“I’m not sure…Let's get closer.”
“Yennefer's alive,” said Dandilion suddenly, straining his musical ear. “I heard her moan. There, she moaned again!”
“Uhuh,” confirmed Errdil. “I heard it, too. She moaned. She must really be suffering. Chireadan, where are you going? Careful!”
The elf backed away from the shattered window through which he had carefully peeped.
“Let's get out of here,” he said quietly. “Let's not disturb them.”
“They're both alive? Chireadan? What are they doing?”
“Let's get out of here,” repeated the elf. “Let's leave them alone for a bit. Let them stay there, Yennefer, Geralt and his last wish. Let's wait in a tavern; they'll join us before long. Both of them.”
“What are they doing?” Dandilion was curious. “Tell me, dammit!”
The elf smiled. Very, very sadly. “I don't like grand words,” he said. “And it's impossible to give it a name without using grand words.”
THE VOICE OF REASON
7
Falwick, in full armor, without a helmet and with the crimson coat of the Order flung over his shoulder, stood in the glade. Next to him, with his arms across his chest, was a stocky, bearded dwarf in an overcoat lined with fox fur over, a chain-mail shirt of iron rings. Tailles, wearing no armor but a short, quilted doublet, paced slowly, brandishing his unsheathed sword from time to time.
The witcher looked about, restraining his horse. All around glinted the cuirasses and flat helmets of soldiers armed with lances.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Geralt. “I might have expected this.”
Dandilion turned his horse and quietly cursed at the sight of the lances cutting off their retreat.
“What's this about, Geralt?”
“Nothing. Keep your mouth shut and don't butt in. I’ll try to lie my way out of it somehow.”
“What's it about, I ask you? More trouble?”
“Shut up.”
“It was a stupid idea after all, to ride into town,” groaned the troubadour, glancing toward the nearby towers of the temple visible above the forest. “We should have stayed at Nenneke's and not stirred beyond the walls—”
“Shut up. It'll all become clear, you'll see.”
“Doesn't look like it.”
Dandilion was right. It didn't. Tailles, brandishing his naked sword, continued pacing without looking in their direction. The soldiers, leaning on their spears, were watching gloomily and indifferently, with the expression of professionals for whom killing does not provoke much interest.
They dismounted. Falwick and the dwarf slowly approached.
“You've insulted Tailles, a man of good birth, witcher,” said the count without preamble or the customary courtesies. “And Tailles, as you no doubt remember, threw down the gauntlet. It was not fit to press you within the grounds of the temple, so we waited until you emerged from behind the priestess's skirt. Tailles is waiting. You must fight.”
“Must?”
“Must.”
“But do you not think, Falwick”—Geralt smiled disapprovingly—“that Tailles, a man of good birth, does me too much honor? I never attained the honor of being knighted, and it's best not to mention the circumstances of my birth. I fear I’m not sufficiently worthy of…How does one say it, Dandilion?”
“Unfit to give satisfaction and joust in the lists,” recited the poet, pouting. “The code of chivalry proclaims—”
“The Chapter of the Order is governed by its own code,” interrupted Falwick. “If it were you who challenged a Knight of the Order, he could either refuse or grant you satisfaction, according to his will. But this is the reverse: it is the knight who challenges you and by this he raises you to his own level—but, of course, only for the time it takes to avenge the insult. You can't refuse. The refusal of accepting the dignity would render you unworthy.”
“How logical,” said Dandilion with an apelike expression. “I see you've studied the philosophers, sir Knight.”
“Don't butt in.” Geralt raised his head and looked into Falwick's eyes. “Go on, sir. I’d like to know where this is leading. What would happen if I turned out to be…unworthy?”
“What would happen?” Falwick gave a malicious smile. “I’d order you hung from a branch, you ratcatcher.”
“Hold on,” the dwarf said hoarsely. “Take it easy, sir. And no invective, all right?”
“Don't you teach me manners, Cranmer,” hissed the knight. “And remember, the prince has given you orders which you're to execute to the letter.”
