‘Do you believe in destiny?’
‘How can I not believe? After what I encountered on the bridge, in the wilderness, when you saved me from death? Oh, Witcher, sir, you’ll see, my wife will fall at your feet . . .’
‘Oh, come on. Frankly speaking, I have more to be grateful to you for. Back there on the bridge . . . That’s my job, after all, Yurga, my trade. I mean, I protect people for money. Not out of the goodness of my heart. Admit it, Yurga, you’ve heard what people say about witchers. That no one knows who’s worse; them or the monsters they kill—’
‘That’s not true, sir, and I don’t know why you talk like that. What, don’t I have eyes? You’re cut from the same cloth as that healer.’
‘Visenna . . .’
‘She didn’t tell us her name. But she followed right behind us, for she knew she was needed, caught us up in the evening, and took care of you at once, having barely dismounted. You see, sir, she took great pains over your leg, the air was crackling from all that magic, and we fled into the forest out of fear. And then there was blood pouring from her nose. I see it’s not a simple thing, working magic. You see, she dressed your wound with such care, truly, like a—’
‘Like a mother?’ Geralt clenched his teeth.
‘Aye. You’ve said it. And when you fell asleep . . .’
‘Yes, Yurga?’
‘She could barely stand up, she was as white as a sheet. But she came to check none of us needed any help. She healed the tar maker’s hand, which had been crushed by a log. She didn’t take a penny, and even left some medicine. No, Geralt, sir, I know what people say about Witchers and sorcerers in the world isn’t all good. But not here. We, from Upper Sodden and the people from Riverdell, we know better. We owe too much to sorcerers not to know what they’re like. Memories about them here aren’t rumours and gossip, but hewn in stone. You’ll see for yourself, just wait till we leave the copse. Anyway, you’re sure to know better yourself. For that battle was talked about all over the world, and a year has barely passed. You must have heard.’
‘I haven’t been here for a year,’ the Witcher muttered. ‘I was in the North. But I heard . . . The second Battle of Sodden . . .’
‘Precisely. You’ll soon see the hill and the rock. We used to call that hill Kite Top, but now everybody calls it the Sorcerers’ Peak or the Mountain of the Fourteen. For twenty-two of them stood on that hill, twenty-two sorcerers fought, and fourteen fell. It was a dreadful battle, sir. The earth reared up, fire poured from the sky like rain and lightning bolts raged . . . Many perished. But the sorcerers overcame the Black Forces, and broke the Power which was leading them. And fourteen of them perished in that battle. Fourteen laid down their lives . . . What, sir? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Go on, Yurga.’
‘The battle was dreadful, oh my, but were it not for those sorcerers on the hill, who knows, perhaps we wouldn’t be talking here today, riding homeward, for that home wouldn’t exist, nor me, and maybe not you either . . . Yes, it was thanks to the sorcerers. Fourteen of them perished defending us, the people of Sodden and Riverdell. Ha, certainly, others also fought there, soldiers and noblemen, and peasants, too. Whoever could, took up a pitchfork or an axe, or even a club . . . All of them fought valiantly and many fell. But the sorcerers . . . It’s no feat for a soldier to fall, for that is his trade, after all, and life is short anyhow. But the sorcerers could have lived, as long they wished. And they didn’t waver.’
‘They didn’t waver,’ the Witcher repeated, rubbing his forehead with a hand. ‘They didn’t waver. And I was in the North . . .’
‘What’s the matter, sir?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes . . . So now we – everyone from around here – take flowers there, to that hill, and in May, at Beltane, a fire always burns. And it shall burn there forever and a day. And forever shall they be in people’s memories, that fourteen. And living like that in memory is . . . is . . . something more! More, Geralt, sir!’
‘You’re right, Yurga.’
‘Every child of ours knows the names of the fourteen, carved in the stone that stands on the top of the hill. Don’t you believe me? Listen: Axel Raby, Triss Merigold, Atlan Kerk, Vanielle of Brugge, Dagobert of Vole—’
‘Stop, Yurga.’
‘What’s the matter, sir? You’re as pale as death!’
‘It’s nothing.’
