Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 06]

by The Lady of the Lake (fan translation) (epub)

  ‘Honoured ladies,’ he bowed first. Outside of the throne room of Nilfgaard, the rules of civility and courtesy to women were obliged, even by the Emperor. They answered him with curtsies and bows of their heads.

  They were standing in front of a polite, but still Emperor.

  Emhyr had had enough protocol.

  ‘Stay here please, Stella,’ he said dryly. ‘And you, girl, come with me for a walk. Take my arm. Cheer up. It’s just a walk.’

  They walked side by side down and alley. Imperial Guardsmen, members of the elite “Impera” brigade stayed away, but always at the ready. They were trained to protect the Emperor, and knew when not to interfere.

  They passed a pond, empty and sad. A very old carp brought by Emperor Torres, had died two days earlier. We will have to release a young, strong, carp, Emhyr decided. We’ll make a medal with his portrait and the date. Vaesse deiraedh aep eigean. Something end, something begins. This is a new ear, new times. Let there also be a new carp.

  Lost in thought, he almost forgot about the girl he was holding on his arm. He remembered her presence due to her warmth, the smell of lilies and the interest of the empire. In that order.

  They stopped by the pond, in the middle rose an artificial island, with a rock garden, a fountain and a marble sculpture.

  ‘Do you know what this figure represents?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ she did not immediately answer. ‘It represents a pelican, whose beak tears at its own breast to feed its children with blood. It is an allegory of a noble sacrifice. And also …’

  ‘I’m listening carefully.’

  ‘Also of great love.’

  ‘Do you think,’ he held her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, ‘that a torn chest hurts less?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ she stammered. ‘Imperial Majesty … I …’

  He took her hand. He felt her twitch, the tremor ran through her hand, arm and shoulder.

  ‘My father,’ he said, ‘was a great ruler, but never paid attention to myths and legends, he never had the time for such things. He always confused them. Whenever he would bring me here, to the park, he said that the sculpture of the pelican was rising from the ashes. At least smile, girl, when the Emperor tells you stories from his childhood. That’s better, thank you. I would be sad to think that you are not enjoying your walk with me. Look into my eyes.’

  ‘I’m happy … to be here … Your Majesty. It is a huge honour for me … Also a large joy. I am very happy …’

  ‘Really? This is not just courtly flattery? Etiquette from Stella Congreve’s classed? Admit it, girl.’

  She was silent, her eyes downcast.

  ‘Your Emperor asked you a question,’ said Emhyr var Emreis. ‘And when the Emperor asked, no one dares be silent. Naturally, no one dares lie.’

  ‘Really,’ she said in a melodious voice. ‘I’m really happy, Imperial Majesty.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Emhyr said after a moment’s thought. ‘I think. Although, I am surprised.’

  ‘I also …’ she whispered. ‘I am also surprised.’

  ‘What? Speak up, please.’

  ‘I wish we could … walk more often. And talk. But I understand … I understand that this is impossible.’

  ‘You understand well,’ he bit his lip. ‘Emperors rule the world, but two things they don’t have control over. Their heart and their time. Both belong to the empire.’

  ‘I know that,’ she said, ‘all too well.’

  ‘I will not be here long,’ he said after a moment of heavy silence. ‘I have to go to Cintra, to grace them with my presence at the peace celebration. You will have to go back to Darn Rowan … Cheer up, girl. For the second time, lift your head in my presence. What is that I see in your eyes? Tears? This is a serious breach of etiquette, I will have show Countess Liddertal my highest displeasure. Lift your head, I said …’

  ‘Please … forgive Lady Stella … Imperial Majesty, this is my fault. Only mine. Lady Stella has taught me … and prepared me well.’

  I’ve noticed, and I appreciate it. Fear not, Stella does not run the risk of falling from grace. She never runs the risk. I was just joking with you. Poorly.’

  ‘I noticed,’ replied the girl, terrified by her own boldness. But Emhyr just laughed. Somewhat forced.

  ‘Well, I like you,’ he said. ‘Trust me. You are brave. Much like …’

  He stopped.

  Much like my daughter, he finished in his head. A feeling of guilt struck him like a dog bite.

