Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05]

by The Tower of the Swallow (fan translation) (epub)

  ‘Sit,’ said the elf, pointing to a boulder, not taking his eyes from the painting. ‘Did they hurt you?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘You’ll have to forgive them.’

  ‘Indeed. I have to.’

  ‘They are like children. They were terribly glad of your coming.’

  ‘I’ve seen.’

  The elf looked at him.

  ‘Sit down,’ he repeated. ‘In a moment I will be at your disposal. I’m finishing.’

  What the elf was finishing was a stylised animal, probably a buffalo. At present only the outline was complete, from the imposing horns to the no less wonderful tail. Geralt sat on the boulder mentioned and promised himself to remain patient and humble – to the limits of the possible.

  The elf, whistling softly through his teeth, dipped a brush into a container of paint and painted with rapid movements, a purple buffalo. After a moment of reflection he painted tiger stripes on the side of the animal.

  Geralt looked at him in silence.

  Finally the elf took a step back in order to access from a distance the finished work – a hunting scene. The striped, purple buffalo was being chased by carelessly sketched figures of people with bows and spears.

  ‘What is that supposed to be?’ Geralt could not resist.

  The elf looked at him briefly, putting the clean end of the brush to his lips.

  ‘It is,’ he said, ‘a prehistoric painting done by primitive people who lived in a cave thousands of years ago and worked mainly as hunters of the long extinct purple buffalo. Some of the prehistoric hunters were artists and felt a deep need to respond artistically. To perpetuate what was in their souls.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘Of course,’ admitted the elf. ‘Your scientists wander for years through caves looking for traces of prehistoric man. And whenever they find them, they are fascinated beyond measure. Since it provides evidence that you are not strangers in this land and in this world. Proof that your ancestors lived here for centuries, so that the world belongs to your heirs. Well, every race is entitled to some roots. Including yours, humans, whose roots should be sort in large trees. Ha, a funny pun, is it not? Worthy of an epigram. Do you like poetry? What else can you think to paint here?’

  ‘Draw a picture of prehistoric hunters with enormous erected penises.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ the elf dipped the brush into the paint. ‘Phallic worship was typical of early civilizations. It can also be used to forge the theory that the human race suffers from physical degeneration. The ancestors had phalluses the size of batons, and the descendants had no more than ridiculous twigs… Thank you, witcher.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I have one more suggestion – The paint looks too fresh to be prehistoric.’

  ‘Do not worry, after three or four days the colours will fade due to the influence of the salt and moisture that runs down the wall and the image will become so prehistoric that your scientists will be mad with joy once they find it. I bet my shoes that not even the brightest of them will recognise my trick.’

  ‘They recognise it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because you won’t be able to stop yourself from signing your masterpiece.’

  The elf laughed dryly.

  ‘Exactly. You’ve guessed me correctly. Oh, my flames of vanity, how hard it is for the artist in me to quench my soul. I already signed the painting. Behold, here.’

  ‘Isn’t that a dragonfly?’

  ‘No it is an ideogram indication my name. My name is Creavan Espane aep Caomhan Macha. For convenience I use the alias Avallac’h. You can address me so.’

  ‘As you please.’

  ‘And you are Geralt of Rivia. You’re a witcher. However, you do not currently chase monsters and beasts, you are looking for missing girls.’

  ‘The news spreads amazingly fast. And surprisingly far. And surprisingly deep. Apparently you had predicted I would show up here. So I’m guessing that you can predict the future?’

  ‘Predicting the future,’ Avallac’h wiped his hands on a rag, ‘anyone can do. And everybody does, because it is easy. The hard part is predicting it accurately.’

  ‘An elegant argument and worthy of an epigram. You, clearly, can predict it accurately.’

  ‘All too often, my dear Geralt, I know many things and I do many things. Evidence of this is suggested by my – how you would say, people. My official title is ‘Aen Saevherne’.’

  ‘Knowing one.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you would be willing to share your knowledge?’

  Avallac’h paused.