VII
He walked uphill very slowly, cautiously, listening to the creaking of the sinews and muscles around the magically healed wound. Although it seemed to be completely healed, he continued to protect the leg and not risk resting all his body weight on it. It was hot and the scent of grass struck his head, pleasantly intoxicating him.
The obelisk was not standing in the centre of the hill’s flat top, but was further back, beyond the circle of angular stones. Had he climbed up there just before sunset the shadow of the menhir falling on the circle would have marked the precise diameter, would have indicated the direction in which the faces of the sorcerers had been turned during the battle. Geralt looked in that direction, towards the boundless, undulating fields. If any bones of the fallen were still there – and there were for certain – they were covered by lush grass. A hawk was circling, describing a calm circle on outspread wings. The single moving point in a landscape transfixed in the searing heat.
The obelisk was wide at the base – five people would have had to link hands in order to encircle it. It was apparent that without the help of magic it could not have been hauled up onto the hill. The surface of the menhir, which was turned towards the stone circle, was smoothly worked; runic letters could be seen engraved on it.
The names of the fourteen who fell.
He moved slowly closer. Yurga had been right. Flowers lay at the foot of the obelisk – ordinary, wild flowers – poppies, lupins, mallows and forget-me-nots.
The names of the fourteen.
He read them slowly, from the top, and before him appeared the faces of those he had known.
The chestnut-haired Triss Merigold, cheerful, giggling for no reason, looking like a teenager. He had liked her. And she had liked him.
Lawdbor of Murivel, with whom he had almost fought in Vizima, when he had caught the sorcerer using delicate telekinesis to tamper with dice in a game.
Lytta Neyd, known as Coral. Her nickname derived from the colour of the lipstick she used. Lytta had once denounced him to King Belohun, so he went to the dungeon for a week. After being released he went to ask her why. When, still without knowing the reason, he had ended up in her bed, he spent another week there.
Old Gorazd, who had offered him a hundred marks to let him dissect his eyes, and a thousand for the chance to carry out a post mortem – ‘not necessarily today’ – as he had put it then.
Three names remained.
He heard a faint rustling behind him and turned around.
She was barefoot, in a simple, linen dress. She was wearing a garland woven from daisies on long, fair hair, falling freely onto her shoulders and back.
‘Greetings,’ he said.
She looked up at him with cold, blue eyes, but did not answer.
He noticed she was not suntanned. That was odd, then, at the end of the summer, when country girls were usually tanned bronze. Her face and uncovered shoulders had a slight golden sheen.
‘Did you bring flowers?’
She smiled and lowered her eyelashes. He felt a chill. She passed him without a word and knelt at the foot of the menhir, touching the stone with her hand.
‘I do not bring flowers,’ she said, lifting her head. ‘But the ones lying here are for me.’
He looked at her. She knelt so that she was concealing the last name engraved in the stone of the menhir from him. She was bright, unnaturally, luminously bright against the stone.
‘Who are you?’ he asked slowly.
She smiled and emanated cold.
‘Don’t you know?’
Yes, I do, he thought, gazi
ng into the cold blue of her eyes. Yes, I think I do.
He was tranquil. He could not be anything else. Not anymore.
‘I’ve always wondered what you look like, my lady.’
‘You don’t have to address me like that,’ she answered softly. ‘We’ve known each other for years, after all.’
‘We have,’ he agreed. ‘They say you dog my footsteps.’
‘I do. But you have never looked behind you. Until today. Today, you looked back for the first time.’
He was silent. He had nothing to say. He was weary.
‘How . . . How will it happen?’ he finally asked, cold and emotionless.
‘I’ll take you by the hand,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘I’ll take you by the hand and lead you through the meadow. Into the cold, wet fog.’
‘And then? What is there, beyond the fog?’
‘Nothing,’ she smiled. ‘There is nothing more.’
‘You dogged my every footstep,’ he said. ‘But struck down others, those that I passed on my way. Why? I was meant to end up alone, wasn’t I? So I would finally begin to be afraid? I’ll tell you the truth. I was always afraid of you; always. I never looked behind me out of fear. Out of terror that I’d see you following me. I was always afraid, my life has passed in fear. I was afraid . . . until today.’