  The girl held his gaze. It’s not just the work of Stella, thought Emhyr. This really is her nature. And despite appearances, she is a diamond that doesn’t scratch. No I will not authorise Vattier to kill this girl. Cintra, this business interests the Empire, but this issue seems to have only one sensible and honourable solution.

  ‘Give me your hand.’

  It was an order delivered in a stern voice and tone. But even though, he could not help feeling that she would have done it willingly. Without coercion.

  Her hand was small and cold. But not shaking anymore.

  ‘What is your name? Please do not tell me it is Cirilla Fiona.’

  ‘Cirilla Fiona.’

  ‘I feel like punishing you, girl. Severely.’

  ‘I know, Your Majesty. I deserve it. But I … I must be Cirilla Fiona.’

  ‘I think that you’ he said, still holding her hand, ‘regret not being her.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I regret that I am not her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘If I was … truly Cirilla, perhaps, Your Majesty would have been kinder to me. But I am just a fake. An imitation. A doppelganger who is not worthy of anything. Nothing …’

  He whirled around and grabbed her arm. Then he released her and stepped back.

  ‘Would you like a crown? A position?’ he spoke quietly, but quickly, pretending not to see her violently shake her head. ‘Tribute? Compliments? Luxury?’

  He paused. He did not see the that the girl shook her head, denying his unjust accusations, perhaps even more unjust by the unspoken ones.

  He breathed loudly and deeply.

  ‘Do you know, little moth, that what you see in front of you is the flame?’

  ‘I know, Your Majesty.’

  They were silent for a long time. The smell of spring suddenly whirled in their heads. Intoxicating.

  ‘Being the Empress,’ Emhyr finally said dully, ‘is not easy, contrary to appearances. I do not know if I’ll be able to love you.’

  She nodded to indicate that she knew this. He saw a tear on her cheek. Just like then, in the Castle Stygga, he felt like a sliver of glass was stuck in his heart.

  He hugged her, pressing her hard against his chest, stroking her hair which smelled like lilies.

  ‘My poor child,’ he said in an unnatural voice. ‘My poor reason of state.’

  * * *

  Bells rang throughout Cintra. Dignified, deep and solemn. But strangely mournful.

  An unusual beauty, thought hierarch Hemmelfart, looking like everyone else, at the hanging portrait, that would measure, like the rest, half a fathom by a fathom, if not more. An unusual beauty. A half-breed I bet, she has in her veins the cursed blood of elves.

  Pretty, appreciated Foltest, prettier than those thumbnails shown to me by my secret service. But portraits are usually flattering.

  Quite unlike Calanthe, thought Meve. Quite unlike Roegner. Quite unlike Pavetta … Hmmm … There were rumours … No, it’s not possible. She must be the royal blood, a legitimate ruler of Cintra. She must. It is required by reasons of state. And history.

  She was not like I’ve seen in my dreams, thought Esterad Thyssen, King of Kovir. I’m sure she is not the same. But I will not tell anyone. I’ll keep this to myself and my Zuleyka, together we can decide how we can use this knowledge the dreams have given us.

  That was close, she was to be my wife, this Ciri, thought Kistrin of Verden. I would have been the prince of Cintr
a and heir to the throne, according to custom … I probably would have died with Calanthe. Oh well, it is good that she ran away from me.

  Not for a moment do I believe the fables of love at first sight, thougth Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen. Not for a moment. And yet now Emhyr has married the little barbarian. He rejected the possibility of reconciling with imperial nobility and marring their daughters and married Cirilla of Cintra. Why? To dominate a small country, that half, if not more, Nilfgaard would have gained during negotiations? In order to consolidate his power at the mouth of the Yaruga, which is essentially in the hands of the Nilfgaard-Novigrad-Kovir maritime trading companies? I do not understand this political necessity, so I suspect they did not tell me everything.

  Sorceresses, Sigismund Dijkstra thought. This is the work of sorceresses. But why would it not be? Undoubtedly, it was written that Ciri would be Emhyr’s wife, Queen of Cintra and Empress of Nilfgaard. No doubt it was her destiny.

  Keep it this way, Triss Merigold thought happily. It is a good solution. Ciri will be safe. And eventually they’ll forget her. They let her live.

  The portrait was finally put in place, the servants who were hanging it withdrew, taking the ladder with them.

