The Sword of Destiny (5 page)

"After a festival, sometimes marmot," added Yarpen Zigrin in a sad voice.

"... We drink only water." Boholt drank a good draught from the demijohn and snorted. "For us, Lady Yennefer, there's no other solution. We get paid or it's death outside in the icy cold winter. Because the inns are so expensive."

"Beer too," added Nischuka.

"And the whores," continued Ripper, dreamily.

"That's why we're going to try to slay the dragon without your spells and without your help."

"Are you sure about that? Remember that there are limits as to how to go about it, Boholt."

"There are perhaps. I've never encountered them for my part. No, madam. I repeat: we shall kill the dragon ourselves, without your spells."

"What's more" added Yarpen Zigrin, "spells, too, are subject to certain limits."

"Did you figure this out by yourself?" Yennefer asked slowly. "Perhaps somebody else has told you? Does the presence of a witcher at this so noble gathering explain your egotism?"

"No," replied Boholt looking at Geralt who pretended to be dozing, lazily stretched out on a blanket, his head resting on his saddle. "The witcher has got nothing to do with this. Listen, dear Lady Yennefer. We offered a proposal to the king and he has not honoured us with the answer. We'll wait patiently till morning. If the king accepts, we'll continue on our way together. Otherwise, we shall leave."

"Us too," murmured the dwarf.

"No possible negotiation," Boholt went on. "Take it or leave it. Please repeat these words to Niedamir, dear Yennefer. And I'll also add that the deal could be favourable to you, to you and also to Dorregaray, if you agree with the king. We don't care about the dragon's carcass. We want only the tail. All rest will be yours. You have only to help yourself. We shall claim neither the teeth nor the brain: nothing of interest to magicians."

"Of course," added Yarpen Zigrin, sneering, "you can also have the carrion. Nobody's going to steal that from you, except perhaps the vultures."

Yennefer got up, drawing her coat around her shoulders.

"Niedamir will not wait until the morning," she announced firmly. "He accepts your conditions forthwith. In spite of my advice, as you suspected, and that of Dorregaray."

"Niedamir," stated Boholt slowly, "has proved himself of sound judgment for such a young king. Because for me, Lady Yennefer, the wise show an ability to remain deaf to the advice of stupid or hypocritical people."

Yarpen Zigrin sniggered. The sorceress put her hands on her hips and retorted:

"You'll be singing another tune tomorrow when the dragon falls upon you, skewers you to the ground and breaks your legs. You'll kiss my arse and beg me to help you. As usual. I know you well, as I know all those of your kind. I know you so you well, it makes me sick."

She turned and walked away into the darkness, without saying goodbye.

"In my time," said Yarpen Zigrin, "magicians remained locked up in their towers. They read learned books and mixed potions in their cauldrons with a spatula without sticking their noses into the affairs of warriors. They minded their own business without flaunting their arses at all the boys."

"And a very pretty arse it is too, to be frank," added Jaskier, tuning his lute. "Eh, Geralt? Geralt? Where's the witcher gone?"

"What's it to us?" Boholt grumbled, feeding the fire with some more wood. "He left. Perhaps to satisfy the usual needs, my dear lords. That's his business."

"Of course," replied the bard, playing a chord on his lute. "What would you say to a song?"

"Sing, damn it," Yarpen Zigrin grumbled, spitting, "but don't expect that I'll give you a shilling for your bleating, Jaskier. This is not the royal court, my lad."

"That's for sure," replied the troubadour, shaking his head.

V

"Yennefer."

She feigned astonishment as she turned around. The witcher knew that she had heard his footsteps from afar. She deposited a wooden bowl on the ground and lifted her head, pushing back a lock of hair which fell across her forehead. Her curly tresses, now freed from the gold mesh, cascaded onto her shoulders.

"Geralt."

As usual, she wore only two colours - white and black. Her hair and long black eyelashes invited a guess as to the colour of her eyes, which they hid. A black dress, a small black jerkin with a white fur collar. A white shirt of fine linen. Around her neck, on a black velvet ribbon adorned with small diamonds, was a star of obsidian.

"You haven't changed, Yennefer."

