The Sword of Destiny (13 page)

Geralt wasn't particularly impressed with the collection. He had lived at Yennefer's house in Vengerberg for six months and she possessed an even more interesting collection, including a phallus of unprecedented proportions, apparently from a mountain troll. She also had a magnificent stuffed unicorn, upon whose back she liked to make love. Geralt was of the opinion that the only place even less suited for lovemaking would be the back of a live unicorn. In contrast to the witcher, who considered a bed a luxury and valued all possible applications such a wonderful piece of furniture offered, Yennefer was wildly inventive. Geralt recalled pleasant moments spent with the sorceress on the slope of a roof, in the hollow of a dead tree, on the balcony, and those of others, the railing of a bridge, a canoe, rocking unsteadily on a rushing stream and lastly while levitating thirty fathoms above the ground. But worst of all was the unicorn. One happy day, however, the thing collapsed beneath them. It ripped open and broke into pieces, causing the pair to burst into wild laughter.

"What amuses you so, witcher?" Istredd asked, sitting behind a long table upon which rested a large number of rotting skulls, bones and rusty iron pots.

"Every time I see stuff like this," the witcher sat opposite, indicating to the bottles and jars, "I wonder to myself whether it's possible to practice magic without the use of such monstrosities, considering the sight of them turns the stomach."

"It's a matter of taste," said the sorcerer, "And tradition. What's repugnant to some, doesn't affect others in the same way. And you, Geralt, what disgusts you? I'm curious to know what is considered repugnant by someone who, so I've heard, is able to wade neck deep through filth and garbage if the price is right. Please don't take this question as an insult or provocation. I'm genuinely curious to know what can provoke a feeling of disgust in a witcher."

"Didn't I happen to hear that you keep a jar containing the menstrual blood of a maiden, Istredd? It disgusts me to picture you, a professional magician, bottle in hand, on your knees, trying to collect this precious liquid - drop by drop - from the source, so to speak."

"Good one." Istredd smiled. "I speak, of course, of your incisive wit, because you're not right about the contents of the vial."

"But sometimes you need to use blood, right? Certain spells, or so I've heard, you can't even begin without the blood of a virgin; all the better if she was killed by a bolt of lightning on a cloudless night. I'm just curious, what makes it better than that of an old prostitute who fell off a wall while drunk?"

"Nothing," agreed the magician, a friendly smile on his lips. "But if it gets out that the blood of a pig works just as well, considering how much easier it is to get, the riffraff would start experimenting with sorcery. But if the rabble has to collect the blood of the maiden that interests you so much, or dragon's tears, tarantula venom, broth made with the severed hands of a newborn or a corpse exhumed at midnight, most of them will think twice about such an enterprise."

They were silent for a moment. Istredd, giving the impression of being deeply absorbed in his thoughts, tapped his fingernails on a cracked skull, browned and missing the lower jaw, which lay before him. His finger traced the jagged edge of the hole that started at the temporal bone. Geralt looked at him discretely. He wondered how old the sorcerer was. He knew that the most talented magicians were able to stop the aging process permanently at their desired age. Men, by reason of reputation and prestige, preferred an age of advanced maturity, suggesting wisdom and experience. Women, such as Yennefer, cared less about prestige and more about attractiveness. Istredd was in the prime of life and did not seem to be more than forty. He had straight, slightly greying hair that fell to his shoulders and many small wrinkles on his forehead, around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. Geralt did not know if the depth and wisdom in those gentle grey eyes was natural or caused by a spell. After a while, he came to the conclusion that he didn't give a damn.

"Istredd," he interrupted the awkward silence. "I came here because I wanted to see Yennefer. Although she's not here, you invited me in. To talk. About what? How the riffraff are trying to break your monopoly on the use of magic? I know that you count me as part of this rabble. It's nothing new to me. For a moment, I had the impression that you were going to be different from your colleagues who have often struck up a conversation with me for the sole purpose of expressing how much they don't like me."

