The gray horse advanced restlessly, shaking its head and lifting its forelegs high. He snorted, avoiding the corpses and the smell of blood. The horseman, upright in the saddle, lifted his right hand: a light breeze rustled the branches of the trees.
‘Ceádmil, Wedd Brokiloéne!’ cried the horseman. ‘Fáill, Aná Woedwedd!’
‘Fáill!’ replied a voice from the forest, carried by the wind.
The green and brown silhouettes disappeared one after the other into the undergrowth of the forest. Only one remained, with hair the color of honey. She approached.
‘Va fáill, Gwynbleidd,’ she said, coming closer.
‘Goodbye, Mona,’ replied the witcher. ‘I will not forget you.’
‘Forget,’ she replied harshly, adjusting the quiver on her back. ‘There is no Mona. Mona was a dream. I am Braenn. Braenn of Brokilone.’
She gave one more wave of her hand and disappeared.
The witcher turned.
‘Mousesack,’ he said, looking at the rider on the gray horse.
‘Geralt,’ acknowledged the horseman, eying him with a cold stare. ‘An interesting encounter. But start with the most important things. Where is Ciri?’
‘Here!!’ cried the little girl, completely hidden in the foliage. ‘Can I come down?’
‘Yes, you can,’ responded the witcher.
‘But I don't know how!’
‘In the same way you climbed up, but in reverse.’
‘I'm afraid! I'm at the top of the tree!’
‘Come down, I tell you. We have much to discuss, little lady.’
‘But what?’
‘Why, by the plague, did you climb up instead of running into the forest? I would have followed behind you, I wouldn't have had to… Ah! By cholera, come down!’
‘I did like the cat in the story! Whatever I do, it's always wrong! Why? I wish I knew.’
‘I, too,’ said the druid, ‘would like to know. And your grandmother, Queen Calanthe would also like to know. Come down, little princess.’
Leaves and dry branches tumbled down from the tree. Then there came the sound of ripping fabric. Ciri finally appeared, sliding, her legs apart, along the trunk. In place of the hood of her cloak, she wore only picturesque tatters.
‘Uncle Mousesack!’
‘In the flesh.’
The druid took the little girl in his arms pressed her against him.
‘Is it Grandmother who sent you, Uncle? She was put to a lot of trouble?’
‘Not too much,’ said Mousesack, smiling. ‘She is too busy to wet her strap. The way back to Cintra will take some time, Ciri. Take the opportunity to find an explanation for your adventures. The best, if you take my advice, would be to make it short and to the point. An explanation that it is possible to state very, very quickly. But I believe nonetheless that at the end, Princess, you will cry out very, very loud.’
Ciri grimaced with pain, sniffled, grumbled quietly. Her hands instinctively sought refuge at the part of her body that was most at risk.
‘Let's go,’ suggested Geralt, inspecting the area. ‘Let's go, Mousesack.’
VIII
‘No,’ said the druid. ‘Calanthe has changed her plans: she no longer wants Ciri and Kistrin to marry. She has her reasons. In addition, it will not surprise you to hear that, since this unfortunate attack made on the merchants, King Ervyll has lost much of his credibility in my eyes, and you know that my judgment counts in the kingdom. No, we will not even stop in Nastrog. I will take the little one directly to Cintra. Come with us, Geralt.’
‘What for?’
The witcher glanced at Ciri, who shivered under a tree, protected by Mousesack's fur cloak.
‘You know why. This child, Geralt, is your destiny. Your paths crossed for the third time, yes, the third time. In a certain sense, of course, especially when it comes to the first two times. I hope, Geralt, that you do not think that this is a simple coincidence.’
‘What difference does it make what I call it?’ replied the witcher, forcing a smile. ‘Things escape the names we give them, Mousesack. Why take me to Cintra? I've already been there, I've already met her, as you said, by other paths. So what?’
‘Geralt, you demanded then an oath that Calanthe, Pavetta, and her husband swore to. It has been upheld. Ciri is the child-surprise. Destiny requires…’
‘That I take this child and make her into a witcher? A little girl! Look at me, Mousesack. Can you imagine that I could have been a fresh and pretty little girl?’
‘The devil with the witchers' arts!’ retorted the druid, carried away. ‘What does your heart say? What is the relationship? No, Geralt, I see that you do not understand and that I must use simple words. Listen, any cretin can exact an oath. You're one of them. That in itself is nothing extraordinary. It's the child who is extraordinary. As is the link that was created when the child was born. I must be even more clear? Not a problem, Geralt: since the birth of Ciri, your wishes and plans cease to be important, as does what you refuse and what you renounce. Yourself, by plague and cholera, you have ceased to count! Do you understand?’
‘Don't shout. You're going to wake her up. Our surprise is sleeping. And when she wakes up… Mousesack, even extraordinary things, one can… One must sometimes renounce.’
The druid watched him insistently.
‘You know, however, that you can never have a child of your own.’
‘I know.’
‘And you renounce her?’
‘I renounce her. Do I not have the right?’
