The Last Wish (3 page)

'Has there been even one attack during the day?'

'No.'

'Does she always devour her victims?'

Velerad spat vehemently on the straw.

'Come on, Geralt, it'll be supper soon. Pish! Devours, takes a bite, leaves aside, it varies —

according to her mood, no doubt. She only bit the head from one, gutted a couple, and a few more she picked clean to the bone, sucked them dry, you could say. Damned mother's—!'

'Careful, Velerad,' snarled Ostrit. 'Say what you want about the striga but do not insult Adda in front of me, as you would not dare in the king's presence!'

'Has anyone she's attacked survived?' The witcher asked, apparently paying no special attention to the magnate's outburst.

Segelin and Ostrit looked at each other.

'Yes,' said the bearded man. 'At the very beginning, seven years ago, she threw herself at two soldiers standing guard over the crypt. One escaped—'

And then,' interrupted Velerad, 'there was another, the miller she attacked near the town. You remember . . . ?'

The following day, late in the evening, the miller was brought to the small chamber above the guardhouse allocated to the witcher. He was led in by a soldier in a hooded coat.

The conversation did not yield any significant results. The miller was terrified; he mumbled and stammered, and his scars told the witcher more than he did. The striga could open her jaws impressively wide and had extremely sharp teeth, including very long upper fangs —

four of them, two on each side. Her claws were sharper than a wildcat's, but less curved. And it was only because of that the miller had managed to tear himself away.

Having finished his examination Geralt nodded to the miller and soldier, dismissing them.

The soldier pushed the peasant through the door and lowered his hood. It was Foltest himself.

'Sit, do not get up,' said the king. 'This visit is unofficial. Are you happy with the interview? I heard you were at the palace this morning.'

'Yes, your Majesty.'

'When will you set about your task?'

'It is four days until the full moon. After that.'

'You prefer to have a look at her yourself beforehand?'

'There is no need. But having had her fill the— the princess will be less active.'

'Striga, master witcher, striga. Let us not play at diplomacy. She will be a princess afterwards.

And that is what I have come to talk about. Answer me unofficially, briefly and clearly: will it work or not? Don't hide behind your code.'

Geralt rubbed his brow.

'I confirm, your Majesty, that the spell might be reversed. And, unless I am mistaken, it can be done by spending the night at the palace. The third crowing of the cock, as long as it catches the striga outside her sarcophagus, will end the spell. That is what is usually done with strigas.'

'So simple?'

'It is not simple. First you have to survive the night. Then there are exceptions to the rule, for example, not one night but three. Consecutively. There are also cases which are . . . well . . .

hopeless.'

Yes,' Foltest bristled. 'I keep hearing that from some people. Kill the monster because it's an incurable case. Master witcher, I

am sure they have already spoken to you. Am I right? Hack the man-eater to death without any more fuss, at the beginning, and tell the king nothing else could be done. I won't pay, but they will. Very convenient. And cheap. Because the king will order the witcher beheaded or hanged and the gold will remain in their pockets.'

'The king unconditionally orders the witcher to be beheaded?' Geralt grimaced.

Foltest looked the Rivian in the eyes for a long while.

'The king does not know,' he finally said. 'But the witcher should bear such an eventuality in mind.'

Geralt was silent for a moment. 'I intend to do what is in my power,' he said. 'But if it goes badly I will defend my life. Your Majesty, you must also be prepared for such an eventuality.'

Foltest got up. 'You do not understand me. It's obvious you'll kill her if it becomes necessary, whether I like it or not. Because otherwise she'll kill you, surely and inevitably. I won't punish anyone who kills her in self-defence. But I will not allow her to be killed without trying to save her. There have already been attempts to set fire to the old palace. They shot at her with arrows, dug pits and set traps and snares, until I hung a few of her attackers. But that is not the point. Witcher, listen!'

'I'm listening.'

'After the third crowing of the cock, there will be no striga, if I understand correctly. What will there be?'

'If all goes well, a fourteen-year-old girl.'

With red eyes? Crocodile's teeth?'

'A normal fourteen-year-old. Except that . . .'