‘Until today?’
‘Yes. Until today. We’re standing here, face to face, but I don’t feel any fear. You’ve taken everything from me. You’ve also taken the fear from me.’
‘Then why are your eyes full of fear, Geralt of Rivia? Your hands are trembling, you are pale. Why? Do you fear the last – fourteenth – name engraved on the obelisk so much? If you wish I shall speak that name.’
‘You don’t have to. I know what it is. The circle is closing, the snake is sinking its teeth into its own tail. That is how it must be. You and that name. And the flowers. For her and for me. The fourteenth name engraved in the stone, a name that I have spoken in the middle of the night and in the sunlight, during frosts and heat waves and rain. No, I’m not afraid to speak it now.’
‘Then speak it.’
‘Yennefer . . . Yennefer of Vengerberg.’
‘And the flowers are mine.’
‘Let us be done with this,’ he said with effort. ‘Take . . . Take me by the hand.’
She stood up and came closer, and he felt the coldness radiating from her; a sharp, penetrating cold.
‘Not today,’ she said. ‘One day, yes. But not today.’
‘You have taken everything from me—’
‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘I do not take anything. I just take people by the hand. So that no one will be alone at that moment. Alone in the fog . . . We shall meet again, Geralt of Rivia. One day.’
He did not reply. She turned around slowly and walked away. Into the mist, which suddenly enveloped the hilltop, into the fog, which everything vanished into, into the white, wet fog, into which melted the obelisk, the flowers lying at its foot and the fourteen names engraved on it. There was nothing, only the fog and the wet grass under his feet, sparkling from drops of water which smelled intoxicating, heady, sweet, until his forehead ached, he began to forget and become weary . . .
‘Geralt, sir! What’s the matter? Did you fall asleep? I told you, you’re weak. Why did you climb up to the top?’
‘I fell asleep.’ He wiped his face with his hand and blinked. ‘I fell asleep, dammit . . . It’s nothing, Yurga, it’s this heat . . .’
‘Aye, it’s devilish hot . . . We ought to be going, sir. Come along, I’ll aid you down the slope.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me . . .’
‘Nothing, nothing. Then I wonder why you’re staggering. Why the hell did you go up the hill in such a heat? Wanted to read their names? I could have told you them all. What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing . . . Yurga . . . Do you really remember all the names?’
‘Certainly.’
‘I’ll see what your memory’s like . . . The last one. The fourteenth. What name is it?’
‘What a doubter you are. You don’t believe in anything. You want to find out if I’m lying? I told you, didn’t I, that every youngster knows those names. The last one, you say? Well, the last one is Yoël Grethen of Carreras. Perhaps you knew him?’
Geralt rubbed his eyelid with his wrist. And he glanced at the menhir. At all the names.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t.’
VIII ‘Geralt, sir?’
‘Yes, Yurga?’
The merchant lowered his head and said nothing for some time, winding around a finger the remains of the thin strap with which he was repairing the Witcher’s saddle. He finally straightened up and gently tapped the servant driving the cart on the back with his fist.
‘Mount one of those spare horses, Pokvit. I’ll drive. Sit behind me on the box, Geralt, sir. Why are you hanging around the cart, Pokvit? Go on, ride on! We want to talk here, we don’t need your eyes!’
Roach, dawdling behind the cart, neighed, tugged at the tether, clearly envious of Pokvit’s mare trotting down the highway.
Yurga clicked his tongue and tapped the horses lightly with the reins.
‘Well,’ he said hesitantly. ‘It’s like this, sir. I promised you . . . Back then on the bridge . . . I made a promise—’
‘You needn’t worry,’ the Witcher quickly interrupted. ‘It’s not necessary, Yurga.’
‘But it is,’ the merchant said curtly. ‘It’s my word. Whatever I find at home but am not expecting is yours.’
‘Give over. I don’t want anything from you. We’re quits.’
‘No, sir. Should I find something like that at home it means it’s destiny. For if you mock destiny, if you deceive it, then it will punish you severely.’