“It's you who shouldn't be teaching me, Count.” The dwarf rested his hand on the double-headed axe thrust into his belt. “I know how to carry out orders, and I can do without your advice. Allow me, Geralt sir. I’m Dennis Cranmer, captain of Prince Hereward's guards.”
The witcher bowed stiffly, looking into the dwarf's eyes, light gray and steel-like beneath the bushy flaxen eyebrows.
“Stand your ground with Tailles, sir,” Dennis Cranmer continued calmly. “It'll be better that way. It's not a fight to the death, only until one of you is rendered helpless. So fight in the field and let him render you helpless.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sir Tailles is the prince's favorite,” said Falwick, smiling spitefully. “If you touch him with your saber during the fight, you mutant, you will be punished. Captain Cranmer will arrest you and take you to face his Highness. To be punished. Those are his orders.”
The dwarf didn't even glance at the knight; his cold, steel eyes did not leave Geralt.
The witcher smiled faintly but quite nastily. “If I understand correctly,” he said, “I’m to fight the duel because, if I refuse, I’ll be hanged. If I fight, I’m to allow my opponent to injure me because if I wound him, I’ll be put to the rack. What charming alternatives. Maybe I should save you the bother? I’ll thump my head against the pine tree and render myself helpless. Will that grant you satisfaction?”
“Don't sneer,” hissed Falwick. “Don't make your situation any worse. You've insulted the Order, you vagabond, and you have to be punished for it; do you understand? And young Tailles needs the fame of defeating a witcher, so the Chapter wants to give it to him. Otherwise you'd be hanging already. You allow yourself to be defeated and you save your miserable life. We don't care about your corpse; we want Tailles to nick your skin. And your mutant skin heals quickly. So, go ahead. Decide. You've got no choice.”
“That's what you think, is it, sir?” Geralt smiled even more nastily and looked around at the soldiers appraisingly. “But I think I do.”
“Yes, that's true,” admitted Dennis Cranmer. “You do. But then there'll be bloodshed, great bloodshed. Like at Blaviken. Is that what you want? Do you want to burden your conscience with blood and death? Because the alternative you're thinking of, Geralt, is blood and death.”
“Your argument is charming, Captain, fascinating even,” mocked Dandilion. “You're trying to bait a man ambushed in the forest with humanitarianism, calling on his nobler feelings. You're asking him, as I understand, to deign not to spill the blood of the brigands who attacked him. He's to take pity on the thugs because the thugs are poor, have got wives, children and, who knows, maybe even mothers. But don't you think, Captain Cranmer, that your worrying is premature? Because I look at your lancers and see that their knees are shaking at the very thought of fighting with Geralt of Rivia, the witcher who dealt with a striga alone, with his bare hands. There won't be any bloodshed here; nobody will be harmed here—aside from those who might break their legs running away.”
“I,” said the dwarf calmly and pugnaciously, “have nothing to reproach my knees with. I’ve never run away from anyone and I’m not about to change my ways. I’m not married, don't know anything about any children and I’d prefer not to bring my mother, a woman with whom I’m not very well acquainted, into this. But I will carry out the orders I’ve been given. To the letter, as always. Without calling on any feelings, I a
sk Geralt of Rivia to make a decision. I will accept whatever he decides and will behave accordingly.”
They looked each other in the eyes, the dwarf and the witcher.
“Very well,” Geralt said finally. “Let's deal with it. It's a pity to waste the day.”
“You agree, then.” Falwick raised his head and his eyes glistened. “You'll fight a duel with the highborn Tailles of Dorndal?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Prepare yourself.”
“I’m ready.” Geralt pulled on his gauntlets. “Let's not waste time. There'll be hell if Nenneke finds out about this. So let's sort it out quickly. Dandilion, keep calm. It's got nothing to do with you. Am I right, Cranmer, sir?”
“Absolutely,” the dwarf stated firmly and looked at Falwick. “Absolutely, sir. Whatever happens, it only concerns you.”
The witcher took the sword from his back.
“No,” said Falwick, drawing his. “You're not going to fight with that razor of yours. Take my sword.”
Geralt shrugged. He took the count's blade and swiped it to try it out.
“Heavy,” he said coldly. “We could just as easily use spades.”
