Time of Contempt

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  He looked at the writing desk.

  ‘Yen?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘When you were a pupil at Aretuza . . . When you slept in a chamber like this . . . Did you have a doll you couldn’t sleep without? Which you put on the writing desk during the day?’

  ‘No,’ said Yennefer, moving suddenly. ‘I didn’t have a doll of any kind. Don’t ask me about that, Geralt. Please, don’t ask me.’

  ‘Aretuza,’ he whispered, looking around. ‘Aretuza on the Isle of Thanedd. It’ll become her home. For so many years . . . When she leaves here she’ll be a mature woman . . .’

  ‘Stop that. Don’t think about it and don’t talk about it. Instead . . .’

  ‘What, Yen?’

  ‘Love me.’

  He embraced her. And touched her. And found her. Yennefer, in some astonishing way hard and soft at the same time, sighed loudly. The words they had uttered broke off, perished among the sighs and quickened breaths, ceased to have any meaning and were dissipated. So they remained silent, and focused on the search for one another, on the search for the truth. They searched for a long time, lovingly and very thoroughly, fearful of needless haste, recklessness and nonchalance. They searched vigorously, intensively and passionately, fearful of needless self-doubt and indecision. They searched cautiously, fearful of needless tactlessness.

  They found one another, conquered their fear and, a moment later, found the truth, which exploded under their eyelids with a terrible, blinding clarity, tore apart the lips pursed in determination with a moan. Then time shuddered spasmodically and froze, everything vanished, and touch became the only functioning sense.

  An eternity passed, reality returned and time shuddered once more and set off again, slowly, ponderously, like a great, fully laden cart. Geralt looked through the window. The moon was still hanging in the sky, although what had just happened ought in principle to have struck it down from the sky.

  ‘Oh heavens, oh heavens,’ said Yennefer much later, slowly wiping a tear from her cheek.

  They lay still among the dishevelled sheets, among thrills, among steaming warmth and waning happiness and among silence, and all around whirled vague darkness, permeated by the scent of the night and the voices of cicadas. Geralt knew that, in moments like this, the enchantress’s telepathic abilities were sharpened and very powerful, so he thought about beautiful matters and beautiful things. About things which would give her joy. About the exploding brightness of the sunrise. About fog suspended over a mountain lake at dawn. About crystal waterfalls, with salmon leaping up them, gleaming as though made of solid silver. About warm drops of rain hitting burdock leaves, heavy with dew.

  He thought for her and Yennefer smiled, listening to his thoughts. The smile quivered on her cheek along with the crescent shadows of her eyelashes.

  ‘A home?’ asked Yennefer suddenly. ‘What home? Do you have a home? You want to build a home? Oh . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t . . .’

  He was quiet. He was angry with himself. As he had been thinking for her, he had accidentally allowed her to read a thought about herself.

  ‘A pretty dream,’ said Yennefer, stroking him lightly on the shoulder. ‘A home. A house built with your own hands, and you and I in that house. You would keep horses and sheep, and I would have a little garden, cook food and card wool, which we would take to market. With the pennies earned from selling the wool and various crops we would buy what we needed; let’s say some copper cauldrons and an iron rake. Every now and then, Ciri would visit us with her husband and three children, and Triss Merigold would occasionally look in, to stay for a few days. We’d grow old together, beautifully and with dignity. And should I ever get bored, you would play for me in the evening on your homemade bagpipes. Playing the bagpipes – as everyone knows – is the best remedy for depression.’

  The Witcher said nothing. The enchantress cleared her throat softly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, a moment later. He got up on an elbow, leaned across and kissed her. She moved suddenly, and hugged him. Wordlessly.

  ‘Say something.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to lose you, Yen.’

  ‘But you have me.’

  ‘The night will end.’

  ‘Everything ends.’

  No, he thought. I don’t want it to be like that. I’m tired. Too tired to accept the perspective of endings which are beginnings, and starting everything over again. I’d like . . .

  ‘Don’t talk,’ she said, quickly placing her fingers on his lips. ‘Don’t tell me what you’d like and what you desire. Because it might turn out I won’t be able to fulfil your desires, and that causes me pain.’

