The Cicada rolled over in the mud and sat up, propping himself up on his elbows, babbling incoherently, spitting out something white with a large amount of red. Walking past him, Geralt casually kicked him in the face, breaking his cheekbone, the man floundered again in the puddles.
He walked on, not looking back.
Istredd was already at the well, standing there, leaning against the wooden shaft next to the moss encrusted winch. On his belt hung a sword. A beautiful, light sword with a swept hilt, the tip of the scabbard brushing against the cuff of his shiny riding boot. On the magician's shoulder sat a black bird.
A kestrel.
‘And here you are, witcher.’ Istredd, equipped with a falconer's glove, gently and carefully placed the bird on the roof of the well.
‘Here I am, Istredd.’
‘I didn't think you were coming. I thought you'd left.’
‘As you can see, I'm still here.’
The magician threw his head back and laughed long and loudly.
‘She wanted to save us…’ he said. ‘Both of us. But that's beside the point, Geralt. Draw your blade. There can be only one of us.’
‘You're going to fight with a sword?’
‘Does that surprise you? You also fight with a sword. Let's go.’
‘Why Istredd? Why a sword and not magic?’
The magician paled, his mouth twitched nervously.
‘En garde, I say!’ he shouted. ‘No time for questions, that moment has gone! Now is the time for action!’
‘I want to know,’ Geralt said slowly. ‘I want to know why you choose the sword. I want to know where you got that black kestrel. I have a right to know. A right to know the truth, Istredd.’
‘The truth?’ the magician replied bitterly. ‘Well, maybe you do. Yes, you do. We have equal rights. The kestrel, you ask? It arrived at dawn, wet from the rain. It brought a note; so short that I know it by heart: 'Goodbye, Val. Forgive me. I cannot accept your gift, as I have nothing to give you in return that will adequately express my gratitude. That's the truth, Val. The truth is a shard of ice.' Well, Geralt? Are you happy now? Are your rights satisfied?’
The witcher slowly nodded.
‘Well,’ replied Istredd. ‘Now I'm going to exercise my rights, because I cannot accept the news this letter brings me. I can't be without her… I'd rather… En garde, damn it!’
He twisted and drew his sword with a quick, graceful movement, exhibiting great skill. The kestrel squawked.
The witcher remained motionless, hands at his sides.
‘What are you waiting for?’ barked the magician.
Geralt slowly raised his head, looked at him for a moment, then turned on his heel.
‘No, Istredd,’ he said quietly. ‘Goodbye.’
‘What do you mean, damn it?’
Geralt stopped.
‘Istredd,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘Don't drag anyone else into this. If you want to do it, just hang yourself by your reins in the stables.’
‘Geralt!’ shouted the magician, his voice cracked suddenly with a note of hopelessness that grated on the ears, ‘I won't give up! I'll follow her to Vengerberg. I'll go to the ends of the earth to find her! I won't ever give up on her! Know this!’
‘Farewell, Istredd.’
He stepped into the street without looking back. He walked, paying no attention to the people who hurried out of his way, quickly slamming doors and shutters. He paid no heed to anyone or anything.
He thought about the letter which was waiting for him at the inn.
He accelerated his pace. He knew that at the beside, a black kestrel awaited, wet from the rain, holding a note in its curved beak. He wanted to read it as soon as possible.
Even though he already knew its contents.
The Eternal Fire
This is a fan translation of a French translation of the story from Andrzej Sapkowski's The Sword of Destiny (L'Épée de la Providence). I am not a native or even a strong French speaker but I hope that the result is sufficiently readable for my fellow Anglophones.
I
‘Scum! Worthless singer! Crook!’
Geralt, his curiosity piqued, led his mare to the corner of the alley. Before he had the time to locate the origin of the screams, he heard a crash of glass join the chorus of cries. A jar of cherry jam, he thought. That is the sound of a jar of cherry jam thrown by someone from a great height or with great force. He perfectly remembered Yennefer, during their time together, throwing in anger the jars like it that she received from her customers. Yennefer was ignorant of all the secrets of making jams: her magic in this area was still desperately incomplete.
