady sitting there pulling faces and pedantically correcting everything in sight. That’s Tissaia de Vries, arch-mistress, who has educated dozens of enchantresses. Teaching them how to act. Teaching them that indecision—’

  ‘Enough, Rita.’

  ‘Tissaia’s right,’ said Yennefer, still staring into the corner of the bathhouse. ‘Stop. I know you’re feeling low because of Lars, but don’t moralise. The girl still has time for that kind of learning. And she won’t receive it in school. Ciri, go and get another carafe.’

  Ciri stood up. She was completely dressed.

  And her mind was utterly made up.

  ‘What?’ Yennefer shrieked. ‘What do you mean she’s gone?’

  ‘She ordered me . . .’ mumbled the innkeeper, pale, with his back pressed against the wall. ‘She ordered me to saddle a horse . . .’

  ‘And you obeyed her? Rather than ask us?’

  ‘Madam! How was I to know? I was sure she was leaving on your orders . . . It never once occurred to me—’

  ‘You damned fool!’

  ‘Take it easy, Yennefer,’ said Tissaia, pressing a hand against her forehead. ‘Don’t succumb to your emotions. It’s night. They won’t let her through the gate.’

  ‘She ordered the postern opened . . .’ whispered the innkeeper.

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘Because of the conclave, madam,’ said the innkeeper, lowering his eyes, ‘the city is full of sorcerers . . . People are afraid. No one dares to get in their way . . . How could I refuse her? She spoke just like you do, madam, in exactly the same tone, and she looked the same way . . . No one even dared to look her in the eye, never mind ask a question . . . She was like you . . . The spitting image . . . She even ordered a quill and ink and wrote a letter.’

  ‘Hand it over!’

  Tissaia de Vries was quicker, and read aloud:

  Madam Yennefer,

  Forgive me. I’m riding to Hirundum because I want to see Geralt. I want to see him before I start school. Forgive my disobedience, but I must. I know you’ll punish me, but I don’t want to regret my indecision and hesitation. If I’m to have regrets, let them be for deeds and actions. I’m an enchantress. I seize life by the scruff of the neck. I’ll return when I can.

  Ciri

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘There’s also a postscript.’

  Tell Madam Rita she won’t have to wipe my nose at school.

  Margarita Laux-Antille shook her head in disbelief as Yennefer cursed. The innkeeper flushed and opened his mouth. He’d heard many curses in his life, but never that one.

  The wind blew from the land towards the sea. Waves of cloud drifted over the moon, suspended over the forest. The road to Hirundum was plunged into darkness making galloping too dangerous. Ciri slowed to a trot, but she didn’t consider slowing to a walk. She was in a hurry.

  The growling of an approaching storm could be heard in the distance, and from time to time the horizon was lit up by a flash of lightning, revealing the toothed saw of treetops against the dusk.

  She reined in her horse. She was at a junction; the road forked and both forks looked identical.

  Why hadn’t Fabio said anything about a fork in the road? And anyway, I never get lost. After all, I always know which way to walk or ride . . .

  So why don’t I know which road to take now?

  A huge shape glided silently past her head and Ciri felt her heart in her throat. The horse neighed, kicked and galloped off, choosing the right-hand fork. After a moment, she reined it in.

  ‘It was just an owl,’ she panted, trying to calm herself and the horse. ‘Just an ordinary bird . . . There’s nothing to be afraid of . . .’

  The wind grew stronger, and the dark clouds completely covered the moon. But before her, in the vista of the road, in the hole gaping among the trees, it was light. She rode faster, the sand flying up from the horse’s hooves.

  A little later she had to stop. In front of her was a cliff and the sea, from which the familiar black cone of the island rose up. The lights of Garstang, Loxia and Aretuza could not be seen from where she was. She could only see the soaring, solitary tower which crowned Thanedd.

  Tor Lara.

  A blinding bolt of lightning connected the overcast sky to the pinnacle of the tower, and a moment later it thundered. Tor Lara glowered at her, its windows become red eyes. For a second it seemed a fire was burning inside the tower.

  Tor Lara . . . The Tower of Gulls . . . Why does its name fill me with such dread?

