The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  He didn’t reply, but instead served her, pouring her wine. And decided it was high time to clear up a few matters.

  ‘You’re a sorceress, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am,’ she admitted, masking her surprise extremely deftly. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I can sense the aura,’ he said without going into details. ‘And I’m skilled.’

  ‘To be quite clear,’ she said a moment later, ‘it wasn’t my intention to deceive anybody. I have no obligation to flaunt my profession or put on a pointed hat and black cloak. Why use me to frighten children? I have the right to remain incognito.’

  ‘Undeniably.’

  ‘I’m in Beauclair because the largest, best-stocked library in the known world is here. Apart from university libraries, naturally. But universities are jealous of giving access to their shelves, and here I’m a relation and good friend of Anarietta and can do as I wish.’

  ‘I envy you.’

  ‘During the audience, Anarietta hinted that the book collection may conceal a clue which may be useful to you. Don’t be put off by her theatrical gushiness. That’s just the way she is. And it really is likely that you’ll find something in the library. Why, it’s quite probable. It’s enough to know what to look for and where.’

  ‘Indeed. Nothing more.’

  ‘The enthusiasm of your answers truly lifts my spirits and encourages me to talk.’ She narrowed her eyes slightly. ‘I can guess the reason. You don’t trust me, do you?’

  ‘A little more grouse, perhaps?’

  ‘I vow on the heron!’ A young knight from the end of the horseshoe stood up and blindfolded himself with a sash given him by the lady sitting next to him. ‘I vow not to take off this sash until the marauders from the Cervantes pass are entirely wiped out.’

  The duchess gave her acknowledgement with a gracious nod of her diamond-sparkling head.

  Geralt hoped Fringilla wouldn’t continue on the subject. He was mistaken.

  ‘You don’t believe me and you don’t trust me,’ she said. ‘You’ve given me a doubly painful blow. You don’t only doubt that I sincerely want to help, but neither do you believe I can. Oh, Geralt! You’ve cut my pride and lofty ambition to the quick.’

  ‘Listen—’

  ‘No!’ She raised her knife and fork as though threatening him. ‘Don’t try to apologise. I can’t bear men who apologise.’

  ‘What kind of men can you bear?’

  She narrowed her eyes, and continued to hold her cutlery like daggers about to strike.

  ‘The list is long,’ she said slowly. ‘And I don’t want to bore you with the details. I merely state that men who are ready to go to the end of the world for their beloved, dauntlessly, scorning risk and danger, occupy quite a high position. And those that don’t quit, even though there seems to be no chance of success.’

  ‘And the other positions on the list?’ he blurted out. ‘The other men to your taste? Also madmen?’

  ‘And what is true manliness—’ she tilted her head playfully ‘—if not class and recklessness blended together in the correct proportions?’

  ‘Lords and ladies, barons and knights!’ shouted Chamberlain Le Goff loudly, standing up and raising a gigantic cup in both hands. ‘In the given circumstances I shall take the liberty of offering a toast: to Her Enlightened Ladyship, Duchess Anna Henrietta.’

  ‘Health and happiness!’

  ‘Hurrah!’

  ‘Long live the duchess! Vivat!’

  ‘And now, lords and ladies . . . .’ The chamberlain put the cup down and nodded solemnly towards the liveried servants. ‘Now . . . The Magna Bestia!’

  An enormous roast on a dish, filling the hall with its marvellous aroma, was carried in by four servants on something resembling a sedan chair.

  ‘The Magna Bestia!’ roared the revellers as one. ‘Hurrah! The Magna Bestia!’

  ‘What bloody beast is that?’ Angoulême expressed her anxiety loudly. ‘I’m not going to eat it until I find out what it is.’

  ‘It’s an elk,’ Geralt explained. ‘A roast elk.’

  ‘Not just any elk,’ said Milva, after clearing her throat. ‘That bull weighed seven hundredweight.’

  ‘With a fine six-point rack. Seven hundredweight and forty pounds,’ gruffly commented the tight-lipped baron sitting beside her. They were the first words he’d uttered from the start of the banquet.

  Perhaps it would have been the beginning of a conversation, but the archer blushed, fixed her gaze on the tablecloth and resumed her crumbling of bread.

  But Geralt had taken Fringilla’s words to heart.

