The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘You were right,’ continued Sheala, wrapping the boa around her neck, ‘in thinking that you were summoned to Montecalvo to be informed about your fate. You weren’t right to think you are nothing. For you are everything, you are the future of the world. At this moment, naturally, you don’t know that, can’t know that, at this moment you’re a puffed up and spitting kitten, a traumatised child, who sees in everybody Emhyr var Emreis or Vilgefortz holding his inseminator. And there’s no point now, at this moment, explaining to you that you are mistaken, that it concerns your good and the good of the world. The time will come for such explanations. One day. Now, hot under the collar, you don’t want to listen to the voice of reason. Now, for every argument you will have a riposte in the form of childish stubbornness and noisy indignation. Now you will simply be grabbed by the scruff of the neck. I have finished. Inform the girl of her fate, Philippa.’

  Ciri sat stiff, stroking the heads of the sphinxes carved into the armrests of the chair.

  ‘You will go to Kovir with Sheala and I.’ Madam Owl broke the heavy and dead silence. ‘To Point Vanis, the royal summer capital. Because you are no longer Cirilla of Cintra, you will be presented at the audience as a novice in magic, our pupil. At the audience you will meet a very wise king, Esterad Thyssen, of genuine royal blood. You will meet his wife, Queen Zuleyka, a person of extraordinary nobility and goodness. You will also meet the royal couple’s son, Prince Tankred.

  Ciri, beginning to understand, opened her eyes widely. Madam Owl noticed it.

  ‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘You must make an impression on Prince Tankred, above all. For you will become his lover and bear his child.’

  ‘Were you still Cirilla of Cintra—’ Philippa took the conversation up after a long pause ‘—were you still the daughter of Pavetta and the granddaughter of Calanthe, we would make you Tankred’s wedded wife. Princess, and later Queen of Kovir and Poviss. Sadly, and I say this with real sorrow, fate has deprived you of everything. Including the future. You will only be a lover. A favourite—’

  ‘By name and formally,’ interjected Sheala, ‘for in practice we shall try hard for you to gain the status of princess by Tankred’s side, and afterwards even of queen. Your help will be necessary, naturally. Tankred must desire you to be at his side. Day and night. We’ll teach you how to fuel such a desire. But whether the lesson is learned will depend on you.’

  ‘Those titles are essentially trifles,’ said Madam Owl. ‘It’s important that Tankred impregnates you as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Well, that’s obvious,’ Ciri muttered.

  ‘The Lodge will provide for the future and position of your child.’ Philippa didn’t take her eyes off Ciri. ‘You deserve to know we’re thinking here about matters of great note. You will be participating in it, in any case, since right after the birth of the child you will begin to take part in our gatherings. You will learn. Since you are, although it may be incomprehensible to you today, one of us.’

  ‘You called me a monster on the Isle of Thanedd, Madam Owl.’ Ciri overcame the constriction in her throat. ‘And today you tell me I’m one of you.’

  ‘There’s no contradiction in that,’ resounded the voice of Enid an Gleanna, the Daisy of the Valleys, as melodic as the burbling of a stream. ‘We, me luned, are all monsters. Each in our own way. Isn’t that right, Madam Owl?’

  Philippa shrugged.

  ‘We shall disguise that hideous scar on your face with an illusion,’ Sheala spoke again, tugging at her boa apparently indifferently. ‘You will be beautiful and mysterious, and Tankred Thyssen, I assure you, will lose his head for you. We’ll have to invent some personal details for you. Cirilla is a nice name and is by no means so rare that you would have to give it up to remain incognito. But we have to give you a surname. I wouldn’t protest if you chose mine.’

  ‘Or mine,’ said Madam Owl, smiling with the corners of her mouth. ‘Cirilla Eilhart also sounds nice.’

  ‘That name—’ the silver bells of the Daisy of the Valleys jingled in the hall again ‘—sounds nice in every combination. And each of us, sitting here, would like to have a daughter like you, Zireael, O Swallow with the eyes of a falcon, you, who bear the blood and bones of Lara Dorren’s blood and bones. Each of us would give up everything, even the Lodge, even the fate of the kingdoms and the whole world, to have a daughter like you. But it’s impossible. We know that it’s impossible. Which is why we envy Yennefer.’

