All the doctors and most of the priests hurried to Maribor, along with Rusty and Iola. To heal because they were doctors. The fact that there was no cure for the Scarlet Death did not matter to them. Both were infected. He died in her arms, the strong, confident grip of her large, ugly, peasant hands. She died four days later. Alone.
Shani died seventy-two years after the battle as a famous and respected retired professor of medicine at the University of Oxenfurt. Future generations of surgeons repeated her famous quote - "Sew red with red, yellow with yellow and white with white. And everything will be all right".
Hardly anyone noticed, after delivering this quote she always secretly wiped away tears.
Hardly anyone.
* * *
Frogs croaked, cicadas buzzed, Iola and Shani giggled and cried.
'I wonder,' repeated Milo Vanderbeck, a halfling, a field surgeon, known as Rusty. 'I wonder who won the battle?'
'Rusty,' said Marti Sodergren. 'This is really the last thing I'd be interested in your place.'
Some of the flames were high and strong, shining brightly and vividly, while others were small, shaky and trembling, and the flames darkened and they sank. At the end of the row was a tiny flame, one so weak that it was barely smouldering, barely alight and then it shimmered with great effort and almost extinguished.
‘Whose is that dying light?’ asked the witcher.
‘Yours,’ said Death.
Flourens Delannoy, Fairytales and Stories
CHAPTER NINE
The plateau, whose far end was bathed in fog at the foot of a giant mountain, resembled a stone sea. It rippled forming mounds and curling crests that looked like the sharp teeth of a reef. The wreckages of ships contributed to that feeling. There were dozens of wrecks. The remnants of galleys, caravels and longships. Some gave the impression of only being here a short time, while others were no more than a few piles of boards and ribs and were hardly recognisable and had certainly been there for decades, if not centuries.
Some ships were overturned and others were tipped on their sides and looked like they had been washed here by an immense storm or hurricane. Other ships gave the impression that they were still sailing the ocean. They stood straight, wedged between rocks, their masts towered proudly into the sky and the spars still flapped with ragged sails. They even had a ghostly crew – stuck in the rotten planks and tangled in the ropes where skeletons of dead sailors sentenced to an eternal voyage.
Alarmed by the appearance of a rider and frightened by the sound of pounding hooves, from the masts, yards, ropes and skeletons broke swarms of black birds, cawing. The flock circled for a moment over the edge of the abyss, at the bottom of which lay a lake, gray and smooth as mercury. On the cliff, towering over the plain of wrecks, half hanging over the lake, embedded in cliff was a dark, gloomy castle.
Kelpie recoiled, snorted, laid her ears back and looks suspiciously at the remains of the ships, skeleton and the whole landscape of death. The black birds had returned and once again settled on the broken masts, spars, bones, skulls and broken decks. The birds knew that they did not need to worry about one lone rider.
‘Easy, Kelpie,’ Ciri said. ‘This is the end of the road. This is the right place and the right time.’
* * *
She appeared before the walls from nowhere, as if the wind blew her from the plain of ghostly wrecks. The sentries standing guard at the gate were the first to detect her presence, alerted by the cries of the jackdaws. Now they were shouting and gesticulating, pointing their fingers and calling to their comrades.
When she arrived at the gate, there was already a crowd. Everyone stared down at her – the few who knew her or had seen her before, like Boreas Mun and Dacre Silifant, were greatly outnumbered by those who had only heard about her, those newly recruited by Skellen, mercenaries and common ravagers from Ebbing and the surrounding areas, who now looked down in amazement at the girl with the scar on her face and the sword on her back. The beautiful, black mare raised its head high, snorting and restlessly ringing its shoes on the cobblestones of the courtyard.
The murmuring ceased. There was almost complete silence. The mare lifted her legs like a dancer; her shoes rang like a hammer on an anvil. It took a long time before the men crossed their path. One of them with a hesitant and frightened movement, reached out to grasp the reins. The mare snorted.
‘Take me,’ the girl said loudly, ‘to the master of this castle.’
Boreas Mun himself did not know why he did it, but he held her stirrup and offered his arm. The other men held the snorting and struggling mare.
‘Do you recognise me, maiden?’ Boreas said quietly. ‘We have met.’