  The gale tossed the trees around. The branches whispered. Ciri screwed up her eyes, and dust and leaves struck her cheek. She turned the snorting, skittering horse back, having regained her orientation. The Isle of Thanedd faced north, so she must have ridden westwards. The sandy road lay in the dusk like a bright, white ribbon. She set off again at a gallop.

  Ciri suddenly saw some riders in a flash of lightning. Dark, vague, moving shapes on both sides of the road. It thundered once more and she heard a cry.

  ‘Gar’ean!’

  Without thinking, she spurred her horse, reined it back, turned around and galloped away. Behind her there were shouts, whistles, neighing and the thudding of hooves.

  ‘Gar’ean! Dh’oine!’

  Galloping, the thud of hooves, the rush of the wind. Darkness, with the white trunks of roadside birches flashing by. Lightning. A thunderclap. And, in its light, two riders trying to block her way. One reached out, trying to grab her reins. He had a squirrel’s tail attached to his hat. Ciri kicked her horse with her heels, clinging to its neck, the speed pulling her over to one side. Lightning. Behind her rose shouting, whistling and a clap of thunder.

  ‘Spar’le, Yaevinn!’

  Gallop, gallop! Quicker, horse! Lightning. Thunder. A fork in the road. To the left! I never lose my way! Another fork. To the right! Gallop, horse! Faster, faster!

  The road went uphill, sand under the horse’s hooves. The horse, even though it was being spurred on, slowed . . .

  She looked around at the top of the hill. Another lightning flash lit up the road. It was totally empty. She listened hard but only heard the wind whistling in the leaves. It thundered again.

  There’s no one here. Squirrels . . . it’s just a memory from Kaedwen. The Rose of Shaerrawedd . . . I imagined it. There isn’t a living soul here. No one’s chasing me . . .

  The wind struck her. The wind’s blowing from the land, she thought, and I can feel it on my right cheek . . .

  I’m lost.

  Lightning. It lit up the surface of the sea against the black cone of the Isle of Thanedd. And Tor Lara. The Tower of Gulls. The tower that was drawing Ciri like a magnet . . . But I don’t want to go to that tower. I’m riding to Hirundum. I must see Geralt.

  Lightning flashed again.

  A black horse stood betwe
en her and the cliff. And on it sat a knight in a helmet adorned with the wings of a bird of prey. Its wings suddenly flapped, the bird took flight . . .

  Cintra!

  Paralysing fear. Her hands gripping the reins tightly. Lightning. The black knight spurred his horse. He had a ghastly mask instead of a face. The wings flapped . . .

  The horse set off at a gallop without needing to be urged. Darkness illuminated by lightning. The forest was coming to an end. The splash and squelch of swamp under the horse’s hooves. Behind her the swish of a raptor’s wings. Closer and closer . . . Closer . . .

  A furious gallop, her eyes watering from their speed. Lightning sliced the sky, and in its flash Ciri saw alders and willows on either side of the road. But they weren’t trees. They were the servants of the Alder King. Servants of the black knight, who was galloping after her, with raptor’s wings swishing on his helmet. Misshapen monsters on both sides of the road stretched their gnarled arms towards her; they laughed insanely, the black jaws of their hollows opening wide. Ciri flattened herself against the horse’s neck. Branches whistled, lashed her and tore at her clothes. The distorted trunks creaked and the hollow jaws snapped, howling with scornful laughter . . .

  The Lion Cub of Cintra! Child of the Elder Blood!

  The black knight was right behind her; Ciri felt his hand trying to seize her long hair. The horse, urged on by her cries, leapt forward, cleared an unseen obstacle with a powerful bound, crashed through reeds, stumbled . . .

  She reined it in, leaning back in the saddle, and turned the snorting horse back. She screamed wildly, furiously. She yanked her sword from its scabbard and whirled it above her head. This is Cintra no longer! I’m no longer a child! I’m no longer helpless! I won’t allow it . . .

  ‘I forbid it! You will not touch me again! You will never touch me!’

  Her horse landed in the water with a splash and a squelch, belly-deep. Ciri leaned forward, cried out, urged her mount on with her heels and struggled back onto the causeway again. Ponds, she thought. Fabio talked about fishponds. It’s Hirundum. I’ve made it. I never lose my way . . .