Introducing the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘She is not an ordinary, village child. She is a princess.’

  ‘That makes no impression on me. Nor makes any difference.’

  ‘Listen . . .’

  ‘Not another word, Gwynbleidd.’

  He fell silent and bit his lip.

  ‘What about my petition?’

  ‘I shall listen to it,’ the dryad sighed. ‘No, not out of curiosity. I shall do it for you, that you might distinguish yourself before Venzlav and collect the fee he probably promised you for reaching me. But not now, now I shall be busy. Come to my Tree this evening.’

  When she had gone, Frexinet raised himself on an elbow, groaned, coughed and spat on his hand.

  ‘What is it all about, Geralt? Why am I to stay here? And what did she mean about those children? What have you got me mixed up in, eh?’

  The Witcher sat down.

  ‘You’ll save your hide, Frexinet,’ he said in a weary voice. ‘You’ll become one of the few to get out of here alive, at least recently. And you’ll become the father of a little dryad. Several, perhaps.’

  ‘What the . . . ? Am I to be . . . a stud?’

  ‘Call it what you will. You have limited choices.’

  ‘I get it,’ the baron winked and grinned lewdly. ‘Why, I’ve seen captives working in mines and digging canals. It could be worse . . . Just as long as my strength suffices. There’s quite a few of them here . . .’

  ‘Stop smiling foolishly,’ Geralt grimaced, ‘and daydreaming. Don’t imagine adoration, music, wine, fans and swarms of adoring dryads. There’ll be one, perhaps two. And there won’t be any adoration. They will treat the entire matter very practically. And you even more so.’

  ‘Doesn’t it give them pleasure? It can’t cause them any harm?’

  ‘Don’t be a child. In this respect they don’t differ in any way from women. Physically, at least.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It depends on you whether it’ll be agreeable or disagreeable. But that doesn’t change the fact that the only thing that interests her is the result. You are of minor importance. Don’t expect any gratitude. Aha, and under no circumstances try anything on your own initiative.’

  ‘My own what?’

  ‘Should you meet her in the morning,’ the Witcher explained patiently, ‘bow, but without any damned smirks or winks. For a dryad it is a deadly serious matter. Should she smile or approach you, you can talk to her. About trees, ideally. If you don’t know much about trees, then about the weather. But should she pretend not to see you, stay well away from her. And stay well away from other dryads, and watch your hands. Those matters do not exist to a dryad who is not ready. If you touch her she’ll stab you, because she won’t understand your intentions.’

  ‘You’re familiar,’ Frexinet smiled, ‘with their mating habits. Has it ever befallen you?’

  The Witcher did not reply. Before his eyes was the beautiful, slender dryad and her impudent smile. Vatt’ghern, bloede caérme. A witcher, dammit. Why did you bring him here, Braenn? What use is he to us? No benefit from a witcher . . .

  ‘Geralt?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And Princess Cirilla?’

  ‘Forget about her. They’ll turn her into a dryad. In two or three years she’d shoot an arrow in her own brother’s eye, were he to try to enter Brokilon.’

  ‘Dammit,’ Frexinet swore, scowling. ‘Ervyll will be furious. Geralt? Couldn’t I—?’

  ‘No,’ the Witcher cut him off. ‘Don’t even try. You wouldn’t get out of Duén Canell alive.’

  ‘That means the lass is lost.’

  ‘To you, yes.’

  VI

  Eithné’s Tree was, naturally, an oak, but it was actually three oaks fused together, still green, not betraying any signs of age, although Geralt reckoned they were at least three hundred years old. The trees were hollow inside and the cavity had the dimensions of a large chamber with a high ceiling narrowing into a cone. The interior was lit by a cresset which did not smoke, and it had been modestly – but not crudely – transformed into comfortable living quarters.

  Eithné was kneeling inside on something like a fibrous mat. Ciri sat cross-legged before her, erect and motionless, as though petrified. She had been bathed and cured of her cold, and her huge, emerald eyes were wide open. The Witcher noticed that her little face, now that the dirt and the grimace of a spiteful little devil had vanished from it, was quite pretty.

  Eithné was combing the little girl’s long hair, slowly and tenderly.

  ‘Enter, Gwynbleidd. Be seated.’

