Lady of the Lake

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘I?’ Dandelion said, surprised. ‘You?’

  ‘Mhm.’

  ‘Not for anything in the world.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I will not forgive you for anything in the world. Why should I? Hear that, joker! In a moment, you will cut off my head, and you want me to forgive you? Are you kidding me or what? Shame on you! In such a sad moment.’

  ‘But sir,’ said the executioner. ‘This is the custom... It is your last duty in the world... The condemned should forgive his executioner. Good lord, forgive me, please...’

  ‘No,’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I will not kill him,’ said the executioner standing up. “If he will not forgive me, I will not do anything.’

  ‘Lord Viscount,’ the bailiff took Dandelion by the elbow. ‘Do not make trouble. The people are gathered, waiting... Forgive him, when he begs so nicely...’

  ‘I will not forgive him and that’s it!’

  ‘Master executioner,’ the bailiff said turning to the executioner. ‘Can you behead him without his forgiveness? I’ll repay you...’

  The executioner wordlessly held out his open hand, as wide as a pan. The bailiff sighed, pulled out a purse and poured some coins into the hand. The executioner looked and then clenched his fist. He rolled his eyes within his hood.

  ‘Okay,’ he agreed, he hid the money and walked back over to the condemned. ‘Knee down, stubborn sir. Put your head on the block. If I want I can be stubborn and mischievous too. I can cut twice what I can do in one. Or in three.’

  ‘I forgive you!’ Dandelion promptly shouted. ‘I forgive you!’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Since you have been given your pardon,’ said the mournful bailiff, ‘return my money.’

  ‘The executioner turned on his heel and raised his axe.

  ‘Move aside, sir,’ he said in an ominously hollow voice. ‘You know that according to the rules that you must not interfere with the performance of the execution. When I chop the head, blood flies.’

  The bailiff backed away so rapidly that he almost fell from the scaffold.

  ‘Is this right?’ Dandelion knelt and stretched his neck across the stump. ‘Master? Hey, Master!’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You were kidding, right? When you said you wouldn’t behead me with the first blow? You’ll only cut once? Right?’

  The executioner’s eyes sparkled.

  ‘It’ll be a surprise,’ he growled ominously.

  The crowd suddenly parted before a rider who burst into the square on a lathered horse.

  ‘Halt!’ the rider called, waving a large roll of parchment with a red seal. ‘Stop the execution! On the orders of our Lady Duchess! Stop the execution! I’m here to bring clemency for the accused.’

  ‘Not again,’ growled the executioner lowering his axe sullenly. ‘Another pardon? This is getting boring.’

  ‘A pardon! A reprieve!’ roared the crowd. The women in the first row started wailing even louder. The children whistled and booed with disappointment.

  ‘Hush, people!’ shouted the bailiff and unrolled the parchment. ‘This is the will of Duchess Anne Henrietta! In her immense goodness and to celebrate the peace of Cintra Her Ladyship has waived all charges against Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and pardons him from execution...’

  ‘My Dear Ermine,’ Dandelion said, smiling broadly.

  ‘...And orders that the above Viscount Julian et cetera promptly leave the capital and the County of Toussaint and never return, because his presence is no longer welcome here, and her Ladyship never wants to lay eyes on him again. You are free, Viscount.’

  ‘What about my property?’ the troubadour said indignantly. ‘My lands, forests and castles you can have, but let me take my lute, my horse, Pegasus, my one hundred and forty ducats and eighty dimes, my cloak lined with duck, my ring...’

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Geralt, pushing through the crowd on his horse. ‘Shut up and get down here you mutton head! Ciri, clear us a way! Dandelion! Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Geralt? Is that you?’

  ‘Stop your questions and get down from there right now! Come here! Jump up!’

  They walked through the crowd and went into a gallop down a close alley. Ciri went first, followed by Geralt and Dandelion riding Roach.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ the bard asked from behind the witcher. ‘No one is persecuting us.’