A fairly large group of onlookers had amassed around the corner of the alley, at the foot of a narrow pink-painted house. A young woman with blonde hair was standing in her nightgown on a flowered balcony suspended just below the overhanging edge of the rooftop. Soft and rounded shoulders appeared beneath the frills of her bodice. She seized a flower pot with the intention of throwing it.
The thin man, wearing an olive-colored hat adorned with a feather, barely had time to leap back, like a goat, to avoid the impact of the pot that exploded on the ground just in front of him and scattered into a thousand pieces.
‘I beg you, Vespula!’ he cried. ‘Don't believe them! I am faithful to you! May I die on the spot if it isn't true!’
‘Scoundrel! Demonspawn! Vagabond!’ the plump blonde yelled back before retreating into the depths of the house to search, no doubt, for new ammunition.
‘Hey, Dandelion!’ called the witcher, leading his recalcitrant mount onto the battlefield. ‘How are you? What's going on?’
‘Everything's fine,’ replied the troubadour, flashing his teeth in a smile. ‘The usual. Hello, Geralt. What are you doing here? By the plague, look out!’
A pewter cup whistled through the air and rebounded with a crash on the paving stones. Dandelion recovered it from the ground to examine its condition and then tossed it into the gutter.
‘Don't forget to take your clothes,’ shouted the blonde, the ruffles of her nightgown dancing on her buxom chest. ‘Get out of my sight! Don't set foot here again, you good-for-nothing musician!’
‘That's not mine,’ Dandelion said in surprise, retrieving the multicolored pants from the ground. ‘I have, in all my life, never worn a pair of pants like these.’
‘Go away! I don't want to see you anymore! You… You… You want to know what you're worth in bed? Nothing! Nothing, you hear? You hear, everyone?’
Another flower pot burst forth: the dried stalk of the plant hummed through the air. Dandelion had just enough time to dive. A copper pot of at least two and a half gallons followed the same course, whirling. The crowd of bystanders, standing out of the path of the projectiles, burst into laughter. Most of these clowns applauded, outrageously encouraging the young woman to continue.
‘Does she have a crossbow in the house?’ the witcher asked uneasily.
‘It's possible,’ replied the poet, craning his neck toward the balcony. ‘What bric-a-brac she has in there! Did you see these pants?’
‘It would be prudent not to stay here. You can come back when she calms down.’
‘By all the devils,’ Dandelion grimaced, ‘I do not return to a house where I've had slander and copper pots thrown in my face. Our brief liaison is finished. Wait a little longer for her to throw me… Oh, by the gods! No! Vespula! Not my lute!’
The troubadour lunged, holding out his arms, tripped and fell, grabbing the instrument at the last moment just above the ground. The lute uttered a groaned song.
‘Phew!’ he murmured, rising. ‘I have it. All is well, Geralt, we can go. I left with her, it's true, a coat with a marten-fur collar, but never mind, that will be the price I pay. Because I know she'll never throw the coat.’
‘Liar! Blackguard!’ the blonde bawled before spitting pointedly from the balcony. ‘Vagabond! Damned crook!’
‘Why is she so upset? Have you done something stupid
, Dandelion?’
‘The usual,’ the troubadour replied with a shrug. ‘She requires that I be monogamous, but she herself doesn't hesitate to display another man's pants to the whole world. You heard her name-calling? By the gods, I personally have bedded better women, but I refrain from shouting as much in the middle of the street. Let's go.’
‘Where do you suggest we go?’
‘Where do you think? Certainly not the Temple of the Eternal Fire. Let's go to The Pike's Grotto. I need to settle my nerves.’
Without protest, the witcher led his mount behind Dandelion, who was already walking with a purposeful stride through the narrow alley. The troubadour tuned his instrument and plucked a few strings before playing a deep and vibrant chord:
Autumn's scents have pervaded the air,
the wind stole the word from our lips.