  ‘Did you, my lord baron,’ he asked, ‘bring down that magnificent bull?’

  ‘Not I,’ said the tight-lipped baron. ‘My son-in-law. He’s an excellent shot. But that’s a male topic, if I may say so . . . I beg for forgiveness. One shouldn’t bore the ladies . . .’

  ‘With what bow?’ asked Milva, still staring at the tablecloth. ‘No doubt nothing weaker than a seventy-pounder.’

  ‘A laminate. Layers of yew, acacia and ash, glued together with sinews,’ the baron slowly responded, visibly surprised. ‘A double-bent zefar. Seventy-five pounds draw.’

  ‘And the draw length?’

  ‘Twenty-nine inches.’ The baron was speaking slower and slower and he seemed to be spitting out each word.

  ‘A veritable ballista,’ Milva said calmly. ‘You could down a stag at even a hundred paces with a bow like that. If the archer was genuinely able.’

  ‘Aye,’ wheezed the baron, as though somewhat piqued. ‘I can hit a pheasant from five and twenty paces, if I may say so.’

  ‘From a score and five,’ Milva raised her head, ‘I can hit a squirrel.’

  The baron, disconcerted, gave a slight cough and quickly served the archer with food and drink.

  ‘A good bow,’ he muttered, ‘is half the success. But no less important as the quality, if I may say so, of the shot. So you see, my lady, according to me an arrow—’

  ‘Good health to Her Grace Anna Henrietta! Good health to Viscount Julian de Lettenhove!’

  ‘Cheers! Vivant!’

  ‘. . . and she fucked him!’ Angoulême finished another foolish anecdote. The young knights roared with laughter.

  The barons’ daughters, called Queline and Nique, listened to Cahir’s tales open-mouthed, their eyes sparkling and their cheeks flushed. At the top table the entire upper aristocracy were listening to Regis’s disquisitions. Only isolated words reached Geralt’s ears – despite his witcher’s hearing – but he worked out that the talk was of spectres, strigas, succubuses and vampires. Regis waved a silver fork and demonstrated that the best remedy against vampires is silver, a precious metal the barest touch of which is absolutely fatal to them. And garlic, asked the ladies? Garlic is also effective, admitted Regis, but socially troublesome, since it stinks awfully.

  The band on the gallery played fiddles and pipes, and the acrobats, jugglers and fire-eaters showed off their artistry. The jester tried to amuse the guests, but what chance did he have against Angoulême? Then a bear tamer appeared with a bear, which – to general delight – did a dump on the floor. Angoulême became morose and subdued – it was difficult to compete with something like that.

  The pointy-nosed duchess suddenly fell into a fury, and one of the barons fell out of favour and was escorted to the tower for some imprudent word. Few – apart from those directly involved – seemed bothered by the matter.

  ‘You won’t be leaving here in a hurry, you doubter,’ said Fringilla Vigo, swinging her glass. ‘Although you’d leave at once if you could, nothing will come of it.’

  ‘Don’t read my thoughts, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry. They were so strong I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘You’ve no idea how many times I’ve heard that.’

  ‘You’ve no idea how much I know. Eat some artichokes, please, they’re good for you, good for the heart. The heart’s a vital organ in a man. The second most important.�
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  ‘I thought the most important things were class and recklessness.’

  ‘The qualities of the spirit ought to go hand in hand with the attributes of the body. From that comes perfection.’

  ‘No one’s perfect.’

  ‘That’s not an argument. One ought to try. Do you know what? I think I’ll have those hen grouse.’

  She cut the bird up on her plate so quickly and violently it made the Witcher shudder.

  ‘You won’t be leaving here in a hurry,’ she said. ‘Firstly, you have no reason to. Nothing’s threatening you—’

  ‘Nothing at all, indeed,’ he interrupted, unable to stop himself. ‘The Nilfgaardians will take fright at the stern note issued by the ducal chancellery. And even if they risked it they would be driven from here by the knights errant taking vows on the heron with their eyes blindfold.’

  ‘You’re not in danger,’ she repeated, paying no attention to his sarcasm. ‘Toussaint is generally regarded as an insignificant fairy-tale duchy, ridiculous and unreal, and in a state of permanent intoxication and unending bacchic joy owing to the production of wine. It isn’t really treated seriously by anybody, but enjoys privileges. After all, it supplies wine, and without wine, as everyone knows, there’s no life. For which reason no agents, spies or secret services operate in Toussaint. And there’s no need for an army, it’s enough to have blindfolded knights errant. No one will attack Toussaint. I can see from your face I haven’t thoroughly convinced you?’

