The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Here are your friends,’ he repeated. ‘Have a look.’

  He went out, the tails of the fur flapping behind him.

  At first she only saw her own, blurred reflection in the dirtied glass. But almost immediately the looking glass brightened up milkily, filled up with smoke. And then with an image.

  Yennefer suspended in a chasm, back arched, with hands raised. The sleeves of her dress are like the outstretched wings of a bird. Her hair undulates, little fishes dart among it. Whole shoals of shimmering, busy little fish. Some of them are nibbling the sorceress’s cheeks and eyes. A rope runs towards the bottom of the lake from Yennefer’s leg, and the end of the rope, trapped in the sludge and waterweed, is a large basket of stones. High above, the surface of the water shines and sparkles.

  Yennefer’s dress undulates in the same rhythm as the waterweed.

  The surface of the looking glass, smudged with fisstech, becomes enveloped in smoke.

  Geralt, glassily pale, with closed eyes, sits under long icicles extending from a rock, motionless, covered in ice and quickly being buried in snow being blown over him by a blizzard. His white hair has already become white tangles of ice, white icicles hang from his eyebrows, eyelashes and lips. The snow keeps falling and falling. The snowdrift covering Geralt’s legs grows, the fluffy piles on his shoulders grow. The blizzard howls and whistles . . .

  Ciri leapt up from the bed, and hurled the looking glass at the wall with great force. The amber frame smashed and the glass shattered into a million splinters.

  She recognised, knew, remembered that kind of vision. From her earlier dreams.

  ‘It’s all false!’ she yelled. ‘Do you hear, Auberon? I don’t believe it! It’s not true! It’s just your anger, which is as impotent as you are! It’s your anger . . .’

  She sat on the floor and burst into tears.

  *

  She suspected the palace walls had ears. The next day she couldn’t rid herself of the ambiguous looks. She felt sneers behind her back, listened out for whispers.

  Avallac’h was nowhere to be found. He knows, she thought, he knows what happened and is avoiding me. In advance, before I got up, he sailed or rode somewhere far away with his gilded elf—woman. He doesn’t want to talk to me, doesn’t want to admit his entire plan has come to nothing.

  Eredin was nowhere to be found either. But that was to be expected. He often went riding with his Dearg Ruadhri, the Red Horsemen.

  Ciri led Kelpie out of the stable and rode to the far side of the river, frantically thinking the whole time, not noticing anything around her.

  To escape is what matters. It doesn’t matter if all those visions were false or true. One thing is certain – Yennefer and Geralt are there in my world and my place is there, with them. I have to escape from here, escape without delay! After all, there must be a way. I entered it alone, I ought to be able to leave alone. Eredin said I have an untamed talent, and Vysogota suspected the same thing. There was no way out of Tor Zireael; I explored it thoroughly. But perhaps there is some other tower . . .

  She looked into the distance, at the far-off hill, at the silhouette of the cromlech visible there. Forbidden territory, she thought. Ha, I see it’s too far. The barrier probably won’t allow me to go there. Not worth the effort. I’ll ride upstream instead. I haven’t ridden there yet.

  Kelpie neighed, tossed her head, and broke into a hard run. She wouldn’t let herself be turned. Instead she trotted hard towards the hill. Ciri was so dumbstruck that for a moment she didn’t react and let the mare run. Only a moment later did she yell and tug at the reins. The result was that Kelpie reared up, kicked, jerked her rump and galloped away. Continuing in the same direction.

  Ciri didn’t stop her, didn’t try to control her. She was utterly amazed. But she knew Kelpie too well. The mare could be disobedient, but not to this extent. Behaviour like this must mean something.

  Kelpie slowed to a trot. She continued straight ahead towards the hill topped with the cromlech.

  More or less a furlong, Ciri thought. At any moment the barrier will come down.

  The mare ran into the stone circle, amidst crowded, moss-covered and lopsided monoliths growing out of a thicket of thorny brambles, and stopped dead. The only thing Kelpie moved was her ears, which she pricked up attentively.

