The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  Only you can prevent it, Star—Eye.

  Vysogota straightens up. Behind him is winter, snow, a blizzard. The wind blows and whistles. Before her, in the snowstorm, on a horse, is Geralt. Ciri recognises him, although he has a fur hat on his head, and his face is shrouded in a woollen scarf. Behind him in the blizzard loom other riders, their silhouettes vague, so muffled up are they that there is no way to identify them.

  Geralt looks straight at her. But doesn’t see her. Snow falls into his eyes.

  ‘Geralt! It’s me! Here!’

  He can’t see her. Or hear her among the wailing of the gale.

  ‘Geraaalt!’

  It’s a moufflon, says Geralt. Only a moufflon. Let’s go back. The riders disappear, dissolving in the snowstorm.

  ‘Geraaalt! Nooooo!’

  *

  She woke up.

  *

  Next morning she went at once to the stables without even eating breakfast. She didn’t want to meet Avallac’h, didn’t want to talk to him. She preferred to avoid the intrusive, curious, questioning, clinging looks of the other elves and elf-women. On every other occasion studiously indifferent, now the elves were betraying their curiosity on the subject of the royal bedchamber, and the palace walls, Ciri was certain, had ears.

  She found Kelpie in her stall, found her saddle and harness. Before she managed to saddle the mare the servants were already beside her; those little grey elves, short, a head shorter than ordinary Aen Elle. They assisted her with the mare, bowing and smiling ingratiatingly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d cope by myself, but thank you. It’s sweet of you.’

  The nearest girl smiled and Ciri shuddered.

  For she had canine teeth.

  Ciri was by her so fast the girl was almost dumbfounded. Ciri brushed the hair back from her ear. An ear that didn’t end in a point.

  ‘You’re human!’

  The girl – and all the others with her – knelt down on the freshly swept floor. She bowed her head. Expecting to be punished.

  ‘I . . .’ Ciri began, kneading the reins. ‘I . . .’

  She didn’t know what to say. The girls continued to kneel. The horses nervously snorted and stamped in their stalls.

  Outside, in the saddle, trotting, she still couldn’t gather her thoughts. Human girls. Working as servants, but that was unimportant. What was important was that there were Dh’oine in this world . . .

  People, she corrected herself. I’m thinking like them.

  She was startled out of her reverie by Kelpie neighing loudly and starting. She raised her head and saw Eredin.

  He was sitting on his dark bay stallion, now without its demonic bucranium and most of the other battle paraphernalia. He was, though, wearing a mail shirt beneath a cloak shimmering in many shades of red.

  The stallion neighed a husky welcome, shook its head and bared its yellow teeth at Kelpie. Kelpie, in accordance with the principle that one settles matters with the master and not with the servant, reached for the elf’s thigh with her teeth. Ciri jerked the reins sharply.

  ‘Careful,’ she said. ‘Keep your distance. My mare doesn’t like strangers. And she bites.’

  ‘Biters—’ the elf glared at her evilly ‘—should be tamed with an iron bit. Tight enough to draw blood. A splendid method for eradicating bad habits. In horses too.’

  He jerked the stallion’s bridle so hard that the horse snorted and took several paces backwards, foam trickling from its muzzle.

  ‘Why the mail shirt?’ Now Ciri was glaring at the elf. ‘Are you preparing for war?’

  ‘Quite the opposite. I desire peace. Does your mare, apart from being skittish, have any other virtues?’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘May I challenge you to a race?’

  ‘If you wish, why not.’ She stood up in the stirrups. ‘There, towards those cromlechs—’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted. ‘Not there.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That’s off limits.’

  ‘For everyone, naturally.’

  ‘Not everyone, naturally. Your company is too precious to us, Swallow, for us to risk being deprived of it by you or anyone else.’

  ‘Anyone else? You can’t be thinking about the unicorns?’

  ‘I don’t want to bore you with what I think. Or be frustrated by your not understanding my thoughts.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I know you don’t. Evolution didn’t give you a sufficiently folded brain to enable you to understand. Listen, if you want a race I suggest along the river. That way. To the Porphyry Bridge, the third one along. Then across the bridge to the other side, then along the bank, downstream, finishing at the stream that flows into the river. Ready?’