  ‘Share?’ he at last drawled. ‘With you? My dear witcher, something like that is a great privilege and privileges are only shared with equals. And why would I, an elf, a Knowing one, a member of the elite, why would I share anything with the descendant of a being who barely a few million years ago evolved from a monkey, rat, jackal or other mammal? A being who needed around two million years to discover that using their two hairy hands they can make a primitive tool out of a bone? And after which he got that cone and put it in his anus, groaning with happiness?’

  The elf was silent; he turned and stared at his painting.

  ‘Why,’ he said mockingly, ‘do you dare hope that I will share with you any knowledge, human? Tell me.’

  Geralt wiped the remnants of shit from his boot.

  ‘I guess because,’ he said, ‘it’s inevitable.’

  The elf turned abruptly.

  ‘What,’ he asked through clenched teeth, ‘is inevitable?’

  ‘The fact that it will only that another few years,’ Geralt did not raise his voice, ‘and people will simple take all the knowledge, regardless of whether anyone wanted to share it with them or not. That includes the knowledge that you, an elf and a Knowing one,, cunningly hiding behind your rock frescoes. Hoping that people will not want to smash your wall with pickaxes and destroy your painting with false evidence of their ancient history. What do you say, my flame of vanity?’

  The elf snorted. Surprisingly, quite amused.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Vanity is indeed linked to stupidity if I believed that you would stop before destroying everything. You destroy everything you encounter. But why, human?’

  ‘I do not know. You tell me. And if you do not find it appropriate, then I’ll go. But I’d prefer another way out, because your companions are waiting with the desire to break my ribs.’

  ‘All right,’ the elf reached out with a rapid motion of his outstretched hand and the rock wall flung open with a creak and a crack appeared running down the centre of the violet buffalo. ‘Go this way. Walk towards the light. Figuratively or literally, it is usually the right way.’

  ‘It’s a pity,’ said Geralt. ‘About your picture.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ the elf asked in disbelief, but surprisingly kind and friendly. ‘Nothing will happen to the picture. With an identical spell I will close the rock and there will be no traces of a crack. Come on. I’ll go with you, I will guide you. I’ve concluded that I do have something to tell you. And to show you.’

  On the other side of the wall was darkness. The witcher immediately knew that the cavern was immense – from the temperature and air movement. They walked on wet pebbles.

  Avallac’h conjured a light – the Elvish way, with only a gesture and without uttering a spell. The glowing ball flew towards the ceiling, the crystal formations in the walls of the cave were lit with a myriad of reflections and shadows danced. The witcher sighed involuntary.

  This was not the first time that he had seen Elvish sculptures and relief, but every time, the feeling was the same. The figures of elves frozen in full motion in a blink of an eye, was not the product of chisel and sculptor but a powerful wizard’s spell that could transform living tissue into white marble from the Amell Mountains.

  The closest sculpture featured a young elf sitting crossed-legged on a basaltic plate. The elf was straining her neck and had her
head turned as if she their footsteps. She was completely naked. The milk-gloss of the polished marble gave the feeling that her beautiful body was warm and radiated heat.

  Avallac’h stopped and leaned on one of the columns that defined the path between the sculptures.

  ‘For the second time,’ he said quietly, ‘you have found me out, Geralt. You were right, the buffalo is painted on the wall as camouflage, which is there to prevent people digging through the rock and protecting all that is hidden behind it. It was supposed to prevent the devastation and theft. All races, the elves too, are entitled to their roots. What you see here are our roots. Tread carefully please. This is actually a cemetery.’

  The light dancing from the mountain crystals revealed more and more details – statues, reliefs, monuments, columns and arcades. Everything in white marble.

  ‘I want it to survive,’ Avallac’h made a broad gesture. ‘Even when we leave and the entire land is covered by a mile high layer of ice and snow, Tir na Bea Arainne will endure. We will leave here, but someday we will return here. We, the elves. It is promised in the Aen Ithlinnespeath, in Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien’s prophecy.’

  ‘You really believe in her? In her prophecy? Does you fatalism run so deep?’