‘Where?’
‘On the ice.’
She looked him directly in the eyes.
‘I did not notice your faces,’ she said impassively.
‘You were the Lady of the Lake,’ he nodded his head very seriously. ‘Why have you come here, girl?’
‘Why? For Yennefer. And my destiny.’
‘Rather for your death,’ he whispered. ‘This is the castle Stygga. In your place, I would quickly flee. Perhaps there is still time.’
She looked at him again. Boreas realised what that look meant.
Stefan Skellen appeared. He looked at the girl for a long time with his arms crossed. Finally he gestured vigorously for her to follow him. She went without a word, escorted on all sides my armed men.
‘A strange girl,’ Boreas said through clenched teeth, shivering.
‘Fortunately, she’s not our problem,’ Dacre Silifant said scathingly. ‘I’m surprised you talked to her. That witch killed Vargas and Fripp and Ola Harsheim …’
‘The Owl killed Ola Harsheim,’ Boreas cut him off, ‘not here. She spared our lives on the ice, but she could have slaughtered us all like puppies. All of us. Even the Owl.’
‘Look at her,’ Dacre spat on the cobblestones. ‘She’ll be rewarded for her mercy, by the sorcerer and Bonhart. You’ll see, Boreas, what they’ll do to her. Remove all her skin while she is alive, in thin strips.’
‘That’s certain,’ Boreas grumbled. ‘Because they are scoundrels. And we are no better, because we are in their service.’
‘Did we have any other choice? No.’
Suddenly, one of Skellen’s mercenaries screamed, then another. Someone cursed and sighed. Another pointed silently.
On the battlements, the corbels, the roofs, towers, parapets, gutters and gargoyles were covered as far as the eye could see in black birds. Quietly, without a squawk they came from the wrecked shipyard and now quietly, without a sound, sat and waited.
‘They sense death,’ muttered one of the mercenaries.
‘And carrion,’ added another.
‘We had no choice,’ Silifant repeated mechanically looking at Boreas.
Boreas looked at the birds.
‘Maybe it’s time,’ he replied quietly, ‘to find one.’
* * *
They climbed a wide stair case with three landings, passing a row of statues set in niches along a corridor, past a gallery and that surrounded a hall. Ciri walked boldly, without fear, neither frightened by the weapons or the escort. She lied when she said she did not remember the faces of the people from the frozen lake. She remembered. She remembered how Stefan Skellen, the one who was now leading her through the gloomy corridors of the castle, shivered and chattered his teeth on the ice.
Now, when he looked back at her his eyes searing, she felt that he was still afraid. She sighed with relief.
They entered a hall, high pillars supported the ribbed vault and large chandeliers hung from the roof like giant spiders. Ciri saw who was waiting there for her, Fear dug into her bowls like an iceberg, clenching it into a fist and twisting.
Bonhart in three steps was in front of her. With both hands he grabbed her blouse, lifted her off the ground and pulled her in tightly before his pale, fish eyes.
‘Hell, he wheezed, ‘must be really terrible if
you prefer me.’
She did not answer. She smelt alcohol on his breath.
‘Or maybe hell did not want you, you little beast. The devil’s tower spit you out, in disgust after tasting your poison.’
He pulled her closer. She turned away from his face in disgust.
‘You’re afraid,’ he gurgled. ‘Rightly afraid. Here is the end of your journey. You’ll not get away. Here in this castle, we will release the blood from your veins.’
‘Finished, Mister Bonhart?’
She immediately recognised the voice that spoke. It was Vilgefortz, the wizard with whom she had met twice on the island of Thanedd. The first time while he was a prisoner in chains, and again when he followed her to the Tower of the Gulls. Then on the island, he had been very handsome. Now his face had changed, something had made him deformed and awful.
‘Excuse me, Mister Bonhart,’ the sorcerer did not move from his throne-like chair, ‘it is I, the lord of castle Stygga who should assume the pleasant task of welcoming our guest, the maiden Cirilla of Cintra, Pavetta’s daughter, Calanthe’s granddaughter and descendant of Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal. Be welcome. Come closer, please.’