  ‘Thank you, Madam Philippa,’ Ciri said a moment later, clenching her hands on the sphinxes’ heads. ‘I’m also honoured at the offer of bearing the name Tancarville. However, because a surname is the only thing in this whole matter that depends on me and my choice, the only thing that isn’t being imposed on me, I have to gratefully decline and choose for myself. I want to be called Ciri of Vengerberg, daughter of Yennefer.’

  ‘Ha!’ A black-haired sorceress, whom Ciri guessed was Sabrina Glevissig of Kaedwen, flashed her teeth. ‘Tankred Thyssen will prove to be an ass if he doesn’t wed her morganatically. If instead of her he lets some drippy princess be foisted upon him, he’ll turn out to be an ass and a blind man, unable to recognise a diamond among pieces of glass. Congratulations, Yenna. I envy you. And you know how sincerely I can envy.’

  Yennefer thanked her with a nod of her head. Without even the ghost of a smile.

  ‘And thus,’ said Philippa, ‘everything is settled.’

  ‘No,’ said Ciri.

  Francesca Findabair snorted softly. Sheala de Tancarville raised her head and her facial features hardened unpleasantly.

  ‘I have to think the matter over,’ Ciri declared. ‘Ponder it. Sort everything out in my mind. Calmly. Once I’ve done that I’ll return here, to Montecalvo. I’ll appear before you, ladies. I’ll tell you what I’ve decided.’

  Sheala moved her lips, as though she’d found something in her mouth she ought to spit out at once. But she didn’t speak.

  ‘I have arranged to meet the Witcher Geralt in the city of Rivia.’ Ciri lifted her head up. ‘I promised him I’d meet him there, that I’d ride there with Yennefer. I’ll keep that promise, with your permission or without it. Madam Rita, who is here, knows that I always find a crack in the wall if I’m going to Geralt.’

  Margarita Laux-Antille nodded with a smile.

  ‘I must talk to Geralt. Say goodbye to him. And admit he’s right. Because you ought to know one thing, ladies. When we were riding away from Stygga Castle, leaving corpses in our wake, I asked Geralt if it was the end, if we were victorious, if evil had been overcome, and if good had triumphed. And he just smiled somehow strangely and sadly. I thought it was from tiredness, because we had buried all of his friends at the foot of Stygga. But now I know what that smile meant. It was a smile of pity at the naivety of a child who thought that the slit throats of Vilgefortz and Bonhart meant the triumph of good over evil. I really must tell him I’ve grown wiser, that I’ve understood. I really must tell him.

  ‘I must also try to convince him that what you want to do with me fundamentally differs from what Vilgefortz wanted to do to me with a glass syringe. I have to explain to him that there is a difference between Montecalvo Castle and Stygga Castle, even though Vilgefortz was concerned with the good of the world and you are also concerned with the good of the world.

  ‘I know it won’t be easy to convince an old wolf like Geralt. Geralt will say I’m a chit, that it’s easy to beguile me with appearances of nobility, that all this bloody destiny and good of the world are stupid platitudes. But I must try. It’s important that he understands and accepts it. It’s very important. For you too, ladies.’

  ‘You haven’t understood anything,’ said Sheala de Tancarville harshly. ‘You’re still a child passing from the stage of callow howling and foot-stamping to callow arrogance. The only thing that raises hope is your sharpness of mind. You’ll learn quickly. Soon, believe me, you’ll laugh, recalling the nonsense you talked here. As regards your trip to Rivia, I pray you, let the Lodge
express its opinion. I’m expressing my firm opposition. For fundamental reasons. To prove to you that I, Sheala de Tancarville, never waste words. And am capable of making you bend your proud neck. You need to be taught discipline, for your own good.’

  ‘Let’s settle this matter then.’ Philippa Eilhart placed her palms on the table. ‘Ladies, please express your opinions. Are we to permit the haughty maid Ciri to ride to Rivia? For a meeting with some witcher for whom there soon won’t be a place in her life? Are we to let sentimentalism grow in her, sentimentality that she will soon have to utterly get rid of? Sheala is opposed. And the rest of you ladies?’

  ‘I’m against,’ declared Sabrina Glevissig. ‘Also for fundamental reasons. I like the girl, I like what she says, her insolence and hot-tempered impudence. I prefer it to spineless acquiescence. I wouldn’t have anything against her request, particularly since she would certainly return; people such as she don’t break their word. But the little madam has threatened us. She must know we disregard such threats!’