  ‘Everything was foretold,’ the elf did not look at him, but at a marble column covered in a delicate gossamer relief, ‘Your arrival, war, the shedding of human and elven blood. The rise of your race, the decline of ours. The struggle between the rulers of the North and the South. The Ruler of the South will rise against the kings of the North and his troops will fill their countries like a flood and the nations will be destroyed. So begins the destruction of the world. Do you remember the Aen Ithlinnespeath, witcher? Whoever is far away, will die from the plague – whoever is near, will die by the sword, whoever forbids, will die of hunger, whoever survives, will be lost in the cold… Because Tedd Deireadh comes – The End of Time, The Time of the Sword and Axe, The Time of Contempt, The Time of White Chill and the White Light, The Time of the Wolf’s Blizzard…’

  ‘Poetry.’

  ‘Would you prefer to hear it less poetic? As a result of the changes to the angle of the sun, the earth will shift the boundaries of eternal ice far to the south. Even these mountains will be overwhelmed by a continental glacier. Everything will be covered in snow. And winter will reign.’

  ‘We’ll wear warm pants,’ Geralt without emotion, ‘fur coats and hats over our ears.’

  ‘You took the word right out of my mouth,’ said the elf. ‘And those in these pants and hats will survive and would one day return here, to dig holes and rummage in the cave to plunder and steal. The prophecy of Ithlinne does not mention it, but I know it. You cannot exterminate cockroaches and humans will always have at least one prolific pair. As for us, the elves, the prophecy speaks clearly, those who follow the Swallow will survive. The Swallow is a symbol of spring, it is the saviour, the one that opens the forbidden door, to show us the way to our salvation. It will allow the rebirth of the world. The Swallow, the Child of the Elder Blood.’

  ‘That means Ciri,’ Geralt could not resist. ‘Or her child? How? And why?’

  It seemed that Avallac’h had not heard.

  ‘The Swallow of the Elder Blood,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘From her blood. Behold.’

  Even among the perfect lifelike statues there was a distinguished monument to which Avallac’h now gestured. A white marble elf, half-lying on a platform, giving the impression of having just awakened and was ready to get up at any moment. The face was turned to the empty seat beside her and an outstretched hand touched something invisible there. In her face showed an expression of peace and happiness.

  It was a long time before Avallac’h broke the silence.

  ‘This is Lara aep Shiadhal. Obviously it is not her tomb, but a cenotaph. Does the position of the statue surprise you? Finally, the project to carve in marble the two legendary lovers did not get much support. Lara and Cregennan of Lod. Cregennan was a human, and it would have been a desecration to waste Amell marble on a statue of him. It would be a blasphemy to place here a statue of a human being, in Tir ne Bea Arainne. On the other hand it would be a greater crime to destroy the memory of that feeling. So they took the middle course. Cregennan… is not formally here. And yet he is. In the look and the gesture of Lara. The lovers are together. Even death cannot separate them. Neither death nor oblivion… Or hatred.’

  It seemed to the witcher that the elf’s indifferent voice had changed for a moment. But it was unlikely that this was possible. Avallac’h approached the statue, with care and with a delicate movement stroked the marble arm. Then her turned and his triangular face showed its trademark mocking smile.

  ‘Do you know, witcher, what the biggest drawback of longevity is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sex.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard right, sex. After less than one hundred years it eventually becomes boring. There is nothing in it that excites or fascinates, which would have the beauty of novelty. Everything has been done… One way, or another. And then suddenly comes the Conjunction of the Spheres and the appearance of humans. The remnants of humanity fleeing from another world, your own world that you totally destroyed, with your own hands that were still covered in hair, just five million years after you formed as a species. You were only a handful, but your average life span is ridiculously short, so your continued existence depends on the speed in which you can multiply, so the desire, the lust for it will never abandon you, sex rules you completely, it is a stronger pull then even your survival instinct. Dying? Why not, provided that before you do, you fuck. That, in short, is your entire philosophy.’

  Geralt did not interrupt or say anything, but he really wanted to do so.