  At the end of a long line of dark and dusty Cintran nobles, beyond the portrait of Cerbin, Coram and Corbett, past, Dagorad and Roegner, beyond proud Calanthe and melancholy Pavetta, hung the last portrait. It showed the reigning Empress, the heiress of the royal blood and the crown. A slim girl with blond hair and sad eyes in a white dress with green sleeves – Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Queen of Cintra and Empress of Nilfgaard.

  Destiny, thought Philippa Eilhart, watching Dijkstra’s eyes.

  Poor child, thought Dijkstra, looking at the portrait. She probably thinks this is the end of her afflictions and misfortunes. Poor child.

  In Cintra the bells tolled, frightening the gulls.

  * * *

  ‘Soon after the conclusion of the negotiations and the signing of the peace,’ the pilgrim continued his story, ‘a celebration was held in Novigrad, which culminated in a large military parade. As befitting the first day of a new historical epoch, the weather was beautiful.’

  ‘We are to understand,’ the elf ask sarcastically, ‘that you were at it? That you attended the parade?’

  ‘I was a little late,’ the pilgrim was obviously not someone who was bothered by a little sarcasm. ‘Like I said, it was a beautiful day. It promised to be such from dawn.’

  * * *

  Vascoigne, commander of the fort of Drakenborg and until recently deputy commander for political affairs, eagerly slapped his whip on his boots.

  ‘Move, move,’ he urged his executioners. ‘They’re expecting more. In Novigrad you can celebrate, but here we have to work.’

  The executioners place the nooses around the prisoners necks and withdrew. Vascoigne swung his whip again.

  ‘If anyone wants to say something,’ he said dryly, ‘this is your last chance.’

  ‘Long live freedom,’ said Cairbre aep Diared.

  ‘The court was biased against me,’ said Orestes Kopps a marauder, pillager and murderer.

  ‘Kiss my ass,’ said Robert Pilch a deserter.

  ‘Tell Lord Dijkstra, that I’m sorry,’ said Lennep, a former agent convicted of bribery and fraud.

  ‘I did not, I did not want too …’ cried Istvan Igalffy, swaying on a stump, former commandant of the fort, removed from the post and brought before a tribunal for excessive acts which are not permitted against the prisoners.

  The sun, like molten gold, exploded over the stockade of the fort. The posts of the gallows threw elongated shadows. In Drakenborg, began a new day, beautiful and sunny.

  The first day of a new era.

  Vascoigne’s whip lashed his boot. He raised and lowered his hand.

  The stumps were kicked out from under the feet of the condemned.

  * * *

  Throughout Novigrad bells rang. The sound was carried over the mansard roofs of merchant houses, until it came to the narrowest and most remote streets. Whistling rockets and exploding firecrackers. The crowd cheered, yelled, throwing hats in the air, waving handkerchiefs, scarves and flags.

  'Long like the Free Company!'

  'Long live!'

  'Glory to the Condottieri!'

  Lorenzo Molla saluted the crowd and blew a kiss to the beautiful girls.

  'If we are paid with the same enthusiasm with which we are cheered,' he shouted to be heard above the uproar, 'then we'll be rich!'

  'It's too bad,' Julia Abatemarco's throat constricted, 'that Frontino couldn't see this …'

  The marched down the main street, Julia Abatemarco, Adam "Adieu" Pangratt and Lorenzo Molla, leading a festively dressed Company, who were formed in rows of four, so none of the horses, sleek and shiny, moved forward an inch in front of the others. The horses of the condottieri were like their riders - calm and haughty, not frightened by the cheers and the shouting of the crowd and the only reaction to the coins and flowers flying towards them was to shake their heads slightly, almost imperceptibly.

  'Long like the Condottieri!'

  'Long live Adam "adieu" Pangratt! Long live Pretty Kitty!'

  Julia surreptitiously wiped away a tear, and caught a carnation that had been thrown from the crowd.

  'I never would have dreamed …' she said. 'We won … Poor Frontino …'

  You're moved, Julia,' Lorenzo Molla smiled. 'I never knew you were such a romantic soul.'

  'Well, yes. Attention, company! Face … left!'

  They stood at attention in their saddles, turning the horses heads to face the grandstand and the seats and thrones arranged there.