  ‘Always.’

  He urged on his stallion with a cry, and the horse set off like a hurricane. Before Kelpie could start he was well ahead. He made the earth tremble, but he couldn’t match Kelpie. She caught up with him quickly, even before the Porphyry Bridge. The bridge was narrow. Eredin yelled, and the stallion, incredibly, picked up speed. Ciri understand immediately what was happening. Not for all the world would two horses fit on the bridge. One had to yield.

  Ciri had no intention of slowing. She pressed herself to Kelpie’s mane, and the mare shot ahead like an arrow. She brushed against the elf’s stirrup and hurtled onto the bridge. Eredin yelled again. The stallion reared up, hit its side against an alabaster figure, knocking it from its plinth and smashing it into pieces.

  Ciri, sniggering like a ghoul, galloped across the bridge. Without looking back.

  She dismounted by the stream and waited.

  He trotted up a moment later. Smiling and composed.

  ‘My compliments,’ he said curtly, dismounting. ‘Both to the mare and to the Amazon.’

  Although she was strutting like a peacock she snorted carelessly.

  ‘Aha! Won’t you brutally tame us now?’

  ‘Not unless you permit me,’ he smiled suggestively. ‘Some mares like rough caresses.’

  ‘Not so long ago—’ she looked at him haughtily ‘—you compared me to compost. And now we’re talking about caresses?’

  He went closer to Kelpie, stroked and patted the mare’s neck and shook his head on finding it was dry. Kelpie tossed her head and neighed at length. Eredin turned towards Ciri. If he pats me too, she thought, he’ll regret it.

  ‘Follow me.’

  Moss-covered steps made of sandstone blocks stood alongside the stream, which flowed down from a steep, thickly wooded hillside into the river. The steps were ancient, cracked, split by tree roots. They zig-zagged upwards, occasionally crossing the stream over footbridges. All around was a forest, a wild forest, full of old ash and hornbeam, yew, maple and oak, the floor carpeted with a thicket of hazel, tamarisk and bramble. It smelled of wormwood, sage, nettles, wet stones, the spring and mould.

  Ciri walked in silence, not hurrying, and controlling her breathing. She was also trying to control her nerves. She had no idea what Eredin might want from her, but she had her misgivings.

  There was a stone terrace beside another cascade, falling with a roar from a rocky cleft, and on it, overshadowed by wild lilac, was an old bower, wound around with ivy and spiderwort. The ribbon of the river, roofs, peristyles and the terraces of Tir ná Lia could be seen below the crowns of the trees.

  They stood a while, looking.

  ‘No one told me—’ Ciri was the first to interrupt the silence ‘—what that river’s called.’

  ‘The Easnadh.’

  ‘The Sigh? Pretty. And that stream?’

  ‘The Tuathe.’

  ‘The Whisper. That’s pretty too. Why did no one tell me that there are humans living in this world?’

  ‘Because it’s irrelevant information and totally meaningless to you. Let’s go into the bower.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Let’s go in.’

  The first thing she noticed after entering was a bare woode
n divan. Ciri felt her temples beginning to throb. Of course, she thought, I should have seen that coming. I read a romance written by Anna Tiller in the temple, didn’t I? About an old king, a young queen and a pretender prince greedy for power. Eredin is ruthless, ambitious and determined. He knows that whoever has a queen is the real king, a real ruler. A real man. Whoever possesses a queen, possesses the kingdom. Here, on this couch, will begin the coup d’état . . .

  The elf sat down on a marble table, and gestured at a chair for Ciri. The view from the window seemed to interest him more than she did, and he wasn’t looking at the couch at all.

  ‘You’ll remain here forever,’ he said, surprising her, ‘my Amazon, as light as a little butterfly. To the end of your butterfly life.’

  She was silent, looking him straight in the eye. There was nothing in those eyes.