“Tailles has the same. Equal chances.”
“You're very funny, Falwick.”
The soldiers surrounded the glade, forming a loose circle. Tailles and the witcher stood facing each other.
“Tallies? What do you say to an apology?”
The young knight screwed up his lips, folded his left arm behind his back and froze in a fencing position.
“No?” Geralt smiled. “You don't want to listen to the voice of reason? Pity.”
Tailles squatted down, leapt and attacked without warning. The witcher didn't even make an effort to parry and avoided the flat point with a swift half-turn. The knight swiped broadly. The blade cut through the air once more. Geralt dodged beneath it in an agile pirouette, jumped softly aside and, with a short, light feint, threw Tailles off his rhythm. Tailles cursed, cut broadly from the right, lost his balance for a moment and tried to regain it while, instinctively, clumsily, holding his sword high to defend himself. The witcher struck with the speed and force of a lightning bolt, extending his arm to its full length and slashing straight ahead. The heavy sword thundered against Tailles’ blade, deflecting it so hard it hit the knight in the face. Tailles howled, fell to his knees and touched the grass with his forehead.
Falwick ran up to him.
Geralt dug his sword into the ground and turned around.
“Hey, guards!” yelled Falwick, getting up. “Take him!”
“Stand still! To your places!” growled Dennis Cranmer, touching his axe. The soldiers froze.
“No, Count,” the dwarf said slowly. “I always execute orders to the letter. The witcher did not touch Tailles. The kid hit himself with his own iron. His hard luck.”
“His face is destroyed! He's disfigured for life!”
“Skin heals.” Dennis Cranmer fixed his steel eyes on the witcher and bared his teeth. “And the scar? For a knight, a scar is a commendable reminder, a reason for fame and glory, which the Chapter so desired for him. A knight without a scar is a prick, not a knight. Ask him, Count, and you'll see that he's pleased.”
Tailles was writhing on the ground, spitting blood, whimpering and wailing; he didn't look pleased in the least.
“Cranmer!” roared Falwick, tearing his sword from the ground, “you'll be sorry for this, I swear!”
The dwarf turned around, slowly pulled the axe from his belt, coughed and spat into his palm. “Oh, Count, sir,” he rasped. “Don't perjure yourself. I can't stand perjurers and Prince Hereward has given me the right to punish them. I’ll turn a deaf ear to your stupid words. But don't repeat them, if you please.”
“Witcher.” Falwick, puffing with rage, turned to Geralt. “Get yourself out of Ellander. Immediately. Without a moment's delay!”
“I rarely agree with him,” muttered Dennis, approaching the witcher and returning his sword, “but in this case he's right. I’d ride out pretty quick.”
“We'll do as you advise.” Geralt slung the belt across his back. “But before that, I have words for the count. Falwick!”
The Knight of the White Rose blinked nervously and wiped his palms on his coat.
“Let's just go back to your Chapter's code for a minute,” continued the witcher, trying not to smile. “One thing really interests me. If I, let us say, felt disgusted and insulted by your attitude in this whole affair, if I challenged you to the sword right now, what would you do? Would you consider me sufficiently worthy to cross blades with? Or would you refuse, even though you knew that by doing so I would take you to be unworthy even to be spat on, punched in the face and kicked in the arse under the eyes of the foot soldiers? Count Falwick, be so gracious as to satisfy my curiosity.”
Falwick grew pale, took a step back, looked around. The soldiers avoided his eyes. Dennis Cranmer grimaced, stuck his tongue out and sent a jet of saliva a fair distance.
“Even though you're not saying anything,” continued Geralt, “I can hear the voice of reason in your silence, Falwick, sir. You've satisfied my curiosity; now I’ll satisfy yours. If the Order bothers Mother Nenneke or the priestesses in any way, or unduly intrudes upon Captain Cranmer, then may you know, Count, that I’ll find you and, not caring about any code, will bleed you like a pig.”
The knight grew even paler.
“Don't forget my promise, Count. Come on, Dandilion. It's time for us to leave. Take care, Dennis.”
“Good luck, Geralt.” The dwarf gave a broad smile. “Take care. I’m very pleased to have met you, and hope we'll meet again.”