  ‘I’m opposed,’ said Keira Metz. ‘For practical reasons. I like the girl too, and Geralt carried me in his arms on Thanedd. There isn’t a scrap of sentimentality in me, but it was awfully pleasant. It would be a way of repaying him. But no! For you are mistaken, Sabrina. The girl is a witcher and is trying to outwit us. In short, make a run for it.’

  ‘Does anyone here,’ Yennefer drawled malevolently, ‘dare to doubt the words of my daughter?’

  ‘You, Yennefer, be quiet,’ hissed Philippa. ‘Don’t speak, or I’ll lose my patience. There are three votes against. Let’s hear the rest.’

  ‘I vote to allow her to go,’ said Triss Merigold. ‘I know her and vouch for her. I’d also like to accompany her on her journey, if she agrees. Help her in her deliberations and reflections, if she agrees. And in her conversation with Geralt, if she agrees.’

  ‘I’m also in favour,’ smiled Margarita Laux-Antille. ‘What I say will astonish you, ladies, but I’m doing it for Tissaia de Vries. Were Tissaia here, she would be outraged at the suggestion that compulsion and the restriction of personal freedom are necessary to maintain the unity of the Lodge.’

  ‘I vote in favour,’ said Francesca Findabair, straightening the lace on her neckline. ‘There are many reasons, but I don’t have to reveal them nor do I intend to.’

  ‘I vote in favour,’ said Ida Emean aep Sivney, just as laconically. ‘Because my heart compels me thus.’

  ‘And I’m opposed,’ declared Assire var Anahid dryly. ‘I’m not driven by any sympathy, antipathy or fundamental issues. I fear for Ciri’s life. She is safe in the Lodge’s care, but an easy target on the roads leading to Rivia. And I worry that there are people who, even having taken away her name and identity, will still think that’s not enough.’

  ‘It remains for us to learn the position of Madam Fringilla Vigo,’ said Sabrina Glevissig quite scathingly. ‘Although it should be obvious. For I take the liberty of reminding you all of Rhys-Rhun Castle.’

  ‘Although I am grateful for the reminder—’ Fringilla Vigo lifted her head proudly ‘—I vote for Ciri. To show the respect and affection I have for the girl. And more than anything I’m doing it for Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, without whom that girl wouldn’t be here today. Who, in order to rescue Ciri, went to the end of the world, fighting everything that stood in his way, even himself. It would be a wickedness to deny him a meeting with her.’

  ‘Yet there was too little wickedness,’ Sabrina said cynically, ‘and too much naive sentimentality; the same sentimentality we mean to eradicate from this maiden. Why, there was even talk about hearts. And the result is that the scales are in the balance. In deadlock. We haven’t decided anything. We’ll have to vote again. I suggest by secret ballot.’

  ‘What for?’

  They all looked at the person who had spoken. Yennefer.

  ‘I am still a member of this Lodge,’ said Yennefer. ‘No one has taken my membership away from me. No one has taken my place. I have the formal right to vote. I think it’s clear who I’m voting for. The votes in favour prevail, so the matter is settled.’

  ‘Your insolence,’ said Sabrina, locking her fingers, armed with onyx rings, ‘borders on bad taste, Yennefer.’

  ‘In your place, madam, I would sit in humble silence,’ added Sheala grimly. ‘Bearing in mind the voting of which you will soon be the subject.’

  ‘I backed Ciri,’ said Francesca, ‘but I must take you to task, Yennefer. You left the Lodge, fleeing from it and refusing to cooperate. You don’t have any rights. You do, though, have obligations, debts to pay, a sentence to hear. Were it not for that, you wouldn’t have been allowed to cross Montecalvo’s threshold.’

  Yennefer restrained Ciri, who was itching to stand up and shout. Without resisting and in silence, Ciri sank into the chair with the armrests carved into sphinxes, watching Madam Owl – Philippa Eilhart – getting up from her chair and suddenly towering over the table.

  ‘Yennefer doesn’t have the right to vote, that is clear,’ she announced in a ringing voice. ‘But I do. I’ve listened to the votes of all the women present here, so I can finally vote myself, I believe.’

  ‘What do you mean by that, Philippa?’ Sabrina frowned.

  Philippa Eilhart looked across the table. She met Ciri’s eyes and looked into them.