  ‘For now. The Duchess is likely to change her mind and revoke what she previously decided. Admit it – you knew you were going to get a pardon?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Dandelion muttered. ‘But I counted on it. My Ermine has a good heart.’

  ‘Stop with the Ermine, dammit. You just got pardoned for insults against Her Majesty, you don’t want a recurrence.’

  The troubadour was silent. Ciri stopped Kelpie and waited for them. When they arrived, she saw Dandelion wiping tears from his eyes.

  ‘Look at him,’ she said. ‘A viscount...’

  ‘Let’s go,’ the witcher urged. ‘Let’s get out of this town and out of the borders of this lovely country. While there is still time.’

  When they were almost to the border of Toussaint, in sight of the mountain Gorgon, And official overtook them. He brought Pegasus, a saddle, a lute and Dandelion’s ring. He did not listen to the question on the hundred and forty ducats.

  He ignored the bard’s plea to give a kiss to the Duchess with a straight face.

  They followed the course of the Sansretour, until it became a small stream. The bypassed Belhaven.

  They camped in the valley of Newi. In a place that the witcher and the bard remembered well.

  Dandelion lasted a long time without asking questions.

  But finally they had to tell him everything. And sit with him in silence. During the hard, painful silence that reigned, when all was said.

  At noon the next day they were on the slopes of Riedbrune. The peace was prevailing throughout the area. People were trusting and accommodating. They felt safe.

  At the crossroads gallows were laden with corpses.

  They passed through towns on their way towards Dol Angra.

  ‘Dandelion,’ Geralt just now noticed what he should have noticed a while ago. ‘Your priceless tube! Your memoirs. The courier didn’t bring it, it’s still in Toussaint.’

  ‘I left it,’ the poet said indifferently. ‘In Ermine’s dressing room, under a pile of coats, clothes and corsets. And they can stay there for centuries.’

  ‘Do you want to explain it?’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain. In Toussaint I had enough time to carefully read everything that I had written.’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘I’ll write it again. From the beginning.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Geralt. ‘You’re a lousy writer as well as a royal favorite. To put it bluntly, what you touch you screw up. Half a century and you still have the possibility of correcting and re-writing, but not for the Duchess. What a shame, a lover driven away. Yes, yes, there is no reason to make faces! Being married to the Duchess of Toussaint was not written for you, Dandelion.’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’

  ‘Do not count on me.’

  ‘Nobody asked you anything. But I can tell you that my Ermine has a good heart, and is a very forgiving woman. It is true that she was unnerved when she caught me with the young Baroness Nique... But surely she has calmed down, she will realize that I was not made for monogamy. She’ll forgive me and be waiting...’

  ‘You are hopelessly stupid,’ Geralt said and Ciri nodded vigorously to indicate she felt the same way.

  ‘I will not argue with you,’ Dandelion said, offended. ‘It’s an intimate matter. But I am sure that she will forgive me. I’ll write a touching ballad or sonnet, I’ll sent it to Toussaint and...’

  ‘Have mercy!’

  ‘Oh, you don’t want to talk about it. Come on, let’s go! Forward, Pe
gasus! Forward!’

  They rode.

  It was the month of May.

  ‘Because of you,’ the witcher said reproachfully, ‘we had to run away from Toussaint like outlaws or bandits. I did not have any time to see...’

  ‘Fringilla Vigo? You would not have seen her. She left shortly after your departure, In January. She simply disappeared.’

  ‘I did not mean her,’ Geralt coughed, looking over at Ciri who was listening. ‘I wanted to see Reynart. To introduce him to Ciri...’

  Dandelion bowed his head.

  ‘The good knight Reynart do Boris-Fresnes,’ Dandelion said, ‘fell in late February when facing some invaders near the border fortress of Vedette near the Cervantesa Pass. Anarietta bestowed on him posthumously...’

  ‘Shut up, please.’

  Dandelion was silent and incredibly obedient.

  ***

  May continued and grew. The intense yellow thistle in meadows disappeared, replaced by blooming, white, fluffy dandelions.