The last words were not spoken under a mask of courtesy and ridicule. They were only threat and order. Ciri immediately felt that she would not be able to resist this command. She felt fear. Terrible fear.
‘Closer,’ hissed Vilgefortz.
Now she could see what had happened to his face. The left eye was significantly smaller than the right, blinking and squinting in a wrinkled eye socket. His gaze was terrible.
‘The posture of the brave with a trace of fear in her face,’ the wizard said, cocking his head. ‘You have my appreciation. If your courage does not come from stupidity. Immediately dispel any fantasies. As Bonhart has said, there is no escape. Either by teleport or with your special abilities.’
She knew he was right. Earlier, she had told herself that even in the last moment she could run and hide among the times and places. Now she knew that this hope was just an illusion, a fantasy. The castle vibrated with hostile, alien magic, magic that penetrated her like a parasite crawling in her belly and her brain. There was nothing she could do. She was in the enemies hands. Powerless.
It cannot be helped, she thought, I knew what I was doing. I knew why I had to come here. The other reasons were just false hope. Whatever will happen, will happen.
‘Good,’ said Vilgefortz. ‘A proper assessment of the situation. Whatever will happen, will happen. More precisely – It will be, as I decide. I wonder if you can guess, what I will decide.’
She tried to answer, but before she could overcome the resistance in her shrunken and dried throat, Vilgefortz probed her thoughts and again and interrupted.
‘Of course you do, Lady of the Worlds. Lady of time and space. Yes, yes, my wonderful, I am not surprised by your visit. I know where you ran away to from the lake, and know what you have done. I know how you got here. The only thing I don’t know is if your journey was long. Or the number of experiences delivered.’
Again with a malicious smile her cut her off.
‘Oh, no need to respond. I know it was very interesting and exciting. I’m anxious to try it also. You do not know how I envy that talent of yours. I’ll need you to share it with me, my wonderful. Yes, “need” is the right word. Until you share with me your talent, I will not let you out of my hands.
Ciri finally realised that it was not only fear gripping her throat. The sorcerer magically throttled and strangled her. He mocked her and humiliated her, before the eyes of his followers.
‘Free … Yennefer,’ she managed to get out, coughing with the effort. ‘Free her … And you can do whatever you want with me.’
Bonhart burst out laughing, Stefan Skellen also started to laugh dryly. Vilgefortz poke at the corner of his macabre eye with his little finger.
‘You cannot be so foolish as to think that, and so you will do what I want. Your offer is pathetic, so pathetic and ridiculous.’
‘You need me …’ she lifted her head, though it cost her a lot of strength. ‘To have a child with me. Everybody wants that, you do too. Yes, I am in your power, I came here on my own … You did not catch me, though you chased me halfway around the world. I came here on my own and I give myself to you. For Yennefer. For her life. Does this seem ridiculous? Then try to take me by force, take me the hard way … You’ll see how fast you lose the urge to laugh.’
Bonhart stood beside her in a jump, threatening her with a whip. Vilgefortz nodded almost imperceptibly, and slightly movement of his hand, but it was enough to knock the whip from the hand of the bounty hunter, and he stumbled like he had been hit by a wagon full of coal.
‘Mister Bonhart,’ Vilgefortz said, rubbing his fingers. ‘I noticed you still have difficulty adapting to the duties of being my guest. Try to remember that my guests my destroy furniture and artwork, steal small valuables and dirty the carpets and facility chambers. They cannot beat or rape other guests. The last, at least until the host has finished beating and raping and signs that you can begin. From what I’ve just said, you should be able to draw the right conclusions. As to you Ciri, I’ll help you. You delivered yourself to me humbly and think that I’ll do everything you please. And you think this is an extremely generous offer. You are wrong, because it is I who will do what I please with you. For example, I would, by way of revenge for Thanedd, like to take at least one of your eyes, but I cannot, because I’m afraid that you would not survive.’
Now or never, Ciri thought. She turned around and drew her sword, Swallow. Suddenly, the whole room began to spin, she fell and badly hit her knees. She lowered her forehead, almost touching the floor, struggling with the emetic reflex. The sword slipped from her numb fingers.
Someone picked it up.