  ‘What do you desire, Yen? What do you dream about?’

  ‘Only about achievable things.’

  ‘And about me?’

  ‘I already have you.’

  He remained quiet for a long time, waiting until she broke the silence.

  ‘Geralt?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Love me, please.’

  At first, satiated with each other, they were both full of fantasy and invention, creative, imaginative and craving for the new. As usual, it quickly turned out it was at once too much and too little. They understood it simultaneously and once more made love to one another.

  When Geralt had recovered his senses, the moon was still in its place. The cicadas were playing wildly, as though they also wanted to conquer anxiety and fear with madness and abandon. From a nearby window in the left wing of Aretuza, someone craving sleep yelled out, fulminating sternly and demanding quiet. From a window on the other side someone else, clearly with a more artistic soul, applauded enthusiastically and congratulated them.

  ‘Oh, Yen . . .’ whispered the Witcher reproachfully.

  ‘I had a reason . . .’ She kissed him and then buried her cheek in the pillow. ‘I had a reason to scream. So I screamed. It shouldn’t be suppressed. It would be unhealthy and unnatural. Hold me, please.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Lara Portal, also known as Benavent’s Portal, after its discoverer. Located on the Isle of Thanedd, on the uppermost floor of the Tower of Gulls. A fixed portal, periodically active. Principles of functioning: unknown. Destination: unknown, but probably skewed, owing to damage. Numerous forks or dispersions possible.

  Important information: a chaotic and lethally dangerous portal. All experimentation categorically forbidden. Magic may not be used in the Tower of Gulls or in close proximity to it, particularly not teleportational magic. In exceptional cases, the Chapter will examine applications for permission to enter Tor Lara and for inspections of the portal. Applications should be supported by evidence of research work already in progress and of specialisation in the subject area.

  Bibliography: Geoffrey Monck, The Magic of the Elder Folk; Immanuel Benavent, The Portal of Tor Lara; Nina Fioravanti, The Theory and Practice of Teleportation; Ransant Alvaro, The Gates of Mystery.

  Prohibita (list of banned artefacts),

  Ars Magica, Edition LVIII

  In the beginning there was only pulsating, shimmering chaos, a cascade of images and a whirling abyss of sounds and voices. Ciri saw a tower reaching up to the sky with thunderbolts dancing across the roof. She heard the cry of a raptor and suddenly became it. She was flying with enormous speed and beneath her was a stormy sea. She saw a small button-eyed doll and suddenly was that doll, and all around her teemed the darkness, pulsing with the sounds of cicadas. She saw a large black and white tomcat and suddenly was that cat, surrounded by a sombre house, darkened wood panelling and the smell of candles and old books. Several times, she heard someone call her name; summon her. She saw silver salmon leaping up waterfalls, heard the sound of rain drumming against leaves. And then she heard Yennefer’s strange, long-drawn-out scream. And it was that scream that woke her, pulled her out of the chasm of timelessness and chaos.

  Now, vainly trying to recall the dream, she could only hear the soft sounds of lute and flute, the jingling of a
tambourine, singing and laughter. Dandelion and the group of minstrels he had chanced upon continued to have the time of their lives in the chamber at the end of the corridor.

  A shaft of moonlight shone through the window, somewhat lightening the gloom and making the chamber in Loxia resemble a dream world. Ciri threw off the sheet. She was bathed in sweat and her hair was stuck to her forehead. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep the night before; it had been stuffy, even though the window had been wide open. She knew what had caused it. Before leaving with Geralt, Yennefer had encircled the chamber with protective charms. Ostensibly it was in order to prevent anyone from entering, though Ciri suspected their true purpose was to stop her leaving. She was, quite simply, a prisoner. Yennefer, although clearly happy to be back with Geralt, had neither forgiven nor forgotten Ciri’s wilful and reckless flight to Hirundum, even though it had led to her reunion with Geralt.

  The meeting with Geralt itself had filled Ciri with sadness and disappointment. The Witcher had been taciturn, tense, restless and demonstrably insincere. Their conversation had faltered and limped along, losing its way in sentences and questions which suddenly broke off. The Witcher’s eyes and thoughts kept running away from her and fleeing into the distance. Ciri knew where they were running to.