  It was very green and warm. The air, after brief thunderstorms became hot, dense and sticky as barley porridge.

  On the twenty-sixth of May they crossed the Yaruga on a new, white resin scented bridge. Remnants of the old bridge, black, burnt, charred piles were still visible in the water and on the shore.

  Ciri began to get restless.

  Geralt knew why. He knew her intentions, her plans and arrangement with Yennefer. He was ready. Yet the thought of the painful parting stung his heart. As if in his chest a poisonous scorpion had awakened.

  At the crossroads of the village of Koprivince, was an inn burned during the war and next to it stood a hundred year old oak, now in bloom. The population of the whole area, even from distant Spall, regularly used the oak tress low hanging branches to hung tablets and posters with all kinds of information. It served the people as communication. The tree was known as the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.

  ‘Ciri, you start from that side,’ Geralt ordered dismounting form his saddle. ‘Dandelion you look from the other side.’

  The branches draped with tablets, swayed in the light wind and clattered and bumped into each other.

  As was usual after a war, a lot of the messages were for missing family members. Quite a few of the messages were along the lines of – “Come back, all is forgiven,” there were listings for erotic massage and related services in surrounding villages and towns and lots of news and advertising.

  Hung here and there were love letters next to denunciations, both signed and anonymous. They found there tablets containing philosophical considerations – either incomprehensible, absurd, obscene or disgusting.

  ‘Hey,’ Dandelion called. ‘The castle of Rastburg needs a witcher. They offer great rewards. Comfortable accommodation and delicious meals are provided. Any interest, Geralt?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Ciri found the message she had been looking for.

  She announced to the witcher what he had long been expecting.

  ‘I’m going to Vengerberg, Geralt,’ she repeated. ‘Don’t give me that look. You know that I have an obligation. Yennefer is calling me. She is waiting there.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you are going to Rivia, to your secret meeting...’

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ he interrupted. ‘It isn’t a secret.’

  ‘Okay, a surprise. I meanwhile, will go to Vengerberg and solve everything, I’ll pick up Yennefer and in six days we will see you in Rivia. I asked you not to give me that look. We do not have to say goodbye like it is forever. It will only be six days. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Ciri.’

  ‘In Rivia, in six days,’ she insisted once again, turning Kelpie about.

  She kicked her into a gallop and was quickly out of sight. Geralt felt as if icy claws were clawing at his stomach.

  ‘Six days,’ Dandelion repeated thoughtfully. ‘From here to Vengerberg and then back to Rivia... That will total about two hundred and fifty miles... That’s impossible, Geralt. Of course, with that magical mare, she can travel three times faster than us. But even a magical mare must need to rest. And Ciri’s mysterious issue must be resolved. Come on, it's impossible...’

  ‘For Ciri,’ the witcher cut him off, ‘nothing is impossible.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘She is no longer the girl you knew,’ Geralt did not let him finish.

  Dandelion was silent for a long time.

  ‘I have a strange feeling...’

  ‘Be quiet. Don’t say anything. I’m begging you.’

  May ended. They were approaching the new moon, the moon was just a sliver. They rode towards the mountains visible on the horizon.

  It was a typical post-war landscape. Among the fields rose graves and burial mounds, in the lush spring grass were white skulls and skeletons. On the branches of trees hung corpses and along the road, waiting for the beggars to weaken, sat wolves.

  Grass did not grow on the vast stretches of blackness, where past fires had burned.

  Yet many of the villages and settlements, where only ruins had remained, had started to rebuild. Around them was the sounds of axes and hammers hammering and saws cutting. Near the ruins were women, working the scorched earth with their hoes. Some stumbling, dragged ploughs behind them, the straps cutting into their shoulders.

  'I have a vague feeling, said Dandelion, 'that something is not as it should be. There's something missing... Do you have the same feeling, Geralt?'

  'Huh?'

  'Something here is not normal.'

  'Nothing here is normal, Dandelion. Nothing.'