  Ciri tried to rein her around and then set off. Without success. Were it not for the blood vessels throbbing on Kelpie’s neck, Ciri would have sworn she was sitting not on a horse, but on a statue. Suddenly something touched her back. Something sharp, something that penetrated her clothing and pricked painfully. She didn’t have time to turn around. Then a ruddy-coloured unicorn emerged from behind the rocks without the slightest noise and thrust its horn under her arm. Hard. Roughly. She felt a trickle of blood running down her side.

  Yet another unicorn emerged from the other side. This one was completely white, from the tips of its ears to the end of its tail. Only its nostrils were pink, and its eyes were black.

  The white unicorn approached. And slowly, very slowly, placed its head in her lap. The excitement was so powerful Ciri moaned.

  I’ve grown, resounded in her head. I’ve grown, Star—Eye. Back then, in the desert, I didn’t know how to behave. Now I know.

  ‘Little Horse?’ she moaned, still almost hanging from the two horns piercing her.

  My name is Ihuarraquax. Do you remember me, Star—Eye? Do you remember treating me? Saving me?

  He stepped back and turned around. She saw the mark of a scar on his leg. She recognised him. Remembered.

  ‘Little Horse! It’s you! But your coat was a different colour . . .’

  I’ve grown up.

  In her head came a sudden confusion, whispers, voices, cries and neighing. The horns withdrew. She noticed that the second unicorn, the one behind her back, was dappled blue-grey.

  The elders are learning you, Star—Eye. They are learning you through me. Just a moment longer and they’ll be able to talk by themselves. They’ll tell you themselves what they want from you.

  The cacophony in Ciri’s head burst in an eruption of savage tumult. And almost immediately abated, before it flowed into a stream of comprehensible and clear thoughts.

  We want to help you escape, Star—Eye.

  She was silent, though her heart pounded hard in her chest.

  Where is the tremendous joy? Where are the thanks?

  ‘And why,’ she asked aggressively, ‘this desire to help me all of a sudden? Do you love me so much?’

  We don’t love you at all. But this is not your world. This is no place for you. You cannot stay here. We don’t want you to stay.

  She clenched her teeth. Although excited by the prospect, she shook her head. Little Horse – Ihuarraquax – pricked up his ears, pawed the ground with a hoof and glanced at her with his black eye. The ruddy unicorn stamped so hard the ground shook, and twisted its horn menacingly. It snorted angrily, and Ciri understood.

  You don’t trust us.

  ‘I don’t,’ she confessed cheerfully. ‘Everybody here is playing a game of their own, and trying to exploit me in my ignorance. Why exactly should I trust you? There’s clearly no love lost between you and the elves. I saw for myself on the steppe how there was almost a fight. I can easily assume you want to use me to annoy them. I’m not fond of them either, after all they’ve imprisoned me and are forcing me to do something I don’t want to do at all. But I won’t allow myself to be taken advantage of.’

  The ruddy unicorn shook his head, and his horn made a threatening movement again. The blue-grey one neighed. Ciri’s head thundered like the inside of a well, and the thought she picked up was unpleasant.

  ‘Aha!’ she cried. ‘You’re just like them! Either subservience and obedience, or death? I’m not afraid! And I won’t let myself be abused!’

  She felt confusion and chaos in her head again. It was some time before a clear thought emerged.

  It’s good, Star—Eye, that you don’t like being taken
advantage of. That is precisely what concerns us. That is precisely what we want to guarantee to you. To ourselves. And to the whole world. To all worlds.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  You are a dangerous weapon, a fell weapon. We can’t allow that weapon to fall into the hands of the Alder King, the Fox or the Sparrowhawk.

  ‘Who?’ she stammered. ‘Ah . . .’

  The Alder King is old. But the Fox and the Sparrowhawk cannot seize power over Ard Gaeth, the Gateway to the Worlds. They captured it once. They lost it once. Now they can do nothing more than wander, roam among the worlds taking tiny steps, alone, like spectres, powerless. The Fox to Tir ná Béa Arainne, the Sparrowhawk and his horsemen around the Spiral. They can go no further, they don’t have the strength. Which is why they dream of Ard Gaeth and power. We shall show you how they have already abused such power. We shall show you, Star—Eye, when you leave here.

  ‘I can’t leave here. They’ve put a spell on me. A barrier. Geas Garadh . . .’