I know, thought the Witcher. I know.
‘But . . . Geralt, sir . . .’
‘What, Yurga?’
‘I won’t find anything at home I’m not expecting. Nothing, and for certain not what you were hoping for. Witcher, sir, hear this: after the last child, my woman cannot have any more and whatever you’re after, there won’t be an infant at home. Seems to me you’re out of luck.’
Geralt did not reply.
Yurga said nothing either. Roach snorted again and tossed her head.
‘But I have two sons,’ Yurga suddenly said quickly, looking ahead, towards the road. ‘Two; healthy, strong and smart. I mean, I’ll have to get them apprenticed somewhere. One, I thought, would learn to trade with me. But the other . . .’
Geralt said nothing.
‘What do you say?’ Yurga turned his head away, and looked at him. ‘You demanded a promise on the bridge. You had in mind a child for your witcher’s apprenticeship, and nothing else, didn’t you? Why does that child have to be unexpected? Can it not be expected? I’ve two, so one of them could go for a witcher. It’s a trade like any other. It ain’t better or worse.’
‘Are you certain,’ Geralt said softly, ‘it isn’t worse?’
Yurga squinted.
‘Protecting people, saving their lives, how do you judge that; bad or good? Those fourteen on the hill? You on that there bridge? What were you doing? Good or bad?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Geralt with effort. ‘I don’t know, Yurga. Sometimes it seems to me that I know. And sometimes I have doubts. Would you like your son to have doubts like that?’
‘Why not?’ the merchant said gravely. ‘He might as well. For it’s a human and a good thing.’
‘What?’
‘Doubts. Only evil, sir, never has any. But no one can escape his destiny.’
The Witcher did not answer.
The highway curved beneath a high bluff, under some crooked birch trees, which by some miracle were hanging onto the vertical hillside. The birches had yellow leaves. Autumn, Geralt thought, it’s autumn again. A river sparkled down below, the freshly-cut palisade of a watchtower shone white, the roofs of cottages, hewn stakes of the jetty. A windl
ass creaked. A ferry was reaching the bank, pushing a wave in front of it, shoving the water with its blunt prow, parting the sluggish straw and leaves in the dirty layer of dust floating on the surface. The ropes creaked as the ferrymen hauled them. The people thronged on the bank were clamouring. There was everything in the din: women screaming, men cursing, children crying, cattle lowing, horses neighing and sheep bleating. The monotonous, bass music of fear.
‘Get away! Get away, get back, dammit!’ yelled a horseman, head bandaged with a bloody rag. His horse, submerged up to its belly, thrashed around, lifting its fore hooves high and splashing water. Yelling and cries from the jetty – the shield bearers were brutally jostling the crowd, hitting out in all directions with the shafts of their spears.
‘Get away from the ferry!’ the horseman yelled, swinging his sword around. ‘Soldiers only! Get away, afore I start cracking some skulls!’
Geralt pulled on his reins, holding back his mare, who was dancing near the edge of the ravine.
Heavily armoured men, weapons and armour clanging, galloped along the ravine, stirring up clouds of dust which obscured the shield bearers running in their wake.
‘Geraaaalt!’
He looked down. A slim man in a cherry jerkin and a bonnet with an egret’s feather was jumping up and down and waving his arms on an abandoned cart loaded with cages which had been shoved off the highway. Chickens and geese fluttered and squawked in the cages.
‘Geraaalt! It’s me!’
‘Dandelion! Come here!’
‘Get away, get away from the ferry!’ roared the horseman with the bandaged head on the jetty. ‘The ferry’s for the army only! If you want to get to the far bank, scum, seize your axes and get into the forest, cobble together some rafts! The ferry’s just for the army!’
‘By the Gods, Geralt,’ the poet panted, scrambling up the side of the ravine. His cherry jerkin was dotted, as though by snow, with birds’ feathers. ‘Do you see what’s happening? The Sodden forces have surely lost the battle, and the retreat has begun. What am I saying? What retreat? It’s a flight, simply a panicked flight! And we have to scarper, too, Geralt. To the Yaruga’s far bank . . .’
Introducing the Witcher Page 66