  He sat down, after first ceremonially going down on one knee.

  ‘Are you rested?’ the dryad asked, not looking at him, and continuing to comb. ‘When can you embark on your return journey? What would you say to tomorrow morn?’

  ‘When you give the order,’ he said coldly. ‘O Lady of Brokilon. One word from you will suffice for me to stop vexing you with my presence in Duén Canell.’

  ‘Geralt,’ Eithné slowly turned her head. ‘Do not misunderstand me. I know and respect you. I know you have never harmed a dryad, rusalka, sylph or nymph; quite the opposite, you have been known to act in their defence, to save their lives. But that changes nothing. Too much divides us. We belong to different worlds. I neither want nor am able to make exceptions. For anybody. I shall not ask if you understand, for I know it is thus. I ask whether you accept it.’

  ‘What does it change?’

  ‘Nothing. But I want to know.’

  ‘I do,’ he confirmed. ‘But what about her? What about Ciri? She also belongs to another world.’

  Ciri glanced at him timidly and then upwards at the dryad. Eithné smiled.

  ‘But not for long,’ she said.

  ‘Eithné, please. First think it over.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Give her to me. Let her return with me. To the world she belongs to.’

  ‘No, White Wolf,’ the dryad plunged the comb into the little girl’s mousy hair again. ‘I shall not. You of all people ought to understand.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. Certain tidings from the world even reach Brokilon. Tidings about a certain witcher, who for services rendered occasionally demanded curious vows. “You will give me what you do not expect to find at home.” “You will give me what you already have, but about which you do not know.” Does that sound familiar? After all, for some time you witchers have been trying in this way to direct fate, you have been seeking boys designated by fate to be your successors, wishing to protect yourself from extinction and oblivion. From nihilism. Why, then, are you surprised at me? I care for the fate of the dryads. Surely that is just? A young human girl for each dryad killed by humans.’

  ‘By keeping her here, you will arouse hostility and the desire for vengeance, Eithné. You will arouse a consuming hatred.’

  ‘Human hatred is nothing new to me. No, Geralt. I shall not give her up. Particularly since she is hale. That has been uncommon recently.’

  ‘Uncommon?’

  The dryad fixed her huge, silver eyes on him.

  ‘They abandon sick little girls with me. Diphtheria, scarlet fever, croup, recently even smallpox. They think we are not immune, that the epidemic will annihilate or at least decimate us. We disappoint them, Geralt. We have something more than immunity. Brokilon cares for its children.’

  She fell silent, leaning over, carefully combing out a lock of Ciri’s tangled hair, using her other hand to help.

  ‘May I,’ the Witcher cleared his throat, ‘turn to the petition, with which King Venzlav has sent me?’

  ‘Is it not a waste of time?’ Eithné lifted her head. ‘Why bother? I know perfectly well what King Venzlav wants. For that, I do not need prophetic gifts at all. He wants me to give him Brokilon, probably as far as the River Vda, which, I gather, he considers – or would like to consider – the natural border between Brugge and Verden. In exchange, I presume, he is offering me a small and untamed corner of the fores
t. And probably gives his kingly word and offers kingly protection that that small, untamed corner, that scrap of forest, will belong to me forever and ever and that no one will dare to disturb the dryads there. That the dryads there will be able to live in peace. So what, Geralt? Venzlav would like to put an end to the war over Brokilon, which has lasted two centuries. And in order to end it, the dryads would have to give up what they have been dying in the defence of for two hundred years? Simply hand it over? Give up Brokilon?’

  Geralt was silent. He had nothing to add. The dryad smiled.

  ‘Did the royal proposal run thus, Gwynbleidd? Or perhaps it was more blunt, saying: “Don’t put on airs, you sylvan monster, beast of the wilderness, relict of the past, but listen to what I, King Venzlav, want. I want cedar, oak and hickory, mahogany and golden birch, yew for bows and pine for masts, because Brokilon is close at hand, and otherwise I have to bring wood from beyond the mountains. I want the iron and copper that are beneath the earth. I want the gold that lies on Craag An. I want to fell and saw, and dig in the earth, without having to listen to the whistling of arrows. And most importantly; I want at last to be a king, one to whom everything bows down in his kingdom. I do not wish for some Brokilon in our kingdom, for a forest I cannot enter. Such a forest affronts me, rouses me to wrath and affords me sleepless nights, for I am a man, we rule over the world. We may, if we wish, tolerate a few elves, dryads or rusalkas in this world. If they are not too insolent. Submit to my will, O Witch of Brokilon. Or perish.”’