"I will not apologise for my, as you say, colleagues," said the magician calmly, "I understand them, because, like them, I had to work hard to master the magical arts. When I was just a boy and all my peers were running through the fields with bows and arrows, fishing or playing leapfrog, I pored over manuscripts. The bitter cold from the stony floors of the tower froze my bones and joints. That was in the summer; in the winter it cracked my tooth enamel as well. The dust from the old books and scrolls made my cough until tears came to my eyes, and my teacher, old Roedskilde, never missed an opportunity to take his whip to my back, apparently when I was not making enough progress in my studies. I didn't get to fight, or chase girls or drink beer during the years when such diversions are best appreciated."

"Poor thing," replied the witcher with a frown. "Indeed, it brings tears even to my eyes."

"Why the sarcasm? I'm trying to explain to you why magicians don't like shamen, enchanters, healers, witches and witchers. Call it want you want, even simple jealousy, but here lies the reason for antipathy. It bothers us when we see magic, an art we were taught to regard as a gift to the adept, a privilege of the elite and the most sacred mystery of all, fall into the hands of the inferior and the lay practitioner. Even if the magic in question is incompetent, wretched and ridiculous. That is why my colleagues don't like you. I don't like you, either."

Geralt was sick and tired of this conversation, so much so that a growing feeling of unease crawled like a snail across the back of his neck and down his spine. He look straight into Istredd's eyes and gripped the edge of the table with the tips of his fingers.

"This is about Yennefer, isn't it?"

The sorcerer raised his head, still lightly tapping his fingers on the skull lying on the table.

"Bravo for your insight," he said, holding the witcher's gaze. "Please accept my congratulations. Yes, this is about Yennefer."

Geralt fell silent. Once, long ago, many, many years ago, while still a young witcher, he was waiting to ambush a manticore. He felt the manticore approaching. He could not see it or hear it, but that feeling; he could never forget that feeling. And now he felt exactly the same.

"Your insight," said the wizard, "saves a lot of time that otherwise would have been spent beating around the bush. So now the matter is out in the open."

Geralt did not respond.

"My deep friendship with Yennefer," continued Istredd, "started quite some time ago, witcher. It has long been a friendship without obligations, based on long or short, but more or less regular, periods spent with one another. This type of casual relationship is often practiced amongst our profession. It's just that it's suddenly not enough for me. I decided to propose that she remain with me permanently."

"And what was her reply?"

"She'd think about it. So I gave her time to think. I know it's not an easy decision for her."

"Why are you telling me this, Istredd? What's your reasoning, other than a commendable but rare sense of nobility amongst those of your profession? What's the point of this honesty?"

"Practicality," sighed the magician, "because, as you well know, it is you who prevents Yennefer from making a decision. So I'm asking you to leave voluntarily. Disappear from her life and stop getting in our way. In short, go to hell. It would be best if you leave quietly and without saying goodbye, which, as she has informed me, is what you usually do."

"Truly," Geralt forced a smile, "Your honesty amazes me more and more. I expected many things, but not this. Didn't it occur to you that it might be better that, instead of asking, you could have hit me with a ball of lightning and reduced me to a pile of carbon. Then there

would be nothing standing in your way, just a sooty smudge on the wall. That method would have been easier and safer. Because, as you know, a request can be denied but not a ball of lightning."

"I didn't take into account the possibility that you might refuse."

"Why? Isn't this strange request nothing more than a warning in advance of a ball of lightning or some other spell? Maybe you're going to back up your request with more persuasive arguments? A sum that's likely to sate the appetite of a greedy witcher? How much is it worth, to clear me from the path that leads to your happiness?"

The sorcerer stopped tapping the skull, placing the palm of his hand on top of it and squeezing. Geralt watched his knuckles go white.

"It wasn't my intention to insult you with such an offer," he said. "Far from it. But... if... Geralt, I'm a magician, and not a bad one. I don't want to brag about my powers, but many of your wishes, if you want to make them, I should be able to fulfil. Some of them with ease."

He made a casual gesture with his hand, as if shooing a mosquito. The air above the table suddenly swarmed with fabulously coloured apollo butterflies.