  Dandelion’s soft, mournful singing and the music he raised from the lute’s strings, murmuring like a stream flowing over pebbles, drifted to her from the chamber at the end of the corridor. She recognised it as the melody the bard had started composing some days before. The ballad – as Dandelion had boasted several times – bore the title Elusive and was intended to earn the poet first place at the annual bard’s tournament due to take place in the later autumn at Vartburg Castle. Ciri listened carefully to the words.

  O’er glistening roofs you float

  Through lily-strewn rivers you dive

  Yet one day I will know your truths

  If only I am still alive . . .

  Hooves thundered, riders galloped in the night, and on the horizon the sky bloomed with the glow of many fires. A bird of prey screeched and spread its wings, taking flight. Ciri plunged into sleep once more, hearing people calling her name over and over. Once it was Geralt, once Yennefer, once Triss Merigold, finally – several times – a sad, slim, fair-haired girl she didn’t recognise, who looked out at her from a miniature, framed in horn and brass.

  Then she saw a black and white cat, and a moment later, she again was that cat, and seeing with its eyes. She was in a strange, dark house. She saw great shelves of books, and a lectern lit by several candlesticks, with two men sitting at it, poring over scrolls. One of the men was coughing and wiping his lips with a handkerchief. The second, a midget with a huge head, sat on a chair on wheels. He had no legs.

  ‘Extraordinary . . .’ sighed Fenn, running his eyes over the decaying parchment. ‘It’s hard to believe . . . Where did you get these documents?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ Codringher coughed. ‘Have you only now realised who Cirilla, Princess of Cintra, really is? The Child of the Elder Blood; the last offshoot of that bloody tree of hatred! The last branch and, on it, the last poisoned apple . . .’

  ‘The Elder Blood . . . So far back in time . . . Pavetta, Calanthe, Adalia, Elen, Fiona . . .’

  ‘And Falka.’

  ‘By the gods, but that’s impossible. Firstly, Falka had no children! Secondly, Fiona was the legitimate daughter of —’

  ‘Firstly, we know nothing about Falka’s youth. Secondly, Fenn, don’t make me laugh. You know, of course, that I’m overcome with spasms of mirth at the sound of the word “legitimate”. I believe that document, because in my opinion it’s authentic and speaks the truth. Fiona, Pavetta’s great-great-grandmother, was the daughter of Falka, that monster in human form. Damn it, I don’t believe in all those insane predictions, prophecies and other poppycock, but when I now recall the Ithlinne forecasts . . .’

  ‘Tainted blood?’

  ‘Tainted, contaminated, accursed; it can be understood in various ways. And according to legend, if you recall, it was Falka who was accursed – because Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal had put a curse on her mother—’

  ‘Those are just stories, Codringher.’

  ‘You’re right: stories. But do you know when stories stop being stories? The moment someone begins to believe in them. And someone believes in the story of the Elder Blood. In particular, in the part that says from Falka’s blood will be born an avenger who will destroy the old world and build a new one on its ruins.’

  ‘And Cirilla is supposed to be that avenger?’

  ‘No. Not Cirilla. Her son.’

  ‘And Cirilla is being hunted by –’

  ‘– Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard,’ finished Codringher coldly. ‘Now do you understand? Cirilla, irrespective of her will, is to become the mother of the heir to the throne. Mother to an arch-prince; the Arch-Prince of Darkness, the descendant and avenger of that she-devil Falka. The destruction and the subsequent rebuilding of the world is meant – it seems to me – to proceed in a guided and controlled way.’

  The cripple said nothing for a long time.

  ‘Don’t you think,’ he finally asked, ‘we should tell Geralt about this?’

  ‘Geralt?’ sneered Codringher. ‘Who? You mean that simpleton who, not so long ago, tried to persuade me he doesn’t work for gain? Oh, I believe that; he doesn’t work for his own gain. But for someone else’s. And unwittingly, as a matter of fact. Geralt is hunting Rience; Rience may be on a leash but Geralt doesn’t even know there’s a collar around his neck. Should I inform him? And so help the people planning to capture this golden-egg laying hen, in order to blackmail Emhyr or ingratiate themselves with him? No, Fenn. I’m not that stupid.’