That's the way it must be, please don't shed
those diamonds that run down your cheeks.
Dandelion broke off. He waved happily to two girls who passed next to them, carrying baskets of vegetables. The girls giggled.
‘What brings you to Novigrad, Geralt?’
‘Supplies: a harness, equipment, and this new jacket.’ The witcher stroked the fresh, brand new leather of his jacket. ‘What do you think, Dandelion?’
‘You are certainly no fashion plate,’ the bard said, grimacing and stroking the chicken feathers on the puffed sleeve of his own bright blue doublet with the notched collar. ‘I'm happy to see you in Novigrad, the capital, the center and the cultural heart of the world. An enlightened man can breathe deeply here!’
‘Then let's breathe on the next street over,’ suggested Geralt, seeing a barefooted man squatting, his eyes wide, in the act of defecating in an adjacent alley.
‘Your incessant sarcasm grows tiresome,’ Dandelion said, grimacing again. ‘In Novigrad, Geralt, there are houses made of brick, paved city streets, a seaport, warehouses, four watermills, slaughterhouses, sawmills, a large manufactory of pointed-toe shoes, and all desirable guilds and artisans, a mint, eight banks and nineteen pawnbrokers, a breathtaking castle and guard tower, and then every sort of diversion: a scaffold, a gibbet equipped with a trapdoor, thirty-five inns, a theater, a zoo, a bazaar and twelve brothels… I don't remember how many temples. Lots, in any case. And all these women, Geralt, proper ones, combed and perfumed… The satins, the velours, the silks, the bustles, the ribbons. Oh, Geralt! The verse writes itself!’
Your home all surrounded by snow,
glassy frost covers rivers and lakes.
That's the way it must be, please don't show
this yearning and grief on your face.
‘A new ballad?’
‘Yes. It's entitled Winter, but it isn't finished yet. I haven't come up with an ending because of Vespula: I'm shattered and the verse isn't coming to me. By the way, I forgot, how is it going with Yennefer?’
‘So-so.’
‘I understand.’
‘No, you don't understand a thing. Well then, where is this inn? Is it far from here?’
‘Just around the corner. There it is, we've arrived. You see the sign?’
‘I see it.’
‘I greet you warmly!’ Dandelion called, smiling broadly at the young woman sweeping the stairs. ‘My word, has everyone ever told you, dear girl, how lovely you are?’
The girl blushed, tightening her grip on her broom. Geralt thought for a moment that she wanted to strike Dandelion. He was mistaken. The girl gave him a smile, batting her eyelashes. Dandelion, as he usually did, ignored her reaction.
‘I salute you and wish you good health! Good day!’ Dandelion boomed, entering the inn and striking a resonant chord on his lute, whose strings jumped under the repeated movement of his thumb. ‘Master Dandelion, the most celebrated poet in the land, pays a visit to your unworthy establishment, innkeeper! He was struck by the desire for a beer! Do you appreciate the magnitude of the honor that I grant you, old miser?’
‘I do,’ the innkeeper replied despondently, emerging from behind the counter. ‘I am delighted to see you again, master singer. I rejoice to see that you have kept your word. You had indeed promised to return this morning to pay your debts from last night. And I thought it was only hot air, as usual. I am ashamed of my mistake.’
‘Don't torment yourself without reason, my good man,’ the troubadour replied cheerfully, ‘because I don't have any money. We'll discuss it later.’
‘No,’ the innkeeper responded coldly. ‘We will discuss it now. Your credit is dead, master poet. You will not extort from me twice in a row.’
Dandelion hung his lute on a hook stuck in the wall and then sat at a table. He removed his hat and meticulously examined the egret plume.
‘Do you have any money, Geralt?’ he asked, with a trace of hope in his voice.
‘I don't. I spent everything I had on my jacket.’