  *

  The bottom of the pool is made of a many-coloured mosaic, the tiles shimmering and seeming to move. The entire surface trembles, glimmering with light and shade. Carp and orfe flash by under lily leaves as large as plates, amidst green pond weed. The young girl’s large dark eyes reflect in the water, her long hair reaches down to the surface, floating on it.

  The girl, forgetting about the whole world, runs her little hands among the stems of water lilies, and hangs over the edge of the pool surrounding the fountain. She would love to touch one of the small gold and red fishes. The fish swim up to the girl’s hands, they circle around her curiously, but they won’t let themselves be seized; they’re as elusive as apparitions, like the water itself. The dark-eyed girl’s fingers close on nothingness.

  ‘Philippa!’

  It’s her most favourite voice. In spite of that the little girl doesn’t react right away. She continues to look at the water, at the little fish, at the water lilies and at her own reflection.

  ‘Philippa!’

  *

  ‘Philippa.’ Sheala de Tancarville’s harsh voice shook her out of her reverie. ‘We’re waiting.’

  A cold, spring wind blew in through the open window. Philippa Eilhart shuddered. Death, she thought. Death passed beside me.

  ‘This Lodge,’ she finally said confidently, loudly and emphatically, ‘will decide the fates of the world. Because this Lodge is like the world, is its mirror. Good sense, which doesn’t always mean cold wickedness and calculation, is balancing out sentimentality, which is not always naive. Responsibility, iron discipline – even if imposed by force – and aversion to violence; gentleness and trust. The matter-of-fact coolness of omnipotence . . . and heart.

  ‘I, casting my vote last, take one more thing into consideration,’ she continued in the silence that had descended on the colonnaded hall in Montecalvo. ‘One that, though it doesn’t balance out anything, counterbalances everything.’

  Following her gaze, all the women looked at the wall, at the mosaic constructed from tiny coloured tiles, depicting the snake Ouroboros grasping its tail in its teeth.

  ‘That thing is destiny,’ she continued, fixing her dark eyes on Ciri. ‘Which I, Philippa Eilhart, have only recently begun to believe in. Which I, Philippa Eilhart, have only recently begun to understand. Destiny isn’t the judgements of providence, isn’t scrolls written by the hand of a demiurge, isn’t fatalism. Destiny is hope. Being full of hope, believing that what is meant to happen will happen, I cast my vote. I vote for Ciri. The Child of Destiny. The Child of Hope.’

  The silence in the colonnaded hall of Montecalvo Castle, plunged in subtle chiar
oscuro, lasted a long time. The cry of an osprey circling over the lake reached them from outside the window.

  ‘Madam Yennefer,’ Ciri whispered. ‘Does that mean . . .’

  ‘Let’s go, daughter,’ answered Yennefer in a soft voice. ‘Geralt’s waiting for us and there’s a long road ahead.’

  *

  Geralt awoke and leaped to his feet with the cry of a night bird in his ears.

  Then the sorceress and the witcher were married and held a grand wedding party. I too was there, I drank mead and wine. And then they lived happily ever after, but for a very short time. He died ordinarily, of a heart attack. She died soon after him, but of what the tale does not say. They say of sorrow and longing, but who would lend credence to fairy tales?

  Flourens Delannoy, Fairy Tales and Stories

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was the sixth day after the June new moon when they arrived in Rivia.

  They rode out of the forests onto the hillsides and then, beneath them, down below, suddenly and without warning, twinkled and glittered the surface of Loch Eskalott, which filled the valley in the shape of the rune from which it took its name. The hillsides of Craag Ros, the protruding end of the Mahakam massif, covered in fir and larch, gazed at their own reflections in the lake surface. As did the red tiles of the towers of the stout Rivia Castle, the winter seat of the kings of Lyria, standing on a headland extending into the lake. And by a bay at the southern end of Loch Eskalott lay the town of Rivia, with the bright thatch of the cottages around the castle and dark houses growing by the lake shore like mushrooms.

  ‘Well, we seem to have arrived,’ Dandelion stated, shielding his eyes with his hand. ‘Now we’ve come full circle, we’re in Rivia. Strange, how strange are the twists of fate . . . I don’t see blue and white pennants on any of the castle towers, and thus Queen Meve is not residing at the castle. I don’t suppose, in any case, that she still remembers our desertion—’