‘Now,’ Vilgefortz drawled, leaning his chin on his folded hands as if in prayer. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes, right, your offer. Life and freedom for your Yennefer … For what? For you voluntary surrender, willingly, without violence and coercion? I’m sorry, Ciri. What I need to do to you, without violence and coercion I simply cannot do.’
He watched with interest as the girl coughed, wheezed and spat thick saliva to prevent vomiting.
‘Yes, yes,’ he continued. ‘That’s what I’ll do with you, you’ll never surrender willingly, I assure you. And that is why your offer is not only pathetic and ridiculous, but also worthless. For this reason, I reject it. Grab her and take her to the lab!’
* * *
The Laboratory was not much different from the one that Ciri knew of at the temple of Melitele in Ellander. It was brightly lit, clean, equipped with long tables with metal plates and shelves full of glass – flasks, test tubes, retorts, bowls and all sorts of other gadgets.
As in Ellander it also smelled strongly of alcohol, ether, formalin and something else, something that inspired terror. Even there, in the friendly temple, opposite the friendly priestess Nenneke and Yennefer, Ciri felt fear in the laboratory. And there, in Ellander, no one dragged her into the lab by violence; nobody held her arms in an iron grip. There, in Ellander, was no steel chair, whose shape was sadistically quite obvious. There were no white-dressed and clean-shaven-headed types, no Bonhart, no Skellen, excitedly licking his lips. Nor were there Vilgefortz, with one good eye and one unnaturally small and terribly busy.
Vilgefortz turned away from the table where he had been arranging terrible instruments for a long time.
‘You see, my wonderful,’ he began, approaching her, ‘you are for me the key to power and dominance. Not only in this world, which is doomed anyway, but over all worlds. Over the myriad of places and times that arose after the conjunction. Surely you understand, because you yourself visited some of these places and times.’
Slowly he rolled up his sleeves and continued.
‘I’m ashamed to admit, but I’m terribly attracted to power. It’s trivial, I know, but I want to be a ruler. A Sovereign, before who all will fall on this fac
e and glorify him only because he exists, and worship as a god, if he deign to save their world from destruction – even if it is done on a whim. Oh, Ciri, my heart rejoices when I think about how I will generously reward the faithful and how I will cruelly punish the disobedient and rebellious. Whole generations will pray to me and beg me for pardon, mercy and forgiveness. Generations of whole worlds. Listen, Ciri. Do you hear those prayers? Protect us from famine, plague, fire, was and your wrath, O Almighty Vilgefortz …’
He wiggled his fingers in front of her eyes and suddenly grabbed her face violently. Ciri cried out and tried to escape, but he held her firmly. Her lips trembled. Vilgefortz saw this.
‘Child of Destiny,’ he laughed and from the corners of his mouth dripped foam. ‘Aen Hen Ichaer, the Elder Blood … is now all mine!’
He straightened abruptly and wiped his mouth.
‘Fools and mystics,’ he said in his usual calm tone, ‘tried to find the secret of your existence in ancient legends and prophecies, in your genealogy they searched for the origins of your gene – a legacy of their ancestors. They have confused the night sky with the stars reflected on the surface of the water. The mystics believed that the gene would continue to develop, thanks to the evolution of new possibilities and achieve greater power in your child or in your child’s child. And around you grew a magical aura enveloping you in clouds of smoke from incense. They truth is, however, trivial, one might say organic – the important thing here is your blood. But in the literal sense, not the figurative sense of the word.’
He raised a glass syringe from the table about a half foot long. It ended in a thin, slightly curved point. Ciri felt her mouth go dry. The sorcerer examined the instrument in the light of a lamp.
‘My assistance will help you undress and get you settled in the chair …Yes, that chair which you have been so curiously eyeing. You will have to remain for sometime in a rather uncomfortable position, until I use this tool to inseminate you. It will not be so bad, during the whole procedure you’ll be under the influence of powerful elixirs that I will be injecting to ensure the proper implantation of the egg and to prevent an ectopic pregnancy. Don’t worry, I’ve had experience, I’ve done it a hundred times. You may be a child of the Elder Blood, but I do not suppose that your fallopian tubes are somehow anatomically different from the tubes of ordinary girls.’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 06] Page 34