  ‘Not thoroughly.’

  ‘Pity,’ Fringilla squinted. ‘I like doing things thoroughly. I don’t like anything that’s incomplete, and neither do I like half measures. Or anything left unsaid. Thus I will add: Fulko Artevelde, the Prefect of Riedburne, thinks you’re dead. He was informed by fugitives that the druidesses burned you all alive. Fulko is doing what he can to cover up the issue, which bears the hallmarks of a scandal. It’s in his interest to do so; he has his career in mind. Even when he finds out you’re alive it’ll be too late. The version he gave in his reports will be binding.’

  ‘You know a great deal.’

  ‘I’ve never concealed that. So the argument about being pursued by Nilfgaard can be eliminated. And there aren’t any other arguments in favour of a rapid departure.’

  ‘Interesting . . .’

  ‘But true. One can leave Toussaint via four mountain passes, leading towards the four points of the compass. Which pass will you choose? The druidesses told you nothing and refused to cooperate. The elf from the mountains has vanished . . .’

  ‘You really do know a great deal.’

  ‘We’ve already established that.’

  ‘And you wish to help me.’

  ‘But you reject that help. You don’t believe in the sincerity of my intentions. You don’t trust me.’

  ‘Listen, I—’

  ‘Don’t explain yourself. And eat some more artichokes.’

  Someone else had made a vow on the heron. Cahir was paying the barons’ daughters compliments.

  Angoulême, now tipsy, could be heard throughout the entire hall. The tight-lipped baron, excited by the discourse on bows and arrows, had begun to dance attendance on Milva.

  ‘Please, won’t you try some wild boar, miss. Oh, if I may say so . . . There are fields of crops on my estates dug up by whole herds of them, if I may say so.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You can come across some fine animals, three-hundredweight specimens . . . Height of the season . . . If, miss, you’d express a desire . . . We could, so to speak, go hunting together . . .’

  ‘We shan’t be staying here so long.’ Milva looked strangely enquiringly at Geralt. ‘For we have more serious tasks than hunting, if you excuse me, sir.

  ‘Although,’ she added quickly, seeing that the baron was looking gloomy, ‘I would most eagerly go hunting game with Your Lordship if there is time.’

  The baron’s face lit up at once.

  ‘If not the chase,’ he declared enthusiastically, ‘then at least I must invite you to my residence. I will show you my antler, trophy, pipe and sabre collections, so to speak . . .’

  Milva fixed her eyes on the tablecloth.

  The baron seized a tray of fieldfares, served her and then filled her wine glass.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I am no courtier. I don’t know how to entertain. I’m pretty wretched at courtly discourse.’

  ‘I was raised in the forest.’ Milva cleared her throat. ‘I esteem silence.’

  Fringilla found Geralt’s hand under the table and squeezed it hard. Geralt looked her in the eyes. He couldn’t guess what was hidden in them.

  ‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘I believe in the sincerity of your intentions.’

  ‘You aren’t lying?’

  ‘I swear on the heron.’

  *

  The town sentry must have had a few too many Yuletide tipples, for he was swaying. He banged his halberd against a signboard and loudly, though incoherently, announced it was ten of the clock, although it was actually well after midnight.

  ‘Go to Beauclair by yourself,’ Reynart de Bois-Fresnes said unexpectedly as soon as they’d left the tavern. ‘I’m staying in town. Until tomorrow. Farewell, Witcher.’

  Geralt knew the knight had a lady-friend in town whose husband travelled a lot on business. They’d never talked about it, for men don’t talk about such matters.

  ‘Farewell, Reynart. Deal with the skoffin. Don’t let it go off.’

  ‘There’s a frost.’

  There was a frost. The narrow streets were empty and tenebrous. The moonlight shone on the roofs, gleamed brilliantly on the icicles hanging from the eaves, but didn’t reach the streets. Roach’s horseshoes rang on the cobblestones.

  Roach, thought the Witcher, heading towards Beauclair Palace. A shapely chestnut mare, a present from Anna Henrietta. And Dandelion.