"Neither have you." Her lips tightened in a line. "And in both cases, nothing more normal than that. Or, if you prefer, nothing more abnormal. But talking about the effects of time on our appearance, even if it is a very good means to start conversation, is slightly absurd, don't you think?"

"That's true."

He raised his head, looking to the side of Niedamir's tent at the fires of the royal archers, who were hidden by the dark silhouettes of the wagons.

At a fire located farther away, they heard the tuneful voice of Jaskier singing Stars Above the Road, one of his most successful romantic ballads.

"Indeed," said the sorceress, "preamble over, what do you have to say? I'm listening."

"You see, Yennefer..."

"I see," she interrupted him wildly, "but I don't understand. What's the reason for your presence here Geralt? Certainly not the dragon. From that point of view, I imagine nothing has changed."

"No. Nothing changed there."

"Then why did you join us?"

"If I tell you that it's because of you, would you believe me?"

She looked at him in silence. Her bright eyes expressed something unpleasant.

"I believe you," she said finally. "Why not? Men like to see their former lovers again to reminisce about the good old times. They take pleasure in imagining that their bygone love affairs assure them a perpetual right of possession on their ex-partners. It's good for their self-esteem. You're no exception, apparently."

"Apparently" he replied, smiling. "You're right, Yennefer. The sight of you has boosted my self-esteem. In other words, I'm happy to see again you."

"Is that all? Oh well, let's say that I'm also happy to see you again. And now we're both contented, I wish you good night. I'm going to bed. Before that, I intend to have a bath and so need to undress. I kindly ask you to go away to grant me a minimum of privacy."

"Yen."

He reached out to her.

"Don't call me that!" she hissed furiously, drawing back. Blue and red sparks flew from her fingers which the sorceress aimed at him. "And if you touch me, I'll burn out your eyes, you bastard."

The witcher backed off. The sorceress, somewhat composed, pushed back her hair which had fallen across her forehead. She stood before him, resting her hands on her hips.

"What were you thinking, Geralt? That we would talk casually and cheerfully? That we would remember the old times? That after this conversation we would go to lie down in a wagon and make love on the furs... just like that, just to refresh our memories? Is that it?"

Geralt, not sure whether the sorceress knew how to read thoughts or just successfully guessed them, remained silent and smiled crookedly.

"These past four years did their job, Geralt. I overcame the pain at last. It's only for this reason that I did not spit in your face as soon as I saw you. But don't let my courtesy deceive you."

"Yennefer..."

"Silence! I gave more to you than I have to any other man, you piece of shit. I didn't know myself why I had chosen you. And you... Oh no, my dear. I'm neither a whore nor an elf met at random on a forest path that you can run out on the following morning without waking, leaving a bunch of violets on the table. A girl you can turn into a laughing stock. Watch out! If you say even one word, you could end up regretting it."

Geralt did not say a word as he sensed Yennefer's seething anger. The sorceress once again pushed the insubordinate curls from her forehead. She looked him closely in the eye.

"We met. Too bad," she continued in a low voice. "We're not going to put on a show for the others. Let's preserve our dignity. Let's pretend to be good friends. But don't be mistaken, Geralt: between us there is nothing more than that. Nothing more, do you understand? And rejoice because it means that I've abandoned some plans I've been cooking up for you. But it doesn't mean that I forgive you. I shall never forgive you, witcher. Never."

She turned wildly, grabbing her bowl so violently that she splashed herself with water, and disappeared behind a wagon.

Geralt shooed away a mosquito which flitted around his ear making an irritating noise. He slowly took the path back to the fire where sparse applause expressed approval for Jaskier's singing.

He looked at the dark blue sky gaping above the black, jagged crest of the mountains. He wanted to laugh. He didn't know why.

VI

"Watch out there! Pay attention!" shouted Boholt, turning round in the driver's seat towards the rest of the column behind him. "You're too near the rocks! Look out!"

The wagons moved onward behind each other, bouncing along on the stones. The drivers swore and cracked their whips; anxious, they leaned over to check that the wheels remained a respectable distance from the ravine and always in contact with the narrow, uneven path. Down in the bottom of the chasm, the River Braa bubbled with white foam between the rocks.

Geralt kept his horse very close to the stony wall covered in patches of brown moss and white blooms of lichen. He allowed the Reavers' wagon to pass. At the head of column, Ripper led the train along with the scouts of Holopole.