Well?'

'Physically.'

'I see. And mentally? Every day, a bucket of blood for breakfast? A little girl's thigh?'

'No. Mentally . . . There is no telling. On the level, I think, of a three- or four-year-old child.

She'll require loving care for a long while.'

'That's obvious. Witcher?'

'I'm listening.'

'Can it happen to her again? Later on?'

Geralt was silent.

'Aha,' said the king. 'It can. And what then?'

'Should she die after a long swoon lasting several days, her body will have to be burned.

Quickly.'

Foltest grew gloomy.

'I do not think it will come to that,' added Geralt. 'Just to be sure, I will give you some instructions, your Majesty, to lessen the danger.'

'Right now? Is it not too soon, master witcher? And if—'

'Right now,' interrupted the Rivian. 'Many things may happen, your Majesty. It could be that you'll find a princess in the morning, the spell already broken, and my corpse.'

'Even so? Despite my permission to defend yourself? Which, it seems, wasn't that important to you.'

'This is a serious matter, your Majesty. The risk is great. That is why you must listen: the princess should always wear a sapphire around her neck, or better, an inclusion, on a silver chain. Day and night.'

'What is an inclusion?'

'A sapphire with a pocket of air trapped within the stone. Aside from that, every now and then you should burn juniper, broom and aspen in the fireplace of her chamber.'

Foltest grew pensive. 'I thank you for your advice, witcher. I will pay heed if— And now listen to me carefully. If you find the case is hopeless, kill her. If you undo the spell but the girl is not . . . normal. If you have a shadow of a doubt as to whether you have been entirely successful, kill her. Do not worry, you have nothing to fear from me. I'll shout at you in front of others, banish you from the palace and the town, nothing more. Of course I won't give you the reward, but maybe you'll manage to negotiate something from you know who.'

They were both quiet for a while.

'Geralt.' For the first time Foltest called the witcher by his name.

'Yes.'

'How much truth is there in the rumour that the child is as she is because Adda was my sister?'

'Not much. A spell has to be cast, they don't cast themselves. But I think your congress with your sister was the reason the spell was cast, and this is the result.'

'As I thought. That is what some of the Knowing Ones said, although not all of them. Geralt?

Where do such things come from? Spells, magic?'

'I don't know, your Majesty. Knowing Ones study the causes of such phenomena. For us witchers the knowledge that concentrated will can cause such phenomena is enough. That and the knowledge to fight them.'

'And kill them?'

'Usually. Besides, that is what we're usually paid for. Only a few demand the reversal of spells, your Majesty. As a rule, people simply want to defend themselves from danger. If the monster has men on its conscience then revenge can also come into play.'

The king got up, took a few paces across the chamber, and stopped in front of the witcher's sword hanging on the wall.

'With this?' he asked, not looking at Geralt.

'No. That is for men.'

'So I heard. Do you know what, Geralt? I'm going to the crypt with you.'

'Out of the question.'

Foltest turned, his eyes glinted. 'Do you know, sorcerer, that I have not seen her? Neither after she was born, nor later. I was afraid. I may never see her, am I not right? At least I have the right to see my daughter while you're murdering her.'

'I repeat, it's out of the question. It is certain death. For me as well as you. If my attention, my will falters— No, your Majesty.'

Foltest turned away, started towards the door. For a moment Geralt thought he would leave without a word, without a parting gesture, but the king stopped and looked at him.

'You inspire trust,' he said, 'although I know what a rogue you are. I was told what happened at the tavern. I'm sure you killed

those thugs solely for word to spread, to shock people, to shock me. It's obvious that you could have dealt with them without killing. I'm afraid I'll never know whether you are going there to save my daughter, or to kill her. But I agree to it. I have to agree. Do you know why?'

Geralt did not reply.

'Because I think,' said the king, 'I think that she is suffering. Am I not right?'

The witcher fixed his penetrating eyes on the king. He didn't confirm it, didn't nod, didn't make the slightest gesture, but Foltest knew. He knew the answer.