  ‘Eithné, you admitted yourself that Venzlav is not a fool or a fanatic. You know, I am certain, that he is a just and peace-loving king. The blood shed here pains and troubles him . . .’

  ‘If he stays away from Brokilon not a single drop of blood shall be shed.’

  ‘You well know . . .’ Geralt raised his head.’ You well know it is not thus. People have been killed in Burnt Stump, in Eight-Mile, in the Owl Hills. People have been killed in Brugge and on the left bank of the Ribbon. Beyond Brokilon.’

  ‘The places you have mentioned,’ the dryad responded calmly, ‘are Brokilon. I do not recognise human maps or borders.’

  ‘But the forest was cleared there a hundred summers ago!’

  ‘What is a hundred summers to Brokilon? Or a hundred winters?’

  Geralt fell silent.

  The dryad put down the comb and stroked Ciri’s mousy hair.

  ‘Agree to Venzlav’s proposal, Eithné.’

  The dryad looked at him coldly.

  ‘How shall we profit by that? We, the children of Brokilon?’

  ‘With the chance of survival. No, Eithné, do not interrupt. I know what you would say. I understand your pride in Brokilon’s sovereignty. Nonetheless, the world is changing. Something is ending. Whether you like it or not, man’s dominion over this world is a fact. Only those who assimilate with humans will survive. The rest will perish. Eithné, there are forests where dryads, rusalkas and elves live peacefully, having come to agreement with humans. We are so close to each other, after all. Men can be the fathers of your children. What will you gain through this war you are waging? The potential fathers of your children are perishing from your arrows. And what is the result? How many of Brokilon’s dryads are pure-blood? How many of them are abducted human girls you have modified? You even have to make use of Frexinet, because you have no choice. I seem to see few tiny dryads, Eithné. I see only her; a little human girl, terrified, dulled by narcotics, paralysed by fear—’

  ‘I’m not afraid at all!’ Ciri suddenly cried, assuming her little devil face for a moment. ‘And I’m not parrotised! So you’d better watch your step! Nothing can happen to me here. Be sure! I’m not afraid. My grandmamma says that dryads aren’t evil, and my grandmamma is the wisest woman in the world! My grandmamma . . . My grandmamma says there should be more forests like this one . . .’

  She fell silent and lowered her head. Eithné laughed.

  ‘A Child of the Elder Blood,’ she said. ‘Yes, Geralt. There are still being born Children of the Elder Blood, of whom the prophesies speak. And you tell me that something is ending . . . You worry whether we shall survive—’

  ‘The scamp was supposed to marry Kistrin of Verden,’ Geralt interrupted. ‘It’s a pity it will not be. Kistrin will one day succeed Ervyll, and were he influenced by a wife with such views, perhaps he would cease raids on Brokilon?’

  ‘I don’t want that Kistrin!’ the little girl screamed shrilly, and something flashed in her green eyes. ‘Kistrin can go and find some gorgeous, stupid material! I’m not material! I won’t be a princess!’

  ‘Soft, Child of the Elder Blood,’ the dryad said, hugging Ciri. ‘Don’t shout. Of course you will not be a princess—’

  ‘Of course,’ the Witcher interjected caustically. ‘You, Eithné, and I well know what she will be. I see it has already been decided. So it goes. What answer should I take to King Venzlav, O Lady of Brokilon?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘What do you mean, “none”?’

  ‘None. He will understand. Long ago, long, long ago, before Venzlav was in the world, heralds rode up to Brokilon’s borders. Horns and trumpets blared, armour glinted, and pennants and standards fluttered. “Humble yourself, Brokilon!” they cried. “King Goat Tooth, king of Bald Hillock and Marshy Meadow, orders you to humble yourself, Brokilon!” And Brokilon’s answer was always the same. As you are leaving my Forest, Gwynbleidd, turn around and listen. In the rustle of the leaves you will hear Brokilon’s answer. Pass it on to Venzlav and add that he will never hear another while the oaks still stand in Duén Canell. Not while a single tree still grows or a single dryad still lives here.’