  ‘They won’t let you leave,’ he repeated. ‘They won’t accept that, contrary to the prophecy and myths, you’re no one and nothing, a meaningless creature. They won’t believe it and they won’t let you leave. They hoodwinked you with a promise to ensure your submission, but they never intended to keep that promise. Never.’

  ‘Avallac’h gave me his word,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Allegedly it’s an insult to doubt the word of an elf.’

  ‘Avallac’h is a Knowing One. Knowing Ones have their own code of honour in which every second sentence there’s mention of the end justifying the means.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re telling me all this. Unless . . . you want something from me. Unless I have something you desire. And you want to bargain. Well? Eredin? My freedom for . . . for what?’

  He looked at her for a long while. And she vainly searched in his eyes for some indication, some signal, some sign. Of anything.

  ‘You’ve no doubt managed to get to know Auberon a little,’ he began slowly. ‘You’ve certainly noticed already that he is simply unimaginably ambitious. There are things he’ll never accept, that he’ll never concede. He’d sooner die.’

  Ciri was silent, biting her lips and glancing at the couch.

  ‘Auberon Muircetach,’ continued the elf, ‘will never use magic or other measures which might change the current situation. And such measures exist. Good, powerful, guaranteed measures. Much more effective than the aphrodisiacs that Avallac’h’s servants saturate your cosmetics with.’

  He moved his hand quickly over the dark, veined table top. When he withdrew it a tiny flacon of grey-green nephrite was lying on the table.

  ‘No,’ said Ciri hoarsely. ‘Absolutely not. I won’t agree to that.’

  ‘You didn’t let me finish.’

  ‘Don’t treat me like a fool. I won’t give him what’s in that flacon. You won’t use me for things like that.’

  ‘You draw very hasty conclusions,’ he said slowly, looking her in the eye. ‘You’re trying to outrun yourself in the race. And things like that always end with a fall. A very painful fall.’

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘Think it over well. Regardless of what the vessel contains, you always win. You always win, Swallow.’

  ‘No!’

  With a movement just as dextrous as before, truly worthy of a conjuror, he swept the flacon from the table. Then he stayed silent for a long while, looking at the River Easnadh glinting among the trees.

  ‘You’ll die here, little butterfly,’ he said finally. ‘They won’t let you leave. But it’s your choice.’

  ‘I made a deal. My freedom for—’

  ‘Freedom,’ he snorted. ‘You keep talking about freedom. And what would you do if you finally regained it? Where would you make for? Get it into your head that at this moment not only places but time separate you from your world. Time passes differently here than there. Those you knew as children are now decrepit, those who were your peers died long ago.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Think back to your legends. Legends about people who mysteriously disappeared and returned years later, only to gaze on the overgrown graves of their loved ones. Do you think they were fantasies, fabrications? You’re mistaken. For whole centuries people have been kidnapped, carried away by horsemen whom you call the Wild Hunt. Kidnapped, exploited, and then discarded like the shell of a sucked-out egg. But not even that will befall you, Zireael. You will die here. You won’t even have the chance of seeing your friends’ graves.’

  ‘I don’t believe what you’re saying.’

  ‘Your beliefs are your own private matter. And you chose your own fate yourself. Let’s go back. I have a request, Swallow. Would you like to consume a light meal with me in Tir ná Lia?’

  For several heartbeats hunger and a reckless fascination fought in Ciri against anger, fear of poison and general antipathy.

  ‘With pleasure.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Thank you for the offer.’

  ‘No, I thank you. Let’s go.’

  As they were exiting the bower she glanced at the divan once again. And thought that Anna Tiller was actually a stupid and gushing hack.

  They descended to the River Sigh slowly, in silence, amidst the aroma of mint, sage and nettle. Down the steps. Along the bank of a stream called the Whisper.

  *

  When that evening, perfumed, with hair still damp after an aromatic bath, she entered the royal chambers, she found Auberon on a sofa, bent over a large book. Without a word, with only a gesture, he ordered her to sit beside him.