  You cannot be imprisoned. You are now Master of the Worlds.

  ‘Like hell. I don’t have any natural talent, I can’t control anything. And I relinquished the Power in the desert, a year ago. Little Horse was a witness.’

  In the desert you relinquished conjuring. The Power you have in your blood cannot be relinquished. You still have it. We shall teach you how to use it.

  ‘And isn’t it, perhaps,’ she shouted, ‘that you want to capture that power, this power over the worlds that I reputedly have?’

  It is not. We do not have to capture that power. For we have always had it.

  Trust them, requested Ihuarraquax. Trust, Star—Eye.

  ‘Under one condition.’

  The unicorns jerked up their heads and flared their nostrils. You would have sworn sparks were shooting from their eyes. They don’t like it, thought Ciri, when conditions are imposed on them. They don’t even like the sound of the word. Spet, I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing . . . Let’s hope it doesn’t end tragically . . .

  Speak. What is the condition?

  ‘Ihuarraquax will be with me.’

  *

  In the evening it clouded over, became close. A thick, sticky mist rose from the river. And when darkness fell over Tir ná Lia, a storm sounded with a dull, distant growl. Every now and then the glow of lightning lit the horizon.

  Ciri had been ready a long time. Dressed in black, with sword on her back, anxious and tense, she waited impatiently for dusk.

  She passed quietly through the empty vestibule, stole through the colonnade and onto the terrace. The River Easnadh sparkled in the darkness, willows soughed.

  Distant thunder rolled across the sky.

  Ciri led Kelpie out of the stable. The mare knew what was expected of her. She trotted obediently towards the Porphyry Bridge. For a moment Ciri followed her tracks, then glanced at the terrace beside which the boats stood.

  I can’t, she thought. I’ll appear before him once more. Perhaps I’ll manage to delay the pursuers by doing it? It’s risky, but there’s no other way.

  *

  In the first moment she thought he wasn’t there, that the royal chambers were empty. Because they were silent and lifeless.

  She only noticed him after a moment. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner, a white shirt gaping open on his skinny chest. The shirt was made of stuff so fine it clung to his body as though wet.

  The Alder King’s face and hands were almost as white as his shirt.

  He raised his eyes towards her, and there was a void in them.

  ‘Shiadhal?’ he whispered. ‘I’m glad you are here. You know, they told me you had died.’

  He opened his hand and something fell onto the carpet. It was the flacon of grey-green nephrite. ‘Lara.’ The Alder King moved his head, and touched his neck as though his royal torc’h was garrotting him. ‘Caemm a me, luned. Come to me, daughter. Caemm a me, elaine.’

  Ciri sensed death in his breath.

  ‘Elaine blath, feainne wedd . . .’ he sang. ‘Mire, luned, your ribbon has come undone . . . Allow me . . .’

  He tried to lift his hand, but he was unable to. He sighed deeply, raised his hand abruptly, and looked her in the eyes. This time lucidly.

  ‘Zireael,’ he said. ‘Loc’hlaith. You are indeed destiny, O Lady of the Lake. Mine too, as it transpires.

  Va’esse deireadh aep eigean . . .’ he said a moment later, and Ciri observed with dread that his words and movements had begun to slow down horribly.

  ‘But,’ he finished with a sigh, ‘it’s good that something is beginning.’

  They heard a long-drawn-out peal of thunder outside the window. The storm was still far away. But it was approaching fast.

  ‘In spite of everything,’ he said, ‘I very much don’t want to die, Zireael. And I’m so sorry that I must. Who’d have thought it? I thought I wouldn’t regret it. I’ve lived long, I’ve experienced everything. I’ve become bored with everything . . . but nonetheless I feel regret. And do you know what else? Come closer. I’ll tell you in confidence. Let it be our secret.’

  She bent forward.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he whispered.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Are you with me?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Va faill, luned.’

  ‘Farewell, O Alder King.’

  She sat with him, holding his hand, until he went completely quiet and his delicate breath faded. She didn’t wipe away the tears. She let them flow.

  The storm was coming closer. The horizon blazed with lightning.