  I can see Foltest, Julia thought. The one with the beard must be Henselt of Kaedwen, and the handsome man is Demavend of Aedirn … That Matron must be Queen Hedwig … And the boy by her side, Crown Prince Radovid, son of the king that was killed … Poor kid …

  * * *

  'Long live the condottieri! long like Julia Abatemarco! Long live Adam Pangratt! Long live Lorenzo Molla!'

  'Long live Constable Natalis!'

  'Long live our monarchs! Long live Foltest, Demavend and Henselt!'

  'Long live Lord Dijkstra!'

  'Long live His Holiness!' A few voices came from the crowd, obviously bribes. Novigrad's hierarch Cyrus Englekind Hemmelfart rose and blessed the people and the army with his outstretched hands, while irreverently covering Queen Hedwig and young Radovid with the skirts of his robe.

  Nobody shouts, "Long live Radovid", thought the prince covered by the hierarch's fat ass. No one even looks at me. No one is screaming in honour of my mother. No one remembers my poor father. Even today, at a day of triumph, which he so richly deserved. After all, that's why he was murdered.

  He felt a gaze on his neck. Delicate like someone he did not know - or knew, but only in his dreams. Something that was soft like a brush of a woman's warm lips. He turned his head. He discovered the dark unfathomable eyes of Philippa Eilhart fixed on him.

  Wait, thought the prince, looking away. Just wait.

  No one could predict or guess then that this boy of thirteen years, which at that time was a person without any relevance in a country ruled by the Regency Council and by Dijkstra, would become king. A king who, after he paid all the insults that had been given to his mother and him, would go down in history with the name Radovid the Stern.

  The crowd cheered. The ground beneath the hooves of the horses of the condottieri were carpeted with flowers.

  * * *

  'Julia?'

  'Yes, Adieu?'

  'Marry me. Become my wife.'

  Pretty Kitty did not answer for a long time, she was surprisingly speechless. The crowd cheered. The Novigrad hierarch, sweating and gasping for breath like a big catfish, blessed from the stands the burghers and soldiers, the city and the world.

  'You're married, Adam Pangratt.'

  'we have long lived separately. I'm getting a divorce.'

 
Julia Abatemarco did not answer. She turned her head.

  Surprised.

  Confused.

  And very happy. Without really knowing why.

  The crowd cheered and threw flowers. The rockets and fireworks burst in artificial light above the rooftops and between the noise and the smoke the bells of Novigrad sounded like a whimper.

  * * *

  She's a woman, thought Nenneke. She went to war a child. And has come back a woman. Confident. Realising who she is. Quiet. Relax. A woman.

  She won the war. By not letting the war destroy her.

  'Deborah,' Eurneid continued listing quietly, 'died of typhus in a camp in Mayena. Prune drowned in the Yaruga when a boatload of wounded capsized. Myrrhe was killed by elves, Squirrels, during an attack on the hospital in Armeria … Katja …'

  'Tell me, child,' Nenneke gently urged.

  'Katja,' Eurneid cleared her throat, 'met a wounded Nilfgaardian in the hospital. After the conclusion of the peace, when the prisoners where exchanged, she went with him to Nilfgaard.'

  'I've always said,' sighed the priestess, 'that love knows no boundaries. And what about Iola the Second?'

  'Alive,' Eurneid hurried to explain. 'She is in Maribor.'

  'Why did she not come back?'

  The adept bowed her head.

  'She will not return to the temple, Mother,' she said quietly. 'She is at a hospital with Mister Milo Vanderbeck , the surgeon, a halfling. She said that she wants to care for the sick. This is what she wants to dedicate her life to. Forgive her, Mother.'

  'Forgive?' cried the priestess. 'I'm proud of her!'

  * * *

  'You're late,' Philippa Eilhart said through clenched teeth. 'You're late to a feast that has the presence of kings. Bloody hell, Sigismund, your distain for protocol is well known, and you do not need to flaunt it, on a day like this …'

  'I have my reasons,' Dijkstra responded with a look from Queen Hedwig and the raising of his eyebrows from the hierarch of Novigrad. He also caught the scowl on the face of priest Willemer and the sneer on the face of King Foltest. 'Can I have a word with you Phil?'