  ‘The Witcher’s on a leash? But who’s holding it?’

  ‘Think.’

  ‘Bitch!’

  ‘You said it. The only person who can influence him. Whom he trusts. But I don’t trust her and never have. So I’m going to join the game myself.’

  ‘It’s a dangerous one, Codringher.’

  ‘There aren’t any safe games. Games are either worth a candle or they aren’t. Fenn, old man, don’t you understand what has fallen into our hands? A golden hen, which will lay for us – and no one else – and it’ll be huge egg, with a rich, yellow yolk . . .’

  Codringher coughed violently. When he removed the handkerchief from his mouth there were flecks of blood on it.

  ‘Gold won’t cure that,’ said Fenn, looking at the handkerchief in his partner’s hand. ‘Nor give me back my legs . . .’

  ‘Who knows?’

  Somebody knocked at the door. Fenn fidgeted nervously in his wheeled chair.

  ‘Are you expecting anyone, Codringher?’

  ‘I am. The men I’m sending to Thanedd. To fetch our golden hen.’

  ‘Don’t open it,’ Ciri screamed. ‘Don’t open the door! Death stands behind it! Don’t open the door!’

  ‘All right, all right, I’m just coming,’ called Codringher, pulling back the bolts, then turning to his meowing cat. ‘And you’ll sit quietly, you accursed little beast . . .’

  He broke off. The men in the doorway were not the ones he had been expecting. Instead, three characters he did not know were standing there.

  ‘The Honourable Mr Codringher?’

  ‘The master’s away on business,’ said the lawyer, assuming the expression of a halfwit and speaking with a slightly squeaky voice. ‘I am the master’s butler. The name is Dullord, Mikael Dullord. How may I serve your honourable selves?’

  ‘You cannot,’ said one of the individuals, a tall half-elf. ‘Since your master is not here, we’ll just leave a letter and a message. Here is the letter.’

  ‘I will pass it on without fail,’ said Codringher, playing the role of a simple lackey perfectly; bowing subserviently and holding out a hand to take a scroll of parchment tied up with a red cord. ‘And the message?’

  The co
rd binding the scroll unwound like a striking snake, lashing and curling itself tightly around his wrist. The tall man jerked hard. Codringher lost his balance and lurched forward, instinctively thrusting his left hand towards the half-elf’s chest to stop himself from falling against him. As he fell he was unable to avoid the dagger which was rammed into his belly. He cried out breathlessly and jerked backwards, but the magic cord around his wrist held fast. The half-elf pulled Codringher towards him and stabbed again. This time the whole of Codringher’s weight bore down on the blade.

  ‘That’s the message and greetings from Rience,’ hissed the tall half-elf, pulling the dagger upwards powerfully and gutting the lawyer like a fish. ‘Go to hell, Codringher. Straight to hell.’

  Codringher’s breath rasped. He felt the dagger blade grate and crunch against his ribs and sternum. He slumped onto the floor, curling up into a ball. He wanted to shout, to warn Fenn, but was only able to screech, and the screech was immediately drowned in a gush of blood.

  The tall half-elf stepped over the body and was followed inside by the other two. They were humans.

  Fenn was ready for them.

  The bowstring thwacked, and one of the thugs crashed onto his back, struck directly in the forehead by a steel ball. Fenn shoved himself backwards in his chair, trying desperately to reload the arbalest with his shaking hands.

  The tall man leapt towards him, knocking over the chair with a powerful kick. The midget rolled among the papers strewn over the floor. Waving his small hands and the stumps of his legs helplessly, he resembled a mutilated spider.

  The half-elf kicked the arbalest out of Fenn’s reach. Paying no attention to the cripple’s attempts to struggle away, he hurriedly looked through the documents lying on the lectern. His attention was caught by a miniature in a horn and brass frame, showing a fair-haired girl. He picked it up with the scrap of paper attached to it.

  The second thug ignored the one who had been hit by the arbalest ball and came closer. The half-elf raised his eyebrows questioningly. The thug shook his head.