"Good!" he called "Make some effort! The way becomes broader."

King Niedamir and Gyllenstiern caught up with Geralt on their chargers. Several archers on horseback flanked them. Behind them, all the royal wagons followed, making a deafening noise. Far behind them followed that of the dwarves, driven by Yarpen Zigrin, swearing incessantly. Niedamir, a thin and freckled lad in a white sheepskin coat, passed the Witcher, shooting him an arrogant, but clearly bored look. Gyllenstiern straightened up, stopping his mount.

"If you please, Sir Witcher," he shot with an air of superiority.

"I'm listening."

Geralt spurred on his mare and rode alongside the chancellor behind the wagons. He was surprised that with such a fat gut, Gyllenstiern preferred riding a horse rather than in the comfort of a wagon.

Gyllenstiern pulled lightly on his reins adorned with golden studs and pushed a turquoise coat off his shoulders.

"Yesterday, you said that dragons did not interest you. In what, therefore, are you interested, Sir Witcher? Why do you travel this road with us?"

"It's a free country, Lord Chancellor."

"At the present time, Lord Geralt, everybody in this convoy must know his place and his role in accordance with the will of King Niedamir. Do you understand?"

"What are you getting at, Lord Gyllenstiern?"

"I'm already there. Lately I have heard that it is difficult to come to an agreement with you witchers. It seems that when somebody asks a witcher to kill a monster, he prefers to meditate

on the legitimacy of this act rather than to just take up his sword and kill it. He wishes to consider the boundaries of what is acceptable by wondering whether the killing, in this particular case, does not contradict with his ethical code and if the monster is indeed a monster - as though it were not obvious at first glance. I think that your financial security hinders you: in my time, witchers did not stink of money. The only stench was from the bandages with which they covered their feet. There was never the slightest hint of procrastination: they killed whatever they had been ordered to kill, that's it. It didn't matter whether it was a werewolf, a dragon or a tax collector. Only the effectiveness of the job. What do you think, Geralt?"

"Do you want to entrust me with a mission, Gyllenstiern?" replied the witcher roughly. "I await your proposal. We shall make a decision then. But if that's not case, there's no point in waffling on like this, is there?"

"A mission?" the chancellor sighed. "No, I don't have one for you. Today we hunt the dragon and apparently it exceeds your abilities, witcher. I fancy that the Reavers will fulfil this task. I simply wanted to keep you informed. Pay close attention: King Niedamir and I will not tolerate this type of fanciful dichotomy consisting of separating monsters into good and bad. We don't want to hear, and even less to see, how witchers apply this principle. Do not meddle in royal business, Lord, and cease conspiring with Dorregaray."

"I'm not in the habit of collaborating with magicians. How did you come to such a hypothesis?"

"The fancies of Dorregaray," replied Gyllenstiern, "exceed even those of the witchers. He goes beyond your dualistic dichotomy by considering that all monsters are good!"

"He exaggerates a bit."

"There's no doubt about that. But he defends his views with amazing tenacity. Frankly I wouldn't be surprised if he's up to something. It's odd that he's joined this strange company

"I don't really like Dorregaray; the feeling's mutual."

"Don't interrupt me! I must say your presence here seems strange to me: a witcher with more scruples than there are fleas nesting in the coat of a fox; a magician who never stops spouting druidic incongruities regarding the balance of nature; a silent knight, Borch Three-Jackdaws and his escort from Zerricania - where, as everybody knows, they make sacrifices before effigies of dragons. And they all suddenly join our hunt. It's strange, don't you find?"

"If you say so, yes."

"Know then," the chancellor went on, "that as is so often the case, the most difficult problems always result in the simplest resolution. Do not force me to use to it, witcher."

"I don't understand."

"You understand. You understand only too well. Thank you for this conversation, Geralt."

The witcher halted his mount. Gyllenstiern sped up his pace to join the king behind the wagons. Eyck of Denesle, dressed in a jerkin stitched with pale leather still carrying the

impression of a breast-plate, passed by at walking pace leading a sleepy horse loaded with armour and carrying a silver shield and a powerful lance. Geralt waved to him, but the knight errant looked away, pursing his lips, before spurring his horse onwards.