  ‘And then what happens?’ continued Avallac’h. ‘The elves, bored with their boring elven women, start to prefer willing human women, and the bored female elf indulged in the perverse curiosity, of the human male who is always full of vigour and strength. And then something happened that no one expected and no one could explain – elves normally only ovulate once every ten to twenty years, but from mating with humans, they began to ovulate with every intense orgasm. It worked with some kind of hidden hormone or combination of hormones. The elves understood that with this practice they could have children with humans. And we could work towards exterminating you while we were still stronger. Later you became stronger and you began to exterminate us. But you still had allies among the elves. They were the party of convenience, cooperation and coexistence… and they did not want to recognise the reality that they we lying in bed with you.’

  ‘And what does all this have to do with me?’ growled Geralt.

  ‘You? Absolutely nothing. But it has a lot to do with Ciri. Ciri is a descendant of Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal, and Lara Dorren favoured coexistence with humans. Mainly one human. With the human wizard, Cregennan of Lod. Lara Dorren coexisted with the aforementioned Cregennan frequently and successfully. Simply put – she became pregnant.’

  The witcher remained silent this time.

  ‘The problem lay in that Lara Dorren was no ordinary elf. She had an extraordinary genetic makeup, the result of generations of effort. With the combination with other genes, of course, elven, she should have given birth to a unique child. Conceiving with the seed of a human buried that chance; she threw away the result of hundreds of years of planning and preparation. Well at least we thought so. No one suspected that a mongrel born of Cregennan could inherit something positive from their mother. No, a marriage so unequal could not bring anything good…’

  ‘And so,’ interrupted Geralt, ‘were severely punished.’

  ‘Not the way you think,’ Avallac’h said quickly. ‘Although the relationship between Lara Dorren and Cregennan brought incalculable damage to the elves, it was humans, not elves who murdered Cregennan. It was humans, not elves that led to the downfall of Lara. So it was, although many elves had reason to hate the lovers. T
hey also had personal reasons.’

  For the second time, Geralt was surprised by the slight change in the tone of voice of the elf.

  ‘Anyways,’ continued Avallac’h, ‘the dream of coexistence burst like a soap bubble, and between the races was sparked a bloody war, a war that continues to this day. Meanwhile, the genetic material of Lara… As you probably already guessed, over the years did not die but rather evolved. Unfortunately, it has mutated. Yes, yes. Your Ciri is a mutant.’

  This time the elf did not wait for him to say something.

  ‘Of course the sorcerers poked their noses in. Deliberately combining selected people in pairs, but eventually it got out of their control. Few could guess, how the genetic material could be reborn so powerfully in Ciri and what was the trigger. I think Vilgefortz knows, the same man who broke your bones at Thanedd. The sorcerers who were experimenting with the descendants of Lara and Riannon, did not get their desired results and abandoned the experiment. But the experiment continued, only now spontaneously. Ciri, Pavetta’s daughter, granddaughter of Calanthe and descendant of Riannon, a direct descendant of Lara Dorren. Vilgefortz probably learned this by chance. Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard is aware of this too.’

  ‘And you know this too.’

  ‘I actually know more than both of them. But this does not matter. The mill of predestination works, grinding the grain of fate… You cannot change what is to happen.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘What was prophesied. What was decided ages ago, of course, figuratively. Finally, something that was determined by the action of an infallible mechanism at whose base lies the Objective, the Plan and the Outcome.’

  ‘This is either poetry or metaphysics. Or both, because sometimes it is difficult to distinguish. Is it possible that you can talk in specifics? Even if it is minimal? Well I’d gladly discuss this with you further, but it turns out that I’m in a hurry.’

  Avallac’h measured him with a penetrating look.

  ‘And why the hurry? Oh, sorry… You, it seems, have not understood anything I said. So I will tell you directly – your great venture of rescue is meaningless. It is useless. First, it is too late – the principal evil has already taken place, you are long longer able to rescue the girl before he gets her. Second, now she has entered the true path, The Swallow can fend for herself brilliantly, she has the power within herself to make everything fear her. So your help is unnecessary. And third… Hmmm…’