  He spurred his horse on. He was in a hurry.

  *

  After the feast everybody met for breakfast, which they had become accustomed to taking in the servants’ hall. They were always welcome there, God only knew why. Something hot was always found for them, straight from the saucepan, skillet or spit, and there was always bread, dripping, bacon, cheese and pickled mushrooms. A jug or two of some white or red produce of the famous local vineyards was never lacking.

  They always went there. Since they had arrived at Beauclair two weeks before. Geralt, Regis, Angoulême and Milva. Only Dandelion broke his fast elsewhere.

  ‘They serve him his dripping and scratchings in bed!’ commented Angoulême. ‘And they pay obeisance to him!’

  Geralt was inclined to believe it was like that. And that day he decided to investigate.

  *

  He found Dandelion in the knights’ hall. The poet was wearing a crimson beret, as big as a loaf of sourdough rye bread, and a matching doublet richly embroidered with golden thread. He was sitting on a curule seat with his lute in his lap and reacting with careless nods to the compliments of the ladies and courtiers surrounding him.

  Anna Henrietta, fortunately, wasn’t in sight. So Geralt without hesitation broke protocol and went boldly into action. Dandelion saw him at once.

  ‘Lords and ladies,’ he said pompously, waving a hand just like a real king, ‘if you could leave us alone? The servants may also absent themselves!’

  He clapped and before the echo had died away they were alone in the knights’ hall with suits of armour, paintings, panoplies and the intense, lingering smell of the ladies’ powder.

  ‘What fun,’ Geralt remarked without excessive malice. ‘You shoo them away like that, do you? It must feel nice to issue orders with one lordly gesture, one clap, one regal frown. Watch as they scuttle backwards like crayfish, bending over towards you in a bow. What fun. Eh? My Lord Favourite?’

  Dandelion grimaced.

  ‘Is it about anything particular?’ he asked sourly. ‘Or just to talk for the sake of it?’

  ‘Something particular. So part
icular, it couldn’t be more so.’

  ‘Say on, if you please.’

  ‘We need three horses. That’s for me, Cahir and Angoulême. And two unmounted packhorses. Together, three good steeds and two hacks. Hacks, well, as a last resort, mules, laden with vittles and feed. Your duchess must consider you worth that much, what? You’ve earned at least that, I trust?’

  ‘There won’t be a problem with it.’ Dandelion, not looking at Geralt, got down to tuning his lute. ‘I’m only surprised by your haste. I’d say it surprises me to the same degree as your foolish sarcasm does.’

  ‘My haste surprises you?’

  ‘You’d better believe it. October is ending, and the weather is visibly worsening. Snow will fall in the passes any day now.’

  ‘And you’re surprised by my haste.’ the Witcher nodded. ‘But I’m glad you reminded me. Sort out some warm clothing. Some furs.’

  ‘I thought,’ Dandelion said slowly, ‘that we’d sit out the winter here. That we’d stay here—’

  ‘If you want to stay,’ Geralt blurted out, ‘then stay.’

  ‘I do.’ Dandelion stood up suddenly and put down his lute. ‘And I will.’

  The Witcher audibly sucked in air and said nothing. He looked at a tapestry depicting a fight between a titan and a dragon. The titan, standing solidly on two left legs, was trying hard to break the dragon’s jaw, and the dragon looked none too pleased about it.

  ‘I’m staying,’ Dandelion repeated. ‘I love Anarietta. And she loves me.’

  Geralt still said nothing.

  ‘You’ll have your horses,’ continued the poet. ‘I’ll order them to prepare you a thoroughbred mare called Roach, naturally. You’ll be equipped, well-stocked with food and warmly dressed. But I sincerely advise you to wait till the spring. Anarietta—’

  ‘Am I hearing right?’ The Witcher finally regained his voice. ‘Or do my ears deceive me?’

  ‘Your intellect,’ snapped the troubadour, ‘is certainly blunt. I can’t speak for your other senses. I repeat: we love one another, Anarietta and I. I’m staying in Toussaint. With her.’

  ‘In what role? Lover? Favourite? Or perhaps ducal consort?’

  ‘I’m indifferent in principle to our formal and legal status,’ Dandelion admitted frankly. ‘But one cannot rule anything out. Including marriage.’