  It was a hot night, black, with no wind, lit by only distant flashes of lightning and upset by the rumor of thunder. Geralt and Dandelion camped and watched the horizon to the west

  glow red with fires. It was not long until the breeze picked up and brought the smell of smoke. And snippets of sound.

  They heard women crying and the wailing of children and the sound of their murderers howling.

  Dandelion did not say anything, but kept throwing glances at the witcher. But the witcher did not move, did not even turn his head. His face was like stone.

  In the morning they went on their way. Rising above the forest was a wisp of smoke, which they did not look at.

  Later that day they encountered a column of settlers.

  The column moved in a long, slow march. They carried small bundles. They were completely silent. Men, boys, women, children. They did not utter a cry or a word of complaint. Not a cry or groan of despair. Their cries and despair were mirrored in their eyes. The empty eyes of aggrieved people. Deprived, battered and expelled.

  'Who are these people?’ Dandelion said, not paying attention to the eyes of the officer who watched over the displaced people. ‘Why are they forced to leave?’

  ‘Nilfgaardians,’ replied a young lieutenant from his saddle, no older than eighteen. ‘Nilfgaardian settlers. They settled on our land like cockroaches. And we are sweeping them away like cockroaches as agreed in the peace treaty of Cintra.’

  He spat and looked disdainfully at the troubadour and the witcher.

  ‘And if it was up to me, I’d not let these bugs live.’

  ‘And if it was up to me,’ said a sergeant with a grey moustache, regarding his youthful companion with disrespect, ‘I’d let them work in peace on their farms and lands. I would never expel a good farmer from this country. I would love to see agriculture prosper. So we will not go hungry.’

  ‘You’re a real blockhead, Sergeant,’ the young Lieutenant scolded. ‘They are of Nilfgaard! These people do not know our language, our culture or have our blood. For the small joy of having agriculture we would be taking a snake to our breast. We would have traitors ready to attack from behind. Or do you think this peace with the Black Ones will last forever. No, no, they go back to where they came from… Eh, soldier! There on goes with a cart! Grab him, quickly!’

  The order was carried out eagerly. With the help of fists, heels
and sticks.

  Dandelion coughed.

  The young officer measured they suspiciously.

  ‘You are not from Nilfgaard?’

  ‘Gods forbid,’ swallowed the troubadour.

  Many of the women and children passing in front of them moved like puppets, with empty eyes, swollen faces and bruised bare legs showing through torn skirts. Some had to be supported as they walked. Dandelion looked at Geralt’s face and began to panic.

  ‘It’s time to be on our way,’ he muttered. ‘Farewell, gentlemen.’

  The young officer did not even turn his head, intrigued by monitoring the refugees.

  The column meandered slowly to the south. From somewhere behind them they heard a high, desperate scream from a female.

  ‘Geralt, no,’ Dandelion whispered. ‘Do not interfere, stay out of it…’

  The witcher turned and looked at the poet as if he did not know him.

  ‘Meddle in it?’ he shrugged. ‘Save someone? Give my life for noble principles and ideals? No, Dandelion, not anymore.’

  On a restless night, illuminated by lightning, the witcher again awakened from a dream. This time he was not sure if it was one hideous nightmare or if it was a series of nightmares.

  Again, over the remains of the fire a light arose, pulsating and frightening the horses. Again, inside that light appeared a castle, with columns and a table at which sat women.

  Two other women were there, standing calmly. One black and white and the other black and grey.

  Yennefer and Ciri.

  The witcher moaned in his sleep.

  Yennefer was right when she did not allow her to wear male clothing. Ciri would have felt foolish dressed as a boy among these elegant ladies. She was glad that she gave in to the combination of black and grey, it flattered her and she could fell the approval when they saw the puffy sleeves and clinched waist and the small brooch in the shape of a rose.

  ‘Come closer please.’

  Ciri shivered slightly. It was not just the sound of the voice. Yennefer, as it turned out, was right about her neckline. Ciri had insisted thought, and now she had the impression that she could feel a draft on her breast all the way down to her navel, and was covered in goose bumps.