Geralt looked out of the palace window for the last time. Dusk was falling rapidly. Beyond the lake the distant lights of Wyzim twinkled. There was a wilderness around the old palace -

a strip of no-man's land with which, over seven years, the town had cut itself off from this dangerous place, leaving nothing but a few ruins, rotten beams and the remains of a gap-toothed palisade which had obviously not been worth dismantling and moving. As far away as possible - at the opposite end of the settlement - the king had built his new residence. The stout tower of his new palace loomed black in the distance, against the darkening blue of the sky.

In one of the empty, plundered chambers, the witcher returned to the dusty table at which he was preparing, calmly and meticulously. He knew he had plenty of time. The striga would not leave her crypt before midnight.

On the table in front of him he had a small chest with metal fittings. He opened it. Inside, packed tightly in compartments lined with dried grass, stood small vials of dark glass. The witcher removed three.

From the floor, he picked up an oblong packet thickly wrapped in sheep's skins and fastened with a leather strap. He unwrapped it and pulled out a sword with an elaborate hilt, in a black, shiny scabbard covered with rows of runic signs and symbols. He drew the blade, which lit up with a pure shine of mirror-like brightness. It was pure silver.

Geralt whispered an incantation and drank, one after the other, the contents of two vials, placing his left hand on the blade of the sword after each sip. Then, wrapping himself tightly in his black coat, he sat down on the floor. There were no chairs in the chamber, or in the rest of the palace.

He sat motionless, his eyes closed. His breathing, at first even, suddenly quickened, became rasping and tense. And then stopped completely. The mixture which helped the witcher gain full control of his body was chiefly made up of veratrum, stramonium, hawthorn and spurge.

The other ingredients had no name in any human language. For anyone who was not, like Geralt, inured to it from childhood, it would have been lethal poison.

The witcher turned his head abruptly. In the silence his hearing, sharpened beyond measure, easily picked out a rustle of footsteps through the courtyard overgrown with stinging nettles.

It could not be the striga. The steps were too light. Geralt threw his sword across his back, hid his bundle in the hearth of the ruined chimney-place and, silent as a bat, ran downstairs.

It was still light enough in the courtyard for the approaching man to see the witcher's face.

The man, Ostrit, backed away abruptly; an involuntary grimace of terror and repulsion contorted his lips. The witcher smiled wryly - he knew what he looked like. After drinking a mixture of banewart, monk's hood and eyebright the face takes on the colour of chalk, and the pupils fill the entire iris. But the mixture enables one to see in the deepest darkness, and this is what Geralt wanted.

Ostrit quickly regained control.

'You look as if you were already a corpse, witcher,' he said. 'From fear, no doubt. Don't be afraid. I bring you reprieve.'

The witcher did not reply.

'Don't you hear what I say, you Rivian charlatan? You're saved.

And rich.' Ostrit hefted a sizeable purse in his hand and threw it at Geralt's feet. 'A thousand orens. Take it, get on your horse and get out of here!'

The Rivian still said nothing.

'Don't gawp at me!' Ostrit raised his voice. 'And don't waste my time. I have no intention of standing here until midnight. Don't you understand? I do not wish you to undo the spell. No, you haven't guessed. I am not in league with Velerad and Segelin. I don't want you to kill her.

You are simply to leave. Everything is to stay as it is.'

The witcher did not move. He did not want the magnate to realise how fast his movements and reactions now were. It was quickly growing dark. A relief, as even the semi-darkness of dusk was too bright for his dilated pupils.

'And why, sir, is everything to remain as it is?' he asked, trying to enunciate each word slowly.

'Now, that,' Ostrit raised his head proudly, 'should really be of damn little concern to you.'

'And what if I already know?'

'Go on.'

'It will be easier to remove Foltest from the throne if the striga frightens the people even more? If the royal madness completely disgusts both magnates and common folk, am I right?

I came here by way of Redania and Novigrad. There is much talk there that there are those in Wyzim who look to King Vizimir as their saviour and true monarch. But I, Lord Ostrit, do not care about politics, or the successions to thrones, or revolutions in palaces. I am here to accomplish my task. Have you never heard of a sense of responsibility and plain honesty?