"My wish, Istredd," growled the witcher, waving the insects away from his face, "Is that you stop getting between Yennefer and I. I'm not interested in any offer you have to make. You should have made your proposal to Yennefer while she was with you. Formerly. Because that was in the past. Now it's the present and she is with me. Am I supposed to leave just to make your life easier? I refuse. Not only will I not help you, I will do everything in my modest power to hinder you. As you can see, I'm no less honest than you."

"You have no right to refuse. None at all."

"What do you take me for, Istredd?"

The magician looked him straight in the eyes, leaning across the table.

"For a fleeting affair. A momentary infatuation, at best, a whim, one adventure among the hundreds Yenna has had, because Yenna loves to play with emotions: she is impulsive and unpredictable in her caprices. Now, having exchanged a few words with you, I've rejected the possibility that she's just using you as a plaything. But believe me, this is so often the case."

"You have not understood my question."

"You're wrong. I understood. But I have deliberately referred only to Yenna's emotions. Because you're a witcher and can experience no emotion whatsoever. You don't want to grant my request because you feel that she needs you, you think... Geralt, you're with her just because she wants it and you'll be with her for as long as she wants. And what you feel is just a reflection of her emotions, the interest she shows in you. By all the demons in hell, Geralt, you're not a child, you know what you are. You're a mutant. Don't get me wrong, I don't say this to denigrate or insult you. I'm just stating a fact. You're a mutant, and a main feature of

your mutation is that you're completely insensible to emotion. That's the way you're created so that you can do your job. Do you understand? You cannot feel anything. All that you regard as emotion is nothing more than cellular memory, somatic, if you know what that word means."

"Suppose that I do."

"All the better. Listen then. I'm asking you something that I could only ask of a witcher, not a human. I can be honest with a witcher, but I could not afford such truthfulness with a human. Geralt, I want to give Yenna understanding and stability, affection and happiness. Can you, hand on heart, say the same? No, you cannot. For you, these words are meaningless. You chase after Yenna, happy as a child for the occasional kindness shown to you. Like a feral cat, used to having stones pitched at it, pleased that you have finally found someone who is not afraid to pet him. Do you know what I mean? Oh, I know you understand, you're not stupid, that's clear. You see for yourself why you have no right to reject my kind offer."

"I have as much right to refuse," drawled Geralt, "as you do to ask, therefore our rights cancel each other out and we're back to our starting point, the point being this: Yen, apparently not bothered by my mutations and their consequences, is now with me. You made her a proposal, as is your right. She said that she'll think about it? That's her right. You have the impression that I'm making it difficult for her to decide? Why she hesitates? That I'm the cause of this hesitation? That's also my right. If she hesitates, then it's presumably not without reason. Maybe it's something I give to her, even if it's something there is no word for in the vocabulary of witchers."

"Listen..."

"No. You listen to me. She was once with you, you say? Who knows, perhaps it's not I, but you who is the fleeting infatuation, the caprice, the impulsive fling that's so typical of her. Istredd, I can't even rule out whether or not she only perceives you as a plaything. That, Sir Wizard, cannot be excluded solely on the basis of this conversation. It seems to me that, in this case, the plaything is the one who speaks with more grandiloquence."

Istredd did not even flinch. Geralt admired his composure. However, the prolonged silence seemed to indicate that the blow had hit the target.

"You're playing with words," said the magician, at last. "You revel in them. You use words to replace the normal human feelings you don't possess. Your words do not express feelings, only sounds, like those produced when you knock upon a skull. Because you are as empty as this skull. You have no right to..."

"Enough," Geralt interrupted sharply, perhaps too sharply. "Stop denying that I have rights, I'm sick of it, do you hear? I said that our rights are equal. No, damn it, mine are greater."

"Really?" The magician paled slightly, to Geralt's great pleasure. "Why is that?"

The witcher thought for a moment and decided to finish it.

"Because," he burst out, "Last night she made love with me and not you."

Istredd picked up the skull, stroking it. His hand, to Geralt's annoyance, was not even shaking.