‘That's not good, that's not good,’ Dandelion sighed. ‘By the plague, there isn't a soul to treat us. Innkeeper, why is your establishment so empty today?’
‘It's too early for the regular customers. The workers repairing the temple have already left and gone on to the site, taking the foreman with them.’
‘No-one else?’
‘No-one else, apart from his magnificence, the merchant Biberveldt, who takes his breakfast in the alcove.’
‘Dainty is here,’ Dandelion said, pleased. ‘You should have said so earlier. Come with me to the alcove, Geralt. You know Dainty Biberveldt, the halfling?’
‘No.’
‘That's all right. You'll get to know him. Oh, oh!’ called the troubadour, making his way to the side of the room. ‘I can already pick up the smell and the fragrance of onion soup, so sweet in my nostrils. Yoo-hoo! It's us! Surprise!’
At the base of the alcove's central post, which was decorated with garlands of garlic and bundles of dried herbs, there sat a chubby and curly-haired halfling dressed in a pistachio-green jacket. His right hand held a wooden spoon, the left an earthenware bowl. Seeing Dandelion and Geralt, the halfling froze and opened his mouth wide. His round hazel eyes dilated with terror.
‘Hi, Dainty,’ Dandelion said cheerfully, waving his hat.
The halfling remained motionless, without closing his mouth. Geralt noticed that his hand shook slightly and caused a long morsel of cooked onion hanging from his spoon to swing like a pendulum.
‘H-h… Hello to you, Dandelion,’ he managed to say, stammering and swallowing.
‘You have the hiccups? Want me to scare you? Listen: your wife was seen arriving at the toll gate! She'll arrive any second! Gardénia Biberveldt in the flesh! Haha!’
‘You sure can be stupid, Dandelion,’ the halfling said reproachfully.
Dandelion broke into laughter again, accompanied by two chords played on his lute.
‘If only you could see your face, brother: so foolish. Besides, you look at us as if we had horns and tails. It's the witcher who scares you… eh? Perhaps you think that hunting season on halflings has just opened! Perhaps…’
‘Stop,’ Geralt interrupted in annoyance, approaching the table. ‘Pardon us, friend. Dandelion has just been through a personal tragedy that he has not yet digested. He tries to use jokes to hide his sadness, dejection, and shame.’
‘Don't tell me.’ The halfling finally swallowed the contents of his spoon. ‘Let me guess: Vespula finally threw you out? Is that it, Dandelion?’
‘I do not discuss delicate subjects with individuals who are drinking and stuffing themselves while their friends are forced to stand,’ replied the troubadour, who sat down without waiting to be invited.
The halfling swallowed a spoonful of soup and began to lick up the drips of cheese.
‘Sure,’ he conceded reluctantly. ‘Join me, then. Have a seat. They're serving onion soup today… Will you have some?’
‘In principle, I never eat so early in the morning,’ Dandelion replied insolently. ‘But so be it: I'll eat, but certainly not with a dry th
roat… Hey! Innkeeper! Some beer, if you please! Quickly!’
A girl with her hair pulled back in a long braid that reached her thighs brought some goblets and bowls of soup. Having noticed her mouth surrounded by downy hairs, Geralt considered that she could have nice lips if only she remembered to close them.
‘Dryad of the forest!’ Dandelion cut in, seizing her hand and kissing the palm. ‘Sylph! Vision! Divine entity with pale blue eyes like a lake. Beautiful as the break of day. The form of your open lips, so exciting…’
‘Give him some beer, quickly,’ groaned Dainty. ‘He'll get into trouble.’
‘Nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind,’ the bard assured him. ‘Isn't that right, Geralt? It's difficult to find someone quieter than the two of us. I, master merchant, am a poet and musician: music softens the mood. The witcher here only poses a threat to monsters. I present to you: Geralt of Rivia, the terror of striga, werewolves and others of their breed. You have certainly heard of him, Dainty!’
The Sword of Destiny Page 14