‘You have the right,’ Mousesack responded. ‘And how. But it's risky. There is an old saying that the sword of destiny…’
‘… has two edges,’ finished Geralt. ‘I know.’
‘Then do as you think is right.’ The druid turned his head and spat. ‘And to think that I was ready to risk my neck for you…’
‘You?’
‘Yes. Unlike you, I believe in destiny. And I know that it is dangerous to toy with a double-edged sword. Don't play games, Geralt. Take the opportunity that has been given to you. Make the link with Ciri into a normal relationship between guardian and child. Otherwise… This link could manifest in other ways. More terrible. Negative and destructive. I want to protect you, you and the little one. If you wanted to take her, I would not be opposed. I would take the risk of explaining everything to Calanthe.’
‘How do you know that Ciri would be willing to follow me? Have you had a premonition?’
‘No,’ Mousesack responded seriously. ‘I know because she fell asleep when you held her tight in your arms, and because she whispers your name in a dream and her hand seeks yours.’
‘That's enough.’ Geralt stood. ‘I should move on. Farewell, bearded one. All my respects to Calanthe. For Ciri's escapades, invent something.’
‘Your escape is illusory, Geralt.’
‘My escape from destiny?’
The witcher tightened the straps of a recovered horse.
‘No,’ the druid responded, watching the little girl: ‘from her.’
The witcher nodded and then vaulted into the saddle. Mousesack remained seated, motionless, using a stick to stir the dying fire.
Geralt went slowly through the heather that reached his stirrups, in the main slope of the valley, toward the black forest.
‘Geralt!’
He turned. Ciri stood at the top of the hill, the little figure with ashen hair looking defeated.
‘Don't go!’
He waved his hand.
‘Don't go!’ she screamed with less strength. ‘Don't go!’
I must, he thought. I must, Ciri. Because… I'm leaving forever.
‘Don't think that you'll get away so easily!’ she cried. ‘Don't even think it! You can't run away! I am part of your destiny, you hear?’
There is no destiny, he thought. It doesn't exist. The only thing that is predestined for us all is death. The second side of the sword with two edges is death. The first is me. The second is the death
that follows me step by step. I cannot, I have no right to expose you to it, Ciri.
‘I am your destiny!’
He heard more cries from the top of the hill, but with less strength and more desperation.
With a kick, he urged his horse on and plunged into the damp forest, black and cold as the abyss, in the familiar shadow and benevolent unending darkness.
Something More
I
Upon hearing the sound of hooves striking against the bridge planks, Yurga did not even raise his head. He stifled a scream, let go the wheel that he was holding, and crawled underneath the cart as quickly as he could. Lying flat on the ground, with his back brushing against the rough layer of manure and mud covering the bottom of the cart, he gasped and trembled with fear
The horse slowly approached the cart. Yurga noticed how cautiously and delicately the hooves moved on the rotten, moldy planks. ‘Get out of there,’ said the unseen rider.
Yurga's teeth chattered and he put his head in his arms. The horse snorted and stamped its hoof.
‘Easy, Roach,’ said the rider. Yurga heard the man patting the neck of his horse. ‘Come out, good man. I won't do you any harm.’
The merchant did not believe the stranger. But there was something reassuring and intriguing about his voice, even though it was by no means a pleasant voice. Muttering prayers to several gods at once, Yurga at last stuck his head cautiously out from under the carriage.
The rider has milk-white hair, held back by a black leather band, and he wore a black wool woolen mantle that fell on the chestnut mare's rump. He was not looking at Yurga. Leaning on the saddle, the rider looked at the wheel of the cart that was stuck between the broken planks of the bridge. Suddenly he lifted his head, glanced at the merchant briefly, and turned his face towards the bushes on either side of the ravine.
Yurga extricated himself with difficulty, grumbling. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, smearing his face with wood tar from the cart. The rider darted him a somber and attentive look, sharp and cutting as a harpoon. Yurga remained silent.
‘The two of us won't be able to pull the cart free,’ the stranger finally said, indicating the stuck wheel. ‘Are you traveling alone?’
‘There were three of us, sir,’ Yurga stammered. ‘My servants have fled, those reptiles…’
‘I'm not surprised,’ responded the rider, looking down at the bottom of the ravine beneath the bridge. ‘I don't blame them. I think you should do the same. There is still time.’
Yurga's eyes did not follow the stranger's gaze. He did not want to see the pile of skulls, ribs, and shinbones scattered among the stones, visible through the burdock and nettles growing on the dry riverbed. The merchant feared that one more glance at those hollow eyesockets, bared teeth, and the broken bones would cause him to break down completely, and what remained of his courage would burst like a fish's swim bladder. Then he would flee along the road, stifling his screams, just as the driver and the valet had done less than an hour before.
‘What are you waiting for?’ asked the rider in a low voice, turning his horse. ‘Nightfall? It will be too late. They will take you as soon as it gets dark. Perhaps even earlier. Go, mount your horse, come with me. Get out of here as fast as possible.’