“The feeling's mutual, Dennis.”
They rode away with ostensible slowness, not looking back. They began to canter only once they were hidden by the forest.
“Geralt,” the poet said suddenly, “surely we won't head straight south? We'll have to make a detour to avoid Ellander and Hereward's lands, won't we? Or do you intend to continue with this show?”
“No, Dandilion, I don't. We'll go through the forests and then join the Traders’ Trail. Remember, not a word in Nenneke's presence about this quarrel. Not a word.”
“We are riding out without any delay, I hope?”
“Immediately.”
II
Geralt leaned over, checked the repaired hoop of his stirrup and fitted the stirrup leather, still stiff, smelling of new skins and hard to buckle. He adjusted the saddle-girth, the travel bags, the horse blanket rolled up behind the saddle and the silver sword strapped to it. Nenneke was motionless next to him, her arms folded.
Dandilion approached, leading his bay gelding.
“Thank you for the hospitality, Venerable One,” he said seriously. “And don't be angry with me anymore. I know that, deep down, you like me.”
“Indeed,” agreed Nenneke without smiling. “I do, you dolt, although I don't know why myself. Take care.”
“So long, Nenneke.”
“So long, Geralt. Look after yourself.”
The witcher's smile was surly.
“I prefer to look after others. It turns out better in the long run.”
From the temple, from between columns entwined with ivy, Iola emerged in the company of two younger pupils. She was carrying the witcher's small chest. She avoided his eyes awkwardly and her troubled smile combined with the blush on her freckled, chubby face made a charming picture. The pupils accompanying her didn't hide their meaningful glances and barely stopped themselves from giggling.
“For Great Melitele's sake,” sighed Nenneke, “an entire parting procession. Take the chest, Geralt. I’ve replenished your elixirs. You've got everything that was in short supply. And that medicine, you know the one. Take it regularly for two weeks. Don't forget. It's important.”
“I won't. Thanks, Iola.”
The girl lowered her head and handed him the chest. She so wanted to say something. She had no idea what ought to be said, what words o
ught to be used. She didn't know what she'd say, even if she could. She didn't know. And yet she so much wanted to.
Their hands touched.
Blood. Blood. Blood. Bones like broken white sticks. Tendons like whitish cords exploding from beneath cracking skin cut by enormous paws bristling with thorns, and sharp teeth. The hideous sound of torn flesh, and shouting—shameless and horrifying in its shamelessness. The shamelessness of the end. Of death. Blood and shouting. Shouting. Blood. Shouting—
“Iola!”
Nenneke, with extraordinary speed considering her girth, rushed to the girl lying on the ground, shaken by convulsions, and held her down by her shoulders and hair. One of the pupils stood as if paralyzed, the other, more clearheaded, knelt on Iola's legs. Iola arched her back, opened her mouth in a soundless, mute cry.
“Iola!” Nenneke shouted. “Iola! Speak! Speak, child! Speak!”
The girl stiffened even more, clenched her jaws, and a thin trickle of blood ran down her cheek. Nenneke, growing red with the effort, shouted something which the witcher didn't understand, but his medallion tugged at his neck so hard that he was forced to bend under the pressure of its invisible weight.
Iola stilled.
Dandilion, pale as a sheet, sighed deeply. Nenneke raised herself to her knees and stood with an effort.
“Take her away,” she said to the pupils. There were more of them now; they'd gathered, grave and silent.
“Take her,” repeated the priestess, “carefully. And don't leave her alone. I’ll be there in a minute.”
She turned to Geralt. The witcher was standing motionless, fiddling with the reins in his sweaty hands.
“Geralt…Iola—”
“Don't say anything, Nenneke.”
“I saw it, too…for a moment. Geralt, don't go.”
“I’ve got to.”
“Did you see…did you see that?”
“Yes. And not for the first time.”
“And?”
“There's no point in looking over your shoulder.”
“Don't go, please.”
“I’ve got to. See to Iola. So long, Nenneke.”
The priestess slowly shook her head, sniffed and, in an abrupt move, wiped a tear away with her wrist.
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