  Geralt was silent.

  ‘You say something is ending,’ Eithné slowly went on. ‘Not true. There are things that never end. You talk of survival? I am fighting to survive. Brokilon endures thanks to my fight, for trees live longer than men, as long as they are protected from your axes. You talk to me of kings and princes. Who are they? Those whom I know are white skeletons lying in the necropolises of Craag An, deep in the forest. In marble tombs, on piles of yellow metal and shining gems. But Brokilon endures, the trees sough above the ruins of palaces, their roots break up the marble. Does your Venzlav recall those kings? Do you, Gwynbleidd? And if not, how can you claim that something is ending? How do you know whose destiny is destruction and whose eternity? What entitles you to speak of destiny? Do you actually know what it is?’

  ‘No,’ the Witcher agreed, ‘I do not. But—’

  ‘If you know not,’ she interrupted, ‘there is no place for any “but”. You know not. You simply know not.’

  She was silent, touched her forehead with her hand and turned her face away.

  ‘When you came here the first time, years ago,’ she said, ‘you did not know either. And Morénn . . . My daughter . . . Geralt, Morénn is dead. She fell by the Ribbon, defending Brokilon. I did not recognise her when they brought her to me. Her face had been crushed by the hooves of your horses. Destiny? And today, you, Witcher, who could not give Morénn a child, bring her – the Child of the Elder Blood – to me. A little girl who knows what destiny is. No, it is not knowledge which would suit you, knowledge which you could accept. She simply believes. Say it again, Ciri, repeat what you told me before the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, entered. That witcher who does not know. Say it again, Child of the Elder Blood.’

  ‘Your Maj . . . Venerable lady,’ Ciri said in a voice that cracked. ‘Do not keep me here. I cannot . . . I want to go . . . home. I want to return home with Geralt. I must go . . . With him . . .’

  ‘Why with him?’

  ‘For he . . . is my fate.’

  Eithné turned away. She was very pale.

  ‘What do you say to that, Geralt?’

  He did not reply. Eithné clapped her hands. Braenn entered the oak tree, emerging like a ghost from the night outside, holding a large, silver goblet in both hands. The medallion around the Witcher’s neck began vibrat
ing rapidly and rhythmically.

  ‘What do you say to that?’ repeated the silver-haired dryad, standing up. ‘She does not want to remain in Brokilon! She does not wish to be a dryad! She does not want to replace Morénn, she wants to leave, walk away from her fate! Is that right, Child of the Elder Blood? Is that what you actually want?’

  Ciri nodded her bowed head. Her shoulders were trembling. The Witcher had had enough.

  ‘Why are you bullying the child, Eithné? We both know you will soon give her the Water of Brokilon and what she wants will cease to mean anything. Why are you doing this? Why are you doing it in my presence?’

  ‘I want to show you what destiny is. I want to prove to you that nothing is ending. That everything is only beginning.’

  ‘No, Eithné,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’m sorry if I’m spoiling this display for you, but I have no intention of watching it. You have gone too far, Lady of Brokilon, desirous to stress the chasm dividing us. You, the Elder Folk, like to say that hatred is alien to you, that it is a feeling known only to humans. But it is not true. You know what hatred is and are capable of hating, you merely evince it a little differently, more wisely and less savagely. But because of that it may be more cruel. I accept your hatred, Eithné, on behalf of all humankind. I deserve it. I am sorry about Morénn.’

  The dryad did not respond.

  ‘And that is precisely Brokilon’s answer, which I am to communicate to Venzlav of Brugge, isn’t it? A warning and a challenge? Clear proof of the hatred and Power slumbering among these trees, by whose will a human child will soon drink poison which will destroy its memory, taking it from the arms of another human child whose psyche and memory have already been annihilated? And that answer is to be carried to Venzlav by a witcher who knows and feels affection for both children? The witcher who is guilty of your daughter’s death? Very well, Eithné, let it be in accordance with your will. Venzlav will hear your answer, will hear my voice, will see my eyes and read everything in them. But I do not have to look on what is to occur here. And I do not want to.’