‘What about the cart, sir?’ Yurga yelled at the top of his lungs, surprising himself with the intensity of his shout, not knowing whether it was fear, despair, or anger that caused it. ‘What about my merchandise? A whole year's worth of work! I'd rather die! I won't leave it behind!’
‘It seems to me that you don't yet know where fate has led you, friend,’ the stranger said quietly, gesturing with his hand toward the horrible cemetery stretching beneath the bridge. ‘You don't want to leave the cart here, you say? I tell you that when twilight falls, not even the treasures of King Dezmod will be able to save you. Stop thinking about your damn cart. Hell, what made you take a shortcut through this wilderness? Don't you know what massacres have taken place here since the end of the war?’
Yurga shook his head, indicating ignorance.
‘You don't know,’ replied the stranger, shaking his head, ‘but have you not seen what lies below? It's difficult not to notice. These are what remained of those who took this shortcut. And yet you still to leave your cart behind. Tell me, what exactly is in this cart? I'm curious.’
Yurga did not answer straightaway. Instead he looked at the rider suspiciously, trying to decide between ‘tow’ and ‘old rags’.
The rider didn't seem particularly interested in his response. He calmed the chestnut mare who was tossing her head nervously.
‘Sir…’ the merchant stammered at last. ‘Help me. Save me. I would be grateful until the end of my days… Don't leave me… I'll give you what you want, anything you desire… Save me, sir!’
The stranger turned his head abruptly, keeping both hands on the pommel of the saddle.
‘What did you say?’
Yurga, mouth agape, was silent.
‘You will give me what I want? Repeat what you said.’
Yurga gulped audibly, shut his mouth and regretted not having a beard in which he could spit. His head spun from wild speculations concerning the price that the stranger could exact. Most of them, even the use of his young wife, Złotolitka, on a weekly basis did not seem so terrible compared with the loss of his cart, and no doubt much less macabre than becoming another white skeleton at the bottom of the ravine. Being a merchant that he is, he made quick calculations of his current situation. The rider did not look like a tramp, a vagabond, or a straggler, the likes of which were commonly seen on the road after the war. Yet he could not under any circumstances be of noble birth, nor was he one of those proud knights who find great pleasure in looting their neighbours down to the skin. Yurga estimated his worth at close to twenty gold coins. His mercantile habits nevertheless prevented him from offering a price.
Instead he muttered something along the lines of ‘eternal gratitude’.
‘I asked,’ the stranger repeated calmly, waiting for the silent merchant, ‘if you will give me whatever I demand of you.’
There was no way out of this. Yurga swallowed hard, nodding his head. Contrary to Yurga's expectations, the stranger did not laugh ominously, nor did he look pleased with the success of his negotiation. He leaned on his saddle, and spat into the ravine.
‘But what am I doing?’ he said grimly. ‘Is this for the best? Alright. I’ll try to pull you out of this, though I know not whether this will end badly for both of us. If we succeed then you, in return…’
Yurga tensed up, almost in tears.
‘… will give me,’ the rider in the black coat said quickly, ‘what you find at home yet do not expect. Do you promise this?’
Yurga groaned and nodded his head quickly.
‘Well,’ the stranger frowned. ‘Now move over. It's best if you hide under the cart again. The sun is setting.’
He got down from his horse and took off his coat. The merchant noticed that the stranger carried a sword on a shoulder strap with a harness slung diagonally across his chest. He had a vague impression of hearing about people who carried their weapons in such manner. The black leather jacket reaching to the waist and the long gauntlets studded with silver nails could indicate that the stranger comes from Novigrad or its surrounding area, but such clothing fashion for such garments had been popular lately, especially among young men. The stranger however was no youngster.
The rider unloaded the saddlebags from his horse and turned around, causing the round medallion on his chest, hung by a silver chain, to swing; he held in his arms a small casket and a long, leather-strapped bundle covered in skins.
‘Still not under the cart?’ he asked, approaching.
Yurga noticed that the medallion's design depicted a wolf with open jaws and bared fangs.
‘Are you… a witcher, sir?’
The stranger shrugged.
‘You guessed right. A witcher. Now go. Hide under the other side of th
e cart. Don't come out and keep your mouth shut. I need to be alone for a moment.’
Yurga complied. He crouched near the wheel, hiding underneath the tarp. He did not want to see what the stranger was doing on the other side of the cart, much less the bones lying at the bottom of the ravine. Instead he looked at his shoes and the star-shaped specks of green moss covering the rotten planks of the bridge.
A witcher.
The sun disappeared.
He heard footsteps.
The stranger came out slowly, very slowly, from behind the cart and walked to the center of the bridge with his back facing Yurga. He noticed that the sword on his back was not the same one he had before. It was a beautiful weapon: the hilt, the guard, and the iron embellishments on the scabbard shone like stars. Even in the fading light of dusk, they glowed.
The golden-purple hue lingering over the forest faded.
‘Sir…’
The stranger turned. Yurga barely managed to suppress a scream.
The stranger's face was white, white and porous as fresh cheese that has been squeezed and drained through cloth. And his eyes… By the gods… Something screamed inside Yurga. His eyes…
The Sword of Destiny Page 33