  *

  She ran quickly down the marble staircase to the terrace with the small columns, beside which the boats were rocking. She untied one, the outermost, which she had selected the evening before. She pushed off the terrace with a long mahogany pole she had had the foresight to remove from a curtain rod. She doubted whether the boat would be as obedient to her as it had to Avallac’h.

  The boat glided noiselessly with the current. Tir ná Lia was quiet and dark. Only the statues on the terrace followed her with their dead gaze. Ciri counted the bridges.

  The sky above the forest was lit up by a flash of lightning. A moment later there was a long grumble of thunder.

  The third bridge.

  Something stole across the bridge, softly, as nimble as a great black rat. The boat rocked as he jumped onto the bow. Ciri threw down the rod and drew her sword.

  ‘And so,’ hissed Eredin Bréacc Glas, ‘you wish to deprive us of your company?’

  He also drew a sword. In a brief flash of lightning she managed to size up the weapon. The blade was single-edged, slightly curved. The edge of the blade was shining and undoubtedly sharp, the hilt was long and the pommel was in the shape of a circular, openwork plate. It was apparent at once that the elf knew how to use it.

  He unexpectedly rocked the boat, pressing a foot down hard on the side. Ciri kept her balance with ease, and righted the boat with a powerful tilt of her body, then almost immediately tried the same trick by jumping on the side with both feet. He wobbled but kept his balance and lunged at her with his sword. She parried the blow, blocking instinctively, for she could see little. She retaliated with a rapid, low cut. Eredin parried and struck, and Ciri deflected the blow. A stream of sparks flew from the blades as though from flint and steel.

  He rocked the boat again, hard, almost knocking her over. Ciri danced, balancing with arms outstretched. He retreated towards the bow and lowered his sword.

  ‘Where did you learn that, Swallow?’

  ‘You’d be astonished.’

  ‘I doubt it. Was it your idea that the barrier can be overcome by sailing along the river, or did someone reveal it to you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does. And let’s get to the bottom of it. There are methods for doing that. Now drop your sword and we’ll go back.’

  ‘Like hell.’

  ‘We’re going back, Zireael. Auberon’s waitin
g. Tonight, I guarantee, he’ll be lively and full of vigour.’

  ‘Like hell,’ she repeated. ‘He overdosed on that invigorating draught you showed me. The one you gave him. Or perhaps it wasn’t for vigour at all.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Eredin quickly overcame his astonishment and suddenly went for her, rocking the boat. Balancing, they traded several ferocious blows, the water carrying the resonant clang of steel.

  Lightning lit up the night. A bridge slid past above their heads. One of the last bridges of Tir ná Lia. Or maybe the last?

  ‘You must understand, Swallow,’ he rasped, ‘that you’re only delaying the inevitable. I can’t let you leave here.’

  ‘Why not? Auberon’s dead. And I’m nobody and mean nothing, after all. You told me so yourself.’

  ‘Well, it’s true.’ He raised his sword. ‘You mean nothing. You’re a tiny clothes moth that can be crushed in the fingers into shining dust, but which, perhaps, if it’s allowed, can cut out a hole in a precious fabric. You’re a grain of pepper, despicably small, but which when inadvertently chewed spoils the most exquisite food, forces one to spit it out, when one wanted to savour it. That is what you are. Nothing. An irritating nothing.’

  Lightning. In its light Ciri saw what she wanted to see. The elf raised his sword and swung, leaping onto the bench of the boat. He had the advantage of height. He was sure to win the next clash.

  ‘You ought not to draw a weapon on me, Zireael. It’s too late now. I won’t forgive you that. I won’t kill you, oh, no. But a few weeks in bed, in bandages, will certainly do you good.’

  ‘Wait. First, I want to tell you something. Disclose a certain secret.’

  ‘And what could you tell me?’ he snorted. ‘What can you tell me that I don’t know? What truth can you reveal to me?’

  ‘That you won’t fit under the bridge.’

  He had no time to react, struck the bridge with the back of his head and shot forward, losing his balance completely. Ciri could have simply pushed him out of the boat, but was afraid that wouldn’t be enough, that it wouldn’t stop her being pursued. Besides, he, whether deliberately or not, had killed the Alder King. And he deserved pain for that.