  The book was richly illustrated. To tell the truth, there was nothing in it apart from illustrations. Although she tried to play the sophisticated lady, the blood rushed to Ciri’s cheeks. She’d seen several such works in the temple library in Ellander. But they couldn’t compete with the book of the Alder King, neither in the richness and variety of the positions, nor in the artistry of their depiction.

  They looked at it for a long time, in silence.

  ‘Please get undressed.’

  This time he also got undressed. His body was slender and boyish, downright skinny like Giselher, like Kayleigh, like Reef, whom she’d seen many times when they bathed in streams or mountain lakes. But vitality exuded from Giselher and the Rats, life exuded from them, the desire to live, blazing among the silver drops of water spraying around.

  But from him, from the Alder King, the cold of eternity exuded.

  He was patient. Several times it seemed it was about to happen. But nothing came of it. Ciri was angry at herself, certain that it was because of her ignorance and paralysing lack of skill. He noticed and calmed her. As usual, very effectively. And she fell asleep in his arms.

  But in the morning he wasn’t with her.

  *

  The next evening, for the first time, the Alder King betrayed his impatience.

  She found him hunched over the table where a looking glass framed in amber was lying. White powder had been sprinkled on it.

  It’s beginning, she thought.

  Auberon used a small knife to gather the fisstech and form it into two lines. He took a silver tube and sniffed up the narcotic, first to the left, then to the right nostril. His eyes, usually sparkling, dimmed slightly and became cloudy, began to water. Ciri knew at once it wasn’t his first dose.

  He formed two fresh lines on the glass, then invited her over with a gesture, handing her the tube. Oh, who cares, she thought. It’ll be easier.

  The drug was extremely powerful.

  A short while later they were both sitting on the bed, hugging, and staring at the moon with their eyes watering.

  Ciri sneezed.

  ‘An uncharted night,’ she said, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her silk blouse.

  ‘Enchanting,’ he corrected her, wiping an eye. ‘Ensh’eass, not en’leass. You need to work on your pronunciation.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Get undressed.’

  At first it seemed it would be good, that the drug would stimulate him as much as it was her. And its effect on her was to make her active and adventurous, why, she even whispered a few extr
emely indecent – in her opinion – words into his ear. It must have got to him a little – the effect was, hmm, tangible, and at one moment Ciri was certain it was about to happen. But it didn’t. At least not all the way.

  And once again he became impatient. He stood up and threw a sable fur over his shoulders. He stood like that, turned away, staring at the window and the moon. Ciri sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. She was disappointed and cross, and at the same time she felt strangely wistful. It was doubtless the action of the powerful fisstech.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ she mumbled. ‘That scar blights me, I know. I know what you see when you look at me. There’s not much elf left in me. A gold nugget in a pile of compost—’

  He turned around suddenly.

  ‘You’re extremely modest,’ he drawled. ‘I would say rather: a pearl in pig shit. A diamond on the finger of a rotting corpse. As part of your language training you can create even more comparisons. I’ll test you on them tomorrow, little Dh’oine. O human creature in whom nothing, but nothing, remains of an elven woman.’

  He walked over to the table, picked up the tube and leaned over the looking glass. Ciri sat as though petrified. She felt as if she’d been spat on.

  ‘I don’t come here out of love!’ she barked furiously. ‘I’m being held and being blackmailed, as you well know! But I’m reconciled to it, I’m doing it for—’

  ‘For whom?’ he interrupted heatedly, quite unlike an elf. ‘For me? For the Aen Seidhe imprisoned in your world? You foolish maid! You’re doing it for yourself. You come here for yourself and vainly try to give yourself to me. For it’s your only hope, your only chance. And I’ll tell you one more thing. Pray, pray zealously to your human idols, godheads and totems. Because it’ll either be me, or Avallac’h and his laboratory. Believe me, you wouldn’t want to end up in the laboratory and become acquainted with the alternative.’

  ‘It’s all the same to me,’ she said softly, huddling up in bed. ‘I’ll agree to anything, as long as I regain my freedom. To finally free myself from you. To depart. To my world. To my friends.’

  ‘Your friends!’ he sneered. ‘Here are your friends!’

  He turned around and abruptly tossed the fisstech-strewn looking glass to her.